"Carol-Lee"  
an X Files Tale
By WestShore
westshor1@earthlink.net
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SUMMARY:....Mulder is kidnapped and kept in a prison -- in his 
mind-- by an odd woman with mysterious powers. One of his 
captors begins to sympathize with him and calls Scully to his rescue.

DISCLAIMER:  The X Files and the characters of Fox Mulder, 
Dana Scully and Walter Skinner are the creation and property of 
Chris Carter and Ten Thirteen Productions. They are used here 
without permission. There is no intent to profit from this use. The 
story line and characters other than the above are my own invention. 
(written: September, 1995)

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"Carol-Lee"   


November
Abandoned warehouse
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Jimmy Botina is a four-flushing, bona fide ignoramus.

>From my perch up here on this dirty catwalk, I can see him pacing 
below, I spit a sunflower seed husk forcefully and watch it arc up, 
then down, flying toward Jimmy's skinny, overly-kinetic form. 

Damn. Missed again.

The shell falls soundlessly to the floor just behind him. He continues 
his pacing, oblivious to my treasonous sunflower seed war games. Just 
as well. It's just not a good idea to piss off the leader of our 
little band of thugs. He's got a nasty temperament under the best of 
circumstances and right now...

Well, right now, circumstances are getting increasingly worse. 

Today is supposed to be the day Jimmy wants us to move our little 
operation to another site. Crates of hastily packed records and a 
table full of neatly bundled currency are stacked just below me on the 
floor of this dirty, abandoned warehouse.

We are waiting on the arrival of the van so we can load all of this 
crap and move to a new 'business' site of Jimmy's choosing. Every 
three months or so, Jimmy seems to get a wild hair up his butt, and we 
have to shut down  operations and move around. I have to admit, 
though, this erratic schedule of his seems to keep him off the police 
blotters. He always seems one jump ahead of a raid and two steps ahead 
of the Organized Crime Bureau that likes to sniff around our 
neighborhoods. This despite the fact that he doesn't pay anyone off 
and he seems to operate pretty independently  of any other gangs.

Jimmy's relative anonymity as far as the law is concerned usually 
stands  him in good stead with some of big time gangsters...the "old 
money"...not the "nouveau riche" street gangs. They toss Jimmy enough 
of their odd jobs to keep Jimmy Botina rolling in dough, with enough 
left over to keep his four member rat pack...and me, Joey 
Gauthier...from seeking otherwise gainful employment.

I probably should consider myself one of Jimmy's rats, but that 
thought galls me to no end. I'm just not on the same level as his 
goons, and he knows it.

I'm sure he doesn't know how deep my resentment has grown. I know I 
could do a better job with this rag-tag outfit than he chooses to do. 
But I also know Jimmy Botina has a secret, and it's his secret that 
keeps him safe from the cops and keeps us on a short leash. 
Ironically, it also seems to keep him from getting any richer.

"Hey! Joey!...Whatsa matter? Are you deaf?"

I am forced out of my reverie for a moment. Jimmy's got his face 
craned up, looking at me as I sit up here, casually dangling my legs 
over the edge of the catwalk, idly listening to the icy rain rattle 
against the old metal roof just above my head. 

"I *said*...DO YOU SEE THEM?" Jimmy's manner is just a wee bit too 
snide for my liking, but I still smile down at him pleasantly. 

Mr. Cool...that's me. 

You learn to be cool, careful when you're part of this group. Not for 
nothing have I survived as long as I have.

"Sorry, Jimmy. The rain's making a bit of noise against the roof up 
here." Another smile. "I'll let you know as soon as I see something." 

My own fault. I'm the one who wanted to be the lookout up here. I 
really just wanted to remove myself from the people below. When the 
van hadn't showed up at its appointed time, things began to get a 
little tense down there. I didn't want to get caught with any bad 
vibes showing -- so I put some space between me and Jimmy as soon as 
he started his pacing and fuming over a half hour ago.

I lean over the low rail of the catwalk as Jimmy resumes his pacing. 
Round and round the crates -- and now a change -- twice around the 
money-laden table -- now back and forth. I watch in amusement as our 
fearless leader pauses in his frenetic walk to nowhere, wringing his 
hands. He's right below me again. I am briefly tempted to hock a wad 
of spit down on top of his perfectly coifed hair; maybe mess up that 
imported, European-cut suit of his.

You sure know how to dress for these executive-dirty-warehouse 
meetings, Jimmy, I sneer inwardly as I cull up a really good wad of 
saliva from my throat. I could always plead innocence, tell him I 
didn't see him down there.

But my saliva dries right on my tongue and all my malicious thoughts 
seize up in my brain when I realize the big doe-like eyes of Carol-Lee 
are looking up -- straight at me.

Damn.

An icy thrill of fear races down my spine, and I wonder if she sensed 
my nasty intentions toward her older brother, Jimmy. As a test, I 
throw her a weak smile. Nothing. No change in those big dark eyes. 
Just the unreadable innocence of a child -- in the face of a 30 year 
old woman. She blinks once and looks away from me, preoccupied again 
with the old, worn Barbie doll she always carries.

Carol-Lee.

She's the secret behind Jimmy Botina and his smooth success, and I 
don't think she's even aware of it. 

Chronologically, Carol-Lee Botina is three years younger than her 
brother. But Carol-Lee's brain never made it past that adolescent 
level even as her body continued on toward womanhood. She is smallish 
and kind of skinny like Jimmy. Big dark eyes in a thin face. She might 
actually be attractive if Big Brother didn't do his level best to bury 
her obvious womanliness under layers of plain, sack-like clothes and 
short, choppy, institutional-looking haircuts done at the local barber 
shop.

Jimmy guards his sister jealously, way beyond your usual brotherly 
love. I used to think he had some disgusting, incestuous thing going 
on with her. But that was before I found out about Carol-Lee's little 
*gift*. No sirree -- Carol-Lee has a lot more value than plain old 
brotherly love can account for.

No more time for revisiting the Jimmy and Carol-Lee story right now. I 
see a flash of a single headlight through the sheets of icy rain 
outside. It's got to be the old van. It has had a broken headlight for 
about ...let's see...how long? Oh, right. It was broken about three 
traffic citations ago. And the bozos still haven't gotten it fixed. 

I shake my head and am about to announce the imminent arrival of the 
van when Jimmy starts growling like a grizzly bear in a trap. Even 
Carol-Lee looks up from her doll play as he starts his bellowing:

"Where are those jackasses? I wanted that van here over a half hour 
ago! I'm going to kill 'em!...I am going to kill them!!"

He pounds his bony fist into his other hand, looking for all the world 
like Deputy Barney Fife of Mayberry, RFD -- on speed. I suppress a 
laugh. Mickey Fernandez, a fellow gang member, sitting on a crate 
nearby, hunkers down, desperately avoiding eye contact with the rabid 
Jimmy. Unlike him, I don't fear Jimmy, mostly because I'm a couple of 
light years ahead of all of them on the evolutionary ladder.

Jimmy's fist comes down on the table with a crack that echoes up in 
the rafters near my head. The bundles of money bounce on the table and 
a few of them fall to the floor, breaking open. Jimmy kicks at them, 
briefly sending up a small shower of hundred dollar bills.

Mickey jumps down and hustles forward without a word to gather up the 
flying currency, cautiously keeping his distance from Jimmy. Even 
Carol-Lee seems to huddle into herself, drawing her Barbie doll closer 
to her, as if hiding it away from the sight of her brother's rage. I'm 
sure she's afraid; I've seen Jimmy smack her around a few times, 
though I never understood why she let him do it. With her "gift", she 
could turn him into...

"Leave the money! Just leave it!" Jimmy's screaming is hurting my ears 
as it echoes around these rusty rafters. Below me, the hapless Mickey 
freezes letting the few bills he was able to collect drift down out of 
his hands. Jimmy resumes his pacing.

"Uh...what if somethin's happened to 'em, Jimmy? Maybe the cops or the 
feds lucked onto..." OOPS. Baby-faced Mickey Fernandez always makes 
the mistake of opening his mouth when his brain isn't connected.

Jimmy whirls on him. Cops or feds might be what Jimmy is thinking 
about, but he really hates to hear his thoughts being shared by the 
intellectual likes of Mickey. Best to keep your mouth shut around ol' 
Jimmy. Let him do all your thinking, Mickey, I snicker to myself, give 
your gray matter a well deserved rest. Save it for the really 
important stuff like: do I put my pants or socks on first? Duh.

Jimmy's eyes actually look rimmed in red from where I sit. Man-oh- 
man! Jimmy's gonna pop a vein in his head or something! Or maybe pop a 
vein in Mickey's. He looks just that mad. I glance over at Carol- Lee. 
She's watching the exchange. 

