Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, I just borrow 'em. Your favorite FBI agents and CSM belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Broadcasting. Robert McCall, Mickey Kostmayer, and Control belong to Michael Sloan, Richard Lindheim, and Universal. I borrowed these characters for my own amusement and no infringement is intended. Subliminal reads: Please don't sue because I can't show you the money.

Bonus: Angst, angst, we got angst. Summary: When Mickey Kostmayer and a mysterious little boy are kidnaped, Mulder, Scully, and McCall race to find them.

Clean Slate is a continuation of my previous crossover stories, but it's not really necessary to read them to enjoy this one. Clean Slate is a sequel to Lost and Found. For those of you unfamiliar with The Equalizer series: Robert McCall is a retired CIA (aka The Company) operative who dedicates his time to "helping the less fortunate, i.e., 'equalizing' the odds." Mickey Kostmayer is McCall's 'right-hand man,' who still works for The Company. Control is the man in charge of the northern and southern operations within the Company, and McCall's friend and former boss. Hope that helps. ;-)

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

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

Part 1/6

Wednesday morning. Early. The sun is up, a burning eye against gray slate, watching a handful of pedestrians cross the street.

The morning traffic hasn't officially begun. They can still walk down Delancey, more or less undetected. David pats his pocket, feeling for the familiar bulk of the gun. He holds Matt's hand tightly, almost pulling the small boy along the cracked sidewalk. Every third step David glances over his shoulder, his stomach cramping in fear. They're coming. He can feel it. They're coming for Mattie. Again.

The small boy walks in silence, uncomplaining. David makes a concerted effort to loosen his grip, but the reprieve doesn't last long. The panic is too strong. The glazed look in Mattie's eyes tells him time is running out. David casts another look over his shoulder.

They're being followed. The man, late thirties, early forties is still behind them. Brown hair, a camouflage jacket, faded jeans. He strolls a few hundred feet behind them, casual. David isn't fooled. He knows.

Around the corner is a hole-in-the-wall diner. A small placard in the window reads: OPEN. The faded logo painted across the glass says Cleo's Cafe. A faded square of paper is taped to the door declaring daily breakfast specials. David grips Mattie's hand tighter and pulls him inside the cafe. A woman greets them from behind the small counter. "Mornin'." She winks at Matt. "You boys take a seat wherever you want."

David ignores the waitress and moves to the window. Mattie looks up at his older brother, a silent question written across his pinched face. David puts an arm around the boy. "I won't let them take you," he whispers. It's a promise.

***

Mickey hunches his shoulders against the faint morning chill. Another early meeting to go over the Nighthawk directive. Three weeks until the green light, and Control is already jittery. Mickey grimaces, imagining the older man's mood once the operation shifts into gear. He massages his neck, still working out a few of the kinks. One thing will get him through Control's imminent spiel: A cup of Linda's coffee with a smile on the side. The coffee is the best in New York, hands down, and one of her smiles...well, her smile is reason enough to get out of bed in the morning.

A quick glance at his watch assures him he has plenty of time for coffee *and* a few of Rosa's apple turnovers. He pushes the door open to the sound of tinkling bells. Rosa wipes her rag across one of the table tops. She smiles warmly. "Mickey. The usual?"

He grins. "Throw me one of those turnovers, would you?"

Rosa chuckles and heads back to the kitchen. Mickey shrugs out of his jacket and pages through the rumpled copy of the Times spread open across the counter. A cursory glance around the diner tells him there's an elderly man in a corner booth and a lone woman at the counter. She gives Mickey an appraising look before turning back to her cereal. A young man stands by the window, rigid, a small boy clinging to his hand.

Mickey grabs the sports section and slides into a booth. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees the young man approach. He looks up, instinctively on guard. The man's face is pale, his eyes dark with terror...and something else Mickey can't quite name. Anger?

David pulls the paper out of Mickey's hand. Hissing: "I know you've been following us. Well you can stop, you hear me? You aren't getting him." He pulls the boy closer, eyes wild. "If you don't get out of here in five seconds, I swear to God I'll blow you away." He swallows thickly.

Mickey's eyes take in the vague outline of the boy's pocket. Great. The boy is telling the truth. Looks like I might be late for the meeting after all.

Mickey studies the man's face, wondering if he's just high, psychotic, or both. Whatever he is, his terror is real. Mickey is no stranger to fear. The trick is defusing the kid before he hurts someone...or himself. Mickey lays his hands on the table, calm. He speaks in his most soothing voice. "Hey...just relax, okay? I'm *not* following you." Pause. "I don't even know who you are."

David's lips pull tighter and his face flushes. He leans closer to Mickey. "You're going to lie to my face? You're just going to sit there and lie to my *face*? Do you think I'm stupid?" His voice grows louder and the woman at the counter glances in their direction.

Mickey shakes his head. "No. You're not stupid. I think you might be confused, that's all." He keeps his voice gentle, wishing he had skipped the coffee this morning. "I'm *not* following you."

David stares at him.

"Why would someone follow you?" Mickey asks softly. "Are you in trouble? Do you need help?"

"Trouble? You don't know what trouble is," David whispers.

I have a pretty good idea. He blinks into the barrel of a Sig. He keeps his expression blank, tamping down the faint murmurings of panic. Now what? He searches for something to say--anything to alleviate David's tension. Too late. David clicks the safety off.

Mickey sighs. It's going to be one of those days.

The gun wavers in David's hand. He thrusts it against Mickey's head. Mickey sits perfectly still, waiting. "You want trouble? Huh? How do you like it?" He taps the gun against Mickey's temple. "Do you feel that? The way your stomach curls into a hot, tight ball...the way your palms sweat? The way your heart thunders so fast you think you're going to have a heart attack?

"But most of all, that sense of being powerless. You feel that, don't you? You can't do a thing. You're no longer in control, are you?"

Throughout the man's speech, the boy stands silent, eyes downcast. Mickey musters a faint smile. "You know what? I think you're right. I should probably leave."

David glares and pushes the gun harder to Mickey's head. He laughs, a dangerous sound. "You're too late. The second you took their orders, you were too late."

Mickey plays along. "Whose orders?" He's aware of the raised voices around him, the panic. He can sense Rosa's shock. Her fear. His own.

David's attention shifts to the waitress. "Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

Rosa fumbles with the telephone on the wall. She gapes at David. "I'm..."

David steps away from Mickey and swings the gun on Rosa. "Put the phone down, NOW!" He pulls the trigger. Plaster jumps inches from Rosa's head. The woman screams and ducks behind the counter, trembling.

Now or never. Mickey takes a deep breath and launches himself at David. The boy lets out a thin shriek. David wheels in time to see Mickey bear down on him. Mickey's hand closes around David's wrist--half a second too late. The gun goes off.

Mickey drops to the floor. Dimly, he's aware of more screaming. Damn. Damn! This is not going well.

David takes a step backwards, pale. He stares down at Mickey. "Your days of messing with me and Mattie are over. You understand me?"

Mickey opens his mouth. Clenching his teeth, he puts a hand to his shoulder. The pain hasn't started yet, but he's been down this road before. It's coming. And it has very sharp teeth. "Yeah." He pushes himself into a sitting position, half leaning against the booth seat. "But listen to me...you haven't killed anyone yet. Leave it that way, okay? Put the gun down. Please."

A muscle in David's jaw clenches. "Are you begging me?"

"I'm *asking* you." Mickey blinks. The room begins a slow roll. He closes his eyes. Hang on. "Come on. Put the gun down. For Mattie."

"For...Mattie?"

A slight nod. "Yeah."

David squats down to Mickey's level, livid. "If you weren't following us, then how come you know his name?" He waves the gun. "Why don't you answer me that one, huh? HUH?"

The woman with the cereal speaks in a low, tight voice. "For God's sake, you just said the boy's name. We all heard you. I'm sure he wasn't following you." She clutches her napkin. "He's just a customer. I've seen him in here before."

David smiles. "You have, have you? Then I guess you're part of it too." He surveys the room. "You're all part of it." He hugs Matt closer. "I guess--"

The door opens suddenly. A middle aged man wearing an pin-stripe suit walks in. His eyes take in the frightened, silent faces. He notices David's gun and hesitates in the doorway. "In or out," David barks, "but don't block the doorway. Didn't your mamma tell you that ain't polite?"

The man stumbles backwards, terrified. He runs off down the sidewalk. David watches him through the window, scowling. "I should have killed him."

"It's good that you didn't," Mickey says. "You can--"

David kicks at Mickey's feet. "Why don't you just shut up! You sure talk a lot! Just let me think for a minute!"

Mickey falls silent. He glances into the kitchen. Linda leans against the doorframe, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She wears a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt, a soiled apron bears the word "Cleo's" in red stitching. Her thick black hair is pulled back into a pony tail and her eyes are dark with worry. She stares wordlessly at Mickey. Mickey gives her a brief nod. It's okay. He attempts a smile.

She doesn't return it.

David pulls the woman off the stool. "You. Lock the door." He gestures to the sign. "Turn it to closed. And shut the blinds." He stalks to the counter and stares down at Rosa. "Get up! Get everyone in here, now. That means waitresses, cooks, whatever. I want *everyone* where I can see them."

Within seconds, Rosa, Linda, and Antonio are seated in the dining area, wide-eyed, hands folded in their laps. Linda clears her throat. "What do you want?"

David glares at her. "For you to be quiet."

Mickey licks his lips. "What's your name?"

David doesn't answer.

"I'm trying to help you," Mickey says softly.

Reluctantly: "David."

Mickey struggles to get a breath in. He can feel himself losing strength. "Okay David. Let these people go, all right? They haven't hurt you. They *won't* hurt you. If you want to keep me, that's fine. But you don't need them."

David frowns. What should he do? He can't think! Matt leans his head against David's shoulder. His brother's touch helps to clear his mind. Nothing is more important than Mattie's safety.

***

"Then where the hell is he?" Control demands.

McCall paces the length of his living room. "I don't know. I spoke with him last night for a few minutes. He mentioned he had an early meeting with you."

"Exactly. Only he never showed up. Nighthawk is a critical mission, Robert. I'm trusting Mickey to run the show, here. Kostmayer is a lot of things, but irresponsible isn't one of them."

"What about Jimmy and Sterno? Did you check with them? What about Ginger?"

"Are you kidding? I'm lucky if Jimmy knows what day it is, and--"

Reproachful: "Control. Really."

"--and Ginger is part of Nighthawk. *She* was at the meeting. Everyone was at the meeting. Everyone except the mission leader."

McCall is silent.

"Is there something you're not telling me Robert? Something that Mickey is helping you with?"

McCall sighs. "No, Control. Why would I lie?" Irritated: "That's your forte, not mine."

"All right, I deserved that. I just wish I knew what was going on..."

"I'll call you if I hear anything. I expect the same."

"Of course, old son. Goodbye."

McCall hangs up the phone slowly. It only takes him a moment to decide. He reaches for his coat.

***

It takes Linda several minutes to work up the courage to speak. She nods toward Mickey. "He needs medical attention."

David doesn't respond. Instead, he pulls his little brother onto his lap. He presses his face to Mattie's neck. "Why can't you leave us alone?" he asks, fighting tears. Antonio shifts in his chair and David's head snaps up, gun ready.

"Hey, hey, hey," Mickey cautions. "Everything's okay. Calm down, all right? No one here wants to hurt you or your brother."

David spits at Mickey: "Liar."

Gently: "I'm not lying, David. I want to help you."

"You were *following* me!" But uncertainty overshadows his anger.

"I wasn't, David. My name is Mickey Kostmayer. Until today I've never seen you or your brother."

David puts a hand to his head. "I don't believe you...you want Mattie back."

"Did someone take your brother?" Mickey asks. "Did they hurt him?"

David bows his head, the gun still clenched tightly in his hand. "I couldn't stop them...I tried so hard, but I couldn't." A sob tears from his throat. "I couldn't move."

A sudden memory flashes through Mickey's mind. A brief fragment of another man's life. A bright light and a little girl screaming her brother's name. A young boy frozen in panic, terrified, unable to use his father's gun. Fox Mulder, a tortured witness to his sister's abduction. The pain flares in his shoulder and Mickey clenches his teeth. He's not sure which is worse: the hot pain, or the memory of his prison cell in New World Labs, a reminder of a time he was no longer himself. He takes a deep breath and gambles: "Was there a light?"

David's startled gasp is all the answer Mickey needs.

"They took Mattie away for the tests...is that right, David?" Mickey's beliefs are not the same as Mulder's, but he'll do whatever it takes to gain David's trust. And if Mulder believes in this stuff, well...maybe there's a grain of truth buried somewhere, deep down.

David swallows. His throat makes a dry clicking sound.

"David. Listen to me. I know someone who can help you."

Scornful: "Right."

"He's an FBI agent who specializes in alien abductions. They took his sister, David. He's spent the last twenty years looking for her. At least you still have Mattie."

He rubs his face, uncertain. "I don't believe you." He bows his head, the gun resting on the table.

Mickey stares at the gun. Almost. Come on David. You can do it.

But Antonio is already on his feet. He walks toward the table. One eye on David, Mickey motions frantically for him to return to his seat. Antonio ignores him. With some effort, Mickey pulls himself to his feet, trying to prepare for whatever's coming.

David's eyes are closed. Mattie's head rests against David's shoulder. Antonio takes another step closer. David's grip tightens on the gun. Eyes still closed, he asks: "What do you think you're doing?"

Antonio stops. "I, uh--"

David lifts his head and points the gun at the cook. "Get back to the table. Now."

"I have to go to the bathroom."

David's lip curls. "No you don't. Back to the table."

"You can't keep us here," Antonio says, fists clenched.

"I can't?" David extricates himself from his little brother and stands. "Do you want a bullet like Mr. Kostmayer, here? Is that what you really want? Because I'd be happy to oblige." He clicks the safety mechanism off. "Really."

Antonio stands still, eyes locked with David's. "Don't do it," Mickey warns, his heart pounding.

