The Damascus Files: File 2
by Katvictory

DISCLAIMERS: They all belong to Chris Carter and Fox, I want nothing. Don't sue.
RATING: This chapter is PG-13, The only problem here might be the language and perhaps the intense subject matter. R for the series
SUMMARY: Chapter 1 - Mulder and Skinner strive to survive the start of that first post apocalyptic winter. FILE 2 : After fighting his way back from near death, Mulder still must learn to deal with lingering disabilities and discover how to control his mysterious and often frightening psychic powers. Along the way old secrets are revealed and hidden truths uncovered that affect not only Mulder's and Scully's relationship but the future of the entire planet. [gasp]
CATEGORIES: Mulder angst, this chapter is completely post -colonization, Skinner torture
SPOILERS: We leave CC's universe completely toward the end of the 6th season.
FEEDBACK: dev1025@uswest.net
Note from the author: Eventually this story will be composed of three separate files, each one detailing a different period in this long story. This is File 2. Wonder who the heck Alfred Packer is and why would Mulder want his cookbook? I have some wonderful sites that tell his story, just drop me a line.

 

In Damascus there was a disciple named Ananias. The Lord called to him in a vision, "Ananias!" "Yes, Lord," he answered. The Lord told him, "Go to the house of Judas on Straight Street and ask for a man from Tarsus named Saul, for he is praying." The Lord said to Ananias, "Go! This man is my chosen instrument to carry my name before the Gentiles and their kings and before the people of Israel. I will show him how much he must suffer for my name."

*****

 

Chapter One

FWM Tapes
October 16?, 2002
(Exact date unknown)

The snow started three days ago and it hasn't let up since. It's constantly drifting in front of the door, and it takes both of us, using all our strength, to open the damn thing when Skinner goes out to gather firewood. He won't let me make the trek out to the woodbox. He tells me my health is too fragile. Asshole. I'm not an invalid, for God's sake. Well, I've told him there's no way he's going out in this weather to replenish my medication, so I guess we're even.

I can't believe it, I think the two of us are turning into old maids in britches. If he reminds me to take off my wet socks one more time, I'm going to have to kill him. I guess he has just gotten into the habit of taking care of me. I'm not fooling myself anymore, I know my survival depends on him. That last bug almost took me out. I know the self-healing kicked in and finally saved me, but we never did find out what the limits are. Between recovering from the alien's attack and now getting over pneumonia or whatever it was I came down with, I doubt I have the strength to heal a hang nail. Plus, (pause) I don't think I could make it without his company (long pause).

Well, we do have enough food to last us 'til spring. Between what Wagner had stored in the basement for just this occasion and what Skinner's picked up, we definitely have enough to eat. So, that's one thing we don't have to worry about. We won't starve to death (laughs). Good thing. I don't think I could find an Alfred Packer cookbook on audio tape.

I can't believe this storm. I wonder if THEY're fucking with our weather now. It would be a good way to get rid of a lot of us, this first winter. Could be I'm paranoid.

Scully's okay. I know she's hunkering down somewhere east of here. It's snowing there, too. It makes me wonder what's making this winter so harsh. I mean, it's a little too soon for this much snow all over the country, isn't it?

Shit, I only have two day's medication left. Maybe the storm will stop. Still, I don't think the road crews will be out to clear the highways. They're all on permanent vacation. Only places that will be cleared to travel will be where THEY want to go. Maybe that's a good thing, at least we'll know where THEY are.

God, that sounds so paranoid. I skipped my meds this morning, trying to make them last; but there still has to be some in my system. I can't already be showing the effects. It's probably cabin fever. I haven't been out of this place for...shit, I don't know how long.

(Pause, loud sounds of stamping feet. He speaks to Skinner). Still coming down? Does it look like it's letting up?

(Reply is inaudible).

Well, get those wet clothes off and come over here by the fire. You're going to make yourself sick.

Shit, what did just I say? I can't believe I said that. I do sound like an old maid! No, my God! It's even worse than I thought, I'm turning into Skinner's mother.

End Tape
-WSS-

 

FWM Tapes
Late October 2002
(Exact Date Unknown)

Though he tried to be inconspicuous, Skinner watched me very closely the last couple of days of the blizzard. I could feel those two beady black eyes studying my every move. I was under surveillance. The man didn't make it to Assistant Director because he was good at sucking up, and knew whose ass to kiss. He is an expert at deductive reasoning. I believe that's why he always seemed so uncomfortable behind the desk. The interagency political maneuvering that came with the office never came easy for him. He rose to the position he held because he was a damn fine agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The emphasis, of course, should be on the I.

The day the snow finally stopped, he confronted me about not taking my meds. I'd made three days dosage last for over a week, but I was completely out. The light in our little ex-tinker shop home was never very good. The two windows on each side of the front door were ignored when Skinner made the place ready for us to move in. The Coleman lanterns he'd acquired on one of his night raids just didn't produce enough illumination for me to even come close to making out a person's features. All I saw was a pale blur. But I didn't have to see his face to know he had discovered that I had not been taking my meds. The tone of his voice was clear enough.

"I know you haven't taken any of your pills since night before last. I have just two questions. One, with us stuck here like we are, how long did you think you could go on covering this up? And two, why are you pulling this stunt again?" Skinner angry at me is something I do remember clearly. There are certain things that have imprinted themselves in my brain and no bullet or stroke could erase them. This, however, was not just his usual rage. This was me, ruining his chance to assuage his guilt and grief. His sins wouldn't be absolved if I died now, if I killed myself with this act of stupidity. How dare I do this, after all his hard work keeping me alive 'til Scully could come and take over this task of caring for me?

"What is it this time? Visions of Druids chanting that you need to check out Stonehenge? A trip to Peru to find your ancient astronaut's landing sites? Agent Mulder, I don't know what to think about what's in these files, the story they tell. I just know your health is shot and without that medication you will die." I jumped when he called me by my old title. It was like a ghost returned. His voice had grown more controlled. The ire was less evident. He'd fallen, without realizing it, back into the stern tones of a supervisor upbraiding an underling. He didn't even realize he was doing it. "I read some on how dangerous the seizures really are for you. Hell, I watched you go through four of them before we got the Tegretol and each time I thought you were dying, right there in front of me. Why are you doing this to yourself?"

Skinner finally paused in his lecture and after taking a deep sighing breath, he finished. I already knew what he was going to say. His last few words were testimony to the crown of thorns he'd worn for almost four years. "Why are you doing this to me?"

The question slipped out in an uncharacteristically plaintive cry of betrayal. Once uttered, I think he wished he could take back his last heartfelt query. The words hung there; the sudden quiet added an unwanted exclamation point. Emotionally spent, Skinner sank down in the beat up, overstuffed, easy chair he'd claimed as his when we moved in.

My throat was dry. I had grown used to the kid gloves he'd handled me with since his return. So much of what Skinner had said hurt, deeply and to the quick, but his outburst did help. It allowed some of the pain that accompanied his guilt to be shucked away. His load would be lighter now. I carefully chose how I replied, knowing after all he'd done for me, I owed him this chance to walk tall again, his burden lifted somewhat. The truth that I'd only been trying to make the medication last, would make his outburst seem simply an overreaction on his part and not a much needed catharsis.

"I'm sorry, I should have talked with you about it. Since you know my history, I don't blame you for being upset. This time, it wasn't so much me having delusions, it was more me making a stupid move. I decided to cut down on my dosage because I didn't want the pills to run out before the storm was over. I know how dangerous it is to do that. I just wasn't thinking straight." My apology made him slump a bit, but I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking I had allowed both of us to save a little face.

"Don't worry, Mulder, I got used to your tendency to foolishly rush into things a long time ago," Skinner murmured softly, finally looking up at me. There was a long pause before he spoke again. "And I wouldn't worry too much anymore about how straight your thinking is. The way you just covered both of our asses at the same time proves you've more than recovered."

I couldn't really see it, but I think he was flashing me one of his 'anymore than this will crack my face,' sly grins.

End Tape
-WSS-

 

FWM Tapes
Late October, 2002
(Exact Date Unknown)

This is exactly what I've feared since Skinner started to make these night raids, that one time he might come back hurt or, worse yet, not even make it back at all.

He left the night after he discovered I was out of meds. I tried to talk him out of it, telling him there were enough of the drugs still left in my system. I let him know he didn't have to risk this in the waist deep snow. I told him I could miss a few days of my seizure medicine without having a grand mal. I promised that I'd take it easy; Skinner knew stress had usually been what had triggered my seizures. That's why the Risperdal/Xanax combination. They control the psychosis that the first brain injury caused and also keep the bi-polar disorder that I've probably suffered with my entire life, manageable. When I'm not crazy, I'm actually a pretty calm, even tempered kind of guy.

Skinner wasn't going to take the chance that I might get sick again. I understood where he was coming from. I know guilt first hand. I understand how it can be the dominant, driving force in a person's life. The man had sent me on an assignment and I'd gotten my eye and half my face blown off. He has never forgiven himself for buckling under to the plan that allowed the bad guys to win. What had happened to me out in that field had become his cross to bear. The shot David Moye fired, laughing at the game of having a human target, shattered two lives, three, counting Scully's. Nothing has been the same since for any of us. At least I found comfort because Scully's and my relationship seemed to be tempered by the trials. All Skinner has had for the long years since that happened to me, is a need to make amends. This was his chance to repay his self assumed debt, and nothing was going to stop him.

That entire first night I cursed loud and long, calling him every name I could think of. My association with a sailor's daughter has broadened my vocabulary of expletives immeasurably. By morning I was gritty eyed, but calmer and I forced myself to stay busy, attempting to do both of our chores. I surprised myself with the success I had with completing my tasks. I guess chopping the firewood was a bit foolhardy. Skinner probably could have finished the cord in a third of the time it took me, but I didn't lose any appendages and when I finished the job I was able to fall into an exhausted sleep, too tired to worry.

I woke sometime during the night, freezing because I'd neglected to feed the stove before I'd slipped into my coma. I'm used to darkness, I've had close to four years of learning to live in my world where insatiable, greedy shadows lurk constantly to consume the dim, blurred light. I'm not used to facing the night alone. Whatever tricks I'd learned in Guatemala, when I'd wandered the jungles in easy solitude, were lost with my memories of that time. I know I could have restarted the fire, I'd done it countless times before. The shack is always gloomy, so it was just a question of me getting up and doing the task in a room that was pitch black instead of dark, murky gray. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I huddled in my bed, facing the tiny window, 'til the faint streams of dawn filtered through the grimy panes of glass.

I forced my three meals down that day, dutifully keeping my strength up. Grabbing our biggest pot I made trip after trip outside, collecting snow to melt in our huge washtub. I set it on the cast iron, wood stove, taking my time to wash away the sweat and grime that covered me from my labors from the day before. Only half the morning was gone when I'd finished, try as I might to squander the time. Sinking down into Skinner's chair, I silently began my vigil.

End Tape
-WSS-

 

 

When the second night descended, I didn't bother with the lanterns. Fortunately, I'd kept the big, hulking, wood stove stoked, leaving the metal door open because I liked to hear the crackle and pop of the fire. Skinner told me its faint light led him to the tinker shop on that almost moonless night. Expectantly listening for the sound of his approach, I still jumped when I heard his boots thud on the wooden step. He seemed to have trouble with the door, so I leapt to my feet and lurched to help him open it. I was smiling with relief when he stumbled inside, falling heavily against me.

His weight almost brought me to the ground with him. The smell of damp wool was strong and overpowering. But, there was another odor that returned me to childhood. It reminded me of the smell my skin used to get after holding pennies too long in a sweaty hand. That acrid, coppery stench my palm would take on is identical to the scent of blood. Skinner moaned when I began frisking him. My stomach gave a sick lurch when I felt that his flannel shirt was soaked with a warm, sticky wetness over his ribs on the left side. Sliding my hand beneath him, I found his back tacky with more of the thick, seeping moisture.

"Oh, shit, what did you do to yourself?" I groaned, struggling to undo his down jacket. My hands shook so, I couldn't get the zipper to move. My 'bad' hand, my right, wouldn't stop trembling enough to let me use even a mitten grip to hold the thick fabric still, so I could slide the zipper down. When I finally was able to get it to move, the cloth caught in the teeth and it became hopelessly jammed. I howled in panic and frustration.

"Mulder?" Skinner mumbled, his hand gripped my arm. "We're in deep shit! You need to hide in case they followed me."

"Skinner, give me a hand here, okay?" I asked, fighting back my tears. God, I felt so useless at that moment. I was having to ask a seriously injured man to undress himself. I couldn't even manage to work a zipper. "Help me get your jacket off, sir. I got the zipper fucked up. Jammed."

Skinner's hands slowly moved to his front and I felt him lift his head to check out the damage I'd done. I rocked back, moving out of his way and lost my balance, almost tumbling on top of him. My eye finally spilled over at this latest sign of my weakness. I knew better than to try to squat. I knew better than to try to be of help to anyone. I was useless and my friend, a man who had saved my worthless life four times in the last three months, was going to die because of it.

"Oh, shit. Yeah, I see what you did. I hate it when that happens. This thing is such a pain in the ass. I shoulda ripped off one with snaps. Mother-fucker's always going off track and jamming." He struggled with the zipper for a few more minutes before finally gripping the sides and ripping the fastener apart from its seams. Sagging back, worn out from his struggles, he chuckled, "Nothin' to it, huh?"

I tried to laugh with him but the lump in my throat blocked everything but an odd, choking cough. His trials with the jacket, whether real of feigned for my benefit, did help my ailing ego, but I was still wallowing in misery, knowing Skinner deserved more than the little help I could offer him.

"Got your pills in the pack, you need to go take them, okay?" he mumbled, motioning to the bag he'd dropped when he'd stumbled through the door. I nodded that I would do what he asked, "later, after we take care of you." My reply was a faint whisper.

"Well, why don't we just get me up off the floor, try to get me to my bed, AND get my clothes off all at the same time? The less I move, the better I'll feel." His hand went to my shoulder to pull himself up and together, we got him to his feet. He swayed for a moment, holding on to me to steady himself. Using both arms to hold him, I got him to stand beside his bed.

He allowed me to finish taking off his clothes, down to his boxers. I think our stroll took the last of his energy, and I strained to lower him to his mattress when his legs just gave out.

"A through and through on the left side, entry from the back. The size of the holes are pretty impressive but I don't think it hit anything important." Skinner gave me this quick rundown on his wound, but I only stood mutely at his side. I had no idea where to start. "Mulder, maybe you ought to get a little water boiling. Neither one of us is gonna like it much but you might better try to clean it at least."

