Disclaimer: You know the drill. I don't own 'em, I just borrow 'em. Scully, Mulder, their parents, Cancer Man, and Skinner belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Broadcasting. Our favorite Homicide detectives, Giardello, Cox, and Brodie belong to Paul Attanasio, NBC, and Baltimore Productions. Robert McCall, Mickey Kostmayer, and Control belong to Michael Sloan, Richard Lindheim, and Universal. Thanks also to the band Garbage (and Almo Sounds) so I could borrow the words to Fix Me Now for the end of this story. I have used these wonderful and complex characters without permission and no infringement is intended. In other words: If you sue, I can't show you the money.

Title: Lost and Found Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: R Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer) Summary: The Baltimore homicide unit discovers the bodies of two FBI agents... Bonus: You want angst? We got angst!

This is a sort of weak sequel to Perfect Clarity. Takes place right around the XF ep Elegy and the H:LotS ep Double Blind.

Please send feedback, praise, and (merciful) criticism to: sjbryan@athenet.net Flames will be promptly extinguished. P.S. A big, happy, hug and thank you to Anna for all her comments! :-)

Part 1/8

The woman lies face down on the bed, auburn hair spilled forward. The man lies on the floor a few feet away, one arm outstretched.

Pembleton exhales loudly, hands in his pockets. "Who are they?"

One of the uniforms shakes his head. "We haven't touched anything yet. Officer Cameron is with the manager right now."

Frank nods. He concentrates on the room first. It's not like the bodies are going anywhere. The hotel room is trashed. Two briefcases are smashed, papers litter the floor. A laptop computer lies beneath the small table. A cell phone is crushed near the dead man's prone hand.

Tim Bayliss walks carefully around an overturned chair. He squats next to the man's body and grimaces. Dark hair, matted with blood. His face is a mass of bloody tissue and bone. He sighs heavily. Sweet Jesus. This guy's face is gone. The body wears a dark suit and a tie. Betty Boop's face smiles up at him obscenely. Tim focuses on the tie for a moment. There's something familiar about it. He pats the shirt pocket. Nothing. Suit jacket pockets contain nothing more than a roll of breath mints. Front pants pockets also empty.

"Hey, the woman is FBI." Officer Deitz holds up an ID badge. "Agent Dana Scully."

The air goes out of Tim's lungs. He rocks back on his heels, stunned. "What?" He focuses on the small photo. He reaches up and touches a few strands of the woman's red hair. Dana Scully dead? He sees the two of them sitting in a Taurus, on their way to New World Labs, trying to rescue her missing partner. He feels a dull throb of pain in his throat. He turns back to the dead man, dread twisting his stomach. He studies what's left of the face, searching for recognition. Mulder?

Frank finishes his peripheral inspection and moves to Tim's side. He nods. "Roll 'em." The man's body is not-so-gently rolled and Frank reaches into the left back pocket. He pulls out a wallet and a black leather badge. He flips it open and stares at Fox Mulder's face. Frank whistles softly. "Damn."

Tim pulls Frank's hand so he can see the picture for himself. He moves to the bed. There isn't much left of Dana's beautiful face. He clenches his jaw, biting down on sudden grief. Her clear blue eyes will never see the world again. Her strength, her calm, her determination; all are gone. He sees the silver cross around her throat and his eyes stray to Mulder's neck. There is a glimpse of silver there as well. He closes his eyes.

Frank removes his hat and holds it in one hand. So. Fox Mulder and his partner are dead. He could barely stand the arrogant agent, but he had never wished Mulder ill. Certainly not a bullet to the head. Frank bites at his lower lip. What a waste. What a goddamn waste.

Brodie sweeps his video camera round the room, somber.

Tim looks to Frank. Their eyes lock in silent agreement. Whoever pulled the trigger on these two agents is going down.

***

A dark-haired woman opens the door. She stares at the two men on her front steps with the mild curiosity. "Yes?"

"Margaret Scully?"

Margaret's curiosity fades into something closer to worry. "Yes."

Frank Pembleton points to his shield. "I'm Detective Pembleton." He motions to Tim. "This is Detective Bayliss. May we come in for a moment?"

Margaret opens the door wide. "Detectives...with the police?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"What kind of detectives?"

Frank licks his lips. "Homicide, ma'am."

Margaret's face is transformed. She sways momentarily and reaches for the wall. Tim instinctively puts a hand on her arm. "No," Margaret whispers. "No!" Tim helps her to the couch. She sits and buries her face in her hands. "Not again..."

Tim and Frank exchange looks. Again? Tim lowers himself into a chair directly across from her. "What do you mean 'again', Mrs. Scully?"

Margaret struggles for composure. She raises a pale face . "My other daughter...Melissa...was murdered two years ago." Her voice trembles. "And now...Dana is...dead?"

Frank's voice is soft. "Yes ma'am. I'm sorry."

Margaret puts a hand to her head. What have I done, God? Whatever it is, I'm sorry. Please don't take Dana. Please. She takes a halting breath. "What happened?"

"Your daughter and her partner were found dead in Harbor Place Inn this morning. They were both shot once in the head."

Margaret stares at Frank, her lips trembling. "You mean that Dana and Fox were both murdered? Here in Baltimore?"

"That's right."

Margaret Scully cries silently. After a few minutes Tim gets up and brings her a tissue. She takes it, clutching it tightly. Even in the midst of grief, she projects a strong sense of dignity. She blinks at him. "Thank you."

Tim studies the carpet, not trusting himself to look into her eyes. They are too much like her daughter's. "I just wanted to tell you, Mrs. Scully. I knew your daughter...we worked on a case together. She--she was a special kind of person." He licks his lips. "We'll do everything we can to bring her killer to justice."

Fresh tears squeeze from Margaret's eyes. "Thank you." She puts a hand to her mouth. "I can't believe this is happening."

"Mrs. Scully...did your daughter have any enemies? Maybe someone she investigated wanted revenge? Maybe a fellow agent resented her authority?"

Margaret wipes her nose with the tissue. "My daughter had very little authority, Detective Pembleton. Dana didn't talk much about her job. But she did tell me that the X-Files were regarded as something of a joke among her peers. Dana never laughed, though. She took her partner and her job seriously. She enjoyed her work very much." Margaret dabs at her eyes.

The woman takes a deep breath and continues: "Dana went missing a few years ago. She was gone for three months. We never knew who took her or who returned her." Margaret shakes her head. "I don't know if those same people are responsible for her death. Or if it had something to do with a case she and Fox were working on."

"Do you think someone might have been after Agent Mulder a-and that person killed Dana as well?"

Margaret smiles sadly. "I'm sorry...I just don't know. Fox's biggest enemy was himself."

Tim taps his notebook with a pen. "What do you mean?"

She shrugs weakly. "Fox never realized how many people cared about him." Her voice trembles. "And now...he never will."

Tim wipes his mouth, silent. He wishes there were something he could say. Just one sentence, one syllable that could ease this woman's pain.

Margaret's blue eyes shift from Frank to Tim. "Find the person who did this heinous act. Not just for my daughter. For Fox."

***

"Bayliss."

No answer.

Frank raps on Tim's desk, impatient. "Bayliss."

Tim drags his gaze from the red ink. 121 Mulder and 122 Scully, carefully printed beneath Frank Pembleton's name. "You think if you stare long enough they'll go black?"

Tim licks his lips. He raises bloodshot eyes to Frank's face. "Yeah. Right."

Frank clears his throat, voice low. "Look, Tim...I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were such good friends with them."

Tim shakes his head. His voice sounds rusty. "I wasn't."

Frank's forehead wrinkles.

"I was a friend...not a *good* friend," Tim explains wearily. But he had wanted to be. He had liked Mulder. And Scully. Scully was...there were no words adequate. Something dark twists his gut. At least she and Mulder had died together. Tim doesn't need a crystal ball to see his future. He's already living it. Alone.

Frank addresses Tim, eye to eye. "A friend is a friend," he says simply.

Tim nods, not trusting himself to speak. He is absurdly grateful for Frank's comment. The last thing he wants is to lose it in the middle of the squad room. He is heavy with exhaustion. And depression. He can still see the agony on Margaret Scully's face. He can still hear the shock in FBI Assistant Director Walter Skinner's voice.

"We'll find who did it," Frank offers.

"Yeah," Tim says, without conviction. He has become painfully aware that there are certain people who own the truth. And they aren't fond of sharing.

***

Walter Skinner sits in his office. His glasses lay discarded on his desk. His head rests in his hands. It's finally happened. Dana Scully and Fox Mulder stepped on someone's toes and someone stepped back. Hard. They got too close to the truth. And now the truth is lost. The X-Files are lost.

His face sets in sharp lines of anger. He can smell the betrayal. He is sure someone set his agents up. Cancer Man? Someone else? How can he fight an army of shadows? Even Agent Pendrell is gone. Skinner rubs at his eyes, distracted. For the first time in a long career, Skinner is at a loss.

Special Agent Fox Mulder and his partner, Special Agent Dana Scully are dead.

***

Buchanan is waiting for them.

"Where's Cox?" asks Bayliss.

"She's sick." Buchanan sighs. "She picked a good day to skip out, too." He leads the detectives to two nearby examining tables. The body bags are unzipped far enough to reveal more than Tim wants to see.

Frank purses his lips. "Just the single gun shot to the head?"

"Yup. Your killer placed the gun to the back of the skull. I found powder residue and burns in the hair and scalp. Small entry wound, large exit." Buchanan gestures to Mulder. "Looks like this guy was still recuperating from a gun shot wound to his leg. I noted several scars." The medical examiner shakes his head. "Looks like a pin cushion."

Tim sets his jaw. He remembers when Mulder was shot. He had been the one to call for the ambo. He had been watching when the EMT's brought the agent out of New World Labs.

Buchanan is still talking. "...must have had a few good stories. Looks like she had a tattoo removed from her back." He grimaces. "That hurts."

"Not as much as a bullet to the head," Frank notes.

Buchanan chuckles. "True."

"There were no other injuries?" Tim asks. "No signs of struggle or anything?"

"Nothing. No skin under the fingernails, no cuts or bruising." Buchanan shrugs. "I don't think they had a chance."

***

Bayliss and Pembleton walk down the corridor. Frank rubs a hand over his short hair. "A hit."

Tim glances at his partner. "What?"

"Single gun shot to the head, no struggle. Someone wanted them dead." He snaps his fingers. "Boom. Now they are."

"But why?"

"Why *not*? Mulder was a profiler long before he started chasing magnetic anomalies. Maybe one the guys he put away is out on parole and fingered Mulder."

"Serial killers, Frank. Mulder tracked serial killers. No one's gonna be out on parole."

"What? You look through his files? You're familiar with every case Fox Mulder ever worked on?"

Tim sighs, relenting. "Why kill Dana?"

Frank shrugs. "It's personal. A message." Pause. "Consider this. You heard what Margaret Scully said. Dana was kidnaped. Maybe her abductor got a second chance."

Tim shakes his head. "And he just shoots her in the head? Listen to that, Frank."

"Listen to what?"

"That's the sound of you grasping at straws."

Frank's laughter holds an edge. "Fine. You tell me what happened, Tim. I'm only the Primary. I don't know anything."

Annoyed: "I don't know what happened."

Frank glares. "Oh yeah. That's *much* better than anything I've come up with."

Tim struggles to explain his unease. "It just doesn't feel right."

"What *does* it feel like?"

"I don't know," Bayliss repeats, frustrated. "I just have this feeling in my gut..."

"Yeah, bunk. It's called an ulcer."

They reach the car and Frank gets behind the wheel. "Why weren't the rooms next door rented out?" Tim persists. "And nobody heard anything? Please. Those walls are colored paper."

"Come on, Bayliss, no one ever hears anything. The sound of gun fire makes everyone within a ten mile radius stone deaf. Is this news to you?"

"These weren't a couple of street punks. These were Federal Agents of the United States Government. Someone told those people not to talk. You saw the manager. He was sweating hard enough to power half of Baltimore."

"How would you feel if somebody popped government employees in your hotel?"

"I'd feel like telling the truth."

Frank is silent a moment. Then: "You think the manager is lying."

Tim yawns. He leans his head back against the head rest. "Everyone lies."

Frank concedes. "Okay, but how much?" He purses his lips. "I rate him a...two."

"Well he's off my scale. And did you see the way that room looked? That wasn't a search, it was an explosion. A hurricane."

Frank touches Tim's arm. "Let me get this straight. Are you saying that--that somebody's trying to make it *look* like a hit? That the room wasn't really searched? It's all some k-kind of elaborate ch-charade?" He shakes his head, amazed. "When did Crosetti pass the torch to you?" His voice booms through the car: "Tim Bayliss, conspiracy freak."

Tim throws up his hands. "You want to make fun of me? Fine. Great."

"Hey, hey, Tim! I'm not making fun of you." A faint smile crosses Frank's face. "I just think you're not getting enough sleep."

"Okay then, since I obviously know nothing, *you* tell me what the next step is. Assistant Director Skinner said they were investigating a case. Something about a missing little boy who was found across town. Do we talk to the kid's parents? Check and see if Mulder stiffed a waitress at the hotel restaurant? What? What!"

Frank chuckles. "Maybe it was one of the Bogeymen they were investigating. We find the long-leggedy-beastie with a .38 special in his furry pocket and we're home free."

Tim grips the doorhandle. "That's not funny, Frank." His voice is little more than a whisper.

Frank is genuinely surprised by Tim's reaction. He raises a hand. "Hey, I'm sorry." Sighing: "I was just trying to make a joke."

Tim turns to the window. "I'm not laughing."

***

The door opens. Mickey Kostmayer enters McCall's apartment, balancing two containers of take-out.

McCall nods to his friend, still speaking into the phone. "All right. Yes. Yes. Good night then, Scott. Talk to you soon." McCall hangs up.

Mickey gives the door a gentle kick shut with one foot. "That was Scott?"

McCall moves a newspaper off the table and Mickey sets the containers down. "Yes. He's doing very well. Abby took her first violin lesson today." The pride in McCall's voice is unmistakable.

Mickey grins. "She'll be playing to sold out concerts in no time."

McCall settles onto the couch beside his friend. He reaches for the stereo remote and the soft strains of classical fill the apartment. Mickey hands him a pair of wooden chopsticks and makes a face. "Come on McCall, there's a game on."

McCall closes his eyes in appreciation. "Just listen to that, Mickey. Exquisite."

Mickey opens his carton. "The roar of the crowd, McCall. Now *that's* what I call exquisite."

The telephone rings. Mickey pokes at the rice with one of the chopsticks. "Let the machine get it."

After three rings the machine clicks on: "Hello. This is Robert McCall. Please leave a brief message after the tone and I'll get back to you."

There are several seconds of silence after the brief beep. McCall opens his eyes and glances toward the machine. A halting voice begins speaking:

"Um, my name is Margaret Scully. This message is for Mr. McCall." There is the sound of throat clearing and background noise. "I believe you know my daughter--"

Robert is up and across the room in moments, snatching the phone. "Hello? Margaret? You're Dana's mother, is that correct?" He smiles into the receiver, trying to envision the woman who gave birth to Dana Scully.

There is a long pause. He listens to her deep intake of breath and his initial pleasure fades. Something is wrong. "Mrs. Scully--Margaret--is everything all right?"

Mickey picks up the stereo remote, half-listening to the conversation.

"I-I found your name in Dana's address book. I know she considers you a friend," Margaret's voice breaks and Robert grips the phone tighter. "I just wanted to let you know...let you know that Dana has..." she struggles to get the words out, "passed away."

Robert focuses on a speck of dirt on the wall. A bit of dust that the cleaning woman must have missed. He blinks rapidly. "Dana...has died?"

Mickey stops eating. He stares at McCall. The chopsticks stop in midair, forgotten. He watches Robert's face carefully. Dana Scully dead? As in FBI Agent Dana Scully? As in Fox Mulder's partner?

Mrs. Scully sniffles and clears her throat. "Last night."

Robert takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the turmoil roiling in his stomach. "Can you tell me what happened?" he asks gently.

Margaret steadies her voice. "I'm not sure what happened. The police called me...she was shot here in Baltimore. The funeral is tomorrow." She clears her throat again. "I just wanted to tell you in case you wanted to, um, come to the funeral."

Robert pads across the room and retrieves his glasses from the coffee table. "Thank you, Margaret. Of course I'll come. Can you...can you tell me where?"

Margaret relays the pertinent details and directions in a weary voice.

Robert slumps into a chair, trying to think. "How is Mulder doing?" he finally manages.

There is a long pause. "I'm sorry, Mr. McCall. I should have said something sooner. He and Dana were both killed."

