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 (6/10) From: "Stephen Bryan"

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Part 6/10

The telephone wakes him. He glances at the digital clock: a few minutes before midnight. Sighing, he reaches for the receiver. "Hello?"

"Where is he?"

Control sits up in bed, fully awake. He recognizes the tone of McCall's voice. "Where is who, Old-Son?"

"You bloody well know who. I haven't heard from him since Friday. Where is he?"

Control yawns, stalling. "Do you know what time it is, Robert?"

"I know exactly what time it is, thank you very much. Now tell me where Mickey is. What kind of a job was he on?"

Control releases a long sigh. He swings his legs to the side of the bed. "It's not your concern, Robert. Even in my sleep-deprived state, I seem to recall you're no longer part of The Company."

"Are you going to tell me or not?"

Control runs a hand through his graying hair. He speaks with great reluctance. "Mickey's team hasn't checked in with me in more than thirty-six hours. I'm sorry, Robert. It doesn't look promising."

"Promising! Promising? That's a fine word. Your compassion is truly inspiring."

Control closes his eyes. "Robert..."

"What was the job?"

"Dammit, you know I can't tell you that!"

"Can't or won't?"

Control taps one bare foot against the floor. He debates what to tell McCall. "Meet me in Central Park in twenty minutes. You know the place." He hangs up without waiting for a response. He knows Robert will come.

***

Monday morning in Skinner's office, long before the eight o'clock staff will arrive. She has already been to Mulder's apartment. It was empty, just as she expected.

"I haven't spoken with him since Thursday afternoon," Scully tells Skinner, struggling for composure. "He seems to be...missing, sir." Mulder, gone missing? Unthinkable.

Skinner removes his glasses and tosses them gently onto his desk. He leans back in his chair. "Why do you think he's missing, Agent Scully? Because he left you a disk?" He shrugs. "So what."

Scully won't be deterred. "He left me the disk and some kind of experimental drug code-named Perfect Clarity. He's obviously trying to tell me something."

"Wouldn't it be easier to call you on the phone, Scully?"

Scully folds her arms. "Of course it would." Pause. "I just don't think he's able to." How it scares her to admit that!

"Where's this disk? And the drug? What's it used for?"

Scully stonewalls. "I have it in a safe place. I don't know what the drug is used for yet. The information is encrypted, and I can't break the code." A flat out lie, but if something happened to Mulder...she can't risk the same thing happening to her.

"Maybe you should leave the disk with me for safe keeping."

"I don't think so, sir. I'm not that worried." Another lie.

Skinner nods, accepting her answer. "I appreciate your concern, Scully, but I don't think Agent Mulder is in danger. I believe he may have left to investigate an unofficial case in Music Box, Montana. A plane ticket was charged to the travel account early Friday morning."

Scully stares at the Assistant Director, stunned. "What case?"

He waves a hand, dismissive. "I don't know. But he's outside the boundaries on this, Agent Scully. Again. He's going to face another hearing." Skinner avoids her eyes. "I won't be able to save him this time."

Scully steps forward, her hand outstretched. Skinner sees the necklace. "He left this in my apartment for a reason, sir. And that disk. He may be on a case, but it isn't in Montana."

Skinner rubs the bridge of his nose with one large hand. "You know Agent Mulder has a habit of going off on his own, Scully. What do you want me to do? Assign you the job of babysitter?" Skinner leans forward and steeples his fingers. "We both know the last time I tried that, it didn't work out very well."

Scully's face flushes. "You can tell me that Agent Mulder is in Montana, sir. You're welcome to believe it. I, however, do not." She refuses to believe. After everything they've been through the past few months, he would go off on his own without so much as a word? No, the clues in her apartment are a clear message. Mulder needs her. He has left her the pieces; she must solve his puzzle.

Skinner places his hands on the desk, palms down. "Agent Scully, this matter is finished. Agent Mulder is in Montanta. Period. I'm sure he'll return shortly." The look on her face is almost too much. God forgive me. He cannot quite hide the trembling of his hands when he reaches for his glasses. Lying to Dana Scully, an agent he respects and admires, is an abomination. "If you are intent on coming back to work, I won't stop you. But this wild story about Mulder's-" he stumbles over the word "--abduction will not leave this office. Do you understand?"

Scully's clear eyes regard him with contempt. "I understand, sir. I understand that you don't want to get involved." She winds the chain between her fingers. "You told me once that you were disappointed in me. I think we're even now, sir." She turns and walks out of the office, her heels clicking down the hallway.

Scully's words echo in Skinner's head. He stares at the top of his desk.

He listens to the other door open and close. He smells the familiar stink of smoke. "An admirable performance, Mr. Skinner." Cancer Man's voice holds a note of disapproval. "But you didn't get the disk."

Skinner pulls himself to his full height, rigid with anger. "You can get the damn disk yourself." He points a finger in the older man's face, livid. "I'm done with you."

Cancer Man smiles without humor. "We had a deal, Mr. Skinner. Scully's treatments were stopped."

Skinner's jaw clenches. "Those treatments were stopped because Mulder found out about Scanlon!"

Cancer Man shrugs, disinterested. "If that helps to assuage your guilt, so be it." He takes a drag on his cigarette. "We both know the truth."

Skinner's fist cracks against the desk. "I dirtied my hands and played your little game. We're even. Get out of my office."

Cancer Man drops the Morley to the carpet and crushes it beneath his shoe. "We'll never be even, Mr. Skinner." He reaches for the doorknob but Skinner's voice stops him.

"What have you done with Agent Mulder?"

Cancer Man chuckles. "Maybe we can make a deal."

Skinner pounds the desk a second time.

***

She sits at her desk, half expecting Mulder to bound through the door any minute. He'll offer a handful of far-fetched excuses and try to buy her forgiveness with lunch.

He'll crack jokes and tell her about their next case, waiting for her to refute all of his theories.

She sits at her desk, listening for his footstep, but it doesn't come. She thinks of him, feet propped up on his desk only four days ago. It'll be lonely here without you. She understands the feeling.

Mulder's chain rests on her desk. She studies the silver ring, tracing the dolphin design with one fingertip. Is this how he felt during her long absence? Did he feel this same cold lump of fear in his belly?

The phone rings. She reaches for it anxiously, hoping for his familiar voice. "I'm looking for Agent Mulder."

Aren't we all? "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder isn't available right now. Can I help you?"

Hesitant: "Agent Scully?"

Dana's brow furrows. There *is* something familiar about the voice, but she can't place it. "Yes?"

"Dana! This is Detective Tim Bayliss."

Detective Bayliss. They had worked on the Poet case together. The last time she had seen him he was still in the hospital. Dana smiles. "How's your arm?"

"A little sore now and then. Not too bad."

Scully looks down at Mulder's chain and her smile fades. "What can I do for you, Detective Bayliss?"

"I was hoping to talk to Agent Mulder, but maybe you can help me. Is it possible I could meet with you this morning?"

"Um...that would be fine. Where do you want to meet?"

"I'm already in Washington. Is half an hour enough time for you?"

"Sure. That's fine."

"Okay then. I'll see you." He hangs up.

Scully pours herself a cup of coffee. The office is too quiet. There is no wrinkle of papers as Mulder rummages through three different files. There is no click of his keyboard, no rhythmic bounce of the superball he keeps in the bottom drawer of his desk.

Funny, she never realized how deafening silence could be.

***

He looks the same. Same boyish face, same warm eyes, same easy grin. Maybe his hair is a little longer. She indicates the empty chair next to her desk. "Okay, Detective Bayliss. What can I do for you?"

He pulls a picture cut from a newspaper article out of his pocket. "Do you recognize this man? Is he a friend of Mulder's? His name is Nick Shaw."

Scully studies the grainy photograph. Dark, thinning hair. Narrow face. Sharp nose. She shrugs. "I'm sorry, I don't recognize him. I don't recall Mulder mentioning someone by that name."

Tim refolds the picture. "He was a scientist working at New World Labs in Baltimore. He was arrested for killing his wife and son last Thursday. He escaped from the BP Homicide unit Friday." He pauses. "His body was pulled out of the Harbor Friday night."

"What does he have to do with Mulder?"

"There's a good possibility that he sent Mulder a letter before he died. Do you know anything about that?"

Scully moves to Mulder's desk and performs a cursory search. It's almost impossible to find anything in the mess of papers and manila folders. "I don't see anything here. I've been out of town for several days," she explains, "I don't know if Mulder received any letter."

Tim's words loop through her mind. Nick Shaw, a scientist? Maybe the information on the disk is his, as well as the liquid in the bottle. But how does Shaw explain Mulder's disappearance? As usual, more questions than answers.

Tim gives her a lopsided grin. "It was worth a try. When will Mulder be back?"

Scully picks up a file from Mulder's cluttered desk, reads the title, and tosses it back into the mix. "I can't really answer that, Detective Bayliss-"

"Tim," he interrupts. "Call me Tim."

"-because I don't know where Mulder is. He's...missing."

Her answer is a surprise. "Missing," he repeats.

She nods.

"You have no idea where your partner is?"

"None." She feels Tim's dark eyes on her face. "I think Mulder might have stumbled onto something."

Tim waits for Scully to elaborate. She doesn't. He shifts in the chair, wondering if Mulder's disappearance is tied to Nick Shaw. "Stumbled onto what?"

Scully frowns, trying to give voice to her suspicions. "I don't know yet. Maybe something regarding Dr. Shaw's research. Who did you say Shaw worked for?"

"New World Laboratories. A subsidiary of Pinck Pharmaceuticals."

"Oh God," Scully gasps, one piece of the puzzle clicking into place.

"What?"

"Nothing. I've...just heard that name before. What kind of work did Shaw do? What was he working on?"

Tim holds his hands out, palms up. "You got me. When we talked to Roy Jacardi-his boss-he wasn't exactly forthcoming. He showed us a bunch of documents that basically said he wasn't allowed to tell us squat."

Scully slumps back in her chair, trying to connect the dots.

Tim watches her. After a few minutes of prolonged silence, he looks around the dimly lit office. He studies the conglomeration of alien/UFO photos on the walls. He's seen more realistic pictures on Saturday morning cartoons. Maybe he was wrong to come here. Maybe he read too much into Kevin Kryder's admission. Mulder and Scully operate on a different level of reality than he does. He's not sure he wants a closer view of their world.

Scully looks up. "What did this letter say? Do you know?"

Tim shakes his head. "I have no idea. I was just hoping it might shed some light on our investigation."

"I thought you said Shaw was dead."

"Yes, but..."

Scully's eyes probe Tim's face. "But you don't think he is?"

Downplaying his surprise: "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." She folds her hands. "Why did you really come here?"

"I told you." He fidgets, straightening his tie. He doesn't meet her eyes, embarrassed. "I was wondering if you might consider checking Shaw's autopsy results. I'd like your opinion."

Scully considers the request. "I'll see what I can do."

He smiles at her. "Thank you, Dana. I appreciate this." He scrawls Meyers' number on a slip of paper. Beneath the medical examiner's number, he writes his own. "Call me here, not at the station."

Scully takes the slip of paper, a spark of curiosity in her eyes. "Not at the station...?"

Tim flushes. He clears his throat. "I'm investigating this in an unofficial capacity."

Scully nods, not questioning him. "All right. I'll be in touch."

He stands, aware that he is being dismissed. He moves to the door reluctantly. "Okay. I'll, uh, talk to you soon." He extends his hand and Scully takes it. "It was good to see you again."

She nods and withdraws her hand. "You too."

She locks the door after Tim leaves. Who, exactly, was Nick Shaw? How did he know Mulder? She walks to the filing cabinet and digs through the files until she finds the X-File she's looking for. She takes it to her desk and reads.

Pinck Pharmaceuticals.

Spring of 1995. An infected package is sent to Robert Torrence, convict, in Cumberland Prison, Virginia. The package carries the parasite Faciphaga Emasculata. A dozen men die, including Doctor Osborne, while Scully searches for answers. She recalls one of the medical workers, eyes cold, warning her: "No one will corroborate your story."

Pinck Pharmaceuticals, the company responsible for the disease outbreak and subsequent cover up. All in the name of research. Scully closes the folder, stomach churning. What kind of research is Pinck doing now?

***

Another question.

He turns his head, away from their prying eyes and minds. He knows their hunger. Their greed.

The electric shock rocks him back in the chair and he grits his teeth. The smell of burning flesh gags him. *His* flesh.

"Answer the question, Mr. Kostmayer!"

Jacardi's voice.

Time no longer exists. His life has been whittled down, carved into one long battery of tests. How well can he navigate through the dark? How well can he hear? How far can he see? What is the extent of his telepathy? What language is this? What color that? Decipher the password.