Mickey should know better. Looks *can* kill in this quaint little gang 
of ours.

Mickey, too, is peeking nervously over his shoulder at Carol-Lee. I 
can see this is where I'll have to interrupt the scene below me. The 
van is backing up to the door of the warehouse now.

"Hold on, Jimmy. Here come your three stooges now." I drawl casually. 

Jimmy breaks his murderous glare from Mickey and looks up at me. 

"You see them?"

I nod toward a bank of broken windows at the side of the warehouse. 
"They're backing the van up to the door as we speak..."

"Fools! Damn morons!" Jimmy kicks at the money on the floor again and 
looks back up at me. "Can you see if they were followed? " he snaps at 
me like I'm one of his regular toadies. 

The veins on either side of his neck are standing out like rope and 
his face is coloring red. His mood is clearly not improving. I really 
hate it when he pulls this sturm-und-drang act with me. If only he 
knew how really stupid he looks.

I take my time answering, making sure not to betray my own 
aggravation.  I'll wait until his face gets that nice eggplant purple.

Oh-oh. Now THIS is interesting...

Jimmy's three errant gangsters, the two Duron Brothers, Omar and 
Fernando, and their buddy, "Gator" No-Last-Name had been pulling and 
tugging at  something in the back of the van. Then suddenly their 
little chore seemed to explode into a full fledged battle as their 
cargo came to life. 

What the hell...? They were only supposed to be bringing a few more of 
Jimmy's papers from his soon-to-be-vacated loft located in one of the 
trendier river-front neighborhoods of downtown Pittsburgh.

I pop another sunflower seed in my mouth and smile down at Jimmy. 
"Seems your boys must have stopped along the way to bring you a 
surprise, Jimmy."

I know how much Jimmy hates surprises.

"A surprise!," Carol-Lee squeals with childish delight.

Jimmy whips around and silences her with a sharp look. Her eager grin 
quickly disappears from her face. She shrinks back a little, pulling 
her doll tightly to her again, nervously twirling its ratty black hair 
around her little finger.

Jimmy turns back to me. He's not as purple- and red-looking as he was 
when he was throwing his little temper tantrum. Still, I know that 
vicious energy of his hasn't gone too far. It's slipped just under his 
hide, waiting like a snake about to burst its skin, shedding its husk 
to become something bigger, uglier, meaner.

"I said: Were. They. Followed."

I have to make an extra effort to keep my jaw from clenching when he 
talks to me like that, like he talks to the rest of his vipers. I'm 
not part of your little nest of snakes, Jimmy-Boy. Be careful how you 
talk to Joey Gauthier, bud. Things could change someday.

Aloud, I say, "It's hard to tell with all the rain, Jimmy, but so far, 
the road looks clear." I make a great show of straining to see what's 
going on outside.

Truth of the matter is, I can see all the goings-on quite well from up 
here. The rain doesn't quite obscure all the chaos taking place 
outside. I really have to fight myself not to laugh out loud or even 
smile. I don't want Jimmy to see just how amused I am with the antics 
of his three gorillas.

Whatever those boys have in the back of that van, it seems very, very 
angry. The old battered van is rocking and bouncing on its worn shocks 
from the force of the turmoil. I bite back a grin when I see Omar fly 
backward, away from the van, struck in the jaw by a well placed kick 
from the dark figure they are struggling to subdue. Omar's brother, 
Fernando, is half-in, half-out of the van, his legs kicking comically 
in thin air while his arms flail at the almost unidentifiable mass 
within the van's dim interior.

Ah, Omar. Ah, Fernando. I guess that's what you get when you major in 
self defense at Clown College.

Suddenly, I catch a glimpse of the mystery cargo: It's a man, but I 
can't see much more detail than that just yet. He's fighting like a 
wildcat, and from the chaotic efforts of Jimmy's band of idiots to 
overcome him, I have to guess that this guy must have surprised his 
captors with his strength.

Time for the heavy artillery. I see the van dip low under the weight 
of Gator's 300 pound carcass as he throws himself into the back of the 
van. I almost feel a pang of pity for the prisoner. Gator lives for 
these kind of fights. What nature didn't give him in brains or looks 
was easily made up in muscle mass. Simple language skills are beyond 
our Gator; he prefers to do all his talking with his fists.

I see Gator's big bulk pin the struggling man to the floor of the van 
with some minor assistance from the Brothers Duron. Gator raises a 
meaty fist and brings it down with such an unbelievable force that I 
feel myself wince in empathy for the stranger. The prisoner's legs go 
limp, swinging listlessly from the back of the van. Nice try anyway, 
fella.

I watch as Gator backs slowly out of the van. He reaches back into the 
van and pulls up the still form of a man, draping him easily over one 
shoulder. I guess the guy must still be alive or Gator wouldn't have 
bothered. I look down at Jimmy. Maybe Gator shouldn't have bothered.

"They're coming in, Jimmy," I say as I get up slowly and dust the dirt 
off the butt of my new jeans. Standing on the catwalk, I do a lazy 
stretch and yawn, as if bored with this whole scene. 

Just enough to goad Jimmy. 

"Did you put a federal agent on your wish list? From the cut of the 
trenchcoat, I'd have to say it looks as if your three stooges are 
bringing you an early Christmas gift."

Jimmy goes slack-jawed. "A FED! HERE?," he squeaks. 

Oh, this is good. That deep purple color is coming back to his face.

"Yep. Kind of like bringing a fox into the chicken coop, don't you 
think?," I chortle as I wave my hand significantly at all of the 
crates and the money. I love it when I have a chance to highlight the 
flawed thinking processes of my colleagues to the bossman. It seems 
like such a small indulgence in a job so full of disappointments 
lately.

I make my way across the dirty catwalk toward the metal rung ladder 
attached to the near wall. I want to be closer to the action now. I'm 
curious about this fed, and it'll be interesting to see how Jimmy 
handles this one.

The ancient metal squeaks and groans as I make my way down to the 
littered floor of the old warehouse. I have to jump free of the last 
three rungs of the wall ladder which are a bit too rusted through for 
me to trust. 

God, it's getting cold, I realize when I feel the draft from the side 
door as it is opened. Early November in Pittsburgh was acting a bit 
more like the weather I grew up with in Chicago: chilling rains and 
yo-yo temperatures.

I take a moment to brush the dust and dirt from my clothes again as I 
listen to the trio make their way toward us through the gloominess. I 
have to admit I'm a bit fastidious for a '90's 'gangster'. Even though 
I may favor jeans and wool sport coats over Jimmy's extravagant 
dollar- burning wardrobe, I still like to keep a neat appearance.

I suppose, at thirty-seven, I am beginning to resemble the 
comfortable, established academician I once aspired to be instead of 
the street tough I started out as and eventually returned to. Wool 
sports coats and jeans: a small fashion reminder of who I thought I 
might be some day. Even my dark blond hair, which is just beginning to 
thin, is kept collar length and unkempt.

I suppose that I could pass for anyone's favorite self-important 
English Lit professor, except for the small matter of my criminal 
record.

As I make my way over to the rest of our assembly, I can clearly hear 
the stooges making their way toward us, the brothers arguing back and 
forth  in low unintelligible stage whispers. Jimmy's jaw muscles are 
twitching with malevolence.

I glance over at Carol-Lee. She is watching Jimmy with caution and 
occasionally sneaking a look at the noisy trio and their bundle. She 
is alive with curiosity. There is a glow of excitement that almost 
makes her seem pretty. She catches me staring at her. I give her a 
reassuring smile, but she turns shyly away, as she always does. As 
Jimmy always makes sure she does.

Jimmy's growl brings my attention back around as the boys step from 
the dusty dimness into the gray circle of light that we are in. 

"Can any of you morons tell me what time you were supposed to be here? 
"

Omar holds up a hand to Jimmy, like some kind of beggar. His voice is 
whiny and thin. "We know, Jimmy, we know! We're late 'cuz we met up 
with a complication." He turns and motions Gator forward.

The big man shuffles up to Jimmy and, with a grunt and a shrug of his 
shoulder, drops his burden at the bossman's feet, on top of the litter 
of hundred dollar bills.

Jimmy kicks the bundle over, and I lean in to get a better look at 
their prize. 

Well, except for the swollen lip and the trickle of blood from his 
nose, the prisoner has a boyish, handsome face. In the dim light, with 
a shank of dark, damp hair falling over his brow, he looks almost too 
young to be a federal agent. I briefly wonder if the three stooges 
have made another stupid mistake.

But Jimmy crouches down and throws open the folds of the unconscious 
man's wet trenchcoat. The stranger is dressed out in suit and tie, 
regulation fed-wear. Standard, not much imagination -- except for that 
tie.