When he finally hangs up, he sits at the desk, silent. Mickey moves behind him and puts a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Bad news?" he asks softly.

McCall stares down at his glasses. "Very bad news, Mickey."

End part 1/8

*** Part 2/8

He answers the phone on the first ring. He's been expecting the call for some time. The bottle on the table, now half empty, has been his companion for the last hour.

She wastes no time on hysterics. "What have you done?" Her voice is low and measured with rage. He can't help but smile. He's been on the receiving end of that voice before. Once, it was the precursor to their passion. He reaches for the pack of Morleys. But that was a long time ago.

"I didn't do anything," he says softly.

"They told me he's dead!" she says, and now he hears it, a thin thread of hysteria winding through her words. "Agent Scully as well!" She accuses him. "You had them killed!"

The man cradles the phone against his shoulder and pulls a cigarette from the pack. He lights it. He takes a long drag before replying. "I didn't have them killed." He grimaces. The truth leaves a strange taste in his mouth.

Her voice is cold. "I don't believe you."

He exhales a faint swirl of smoke. "That's your choice, Caroline. But I'm telling you the truth. I didn't kill them."

"You made a promise!" she cries.

He raises the glass to his lips and drains it. "You don't have to remind me. I remember." He takes another puff. "I *didn't* have them killed."

Some of the anger filters out of her voice as she struggles to believe him. "Then who did?"

"I'm looking into it."

She laughs bitterly. "Thank you so much."

The man taps the ash into the empty glass. "Listen to me, Caroline," he says softly, a hint of danger in his voice, "you hold no power over me or anyone else. You are a weak satellite traveling in what's left of Bill's orbit, do you understand? Bill is gone. Even when he was alive, he traded his power away long ago. I'm doing what I can."

Her voice trembles. "They promised I could keep him. I lost Samantha...I can't lose Fox!" The tears finally break through.

He lights another Morley with shaking hands. "Have you forgotten that *I'm* the one who's kept that ungrateful son of yours alive this long? You should be on your knees thanking me, not tossing out empty accusations.

"I told you I'm looking into the situation. End of conversation." He slams the phone down. He reaches for the empty glass and smashes it against the wall. Damn her! Damn Mulder! Damn Bill! What the hell is going on? Who arranged to have the agents killed?

He paces back and forth in the darkened living room. He pauses and turns back to the telephone. He starts dialing.

***

Kay Howard nudges the tall man sitting next to her. "You okay?"

Tim reaches for his glass. "What?" His dark eyes meet hers. "Oh. Yeah. I'm fine."

"You and Frank got any leads yet?"

He empties the glass and shakes his head, dejected. "Zilch." He rests his head in one hand. He taps his glass against the bar. "Meldrick? Gimme another one."

Lewis narrows his eyes. "Unless your glass decides to walk down the bar and fill itself, you're out of luck, man. *You* are supposed to be standing back here, not parking your lazy behind on that stool."

Tim raises his head. "It's not my night."

Lewis points at Bayliss. "It damn well is, Timmy boy. Your brain is all turned to mush. You're letting this case jam up your head."

Tim sighs. "I'll tend bar tomorrow."

Lewis makes a disgusted noise. "Uh-uh. I don't think so. No way. You and me are going to trade places. Right now."

The front door bangs opens and Frank Pembleton storms into the Waterfront. He spreads his hands in a grand gesture. "We're done," he tells Bayliss.

"Done...with what?"

"We have been removed. Pembleton and Bayliss, two thorns in the FBI's side, have been plucked out and removed." He pantomimes removing a thorn and dropping it on the ground. He crushes the invisible annoyance beneath the heel of his shoe. His voice carries through the bar. "We are history. Gone. Even as we speak, a couple of pencil head suits are taking our files."

The color drains from Tim's face. "No WAY!" He slides off the bar stool, livid. "I am so sick of this! How many times are they going to jerk us around? First they tell us who's guilty and who's not, now they take the whole investigation! They are *not* taking this case away!" He pounds his fist against the bar.

Kay puts a restraining hand on Tim's arm. "Tim, come on. Are you telling me you didn't expect this to happen? They were FBI for God's sakes. It's only natural they want to investigate their own."

Tim's face closes off. "Then why can't we investigate together? Like with the Poet case?"

John smirks. "That turned out well."

Bayliss glares at Munch. "Shut up!"

Lewis pours a fresh drink. "Settle down, Tim. Look. Here's your drink." He slides the glass down the bar.

"Work together? Surely you jest, Tim. The FBI stoop their hallowed heads down to our level? Not likely." Frank shakes his head. "Gee tried to protest and they squashed him like a bug. We're *all* bugs tonight," he says, moving to the bar. He rubs at his face. Damn. He growls at Lewis: "Club soda."

Tim stands frozen, staring at Frank. Why hadn't he seen this coming? Kay is right. It's not unusual for the FBI to step in, but he hadn't expected their interference so...soon. Couldn't they have given him another week? A few days? One damned day to come up with *something*?

Lewis taps the glass. "Sit down, Tim."

Tim sinks back onto the stool, stomach burning. He bows his head. Without the investigation, he has nothing. Yes, yes, there will be other murders, other cases, but Mulder and Scully were his friends. It *meant* something to find their killer. And now he can't even do that. He splays his fingers on the bar top. Now there's nothing. There are no other current cases to take his mind off the agents. The Doe case has been stone cold dead for weeks. Both cases following the murder of Franz Rader have been solved.

Without work there is the danger he will think too much. He will think about his uncle. He'll think about Katie Deveroux. He'll think about his interrogation of Nick Shaw. An innocent man who gave his life for Agent Mulder's. And now Mulder gave his life for...who? What?

Frank leans toward his friend. "Look at it this way, Tim. They're not any better than us. Big offices aside, they aren't going to solve the case any faster than we would have." He shrugs. "Let them have the headache. Let them run in circles. We'll have more cases to solve."

Tim nods. "Sure." He sits on the stool, silent, for the next five minutes.

Frank finishes his soda. He leaves, wearing an expression of deep disgust. John and Kay debate an old case. Lewis reads yesterday's copy of the Sun. Tim drains the glass in two quick swallows. He runs his hands through his hair. "Gimme one for the road," he tells Lewis.

Lewis reaches for Tim's glass.

"No." Tim stops him. "The bottle."

***

Frank is right. There is another case. And another. There is always plenty of death to go around. Tim stands in another alley and looks at another body. It's the same alley and the same body he's seen a hundred times before. He records the pertinent information in his notebook, and he asks the correct questions.

Back at the station, he types up the necessary paperwork with a minimum of typos. He pours himself another cup of stale coffee and drinks it, leafing through the new crime scene photos. He stares at the photographs, not really seeing them. He sighs and massages a sore muscle in his neck.

Tim had considered leaving Homicide several times over the past year. He no longer wants to leave. He's not sure if there's enough of him left to leave. Every day the same. He sips at the awful coffee. That's not necessarily a bad thing. He does something important. He knows, Adena Watson aside, that he makes a difference. Occasionally, at least. By using his eyes, ears, and a handful of brain cells, he changes red names to black. He solves murders. He is a murder cop.

But only if they let him do his job. ***

The church is full. The caskets are closed, each draped with a flag and piled high with yellow roses. Margaret knows Fox wasn't Catholic, but Caroline Mulder didn't object. Caroline seemed thankful to hand the decisions over to someone else. The two agents had many friends and acquaintances in common, Mrs. Scully felt it made more sense to have one funeral for both of them. Dana and Fox had spent the past four years side by side. Now, in death, they were together as well.

Margaret sits in the front row. Bill Jr. and Charles to her left, Walter Skinner on her right. Robert McCall and his companion sit a few rows behind. She sits, hands folded tightly in her lap, throughout the service. Silent tears trickle down her face. A terrible emptiness fills her. First Bill. Then Melissa. And now her baby girl. Margaret bows her head. How many nights had she lain awake worrying about Dana's cancer? And in the end, it hadn't even mattered.

***

Tim Bayliss comes in late. He slips into the very last row during one of the hymns. He hears the Priest's voice, but few of the words register. He can't help thinking of Adena's funeral. Her beautiful face, so young, so innocent--

Tim scans the In Memorium bulletin, desperate to get his mind off the past.

Dana Katherine Scully Born: February 23, 1964 Born into Eternal Life: July 25, 1997

He swallows. The present doesn't hold much appeal either. He rubs his forehead, sweating. The church is stifling. He imagines his own funeral. He sees a church with considerably fewer mourners.

The service ends and two coffins are carried down the aisle. He watches as Margaret Scully is escorted from the church. Walter Skinner takes the arm of a slightly-plump white-haired woman. Mrs. Mulder? Tim remains in the pew until the entire church is emptied.

Sighing, he grips the wooden railing and stands.

"Detective Bayliss?"

Tim turns to see two men in the church entry way. One of them is in his late fifties with silver hair and glasses. The other man is younger, maybe in his late thirties, with sandy brown hair. Robert McCall and Mickey Kostmayer. Bayliss stares at them, attempting a smile.

Robert extends a hand. "Good to see you again, Detective Bayliss."

"Thanks. You too."

They stand, awkward, in squares of colored light reflected from the windows. "Are you...are you feeling okay?" Tim finally asks Mickey.

Mickey smiles briefly. "I'm fine." He clears his throat. "I'd be a lot better if I wasn't here." He motions to the empty church. "If this hadn't happened."

Robert nods. "Wouldn't we all."

Mickey takes a step toward the church lobby. "We better get going, McCall." His eyes flick to Tim. "You coming to the cemetery?"

Tim shakes his head. "No. I've, ah, got to get back to the station..."

Mickey nods. "Okay then. Take care."

"You too."

A faint smile touches Robert's face. "I hope we meet again under happier circumstances, Detective."

The two men leave. Tim walks up the aisle and through a side door, not wanting to follow them.

***

Kay hangs up the phone. "Three-twenty five Northland Drive," she calls. "Who's up? Tim?"

Tim reaches for his suit jacket. He glances around the room. "Where's Frank?"

"You leave your ears home today, Bayliss? You were here when he left for the courthouse."

Kay nods at Lewis. "You go with him then."

Bayliss glares at Meldrick. "*I'm* driving."

Lewis sniffs. "Touchy."

Inside the Cavalier Bayliss puts on his sunglasses. Lewis pops a stick of gum into his mouth. He offers the pack to Tim. "Want a piece?"

"No thanks."

They drive in silence for a few minutes. "What's the matter?" Lewis asks.

"What do you mean?"

"You keep opening your mouth like a fish. What's up with that?"

"My jaw hurts."

"You have that TMJ thing?"

"I have a sore jaw, that's what I have."

"Jeez, Tim. Why don't you pull whatever bug crawled up your butt back out so we can just get through this day, huh?"

Tim sighs noisily. "Lay off, Lewis."

"No, really, Tim. How come you're so bent out of shape?" Meldrick scratches his chin. Quietly: "You're ticked about the FBI pulling jurisdiction."

Bayliss glances at Lewis. His face is unreadable behind the shades. "I'm not ticked about anything, Lewis. I'm one happy go lucky guy."

Lewis snorts. "Right."

***

They stand inside an expensive living room. Glass table, leather couch, grand piano, marble fireplace. Bayliss slips his sunglasses into his pocket. "What's wrong with this picture, Meldrick?"

Lewis spits his gum into the wrapper and rolls it into a ball. "Let's see..I'd say that guy's shoulders are probably feeling lonely right about now."

A uniform laughs. "Anyone feel like bowling?"

Lewis smirks. "Only if I get a head start."

Julianna Cox makes a disgusted face. "Come on, you guys."

"What's the matter, Cox? You got a headache?" Tim manages a faint smile.

Julianna rolls her eyes.

This is the story: No sign of break-in, no sign of a struggle, yet Harvey Bigg's body has somehow become disconnected to its head. His head rests on the piano bench, quietly observing the commotion.

Lewis whispers to Bayliss: "The least he could do is tell us who played magician and cut him in half."

Tim frowns. "No dying declaration here."

They spend the next hour going through the apartment. No weapon, but the kitchen sink is still dripping, and pink water droplets cling to the drain. The kitchen towel is still damp. Lewis stares hard at one red smudge near the bottom of the towel.

"Yo, Tim!" Lewis carries a leather jacket across the room, bypassing the lab techs. "Look at this."

Tim shrugs. "I'm looking."

Lewis withdraws something from one of the pockets. He holds it between gloved fingers. A library card, issued to James Grant. Their eyes lock. Tim smiles. "It couldn't be "

Lewis hands it to one of the technicians. "We'll find out."

"So some yokel kills Bigg and leaves his *coat* here? Brilliant."

Meldrick grins. "They ain't all rocket scientists, bunk."

Tim returns the smile, already seeing Bigg's name go black.

***

"What are you working on Detective Bayliss?"

"Just finishing the final report on the Bigg's case, Gee."

"Did Grant confess?"

"Loud and clear."

Gee peers over Tim's shoulder.

"You're working on the Bigg's case, huh?"

Tim looks up from the typewriter. "Yes, sir."

Giardello leans forward and taps a page on the corner of Tim's desk. "This looks suspiciously like the autopsy report for Agent Fox Mulder."

Bayliss slides the wrinkled sheet below another stack of papers. "Looks can be deceiving, Lieutenant."

Gee glares. "You're right. It *looks* like one of my detectives is doing his job, but he's not."

Tim bows his head. "Gee..."

"Save it, Bayliss. You're glue. You let certain cases stick to you far too long. Put it away, Detective."

Tim swallows his anger. It goes down hard. "Yes, sir."

When Gee is in his office, Tim stares at his door, chin raised, mouth drawn.

***

"Waiting for someone, Mr. Skinner?"

Skinner's head jerks up. He sits in the dim basement office of the now-stagnant X-Files. Nothing has been touched since the previous Monday when Scully and Mulder drove to Baltimore. Skinner thrusts his jaw out, eyes narrowed. "I'm surprised you haven't been here earlier. I guess the celebrations have taken their toll."

Cancer Man lifts a cigarette to his lips, inhales, exhales. "There's no cause for celebration."

Skinner stares. "Next you'll be telling me you had nothing to do with their deaths."

"I didn't."

Skinner's laughter is harsh. "Get the hell out of here before I--"

"Before you what?" Cancer Man asks coldly. "Your threats mean nothing to me."

Skinner's face flushes. His voice is a hoarse whisper. "Get. Out."

Cancer Man lingers in the doorway. "I just thought you'd want to know...Agents Mulder and Scully are not dead." He drops the Morley to the ground and strides away.

Skinner rushes to the door. "What are you..." the question trails off. The hall is empty. Skinner leans against the wall. For one moment, he almost believes.

End part 2/8

*** Part 3/8

He stares at the television, not really watching the old M*A*S*H episode. This is when the nightmares come, long before he closes his eyes to sleep. He sees Adena Watson's face. He sees Katie Deveroux's fingers twitch as her life pools onto the blacktop. He sees Uncle George. Leaning over him in the bathroom, or cowering on the couch, a pathetic husk.

Tim rubs his stubbled face, pushing the images away. He yawns, debating if he should go to bed or just sleep right here on the couch. A knock on the door startles him. He glances at the clock: ten-thirteen. Who in the world...? Frank? He recalls the last time a knock came at this time of night: Frank Pembleton telling him the smudges on Adena's skirt matched the soot in the Araber's barn. "Frank?" he calls. He unlocks the door.

A blond woman stands in the doorway. A stranger. A beautiful stranger. He stares at her. "Can I help you?"

She shakes her head. "I don't think so. But perhaps I can help *you*."

***

She hands him the large envelope. "You didn't receive this information from me, Detective Bayliss."

Bayliss takes the envelope. "Who are you?"

"Some one who wants to see the X-Files continue."

He slides several photographs out of the envelope. His heart beats faster as he takes in the black and white images. "What...what is this?"

"Those photographs were taken one week ago, Detective."

Bayliss shakes his head. "A week ago? I don't understand."

"Then try harder, Detective." Marita Covarrubias walks away without looking back.

***

Four photographs are spread across Tim's kitchen table. Each picture is black and white, the quality grainy and poor due to enlargement. A small orange number in the lower right hand corner of each photo gives the date: August 1. Even though the photographs are poor-quality and blurry, the subjects are instantly recognizable.

Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. Tim studies the pictures carefully. They look real. They seem authentic. The first photo shows a woman being loaded into the back of a dark car. There is a glimpse of Dana's face through the rear window. She is asleep or unconscious. His mind whispers: Or dead. The second photograph is of Dana lying in bed. The white, austere background indicates a hospital room. Third photo: Dana sits in a chair near a window, head bowed, hair partially obscuring her face. The fourth photograph is of Fox Mulder. He lies on the floor, curled on his side, in what appears to be a jail cell.

