Even though it is well after business and visiting hours, City General 
is still easy to get into. Our odd little group walks through the 
emergency room doors and through the busy crowd of staff and walking 
wounded without  arousing any suspicions. I can see Dana is perplexed 
by the time I ask the nursing station secretary where the main 
pharmacy is. My question is answered with extensive instructions on 
how to get there and the name of the single pharmacist now on night 
duty.

Before my favorite FBI agent can open her mouth to wonder aloud how I 
am able to get such foolish cooperation from personnel that should be 
more security conscious, I take her arm and push her along with 
Carol-Lee and me toward the big fire doors leading into the main body 
of the hospital. Carol-Lee stays ahead of my lady friend and me as we 
work our way through the quiet maze of halls. 

Dana seems alert for other people. Does she think she might raise an 
alarm?

I tighten my hand around her arm. She looks sharply at me and tries to 
loosen my grip. "Dana,  I think it's about time for another warning." 
I pull her to a halt and swing her around to face me. Carol-Lee is up 
ahead of us, out of earshot.

"Now, you just saw some of Carol-Lee's power back there in that 
emergency room. We waltzed through there as if we never existed! And 
that cooperative little secretary? She'll have no recollection of 
having seen us or having talked to me. It's a subtle thing, Dana, but 
Carol-Lee does it. That's how we got in to the police station without 
notice."

Agent Scully looks over her shoulder at Carol-Lee, who is now stopped 
and patiently waiting for us. I can tell this is hard for her to 
accept. "You thought you'd have a chance to get some help if we came 
here and you made some kind of scene, didn't you?," I accuse her.

She meets my eyes for a long moment and then slowly nods. I purse my 
lips and look into those sea blue eyes for a moment. And for a second, 
there is a flash of regret in my mind. Regret for my life, the twists 
and turns that have put me on the opposite side of this beautiful 
woman. I can see the way she looks at me, the loathing, the disgust, 
and yes, the fear. Useless to scream out that it's not me...not me. 
Christ, I'm beginning to sound like Mulder and his ravings.

I pull her just a bit closer and lower my voice. "Dana. Do you  know 
why I came for you? Do you know the real reason, I mean the original 
plan that I..." I am not able to confess my doubts and fears about 
this mess I'm in. Carol-Lee is heading back toward us, looking a bit 
disgruntled with my delay. Will I ever have a chance to confess, to 
explain? To tell her that I want out as badly as she does? That I feel 
as imprisoned and mindless as the unfortunate Fox Mulder?

"Let's hurry!," Carol-Lee snaps. She is tiring of this game.

I nod and look back down at Dana. "Just be very careful, okay?" In 
front of Carol-Lee, that sounds like a tough-guy warning, but I let 
Dana see the concern in my eyes and I squeeze her shoulder gently 
before releasing her. "It's more dangerous if you don't believe, Dana. 
It could make you careless, and Fox is counting on you. We're all 
counting on you."

She looks up at me again at my cryptic remark. I am already moving 
down the hallway toward the room marked "pharmacy". Carol-Lee is 
already by the security guard. This time Dana Scully seems a little 
less incredulous when the hapless guard just smiles at us and unlocks 
the secured door to allow us entry.

The pharmacy area itself can only be seen through a small security 
window. Except for the work area, the lights in there are dim. The 
long funereal face of Mr. J. Robert Beaton, pharmacist, appeared at 
the window. He looked a bit disconcerted at first. I'm sure he doesn't 
have many visitors at this hour. But Carol-Lee puts his mind 'to 
rest,' and he comes to regard our little troupe with a bit more 
kindness.

"Hello. May I help you?"

Agent Scully shoulders past me before I can say a word, flashing her 
fed ID.  Pharmacist Beaton, already under Carol-Lee's spell, does not 
seem impressed. "Yes. I am Doctor Dana Scully. I need to write some 
prescriptions. May I have a prescription pad and a pen?" Smooth, Dana, 
very smooth. Either you are warming up to this little act, or you are 
up to something, I think. Her face is set, unreadable.

I glance at Carol-Lee. She seems a bit tenser than I've ever seen her, 
as if the use of the power was beginning to take its toll on her. This 
is new, but I dare not spend too much time mulling it over. Dana is 
busily scribbling on the prescription pad. Carol-Lee is looking over 
her shoulder anxiously, then looks back at me and shrugs.

I glance quickly at the writing. Unreadable Latin. I took some of the 
language in high school, but it wasn't, shall we say, my strongest 
subject. I also see her write some numbers and words that I do 
recognize: my street address! She looks up at me as she finishes and 
shoves them through the window to the pharmacist.

She seems to be studying me. Daring me to challenge what she has done.

I look over at Carol-Lee. She seems pre-occupied. If she detects any 
treason on Dana's part, she sure isn't giving any indication of it. 
Maybe she's trusting me to keep tabs on the machinations of the 
ravishing red-head.

Maybe her trust has suddenly been misplaced.

I return my attention to the pharmacist. Will he pick up on whatever 
Dana has written? Doesn't seem likely. He is scurrying back and forth, 
filling the written requests for medicines, bandages, suture set, 
syringes, IV tray. When at last he shoves the trays of medical goods 
through the window at us with an accommodating smile, Dana seems 
disappointed.

She makes a pretense of searching through the trays for something. 
Looks back at the pharmacist. "Are you sure that you've given me 
everything? I seem to be missing some of the drugs I asked for."

Mr. J. Robert Beaton smiles pleasantly at her and picks up the fistful 
of prescriptions she had written. He slides a pair of bifocals onto 
the end of his nose and reviews each slip carefully with the items he 
has put in the trays. I can hear Carol-Lee's foot tapping impatiently 
from where she stands behind me and Agent Scully.

"Seems to be in order," Mr. Beaton is musing, when he suddenly stops. 
He is puzzling over one of the prescriptions. He looks over slowly at 
Dana, as if in a fog. "I don't understand this...You want me to 
call...?"

In the instant that Carol-Lee begins to understand what Dana was 
trying to do, she makes a sudden hissing noise, and grabs Agent Scully 
by the back of the neck.

I lurch forward to catch Dana as she loses consciousness, a result of 
Carol-Lee's touch. And in that same moment, I see our new pharmacist 
friend's face purple up and bloom into a gory mask of blood. He keels 
over onto his back, the prescription slips flying about the room like 
feathers.

Carol-Lee is furious. She seems immobilized by her fury for a moment.

Is this part of her change? She seems unable to decide what to do 
next.

She looks at me expectantly. I suddenly became aware of her in my 
head, looking for a decision, looking for instructions, looking for 
help. Is this the "bridge" she needs? Is this what Jimmy Botina 
provided for her for all those years? For her to wield her power 
independently was too much effort.

The effort is taxing her powers! She is weakening! 

No time for panic now, Joey. If Carol-Lee is weakening, her powers may 
soon be useless. And I'm standing here with an unconscious FBI agent 
and corpse in a secured area!

I sweep Agent Scully into my arms. "Carol-Lee! Bring the supplies. 
We've got to get out of here now! I'll need you to run interference 
with the security guards. Can you still do that?" I am a bit alarmed 
at this new revelation about her power and her limitations.

This is not the time or place to be left without the protective hocus- 
pocus that she usually provided.

Carol-Lee is rubbing her forehead, trance-like. "I...I think so." She 
looks up at me, and I can see a glimmer of that twelve year old 
innocence in  those big brown eyes for a few seconds. She obediently 
collects our ill-gotten goods and heads for the door.

So far, so good. I know we must make a rather unusual picture: me, 
with my arms full of an oblivious, beautiful woman; Carol-Lee, with 
her arms full of drugs and hospital supplies.

I hold my breath as we encounter the same security guard. He smiles at 
us, tips his hat in a congenial gesture, even chases down a vial of 
narcotics that Carol-Lee spills from her burden, returning it with a 
smile.

We smile back and hustle away as fast as we can reasonably go.

Carol-Lee's strain is showing on her face. I decide to find a less 
populated route to leave by, avoiding the emergency room. If Carol- 
Lee's powers are weakening, I didn't want to risk exposure in such a 
high profile area.

We find a dimly lit service entrance.

It is locked and pushing through it threatens to trigger an alarm. It 
takes me only a second to decide to take the chance. We will be close 
enough to the car that the few moments  that it will take for them to 
respond will still allow us a getaway opportunity.

