I should take more time thinking this over. I should be paying more attention to that little voice in the back of my head that's been trying to tell me something ever since the night this craziness began. But it's like that little voice is unintelligible. I mean, I know it's screaming something at me, trying to get me to pay attention to some problem with all this, but I just can't seem to focus in... I look back at Carol-Lee. She is looking at me, too. Unreadable. I sigh with resignation. Maybe this is for the best. Maybe this is how I keep firming up the pact with Carol-Lee. All it takes is sharing a little assassination with her. And Mickey's murder. And Mulder's kidnapping. And some shoplifting. And a daylight drug store robbery. Is this the 'career advancement' I've been expecting? But just as soon as that depressing thought came into my mind, it disappeared. Replaced by the vision of Jimmy Botina's steady decline, eclipsed by my own rising star. I turn back to Jimmy with a wide, brotherly smile on my face. "Sure thing, Jimmy. I agree that we have to act now or things are going to get worse, fast. I'll leave with Carol-Lee right now, but we won't be back until this evening." Jimmy's eyes went round with panic. "Why? I...I can't hang around here that long! I've got to find another place for the night!" "Just calm down! Go about your business... Carol-Lee will be safe with me. Tell you what...she can even stay with me until you find a safe house to..." Shit! What's wrong with my head? I *don't* want another houseguest! I'm one over my tolerance limit as is! And now -- Carol-Lee? That's it. This is Carol-Lee's little magic act, again. But I don't even have a chance to show her that I'm displeased with this arrangement. Because I'm not the only one who's upset. "NO!" Jimmy's roar was part anger, but I could see the fear in his eyes, too. "You can't just drag her around Pittsburgh with you, Jimmy!," I hiss into his face, taking advantage of that part of him that was afraid. And that fear must be a bigger part of what he is feeling than I realize, because he backs off quickly, looking like a man on the verge of a nervous break down. "I don't like this, Joey. I don't like it at all." Yeah, well, neither do I, buddy-boy, neither do I. But he's already resigned to it. Hell, we're both resigned to it! Carol-Lee is watching our little exchange, of course. Without one word from Joey, she jumps off the bed and starts gathering her things into her worn suitcase. Jimmy's face is a kaleidoscope of emotions as he watches her. He finally turns to me, anger back on his face. "Stay away from her, Gauthier. I don't want you messin' with her!" I manage to look equally angry and indignant. "Get real, Jimmy. She's like a kid! I've got better resources than..." He grabs my coat lapels and slams me up against the wall. Ooo-kay. *Now* I'm getting real mad... "I don't give a good goddamn about your 'resources'!" he growls. "Just see to it that she stays..." He pauses. As if he forgot what he was going to say next. And then he gently releases me, brushing my coat apologetically. Carol-Lee is right behind him, staring. "I'm sorry, Joey. I know you'll watch after her. I suppose this is the best thing for a few days. Just see to the Gator problem for me. Please." I snap my coat back into place and push past him to grab Carol- Lee's suitcase. "Sure thing, bossman! *Whatever* you say." I take Carol-Lee's hand in mine and head for the door. My gaze falls on Omar as I open the door for her. I turn back to Jimmy. "And I don't want the Bozo Brothers snooping around in my neighborhood, either! Understood?" Jimmy just nods, already looking like a defeated man. "Hey! Carol- Lee?," he calls after her softly, but she is already out the door and headed to my car. I look back at him and shrug, closing the door firmly behind me. Just as I'm getting into my car, Fernando plants his foot on my front bumper, looking between Carol-Lee and me. He has the same weasel-like, pock marked face as his brother. "Don't do that," I start to growl at him. He takes his foot off my car with deliberate slowness and exhales a narrow stream of cigarette smoke from his nostrils. "Just wonderin' if you knew where Mickey went to, Joey. You was the last to see 'im at the warehouse. Omar and me -- we ain't heard from him. He don't answer at his apartment." I lean over my open car door, making sure the contempt I'm feeling for this idiot is easily readable on my face. "He told me he was headed to the red light district with his wad of cash. Kind of stupid, don't you think? Probably got himself rolled by a hooker and her pimp. Watch the obituaries column for news of Mickey." "Sure. We'll be watchin'. Sure we will." Huh? A cryptic remark from this idiot? I'd like to take the time to wipe that sardonic grin off his scrawny face, but think the better of it. I transfer my anger to the gas pedal and peel out of the parking lot. Just Carol-Lee and me...off to pay a little visit to Gator at the police palace. Carol-Lee is smiling beatifically. "When we get to the apartment, can I put some lipstick on, Joey? Maybe the one you picked out for me?" So shy. So coy. "Uh...well, sure, Carol-Lee. You don't have to get my permission. I think it'll look great on you." I glance sideways at her, just a bit disconcerted. Does she realize what our errand is for this morning? Jimmy said she knows what to do. Is it possible for her to be this disconnected from the task? I shake my head. Priorities. Priorities. Murder first, then the lipstick, Carol-Lee, and don't forget your G.I. Fox doll. * * * * * * * * * * * * I had no idea how I was going to proceed with this. At least we'd made it through the metal detector. I never carry hardware and Carol-Lee...? Well, I guess, Carol-Lee was a *walking* weapon, wasn't she? I mean, it wasn't like waltzing up to an information booth at a hospital and asking where I might find patient so-and-so. Nope. In fact, the one-armed desk sergeant we had approached looked like he was going to be more inclined to book us than help us find our murder-victim-to-be. The desk sergeant had hardly glanced at us. He was busying himself with the clips on some badges when I approached his desk. When I had cleared my throat nervously, he looked up and smiled Like I was some kind of visiting dignitary or something! "There you are," he had proclaimed as he handed me two visitor badges. What was this? Open House Day? I had passed one of the badges to Carol-Lee, and noticed that she had seemed to fix her concentration on the desk-jockey cop. Oh. I should have known. Maybe this wasn't going to be too hard after all. And before I had started to worry again about how I was going to find "Gator" No-Last-Name, the cop was chatting again. "You'll find Mr. Aaron Hempless' interrogation has just begun. Second floor. Detective squad room is the third door on the left." Who was Mr. Aaron Hempless? Right. I guess I never knew the jackass' real name. So that bit of information must have been provided direct to my brain from Carol-Lee. I was a bit uneasy with the fact that I was becoming used to the *feeling* of that voice in my head. At any rate, that's how we came to the busy squad room upstairs just minutes later. And I had that same eerie feeling that I had at the drug store, walking unnoticed through the din of several dozen people. Phones ringing, typewriters clacking, detectives huddled in small teams, discussing matters of import over tightly-gripped coffee cups. And, sub-audibly, Muzak playing... What was it?..."The Green, Green Grass of Home"? "Hang Down Your Head Tom Dooley"? "Folsom Prison Blues"? Nice touch. Surly Perpetrators. Grumpy Lawyers. Aggravated Cops. Stale Doughnuts. Burnt Coffee. Accusations made in loud voices. Deals made in soft voices. All in all, a real pleasant working environment. Well, we're here! I get the feeling that if I leaped up on a desk and shouted our arrival, no one would really take notice. What a rush! So where's our hapless Gator? I have to scan the room twice before I notice him in a glassed-in office to the back. He's surrounded by several detective types, two of whom I recognize as Delaney and Garrison, a tailored-suit