Tim props his elbows on the table, wide awake. He picks up the phone, ready to call Frank. And tell him what? Some mystery blond delivered a handful of pictures that prove Mulder and Scully are still alive?

Tim can already hear Pembleton: You mix a computer with one bored teenager and some high-end software and you can make your own proof, Bayliss. What was the woman's name? How did she know Scully and Mulder? If you think those pictures matter so much, why don't you trot on down to the FBI and hand them over yourself? Tim closes his eyes.

Frank's voice continues. What do you mean you didn't get her name? Oh, I get it. You were too busy trying to keep your eyeballs from falling out to bother with something so irrelevant. Tell me, Bayliss, when you look in the mirror, can you see that glowing neon over your head? It spells out S-U-C-K-E-R. That's what I am for listening to you, and that's what you are for listening to *her*.

You want me to be impressed? You get those pictures analyzed. You find out who that woman is. You're a detective, Bayliss. Act like one.

Tim replaces the phone in the cradle. He should get the photos checked. He should get in his car right now and try to find the woman. He *should* do those things, but he doesn't. In his heart, in his gut, he feels the photos are authentic.

Tim pulls a scrap of paper from his wallet. He reads the telephone number twice. Taking a deep breath, he reaches for the phone a second time. He dials before he has time to think about what he's doing.

***

Frank puts down the receiver. He frowns at the empty desk across the room. "Anybody seen Tim?"

Munch flips a page of the newspaper. "No."

Frank grimaces. "I've got a body in Federal Hill. What am I supposed to do? Go alone?"

"Take Munch," Kay says.

John folds the newspaper in half. "Must be my lucky day."

Bayliss hurries into the squad room. He heads straight for the coffee. "Hey, Frank. You heading out?"

"No, *we're* heading out. Grab your coffee and come on."

Lewis whistles. "Whoa! Tim! You get run over or something?"

Tim fills a Styrofoam cup and blows at the steaming liquid. "It's nice to see you, too, Meldrick."

Kay grins. "Busy night, Tim?"

"Yeah. It's called insomnia."

On the way to the parking garage, Frank eyes his partner. "I've seen road kill that looks better than you, Bayliss."

Tim sips at the coffee and burns his tongue. Damn! "I've seen road kill that *feels* better than I do."

"Couldn't sleep?"

Tim shrugs. "I drove around for a while." He doesn't mention that 'drove around' translates into a six hour round trip to New York City.

Frank unlocks the door. "You went for a drive? What the hell for? I thought you were trying to get some sleep."

Tim speaks across the roof of the Cavalier to Frank. "Frank? Don't you think it's strange that Mulder and Dana booked a hotel room here? When they worked the Palmer case with us, they didn't stay overnight in Baltimore. Why was this different?"

Frank's voice echoes in the garage. He is still bitter about that case. Mulder's arrogance resulted in the suspect eating his gun instead of going to prison. "Who cares, Tim? Maybe they served one hell of a continental breakfast. Why are you even wasting brain cells on this? The case is *gone*." Pembelton flutters his fingers. "It's history."

Tim leans against the car. He almost tells Frank about the mysterious informant and the photographs. But he doesn't. There's still a chance he could be wrong. Maybe he's being used. Or maybe he's only seeing what he wants to see, and not what's really there.

"Get in the car," Frank snaps.

Tim glares. "Don't tell me what to do, Frank."

Frank holds his hands up. No problem. "Fine. Walk then. I'll meet you there."

Tim clenches his jaw, biting down on the anger. He opens the door and slumps into the passenger seat.

"Do me a favor Tim."

Bayliss glares. "What?"

Frank puts the key in the ignition. "If I get murdered...let somebody else work the case."

***

Mickey drops the photos on the table. "They're authentic." He pulls out a chair and sits opposite McCall. He shuffles through the stack and points out another detail. "Take a look at this." He points to one of the fresh enlargements. "You can make out a portion of the lettering on Scully's hospital bracelet."

McCall removes his glasses and squints at the photo. "M..e..a..d." He glances at Mickey. "Meadow?"

"As in Meadow Grove Psychiatric Facility. It's in Moorland, Maryland. About half an hour, forty-five minutes from Baltimore."

McCall raises an eyebrow. "Very impressive, Mickey."

Mickey folds his arms, a lopsided grin lighting his face. "Only if we find them, McCall."

Robert frowns thoughtfully and stacks the pictures. "Do you remember Beth Lansing?"

Mickey's forehead wrinkles. "The name's familiar...Oh yeah. The psychiatrist. Her ex-husband was stalking her." Mickey leans back in the chair, smirking. "That is, until you politely asked him not to."

"Right. I believe she does some consulting for Meadow Grove."

Mickey rests his chin in his hand. "Does she have the power to admit a patient?"

McCall studies his friend for several seconds, silent.

Mickey grins. "Here's the plan. We get some psycho to play crazy, get inside, and bring Dana out. Hopefully she knows where Mulder is." Mickey's smile fades. His voice takes on an edge. "And then we can find him."

Robert folds his hands on the table. "My dear Mickey, who would be foolish enough to play the role of a mental patient?"

Mickey leans forward. "I seem to remember you played that role once upon a time." Pause. "But I've got someone else in mind for this little field trip."

Robert opens his mouth, closes it.

"What? You don't think I can pull it off?"

McCall barely hides the smile. "Not at all, Mickey. I'm just afraid you might be too convincing."

***

An hour later, the plan begins to take shape. They sit at the corner table, heads down, hammering out the details. McCall's cell phone rests near the photos. He is expecting a call from Doctor Lansing.

Mickey sighs and runs a hand through his hair. His foot taps a staccato rhythm against the wooden floor, restless. This is no mission, no assignment. This time, it's personal. Mickey doesn't need orders, he'll go willingly. He'll go alone, if he has to. That's what friends do. McCall has done it for him, and now he'll do it for Mulder.

During the several months since the...incident...at New World Labs, the two men had kept in contact. A few games of basketball, a tour through Mulder's moldy basement office, nothing much. They didn't need much. There was a connection between them, created by their imprisonment, and solidified by the experimental drug. They didn't need to talk often. Mickey already knew what mattered to Fox Mulder. Four months ago, the FBI Agent had been just another job. Now he was a friend.

"What if Scully doesn't know where Mulder is?" Mickey finally asks.

McCall sighs, fingering the photographs. He shakes his head. "Then we think of something else."

Mickey's lips tighten. Not good enough.

McCall pulls out the photo of Dana sitting by the window. Her head is bowed, but there is a certain stiffness to the shoulders that suggests she has not given up. Whoever has her, whatever game this is, she hasn't lost yet. McCall's face hardens. And he'll see to it that she doesn't.

"This is insane, McCall," Mickey says, voice low. "Why convince everyone they're dead?" He shrugs. "Based on what Tim said, their last case was pretty iffy. What's the point in a cover up of this magnitude?"

McCall strokes his chin. "This...cover up, as you put it, probably has little or nothing to do with the case." Dana has confided enough to him over the past months to make him realize how many people prefer lies to the truth. "Perhaps someone decided to shut down the X-Files for good."

"Who? Skinner?"

"I don't think so. Higher."

Mickey shakes his head, frustrated. He's spent his life taking orders from shadows, working in the shadows, *being* a shadow. Now he can't find his way out of the dark. He stretches, working the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. "I'm going to go home, pack up a few things. Make a few phone calls. Let me know when you hear from Doctor Lansing."

McCall nods. "I will."

Mickey walks out of O'Phelans, hands deep inside the pockets of his jeans. His mind organizes the night's activities. There's a lot to be done. And very little time to do it.

***

"Hello Robert."

"Control. What a surprise." McCall pours himself a glass of wine and moves to the window.

"Look, old son, you know I don't mind the time Mickey and the others spend helping you. But you can't use Kostmayer on this one. He has a job to do, Robert. A *real* job. I can't have him playing games with you."

Softly: "All right. What's wrong, Control?"

There's a brief silence on the other end of the line. Finally: "Falcon went down. It was a bust."

McCall snorts. "After all this time, who really expected otherwise?"

Control, annoyed: "We've got to pick up the pieces, Robert. Specifically, Mickey Kostmayer has to pick up the pieces."

"Why? He had nothing to do with Falcon."

"If he had, maybe it would have been a success."

McCall cocks his head, considering. "Yes...yes, you've got a point. All right, so Mickey has clean up duty. What of it?"

"So he doesn't have time to be your sidekick, McCall. There are bigger things at stake here."

"What about two missing FBI agents, presumed dead? Fox Mulder and Dana Scully?"

Now there is a longer pause. McCall waits.

"Ah...yes. I've...heard something about that." "How convenient. What have you heard?"

"Not much." Control sighs. "Just that they were murdered, execution style, in a hotel room in Baltimore."

"And did you also hear that they may not be dead?"

Control's voice is cautious. "No...I didn't. Who did you hear that from?"

"I can't tell you."

Exasperated: "Come on, old son!"

"I think not, Control. Let's stay in the dark together on this one, shall we? It puts things on a bloody even keel for a change, wouldn't you say?"

Control clears his throat. "Look, Robert. I *don't* know anything about the federal agents. I've got bigger problems...like Falcon. Mickey is leaving on Monday morning for Zaire." Control's voice takes on a silky tone. "If he's not on that flight, McCall, then you will be."

McCall laughs, amused by his old friend's attempt to bully him. "From what I remember Control, you wield quite a mean broom, as well. Goodnight." He hangs up and takes another sip of wine, still smiling.

He watches the traffic move on the street below.

***

She sits by the window and stares out at the wide expanse of parking lot. A black sea, broken only by the bright shine of chrome and steel. There is no meadow, no grove, here.

The door opens and her doctor enters the room. Greg Vincent. Unconsciously, her fists clench in her lap. She works to relax. She will not betray anything. Not one blink. Not one eyebrow twitch. From what Dana Scully can tell, she has been here at least two weeks. Maybe more. She's in the middle of the game, and she understands she must play, or die.

Scully repeats her morning litany, the same battery of questions every day: "Where's Mulder?"

Vincent's voice is soft. Soothing. Or at least what he thinks soothing should sound like. "You know the answer to that, Dana. Do you want to talk about it?" He moves to the edge of her bed and sits.

A hot bolt of fear stabs through her. She closes her eyes. Always the same answer. The first day--the first day she can *remember*--they told her. Mulder is dead.

"No." Her voice is weak and thin in her ears. That voice belongs to someone else, surely not to Ahab's daughter. She takes a deep breath. "Why am I here?"

"Dana...we've been over this many times before. Are you feeling okay?" Vincent's voice lowers. "Do you know where you are, Dana?"

Scully turns to him, struggling to keep her voice level. "I know where I am. I'm being held prisoner in this hospital while you pump me full of Valium and lies." She stands suddenly and the chair rocks briefly. "I don't know why I even bother asking anymore. You're only programmed to give one answer."

Vincent sighs. He smooths the front of his shirt, adjusts his tie. "Dana...Please. I'm not just a doctor, I'm your friend. You can trust me."

Scully takes a deep breath. Like hell.

Vincent folds his hands. "Talk to me, Dana. Please."

Scully turns back to the window, silent. Her eyes trace the bug-specked reinforced glass for the hundredth--thousandth time. There's no way out. "I have nothing to say."

"Dana...you need to talk about what's happened." He sounds almost plaintive. "You need to...heal."

Scully clenches her jaw over the sudden bubble of laughter. "I need to be alone."

Vincent stands. "All right. But I'll be back for our regular appointment." He lingers a moment, hoping for a response. There is none.

She leans her head against the window when he is gone.

Scully is in Meadow Grove Psychiatric Facility. A mental hospital. According to Greg Vincent, she suffered a nervous breakdown after her partner's death. Correction: her partner's suicide. Vincent told her Mulder shot himself and that she discovered his body in his apartment. He told her she hadn't been able to eat or sleep, or continue with her work. A.D. Skinner and her brother Charles had agreed to have her...rest at Meadow Grove for an indefinite length of time. In other words, she had been committed to a mental hospital without her knowledge. Vincent showed her the papers, he pointed to her signature, but Scully knew her hand had never signed them.

She closes her eyes, trying to breathe through the thick fog of dread that constantly surrounds her. She can feel herself weakening. After a steady diet of tranquilizers and whatever else they have given her, how long before she does believe him? Mulder dead? Her heart constricts. No.

Like her, he has too much to finish. He would never have killed himself without knowing what happened to his sister. Unless...

Unless he found out. She blinks back tears. Is that possible? Had Mulder discovered some ghastly truth that he couldn't live with? Had the truth been too much for him to bear? Scully wipes her face. Then why hadn't he shared it with her? Why can't she remember what happened?

She grinds her teeth, heart thudding. No! She will *not* believe! Mulder is alive. This is just another attempt to break her down, to separate them, to close the X-Files. This is just another abduction, except this time she's aware of what's going on.

Scully rubs her arms, trying to smooth away the gooseflesh that prickles her skin. She tells herself, again and again, that Mulder is still alive. And as long as she remains alive, there's a chance she will find him.

She sits in the chair. And waits.

End part 3/8

Disclaimer: You know the drill. I don't own 'em, I just borrow 'em.

Title: Lost and Found Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: R Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer) Summary: The Baltimore homicide unit discovers the bodies of two FBI agents...

*** Part 4/8

The well-dressed man folds his hands. He has long, elegant fingers. He clears his throat. "Then they're alive?"

"Yes."

"You have their locations?"

"I'm working on it."

The man at the table scoffs. "'You're working on it.' I should have known."

The second man lights a cigarette. "Yes, you *should* have known. How does it feel when someone else pulls the strings?"

The first man's eyes flash, his voice dangerous. "I'm warning you. You're hanging on by a thread."

The second man brings the Morley to his lips. "Don't threaten me unless you mean it. You know damn well that I'm the only one who can handle Bill's son. I don't know who's playing games, but that's *your* job to find out.

"Mulder is safe. He's a known quantity. God only knows what would happen if he were removed. Who would replace him? I want Mulder where I can see him. He's no danger as long as he thinks *he* is in control."

The first man waves his associate away. "Take care of it."

The second man nods and exits the room.

***

The anger is gone. He used it up hours, days, weeks ago. Time has no meaning here. He sits on the floor, back to the wall, eyes closed.

Fox Mulder is alone in the cell. This is no laboratory, not like the cell he shared with Mickey Kostmayer. This is a small cement square of hell, some forgotten corner of prison. There is no one else. No other prisoners that he can hear, no guards. He is in solitary confinement.

He rests his head in his hands. He is tired of screaming. His voice has been reduced to sandpaper. Even if he could scream, he knows no one will come. They come when *they* want to come, and for no other reason. There are two guards who walk past his cell periodically. One brings an occasional meal and a few crumbs of misinformation, the other is silent, glaring. He supposes their real purpose is to make sure he's not hanging in a corner of the cell by his shirt or socks.

He has never considered himself claustrophobic, but the cinder block walls are beginning to press inward. If only Scully were here...

Scully.

They say he killed her. That he shot her. Old Stubble Face, the guard who likes to glare, told him they were arguing about a case when Mulder took out his gun and shot her. A.D. Skinner heard their raised voices. He is willing to testify.

During the first few days, still heavy with drugs, Mulder knew they were lying. If he was guilty of a crime, where was his lawyer? Where was Skinner? Where were the homicide detectives? Where was Scully's mother? Where was *his* mother? Stubble Face wasn't so adept at answering those questions.

At some indefinable point, whispering begins. Somewhere, there is a tape recorder. In the light fixture? The wall? The floor? He can't tell. Voices, loud enough to hear words, but soft enough to blur their meaning. Subliminals. It doesn't take long for a measure of doubt to filter into Mulder's mind. If only he could remember what happened! Where is he? How did he get here? Where is Scully?

You killed her.

But he didn't. He knows he didn't. He would never hurt her. She is his partner. His friend. His best friend. He *needs* her. But he can't remember what happened...

What do you mean you wouldn't hurt her? You *always* hurt her. That's what you do best.

Mulder presses his hands to his head. He wonders vaguely if he is still being drugged. It's getting more and more difficult to think clearly. He is constantly tired, but cannot sleep. One day segues into another.

Your temper. What about your temper? There is no night. There is no peace.

How many twisted minds have you looked into? How many kinds of evil have you seen? Did you think it wouldn't affect you? Did you think you were exempt? No man can face what you have and emerge unscathed.

But hurt Scully? *Kill* her?

No. Never.

Your anger. There is so much anger. Where do you put it?