The alarm sends up a god-awful wail, but by the time I see the first 
guard, we are in the car and headed for the highway.



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

I wish I could say it feels good to be home again. But now, as I 
gently place Dana Scully on my couch, I only feel the sense of 
imprisonment that this apartment represents. It used to be my hiding 
place, my independence from the outside world. 

Now, with Carol-Lee here, with my two unwilling guests, the character 
of the place has changed utterly.

So have I.

And so has Carol-Lee.

She walks past me wordlessly, taking the medical supplies directly to 
the bedroom. Neither of us spoke during the car ride home. She seems 
oddly tired, sapped of energy.

As I wearily watch her disappear into the bedroom, I wonder about her 
need to have a 'bridge' for this power. Her transformation into a more 
adult, independent being over the last day may have had something to 
do with this weakness. 

Or perhaps the fact  that she has been using the power so frequently 
over the past few days is a factor?

Whatever is going on is significant. I must watch carefully.

I hear a soft moan beneath me. I look down to see Agent Scully 
stirring, trying to come around.

I sigh and brush a spray of red hair away from her lips. In the midst 
of all this, I still have a desire to feel those lips. Now. Before she 
is fully awake.

Too late.

Those blue eyes of hers open and fix on me in much the same way her 
partner's did the other night: filled with confusion and fear.

I pull away. I don't need any more reminders of my bad-boy status in 
her eyes. "Do you have a headache? The Carol-Lee love tap is a 
sure-fire brain buster. I ought to know -- she treated me to one 
earlier today. You're lucky, though. My little trip had me out cold - 
in the cold - for over five hours."

She ignores my chatter, pulling herself to a sitting position and then 
grabbing her head. "Yes. Oh, God. I need some aspirin. Something. 
Whatever...,"she groans.

"Well, it's a fortunate thing you know a 'street druggie', isn't it, 
Dana?" I get up from the couch. She looks up at me. She didn't miss 
the bitter irony in my tone, but she is not about to apologize for her 
earlier insult to me.

I didn't expect her to. "Just stay where you are. I'll get some 
Fioricet for you. It's about the only way to cut through that pain."

As I pass my bedroom, I glance in. The candles are out and the room is 
dark except for the dim light shining in from the hallway. I can see 
that Carol-Lee has crawled under the covers and is curled around the 
body of her FBI agent like a boa constrictor.

It is a disturbing vision.

When I return with the drugs and a glass of water for Agent Scully, 
she is a bit more grateful. She swallows the pills quickly and looks 
around the room.

"Where is she?," she asks in a half-whisper.

I incline my head toward the bedroom. "In bed with her fox. Wrapped 
tightly around him. Sleeping, I think." I sink to the couch, close my 
eyes. It's been along day. Hours are like years in my memory. I just 
want to sleep, for a long, long time. 

But, no. Not meant to be.

Agent Scully is up and pulling on my shoulder. "Come on. We've got 
work to do."

WE? I don't remember signing on for medic duty, especially for Fox 
Mulder. But his red-headed partner has other ideas about what my 
responsibilities are.

"You may have to run interference for me with Carol-Lee. I can't take 
care of him if she's in there."

True enough. I groan as I rise to my feet and follow her into the 
bedroom.

Getting Carol-Lee off of Mulder is easier than anticipated. She is 
sleeping so deeply that I am actually able to carry her out to my 
couch without waking her. I put a pillow under her head and a blanket 
over her. She never even stirs.

This seems odd. Using her mysterious ability must have really drained 
her energy. I dim the lights, leave the television on, and head back 
to the *other* woman running my life now.

Doctor Dana Scully is extraordinarily gentle with her unconscious 
partner. She cringes visibly at every moan and groan that escapes him 
as we begin to move him about. She tapes his injured ribs and tapes 
his injured shoulder, putting it in a sling and restricting the 
movement of his left arm.

Not that he has moved in over eight hours, anyway.

She ties a rubber tourniquet around his right arm, just above his 
elbow and begins searching for a vein sound enough to start an IV in. 
Her face is grim.

"He's so dehydrated," she says, more to herself than me. She slaps her 
fingers on the inside of his arm trying to raise a vein into sight. 
"If I can't find a vein, Mulder, I'll have to do a cut-down. You don't 
like those, remember? Come on. Come on. Help me." She's talking to him 
as if he's got some say-so in this matter.

Maybe it's her voice. Maybe it's coincidence. 

Special Agent Trouble is starting to come around!

His eyelids flutter, and he shifts uncomfortably in my  bed. His 
partner shakes him a little by his good shoulder. "Mulder... Mulder, 
it's me, Scully. Wake up, Mulder. You've got to help me help you, 
mister."

There they are. Those chameleon eyes.

He looks at her, bleary, blinking, not quite registering. And then he 
turns to me.

Memory serves him well when he looks to me. Those quick-change eyes 
darken and focus quickly. He is holding his breath. Fight or flight? 
He's operating on a pure instinctual level at the moment. His eyes say 
fight, but... 

Well frankly, the rest of his body knows better.

Dana Scully reads him like her favorite novel. She sees there is 
little love lost between us, and this alpha-male display is doing 
little toward fixing his medical problems. She pulls his head over 
gently until he is looking at her again. She smiles and speaks softly 
to him. "Hey -- Hi. It's me. Scully."

He is studying her face intently.

"Mulder? -- Fox? -- Do you know who I am?"

He does not answer. Just stares. Glances over at me for a long moment, 
then back to Dana. Then at the tourniquet on his arm. That arm is 
getting dusky from lack of circulation, and he twitches it 
uncomfortably.

Dana releases the rubber with a practiced movement. "Sorry. That must 
hurt." She smiles at him and rubs the arm gently.

He seems to relax, but he is still worried about my presence in the 
room. Dana the Doctor is talking steadily to him in quiet, even tones, 
trying to put him at ease, trying again to start the IV.

"Mulder, you need some fluids and antibiotics. I think you've got 
pneumonia. You've never liked these IV things in the past, I know. 
Because you're so dehydrated, I'm having trouble finding a good vein. 
I need you to help. Can you do that?"

Another long look at her, studying her. Then another glance at me.

He's  suspicious, but he also knows he's sick. Looks back at her.

Definitely prefers her to me.

I wonder if he remembers, or if he's just transfixed by a pretty face.

He extends his good arm as if it is an offering. She smiles and 
re-attaches the tourniquet. Immediately, as if it is automatic to him, 
he begins to pump his hand into a fist, clenching and unclenching.

He has done this before.

Is it a real memory or the ghost of one? Dana Scully must be wondering 
the same thing, but she is busy searching for a plump vein to slide 
that tiny needle into.

With minimal grimacing on Mulder's part, the whole procedure is over 
quickly. The lovely lady doctor swiftly tapes the needle down as she 
hurtles instructions at me: "I will need to hang this electrolyte 
solution. The higher the better. And I'm going to piggyback his 
antibiotic, so maybe if I had a hanger I could put them both on that. 
Do you have a floor lamp we could convert into an IV pole?"

She finally looks up from her work to make eye contact with me, 
waiting for my answer. And of course, my pal, Mulder, is looking at 
me, too. I think he's confused about the cooperation between me and 
his pretty angel of mercy.

"I don't have a lamp. But I can put a few strong carpenter's nails 
into the wall over the head board. You can hang the stuff from that, 
can't you?"

"'Necessity is the mother of invention,'" is her only comment.

I go to the kitchen for my toolbox, shaking my head.

Here I am again, saving that bastard's life.

What for? Beats me.

I seem to be on auto-pilot lately; just give ol' Joey Gauthier an 
order,  and he'll follow it. Yessirree. I'm a puppet; pull my strings. 
Except, now, saving his life seems to favor my freedom from Carol- 
Lee. Ironic, since originally I saved him to curry Carol-Lee's favor. 
Now, I'm depending on Agent Scully to work some magic of her own.

The whole setup only takes ten minutes. Foxy doesn't exactly looked 
pleased to have me standing over him with a claw hammer while he's all 
taped and tubed and helpless, but I ignore his body language, smiling 
pointedly at him when my part of the job is done.

The good doctor suspends the IV bag from a hanger and hangs another 
with amber fluid in it beside the first.