type that must be his lawyer, and... I have to hold my breath. It's the lovely Special Agent Dana Scully. Oh. And her boss, Skinner. Thankfully, he's got his back to me. Agent Scully is standing at an angle to the rest of the group, so I can only see her in profile. The two of them are standing apart from the rest of the group, apparently letting the local PD grind their ax with ol' Gator first. Gator is sitting at a table, holding his misshapen head in his meaty hands, silent while his lawyer appears to be doing verbal battle with the detectives. He is the picture of misery. That is, until he looks up and spots me through the window, standing at the door of the squad room. He begins to flash a relieved smile, like I'm the one who's going to take him away from all this. I guess I am, in a way. I shake my head and feign a sad face at him before I step aside to reveal Carol-Lee just behind me. Gator starts at the sight of her, his face going leaden gray. He begins to rise from his chair. He looks as if he's about to scream. And just as the cops and the lawyer and Assistant Director Skinner all leap to restrain him, his face purples up and begins gushing blood all over them. I am stunned. In those slo-mo seconds, in which all hell breaks loose, I am aware of one other person who seems to know what's really going on. I see Special Agent Dana Scully's lovely head turn sharply, and she appears to be scanning the crowd in the squad room. I can tell she has spotted Carol-Lee. She knows about Carol-Lee. She knows because Mulder knew, too. I push Carol-Lee out the door, out of sight, hopefully out of mind. But a quick glance over my shoulder reveals Agent Scully battling to get through the crowd that had gathered in front of that office. She's trying to follow us. She is shouting something to someone. Skinner, maybe? But I don't have time to care. Like a bee hive that's been kicked out of a tall tree, the cop shop is coming alive with activity. Lots of shouting, lots of unintelligible pages over the intercom, lots of people pouring into the squad room to gawk. We pass a couple of cops carrying resuscitation gear. I suppress the urge to tell them it's too late as I follow Carol-Lee down to the lobby. I am nervous, but we do not leave hurriedly. No one seems to have any interest in us, and I have to keep telling myself to remain calm. But, by the time we get to the car, I find myself unable to turn the key for a few moments. I'm that shook up! Carol-Lee is just sitting beside me, regarding me with...what? Curiosity? Disgust? Anything? I can hear the pop and snap of her bubblegum. She says nothing for the first few moments. Finally, she puts her tiny hand over my shaking hand as it grips the steering wheel. "C'mon, Joey," she says sweetly. "Let's go. I really want to try some of that lipstick." I give up. There is no way to comprehend this! "Okay, Carol-Lee. Okay," I gasp out after allowing myself a breath. I fire up the engine and pull away from the station just as I see an ambulance pulling in, lights rolling, no siren. Nice response time, guys. However, no need to rush for Gator now. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Carol-Lee skips up the steps ahead of me and stands at the door, bouncing on the balls of her feet as I slowly follow her. I'm juggling my keys for the house with her suitcase. I finally have to put the suitcase down in order to free up my hands to open the door. Carol-Lee bolts ahead of me -- and runs directly into my apartment. WHA...? My apartment door is gaping open into the hallway! I *know* that I had closed and locked it! How in the hell did it get opened? I enter the lobby cautiously, warily keeping the outside door unlocked just in case I need to make a quick exit. Every sense in my body is singing, on edge. And except for Carol-Lee's footsteps inside of my apartment, everything is too, too quiet... "Carol-Lee?" I call out quietly, hoping she'll hear me. Hoping she'll pick upon the fact that there is something dangerous here. I inch toward my open door. "Carol-Lee? Come back out here, princess. Come..." The door rockets past my face, slamming shut, rattling on its hinges, shuddering in its frame. And behind that door, sitting, braced in a corner, with his gun gripped in both his hands and pointed at my chest is that wunderkind/wildcat, Special Agent Fox Mulder! He looks half-mad, like an escapee from an seventeenth century asylum. Sweat is pouring off him. And now that he's caught me in his little trap, he's panting like a badly-run thoroughbred. I'm frozen where I am standing, a million thoughts racing through my brain at once. Who is this guy? Houdini? How did he get loose? How did he find his gun? And WHY, if he was able to get this far, did he not make good his escape by walking straight out my lobby door to freedom on the other side? I lift my hands slowly, palms outward, showing him I am unarmed. I don't think he cares. His eyes are dark and wild with...fear? What's up here? I think I can see his hands shaking. Maybe I still have the advantage on the home court . "Hey, pal. What's the deal? Come on...it's cold out here. Don't you want to go back in where it's warm?" I keep my voice soft and calm. I smile, real big, lots of teeth. I have no idea if this is the right tack or if I'm sailing into darker waters with this guy. If he remembers who he is, I'm dead. If he doesn't remember... What difference does it make? He's still got the gun. There is a glimmer of confusion in those dark eyes. He looks past me to the lobby doorway. I wonder if he's going to make a break for it. Will I take the risk of stopping him? If I do, I might also be stopping a bullet. And if I don't, and he gains his freedom, I might lose mine. So, the great debate rages on in my head. I've come this far, have I? My choices are not choices at all. And in one brief moment of clarity, staring down the barrel of Mulder's gun, I suddenly realize that I've been living a life without choices all along. Mulder is pointing one shaking finger toward the lobby door. "It's not me. Not me." Huh? I look over my shoulder to where he is pointing. Nothing there. What is he babbling about? Is this his nightmare again? Is he 'sleepwalking'? "I can't leave. I don't want to be him." His sentence is strangled by a sob. His eyes are welling up with tears, but he does not move his gun off point. "That's not me, is it? No. Not me." My apartment door is slowly opening, and Carol-Lee appears in front of me. As she shuts the door, she follows my horrified gaze down to her missing FBI agent. Inexplicably, she seems totally oblivious to the loaded gun still held in Mulder's hand. At first, her face lights up with delight when her eyes register on Mulder. "There you are, baby..." She moves toward him, but I catch her by her elbow and pull her back out of the way. "He has his gun, Carol-Lee!" I hiss. She frowns and looks again at her FBI agent. She pulls loose from me and drops down to her knees before Mulder, shaking her head like a mother with an unruly child. His eyes are fixed on her, but his gun is still fixed on me. "No, no, no," she coos. I watch, incredulous, as she places her hand over the barrel of that gun, gently tugs it from his tight grip, and hands it back to me. When my hands close around the gun, I throw my head back and shut my eyes for a moment in relief. I feel my knees shaking. As cold as it is here in this lobby, I still feel a bead of sweat slither down the back of my neck. Score one for Mulder. This has got to be a bigger scare than I gave him. Fox Mulder, who, not five minutes before, looked every bit the deadly government agent, is now curled up in the corner. He is sobbing, hugging himself, rocking himself. And Carol-Lee is stroking his sweat-damp hair and humming softly to him. As soon as I feel my fear drain away, I feel my anger rise. I walk away from the fed and Carol-Lee and force myself to go into my apartment. What I see only fans the flames of my wrath. My bedroom is trashed. A wire hanger -- probably one I left on the bed as I was getting dressed -- was the tool the bastard used to free himself from the cuffs. Couldn't have been easy, you sly prick. And there, lying