The questions are endless. He is shackled to the chair, blindfolded. A half dozen men hang on his every word, they scan the monitor readouts, muttering amazement. He is still on Level Three, but in another wing, away from Mulder and Shaw.

Another shock. He bites down on a scream, back arching. GOD! It's so hard to keep control! Even his teeth hurt. His fillings hurt. His hair hurts. His head lolls back against the wood. "Stop it," he says weakly.

Mickey can't see him, but he knows Jacardi is sitting next to him. Tompkin is here also, some scientists, and one of Jacardi's bodyguards. He knows each man's weakness, his fears, his dreams. Their lives converge with his, he is a weak satellite picking up overlapping signals. He knows that Jacardi is growing impatient. He plans to kill Shaw when the project is complete.

He plans to kill them all.

Tompkin is getting nervous. He plays the part well, but Mickey can smell the man's fear. If they don't act soon, Tompkin will break. Mickey's hands strain against the metal. And so will I.

He hears the motion. He feels the faint ripple of air. Instinctively his hands rise, chains clinking, and he catches the baseball. He turns it over his hands, feeling the rough leather.

"Very good," Jarcardi says, a man addressing a favored pet.

Mickey turns his head slowly, focusing on Jacardi's exact location. He concentrates, relying on an inner sense of vision. He throws the ball. Mickey's speed and strength are too much for Jacardi to sidestep, the ball clips his chin and he staggers.

The satisfaction that he actually hit the bastard almost justifies the pain that follows.

Almost.

***

"I'm telling you the truth! It stopped working! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Mickey's words tumble against each other, a garbled plea for mercy. Petri and Tompkin drag him through the door. Petri shoves Mickey into one of the tables and Kostmayer slumps to the floor. "Ask Shaw! The first dose wears off after six hours! I'm telling you the truth!" The blindfold is gone and his eyes flick from one face to another, wild.

Jacardi turns to Shaw. "It hasn't been six hours."

Nick steps back from the microscope. He keeps his voice steady. "It's been five. But Mickey Kostmayer is a bigger man than Leon was. It's bound to leave his system earlier."

Jarcardi purses his lips. "Fine. Then give him a second injection. We have more tests to run."

Nick stands frozen. No. Not another dose. He sees Leon's face, slick with sweat, sightless eyes bulging. The word is little more than a whisper. "No."

Jacardi laughs. "No? That word is no longer part of your vocabulary." He calls to one of the technicians. "Szarabajka. You gave him the first injection. Seeing how you didn't kill him, why don't you try it again."

Fear twists Nick's bowels. Nervous cramps shoot through his belly. If Szarabajka gives him the wrong dosage...He hangs his head, defeated. He pulls a fresh syringe out of a supply drawer and fills it with .6 cubic centimeters of Perfect Clarity. He kneels next to Kostmayer, but Jacardi puts a restraining hand on Nick's shoulder.

"Just a moment." He waves Szarabajka over. "Since you were kind enough to fill the syringe, I think we better let Doctor Szarabajka inject Mickey after all." His smile is feral. "We wouldn't want anything...unfortunate to happen."

Szarabajka stabs the needle into Mickey's arm and depresses the plunger. Mickey grimaces, but makes no effort to escape.

Mulder watches from the cell, sick. Mickey's bare chest reveals a pattern of angry wheels and welts, almost like burn marks. The wound on his head has reopened. Fresh blood smears the side of his face. "He needs stitches," Mulder calls out. They ignore him.

Mulder grips the bars, white-knuckled. What if Nick can't save him? What if Kostmayer dies just like Leon and the animals? Then you'll be next. And after he's gone, then what? Where will it end? He is not a religious man, but Mulder bows his head and prays. He prays to the one thing he still believes in: his partner.

Come on Scully. Get us out of here.

Petri opens the cell door and Tompkin pulls Kostmayer inside. Szarabajka leaves the cart of monitoring equipment next to the cell.

"I have an appointment, Nick. I'll be back in an hour." Jacardi massages his jaw. "Let's hope your friend is more cooperative by then."

Jacardi and Szarabajka exit.

Mulder needs an outlet for his anger. He waves at Petri and Tompkin, stationed at the back of the lab. "I missed you guys."

Tompkin ignores Mulder but Petri favors him with a glare. "Shut up."

Tompkin wanders over to Nick. "What are you doing?"

Nick adjusts the magnification of the microscope and studies a smear of Mickey's blood. Next he inserts a slide of Leon's blood. He compares the two and makes a notation.

Tompkin interrupts Nick's silence. "Guess that means you don't need any help."

Nick glares. "I guess."

Tompkin hops up onto one of the tables and watches Shaw work. His legs swing over the side. His gun rests in his lap. He looks over his shoulder at Petri. "I'm hungry. Go get us something to eat."

Petri makes a face. "Forget it." Then: "You go."

Tompkin turns himself around. "I think you should go, Petri." His expression hardens. "After all, Kitt was *your* buddy, wasn't he? What's the matter? You gonna miss him?"

Petri's lips pull into an angry line. "You watch what you say."

"I like my pizza with extra mushrooms," Mulder calls, helpful.

A brief smile flickers over Tompkin's features. "You heard the man."

Petri removes his beret and stuffs it into a pocket. "You're just lucky this detail sucks." He stands and stretches, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Wasting time in an attempt to annoy Tompkin. He walks to the door and punches in the code. He nods once at Tompkin and opens the door. "Later."

When Petri is gone, Will Tompkin slides off the table and walks past Nick. He makes his way along the length of the room, slow and easy, all the way to the cell.

Kostmayer raises his head at Tompkin's approach. Their eyes meet. Mickey moves to his feet in one catlike motion, all fatigue, hysteria, and weakness gone. He laughs at Mulder's expression and flashes an insolent grin. "I've been through worse than this," he says.

Tompkin pulls out his keys and unlocks the door. Mulder watches the two men, amazed. "I'll be damned."

"You will if you stay here. Let's go."

He limps out of the cell, Mulder right behind him. Mickey hesitates and touches Tompkin's sleeve. "Wait. Someone's coming." His face contorts. "It's Petri. Dammit! Back inside, Will-shut the door." Mulder grinds his teeth against the disappointment. They resume their places and Tompkin slides the cell door shut. He doesn't lock it.

Nick leans against the bars, whispering. "How can you be sure? You said Perfect Clarity wore off, the second injection takes time to-"

Mickey waves the doctor away. "I lied."

Nick blanches. "But that's too high a dosage!"

Tompkin pushes Shaw toward the workstation. "Shut up. Get back to work."

The door opens. Petri walks in, unassuming. "You didn't tell me what you-"

Tompkin swings the gun up, fires once. Petri goes down.

Shaw stares in horror. He sees his wife's dead face. The blood. So much blood. "Did you have to kill him?"

Tompkin hooks Petri under the arms and drags the man toward the cell. Mickey already has the door open. They place Petri on the floor. Kostmayer grabs Petri's gun. He shouts at Nick: "Get your notes, whatever you want, now. We're out of here."

Mickey goes first, followed by Tompkin, Mulder, and Shaw. He stops at the door, motioning to Tompkin. "The code." Between the drug and adrenaline rush, he is ready to smash the lock with his bare hands.

Tompkin punches in the first two numbers.

Jacardi. In the elevator. Walking down the hall. Mickey can see him, can hear the soles of his Bruno Maglis slap the marbled floor. People with him. More soldiers. Guns. He can *smell* the retribution.

"Dammit! Jacardi's coming. He's got a goddamn task force with him." Mickey puts a hand to his head, agonizing. "We've been set up."

Tompkin's hand pauses over the number pad. "What now?"

Mulder wants to scream. Not *again*! Freedom taunts them, three floors down.

Mickey thrusts his gun at Mulder. "Take this. Follow my lead." He takes Tompkin's gun and puts it to the man's head. "You're my hostage, got it?"

Tompkin looks up, their eyes meet. "Got it."

Mickey drags Tompkin away from the door. Mulder holds the gun tightly, surprised at how little it weighs. Shaw stays close to Mulder, heart pounding. Let this end soon. One way or another, let it end.

The door opens and four men rush inside the lab. Their military clothes are almost identical to the Black Eagle Team, except their berets bear the mark of a hawk. All guns are trained on Mickey. Jacardi hangs back.

"Don't move," Mickey screams, "or Tompkin dies."

Jacardi speaks loudly. "Save him the trouble."

A soldier fires and Tompkin jerks against Mickey. Will falls to the floor, dead. "NO!" Mickey returns the gunfire, dodging behind a table. One of the soldiers drops. Jacardi rushes into the hallway, out of the line of fire.

Panicking, Mulder pulls the trigger of his Uzi. Another soldier goes down. Two against two.

But not for long. Five more soldiers charge into the room. Mulder falls. He feels no pain, only a faint slipping away, a growing darkness. He blinks up at the ceiling, stunned, his gun three feet away.

Mickey is hit next. He stumbles and drops to his knees. He shakes his head, desperate to clear the fog, but can't. His hands rebel, no longer obeying his commands and he falls onto his side. He recognizes the symptoms. He fights against the sedatives, struggling to stay conscious.

***

"Bayliss."

"Hi."

Tim smiles at the sound of Dana Scully's voice. "Any luck?"

She sighs. "I'm afraid not. Meyers wouldn't return any of my calls. I finally bypassed her and went straight to the CME."

Tim is thankful she can't see his face. "Julianna?"

"Yes." Brief pause. "Don't worry, I told her I thought Shaw might have some bearing on a John Doe we're investigating."

Tim grins, impressed. "I owe you. What did she say?"

"She was very cooperative, but it was still an exercise in futility. Shaw's records are missing."

Tim taps his fingers against the table. "That's convenient."

"Very."

"Still no word from Mulder?"

Softly: "No."

"Have you filed a missing persons report?"

Scully sighs. "I don't think that's the right direction."

"What is the right direction?"

"I'm not sure..." Scully nibbles at her lower lip. She leans forward suddenly. "I can't believe I didn't think of it before!"

"What?"

"First off, I'll check with the security office. What if Nick Shaw came to see Mulder here? We'd have it on tape."

"Proving he's still alive *and* that he had something to do with Mulder's disappearance."

"Exactly."

An awkward silence follows. "Do you...need any help?"

Scully can almost see the hopeful look on Tim's face. She nearly agrees. Tim is a nice guy, friendly, not bad to look at, either. But he's not her partner. There is only one Mulder. "Tell you what. I don't need help with the videotapes, but if something comes up, I'll let you know. Okay?"

"Sure. Sounds good." He's careful to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

He hangs up and slumps back against the couch, eyes closed. So far, not one phone call from the station. No 'how's it going', no 'whatcha up to, Bayliss?' He hasn't been to the Waterfront in three days. Lewis hasn't even called to chew him out. After five years he's still an outsider.

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Part 7/10

"There." Reece Davies points to the screen. "Is that the guy you're looking for?"

Scully squints at the monitor, wishing she had kept a copy of Tim's newspaper clipping. "I think so."

"Keep watching. He comes in, asks to see Mulder, and takes a seat in the lobby."

Scully watches the black and white footage of a balding man, thin, mid-forties, move from the reception desk to the far end of the lobby. "When is this?"

Reece checks the log. "Late Friday afternoon, around four o'clock."

"Do you have Friday's sign-in sheets?"

Reece frowns, rummaging through a tower of stacked trays on his desk. "I don't think Maria brought Friday down yet--Wait a minute! Here we go." He lifts an interoffice envelope from his chair. "Speak of the devil." He opens the envelope, withdraws a small sheaf of papers and hands them to Scully.

She leans against his desk, scanning the rainbow of signatures from Friday's visitors. There. At four-fifteen. George Bernard Shaw. Clever. That must be him. She hands the packet back to the guard. "Thanks Reece. I appreciate it."

Reece tips his hat. "Anytime."

***

Frohike ushers her inside. Langly is bent over a computer and Byers' back is turned to them. He's on the telephone. Frohike clears his throat and Byers turns. "I'll call you back," Byers mutters abruptly, and hangs up.

He steps forward, smiling. "Scully. You're looking very well."

"Thank you." She skips to the point of their meeting. "What did you find?"

"For starters, you won't find a bottle of this at the local pharmacy." He hands her the Blue Morning bottle. "This bottle contains a very powerful, mind-altering drug."

Scully frowns. "Like LSD?"

Langly speaks. "Not exactly. It's not a true hallucinogenic. LSD is based on ergot, a kind of mold from-"

Scully waves him on. "I've heard of it."

"Anyway, this compound is based on something else. Something we've never seen before."

"We've done an extensive search and no one has been able to identify this substance," Frohike says. "Except for..." he trails off.