As she pushes the needle into the medicine port of the primary tubing, 
she opens the clamp, allowing the two solutions to mix. Mulder lets 
out a scorching hiss as the fluids find their way into him.

His partner lays a hand on his to quiet him. "Sorry, Mulder. The 
antibiotic is Keflex. Probably stings like acid in your veins." She 
strokes his forehead sympathetically "But you've got to have it. I'm 
going to give you a shot for pain, and then you should sleep. Okay?"

He still does not speak, just looks anxiously at the trail of tubes 
attached to him and then at her. He shudders a bit and nods at her.

She fills a syringe with dream-drops for her partner, slips it 
expertly beneath his pale skin and slowly depresses the plunger.

His eyes begin to roll soon after that. He struggles to keep them 
fixed on her, and finally gives himself over to sleep. She keeps 
stroking his forehead well after he drifted off to his 
pharmaceutically-induced heaven. 

The peace I see on his face reminds me sharply that I could use a 
little help from my 'tiny friends' tonight, too.

"I...uhm...I am going to the kitchen for something. Would you like 
coffee?" It is easy to offer Dana Scully my hospitality.

She looks up and nods wearily. She gets up from Mulder's side and 
follows me out to the kitchen. I am intent on getting my drugs first, 
so she proceeds to make coffee for herself and wisely chooses not to 
make comments on my drugs of choice. Her look of disapproval is hard 
to hide, however, as she sits down across from me and my stash at the 
table.

"So. How's that headache?," I ask charmingly as I down two capsules 
with a gulp from the last beer in the fridge.

She eyes me, probably considering several comments. Then finally says, 
"Better. Thanks. Does she do that often?"

Meaning Carol-Lee and her love-tap.

I shrug. "Don't know. As I told you, she treated me to a little 
preview earlier today when the Foxman and me got into a fight." 
Another swig of beer. She doesn't inquire further about the fight. The 
outcome was pretty clear to her, and she's not likely to care about my 
motivations even if I took a lifetime to explain myself.

"What do you know about her?" The question was direct, like sitting in 
a federal interrogation room. 

My first instinctual inclination is to clam up about Carol-Lee, Jimmy, 
and my mis-adventures as part of the Botina Brotherhood. But that is 
an instinct of the past. 

My second, new instinct is to tell this woman all my suspicions, all 
my fears, the bit of information that I know for sure and the universe 
of information that I am uncertain about. 

This is my self-preservation instinct. The little voice that I should 
have listened to.

And now, is it too late for us all?

"Three or four days ago, Dana, I thought I knew everything about her," 
I sigh. With a pause to listen and reassure myself that Carol- Lee was 
still asleep, I continue, "I knew Jimmy used her power for his 
mysterious little assassinations. Hell, I heard he even had her do in 
one of his own gang members about a month before he recruited me. And 
when I first met her, I mean, it was hard to reconcile the fact that 
such a scary power was coming from this simple-minded -- girl, I guess 
I'd call her. But so much about her has changed that now I believe I 
knew nothing at all before. I can't even believe I became involved in 
Carol-Lee's plot to separate herself from Jimmy. Who, by the way, is 
not her real brother."

"Yes. We had found that much out about her," Agent Scully confirms 
quietly. She sips her coffee, looking regretful. "Mulder had run down 
a few theories on the cause of the mysterious deaths that were 
occurring in the area. We were first called in on the two murders: the 
...uh...fine, upstanding citizen and his lawyer? At an upscale pub? 
This past September?"

She was looking at me as if to confirm these facts. 

I nod wearily and then laugh a bit, more to myself than her. Pull 
another long draught from my beer. "As I suspected. Jimmy let his 
pride get the better of himself on that one. The beginning of the 
end."

I look over into her eyes. Now was the time to confess all to her.

"I'm sure you and the Foxster found some disturbing similarities 
between those deaths and a few others around here over the past three 
years -- deaths of citizens that the police department would hardly be 
alarmed about: druggies, dealers, deviants of all manner."

"Actually, Mulder found evidence of similar deaths that seem to go 
back over twenty years. Here and in other parts of the state. Carol- 
Lee and Jimmy can be placed in the area of the deaths in nearly all of 
them. In fact, our first connection came when we found Jimmy Botina's 
parents seemed to have met with the same curious death," she informs 
me. "Mulder dug further and found that Carol-Lee's mother also died in 
a similar manner, except in that case her father was convicted of her 
murder and put to death. That information and the child welfare 
records from that time told us who we were dealing with."

Hearing her say it, I am mildly shocked at first. I guess Carol-Lee 
had intimated as much when she and I were talking at this very table 
earlier this evening, but --twenty years! That's a long time to be 
walking around free and murderous. My own record pales in comparison, 
I'm sure. I tried to keep my crimes on the petty side; Carol-Lee and 
Jimmy indulged in their crimes like a lifestyle, a right, an exclusive 
privilege.

"Well, I just hooked up with this little club about three years ago," 
I reply, trying to minimize my own complicity, sounding a bit too 
defensive for my liking. "Jimmy makes his money performing these 
little assassinations for his mobster buddies, and they, in turn, let 
him do some drug running, illegal imports, money laundering and the 
like. That's the part of his business that I saw the most of."

"But what about Carol-Lee? Did you see any actual evidence of how she 
fit into Botina's business? Is there any way to prove she has some 
'power'? Any physical evidence?"

I have to think about that -- hard. "Carol-Lee's influence on our 
little group was so subtle as to be almost non-existent. I suppose I 
always suspected there was something special about her, but she really 
seemed to be disconnected from our concerns. Sure, Jimmy dragged her 
just about everywhere he went, but I never suspected how much her 
power influenced Jimmy's success. Until recently."

I fall silent for a bit, remembering how things seemed when I first 
joined up with the Botina crowd.

I shake my head. Seems like a lifetime ago.

I look up into the lovely eyes of Special Agent Dana Scully. What was 
she doing three years ago while I was partnering up with the devil 
incarnate?

Another sigh. Another swallow of beer.

What's taking these drugs so long tonight?

"She also does this 'mesmer' thing. That was something I wasn't aware 
of," I continue finally. "You saw it tonight at the hospital. She 
messes with peoples' thoughts. Changes them somehow. When I saw her do 
it at the drug store the other day, I started doubting how many of my 
own thoughts were actually mine and how many were planted there by 
Carol-Lee..." 

I lean across the table in earnest. "I know that kidnapping Special 
Agent Fox Mulder was *not* my choice. I know that now. But, you -- You 
were my choice."

Her face does not change. She is watching me with the intensity of a 
predator. Must be effective in the interrogation room. I shudder 
involuntarily.

"Something is changing though," I whisper, almost as if musing to 
myself. "Something --is different about her. Something is not right."

Another swig of beer. My little "helpers" are finally starting to 
"help". I feel a blessed wooziness.

My tongue is finally loosed, disconnecting utterly from my brain. I 
lean across the table again at the beautiful Special Angel Dana 
Scully.

I confess: "I'm scared." My voice sounds foreign to me, but the truth 
of what I am saying sounds familiar enough. She is gaping at me. I 
straighten back up, vainly attempting to seem more in control. I can 
feel tears threatening.

"I thought I knew all about her. I thought I could use this power of 
hers," I say, dropping my voice to a whisper. "But I had no idea. Not 
a clue. And now, I'm caught. Just like your partner in there. 
Carol-Lee has been using me, and I'm scared. I can't see a way out of 
this mess. It's like walking in a maze in the dark. That's why..." I 
feel one tear burn its way down my cheek. "That's why I came for you, 
Dana. Out of some vague, half-formed idea that you might change the 
balance of power in this little game of hers."

I wipe my cheek roughly with the back of my hand.

Damn drugs. Damn me.

Now she leans toward me, urgently. "Yes, Joey, I can help. I can help 
you, Fox, all of us, but you have to let me call..."

I slam my fist to the table with such force that the beer bottle 
bounces, topples and rolls to the floor, shattering. Agent Scully is 
frozen upright in her chair by my outburst.

I am not angry, just desperate to get her to listen! Really, really 
listen!