among the tangle of sheets and pillows were the two Darvon I had given him. He had palmed them! And then convinced me he was sound asleep when I left. As torn apart as my bedroom is, my kitchen surpasses that damage in spades. He had obviously spent a great deal of time in here. Probably looking for his gun. Cabinets hanging open; dishes scattered, many broken. Drawers pulled out and emptied across the floor. Our considerable cache of drugs is all but ruined: broken bottles, a sink full of soggy pills thrown together in the garbage disposal, which is now clogged. Burnt out. DOA on its peculiar overdose, compliments of my crazed houseguest, an FBI agent conducting his own private raid. A kitchen chair stands propped against the stove. The door to my not-so-secret hiding place for his gun has been torn right off the hinges. The shock over the mess and the image of Mulder on his rampage in my apartment feeds viciously into my madness. The fury I am starting to feel is becoming uncontrollable. Besides, it is becoming clearer and clearer to me that I have *no control* in this insane theater that has become my life. And, I think murderously, *Mulder* is the linchpin; the center around which all this foolishness revolves! The Fox is in *my* chicken coop and the disruption and destruction are beginning to unravel me. What was my goal here? How did I get in this deep? I am beginning to feel like someone in a trance. And who is the spell binder? Rage does not allow me to answer my questions. I head back down the hallway and out into my lobby with a dark purpose: I'm going to kill that pretty bastard with my bare hands. With little regard for the fact that Carol-Lee is there, I reach past her and wrench Special Anarchist Mulder to his feet. The first blow with my fist sends him up against the stairway banister with such a force that some of the spindles snap under his weight. I grab him again. There is a fresh cut over his right eye and to me, the sight of his blood is like a red flag waving in front of a bull. I *want* more of his blood, as if it will serve to wash away years of the anger and the frustration that I feel in this existence. Too bad, Mulder. You picked a real bad time in my life to be dropped in my path. I slam him viciously up against the wall, but he surprises me with two quick, effective uppercuts to my jaw, sending me spinning away from him. I see stars for a brief second, but I'm back on top of him in the space of a breath, pinning him to the stairs. I can hear and feel the pop of bone in his shoulder, just as he screams from the pain. I pull him forward, punching him, intent on bloodying those lips of his. There is no fight left in him. His oh-so-white teeth are stained with red. Pink-red bubbles froth from his lips and nose as he struggles to breathe against the press of my body over him. I lean in until I can see myself in his glassy eyes. And then I feel the electric tingle of fingers on the back of my neck. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * An icy draft of air is slipping up my back, past my jacket, burrowing through my shirt and sweater to chill my spine. This is the sensation that greets my first conscious thought. I hear someone carefully stepping over me as I lay here. I hear a door open. I hear it close. I lay quietly, not moving, trying to figure out where I am, what happened. I am in the lobby of my own home. That much is certain. It is dark. Hours must have passed. With a lift of my eyes and a half-turn of my head, I can see a sliver of blue light coming from the crack at the bottom of my apartment door. Canned laughter. Familiar voices. It's my television. An ancient rerun of "I Love Lucy". Lucy and Ricky. Fred and Ethel. Dead people still trapped on this plane of existence by the electronic medium, endlessly repeating aged scripts, tired plots...never learning from their mistakes. Such is the fascination of absurd theater and such is my life. But I am not inclined to lay here in the cold and dark, philosophizing on my sad condition. Time to get up and act out the next scene in this little drama of Carol-Lee's. Just wish I had had time to review the script... Jesuschristalmighty! The pain in my head! I can only roll up onto my knees. Can't go any farther. Hold my head. Press it against the cold floor. Cold helps. Still feels like a railroad spike was driven into the top of my skull. Moan. All there is to do for the moment is crouch here and moan. But even as I am struggling with the headache, I am quickly assessing my mental faculties. If Carol-Lee is the one who sent me to la-la land, she could have rewired me along the way. Nope. All systems go. Still have all these goddamned memories. Still have all these angry feelings. Still have all these unresolved conflicts. Still me, Joey Gauthier, a psychiatrist's wet dream. Why should Carol-Lee fool around with 'art'? I'm already so screwed up, she probably thinks she couldn't improve upon my condition. And that thought strikes me as so funny, that even through all my pain and groaning, I hear myself start to laugh. Laugh so hard that tears are falling in a puddle on the floor right in front of my face. I'm aware of light spilling over me, and a draft of warm air gives me a clue that someone has just opened my apartment door. I still can't quite bear to bring my head up. "Joey?" Carol-Lee's soft, girlish voice. Ricky Ricardo exploding in a frustrated barrage of Spanish on the television in the back ground. Oh-oh, Lucy...you got some "es-plainin'" to do... And so do I, I guess. So. How do I explain to her? Carol-Lee, I tried to kill your G.I. Fox doll 'cause he's ruining my life. No? How about: Carol-Lee, I tried to kill your G.I. Fox doll 'cause *you're* ruining my life? Mmmm... possibly not acceptable. Well, she'll love this one: I want to kill that bastard because my life is one big ruin and he's a constant reminder of what I could have had: the looks, the brains, the ivy league degrees, the career, the Dana Scullys in life. And I can't even have that part of you, Carol-Lee, that part I've been hoping to win over. I can't have it because of him, and if I kill him maybe this void will feel filled somehow. Oooo. That last explanation sounds true enough to be real, or is it real enough to be true? But, I sense she just ain't gonna wanna hear it, anyway. OhgodIfeellikeshit... Please! I just want to stop thinking! It hurts on every level! "Joey?" Carol-Lee, again. I suppose I should answer or something, but all I feel like doing right now is moaning, feeling sorry for myself, nursing my nuclear headache. I feel her hand on my back. "Joey?" Again. She sounds just a tad concerned. "I'm sorry I had to do that to you, Joey. I just had to stop you from hurting him, and you weren't listening to me. I can't talk to your mind when you're like that." What the hell does she mean she "can't talk to my mind" when I'm like "that"? Like what? Crazy with rage? Is rage what it takes to shield oneself from the manipulations of Carol-Lee? No wonder she didn't stop me until she could touch me physically. I just groan again and hold my head with both hands as I sit up. "You did what you had to do, Carol-Lee," I say flatly. It hurts to move my eyes. That *F*riggin' *B*astard *I*nterloper better not have destroyed my store of pain-killers, too. Carol-Lee gently brushes some of my hair out of my face. She is clearly being penitent. "I cleaned up as much as I could, Joey. I hope you like it. You know, he didn't mean to do it, Joey. He was just acting kinda crazy." I get slowly to my feet, not looking at her. I just want to be back in the warmth of my apartment. "I don't want to talk about it, Carol- Lee. I don't want to think about it, either. I have to get something for this headache." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The clock beside the television reads 6: 04. She left me laying out in that goddamned lobby for over five hours? And where is the Lord Almighty Fox? I head for my bedroom, stripping off my jacket and sweater. God! It's hot in here! I stop in the doorway, gawking. Carol-Lee has got everything cleaned up all right. She's stripped away everything that was me about the room. There are clean sheets and blankets on the bed, tucked and smoothed, picture perfect, making the whole room surreal. Three candles are burning at the bedside, casting yellow light over the very still, pale form of Fox Mulder. The place looks like some kind of shrine! He is so still and so pale amidst all those tidy blankets that I wonder at first if I actually had succeeded in killing him. Nope. No such luck. As my eyes adjust to the dimness, I can detect the fast rise and fall of his chest. And if he's naked under those sheets, I'm sure he doesn't have to worry about staying warm since Carol-Lee seems to have the heat in this apartment kicked up to the "stifle" setting. Almost to the "suffocate" setting. Well, so long, Joey's Bedroom; hello, Mulder's Shrine Room. I just sigh with resignation and toss my clothes in a heap by the closet. I have to give up caring. This is getting weirder all the time. Without comment, even though I sense Carol-Lee is waiting for me to say something, I just move on to the kitchen. It's obvious that she worked hard in here. There were very few reminders of Mulder's redecorating efforts. I think she even tried to replace the door over the stove, but the hinges have been bent beyond their intended usefulness by the Houseguest from Hell. The pharmaceutical disaster has been cleaned up. A few plastic bottles have been salvaged, but a cursory exam of the contents of each tells me that Carol-Lee has mixed them up pretty well. Interesting system, Carol-Lee -- sort by color, not by content. Certainly simplifies things. Thankfully, I spot some Fioricet in among a number of blue-colored drugs. I don't recognize what the other pills and capsules are, nor do I know what they are for. Nor do I care. The Fioricet is a godsend. By the time I down my painkillers, Carol-Lee has set the table with the few dishes I have remaining in the wake of Hurricane Mulder. She is unpacking sweet-smelling cartons of Thai take-out, probably from the restaurant a few blocks over. One of my favorites. How did she know? Maybe she took a little look-see into my head while I was out cold. After all, she had done it to Mulder at the warehouse. I shuddered. She had done some thing else to Mulder, too. Good thing? Bad thing? I'm starting to see the advantages of walking around this planet without a memory of self. Lucky guy, Mulder. The smells are telling my stomach that I'm hungry. My headache is telling my stomach that I'm not hungry. I sit at the table with Carol-Lee, feeling miserable. She is lighting candles, pouring out plum wine, smiling apprehensively at me. Something is different... I notice she's wearing one of the lipsticks. And she's tried to do something with that chopped-up hair of hers. Actually -- in this light -- she looks more like a woman than a child. A pretty woman. I can tell she's insecure about this new look, waiting to see if I will comment. But I'm not in the mood to be kind. Not in the mood to be forgiving. I'd rather discuss why I spent over five friggin' hours laying outside like forgotten garbage, Carol-Lee. So, take evasive action, Joey. "Nice job. The kitchen looks great. Thanks." I wave my hand absently, indicating the room around us. She purses her lips, registering a look of disappointment and nods her acceptance of my comment. "I just didn't want you to be mad at..." "Yeah, yeah -- I know. You didn't want me to be mad at *him*," I snort sullenly as I reach for a set of enameled chopsticks. Well, I am MAD, Carol-Lee! Mad as a hatter and you'd be crazy to think Fox Mulder and I will ever be bosom buddies. We eat in silence for the next several minutes. This contrite mood of hers will only work for me so long, so I'd better start softening up around the edges, be a little more charming. "I was right." She looks up at me with wide, brown eyes. She's a bit confused at my cryptic remark? I smile, tracing a small circle in the air with my finger, indicating her lips. "I was right about the lipstick. It does look pretty on you." She dips her eyes back down, blushing. "Thanks, Joey." She sighs and looks back toward the Mulder Shrine Room. I suppose she'd like a comment from him, too. I think it'll be awhile, Carol-Lee. I've damn well beaten the conversational chatter out of him, I'd say. I smile inwardly at the satisfying memory of the feel of my fists connecting with that pretty face of his. When I look up, Carol-Lee meets my eyes. Can she read my mind? If she can, she certainly isn't giving me any indication of it. But there is something different about her. I can't quite put my finger on it. She seems to have "matured". Not the simple-minded maturity that comes from the addition of makeup, but something more -- I don't know -- sinister? Now, with the flickering candle flame between us, I can see no trace of the twelve year old woman-child that I'd always seen her as. And even though there is a part of my mind that should see this new woman as attractive -- sexy -- there is another part of my mind that is seeing her as dangerous, evil. Carol-Lee breaks eye contact with me, returning to eating. In the half light, I think I can see a smirk again. More than puzzling me, it frightens me. Yep. This is still Carol-Lee's game, Joey. And I'm beginning to think I'd better be looking for the exit sign, but I'm so caught up in this self-destructive little drama, that I hurtle myself further into it, daring myself to be bolder. "Carol-Lee." She looks up at me, almost expectantly. Between us, the vision of the candle flame dances at her lips. An omen, Joey. But onward, I plunge... "We need to talk -- uhm -- about the future. About what's been happening. About where all this is going..." Her dark eyes do not move. I am not able to tell if she understands what I am trying to get at. I squirm mentally. The best approach may be the direct approach, but I can't resist making myself sound like some kind of white knight. "I never liked the way Jimmy treated you, Carol-Lee. I don't understand why you've allowed it. Just because he's blood-related..." Carol-Lee is shaking her head and smiling. But there is something extremely unsettling about that smile. "He's not my brother, Joey." She even giggles at this. "We're not related...by blood." She lets that last statement hang on the air. What the hell...? If not related by blood, then by what? She giggles again as she watches question after question draw over my face, unspoken. "This power, Joey...it cannot be..." She is searching for words. "I need another. Or rather, I *needed* another -- to help me control it. I think that I'll be able to change that now. I think I'm strong enough now," she says cryptically with a calculating look in her eyes. "But I was just nine years old when I found Jimmy in Allentown. My own parents were dead, and I was living with my half-dead grandmother." Her voice is sounding hard and bitter now. Seems alien to me coming from the Carol-Lee I thought I knew. "Jimmy hated his parents, too. So we made a pact. My grandmother was dead by Christmas. By an arrangement of our making, I was moved in with Jimmy's parents. They were dead by the end of March. Child welfare put us in an state-run home when we *convinced* them we shouldn't be broken up." That evil smile again. "But that didn't last long, either." My spine feels like a solid block of ice. All those bodies piling up. Together, Carol-Lee and Jimmy must have been like some juvenile Bonnie and Clyde. Murder, murder everywhere and not a suspect in sight. "How'd they die, Carol-Lee?" She's looking at me like I'm the simple-minded one now. "Who?" I swallowed, my eyes never leaving hers. "Jimmy's parents. Your grandmother. Your parents." Her face gets a little harder, and she watches me for a long time before answering, as if gauging my ability to process this new information. "I didn't get rid of my parents, Joey, if that's what you're thinking. I didn't have to. They took care of it themselves: My father was sent to the electric chair for the murder of my mother. It was his mother that took me in -- a crabby old alcoholic who hated everybody. She talked constantly of dying. I just helped -- a bit." Coy smile, again. "I knew I had some unusual powers by