I turned, numb, moving to do as I was told. His grip was still strong when he caught hold of my arm to stop me, "Mulder, I'm just as in the dark here as you about what to do. You just do what you can. I don't expect a miracle."

Skinner released his hold and after grabbing a pot, I walked slowly out to get the water going. His comment about a miracle opened a door for me, setting a plan in motion, and my steps were faster as I moved inside. My idea jelled while I melted the snow, and found some soap and rags to clean the wound. Skinner took a cloth, wiping the blood off his torso. Taking a deep breath, I wet my towel and with my friend's guidance to find the place, I began to dab at the wide, irregular cleft of rendered flesh. Skinner hissed as I grew braver, gently probing the spot where the bullet had exited, the force shoving all that came before out to make this gaping insult to the human anatomy.

My friend gave a loud cry of pain when I surprised him by inserting a finger to probe the wound. His hand caught my wrist to stop me, but I stilled his interference with a thought.

"Mulder?" Skinner questioned, fright and surprise mingled in his voice when he found he couldn't move. He felt the energy I was drawing into me, feeding my powers, gathering strength. I knew what to do now, for I was being driven by some long forgotten instinct.

"As long as nothing's missing it'll be fine," I softly reassured my patient. "All I'm going to do is speed up the cell division, growing new cells...pushing them on..." I sank my fingers into the wound, deeply, past the torn muscles, feeling, reaching into him with my touch and my mind. I was strong enough then, so I was controlling his pain with my unspoken suggestion. Later, weakened by blood loss, he drifted off to sleep, so when I could no longer maintain my psychic analgesia, his own body was able to take over.

I ordered the cells to hurry their reproductive division, over and over, first one side of the gap then the other, until each type of tissue rejoined as whole. Then I went on to the next. What was rapid for human physiology still took time, so when I finally stood to rest, my bones popped and creaked in protest. I lurched over to grab the medicine that Skinner had gotten at the spilling his own blood, then fumbled around 'til I found the bread I'd made for yesterday's solitary lunch. I was too tired, too eager to return to my work, to bother slicing the half loaf, so, after downing my medications, I leaned against the wall, sipping water and gnawing on my slightly stale breakfast. I finished the entire meal, not because of hunger, but because I knew I needed the fuel in order to finish my task.

Skinner awakened as I moved to sit beside him, but I had regained some strength and I instructed him to return to a deep sleep. Once he complied, I pulled him over to lie on his stomach and began anew on the entrance wound. The site was smaller than the massive exit hole but I was not as fresh, so my work was slower, and the room was light by the time I finished. I hadn't stopped to rest, wanting to press on to the end. When I finally pushed myself upright, knowing I needed to at least take my medication and get some water before I retired, I fell flat on my face.

Try as I might, I couldn't even raise my head from the hard, concrete floor. I'd been so caught up in my psychic repair work, the fire had long since burned out. I was glad I'd covered my patient with both our quilts before I'd left him. It wasn't going to kill me if I just went ahead and dozed off on the floor, and I really didn't see that I had much choice. I was burnt out, used up and sucked dry. Without someone dragging me over to my bed, this was where I was going to stay until I got some of my strength back.

It really wasn't too bad, a bit chilly lying on the cold cement, but I didn't think I'd have any trouble sleeping. In Colorado, the temperature almost always drops at least twenty degrees when the sun goes down so, as long as I woke up before nightfall, I was in good shape. If I didn't, well, the phrase 'dead to the world' popped into my head and it took on a whole new meaning. However, the chuckle that rose up, at that touch of dark humor, didn't even have a chance to make it out before I drifted off.

Skinner woke me. It was night, but I could tell that he had lit the lanterns by the charcoal gray haze I saw around me. Fortunately, Skinner had sense enough not to overdo. While I'd made his damaged tissue heal itself completely, he was still weak. His body had suffered a major trauma and the tank was way too low on blood. It would be a while until he would feel back to normal.

Skinner covered me with my blanket, and I relaxed there on the floor. My mind was drifting and I thought about how Scully had always puzzled over the fact that I could get a body to heal muscle, skin, and organ tissue; how I could even command nerves to regenerate themselves and the brain to grow new cells, but I couldn't do anything about replenishing blood loss. She theorized it must have something to do with me not being able to replace the water content that was missing.

My gifts held so many mysteries and seeming inconsistencies. While I was able to convince bones to knit together, if you lost even the tip of your finger and were not fortunate enough to save the amputated piece, there was nothing I could do. It seems that I can't create something from nothing. So, no matter what my dementia might have been while I was in Central America, I'm definitely not any kind of a god. My eye, the workings of my inner ear, are gone forever.

I've had to learn to deal with the fact that my vision and hemiplegia can't be repaired. While I can get the brain to dissolve dead and scarred tissue and replace it with new cells, the regrown tissue must be reeducated in order to function. And if there was an injury that compromised the blood supply to that portion of the brain, well, that is why I still have limited use of my right side. I must have been able to reroute a part of the function to another healthy area, but anything requiring even limited dexterity is still beyond me. It seems that what I can make any part of the anatomy do varies from person to person, which just proves that there is no such thing as normal. I find that truth comforting.

I think Skinner has been converted from skeptic to true believer. I'm not really comfortable with the way my ex-supervisor views me now, and our friendship seems strained and awkward these past two days, since the 'miracle'. That's what he calls it and I cringe every time he says that word. He rambles on and on about what he remembers of his healing, marveling over how he actually felt the new cells growing to join together. Hopefully, things will soon settle down and we can get back to our old routine.

End tape
-WSS-

 

FWM Tapes
Early November, 2002
( Exact Date Unknown)

I was right, thank God, Skinner is no longer constantly watching me in amazed wonder, waiting for my next miracle. It's very hard to maintain awe for any extended period. This must be why God rarely makes house calls. If He stopped by too often we'd be less inclined to show Him the astonished reverence He's grown so used to. This is just my opinion. That's another change in Skinner. I believe I've helped him see the light. At least that's how he views it. He feels that there's some sort of divine purpose to me having these powers. Oh, excuse me, 'gifts'. To Skinner they're my 'gifts'. I think I pissed him off though, when I commented that since my wondrous capabilities appear to have come to me along with of a severe, seizure inducing, brain injury, God needs a little work on His packaging concepts.

Actually, Skinner has tempered his initial zeal in the past couple of days and his new found faith really does seem to have offered him peace. So as long as he's not casting the Messiah part locally, and he learns that every conversation we have doesn't have to be related to theology, I'll be happy for him.

His proselytism did bring about some confessions, and he finally told me the entire story about what happened on that last night raid. It seems that Skinner has been protecting me from day one from truth about the nightmare that the world has become. The first time he went to town to get supplies he was implanted with a chip, exactly like Scully's. This marker is the only way we humans are able to get supplies, what little medical care that's being offered, any kind of housing and almost every other need necessary for our survival.

Non-compliance to the binary marking system is automatic banishment from any settlement area. A settlement area is any town with a population of 10,000 or more. The only place to legally buy or sell anything is at a designated, licensed dispensing center and the only place these are located is in a settlement area. If a citizen, meaning any registered person, is involved in any act of unlicensed barter, punishment is immediate confinement to one of the camps the state runs for 'undesirables' for life. Anyone caught associating in any manner with an unregistered human will receive life. The unregistered human will be immediately executed.

Skinner recalls that the first time he was at the settlement area, formerly known as Fort Collins, there had been a rumor floating around that removal of the chip was a carcinogenic. The story he heard that last time he'd gone to claim his provisions, was that the cancer causing claims were, in fact, 100% true. The numbers being quoted were that 90% of the test group, i.e., inmates at the undesirables camps, had developed cancerous tumors in the first month after removal of the chip. I believe the rumors.

This is the world Skinner ventured into when he journeyed out during the day. A place ruled by a totalitarian, world-wide government where the aboriginal denizens have been made the indentured servants of a "Master Race" of conquering off-worlders. At night, though the world truly becomes a hell on earth. Even the town formerly known as Fort Collins, a peaceful, midsize college town, proudly nicknamed by its residents, "The choice city," turns into a dark pavement jungle of crime, violence, and contraband. The control is still there. Most of the illegal underground activities are being run by the very off-world visitors who manage the cities during the day. It's a lethal quagmire of treachery and deceit where anything can be gotten for a price, yet the life of a human is worth only what can be squeezed out of him.

Skinner's drug run had gone off without a hitch, even given that the amount he had stolen was twice as large as any of his other hauls. His mistake came when he pressed his good fortune and attempted to burgle the local militia's armory. Skinner's two service weapons, and the three hunting rifles that survived the fire, were useless without ammunition and my friend had been studying how to remedy this problem in the month since he'd discovered the armory. Security was much tighter at the firearms storage building than the pharmacy, which was logical. If you steal from a pharmacy, the only people that could be endangered are those silly enough to abuse the drugs stolen. If you steal from a weapons storehouse you could be a danger to anyone.

But Skinner staked out the place and came up with an excellent plan. He knew exactly where the guards and security devices were located, and how to avoid them. The problem occurred because the warehouse had been robbed the day before the blizzard struck, and during the following ten day period, the entire security system was redesigned. My ex-marine friend was totally ignorant of this development having been snowbound during the entire time the changes were made. The moment Skinner made it inside he knew his original plan was useless.

The mission was scrubbed and immediate retreat was his intent. He made it safely out, but was not yet clear of the fenced in grounds when he triggered a silent alarm. Instantly, the small enclosure was awash with twenty search lights and his initial escape route closed. Going over the roof to the far side of the building allowed him a chance at freedom providing he could succeed in finding a way across the 12-foot gap between the roofs of the armory and the university's old, abandoned field house.

Skinner's running leap cleared the distance with room to spare but his rolling landing brought him almost to his feet and he presented a perfect target for one crack-shot, newly hired guard. How he made it out of the city and all the way home, given the size of the hole in his side, might be part of the reason he has found God. Somebody had to have been on his side.

Needless to say, no more trips away from our safe little hovel are planned. We have everything we need. At least a year's worth of food, a six month's supply of my three medications, and one full clip of ammo for two handguns. The hunting rifles could be used as clubs so I guess we'll count them, too.

Tape end
-WSS-

 

 

Chapter 2

 

FWM Tapes
Mid November 2002
(Exact Date Unknown)

We could tell this was coming. Yesterday the weather was beautiful, almost like a spring day. But the air was too still, so you knew the front that lay behind the warmth had stalled in the mountains. That is bad news. Winter feeds off the high peaks. When it rolls down to the plains after a time spent gorging on the freezing, rarefied air, it is mighty and merciless. Skinner and I made sure we were ready.

For five days the storm raged, blanketing everything with over six feet of snow. Finally, it loosened its hold and moved on, slowly making its way east. It was too brief a respite; early this morning, the next front moved in. I have no idea how long this one will last. When I look outside, my view of the world is a study of gray and white. Skinner claims his isn't much better. He says there's nothing to see but charcoal skies and falling snow.

To keep busy during the anticipated blizzard, Skinner and I searched out everything we could find pertaining to Scully and me. We wound up cleaning out the basement those two days, setting what we didn't need or recognize clear to the back. After boxing all our findings, we brought them here. They are stacked from floor to ceiling to be researched. We are piecing together the record of what has happened to me and my partner since our arrival in Colorado 'til now.

On top of the Journals, tapes and letters I'd gotten together, we have writings and tapes from Kami, Mr. Wagner, Jack, and my mother. We are putting those into the story, too. Skinner found some tapes I'd hidden when I was having that breakdown, so my mad rantings were added to that section of the story. Getting all this information in order is a huge task, but I know we have a long, hard winter ahead.

Skinner has been reading the Bible in his newfound, religious fervor. He suggests we name what we are compiling "The Damascus Files". I'm going to have to get him to read the story of Saul of Tarsus to me. I can't see the connection except for the obvious and I don't remember if it had a happy ending.

End Tape
-WSS-

 

FROM THE PEN OF -
DANA K. SCULLY
December 25, 2000
Wellington, Colorado

I believe I've witnessed my mother lose her temper three times in my 36 years. As with most things rare and unusual, it is truly a sight to behold. Each time, this unique and unexpected experience has been triggered by an act that, upon examination, hardly seems to merit the tempestuous storm that is unleashed. However, on closer inspection, one would find that no one deed or utterance had spurred the turbulence. Margaret Scully's tumultuous fury is always a slow brewing disturbance, fed by seemingly unnoticed irritations and annoyances.

The obstinate belligerence I exuded in my refusal to join her and the Wagners for midnight Mass proved to be the catalyst that launched 'hurricane Maggie'. For the first time ever, I bore the brunt of her rage. I must admit, in the weeks following our return to Sky Watch, Mom has suffered my angry moodiness with her normal, good natured tolerance. My surly demeanor, acid tongue and often deliberate disregard for her feelings has been shameful. Up until last night she only answered my disrespect with forgiving sternness, quietly ignoring my rude behavior.

I deserved everything she gave me. She left, still fuming. I stayed, huddling on my daybed in Mulder's and my room, too filled with remorseful guilt for even tears.

I'd been told the truth and it hurt, but it's what I needed. Mom was right. I hurt so deeply, so painfully, that my every action was a desperate attempt to hurt back - - someone, anyone and everyone. I was crying out in fear and anguish - - a plea for help. The tears that finally came were huge and choking. I glanced to the still, thin form on the bed and felt drawn to him. For the first time, stoic, strong, suffer-in-silence Dana Scully cried out the need that had never stopped. I fell across his chest, my mind screaming the anguish that threatened to drive me insane.

"Mulder, come back to me. Mulder, I need you. Please. I love you."

It was a mute entreaty, no words were spoken, it was simply my every feeling. My essence. And it reached him.

His answer took my breath away. My gasp was deep, a stutter-step intake of air that began at my toes. I was frozen, held close by the force of his will. Mulder had reached out to me. Like mine, his call was not in a word, or any spoken language. It was pure thought, the essence of his soul. Mulder was still here and he had just touched me as no other human being ever had. The electric sensation slowly ebbed, fading away to leave me spent. I pushed up from his thin, wasted form and glanced at his face. Nothing had changed, except that now a small smile tilted his lips. He knew I had gotten his message.

It was late, just past midnight, when I placed the call to his mother. Waking a woman in her 60s, who was not in the best of health, requesting information that would open old wounds, was not the most mannerly thing to do. Adding to my misdeed was the fact that it was two hours later in Greenwich, Connecticut.

During our psychic embrace, Mulder had passed the information to me that Samantha was not the only child their family had lost. Mulder had a twin brother who died shortly after their birth. They had named the little boy Adam. Confirmation of this knowledge by his mother was proof, to me at least, that Mulder had actually answered my plea to return, and was still alive.

Mulder could not have sent me a more perfect message. I am a person who requires concrete proof. By telling me something he had learned during his vision quest, his revelation of a twin brother, never spoken of, never before whispered about, had given me something that could be verified, yet was unknown by all save a select few.

I knew everyone would be home soon. I pondered what to tell them about my Christmas miracle. I sat beside Mulder's bed and held his hand. I studied his face, searching for some difference that could be pointed out as proof to the others that Mulder has returned. The tiny, triumphant grin had faded. The lips were now slightly parted and his breath whispered through them in a faint snore. He looked the same as he had since he'd first slipped away from me. His face was relaxed, utterly peaceful.

"We'll keep it our secret for now, okay?" I murmured, leaning close so I could whisper into his ear. "I don't know what I'd tell them and I wouldn't want them to worry about me. You know they'd think I'd lost it, that I'd gone around the bend. I thought you'd left me for good, Mulder; I haven't been doing so well myself. I won't tell anyone you've come back. We'll just wait to let them know until you're able to show them."

I leaned back and watched him, but nothing changed. His expression remained still and placid. The inhale, exhale of air continued in its soft measured rhythm; the rise and fall of his chest visually marked the time.

My heart gave a quick flutter and tears sprang to my eyes as doubt began to surface. Had the stress of the long, endless weeks of my deathbed vigil finally taken its toll on my mind? Had what I experienced been only a hopeful delusion, my own desperate creation? Perhaps Mulder had said something of a brother during our years together, and I'd not paid attention. It could have been a vague suspicion he might have had that his past held yet another secret. Or maybe, at some point, his mother had mentioned Adam to me and I'd either not understood or not registered what she'd said.

There were a million possibilities of where I might have heard this information I'd so hastily deemed proof. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I admitted I had to have been fooling myself. I leaned my head against my folded arms and cried, sobbing in disappointment until I exhausted myself. The soft folds of Mulder's silk comforter muffled my last weary, hiccuping gasps as I drifted toward sleep. I was abruptly awakened by my mother's loud cry of surprise.

"Dana!"

Mom had slipped in to check on Mulder and me. Seeing that I slept, she'd tiptoed quietly to my side, debating on whether to try to get me to my bed, or to allow me to continue my nap undisturbed. A glance at Mulder made the decision unnecessary. His left hand had been resting atop my head. She had watched in stunned silence as his long, thin fingers slowly moved to stroke my hair.

Hearing my name, I bolted upright! I leapt to my feet to see what was wrong and spotted Mom across the bed from me. She was leaning over Mulder, touching his cheek.

"What happened?" My heart was in my throat as I pushed her hand aside to examine my patient. I quickly discovered nothing was amiss and I glanced over at my mother, raising a puzzled brow.

Mom's hand shook as it returned to Mulder's face and she smiled.

"Mom?" My short query sounded almost like a squeak. My voice reflected my nervous concern as I finally noticed the steady stream of tears that flowed from my mother's eyes.

"They all were wrong, Dana." Mom's voice shook with emotion and she gave a loud sigh to regain some control. She reached out, grasping my hand, lacing her fingers in mine. "Fox isn't gone, honey. I saw him playing with your hair when I came in. He's back." I felt a quick, tender squeeze of reassurance before she let go to gently caress Mulder's face once more. She leaned over, her lips softly brushing his brow as she whispered to him, "Thank you, Fox, sweetheart, for fighting so hard to come back to her."

I met my mother's eyes when she straightened; they shone a luminous pale blue and sparkled with tears.

"Merry Christmas, Danie," she laughed. It was a joyous, girlish giggle.

"Merry Christmas, Mama," I murmured, hurrying over to the embrace that waited in her outstretched arms.

"You both are going to have a very happy New Year, baby. I just know it," she assured me with a warm kiss.

Wrapped warmly in her love, I am filled with a childlike faith because my mother is always right.

 

FWM Tapes
November 2002
(Exact Date Unknown)

Between Skinner and I, these files are coming together. We finished that entire first year after I was shot and added it to what we had done earlier on the Central America trip. It turned out to be one massive tomb so I suggested that we start another file and label it "Damascus Revisited". Skinner states that's too theatrical so we're simply calling this "Damascus Files 2".

Much to Skinner's disappointment, I can't say I returned from my near-death with a sudden knowledge of "the other side." I don't have any tale of enlightenment for him. I remember Palenque. Then I woke up and everything had changed. Somehow, I was back in a bed, unable to talk, to move, to think clearly. I didn't know what had happened to me. I was confused and frightened, just like before, after I was shot. Memories of coming back are unclear. I hear things I was supposed to have said and done and it's as though these tales are about someone else. I wish I could recall communicating with Scully, but I can't. My memories of that time don't start until later.

The one constant throughout both of my recoveries that helped me to my goal was the knowledge that Scully was by my side. The second time, she came prepared. It's like she grabbed me by the hand and hauled me back to life. I trusted her implicitly and she did get me home, but it was a very long journey which took its toll on everyone involved.

End Tape
-WSS-

 

From the Pen of -
Dana K. Scully
January 14, 2001
Wellington, Colorado

Mulder is conscious. He's awake and moving and everyone is rejoicing that he has come back from the dead. He has rejoined us with more problems than I can count. Recovery is going to be hard even with his powers of self-healing. While he has come far in his efforts to repair the damage the intracerebral bleeds inflicted on his brain, his gift can't restore the physical abilities he has lost.

I have been so busy, combing the Internet, and reading constantly. I've been scanning all kinds of sites featuring subjects ranging from new, scientific discoveries involving estrogen and the restoration of cognitive abilities, to channeling the power of the third eye. I've been ingesting countless tombs from the local libraries that cover Mulder's illness, methods of rehabilitation after an intracerebral hemorrhage, and so on. I have my patient on a regimen of constant therapy and stimulation. It's helping; Mulder is responding.

I've also been trying to analyze and define Mulder's powers. The focus of my research in this area has been on the abilities he's showing now, this PSI link we have and the self-healing. I have searched and searched but nowhere have I found any kind of description that remotely resembles what I feel when Mulder is 'inside' my head. What I feel now is even more intense than when we were in Guatemala, but somehow, I find it less intrusive. Then, I would hear his voice, constantly talking to me, telling me what to do. How to think. How to feel.

Now, he has no language skills left. The ICH stripped him of the very abilities he worked so hard to relearn the last time around. He enters my head and his thoughts are instantly my own. I am surrounded by ideas, hopes, needs and wants; every emotion and each sensation he feels, I share. I am assaulted by a kaleidoscope of images, that are not truly pictures. I am pulled into a conversation without any words. After that first emotional experience when the message was placed in my mind, I tried to analyze what exactly he had said to me. It took me a good week to realize that Mulder 'says' nothing. He told me of his twin in a memory, a whole, fully formed concept. Somehow, I can interpret his ideas and label them for him. This is how he 'speaks' to me.

I've discovered that my thoughts confuse him at times. I assume it's because I do try to communicate with him using words. Every now and then, my transmissions become garbled in the translation. I might tell him about writing in this book, but instead of 'this book' he sees a tree. It's a struggle, but I have to learn to communicate with him by ideas alone, at least until we can reteach him language skills.

He's made so many strides these last few weeks, but I believe I will take Mr. Wagner up on his offer to hire someone to help me. I'm going to hire both physical and speech therapists to either live in, or at least be available to give Mulder three to four sessions a day. This will give me more time for research. I believe if I can understand Mulder's self-healing power, I can help him to refine and increase his gift. We might be able to speed up the time for self-healing, and perhaps I might aid him in making a more complete recovery. There's no telling what the limits of his powers are. The abilities he showed in Guatemala, amazing as they were, could be just the tip of the iceberg.

-DKS-

 

 

From the Journal of Kami W. Wagner
January 28 2001
Sky Watch Bed and Breakfast
Wellington, Colorado

I don't think I will even let Dad know I've started writing this book. My entire life has been documented in his files and I feel like having something that I can keep just to myself.

Who knows though, I just might change my mind. I just might make something of myself one day, become famous. My biographers will have almost a library of research on me all in one spot, Dad's basement. Maybe I will let Dad put this in my file, for posterity.

I started taking classes last week at Foothills Junior College and plan on leaving next fall for Boulder and CU. I can't make up my mind what I want to study. I'm torn between Archeology and Medicine. Archeology was my first thought, because of our trip to the ruins. But Medicine just kind of keeps rearing its head. I've gotten quite a lot of experience in the field with Mulder having all his health problems. Since we've come home, Scully has let me take over his care for at least a couple of hours a day and I believe I'm getting pretty good at it.

Mulder seems to respond to me well, even better than to Scully in some instances, such as when we do his range of motion exercises connected to the MFES (Multichannel Functional Electrical Stimulator). When I do them with him he offers the correct resistance and seems to be actively participating with the biofeedback that the machine offers. When Scully does them with him, it's like he's just there. She does all the work. It's that way with all of his therapy. We have just hired a therapist who's going to take over most of Scully's session time. His name is Jake and he'll be living here at Sky Watch. He looks like some kind of body builder or wrestler, but actually he's a sweet, gentle man. Anyway, Mulder also works well with Jake, so it's probably for the best that Scully won't be working directly with Mulder on his PT.

We also have a speech pathologist, named Julie, who is going to come out twice a day to help with Mulder. That's the area where I see the biggest change from the last time Mulder was like this. He moved into Sky Watch in June of '99 and with one major difference he was in about the same shape that he is in now. After his gunshot injury he was more vocal. However, I think he's actually progressing better now in every phase of his recovery except for the problem with communication skills. I mean, in one month's time he has gone from being almost like a vegetable to being able to sit up in a chair without help, feeding himself, and is totally responsive to everything except verbal commands. When I first met him in June of '99 over three months had passed since his injury. He'd gone through at least two months of PT, but he wasn't this far along.

I guess what bugs me, why I'm rambling on about this, is that Scully is the only person Mulder seems able to fully communicate with. And Scully only has the time and desire to communicate with Mulder when she's putting him through his paces during therapy. I try to spend time with him, connecting emotionally, just being with him to let him know I care, but I'm going to be gone a lot now that school has started. Where is he going to get any companionship? Doesn't Scully know that is as important to his recovery as the constant therapy sessions? I don't know what's going on with her, but someone had better tell her she might be doing her best for her patient, but sadly, she is not doing her best for her friend.

-KWW-

 

FROM THE PEN OF -
DANA K SCULLY
February 22, 2001
Wellington, Colorado

Most of my writing has been in Mulder's rehabilitation log and my research notes but I thought I'd go ahead and catch this book up to date. I don't think this anniversary will ever go by without me suffering a severe bout of melancholy. I can't believe it's been 2 years. It doesn't help that it's the day before my birthday, hard to forget it. I guess it could have been worse had the Brotherhood decided to take Mulder out in that field and destroy his life a day later. There's always something to be thankful for.

Mulder is progressing beautifully. Jake has just started on patterning. The repetitive motion therapy is tedious but so very effective. Combined with the Multichannel Functional Electrical Stimulator that we've been using on him during adapted range of motion exercises on his upper extremities, he is almost ready to begin the crawling part of the rehabilitation. He has made me promise not to push him during this important part of his retraining. Jake says at least three months are necessary for the patterning to effectively work. Babies utilize the benefits of crawling faster than adults. So, my impatience to get Mulder upright will just have to wait. Jake does know what he is talking about regarding this method.

My concerns lie elsewhere. I should have known we wouldn't make it through his entire convalescence with Fox Mulder keeping his Mr. Congeniality image. I guess I'd hoped his good humor and eagerness to please would stay with him a bit longer. Julie, his speech therapist, is leaving us. She told me she was sorry and was willing to come back and try again a few weeks down the road. She claims that she just isn't making any headway with him at this point in his recovery. Her sessions have just been a waste of their time. She claims she has run into this before and that sometimes her methods of therapy are better later on when progress is a bit further along. She believes if we continue with frequent but low pressure mini-sessions, he just might start showing some kind of improvement.

So, I'll have to put my intensive study of PSI abilities on the back burner and try to create a low stress environment for Mulder to learn to communicate with others. Mulder and I don't have a problem communicating. Since I've learned to send my thoughts around the blocks that his stroke left in his brain, our mind-speak has become both fluent and informative. And necessary. Much to both Mulder's and my frustration, I am the only person with whom he can express anything more than his most primary needs and I am the only person he can understand.

Mulder still cannot understand even the simplest commands from anyone but me. Since his vision is so poor, hand signals are almost useless. Anyone instructing him must literally show him what they want him to do by manipulating his body to do it. Lately there have been signs that he is growing weary of this isolation and he has been responding with sullen pouts, fits of anger, much like temper tantrums, and bouts of uncontrollable despair where he silently cries for hours. I guess that's another reason why I should stay here at Sky Watch more often from now on. I know it must be horrible for him not to be able to make himself understood. It's probably even worse for him not to fully comprehend what's going on around him.

Kami was better at connecting with him than Julie, Jake or Mr. Wagner, but she has made friends at college and is finally building herself a life away from here. She even has a steady boyfriend now. So her time with Mulder has been limited to the weekends. I could call my mother out to help, but she, too, has a life. But at what better time could this come than now? His physical therapy will be nothing but using the MFES, doing his regular exercises, and Jake programming the large motor function patterns into his brain. Mulder and I can use this time to visit and work on his communicative skills.

I can still use the computer for research and maybe even try out some of my PSI-increasing theories on him, to see if I can help develop and train his powers. Looking at it this way, this next three months might not be so bad after all. It's even beginning to sound exciting.

- DKS-

 

FWM Tapes Winter -
December 2002/ January 2003
(Exact Date Unknown)

Before this frozen time, I believe Skinner always knew the date. He'd dutifully kept track and because of that, he could help me label these tapes or at least give the rough estimation of when they occurred. Now, after countless days of icy gales, where the sun is invisible to one of us and nothing more than a faintly glowing silver disk to the other, time itself has ceased to matter. We count only the passing storms and brief respites.

At least we have these files to keep us sane or, in my case at least as close to sanity as I will ever get. I honestly believe I'm showing signs of developing an eidetic memory again. I can't recall the events that happened in any given post that Skinner has read. I know where they are, chronologically, in the file, and the information is stored away in my mind for instant access. I can tell Skinner what comes before and after any given item. I'd make one hell of a secretary if I could only see to retrieve them.

Skinner asks after each part he reads, "Do you remember this one?"

Part of the problem is that with the disabilities I was suffering, I had no concept of time. I do recall starting the crawling phase of rehabilitation and I have memories from even before that time but there's no cohesion to them. They're not really recollections of events but of my emotions at the time. If I had to give one single word to describe how I felt then, I would be hard pressed to do it, but I think I'd have to say fear.

I was frustrated, angry, confused, but the feeling that drove me, that colored my every response and was the final result of the input of all my other emotions, was fear.

What had happened to put me here? Why was I like this? Was this going to be forever? Why was I so alone? Where was Scully? Why was she afraid of me?

My only bridge to the world was Scully and the only way to reach her was on her terms. She has always been there. She has always put my needs before her own. Who am I to find fault with her? I know the danger of obsessions first hand, and how a single minded purpose can cloud one's judgment. Her intent was always sincere. My best interest was always paramount in her heart.

That said, I'll speak of my state of mind during this long stretch of my recovery. From late February until I was finally able to really speak, I clung to my connection with Scully as a lifeline to my sanity. Could I have recovered from the aphasia sooner? I suppose I could have. Desire always plays an important role in reclamation of anything, including health. My wants laid solely with holding on to a bond. I was unable to think past the moment. Try waking up, not once but twice in a two year span, with not only time missing but parts of yourself gone, and you just might understand why I held to the comforting surety of Scully's presence in my head.

At that point, outward displays were hard for her. She'd walked this path right alongside me; hope had constantly been snatched away from her, too. I don't blame her for holding back this time, for turning all her energy to getting me well before she would allow herself to open up her heart again. What she never understood was that the feelings were still there, locked down tightly in her mind. Our link gave me access to them. I didn't know if she'd ever be able to openly show me what she felt again. So I desperately held on to what I had.

End Tape
-WSS-

 

 

Chapter 3

 

FROM THE PEN OF -
DANA K. SCULLY
May 18, 2001
Wellington, Colorado

Will spring ever come? While the snow has finally stopped, we never see the sun because of this constant, drizzly rain. The winters seem to get worse and worse. I am beginning to doubt the validity of the scientific theories concerning the greenhouse effect. Maybe I just don't understand them. I'm starting to think there is nothing in this world that can be fully comprehended.

Mulder is finally starting to speak but it is not through my efforts. Kami has made the greatest strides with him in this area. Julie is back and claims he's now suffering from what's called non-fluent aphasia, which means the words are there, he just hasn't developed all the pathways to find them. His auditory receptiveness is coming along rapidly, which is a relief to me. I'm no longer constantly needed as a translator. He is finally able to understand, for the most part, what others are saying to him.

I just can't comprehend why Kami and the others were able to reach him and I wasn't. Somewhere, somehow, something has changed between Mulder and I. When he does let me in now, I sense resentment from him. I can't figure out what has happened. Why is he acting this way toward me. Kami has made some rather thinly-veiled, sarcastic remarks hinting that she believes I'm neglecting Mulder. I am frustrated and angered by these barbs. My every thought is of Mulder and helping him make it back. Her insinuations hurt.

 

FWM Tapes
Winter 2003
(Exact Date Unknown)

Skinner asked if I realized what was happening that summer. If I perceived the tug-of-war over my care that went on between Kami and Scully. I'm happy to say I was in the dark, as always. I do know it all came to a head after Kami left for Boulder and Scully and I were once again alone. Skinner and I have found nothing that truly documents the change in Scully, why she finally faced her fears, except for this entry in her journal.

FROM THE PEN OF -
DANA K. SCULLY
September 12, 2001
Aspen Glen, Estes Park, Colorado

I noticed today that I've neglected to write in this book for months. Since, suddenly, there is all the time in the world, I thought I'd catch up. I finally have something to say, or maybe I finally know my own mind. No, I believe it's that for the first time since Mulder came back to me, I've allowed what's in my heart to come out. Kami forced me to face my fears, to deal with my anger, and at last progress can be made.

The first time Mulder almost died I had an enemy, a place to focus all the anger and hurt I felt over what had happened to him. Who could I blame this time? I found all I could do was shake my fist at the winds of fate or -- be angry with Mulder. He doesn't remember anything about the events leading up to what happened to him. We're not even sure his vision quest is responsible for his 'accident'. And even if I had proof that the elixir, the blood letting ceremony, or the fact that he went for weeks without medication, directly or indirectly brought about his condition, I can't fault him. This man, who has struggled so hard these last nine months to be able to stand on his own two feet and communicate with the world around him, has more than paid any debt owed by that åother self¼ who ruled him in Guatemala. So I've had to come to terms with the fact that I'd best let go of this rage or it would destroy both of us. It only took me eight months to learn this truth and it was taught to me by a girl who turns 20 years old today. Out of the mouth of babes...

Mulder and I are on a retreat; a vacation together, to get to know each other again. We are staying in a cabin Mr. Wagner owns on the Big Thompson River just outside of Estes Park, Colorado, the gateway to the Rocky Mountain National Park. This is late in the season so the area is quiet, peaceful and perfect for reflection and quality time together.

Mulder, for the first time in three quarters of a year, is not having to suffer through constant therapy sessions. I left that Dana Scully at Sky Watch. His time is his own and yesterday, our first full day here, he awoke and wandered outside to the back porch deck while I was preparing breakfast. I brought our meal out and was gifted with a grin so familiar and sorely missed it almost brought tears to my eyes.

"Well, have you been thinking about what you might want to do today?" I asked, noticing how the mountain air seemed to have increased his appetite tenfold. Mulder has been unable to regain the last thirty or so pounds he'd lost right after the ICH so this is very good news.

He stopped, surprised, fork on its way to his mouth. It was as though he just realized he did have a choice on what the day's itinerary might be. The knowledge seemed to tie his tongue and he shook his head.

"Did you want to go into town?" I asked softly, hoping a few suggestions might help him find his voice. He has come so far, but fluency is still a way off, especially when he feels pressured. Unfortunately, Mulder seems to feel a great deal of pressure when he is speaking aloud to me. This was one reason I'd wanted us to take this vacation. Again, he slowly shook his head.

I forced myself to make no further suggestions, wanting him to speak when he felt able and at last my patience was rewarded.

"A drive? To the park?" he murmured, beseeching my approval nervously.

"Great, we can make a day of it!" I exclaimed with false heartiness, forcing a smile to cover the sorrow I felt over just how strained our conversations are now. I know it will take time for us to readjust to our roles as friends. Yesterday, our drive up Trailridge Road to the top of the world, was the start. I think we can recover. Everything? Do we want to take on all that baggage? Only TIME will tell. Maybe we'll only salvage what's necessary.

*****

We drive past the high, frost covered glen and I read aloud the sign announcing that we are at THE GREAT DIVIDE. We stop to see this place where the continent's waters make their choice of which path to take, to determine which direction their destiny might lie. The tumblers click into place and I know the time has come for me to make a selection of my own. Although I say nothing of where my own thoughts have traveled, Mulder wants to get out for he knows this is a place of decision.

The thin air clears the head. I make a slow turn to see the breath taking, panoramic view of the Medicine Bow to the north, the central Rockies to the east and west, and the distant Sangria de Christos to the south. The sign says we should be able to spot almost every one of Colorado's 40 plus 14,000 foot peaks from where we stand.

Does Mulder see any of this? Not with his eye, but from the look on his face, he perceives clearly what choices lie ahead and that sadly, the road never gets less rocky. His tears aren't only from the sting of the harsh, freezing wind on his face. I watch his thin shoulders shake until his whole body starts to crumble. I rush to grab him and with a pull of his arm I manage to get him back to the jeep. His sobs are still silent and he quakes beside me in mute anguish. Will he ever be able cry aloud again?

I'm amazed for I find I can touch him now and it doesn't hurt. As his arms wrap around me, I realize we both have made our choice. Neither of us want to make out journey alone. We hold on to each other; a natural, soothing ebb and flow is born as we both give and receive comfort. I feel his hand brush my hair back and the gentle touch of warm, soft lips kissing away the salty tears that spill from my eyes, mixing with his own. Our pain is shed, one tear at a time and finally the fear seeps from us to make its way to those distant seas.

 

FROM THE PEN OF -
DANA K. SCULLY
September 12, 2001
Aspen Glen, Estes Park, Colorado

It's early evening; the sun hits the canyon wall with light. It is worth building a fire to cut the chill in the air, to be able to hear the sound of the Big Thompson. The aspens are turning early this year, heralding the coming of winter. Mulder says he can see them; he can make out the bright riot of shades of gold that light up the mountainside. Sometimes, I forget that even before he lost his sight he suffered from color-blindness. I tell him I love the way the bright red contrasts with the shimmering yellow spray against the dark green of the conifers. It brings a laugh from him, and my cheeks redden as I remember red and green are just words to him.

"I know red," he whispers, and touches my cheek. "This is red." He's right, it's very red.

"It's warm," his tone is soft, smooth and I'm amazed at how well he's learned to modulate his voice. I begin to compliment him on this achievement but his lips still my comments. My body responds to the gentle touch of his tongue as it leaves my mouth to flick lightly against the fluttering pulse in my neck. He remembers the key to my body that his musician's touch has always played so masterfully.

I hear his voice inside my head. As we melt together before the fire, I know that it is true when he tells me, "It's still forever, Scully."

 

FROM THE PEN OF -
DANA K. SCULLY
September 15, 2001
Aspen Glen, Estes Park, Colorado

Mulder knows the last of my secrets so now if he leaves me, I'll just have to kill him. I believe his blood oath that he'll never tell, but he knows he carries this knowledge under the threat of death. I, Dana Scully, am a Stephen Kingaholic. I have been addicted to the horror-master's tombs since Junior High, when I swiped Bill's copy of "Carrie" from his bedroom. Mulder journeys to Memphis to pay honor to his King. I make a pilgrimage to Maine for mine. And here, not three miles down the road from our cabin, is the hotel that spurred that dark, macabre mind to come up with the classic "The Shining". Yes, Estes Park is the site of the Stanley Hotel and Mulder and I are staying there tonight. Be still my heart.

Actually, the grand old place is nothing like the fictional "Overlook". In fact, they remodeled in the late 1990's and it doesn't even resemble the hotel King stayed at in the '70's. We have one of the deluxe suites which affords a beautiful view of the grounds, still lush and green even this late in the year. There is no topiary, much to Mulder's and my disappointment, or even a maze like the first film, but it is a beautiful resort. It was built in the 1900s, designed to convey the Georgian Revival style of architecture.

 

FROM THE PEN OF -
DANA K. SCULLY
September 16, 2001
Aspen Glen, Estes Park, Colorado

Our night passed without one moment's horror. We both had eight hours of restful, almost dreamless sleep. Mulder confessed he dreamed we stayed over and rented room #217 tonight, making mad, passionate whoopee in the bathtub. (I'm assuming this odd little fantasy didn't include King's ghostly suicide victim joining us. Mulder is kinky but that's just too 'spooky'). I assure him we can forego that little homage to my idol and tell him the hot tub at the cabin will just have to do. His grin tells me he'll settle for this plan.

 

FWM Tapes Winter 2003 (Exact Date unknown)

Skinner has allowed me to pick and choose which writings I put in this record and I have kept the more personal ones out, unless they relate or drive the story. That doesn't mean that I'm spared the embarrassment of Skinner reading them to me directly from Scully's journal. It seems my life's partner does tend to believe her books labeled 'From the Pen of -' that she picked up from the bargain bin at Currant, are a confessional of sorts. I'm glad that I can't see the expression on my former supervisor's face when he reads one of Scully's more explicit entries. Skinner is gracious enough not to mention the colors my face turns when our tale turns steamy. He is no longer questioning me if I remember any given post. I think he realizes I remember all too well these particular moments in time.

Scully and I returned to Sky Watch the day after my fortieth birthday, refreshed and recommitted in our relationship. Jake moved out and joined Julie coming only once a day for my therapy. I was upright and mobile and while not a picture of fluid grace, I was walking without assistance, which is more than Jake thought I'd ever be able to achieve. My fluency was improving, and while the aphasia would continue to plague me, by the time the snow flew I no longer needed Julie's expertise except for weekly sessions down in Fort Collins.

We rarely spoke of the past, but at this time Scully told me what happened in Guatemala. Then, as when Skinner read her journals to me earlier this winter, I didn't know who that person was. I don't know what triggered the quest. I don't know why I followed through with the search for the temple. I don't know who was instructing me on my journey. I remember nothing of my visions.

It is strange, though, because when Scully told me of my belief that Samantha was dead, I was not surprised. I believe I've had that knowledge within me always. I just refused to see it. My heart knew, but I needed the hope to sustain me. Self-delusion is not always a bad thing. It's my favorite defense mechanism.

Scully and I actually spoke little of the future. We had no plans at this point in time, except for me working to make it the rest of the way back. Wagner had introduced me to horseback riding as a form of therapy, to improve my balance. While lessons from my childhood surfaced enough to allow me to sit the docile beast I mounted, I don't believe I will ever be a rider. The chaps chaffed too much.

Wagner and I did cement our friendship during these rides. I believe that is what spurred him to finally reveal all after Christmas.

End Tape
-WSS-

 

 

From the Journal of Kami W. Wagner
December 21, 2001
Sky Watch, Wellington, Colorado

It seems so strange to be home. I feel like I'm a visitor in a place I've lived my entire life. To add to this awkwardness, I brought Derek home with me. Even though he is staying in the guest room, I think everyone knows the truth. I know Mulder does.

Mulder is my Christmas gift! Derek and I pulled up to the house and Mulder walked out to greet us, that crooked grin plastered across his face. Dad had said he was doing fine in his e-mails and since Scully and I no longer keep in touch, 'fine' covers a broad spectrum. I wouldn't let go when he grabbed me for a hug. He's walking, talking, strong and healthy. He wouldn't let go either. Dad had to force us apart to get his own hug. I had to laugh at the expression on Derek's face. Mulder is hardly the invalid I'd painted him to be. I think my friend is concerned about how I know this tall, handsome, roguish looking mystery man. God, he looks good!

Mulder and I haven't had a chance to talk alone, but it appears that he and Scully have worked out all their problems. Their relationship looks to be working out better than ever. I AM very happy for them. I know Scully thinks the friction between us early this year springs entirely from my ego and jealousy. I admitted the day I left that I have loved Mulder since we first started the interviews after my 18th birthday. But, I've known from the very start where I stood.

Mulder and I have a relationship. It isn't the one I'd wished for in my childish dreams. Those feelings passed quickly. What Mulder and I have is a deep friendship, and love made strong from what we've shared. I just wish Scully and I could get past our disagreements and rebuild OUR friendship. I do miss her.

 

FROM THE PEN OF -
DANA K. SCULLY
December 22 2001
Sky Watch Bed & Breakfast

I had a chance to speak to Kami this morning while Mr. Wagner, Mulder and Derek were out riding. I needed to thank her for what she had said to me, for all that she's done for Mulder. Within moments we both were in tears. Wounds that had festered for a season were healed. Our celebration of forgiveness was interrupted when the three men returned from 'checking out the north forty'. One glance at two women in tears, comforting each other, was all it took. There was an immediate about face, and without a word, the door slammed shut behind them. Kami and I figure they might be back by lunch. We hope they don't mind left-overs. We're on our way into town and might return by dinner. If they're lucky!

 

FWM Tapes
Winter 2003
(Exact Date unknown)

Holidays were made for the memories they create. Thoughts of childhood cause us to picture holidays. Good or bad, these are the times that are indelibly imprinted in our brains. Christmas was always a secular holiday at the Mulder household. Samantha and I never felt that they lacked because of that fact. It was still the time of the year we longed for most. I don't really believe it was youthful anticipation for the gifts either. There always seemed to be the feeling of the holiday spirit around the house, and we relished the warmth that suddenly enveloped our family at this time of year. I learned at a young age that my mother lived for parties. The season always kept her step light and a smile on her beautiful face. At least that's how it was while Sam was still with us. After 1973, Christmas didn't come to the Mulder's.

(Laughs) I'm not casting myself as Tiny Tim here. I won't be uttering any heartfelt exclamations of 'God Bless Us Everyone'. I only want to explain why that Christmas at Sky Watch was special. It was a holiday spent with friends that had become family. It's a memory that will never be forgotten. How could it be? What happened the following summer might make it the last Christmas. If the day has passed this year, neither Skinner or I knew when and I don't think we were alone.

We all awoke that morning to the smell of scones and coffee, courtesy of Maggie Scully, who had arrived on the 23d. Kami's boyfriend, Derek, and I had stayed home holding the fort while the others had attended midnight mass in Fort Collins. Everyone awoke early, though, thanks to Maggie's aromatic alarm clock. Had I scripted this day it couldn't have gone much better. It was a Frank Capra film come to life.

Gifts were exchanged, amid hugs and thanks. Homage was made to the pigskin gods. A banquet was served and eaten with everyone wearing there holiday best. The day ended with fully stuffed guests sitting before a roaring fire for toasts and an evening of laughter and good conversation. It was nothing spectacular. Just a simple, happy holiday shared with family. It is a memory that has kept me warm almost every night this winter.

 

From The Journal of K.W. Wagner
December 28, 2001
Sky Watch, Wellington, Colorado

This Christmas has to be the best ever and one I won't soon forget. Derek gave me my gift after we returned from mass. It was a beautiful ring, a marquis cut sapphire, completely surrounded by diamond chips. He earnestly proclaimed that we are engaged to be engaged. I smiled; I guess I can agree to that. We do seem to fit together. Somehow, everything about us feels right. Who knows? Time will tell.

On Christmas Eve, Mulder and I finally got a chance to talk. Everyone was gone one place or the other, last minute shopping, I suppose. He's happy. Just looking at him I can tell, but even better than happy, he is content. Finally, he is comfortable with himself and his life. Now that makes ME happy.

Our chat was just that, two friends catching up on each other's lives. Nothing important. We talked about his and Scully's plans to stay at Skywatch until summer, then then maybe move to Baltimore to be near her mother. Apparently, Scully has already investigated job possibilities with the Medical Examiner's office and several hospitals. Mulder's immediate plans are up in the air but he does have some appointments in January to check into some rehabilitation programs that might help him decide.

"Have you decided?" he asked, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. His speech is still halting and sometimes slow but the improvement since August is miraculous. My friend never ceases to amaze me.

"Premed," I sighed, knowing this wouldn't come as a surprise.

It wasn't, of course, and with a broad grin, he nodded. "Is this serious?" He fingered Derek's gift, studying it again by touch.

It's wonderful to be able to have a conversation with someone with whom you only need shorthand because you know each other so well. It helped us connect when Mulder was first regaining his speech and now, we slipped effortlessly into our clipped style of communication made even more fluent with Mulder's much expanded vocabulary.

"It's going that direction," I confessed and almost laughed at the expression that crossed his face. I've always wanted a big brother and I think Mulder has assumed the part without even being asked. I believe he has longed to play this role again for a long, long time. "We've got time. We're just going to take it slow and see how things develop."

"He seems like a nice guy," Mulder offered, and I had to chuckle at the picture of earnest sincerity on his mobile face.

"I'll let him know he has the Fox Mulder seal of approval," I teased, smiling at the warm red tint that instantly highlighted his cheeks in response to my playful barb.

I love this man so much. We whiled away the afternoon chatting about everything from the current unrest in the Middle East to our names. I learned that Mulder's first name is a family name from his mother's side. "I don't know, but I don't think Dave or Jack or even Bill would fit you, Mulder. You might not like hearing it, but you are a Fox!"

I giggled when his face screwed up in disgust over the vintage slang compliment. "I mean, it's actually pretty descriptive. A fox is sly, crafty...extremely handsome."

His derisive snort at my comparison hit my funny bone and soon we were almost rolling on the floor with laughter.

"You don't look like a Kami," he remarked, when we calmed a bit.

"What does 'a Kami' look like, Mulder?" I queried, with a touch of sarcasm behind my grin. I'm used to hearing this and I guess it's true. Derek said the same thing when we first met.

He paused to think about his answer. "A Kami is cute and perky. They aren't classically beautiful, almost six foot, leggy blondes."

"You've noticed more than my hair, I guess," I murmured, remembering a conversation from long ago, when he'd almost convinced a gawky, skinny, too tall eighteen year old girl she was pretty enough to have boys notice her. Did he remember?

He did. "I'll bet all the boys love your silver hair," he replied softly.

"I miss you so much, Mulder," I cried, leaning my head against his chest.

He gently stroked my hair before giving me a final, quick squeeze in answer.

I glanced up at him and decided I would share with him the secret that no one except my father really knows. It's on my birth certificate but every other record, from school to the Department of Motor Vehicles, lists me only as Kami W. Wagner. "My real name is Katmandu Wind Wagner."

You have to give the man credit, his smile was small and kind. "It IS pretty. Strange, but pretty. But, why Kami? Why not Kat?"

"Dad used to call me 'Kat Man'. I guess I couldn't say it right, at first. I was supposed to have told everyone I was Daddy's Ka' Ma' which finally became Kami."

Funny, that story used to irritate me at sixteen, when Dad would relate it to me during his vain attempts at father/daughter closeness. It brought nothing but scowls and complaints when I was forced to hear it yet again. Now, I suddenly felt like crying with the wistful longings it stirred. Mulder held me, gently caressing my back. I awoke curled up beside him, my head still resting on his shoulder, when everyone finally returned home.

*****

I've enjoyed this visit so much. Derek can't help himself, he has to remind me that I'd changed my mind at the last minute and decided that going home for Christmas was an idiotic, infantile waste of time. Fortunately, Derek talked me back into coming. I think my favorite memory of this holiday will be the look in my father's eyes this morning when Mulder appeared wearing the gift Dad gave him for Christmas for the third day running.

Mulder was pleased when he first opened the package but momentarily puzzled because the Bronco jersey was not the now familiar dark blue and burnt orange. When Derek let out a low whistle and exclaimed over the rarity of finding a number 7 jersey in the vintage bright orange of old, Mulder's grin grew even broader at realizing the specialness of his gift. It wasn't until later, though, when I told Mulder the story behind the Elway shirt, that he completely grasped just what that particular piece of sports memorabilia means to my father.

John Elway gave my Dad the jersey the spring after his rookie season in thanks for my father's generous contribution to the athlete's favorite charity. Elway knew my parents were expecting a son later that summer and it was a gift for the baby. My mother died that July, giving birth to my stillborn brother. I was shocked when I saw Mulder hold up that familiar, bright orange shirt, but one glance at Dad's face, when he saw my friend wearing his gift again today, made me know my father had found the right person to inherit his treasure.

*****

Well, I guess Derek and I are leaving tomorrow. We'd planned on staying 'til after the New Year, but my father just informed me that a certain relative I'd rather not see will be dropping by tomorrow night. I guess he's actually kind of like my brother but I've just never gotten along with him. I haven't seen him, face to face, since he settled down in Washington D.C. back in 1992 and I plan on trying to make it through another decade without laying eyes on him. Longer, if I can manage it!

This news of this pseudo-kin's impending return has soured my mood a bit, turning my thoughts dark. My foul mood reminds me I need to write about the only smudge on this almost perfect visit. I guess I really shouldn't label this a bad thing, but it did send a shock through Scully and me. Since Christmas morning, I haven't found the nerve to even glance at what is inside that small blue box. Mulder's gift to me is packed away in my suitcase. I doubt I'll ever want to wear it. I know, that is a horrible thing to say about something he gave to me with such pride and love. I'd never admit to him that I feel this way about his present. I'll take THIS secret to my grave.

Mulder did every bit of his shopping this year on his own. It's a fact he is very proud of, and it is quite an achievement. The thought of venturing into a mall filled with last minute pre-holiday gift buyers with an entire list of Christmas shopping is enough to make me burn my Visa. And I am fully sighted and didn't suffer an ICH a little over a year ago. The man should get a medal for bravery and be written up in Guinness for this accomplishment.

Mulder's memory is still spotty in parts and he didn't remember that he had once bought Scully the identical bracelet he presented to me on Christmas morning. When I opened the beautifully wrapped box and saw the delicate, finely crafted Guardian's Knot gleaming amid the soft cloud of cotton batting, a chill went up my spine. I had to force myself to take it from its place so it could receive the ritual ohhs and ahhs from my friends.

Maggie recognized the familiar design that her daughter had worn so proudly, however, she politely refrained from mentioning Mulder's faux pas. Scully has never told her mother the full story of what happened in Central America, so this was nothing more that a slight social blunder. Mulder was a man, and Maggie had been raised to be tolerant of the masculine gender's lack of gift buying skills. How would he know one should never give the same gift twice, especially not to two women who know each other.

"It means forever, Kami," Mulder proclaimed with a happy grin, not realizing the disturbing memories connected to that particular type of Celtic jewelry. Forever had not been very long at all for his last Guardian Knot.

I caught sight of Scully as her face paled. I couldn't help my sudden shiver at seeing my own dread was mirrored in her eyes.

 

 

Chapter 4

 

FWM Tapes
Winter 2003
Wellington Colorado The problem with putting our idols high upon a pedestal is that unless the base is set on solid ground, even the most steady of stands will tumble; the higher anything is placed, the harder it will hit the ground when it falls.

*****

Kami was right, the progress I made from August to December was pretty amazing. Physically and mentally, I'd recovered by leaps and bounds, but emotionally I had regained only about as much control as an eight year old child. I thought I had found a father to replace the one who left me almost 30 years ago. Hardly a fair position to put a man in, who, at most, could chronologically only qualify as an older brother, but S.A. Wagner did fit the image of the perfect patriarch that I'd formed during my youth.

My dream dad had always been the archetypal man of the old west (Colorado), silver haired, tall, broad shoulders, who sat tall in the saddle. He was a strong, but gentle man. He had raised his motherless children alone - - (Kami and the 'adopted son' who lived back east, that I had never met). My fantasy father was kind and always ready to help those in need (a jobless, homeless woman and a blind, cripple). Top everything off with the fact Wagner lived on a huge spread, that had once been a ranch. Well, the man was just lucky I hadn't started calling him 'Pa'.

Seriously, there's little wonder, after my rebirth, I longed for the guidance and security that one looks to a father to provide. S.A.Wagner, robbed of his son so many years before, accepted the role with a gracious kindness that showed a heart as big as the Colorado skies.

Like all families, my selection of kin by choice had a few secrets hidden in his closet. Sadly, Wagner hadn't just kept these skeletons locked away from the outside world. Scully and I were also among those he'd kept åin the dark'. My new found, surrogate father's hidden truths were revealed by the arrival of that mysterious, somewhat prodigal son. Alex Krycek visited Wagner that late December day, and afterwards nothing in any of our lives was ever the same. Once exposed, the bright light of truth can't be squelched. Like the promised Biblical Armageddon, that shining heat set off a blaze which would soon consume the world.

End Tape
-WSS-

 

FROM THE PEN OF -
Dana K. Scully
December 29, 2001
Sky Watch Bed & Breakfast

I feel as though I'm trapped in a nightmare. I'm stumbling about, desperately seeking to discover what is truly real and what is my own self-deluding fantasy. I'm afraid that might be everything. My life has been nothing more than a gossamer thin facade and everything I allowed myself to believe during these past 2-1/2 years is nothing more than lies.

I have to laugh. It is bitter, and filled with self-contempt. I have let myself play the fool for so very long. So many times, both Mulder and I experienced moments when the nagging doubts about our living situation would squirm free from where we had them so tightly bound. It was only our earnest tag team effort at denial that has kept them sequestered for this long. Looking back in painful disbelief, I see our struggles as a mad dance to avoid the truth, where we each took the lead in turn, frantically trying to stay safe in a haven built of comfortable illusion. First Mulder then I, would put forth that one question, but always we would stop short. It seems we never really wanted to hear the answer.

"Why does Wagner want us here?"

We covered our benefactor's purpose in a cloak we ourselves made for him by accepting every glibly uttered half truth and seemingly sincere deception he put before us. I blame myself for what promises to be our downfall. Truthfully, how can Mulder be held accountable for this? I won't allow myself to escape my culpability by using the excuse of distracted concern over his injuries and illnesses. However, admission and acceptance of guilt won't rectify the situation. I have to discover what is actually happening here; unfortunately, the only way I see to accomplish this task is by direct confrontation.

 

"There is frequently heard a loud noise like thunder, which makes the earth tremble, [Indians] state that they seldom go there because [their] children cannot sleep - and conceive it possessed of spirits, who were adverse that men should be near them."
William Clark - 1806 Journals

S.A. WAGNER CONVERSATION
DECEMBER 30, 2001 -TAPE 1
S.A.Wagner, Fox Mulder, Dana Scully
Recorded at Sky Watch Bed & Breakfast
Wellington, Colorado
Subjects: Sky Watch, Roswell, C.G.B. Spender

(Tape On).

SCULLY - Good idea, keep it running.

S.A.WAGNER - (Laughs). I wouldn't have it any other way, Scully. Get Mulder's recorder set up. Never hurts to have a backup. Oh, (laughs) I guess you already have that covered, huh?

MULDER - (Impatient anger). Just get on with it.

SCULLY - You called us in here. Just say what you have to say.

MULDER - Lay some more lies on us, Wagner.

WAGNER - I never lied, Mulder. I kept things from you. I've covered things up. But you were never lied to.

(Long pause).

You can either sit here now and listen to everything I need to tell you or come back for the tape. I'm probably going to be here most of the night getting this all out, but I have a lot to explain...

MULDER - No shit...

SCULLY - Shut up, Mulder. Let him talk.

MULDER - (Barely audible). Fuck this...

(Long pause. Mulder and Scully have left the room but the tape is left running).

SCULLY - (Out of breath upon her return). You know how you¼ve hurt him? (Pause). Okay, here's his recorder, I'll make sure he hears what you have to say. Speak right into the mike.

WAGNER - (Sigh). You're staying?

SCULLY - I like a good story.

WAGNER - I can promise a long story, Scully. But it's a true story, like I told Mulder, I don't lie.

SCULLY - Just tell it, Wagner.

WAGNER - All right (pause). Ever hear of the Piute Ridge Grasslands?

SCULLY - Yeah, I think it's a national wildlife reserve not far from here, isn't it?

WAGNER - About 20 miles northeast and yes, it's being run as a high plains eco-system project. The government bought that land from my father the year I was born, 1946. I guess that's when my STORY starts. Mid-August of that year dad was out near the the butte that overlooks the north side of the area. He was checking out what was left of a shack. It was one of the last of the old line camps left from back in the days when Sky Watch used to run cattle there on the grasslands. He'd heard from an old hand that lived just south of the place that some kids from town had been out there and according to the retired cowboy, "they wuz liquored up and out doin' no good." He was right, the ancient outbuilding had been completely destroyed.

Dad told me the vandalism had made him sick. He felt like driving back to town and kicking some young ass. The boys had destroyed part of my family's heritage. A piece of history was lost to a night of drunken fun and games. Now, my father wasn't a violent man. So he decided a walk might get rid of some of his anger. He hiked out across the plain and had almost made it to the base of the ridge when he spotted the lights. You've got to remember, this was 1946 and Alexander Wagner was a no nonsense, feet on the ground sort of man. I doubt, before that warm summer night, when he had gazed up at the stars, he would have even considered wondering if perhaps someone or something might be looking back. I could be wrong, of course, but I don't believe I am.

It was exactly eighteen minutes from the time my father first noticed the bright object on the horizon, until it set down on the rocky shelf above him. That's what I mean about no nonsense. The man actually had the presence of mind to time this amazing vision. You can bet, if he'd had his camera, there would be clear, perfectly focused, documented proof of alien visitation. As sure as his hands were, he couldn't have taken one of those blurry, maybe it is, maybe it isn't, pictures that the UFOologists display with such pride. Not my father.

The moment he saw the massive craft disappear overhead, he knew he'd seen enough. He'd just made it to our old Ford truck when a dull thud shook the ground, reverberating through the leather soles of his boots. He glanced over to the distant butte and made note of where the strange object had set down. Then, scrambling into his seat, he raced off to inform the authorities. He felt this was his duty as an American.

My father first told me the truth when I was fourteen, though I'd dogged him with questions about the place my entire life. The legends surrounding Piute Ridge had been told to the first white explorers, along with tales of the land to the north that breathed fire. When Clark's man, Colter, explored Yellowstone in 1808, one set of legends was explained. The strange things that go on at Piute Ridge would probably still be nothing more than folklore if those kids had just stayed sober. Sort of amazing to think about how different my life might be right now if one of those teenagers had just said no (laughs).

The stretch of tall-grassed plain that lay beneath the dark, maroon colored ridge was once considered to be sacred ground by the Piute and Pawnee. It was feared, too. The local Native Americans would never cross that lush, fertile land. It was a haunted place of lights and frightening gods who would carry anyone away who was foolish enough to venture there.

You could still hear the stories about the lights while I was growing up. People would always question me about what had happened there, that first year after the war, when my father had sold off our land to the government. To dad, what he had done when he'd turned the matter and our property over to the military had been necessary for the security of our country. He'd never breathed a word to anyone about what had gone on. Loose lips sink ships. But when he thought I was old enough to keep a secret, he told me everything.

Scully, you have to know about the time I grew up in to really understand my relationship with my father AND what led me to do what I did later. I loved my dad but his ideas of "America - love it or leave it" never sat right with my generation's consciousness. We were the children that were going to change the world. President Kennedy had challenged us to be the standard bearers. He told us WE could change the world.

When dad told me his secret, that the mysterious lights at Piute Ridge were visitations from aliens, and he'd been sworn to secrecy by our government, I was full of indignation that my own father was allowing the truth to be covered up. I called him a hypocrite. He ranted and raved constantly about the oppressive spread of Communism and how the atrocities Stalin had committed in Russia were kept secret from the 'free' world. Yet he believed it was right to keep the people of this country in the dark about what their military was doing in our own back yard. On land that we had previously owned.

It got so we couldn't say two words to each other without one of us getting angry over what the other had said. I don't know, but if it hadn't been dad caving in to the military, I probably would've found something else to argue with him about. Kids always have to have something to rebel against, some way to prove they're different than their parents.

I stewed for two years over what had happened at Piute Ridge. It all came to a head the Summer of 1963. I got to go to Washington, DC because I was the president of Wellington High's Honor Society my senior year. It was Mary Scott, my vice-president and I, plus Coach Ridgely and his wife as chaperones, who made the trip. I felt this was my chance to uncover everything I needed to know about what was really happening at Piute Ridge. I'd laid some ground work with an organization I'd written to about buying information. For a price, I could get proof that the American public was being lied to and oppressed just as much as all the communist countries dad obsessed over.

I'd learned early that my family's fortune was an easy way to get doors to open. You know, I can tell by your expression, Scully, what I just said didn't sit too well with you. It's a fact of life, you know?

SCULLY - Yeah, selling our country's secrets to the highest bidder, nothing wrong with that! Having secrets is wrong in the first place. Bet your mercenary pen pals only sold their product to people like you, good, loyal Americans. I just wonder how you were able to justify doing what you did. Your father only did what he truly believed to be his duty.

WAGNER - You're right, I know. My Father might have been a blind, patriotic fool, but I know he never had to hide behind his beliefs to justify his actions. You don't know how many times I've wished I'd never started this self-righteous quest. I paid for the truth all right, the price was my father's trust, my Anna's life...The truth has cost me everyone I've ever loved. Well, everyone except Kami (long pause).

Still, there's a chance that I might have bought us all a future. Look, just let me tell my story. I know it's long, but when I get to the end maybe you'll understand why the truth just might be the only thing that'll save any of us.

 

 

Like I said, I'd been setting this up for over a year. I'd sent over $1,000.00 to the contact I'd discovered in, of all places, a John Birch Society news letter. Before you ask, that money was really mine. I didn't sell my dad out behind his back. I'd had my own bank account since I sold my first spring lamb at the county fair when I was eight. That grand was my life's savings. It was the profit plus interest from every animal I raised for ten years, but it bought me what I wanted to know. Hell, it bought me MORE than I wanted to know.

You haven't said anything, but I know what you're thinking and you're right. Thank you for not laughing, Scully. It was pretty naive, but kid's were young a lot longer back then. I didn't realize that secrets like I wanted to know weren't actually bought for such a paltry sum. I didn't know I'd caught someone's eye and was getting a bargain of a lifetime.

I was supposed to get my information on the steps of the Lincoln memorial in broad daylight. I never even saw the person's face, he just passed by me and suddenly there was a book bag in my hand. Not even a brief case. I remember being kind of perturbed because I was a little old to be carrying a book bag, but I'd read enough Ian Fleming to know that after the drop off you just keep moving.

I got back to our hotel room without Coach Ridgely knowing I'd left. Mary and I weren't due to meet up with him and his wife for the tour of landmarks 'til noon. I slipped in and after locking the door, I tore into the satchel. It was the wrong information. I looked through that file, my first file, and my hands began to shake. I was seeing proof of something that I knew was probably going to get me killed. I was going to be dead at seventeen, and it was over information I didn't even want.

SCULLY - What? It wasn't the file on UFOs? What happened?

WAGNER - Well, apparently, the file I was supposed to get got intercepted and this file was my protection. I didn't know this at the time, but I had made a friend somewhere and this person knew I had to be taught a few things, like how to cover my ass. There was a note written on the manila folder that told me I had to do something to protect myself. Somebody already knew I wanted information I wasn't supposed to have, and it wouldn't take them long to figure out that I had this file. There was a list of suggestions and I followed them to the letter.

I immediately left and took a cab to the Smithsonian Institute, where I asked for a woman named Anderson. She knew exactly what I needed, without even being told, a copying machine. She helped me run off these files, then drove me to three different banks. I got three separate safety deposit boxes at each of them. No one blinked an eye, except maybe because I was so young. I put a copy of the file in each box. Then, she took me to the post office where I mailed a note to nine of my classmates, sending them a key. My note just said, "Shaken, not stirred, hang on to the key." My friends were used to me doing strange things, I'm a Wagner. But, you know, they all still had the keys in September.

Miss Anderson got me back to the hotel at supper time. Mary, the coach and his wife were just getting back from the tour and my ass was grass. Ridgely was on the phone with my dad telling him how they'd looked for me all morning and how many dimes he'd wasted calling the hotel. Luckily, the banquet was the next day or I would have been sent home then.

SCULLY - What was in the file?

WAGNER - (Laughs) I finally went over it that night. It was a letter from my unknown, new found friend. It was a record of surveillance done and information collected on a man, a very dangerous man; and proof of a murder, photographs and a detailed autopsy report.

Everything in this file had been put together to make it easy for me to understand. My friend had set it up so that it read like a book. The story opened with a memo written to the evil man by none other than John F. Kennedy . You know this villain as C.G.B. Spender (laughs). You know, Scully, you'd make a better poker player if you didn't have those eyes. They sparkle like sapphires when you know you have something (pauses, then laughs once more). But, then again, they do make a man forget just about everything else, so you probably could make a killing at the tables. Ah-h-h, where was I?

SCULLY - Kennedy's note to Spender?

WAGNER - Okay. The file opens with a short note to Spender telling him that these are his tickets to Los Angeles. The woman in question should not be harmed, just convinced that it would be in the country's best interest if she were to forget she knew him. The President suggested to Spender that he remind the woman of how her little birthday song had caused him quite a bit of trouble at his home and with the press.

Next are some cryptic scribbles from surveillance done of this meeting between Spender and the woman. It seems that the message WAS delivered. The woman was shattered, comfort was given, and the evening ended with the messenger in bed with the recipient. It picks up again with Spender leaving discretely the next morning. This memo is dated June 1, 1962. Marilyn had a little over two months to live.

There were a few more notes scribbled on Spender's visits to the star. Nothing really that fascinating. I found out later that she and DiMaggio were going to remarry in early August, so all the talk about her causing trouble for Kennedy because she still had the hots for him was bogus. At least that's what I thought. She called the President's brother that last night but I don't think it was because she wanted to start trouble. I think it was because she was afraid. From what was in the autopsy report, she had good reason.

It was true that she died of an overdose. What the 'official' report neglects to detail is that there was a needle mark found between the last two toes on her right foot. Spender was so damn clever on this one. He arranged it so no barbiturates were found in her stomach's contents. There wasn't even the tell-tale red dye in her stomach or staining her esophagus. Spender made sure the rumors would start about the President and Bobby being involved. He made sure the telephone company didn't cover up who Marilyn called that night. Bobby's name was there for everyone to see if they started looking. Still, he'd made sure there was room for doubt as to the President's guilt. Kennedy had already lost support with the 'powers that be', but they had to make sure the office of the chief executive wasn't sullied. John F. Kennedy had become a liability. He didn't have much longer, either.

The most important piece of information left out of the autopsy was one that just might have politically put a nail in the President's coffin. But I guess Spender hated Kennedy too much to let him take the credit for impregnating the most beautiful woman in the world. C.G.B. Spender knew who the father was of the barely formed fetus that lay in Marilyn Monroe's womb. It wouldn't be the last time the man killed his own child. Not by a long shot!

I don't have the original file. Only my copies. I must have over fifty now at various sites. What I have on this man could put him away for life and he knows it. But I learned a long time ago, no one stands up to the devil without feeling the heat. I've been burned. My scars are plain if you know where to look.

SCULLY - So you had other dealings with Cancer Man?

WAGNER - I forgot that's what you and Mulder call him (laughs). Alex told me.

SCULLY - (Her tone is bitter) Krycek. Krycek works with that man.

WAGNER - Alex is just keeping an eye on him for me.

SCULLY - (Pause) Mr. Wagner, if you think Krycek works for you, you're a fool. I think Alex works with whoever he thinks is on top at the time. Apparently, that must be you at the moment.

WAGNER - (Long pause) Well, let's hope he's right this time, Scully. I guess it's good news, because from what you say, Alex must be pretty good at picking the right horse...it seems he's played the field a long time.

SCULLY - Go on with your story, Mr.Wagner. I'm starting to believe you.

WAGNER - Good...because I need you and Mulder to trust me...

SCULLY - (Her tone is sharp) I SAID I'm starting to believe you, not trust you.

WAGNER - (Sigh) Well, then I guess I have more talking to do.

There was a letter waiting for me when I got home. I've saved all 'my friend's' letters but the first one. I think I memorized it. I was told that there is åcancer¼ in our country that is eating it alive. That there are men who claim to be trying to save the world, but just might be leading us to our final destruction. I was told about a project and a pact; and how this group was experimenting on their own children in order to survive the end of the world. The letter told me that my own arm already bore the mark of selection. I was told that the only hope I had, now that I knew the truth, was to watch, to gather what proof I could, and to wait for the time when I could use the truth as a weapon. My protector said he would let me know when the time came. He signed the letter J.D. Hardin.

SCULLY - (A giggle escapes her). Didn't he write paperback western novels?

WAGNER - (He chuckles). Well, I assume it was an alias, but since my father owned a ranch, I thought it was clever. I always signed my answers that I sent to his Georgetown P.O. Box, Ian Fleming. We wrote each other for years. He was my contact, but even though I never met him, he was my friend. He stopped writing about five years ago. I think he's dead. The rent on the box ran out after two years, so my letters started coming back. I've never found out anymore than his name.

I was already in trouble with my dad for my disappearing act but things got worse. My dad received a visit from a man whose badge said he was Special Agent Charles Spender. I was being accused of attempted espionage. The minute dad heard UFOs mentioned he knew what Spender was saying was true. The man had the letters I'd written, asking how to buy information. He had my canceled money orders. With a grin that made me cringe, C.G.B. Spender began to spin the tale that I had been caught in a sting the government had set up to capture and prosecute communist spies. He assured my dad no charges were going to be pressed.

He said his agency had known all along that the letter writer had to be either someone very naive, very young or very stupid to even make these inquires in such an open manner. They were going to call a halt back when the laughable sum of $1,000.00 for national secrets had actually been sent; but claimed they had played the game out just to see who exactly would show up for the exchange.

I sat squirming in my chair as my father and this murderer laughed about my bargain basement treason. Dad turned to me and told me to get the file. There was no laughter in his eyes, only anger, and I hurried to do as I was told. When I handed the thick manila folder back, Spender laughed and asked my father if he would like to see the bogus file they'd rigged up 'for the kid'? Dad shook his head, suddenly solemn. The lump in my throat was huge. My father couldn't even look at me. His son was a traitor. Spender did meet my eyes; his gaze was dark and full of warning.

"Mr. Wagner, I'm sure the boy has learned his lesson. I wouldn't be to hard on him. How'd you like our little story, son? Did we have you going?"

I looked the devil straight in the eye, nodding, "Yes, sir. I believed everything that this file said, and I did learn my lesson." The man's smile disappeared for a brief second. Nothing was said, but everything was understood. By both of us.

The moment passed, and smile back in place, Special Agent Charles Spender turned to my father. "Good, that's what we wanted to do, make sure he learned a lesson. Ah, Mr. Wagner, there is a matter I need to discuss with you. Is there some place private we might talk?"

The file disappeared into a black leather briefcase. I received a glance from my father that told me I was excused. I hurried out of the room. My life changed forever that night. I don't believe dad ever forgave me for my treason and C.G.B. Spender became one of my father's most trusted friends.

How 'bout we take a break for a few minutes?

(S.A.Wagner leaves the room).

(Tape off).
-WSS-

 

FWM Tapes
Winter 2003
Wellington Colorado

Scully found me sitting in the '57 T-bird that had been Wagner's latest acquisition. I do have to admit, some of the things he collected were pretty cool. (Laughter from Mulder and Skinner. When it fades, Mulder's tone grows suddenly bitter). THEY must have taken the cars before you got back. I don't know how long 'til they started the fire. I was in and out of it so I couldn't tell you what all went on (a sharp laugh). Hey, I guess it doesn't matter if it's red or green, these old classic cars just kind of get in your blood, huh?

I'd wandered into the car barn because I'd been stupid enough to leave without my coat. Scully tried to stop me from going out the back door but I think she knew I had to get away to think. About an hour of walking around a backyard in Colorado during December tends to clear the head, especially with nothing on for warmth but jeans and a Bronco jersey. The only thing I had decided for sure was that if I didn't get inside somewhere, I was going to freeze. I spotted the barn and that's where I hid until Scully came to find me. I jumped when she opened the door and climbed in to sit beside me.

There was a moment¼s silence, but a smile was in her voice when she spoke, "Hey, are we goin' cruising?"

"Only if I get to drive," I murmured. I was feeling a little sheepish about my outburst when I'd left the room. My thoughts were still in turmoil. They had been since she'd told me about Alex Krycek's short visit with Wagner that morning. It was still hard for me to say what was in my head but Scully and I didn't need words most of the time. She knew how I felt, and the feel of her hand, slipping into mine and tightening in a quick squeeze of reassurance, made me smile. She pressed the small cassette player into my other hand.

"You need to listen, then I'd like you to come back to hear the rest of his story.¾ Scully's voice was soft and my first instinct to vehemently refuse her request was tempered by her soothing tone.

I silently nodded I would and she slid the button on. Putting the small speaker to my good ear, I heard the first part of Wagner's tale. Then, I took her hand and followed her inside, eager to find out how it all was going to end.

End Tape
-WSS-

 

 

Chapter 5

 

"Our problems are man-made, therefore they may be solved by man. No problem of human destiny is beyond human beings." -- John F. Kennedy

S.A. WAGNER CONVERSATION - TAPE 2
DECEMBER 30, 2001
S.A.Wagner, Fox Mulder, Dana Scully
Recorded at Sky Watch Bed & Breakfast
Wellington, Colorado
Subjects: The Krycek family, Anna Wagner's death

WAGNER - Well, any questions?

SCULLY - I know this is hard for you...

WAGNER - No, this has been a fucking picnic; wait 'til you hear what's coming.

MULDER - Don't speak to her like that...

SCULLY - Mulder, wait. Let's just all calm down, okay? (Pause) I agree with you, Mr. Wagner. I think we need to hear your story.

WAGNER - Sorry, I'm sorry, Scully. I just haven't thought about a lot of this in a long time. Most of what I'm going to tell you, Kami doesn't even know. I don't want her to know, okay? You'll both promise me that, please?

SCULLY - I won't tell her. She won't hear it from us, Mr. Wagner. Will she, Mulder?

MULDER - (Barely audible) I won't tell Kami. (Louder) I promise. I won't tell Kami.

WAGNER - Thank you (long pause). Well, I started a new tape. Are you okay, Mulder?

MULDER - I'm fine.

WAGNER - Well then, here goes, I guess. C.G.B. Spender became a regular house guest here at Sky Watch. Dad was a die hard Colorado Republican, so most of the conversations I heard were about how they were going to have to make sure that the country saw the light by '64. They didn't talk about much in front of me. I told you, my father didn't trust me after what happened, and since I knew who, no make that WHAT, Spender was, I didn't trust my father.

TRUST. After what happened in Dallas, I think we learned that all that word gets you is dead. Trust. Faith. Hope. 'I had a dream.' 'I dream things that never were and ask, why not?' I wanted to believe, and one by one, the people who told me I should dream were silenced. I started college at Stanford in the fall of 1964. My major was business. I minored in party, and dropped out by 1966. When I returned home in 1967, after the summer of love, my father was already dying. Sky Watch had become a safe house for dispossessed Russian scientists. There were three of them living there with their families. One of the families was the Kryceks.

Nicolai was a quiet man who I never really got to know. He seemed an unlikely match for his wife, Jelena, the shining light. She was beautiful, a woman who made heads turn, and men stare wordlessly in awe as she passed before them, oblivious to how the world perceived her. I don't think Jelena was aware of anything around her except her loneliness and Alexei, her son. The fall I returned home the boy was almost two, and his mother had already chosen the path that would lead to her death.

The Cancer Man, as you two call him, had recruited Nicolai and his countrymen during a visit to the Soviet Union just after Kennedy's assassination. They were supposedly close to success, much closer than our country, in producing an alien/human hybrid. When my friend J.D. wrote to me about this, it always made me laugh. This talk of how close this faction or that group was to creating this wonder of bio-engineering, this hybrid. I always felt like reminding him of the old saying, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. Close in their project was another non-viable fetus. Another woman forced to carry a life that either destroyed her body, her mind or her soul. So many times, it was all three. But you'll study the project later; I'll let you both see everything I have on it. I finally got my UFO files, Scully. But let me get back to Jelena, and how Alexei became my son.

I was almost 21 when I fell in love that first time, and as always, my luck held true, because it was with a woman whose heart had been captured by another. Jelena, the name means the guiding light. I walked around the ranch like an enamored school boy, dogging Jelena's every step. It's funny but no one seemed to notice, least of all Nicolai. The young scientist was too wrapped up in his work to notice anything but his research. Foolishly, I believed this was the cause for Jelena's lonely eyes. A husband who had too little time for her. If it had only been that simple.

Nicolai was grateful to anyone who kept his family occupied, because it allowed him to escape to his world of amino acids, proteins and DNA. So I took it upon myself to do the young husband a favor and entertain his wife with my rapier wit and boyish charm. Well, at least Alexei liked me. He thought I was extremely funny. The most I got from the boy's mother was a tolerant smile.

Spender showed up the fourth day after I got home, and I immediately noticed the difference in Jelena. The moment that son of a bitch walked into the room, she came to life. She smiled. Lord, such a smile. It lit her beautiful, wan face and made it glow with an ethereal fire. Her cheeks flushed a dusky rose, and I swallowed back my bitterness over who had brought about the change. She glanced at me, her dark eyes flashing, and the complete knowledge of the situation hit me, crushing me with disillusionment. I watched, my mouth hanging open in stunned shock, as my guiding light retired to her bedroom with the devil, who flashed me a triumphant smile as he closed the door behind them.

Alexei caught my hand and with his mother's grin, led me to my father's easy chair. We spent the afternoon with Horton and the Who, Curious George and The Cat in the Hat. Spender must have slipped out the front door while I was lost in my world of elephants, monkeys and troublesome talking cats. The boy and I only returned to the reality of mundane existence when his mother leaned over us, flashing a broad, breathtaking smile that thrilled both of us to our toes. The small boy and I had bonded, a connection made all the more secure because we both adored the same woman.

By mid-autumn it was more than evident that Jelena was expecting a child. That Nicolai was unperturbed by his wife's pregnancy led me to believe that the new arrival was just another brother or sister for Alexei and not a product of my unrequited love's illicit affair with Spender. I was partially right. The bright eyed toddler who'd stolen my heart, and the child Jelena carried did share the same set of parents, it's just that the science obsessive biochemist wasn't one of them.

I noticed the change in Jelena just after the new year. I first assumed it was due to her advancing condition, but half way through the month I realized that Spender had not put in an appearance since long before Christmas. Nothing I did seemed to break her depression, nor would she speak of the matter to me. I began to worry as she approached the last part of her pregnancy because not even Alexei could rouse her from her lethargy. She wouldn't speak, was not eating , she moved about the house like a wraith. I took over her son's care. Between keeping watch over the two-year old, and nursing my father who was in the last stages of the terminal cancer that would kill him, my time was consumed.

I didn't notice she was missing until almost noon that late March day. Alexei's second birthday was two days away. I was discussing plans for a party with Mrs. Filson, our housekeeper, when it struck me that I hadn't seen Jelena all morning. Nicolai hadn't seen her since he'd gotten up, and a quick check of their room showed the bed was made but there was no sign of Jelena. We called her doctor and the hospital, to no avail. The sheriff was informed, but the report was taken casually, and we were told not to worry.

We got the news just after lunch the next day. She'd been found by the maid at the Fort Collins Motel where she'd checked in alone the day before. It looked as though she'd taken half a bottle of Seconal, drawn a bath, and dressed in a shear pink gown. She'd bought the gown for her planned hospital stay after the birth of the baby. She'd climbed in the tub, and slit the inside of her forearms from the wrists up. The baby was a seven-pound, two-ounce boy. We buried them together at Grand view cemetery. Nicolai granted me guardianship of his son. The Russians left Sky Watch in early May for greener pastures, and better laboratory facilities in Washington, DC. By July, it was just me and Alexei at the ranch. We made do.

(S.A.Wagner leaves the room).

(Tape off).
-WSS-

 

FWM Tapes
Winter 2003
(Exact date unknown)

Ever since I was a child I loved horror novels, and I lived for scary movies. My father never did figure out what happened to his paperback copy of "The Exorcist" that he set on the end table by his easy chair after reading only a few pages. It disappeared, never to be seen again. I'd inherited my craving for hair-raising, bone-chilling entertainment from my dad, if not genetically it was by osmosis. Mom always used to fret that my reading and viewing habits were what caused my nightmares. Even at my worst, as a surly, bitter, smart-mouthed sixteen year old, I never had the heart to tell her that my real life was more frightening than any fiction I'd witnessed. I might have been a book-snatching, disrespectful ass hole as a kid, but I guess I just don't have it in me to be deliberately cruel.

The reason I'm rambling on about this subject is that lying here in the dark tonight, I've been playing the details of Wagner's tapes over and over in my head. His life had so many tragedies it's frightening. I guess it has me contemplating the nature of fear. Even as a child, I never found monsters, or 'ghosties or long legged ghoulies or things that go bump in the night' to be particularly terrifying.

Now, I'll most likely dream tonight about what Wagner talked about or similar events in my life and wake up screaming. I'll probably scare the shit out of Skinner! Terror for me has always been things like the irreversible destruction of a fire stealing a family's home. Watching helplessly while someone you care for suffers. Finding someone you love is gone and knowing that there is nothing you can do, but endure the emptiness that comes from being left alone. That's the one thing I fear most, being left behind.

Tape End
-WSS-

 

S.A. WAGNER CONVERSATION - TAPE 2 (continued)
DECEMBER 30, 2001
S.A.Wagner, Fox Mulder, Dana Scully
Recorded at Sky Watch Bed & Breakfast
Wellington, Colorado
Subjects: The Krycek Family, Anna Wagner's Death

WAGNER - Sorry about that. There was something I needed to do. Did you at least get something to eat and drink while I was gone?

MULDER - We're fine (pause). We can do this tomorrow. You don't have to finish this now.

WAGNER - But I do, Mulder. I have to finish this. Now. We don't have anymore tomorrows left. Just let me get to the end. Okay?

MULDER - (Softly) okay.

WAGNER - (A very long pause as the man composes himself. A deep sigh). It was just Alexei and me for a lot of years. And Mrs. Filson, of course. It reminds me of what Einstein once said when someone asked him to explain his theory: "When you sit with a nice girl for two hours, you think it's a minute; but when you sit on a hot stove for a minute, you think it's two hour's. That's relativity."

What can I say about those years? That they just flew by? Looking back on them, I guess they did. But I remember sometimes how the nights seemed endless because I spent them alone. Still, for the most part it was a good decade, Alex and me batching it. It was very lucrative. You both know me, I'm not a man who obsesses over money. Everything else, but not wealth (laughs). I did have a good string of luck. Hell, it was more than luck. I didn't lie to Spender. I had learned my lesson. While post World War Two America was ruled by industry, the key word for this last quarter of the 20th century has been INFORMATION. With my mentor J.D.'s help, I became a master at knowing where to be, what was needed, and how to get--information. Another zero was added to the Wagner family fortune and it allowed me to peruse my other interests and obsessions.

In the fall of 1978 I met Anna. That's when I bought the studio. I'm sure you know all about it...or are you two too young? (pause, laugh) She was the star of that seventies show, "Butler's Beauties". Remember, the one about the three lovely private eyes who worked for the mystery man, William Butler?

MULDER: Was she the one with the poster?

WAGNER: Yeah, you do remember (laughs). They called it jiggle TV at its finest. The press had a field day with our relationship. The billionaire and the blonde "Butler's Beauties" bimbo. They didn't know either of us, but it was good copy. Actually, we didn't mind. The show's ratings went through the roof, her salary went up six figures, and I am part owner of the network. It paid for our honeymoon. On the surface, our relationship did look suspicious. I was either portrayed as the dense Colorado cowboy billionaire, who'd inherited his fortune and was being played for a sucker by the much younger, conniving starlet wanting to sleep her way to the top. Or they would ignore Anna's education and obvious intelligence, and confuse her with the role she played on the show. She was the big busted, ditzy member of 'Butler's Beauties' whose chest measurement was larger than her IQ. They would print that the much older, billionaire playboy had bought a sex slave and a studio all in one deal.