The phone rings. Mickey's hand flashes toward David's arm. David pulls the trigger. Linda screams. The bullet lodges harmlessly in the ceiling panel. And Mickey stares down at the gun in his hand. He turns the safety back on and slips the weapon into his pocket. "You don't need the gun, David. Everything will be all right."

"Thank God!" Antonio mutters, wiping his face.

David's face is waxen. The terror is so heavy, he can barely stand beneath its weight. "My gun!" He reaches out blindly. "I need my gun!"

Mickey tries to reassure David. "I have some friends who can help you--"

Mattie's wordless scream drowns out the rest of Mickey's sentence. The boy's entire body tenses, he presses himself against his brother, hysterical. David's stomach drops, he wants to pull the floor over his head. Terrified: "It's too late! They're coming!"

Mickey turns to Linda. "Is there a back door in this place?"

She nods. "Yes, but we rarely use it. It's for deliveries." She glances toward the kitchen. "I think it's locked."

Sharply: "Where does it lead?"

"Into the alley."

Damn. "Okay. Everybody out of here." The boy's screams are making him nervous. More than nervous. The prickly feeling in the pit of his stomach suggests he believes more of David's story than he's willing to admit.

The sound of automatic gunfire propels him toward the door. "Linda! Rosa! Unlock the door! NOW!" David stumbles after him, dragging Mattie. David's eyes are huge with fright.

"What was that?" the elderly man asks, his voice trembling. The sound of shattering glass comes from the kitchen.

Mickey scowls. He grabs David and pulls at his coat. "Give me that. Now." He tears off his own jacket, ignoring the steady bolt of pain and kicks it beneath a table. He slips into David's nylon windbreaker and zips it up. What are you *doing*? The rational part of his brain protests loudly in a voice that sounds uncomfortably close to McCall's, but Mickey doesn't have time to listen. He grabs David's arm in a steel grip. "You listen to me David, and you listen *good*. You keep your mouth shut. No matter what happens, you let me do the talking. You let me do what I have to do. I'll protect Mattie, all right? If they take us away, you call these numbers," Mickey presses a business card into David's slack fingers. "They'll help you.

"You don't have to trust me. But if you don't, you and your brother will probably die. Understand?" Mickey reaches for Mattie's hand. The Sig Sauer in his pocket seems suddenly inadequate.

David's mouth works soundlessly. He doesn't have time to answer.

Linda pulls the door open, but a voice stops her. "Police! Stay where you are!"

Two men enter the dining room from the small kitchen. They wear uniforms, but Mickey instinctively knows they aren't cops. "We're responding to a hostage situation here."

Mickey's lips pull into a grim line. No way. Even if Mr. Pin-stripe Suit called the police, they wouldn't respond this fast, much less with two *uniforms*. Hostage situations call for back up, SWAT teams, sharp shooters, the works. These two yokels are something else entirely. Mickey sweeps the room with his eyes, sending a firm warning to the others. "Sorry officer. There's no hostage situation here. Just a couple of customers enjoying their breakfast."

The first officer eyes Mickey. Sarcastically: "Food must be pretty good if everyone's leaving at once," he comments.

Antonio opens his mouth, but Mickey moves in front of him, speaking quickly. "As you can see, Officer, there's no problem here." He shrugs. "Sorry if you got a false alarm." Mattie's screams have quieted to muted sobs and Mickey picks the boy up, cradling him. The movement is agony on his shoulder, the room blurs briefly, but Mickey holds on, his face buried in the boy's light hair. When he raises his face, his expression is blank. Stay on your feet, Kostmayer. Don't blow this now.

The second officer moves forward, a nine millimeter mini uzi in his hand. Mickey stares at the weapon. Since when did the NYPD start using those? Answer: never. Mickey's lip curls in faint admiration. Good choice. He should know, he has one back at his apartment.

The first officer studies Mickey's face. His eyes travel from Mickey to Mattie, and back again. "What's your name?"

Mickey hesitates. Don't do this. You don't need any brownie points. Just blow the joint and be a good soldier, he tells himself. Go find Control. Make Ginger buy you lunch. Better yet, go to the hospital!

But he has to do this. Not for David, but for Mattie. For Mulder. Every time he looks into David's eyes he recalls that same glint of pain in Mulder's. That same haunting loss, the same dark look of failure. He hears Samantha's screams and represses a shudder. This is the price for being forced into another man's mind. He can't walk away now. There are too many lives at stake. Yeah, including yours.

Mickey opens his mouth, heart pounding. He answers the question. "David."

He senses David's shock and prays the man keeps his mouth shut. To his right, Linda stares at him, stunned. A few of the others fidget, but no one contradicts him. A second passes, then two, and Mickey begins to breathe again.

"David what?"

Mickey shrugs, holding the man's gaze. "David's good enough." He smiles easily. "I mean, I haven't done anything wrong, have I?" He lets the smile fade. "Have I?"

The two officers exchange glances. "We're going to need you and your brother to come with us, Mr. Falstaff."

David gives an involuntary cry. Linda puts an arm around him. "Mickey? Are you feeling any better? Your stomach still acting up?"

David stares at her dumbly, unable to follow her cue, but her words are enough. The men's attention returns to Mickey.

Mickey shakes his head. "I haven't done anything. Why should I come with you?" He takes a step backwards. It doesn't take much to act scared.

The second man steps close. His voice is a sharp whisper. It gets under Mickey's skin like a sliver. "It's up to you, David. Come along and nobody gets hurt. Make a fuss and things will get ugly." His eyes spark. "Fast."

Mickey licks his lips. Okay then. This is it. He pulls Mattie closer and nods. "I'll come."

David sags against a booth. "No!"

Linda grasps his arm. "He's right. You just can't take him away. What's he done? Why are you arresting him?"

The first man offers a cold smile. "He's not under arrest. We're just bringing him in for questioning."

Linda folds her arms. "To what precinct?"

He glances at Linda. "You ask a lot of questions, miss. Do you want to come along?"

Linda feels Rosa's hand reach for her own. She bows her head. "No."

"All right then." He smirks. "Enjoy your breakfast."

Mickey lets the men guide him out of the room. Oddly, in the midst of the storm, his panic is gone. He takes slow, steady breaths. If they want David Falstaff, they'll get David Falstaff. He flinches in the first officer's grip. "Ouch. You're hurting me."

Hissing: "Shut up."

Mickey injects a tremor into his voice. "I don't understand what's going on. What have I done?"

Again: "I *said* shut up."

Mickey ducks his head, as if cowed. He briefly presses his face against Matt's. "It'll be okay," he whispers.

A hand cuffs him as he's led into the alley. Mickey stumbles, not from the guard's meager slap, but the molten fire in his shoulder. "Hey! I didn't say anything!"

A black limousine waits a dozen feet away. In spite of himself, Mickey can't resist commenting: "Wow. You boys must have given out a lot of speeding tickets to rate one of those."

He hears rather than sees the butt of the man's gun descend. The impact sends him to his knees and he struggles to keep Mattie upright. The pavement rushes up to meet him and he twists, igniting his shoulder, desperate to protect the boy. Mattie screams. This time, so does Mickey.

End part 1/6

************************** Part 2/6

Fox Mulder sits behind his desk, leafing absently through a folder of recent newspaper clippings. The words blur, the tiny lines of black print march across his desk like so many ants. He can't concentrate. What's the matter with you? You've got three open cases. Get moving!

He can't sleep. So what's new? Now his nightmares are divided: Losing Samantha...and losing Scully. You've already lost her.

No.

Yes. First in spirit, soon in body.

Mulder slides the articles back into the folder. He can't eat. Correction: he can eat, the problem is keeping the food *down*. He can feel the columns of his life crumbling, every day, another crack goes deeper.

Mulder reaches for his coffee, trying to push the ugly thoughts away. This is another reason he needs Scully back here. Without her, he has no one to talk to but himself.

The sharp ring of the phone breaks him out of the reverie. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before answering. "Mulder." He closes his eyes. Let it be Scully. The past two months have been an extended game of phone tag. The few times she's assisted him on a case, she's been distant. Almost aloof. There's a wall between them now, and he has no idea how to break it down.

He waits. No answer.

He feels a prick of annoyance. "Hello?"

"Agent Mulder?"

He sighs. It's not Scully. Tersely: "Yes."

"I, um, got your name from someone named Mickey Kostmayer." Mulder's head jerks up. He gives the wavering voice his full attention.

"Yes?"

"He said you could help me...I don't know what to do!"

Mulder taps a pen against the closed folder. "What's your name?" he asks softly.

"David Falstaff." Desperate: "They keep taking my brother! I don't know what to do! They came for him this morning, but Mickey went with him." His voice breaks.

Mulder runs a hand through his hair. "What do you mean, they take your brother, David?"

Sobbing: "The light comes and Mattie disappears. Sometimes he's gone overnight, sometimes for months. What if he doesn't come back this time? I can't go through this anymore! I *can't*!"

Mulder's mouth goes dry. His stomach clenches, and he blinks rapidly, trying to dispel the sudden wave of dizziness. If he didn't know and trust Mickey Kostmayer, he'd think someone was trying to manipulate him. Again. He struggles to ask a question. "Why did Mickey ask you to call me?"

"He...he said that, um, you have experience with this kind of thing. That you understand because they...they took your sister."

The fist inside Mulder's gut clenches tighter. "What else? Did he say you should call anyone else?"

"Um, yeah..." Mulder hears the sound of faint rustling. "Somebody named Robert McCall."

Mulder reaches for a blank pad of paper. "Okay, David. Tell me exactly what happened."

***

Mickey's apartment was empty. So was O'Phelan's. A quick check with Control told him he still hadn't arrived at The Company. Unlocking the door to his own apartment, McCall has a hard time quelling his worry. What are you up to, Mickey?

The red light on his answering machine flickers, indicating waiting messages. He presses the play button, and waits, arms folded.

The first message is a wrong number. The second is a crank call. The third is FBI Agent Fox Mulder. He bends over the machine, listening intently.

"Robert? This is Mulder. I just got a call from someone named David Falstaff. You better give me a call as soon as you get in; I think he's going to need your help and so is Mickey. I'm already on my way to New York, so call my cell phone."

McCall rewinds the message and plays it through a second time. He punches Mulder's number eagerly. Finally, some answers!

***

"Detective Bauer?"

The burly man turns. His cheeks are apple red from prolonged wind burn. He sniffs and rubs his hands together in a poor attempt to fight the cold. "Yeah?"

McCall extends a hand. "Robert McCall." The detective nods. "Oh, right." He accepts McCall's hand in a firm grip, shakes it once, and releases it. "Helluva thing, this is. Feel like I'm stuck in that damned fable." He motions toward the inside of the cafe. "Every one of those people must have been held hostage by a different guy. I can't get two stories to agree. One says he's a maniac, one says he was scared, one says the sky is blue, one says it's green." He scowls and pulls a cigar from the breast pocket of his coat. He struggles to light it and takes a long puff. "I can't wait to write up the report."

"What about Mickey Kostmayer?" McCalls demands. "Is he here?" He moves toward the door.

Bauer sniffs again and flips a page in his notebook. "Kostmayer...Nope. He's the guy that Falstaff shot. Take your pick, McCall. He's either some kind of hero or a goddamn lunatic."

McCall sighs. Try *both*. "What happened?"

Bauer grimaces. "Like I told you on the phone, Falstaff came in, got all bent out of shape because of your friend, and shot him."

McCall nods. "How badly?"

"Good question. Wish I knew. Since Mr. Kostmayer decided he wasn't going to stick around, it's hard to say. I *can* tell you there's a lot of blood in there. We found his jacket beneath one of the tables." He shrugs. "Not pretty."

McCall's face darkens. "Well how many men do you have out looking for him and the boy?"

Bauer squints at McCall. "Where exactly am I supposed to send my men, McCall? Nobody knows who these two mystery men are, nobody saw a car, nobody saw *nothin'*. I might as well throw a few darts at a map and take it from there."

McCall holds onto his tempter with some effort. "You're a *detective*, are you not? I believe it's your job to *find out* where Mickey Kostmayer is. To *find out* who is holding him and Matthew Falstaff, and why."

Bauer glares. "Yeah, you're right, McCall. In fact, I'm so busy *detecting* I don't have time to talk to you. See ya." He stalks toward the alley behind Cleo's.

McCall fights the urge to go after Bauer. Angrily, he pulls open the door and enters the diner. A second detective sits at one of the booths, taking a statement from an elderly man.

The diner is small and poorly lit. Plastic seats, scarred tables, nothing special. But it's clean, and fresh flowers decorate each table. His eyes stray to the spray of blood across one of the turquoise seats. His stomach rolls. What have you done, Mickey?

He looks up to see a dark haired woman watching him. She stands behind the counter, refilling napkin dispensers. McCall understands her actions. Busy work. To keep her mind off what happened. McCall offers her a friendly smile. "Were you here this morning during the...situation?"

The woman nods.

"You're a waitress?"

"Yes. My name is Linda."

"And mine is Robert McCall." He leans against the counter. "Tell me Linda, you wouldn't happen to know where those men took Mickey Kostmayer, now would you?"

She pulls out another box of napkins. "No." She shakes her head. "Everything happened so fast." She studies McCalls' face and manages a smile. "Are you a friend of Mickey's?"

"Yes. Yes, I am. We've been friends a very long time." He seats himself on one of the stools.

He picks up a salt shaker and taps it against the counter. "Are you his friend?"

Linda's smile broadens. She looks beautiful and...fresh. She has a delicate quality of innocence, of purity. McCall can't quite put his finger on it, but he understands why Mickey might be drawn here.

Her smile falters, tinged with regret. "I'm not sure."

"I'm asking because I was told that you helped Mickey convince those men he was David. That was very brave."

Linda frowns. "Brave? I don't think so. The more I think about it, the worse I feel. Those men weren't police." It's statement, not a question.

"No. They weren't."

"Then who were they? Why did they want David and his brother?"

McCall sighs. "I can't answer that. Not yet."

Linda's face tightens. "I don't understand it...even though David *shot* him, Mickey still wanted to protect him." She stares down at the counter, lost in thought.