that time, but it wasn't until Jimmy and I met that I was able to focus them. You know, use them for a purpose. Jimmy was always better at that than me. He did all the...well, I guess, you'd say he did all the thinking for the two of us." I lean back in my chair, regarding her. The changes in her are becoming more apparent with each passing minute. Where is that little girl? I shake my head as if to clear that ludicrous thought from it. Carol-Lee was never a little girl from the sounds of it. A murderer at age nine. While I had to work at becoming a "soul-less murderer", she had been born a "murderous soul". Sounds like we are a match -- made in hell. She is smiling at me as if she has read that thought of mine and was amused by it. "What about your FBI agent?," I ask, jerking my thumb in the direction of the Shrine. "What purpose does he serve in all this?" I want to know. I *need* to know. Is she going to make Fox Mulder a permanent fixture in my life? She sighed deeply. "I chose him first, Joey. I wanted him to be the one to help me make the break from Jimmy." Make the break? What exactly was she talking about? As if hearing me, she answers, "I may need another mind, Joey. I think the power uses a kind of bridge between me and another. Because I was so much younger then, Jimmy was always in charge, and he used that to keep me in check. Now -- he has no idea how strong I've become. Even I wasn't sure. I'd never had a chance to make a connection with anyone else. He made sure of that." That last part comes out bitterly. "That night in the warehouse, when I saw Fox Mulder, I had an idea that he would be my best chance -- and I knew I could get you to help me, Joey." So. She had chosen Mulder to be her brain partner! I was just an extra on the stage! Needless to say, I am not real happy with this information. But it seems Carol-Lee knows that, too, because she reaches across the table and takes my hand in a conciliatory gesture. It's hard not to feel like a fool. "Joey?," she whispers. I force myself to look at her. I feel used and abused. I should have killed Mulder when I had the chance. Carol-Lee is smiling again. "But, Joey, it's okay! I don't think I can use him. He resists too much. He's fighting the power all the time, even now! That's what happened this afternoon. That's how he almost escaped!" She can't use her FBI agent? So what does this mean? Does this mean I'm still in the running? I stop my crazy thoughts. God, I think like some crazed sycophant waiting for whatever table scraps might be tossed my way by Carol- Lee. But, suddenly I'm not as excited about this prospect as I was awhile ago. Having Carol-Lee in my head has fast become a frightening prospect. She is squeezing my hand softly. "You've always been nice to me, Joey. And these last few days with you have been a lot more fun than the time I've spent with Jimmy. I'd like to stay with you." Odd. Here she was, discussing our future partnership, and suddenly all I can recall from the past few days are the times that little voice in the back of my head was screaming at me to bail out. I watch her hand on mine. "What about your special agent man?," I ask without looking up. "Are we going to get rid of him?" She pulls her hand away, laughing. "Well, maybe he has other uses that I'd like to explore." I scowl. I don't suppose I ever expected Carol-Lee and I to have a sexual relationship, but envisioning Mulder as her boy-toy really rubs me the wrong way. It is becoming clearer that this new partnership is shaping up under Carol-Lee's control, not mine. Once again, I'm feeling powerless, choice-less. I want to strike back. I want to feel in control. I'm going to have to take the time to think this out -- and I'm going to have to be out of Carol-Lee's range of influence when I do it. I rise hastily to my feet, careful to keep my thoughts vague in an effort to shield my real purpose. "Well, Carol-Lee, if you're ever going to have a chance at him, he's going to have to be seen by a doctor. And I happen to know just the person." She looks up at me, at first startled, then quizzical, then angry as she senses who I am talking about. "You would bring Dana Scully here?," she hisses. "Carol-Lee, think about it." I lean over the table at her. "Bringing her here would solve several of our most immediate problems. She's a doctor; he needs a doctor. You've wiped out his memory of her anyway, so he shouldn't even be able to recognize her, right? And, she's the only one still out there who knows about you and this 'power'. If I can convince her to come here for Mulder's sake, we can eliminate a number of problems at once." She nods hesitantly. I can tell she's suspicious of this eleventh hour plan of mine, but I don't allow myself to think it out any further. She's probably probing my mind even as I am speaking to her. Whatever she's picked up from me, she seems to have accepted it. She rises from the table and begins to clear the dishes without further discussion. Score one for my side. Now what's next? She is standing at the sink, running water over the dishes, looking distracted. "Do you have a plan to get her here?" Her voice is full of apprehension. Ah hah! Perhaps I've stolen a bit of control away from her with this plan. Feels good. "Not really. I haven't really thought about it until now." She looks at me over her shoulder. "Maybe I should come with you..." "No!," I respond too quickly. Calm down, Joey. "No. She knows who you are, Carol-Lee. She saw you today at the precinct station. She knows what you did. I'm sure she wouldn't put herself in danger by meeting with both of us. I need to convince her to come on her own, so to speak. And I think she will." I pick up Mulder's gun from the cupboard and reach up into the gaping hole above my stove for his ID. I fail to find it at first, but after a few moments of groping around, I could feel it at my fingertips, shoved well to the back. Gun in the waistband of my jeans. ID in my back pocket. I avoid looking at Carol-Lee. I will not look at her. I've set my course, as vague as it is. I don't think I like the corner I'm being pushed into. Maybe I can find a way to push back. She doesn't follow me down the hallway to my bedroom. Good. Fox the Fed is still sleeping quietly. As I pull my sweater and jacket back on, I watch him. He doesn't look much like his identification picture anymore. He's become a pale, porcelain thing. It occurs to me that we have both become pawns in this game of Carol-Lee's; he, unwittingly, and me, willingly. And yet she says he is *fighting* her still. He's been waging a battle with her all this time, and I've been allowing myself to be led by the nose. Time to change the rules of the game. "Going for your red-headed cavalry, pal," I whisper at him. And maybe she's my cavalry, too. I need something to upset the balance of power here. Maybe the combination of Dana Scully and Fox Mulder, together again, will be the catalyst I need. Maybe they can tell me how to deal with Carol-Lee. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I drive aimlessly for about half an hour. The Fioricet is dulling my headache. The distance is dulling my common sense. Distance from Carol-Lee, that is. When I first got in my car and heard the roar of the engine as I turned the key, I was struck by the thought that NOW would be the time to just keep driving. Escape. As I get farther and farther from my house, from our conversation in the kitchen, I also seem to get farther away from my resolve to get out from under this Carol-Lee thing. I am still aware that I am going to have to change the situation. But now I'm back to telling myself that I just have to find a way to deal with these new permutations of the Carol-Lee phenomenon. I am beginning to believe there is still a way I can be in charge of this fiasco. I will have to convince Carol-Lee that I am capable of planning a future for both of us, yet still allowing her the freedoms that Jimmy denied her. Seems workable, doesn't it? Keep her happy. Save her G.I. Fox doll. Make everything better. Take charge of the details. Think out the plans. She *needs* me. Otherwise, she'll just be lost in the world that Jimmy kept from her. Yeah. That's it... Let her play house with her FBI agent. I will be busy making the deals. Stepping into Jimmy Botina's business shoes. Finding places for us to live. Securing the future, safe from the law, enemies, and the ordinary burden of day to day life. The burden I was finding harder and harder to cope with. Right, Joey. Who needs whom? My little voice is screaming again. But I turn it off ruthlessly this time as I turn the car around and head downtown for the precinct station. I've got a date with a redhead. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The lobby of the Allegheny Parkway Hotel was pretty nondescript. Taxpayers will be relieved to know these feds are economically minded. No puttin' on the Ritz for these guys. It didn't take but an hour of my time to narrow my search for Dana Scully to this hotel. Made sense, actually. This was the hotel closest to the FBI Field Office and was only two miles away from the precinct headquarters. I had called several places, and it was the cheery clerk at the Allegheny that informed me that, yes, indeed, they had federal guests under their roof and yes, indeed,the lady agent by the name of Dana Scully had been in her room since 4:30 this afternoon. More than I needed to know, but helpful nonetheless. My only worry now is whether her boss, Assistant Director Walter Skinner, will be hovering around. That question was answered almost as soon as I walk into the lobby. I am forced to take a quick right toward the bar when I see Skinner heading at me, deep in conversation with the FBI men I had seen at the warehouse yesterday. They seem a bit chummier today. Kissed and made up, I guess. Skinner is still looking like the man in charge, though, so I'm sure that if the local yokels are toeing the line, Skinner is the fellow that drew that line. I wait in the dimness of the bar until I am sure they were well away. I watch as the three of them walk to a car at the far side of the parking lot and get in. Good sign. They are leaving together. They'll probably be gone awhile. A bubbly blonde clerk is most eager to help me at the check-in desk. But she frowns and shakes her head when I ask for Dana Scully's room number. "I can't give you that information, sir, but I'd be glad to ring her room so that you may speak with her if you like." Damn. I nod and Ms. Bubbly Blonde resumes her cheerful demeanor as she dials the room. The phone is handed to me, and like a good little hotel employee, the clerk moves a discreet distance away from me, as if afraid she might be eavesdropping on a lovers' meeting. The phone only rings once. The voice on the other end is soft with sleep, but she had to be sleeping lightly to have answered it that fast. "Yes, what is it?" Nothing else. As if she's expecting news. I smile to myself. I know she not expecting me. "Ms. Dana Scully?" Silence. Then a cautious reply, "Yes. Who is this?" "I'm down in the lobby. I'd like to speak to you." "Who is this? What do you want?" Voice of authority. But she can't quite hide the faint breathlessness I hear that tells me she is alert, nervous. This part of the game always makes me feel like the ball's in my court. "I'll introduce myself properly when you come down to meet me. I have information that I think you'd like." More silence. She's evaluating, calculating. "In regard to...?" "Please, Ms. Scully. I think you know. I need to tell you about ..." I look up to see the clerk nearby. Too close. "...about a *fox* hunt." I relax as the clerk moves to the far end of the desk again. I hear Agent Scully suck in a breath softly. "I have to get dressed. Give me ten minutes." "Sure. I'll watch for you in the back of the bar down here. Oh, and Agent Scully?" "Yes?" "I just saw your boss -- Skinner -- leave. Please don't attempt to page him or anything like that, okay? This has to be just you and me, understood?" "Yes." Her answer sounds a bit peevish. The line goes dead too quickly. I have to admit: I'm just a bit nervous. Face to face with Mulder's angelic partner. I could almost forget my purpose here, fantasizing about what she was wearing in bed, how she'll be dressed when she appears in that doorway over there. I sip idly at my gin and tonic, never letting my eyes wander away from that doorway. Don't want to miss a second of her... Business gray pantsuit. White turtleneck with a gold cross and chain at her neck. Odd combo with the almost-discreet bulge from her gun on her hip. Red hair hastily brushed, so it has a sexy wild look to it. There is still a bandage across the right temple of her forehead, but this one is smaller than the one she wore earlier. And what I thought was a cast on her wrist is actually a neatly wrapped brace. Her lovely face is grim, professional. Sigh. I lift my drink in a quiet gesture as her eyes sweep over the near- empty bar and settle on me. I resist the urge to smile at her. I can sense she will not tolerate any cockiness from me. So, as she slips into the booth across from me, I hide my pleasure behind the rim of my glass, taking a casual drink as I watch her watch me. The silence threatens to be prolonged. It is an exertion of my power if I force her to speak first. Those jeweled eyes do not lose their brilliance in this light. She is studying me, knows she has seen me somewhere. I can tell the moment she has placed me. "You were in the station this morning." She states it flatly, as a fact. No questions in this woman's mind. "You were with Carol-Lee Botina when Aaron Hempless was..." She hesitates. "When he died." "When he was murdered, you mean?" She still looks hesitant. Now I smile. "Yes, it was murder, but apparently, you are still struggling with the concept. How could Gator have been murdered in front of a room full of cops? The answer to that would sure sound funny on the witness stand, wouldn't it, Agent Scully? That is, if it would even get to the witness stand stage. I mean, I suspect it would be hard to prove." I take another drink. She looks a bit miffed. "Arson, kidnapping of a federal agent and a very real murder-by-gun will be much easier to prosecute, Mister....?" She arches one lovely eyebrow up, daring me to be truthful. I don't mind. This will only be fun if she has all the facts. It can only be meaningful if the good guys know as much as us 'bad' guys. "Joseph Gauthier. Of the Chicago Gauthiers. Please call me Joey. May I call you Dana?" "No." That was stated flatly, too. She assumes an impatient look. "What did you come here to tell me?" "Well, *Dana*," I answer purposefully. "Before I forget my manners altogether, may I offer to buy you a drink?" Ooooo... She's getting angry now. "Am I to understand that you have some information about Agent Mulder?" She ignores my offer of a drink. There is a betrayal of emotion in her voice this time. This matters a lot to her. More than partners? More than friends? I nod and take a moment to play with the ice in my drink. I start to reach for my back pocket, and I notice her go into her fibbi mode right away, stiffening up, reaching into her jacket for her gun. This is no game to her, Joey, better be a bit more cautious. I pull my hands into view quickly, Mulder's ID wallet pinched in the fingers of my left hand. Her face loses a bit of color when she sees it. She grabs it from me and flips it open, staring at the picture of her partner. Enough time for me to also produce his gun, keeping it just at the edge of the table, out of sight to all but her. Her eyes fall on the gun and then look up at me. I do not have the gun aimed and ready, so she has a questioning look in her eyes. I smile again. "I'm not particularly fond of guns, Dana. And I'm not here to threaten you or do you harm." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * She is looking more quizzical than ever. "Then what *are* you here for?" she asks angrily. "What do you know about Mulder? Where is he? Is he...?" She stops herself, almost choking on her question. She doesn't want to know if he's dead. She doesn't want to hear it from me. "I'm here because he needs a doctor," I respond simply. "He's not doing well and...well, one of my team, at least, is interested in his health. However, unless I'm able to convince you to come back with me -- alone -- his health will be a moot point." "I venture to guess, from the look on your face, that you aren't the concerned one," she snaps. "Smart lady, Dana. Let's just say that Fox and I weren't destined to be den brothers, and right now I'm not happy that he's in my den. I have other motives." She begins to look nervous. "I'm still not sure what you have in mind. You must know the consequences of kidnapping federal agents." "Dana, Dana, Dana... Let me welcome you into our little world of Carol-Lee. A world without consequences." "Well, there were consequences enough for Aaron Hempless, weren't there? And what of the fellow that died in Mulder's place? Was he part of this little world without consequences, too?" Her little speech is unsettling. Sounds too much like that little voice in my head, the one I've been ignoring. "Look, I'm not here to debate man's inhumanity to man. Are you coming with me or not?" She is tense. "If I go with you, I would be in direct violation of bureau policy," she starts. I'm sure her mind is looking for a hundred ways to do this her way, but I'm in charge this time. There will be no deviation from my plan. I lean over the table to hiss at her, "Listen to me, Lovely Lady, he's hurt. He's sick. He's in pain. He needs a doctor, and he needs one *now*! If we're going to take the time to figure out how to do this by your rule book, I can promise you that you'll never see Fox Mulder again." I settle back into my seat and watch this threat sink in. She remains silent, but I can see the concern in her eyes. "I know you're a doctor. And I know that you know, or at least suspect, that Carol-Lee Botina is, well, shall we say, empowered with 'unusual' abilities." She is glaring at me, not reacting. I continue, "Unfortunately for your partner, she took a shine to him when Jimmy ordered him killed. You've already figured out that your partner didn't die in that fire. She has him. And now, Mulder's all caught up in her little web." I take the last swallow of my drink, all the gin watered down with melting ice. I can't keep my voice from sounding bitter. "It might have been better for ol' Foxy if I had just killed him then and there...and maybe better for you...and maybe me, too." I look up into her jewel eyes. She is full of questions. She still says nothing, however. She is not about to indulge me in my pity-party. I brush my empty glass aside and slap a ten dollar bill onto the table. "Time's up. Now, are you going to help me help him or shall we just sit here and debate good and evil, crime and punishment, life and death?" She looks a bit panicky. "I have to get some things from my room." I laugh and scratch my head in a gesture of impatience. "Do I look like an idiot? If you're coming with me, you are coming now. Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Collect Two Hundred Dollars, Darlin' Dana." "If I leave like this now, Skinner's going to know something's up." My argument cuts her off in mid-sentence. "Skinner thinks you've tucked yourself in for the night, doesn't he? If you come quietly -- all nice and friendly -- we won't attract any attention and your bossman won't be looking for you until tomorrow morning, right?" She nods, defeated. I hold my hand out. "I know this is a direct violation of bureau policy as well, but I am going to have to insist on keeping your gun." "I could easily pull my gun on you right here," she growls. "Even if you didn't give us any information, we could have info run down on you. The entire city would be searched for Mulder and we'd find..." "You'd find him dead. Afflicted by the same mysterious disease that you saw Mr. Gator consumed by. Do you honestly think that Carol- Lee couldn't tell you were coming? Do you think she'd let you have him back without some casualties?" She just gapes at me for a few moments. She is really hating this! But she slowly pulls the gun from her neat little suit coat and pushes it angrily across the table at me. "Tsk! Dana! Let's not cause a scene, okay?" I smile and slide from the booth. I take her arm as she rises and gently direct her toward a side door. No need to risk running into any returning feds by boldly leaving via the front entrance. No one looks away from the television football game to notice us leave. So far, so good. The night air is nippy, and she is shivering by the time we get into my car. I gallantly offer her my coat, but she shakes her head. Her pretty lips are pursed in a tense line. She jumps a bit as I reach across her knees and open the glove box. "Relax. Just a little present for you." I hand her a strip of red cloth. She looks quizzically at me. I smile indulgently. "As much as I hate to cover those beautiful eyes, Agent Scully, I would prefer keeping a bit of an advantage by blindfolding you until we arrive at my place." She seems angry, but she complies. I start the engine and pull away from the hotel. I will spend a good forty five minutes taking a circuitous route home, just like the city cabs. It feels wonderful to have the lovely Dana Scully by my side. I can smell faint spicy tones of ...what? Perfume? Soap? Shampoo? This was Mulder's privilege. This was Mulder's existence.She was part of his world, and now I'm leading her right to him. I mentally choke at the irony of it. But it seems like the only way to change the action in Carol-Lee's little drama: introduce another player. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The door to my apartment is not locked. I'm sure Carol-Lee doesn't fear the common intruder. I can feel the wall of heat as we enter the apartment. I can tell Agent Scully is being ultra-alert. Her eyes sweep over everything in the room and cast down the hallway. They stop when they lock with Carol-Lee's dark eyes as she stands in the doorway of my bedroom. Carol-Lee is looking a bit territorial, and for a moment, I am fearful that this may not have been the best idea. My gut unties itself when Carol-Lee gestures Agent Scully forward and disappears into the room ahead of her. Dana does not even look at me. She moves to follow Carol-Lee quickly. I stand for a moment in the solitude of my living room, listening to the roar of a B-ball game on ESPN. I used to feel part of that world, the sports fan, the team follower, the statistics quoter. Even as a small-time hood, I felt entitled to life in the 'normal' world. Not any more. I might as well be living in an alternate universe, as alienated as I feel from everything 'normal'. I sigh and pull my jacket and sweater off. Head for the shrine room. Dana is standing at the foot of the bed. She has her injured hand pressed hard against her mouth as if stifling a shriek and the other hand gripping the footboard so tightly that her knuckles are white. She is staring at the frail figure of her partner. He is still sleeping, maybe unconscious, breathing in short labored gasps. The shadows from the burning candles aren't quite enough to hide the damage I inflicted on his shoulder. The cut over his eye is no longer bleeding but it glistens accusingly at me in the candlelight. And his lower lip is puffy. It is clear Agent Scully wants to go to her partner, but Carol-Lee is standing guard, glaring suspiciously at our new guest. "Carol-Lee, this is Doctor Dana Scully. Dana, Carol-Lee." My introduction sounds ludicrous; these two women are well aware of each other. Mulder's new owner doesn't seem willing to step aside. I should have known. At least she doesn't seem to be playing any mind-voodoo with Dana. I think she knows that her G.I. Fox doll needs some serious doctoring, and this is the woman to do it. "Carol-Lee, I think she needs to check him over. Could you come stand by me, please?" She does not take my request pleasantly. She is definitely changing, becoming something meaner. Whatever made me think I could control this dark fury? She steps quickly away from the bed. She brushes past me without a word or a look. I don't even sense her in my mind as she leaves the room. Unpredictable? If she's unpredictable, Joey, she's uncontrollable. "I'll need your help." Dana Scully is talking to me. She is bent over her partner, her hands probing gently along