"Except for?" Scully prods.

Byers' lip curls. "An acquaintance of ours, who goes by the name Dr. Bob. He seems to think the contents of this bottle come from a secret experiment that originated in Area 51. During the early fifties."

Langly laughs. "Then again, Dr. Bob thinks every modern day invention is a by-product of Area 51."

Scully taps the bottle gently. "Did...Dr. Bob have any idea what this is used for?"

Byers folds his hands, the image of a perfect Wall Street executive. "He made an educated guess. He felt that a drug like this...might be used in either academic or military circles." He rubs a hand over his beard. "I'd have to agree with him." He shrugs. "But without actually *using* it--which I'm somewhat loathe to do--I can't be one hundred percent certain."

The Lone Gunmen's information more or less matches the files on her computer. She smiles. One more piece of the puzzle snaps in place. "Thanks guys. I owe you."

"You don't owe us," Frohike tells her. "Just find Mulder."

***

He has the same thing for breakfast every day: Half a pack of Morleys and a large coffee, black. Today is no exception. He unlocks his office.

A voice greets him, very polite. "You are a very, very hard man to find, James."

He turns slowly and places the Styrofoam cup on his desk. He keeps the expression on his face neutral. "My name isn't James. You must have me mistaken for someone else."

"Come, come, James. Don't tell me you don't recognize me. Has time changed us both so much?"

James regards his visitor coolly. A silver-haired man with a faint British lilt. Intense eyes behind a pair of nondescript glasses. The man sits behind his desk, relaxed. "Shut the door, please."

James does, curious. There is something familiar about that voice. Recognition brings a faint smile to his lips. "Robert McCall."

"It's been a long time, James."

James lights another Morley. "Not long enough."

"Now, now, be civil. It took considerable effort to locate you."

"You're in my chair."

"So I am. It's very comfortable." Robert leans back, demonstrating.

"What are you doing here?"

Robert folds his hands. "I'm looking for someone."

James inhales deeply. Exhales a long stream of smoke. "Who?"

"An FBI Agent named Fox Mulder."

James laughs, incredulous. "You? What's your interest in Agent Mulder?"

"My interest in Agent Mulder is secondary. I believe an associate of mine is with him. Mickey Kostmayer."

James shrugs, the name means nothing to him. "Why do you think I can help you?"

"If memory serves, your brand of currency always was information." Robert offers a bland smile. "I'm sure you're a very wealthy man."

James stubs out the cigarette and lights another. "I don't deal with The Company."

"Oh, but I'm not with The Company, James. I retired more than ten years ago."

James eyes McCall with considerable skepticism. "Is that so?"

McCall shrugs. "I'm a just a regular citizen now, I'm afraid."

James reaches for his coffee. "Even if I did know where the Mulder boy was, why would I tell you?"

Robert considers the question. "Well...perhaps that proud feeling of helping a fellow human being?"

James laughs again, louder this time. "I forgot how amusing you were, Robert."

Robert stands, his good humor eclipsed by cool professionalism. "I didn't intend to amuse you. I want the information."

James gestures at McCall with his Morley. "It doesn't work that way."

"Then I suggest you tell me how it does work."

James doesn't answer.

"We worked together once, a long time ago. Thirty years is a very long time. Two gung-ho lads freshly recruited to The Company. Do you remember New Guinea?"

James listens, still silent.

"Have you forgotten that I saved your life?"

James glares darkly. "I didn't ask you to."

"Oh? You regret my choice?"

"I regret nothing," James says, contemptuous. "What I do, I do for a reason. You chose a different path, Robert. A dead end. I hold the real power now, like you said, I'm a wealthy man. I trade in secrets. I make decisions that change the course of history. I know the truth. My hands shape reality.

"You won't find it inside a split level house with the two car garage. With its three televisions tuned to Must-See TV and a swing set in the yard. Those things aren't reality. They're an excuse for mediocrity. They're *fabricated*."

A pained look crosses Robert's face. "Every man makes his own reality," he says softly.

James snorts. "And I suppose you believe the world is flat, too?"

Robert smiles coldly. "Oh yes. It's quite flat. And I'm going to push you off the edge in about two seconds if you don't tell me where I can find Fox Mulder."

James moves a step closer to his desk.

McCall taps his pocket. "By the way, I took the liberty of removing a certain item from your lower right desk drawer. I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

James smiles dryly. "Very thoughtful."

McCall nods, pleased. "Yes, I am, aren't I?"

James lights a third cigarette, weary of McCalls' game. "Understand this, McCall. I hold a certain amount of power. I am a player and you are not. You aren't even a spectator. You don't even know where the damn playing field is! I can arrange it so that you won't leave this building alive." He taps the Morley over the ash tray, once, twice. "But I won't. I respect you for coming here." He speaks with finality. "You can go, and then we'll be even."

McCall's voice registers disgust. "My, my, aren't you generous."

"Don't patronize me, Robert. It would be very..." he searches for the correct word, "damaging...for me if someone saw you here. I can't tell you what you want to know."

Robert moves toward the door, hands buried in the pockets of his long coat. "You mean you won't."

James leans forward, his lips inches away from McCall's ear. "If you're so desperate to find Agent Mulder, why don't you talk to his partner?" He pulls the door open and motions to the hallway. "Goodbye, Robert. It's been a pleasure."

Robert removes the small gun from his pocket and hands it to James. "Indeed." He walks through the door.

The man with the cigarette watches McCall walk down the hall. He shakes his head, vaguely troubled. What a waste. Robert McCall could have been a great man.

***

The pounding wakes her. Scully rolls out of bed and reaches for her gun. She pads to the door, heart thumping. A hoarse voice whispers urgently: "Agent Scully! It's Walter Skinner."

Scully gapes at the door. Standing on tiptoe, she peeks through the eyehole. The Assistant Director stands in the hallway, shoulders hunched, head down. She turns the lock and pulls the door open. Walter steps inside.

Scully wraps her arms around body, all too aware of her flimsy nightshirt. "What do you want?" Hadn't he said enough this morning?

Skinner keeps his eyes on her face. "Agent Scully...Dana." He pauses. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior this morning. I can't justify my actions, but I want you to understand it wasn't my intention to purposely...misdirect you. I have always respected your and Agent Mulder's work. I will do everything in my power to see that you continue that work."

Skinner's face is creased with worry and fatigue. "I honestly don't know where Mulder is. But I know where he's not. He is not in Montana."

Scully looks down at the tiled floor. "Why did you lie?"

Skinner lifts his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. "I have my reasons."

"I see." Scully pulls her arms tighter around herself, angry. "How can you expect us to trust you if-"

Skinner takes a step forward, red-faced. "I do not *expect* your trust, Agent Scully. I like to think I've earned it. Just as you and Mulder have earned my trust. I've put my life-and my career-on the line for the X-Files." His voice softens. "You know that. What more do you want? Accept that I did what I did for a good reason and go past it, Agent Scully. If I didn't give a damn about you or your partner, I certainly wouldn't be standing in your kitchen at this time of night."

Scully stares at him, locked in a silent battle of trust versus doubt. Finally, she sighs. "I'll make some coffee."

Skinner shakes his head. "No. I can't stay. I just wanted you to know that...you aren't alone in this." Adamant: "We'll find him."

There is a sudden tightness in Scully's throat. She blinks, determined not to let Skinner see the affect of his words. She musters a brief smile. "Thank you."

Skinner nods, stone-faced, and turns to leave.

"Sir?" Scully stops him. "Do you have any idea if Mulder received a letter from someone named Nick Shaw last week? Did he mention anything to you?"

Skinner's brow furrows. "I don't..." He looks up, eyes focused somewhere else. "Actually...Vic brought a letter up to me. It set off one of the detectors because there was a metallic key in it. It was marked personal and Mulder made a crack about my reading it."

Scully's hand reaches out for the counter. "And did you? Read it?"

Skinner shakes his head. "No. I just delivered it. Why? What's the significance of the letter?"

"I believe the letter was from Nick Shaw. He's a scientist working for Pinck Pharmaceuticals." Skinner's face tightens at her mention of the name. "I think the disk Mulder left me described a project Shaw was working on."

"And you think this man-Shaw-kidnapped Mulder?"

"I don't know, sir. Maybe Mulder was trying to protect Shaw from someone...and got in the way."

A muscle in Skinner's neck twitches. "I warned Mulder about Pinck. I told him to watch his back." He looks at Scully, eyes hard. "I warned both of you." No wonder Cancer Man wants the disk. No wonder they're covering their tracks. What in the name of God had Mulder stumbled onto?

***

He gags. Mulder sits up slowly. A bitter dryness permeates his mouth. His limbs feel heavy and loose. Damn. Drugged again. He is back in the cell. Nick sits at his computer, keying in data. A brand new video camera is perched above the laboratory door, recording his movement. Great.

Mickey is gone. Mulder rubs his forehead, afraid to ask where. After relieving himself he drifts to the cell door. A stale looking sandwich sits on a paper plate. His first impulse is to throw the sandwich into next week, but he resists. His stomach emits a long rumble. Sighing, he bends down and picks it up. Sniffs it. Peeks between the bread. Egg salad. He has a choice: rebel and starve, thereby growing weaker, or eat the food and save his strength. Not much of a choice.

He lowers himself to the floor and sits cross-legged. He takes a bite of the sandwich. Too late, he wonders if it is drugged. He chews cautiously. Takes another bite. It tastes okay. Mouth full, he asks: "How did they know about Tompkin?" He glances around the lab. "This place bugged?"

Nick looks up from the computer, his face strained. He points to one of the lights. "Up there." He returns to the safety of his numbers. "Roy showed me."

Mulder takes another bite. "Where's Mickey?"

Shaw doesn't answer.

Nick's silence unnerves Mulder. Fear turns the egg salad sour in his belly and he struggles to keep it down. "Is he...dead?"

Nick can't bear to meet his friend's eyes. All of this is his fault. He wants nothing more than to break one of the glass beakers and slit his wrists. He wants to be with Angie. But with the video camera, they'd probably come in time to save him. Besides, if he died, who would save Mickey Kostmayer? Or Mulder? What are you saying? That *you* can save them? Then you'll have to do a hell of a lot better than this.

"No. They took him for more tests."

Mulder leans back against the bars. Tests. Always tests. Tests on Scully. Tests on him. Tests on Kostmayer. Would it ever end? Would they ever be satisfied? He swallows thickly. "Is there anything to drink?"

Nick points. "On the platform."

Mulder follows his friend's gaze and sees the plastic cup. He sniffs at it. Smells like cola. It's warm. And flat. But at this moment, it tastes better than anything he's ever drank. He drinks greedily and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "How is he doing? Compared to Leon?"

Nick shrugs, unable to answer with any certainty. "He's not showing any signs of deterioration."

Relief washes over Mulder, but the feeling is short-lived. The look on Nick's face punctures his newfound optimism. "That's good...right?"

"I do know what it is. There's no reason Perfect Clarity should react differently with Mickey. I'm trying my best..." Nick's voice cracks. He stares at Mulder, helpless. He tries to smile and fails. "These aren't the best working conditions, you know? I don't know what will happen. I don't know if I can save Mickey." He looks away, close to tears. "Or you."

Mulder crumples the cup and throws it through the bars. It bounces on the floor a few feet away. His stomach growls for more food, but he ignores it. He lets Nick's statement sink in. He chooses to ignore that too. He looks for a new topic. "Where are we? Inside New World?"

"We're on the third floor."

Level Three. Cloning. Experiments. God. "There's no way out, is there?"

Nick glances from the video camera to Mulder. "Outside of dying, you mean?"

Mulder slides one hand behind his head, the other shields his eyes. Are you back yet, Scully? Do you know I'm gone? I never gave up on you Scully. I kept searching. Don't give up on me. Not yet.

***

"Excuse me, sir. Detective Bayliss is here to see you."

Roy Jacardi eyes his assistant. "Again? What for?"

"He says he has a few questions about Nick Shaw."

"Tell him I'm busy."

"I did, sir. He said he'll wait."

Jarcardi scowls. His time is too precious to be wasted on this kind of stupidity. "Send him in."

Roy straightens his desk. The gold-plated clock reads eleven-thirty. He folds his hands on top of the polished mahogany and arranges a pleasant smile on his face.

When Brenda escorts Detective Tim Bayliss into his office, he rises and extends a hand. He exudes cooperation. "What can I do for you Detective Bayliss? I thought I answered all of your questions last week."

Bayliss shakes his hand and nods. "You did, Mr. Jacardi. I'll only take a few moments of your time."

Jacardi indicates a chair near his desk and Tim sits. "I heard that Shaw was found dead. A suicide." He shakes his head sadly. "What a shame."