Jimmy's face is coloring up again as he leans over and flips open the 
man's suit coat, revealing a shoulder holster -- the gun still in its 
place! They hadn't even disarmed him. I puzzle over a scenario where 
these fools were able to overtake this agent before he could even draw 
his gun.

Jimmy, however, was boiling over the more immediate implications. I 
have to put my hand up to my mouth, pressing hard against the smile on 
my lips as Jimmy picks up the man's gun and slowly flips it from one 
palm to the other while he glares at the trio before him. "You bring 
an ARMED federal agent in here!?" His voice is as shrill as I've ever 
heard it.

I watch Fernando and Omar shift nervously on their feet. Between them, 
they share a small, inadequate brain. The Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum 
of Twitville. But they wisely keep their mouths shut. There is no 
defense for this blunder. 

However, fools rush in...Gator decides to speak up: "Awwww... He's 
harmless, boss. He spent the last hour counting stars under his 
eyelids. He never came to until..."

Gator stopped when Jimmy's glare hardened. Well done, Gator. I smile 
indulgently at the big man as he swipes his rough, thick hand over his 
shaven head. Hair would have mercifully hidden the curiously pointed 
shape of his skull. I'm sure he thought shaving his head would earn 
him a respectful place in the tough guy gallery. I think he looks like 
Humpty Dumpty -- after the great fall.

"There isn't ever a federal agent that's *harmless*, you idiot!." 
Jimmy snaps. "The only *harmless* federal agent is a *dead* federal 
agent." 

He pulls a leather folder from the unconscious man's suit pocket. He 
flips it open and silently reads the identification next to the metal 
insignia that glitters in the gray light. He hands me the lawman's ID 
and snorts, "Looks like you were right, Joey: a 'fox' in the chicken 
coop."

This time I smile openly. "Boys, say hello to Special Agent Fox Mulder 
--from Washington, DC. Wonder what he's doing on this turf?" I turn 
and toss the badge onto the table behind us. 

I see Carol-Lee look at it, then at me. I can see that her simple 
curiosity has turned into avid interest now. She slips quietly from 
her sitting place and inches toward the table, unseen by everyone 
except me. I wink at her and turn back to the group. I think I'll keep 
Carol-Lee's confidence for just now.

Jimmy is busy frisking the agent. He finds a wallet, handcuffs and the 
requisite keys, a penlight, a lock-pick set, a half-full bag of 
sunflower seeds and an official looking piece of paper, folded neatly 
in thirds. 

Jimmy stands up and hands me the bag of sunflower seeds with a look of 
disgust. "Here...a present from your federal government." 

He drops the wallet and handcuffs by the agent's head and turns his 
attention to the folded paper. He opens it and reads to himself. 
Without moving his lips.

I'm impressed. 

"Son of a...," he suddenly hisses. He looks at me, slapping the paper 
angrily with his other hand. "It's a goddamn warrant! With my name on 
it! ME! This fed was looking for me!" He looks down at the silent 
figure at his feet and then up at all of us, one by one. "So? How'd a 
Washington DC fed find out about ME!?" 

The rest of the group is scared to silence. 

I take the opportunity to help myself to the fed's sunflower seed 
stash. Obviously, this is a guy after my own heart. 

I jump in spite of myself when Jimmy slaps the bag out of my hand, 
spraying sunflower seeds over the floor. "I'm talking to everyone, 
Joey! You'd better work this into your short attention span, y'hear?"

I smile. He doesn't know I'm smiling at the mental image I have of me 
strangling his scrawny neck until... 

I look around for Carol-Lee. Jimmy might not see my mental image, but 
Carol-Lee could -- if she were paying attention, that is. 

I breathed a sigh of relief to see her at the table, totally 
preoccupied with comparing the face on the fibbi's ID to the face of 
the man who lay at our feet. Jimmy's attention was back on the group.

"How'd you find this guy, or... let me guess... he found you." Jimmy's 
sneering question was directed at the three stooges.

Gator looks reluctant to talk anymore. Fernando has apparently been 
struck dumb with fear, leaving Omar to give us the low-down on the 
show-down. 

"There was two of 'em, Jimmy. Him -- and he had a woman with him. His 
partner, maybe? A good-lookin' red-head. In fact, we didn't even think 
she was a cop until she pulled a gun on us!"

I could tell Jimmy was getting impatient with this garble. "Omar, just 
take it from the top. You're not making sense," I urge him.

"Okay...okay." Omar licks his lips and takes a moment to recall this 
evening's adventures. 

I can almost smell the brain cells frying on overload.

"We was...We was just leavin' your loft, Jimmy. Gator'd already taken 
the boxes of your papers down to the van in the alley way. Just like 
you told us! Fernando an' me was lockin' the place up. We thought it 
was Gator comin' up on the freight elevator, so we didn't pay much 
attention... But then this redhead walks off the elevator. She only 
sees me, cause Fernando's in your bathroom doin'...Uh, well, she only 
sees me and yells, 'FBI don't move!' An' she whips out a gun faster 
than anyone I've ever seen!!"

He gives us a big smile. He is obviously warming to his story. 

"But Fernando comes 'round the corner, surprising her. He hits her, 
and she falls back into the elevator. But, all of a sudden, before we 
could grab her back, the damn elevator starts down even though we 
didn't push no buttons! The FBI lady is out cold, a big gash on her 
head and her left hand kind of looked funny, like maybe it got 
broke... Anyway, we're lookin' down at her when the elevator stops on 
the next level, and we see  him get on..." Omar nods at the captive. 
"He calls out something like 'Scully!', like he's surprised to find 
her there. He couldn't have been thinkin' too clearly for a moment 
there, 'cause the first thing he does is start fussin' over his 
broad!"

Omar shakes his head as if he still can't believe their dumb luck. 
Hell! *I* can't believe their dumb luck!

Omar continues: "But he musta realized what happened, 'cause all of a 
sudden, he looks up, right at us, and he's going for his gun when 
Gator comes up behind him and cold-cocks him with a brick from the 
alley."

Omar and Gator grin at each other with unabashed pride. What a couple 
of buccaneers! They bested a woman and took her partner by surprise. 
"So? Why is he here? " I press for the answer this time.

Omar's face falls. "Oh. Uh, well...Fernando and I had the last of 
Jimmy's things, and we didn't think he'd want us to leave the feds 
behind, so we had Gator put them in the van..."  He pauses. He was 
getting nervous again.

"And?" Jimmy prompts impatiently. 



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

No answer. 

"AND?" Jimmy says again, a bit louder this time. "And so? Where is 
Agent Scully? Did you drop her off somewhere --perhaps -- as a nice 
gesture?" His voice is oiled with sarcasm.

Omar is struggling with this. He takes a deep breath. "Uh, well...she 
was out cold, too, so we didn't keep a guard on her while we was 
loadin' the van. Fernando and me was already up front, with the motor 
runnin' when Gator threw this guy in the back and..." He looks at his 
two companions.

"AND?" Jimmy is growling again.

"Well -- the bitch woke up! When Gator started back to get her, she 
was at the door screaming 'FBI' and 'Freeze!' and 'Mulder!' We started 
to take off, and she shouted again and opened fire. She shot at us!" 

Poor Omar. Seems as if he's taking this whole matter personally, 
actually distressed that a pretty female fed opened fire on him.

"So what did you do?" I ask.

"I had to fire back! She'd hit the van a couple o' times. I think she 
was aiming for the tires. Anyway, we had guns in the van, so I shot at 
her and..." He drops off again, but I urge him on with a wave of my 
hand.

"Well, I think I got her. I think I killed her." He glances quickly 
between Jimmy and me as if gauging our reaction to his tale.

There is a long uncomfortable silence while the implications of his 
story settle in on Jimmy. "Let me get this straight : You kill one 
agent and kidnap the other right outside of my home -- the very home 
that these two agents had a search warrant for. You flee from a gun 
battle in the middle of one of the best neighborhoods in the city in a 
rather distinguishable van."

Jimmy flops onto one of his crates, looking dumbfounded.

My heart bleeds peanut butter for him. He's led a pretty charmed life 
as far as the law enforcement establishment is concerned. All good 
things must come to an end, Jimbo. Fox Mulder is just a harbinger of 
things to come, perhaps.

Jimmy's moaning and groaning: "I can't go back. They know! How did 
they find out about me? What is he? Psychic?" He whirls around to the 
still form by the money table, and I see him immediately stiffen up. 

"Carol-Lee!" he shrieks, "Get the hell away from him. He's a corpse! 
He's a dead-man! Do you hear me?"

He's way out of control now. I sprint ahead of him as he stomps toward 
Carol-Lee and the still figure she is kneeling beside. Carol-Lee's 
eyes are wide with fear, and her fingers, frozen in shock at the sound 
of her brother's voice, are still hovering over the agent's face. I 
pull Carol-Lee up to her feet, send her off to her sitting place and 
turn to face Jimmy and his rage.