his collar-bone and shoulder. He moans as she touches the core of his injury. "Sure." Why shouldn't I help? I'm the one that tuned him up in the first place, wasn't I? The least I could do for my pal. She rotates his arm into what seems like kind of an odd position, and he begins squirming. "Hold him still," she commands. "Hold him tightly." I no sooner get a grip across the top of his chest before she puts her knee up against that shoulder and pulls on his arm. He convulses against me with a strangled cry, and then goes limp again. She lays his arm gently at his side and reaches to feel his forehead, feels his pulse. She drops her head to his chest, listening, while I watch the shower of silky red hair slip over his chest as if protecting him. She pushes some of the blankets away, letting her hands wander over his chest, feeling, searching with her fingertips. He jerks again as if electrified when she finds the broken ribs. She looks up at me angrily, blaming me. I really don't need this. "Hey. I'm not responsible for all the artwork on this guy, so don't even start with me," I respond to her wordless accusation. So I lie a little bit. She straightens up. "What other injuries does he have? What else has happened that I should know about?" I reach over and move Mulder's head to the side, exposing the gash that had been neatly bandaged earlier today. "That's from a blow given to him by the late, great Gator. Caught him off guard when he was tending to you at the loft." Her eyes soften a bit, and she leans closer to touch near the wound. Mulder groans and tries to move his head away. "By the time we had him at the warehouse, he had come around and got into a fight with Gator and two other slime from our group. He lost the battle. When I checked his eyes, the pupils were kind of unequal, and he was throwing up. A lot," I added ruefully. "And he doesn't seem to..." I'm unsure of how much I need to tell her about Carol-Lee's interference with his brain. "He doesn't seem to what?," Doctor Dana Scully demands. She seems very concerned. "Well, he doesn't know, or rather he doesn't seem to remember anything. I mean, like who he is, where he's from...who you are..." Her lovely pale face goes a shade paler. "Head injury. A concussion for sure, but we need to get him to a hospital to find out how bad the injury is. And his chest sounds full... like pneumonia. He needs to be hospitalized!" She barks this out at me, which only succeeds in pissing me off. "NOT an option, Agent Scully!," I roar back at her. Carol-Lee returns quickly at the sound of the argument, leaning in the doorway, looking at me with approval. I continue, feeling a little mental push and shove from Carol-Lee: "You haven't been listening! Fox Mulder is no longer 'Property of the U.S. Government'! Got it? And you are here by invitation only! Your first order of business is to fix this boy up. Then we'll discuss options and futures!" I crook my finger at her in a silent gesture: Understand? She is quiet for along time, and then she finally nods, a quick, angry movement. Carol-Lee beams at me from the doorway and then turns to go back to the living room. I can hear the god-awful drone of MTV coming from the television in the silence that we have all left in the wake of this nasty little scene. Agent Scully seems resigned for the moment. Her hand rests lightly on the shoulder she just repaired. She is studying her partner's features. I am struck by the sudden flash of insight in that vision of the two of them: She has been at his side like this before, and perhaps he has been there for her, too. This is the closeness I sense, but it doesn't quite answer the questions. More than partners? More than friends? The connection is so apparent that I force myself to stop thinking about it lest Carol-Lee wander by and pick up some note of it. I pull Agent Scully away from her partner. Away and out the bedroom door. After my tirade I feel the need to mend fences with her, out of Carol-Lee's sphere of influence. "We were able to start him on an antibiotic. I forget the name. He kind of destroyed our little pharmacy today, so he's been without any kind of medication since early this morning..." I steer her toward the kitchen, intent on showing her what was left of our drug supply. Maybe some of it was useable. I can hear Carol-Lee follow us through the hallway. There will be no discussion now. Agent Scully is uncapping bottles and spilling their contents on the table, impatiently. She is still annoyed with me. "Nice collection -- for a street druggie." Huh? Was that some kind of slam against me? And for the first time, I wonder how she sees me when she looks through those jewel eyes. Just another thug? Just another social misfit? "However, there is little of use to Agent Mulder. I need to get to a pharmacy, a hospital supply store. He'll need bandages, antibiotics, painkillers. Probably IV fluids." "Make a list," I order. "Carol-Lee and I can get them for you." "No!," she says, almost too quickly. I am immediately a bit suspicious, but Carol-Lee has not picked up on any vibes, apparently. Dana Scully has a veiled look about her. Definitely. I glance at Carol-Lee. She has occupied herself with re-sorting the piles of pills and capsules that the other woman has scattered about the table. Agent Scully looks quickly at Carol-Lee, too. And then she looks up to meet my eyes. I can tell she's plotting something. I'd be very careful, if I were you, lady. "I need to see what's available, write prescriptions for some of the drugs. Is there a way that you can get me into a hospital pharmacy?" What is she planning? I hope she's not under the illusion that leaving Foxy here alone will allow him another chance at escape. "Uh...yeah. But Carol-Lee and I will both have to be with you. I hope you understand. And as for your partner, don't think he'll make a break for it while no one is here. Turns out he's quite content to stay where he is." "What do you mean?," she asks. To my surprise Carol-Lee answers, looking the other woman directly in the eye with a haughty sneer. "He cannot go out the front door. If he or anyone else gets him through that front door, he becomes his own nightmare. He'll be lost to you in more ways than he is now. And one way or the other, he'll be mine forever." I feel a very real shiver run straight up my back as I watch Carol- Lee. This viper-like transformation is way beyond my expectations, way beyond my grasp. I remember the terror on Mulder's face as he looked toward the front door. So. He didn't leave because he couldn't leave. Carol-Lee has him locked up in a prison inside his own head. The silence is palpable. My new houseguest is locked in a glaring contest with Carol-Lee. Women. I'd better break this party up. "It's nearly ten o'clock. If we get this show on the road now, ladies, we can be back before midnight. Okay?" Carol-Lee pushes herself away from the table and heads down the hallway. Dana looks back to me. I feel like I should warn her. "You know, Carol-Lee's been pretty good with you so far. Please, try not to piss her off, okay? You'll be a lot more help to your partner if you can manage to stay alive and thinking. She can take either/or away from you in a heartbeat." The classic look of the skeptic. She still isn't sure what power is at work here, but she knows what she has to do for the moment. "Just take me to a hospital pharmacy. I'll do the doctoring. You and Miss Carol-Lee can do whatever 'voodoo it is that you do'." She shoulders past me in a huff, and I feel like wheat chaff in a windstorm. A windstorm of two powerful women. Carol-Lee is already at the door, waiting. Agent Scully pauses at the door of the bedroom to look in on her partner again. He is still out, oblivious to all this plotting and planning swirling about him. I get into my coat one more time and motion Ms. Dana toward the exit. I am convinced she is up to something, but as I watch her move gracefully ahead of me through my dim hallway, I listen to that small voice of mine for the first time. It's telling me to trust this vibrant woman, trust her to find a way out of this for us all. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *