I've got to do something. Her work has finally started to suffer. She's coming in late, and leaving early. Taking long lunches. She's here less and less, and I'm not going to be able to cover for her much longer.

And when she's here, she seems preoccupied. She was doing an autopsy yesterday. Her assistant told me that she had the corpse cut open, and just stood there, staring into the body cavity for, like four or five minutes. At first he thought she was just studying something unusual. But then he got a look at how blank her eyes were. "She was a million miles away, Mulder, and you can't have that when cases depend on her findings." I persuaded him not to say anything, this time, by promising to talk to her.

But I've already tried talking to her, and it hasn't done any good. I've decided that I have to talk to her roommate. Maybe she has some insight on this problem. Maybe she is this problem. Hell, maybe Dana is her problem. This whole thing has me confused, and worried sick.

Calling doesn't work. There's never an answer, and more and more I'm convinced that just isn't right. Any woman too sick to answer a phone shouldn't be left alone. No, this will have to be face to face.

So, this morning I wait until Dana comes in to work. Then I wait until she's in the autopsy room, in the middle of a procedure. Then I drive to her house.

All the curtains are drawn, and they're heavy draperies. No cracks or gaps to peer through. Not at the front, any way. I notice something on the front step, and go to look at it. It's a couple of dishes. One of them contains a few mouthfuls of rather pungent cat food. The other holds an inch or two of water. That's right, Free has a cat.

Speaking of which... A large black and white cat trotted out of the bushes beside the house. It came directly to me, meowing, looking up at me expectantly. I moved the food dish toward it with my toe, but the cat ignored it. Instead, it began to wind itself between my legs, purring loudly.

I stared down at it, perplexed. I'm used to dogs making up to me, but a cat? This one obviously wanted to be friends. In fact, it was acting starved for attention. It stood on its hind legs and patted at my thigh with soft paws. I reached down tentatively, and the cat sort of dove up to push its head under my hand. Forgetting the white hairs that were at that very moment attaching themselves to my pants legs, I squatted down and rubbed the cat behind the ears. "Hey fella." I looked under his tail. "Um, girl?"

"No, fella is right." I looked over to find a little old lady standing on the steps of the house next door. "That's Snicky, Free's cat. He's what my mother used to call a 'retired gentleman cat'."

"Oh. Ow."

She smiled. "Yes, ow. I hate to see 'em cut. Isn't as God intended 'em to be, but it keeps 'em from spraying on the furniture." The smile widened. "Good thing we don't have that problem with you men."

"A situation I will now thank God for every day. Have you talked to Free lately?"

She frowned. "No. I've been kind of worried about her. Haven't seen hide nor hair of her for a couple of weeks now. I mean, she wasn't out all that much, but I generally saw her coming home in the mornings, or going out in the evenings. I asked Miss Scully about her once, and she said she'd been sick. I guess she must be. I never see any movement over here during the day, and I look." Again she smiled. "I'm a nosy old biddy. And the really odd thing is Snicky."

I examined the cat, who had rolled over on his back in a blatant plea for a belly rub. I obliged. "He looks healthy enough."

"Oh, he is--physically. But he's pining for her. They put him out a few of days ago, and she's only taken him inside once or twice since then. And he's not an outside cat." She came over, and squatted down. "Look at this." She took hold of the cat's front paw, and squeezed gently. I looked, and shrugged. "No front claws. He shouldn't be outside. Luckily, we don't have any dogs around. I've been thinking about reporting this to the SPCA if she doesn't bring him back in. But they might take him away, and I'd hate to see that happen. I just can't understand it. She dotes on this animal--calls him her baby. Well, you know how single girls can be about cats." She tickled the cat under the chin, and he waved his paws at her. "And this one is a sweetie. If you see her, talk to her about him, would you?"

She strolled back to her house, and went inside. The cat jumped up and trailed after her. It stood on its hind legs and batted at the screen door. After a moment, the door opened, and he slipped inside. Snicky was going to do all right.

I turned back to the door, and started to knock.

Free's POV

I had dozed off. I've always had trouble sleeping before, but I find myself sleeping more and more lately. That worries me. I think I've started sleeping unnatural lengths of time. Dana hasn't noticed it. I always wake up when she comes in, and I always wake up before she goes out in the morning.

But in between times, I sleep. Why not? I'm chained to the freaking bed. I think that the pills have something to do with it. She gives me some before she leaves every day. I don't know what kind. They change, sometimes.

She moved the television into the bedroom, and she turns it on before she leaves. I pretty much ignore it. I considered daytime tv to be dreck before I got into this situation, and my opinion hasn't changed. Game shows, 'real' legal shows, soap operas, talk shows...