There is no escape. He is alone with his mind. And his guilt.

You lost Samantha. Did you ever think you did it on purpose? Did you *let* her go? You didn't try hard enough because you didn't *want* to save her. If you lost your own sister, how do you know you didn't do something to Scully?

And a hidden, gnawing fear grows in his belly.

***

McCall comes for him shortly after six.

"Ready?"

Mickey grins, hiding the tension he feels. "As I'll ever be." They walk out to the car. "What did Dr. Lansing have to say?"

A slight grimace crosses Robert's face. "I must admit, she wasn't particularly keen on the idea, but she has agreed to help."

Mickey tosses his duffel bag into the back seat. "Has she seen Scully?"

"Not professionally. But Beth says she's glimpsed a petite red-haired woman on Ward E."

"Ward E?"

McCall adjusts his glasses, face stern. "For high-security patients. Those who pose a risk to themselves or others. No phone privileges and monitored visits only."

Kostmayer's eyebrows shoot up. "What kind of risk does Scully pose? She's this big!" He holds his thumb and index finger a few inches apart.

McCall's voice registers disgust. "Beth said Dana's doctor has discussed her at some recent patient care conferences. The current story is, Dana is in extreme denial regarding the suicide of her partner. She's suicidal, and delusional." Robert starts the car. He steps on the gas harder than he should.

Mickey can sense his friend's worry. He speaks softly: "Don't worry, McCall. I'll get her out."

***

She wears a pair of silk, peach colored pajamas. Her robe is white terrycloth. Scully rubs her hands over the smooth fabric, her face tight. These are her pajamas. Someone went into her apartment and went through her things. No matter what Vincent says, she knows it wasn't her mother. It wasn't Charles. And it wasn't Skinner. She can read the writing on the wall. Or more appropriately, smell the smoke.

She sits on the worn couch in Ward E's small day room. She doesn't understand their game. Are they keeping her here for a reason? Are they going to kill her? Drug her into oblivion? Keep her here indefinitely? Her stomach twists nervously. She hates this separation from Mulder. Yes, they have been separated hundreds of times due to various cases, their schedules, and Mulder's penchant for going off on his own. But a separation this forced, this...blatant...unnerves her.

Ward E is locked. The corridor that leads out of the day room ends with a steel door and a small, barred window. Standing on her tiptoes, she can see the elevator through the window. The door is locked. The elevator might as well be a mirage.

Most of the other patients ignore her. The number of patients in the ward constantly change. Some move to other wards, some are confined to their rooms, some are moved to the Waiting Room. The Waiting Room is a kinder, gentler term for solitary confinement. She's heard the muted screams of rage coming from that at all hours. Scully wonders how much longer it will be before she's the one screaming behind the heavy door.

Greg Vincent is a mystery. She can't quite tell if he's playing a part, or if he's just another pawn in a game he can't even see. The man seems interested in helping her. But he offers the wrong kind of help. What Scully needs is way out of this place. She needs Mulder.

Scully crosses to the large window and looks out. The view from the fourth floor is just another face of the parking lot. Beyond that, a network of roads. Scully fights back sudden tears. She can't live in this kind of limbo much longer.

*** She doesn't trust him.

After all this time, she still doesn't trust him. He pleads with her to see things his way. To understand what this case means to him. This is his chance to find Samantha. To *really* find her. Not a clone, not an imposter, not a lie, but his sister. Excitement squeezes his gut so hard he can hardly breathe.

But she doesn't believe him. She laughs. Scully *laughs*! Now, down to the wire, she admits the truth. She never believed him. He pushes her away, hard, and she falls. She hits her head on the corner of his desk. She looks up at him, stunned, while blood pools beneath her soft hair.

She tries to speak, but no words come. Mulder falls to his knees, heart rocketing inside his chest. What has he done? Her clear blue eyes flicker like a dying candle and go out. "No!" he screams. "Scully! I'm sorry! I'm SORRY!"

Mulder jerks awake, soaked in sweat. He lets out a deep breath, stomach rolling. His first thought is: Thank God. It was a dream. Only a dream. But his mind nags him. What if the truth is worse?

***

"Detective Bayliss?"

Tim stands in the break room, reading the sports page over Munch's shoulder. He looks up to see a grim-faced, navy-suited man. The stocky man extends a hand. "Federal Agent Tom Riley."

Tim's chin lifts slightly and his expression hardens. He inhales, nostrils flaring. Riley. The agent in charge of the Mulder-Scully investigation. "What can I do for you, Agent Riley?"

Riley clears his throat and glances at Munch, uncomfortable. "Is there someplace I could speak to you privately?" he asks Tim.

Tim refuses to play along. He crosses his arms. "I'm afraid this is as private as it gets here."

Munch smiles sardonically. "Just pretend that I'm not here. I don't exist." He lifts an eyebrow. "My ex-wives do it all the time."

Riley frowns and steps closer to Tim. He speaks, voice low. "I hear a rumor that you may have some information on the Mulder-Scully case that you're not sharing."

Tim feigns ignorance, but his heart pumps faster. Is Riley referring to the photographs? How does he know about them? And why wasn't he given the photographs in the first place? Tim keeps his face blank. "Really."

Riley runs a hand through his blond crew-cut. His eyes narrow. "Really."

Tim shrugs. "I guess I haven't heard that rumor."

Munch turns the page noisily.

Riley leans closer to Tim, his face flushed. "Don't yank my chain, Bayliss. If you know something that will help our investigation, you better share it--now."

"You G-Men having a little trouble?" Munch asks innocently.

Riley turns his glare on Munch. "I thought you weren't here."

Tim gestures to Riley. "Look. I'm no longer involved with this investigation. You took the ball. I can't help you." He shrugs. "I guess you made the trip out here for nothing."

A muscle twitches below Riley's eye. He stares hard at Bayliss. "Yeah. I guess I did."

Tim's hand closes over the back of John's chair. Before he can respond, Frank calls his name. "Hey Bayliss! Let's go."

Tim pauses in the doorway of the break room. He offers the Federal Agent a cold smile. "Good luck with the investigation, Agent Riley."

Munch removes his glasses and cleans a lense with the sleeve of his shirt. He asks, deadpan: "Say, Riley...does Richard Jewel have an alibi?"

Riley stalks out of the break room.

***

Mickey grows quieter as they approach Moorland. He slows his breathing and focuses on the upcoming job. His first priority: get himself up to Ward E. Second, find Dana. Third: get her the hell out.

He wears a small Band-Aid(tm) over a non-existent cut along his hair line. The thin strip holds a recording device. McCall will hear everything that goes on inside Meadow Grove.

Ten miles away now. Mickey begins to sweat. That's okay. A case of the nerves just shows he's being cautious. No sense going in over-confident.

Five miles away. He stretches in the front seat, rolling his neck. "This is just a twenty-four hour deal, right? Beth is meeting us, she'll make sure I get tossed into E, and I do the rest."

McCall nods. "Correct."

Mickey clears his throat. "What about...medication?" He's never been particularly phobic, but the thought of more needles is enough to put him in a very bad mood.

"At most, Beth may have to inject you with a placebo of some sort." He takes his eyes off the road to look at Mickey. "Don't worry, Mickey."

Mickey shrugs, nonchalant. "Me worry? Right."

McCall shakes his head, hiding a smile. "Oh no. Of course not."

"Where are you going to be tonight?"

McCall looks thoughtful. "I think I'll take a little drive down to Alexandria. I'd like to check Mulder's apartment out. See if I can find out what really happened."

Mickey glances sharply at his friend. "Then you don't think Scully knows where he is?"

"Just in case, Mickey. Just in case." He flicks the turn signal on and pulls into the exit lane. Meadow Grove Psychiatric Facility is visible within seconds. A four story brick structure, it sits on an island of land between the highway, and a frontage road. There are no trees within the area, and no meadow. A flat square of parking lot covers more than half of the property. A few walking paths, strewn with wood chips, trail the outer edge of the fenced-in grounds.

It is almost six o'clock on an August evening. The sun hangs above the horizon, a fiery eye watching the Jaguar pull into the parking lot. Mickey takes a deep breath and depresses the lock. "Here we go."

McCall touches Mickey's arm briefly. "Remember: I'll be with you the whole time."

Mickey nods, fingers tapping against the door. "I know." He runs both hands through his hair, mussing it. "Let's get this thing started."

McCall drives closer to the building.

***

Madonna Lopez sits behind the admittance desk. Her long black hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She reads the new Dean Koontz novel and chews two pieces of bubble gum. So far, her shift has been quiet. Just the way she likes it.

The front lobby of Meadow Grove is not fancy, but it's clean. The furniture is worn and well-used, but the cigarette holes are minimal, the plastic is lemon-fresh. The magazines, neatly arranged on several tables, are recent. The double doors at the end of the hallway lead to the day room of Ward A. A group therapy session is going on behind the metal doors. Donna can hear the faint buzz of Doctor Tebor's voice.

The lobby doors slide open and an old man stumbles inside, struggling with a younger man. His voice is strained above his companion's hoarse cries. "Can someone help me please?"

Donna presses the intercom and another woman hurries into the lobby. Her name tag reads: Lydia Roan, RN.

"Let me go! Let me GO you bastard!" The younger man breaks away and flattens himself against the wall. "What the hell are you doing? I'm not staying here!"

Nurse Roan takes a cautious step forward. A moment later a second nurse and a security guard join her in the lobby. "Can I help you sir?"

The older man's face is flushed, his white hair mussed, his glasses askew. He licks his lips nervously. "I spoke to Doctor Beth Lansing this morning. She told me she could..." His voice falters. "...help my son."

"Help?" The younger man spits, vehement. "This isn't help! You're just trying to get rid of me! You're trying to shut me up! I won't stay here!" He levels a furious glare around the room. "You can't leave me here. I have rights!" His face is slick with sweat and his hair stands in soft spikes. His eyes are wide and haunted. His hands jitter at his sides.

Donna picks up the phone and dials Lansing's number. Roan offers McCall a smile. "What's your name, sir?"

"Robert Kostmayer." He motions. "My son, Mickey."

Mickey turns a murderous gaze on McCall. "I'm NOT your son!"

Robert removes his glasses and massages the bridge of his nose. He sighs. "Mickey...please." Mickey puts his hands to his ears. "Shut up! Just shut up!"

McCall's words tumble out, frenzied. "His wife died a few months ago. She killed herself--"

"She did NOT kill herself!"

McCall ignores the outburst. "She overdosed on sleeping pills and Mickey hasn't..hasn't taken it well." He smooths his hair. "He's changed."

Mickey leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes. His fists clench. "I'm not staying here."

Roan smiles at Mickey. "Wouldn't you like to get away for a little while? Take a rest?"

Bitterly: "Spare me the rhetoric. I know what you want."

"Okay. What do I want?"

Mickey opens his eyes, jaw clenching. "You want to lock me up. You think I'm crazy."

Roan shakes her head. "I don't think you're crazy. I think you're in pain."

Mickey slams his head back against the wall. They all hear the distinct crack. "You don't know anything about pain! You think words are going to help? You think *talking* makes a difference? NOTHING makes a difference!"

Donna motions McCall over to the desk. She asks the questions in a soothing tone, filling out the paperwork that will admit Mickey for a 24 hour evaluation. She smiles at him, enjoying the cadence of his British accent. She assures him that Lansing is on her way.

Mickey starts backing toward the door. "I'm out of here."

McCall turns to Mickey, his expression strained. "We had an agreement, Mickey! You promised!"

Mickey blinks and pain washes over his face. "Promises don't mean anything," he says hoarsely.

Roan continues to move closer to Mickey. She holds out a hand. "My name is Lydia."

Mickey wipes at his forehead with the back of a hand. "I don't care who you are."

She reaches out to touch his shoulder but Mickey jerks back. "DON'T TOUCH ME!"

Roan recoils and holds both hands up. "I'm sorry."

"Mickey?"

All heads turn toward the refined voice. Doctor Beth Lansing stands in the lobby, her gray hair cut into a flattering bob. "Don't you think Lisa would have wanted you to feel better?"

Mickey's face transforms and he strides toward the doctor. "This has nothing to do with Lisa! *She* didn't do anything! *They* did! They killed her!" His voice breaks. "*I* found her body. In bed. Next. To. Me." Mickey cocks his head. "You know what that feels like, Doc?"

Beth shakes her head. Softly: "No, I don't."

Mickey swivels. "This is garbage. I'm not listening to your psychobabble. I don't need this."

The second nurse puts a restraining hand on his arm and Mickey shoves her roughly against the wall. "Lay off!"

Beth nods to the security guard and he approaches Mickey. "Come on, Mr. Kostmayer. We can make this easy or hard."

The guard's words recall an image of Roy Jarcardi's face glaring down at him while Petri and Tompkin hold him steady. Easy or hard...? Mickey shakes the memory away. There's no time for this. He's playing a part. Stick with it and get upstairs.

Mickey spreads his hands. "Okay. Okay. Fine." He turns a hot gaze on Lansing. "You want to stare at me for the next twenty-four hours, fine." He smiles.

The guard relaxes.

And Mickey runs.

McCall screams, an anguished father. "Mickey! No!"

The guard lunges after Mickey. He grabs the fleeing man around the waist and throws him toward the wall. Mickey hits shoulder first, and spins to face the guard. Roan creeps closer on the left, the second nurse on the right, and Lansing stands behind the guard. Her eyes seek out McCall's. He gives her a brief nod. It's all the answer she needs. Mickey's eyes widen, his eyes flicking nervously from one face to another. "Can't you see this is a trick? He's not my father. He's just trying to get rid of me. He's one of them--the men who killed my wife!"

McCall covers his face with his hands and leans against the desk. Good God. He fights the impulse to laugh at Mickey's theatrics. Kostmayer is, as usual, bloody convincing.

Donna gives Robert's arm a tentative pat. "Everything will be all right," she whispers. It's the same lie she tells every parent.

The guard grabs both of Mickey's wrists and plants a shoulder in his back. Mickey lets himself be propelled toward the elevators. Beth pulls a syringe out of her pocket. Mickey sees it and his throat grows dry. He struggles through the moment. McCall had said she'd use a placebo. At most, maybe it's a mild a tranquilizer. No mind-altering drugs here. He licks his lips and looks over his shoulder. "You son of a bitch! I'll get you for this!" he screams at McCall. "I'll get you."

McCall hides a smile. Yes, Mickey. You probably will.

End part 4/8

*** Part 5/8

If only he could remember.

His mind, a complex catalogue of memories, has failed him. The particular drawer he needs is empty, the contents removed by someone else. Mulder lies on the bunk, feigning sleep. His mind goes back to a certain point and no farther. No matter how hard he tries to remember how he came to be inside this prison cell, and what happened to Scully, there is only a gray blankness. He puts his hands to his face. Is this how she feels about her abduction? How does she live with the not-knowing?

He closes his eyes and the same loop of memory plays in his mind for the hundredth time.

"I'm sorry, Scully." He glances at his partner.

She looks away. "I *said* I was sorry."

Scully waves a hand. "Let it be, Mulder."

Mulder offers her a lopsided grin. "Scully. I had you pegged for a 'Revolver' woman, or maybe 'Sergeant Pepper's.'"

He is rewarded with a slight pull of her lips. She's trying not to smile. She flips open the case folder on her lap.

"So Billy Gardon went missing from his backyard and appeared inside a west Baltimore grocery store."

Mulder nods.

"And you think...what? That aliens sent him on a field trip across town?"

Mulder cocks an eyebrow. "Maybe they ran out of corn nuts."

Scully sighs.

"Actually," Mulder admits, "I think the Gardons are lying. I don't think there was any abduction. I'm not sure why they're propagating this story, but we'll find out shortly."

Scully glances out the window. "I told my mom we'd be in the Baltimore for the day. She invited us for dinner."

Mulder nods. He tries to imagine such an invitation coming from his own mother's mouth. He can't. "What's she making?"

Scully turns to him, this time with a full smile. "You mean you care? I thought free food drew you like a magnet."

Mulder chuckles. He guides the Taurus down Charles Street. "If there's time, maybe we can check out Pimlico when we're done."

Scully gives him a look.

He takes a left on Twenty-fifth, and another left onto James. Scully points to a large brick house on the right-hand side of the street. "There it is."

Mulder parks the car and they follow the narrow walk to the front door. He waits on the porch, hands in his pockets, while Scully rings the doorbell.

The door opens and--

And that's all he can remember. Mulder grinds his teeth. What happened inside that house?

He is suddenly aware of voices outside his cell. He lies quietly, listening. He can hear Stubble Face and another man talking in low tones.

"...almost ready?"