"It's okay, Jimmy! It's okay! She's just being curious. That's all. No 
harm done. Hell, the dude may never even wake up if Gator nailed him 
with a brick." 

So I lied. Jimmy didn't need to know about the Big Mulder Battle 
outside. As much as I enjoy getting those goons in trouble, it was now 
clear that we were all in big trouble, and we'll have to get real busy 
to put some space between us and the law in the next few hours.

I grip Jimmy by his scrawny shoulders, and he breaks his glare at 
Carol-Lee.

"We haven't got time for this, Jimmy. You have to assume they're on to 
you. We've got to move fast!"

"Yeah.Yeah.Yeah!" Jimmy speaks like someone coming out of a trance. He 
seems to take charge of himself again and smiles at me briefly. Sure, 
Mr. Botina, this is another fine mess I'm getting you out of. 

I'm getting tired of it.

I watch him as he takes a minute to look around, to collect his 
thoughts.

"Yeah," he repeats. "We're going to have to ditch that van. You three 
morons: Clean out the van! Put my papers in my Bentley. Then find us a 
truck or another van. Rent it. Steal it. I don't care! Just do it! And 
as for this piece of garbage..." 

He plows a vicious kick into the federal agent's side. Wasted energy; 
the man is way beyond feeling anything. Jimmy on the other hand, seems 
to have injured his foot. Serves you right, bud.

"Ow! Dammit!!" Jimmy squeals as he limps away from the captive. "You 
son of a bitch!" he howls uselessly at the unconscious man. 

I just roll my eyes.

Jimmy catches my look and jabs a finger at me. "You! Joey! Cuff this 
jerk to that ladder on the wall so he's out of my way. Then I want you 
to take your car, go get some gasoline -- something, anything -- and 
burn this place to the ground. I want that van and HIM..." He points 
at the agent. "...to burn with it! And I want you to do some checking 
around. Find out how this pretty little bastard found out about me -- 
about us." With that he whirled on the group. "Now, everyone! MOVE!"

The group scattered. Jimmy glared at Carol-Lee one more time before 
heading for the door and his shiny new Bentley. I sigh and bend to 
catch Agent Mulder up under his arms. He's tall and lanky, built like 
a runner, but dead weight is dead weight, and he proves to be a 
handful for me.

Before I can even look around for help, Carol-Lee is by my side. 
"Please, Joey, can I help?" There is a little quaver in her voice.

"Sure, Carol-Lee. Thanks. Can you just grab the shoulder of his 
trenchcoat there, please?"

I watch her carefully as we drag the fed to the wall. Once I maneuver 
him to a half-sitting position, I can pull his arms up high enough to 
secure him to one of the rusty lower rungs of the old metal ladder, 
using his own handcuffs. 

I pocket the keys and then pause a moment to watch Carol-Lee. She's 
hovering over this fed, big crocodile tears streaming down her face.

Oh, boy -- now what?

"Carol-Lee?Come on, princess. You've got to get ready to go. You've 
got to leave him."

She has her hands on his face, caressing it like a blind person, 
trying to learn every angle, every scar, everything special and unique 
to that handsome face. I watch for a moment more and then look around 
to make sure Jimmy isn't witnessing this treason. 

There's a funny look on Carol-Lee's usually semi-blank face as she 
touches his forehead. Rubs his full lips, carefully avoiding his 
injury. Caresses his eyelids.

"Joey?"

"Yeah, Carol-Lee?"

Her voice is turning into a frantic whisper as she stares trance-like 
at our prisoner, her fingers never stopping in their dance over the 
lean planes of his face. "Don't use fire. Don't burn him. Please don't 
burn him, Joey. He's afraid of fire, Joey."

I snort, probably a little too loudly. "Hey, princess, you heard your 
brother. And believe me, ol' Foxy here won't be awake enough to know 
what's happening to him. Think of it like a sort of Viking burial -- 
you know, with a van instead of a boat and a warehouse instead of an 
ocean."

Whewboy! That was lame. But Carol-Lee is ignoring me and fixating on 
her FBI Agent.

*CAROL-LEE'S FBI AGENT.*

That thought is being pressed into my brain with an almost painful 
intensity. Where's it coming from? I look down to see Carol-Lee's eyes 
fixed on me now. There is no sign of the innocent little kid to be 
seen. The eyes that stare up at me are full of grown-up, fierce 
determination. Far in the back of my mind, I register a little 
astonishment. Carol-Lee is using her gift! And more importantly, 
Jimmy's not around wielding its power.

*Carol-Lee is using it on her own!* 

Just to be sure, I look around to see if Jimmy's nearby or even aware 
that Carol-Lee is doing this. No sign of him! This might be the break 
I've been looking for!

I look back down at Carol-Lee, and for a moment I think I see a little 
smile. A smirk, almost. But just as quickly, it is gone. With a vague 
feeling of unease battling with my exuberance over my little 
discovery, I kneel by Carol-Lee's side. She is concentrating on *her* 
FBI agent again.

"Okay, princess," I say to her in a voice just above a whisper. "What 
do you suggest I do? You know your big brother gave me my marching 
orders. He's going to be watching tomorrow's news for a report of a 
burnt warehouse, a burnt van and a burnt body. In that order. I can't 
just go up to Jimmy and say 'Carol-Lee thinks the fibbi should die a 
kinder, gentler death'."

"NO!" Carol-Lee's sudden hiss startles me enough to make me draw back 
a  few inches. "He won't die!"

"Carol-Lee..." I start to argue. But suddenly I get a very odd, but 
very strong impression of whose in charge here. I'm no longer arguing 
with a little Shirley Temple whose head is full of sunshine, lollipops 
and Barbie dolls. I'm brushing up against a dark intelligence. I have 
to shake my head to clear my mind of the feeling of being overcome.

I meet Carol-Lee's stare and nod. It's pointless to fight this. I was 
already aware of some of the things she could do, but I had always 
thought Jimmy had the control over them. I can tell I'm going to have 
to rethink my plans in view of this revelation.

And immediately, I fear that Carol-Lee has caught a sense of my 
excited plans for the overthrow of the mighty Jimmy Botina. But she is 
too fascinated with the fed now, having supposedly secured my loyalty 
with her unusual power. I chew my lip nervously. This is my first 
actual encounter with her gift, and it's leaving me a little 
unsettled, unsure of my ability to control it.

But I push that thought to the back part of my mind as I realize that 
if an ignoramus like Jimmy had used her, then certainly I would have 
no problem. I would just have to proceed carefully, slowly. Hell, I've 
waited this long, I can afford to wait a little longer. I can use her 
fascination  with this man to my advantage perhaps. Go along with her 
twisted dreams. Help her with her little plan.  Make her complete the 
break with her brother. I could show her how life with me would be so 
much better than  putting up with Jimmy's tyranny. 

And-- well -- if I feathered my own nest, who could blame me? I will 
have earned my success by saving Carol-Lee from her big, bad brother.

I can be such a nice guy.

Carol-Lee is talking to me again, so I snap quickly out of my little 
daydream. She gives no indication that she knows what I've been 
thinking.

Does this mean she can put stuff in my head, but she can't take 
anything out?

Yet she seems to be picking up thoughts from the unconscious man in 
front of us. I'll have to ponder this later. I have to give her my 
complete attention now.

"His head... hurts. Brain hurts. Injury..." Carol-Lee looks at me like 
I can do something about it. Sorry, kid, I was absent the day they 
passed out the neurology degrees. But I do make the effort to check 
him out. Taking his jaw in my hand, I carefully turn his head to the 
right. Then to the left.

There it is. 

Hidden behind his slightly swollen left ear. Lost in the mass of his 
dark, rain-drenched hair. Blood and lots of it, some of it congealed 
and sticky. Some of it still trickling down the back of his slender 
neck, concealing itself in the black folds of his trench coat and 
suit.

There was a largish bump under the gash behind his ear. Presumably, 
this was the result of Gator's artistry with the brick earlier.

I prop open one eyelid, then the other, then repeat my actions just to 
be sure. One hazel eye reacts normally, the pupil tightening in on 
itself, protecting itself from the sudden onslaught of light. But the 
other, the right one, responds weakly, making only a sluggish attempt 
to react. Bad sign.

I check both his ears. No cerebral fluid leaking out. Good sign. But 
his nose is bloody, and I can't tell if that's the result of a head 
injury or his close encounter of the pugilistic kind with Gator in the 
back of the van.

"I can't tell how bad off he is, Carol-Lee. He's got some of the signs 
of a serious head injury. Are you...?" I hesitate and then put my hand 
experimentally on the man's forehead. "Are you getting some kind of 
information from him... er... somehow?"