"Please! You're not hearing what I am saying! What we don't know about 
her power is dangerous. I can't just let you call in Skinner and the 
troops. We could all be dead before the first squad car rolled up! 
And, you heard her, she's got your partner pre-programmed for a 
lifetime of basket weaving and rubber rooms if anyone attempts to take 
him out that front door! Maybe she's got some little mind-bomb waiting 
inside my head! Maybe inside of yours! We just don't know enough!"

The look of the skeptic again.

Damn! She's hard to wake up!

"You may not believe, Dana. You may still be looking for a way to 
explain all you've seen so far. But I saw the fear in Mulder's eyes... 
He *had* a chance to break out today! He actually got out into the 
lobby while we were gone! But he couldn't go through the front door, 
Dana! Not even to save his own life! His mind is still caught in the 
prison that Carol-Lee made for him!"

She is looking perplexed, having a hard time with the ramifications of 
this information. But the conversation is not meant to be finished.

The shattering of the bottle was enough to rouse Carol-Lee from her 
deep sleep. I can hear the creak of leather on the couch as she gets 
up.

I look at Dana Scully.

She nods quickly, a signal that she is beginning to understand, to 
believe, even if it is hard for her.

So. Maybe I have an ally. Now all we need is a strategy.

But now Carol-Lee is standing in the doorway, a pale wraith. She is 
gazing with big eyes from the broken glass on my kitchen floor, to me, 
and then to Agent Scully. She seems to be trying to read us for what 
may have happened, but she gives up with a tired sigh and heads back 
down the hallway and into the bedroom. I am sure she's going to curl 
herself around him again. She is going to go to sleep again.

Sleep seems like a good notion right now. And I'd turn in, except for 
my new problem: how to treat my potential ally, Dana Scully. I'm not 
stupid enough to trust her totally, and I'm too tired to stay up to 
keep an eye on her.

Only one choice left: the Mulder Memorial Suite downstairs.

"There is nothing we can do tonight. And I'm too tired to think any 
more, Dana. Let's see what tomorrow brings." I stand up. Reach for the 
key and flashlight. I look at her, a bit ashamed to have to do this. 
"You'll have to spend the night downstairs. I'm sorry. I never 
remodeled this place with the comfort of kidnapped federal agents in 
mind."

Dana looks angry but resigned. Her own Carol-Lee experience has 
probably left her drained of energy. She waits for me to grab some 
extra blankets. Silent, she precedes me down the rickety basement 
steps and stands, quietly indignant, as I open the coal cellar door 
for her.

My flashlight illuminates the dark room. The tangle of sleeping bag 
and couch pillows is still on the old van bench. It seems a sorry 
offering for such a beautiful lady. She straightens out the covers. 
I'm sure she notes the lingering smell of vomit and blood. I'm sure 
she senses it is Mulder she smells, the scent of his misfortunes with 
me. She wipes at a dried smear of blood on the vinyl and looks back at 
me, accusingly.

I shift uncomfortably, not wanting to meet those jewel eyes any more. 
"I...uh...can get you some more blankets, maybe more clean sheets."

"No. Thank you." The sarcasm in her voice is apparent.

I shrug. Leave the flashlight  and blankets behind for her 
convenience. Pretend indifference and leave, locking the door behind 
me. It seems to take forever to climb the stairs in the dark, to close 
the door, and to head to my couch for the promise of dreamless sleep.

I can see Carol-Lee locked around the body of Fox Mulder. There is a 
kind of desperation in the way she seems to be clinging to him.

And he is oblivious to the cares and concerns of us all.

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

Cold air against my face. The familiar drone of my television. And 
something else, nearby. Fast, labored breathing. Sounds like...

Alarms begin going off in my brain.

I struggle to swim out of the hazy drugged feeling that is keeping my 
eyes cemented shut. Finally. I am able to open my eyes and make out a 
blurry form, kneeling before me as I lay here on the couch.

Dark hair askew. Dark eyes wide. Thin, satiny ribbon of blood flowing 
from already-bruised lips. White bandages against white skin. And 
hands crossed over his chest, bound together with bloodied IV tubing.

Mulder! How in the hell...?

I struggle to make sense of the vision of my federal houseguest before 
me. It is then that I notice the shiny switchblade poised at his 
slender neck and for a moment, I am fixated by the sight of his pulse. 
It is pushing at the blade, rapid, frantic.

I blink and follow the blade to the hand, to the arm, to the face of 
-- Jimmy Botina.

Every part of me freezes. I am envious of Mulder's pulse; I think I've 
lost mine just now. I can't even make my brain think. I'm that 
terrified! And I can see my fright mirrored in the face of my den 
brother here.

Jimmy idly draws a short, thin line on Mulder's chest with his knife. 
Droplets of blood well up and begin a slow trickling path over the 
white, neat bandages.

"Look, Joey!" Jimmy's voice is a cruel rasp. "The corpse bleeds! I 
guess that would mean Agent Fox Mulder is not as dead as you would 
have had me believe!"

I struggle to sit up, but a blow from Jimmy's fist throws me back to 
the couch.

I can taste blood in my mouth. Mulder is watching, probably enjoying 
this vicariously. Except he doesn't look like he is enjoying anything 
right now. Jimmy has a handful of his dark hair and is pulling him to 
the floor, locking him down with a foot at his throat.

"Where's Carol-Lee?," Jimmy is growling at me.

I am confused, and another blow from Jimmy's fist does little to clear 
my head.

"Goddammit!," I shriek at him. "I don't know! She was in the bedroom 
the last time I saw her!" I push myself upright, quickly this time, 
ready to hit back if he swings at me again.

And that's when I got my first real look at him.

Jimmy Botina is not well. His face is a skeletal mask. His eyes are 
all dark and sunken in. He looks as if he hasn't eaten in weeks. His 
hair looks dirty, disheveled, and he smells as if he last bathed about 
the same time he last ate.

His eyes are cruel, glittering with craziness. I glance down at 
Mulder, who is squirming, trying to release the pressure of Jimmy's 
foot against his windpipe. Jimmy is fixated on me. Just as well. He 
would crush Mulder's neck right now if he knew Carol-Lee spent the 
night huddled up against his prisoner.

But where was Carol-Lee? I glance toward the clock.

6:34 a.m. Still dark outside. I can see snow blowing past the window.

If she left, where did she go? When did she go? Why did she go?

I glance back up at the insane facade that has become Jimmy's face. He 
wants answers to the same questions, and I haven't got them.

"Can't find her anywhere, Jimmy." Omar's voice.

I reel around at the sound of Omar Duron coming from my hallway. He 
comes into the living room and stands beside Jimmy, grinning down at 
me. "Well, hello, Mister Joey! So how come you sleep out here instead 
of with your FBI boyfriend? Huh?"

I'm not in the mood for Omar's witless sarcasm. I remain silent, wipe 
the blood from my lip with the back of my hand, watch Mulder's pitiful 
squirming.

Omar turns to Jimmy. "Fernando is checking the basement. But I don't 
think she's here."

The basement? Oh God. What about Agent Scully? Jimmy's going to think 
I'm opening my own fed flop house or something.

I can hear Fernando's heavy tread up the steps and through my kitchen. 
I am holding my breath when he comes into view.

Nothing. He looks as blank as ever. He shrugs and shakes his head.

He didn't find anything? Anyone? I can feel sweat breaking out on my 
forehead. What is going on?

Jimmy kicks at the helpless man at his feet in frustration. Freed from 
the pressure against his throat, Mulder moans and curls himself up, 
hiding himself from further hurt.

Jimmy sneers at him and turns to the windows, glancing up and down the 
darkened street.

"You were supposed to keep an eye on her!," he snarls accusingly at 
me. His eyes fall on Mulder again. "Then again, there were a lot of 
things you were *supposed* to do, weren't there, Joey?"

He reaches down and tugs the injured agent to a sitting position, 
forcing his face up until they are looking each other in the eye. "So 
why is this son of a bitch still alive, huh, Joey?" he growls at me, 
never taking his eyes off his captive.

" 'cause Jimmy's got a thing for a pretty pair of eyes," Omar giggles. 
I ignore him. It is Jimmy that screams at him to shut up. 

Jimmy turns back to me. "I want an answer. Why is this man still 
living, Joey?"



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

"And who was it that burned up in his place, Joey?" Omar again, 
butting in.

This time Jimmy silences him with a backhanded slap.