McCall's eye twitches. Yes, that's exactly the kind of man Mickey is. He suddenly finds it very hard to remain in the diner. He should be on the streets, checking his sources, looking for his friend.

"Tell me about it," McCall says softly.

Linda sighs. "What do you want to know? How Mickey tried to get the gun away from David and got shot? That he repeatedly tried to calm David down even though he was fighting to stay conscious?" Linda's voice falters. She puts a hand to her mouth, struggling for composure. Finally: "I'm sorry."

McCall shakes his head. "Don't apologize. I understand." He watches her fill a third napkin holder. "Why did David think someone was coming to get his brother?"

Linda clears her throat. "I don't know. But the little boy, Mattie, seemed very frightened throughout the entire ordeal. And I don't mean by what David was doing." She sighs, saddened. "And he was such a little boy, too. Maybe eight or nine."

"But eventually Mickey did manage to get the gun away from David?" McCall looks to Linda for confirmation.

"Yes. And a few seconds later those two men broke through the delivery door claiming to be policemen."

McCall nibbles absently at a fingernail. At least Mickey is armed. Really? How do you know?

"And they didn't say where they were taking Mickey and the boy?"

Downcast: "No."

McCall leans forward. "Do you know where David is now?"

***

He hurries into the restaurant. She's already at the table, waiting. He apologizes: "I'm very sorry." He reaches for her hand. "Were you waiting long?"

She smiles wanly. "Not long at all."

McCall returns the smile, but his eyes are dark with worry. "Are you ill, Dana? You're looking quite pale."

Dana dismisses his worry. "I'm fine. Just a little tired." Her smile broadens. "Too much shopping."

McCall relaxes slightly. He waves to Jeremy and the bartender brings them both a glass of white wine. Dana takes a small sip and makes an appreciative noise. "Perfect."

"You're enjoying your visit?" McCall asks.

She nods. "Very much." She tucks a loose strand of copper hair behind an ear. "It's nice to travel for relaxation instead of business for a change."

McCall purses his lips. He squints at a distant point past Scully's shoulder. "Well...there may be some business involved after all." His eyes flick to her face. "I spoke to Fox earlier this morning."

Scully shifts in her seat, trying to pinpoint exactly why it should bother her that Mulder called McCall instead of her. You left him, Dana. What do you expect?

I didn't leave *him*. I left the X-Files.

Same difference.

Scully drives the internal argument from her mind. It's a moot point. She stands by her decision. Spending her last months away from Mulder is best for both of them. She is determined that he remember he as someone vital, someone strong, independent. Not this weak, waxen-faced woman she is quickly becoming. She toys with the wine glass. "Oh? What did he have to say?"

McCall's face is grave. "It seems that Mickey has gotten himself into a bit of trouble. In fact, I'm going to ask for a rain check on our lunch. I'm terribly sorry, but--"

"Of course, Robert. I want to help." Mickey is not just Robert's friend. He has become her friend as well. A few months earlier he had risked his life for her. She can still hear the sound of his gravel voice, she can feel his arms pressing her against the wall, out of the line of gunfire. "What happened?"

McCall sighs. "Now, taking into consideration Mickey's penchant for being in the wrong place at the right time, he apparently stopped for coffee at Cleo's Cafe off Delancey Street."

Dana nods, listening.

"A young man named David Falstaff was convinced that Mickey was following him. Which he most definitely was not. Apparently, some kind of scuffle ensued, Mickey was shot--"

Scully nearly drops the wine glass. "Shot?"

"--and taken away by two men who were impersonating police officers."

Scully closes her eyes. "Is he all right?"

The worry is obvious in McCall's voice. "I sincerely hope so."

She opens her eyes and stares at McCall's weary face. "What does Mulder have to do with this?"

McCall clears his throat. "Yes. Yes, about that...well, let's say that Mr. Falstaff has some unique ideas about why he was being followed. He claims he was trying to protect his brother."

"From what?"

"From being...how shall I put it? Abducted."

Scully's stomach drops. Damn! Not another abduction case. Did Mulder actually *seek out* guilt? She can feel herself growing tense, yet can't objectively dissuade Mulder from the case. Not if Mickey's involved.

"Where is Falstaff now?"

"Bauer has him in a holding cell downtown." McCall reaches for his coat. "Care to go for a ride?"

***

He wakes instantly. No fading dream fragments, no lazy stretches. One moment unconscious, the next awake. He is in a small, plain room. Cement floor, cement walls. A single door. Locked. A prison cell without the bars.

Mickey walks the room slowly, methodically, searching for hidden cameras or bugs. He can't reach the light fixtures. He stares up at them, wondering who is watching. He is slick with sweat. Wiping his forehead, he guesses he already has a temperature. He glances at his watch. It's gone. He slaps at his back pocket, swearing. So is his wallet. And the gun. He closes his eyes and leans against the wall. Here are the facts: he's at an unknown location, unarmed, his cover is blown, infection is most likely setting in, his head hurts like hell, and he's already lost Mattie. Good job, Kostmayer.

A faint sound from the corridor. Metal against metal: a key in the lock. Mickey slides down the wall and slumps to the floor just as the door opens.

A man dressed in military uniform enters. He holds an uzi at Mickey's head. "So. Mr. Kostmayer. I want to thank you for showing me that two of my men are incompetent." He lowers the gun slightly. "The problem has been corrected."

Mickey stares at the man blearily. "Where am I?"

"The appropriate question is *who* are you, Mr. Kostmayer. I'm quite annoyed by your little feat of machismo. I want David Falstaff."

"Why?" Mickey's voice is hoarse. "You have Matt. Why do you need David?"

"Sorry, Mr. Kostmayer. The man with the gun asks the questions. The man without the gun answers."

Mickey's hand plucks at the windbreaker. A faint red stain has already seeped into the nylon. "My shoulder..."

The guard steps closer. "Yes, you've already been shot." He smiles. "Looks like you've had quite the busy morning."

Mickey rolls his head from side to side. "I feel...sick. Please..."

"Please, what?"

"Let me go."

"That's a strange request. After all, it was your idea to come here, now wasn't it?"

Weakly: "Yes...but..."

The guard lowers the gun and kneels beside Mickey. He grabs a fistful of Kostmayer's hair and yanks his head upright. "Guess you should have thought things through a little more thoroughly, huh?" He pulls harder. "Now I asked you nicely before, but you're trying my patience. *Where* is David Falstaff? And *who* do you work for?"

Mickey cringes. His face contorts. "I don't know where David is. He was in the diner...I don't know where he is now!"

The guard's face is stone. "If that's the way you want to play it, then--"

The guard doesn't have a chance to finish the threat. Mickey stabs the guard in the throat with his fist, the other hand wrests the gun out of the guard's hand in one fluid move. Mickey smashes the weapon against the stunned guard's head, pushes himself backwards, and aims a solid kick at the man's ribs. Mickey bends over him, fighting to stay upright. "Guess I get to ask the questions now."

***

The traffic is a bitch. Mulder sits in the car, hands clenched around the wheel, grinding his teeth. At this rate he'll meet McCall by tomorrow. He stares at the long ribbon of cars before him. He wills the traffic light to turn green. It doesn't.

You should have called Scully.

Why bother her?

She said she *wanted* to work with you.

If she wanted to work with me, she'd have been sitting at her desk this morning.

You're a real prince, pal. She has *cancer*. Did you forget that's your fault?

Mulder rubs his eyes. No. He hasn't forgotten. The light turns green and the cars creep forward, one inch at a time.

***

He pulls off the guard's belt and binds the man's hands behind his back. He drags the limp body--now dressed in Mickey's clothes--behind the door. The uniform is a good fit, he pulls the dark beret lower over his eyes. Mickey rests the gun on his good shoulder. He takes a deep breath and presses an ear to the door. Okay Kostmayer, things are looking up. He turns the doorknob and cracks the door. The corridor is clear. He slips out of the room, locking the door behind him.

According to Wade, his suddenly cooperative guard, he and Mattie are inside an abandoned office building converted into a government research facility. Mickey walks silently down the hallway. He is in the basement. So is Mattie. The details are sketchy, but apparently, the boy is being...tested. Anger darkens Mickey's face.

He holds the gun steady. His mind spits at the word: Test. He's familiar with tests. He's been tested, prodded, poked, injected, broken down and reassembled. But to test a little boy? A *child*?

A child...like Sam. Samantha. Mulder's missing sister. Mickey's head jerks and he glances back down the hall. Is it possible that Samantha could be here as well?

The sound of footsteps forces him to push the thought away. He presses himself against the wall. There's nowhere to go. Damn! This is it! You have one chance. You blow this, and you're dead. He drops to one knee and pretends to adjust his boot lace. Two soldiers round the corner. They both wear uniforms identical to his own.

The first soldier gives Mickey a contemptuous look, the second does a double take. "Hey! That's not--"

Mickey pulls the trigger, silencing both men. To his own ears, the sound is deafening. Breathing fast, he moves off down the hall. I'm coming Mattie.

***

Lieutenant Mitch Anderson twists the cap off his bottle of iced tea and takes a long swallow. He closes his eyes. Excellent. He reaches for the turkey sandwich and makes a notation on the report he's reading. A small gob of mustard spills onto the page and he wipes at it with a napkin.

"Sir?"

Garvey stands in the doorway, face blank. Only his eyes betray the state of his nerves.

Anderson glares. "You're interrupting my lunch."

Garvey nods. "Yes, sir. Security has been breeched."

Anderson sighs and puts the sandwich down, all semblance of appetite lost. "Where?" he barks.

"Sub east wing." An afterthought: "Sir."

"Who?"

"The man brought in with Matthew Falstaff."

Anderson glares. "What *about* him?"

Garvey's jaw works. "He...escaped."

Anderson drums his fingers against the desk. "On whose watch?"

"Wade."

"And where is Wade now?"

"The infirmary, sir."

Anderson scowls. "What's the prisoner's name?"

"Kostmayer, sir. Mickey Kostmayer."

"Who's he work for?"

"Central Intelligence."

A sudden, splitting headache explodes behind Anderson's left eye. He puts a hand to his head in a futile attempt to ease the pain. What kind of b.s. hanky panky is *this*? The Company playing spy games *here*?

"Where is he?" Anderson asks, already dreading the answer.

"We're...we're looking."

"You're *looking*?" Anderson shouts. "What the hell kind of answer is that? Did you *lose* him? Is he some kind of goddamn needle in a haystack? This is a secure facility, Garvey. You *find* Kostmayer and you find him *now*."

Garvey swallows. "He's been shooting the video cameras out, sir."

Anderson rolls his eyes. "Then I guess you're going to have to rely on skill, *Sergeant*. You remember what that is don't you?"

Garvey's nod is almost imperceptible.

"You drag your khakied butt through this place until you find him. Get a patrol started ten minutes ago! That is a direct order. GO!"

Garvey backs out of the door. "Yes sir."

Anderson lets out a weary sigh. His gut aching, he reaches for the phone.

End part 2/6 ************************ Part 3/6

There--on the left, a bathroom. Mickey ducks inside. He squats, checking under the stalls for other occupants. There are none. It's empty. Breathing hard, he turns on the water and splashes his face. Cupping his hands, he takes a quick drink. He pulls out a handful of paper towels and slips them beneath his shirt, over the wound. The good news is, the bleeding seems to have stopped. The bad news is, he doesn't think it makes a difference. His left arm is on fire. His back aches. He is beyond tired. He grabs one more towel and wipes his face. Okay. Better. Not much, but enough.

He glances at his reflection in the mirror. Bad idea. The face in the mirror is not comforting. Sallow complexion, purpled eyes bright with fever. No wonder the women always fall for McCall. His heart is a constant pounding in his ears. He lifts the gun and moves to the door.

Muted voices approaching. One male, one female.

"...be right back."

Mickey returns to the sink and feigns washing his hands.

The door opens and a small man wearing a light blue smock--some kind of lab coat--walks in. He moves to the urinal.

"Do you know where Matthew Falstaff is?" Mickey asks. "I just got an alert that someone might attempt to remove him from the facility."

The doctor eyes Mickey curiously. He shrugs. "I assume he's with the other subjects in the west wing."

Mickey grins. "Thanks."

He leaves the bathroom. An Asian woman wearing an identical smock leans against the wall. Mickey gives her a brief nod and starts down the hall. A sign near the elevator reads: SUB WEST WING--THIS WAY. An arrow points to the right. "Much obliged," Mickey mutters. He turns the corner and begins running.

***

David sits stiffly, ill at ease. "I'm sorry. I...I thought he was following me. It happens so often, I guess I got paranoid." He bows his head. "I never meant to hurt him."

Mulder is perched on the edge of the table. "How many times has your brother gone missing?" he asks.

"Three times." His face crumples. "I guess I mean four, now."

"Tell me," Mulder says.

David struggles to relax. "Um...the first time I was fifteen. Mattie was just a baby. A year old I think. I was babysitting--"

Mulder flinches as if struck.

"--and I heard him crying. But when I went into his room to check on him, he wasn't there. I...I freaked. I was terrified. I didn't know what to do. There was a bright light from outside, I couldn't see anything. I thought maybe there was a fire or some kind of bomb." He clasps his hands nervously.

"When did you find Matthew?"

"About two hours later. He was outside, lying on the patio, screaming."

Mulder's brow furrows.

"At the time I didn't understand it. I couldn't figure out how a baby could get outside. I mean I had looked outside! He wasn't there!"

"Was Matt injured in any way?"

"No. Not that I remember."

"Did you tell your parents what happened? Did they believe you?"

David averts his eyes. "My dad died right after Mattie was born. I never told my mom."

"What about the second time?"

"Mattie was living with me. I was...nineteen. I woke up one night to hear him screaming my name. By the time I got to his bedroom he was gone." David shakes his head, incredulous. "He was just *gone*. The windows and door were still locked. It was like he vanished into thin air."

"Was there a bright light again?"