"Yes. Tomorrow." The words are too soft. He holds his breath, straining to hear.

The reply is muted, he can only make out two words. But those words are enough to bleed fear into his bones. Tunguska. Test. He springs off the bed and throws himself at the bars. "I'm not going back to Siberia! You can't just send me away like a goddamn piece of luggage!" He sputters, furious. "What is it you want?"

Stubble Face steps closer to Mulder's cell. His eyes are flat stones. "This isn't your concern."

"The hell it's not!"

The two men turn to leave, but Mulder calls after them, seething. "I didn't kill Agent Scully! I don't belong here! I'm not going back to Tunguska!"

Stubble Face smiles. "You don't have a choice, Agent Mulder."

Mulder kicks at the bars. He runs a hand through his hair, trying not to panic. He can't think. Terror whispers in his ear, her cold finger touches his heart. God! Not more tests! He can still remember the chicken wire over his body, the black worms crawling, wriggling into--

He strikes out at the bars again, desperate to push the memory away. He paces the confines of the cell for an eternity. Where the hell is Scully? At least when he was at New World, he knew there was a chance she would find him. He knew where he was. But now...now there was nothing. Mulder slides to the floor.

He sees Scully ring the doorbell again.

And then...what?

***

The room is small. The metal bedframe bolted to the floor holds a single mattress and a clean white sheet. There is also one chair and a microscopic bathroom with a sink and toilet. Mickey surveys his surroundings with little emotion. This rooms counts as the one of the better places he's spent the night.

He examines the small room. Looks like a holding cell, rather than a standard hospital room. He goes to the door. It's locked. There's no window.

He does a careful search of the immediate room. It's clean, no video camera. He checks the bathroom. Nothing there either. Mickey seats himself on the edge of the bed and wipes his hands on the front of his jeans. He massages the sore spot on his arm where Lansing injected him with a placebo. A dull throbbing begins behind his right eye. The role of distraught, paranoid husband is giving him a headache.

He touches the bandage on his forehead. He imagines McCall is on his way to Alexandria by now. "What do you think, Dad? Do I get an Emmy nomination or not?"

Restless, he gets up and walks around the room again. He drops to the floor and does several repetitions of pushups. Gradually, he relaxes. He stretches out on the bed, hands behind his head. He slows his breathing. He does what he's been trained to do: wait.

***

McCall drives straight through, not stopping until he arrives at Fox Mulder's apartment complex. He enters the building and pauses in front of the door marked forty-two. He tries the knob. Locked. Casting a quick look around him, McCall pulls a small tool from his pocket and inserts it in the lock. He gives it a quick twist, and opens the door.

The apartment is small and dark, the curtains drawn. The main room holds a table and worn couch. There is fish tank in the corner, sans fish. A baseball cap hangs on the stand by the door. The stitched label reads NICAP. McCall walks carefully over to the desk and turns on the small lamp. It flickers once, twice, and then glows steadily. He turns on the computer, wishing he knew exactly what he was looking for.

The lamp flickers again and Robert swivels in the chair, suddenly suspicious. He removes the shade and stares at the naked bulb. Nothing. He turns the lamp back off and uses a handkerchief to unscrew the bulb. He holds the bulb up to the thin crack of light emanating from the curtains. Still nothing. He takes a small flashlight from his coat pocket and shines it into the base of the lamp. And sees the small listening device nestled in the bottom. A bug.

His face tightens into an angry mask and he debates whether to destroy the bug or leave it where it is. He shrugs. Why not give the bastards something to think about? He picks the small piece out of the lamp and drops it onto the floor. He crushes the bit of plastic beneath his heel. Now Robert looks around the room with new eyes. One gone, how many are left?

Outside, from the hallway, there is a noise. The faintest creak of floorboard, almost nothing, really. But enough to send McCall across the room and behind the door. He draws his gun, heart pounding. He listens to the sound of a key turn in the lock and the door opens slowly. He glimpses a tall, balding man in a black jacket.

McCall raises his gun. "My gun is aimed directly at your head. I suggest you shut the door, lock it, and tell me exactly what you're doing in Fox Mulder's apartment."

The man pauses, momentarily surprised. Sighing, he shuts the door, turns the lock and raises his hands. He keeps his eyes on the wall. "I could ask you the same question."

"You could, but I won't answer. You, on the other hand, have no choice." Robert turns the safety off. "I repeat: what are you doing here?"

The tall man turns slowly, hands still raised. His jaw is thrust forward and dark eyes watch McCall from behind wire-rimmed glasses. "I'm Assistant Director Walter Skinner with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Fox Mulder worked for me." Skinner's lip curls in a sneer. "But I'm sure you already know that. Who are you? A new point man? What's the matter? Wasn't killing Mulder and Scully enough?" He takes a step forward, threatening. "You want to kill me too? Go ahead."

McCall reactivates the safety and lowers the gun. "Skinner...Skinner--yes, of course! Good day, Mr. Skinner. My name is Robert McCall. I'm a friend of Dana Scully and Fox Mulder. They have both spoken very well of you." He pauses, debating what to tell Skinner. He decides on a version of the truth. "I believe Mulder and Scully are still alive."

Skinner stares at McCall. There's something familiar about this silver haired man. His accent, the purposeful way he carries himself...Skinner has seen him before. The memory clicks. McCall had been at Sinai when Mulder was recuperating from the gunshot wound he received at New World Labs. Skinner narrows his eyes and asks simply: "Why?"

McCall speaks softly, dodging the question. "I believe Mulder's apartment is bugged. It's not safe to talk here."

Skinner nods. "Then let's go where we can talk."

McCall shakes his head. "No. Not just yet. I'm not finished here."

Skinner leans down and whispers harshly in Robert's ear. "If you know something about what happened to Scully and Mulder, you better tell me. I'm not going to sit out on this one."

Robert regards Skinner coolly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Skinner, I *don't* know anything. That's why I'm here. I'm trying to find out what happened."

"Are you trying to tell me someone one has fabricated the last two and a half weeks? Why the hell would..." Skinner's angry whisper trails off suddenly, he already knows the answer. Why remove Scully and Mulder? To shut down the X-Files. If he were to believe Robert McCall, and that was a damn big 'if', that meant that Cancer Man had been telling the truth. Skinner scowls. He glances around the apartment. "You think there's something here that will lead you to Mulder?"

The barest hint of smile crosses Robert's features. "It's quite possible."

Skinner rubs a hand over his smooth head. "Agent Riley is in charge of the investigation. He told me he heard a rumor that my agents were still alive. I didn't believe him. But now..." Skinner adjusts his glasses. If someone is jerking him around, raising his hopes, and Mulder and Scully really *are* dead, there's going to be hell to pay. But if they're alive...He'll have to talk to Riley. And order an exhumation of the bodies.

Skinner is reluctant to leave this almost-stranger in Mulder's apartment, but he doesn't have time to babysit. He rubs his jaw, distracted. "I had the same idea you did. I've already been here twice--"

"Then I'm sure that whoever took Agent Mulder knows all about it."

Skinner frowns. "Then I doubt you'll have better luck than I did."

Robert shrugs. "Perhaps not. But I don't intend to leave without making a thorough search of the premises."

Skinner reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "If you find anything, and I mean *anything* that points to Mulder and Scully's whereabouts, you let me know." He hands a business card to Robert. "Understand?"

Robert takes the card. He smiles. "Oh yes. Perfectly."

***

"Why am I here?" Scully demands.

Vincent offers her a thin smile. "Are you asking rhetorically, Dana, as in 'why do I exist' or do you mean why are you a patient at Meadow Grove?"

Scully's face tightens and her eyes spark. "Why am I on this ward, Doctor? I'm not a threat to myself or to others. I'm not violent." She folds her arms. "Or doesn't that matter? Do you have orders to keep me here until I actually do go insane?"

Vincent fidgets with a paperclip off his desktop. "Dana...I have no orders." He drops the paperclip and spreads his hands, palms up. "My first priority is your well being."

"Then prove it!" Scully snaps. "Get me out of here!"

Vincent shakes his head, frustrated. "I want to, Dana, I really do. But you have to work with me."

Scornful: "Work with you? On what?"

Softly: "You know what, Dana. Your feelings. Grief. Anger. Acceptance."

Scully paces inside Vincent's office. "There's nothing to accept! My partner is *not* dead. Mulder didn't kill himself."

Vincent sighs noisily and bows his head.

Scully watches the doctor. She cannot believe Mulder killed himself. It's true that Mulder suffered depressions from time to time. And the last year had been difficult, with the John Lee Roche fiasco followed so closely by Bonnie Marks' manipulation and his friend Nick Shaw's death. Not to mention his being shot. Again. Anyone would have scars after those events. But suicide?

No.

A fragment of memory flashes through her mind: She and Mulder standing on a porch. The front door of a large house opens and a stranger wearing faded jeans and a Packers sweatshirt invites them inside. The image dissipates before she can examine it more closely. What is she remembering? Their last case? The memory is gone, but Scully is left with the vague knowledge there is more to the image than she realizes. Much more. Something inside her gut tells her there was someone else waiting for them in that house. Someone they knew.

"I'd like to go back to my room," she tells Vincent.

Vincent frowns. "We aren't done with this session."

Scully moves to the door, her back to Vincent. "I am."

***

Early morning.

He paces along the far wall of the day room. The television plays, but the sound is turned off. Three other patients stare at the montage of silent colors. Dana Scully is not one of them. Mickey trails his hand along the wall, ignoring the others in the room. He stares steadfastly at the floor, refusing eye contact. Lansing told him Scully's room number, but he is hesitant to go to her. He'd rather they meet out here, by "accident."

A nurse approaches him, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Why don't you sit down, Mr. Kostmayer." It's a command, not a request.

He shakes his head, eyes still on the floor. "I like to walk. It helps me think. It helps me think...yeah. Keeps my mind off...her. I don't like to sit still. I like to walk. Is there some reason I can't walk?" He lifts his head briefly to see her face.

They stare at each, locked in a silent tug of war. She frowns and drifts away. Mickey continues pacing, one finger tracing a stripe in the wallpaper. He stops and leans his head against the wall, the picture of despair. He whispers into the crook of his arm. "If she's not out here in five seconds McCall, I swear to God I'm going into her room, throw her over my shoulder, and blow this joint *now*."

***

McCall is on his knees, peering under the sofa when he hears Mickey's statement. He adjusts the small earpiece and chuckles. "That's right, Mickey...you wouldn't want to attract attention."

He's still inside Mulder's apartment. He's checked the computer, but there are no files dated after July 1. He taps the computer screen with a gloved finger, wondering if someone has erased all the current files. "What exactly did you step in, Mulder?" Robert whispers. He closes his eyes and says a silent prayer for Dana. Let her be all right. Let Mickey get her out of there. He turns the computer back off.

After another half hour McCall leaves the apartment. His neck and back ache and he turns his head from side to side, trying to ease the pressure. Good Lord! When did he get so bloody old? The black car is parked two streets away. He has the key ready, but the object trapped beneath the windshield wiper leaves the key in his hand, forgotten.

A glimpse of red and white. Cellophane. Morley cigarettes. A logo he hasn't seen in a long time. Correction: since he was in James's office in May. Before that, in New Guinea, thirty years ago. He lifts the pack carefully, turning it over his hand. He tells himself the pack doesn't necessarily mean anything, but he's lying. The pack is half empty. Folded between the remaining cigarettes is a small square of paper. McCall looks up and down the street. He counts at least fifteen, twenty people: students, professionals, children. Any one of those anonymous faces could have left the Morleys.

He unlocks the door, gets behind the wheel, and locks the door again. He unfolds the note. The handwriting is familiar. If Robert didn't know better, he'd say that James actually wrote the message himself. A handful of numbers printed in blue ink: 8/17. 83. Between 28 and 29. 10:00 a.m.

McCall's brow furrows. He rereads the message half a dozen times before pulling a map out of the glove box. He focuses on Baltimore. Within moments he deciphers the location. Along the 83 Expressway, between the 28th Street and 29th Street exits. Tomorrow, at ten in the morning, someone would be waiting for him in that location. Fox Mulder?

McCall starts the Jaguar and pulls into the traffic. He glances at the pack of Morleys again, doubt nagging at him. Why would James help him? He can think of no possible reasons. If James is behind this little...escapade, why offer clues? The answer comes almost immediately: James isn't behind it.

Then who is?

McCall glances in the rear view mirror. Satisfied that he's not being followed, he head back toward Maryland. Robert McCall learned a lot time ago that there are no easy answers. Sometimes, there are no answers at all.

***

Scully stands at the window, arms folded, watching the familiar ocean of cars. Late last night she had managed to get to the telephone, but there was a complex dial-out code. By the time she managed to dial Mulder's number, one of the nurses found her and hastily sent her back to her room, locking the door. She had time to hear Mulder's machine click on, that was all.

This morning they unlocked her door, not that it matters. The ability to walk through her door freely is an illusion. Walk to where? The outer door is still locked. The windows are reinforced. She can't get to the telephone. Face it, Dana. You're trapped. She shakes her head. No. Mulder would find a way out. Her shoulders sag. Wouldn't he? Lately she's taken to watching the heavy blond nurse, Robbins. She has keys. If Dana can get the keys, maybe she can get out of this box.

Maybe it's the indignity of not being able to wear clothes. These damn pajamas and slippers really are driving her insane. What kind of policy is this? The mentally ill aren't allowed jeans and sweatshirts? Not on Ward E at least.

Maybe it's the fact she's no longer in control. They have forcibly taken over her life, uprooting her from the people she knows and loves and brought her...here. What have they told her mother? And Skinner? They are purposely lying to her. They are trying to destroy both her and the X-Files. Despair weighs heavy in her stomach. Have they already destroyed Mulder? Could he be here, in this same hospital? Scully would like to believe in that possibility, but the sharp ache in her stomach tells her he isn't.

These days, Scully isn't feeling very here, either. She feels suspiciously transparent. She begins to wonder: can anyone *really* see her? Vincent hears the words that come out of her mouth, but he doesn't listen. He's already made up his mind. He's stamped her in red ink: delusional. He refuses to accept the fact she might be telling the truth.

Tucking the loose strands of hair behind her ears, she shuffles out of her room, barely caring which direction she walks in. There's no help among the nurses or other patients. They all wear drugged or blind faces, all ears are turned away.

The voice comes from behind, hot breath against her ear. Soft...and familiar. "What's a nice girl like you doing in a lousy place like this?"

Scully blinks. That voice! She spins, the pounding of her heart drowning out all other sound.

There--directly behind her, head down, is Mickey Kostmayer. His eyes flick to her face for an instant and she can read the intensity in their dark depths. He folds his arms, hunching into himself. Playing a part, Scully realizes. "Where's Mulder?" He directs the question to the floor.

Scully shakes her head. "I don't know. They told me..." she struggles to keep her face calm, "they told me he killed himself."

Mickey shakes his head. "He's alive." He is careful not to reveal his disappointment. Damn! So much for making things easy. He pushes the uncertainty away and offers Dana a fleeting smile. The need for hope, for reassurance is obvious in her pale face. "I hope you aren't too attached to the food here, Scully. We aren't going to be staying much longer."

Scully closes her eyes, not trusting herself to speak. If Mickey is here, that means McCall can't be far. And if anyone can find Mulder, Robert can.

Mickey touches her arm. "Follow me."

They move to a far corner of the day room. Mickey sinks into a threadbare recliner and buries his face in his hands. Scully perches on the chair arm, one hand on Mickey's shoulder. The volume has been turned up on the television, and she strains to hear Mickey above the noise. "First chance I get, we're out of here."

Scully licks her lips. "How?" She touches Mickey's shirt, an almost-smile on her lips. "Have you got explosives under there?"

"Something better. A key."

Scully takes a deep breath. "We're just going to walk out?"

Mickey wipes his face with a sleeve. He looks up at her with red-rimmed eyes. A spark of humor lights his face. "If you have any goodbyes to make, Dana, you better make 'em now."

Across the room, two men playing cards begin to argue. Their voices become increasingly loud as tempers flare. The cards sail across the room. Other patients begin to shift, uneasy. The nurse behind the desk, Tracy Robbins, watches warily. "Pick the cards up, Roger," she says, her voice authoritative.

Roger doesn't move.

The cards lay scattered near Mickey's feet. He bends down to pick them up.

"No!" Roger springs from the chair and launches himself at Mickey. "Don't you touch those!" He lands a solid blow to Mickey's nose before Mickey can shove the man away. Blood spurts from his face. The room erupts into chaos.