She nods, looking at me as if to say "Doesn't everybody do this?" Then 
she turns her attention back to Special Agent Fox Mulder. She presses 
her palms gently to the fed's chest which is rising and falling in 
short, fast patterns. He moans softly, startling us both.

"Hard... to breathe... hurts...too hard to breathe," she gasps in a 
mimic of the agent's own quickened breathing. Is she feeling all his 
feelings as well? I lean forward to loosen his tie and reach under his 
bound arms to unbutton his shirt. There are a number of purpling 
bruises scattered over his chest and abdomen, probably a result of the 
battle in the van. However, there was a really ugly red mark deep 
around his left side, almost at his back. This, I was sure, was 
Jimmy's contribution. Kick a man when he's down, Jimmy. This blow to 
the ribs might have produced a few fractures, making breathing a bit 
of a chore.

Carol-Lee is still touching, exploring. She takes his head in both her 
hands again and closes her eyes.

I take this moment to look around the warehouse. I really don't want 
Jimmy to walk in on this little performance.

"His thoughts are so... so..." Her eyes fly open for a moment. "Scary! 
Too scary!" She closes her eyes again, but she seems a little nervous 
this time. This fibbi must have some spooky kind of slide-show going 
on behind those long-lashed eyelids.

"Dana. Dana Scully," Carol-Lee is whispering now.

Scully. Didn't Omar say that's the name of the red-headed woman? The 
name of this man's partner?

Then Carol-Lee gasps and looks at me, her eyes wide with wonder. "He 
knows about me!"

What? What is she talking about? I look at the fed. He hasn't moved. 
Carol-Lee's palm is pressed along the left side of his head. "What do 
you mean?"

Carol-Lee is delighted in her little-girl way again, pleased to think 
that somehow this man knew about her, was aware of her existence in a 
world where very few knew about her, or rather, were allowed to know 
about her. She pauses as if listening to something. I only hear the 
pounding of the rain on the leaky roof over our heads and the distant 
shout of the voices of the rest of the gang outside.

"He has a photo of me and Jimmy. From when we were little. From the  
children's home." Her face seems to shadow over at that thought for a 
moment.

"That's how he found Jimmy! He was looking for me!" The excitement in 
her voice died suddenly, and she looked as if she were listening 
again. She frowns and looks over at me.

"It's because of those two men Jimmy had me put to sleep," she 
whispers, as if she were going to wake the fed up if she spoke any 
louder. "That's why they know about me. That's why they're looking for 
Jimmy."

Two men that she 'put to sleep'? 

Oh-oh. I remember now. That little money laundering job in early 
September. One of the three-piece suit types that Jimmy had been 
dealing with had threatened him with exposure, cops, lawyers -- the 
whole nine yards. No one *ever* threatens Jimmy Botina! Within an 
hour, Jimmy -- with Carol-Lee in tow -- 'bumped' into this guy and his 
fancy pants lawyer at this guy's favorite watering hole. A deliberate 
coincidence on Jimmy's part, I'm sure. I wasn't there for that one, 
but I'm sure I can recount the scenario from my other experiences:

Jimmy, ever the polite little mobster, pays his respects to the Suit 
and the Lawyer, then steers himself and Carol-Lee to a nearby booth. 
He gives the waitress orders for two, and when she leaves, he gives 
Carol-Lee orders to lay out the two nicely dressed guys at the bar. 

Minutes later the two gentlemen at the bar were clutching their heads 
and falling forward in a what must look like a dead faint. Well, dead 
is right. And in all the confusion of ambulances and curiosity 
seekers, I'm sure Jimmy was able to usher Carol-Lee out of there  
unnoticed well before their food was delivered to the table.

So those deaths are probably the cogs in the gear that got this fibbi 
involved. Mysterious deaths. Two of them, side by side. In a public 
place yet.

Way to go, Jimmy. Shot yourself in your own foot. Hah! Just the kind 
of thing I wouldn't have been stupid enough to do.

What a mess! No wonder Jimmy didn't brag about that one, although I 
did know that he got a six figure bonus from one of his up-river rat 
friends for that particular money-laundering job.

If this fed and his red-headed partner were curious enough to press 
beyond the typical death certificate explanations, they probably 
hadn't found the rest of the trail to Carol-Lee and her Gangster 
Brother too hard to follow. 

There have been other such instances of mysterious deaths in our fair 
city, but largely we had confined them to other small time hoods, 
competition in our charmed circle, never anyone that the law would 
have cared about. And always, Jimmy had been able to convince 
Carol-Lee of her duty: keep Jimmy safe, keep Jimmy's livelihood 
secure.

As much as I suspected, I never realized the extent of Carol-Lee's 
talents. Jimmy had kept them well hidden.

He keeps this woman locked up in this costume and mindset of a child, 
and he keeps her away from all other influences. All the other shiny 
toys in a normal adult's life that might take her away from him: 
money, sex, TV, friends. Jimmy has told her what to think and how to 
think it for the better part of three decades. He's even taught her 
about death...

She calls it "putting them to sleep".

Maybe that's something Jimmy has convinced her of, or maybe she really 
has a murderous little soul like her brother. I can't tell. Most of 
the time, she's a simple-minded big kid but now I've seen the times 
when something seems to change behind those big, dark eyes. There's 
danger there, something tells me...

But right now she seems truly distressed. She doesn't want her 
new-found pet to be thinking bad thoughts about her. She is pressing 
both her hands to the FBI man's forehead, her lips pursed, pinched 
into a thin whitish line.

"What are you doing, Carol-Lee?"

Clearly, something is happening. The young man is moving slightly, 
putting up a weak struggle of some kind. Trying to move away, out from 
under Carol-Lee's hands. His squirming has more of an instinctual, 
defensive quality to it now. What is she doing to him?

When he begins groaning, I reach over and pull her up and away from 
him. I'm a little shook up and a little peeved. I don't understand 
what she's doing nor how she's doing it.

And I can't control what I can't understand.

"Stop it! Carol-Lee! What are you doing to him? "

She is pouting petulantly, struggling against my tight grip on her 
thin wrists. I am being very careful not to hurt her, but yet I feel I 
must be firm with her. Show her I'm capable of helping her handle this 
power of hers without using any of Jimmy's tricks and abuse. Will she 
listen, or will she cook every neuron in my brain with one of those 
lethal looks of hers? I am holding my breath, but I do not otherwise 
betray any of my frightened feelings.

Good. Thank the heavens or whatever. She seems to relax in my grip. If 
she's picking up any of my thoughts, she's certainly not inclined to 
argue with them. She's looking apologetic, actually, like a kid whose 
been caught lighting matches in the barn.

Violent retching sounds cause us both to look back at the FBI man. He 
has come around and is getting sick all over himself. Cuffed to the 
ladder as he is, he doesn't have too many options when his stomach 
decides to empty itself of its contents. He is struggling to get his 
legs under himself, trying to get to his knees, when another attack of 
nausea overcomes him.

Son of a bitch!

This time I'm not fast enough to get myself out of the way. My new 
jeans! Ruined! I jump back and for one nasty moment, I think death by 
fire just might be too merciful for this guy.

"Oh, he can't help it," Carol Lee is cooing as she is combing back his 
hair from his sweaty brow. He does look miserable, I remind myself, 
and I'm sure Carol-Lee wouldn't appreciate any acts of aggression 
against him right now.

He's awake, but, I don't know...  Something just doesn't seem right. 
He's silent, moving his eyes listlessly from Carol-Lee to me.

Whoa. Lights are on, but no one's home in Agent Mulder's head. Is this 
the head injury, or is this Carol-Lee's handiwork?

"D-Did you do something to him?," I ask again. Calmly this time. I 
really need to know what she's done. 

Carol-Lee is smiling at her new charge. Gone is the Barbie doll; she's 
got a life-size Ken doll to play with now. 

Without looking at me, she nods  and answers, enormously pleased with 
herself. "I buried his memories for him. There was too much. Too 
scary. Too sad. He'll be okay, Joey. You'll see. Will you help me hide 
him from Jimmy?"

WHAT??

Still careful to avoid the spatters of vomit, I kneel back down beside 
Carol-Lee and try to make eye contact with her. I need to know that 
she is listening to me. "You can't just hide a full grown man, Carol- 
Lee, much less one that comes equipped with a government ID! And 
you're forgetting that your brother is expecting this guy's body to 
turn up on tomorrow' evening news."

That fierce determined look is back again. It sure frightens me the 
way she can switch personalities like this. "So?," she hisses. "Then a 
body will turn up on the news." 

She turns to look significantly at the lone figure that just returned 
to the warehouse interior.