"Well that's the problem, Mr. Jacardi. We aren't a hundred percent certain that the body found *was* Nick Shaw. There's a slim possibility that he may be alive, and on the run with a hostage. Do you have any idea where he might go? Did he ever mention any vacation spots to you, any hobbies? Anything...?"

Jacardi frowns, pondering the question. "I believe Nick has a sister. Did you talk to her?"

"I'm afraid she couldn't provide much information."

Jacardi spreads his hands. "Neither can I. Sorry. Nick was a fine employee, a hard worker, but I didn't know him very well."

Jacardi sits in his leather chair like a well-oiled shark. Tim's inner radar screams. This guy is a practiced liar. Every word is weighed and polished before he even opens his mouth. Maybe he's used to fooling the morons he works with, but not Tim Bayliss. "If he was such a good employee, why exactly was he fired?"

Jacardi smiles thinly. "I explained that during your last visit."

"That's okay, Mr. Jacardi. Humor me. Tell me again."

Jacardi clears his throat. "He was a good employee until his project began to go poorly. He went over budget and our client was extremely unhappy. They pulled the plug, essentially wiping out a year and a half of Nick's life. He was very...emotional. He began showing up late, leaving early." He shrugs. "The man was unreliable. We don't tolerate that kind of behavior here."

Tim nods, tapping his small notebook against his leg. "Right. Dependability is important." He opens the notebook. "What kind of project was Nick working on?"

Roy's smile is cool. "I'm sorry, detective. That information is classified. I can't give that kind of information out."

"Would you prefer a subpoena?"

"Go ahead, but you still won't get your information. It's classified, a matter of national security. Your subpoena will be worthless." Roy maintains his friendly appearance, but Tim detects a hint of anger in the man's voice.

Tim tries another route. "Is it possible I could take a look around Nick's office? I might be able to get a feel for where he went."

Jacardi stands. He smoothes his expensive silk tie. Tim guesses it's either a Bank Vault or Brooks Brothers. His own ties are Wal-Mart originals. "I'm sorry, detective, but that won't be possible. Nick's office has been turned into a conference room. We're in the middle of some internal restructuring..." he shrugs and smiles faintly. His body language is clear. So sorry, better luck next time.

"Okay. Well. I had to try." Tim stands also. "Thanks for your time. You have my card. If anything comes to mind, please give me a call."

Jacardi nods. "Certainly. Good luck."

"Thanks."

Tim walks across the black expanse of parking lot. Behind him is the chrome and glass monstrosity called New World Laboratories. Five stories of new age architecture squatting on what used to be open field. New roads and businesses orbit the building like a private solar system.

Inside his car, Tim watches the building. Every window is mirrored. The building looks back calmly, five floors of secrets. One thing is certain. Roy Jacardi is lying through his bonded teeth.

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

Part 8/10

"Flowers, Agent Scully." Carrie Hannover stands in the doorway, one of the administrative assistants from the first level. She winks. "So who's the lucky man?"

Scully smiles and accepts the bouquet of yellow roses. What in the world? "Secret admirer, I guess."

Carrie wiggles her fingers in a quick goodbye and ducks back out. Scully stares at the bouquet. Six roses arranged in a white basket. A little note card wishes her a Happy Springtime! She flips the card over and reads the unfamiliar handwriting:

Perhaps we can help each other. Meet me near the reflecting pool. Robert McCall.

Scully inhales the flower's sweet aroma. Who is Robert McCall? And how will she recognize him? A small voice warns her that this could be a trap. She shrugs it off, thinking of Mulder. If he were in her place, he would go, no questions asked. She feels for the reassurance of her gun.

Mulder has been gone more than three days. There is no time to waste.

***

She walks through the crowd of tourists, surreptitiously studying each face. A family of four eat ice cream to her right. A young couple take snapshots of each other to her left. She walks further, and sees him on one of the benches. He holds a single yellow rose in his hand. An older gentleman. He wears glasses. His thinning silver hair blows gently in the afternoon breeze. He feels her scrutiny and looks up at her. And smiles.

Scully is struck by how open and kind his face is. There is something in his look, something safe, that tempts her to trust him. For that exact reason she is on her guard. Things are not always as they seem, people are not always who they are. Deep Throat's dying command echoes in her mind: Trust no one.

She draws close. "Is this seat taken?"

He holds out a hand. "Agent Scully? My name is Robert McCall. I apologize for the manner in which I arranged our meeting...but I thought it best that we meet out in the open." He hands her the rose. "This is for you."

Robert's voice carries a rich British accent. Absurdly, she finds herself attracted to him. He is at least thirty years her senior, old enough to be her father. She clears her throat, still cautious. "How do you know me, Mr. McCall?"

"Shall we walk?"

They stand and begin to walk slowly around the pool, lost amidst the myriad of faces. "I don't know you Agent Scully, nor do I know your partner. But I am very interested in finding Fox Mulder. A very good friend of mine may be with him."

Scully stares at Robert. "Nick Shaw?"

McCall removes his glasses and puts them into an interior coat pocket. "No. Mickey Kostmayer."

Now Scully is confused. "Who is Mickey Kostmayer?"

"The man sent to ensure that Nick Shaw and Agent Mulder meet. He was supposed to protect Mulder and make sure that Shaw's information was safely exchanged." He frowns. "I fear that things did not go as planned."

Scully cannot believe what she is hearing. "Protect Mulder?" she repeats, astounded. She walks in silence for a few steps. Then: "Who do you work for, Mr. McCall? Why should I believe anything you're telling me?" Kind face or not, he could still be part of the Syndicate.

"I work for no one, Agent Scully. Mr. Kostmayer, however, is in a line of work similar to your own."

"He's in the FBI?"

"Central Intelligence."

Someone in the CIA is trying to protect Mulder? Scully would laugh if she weren't so scared. With each passing second she feels herself growing smaller, her power to help Mulder dwindling. She is caught up in something with no boundaries.

She thinks aloud. "Why would the CIA help Mulder?"

McCall looks at her pointedly. "Perhaps he has a friend."

Scully nibbles at her lip. A...friend? Her stomach does a slow roll at the possibility. Senator Mattheson?

"Why do you think this-this Mickey Kostmayer is with Mulder?"

"He was on assignment when he disappeared. He had infiltrated an elite military team sent to find Nick Shaw. I think Mickey, Agent Mulder, and Nick Shaw are together." One eye twitches. "Against their will."

Scully twirls the rose in her hand. Mulder's training is thorough. "You still haven't answered me, Mr. McCall. Why should I believe you?"

McCall sighs. "I have no reason to lie to you, Agent Scully. I want to find my friend as much as you want to find Agent Mulder." He stops walking and looks into her eyes. "I thought we might be able to help each other."

Scully looks away from his penetrating gaze. "I don't know..."

Robert takes hold of her shoulder. "Do you want to find Agent Mulder?" His eyes search Scully's. "Do you?"

Scully looks into his face, praying she has made the right decision. "Yes."

***

"What the hell were you doing?" Gee stands in his living room, livid. Beyond livid.

Tim stares at his Lieutenant, debating exactly how to answer.

"Where you there or not?" Gee demands.

Subdued: "I was."

Gee's finger jabs the air mere inches from Tim's nose. "He said you were harassing him. His assistant was a witness." Gee's voice is deadly. "I'll ask you only once. Did you strike him?"

"No!" Tim is shocked. "I never even raised my voice! I asked him four questions and left! That's all!" His stomach spirals downward, unbelieving. Jacardi is setting him up!

Gee stares at Bayliss, dark eyes crackling. "What the hell were you doing within a hundred feet of New World Labs? You're on vacation, Detective Bayliss. Do you understand that word? Vacation! That means *no* work!"

Tim glares at Gee, nostrils flaring. "Well maybe I had to go near New World Labs. No one else seems interested in solving the murders of Angie and Justin Shaw!"

Giardello lowers himself into a chair. "That's an interesting statement coming from the man who nearly gave Nick Shaw a heart attack."

Tim's laugh is ugly. "Don't even go there." He stalks back and forth across the living room, agitated. "You're telling me you have no qualms about Meyers' autopsy? You firmly believe that Nick Shaw drowned himself?"

Gee exhales loudly. "Stay away from Jacardi."

"Or what? I get a permanent vacation?"

Gee glowers. "This is not a joke, Bayliss! I spent a half-hour getting my butt chewed by the Mayor, Barnfather and Gaffney! I'm going to have teeth marks on my ass for a week thanks to you! I don't need this kind of hassle, dammit!"

Tim waves his hand. "Uh-uh, Gee. I didn't ask for this vacation. If you had kept me on duty, this wouldn't have happened.

"It just so happens I have a lot of free time on my hands at the moment. So I dug a little. Only it turns out, my little must be a lot to somebody.

"What happened? Jacardi get nervous and complain? Did he tattle to the Mayor? The Governor? Put the squeeze on Barnfather?"

Gee's shoulders slump. "I'm the one getting the squeeze, Bayliss. If you don't back down, they want you out. They'll use the mess with Shaw as backup. You're already on Gaffney's black list, you know that. The only one sticking up for you will be me, and we both know how much weight I carry."

Tim sinks onto the couch. Both hands rake his hair. "So, what you're saying is, the investigation is over because they said so."

Gee's nod is barely perceptible.

Tim bows his head. He counts to ten, waiting for his anger to abate. It doesn't. He counts to ten again. And again. This is unbelievable. "So that's how it works, huh? We're a bunch of puppets?"

"Bayliss..." Gee flounders. "This kind of thing doesn't happen often."

Tim looks up, eyes bright. "Oh, well, in that case, hey! What the hell!"

Gee sighs. His anger has been replaced by a deep, bone-numbing weariness. "We do the best we can, Tim. That's all we can do."

"And when that's not enough?"

Gee can't answer.

***

Her cell phone rings. "Scully." For the briefest second she can hear Mulder's voice: amused, impatient, worried. Mulder asking for help, wanting her to do something, warning her.

She knows it won't be him, but a part of her can't help hoping. Praying.

"This is Tim. I have some news for you."

She puts a hand to her ear to block out the extraneous noise. "What?"

"I went to see Jacardi again this morning. He played nice, but I could tell he was lying himself blue. Gee just stopped by and bawled me out, big time. Apparently, the decree from on high is that Jacardi is off limits. Shaw is dead, end of story. If I so much as drive past New World Labs I'll be handing out parking tickets for the rest of my life-and that's only if I'm lucky."

"In other words, you got too close."

"Correct."

"Are you still in D.C.?"

"No, I'm at home."

"How soon can you get here?"

***

"Can you hear me?"

Mickey cracks one eye. He regrets the decision immediately. Pain lances through his head. He grunts. Mulder lifts his head gently. "Drink this."

Mickey chokes down a few sips of water. "How are you doing?" Mulder asks.

Mickey grimaces. "I'm just great." He blinks against the bright light. Every noise reverberates inside his head. He wraps his arms around himself, cold. His tattered shirt does little to provide warmth. He tries not think about the past three hours of his life.

Kostmayer touches the cut on his head gingerly. He lost Tompkin. Damn! Damn! Why hadn't he known about the bug before? "I guess we might as well get comfortable," he says. "Looks like this place is going to be home for a while."

Mulder resumes pacing. An endless cycle, the length of the cell and back, again and back. As if the bars will magically part the next time he passes and he'll be able to keep walking.

"What kind of tests are they doing?" Mulder asks quietly, wondering if he'll eventually be subjected to the same slow torture.

Mickey laughs, but the sound unhinges into a choked sob. "Don't feel much like talking about that right now, Mulder. Living through it is enough, thanks."

Mulder wipes his face, queasy.

Kostmayer puts his hands to his head. He's slipping away, he can feel it. He's becoming a non-person. Each individual memory and experience that identifies him as Mickey Kostmayer is being subverted by a thousand images that aren't his own. He's being buried alive.

Pain twists his gut as he thinks about his wife. God, he loved her, still does. Her beautiful, sweet face gone because of him. No! That's not my wife!

His sister, gone close to forever. She's only a memory now, a bright smile and braids. She fills him with a lingering sense of hope and despair. She is his reason to go on looking. Sam-where are you?

And Scully. The voice of reason in his tortured ear. Her pale face and vibrant blue eyes push him on. He must search for her as well. To heal her. To help her. Scully...what would he do without her? Mickey grinds his teeth. Not my sister! Scully's not *my* friend! McCall is my friend! Keep trying for him, not for Scully! Concentrate! Everything you've been through together! Think about when you met him-in the brig.

Mickey tries to focus on his own life, but each thought is a handful of sand in the wind. He can't hold on. The guard's paranoia makes him nervous. The lights are too bright-the wattage is wrong. Don't they know they're wasting electricity?

And the colors! Mickey rubs at his eyes. The colors are too bright. The black of his pants is darker than midnight, the red of Mulder's shirt is electric, Nick's white lab coat is radiant. The gray of the cold cement is the perfect mix of shadow, the color between truth and lies. He speaks through the dissonance raging in his head, struggling to hear his own voice. "Shaw-I think something's happening here." He squints, struggling against the neon assault. "I can't see very well. Everything is-it's too much."

Nick rubs his own eyes, so that Kostmayer won't see the fear on his face. It's starting.

Mulder keeps pacing. "What do you mean? The colors look different? How?"

Mickey flounders for some way to explain it. "It's too bright. Too *much*," he repeats. "The colors are...sharp. They hurt my eyes." He glances up at Mulder, about to say more, the words die on his lips. He stares at Mulder, eyes glassy.

Mickey falls backwards, unconscious, his entire body rigid. His breathes through his mouth, a high, whistling sound. He lies on the cement, stiff, until his arms and legs gradually begin to jerk helplessly against the hard floor. His skin has a new, bluish cast that scares the hell out of Mulder.

Mulder drops beside him and holds his hand beneath Mickey's head. He's rewarded with a sharp blow that nearly breaks bones. He screams and slides Mickey's head onto his lap instead. "Nick! He's seizing! Help me!" Mickey's convulsions are stiffer than Max Fennig's loose motions had been, it's hard to hold him. Gradually the seizure slows and Mulder turns Mickey's head to prevent choking.

Nick watches, horrified, as Kostmayer flails in Mulder's arms. He recalls his amateur performance for Kay Howard and guilt puts another toehold in his soul. All he had wanted was revenge. His freedom.

Standing in the middle of the laboratory, Nick knows he will never be free again. He has been bought without the slightest knowledge he was for sale. There is no revenge. There is only a dark despair that grows deeper and longer until it is all he sees. Mickey's world has become a kaleidoscope and Nick's is a void. He can't save Mickey. He can't save Mulder.

And most damning of all, he can't save himself.

***

Thin fingers of light filter through the heavy blinds and into the darkened room. A large room, richly furnished, a cross between a library and a conference room. A group of men sit around the oak table, their voices blending in muted discussion.

One of the men shakes a Morley loose from his pack of cigarettes. "You know my feelings on the situation," he says to the thin man next to him.

The thin man sighs, splaying his fingers on the tabletop. "Yes. What about the others?" He glances around the table, expectant.

Each man gives an opinion:

"You've given him too much freedom. He must be stopped."

"Stop him, but not the project."

"Yes, Perfect Clarity has potential."

The thin man nods in agreement.

"Abort the project and continue at a later time. When we know more. When conditions are more...amenable."

"I know you've invested a lot of time and energy in him, but look at how he's repaid us! He thinks only of himself, not of us. He is a failure. He's handled this whole situation with Shaw poorly. Too much publicity." The speaker makes a disgusted noise. "Trying to frame him for killing his family. What a farce!"

Someone else speaks. "But he has the FBI Agent. Mulder."

Near the head of the table, the cigarette lighter sparks and another Morley is lit. He inhales. "What of it?"

"Maybe Mulder is finally out of the way."

"No. His partner will continue without him. He has too many friends, too many followers for us to remove him." He inhales again and the cigarette glows, a single eye watching them. "His time will come, but not yet. He'll be returned." He smiles grimly. "He must be taught the full lesson."

Another voice: "He's seen too much!"

The man with the cigarette shrugs, unconcerned. "Without proof, he has nothing."

The thin man's lips pull together in a tight line, impatient for a final answer. "So the consensus is...?"

"Abort Perfect Clarity."

***

The three of them sit at the Garden Café, across from the Mall. They sit outside, at one of the wicker tables, away from the mad crush of tourists and professionals pausing for a quick dinner.

Tim finishes recounting his meeting with Jacardi and McCall puts a finger to his lips, thoughtful. "We'll assume Jacardi was the one commanding Mickey's team. And knowing Mickey, he wouldn't have had an inkling Mickey wasn't who he thought he was."

"Unless something went wrong," Tim says.

McCall nods. "Yes, yes, that's true. Something has obviously gone wrong."

"Maybe he was trying to help Mulder and Shaw escape-"

Tim interrupts Scully. "Maybe Shaw was holding Mulder, not Jacardi." He frowns. "I don't know. Jacardi just seems so damned oily. He's *got* got be up to something." He glances at Dana. "Sorry. You were saying?"

"Maybe your friend was in the process of helping Mulder--and possibly Shaw--escape and got caught."

"If Mickey was to make sure that Nick met with Mulder, I highly doubt Shaw is the problem. He was probably just framed."

Tim dislikes McCall's use of the word "just", as if framing someone for a murder was a normal occurrence. If he accepts that line of logic, what good is he as a detective? What purpose does the Homicide Squad serve? Scully obviously likes Robert McCall, but Tim is leery. A retired Company man? A missing CIA officer? This thing just keeps unfolding like the ugliest flower he's ever seen.

Two teenagers stroll by and the trio falls quiet. One of them carries a boom box and an old Gina Rox song blares at of the poor quality speakers.

Scully puts a hand to her head, fighting a headache. All of this talk is just running them in circles. None of their theories brings them closer to finding Mulder. Understanding what happened, yes. But finding him? No.

McCall pushes his chair back and sips his coffee thoughtfully. "I think Detective Bayliss had the right idea."

Tim stares at the older man, surprised.

Robert returns the stare. "You went to New World Labs. If you want to hide someone, isn't the best place always right out in the open?"

Scully opens her mouth, shuts it. She has been thinking along the lines of warehouses, basements, sanitariums that hide monsters with human shapes like Eve 6 or John Mostow. She imagined a narrow dirt cellar, similar to where Lucy Householder had been shut away. Pinck Pharmaceuticals is a huge conglomerate, with countless branches and subsidiaries. To believe that Mulder could be so close...?

The look on her face doesn't go unnoticed. "I know, Agent Scully. I hope I'm right as well. But we can't just walk in there and ask for him." Robert raises one white eyebrow. "Can we?"

***

"What is that?"

The blond man ignores Mickey's question. He injects Mickey silently and backs out of the cell.

Nick answers instead. "Carbamazepine. It should control the seizures."

Mickey licks his lips and grimaces. "Wonderful. This day just keeps getting better and better."

"This one will help you," Shaw promises. "It helped Leon..." he trails off, self-conscious. It controlled the seizures for almost 12 hours before they returned with a vengeance. His body couldn't bear the strain. One seizure after another; in spite of the carbamazepine, in spite of Dilantin, in spite of Luminal. The seizures developed into status epilepticus-one long continuous seizure. He never regained consciousness.

Nick's shirt sticks to his body. Sweat runs down his back, under his arms, he is soaked. Time is running out. He can hear the clock ticking in his head. It sounds suspiciously like gunfire.

"He needs a real doctor," Mulder calls to the blond man.

"I am a doctor."

"I said a *real* doctor, not one of your freaks!" Mulder spits at the video camera. He helps Mickey to sit up, but Kostmayer waves him away.

"I'm fine."

Mulder says nothing. Why argue? What he wouldn't give for Scully's medical knowledge-even better, for Scully herself. She would know what to do.

"What makes you think so?"

Mulder glances at Mickey? "What?"

"You were thinking Scully would know what to do."

Mulder smiles through the ache in his throat. "Scully always knows what to do."

Mickey closes his eyes. "I would have liked to meet her."

Too quickly: "You will."

Kostmayer doesn't answer.

The lab door opens and Jacardi and an Asian man enter. "How much longer?" he asks Nick.

Nick refuses to look at Jacardi. "Until what?"

Jacardi glares, exasperated. "Until Kostmayer dies. Maybe we should start with Mulder now..."

"No! Mickey Kostmayer is doing much better than Leon. Besides, what's the point in injecting Fox with Perfect Clarity until I can isolate what's causing the seizures?"

Jacardi's mouth twists into a frown. "It seems to be taking you an awfully long time to find your answer, Doctor."

Shaw loses his patience. He is beyond fear, beyond hate. He can feel his sanity slipping away. His life is a rope, and with each passing hour, another fragile thread breaks. "What do you expect, Roy? Working by myself, under these conditions? These are hardly ideal working conditions!" He dabs at his face with a tissue. "Did you forget that you killed my *assistant*?"

Jacardi chuckles. "Ah, yes. Mr. Tompkin." He shakes his head. "No, I think you can blame Mr. Kostmayer for Tompkin's death. At any rate, I've brought someone to help you. Nick, this is Doctor Scott Lin. He's a brilliant neurologist." He gives Lin an encouraging smile. Lin does not look encouraged.

Jacardi lingers by the door. "You have two hours."

"And then?"

"And then my patience runs out. And so does Mr. Kostmayer." He closes the door firmly behind him.

Lin clears his throat, clearly terrified. "W-What do you have so far?"

Nick stares at Lin for some moments, silent. Panic eats at him. Now, the last indignity! He must share his research with a stranger? He must depend on one of Jacardi's flunkies to help him?

Mulder puts his face to the bars. "For God's sake, work with him, Nick! Do you want Mickey to die?"

Nick closes his eyes. He finds it very difficult to care right now. It doesn't really matter. He has no control. Nothing matters anymore. He finds this knowledge somehow comforting.

He glances at Lin. He's hardly more than a boy, late twenties, early thirties. He sports a black buzz cut and wire rimmed glasses. If they want him to share his research, fine. Lin can have it all. Nick is ready to wash his hands of everything. He is ready to join Angie.

He waves Dr. Lin over. "I'll show you what I have so far." They confer quietly, out of Mulder's earshot, but Mickey hears their conversation clearly.

Mickey relays the information to Mulder. "No sign of tumor...no brain injury...no infection."

"But how can Nick be sure?"

Mickey makes a face. "Didn't I tell you? That cart full of crap came from the fourth floor. They've got themselves an entire hospital up there: CAT scans, X-rays, you name it." He glances back to Nick and snorts. "That's a new one."

"What?"

"He said something about thickening of the cortex."

Mickey's casual tone makes Mulder cringe. How would he react in Kostmayer's position? Would he hate Shaw? If Nick and Lin don't work some kind of miracle, he'll find out soon enough.

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

Part 9/10

Mulder paces. Fear pricks his belly. Fear for Mickey, for Nick, and for himself. If only there were some way he could get to Scully. What Mickey told him, the thickening of the cortex, could it have some relation to the retrovirus? Nick considers it nothing more exotic than swelling, but if Perfect Clarity contained some...alien ingredient, for lack of a better description, couldn't it wreak a similar havoc on the body? Instead of a thickening of the blood, a thickening of the...well, brain?

Say that Orange Juice, or whatever the hell Nick wanted to call it, did something to the brain cells. The thickened cells, no longer able to function in an orderly manner, begin to overload. The over-activity results in a seizure. And he has no proof, but it's a good bet there's a thickening of the heart going on as well. The stress of the seizures coupled with a weakened heart...it's no wonder Leon died.

"Mulder."

He sits down next to Kostmayer, restless, trying not to dwell on the man's sickly complexion, his bloodshot eyes, or his labored breathing. His light brown hair, once parted on the side, is disheveled and matted. "I want to ask you something."

"Sure."

Mickey struggles to speak. Every word is an effort, it's getting impossible to differentiate his thoughts from the others'. Between Lin and Shaw's gobbledygook, and Mulder's retrovirus theory, he can barely remember his name. "If you get out of here, find a man named Robert McCall. Tell him I was shot trying to save you, whatever, make something up. But let him know. He's my friend, I don't want him...waiting for me to come back."

His hand searches out Mulder's arm. "But don't tell him about this. I don't want him to know I died like a goddamn guinea pig. Okay?"

Mulder bows his head, not wanting to hear. "Come on, Mickey."

"Shut up, Mulder. I don't care if you don't want to. Just do it. Please. Robert McCall. He lives in New York." Mickey recites McCall's telephone number and address. "Can you remember that?"

Mulder rubs at his face. He nods.

Mickey relaxes his grip. "Good." Pause. More labored breathing. "Mulder?"

Hoarsely: "Yeah?"

"I'm gonna have another one."

"Oh God!" Mulder screams for Nick and moves into what has become a familiar position. The two guards at the back of the room look up, evidently interested in the free show.

Nick and Lin run forward, silent witnesses to Perfect Clarity's side effects.

Mulder shrieks at the guards. "You bastards! Don't just stand there! Do something, dammit! Get a doctor! If you let this man die-" he can't finish, the magnitude of his rage robs him of words. The room swims red and he pulls himself back, focusing on Mickey.

He rolls Mickey onto his left side and waits for the eternity that his seizure lasts to end. He stares at Kostmayer's chest, willing it to rise. A new panic clutches at him. "He's not breathing!"

"Open the door!" Nick screams at the two soldiers. They don't budge from their post.

Oh damn oh damn oh damn Mulder puts an ear to Mickey's mouth. Nothing. He tilts Mickey's head back and pinches his nose shut. He gives two full breaths. Mickey's chest rises and falls. He begins counting in his head, one breath every five seconds. As he breathes, he sees Todd Palmer's face. And Amy Jacobs. Don't let him die. Don't let him die. Mulder prays again and again, a blind cry for help from a God he doesn't know. Maybe, somewhere, Scully is listening.

***

Skinner's eyes bore into hers. "I'll send the S.W.A.T. team at eighteen hundred hours. You will tell them if the conditions are right for the training exercise to commence."

Scully nods.

Skinner leans closer, his voice a harsh whisper. "If they call the police or question you, your story is that you got a tip a rogue agent was seen on their premises. Agent Mulder has not reported for work in two days, he left early on Friday. He is wanted for questioning in the murder of Nick Shaw."

Scully nods again. She takes a deep breath. "Thank you, sir."

He walks away. "For what? You asked for a training drill and I agreed. You have a high case closure rate, Agent Scully, I can afford to humor you now and then."

He stops in the doorway. "One last thing, Scully. You keep that detective out of the way."

"I will sir." She has not mentioned Robert McCall's roll in the upcoming drama.

Nausea ripples through her belly. What if Mulder isn't really at New World Labs? They'll have wasted another day running in circles. What if there's a leak and Jacardi knows they're on their way? What if McCall jeopardizes the whole thing?

Walking out to the parking lot, she tries to stay calm. This will work. Just think how smoothly it will run without Mulder to play hero. Her fists clench. This time it's her turn to play hero.

Tim Bayliss is waiting at the car. He gives her a tentative smile. "How'd it go?"

"Why do I feel like I'm trapped inside some grade B movie? The kind that Mulder loves?"

Tim laughs.

They begin the drive to New World Labs. It's the longest drive of her life. In exactly one hour they will meet Robert McCall and eight S.W.A.T. team members, handpicked by Skinner. The S.W.A.T. team members are about to undergo some very serious training. She worries out loud. "If this goes bad, Skinner's going to be fried."

Tim casts her a sidelong glance. "Compared to Mulder, he'll be the lucky one."

Scully has no response to that.

He asks her: "Do you trust Robert McCall?"

Scully smiles faintly at Tim's question. He almost sounds like Mulder.

She can't explain why, but she does. "I know that he's determined to find his friend." She studies the road. "And that's what I'm determined to do."

Tim leans his head against the headrest. "You know what Mulder told me once?"

Her eyes stray to his face. "What?"

"He said you were his best friend." Tim picks at an imaginary thread on his slacks. He works up the courage to finish what he started. "And I think Fox Mulder is a very lucky man to have someone like you on his side."

Scully looks back at the road. She focuses on the traffic instead of Tim's compliment. The car ahead of them wears a bumper sticker that reads: The thing is the first mind to go.

"I was paired with Mulder four years ago," Scully finally replies. "There's no way I'm going to take another four years breaking in someone new. Mulder is just the way I like him." She smiles. Mulder is Mulder, there's no doubt about that. She can't imagine another partner. You're my best friend, too, Mulder. You better stick around long enough for me to tell you.

They ride in silence for five or ten minutes. Tim suddenly leans forward and breaks it. "Dana-are you okay?"

"Why?"

Tim puts a hand to his face. "You have a nose bleed."

Scully swears inwardly. She fishes a tissue out of her pocket and dabs at her nose. A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirms Tim's statement. Of all the times... Please don't let this have some deep meaning. Let it just be a nosebleed, God. Please.

Tim repeats his question. "Are you okay? You want me to drive?"

"No, it's nothing. Stress-related, that's all." She forces a laugh. "I'd say this definitely counts as stress."

Tim can't argue with her logic.

***

Scully checks her watch. Exactly six o'clock. The parking lot is nearly empty now. From inside the battered, nondescript van, Scully speaks into her headset. "Commence exercise." Her heart pounds faster.

Sitting behind her, Tim listens, toying with her cell phone. An ambulance from Sanai is on stand-by, one call from him and it will be on its way.

Scully swallows her fear. Get over it, Dana. You think Ahab would put up with this weak-kneed crap? Her face takes on a look of grim determination as she continues: "Keep me posted. Let me know when you're in."

A brief crackle and Torrez replies. "Affirmative. We're at the loading dock now." She hears the faint *pffft* of gunfire and Torrez chuckles. "Manion just entered the security code. We have clearance. I repeat: we have clearance into the first level loading zone."

Scully's fingers move to her throat. She wears two necklaces today: her silver cross, and Samantha's ring. Her hand closes over the ring. "Good luck, Agent Torrez."

He chuckles. "This is one hell of a spooky drill you've got us on, Agent Scully."

Eight agents, all sharpshooters. Torrez, Manion, LeWaverly, Johnson, Kotto, Xavier, Davisson, and Greer. They understand the mission. Sitting in the van, Scully wishes she were with them. Soon, she tells herself. Soon she'll be with Mulder again.

The balding, mustached man next to her winks. He balances a cup of coffee on his considerable belly. "Showtime." He presses a button on the panel in front of him and McCall's voice filters out of a speaker. Sterno glances back at Tim. "You're sure you got me the right car?"

Tim is sure. "I ran his name through twice. A black Caddy and a silver Porche. The Caddy's over there." He points ambiguously across the lot.

Sterno nods. "Just checking."

Tim sinks lower in the seat. What am I doing here?

A woman's voice: "I'm sorry sir, office hours are eight to five. You'll have to come back tomorrow."

McCall: "What a pity. I was to see that Mr. Jacardi received these today." He holds an elegant arrangement of calalillies and roses. "It's his anniversary today, you know."

Her voice is cold: "Mr. Jarcardi isn't married, sir. There must be a mistake."

"I don't think so, mum," McCall's accent broadens, all wink-wink, nudge-nudge. "I didn't say they were from any missus, now did I?"

She relents. "Fine. Give them here. I'll take them in."

"No can do. I'm part of the package. Didn't spend half the day perfecting the ol' voice for nothing. This is a private little performance between him, his lovey, and me."

A long, drawn out sigh. "You have five minutes. Hurry it up." Brief pause. "First door on the left."

***

He knocks lightly on the door. He opens it without waiting for an answer.

Roy Jacardi looks up. Annoyance turns to anger. "Who the hell are you?"

"Special delivery." McCall smiles and drops the large bouquet on top of Jacardi's desk. "Looks like you have yourself a secret admirer."

Jacardi stares at the flowers suspiciously. "Get those things off my desk."

"I think they look nice right where they are."

Jacardi studies McCall's face. He doesn't like what he sees. "Get out." His finger hovers near the intercom.

McCall shakes his head. "I wouldn't touch that if I were you, Mr. Jacardi. Bad things might happen."

Jacardi sneers at the old florist. "Such as?"

"Step over to the window, please, and I'll demonstrate."

Jacardi's face settles into a look of disbelief. "Are you threatening me?"

Roberts laughs. "Goodness, no." The laughter fades. His face hardens. "That comes later. Now look out the window, please."

Jacardi's lips purse in distaste. What is that fat old fool up to? Who is he working for? And why in God's name did Carol let him through? Humoring the old man, he moves to the window.

McCall moves next to him. He lifts the hem of his powder blue work shirt. "Please note this wire. It leads to a pack of plastic explosives secured to my person." He holds a small plastic box in the palm of his hand. Three buttons are set into it: one white, one green, and one red. "These three buttons will set off a series of explosions. The first is your car. The second is the top three floors of this building. The third is myself and anyone within a rather large radius." He nods at Jacardi. "That would include you."

Jacardi smiles. "You're bluffing."

McCall presses the white button. Within seconds there is an explosion near the front of the building. Pieces of Jacardi's Cadillac rain down onto the blacktop. Part of the windshield dents a neighboring car. The Caddy's flaming skeleton rocks back and forth like some hellish cradle.

Jacardi stares, aghast. "You're insane!"

McCall shrugs. "That is yet to be determined. Come, come, we have business." He slips the detonator back into his pocket. "Don't be foolish, Mr. Jacardi. My finger will be on the red button at all times."

Carol pokes her head into Jacardi's office, her face pale. "Mr. Jacardi! There's been some kind of-of explosion!" Panic sends her voice an octave higher. "I think your car's on fire."

Jacardi smiles, calm. The lie comes easy. "No, no, it's part of an experiment from Level Two. Doctors Price and Norland are working on a new kind of flame accelerant. I was just on the phone with Price. They'll be down in a minute to take care of it."

Carol stares at him, obviously wanting to believe her employer, but not quite able to. She's familiar with Doctor Price, and his field of study *is* pyrotechnics...but an explosion? In the parking lot?

"It's late. Why don't you go home."

She hovers in the doorway, uncertain. His voice loses its friendly undercurrent. "You may leave, Carol. Now."

She does.

As she leaves the building, she notices two men in protective gear putting out what's left of the fire. One of them sees her and waves.

She doesn't wave back.

When she's gone, Sterno smiles at Tim. "What did I tell you? Worked like a charm."

***

"What do you want?"

"Tell me where Mickey Kostmayer is."

Jacardi shrugs. "I don't know anyone by that name."

McCall's hand moves inside his pocket. "My, but you're brave, aren't you? I'll ask one more time. Where. Is. He."

Jacardi looks amused. "What makes you think he's still alive?"

His patience exhausted, McCall pulls out the Colt and pokes it into Jacardi's chest like an angry finger. "I'm not one of your little employees to be played from square to square like some lost pawn." He glares at Jacardi, willing the cool insolence off the younger man's smooth face.

"Which is it? Are you going to shoot me or blow me up?"

"Keep it up Mr. Jacardi, and I'll bloody well do both! Now move!" McCall grabs Jacardi's arm and propels him forward, the gun planted firmly in his back.

"You'll be killed," Jacardi promises. "I have body guards-"

"Well they're good aren't they? They're bloody invisible!"

"-and a special security team. This place is wired with video cameras from one end to the other."

McCall's smile is deadly. "No. This place is wired with explosives from one end to the other. I am not here on my own." He mocks Jacardi's superior tone. "I too, have a 'special security team.'"

It is almost six-twenty. Agent Scully's team should be well inside by now. "Let's go for a walk." They leave his office and cross the reception area and lobby. They stop in front of a large reinforced door. The sign reads NO UNATHORIZED PERSONNEL. There is a fingerprint pad and a computerized screen

set into the wall. McCall taps Jacardi with the gun. "I believe you're authorized."

Jacardi presses his index finger into the pad. Several seconds pass until a computerized voice identifies him as: "Jacardi, Royce. Middle initial N." The generic voice asks: "What is this week's password?"

Jacardi keys EGGROLL into the keypad and the door clangs open. The video camera above them whirs and they pass through the door into a long, well-lit corridor. The main elevators are immediately ahead. McCall aims and shoots out the video camera in front of the elevators.

Jacardi doesn't flinch. The gun doesn't scare him. But the explosives do. McCall punches the red "up" arrow and the elevator dings. The doors slide open, the car is empty. They board the elevator. "What level is Mickey on?"

Jacardi sighs. "Three. But you need a key to gain access."

McCall glowers at Jacardi. "Then you had best provide the key."

Jacardi pats his pockets half-heartedly. "I don't have it."

McCall's voice is past the warning stage. "Then find it. Now."

Glaring, Jacardi hands over the key. McCall inserts it in the proper slot. The elevator begins moving toward the third level.

***

Bryant glances up from his magazine to the bank of monitors. According to the sudden burst of static on screen five, the main lobby monitor is out.

His eyes flick from one screen to another. Nothing unusual. Maybe there's some kind of short. On screen eight he watches Roy Jacardi exit an elevator onto level three. An old guy walks with him. Bryant stares. Holy God! He's got a gun! He moves for the phone, but a knock on the door interrupts him. He turns to see one of Jacardi's own goons, but no, it's someone else. He notes the S.W.A.T. Team uniform, suddenly wishing he had left early like Poe had.

The uniform flashes a badge at him. "My name is Agent Manion. I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We have reason to believe there is a rogue FBI agent holding one of your scientists hostage in the building. We're trying to clean up this mess as quietly and professionally as possible. Understand?"

Bryant gapes.

"You have a choice. Interfere, and we'll arrest you for obstructing a federal investigation."

Bryant licks his lips. "Or?"

"Or sit here quietly, and find a nice cable station to watch."

Bryant sits.