Jimmy turns back to me, shoving Mulder toward me. Jimmy's glare is 
hot. He is rolling that switchblade in his hand. An impatient, blood 
thirsty gesture. He wants answers.

I swallow hard. I can only tell him what I know.

How can my voice be so awfully quiet when inside I am screaming? 

"Carol-Lee was here last night when I fell asleep, Jimmy. She was in 
bed with..." I nod my head toward Mulder. "...him. She's the reason 
he's alive, Jimmy. I suppose she just got tired of playing with those 
stupid Barbie dolls you always gave her. She wanted to upgrade her toy 
collection."

Something like a roar escapes Jimmy's throat, and he strikes out at me 
again.

Godammit! I'm tired of the pain, the helplessness.

Funny. Another thing Fox Mulder and I must have in common.

It is useless to fight back as long as Jimmy has the switchblade and 
his two goons behind him. But I do push him away from me.

His rage is bringing up the only color his face has had for days. And 
with that rage, Jimmy is hungry for blood. He turns on Mulder, 
grabbing his hair again, slamming him back to the floor and straddling 
him, the switch blade poised over  the stricken agent's heart.

I watch, oddly horrified. Suddenly, it is very important to me that 
Fox Mulder not suffer any more harm. Carol-Lee's pre- programming?  Or 
has my self identification with this man suddenly grown into an 
obsession?

"Jimmy! Don't!"

I propel myself forward, knocking him off Mulder, before the Duron 
Goons can pull me away. I wrestle in their grip.

"Jimmy! Jimmy! Leave him alone!" I am shouting at him around the 
efforts of the two idiots to silence me. Jimmy is crawling back toward 
Mulder with a death's head grin on his face.

Mulder, who is laying trussed up and expectant, like a sacrificial 
lamb.

I've got to stop this!

"God damn you, Jimmy Botina! If you kill him, you kill us all! 
Carol-Lee doesn't want him harmed. She'll kill us all! She'll kill 
you, you stupid bastard!"

I can't see what, if any, effect my hysterical screams have on Jimmy.

Omar and Fernando have started treating me to their peculiar brand of 
dirty street fighting, punching, kicking. By the time I feel the floor 
come up to greet me, I am in a world of hurt.

Despite my rapidly swelling eye, despite the pain, I look anxiously 
toward the couch, searching desperately for a glimpse of Mulder.

He's still alive. He's still alive. Thank God. He's still alive.

That thought replays in my mind a hundred times.

Jimmy is slumped next to him, hand laying limply on Mulder's bandaged 
chest, knife laying uselessly on the floor beside Mulder. And Special 
Agent Fox Mulder has his eyes  closed as if the simple act of not 
looking at all of us loonies will somehow transport him away from our 
midst.

He is trembling.

But then again, so am I.

And so is Big Bad Jimmy Botina.

The mere invocation of Carol-Lee's name, the mere threat of Carol- 
Lee's anger stopped him cold. That's why he worked so well with her 
for so long, I have to tell myself.

He knows her power, and he respects it. I know nothing.

I would have lost this game anyway. The realization is growing inside 
me, becoming a bitter pill to swallow.

I feel myself being pulled upright, to my feet. My right leg won't 
bear weight, keeps flopping under me, sending shooting pains into my 
hip and groin. Dammit! Must be broken.

I'm sure that pleases the Weasel Brothers. Omar grins in my face as he 
holds me upright.

"He has a coal cellar downstairs with a bolt on it, Jimmy."

Fernando is talking, but pain is starting to affect my hearing, or 
rather my understanding. I feel sick to my stomach. "You want us to 
throw him down there 'til we find Carol-Lee?"

Jimmy is rubbing his head wearily, gazing thoughtfully at his federal 
prisoner. He finally nods and points to Mulder. "And take this one, 
too. Lock them up. Then, I want to ride around the neighborhood. She 
has to be around here somewhere. Omar, you'll come with me. Fernando, 
you can wait here in case she comes back."

Suddenly, I am aware of Fox Mulder at my side. I cling to him, trying 
to regain some footing. Although he can hardly walk himself, he 
patiently allows me to lean on him for support. Omar and Fernando push 
us forward toward the kitchen and the basement door.

The struggle to get down the steps is almost comical were it not so 
painful. The Duron Dopes seem to get a perverse pleasure out of our 
struggle, though. I only feel relief when we are shoved into the dark 
cellar. I hear the old wood door slamming shut behind us, the bolt 
sliding into place.

I have collapsed at the door. Mulder has made it a few feet deeper 
into the darkness. I can hear  the labored breathing I have become so 
used to by now. I can also hear the squeak and snap of IV tubing being 
pulled at.

I can't move. My thoughts turn away from my pain and to Dana Scully. 
Why isn't she in here? Did Carol-Lee spirit her away? Did she kill her 
? Did they just decide to go out for early coffee and croissants to 
discuss their man-troubles like two long-lost girlfriends? What in the 
hell was going on?

I can feel a long, warm arm push itself under my shoulders, lifting me 
to a sitting position. "Help me... get you... to the bench... *pal*." 
Mulder's soft voice at my ear. He's trying to help me! 

I can't help but smile when he calls me "pal". It's a gentle mocking. 
He's been paying more attention than I gave him credit for.

We both freeze at the sound of a soft shuffling in the dark, near us. 
Suddenly, we are bathed in the glare of a light. My flashlight! And 
Dana Scully's heaven-sent voice, sardonic and weary: "Gentlemen - - 
welcome."

I can feel the tension leave me as I realize that she had wisely hid 
herself behind the van bench when she heard all the commotion 
upstairs. Fernando the Fool would never have thought to look behind 
the old seat for anyone.

Good going, Dana, but where do we go from here?

Mulder hasn't relaxed. He is still working on the Dana Scully puzzle 
in his brain. I'm sure Carol-Lee took several of the vital pieces to 
this puzzle and hid them well. I shift my weight on his good arm so 
that I can look him in the face. He is staring at Dana as she steps 
into the beam of light.

"Hey, Pal -- it's okay. Remember? She's on your side." I can feel him 
ease up a bit. She steps closer to him, reaches a hand out to touch 
his forehead. His eyes never leave her, studying, evaluating, trying 
to remember.

She smiles wanly. "Well, I think your temperature has fallen a bit at 
least." She leans over to detach the last of the mangled IV. "I should 
have known, Mulder. Keeping an IV in you is like riding the space 
shuttle into orbit, clinging to the outside."

She sighs, and he allows himself a shy smile. "I do feel better than I 
did yesterday," he offers.

She nods wearily. "Yes, I'm sure you do. However, you need at least 
another day and a half of IV's and... Oh, what's the use? I'm talking 
as if walking out the door and getting you to the hospital is an 
option here."

She looks at me, reproachfully at first, and then she seems to realize 
that I am in less than prime condition. Bless her heart. She actually 
looks concerned. She gets under my other arm as she gives Mulder his 
orders.

"Don't take all of his weight, Mulder. Let me do most of the pulling. 
Now. Over to the bench..."

Is that me crying out? It might be. I only remember lightning-like 
bolts of brilliant colors every time my right leg is moved.

I hear Mulder' soft voice saying something: "...broken 
leg...beating..."

Scully is propping my injured leg against the back of the van bench, 
stabilizing it with some of the old couch pillows, putting one pillow 
gently under my head. The only thing I need to complete this picture 
of bliss is my drugs, any drug.

My thoughts darken.

A whole bottle of pills, swallowed with an expensive scotch as a 
farewell gesture, would answer all my problems right now.

I look around for my two federal cell-mates. Mulder is huddling up in 
one of the old bucket seats. Half-naked, he is probably having trouble 
trying to stay warm. Scully is struggling with the ancient sleeping 
bag. She tucks it securely around her partner and then returns to my 
side to cover me with the remainder of sheets and blankets that I had 
left for her.

Surprise! Dana Scully sits by my side.

She gently probes my body, reading the injuries. Sighs. Sits back up. 
"You've acquired a broken leg and a number of bruises, Joey. Payback 
is hell. Or is this more of that 'world without consequences' that you 
told me of earlier?"

She's not being mean, but she is being mildly sarcastic. I laugh even 
though it makes my jaw hurt. "Oh, Doc Dana... You know,  I could fall 
in love with you if it weren't for that devil tongue of yours." I 
shake my finger at her.