I feel almost forced to drag my eyes along the path of her gaze. She 
is staring at Mickey as he struggles with two heavy crates. I feel a 
precipitous drop in my gut. She wants me to substitute Mickey for 
Mulder. Charred remains would be hard to identify if I could throw in 
enough red herrings. Mickey was about Mulder's height and build. And 
coloring. Dressed out  in the fibbi's clothes, with the fibbi's 
wallet, holster and other stuff on him, maybe they would just 
figure...

Wait a minute! I'm not a philosopher when it comes to killing my 
fellow man, obviously. What's really bugging me is the ease with which 
this plan is forming in my mind. 

I steal a glance at Carol-Lee. Could this be some more of her 
manipulation? Who would be controlling whom? It's a bothersome 
question, and it will need further exploration, but for now, the plan 
is a means to an end. An ending of MY design, so, sure -- I can 
indulge little Carol-Lee for now.

So, now I'm committed to a rather elaborate scheme. Murder Mickey. 
Burn his body in the van in this warehouse. Kidnap this fed from his 
kidnappers. Find a hiding place and watch and wait to see if Carol-Lee 
will favor me with her trust after all this. Or will I be left holding 
the proverbial bag? Murder, Kidnapping a Federal Agent, Arson -- and a 
long list of sins and minor offenses that mark high points in my 
criminal career. If convicted, people would think I was some kind of 
common thug. 

I shudder.

I have to take a chance on this Carol-Lee thing. It is my only chance 
at solid career advancement.

"Carol-Lee! Where in the hell are you? Carol-Lee! Get over here! NOW!" 
We both heard Jimmy's caterwauling from outside. He is probably ready 
to leave, and he would not make the mistake of leaving her behind.

I take a deep breath and look at her. She gives the agent's face a 
final soft stroke, and his eyes follow her as she gets to her feet. He 
still looks a bit lost. I don't expect that's going to improve.

"Carol-Lee, do you know where Dante's Steakhouse is in my 
neighborhood?" I ask her quickly as the last part of the plan falls 
into place.

She nods.

"Can you get away from Jimmy tomorrow around lunch time?"

She shrugs and nods.

"Meet me there. I'll buy you lunch, and I'll show you the set-up. You 
can make whatever changes you want after that."

She smiles. I had said just the right thing, apparently.

Odd. 

She gives her FBI agent one last look, then turns and walks quickly 
away. Mulder is watching her leave, a troubled look on his face, but 
he has said nothing so far, and for a moment, I wonder just how much 
of his memory Carol-Lee has helped herself to.

I lean in and shake his shoulder a little. He slowly turns to me and 
stares mutely. "Hey, pal, thanks for sharing your lunch with me." I 
indicate the leg of my once-immaculate jeans. He follows my gesture 
and stares at the spatters, then looks back up at me, very slowly as 
if moving his eyes is too great an effort. He seems to understand that 
he is responsible for the stinking mess and looks genuinely 
remorseful.

I smile indulgently at him. "Hey, relax. It was a joke. You've got a 
head injury. That'll make you feel kind of seasick for awhile."

He seems to look a little greener after I said that, so I decide to 
leave well enough alone. He swallows, closes his eyes and rests his 
head in the cradle of his upstretched arms. His breath is still coming 
in fast, little wheezes, and I'm sure he doesn't feel like making 
small talk with me.

If he can even make small talk, that is. He has remained eerily 
silent. I shrug and get to my feet.

Behind us, I can hear Mickey grunting and groaning as he tugs a few 
more crates toward the door. Hard worker. Too bad. I'd rather 
substitute Gator in this complicated little switcheroo, but there is 
no way that Gator's body would ever be mistaken for Mulder's.

Good body, bad fortune, Mickey. 

Well, at least if this plan goes well and the cops don't get 
suspicious enough to go beyond the initial physical evidence I'll be 
leaving for them, you'll get a nice paid-for federal funeral out of 
it, kid. So what if you'll be spending eternity under Fox Mulder's 
headstone. 

What's in a name when it comes to the Grim Reaper?

I have to get going. Lots to do. I've got to get a few common 
accelerants. I have a favorite mix, a real sure-fire fire starter. 
Nothing too fancy. There's no time and no need to make this a work of 
art.

When I get back, everyone should be ready to go their separate ways. 
That is, until Jimmy calls our next move. That's when I'll have my 
little chat with Mickey. When we're all alone -- except for the 
prisoner, of course. 

Mickey's such a simpleton; this should be easy.

Here Mickey, Mickey, Mickey. Here, boy. Come and get it.

I smile as I head out, jangling my keys anxiously in my pocket. Damn. 
I'm going to have to clean these jeans off somehow. My whole car is 
gonna smell like puke. 

Thank you very much, Agent Mulder.

As I head toward the door, I have an uncomfortable feeling that those 
hazel eyes are watching my back, staring after me.



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

I'm getting real mad.

This little set-up is fast becoming more than I bargained for. I 
should have known that. I *would* have known that -- if not for the 
undue influence of Carol-Lee. No. I brush that thought away as I 
struggle to pull the clothes off Mickey's corpse.

She can't be controlling my head. She can't be! This is MY plan. I'M 
the one in charge. 

I AM IN CHARGE!

Yeah. 

Sure. 

Right.

I pause in my struggle long enough to look over at the fed. He's 
huddled up against a few empty crates trying to stay warm, trying to 
stay conscious, trying to stop throwing up.

Why bother? Pass out, pal. You're no help.

I had to help the Hoover Boy strip. When he wasn't even able to 
unbutton his own shirt, I wondered just how scrambled his brains were. 
But, time was of the essence, so I had to move him along to keep up 
with my schedule.

He had come awake when he heard the shot fired from his own gun. 

I had persuaded Mickey to stay behind to help me with the arson set- 
up. Mickey likes me. I mean, liked me. So he was glad to be of some 
help to me. I wish he hadn't been so obliging. I wish he hadn't been 
so eager. The look on his face, right up to the moment the fed's 
bullet went crashing through his sternum, into his heart, was pure 
surprise. I hated to be such a disappointment to him.

When I turned around to get my new charge, I was surprised to see him 
awake and on his feet, eyes wide and face as white as a sheet. You'd 
have thought a simple murder wouldn't have shook a fed. 

That is, if he even knew he was a federal agent any more.

Finally.

I pull off the last of Mickey's clothes and throw them at the fed.

"I'm not helping you this time, pal. If you don't want to freeze where 
you're sitting, you'll have to dress yourself." The snarl in my voice 
seems to have gotten his attention. "I've got to get Mickey, here, 
ready to greet the media tomorrow."

I start to pull the agent's dress shirt onto Mickey's corpse. The body 
is cooling rapidly, so I try to move a little faster, being careful to 
avoid the blood all over its chest and on the floor. No telling what 
Mickey  might have picked up in his travels on the seedier side of 
life. 

When I look up, the captive is staring at his hand, bloodied when he 
tried to pick up Mickey's mangled Steelers sweatshirt. He looks like 
he's going to get sick again.

"Hey! Pal!" I whistle sharply to snap him out of his trance. He jumps 
a little and turns his stare on me. "Forget the sweatshirt! Just get 
into the jacket and jeans. The shoes will probably be too small for 
you, but you had better put the socks on." He nods and gingerly pulls 
Mickey's worn leather bomber jacket on. He is slowly untangling his 
long legs out from under himself as I turn back to my macabre task.

There. Done. Mickey the FBI Agent.

As I struggle to get the shoulder holster in place, I am aware of the 
real FBI Agent standing over the body. I look up to see him studying 
Mickey's corpse with intensity. As I rise to my feet and look down at 
the body, I guess I know why it fascinates him so.

Dressed in the fed's clothing, Mickey is a credible copy of the man 
beside me. I could tell he was studying the corpse, looking as if he 
were trying very hard to remember something. He has still not said one 
word, has not asked one question. It's clear that his memory has been 
wiped clean. He doesn't seem to be making any progress in 
understanding his situation.

Which, perhaps makes him easier to handle, but suddenly, with him 
standing there next to me, I don't feel as safe as I did when he was 
cuffed to the ladder.

I reach down and catch one of the handcuff bracelets left hanging from 
his wrist. When I have his attention, I motion toward the ladder. He 
does not resist as I push him toward the wall. He's got to be cuffed 
while I do the last of my walk-arounds of the warehouse, checking my 
fire traps and making sure there are no potential witnesses lurking 
about in the dark. 

It is well past two a.m., and the rain has turned to sleet.

No one around. Good. I think the fire will need at least thirty 
minutes to burn without the intervention of Pittsburgh's fire 
department. By that time, the whole building will have been an 
inferno, and they'll all have to wait until things cool down before 
they can play 'CLUE' with what I'll be leaving behind.

Right. Time to get moving. I'm tired, and this has already taken an 
hour more than I planned.

The fibbi is crouched to the floor again, his head resting in his 
arms. He doesn't even look up when I drag the body into the van. I 
stoop to pour a measure of acid into Mickey's mouth and then sprinkle 
it over the dead baby-face. Hopefully, this last minute idea will slow 
up identification of dental work.