Manion moves forward, his gun still pointing at the security guard. "Where's the power switch?"

Bryant points. "But you can't turn these off. Mr. Jacardi will fire me!"

"Mr. Jacardi is already cooperating with us, sir." Manion backs toward the door. "We have a good idea where Agent Mulder is. We'll be out of your hair shortly."

Bryant stares after the figure.

***

Scully's voice buzzes in his ear. "They're on Level Three."

Torrez passes the news to the other team members. Manion and Xavier have gone to head off security. Davisson and LeWaverly are keeping watch at the loading dock. Johnson, Kotto, and Greer follow him up the flight of stairs.

"Torrez!" Davisson's voice. "Two goons just ran through here. Military uniforms, black hawk emblem. Recognize it?"

Torrez grimaces. "Yeah. Sounds like plausible deniability to me. Stay put. We'll handle 'em."

"They're coming your way."

The heavy tread of running feet sounds from behind them. And ahead of them. Torrez swears. "Here they come!"

Two Black Hawks behind, two in front. Gunfire erupts in the stairwell. After five minutes of hell, all four Black Hawks are down. But so are Kotto and Johnson. Scully's voice is frantic. "Torrez! Torrez! What's going on! Can you hear me?"

Torrez leans against the wall, breathing heavily. "Affirmative." Greer keeps watch while he checks Kotto and Johnson. Kotto is dead, Johnson's still breathing. Pulse is a little thready, but not bad. "Kotto's dead, and Johnson's wounded. I think she'll pull through, but she needs help ASAP."

Torrez calls Manion over to stay with Johnson. He and Greer continue up the stairs.

***

His eyes move rapidly beneath the lids. Fox Mulder watches Mickey sleep. He's afraid to look away. Afraid that if he does, whatever tenuous hold Mickey has on life will break. He got Kostmayer breathing again-no thanks to Jacardi's soldiers-but the experience scared the hell out of him.

Spending upwards of seventy-two hours confined inside a small cell with Mickey Kostmayer has given Mulder respect for the man. He is not only physically strong, but mentally strong. His deep courage impresses Mulder. He doesn't want Kostmayer to die. He is the kind of man Mulder could enjoy antagonizing for years to come.

He was trying to protect you. Look where it got him. Mulder wipes his stubbled face. How many deaths does it take to get the message? He closes his eyes, tired of the blame. There's too much to shoulder alone. He opens his eyes and stares at Nick. A niggle of something dark twists his stomach. Disgust? Anger?

The fire. That burning house. How many nightmares had Nick Shaw given him over the years? Thanks to Nick, Phoebe Green had been able to twist the knife one last time. Was Nick blind or just stupid to work for New World? What had he thought they were going to do with his research? Put it in a drawer?

Nick feels the weight of his friend's stare. Their eyes lock, each searching for answers.

There are none.

***

Jacardi walks slowly. He's in no hurry to lose Kostmayer. He tries to rationalize. If he still has Shaw's research, he can relocate, get someone else to continue. Pinck's arm is long, they'll find someone else. It's obvious he wasted too much time on Shaw. He was a mistake. A mistake he won't repeat.

Still, there's no denying they're close. Kostmayer's test results have been very pleasing.

That annoying accent hisses in his ear. "Open the door."

Jacardi enters the code into the keypad and McCall pulls the door open. He thrusts Roy through the door first, one arm around Jacardi's neck.

The two Black Hawks raise their guns, tense, looking for an opening. Within seconds Torrez and Greer burst into the room. "Put your guns on the floor!" Torrez barks. Within minutes both Black Hawks are bound and gagged.

Mulder grins. "Agent Torrez! Where's Scully?"

"She's coming, Mulder. Somebody's got to clean up after you." He unlocks the cell door.

Greer trains his gun on Jacardi while McCall moves to his friend's side. "Mickey! Mickey?" McCall's face is tight with worry. "What's wrong with him? What have they done?"

Shaw's voice is quiet. "He's dying."

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

Part 10/10

"They've got him!" Scully flashes a brilliant smile at Sterno and Tim. She squeezes the detective's arm, overjoyed. Relief pours through her.

Tim feels a similar joy at her touch, but it has little to do with Mulder's whereabouts.

Emotional display over, she reverts back to the no-nonsense professional. "Sterno, thank you so much. Tim-watch for the ambulance. Send them over to the loading docks. Davisson will let them in. I'm going to go see if I can help."

Tim watches Dana run, her red hair shining.

***

Torrez shouts a warning. "Get back-we've got company!"

McCall ducks down, shielding Mickey. Mulder pushes Shaw and Lin beneath the table. Three more Hawks wait in the hallway, daring the group to escape.

Nick listens to the gunfire. It sounds like a clock. Tick-tick-tick-tick. The sound of his life winding down. It's time. Angie's waiting. He crawls out from under the table. He tosses his notebooks into the air and gunfire shreds the pages into priceless confetti. He smashes the microscope, the test tubes, and what is left of Perfect Clarity.

This is it. He's made his peace, done his penance. Perfect Clarity is over. He moves slowly for the door, hands raised, straight into the gunfire. There is no fear. His body feels cumbersome, unnecessary.

Mulder watches, horrified. "No! Nick!" He reaches out, unthinking. "Don't!" He catches hold of Nick's coat and pulls, but he's too late. Nick is hit and he drops, pulling Mulder with him. "Nick! Nick!" He screams his friend's name, but he's already gone to a place where Mulder can't reach him. Pain lances into Mulder's leg and he grunts. This time the bullets are real.

Mulder pulls himself under the table, reaching for a gun. He aims carefully. He aims for Nick. One of the Black Hawks screams and falls against the wall.

Jacardi steps forward and smashes McCall's head into the bars. Robert falls sideways, groaning. Jacardi reaches into McCall's pocket and pulls out the detonator. "Drop your guns now! Or I'll blow all of you to hell!"

McCall looks up, one hand pressed to the back of his head. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Jacardi laughs. "You aren't me!" Damn Shaw, damn them all! He's not going to stand here and let them get away with destroying everything he's worked for. He presses the red button.

Nothing happens.

"What--?"

McCall smiles faintly. "Come now, Mr. Jacardi. What kind of person would walk around wired with explosives? You'd have to crazy."

Jacardi blinks at McCall. Before he can reply, Torrez's rifle butt connects with the side of his head. He collapses.

Greer shoots the second Black Hawk and the third retreats. The agent risks a quick look down the hallway. He gives Torrez a thumbs-up. "All clear."

Mulder presses his hand to his wounded leg. He feels pain, but it has more to do with Nick's still body than his wound. There is plenty of blood, but the bullet seems to have missed an artery this time around. He looks at the white haired man bending over Mickey. "Are you McCall?"

"Are you Mulder?"

"Nice to meet you. We better get your friend to the hospital now."

"Mulder!"

She stands in the doorway, that familiar look of concern on her face. He smiles stupidly at his partner. She solved the puzzle after all. She came.

Her name is little more than a whisper. "Scully." And she's at his side, checking his leg, administering to him, giving him strength. He shuts his eyes against the throbbing in his calf and the ache in his heart. "Nick's dead."

She makes a soothing noise. "I know. I'm sorry Mulder."

He touches her arm, clinging to consciousness. "Don't let Mickey die."

"I won't." Scully bites her lip, praying it's a promise she can keep.

Lin steps gingerly around Nick's body, desperately trying to piece together bits of paper. "Leave that," Scully snaps at him. "Are you a doctor?" His glasses are bent at an odd angle. He manages a nod.

"Help them carry Mickey down. Stay close by. You'll have to come to the hospital with me."

Lin nods again and follows the EMT's into the corridor.

The next few minutes pass in frenzied activity. Mulder is carried down next. "Get the disks," he whispers, before the medics take him away. Scully ejects the disk from the disk drive and slips it and three others from the workstation into her pocket.

"I'm right behind you, Mulder," she calls. Robert has already left for Sanai.

Torrez stands guard over Jacardi. "Another ambulance is on the way to pick them up," she gestures to the fallen soldiers. "Can you handle things if I go to the hospital?"

Torrez rolls his eyes. "What's the big deal? This is just a drill, right?"

***

"Where's Dr. Lin?"

The medic looks at her blankly. "Who?"

"The Asian doctor who accompanied Mr. Kostmayer here."

The woman frowns. "No one rode with us, Agent Scully."

Scully scowls. Great. "How's Kostmayer doing?"

"Not good. He went into cardiac arrest on the way over, we had to shock him twice."

"Where is he now?"

She indicates one of the emergency rooms.

"Thanks." Scully pulls a gown off the shelf and hurries through the swinging doors.

Hostile looks greet her. "Get her out of here."

According to what she has read of Shaw's research, and the little Mulder has told her, she has to assume Perfect Clarity is vaguely related to the retrovirus. "My name is Agent Dana Scully. I'm an FBI agent and I'm also this man's doctor. If you want him to live, do exactly what I say." Her voice cuts through the room like a steel cable. "We need cooling blankets, stat."

***

He opens his eyes to see Torrez watching him. It doesn't take long to disarm both him and Greer. He sustains a bullet wound to the shoulder for his trouble, but it doesn't concern him much. Jacardi grasps Greer's gun and ducks through the doorway. The hallway is silent. The skin on the back of his neck prickles. Too silent.

Panting, he runs down the corridor to the elevator. At the moment he cares very little for the project. His chief concern is getting out of the building alive.

The elevator doors open. Doctor Lin is inside. Jacardi stands at the far end of the car, away from the doctor. He idly considers killing the smaller man. The doors slide closed.

Doctor Lin watches him, silent. Gradually, his features change. His face elongates, his frame grows taller, bulkier. His forehead thickens and his skin lightens. The man who is no longer Dr. Scott Lin steps forward. He holds a long, silver stiletto in one hand.

Panic floods through Jacardi. He raises the gun, too late.

The Bounty Hunter observes Roy Jacardi with detachment. He pulls the weapon back and strikes.

***

Mulder lies in a hospital bed, propped up against two pillows. Thanks to the medication, the pain in his leg has receded to a dull ache. Scully sits beside him. They talk quietly about the events of the past five days.

"How's Mickey?" Mulder asks, for perhaps the tenth time.

Scully leans back wearily into the chair. She tucks a loose strand of auburn hair behind one ear. "The same."

Essentially, a non-answer. Scullyspeak for I don't want to discuss it. Mulder presses her.

"Are the cooling blankets working? What about another blood transfusion?"

She recites mechanically: "The swelling in the front lobe of his brain has decreased slightly. He hasn't had a seizure in almost five hours. That's promising. What's *not* promising, is the fact that the thickening in his heart has not gone down. His body is wearing down, Mulder." She sighs. "I don't know what to tell you. We're doing everything that we can."

Mulder studies her profile. "I know." His words sound strained to his ears. They carry the sound of resignation.

"If he makes it through the night his chances of pulling through increase by about twenty-five percent."

Mulder nods.

Minutes pass in silence. Not an uncomfortable silence, just the safe quiet of two friends who don't always need words to communicate.

"I called my contact at the Washington Post," Mulder finally says. "He won't return my calls. I tried half a dozen other newspapers, and no one's interested. No one. They tell me my proof isn't *solid*. Please! Since when do they care?" He shakes his head. "Without Nick to substantiate..." he trails off. He has a hard keeping his voice steady. "I think the story's been blacklisted." He turns his head to the wall. "It never fails, Scully."

Scully touches his hand briefly. "I'm sorry, Mulder. But at least we have the proof. I still have the bottle. I have the disks. They can't take that away. We've got the *knowledge*."

Mulder doesn't answer. Quiet invades the room a second time.

This time Scully speaks first. "I'm sorry about your friend."

Mulder puts a hand over his eyes. "I think he died the same time Angie did, Scully. It just took him a while to...let go." A fragment of Dickinson drifts into his mind. He recites: "This is the hour of lead- Remembered, if outlived, As freezing persons, recollect the snow- First-chill-then stupor-then the letting go."

Scully leans back in the chair, fighting the tight ache in her throat.

Together, they wait for the night to end.

***

In another part of the hospital, McCall sits beside another bed. There is no privacy in the ICU, nurses constantly move in and out of the room, monitoring, measuring. They walk around McCall as if he is one more piece of equipment.

He speaks softly, intermittently, to let Mickey know he is there. He no longer sees his friend in the bed, but on the dock fishing. Building one of his infernal toothpick models. Standing on a rooftop above a burned out lot, ready to pull the trigger in a heartbeat. Mickey always there, helping him, never asking questions. Part of the Company, but loyal to McCall.

This is worse than Parmelly. Even ravaged by KGB drugs, Mickey had been able to hear him. Can he hear McCall now?