David covers his face with his hands. "Yes. I didn't understand what was happening. I tried to get out of bed...but I couldn't. It almost felt like someone was...was holding me down."

Mulder finds it difficult to speak. He stands and walks across the room. He leans against the wall, arms folded. "What happened when you discovered Matt was gone?"

"I called the police. They thought I was crazy. They thought I killed him." David shakes his head. "They screamed at me for hours, wanting to know what I did with his body." David's voice drops to a whisper. "As if I could ever hurt him! He's all I have left!"

Mulder runs a hand through his hair. "You mother passed away also?"

"Yes." David swallows. "May I have some water?"

Mulder steps into the hallway, fills a paper cup from the water fountain, and hands it to David. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He waits for David to continue.

"Even though they thought I did something to Mattie, I never stopped looking. I put up posters, I spent all of my savings on a detective. I was barely scraping by in my apartment. I thought I really was going crazy." David takes a deep breath. "And then I found him."

Mulder closes his eyes, fighting the pain of his own failure.

David continues, oblivious. "A security guard found him wondering around at a mall two states away. They brought him back, but they wouldn't let me have custody of him. He lived with my aunt."

Hoarsely: "How long was he missing?"

"Three months." David sighs and falls silent, lost in the past.

"David?" Mulder prods. "What happened then?" He finds it hard to stand here and wait. He wants to physically pull the words from David's throat.

"I took him from my aunt's. We came to New York. I figured we'd be safe here...we'd get lost in the anonymity. Whoever was taking him wouldn't be able to find us." He rubs his neck. "I was wrong.

"I had him sleep in my room so I could keep an eye on him." His lips twist in a bitter smile. "But it didn't matter. They got him anyway."

"Who got him, David?"

"You know." David stares at Mulder. "Aliens."

Mulder licks his lips. Finally. That word. "What makes you say that?"

"Who else could it be? The last time I came home from work and he was gone, the crayons were still on the table. The television was on, but Mattie was gone. None of the neighbors heard anything. Or if they did, they weren't talking." David falls silent again.

"David."

No response.

"David. Are you all right?"

"What? Oh." He takes another sip of water. "I guess so...What was I saying? Oh yeah. The last time. I didn't call the police."

"But you weren't there when he was taken," Mulder points out, "you don't know if there was a bright light or not."

David shrugs. He puts a hand on his stomach. "I know it here."

Mulder relents. "All right. Fine. Then what?"

"I quit my job. I lost my apartment. My life shrank down to the size of my duffel bag and the list of questions I asked people on the street. I lived off a few friends. That was when I saw the movie."

"What movie?"

"Fire in the Sky." Pause. "Do you know it?"

Reluctantly Mulder nods.

"It's based on a true story about a guy that was abducted by aliens. They did all kinds of terrible tests on him before returning him."

Mulder swallows. "It's just a movie."

David leaps to his feet, knocking the chair over. "And this is my life! My brother has been taken from me three times! Without a trace! *You* tell me where he's been, Agent Mulder. *You* give me a better explanation and I'll listen." David stares at him, face flushed.

Mulder averts his gaze. "I don't have a better explanation, David."

David blinks at Mulder for a moment, and then rights the chair. He sits back down. "I didn't mean to knock the chair over."

Mulder nods, his heart hammering. "It's okay." He wipes his mouth. "When did Matt return?"

"Six months later. Six long months of hell," David says.

Mulder stares at him. Six months? You don't know what hell is.

"He turned up at the shelter I was staying at."

"Pretty big coincidence," Mulder comments.

"You're damn right. That's when I began to realize there was something bigger going on. That's when I knew they weren't going to stop."

Mulder lets the silence linger for several moments before asking another question. "How did...how did Matt appear when he was returned? Was he...was he hurt? Did he act normal?"

"Mattie was fine. He never seemed to remember where he had been." David considers. "He was quiet. He didn't like to be by himself, but he was as normal as possible, given the circumstances. He liked to read, watch television, and play video games. You know, kid stuff." David's face deflates. "At least until the last time."

Mulder's heart quickens. "Why? What happened then?"

David stares at the floor. "He wouldn't talk. He hasn't said a word to me for the past year. Sometimes he cries, or screams, but he doesn't speak." His fists clench in his lap. "I don't know what those bastards did to him, but I hope they pay." David lowers his head to the table. "I guess I have to pay first, though."

Mulder turns his head. He blinks away tears. Voices. McCall and Scully. Scully *here*? How? Why? He doesn't have time to ask. The nausea twisting his stomach sends him sprinting from the room.

***

McCall and Scully exchange glances. "I'll check on him," Scully follows Mulder.

McCall takes a seat opposite the boy. "Hello David."

David doesn't move.

"My name is Robert McCall. I'm a friend of Mickey Kostmayer's."

David speaks to the table top: "I'm sorry I hurt your friend."

"I know that, David. Can you tell me where those men took your brother?"

Wearily: "I don't know." He raises his head. "If I did, I wouldn't be sitting here."

***

He stumbles and falls against the wall. It's getting harder to move. Come on, one foot in front of the other, one foot, again, one foot, again... Two guards stand before a set of swinging doors.

Mickey forces himself upright and walks straight ahead, head raised, eyes front. He nods at both guards, struggling to keep the fear off his face. He's lightheaded. Each step is like floating toward the ceiling. He reaches the doors.

One of the guards stops him. "Hey."

Mickey turns. "Yeah?"

"You got any smokes? I'm out."

"Sorry, man. So am I."

He pushes the door open.

Again, the guard stops him. "You okay? You don't look so good."

Mickey shrugs. "It's just hot in here. What's up with the thermostat today? Or is just me?"

The first guard shrugs. "I'm okay."

Mickey walks through the doors. They don't follow. Another arrow points him down the long corridor: SUB WEST WING.

He moves down the hallway at a slow jog. Reaching the first door, he peers through a small window. The room is dark. He tries the doorknob. Locked. He checks the next door. He sees a boy lying in bed, face turned to the wall. The boy's height and hair color are wrong. It's not Mattie. Mickey leans his head against the wall. Good God! How many children are here? His hand lingers on the doorknob but a sound across the hallway spurs him on.

Directly ahead, a door opens. Mickey expels a lungful of air and raises the gun. A doctor enters the hallway, engrossed with the chart he's holding. He glances at Mickey and pauses. "What are you doing here?"

Mickey replies easily: "I'm supposed to stand guard at Matt Falstaff's door. We might have a breech of security."

He stares at Mickey. "Where did you hear that?"

"From Wade."

The doctor stares at Mickey a moment longer before proceeding down the hall. Mickey keeps going. He hears the faint *swish* of the swinging doors. Don't let him tell the guards he thinks. Don't let him--

"Hey! Hold it right there!"

Mickey has the impression the floor is shifting beneath his feet. He told the guards. He risks a look over his shoulder.

The guards. Coming toward him. Guns raised.

Shouting: "Place your weapon on the ground. Now."

The first guard pulls a two-way radio from his belt. "Moore here. We've got him. Report to Sub West immediately."

Mickey closes his eyes. He has no time to think. He bends slowly, as if placing the gun on the floor. At the last second he pulls up and locks his finger on the trigger. The first soldier falls. He never has a chance to fire.

The second soldier does. The bullet rips through Mickey's forearm and he falls to the floor. On his back, adrenaline pumping, he ignores the deadly *zip* of bullets beside his head. He keeps firing. After an eternity of three or four seconds, the second soldier drops.

Using the wall as support, Mickey pulls himself to his feet. He runs, passing several doors. His stomach is somewhere near his feet. Which one of these holds Mattie? Has he missed him?

One of the doors swings open and Mickey whirls. A woman peers out at him, cautious. "What was--" she stops abruptly, her eyes taking in Mickey's disheveled appearance, the blood.

Mickey motions with the gun. "Get back inside."

She swallows, her eyes sweeping the hallway for help. There is none. She backs into the room and he follows. The room is fairly large. Part office, part classroom, complete with chalkboard, desks, and a handful of computers. In the corner, a small play house. The room blurs. He speaks fast. "Lock the door."

She does.

He blinks at her, straining to keep her in focus. "I don't want to hurt you. There's a boy here who was taken against his will. His family wants him back. That's all I'm trying to do." His words come in short bursts. "But I need some bandages, some aspirin--anything, or I'm not gonna do anybody any good."

In the distance, loud voices. Angry shouts.

He looks at her. "When they tell you to the open the door, go ahead. But you haven't seen me. I don't want to hurt you," Mickey repeats, "but don't underestimate me."

"What do you want?" she asks.

"A place to hide. Some water. Aspirin. Gauze." He staggers and catches himself. "A chance to reunite Mattie Falstaff with his brother." His eyes bore into hers. "That's what I want."

She closes her eyes. Opens them. "You're bleeding on the floor. Come over here." She motions to a small supply closet. "Get in there. Don't make a sound." The woman turns away from him and strips out of her sweatshirt. She wears a white T- Shirt beneath it.

The voices are closer. The sound of pounding on doors, heavy footsteps. Running.

Breathing fast, she wipes at the red droplets on the floor, pulls her desk drawer open, and stuffs the sweatshirt to the back.

The soldiers reach her door. "Open up!"

She hesitates. She says a silent prayer. She opens the door.

***

He can hear Scully's voice outside the bathroom door. "Mulder? Are you all right?" Another bought of nausea rips through him. A few weeks ago, hadn't he been the one calling to her?

And she lied to you. She didn't tell you about the vision.

She was afraid.

No, she didn't trust you.

Mulder pulls himself to his feet and walks over to the sink. He splashes his face, rinses his mouth out. "I'm fine," he calls. "Just a second."

He pushes the bathroom door open to see Scully standing in the hallway, arms folded, a familiar look of concern on her face.

"What happened?" she asks.

He shrugs. "Must have been something I ate."

Scully gives him a look. "Or didn't eat."

Mulder smiles in spite of himself. To see her again, have her here...he can almost believe things are back to normal. Except for the fact she's dying.

"I think I've got some kind of stomach flu."

Scully lets the lie pass, silent.

He combs his fingers through his hair. "So what are you doing here, Scully? Don't tell me you actually got my telepathic request for assistance?"

Scully smiles and Mulder feels a quick stab of pain. The sight is all too rare these days. Especially a smile aimed in his direction. "No...but I'm in New York for a few days. I was supposed to have lunch with Robert today. He told me what was going on."

He can't quite keep the edge out of his voice. Hating himself, he says: "So sorry to ruin your lunch."

Scully's smile evaporates. She looks at him coolly for a moment and turns back toward the interrogation room.

Mulder watches her, struggling to come up with a suitable apology. What's going on between them? Why can't they communicate anymore? They were separated by outside forces a few months ago and nearly killed. Instead of bringing them closer, the incident seems to have pushed them farther apart than ever. What did I tell you? You already lost her.

He runs to catch up with her. "Scully! Maybe...maybe I can buy you lunch later." He amends quickly, "You and McCall."

Scully glances at him. Her eyes are dull with fatigue. "I'm not really hungry, Mulder."

Mulder stops walking and lets her go. He leans his head against the wall. He stands there, alone, for a long time.

***

"What is it?" He cradles the phone, lighting the cigarette.

Anderson clears his throat. "We, ah, have a...small problem on this end."

He exhales. "If it's a *small* problem, why are you bothering me?"

Anderson has no answer.

Sharply: "What *is* it?"

"The boy was retrieved..."

"But?"

"But David wasn't brought in. They brought in the wrong man."

He stubs the cigarette out on his desk, furious. "What kind of incompetent fools do you have working there, Lieutenant?"

Quickly: "They've been taken care of."

"And *you'll* be taken care of if a mistake of this magnitude happens again. Is that clear?"

Almost inaudible: "Yes."

He flicks the crumpled Morley into the ashtray and lights another. "Correct the mistake and retrieve David."

"We're working on that...but the prisoner has escaped." Anderson waits. The long silence on the other end of the line is far deadlier than angry words.

Finally: "What aren't you telling me?"

"The man we're searching for is with the CIA."

Another long puff. "I see."

"His name is Mickey Kostmayer."

He frowns. That name is familiar...The Morley stops, half way to his lips. He opens his mouth. Closes it. He nearly laughs. Of course. Mickey Kostmayer. A friend of Robert McCall's. He should have recognized that particular scent of trouble. It reeks of righteous indignation. But what would McCall's lackey be doing meddling in his business? How would McCall have found out about the Piper Street facility? Stray leaks have long since been eliminated.

He scowls. It doesn't matter *how*. McCall *is* involved. This puts things in a new light. The Company. Sniffing around his leg. How...amusing.

Anderson's voice, nervous: "Are you..are you still there?"

"I'm thinking, Lieutenant. Perhaps you should try it sometime."

Anderson falls silent.

The quickest solution is to find Kostmayer and eliminate him. For good. But the quickest solution is not always the *best* one. He knows enough about McCall to know that loyalty is ingrained into every fiber of the retired Company man's being. He feels a vague annoyance with McCall. There are very few people he will accept this kind of behavior from. The Mulder boy is one. Skinner is the other. And now, McCall.

He smiles faintly. Yes, he will accept their occasional outbursts. He will accept their reckless meddling. Because despite their simple efforts, *he* is the one in control. He leans forward, thinking quickly. "All right. This is what I want you to do. We have what we need, you may return Matt Falstaff to his brother. His mother's debt is paid, he and David are free." Pause. "For now."

Incredulous: "We're just supposed to let Kostmayer walk out of here?"

"Of course he's free to go." A faint smile. "After he's been adequately...prepared."

***

She stands beside the desk, hands folded in front of her. "He pounded on the door, but I was afraid to let him in," she tells Sergeant Garvey.

Garvey studies her face, uncertain. He glances around the room, uncomfortable. He doesn't like her...or the others. They make him nervous.

"Look at that." One of the soldiers points to the supply cabinet. The door is cracked slightly.

The woman watches him pull the door open, silent.

The cabinet is full of paper and supplies. There is no sign Mickey Kostmayer. She blinks. She approaches Garvey. "Could you hurry? I have a class in a few minutes."