I hastily sprinkle the last of the gasoline over the body and splash 
the back end of the van just for good measure. Making sure that I'm 
free of any fire-attracting petrol, I light my ancient Zippo. And in a 
grand gesture, I toss the lighter and flame onto Mickey's well- 
dressed corpse.

Fire is a living thing, I think. I never fail to pause a few moments 
to worship before its altar, watching as it runs, jumps, races to 
enjoin everything it can into its greedy grasp. And it talks, too! I 
swear I can hear it in the whoosh, whisper and tiny explosions that 
reach out along the trails I laid for it.

What the hell...? What's all the other noise?

There is the mad clanging and the groan of metal twisting from the 
wall behind me. I whirl around and see the fed as animated as I have 
ever seen him. The wildcat from the van is back! Only this time, the 
cat's not angry... 

It's scared out of its wits.

Special Agent Mulder is wrenching at the metal that is holding him. He 
is in the throes of open-mouthed horror, looking right past me, into 
the van, at the corpse in its fiery funeral pyre. In his fright, my 
hostage is actually tearing himself free. The rusty rung of the ladder 
disintegrates under the force of his pulling, and he falls as I start 
forward to grab him.

I catch him just as he gets his feet under him, and I ride him back 
down to the floor. With my knee pressed into his spine and a handful 
of hair I've grabbed to pin his head down, the fed is pretty much 
immobilized. 

I think.

But I can still feel him squirming, struggling against my weight. 
Absolutely amazing! Such is the power of terror. I didn't expect him 
to have this much fight left. He has to be running on pure adrenaline.

"Calm down, pal! Calm down. Stop your struggling!" 

This was like trying to stay on top of a Brahma bull in the Calgary 
Rodeo.

I tighten down on him, leaning over to hiss directly into his ear: "I 
said: calm down! As soon as you stop your fighting, we can get out of 
here."

I don't know if he hears me over the roar of the flames and his own 
noisy breathing, but he seems to weaken just then. I pat his shoulder 
in a brotherly gesture and smile, even though he still isn't looking 
at me.

No, for sure, the only thing he's looking at is a vision of himself in 
hell.

"Okay. Nice and easy. I'm going to help you up, and I don't want you 
trying to run off. You'll be okay if you just calm down and do as I 
tell you." 

He is still staring at the burning corpse, but he seems to be paying 
attention to me, too. I lift myself off of him, cautiously, in case he 
spooks again, and I have to restrain him.

But he rises easily as I pull him to his feet and face him to the 
door, away from the growing tempest of heat in the center of the 
warehouse. I hustle him toward the exit. The fire is spreading rapidly 
enough that we could easily be cut off from our one and only way out.

I guess I didn't even realize how oppressive the fire had become until 
we burst into the cold wet weather outside. The fibbi is sucking air 
like a drowning man, and for a moment, I have a problem keeping him on 
his feet as we move toward my car. 

I unlock the trunk and throw the lid open. "Sorry, pal. You'll be 
traveling coach. First class is reserved for passengers that I can 
count on. You know -- the ones that won't throw up on me, bleed on the 
leather seats or try to strangle me when I'm driving." 

I smile brilliantly at him and indicate his assigned seating.

He looks utterly defeated now. Wet. Sick. Exhausted. I guess he's had 
a long day, too. With a little assistance from me, he settles into the 
cramped space of my trunk. I slam the lid shut and race to get in the 
driver's seat, to start the engine, and to put some distance between 
me and this old warehouse.

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

Damn. It's past three o'clock in the morning. My street is dark when I 
finally pull into my parking spot in front of the old two-story row 
house that I call home. 

I own it. I've owned it for the past three years actually. Bought it 
with the money from my first big job with Jimmy Botina. Not as fancy 
as his downtown lofts with views of the Allegheny River, but it suits 
me fine. Old neighborhood. And the neighbors all mind their own 
business.

I had converted the whole bottom floor to a large one bedroom 
apartment for myself. There was enough left upstairs to make a kind of 
efficiency apartment that I've rented to some middle aged merchant 
marine who goes sailing for months at a time. And when he is home, he 
just quietly sits up there, drinking himself into a stupor.

Like I said, suits me fine. No one knows me. No one bothers me.

My houseguest is docile enough now. Pain, cold and exhaustion seem to 
have taken their toll from him. He needs a bit of help getting up to 
my front door as the steps are all iced over with sleet and he is 
still unsteady on his feet. I hope that if anyone is awake at this 
hour to witness our trek up the steep steps that we will only look 
like a couple of drunks helping each other home.

He stands quietly by my side as I fumble with my keys in the hallway. 
Once inside, I push him ahead of me through my living room which is 
lit with the blue flickering light of my television and my aquarium. I 
like to keep the television on, even while I'm gone, a habit I picked 
up years ago.

Down the hall to my kitchen. He stops in the dim light shining from 
the fixture over my stove and looks at me quizzically. I smile at him 
and throw open the basement door. He looks at the steps, one or two 
descending sharply downward and then swallowed by inky black shadows.

"Come on, pal. You've got the presidential suite. Down there." I 
motion into the darkness. I know I'm going to have to get a 
flashlight; the lights down there haven't worked since just after 
Thomas Edison invented the light bulb. 

I generally avoid going down into that basement. I hate the way it 
smells -- like oldness and rot and dampness. I've often imagined 
that's the way a grave must smell.

Anyway, I've never liked basements and so, while the rest of my 
apartment is neatly kept, the basement has gone ignored.

As I am unwilling to give up my bed or couch to Carol-Lee's FBI agent, 
he'll just have to bunk down in the old coal cellar in the back.

At least he has the courage to go down about four steps into the dark, 
but when he almost stumbles in the blackness, he turns his face back 
up to me with something like panic in his eyes. 

I shouldn't toy with him like this. Carol-Lee might not like it.

And immediately, that thought makes me a bit resentful toward the man 
below me.

But I reach around the door and grab the big flashlight I have hanging 
there and snap it on, illuminating the rest of the old stairway for 
him. He continues down, clutching the rickety rail. I wait until he 
gets to the bottom before I follow him. My gas furnace comes suddenly 
alive as the heater kicks on. The sudden noise and soft flood of blue 
light from the furnace flame cause the fibbi to jump. I laugh as I 
come up alongside of him and take his elbow to steer him to the back 
of the basement.

The cellar has walls blackened by years of coal dust, from coal 
deliveries made through a chute from the alleyway. The antique furnace 
had gone the way of coal wagons as electric and gas heat became safe, 
clean alternatives. My coal room had been swept clean by previous 
owners, but the black, stained walls and the bricked-up hole for the 
delivery chute would always be reminders of its past.

I had pressed it into service as a storage room. I had gutted an old 
passenger van I had when I moved here from Chicago, just before I met 
Jimmy Botina and decided to pursue interests other than the refitting 
of ancient cargo vans. The old van's back seat bench and two front 
bucket seats were still down here, hidden in the shadows.

The beam of my flashlight fell on the old passenger bench from my 
long-gone '76 Chevy van. I lean over the seat, running my hand along 
the underside, looking for one of the structural support bars. 

"C'mere, pal." I motion the fed to my side, and he kneels obediently 
next to me. I unlock the bracelet from his right wrist and secure it 
to the metal bar under the van seat. I smile again at him, 
reassuringly, as I pat the dusty vinyl surface of the seat. "Just a 
little security measure. You'll be fine. Just lie down and get some 
shut-eye, okay?"

He couldn't answer me if he wanted to. His teeth are chattering so 
hard I can hear them. I chew my lip and reconsider the sleeping 
arrangement. It wouldn't do for Carol-Lee to come here tomorrow and 
find a frozen corpse.

I sigh with resignation. "Look... Just sit here for a moment, okay? 
I'll be right back."

I carefully make my way back up the dark stairs to gather a few old 
couch pillows and to pull my ancient sleeping bag from the closet in 
the hallway. As I make my way back down to my guest, I am silently 
cursing him, cursing Carol-Lee, and cursing myself for getting this 
deeply involved in such a stupid scheme.

The fed is too sick and too tired to even look grateful that I am 
extending such hospitality to him. His eyes are slipping shut even as 
I pull the musty-smelling sleeping bag around him. 

His breathing is still labored, which I expect if Jimmy had cracked a 
few of his ribs. But the breathing sounds a bit wet, too -- kind of 
wheezy.

I pause just a moment to shine the flashlight beam onto his face. 
Beneath the accumulated grime from his adventures today, he is ghostly 
pale. Under his almost closed eyelids, those chameleon-like hazel eyes 
look unnaturally glassy. I touch my hand to his forehead. As much as 
he is shivering, his body seems to be generating a lot of heat. 