She smiles and squeezes my hand sympathetically. "Our fortunes do not 
seem to be improving, Mr. Gauthier," she says with worry in her voice. 
"Were those men members of your gang?"

I nod. "Yep. The Big Jimmy B himself and his two ugly step- henchmen. 
They were looking for Carol-Lee. She's gone." I pick my head up to 
look at Mulder who is semi-alert for a change. "The last time I saw 
her, she was wound around you like gift wrapping, pal. Do you know 
where she went?"

"No," he answers simply.

"Well, this should prove very interesting -- at least briefly -- 
before we die."

I laugh to myself again. The tables have turned all right...right on 
my head.

For a long time, there is a heavy silence between us. We must seem a 
curious collection of toys for Carol-Lee: me, bewitched; Scully, 
bothered; and Mulder, bewildered.

"I don't suppose it would do any good to ask you if there might be 
another way out of here?," Dana inquires. 

Her tone is resigned. But before I can answer, I hear Mulder's 
breathless, faint voice reply. "No...I...I've looked...already...a 
hundred times...it seems."

Busy man.

And I thought he had been asleep all that time.

I smile to myself. Carol-Lee had said he was fighting her. Where has 
my head been? All along, Mulder's been moving through this little 
drama like an animated ghost, not a stage prop. Given more time, maybe 
he could have changed the direction it has been going in.

Then again --Fate may be the only director.

As this play  unfolds, and as I have time to consider my part, I 
realize that it's not about Carol-Lee, or Jimmy, or Mulder. It's all 
about me.

Endgame.

How am *I* going to conclude this absurdity?

"So...we wait?" Dana Scully again.

I can tell she is anxious to have a plan. She wants to fight back. She 
still wants to control the script, the outcome. I am still smiling 
like a mindless idiot. She must think I've gone mad.

Ahhhh! The clarity of thinking that comes when one is perched on the 
brink of insanity.

"We wait."

I can tell she is frustrated. She doesn't know. She's not sure she 
believes. She still thinks there is some way to get past this 
Carol-Lee phenomenon. How many days ago -- hell -- how many *hours* 
ago was it that I believed I could still control this situation?

So much has come undone. So much more has been revealed.

And it all seems soooo funny now.

"Joey?"

A vision of Dana Scully before me, her image swimming, wavering. My 
eyes are full of tears. I'm crying? Even as I hear myself laughing?

"Joey?" She is shaking me gently by my shoulder as if trying to snap 
me out of a trance.

I can hear myself sobbing. Not laughing. Sobbing.

She stops shaking my shoulder and just lets her hand rest there. A 
gesture of comfort. I have not earned it. I am lost. Mulder is lost. 
And she can only look out for one of us, only help one of us find his 
way back.

So, go on, Ms. Scully...

Only one of us *wants* to find his way back.

It ain't me, babe. No, no, no -- it ain't me you're lookin' for, babe.

I struggle to pull it together. Hysteria is so unseemly, not my style. 
There won't be the time to explain to her -- or him -- how my life 
ended up like this. 

Yet, watching her near me, reminding me of the way I once thought my 
life would end up, I want to confess, tell her everything. Maybe I'm 
not 'soul-less'. Maybe my soul has just been wrapped up like a mummy, 
in moldy, stinking bandages, for a long, long time.

And so, in the dim, tomb-like room, I unwrap my soul in front of Dana 
Scully.

I tell her everything. My  street-kid hopes,  my college-boy 
ambitions. And then my rape followed by my rapist's murder, followed 
by more crimes - some against others, some against myself - my 
rationalizations, my choices, my pact with the devil.

Dana Scully is listening. There is no judgment, no condemnation in 
those jewel-like eyes. 

Well, so, confession *is* good for the soul.

However, having laid the jumbled script of my life out to her, I am 
also left with an empty  feeling.

I wasted my life.

I have accomplished nothing.

And across from me, watching me with his chameleon eyes, is Fox 
Mulder, the reminder of what I should have been, what I could have 
done. 

I am more curious than ever. Who is he really? Is he everything he 
seems? Educated? Passionate? Well adjusted? Am I right to be envious 
of him or have I lionized him as a way of looking at my own wreck of a 
life?

"Dana?," I ask softly in the silence that follows my confession. She 
arches her eyebrows gently, waiting for my question. I nod my head at 
Mulder. "What about him? Who is he? Tell me about him."

His mouth drops open slightly. He's surprised by my request, but his 
eyes fly eagerly to his partner's face. He is searching. He doesn't 
want to be lost. Can she help him? Can she tell him who he is? Can she 
undo Carol-Lee's damage?

Dana takes a deep breath as she meets her partner's eyes. "Tell you 
about him?," she echoes gently. "The story of Fox Mulder is a long, 
complicated one." She smiles at him and continues, "He is a singular 
talent, a man unlike any one I have ever known."

A pause. He looks a bit anxious now.

"He was known as a kind of phenomenon at the Bureau. He has an 
other-worldly talent for nailing profiles on serial killers, psycho 
criminals, et cetera. Helped enormously, I am sure, by the fact that 
he is a star graduate of Oxford's prestigious college of psychology. 
The FBI had recruited him before the ink was dry on the sheepskin."

"*Oxford* Mulder? " I grin at him. I was right. He is a shining star. 
He looks a little awestruck, himself, just now.

Dana nods and continues, her smile saddening. "Well, along with his 
other-worldly talents, he has several other qualities that have 
endeared him to me if not our superiors: single-mindedness, unorthodox 
methods, a damning disregard for authority. He can trip more triggers 
among the establishment than the Libyan Army." She sighs. "That's how 
we became partners. The powers-that-be at the FBI thought I could rein 
him in when he made it clear he was turning his back on the promotions 
and politics of the Bureau and began pursuing the... the X Files."

"X files? What are the X files?" This I have never heard of!

She turns to look to me. "You are an X file, Joey. Or rather part of 
one. Carol-Lee and her supposed power. She's the subject of this 
particular, peculiar adventure we are now involved in. Agent Mulder 
has actively pursued cases that defy...uhm...rational explanations. I 
have been partnered with him for the past three years. Initially, I 
suppose I thought it was a 'baby-sitting' assignment. I was expected 
to make regular reports, make sure the rules were followed, try to 
keep Mulder's feet on the ground and head out of the..."

She stops again. She can't finish for a moment. She is drawing too 
close to some emotionally charged issue between them.

Those chameleon eyes of his are dark now, staring at Dana. She 
continues talking to me but is looking at him. "The X Files Division 
has surprised us all. The things I have seen... Our experiences... The 
things that have happened to us both..."

Her face pales a bit, and she can no longer look at Mulder. He looks 
frozen in place.

Maybe I was wrong. Appearances can be deceiving. Good looks, good 
education, good job  -- might not add up to a blissful existence after 
all. Could be that all those *good* things have been driven by a 
desperate force, desperate circumstances. 

He is just like me, I think, but he had the sense to seek out the 
higher road.

Sense or destiny?

And the beautiful Dana Scully? What of her life? I can't tell, due to 
the heavy blanket of angst that has fallen over all of us, whether she 
truly wishes to be a part of this pairing with Mulder or if she is 
resigning herself to fate, like I am doing now. Or is there some other 
bond? Some other passion driving her, keeping her at Mulder's side.

I remind myself that the cement for pair bonds is not always made of 
love alone. It can be made of a  seemingly incongruous blend of many 
things: greed, pain, passion, lust, fear, loneliness, loss...

She is wringing her hands as if trying to warm them. She will not meet 
my eyes, and she is outright avoiding his.



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

I can hear the groan of ancient vinyl as Fox Mulder shifts his weight 
uncomfortably in the bucket seat across from me. He drops his head to 
the side, resting it against the back of the chair.

He is staring off into a dark corner.

He does not say whether he knows who he is now. Maybe he's trying to 
decide if he wants to know any more. I remember what Carol-Lee had 
said of him that first fateful night in the warehouse: <Too many 
memories...Too scary...Too sad>

He is trembling again.

Dana looks up and notices this, too. Without a word, she leaves my 
side and goes to him. She pulls the folds of my sleeping bag open and 
slips into it with him, holding him, trying to stop the shuddering 
that seems to have little to do with the cold in this basement.