Garvey licks his lips. Nothing seems out of place here. He sighs. To the men: "Let's go." The soldiers file out, most of them avoiding the woman's cool gaze.

When they're gone she relocks the door. She goes to the supply cabinet herself and looks. Nothing. She turns and studies the room, curious. The play house! She kneels beside the brightly painted cardboard structure and peers inside. The man is curled on his side, unconscious.

She looks at her watch. Fifteen minutes until the children come. That should be enough time.

***

He can't breath. He's on fire. No, drowning. Washed up on shore, his clothes are soaked. He lays, gasping for breath, his face pressed against hot sand.

Mickey turns his head with great effort. He blinks, disoriented. Carpet beneath his cheek, not sand. Not a beach...a room. Awareness floods back. The government facility. Mattie. The woman in the classroom.

There are sounds nearby. Pages rustling. A soft voice. The woman. He's still in the classroom. Inside the play house. On the floor. From this perspective he can see a few young faces bent over textbooks. The woman--a teacher--is explaining about photosynthesis.

A heavy layer of gauze covers his lower left arm. He can feel the faint pull of medical tape across his chest and right shoulder blade. He swallows. So. It looks like he's going to be here for a while. He might as well get comfortable.

End part 3/6

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

Disclaimer: You know the drill. But if you really want a rehash, please see Part 1. Title: Clean Slate Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: NC-17 (violence, language) Classification: Crossover (X-Files/The Equalizer)

************************ Part 4/6

"...can you hear me?"

His eyes flutter open. He stares up into the woman's face. He licks his lips. His throat is dry. More than dry. "Water..." She holds a glass out to him and he lifts his head, drinking greedily.

"Do you feel better?" She asks. "The aspirin should be working."

"Yeah." He awkwardly pushes himself into a sitting position. He takes another drink. "What's your name?"

She smiles. "You can call me Sara."

Mickey notes that "you can call me" is not quite the same as "my name is". He nods. "Thank you...Sara."

"You're welcome." Sara gestures to someone outside Mickey's line of site.

A little boy appears and kneels beside her. He watches Mickey with large, dark eyes. "Hello," he says softly. "I've been waiting for you."

Mickey stares, amazed, at Mattie Falstaff.

***

"I already told you," David says, agitated, "he can't speak! If he can't speak, how could he have told me anything that might help you?"

"I understand that, David. But Mattie can communicate in other ways. Was there any change in him after you found him at the shelter?" Scully persists. "Anything-- even the smallest inkling, the smallest suspicion--of where he might have been?"

His face in his hands: "No."

"What about his habits, hobbies, phobias? Did *any* of them change?"

"No!" Then: "I don't know. I don't remember!"

"Calm down," Mulder says, "and concentrate. *Try* to remember."

David swallows. "Okay. He *was*...different. He stopped playing video games. He stopped reading. All he did was stare at the television for hours on end. It didn't make a difference what was on, he'd watch anything." His voice wavers. "He just...shut down. It's like they broke him. They broke my brother and gave him back." He bows his head, crying softly. "And I don't know how to fix him."

A muscle in Mulder's jaw twitches. He turns his head slightly, away from Scully's watchful eyes. He slumps into a chair across from David.

Detective Bauer knocks on the door and pokes his head into the room. "Any luck?"

McCall sighs. "Very little, I'm afraid."

"So far my boys dug up a witness who says she saw a man and a little kid loaded into the back of a limo behind Cleo's. Said the man seemed, and I quote, 'out of it.'" Bauer sniffs. "Makes sense considering Kostmayer was shot."

Scully raises an eyebrow. "A limo?"

Bauer shrugs. "Discerning criminals? Who knows. But the witness didn't get a plate. So what we got is, basically, bupkiss."

McCall scratches his head. "So what happens next?"

Bauer snorts. "That's easy, Mr. McCall. We wait."

*** Mulder spreads the map out across the table. "All right. Show me where the shelter was where you found Mattie."

David wipes his face with his sleeve and stares at the map. He smooths it flat with the palm of his hand. "Right...here."

McCall, Mulder, and Scully lean close.

"Why do you want to know?"

McCall studies the spot David pointed to. "Well...David, that's a very good question. Give us a while to answer that, would you?"

David nods and sinks lower in the chair. A moment later he sits up. "Oh!"

Mulder glances at him. "What?"

"I...I just remembered something." He shakes his head, embarrassed. "It's probably nothing."

Mulder puts a hand on David's shoulder. "What did you remember?"

"Mattie was always afraid of bugs. Especially bees." David speaks softly, remembering. "He was petrified of bees."

"And that changed once you found him this last time?" Scully asks.

David nods. "Yeah. He wasn't afraid anymore. He used to hold out his hand so the damn things would actually *land* on him. I told him not to, I was afraid he'd get stung. But he never did."

Mulder purses his lips. Bees.

Mattie and...bees.

The mysterious farm in Canada. The clones of his sister and Kurt Crawford. Silent children toiling day after day among the bees. Workers. Drones. Silent. Like Mattie.

"Mulder?" Scully's voice is sharp. "What's wrong?"

He takes a halting breath. Bees...and smallpox. How can he answer? How can he explain? Scully wasn't there, she didn't see the things he did. She never saw the way his sister's clone held his hand. The way the bees swarmed over the Bounty Hunter. Scully never saw the e-mailed images of the postal worker, murdered in the rest room.

Mulder stares at Scully, eyes wide. What if...what if they hadn't returned Mattie to David? What if they had returned a clone?

***

Mickey's mouth drops open. A smile works its way across his face. "Mattie...you can talk!"

The little boy cocks his head. He looks from Sara to Mickey. "Aren't I supposed to?"

Mickey laughs. "Yes, but--"

"There isn't much time," Sara interrupts. "Come on."

Cursing under his breath, Mickey manages to crawl painfully out of the play house. Sara helps him to his feet and he stares at the group of small faces gathered in the room. Twelve children. Four girls. Eight boys. He blinks rapidly, wondering if he's still delirious. He's looking at three sets of identical children. All four girls wear their dark hair in long braids. Four of the boys have short reddish hair. The other four boys...are Mattie Falstaff.

Mickey turns to Sara, incredulous. A hundred questions race through his head. How can they be identical? Say it, Kostmayer. They look like clones. But this is something far beyond the cloning of a sheep. The implications are enormous. It occurs to Mickey that his knowledge of these children could be deadly..for him. The longer he stays here, the shorter his life expectancy.

He takes the boy's hand. Just to be sure: "Mattie?"

The boy looks up at him. "Yes?"

"How did you know I was coming?"

"David told me."

"David *told* you?"

Mattie nods. "In a dream."

Mickey closes his eyes. In a dream? He turns back to Sara. "What is this place?"

"This room? A learning center. I teach them how to adapt. How to fit in on the Outside."

One child from each group sits together at a separate table, silent. The three children watch Mickey with vague curiosity. He works hard to keep his voice steady. "Why are they apart from the others?"

"They don't speak," Sara explains. "They are the workers. They will be leaving soon."

Workers? As in child labor? "Leaving...for where?"

Sara's expression reveals nothing. "Another facility."

Mickey puts his good arm around Mattie. "What kind of project are you involved in?" His voice is thick with disgust. "How can you be a part of this?"

Sara meets his angry gaze. "Mr. Kostmayer...I'm a part of this because I'm one of them."

***

Lieutenant Anderson growls a command into the telephone. "Seal off all exits. Shut down the elevators. We are on Alert Status, do you read me, Officer?"

"Affirmative, Lieutenant."

"Good. Connect me to Maurice."

Anderson waits on the line for a few seconds before the call is transferred. Maurice picks up. "Records Division."

"This is Anderson. Start packing up. Commence evacuation procedures now."

***

Mickey picks up the gun. "I have to go." He doesn't want to think about what he's seeing. What he's hearing. He is a simple man. A soldier. This kind of...genetic tampering is unnatural. Unethical. Unreal. He looks at each child's face, stomach churning. He wants to take them all. But whose children are they? Where would they go?

He takes a step toward the door, and hesitates. His eyes stray back to the little girls. Those braids, the dark eyes, the lips, that nose--he's seen that face before. Where? Recognition dawns and he suddenly finds it difficult to breathe. The photograph on Fox Mulder's desk. He is looking at Samantha Mulder.

Mickey swallows, Mattie momentarily forgotten. "Samantha?"

Sara turns a hard gaze on Mickey. "Why did you use that name?"

"I've seen her picture before. She--they--are Samantha Mulder."

Sara shakes her head. "No. Those girls are who Samantha Mulder *was*. They are no longer Samantha. Not any more."

But Mickey can't leave without trying. He speaks softly to the girls. "Do you know who Fox Mulder is?"

Three faces stare with uniform expressions of confusion. The girl on the left speaks. "I don't know that name. Should I?"

Mickey closes his eyes. Should you? I don't know either. He takes a few unsteady steps toward the door. "Thank you for your help, Sara. I have to go. Before they find me here."

"Wait. Take this." She hands him a cheese sandwich. "You should eat something." She gives him a self-conscious smile. "It's all I had."

Mickey takes it. He's not hungry. Food is the last thing his stomach wants. But he knows enough to finish it in three bites. It sits in his belly like lead.

*** He tries to hold on, but eventually, his temper flares. Goddammit he *needs* to know where Mattie is being held. As long as the slightest chance exists that this maze will lead to his sister, he cannot back down.

"I don't understand," Mulder says. "He just appeared in the middle of the shelter? How? Like Christ appearing to the twelve apostles? Didn't *anyone* see who he came in with, or what direction he came from? No one noticed a little boy? Didn't you bother to ask around?"

David's eyes flash. "I was just happy to have my brother back, Agent Mulder."

"You didn't care where he spent the last six months?"

Scully's tone holds a warning. "Mulder--"

"Of *course* I cared! But my brother needed me! My first priority was to Mattie."

Mulder folds his arms. "Really? Then how come your brother went missing *three* times when he was in your care? Did you really try to save him?"

David stares at Mulder, torn between rage and despair. Mulder's question is the same one he's asked himself a million times.

Scully grabs Mulder's arm and whispers fiercely into his ear. "Maybe you should think about who you're really angry with here, Mulder."

Mulder pulls his arm away, nostrils flaring. He glares down at her.

Scully continues, unfazed. "It wasn't David's fault. And it wasn't yours. Torturing yourself won't bring her back."

Mulder's anger dissipates into a familiar cold depression in the pit of his stomach. "How do you know?" he asks softly and walks out of the room.

***

Standing on the chair, Mattie peers through the door. "There's a guard posted in the hallway," he reports.

Mickey scowls. Of course there is. They're all on the look out now. He glances up at the ceiling, considering possibilities.

A faint crackle of static sounds from the intercom posted above the door. "Teaching Assistant Number Three, report to the Records Division immediately." Another squawk and the intercom shuts off.

Sara bites at her lip. "That's me." She motions to the children. "Come on. Back to your rooms now." She looks at Mickey, her expression pained. "I'm sorry. If I don't go, they'll be suspicious."

Mickey takes a deep breath. "Leave the children." He's not going to leave them. He'll manage to get them out--somehow. That's his focus. Get them out of the building. Once that's done...he'll worry about the rest later.

Sara shakes her head. "I can't do that."

The sandwich begins to revolt inside Mickey's stomach. He manages a tight smile for the children. "Don't you want to leave this place? Don't you want to go home?"

"This is their home," Sara says quietly.

The first girl reaches for the teacher's hand. "I don't want to leave."

The second puts her arms around her twin. "Don't make us go with him!"

Mickey turns to Sara, eyes hard. "What have you done to them? Why would they want to stay in this...this place?"

"I haven't done anything to them, Mr. Kostmayer. This *is* their home." She shakes her head gently. "You can't make them leave. Please don't try. You came for Mattie, didn't you? Then take him. But the others stay. They serve a purpose here."

Mickey glares. "I'll bet."

Sara steps forward and lowers her voice, her face mere inches from Mickey's. "You think you understand what's going, but you don't. Feel free to judge me, but how can you judge what you don't understand? What we do in this facility is important. Much more important than my life, your life, or the lives of these children combined."

Mickey scowls. He has no time for a sermon. He's tired of listening to Sara. He's tired of this room. He's just plain tired. The pain in his arm has settled into an angry throb, but his shoulder is still agony, despite the aspirin. He doesn't have time to argue. He has to get moving. While he still can.

Wearily: "Fine."

She holds out her hands and the other children gather around her. "Please don't go until I return. I can help you get out."

Mickey nods. "How long will you be?"

She ushers the children towards the door. "Not long. Maybe ten minutes. You can wait that long can't you?"

A hint of smile. "Sure." He pulls Mattie behind the safety of the door while Sara and the others spill out into the corridor. The door shuts again. This time Mickey risks a quick peek out the window. The guard hasn't moved.

Alone with the boy, Mickey studies the ceiling tiles. He reaches for a chair. "Okay Mattie. You want to see your brother again, don't you?"

Mattie nods.

"Then I'm going to need you to do exactly what I say, all right?"

***

Lifting the ceiling panels up isn't that bad. But boosting Mattie into the duct work is pure hell. He lies against the cold metal, gasping.

Mattie goes first, moving slowly through the dark, feeling the metal surface with his hands. Mickey follows. They've been crawling through this dark maze forever. The prolonged movement has reopened both wounds. His forearm bleeds profusely, making the metal surface slippery. He slips repeatedly. Finally he stops crawling and lies still in the air shaft. "Mattie," he whispers. "Wait." He reaches out and feels the boy's ankle.

Mattie stops. "What?"

"I need to rest a minute," he gasps. His muscles are rebelling. They tremble and shake in protest against the sudden cold that envelopes Mickey. He can't get warm. He struggles to keep his teeth from chattering. It doesn't pay to scare the boy. He closes his eyes. Just for a minute. I'll just close them for a minute. His lids are so heavy...

Whispering. In his ear. He turns his head, struggling toward consciousness. "Wha--?"

"Mickey? Mickey! Wake up!" Mattie's voice. Scared.