Talk shows. I did watch a few of them, at first. Then they had one where a woman was bitching because her female lover didn't want to commit. And all of a sudden I was howling, crying and laughing at the same time. "Hey! I'll trade ya, you stupid bitch! I've got commitment like you wouldn't believe!" It took me almost an hour to get hold of myself. For a few minutes there, I wasn't sure I could.

You see, it was very, very tempting to just let go. A part of me knew that, if I chose, I could just slip right over the edge of reality, and I wouldn't have to deal with this any more. Dana would come home and find me staring at nothing in particular, probably with drool on my chin, maybe sitting on a wet sheet.

But I didn't do it. I'm not a quitter, damn it. I've held on through a lot of shit in this life. I've been abused metaphorically, and now actually, and I just fucking won't let go! This has to end sometime. It has to...

It has to.

And then I hear the knocking at the door.

And Dana stopped gagging me a long time ago.

I scream.

Fox's POV

Good God, what was that?

I just started knocking. I was about to stop, and go around the side to see if I could look in the window, when there was a blood curdling shriek from inside.

I didn't hesitate. The law is pretty clear--if you have a reason to believe that someone is in mortal danger inside a locked house, go ahead, kick the fucking door down. Get in any way you can.

I try. I haul back and give it my best FBI trained kick. The jolt travels up my leg like a bomb went off under my foot, and I get a look at the size of the dead bolt lock she has installed . So I pull my gun and shoot the fucker out.

The screaming hasn't stopped. It gets louder as, this time, I manage to kick the door in. It's coming from the back of the house. I don't dash in. You don't do that in situations like this. I don't even call out a warning. Whoever is back there, they know I'm coming by now.

I move cautiously, I follow procedure. I check the front part of the house carefully, to make sure no one is going to come up behind me, and I finally get to the master bedroom.

I stand outside the door, pressed flat to the wall, and suddenly the screaming stops. *Shit. I hope no one killed whoever it was making that noise.* I call out, "FBI! Lady, are you all right?" I'm answered by sobbing. "Is there anyone in there with you?" The sobs intensify. "Can you talk?"

"There... there's no one else here. Please... oh, God, please..."

I step in cautiously, scanning the room. I see no one except the woman on the bed, and she isn't a threat. I can see in a glance that she couldn't move if she wanted to. She's handcuffed to the headboard, pinned in place by two sturdy sets of leather cuffs. I quickly check the closet, and even look under the bed, gun at the ready. Nothing.

I'm squatting beside the bed, and I look up at the woman.

It's her. It's Free. I recognize her from the tape, but she looks different. On the tape, she looked tired. Now she looks almost haggard, haunted. She's as pale as snow, except for the bruises that mar her arms, legs, throat, and face--a rainbow. Everything from the dark, almost black purple, to winey red, to fading lavender, green and yellow. She doesn't have a black eye, but the shadows that circle them are so dark that she might as well have.

And those eyes... They'd been bright, soft, and friendly on the tape. Now there's a sort of emptiness them that scares me. But as I watch, they change. There's still pain there, but there's relief, too. And, so help me God, she's smiling. It's so out of place among the bruises that it's almost painful to see.

Her voice is husky. "You... you must be Fox."

I put away my gun and move quickly to release her, unbuckling the cuffs. Her arms drop limply. I get the sickening feeling that she's spent a lot of time in this position. "Free?" She nods.

I thought she was wearing a sort of choker necklace, but now I can see the buckle on it. It's a collar. And there's a tag. I read what it says, and feel sick. She looks at me and says, her tone explanatory, "She wanted to remind me..." She falters, the smile fades. The empty look comes back to her eyes. "remind me... who I belonged to."

"Oh, lord."

"I'd like to go now. I'm tired of being here. Can I go? Maybe to... to..." She looks bewildered. Her expression crumples. "I... don't think I have anywhere else to go."

"Don't worry about it. We'll find you a place."

I'm still trying not to believe this. I'm trying to believe that it's anything but what it appears to be. Dana couldn't have been holding this woman captive all this time. Could she? Maybe... maybe Free had been kidnapped and held, and Dana didn't say anything because she was being threatend, and the kidnappers returned her here while Dana was at work...

I've believed some far fetched stuff in my life, but that...? No.

I sit on the bed beside her, and rub her arms gently, trying to make sure that the circulation isn't constricted. She could lose a finger that way. "Free, I'm going to call some people. We need to get you to a hospital and have you checked out, okay?"

"Okay. They... won't tie me down, or lock me up, will they?"

"I don't think so."

"Good."

"Mulder."

I should have heard her, but I've been so stunned by what I've found that I didn't. She isn't supposed to be here. She's supposed to be at the center, elbows deep in the innards of some victim of another crime, seeking out evidence.

Instead she's standing in the bedroom door, watching us. Her face is absolutely white, her eyes are even emptier than Free's, and she has her gun pointed at me.

"Why are you touching her, Fox?" Her voice is soft, and almost reasonable. Almost. "You can't have her. She's mine."