The tomb-like silence returns. I'm more aware of the grave-like smell 
of  this place. I'm also aware of the silence upstairs, where Fernando 
waits and watches.

While we wait and wonder.

My eye is caught by a spider actively spinning her web in a corner of 
the room illuminated by the flashlight. I watch with fascination as 
she delicately pulls and weaves with her tiny, thin legs.

She must spin the web to live.

Maybe it's the same for Carol-Lee. Her web must be spun to entrap. She 
must feed on us.

Where did she go? Why did she leave?

She had been so strange last night, so different. Had she spun too 
complicated a web? Had she done herself in? Or maybe she and Jimmy 
have a deeper symbiotic relationship than she knew. He certainly seems 
to be suffering as much as she was after we came from the hospital.

The hospital! I'd forgotten!

Dana's mysterious note in Latin; the message the pharmacist puzzled 
over before Carol-Lee went berserk!

I look quickly over at her. She has Mulder's head buried against her 
shoulder. She is brushing her fingertips through his dark hair, a 
comforting gesture, as much for herself as him, I suppose. Her eyes 
are open, but she is lost in thought.

"Dana?"

She turns those jewel eyes to me, focusing on me.

"You left a message, didn't you?" I suppose my question sounds more 
hopeful than I honestly feel. "Back at the hospital?"

She sighs, but she doesn't sound hopeful at all. "Yes. A note in Latin 
on the prescription form. I had hoped he would notice it -- the 
pharmacist,  I mean. I wrote it in Latin to disguise..." She looks a 
little embarrassed. "I mean, if Carol-Lee can really read other 
people's thoughts, I hoped that a message in Latin would confound 
her."

Damn! What a woman! Even in these dire straits, I have to marvel at 
her. I'll bet she and Mulder made a helluva team.

"I expected that the note would have been found by now, though," she 
is saying. "If they found the pharmacist's body and followed standard 
investigation procedures, they would have reviewed his last 
prescription orders for clues. My note said we were in danger and to 
notify our AD, Skinner, and gave your address here."

"How'd you get my address?"

She smiles. "Joey. Really. There were several pieces of mail addressed 
to 'occupant' in your kitchen. I *am* an FBI agent, you know."

I laugh and rub my sore jaw. "Oh yes, Doc Dana. I could fall in 
love..."

"Well, save your love," she sniffs. "They should have been here by 
now. And the early morning wake-up call from your fellow gang members 
has turned this into a race against time. If Jimmy Botina finds 
Carol-Lee and gets back here first..." She doesn't finish her 
sentence. She doesn't need to.

She pulls Mulder closer to her, a gesture that didn't escape my 
notice.

In that same moment, I hear the creak of wood and glass that is 
peculiar to the opening sound of my lobby door upstairs. Dana hears 
it, too. Even Fox Mulder lifts his head and uselessly stares at the 
old floorboards overhead as if he could see through them, somehow 
divining who is at my front door and what their intent is.

Dana and I lock eyes for a brief second before she reaches over and 
switches off the flashlight. The image of her face is burned onto my 
retina in the darkness, a literal bright light in the blackness.

We listen.

The apartment door creaks open, and I hear footfalls. Soft ones, small 
ones.

Carol-Lee!

I hear the scrape of a chair on the linoleum in the kitchen. Fernando 
getting up. Probably in the kitchen studying the remains of the drug 
supply. I hope he helped himself to a lot. A whole lot.

"Who's there? Jimmy? Omar?" I can hear his muffled calls. I can hear 
him head into the hallway. For a moment, there is silence and I 
envision the recognition on Fernando's face. It's not just Carol-Lee 
he recognizes, I think as I hear him shout her name, it's the danger 
he sees.

I hear his gun discharge three times, but I hear only one of the 
bullets drill into the floor just as I hear his agonized scream and 
the thud of his body, falling almost directly overhead. 

So long, Fernando. Can't say it's been nice to know ya...

I can hear those soft footfalls again. Wandering. Back to the living 
room. To the bedroom. To the kitchen. Back to the bedroom. And then it 
is quiet for a long time. I think I hear the creak of bed springs. 
More silence. And then slow, shuffling, unsteady steps toward the 
kitchen, toward the door to the basement.

I can see light from the kitchen, spilling down the steps into the 
tomb that is my basement. I can see fingers of that light poke through 
the chinks and cracks in the door of our prison. Creaking of stairs 
and the groan of the railing as if someone is leaning on it for 
support. The fingers of light in our prison dance as the shadow of the 
wraith beyond the door moves slowly forward. The slide of the bolt is 
a tortured sound, prolonged as if the person moving it is not strong 
enough to pull it.

Carol-Lee.

Even though she is backlit by the light from the stairs, I can tell 
she has changed again. Her stance is stooped, uneven, as if she's 
physically folding up on herself. Her choppy hair is spiked out in all 
directions, a fashion of madness. I can see that her clothes are torn, 
as if she had been running through briar patches. In downtown 
Pittsburgh? No way.

I'm glad I can't see her face clearly, but I'm glad for the shadows. I 
don't have to see that visage to know what it is like.

The soft, little-girl innocence will be gone.

The sexy, but short-lived, womanliness will be gone.

There will only be a rictus of insanity and, at the moment, that will 
scare me more than if she holds a knife to my heart.

With that thought comes the sudden knowledge that this is what had 
terrified Mulder.

This is what forms the prison in his head: the vision of unspeakable 
madness. The aloneness of the insane. 

He saw himself. Wrapped in a straight-jacket. Endlessly weaving and 
pacing. From corner to corner of a stark white room. A room padded to 
keep harm away, well after the most harm had been done.

No wonder.

No wonder he was frightened. Scared.

Mr. X Files is being held by the thing that scares him the most: a 
senseless end.

A living death.

In those breathless seconds as I watch Carol-Lee, or rather, what is 
left of Carol-Lee and I understand Mulder's imprisonment, I come to 
understand something else.

He doesn't deserve this captivity. His prison should be mine. I want 
it.

A senseless end makes sense for my life, not his.

Let me have that prison, Mulder. You can have your X Files. Your 
partner. Your big brain. Take it all back, and let me have what I want 
most: off the planet. Away from the world as I know it.

Carol-Lee is frozen in the doorway, staring at Fox Mulder. Glaring at 
Dana Scully. Ignoring me. She lifts her hand to gesture silently at 
her G.I. Fox doll. She soundlessly commands him to come to her.

I watch anxiously. There is no way to know how this will play out.

I see Mulder grimace and turn his face away from her. 

A defiance!

I still don't need to see her face to know how she is taking his 
resistance. I can *feel* the fury building in her. I'm sure he's 
feeling it, too.

She moves forward enough to reach for my flashlight. She turns it on, 
illuminating our latest prison.

The light also illuminates her.

Dana and I suck in our breath almost simultaneously. I was right about 
her face. But what the darkness had really hidden, however, were the 
two ominous red stains growing on her abdomen.

Fernando's heavy metal greeting to Carol-Lee: two bullets low on the 
stomach Painful. Fatal.

Carol-Lee seems oblivious to the wounds. Insanity does have its perks, 
I suppose. She is too focused on her errant agent. She is too enraged 
with his insolent behavior. She is too obsessed with him.

When she turns her hateful glare on Dana Scully, I become alarmed.

This will be no simple cat fight. Dana has her arms around Carol- 
Lee's stolen property. Carol-Lee will simply dispatch the bothersome 
intruder.

When Carol-Lee moves threateningly toward Dana, Fox Mulder becomes 
animated, the wildcat I've seen before.

He draws himself in front of his partner protectively, daring Carol- 
Lee with his dark eyes. In this light, in this room, they look coal 
black, hard. As usual, he and Carol-Lee don't have to speak 
communicate. She's getting the message loud and clear.

Overhead, I hear the front door swing open again. Two sets of 
footsteps.

They stop at the point in my hallway where Fernando must have fallen. 
They move on toward the basement door, one more quickly than the 
other. Their descent down the steps does not faze Carol- Lee.

She means to have her prize; all else be damned.

Sweat is beading up on Mulder's forehead, but he is not trembling. He 
is unbending, rigid with ferocity. He is protecting Dana, even though 
he must know what this act of defiance will cost him.

Mulder, Mulder, Mulder, I sigh inwardly. Dana was right. This may all 
come down to a race against time.