Mickey feels a small hand pulling at his own. He blinks and rolls himself onto his stomach.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Mickey swallows thickly. "I'm okay, Mattie. How long was I out?"

"Not long. But when you didn't answer me, I got scared..."

Mickey touches Mattie's shoulder in the darkness. "Don't worry. I'm just a little tired. Let's keep going, all right?"

A whisper: "Okay."

Eventually the duct work divides. "Which way?" Mattie asks.

Mickey squints through the gloom in both directions. To the left there is a faint glow of light. "Let's see where that leads," Mickey says.

A few minutes later he peers down into an empty office. A cluttered desk, a worn office chair, and a few filing cabinets. Nothing to tell him who the office belongs to, or where they are. His stomach lurches. He'll have to risk it. If he stays up in the duct work much longer, he's afraid he'll never get out.

"Mattie? Can you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"Are you wearing an undershirt?"

Confused: "Yeah."

"Can you take it off? I need to wrap something around my arm. If I don't, I'm going to leave a nice big trail for the bad guys to find us. We don't want that."

With some effort, Mattie pulls his sweater over his head in the cramped space. He takes off the undershirt and hands it to Mickey. He pulls the sweater back on and grimaces. "Ouch. This is picky."

"I know it is. When we get out of here, your brother will give you something else to wear. Okay?"

"Okay."

Mickey works at the small screws in the vent cover. "All right, Mattie, you listen to me. I want you to understand something. When I take us out of here, I might have to shoot some of the bad guys. I don't want to, but I don't want them to shoot us."

"They already shot you," Mattie points out. "You don't want them to shoot you *again*."

Mickey nods. "Right. But I just want you to realize you might see some...bad things happen. I don't want you to think about that stuff. I want you to think about David. Because I know he's thinking about you."

In the faint light, the little boy's face is beautiful. "Really? Does he miss me? I was afraid he'd forget about me."

"No, Mattie. He misses you very much." Mickey frees the second screw. "As a matter of fact, that's why I'm here. David...hired me to bring you out."

The boy's eyes grow wide. "Wow! Like Rambo, huh?"

Mickey can't help smiling. "Something like that."

Heart pounding, Mickey removes the grate. "I'm going to jump down, and then I'll catch you." He swings both legs down through the hole in the ceiling.

And the office door opens.

***

A man dressed in sea-green hospital scrubs gapes up at Mickey, his eyes wide in comical surprise.

Mickey doesn't feel like laughing. He jumps to the floor, just barely managing to stay on his feet. The gun swings into the doctor's face. "Get inside. Shut the door."

The doctor doesn't move.

"You know Doc, I'm in a lot of pain. If you don't move *right now*, I guarantee you'll be feeling worse than I do."

The doctor blanches and enters the office, hands raised. He shuts the door, and after a long look from Mickey, turns the lock. He takes in Mickey's bloody uniform and gradually, his medical training overshadows his fear. "You need to get to a hospital."

"Tell me something I *don't* know," Mickey growls. He glances at the desk. "I need a phone."

The doctor stammers: "W-we use an intercom system down here. There's, ah, not much need to contact anyone outside the building."

Mickey glowers at the doctor. He aims at the intercom box above the door and pulls the trigger. "You aren't using the intercom now."

The doctor licks his lips, hands still raised. Panicky: "What do you want?"

"I want you to stand perfectly still. If you can do that for the next five minutes, you might walk out of here in one piece. Think you can do that?"

The doctor nods, eager to please. "Yes."

"Good." Mickey looks up at the ceiling. "Okay Mattie. Come on." He pushes a chair beneath the open vent and raises his good arm. "You take my hand and jump down on the chair when I count to three." Mattie swings his legs over the edge and takes Mickey's hand. "Ready? One...two...three!" Mattie jumps.

Mickey grunts with the effort, fighting the wave of darkness swimming toward him. Mattie lands on the chair. Mickey releases the boy's hand and leans against the desk, head lowered. He takes slow, deep breaths, struggling to stay conscious.

"...I help you?"

The doctor's request is drowned out by the roar of Mickey's heart. He lifts his head and notices the white coat draped over the desk chair. He pokes at it with the barrel of the Uzi. "Say Doc," he croaks, "what's that?"

The doctor doesn't answer.

"Is that a cell phone maybe, or is your jacket just happy to see me?"

"I...I..."

Mickey reaches into the pocket with blood-stained fingers. "What do you know." He levels a glare at the doctor. "You lied."

A whisper: "I'm sorry."

Mickey holds the phone with shaking fingers. He starts to dial McCall's number but changes his mind. He's probably not at home and he doesn't have enough time to waste a phone call. Hoping that David followed his instructions and called Mulder, Mickey punches in the FBI agent's number.

End part 4/6

********************* Part 5/6

"Mulder! Wait!"

Mulder keeps walking, head down, shoulders hunched, his body language much louder than words.

Scully stops to catch her breath. "*Mulder*!"

Reluctantly he stops. He stands, waiting, his back to her. He listens to the click of Scully's heals on the scuffed tile. He misses that sound.

Scully finally reaches him. "Where are you going?"

Mulder can't quite meet her gaze. Softly: "I need to find him, Scully."

"Mulder..." She sighs. Despite his treatment of David, she can't stay angry with her partner. The pain in his eyes is so...deep. She almost touches his arm, but stops herself. "Mulder...maybe you should let Robert and me pursue this case."

It is the wrong thing to say.

He glares at her. "Oh I get it. You're too sick to be partners with me, but not with McCall." He pounds his fist against the wall, regretting the words as soon as they're out of his mouth. "Dammit, Scully. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that." Mulder lets out a pent-up breath. "That was...that was selfish of me."

Scully crosses her arms. Does he really think so little of her? She studies Mulder's profile, determined not to argue with him. "I was only trying to suggest that you're too close to this case, Mulder. There are too many similarities between David and yourself. I can see how much pain you're in, and it hurts *me*. I just think...I think you should step back."

Mulder nods, eyes on the floor. He speaks softly. "I can't, Scully. Even if I wanted to, I can't." He raises his head. There is no anger in his voice, no accusation, but the hurt comes through loud and clear in his eyes. "You already stepped back Scully. Remember? If I step away, there won't be an X-Files. I'm not willing to do that."

Scully raises her chin, defiant, but she can't hide the tremor in her voice. "I'm still a part of the X-Files, Mulder! How dare you imply otherwise!"

Mulder raises his hands, surrendering. "You tell me what to say, Scully, and I'll say it." He shakes his head. "I sure as hell can't get anything right on my own today."

Scully's lips compress. The shrill cry of Mulder's cell phone saves her from a response.

He sighs, pulling the phone from his pocket. "Mulder."

Mulder's demeanor changes instantly. He stands straight, alert, his attention focused on the caller. "Where *are* you?" Pause. "What? I can hardly hear you. Are you okay? Good...good. We'll be there as soon as--What? Wait! Mickey! What did you--Mickey? Mickey!"

Mulder swears, stuffing the phone back into his pocket. He sprints back down the hallway, Scully behind him. "Where is he?" she demands.

"There was a lot of interference, I could hardly hear him. But I think he said Piper Street."

***

"Mattie--under the desk." Mickey pushes the boy under the doctor's desk and steps against the wall, behind the door. He raises the gun, eyes trained on the doctor. He nods once. Okay. Open the door.

A group of soldiers stands in the hallway. "What was that noise?" One of them asks.

The doctor struggles to keep his voice steady. "Noise? What noise?"

Sergeant Garvey pushes his way into the office. He makes a quick survey of the room. Nothing seems--he stares. Wait just a minute here. He points to the rectangular opening in the ceiling. "Mind telling me why you've got a hole in your ceiling?"

"Um..I, ah, thought...I heard a noise." His voice registers a notch higher. Relieved to find a solid excuse, he continues. "I took off the grate to try and see if there was a mouse."

Garvey's lip curls. He studies the room more closely. The doctor's fear is tangible, making the Sergeant wary. He gestures toward the hall and a soldier moves into the doorway.

Garvey's eyes stray back to the desk. Then to the chair. He spots a white lab coat, stained red around one of the pockets. Garvey's stomach tightens. He circles the desk slowly and stops. There, on the floor, a small hand. Bending on one knee, gun raised, he is able to see the rest of Mattie Falstaff's trembling body. Garvey straightens quickly, mouth dry. If the kid is here, so is Kostmayer. He speaks into the radio. "Sergeant Garvey to Support Team: they're in Doctor Leo's office."

Mickey kicks the door shut and reaches for Leo. He puts his arm around the doctor's neck, Mattie's white shirt already soaked red. He holds the gun loosely, toward Leo's head. "Mattie," he calls. "Come on out."

The boy crawls out from under the desk, his face pale, eyes wide.

"Get behind me. And *stay* behind me," Mickey barks.

Mickey shoves Leo toward the door. To the soldier: "Back off. Now."

The soldier and Sergeant lock eyes over Mickey's shoulder. Garvey makes a slight motion with his gun.

"Place your weapon on the floor," the soldier instructs, "step away from it, and put your hands behind your head."

Mickey moves Leo closer. A combination of fear and adrenaline give him strength. "I said BACK OFF!"

"I heard you," the officer says, and pulls the trigger. Leo makes a soft grunting noise and drops to the floor. Mickey struggles not to go down with him. Mattie shrieks. The sound drives a sharp nail of pain deep inside Mickey's skull. He lifts the gun mechanically and kills the soldier. The doorway beckons. He pulls Mattie into the hallway where three more soldiers wait, guns held steady.

Garvey squats beside the doctor. "Don't shoot!" he warns his men.

Mickey sprints down the corridor, haphazardly carrying Mattie. There is no time to question why he's still alive. He runs, muscles screaming, ears straining for the sound of gunfire. It doesn't come. He runs blindly, turning down one corridor, then the next.

Up ahead, a set of elevators. Across the hall, stairs. Mattie grows heavier with each step, but Mickey doesn't want to risk putting him down. A woman emerges from the stairwell and he nearly collides with her.

He stares at her, gasping for breath. "Sara!"

Her brows knit, confusion plain on her face. Confusion turns to unease as she takes in his appearance. She gives him a wide berth. "Do I know you?"

There isn't time for her games. Mickey starts up the stairs. They stretch ahead of him, an eternity of faded marble. I can't do this. Mattie slips in his arms, and he boosts the boy back up. Pain flares through his upper body. He stumbles and pushes himself against the wall for support. Yes you can. Keep going. For Mattie. For David. For McCall. Mattie wraps his arms around Mickey's neck. For yourself.

"Mr. Kostmayer."

The voice comes from the first floor landing. He looks up, squinting toward the sound. More than a dozen men in military uniforms waiting for him. He risks a backward glance down the stairs. Garvey and his men. Amazingly, one of the soldiers supports Leo, still very much alive.

"There's no place left to run, Mr. Kostmayer. I think it's time you rethink your situation."

Mickey leans his head against the wall, eyes closed, breathing hard. He's trapped. He listens, resigned, as their footsteps draw closer. He can accept his death. It's part of the job. But this wasn't a job. He's not afraid to die. It's the knowledge that he failed that makes his stomach cramp. But that failure spurs him on, keeps him upright. He concentrates on the sound of Mattie's muffled sobs. He won't give in. If they're going to take him, he'll go down fighting. He lowers Mattie to the ground. "Behind me," he whispers.

The boy shakes his head, his face wet with tears, nose running. "No!"

In reply, Mickey pushes him against the wall and moves in front of him. He beckons the approaching group closer. "Come on," he taunts. He raises the gun. "Rethink *this* situation."

***

They're back in the interrogation room, gathered around the map. Bauer, McCall, Mulder, Scully, volley theories back and forth with a handful of detectives and SWAT team members. David stands behind Mulder, trying to follow the conversation.

Bauer unrolls a detailed plat of Piper Street and the surrounding three-block radius. "Look at this," he says. "The St. Jude shelter is two blocks over on West Central."

Mulder studies the layout, his face pinched. He glances at Bauer, pointing at three addresses marked in red. "These buildings are empty?"

"One's an old warehouse that used to belong to Wiesmann Brewing, one's an old insurance company, and this one," he points with a calloused finger, "used to be a publishing firm."

"Why do they have to be in an abandoned building?" David asks. "There are dozens of building along Piper. They could be anywhere."

Mulder shakes his head. "I don't think so."

Bauer shrugs. "I'm willing to go with it. It's better than sitting around." He scowls. "My ass is getting flat."

McCall takes Mulder aside. "What aren't you telling me?"

"I told you everything he said, Robert." Mulder's spreads his hands. "He didn't sound good. But he sounded *alive*. And I know he said 'Piper Street'. We don't have a whole hell of a lot to go on, here."

McCall rubs his face, tense. "An abandoned building...why? For anonymity?" Robert recalls the site of his friend unconscious, in a small cell at New World Labs. "These repeated abductions...they make me think of some kind of data collection, perhaps. Some kind of underground research project?"

Mulder stares at McCall. His face gradually relaxes into a faint smile. "I have a feeling I should call *you* spooky. That's damn good reasoning, Robert."

McCall's eye twitches--a quick wink. "After thirty years in The Company, Mulder, I should hope I've come away with a few skills."

Mulder peers across the room at Scully. She's bent over the map, deep in conversation with Bauer. Her hands jab the air as she speaks, emphasizing whatever she's telling him. He watches her silently for several seconds. Suddenly she looks up and meets Mulder's gaze.

Hurry, Scully.

I'm coming.

Scully excuses herself and crosses the crowded room. She joins Mulder and Robert. "We've already wasted too much time," Mulder tells her. "We should get going."

He stops and stares at her.

"What?"

Mulder closes his eyes. "Scully..." He says her name softly, a myriad of emotions in his voice.

Scully recognizes his tone and tentatively touches her nose. Her fingers come away red. Damn. Another nosebleed.

McCall, concerned: "Dana! Are you all right?"

Scully casts a warning look at Mulder. "Yes." Her smile is tinged with embarrassment--and something darker. "Too much stress."