***

He is dead. Okay, not dead, but close. Turned inside out, maybe. His head screams like the end of the world. He is a hundred individual aches and pains tied together by a ventilator and a catheter tube. He tries to lick his dry lips but the tube gets in his way. Mickey turns his head and gags.

He opens his eyes carefully, afraid of the light, but it's not bad. The colors don't hurt. He blinks at the face hovering above him. There's something familiar about those pale eyes and that fiery hair. Recognition clicks-Mulder's partner. He closes his eyes briefly. So he's out of the lab.

Scully smiles and Mickey notes that there are certain parts of his body that aren't in pain after all. She leans over him. "I want you to take a very deep breath, and when I tell you to, blow. We're going to pull your breathing tube out."

He does what she asks and spends the next minute trying not to puke his guts out. That's when the silence hits him. Not silence, exactly, but a sense of aloneness. His thoughts are his own again. He rubs at his face with trembling hands. Thank God. Peace.

Mickey spots a familiar figure near the door and manages a weak grin. He tries to speak, but his voice rebels. "Hey, McCall." The words come out dry and rusty. "Looks like I really stuck my finger in the fan this time."

Robert smiles. "More like your whole arm."

Kostmayer laughs-clearly a bad idea. When he gets his breath back he glances at Scully. "So what's the story? How'd we get out of there?" His eyes flick to McCall. "You come in and drag me out by the hair?"

McCall feigns amazement. "Me, Mickey? I'm just an old man. What could I possibly do?"

***

With Mulder safe in the hospital, Scully spends the next few days wrapping up loose ends. She visits Jason Kotto's wife personally to offer condolences.

Corrine Johnson is recovering nicely. Greer has a concussion and Torrez sports a dark line of stitches across his right temple. There is no trace of Roy Jacardi. His bank accounts have not been touched, and his Porche is still parked in the garage of his estate. He has simply vanished.

Skinner's superiors demanded to know how an agent died during a simple exercise. The investigation will probably continue for another week. Scully tries not to dwell on the possible outcome.

***

"Thanks for lunch." She smiles, dabbing her mouth with the napkin.

"My pleasure."

They sit at the Garden Café, indoors this time.

Detective Bayliss brushes a stray crumb off the front of his shirt. "How's Mulder?"

"He's probably climbing the walls of his apartment, even as we speak."

"When's he coming back to work?"

"Wednesday."

It's been nearly two weeks since the rescue at New World Labs. It has taken Tim nearly that long to work up the courage to ask Dana to lunch.

"What about the inquest?"

"The official report lists friendly fire as cause of death. Not good for Torrez's file, but at least we know the truth." Scully shakes her head, disgusted. "It's pretty pathetic when we start lying to ourselves."

"Still no sign of Jacardi?"

Scully folds her hands under her chin. "None."

"Hmm. Weird." Two fingers tap a mindless rhythm against the side of his water glass. He clears his throat. Now or never. "Dana...I was wondering...if you might like to go out some time."

Dana smiles. She meets Tim's gaze. "That would be nice."

Tim grins, relieved. "That's great." Pause. "Are you busy Friday night?"

Scully's smile fades like a balloon losing air. "Oh, Tim, I'm sorry. I already have plans for Friday."

"That's fine. What about Saturday?"

Scully studies her napkin a little too intently. "I'll be out of town the whole weekend."

Tim raises his eyebrows. "Ah. I see." And he does. Scully is only being polite. She has *plans*. As in, another date. Make that dates, plural. Fine. No big deal. He is a first class fool for thinking FBI Agent Dana Scully would be interested in him. He should have realized a long time ago there was more between Fox Mulder and Dana than friendship.

Scully reaches into her purse and pulls out a business card. She scrawls her home number on the back. "I'm sorry about this weekend, but maybe next weekend. Okay?" She slides the card across the table. "Here's my number."

Tim takes the card. "Yeah. Sounds good."

They make their good-byes and Scully leaves first, vaguely embarrassed and anxious to get back to the office. Tim watches her go. He stares at the business card a long time. Somewhere, a long time ago, he made a wrong turn. No matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to get back onto the main road. He keeps driving down one blind alley after another. He wonders how much longer before he hits a wall.

He stands. He studies Dana's business card a moment longer. Sighing, he drops it into the water glass and walks away.

***

O'Phelans Bar and Grill. More grill than bar, Scully and Mulder sit at a table near the back of the restaurant. Mulder chews idly on a toothpick, watching the handful of patrons through half-closed eyes.

Robert McCall and Mickey Kostmayer share their table. Nearby, McCall's son and daughter-in-law whisper together, still holding hands like newlyweds.

A heavy man sits at the bar, filling out a crossword puzzle. Scully recognizes him and smiles. Sterno.

The door opens and another man walks in, older, graying, and wearing an awful bow tie. Scully is suddenly thankful for small favors. Mulder's ties may be ugly, but at least they're real ties.

The slim brunette who owns the bar, Pete O'Phelan approaches the newcomer with a smile.

Robert touches Scully's arm. "I'm so glad you could come."

She smiles at him warmly. "I'm glad you asked."

"How's Mulder?"

Mulder overhears and lifts his hands, palms up. "Look Ma, no crutches!"

Music plays softly in the background. Scully lifts her wineglass, engrossed in another of Robert's stories. Mulder watches the two of them, faintly amused. Kostmayer is next to him, feet propped up on an empty chair. A baseball cap rests over his eyes. "You clean up pretty good, Kostmayer."

Kostmayer lifts the hat with one finger and squints. "That's what the ladies tell me."

Mulder removes the toothpick and uses it to point at Scully. "I don't think she does."

Mickey makes a face. "Don't remind me. She's a cruel woman, your Dana Scully. Does she stick those high heels through every guy's heart, or just mine?"

Mulder almost chokes on his drink. He checks Scully for a reaction. There is none. The gods are smiling on him tonight; she didn't hear Kostmayer's statement.

Mulder pokes the dark green tablecloth with the toothpick. "Believe me, she's not *my* Dana Scully. She's Scully's Scully."

Mickey tips his chair forward, feet back on the ground. He catches McCall's eyes and winks. McCall at least has the decency to look disconcerted.

Mulder reaches for a fresh toothpick. "You mean to tell me you don't have a woman waiting at home for you? Some woman who likes big-headed, small-brained testosterone types?"

Mickey leans close. "Other parts of my anatomy compensate." He turns the question back on Mulder. "What about you? Where's your girlfriend? Or does that nose tend to scare them off?"

Scully chooses this exact moment to listen in. She smiles wickedly. "His girlfriend is at home." She turns to Mulder. "Who is she this month? Miss April, known for her keen intellect, or Miss June, because she's partial to kittens?"

Mulder stares at his partner, dumbstruck. He leans toward her, not quite embarrassed. A slow smile spreads across his face as he whispers: "Honestly, Scully. I can't take you anywhere."

***

"You've been pretty quiet lately."

Tim sits on top of the picnic table outside the station house. He shrugs, listening to the nearby traffic sounds. "Don't have much to say."

Frank digs a ridge into the grass with the toe of his shoe.

Tim holds out a folded piece of paper. "I'm handing in my resignation this afternoon."

"What!" Frank snatches the paper out of Tim's hand. "You're nuts." He glares at Bayliss. "What is this? Are you still mad because I got on your case about Shaw?"

Tim slides off the table, looming over Frank. "NO, Frank. Believe it or not, I am capable of making my own decisions." His words are heavy with sarcasm. "There are whole *minutes* that pass when I don't think of you." He shakes his head. "My life doesn't revolve around you, Frank!"

Frank glares back at him. "Oh yeah, that's right. I forgot." He enunciates each word. "You made that clear when you decided you didn't want to be partners anymore."

"You decided *for* me, Frank!"

Frank waves his hands. "Make sense, Bayliss!"

Tim closes his eyes. How is it that they can speak to each other, but never really communicate? How do Lewis and Kellerman do it? That's easy-neither one of them is Pembleton.

Tim's voice is soft. "It's not about you, Frank," he repeats. "It's...everything."

"What, WHAT *everything*?" Pembleton folds his arms. "Define everything." Pause. "The Watson case?"

Tim doesn't answer.

"Shaw? You still don't think he's dead?"

Tim looks sharply at Frank. "Oh he's dead. I believe he's dead, Frank." He saw Shaw's body carried out of New World. He'll remember the look on Mulder's face for the rest of his life. He'll remember the way Jacardi's car exploded, and the way they were pouring drugs down Mickey Kostmayer like he was a human straw.

He's seen too much. In the past, the world was always black and white. But now there's gray. Too much gray. How is he supposed to deal with people who treat the law like a coloring book? Do your best to stay inside the lines, but if you stray a little here and there, oh well.

Even Mulder and Scully, they color outside the lines. And this time, Tim helped them. He feels...not clean. Not quite dirty, but no longer clean.

His life, the things he holds sacred, have become skewed. How can he stay a detective knowing that there are people out there who control the direction of an investigation with one phone call? When men like Roy Jarcardi disappear like so much smoke? He's not helping anyone. He's just spinning his wheels, kicking up dirt. His contributing to the lie.

He says none of this to Frank. Even if he wanted to-and he doesn't-he doesn't have the words. He's no orator, like Frank. He has no witty comebacks like Mulder. He's just a detective. And that's no longer enough.

"It's not enough," he says.

"What's not enough?"

Tim gestures to himself. "Being a detective. I used to think I made a difference. But I don't." He sees Frank's expression. "No, I'm not feeling sorry for myself, I'm just being honest. How many cases go unsolved every year? Adena Watson is nothing but a big box of files, Frank. That's all that's left of her. I tried to make more-but I couldn't.

"But say we do catch the guy. He'll walk. How often do they walk, Frank? A slap on the wrist and they're *gone*!"

"We're the Law, Tim. Not the Order."

"But what's the point? What's the point if you can't keep them locked up?"

Frank raises one arm skyward. "You wanna know the point, Tim? We speak for the dead. We're their voice."

Tim walks away, tired of the drill. God's detective. We speak for those who can no longer speak for themselves. It sounds good. It just leaves him empty, that's all.

Frank doesn't let him go. "I'm talking to you, Bayliss. Don't walk away from me."

Tim waits, arms at his sides.

"Do you think it doesn't bother me when they walk? What about Todd Palmer?" He points at Tim. "*I* had to tell Ed Danvers that his fiance's killer was never going to go to trial. It is a cold, hard fact that the justice system is unfair. You *know* that. It's cruel. It's biased.

"But I have to push that aside. Because when I look down at a dead body, I hear a question, plain as day. Each and every one of them asks me the same thing: Find who did this. Every single one; man, woman, and child." His neck muscles twitch. "Find who did this. That's my calling, that's my-my creed. I don't hunt for murderers because the Law asks me to, or Gee, or that stupid lump, Gaffney. I do it because *they* ask me to.

"Maybe the killer doesn't get life. Maybe he serves a quarter of his sentence before they ship him out. But at least the family *knows* who did it. There is some resolution. There is someone to blame, to *identify*. Someone they can point a finger at and say *that man* killed my wife. Or my daughter. Or my mother.

"Sometimes, we even find out the *why*. Our job is to find answers, Tim." Frank stares at Bayliss. "You're good at finding answers. Don't leave."

Tim looks up at the sky. This is it. The most Frank will ever give him. He can accept it and stay, or move on. Move where?

He squints at the sun. Frank is saying, in his own way, that Tim is a good detective. Doesn't it mean something that Frank has even bothered, that he didn't just shake Tim's hand and rush him to the door?

But does Frank want him to stay because he's a good detective, or because he considers Tim a friend? He glances at Frank. Maybe there's no difference.

Tim sighs again and returns to the picnic table. Minutes pass in silence. He wonders if Frank will sit down with him. He doesn't wonder long.

"Here." Frank throws the letter in his lap. "You do what you want, Bayliss." He stalks back toward the building.

Tim stares after him.

You're good at finding answers.

He picks up the letter and rereads it.

You're good at finding answers. The page flutters in the wind.

Tim takes a deep breath and tears it in half. He lets the pieces drift away. They circle the lot once and fly away, smaller and smaller, paper birds taking flight.

The End ******************************

Well...that's all folks! Give yourself a pat on the back for finishing it.

IMPORTANT NOTE: If anyone reading this is a fan of The Equalizer, please e-mail A&E at the following address, http://www.aetv.com/feedback/index.html, asking them to return this excellent program to their schedule. It has recently (3/31/97) been removed to make room for a total of 4 Law & Order eps per day.

Also, I'm a new fan to The Equalizer, and if anyone wants to e-mail me to discuss the show, go right ahead! ;-D

Thanks for reading my story! I hope you enjoyed it!