Mickey shakes his head. Dammit! Just once, couldn't something go right for a change? Dana stands near the desk, eyes wide, the panic clear on her face. The room is filled with frenzied patients, some scream, some rock, some mutter. Robbins and a second nurse descend on them. The heavy door opens and a tall man emerges in the corridor. Greg Vincent. "What's going on?" he demands, shocked at the scene.

That's the same question Mickey would like answered. He has a bad feeling that Roger's tantrum was staged. Maybe Mulder's paranoia is catching. The male nurse with Robbins eyes Mickey darkly. Instinctively Mickey realizes: he knows. Mickey's eyes flick around the room. The situation is going from bad to worse. He grimaces, ignoring the pain in his head. Think fast!

He leaps on top of the chair and starts screaming. "Shut up! Everybody shut up! How the hell can I think with all this noise?" The second nurse approaches him cautiously, still glowering, and Mickey reads the name tag. Keith Gorton.

He motions at Mickey. "Why don't you come down from there and we'll talk."

I bet. "Get away from me! You're one of Them! You killed my wife!" Mickey shrieks, red-faced, spittle flying.

Gorton's mouth tightens. "Come on, Kostmayer. We can do this easy, or we can do it hard."

Mickey glares at Gorton, suddenly quiet. "You know, I'm really getting sick of hearing that. You want me to choose? Okay. I choose hard." He aims a kick at Gorton's solar plexus and sends the man reeling. Gorton collapses on the floor, writhing. Vincent runs toward Mickey, fumbling for a capped syringe in his pocket. Kostmayer jumps gracefully from the chair, to the long table, and onto the floor a few feet from Scully. He whispers against her neck: "Play along." Scully nods, heart racing.

He reaches out and pulls Scully in front of him, one arm tight around her throat. Scully gags and Mickey reduces the pressure slightly. "Everybody shut up NOW. I swear to God I'll crack her neck like a twig if you don't SHUT UP!" Scully flinches, her hands plucking ineffectually at Mickey's arm.

The noise level plummets from screams to tears. A heavy silence descends on the room, punctuated by an occasional sob or whimper. Gorton is already up, his face ashen. Mickey nods at Vincent. "You. Unlock the door." He drags Scully down the short corridor, snapping at the doctor. "Hurry up!"

Mickey's face doesn't betray the sick terror he feels spiraling in his gut. Who the hell is Gorton? Sweat rolls down his back. His eyes flick from Vincent to the nurse. Gorton fills a syringe. No way in hell am I getting on the receiving end of *that*. His hair sticks up in all directions and drying blood smears the lower half of his face. If nothing else, at least he *looks* the part.

He kicks at the door. "Open it NOW!" he bellows. Vincent hesitates. Mickey pulls Scully tighter and she opens her mouth, making appropriate choking sounds. Mickey fights a sudden urge to hug her. What a woman!

The doctor reaches for a key in his pocket. "Don't do this, son," he says.

"I'm not asking for advice," Mickey hisses. "Just open the damn door or I'll kill her." His voice is deadly. "I *don't* belong here."

Vincent puts the key in the lock. "Once you walk out this door the security guards aren't going to let you get past the second floor. You're making a lot of trouble for yourself."

Mickey offers Vincent a ferocious grin. "I like trouble. Trouble and I go way back." His eyes pin the doctor to the wall. "Unlock it."

Vincent turns the key and Mickey grabs the doorknob with a sweaty palm and yanks the door open, half expecting to feel Gorton's hand on his back any moment. "If anyone comes after us, she's dead. You understand me, Doc? It's up to you. Do you want her death on your conscience?"

Mickey pulls Scully through the door and kicks it shut behind him. He figures he has about five seconds before the cavalry is after him. A red arrow marks the wall to their left: Fire Escape. The stairs. He releases Scully and takes her hand, pulling her fast. She struggles with the slippers and hurriedly kicks them off. He pushes the door open and they descend the stares, haphazardly, two at a time. He speaks raggedly, out of breath. "I have a feeling that if we're caught...I'm going to get my own...permanent membership here."

Scully glances at him. She keeps running. There is no time for fear. They pass the second floor landing and reach the first. Scully reaches for the door handle but Mickey pulls her away. "No. Keep going. The basement."

She opens her mouth to protest but changes her mind. She has no choice but to trust Kostmayer on this. If Mulder trusts Kostmayer...she will too.

End part 5/8

*** Part 6/8

He screams throughout the entire process. He fights, clawing, biting, but one man--a tired, weak man--is no match for the guards. Two guards hold him while Stubble Face injects something into his arm. Panic drowns out all rational thought. They're taking him back to Siberia. The Test. They're taking him back for the Test.

A small, dwindling part of his brain focuses on Scully. Dana, his friend, his partner. His courage. If they're doing this to him, what in God's name are they doing to her? He screams louder, not in pain, but outrage. What if the aliens have her again? What else can they do to her? She already has *cancer*! Mulder bucks and twists, but the men hold on, their grip iron. He feels himself tire, not from the struggle, but the drug. Another tranquilizer? Something worse?

His face is wet with tears. This isn't how he wants to die. He *can't* die, not without knowing the truth about Samantha. He can't leave her--or Scully! That's a worthy sentiment, pal. You deserve to die if what they said is true. You killed Scully. Now it's your turn.

The guards release Mulder and he falls to the floor. He rests on his hands and knees, blinking through the heavy fog that rapidly embraces him. There's a voice in his hear. Stubble Face. He sounds surprisingly gentle. "Let go, Agent Mulder. Don't try to fight it."

His fingers flutter across the cement, searching blindly. His hand spasms, once, twice, and he collapses onto his side. Fox Mulder lies still.

***

McCall speeds. His fingers grip the steering wheel, white knuckled, as he listens to Mickey and Scully flee Ward E. His shoulders are knotted with tension. He grits his teeth. Where is Davis? He took care to see that Mickey wasn't there alone, yet inexplicably, he is. He reaches for the car phone.

***

Mulder lies suspended, in the gray shadows between consciousness and sleep. He cannot move his arms and legs, or even turn his head. He is made of stone. He tries to dredge up a reaction to where he is, to what's happening to him, but he can't muster the strength. He focuses on an image of Scully's face. She wears that half-interested, half-scornful look, one eyebrow quirked, lips pursed. The look that tells him she's trying hard to refute one of his theories. Her stunning eyes are lit with warmth and intelligence.

How her cancer scares him. The helplessness he felt--still feels--and the guilt. The uselessness. If something happened to him...if he *did* kill her...he hopes it takes him a long time to die.

***

A muted, almost unintelligible voice blares over the loudspeaker. A request for security guards to block all exits. A warning that a patient has escaped from Ward E with a hostage. Mickey's grip tightens on Scully and they barrel out of the stairwell and into the basement. To the left an employee cafeteria. It's empty save two nurses. Mickey slows his pace abruptly and puts an arm around Scully. "Cool. Be cool," he mutters. Scully feels far from cool.

To the right is a vending area, beyond the machines is a long hallway. Faded stenciling leads them down the corridor. They walk past the kitchen, past the exercise room, past the locker room. Near the end of the hall is a large laundry room. Several large hampers are filled with soiled uniforms and gowns. "Over here." Mickey directs her to one of the bins. "Try to find a nurse's uniform that fits."

Glancing around nervously for hospital employees, Scully begins to search. Suddenly Mickey pushes her behind one of the bins and crouches behind the door. He flashes her a look. Someone's coming.

Scully nods and she falls into a crouch as well. She's held her own on more than one occasion. If Mickey needs help, she'll be ready.

The door swings open and two men enter. The first man is pot-bellied and balding. He holds a mop. A janitor. The second man is a security guard. "I told you," the janitor says. "There's no one in here this time of day."

The guard is not convinced. He steps farther into the room. Scully taps her fingers against the metal bin and the guard casts a surprised look in her direction. Mickey springs forward and shoves the guard face-first into the side of one of the industrial washing machines. He grabs the guard's baton and hits him hard across the back of the head. The man sinks to the floor. He turns to the janitor, smiling. "You want to take a nap, too?"

The janitor gapes, stunned. He shakes his head weakly.

"Then help me out, here."

Five minutes later the door opens and Mickey and Scully reenter the corridor. Mickey wears the guard's dark blue uniform. It's not a good fit, but close enough. Scully wears a long white coat over her peach pajamas. Not ideal, but time is running out. Two more guards emerge from the stairway and head directly for them.

Mickey's heart hammers. Dammit! He forgot about the blood on his face. He has about two seconds to think of something. His stomach cramps. Not this time. You aren't going to fail this time. Mickey waves them down. He bows his head and puts a hand to his nose, partially covering the smear of dried blood. "That bastard just nailed me! He ran into the cafeteria! Get him!" The men backtrack and round the corner. Mickey doesn't wait to admire their stupidity. He and Scully sprint down the hall.

According to the janitor, there's another flight of stairs at the end of the corridor. It leads to an emergency door on the first floor. The door opens into the east wing of the parking lot. One hand on the holstered baton, the other gripping Scully's arm, they climb the stairs. Almost there!

They reach the landing and nearly collide with another guard. He holds a gun. He aims at Mickey. Scully screams. "Oh God, NO!" Terror makes the moment stretch. Time stops.

The guard fires past Mickey's head.

Mickey pushes Scully against the wall and shields her. From behind Mickey's shoulder she can see that the guard wasn't shooting at Mickey. He was shooting at Gorton.

Gorton is hit. He goes down, but doesn't drop his weapon. "Man, what kind of hospital *is* this," Mickey whispers to Scully, trying to deflate her fear, "where every nurse gets their own gun?"

Davis waves Scully and Mickey out, his face rigid. "Come on, come on. Get out." Kostmayer sends Scully out first. A second gunshot echoes like thunder in the enclosed space and Mickey stumbles. Davis shoves Mickey through the door, and takes fresh aim at Gorton. This time Gorton stays down.

The sunlight is too bright after the dim fluorescent basement. The three of them stumble into the parking lot, the asphalt hot beneath Scully's bare feet. Davis grabs Mickey's sleeve. "This way."

"Is McCall here?" Mickey pants.

"No. We'll take the van and meet at the rendezvous point."

Mickey squints. "Rendezvous point? *What* rendezvous point?"

Davis quickly outpaces Kostmayer. "The one we're going to."

Scully looks over her shoulder. Another security guard bursts out of the main entrance several hundred feet away. Scully grimaces. "I don't suppose he's another one of your friends?"

Davis shakes his head. "Afraid not. I'm the only friend Mickey's got." They wind their way through a dozen rows of cars until they reach a dark, anonymous van. Davis activates a small device in his pocket, unlocking the vehicle's doors automatically.

Mickey slides the back door open and crawls inside. "I dispute that statement. I've got a lot of friends."

Davis nods. "Sure. You can count all of them on one hand. Using three fingers."

Mickey reaches for Dana's hand and pulls her inside. She slams the door shut. "How did you know we'd be at that exit?" she asks Davis.

Davis turns the key in the ignition. "I didn't."

Scully stares at the back of the man's head.

They peel out of the parking lot, tires squealing. "Call it luck," Davis smirks.

"If we're so damned lucky, why are you such a lousy shot? What was that first shot for? Practice?"

"I got you out, didn't I?"

Mickey snorts. "Yeah, but I was hoping to get out in one piece."

Scully looks sharply at Kostmayer. "What do you mean?"

Mickey offers her one of his patented grins, but she can read the pain in his eyes, in the taut lines of his face. He shifts on the seat and Scully notes the way his hand is pressed tightly to his side. A blossom of red spills out around his fingers.

She gasps: "Mickey! You're shot!"

Mickey shrugs. "It's nothing."

Scully glares at him, her worry coming out as anger. "Nothing? Nothing doesn't bleed like that. Let me look." Pulling at the bloodied uniform, she inspects the wound cautiously. Scully calls to Davis: "We have to get him to a hospital."

Davis glances in the rearview mirror to gauge Kostmayer's reaction.

Mickey rejects the suggestion. "Forget it. We're supposed to meet McCall, so we're going to meet him. Besides, I can't very well walk into the ER looking like this, can I? I'll be fine Scully." Pause. "Hey, Davis? You still got that staple gun?"

Scully blanches. "*What*?"

Mickey laughs, then grimaces. "Just kidding."

Scully folds her arms, furious. Mulder's influence on Kostmayer is obvious. Her anger fades quickly, replaced by a familiar ache of grief. She would love to hear a snide comment, or a wry joke from Mulder right now. She'd even take an argument--anything--just to know he was alive. She bites her lip. Softly: "You have no idea where Mulder is?"

He reassures her. "That's why we're meeting McCall." Mickey hopes that he's not lying.

***

The aquarium is filled to capacity. Almost a dozen glassy-eyed, slack-jawed contestants in an endless game to out-lie each other and the detectives. Tim looks up from his typewriter and watches one of the dough-faced hookers sitting on the plastic couch. A witness to this morning's drive-by shooting. He shakes his head and reaches for the bottle of correction fluid.

Naomi calls to him. "Tim. You have a call on line three."

Tim's stomach plummets and he shuts his eyes. Not George again. He clenches his teeth and is rewarded with a sharp stab of pain. He massages his jaw and sniffs. Great. He sighs and leans back in the chair. His afternoon is taking a fast nosedive into the crapper anyway. Might as well flush and be done with it. His voice is harsh: "Bayliss."

"Yes, Tim. Hello. I was wondering if we could possibly meet at your place in, say half an hour?"

Tim stares into the aquarium, no longer seeing the blank faces. Thankfully, the voice is not the hoarse croak of his uncle, but the polished accent of Robert McCall. It takes his brain a moment to switch gears. "My place? Why?"

"It should be safe enough. There have been some developments that you may be interested in."

Tim rubs his nose. "Where are you now?"

"Parked outside of your house. I thought it somewhat impolite to break in."

Tim coughs. "Oh. Yeah. Right. Um...okay. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Wonderful. I'll see you shortly, Tim."

Tim hangs up and glances around the squad room. Frank is in Gee's office. Munch is on the telephone. Lewis and Kellerman are out on a call. And Kay is at her desk, a series of reports fanned out in front of her. He wipes his hands on the front of his pants and hurries past her desk.

"Hey, Sarge."

She doesn't look up. "Hmm?"

"I've got a quick errand. I'll be back in a half hour."

She looks up sharply, annoyance crossing her face. "Whoa, Bayliss. How many errands you got this week, hmm? That's almost every day you've been running off somewhere." Kay frowns at him. "I'm happy you found a girlfriend, Tim, but why don't you visit her when you're *off* work."

Tim shakes his head. "It's not like that, Kay. I have, uh, an emergency. A family emergency," he amends.

Kay stares at him. "A family emergency?"

"Yeah."

"What kind of emergency?"

Tim stares back. "A family one."

Kay sighs. "Fine. Hurry up. If you're still gone when Frank get's a call, I'm not responsible for what he does to you. Hmm?"

"Okay. That's fine. No problem. I appreciate it, Kay, really. I'll be back right away. You won't even miss me."

Kay's attention is already back on the reports. She waves him away. "Whatever."

***

He can't take his eyes off her. Dana Scully. Alive. And sitting on his couch. Tim keeps his head down, embarrassed by the sudden threat of tears. He blinks and turns his attention to the scrap of paper McCall has in his hand.

Scully worries at her lower lip. "I agree. I think Cancer Man is telling us where to find Mulder."

Tim's eyebrows shoot up. "Cancer Man?" Mickey chuckles. "Don't ask."

"It might be a trap," Davis points out.

Scully turns on him, unwilling to accept this possibility. "Why lay a trap? They've already *got* Mulder. Until an hour ago, they had me." Scully gestures toward McCall. "What's the benefit of getting Robert? He has no connection to the X-Files."

Davis shrugs.

McCall's attention shifts from the mysterious note to his friend. "Mickey? Are you all right?"

Scully's face pulls into a scowl. "He needs medical attention."

"You're a doc. And you looked at me. What else do I need?" After washing up and a change of clothes, Mickey looks much better. Feeling better, on the other hand, is something else entirely. The dark rings around his eyes betray his smile.

Scully stares at him wordlessly.

McCall looks at Mickey, surprised. "You told me it was a scratch." He turns to Scully. "Is his wound serious?"

Mickey snorts. "Come on, McCall. I've had paper cuts worse than this."

Robert repeats the question. "Is it serious?"

Scully looks from Mickey's face to McCall's. She sighs. "It's not *that* serious. The bullet grazed his side. It's a flesh wound. There's minor tissue damage, but he lost a fair amount of blood and he requires stitches." She shoots Mickey a glare. "A lot of stitches."

Mickey leans his head against the wall, eyes closed. He's leaving for Zaire in a little more than seventeen hours. McCall's voice holds a warning. "Mickey."