Mulder hesitates. "You want me to stay?"

Scully shakes her head. She fumbles in her purse for a tissue. Damn. What lousy timing...Damn. Damndamndamn. She tries not to think of the implications.

McCall hands her a handkerchief. "Use this."

She mumbles a thank you. "I'm going to find a bathroom. Why don't you two go. I'll ride out with Bauer."

The look in her eyes tells both men it's an order, not a suggestion.

Mulder nods, feeling guilty. She's dying. She should be spared this kind of stress. "Wait a minute," he tells McCall, and follows her to the bathroom. "Scully...this could be dangerous. Maybe it would be better if you stayed here. I don't want anything to..." he wants to say 'happen to you', but the words refuse to come out. They twist themselves into a bitter knot, making it difficult to speak over the painful lump in his throat. He finishes lamely: "go wrong."

Scully glares at him. "Dammit Mulder, let me do my job!"

Mulder takes her arm. "What *is* your job, Scully? I don't know anymore. Do you?" He lets go of her. "Go ahead and use the bathroom. I'm sorry to keep you." He steps back.

Scully swallows hard, struggling to respond. She can't.

***

Lieutenant Anderson steps forward. "No one has to die, Mr. Kostmayer."

"Too late," Mickey hisses. "They already have." His vision is blurred. His response time is sluggish, and he finds it difficult to string more than a few words together. He struggles to focus on Anderson.

Behind him, he senses movement. He spins awkwardly to see Sara. She speaks softly. "Shh. It's okay." She holds a hypodermic needle in one hand. Mickey stares at her. His brain registers fear, but he's unable to respond. "Sara...no. Don't!" He feels the gun pulled from his hands. Mattie's arms circle his waist in a desperate attempt to hold on. Mickey blinks rapidly, trying to understand why Sara has betrayed him.

The woman shakes her head, her face almost sorrowful. "I'm not Sara." Mickey feels the needle bite into his thigh and he lashes out at Not-Sara. She stumbles backwards, but Garvey catches her. He strikes out at one of the soldiers. His fist connects with the man's chin, but the blow is too weak to do much damage. He feels the darkness coming. Ultimately, as he falls to the floor, he realizes Sara has not betrayed him; his body has.

Hands move over him, lifting him, carrying him. There are words, but he can't understand. They're meant for someone else. He is placed on a gurney, restraints hold him in place. He struggles to remember where he is, to understand what's happening.

He can't.

Darkness swallows him.

***

"I want a full report."

A look hovering between fear and disgust crosses Anderson's face. "We've got a Level Three Red Alert going, Captain."

"Kostmayer made contact with someone outside the building?"

"Yes, sir."

"Damn." Then: "What kind of time constraints are you working with?"

"Minimal. We have reason to believe it was a local call."

"Evacuation procedures are under way?"

"Yes. And we have certain...resources at our disposal."

"Good. Has he been washed out?"

"As we speak."

"Fine. I expect another update before seventeen hundred hours."

"Yes, sir."

Anderson slips his cell phone into a pocket. He and Garvey wait outside the infirmary. He turns to the Sergeant. "They almost done?"

Garvey nods. "Almost."

"How are they holding up?"

"The kid's fine. But Kostmayer's a little iffy. His vital signs are pretty weak."

Anderson watches a doctor bend over Mickey Kostmayer. Using a small eyedropper, he squeezes several drops of clear liquid into the unconscious man's eyes. Anderson sighs and looks at his watch. "The Welcome Team is in place?"

"Yes."

"What about the evacuation?"

"Maurice and Jacobs have ninety percent of the records out--"

"I want one hundred percent," The Lieutenant snarls.

"--and the subjects are being loaded right now."

"What will it take for completion? Another fifteen minutes?"

Garvey considers. "I think so."

"I hope to hell we *have* fifteen minutes, Sergeant."

***

"You live here," Mulder says. "Isn't there some kind of shortcut you can take?"

McCall catches the tail end of a yellow light. "This *is* the shortcut, Mulder."

Mulder grips the door handle, his stomach taut with nerves. His mind replays his conversation with Mickey over and over, a tantalizing loop:

"Where *are* you?"

Mickey's voice, muffled: "I'm not sure. An old building...renovated...research facility on Piper."

"What? I can hardly hear you."

"Piper Street! Ask McCall."

"Are you okay?"

"I'll be all right."

"Good...good. We'll be there as soon as--"

Mickey interrupts. "There's something going on here, Mulder. Some kind of genetic experiments, cloning, I don't know what. I saw some girls--" a burst of static garbles Mickey's words, "--like your sister." Abruptly: "I have to go! Hurry!"

"What? Wait! Mickey! What did you--Mickey? Mickey!"

Mulder squirms in the seat. What about his sister? He is anxious to find Mickey and Matthew Falstaff, but the growing excitement in his gut feels suspiciously like hope. Hope that maybe this time he'll find Samantha.

And the truth.

***

"Where are we going?" She wears a new pair of flannel pajamas and a long robe. Her slippers make soft scuffing sounds against the cement. The pajamas are a gift from *him*.

"Someplace safe," he replies.

The woman's brown hair is pulled back in a loose braid. Her face is smooth, the face of a woman in her early thirties, but her eyes are much older. Her mind is fuzzy from interrupted sleep and a precise dose of tranquilizers. She cannot remember the last two decades of her life. The years have been reduced to blurry images, punctuated by sudden flashes of memory too horrific to dwell on. The sedation keeps her sane.

He guides her to the waiting bus. Doctor Leo and a few other familiar faces are already on board. She clutches her companion's arm. "You aren't coming?"

He shakes his head. "Not yet."

Her eyes search his face. He is the only one she trusts.

She steps onto the first step and pauses, afraid to ask. "Please tell me...do you think he's still alive? So much time has passed and he still hasn't come."

The man sighs, infinitely weary. He glances up at the sky. "I think..." he pauses and looks back to her, a trace of smile on his lips. "I think that one day, Fox will come for you." He touches her hand. "Now get inside."

Through the heavily tinted window, he can just make out Samantha's face. He lights a Morley and inhales deeply, watching the bus pulls away.

***

Movement.

Muffled voices.

The hard slap of concrete against his face. He gags and rolls onto his back. Eventually, the sound of crying penetrates the thick fog of pain. He turns his head to see a little boy sitting next to him. His legs are crossed Indian-style, arms wrapped tightly around his small body. Mickey squints at him. The boy looks familiar...

He remembers. The boy in the diner. Mattie. He closes his eyes. Where is he? Not in the diner, that's for sure.

He reaches an arm out toward the boy, but Mattie flinches away. He sobs loudly: "I want David! I want David!"

Mickey lets his arm drop back to the pavement. He has no particular desire to move. He stares up at more cement. Above him, large block letters declare: CAUTION! 12 FEET CLEARANCE. He's inside a parking garage with a little boy.

Why?

There isn't much time to dwell on the question before darkness pulls him under again.

***

The black Jaguar squeals to a halt in front of the decaying warehouse. Robert and Mulder exit the car cautiously. The uniforms Bauer requested are waiting. "Anything?" McCall asks.

Officer Miller shakes his head. "Not a peep." He motions to the door. "But the lock's been cut."

Mulder pulls the heavy door open, hand on his gun. A few rays of sunlight filter through the ancient roof. Corroded machinery divides the large room in half. The bitter taste of disappointment fills his mouth. "I don't think this is it," he says.

Genetic experimentation requires sterile surrounding, medical equipment, massive laboratories...not antiquated bottling machines.

McCall casts a dark look in his direction. "That's a rather hasty judgment, isn't it?"

Mulder shrugs. "I don't think he's here."

The hard knot of worry in McCall's stomach begins to unravel. His friend could be trapped--*dying*-- in here, and Fox is ready to dismiss the building after a two second search? Not bloody likely.

"I'm leaving," Mulder declares.

"What! What about the offices? There might be a lower level. We can't just dismiss the search!"

"Look, Robert, you don't understand. I...I know things. I can *feel* that Mickey isn't here. If you want to stay and run a thorough search, fine. But you won't find him. I'm going to the next building."

"I'm sure Bauer and Dana will do an adequate job."

"So am I," Mulder responds.

Mulder picks his way through the debris, back toward the door. "Are you coming?"

McCall stares at the agent a long time. He takes a deep breath. "I'll catch up with you later."

Mulder nods. "Fine." If McCall finds his attitude cavalier or condescending, so be it. His ability to understand, to sniff out evil in its darkest corner, is what sent him skyrocketing to the top in VCU. And it's also what called him to the X-Files. McCall doesn't have to believe or even understand. He is not trying to be difficult, only honest. He simply does not believe that Mickey Kostmayer and Mattie Falstaff are hidden inside the Weissman Brewery. And neither is his sister.

Patrol cars line the street. Officers are busy canvassing neighboring shops and businesses. Half a block up, he sees Bauer and Scully emerge from the bankrupt insurance firm. A police officer follows them, escorting a small group of homeless people out of the building.

Mulder scowls at the uncooperative traffic. He waits for a caravan of luxury buses to go through the intersection. The filigree lettering along the side of the vehicles reads: Second Honeymoon Bus Tours. Not bothering to wait for the 'walk' sign, he sprints across the street, ignoring the honks of several angry drivers.

He meets Scully, breathless. "You okay?"

The reply is automatic: "I'm fine." She gestures back toward the building. "From the mess we found inside, I'd say these people have been living there for several months. But aside from a few rats, Mulder, there's no one else."

Mulder sighs. Damn! Could he be wrong after all? Had he misheard Mickey? There's only one more address to check. Grim-faced, they head for J.P. Publishing.

***

Maria Villenti is running late. She glances at her watch again, muttering under her breath. What a way to start an interview. She checks her teeth in the rear view, and reapplies a fresh coat of lipstick. There. Good enough. She gets out of the car and locks the doors.

She hurries as best she can in the uncomfortable pumps, busily rehearsing an excuse. Please let me get the job. Please let me-- The thought trails off. About fifty yards to her left is a startling sight:

A small boy leaning against one of the concrete pillars. She walks beyond the line of cars and gasps. There, next to the child is a man's prone body! She approaches them. To the boy. "Are you all right?"

He squeezes himself against the column. Tears track his face. "I want my brother!" he sobs.

Maria nods and kneels beside the man. Her stomach recoils when she sees the blood. Oh my God. Oh my God. She feels for a pulse. She can't find it. Damn! How come they make it look so easy on television? Fumbling in her purse, she pulls out her compact and holds the mirror over the man's mouth. A faint film covers the glass. She swallows, terrified. At least he's alive. She looks around wildly. "Help! Somebody help!"

The boy watches her with wide eyes. "I want my brother!"

"Is this your brother?" Maria asks.

The boy shakes his head.

"Who is he?"

A whisper: "I don't know."

End part 5/6

*********************** Part 6/6

"What the hell is this?"

Two mid-sized moving trucks are double-parked in front of the four story stone building. At least a hundred years old, the front of the building is ornate with scroll work and marble. A faded sign still hangs above the awning: J.P. Publishing. But another name is painted across the glass of the front door: Second Honeymoon Tours.

Mulder and Scully exchange glances. They walk inside.

A young man stands behind the counter, he wears a small diamond stud in one ear and a stylish suit. Exotic posters line the walls. A large display case near the lobby holds a plethora of thick and colorful brochures. The man's assistant, a dark- skinned woman, carries a box of files into another room.

The man looks up. "Good afternoon. We've got some great deals going on this week. Several nice bus tours, and a fabulous cruise package near Greece." He smiles. "Can I interest you...?"

Mulder and Scully pull out their badges. "I'm FBI Agent Fox Mulder. This is my partner, Agent Dana Scully," Mulder says. He glances around the sparsely furnished lobby. "I was under the impression this building was empty."

The man nods. "It was. Up until about a month ago. We're finally getting things in order."

Two moving men roll a heavy filing cabinet into the lobby. "Where do you want this?" the shorter man asks.

The woman reappears. "I'll show you."

The men follow, awkwardly pushing the dolly.

"Is there something I can help you with, Agent Mulder?"

"Yes there is. How about a tour of your building?"

The man blinks. "A tour of...Why?"

Scully eyes Mulder, a silent warning. He clears his throat. "We received a tip a fugitive might be hiding here."

The man looks from one face to the other, smiling. The smile fades at their stoic expressions. "You aren't kidding? Geez. I thought you were joking. Okay. Whatever." He scratches his head. "Don't you need a search warrant or something?" He shrugs. "Just curious."

"No, we don't, Mr...?"

"Oh, right. Garvey. Tony Garvey."

***

"Okay. Thank you very much." McCall turns away from the elderly deli owner and continues down the street. So far there is no progress. Mulder was right, neither Mickey nor Mattie had been inside the brewery. Frustrated, he rubs his jaw. Their thin lead is fraying very quickly. Now what, Mickey?

"McCall! Hey, McCall!"

Robert turns to see Bauer barreling down the street, red-faced and puffing. "They found them!"

McCall stares, trying to decipher Bauer's tone of voice. "What? Where?"

Bauer leans against the front window of Tina's Trim and Cut. He pants, "Mattie and Kostmayer. They're at Holy Angel of Mercy."

McCall feels a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the temperature. Softly: "How are they?"

Bauer squints in the afternoon sun. "Mattie's gonna be okay once he sees David. But your friend? I don't know. Why don't you head over there. I'll catch Mulder and Scully."

McCall nods.

He sits in the front seat of his car. He can't remember walking the three blocks to get here. His hand trembles slightly as he inserts the key into the ignition. He closes his eyes. This is the same dread he felt when Mickey was held captive by the KGB. The same empty feeling he felt while Mickey hovered near death after the horrible experiment at New World Lab. And now, that cold uncertainty is back, holding him in an unforgiving grip.

*** A cluttered office, more posters, a supply room full of boxed brochures. So far, there is no reason to doubt the identity of the travel company. The second, third, and fourth floors of the building are still empty.

Garvey shrugs at Scully's inquiry. "We're looking into leasing them out."

Mulder glances at the elevator panel. There are buttons marked one, two, three, and four, but no lower level. "There's no basement?" he asks.

Garvey shakes his head. "Nope. But I'm going to have to let you finish looking around on your own. Anna needs my help up front."

"Thank you for your help," Scully says. She and Mulder exit the elevator and head for the stairwell. A set of stairs leads downward to a door marked Emergency Exit. Mulder feels another burst of excitement. "Why would an exit lead down, Scully?" Unlike the brewery, there is a faint sense of...possibility here.

"Mulder, I don't get a sense of anything out of the ordinary here. Don't do this to yourself."

He rattles the handle. "It's locked. Why keep an emergency exit locked?"

"I don't know! They're still moving into the building, Mulder. Maybe they don't have a key." She sighs. "Sometimes an emergency exit is just an emergency exit. Even if we don't find him this afternoon, I have faith we will find Mickey. And Mattie. Safe."

"You have...faith?"

Softly: "I do."

He rests his head against the locked door. "Scully. Before, on the phone...Mickey told me he saw my sister."

"He *what*?" Reproachful: "Why didn't you tell me?"

Mulder waves his arms. "What does it matter, Scully? We won't find her! We never do! It's one dead end after another." He kicks at the door for emphasis. "It never fails. Sometimes I wonder if I even had a sister. Maybe I imagined the whole thing." His voice is heavy with emotion. "Maybe I'm imagining *this*."

Scully briefly grasps his arm. "Mulder, you're wearing Samantha's ring around your neck. You didn't imagine her. She was real."

Mulder studies Scully's face, his eyes haunted. Hoarsely: "Was...or is?"

Scully bows her head.

A moment passes in strained silence, then another. Finally, Scully looks up and touches Mulder's tie. "If you're imagining this, Mulder, I wish you'd dream up a better tie than this."

Mulder manages a crooked smile.

They start up the stairs. Back in the lobby, Mulder's phone rings. He snaps it open. "Mulder." He listens a moment and his body sags against the counter.

Scully feels a tug of fear. She moves closer, whispering: "Did they find them?"

Mulder closes his eyes and nods. "I see. Where are they? Yeah...good. What about Mickey?" Long pause. "Okay. Thanks." He hangs up and massages his forehead.

"What is it? Are they all right?"

"They're at Holy Angel. Mattie is okay. But Mickey..." he clears his throat. "They don't know yet."

Scully heads for the door. She stops when she realizes she is alone. She turns back to see that Mulder is still by the front desk. "Mulder? Aren't you coming?"

A muscle twitches in Mulder's jaw. He cocks his head slightly. His eyes flick from Garvey to Anna. He studies one of the posters: a couple seated in a gondola, gazing into each other's eyes. He wants Samantha. More than anything, at this moment, he wants to know that his sister is alive. That she remembers him. That she loves him. And most important--that she forgives him.

Because he will never forgive himself.

Scully gives him a look. "Mulder...she's not here. There's nothing here that pertains to Mattie Falstaff's disappearance *or* your sister's. Let's go to the hospital. We can ask Mickey ourselves."

Mulder doesn't move.

"*Mulder*."

He wants to go to the hospital. But if he leaves now, he is admitting defeat. He is losing Samantha...again.

Scully opens the door and holds it for him, expectant.

He follows.

Garvey stands behind the counter for a full five minutes after the agents leave. Behind them is a wall-to-ceiling filing system. Slowly, one of the shelving units swings forward; a hidden door. Lieutenant Anderson emerges. He nods. "Good work, Sergeant."

***

He is tired.

Every fibre, every cell of his body screams for rest. For peace. But they won't let him. Bright lights stab through his eyelids. Needles and tubes pierce his skin. He jerks beneath gloved hands, fighting.

"Get the restraints," someone shouts.

"Start the second transfusion!"

A woman's voice: "BP is dropping, he's going into defib."

"Get the crash court, stat!"

Mickey thrashes on the bed. Why can't they let him be? Jacardi stands over him, smiling. "It's your decision, Mr. Kostmayer. Easy...or hard?"

Mickey struggles to speak, but there's a tube down his throat. He coughs, choking.

A shout: "He's shocky!"

"Get that IV bag inside the pressure cuff!"

Mickey arches his back against their interference. Get off! Get the hell off of me! He can no longer hear their words. The light recedes slowly, like the tide. He slides into the dark. Where it's safe.

They labor over him, shouting over panic's voice, amidst the shrill cry of monitors. Finally the incessant bleating quiets into a normal rhythm. "BP's back up."

The doctor wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "Okay. Let's get him up to OR."

And Mickey is wheeled out of the Emergency Room.

***

"Mattie!" David envelopes his brother in a bear hug. He presses his face against his brother's, sobbing. "Oh God, Mattie, are you all right?"

The boy nods. "I am now."

David cries harder. "Mattie...oh Mattie, it's so good to hear your voice. You're talking again!" He smiles through the tears, eyes bright with joy.

"Or course I am." He speaks into the front of David's shirt.

Scully skims his medical chart. Nothing out of the ordinary. "It looks like they're just keeping Mattie for observation," she tells David. "He should be released tomorrow."

David closes his eyes. "Where were you, Mattie?"

Mattie pulls back from his brother. "What do you mean?"

Scully pulls a chair over to the boy's bed. "After the diner, Mattie, where did they take you and Mickey?"

"Mickey...is he the man who was hurt?"

David nods.

"I...I don't know. What diner?"

Scully tries again. "What's the last thing you remember?"

He frowns, thinking. Suddenly he smiles and looks up at his brother. "I was waiting for you to get home from work. I was coloring in the living room and watching television. Cartoons."

David's face drains of color. He stares at Scully over the top of Mattie's blond head.

She stares back.

***

McCall sits on the edge of the chair. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled. He watches his friend sleep.

Bauer appears in the doorway. "He awake yet?"

McCall shakes his head. "No. The doctors say he'll come around shortly."

Bauer pulls out a cigar, scowls, and puts it back into his pocket. "I just spoke with the kid. He claims he doesn't remember a thing. Let's hope Kostmayer does or this case is going to end up right in the crapper."

McCall frowns at the detective's choice of words. He offers a tight smile: "Let's hope."

Bauer lingers a moment. "You know, your friend could have gotten himself *and* Mattie killed. What he did wasn't just dangerous, it was reckless. The next time he wants to play hero, you better tell him to think twice."

McCall is on his feet and across the room in seconds. He points a finger in Bauer's face. "I am quite sure that Mickey Kostmayer had good reason for his actions. Mickey is a professional. In fact, I have no doubt that Mickey has more professionalism in his little finger--in his fingernail!--than you do in your entire body, Detective Bauer." He turns away, pauses, and glances back at Bauer. "And one last thing, detective. He wasn't *playing* hero. He *is* one."

Robert ignores the detective's smoldering glare and picks up a newspaper. When Bauer is gone, McCall smiles faintly. "I sincerely hope you heard that, Mickey. I think at the very least you owe me dinner at Pete's."

***

"How are you feeling?" Mulder asks.

Mickey swallows. His throat clicks. He swallows again. "Like...hell."

"Funny. That's how you look, too."

Mickey glares at his friend. "Thanks...a lot."

Mulder grins. "Anytime." He shifts in the hard chair. "You know, Scully insists that you and I are in some kind of twisted contest to see which of us loses our insurance carrier first."

Mickey closes his eyes. "In that case...it's your turn next."

Mulder chuckles. They sit in silence for a moment.

Mickey breaks it. Quietly: "I don't remember anything. I keep trying. But I can't. After David shot me...there's nothing."

Mulder nods, stomach dropping. He looks down at the floor. How convenient. How goddamn convenient. He clenches his fists. Dully: "They drugged you."

"I guess so."

Mulder knows so. Just like Ellens Air Force Base. And Scully's abduction. Those bastards take their magic wands and wipe the slate clean every time. He tries anyway. "Then you don't remember seeing my sister?"

Mickey turns his head, surprised. "Samantha? Where would I have seen her?"

Mulder works hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice, his expression neutral. "You called me from...wherever you were. You said that you saw my sister. You mentioned genetic tests. Cloning."

"Cloning," Mickey repeats.

"That's right."

Mickey closes his eyes. He concentrates on the past twenty-four hours. A late dinner, phone call to Robert, bed. Up early to meet with Control, a quick stop at Cleo's. David Falstaff and his mute brother. Struggling over the gun. Getting shot. Sitting on the floor, trying to talk David into putting the gun down...and then nothing. Static. Waking up here.

He sighs loudly, aware of Mulder's frustration. Samantha? How--where--could he have seen her? It's a good question. Almost as good as who shot him the second time.

"I'm sorry Mulder. I can't remember. There's nothing there." It's a disconcerting feeling. A strange feeling. He doesn't like it. "Maybe I'll remember later," he suggests, unsure who he's trying to convince more: Mulder or himself.

"Maybe," Mulder agrees, not believing for a minute.

***

"Kostmayer."

Mickey opens his eyes to see a tall gray-haired man standing beside the bed. He sighs. "Control."

Control purses his lips. "You know, Mickey...if you wanted out of Nighthawk, you could have just asked."

Mickey smiles. "I guess I'm no longer the team leader, huh?"

Control nods.

Mickey waits for a reply. There is none. "So...who is?" He prods.

Control clears his throat. "Ginger."

Mickey opens his mouth but Control waves a finger at him. A warning. "Now, now Mickey. You're supposed to get plenty of rest."

Mickey sighs. "In here? I don't think so."

Control steps closer to the bed. "I'm glad you're all right, Mickey."

Mickey nods. "Thanks."

The moment passes and Control moves toward the door. "Just remember, Mickey. If you *really* want out of the Company, there are easier ways to go about it."

Mickey grins. "I'll remember that."

Control leaves. Kostmayer stares up at the ceiling.

"Hello, Mickey."

Mickey smiles. McCall.

"Did Control just stop by? I passed him in the hall."

"Never knew I was this popular," Mickey quips.

McCall takes a seat in the corner chair. "How are you feeling?"

"That depends. Mentally or physically?"

"Both."

He shrugs with his good shoulder. "My bones will heal. I'll be able to use my arm again." There is a long pause. McCall is quiet, waiting for his friend to continue. "But my memory? That doesn't feel so good. Whatever they did to me, McCall..." Mickey's voice drops dangerously low. "I don't like it. I don't like it all."

"You'll regain your memory," McCall says with a confidence he doesn't quite feel.

Doubtful: "I don't know..."

"You will." McCall leans back in the chair. "You know, Mickey, I'm very proud of you for helping that boy."

Mickey shakes his head. "But did I really help him?"

McCall's answer is immediate. "Yes."

A comfortable silence falls between them. "You know what the worse part is?" Mickey finally asks.

"What?"

"I can't even blame The Company for this."

***

She watches him from across the cafeteria. Chin resting on his arms, an untouched cup of coffee within reach. She feels a pang...of nostalgia? She can't quite name the emotion. Today was good. Despite the misunderstandings, she is glad they had this chance to work together. It felt--feels-- right. She smiles, feeling a sudden rush of affection for her partner.

She crosses the room, threading her way through the crowd. "Hi."

"Hi." He points to the Styrofoam cup. "There's proof that alien life exists after all, Scully."

The joke falls flat, but Scully forces a smile. He's trying too hard. She frowns inwardly.Does he really think if he tells a few lame jokes, I'll believe that he's fine? Of course he does. That's Mulder. Always hiding behind a smile, masking vulnerability with sarcasm.

"Mickey doesn't remember," he says. He rubs both eyes with the heel of his palms.

"Give him some time," Scully suggests. "He's been through a lot."

Mulder's temper flares. "I could give him a lifetime Scully, and it wouldn't make a difference. I still don't remember what happened at Ellens Air Force Base!"

"That doesn't mean you never will," Scully points out calmly.

He sighs.

"Mulder...I've made a decision. I'm coming back."

He looks up at her, eyes narrowed, searching her face. "Coming back? What do you mean?" He knows. But he wants to hear her say it.

"I think I should come back to the X-Files. Full time."

Mulder shakes his head. "I'm not so sure." A few months back, when Riley had taken him prisoner, they told him he killed Scully. He had fought against their lies, but eventually, he had believed. He still believes. No, he hadn't put a gun to her head, but he might as well have. It is his fault she was abducted. His fault she is dying. Every time he looks at her pale face, every time she has a nose bleed, a piece of him dies along with her. Don't let her come back. She's safer out of the way. Let her consult. Let her spend her last months in New York with Robert. Not with you. Think of her, not yourself.

"These few months apart, Mulder, have given me time to think. That's all I wanted. Some time."

He forces himself to meet her eyes. "Scully...if you come back, you might not have--" he struggles with the words, "you might not *have* any time left. You said it yourself, there are too many Rileys, too many Kryceks, too many lies." His voice breaks. "I don't want you to go through that any more."

Scully glares at him. "Don't insult me, Mulder. I don't need your protection. I can still do my job." Her voice is quiet. "I'm the same person I've always been, Mulder. My mind is not affected by this disease. Don't treat me like it is." She has made her peace. She has finally realized that she is more than her hair and skin. Her body may be weak, but inside, in her soul, she is stronger than ever.

Mulder puts his hands around the cup. He stares down at the black liquid.

Softly: "Do you want me to come back, Mulder?"

Tell her no. Come on--say it! One little word and she'll be safe. He raises his head to see her face. Expectant. Waiting. Nervous. A hint of anger in her eyes. He opens his mouth. Tell her *no*, dammit! He answers, softly: "Yes." Disgusted with himself, feeling weak and selfish, he tries to backpedal. "But Scully,--"

She lifts a hand. "Then it's settled." She pushes her chair back. "I'll see you tomorrow morning." She walks away, not waiting for his response.

Mulder swirls the tepid coffee. She's back. Correction: *they're* back. Life can get back to normal. Normal? She's *dying*! She's not back; she's marking time. He lifts the cup to his lips and sips. It tastes bitter.

Just like this victory.

...The End...

If anybody stuck around to finish this whole thing, I thank you very much! :-)