I shake my head. Carol-Lee is going to have her hands full with this 
one. Hope he keeps her happy. If he lives, that is.

I make my way out of the damp, grave-like basement. As I close the 
door at the top of the steps, I make sure to turn the skeleton key in 
the lock, and, after a second thought, I hide the key in a cupboard 
over the stove, tossing in his government-issued gun and his fibbi ID.

One last shudder throws off the chill I've been feeling. As I stand in 
the glow of light from my refrigerator, looking for a beer, I try to 
force thoughts of today's events to the back of my mind. But, I am 
feeling far too much tension. There are still too many unknowns ahead 
of me. And I began to feel the old anxiety well up in me, icing over 
my gut.

I grab a long neck Corona  and slam the refrigerator shut. A single 
beer is just not going to cut it. I head to my bedroom to search 
through my stash of pharmaceutical courage -- uppers, downers, a 
collection that would make most doctors pale. Jimmy is nothing if not 
generous with his drug connections. One of our little company's 
benefit packages.

I choose two of my favorites with the thought in mind that I would 
have to be up in three or four hours, bright eyed and bushy tailed, to 
go back to the warehouse and review my handiwork.

I down the capsules and chug my beer as I make my way to the living 
room and flop down on my leather couch, waiting for dreamless sleep to 
overcome the drone of Carol-Lee's voice in my head, the vision of 
Mickey's face as I pulled the trigger, and the dark stare of Special 
Agent Fox Mulder's eyes...

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

I come awake to the sunny visages of the Eyewitness News Team on the 
Early Morning Report. A tiny blonde, chosen, I expect, for how many 
teeth she could reveal in a smile rather than her journalistic 
ability, is brightly relating the story of a warehouse fire found just 
a few hours ago. She makes no mention of the van or body. I'm sure 
that discovery hasn't been made yet. It would be soon.

The film they are showing makes my fire look like hell itself. I'm 
even a bit surprised. I give myself a mental pat on the back, rub the 
red-blond stubble of a beard that had sprouted over the last twenty- 
four hours, and get up to head for the shower. I need to face this day 
fresh.

Dressed and ready to go out the door, I take a minute to substitute a 
couple of lines of coke for breakfast. I tell myself I don't have time 
for real food, and besides, I need to super-charge my brain cells for 
today.

I close my eyes as I feel the first rush of cold, pure energy speeding 
through my skull and racing down my spine, wrapping my nerves in steel 
and transforming me into Superman. I smile to myself at the thought of 
revisiting the scene of last night's crime; there will be the extra 
pleasure of standing there, anonymous among the crowd of lawmen, 
firemen, media and curiosity seekers. While all about me speculate 
about who, what, when, where, why and how, I will be standing there 
with all the answers taking great joy in their useless, ant-like 
scramble for clues.

I check my look in the mirror again. In my pressed jeans, white dress 
shirt, sweater and tweed sports coat, I can easily blend into the pack 
of reporters that are sure to swarm around by the time they find the 
van and Mickey, the fake dead fed.

Ooops. The Fed.

I almost forgot about my houseguest. I grab the flashlight and head 
down into the basement. The black shadows are growing gray as the 
early morning light struggles through some of the painted-over 
windows. 

Light is unwelcome down here; it is never truly day.

I ease open the old wooden door to the coal room and stand in the 
doorway for a moment, dancing the beam of the flashlight over the 
prone figure at the far wall. He is huddled deep into the sleeping 
bag, his face hidden from my view.

Special Agent Fox Mulder is still alive, though. From where I stand, I 
can hear his quick breathing, punctuated with small, tight coughs that 
seem to shake his whole body.

"Hey! Pal! You awake?"

He lifts his face up and looks right into the beam of my light. His 
eyes glitter with fever. He looks miserable. Even so, he struggles to 
sit up, gingerly holding the back of his head with his free hand. This 
is almost too painful for me to watch.

He looks around the rest of his black-walled prison illuminated by my 
light. He pulls impatiently at the handcuffs as if not remembering how 
they got there, and then turns his shining eyes back on me.

I sigh and walk over to one of the old vinyl bucket seats. I wipe it 
carefully before sitting down, close to the fibbi, but just out of 
reach, in case he suddenly decides to become that wildcat again.

"Were you able to get any sleep here at 'Chez Joey'?," I ask him, 
wondering if he's found his tongue yet.

Apparently not. He just stares at me, swaying slightly in his effort 
to stay sitting upright. No answer.

I sigh and straighten up, stretching as I stand. "Well, then, I guess 
you don't have any complaints for the management. Just as well. The 
management hates complaints." I reach over and ruffle his dark hair in 
mock playfulness. He winces and pulls back.

"You're on your own for a few hours, pal. I've got to keep several 
appointments today. And I think I'll be able to bring your warden, 
Carol-Lee, down to see you." I frown and turn to leave. "Anyway, she'd 
better come to see you. I'm not playing nursemaid to any..."

"Water."

There it was! A whisper so low, it may have been spirits talking for 
all I knew. I turn back to stare at my guest in astonishment.

"Did I hear you say something?"

He bowed his head and nodded weakly. "Water. Please."

So, he *can* talk! I crouch in front of him, shining the light into 
his face. He cringes and turns away, raising his free hand to block 
the glare of the light.

I smile without really knowing why. Oddly, I am genuinely happy that 
this guy can talk! I suppose the thought that Carol-Lee might have had 
the power to take just about every sentient thought and function  from 
this fellow's brain bothered me more than I knew. 

After all, if she could do it to him, she could do it to me.

I shook my head. No. Not possible. This is just the result of a bad 
head injury.

"Water. Can I please have water?" He is asking again. His voice is 
weak, shaky.

"Sure, pal, sure. I'll be back in a moment with your water."

As I get up and head back to my kitchen, I realize that I'm going to 
have to be careful with this Carol-Lee plan of mine. There persists a 
feeling that there is much more to Jimmy's little sister than I had 
thought originally. This captive agent is like my guinea pig. I'll 
watch Carol-Lee and how she interacts with him. Maybe she'll continue 
to expose her power; maybe I'll be able to learn and to understand how 
it works. That's important, I tell myself, because understanding means 
*control*.

I wonder how much danger I might be exposing myself to, and suddenly, 
I feel like the male spider courting the female Black Widow. It could 
be that I will be successful in my courtship only to find myself eaten 
alive soon. 

I shudder again as I feel the now familiar chill creep over me.

As I fill a large plastic tumbler with tap water, I look into my 
living room. The news-on-the-hour is showing the warehouse again. The 
fire is under control, and the pretty reporter in the foreground has 
assumed a patented serious look that indicates that she does, indeed, 
have grim news for all of us out here in viewer-land. I snap the tap 
water off to be able to hear the report.

"...just discovered. The body is rumored to be that of an FBI agent 
missing from a raid last night in the downtown district. Details are 
sketchy at this point, Marla. I'm sure we'll have an update for 
everyone by the noon report." Sunny smile. Now, back to you -- and 
merrily on to the report on a spelling bee at a local grade school.

Well, so far, so good.

I start to head downstairs with the room service request for my guest. 
I turn back as another thought occurs to me. Maybe my house guest 
would like to clean up a little. I wet a kitchen towel and wring it 
out until it is just damp. Damn. I'm such a nice guy.

I toss the damp towel to him as I come into the room. He is much more 
interested in the tumbler of water in my hand, however.

"Wash up, first." My order sounds a bit imperious, even to me. But the 
man obeys, all the while his eyes flicking between my face and the 
glass of water I hold just out of his reach.

Well, he looks a little better any way. He needs a shower and a shave, 
but at least the streaks of blood and grime are gone. With a nod of 
approval and a generous smile, I offer him the tumbler. He takes it, 
but he's shaking so badly that nearly half of it is spilled before I 
can help him steady it at his lips. He gulps and swallows.

Too quickly.

"Slow down! Take it easy, pal, or you'll..." 

Too late.

He is soon wracked by a fierce fit of coughing and gagging that must 
really hurt.

I struggle to keep him sitting up so he won't choke. After too many 
minutes, he seems to get his breathing under control. He moans and 
leans heavily into me. I slide him back down to rest on the seat, but 
I'm not gentle about it. This is getting on my nerves. I pull the 
sleeping bag over him roughly.

"That was kind of stupid, don't you think?" I snap at him as I brush 
water off my sport coat. He groans but does not open his eyes. "Look, 
pal, I'm late getting out of here. I'll be back in several hours. Stay 
put. No funny stuff while I'm gone, you hear?"

Who knows if he hears me now? He certainly doesn't give me any 
indication that he has heard. I grab the tumbler and leave, this time 
bolting the coal room door as well as locking the basement door. No 
one gets in; no one gets out.

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