And time moves into the lead position as Omar Duron bursts in on our 
cozy little group.

He is twisted with grief and rage. I'm sure the sight of his brother, 
dead on the floor in a pool of his own blood and brains, has fueled 
this mania. He grabs for Carol-Lee just as Carol-Lee reaches for 
Mulder.

Her shriek is one of surprise and pain.

Omar's shriek is the tolling of death.

It comes just fractions of a second after I see the silvery glitter of 
Jimmy Botina's switchblade, sinking between Omar's shoulder blades, 
stabbing him in the back, finding its way to his heart, loosening his 
grip on Carol-Lee, loosening his grip on life.

Carol-Lee is in Jimmy's arms. Her breathing is becoming ragged. This 
whole scene is unfolding in an unreal way.

I struggle to sit up. I must have some role here. I must!

Jimmy's eyes are full of tears as he looks at the tiny person he is 
holding.

"Carol-Lee? Carol-Lee?" That's all he can say. Over and over. He eases 
her down to the bench, next to me. Never even looks at me. But I can 
see his face change. I can see the hate turn him inside out, and I see 
his hand tighten on the switchblade again.

Ohchrist!

"Look out, Mulder!" I yell, praying there is time enough for both of 
them to get out of the way of this murderous animal.

Jimmy turns, screaming at the top of his lungs. "This is your work, 
you bastard! This is your fault! You started this!"

I feel so helpless. I cannot move. But I see that Mulder has shoved 
his partner loose from the tangle of the sleeping bag, out of 
immediate harm's way.

In the moment he took to do that, he may have sacrificed himself. 
Jimmy's knife blade seems to explode in the air as he arcs it down 
toward Special Pal Fox Mulder, who is hobbled by my sleeping bag, 
unable to move out of the way of that flashing metal.

Another explosion.

My terrified mind tries to make sense of this noise. Knives don't make 
explosive sounds.

Jimmy is standing stock still. Mulder is still crouched beneath him, 
expecting death from that knife blade for the second time today.

Where did the explosions come from? The echo of them seems to still be 
reverberating in my head as I look toward the door.

The gun is still smoking in his hands.

Mr. Intense. The Federal Bossman.

The Big Dog.

He stands there, looking like a recruitment poster. Stance correct. 
Steely eyes not moving off his target. Jaw set as if it were cast in 
iron. Waiting.

FBI Assistant Director Walter Skinner is waiting.

And there are other trained guns just behind him, waiting. Waiting for 
the corpse that Jimmy Botina already is to drop the knife from its 
lifeless hand and to drop itself to the floor, where it will do no 
more harm.

The corpse finally complies. Walter Skinner relaxes, but just a bit. 
There are still criminal elements in this room, he knows. He runs an 
evaluating glance over me and Carol-Lee.

She's dying. He can see that. Maybe he can tell I'm dead, too, passed 
over a long time ago.

His two special Special Agents are re-uniting in a brief reassuring 
hug.

I can see Fox Mulder's handsome face. It is lit up with something new, 
something I haven't seen in him in our brief time together. I think 
he's got himself back. I think he's going to be okay.

Looking over his partner's shoulder, his eyes meet mine. 

Suddenly, those chameleon eyes go wide, as if frightened by something 
they see, as if they are warning me. I can see him stiffen. I can see 
Dana Scully start to turn in response to his signal.

At that same moment, I feel the half-dead, already cold fingers of 
Carol-Lee moving over my head. She is smiling at me, her mouth all 
bloody, a ghastly parody of her new discovery: lipstick.

"Bye, Joey. This is for you." Her last words.

I can feel the electric tingle...

.....................*************************************

Marymont Psychiatric Facility Marymont, Pennsylvania Mid-December

"Thank you for coming back, Doctor Scully."

Doctor Helen Ames voice was full of gratitude and relief as she 
watched Special Agent Dana Scully lean over the dimly lit desk in the 
corner of the room to sign some papers. Doctor Ames stole a moment to 
glance over at the woman's partner again. Special Agent Fox Mulder.

He was leaning against the glass of the two way mirror, intent in his 
observation of the patient on the other side. He hadn't moved from his 
observation post since she came in the room with these forms for 
Doctor Scully to sign.

"Is that the last copy of the statements that I need to sign, Doctor 
Ames?"

Dana Scully's voice wrenched her away from her thoughts. She picked up 
the papers and slid them carefully into a manila envelope. "Yes, thank 
you, once again. By making this special trip up here, you've helped 
expedite things for Joey."

Doctor Ames smiled at Scully and added, "I'm sure Mr. Gauthier would 
be grateful for the efforts you've made on his behalf. I mean, if he 
was capable."

Scully cringed inwardly at the irony of the woman's statement. "Yes, 
I'm sure he would be. If he were capable." Scully stood and smoothed 
out her gray business suit.

Doctor Ames turned to leave, sending one more appreciative glance at 
the male agent on the other side of the room. He was oblivious to her 
presence, as oblivious as the fellow on the other side of the mirrored 
window. Strange, Ames thought, just as she felt a staying hand on her 
arm.

It was Agent Scully again. "Doctor Ames," she said in a curious, 
half-whisper, as if talking louder might agitate her mesmerized 
partner by the mirror. "What is Joey's latest prognosis?"

Ames' face became immediately sympathetic. Whomever this patient was 
to these two agents, he certainly is an important concern of theirs.

She laid a hand over Scully's and shook her head. Following Scully's 
example, she kept her voice low. "His case is stumping the experts. 
MRI's. EEG's. Toxicology tests. Chem screens. Nothing shows up. There 
is no apparent reason for him to be like this. Or to remain in this 
state. The prognosis is: there is no prognosis. That's why we want to 
move him to the university hospital." 

She noticed the look on Scully's face and added softly, "He'll be well 
cared for, Doctor Scully. You needn't worry."

Scully tilted her head to the side a bit, like a self-conscious shrug. 
"Thanks. I know. I know he will." She waited for Ames to leave and 
added after her, "But I don't think he cares."

She turned to her partner and watched him for a moment.

He was leaning heavily against the observation glass. He seemed to be 
barely breathing.

It had been six weeks of slow recovery for Fox Mulder.

Mending bone. Mending bruised tissue. Regaining strength. Regaining 
memories.

Scully had remained at his side through the worst of it, helping him 
cope with the worst of the memories. Helping him own them again. And 
at last, he had gently pushed her away, kept her at arm's length while 
he sorted through the entire experience.

At first, Scully wondered if letting him make this trip with her was a 
good idea. He argued long and hard with her, throwing all sorts of 
psycho-babble tech terms at her: He needed closure; he needed to see 
the reality of what had seemed like a dream to him; he needed to 
experience; he needed to see Joey Gauthier again.

So, he had come along, making the long, tedious trip by car in near 
total silence, which made Scully doubt that she had done the right 
thing.

He had been silent through all of the meetings with Joey's doctors.

He had been silent as the social services team and the psyche team 
explained their theories and strategies of treatment.

He had been silent as they were shown all the brochures and 
sunshine-up-your-skirt reviews of the new facility they wanted to send 
Joey to.

He had been silent as Dana had given her final statement, her own take 
on the strange case of Mr. Joey Gauthier.

He was silent now, staring into the room on the other side of the 
mirrored glass.

Scully could see he was staring at a vision of unspeakable madness, at 
the aloneness of the insane.

He stared at Joey Gauthier. Wrapped in a straight-jacket. Endlessly 
weaving and pacing. From corner to corner of a stark white room. A 
room padded to keep harm away, well after the most harm had been done.

Scully put a hand on her partner's arm. He looked over at her.

"Mulder? Are you okay?" The usual question.

He smiled for the first time in days. There was deep relief in his 
eyes. "Yeah, Scully. I'm okay." His voice was husky with emotion.

He looked back at Joey Gauthier. "So long, pal," he whispered.

He shoved himself away from the glass and turned toward the door. He 
draped an arm companionably over his partner's shoulder, effectively 
steering her out of the room.

As he held the door open for her, he looked down at her and smiled 
again.

"I'm glad to see it's not me, Scully. It's not me."

The door shut on the room with a near silent click. Joey Gauthier 
never stopped his weaving, his pacing. Corner to corner in the stark 
white room.

He was a happy, happy man.

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

FINIS