Mickey cracks one eye. "I hate it when you say my name like that, McCall."

"Oh? You prefer Michael, do you?"

Mickey spreads his hands. "I prefer to be left alone."

McCall nods. "That's fine, Mickey. Go to the hospital, get yourself stitched up, and I shall be quite happy to leave you alone." He points to Davis. "Make sure you don't lose him."

Mickey walks to the door, muttering under his breath. "What the hell am I supposed to say?"

"I have faith in you Mickey. I'm sure you'll think of something."

Mickey pauses and glances back at Tim.

Tim feels Mickey's gaze. "What?"

"You're a cop."

Tim nods cautiously. "Yeah..."

"So you can come along. Whip up a nice story. It's obvious I was shot, and all shootings need a police report, blah, blah, blah."

Tim blinks furiously. "I'm a homicide detective, Mickey. Unless you're dead, I'm not a lot of use to you."

Mickey runs a hand through his hair. "Come *on*, Tim."

Tim shakes his head. "I can't, Mickey. I'm not...I mean, I'm terrible liar. It wouldn't work. I just don't--" he shakes his head again, stumbling over the words. "I can't." He *wants* to help, but this is a far cry from a doctored accident report. If Gee found out, the Lieutenant would hang him out to dry. He's already been in the doghouse with Gaffney and Gee over his visit to Jarcardi. Why take up permanent residence? This cloak and dagger stuff isn't what he's about. He's just a simple slice of white bread from Baltimore. If he spends too much time thinking about the conspiracies and lies that Mulder and Scully are forced to wade through every day, he's liable to end up like Crosetti.

Mickey notes the hesitancy in Tim's voice, the genuine flash of fear in the detective's eyes. He lets the detective off the hook. "Hey, forget it, Tim. It's no big deal. You probably have to get back to the station, anyway."

Tim glances at his watch. "Oh, damn! I do!" He takes a deep breath and offers a brief prayer to Whatever's Up There. Please don't let Frank take a call until I get back.

Mickey winks. "I'm a creative guy. I'll manage."

Davis rolls his eyes. Scully rubs her eyes, relieved that Mickey has finally agreed to proper medical treatment. She didn't think there was anyone who hated hospitals *more* than Mulder. "Robert? Could you take me to my apartment?" She plucks at the hem of her pajama top. "I'd like to change into some real clothes." Her voice softens. "And then I'd like to see my mother."

McCall gives her a warm smile. "I'd be delighted."

Tim licks his lips. The vibes between Dana and Robert are not lost on him. Is she with Mulder or McCall? Both? Neither? Tim finds he is too tired to care. Whatever the answer, she's not with him. Take a look at yourself, Bayliss. She's got enough problems. You think she wants more? "I've, ah, got to get back. You're welcome to stay here for however long you, ah, need to. Just lock the door when you go."

A sudden thought strikes him and he stops in the doorway. To Robert: "Do you need a place to stay tonight?"

McCall is grateful for the offer, but declines. "Thank you, Tim. I've already made arrangements."

Tim nods. "Okay." His eyes flick to Scully. Of course he has.

***

Skinner slams the phone down and scowls. Where the hell is Riley? He stabs a finger at the intercom. "Kimberly!"

His assistant's voice is calm. She has weathered many of Skinner's storms over the years. "Yes, sir?"

"Have you seen Agent Riley? He was supposed to be in my office fifteen minutes ago."

"No, sir, I haven't. He hasn't called in either. Let me see if I can track him down."

Skinner sighs. "Thank you."

He pounds his fist on the desk, frustrated. Why did he put Riley in charge of the investigation? There are a dozen agents who could do a better job. It is common knowledge there was no love lost between Mulder and Riley. But Riley is a respected, competent agent. Or so Skinner had thought. He thought Riley would do a thorough investigation. He felt if anyone could dig up the truth on Mulder and Scully's murders, Riley could.

But now...now there are doubts. Riley is dragging his feet. Worse, he's missing. How long does it take to get an order to exhume the bodies? Scully and Mulder have had it done often enough, by now he should be on the phone with the Baltimore Chief M.E. Instead, he's sitting on his ass. He leans back in his chair, head against the wall. This--this inactivity is killing him. Is there a real possibility his agents are alive?

Skinner sits up and drums his fingers against the desktop, glowering. It's a complete shutout. Not only is Riley AWOL, there's no news from Robert McCall. He should have known.

There's a light tap on his door and Kimberly pokes her head in. "Greer just spoke with Riley. Apparently he's tied up in Baltimore. The Judge doesn't want to sign off on the request."

Skinner traces a number of invisible figure eights over the blotter. "He should have called me, not Greer."

Kimberly is silent.

Skinner licks his lips. "Thank you Kimberly. If he calls in, find me. No matter what I'm doing. Understand?"

Kimberly nods. "Yes sir."

End part 6/8

Disclaimer: You know the drill. I don't own 'em, I just borrow 'em.

Title: Lost and Found Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: R Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer) Summary: The Baltimore homicide unit discovers the bodies of two FBI agents...

************** Part 7/8

Seven-thirty. Skinner shuffles the papers together and returns them to the folder. He yawns and briefly considers going home. He sighs. Why bother? He picks up another folder and pulls out the report for review.

His phone rings. He grabs for the receiver, expecting Riley.

"Sir?"

Skinner stares at the phone, stunned. He swallows thickly. Licks his lips. Molten anger surges through him. "If this is a joke..."

"No, sir. It's not. I'm alive...and as well as to be expected under the circumstances. I'm calling to tell you that I'm on my way into the office. I need your help."

Skinner pulls off his glasses and drops them onto the desk with shaking fingers. He is amazed. And relieved. He knows that voice. Dana Scully--alive! He closes his eyes, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Of course...anything." He searches for the right words. "Dana...I'm relieved to hear your voice. I'm glad to hear that you're all right." He clears his throat, awkward. "What about Mulder? Is he with you?"

"That's what I'd like to talk to you about."

Skinner shoves the stack of folders to one side of his desk. "I'll be here."

***

She's screaming his name. Her voice, shrill with terror, echoes inside his head. "Fox! FOX!" She cries out for him again and again, but he can't move. Gradually, Samantha's girlish features change. Her face takes on the fullness of a woman, her hair grows shorter, a brilliant copper. Scully. She's still screaming. "Mulder! Mulder!"

Once inside the house, a dozen armed men descend like vultures on their prey. Iron hands pull them apart, while Scully screams and Mulder struggles, both actions futile. Their weapons are removed, a gloved fist pulls the chain from his throat, another takes his wallet. The gun pressed to his temple convinces him to stop resisting. He watches while Scully is pulled into another room, her screams reverberating through the empty house.

Mulder answers her, nauseous with fear. In his gut, he knows this is it. Somehow, somewhere, he's seen to much. Gone too far. The crowning irony is he doesn't even know what truth they're punishing him for.

He stands helpless, while they take Scully away. She calls to him, and he is frozen, a sweating statue bolted to the floor by a semi-automatic. And the face behind the weapon is--

Mulder's eyes flick open, a scream still coiled in his throat. He takes several halting breathes, treading the fear until it sinks back to the depths of his consciousness. A tear squeezes from his eye and his entire body shudders with relief.

Finally! He can remember the truth! He didn't kill Scully! But his joy is short- lived. Seeing through their lies isn't what's important. Finding Scully--that's important. That's everything. He needs to get out of here.

He rolls over, squinting through the darkness.

A voice speaks to him from his right: "You better go back to sleep."

Mulder gasps, turning, but he cannot make out his visitor. "Where am I?"

No answer.

"Am I...in Siberia?" It takes every ounce of Mulder's will power to keep his voice even.

"Not yet. Soon."

Mulder tries to bring a hand to his face, but his hands are bound to the sides of the cot. Restraints. He closes his eyes, fighting for control. He swallows and his throat makes a dry clicking sound. "Please. Just tell me. Is Scully alive?"

The voice comes closer and Mulder can feel hot breath against his face. "Define alive."

What the hell does that mean? Mulder whispers hoarsely: "I didn't kill her."

"I know."

Mulder jerks his head. "What?"

"Be quiet," the voice hisses. "Do you have some kind of death wish? You're supposed to be in an induced coma. I injected you with something else. Shut up or you'll get us both killed. And then you'll never know what happened to Agent Scully, will you?"

Mulder licks his lips, trying to understand. Who is--? He stares through the darkness, eyes wide. Of course, the guard! Stubble Face. "Why are you helping me?" he whispers.

A quiet laugh. "I'm not helping *you*. I'm following orders. Someone made a mistake. I'm trying to correct the situation. You could say I'm something of a problem-solver."

"What mistake? Who do you work for?"

"Good night, Fox."

One hand closes over Mulder's mouth, the other injects a needle into Mulder's arm. It's only a matter of seconds before he is pulled down, down into drug induced sleep.

***

Eight-forty five, Sunday morning.

The sky is heavy with rain. Dark clouds roil above them: a summer cauldron. A short stretch of highway is dotted with workers. They wear orange vests and carry plastic bags. Already, several bags lie in the tall grass, filled with discarded fast food wrappers and other waste. Scully spears an empty Styrofoam cup and drops it into her bag. Across the highway, McCall picks up an aluminum can.

Closer to the Twenty-eighth street exit Mickey watches the heavy traffic nervously. His wound is a dull ache, but he shunts the pain into a far corner of his mind. He has a bad feeling about this. The anonymous message was meant for McCall, not a goddamn welcoming party. Especially not one this blatant. They might as well wear party hats. Tight-lipped, he spears an empty potato chip bag. He adjusts his earpiece. "I don't like this, Scully. They're going to take one look at us and keep on going."

"I don't think so," Scully says, the memory of Mulder being pushed out of a van while Deep Throat died is still vivid. "They'll let him go."

Mickey covers the mouthpiece, scowling. "I hope you're right." This whole scene has got him on edge. There are too many FBI agents bucking to play hero out here. He takes a deep breath. It's a little late now. What's done is done. All he can do is keep his eyes and ears open. And as long as these guys don't get in his way, everything will be fine. His hand strays to the gun hidden beneath the vest. "Anything your way, McCall?"

"Nothing yet. It's still early. Be patient, Mickey."

Mickey snorts. Right.

Scully raises her face to the sky, enjoying the feel of the wind's fingers in her hair. The smell rain is strong now. The wind also carries the faint aroma of fresh blacktop and cut grass. The smell of summer. She inhales deeply, thankful to be outside again. Thankful to be *free*. In the distance she can make out Druid Lake.

Skinner's voice booms over the transmitter: "Okay, people, we've only got one hour left. You see anything suspicious, you know what to do. Look sharp everyone; we don't know exactly where they'll drop him."

Johnson, sullen: "If they drop him. This could be a wild goose chase."

"I'm perfectly willing to take that chance, Agent Johnson. This is a man's life we're talking about. If you have a problem with this detail, get out now. Understand?"

Subdued: "Yes, sir."

Greer chuckles. "What's the matter? Afraid to get your hair wet?"

Johnson shoots Greer a glare over her shoulder.

At twenty minutes after nine the sky opens. The rain falls in sheets, soaking all of them within seconds. Skinner hunches his shoulders against the onslaught. They fall silent, each member of the team left to his or her own thoughts. Mickey slicks his wet hair back off his forehead. Great. So much for a clear line of sight.

Suddenly there is a crackle of static and Manion's voice whispers excitedly: "A white Eldorado just pulled over to the divider up here. You guys see it?" Mickey edges closer to the shoulder of the road and squints.

"The hood just popped. Should I go over?"

Skinner's reply is immediate. "Affirmative. Take Torrez."

The rain begins to taper off into a steady drizzle. Mickey continues walking. In the distance, well past the designated exit, is the wink of construction markers. A glimpse of orange cones. "Are they supposed to be doing construction work along here?" he asks.

No answer.

A handful of agents have surrounded the Eldorado. According to the buzz of voices, there is a bulky blanket in the back seat. Mickey ignores their staccatoed questions and the driver's muted answers. He shouts into the microphone. "Hey! Anybody notice this construction work?"

Skinner barks a quick reply, distracted: "Yes. It's been going on since June."

"Can you step out of the car, sir? My name is Agent Greer and..." the rest of Greer's speech is lost on Mickey. He runs toward the construction area, the feeling in his gut pushing him faster over the slippery grass. He reaches McCall and points. McCall nods and follows his friend.

From across the highway, Scully watches Kostmayer and Robert head in the opposite direction. What are they doing? Her heart pounds against her ribs, desperate to reach the white car and see into the back seat. Already, the driver is outside the car and Greer has the back door open.

She stands, undecided for just a moment. Skinner strides toward the car, one large hand holding up identification. And then, looking both ways, she sprints across the highway. She understands what Mickey had immediately: the Eldorado is a decoy.

***

The embankment grows steeper now. He runs past a green sign announcing: North Avenue exit in 1/2 mile. "That's out of the range the note indicated!" Scully calls breathlessly.

Mickey shouts back: "What, they sign a contract or something?" He slips in the mud, barely catching himself before falling. Breathing hard, he squints at the line of orange cones and sawhorses. A back hoe sits along the shoulder of the highway like a rusting dinosaur. The cones mark a long ditch that runs parallel to the shoulder of the road. Mickey squats and peers into the trench. Nothing but plastic piping. Robert reaches him and moves silently alongside his friend. Mickey motions past the machinery. Check over there. McCall nods and approaches the back hoe.

Mickey resumes the search, slower now, looking for any signs of color against the dark earth. His heart pounds so loudly he can no longer hear the other agents through the earpiece.

Scully's work boots squish through the mud. She passes Mickey and Robert, screaming her partner's name: "Mulder! Where are you?" She strains, listening for his voice. Her only answer is sound of rain against the concrete.

***

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Then what's that look on your face?"

"What do you mean? What look?"

"That look. That *look* that says you're trying to hide something." Frank lifts his chin. "So. What are you trying to hide?"

Tim sighs. "Nothing, Frank. I don't have some kind of guilty look on my face, okay?"

Munch passes through the break room. "Yes you do."

Tim throws his hands up. "What is this, Frank? Are you trying to start an argument? Is that it? Do you *want* me to hide something from you?"

"No, Tim. I don't. That's why I'm trying to figure out why you're lying."

Tim rubs his nose. "Oh. I see. Now I'm *lying*."

Frank nods. "The lie of omission, Tim." He swirls his coffee and leans forward. "What aren't you telling me?" He sips at the coffee. "These little errands of yours. What are you doing?"

Tim licks his lips. Tim isn't telling Frank a number of things. He isn't telling Frank that Dana Scully has returned from the dead. He isn't telling Frank that at this very moment, a dozen FBI agents are looking for Fox Mulder along a stretch of the Jones Falls Expressway. He isn't telling Frank that he would like to be out there with them. And he sure as hell isn't going to mention his uncle.

His whole life Tim has believed in honesty. He admires honesty. But now, if he's lying by omission, then so be it. He won't--can't--tell Frank the truth. Not yet.

Naomi appears in the doorway. "There's a shooting at three twenty-one Parker."

Tim sighs. Greektown. He massages his arm and stands. "Come on, Frank." They leave the break room. "You want to drive?"

"Oh. I get it. You don't want to answer my questions so you're gonna let me drive, huh?"

"Hey Frank, if you don't want to drive, that's fine with me."

"Just give me the keys, Bayliss."

***

"MULDER!"

Scully's cries draw Skinner and Greer away from the Eldorado. Manion, Johnson and Torrez stay with the driver.

"Find him?" Mickey asks McCall.

"No." Robert peers into the back hoe's cab. Empty. He circles the machine, searching carefully for any sign of the agent's body.

"Over here!" Scully screams. "Call for an ambulance."

Mickey swears under his breath and hurries to Scully. She's kneeling in the mud, clawing at the wet ground. There, behind a stack of large white cylinders lies Fox Mulder. He lies face down, hands bound behind his back with heavy duct tape. Mickey pulls a jackknife from his back pocket and cuts Mulder's hands free. He helps Scully roll him over. She presses her ear to his chest, her fingers search out the pulse in his neck. "Dammit Mulder, be alive. Be alive." The tremor in her voice is unmistakable.

Mickey's eyes are fixed on her face. He holds his breath, waiting for a response.

McCall puts a hand on Scully's shoulder, a gentle reminder that she is not alone.

She closes her eyes and lets out a long sigh of relief.

Mickey takes a step forward. "He's alive?"

Scully nods.

Skinner jogs over to their small group, his face tight with concern. He rests with his hands on his thighs, out of breath. "He was here...the whole time?"

"It certainly appears that way," McCall answers. He stares hard at the small yellow school bus parked on the shoulder of the expressway. It waits, warning lights flashing, two hundred yards away. "How long has that bus been there?" he asks quietly.

Skinner turns sharply, craning his neck in the direction Robert indicates. Mickey's breathing quickens. "What's a school bus doing here on a Sunday morning?"

"Field trip?" Greer suggests, sounding doubtful.

They were waiting right under our noses to make sure we found him! Mickey races toward the bus, arms pumping, his breath coming it tight gasps. Skinner follows, one hand on his holster. The vehicle's break lights flash momentarily, and it pulls out into the traffic.

"No!" Mickey shouts. "STOP!" He throws himself at the bus, his fingers brushing the yellow paint. Almost! He strains, searching for a better grip on the wet metal, pulling stitches. He closes one hand around the emergency door handle. The bus increases speed, dragging Mickey, his feet barely touch the ground. He grabs hold with the other hand and pulls at the door. It's locked.

"Field trip, my ass," Skinner spits. "If that were a real bus, it would stop."

The bus swerves sharply to the left, sending Mickey flailing. He loses his grip and falls hard to the concrete, rolling. Cursing the rain, he rolls onto his knees as a minivan narrowly avoids running him down.

McCall is already in the road, flashlight in hand, trying to direct traffic out of the way. Skinner and Greer join him. The wail of an approaching ambulance grows louder.

Mickey aims for the vehicle's back right tire and pulls the trigger. The tire blows and the bus careens across the lane amidst the blaring of horns and the squeal of breaks. Remarkably, the bus stays upright and speeds away. Mickey fires again, but the distance is too great, the bullets ricochet off the wet pavement. He pushes himself to his feet and walks to the shoulder. "Damn!" He kicks one of the cones down the embankment. He had been so close!

"I've got the license plate," Greer says, "Johnson is already after them. I'll call it in to the local uniforms now."

Mickey clenches his teeth, pressing a hand to his side. He hurries back to Mulder and Scully in time to see his friend strapped to the ambulance stretcher. Mulder is still unconscious. The medics bend over him, obscuring Kostmayer's view.

He senses McCall's presence next to him and turns to his friend. Frustrated: "I was *this* close McCall."

"I know, Mickey, I know. At least we found him. Alive"

Mickey digs at the mud with the toe of his boot. "Yeah." He sighs. "I just wanted to get the bastards that took him."

"Yes. Yes, I know." McCall's face clouds. "But you can't always get what you want," he says softly.

Mickey is silent for a long time. He watches as the EMTs load Mulder into the ambulance. Scully follows her partner inside. When he finally turns to Robert a faint smile touches his lips. "I didn't know you were a Stones fan, McCall."

McCall raises an eyebrow. "What?"

Mickey watches the ambulance pull away, siren blaring. "Never mind."

***

She pulls the pen from behind her ear and scribbles down the measurement. Alyssa snaps a series of photographs.

"Doctor Cox. Telephone."

Julianna glances at the door. "Take a message. I'm busy."

The messenger hesitates. "It's Assistant Director Skinner again."

Julianna sighs and casts a quick glance at Alyssa. The other woman smiles. "Go ahead. I can finish this."

Cox crosses through the autopsy room and into her office. She picks up the phone and punches the flashing light. "Julianna."

"Hello. Doctor Cox. I was wondering if Agent Riley was still there."

"Excuse me?"

"You had an appointment with Agent Riley this afternoon. Regarding the exhumation of the two Doe bodies misidentified as Agents Scully and Mulder?"

"Ahh, No. I didn't."

Skinner is silent for several seconds.

Cox twirls the pen between her fingers. "What are you talking about? I understood that Buchanan sent the fingerprints over to you guys for identification. They came back positive."

Skinner clears his throat. "We have reason to believe the results were tampered with."

Cox let's the news sink in. "I see."

"Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are not dead. At this moment Agent Mulder is at Hopkins undergoing an evaluation. Agent Scully is with him. Riley hasn't been in contact with you on this?"

"No. He hasn't. I talked to him after I reviewed Buchanan's preliminary findings, but not since then."

"Thank you for your time, Doctor Cox."

Julianna listens to the dial tone for a moment before hanging up.

End part 7/8

*** Part 8/8

He shifts in the cramped seat, a vain attempt to get comfortable. He moves cautiously, careful of the fresh stitches in his side. Mickey glances down at the soft bank of clouds below the plane. Control's warning still rings in his ears. It's an empty warning, but it riles him nonetheless. He's here isn't he? He's on his way to clean up somebody else's mess, as usual. But is this really what he wants? To spend the rest of his life playing pick-up?

Mickey closes his eyes, tuning out the soft murmur of noise around him. Between Control's briefing and a hellish ride to the airport, he would love nothing more than to sleep for the next five days. He'll have to settle for considerably less. He sees an image of Mulder lying on the rain-soaked mud and a muscle below his eye twitches. Maybe it's just as well he didn't stop that bus. Sometimes the answers just aren't worth it.

Mickey shifts again, grimacing. Maybe it's time you jumped ship. Bail out of the Company for good. No more dry runs. The real thing. Me and McCall in business together: Equalizers "R" Us. Mickey smiles faintly, but the unease winding through his stomach tightens. The question lingers: How much longer *can* he do this? How much longer before someone is playing clean-up for *him*?

What do you mean how much longer? Does New World Labs ring a bell?

Mickey scowls at the intrusive thought and leans his head against the small window. Later. He'll think about this later. Right now he has to sleep. In eight more hours he'll be in Zaire. He knows the drill: sleep when you can, eat when you can, and never pass up a chance to use the john. Still, leaning against the window, sleep is suddenly a long way off.

*** Two days later.

There was no fanfare, no hoopla. The news was quiet and buried on the inside. But it was there, nevertheless.

Tim drops the folded newspaper onto Frank's desk. "See that, Frank?"

Frank sniffs and glances at the page. "Partly cloudy, chance of showers," he reads.

John unwraps a freshly-delivered sandwich. "What's the difference between partly cloudy and partly sunny? I mean, just think about it for a minute. They're the same thing."

Tim points to the article. "This, Frank." He's referring to the small block of text near the bottom of the page. The article informs all readers that two FBI Agents, recently found deceased, are in fact alive. The misidentified bodies have been exhumed and are currently being reexamined. The blurb ends with the standard disclaimer: no further information available at this time. The subliminal is clear: there will be no further information.

Frank purses his lips. He closes his eyes. He opens them. He looks up at Tim. "This is supposed to mean...what, exactly?"

Tim whispers in Frank's ear. "I was right."

Frank blinks. "You were...right? About what?"

Tim waves the paper. "Mulder and Scully. I told you there was something I couldn't put my finger on, something wrong about their deaths. I had doubts."

Frank smiles. "You had...doubts." He rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.

"Yes." Tim's eyes shine. "And I was *right*! My gut told me the truth."

Frank is scornful. "You're *gut*? The only thing you're *gut* is telling you, Bayliss, is you've been eating too many of those damn frozen dinners." He waves Tim away. "Your giving me a headache."

Tim's chin rises. "Why can't you just admit it?"

"Admit *what*?"

"That I was right, Frank. It was a cover up. A conspiracy."

"A conspiracy."

Tim scowls. "Dammit Frank, what are you? A parrot?"

Frank pushes his chair back. "And to think, I approached *you* about being partners."

Tim's voice rises. "What is it, huh? Why are you so mad at me? Maybe you're mad at yourself, huh, Frank? You're angry because you never questioned it, right? Is that it?"

"Ahh, I see. Tim Bayliss, armchair psychologist."

"Okay, Frank. If that's the way you want to be. Fine." Tim stalks away.

Frank calls after him. "No. No. NO! You're right, Tim. I bow to your superior knowledge." Frank's voice booms through the squad room. Fingers stop, poised over typewriters. Heads turn. Conversations fall silent. Frank's smile is deadly. "Detective Tim Bayliss, You. Were. Right." Frank takes a bow. "How was that? Was that to your liking?"

Tim's swallows. "Go to hell."

Frank stands. "Listen up everyone, Tim Bayliss was right! Tim was *right*! And I, Frank Pembleton, must stand in his deductive shadow."

Tim storms from the room. Frank's voice follows him, relentless. "You hear me, Tim? You were right! RIGHT!"

Munch makes his way over to Kay's desk. He mutters, deadpan: "So what exactly do you think Frank was trying to say?"

***

He is escorted into the inner chamber. The man behind the mahogany desk observes him cooly with dark, impenetrable eyes. His arms are folded, one hand has a slightly waxen look. He nods at the visitor. "Comrade Riley. Please report on the situation."

Riley looks sick. He clasps and unclasps his hands nervously. "I have...bad news."

"So it's true? You can confirm that both prisoners have escaped?"

Riley's stomach rolls. "Yes, but I-I didn't let anyone--"

"Silence!" The man behind the desk takes a deep breath. He smiles grimly. "You made a mistake. I understand that. I've made mistakes myself." The smile broadens. "Don't worry. I'll take care of the situation."

Riley sags, visibly relieved. "Thank you." He straightens. "Give me another chance. I can get you Mulder again."

The man considers Riley's offer. "No. I have another assignment for you. But I'm very busy right now. I'll brief you later." He waves to a guard posted by the door. "Take him away."

A slender man sits on the expensive couch across the room. He idly shuffles a deck of playing cards, eyes closed.

Alex Krycek glances at him. "Roger."

The man's eyes snap open.

"Kill him. Slowly."

Roger drops the cards onto the glass table top, smiling.

***

Mulder looks up at the sound of the door. Scully. A genuine smile lights his face. His partner. Here. Safe. Alive.

Scully smiles back. "How are you feeling?"

"I've felt better." He shrugs. "But I've also felt worse." He stares at her a long moment. "It's good to be back." After a week of physicals, rest, and an uncomfortable reunion with his mother, he's relieved to be back in their basement office.

Scully pulls her chair closer to Mulder's. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I just got back from meeting with Skinner."

Mulder blinks. "Is everything okay?"

Scully nods carefully. She doesn't know how to begin. Her hands fidget nervously. "Mulder...I'm going to take a break from the X-Files."

Mulder stares at her. "A...break? What does that mean? A vacation?" His heart pounds harder. God, no. Don't let this be what I think it is.

She stares down at her lap. "No. It's more like a leave of absence."

Mulder's jaw clenches. "You're leaving the X-Files, then."

Scully touches his arm, desperate that he understand. "Mulder, I'm leaving this office. But I'm not leaving you.

She stumbles over the words, her prepared speech forgotten. "I spent the past two weeks thinking you were dead, Mulder. I don't want to go through that again."

Mulder is silent, fists clenched at his side. What about me, Scully? They told me I killed you!

"The thought of my mother living with the belief that I was dead is..." she swallows, unable to continue. "What kind of life is this, Mulder? I don't want to be afraid every time we make a routine visit to someone. How can we pursue the truth this way? How can we do our job? Never knowing who's behind the door, never knowing who's waiting. It's one thing if we're involved in a case, but this--" she shakes her head "--was a set up from the start."

Mulder closes his eyes. "Scully..."

"No, Mulder. Let me finish. I believe our work is important. You've shown me that." Scully's voice grows softer. "But I have cancer...and I don't know what's in store for me." Pause. "I don't know how much time I have left. However long it is, I don't want to spend it inside some psychiatric hospital, or looking over my shoulder. There are things I want to accomplish."

Mulder flashes back to a hospital corridor, many months ago. "What about the truth, Scully? Don't you still want to find it?"

"Of course I do, Mulder. But on my terms."

Mulder nods helplessly, unable to speak.

"I still want to work with you Mulder." She gestures around the small office. "Just not like this.

"When they shut us down, we still worked together, Mulder. You came to me for help. Remember?"

Mulder's voice is croak. "Yeah. And I almost got you killed." His smile is terrible. "Thanks for reminding me."

Scully takes a deep breath. "Duane Barry is gone. What he did wasn't your fault."

"Riley's gone too."

"And we still don't know for certain that he was behind this, Mulder."

Mulder's hurt erupts in a flash of anger. "The hell we don't! He's had it out for me from the start! He played a nice role, Scully, just like Krycek. I saw him in that house! Even if you don't remember, I do. But he's gone. They're both *gone*!" Doesn't she see? Riley can't hurt her anymore. She can *stay*!

"Until the next one comes, Mulder." She meet's Mulder's uneasy gaze. "You think there won't be a next one?"

Mulder doesn't answer. He can't. He picks up a telephone message. He stares at it blindly and drops it back onto the desk. "This is what you want?"

She doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

"What did Skinner say?"

"That he would support my decision."

Mulder nods. Her decision. Not ours, but hers. He swallows past the pain in his throat. "Then I will too." Stop being so selfish. You got along fine without a partner for how long? She's dying! *Dying!* Why tie her last months to this hole?

Because I need her. Because *I'll* die without her.

Then you're pathetic. What kind of man are you? You're willing to sacrifice her happiness--her life--for your own? You don't deserve her. You never did.

He struggles to get the question out. "So when are you...leaving?"

"I just came down to say goodbye. I have a couple of routine tests scheduled for this afternoon." She leans forward, clear blue eyes on his face. "I want to help you, Mulder. Remember that. If you need me to do an autopsy, I'll be there. If you need my medical opinion, just ask. If you need my professional opinion, I'll give it." A fleeting smile lights her face. "You know I enjoy rebutting your theories, Mulder."

Mulder doesn't laugh. He doesn't smile. He just nods again, avoiding her face.

Softly: "If you just need to talk, I'll listen."

No response.

"Do you hear me Mulder?"

Hoarsely: "I hear you."

"Mulder, they haven't won, if that's what you're thinking. They aren't taking me away. This is my decision. I just...I just need some peace."

Maybe they haven't won...but I've lost. "I understand Scully."

She stands, bends over him, and kisses the top of his head. "It'll be okay Mulder, you'll see." She speaks brightly, with an optimism she doesn't feel. Her heart is breaking. For Mulder. For herself. But this is the way it has to be.

He smiles again, this time more convincingly. "I know." He touches her hand briefly. "Keep in touch. So I know you haven't been abducted or anything."

It takes all of her strength to return the smile. "I will."

He listens to the echo of her heels as she walks down the hall. The sound grows more and more faint until finally, there is silence. Scully is gone. She has left him. No, she's left the X-Files, there's a difference.

Since when?

He puts a hand to his head, fighting tears. Maybe this is for the better. Maybe this is--

Mulder reaches out blindly and sweeps the contents of his desk top onto the floor. Papers fly, coffee mugs shatter, case folders slide across the tile.

None of it matters now.

***

Tim brings the bottle to his lips and takes a long drink. He looks out at the dark water, waiting, perhaps, for some kind of sign. For some understanding of Frank. Or himself. He closes his eyes.

He wonders where Dana Scully is. And who she's with.

Somewhere nearby, a car stereo blares:

Things don't have to be this way Catch me on a better day Bury me above the clouds All the way from here Take away the things I need Take away my fear Hide me in a hollow sound Happy ever more, Everything I had to give gave out long before

Fix me now, I wish you would..fix me now Bring me back to life...fix me now Kiss me blind, somebody should...fix me now From hollow into light

Dana Scully opens the small paper bag and pours the contents onto her kitchen table. The silver chain puddles around the small cross. She takes the necklace in her fingers and presses it to her heart.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. She prays, head bowed, for strength. The cancerous mass is growing, spreading faster. A deadly army is waging war against her body, an insidious attack by enemy cells.

The doctor told her three days ago. She is dying. And she is not about to let Mulder watch. This...separation is better. She is still in control. She can help him, but maintain a distance. As long as she knows he is all right. That his search will continue.

She prays for Mulder.

Crashing silent, broken down Fallen into night Who gave up and who gave in I'll go without a fight Cut me down or cut me dead Cut me in or out Kiss me blind time after time take away my doubt

Fix me now, I wish you would..fix me now Bring me back to life...fix me now Kiss me blind, somebody should...fix me now From hollow into light

He sits in the dark. The television screen casts a blue glow toward the couch, not enough to serve a purpose.

Mulder stares at the wall. He tells himself the truth is still out there. He tells himself that Samantha is still waiting. But something has changed. Some indefinable piece of him is broken.

He can feel the darkness. Something deeper than the simple lack of light in this room, seeps into his soul.

Nowhere only down from here Pick me off the floor Take away the things I dream One time, one place, one more

Fix me now somebody should...I wish you would...fix me now... Bring me back to life...fix me now Fix me now somebody should...fix me now From hollow into Fix me now somebody should I wish you would... bring me back to life...fix me now Fix me now, somebody should Follow into life

The End