Anna quit the show the next year and returned with me to Colorado. My big busted, blonde bomb-shell beauty became simply my partner, my lover, my wife and my best friend. There was a little friction with Alex, but he finally seemed to accept our relationship. Like I said before, kids always find something to rebel against. Kami was born in 1981. We found out about the cancer just after she was born.

Anna was nursing Kami when she found the lump. My wife was statuesque and what they used to describe as full-figured. Unfortunately, the tell-tale signs had been missed and she needed more than a lumpectomy. She had a radical mastectomy of both breasts right before Christmas of 1981.

1982 was spent waging the battle against the disease. It looked like we were winning, but the fight began to take its toll on our relationship. Sometimes I think Spender never sleeps. For almost forty years he has watched me, jumping on each and every chance he has had to make me pay for the knowledge I have of him. Anna and I were in DC attending a benefit for the American Cancer Society. My wife was one of the women being honored during the dinner that evening for her part in helping to bring public awareness to the fight against breast cancer, and the importance of regular self-examination.

(Pause) Anna had been suffering with depression that fall. The chemotherapy had gone well but she was very tired. We argued that night, but I thought no one had noticed our troubles. Anna was not the type to air our dirty linen publicly, and I, like my father, tend to keep my cards close to the chest. As far as I know, only one person noticed the strain between us. I left the affair early, right after the dinner, taking a cab back to our hotel alone. Anna didn't return to our room until the next morning.

I was waiting for her when she walked in. She was such a beautiful woman. The stoic strength she showed, struggling against the debilitating treatments during her fight against the cancer, only made her that much more lovely in my eyes. She stood in the entry hallway of our suite, her blue eyes pleading for understanding. I could tell she must have finished the evening drowning the pain and sorrow of our argument and my hurried departure. But I could tell by the tearful sadness of her expression that something more had happened than a simple night of spiteful drinking. My stomach dropped to somewhere around my knees as I clearly read the remorse in her face that spoke of the vows she'd broken.

I forgave her. How could I not forgive my Anna. The fact that the betrayal happened with my own personal devil somehow made it easier to accept. I knew the man so well. He was always there, waiting for me or mine to suffer a moment's weakness, so he could use it against me. My understanding surprised her, I think, and that black lunged bastard actually helped my marriage in the long run. The lines of communication between Anna and I opened up again after that episode.

We found out Anna was pregnant in January. We acknowledged to each other the fact that the child she carried might not be biologically mine, but I'd raised one of Spender's children before. I'm not one to hold the sins of the father against an innocent. Our worries were more with Anna's health. My wife turned all her energies toward having a successful pregnancy. Her depression lifted. It seemed we had an excellent chance that both mother and baby would make it through to the birth without problems. .

Two days before the due date I left Sky Watch for a quick trip to Denver. I tried to get out of the business luncheon, but to no avail. My journey was a wasted trip, though, because the deal fell through. My meeting had taken twice as long as expected. I called Anna at seven, before I left the city to return home, and she was fine. She laughed with me about something I said, but for the life of me, I can't remember what it was. I only remember that she was in good spirits and that she laughed. I remember the sound of her laughter.

She was in bed when I finally made it to the ranch. Traffic had been tied up by two accidents on I-25, so my 90 minute trip took almost four hours. It was a little before eleven when I unlocked the front door. I didn't think it was odd that Anna was resting, but the fact she'd gone to sleep before I returned did trouble me. I slipped into the darkened room to check on her. The moment I touched her cheek, I knew she was gone. My hand was shaking as I switched on the lamp. No one was ever able to explain how Anna got hold of Mrs. Filson's Soma. Our housekeeper swore she'd never brought the pills with her to work.

(Long pause) Do you mind if we take another break?
(machine off).

Tape ends
-WSS-

 

S.A. WAGNER CONVERSATION - TAPE 3
DECEMBER 31, 2001
S.A.Wagner, Fox Mulder, Dana Scully
Recorded at Sky Watch Bed & Breakfast
Wellington, Colorado
Subjects: Aliens, CGB Spender, Dana Scully and Fox Mulder

WAGNER: Did you get another tape, Mulder?

MULDER: Yeah, Maggie gave me six packages of blank tapes when she gave me this recorder. There's six in each package (soft chuckle).

WAGNER: (Laughs). Maybe she figures since they're the little ones you're gonna have even more trouble keeping track of 'em than the last time.

We're almost done here. I'll try to wrap this up before New Years. I guess all I really need to explain is about what I know concerning Spender and the visitor's and what Alex came to talk to me about yesterday. Well, since it's after 1:00, make that day before yesterday. You two ready to go?

(Mumbled positive replies).

By the time I met my Anna, I had enough proof of C.G.B. Spender's misdeeds. I could have had the man convicted of everything from petty theft to crimes against humanity. Why, I could connect him, even at that time, over twenty years ago, to involvement in at least seventy-five murders. From movie stars, to presidents. From civil rights leaders to white supremacists. Spender always seemed to rid himself of whatever person got in his way. I know of only three people who he either couldn't or wouldn't touch and I am one of them. Spender knows what I have on him. He also knows I learned my lesson well. I have my ass protected. My information lies not only downstairs, but in the possession of over one-hundred different people scattered around the world. Each one of these kind people know that if they do not hear from me at least once during any given calendar month, they are to go public with all the information I've given them. Spender and I are at an impasse. We have been for almost forty years. That's why I needed to talk to you two.

Alex came to warn me. It seems because of all that happened last year, Mulder's accident in Central America taking him out of the picture. So our visitors from afar have stepped up their plans for 'colonizing' our planet. Mulder, Alex didn't know you were doing as well as you are. No one has paid that much attention to you because everyone thought this time you weren't going to make it back. I thought it was a good plan to let everyone think that. I didn't count on this happening. You see Mulder, you and Scully, because of her connection to you, are the only other people Spender is afraid of crossing.

I have more that I need to tell you two, what's in my "UFO files" for one thing, and how I think you might be able to stop what is supposed to happen. Mulder, I think you need to talk with your mother first. I believe she should be the one to explain the hows and whys of your life to you.

MULDER: My mother doesn't remember anything...

WAGNER: Mulder, the stroke you suffered was probably every bit as severe as your mother's. Haven't things come back to you?

(Murmured reply of agreement).

I think if you let her tell you in her own way, she just might be able to clear up a lot of the questions you have. You've been watched your entire life, Fox Mulder, by a lot of people. Me included. We could tell you so much about yourself...but I think your mother should have that right.

MULDER: You want me to go see my mother? I haven't seen her since before... She never came to see me. Not since the first time, when I was shot. I don't want to see her. (There is the sound of Mulder hurrying to leave).

WAGNER: MULDER, SIT DOWN!

(Pause. Mulder sat down).

Good, you need to listen to me. There are a lot of things we have to do in the next few months; a lot of things we have to face that aren't going to be easy. But we have to face them just the same. You need to give her this chance to come clean, Mulder, to tell her story. You let me tell mine. It's her turn now. You need to listen to her.

SCULLY: (Softly) He's right, Mulder. You need to go see your mother. You need to find out what she has to say.

MULDER: (Pause) Will you be with me?

SCULLY: Yes, Mulder. Always.

(Machine off).

Tape End
-WSS-

 

FROM THE PEN OF -
Dana K. Scully
January 1, 2002
Wellington, Colorado

"There is no such thing as chance; and that which seems to us merest accident springs from the deepest source of destiny." -- Shiller

It's only now that I can comprehend the full scope of the tale we heard night before last. As I sit here this morning, watching Mulder sleep beside me, I wonder about the winds of fate that blew us here, to this exact moment in time. How all those events we heard about have reached out and touched us, directing each person under this roof toward this very place.

Starting with that young rancher, just home from the war, standing that night in the tall prairie grass to watch a craft from a distant world. To a beautiful star who shone so brightly but died frightened and alone. To presidents and assassins, Russians and aliens. I guess I should add to the story my own memory of an eager, fresh faced rookie agent walking into a dark basement office, and seeing for the first time this man who is so much a part of me now. It's all connected, all coming together to bring those of us here to our destiny.

Mulder and I leave tomorrow morning. He called his mother and told her we were coming. As always, from what I heard of the call at least, it was an odd, strained conversation between two strangers who just happen to be mother and son. He needs to find some answers. We need to find some answers. Mulder needs to reconcile his past, then perhaps, we can begin to face our future.

 

 

Chapter 6

 

FROM THE PEN OF -
DANA K SCULLY
January 4, 2002,
Wellington, Colorado

It has been a long, tiring two days for both Mulder and me and I'm so very glad to be home. Even while he's soundly sleeping, one glance at his face shows the strain he suffered listening to his mother's lengthy, disjointed tale. Still, I believe knowing is better. Knowing has to be better than wondering, right?

The trip seemed worse because after we returned home this evening, he suffered his first seizure in nine months. It was a Grand Mal, but the duration was only just over two minutes. He actually recognized the onset by an aura and was prepared for it. I walked out of the shower and found him lying on the bed. He was about to explain what was happening when it struck. Afterwards, he was able to recall the sensations he experienced just preceding the episode and related them to me. So finally, we just might have a warning of these brain storms if, and when, he has another.

Mulder was still deeply upset that he convulsed; he has been taking his medication religiously. I tried to comfort him by explaining that the episode was most likely triggered by the strain of the trip, and having to deal with his mother and all she'd told him. I even attempted to placate him by mentioning that he should be pleased he has learned to catch the telltale harbinger of an impending seizure by the aura, but he was just too depressed to listen. His head was pounding, his body sore from the spasms and the tiredness was overwhelming. He didn't care to hear the 'good news'. All that matters to him is he suffers from post brain injury induced epilepsy, and probably will for the rest of his life.

He will most likely sleep throughout the night so I thought I'd use this time to go over the tapes we made with his mother. I'll see if I can transcribe them. Perhaps with a bit of "color commentary", and a lot of luck, we just might get a cohesive story out of the rambling remembrances.

*****

We arrived at Teena Mulder's residence early. We had rented a car and come straight from the airport. Mulder seemed in good spirits, perhaps a bit nervous. Not having seen his mother in three years would have been more than enough reason for his nervousness. I reached over as we strolled up the walk and took his hand. The slight squeeze I felt in return was my acknowledgment and thanks. I watched the flash of white teeth begin to worry that full bottom lip, his habit when he's nervous. It was just further proof that this homecoming wasn't something he looked forward to or particularly wanted.

(Speaking of homecomings, I am going to have to take the time to watch Nick at Night. My knowledge of seventies television is sorely lacking, and between Mulder and Wagner I'm at a decided disadvantage at understanding their coded references to the pop culture trivia of that time. I know it has something to do with some television show, but why did Mulder laugh when Mr. Wagner yelled out as we boarded our plane, "Good-bye, John Boy")?

I was a bit taken aback when Teena Mulder answered the door. I had not seen the woman in over three years and time has not been kind to her. It seems that her excuses of failing health have been truthful. She was no longer the stately queen I remembered, but a frail, elderly dowager who began to sob when she saw her son.

Mulder actually is in fairly good health now, and the aftereffects of his injuries and illnesses are not THAT noticeable. Well, perhaps they are to a mother who had not seen her son in almost half a decade. Though the scars on his face are gone, the fact that he's missing his left eye is plain to see. He wears a patch to cover the smooth skin that is all that remains of the empty socket. When he walks there is a noticeable limp. His right side is still weak, and he tends to hold that arm close to his body, a telltale sign of his hemiplegia. Mulder is forty now, and his dark hair IS streaked with gray. Still, I find the silver strands strikingly handsome. Even with all he has suffered, the lines of age have not so much attacked his countenance but defined it. If I were only so lucky to be aging as well as Fox Mulder. I hate admitting what gravity and the years are doing to me.

Mulder's response to his mother's tearful fawning over what had happened to him was a thinly masked irritation. As time went on her constant reminder of how he had changed began to take its toll, and wore him down. It got to me, too. By the end of this session, all three of us were emotionally exhausted. That we even returned the next day to finish up the interview shows just how much courage my partner has, and what finding the truth means to him.

Between the two of us we finally were able to get Teena into the living room, and on the right track. We told her what we wanted. After informing her we were recording the interview, we began --

 

KRISTENA ELIZABETH KUIPERS MULDER
CONVERSATION - TAPE 1
JANUARY 2, 2002
Teena Mulder, Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Greenwich, Connecticut

TEENA - It was January of 1961 when the tests began. I was the first one to "take," so we called the baby Adam. The visitors knew from the start he was a boy. They, of course, planned it that way. Since I was the first, my test was the simplest, and I was the only in vitro, human ovum/hybrid recipient to make it full term. I don't think this was the test they did on Jackie Kennedy. Was it? (She pauses as though she expects an answer from us to this odd question. When none is forthcoming she sighs, then continues). Well, I don't think it was. Her baby lived a few days, and she always said that Jack's DNA was in the child. So it couldn't have been like my test, could it? Because Adam had nothing of Bill in him. (She stops and looks deep into Mulder's eye. He can't see in the dim light of the living room, but he knows she believes she has made visual contact with him. He stares at her intently, trying to make out her expression. Teena grips her son's hand as she speaks). Neither do you, Fox. The visitors did all kind of tests, trying to figure out where you came from. They never did find out for sure, but they knew it wasn't from Bill Mulder.

(Mulder digests this information silently as he slips his hand from her grasp. I have no idea what she is talking about so the first round of questioning begins. Thankfully, this time she is lucid in her replies).

SCULLY - Mrs. Mulder, let me see if I understand you. In January of 1961 you were impregnated by the "visitors". THEY used your ovum and somehow by bioengineering they implanted 2 fetuses into you...

TEENA - No, one baby. They only put Adam in me. There was only one baby at first.

(The implication of what she is saying chills me. I glanced at Mulder and his face is deathly pale. I fear he might have a seizure at hearing this news).

SCULLY - You mean Mulder and Adam were identical twins? (I don't know how I got that sentence out. I'm surprised I was able to respond as quickly as I did). Mulder is an alien/human hybrid?

TEENA - (Laughing) No, of course not. Fox is entirely human.

(She reaches over and pats her son's hand. Mulder allows her this motherly gesture, but his face has taken on a grayish cast that frightens me).

MULDER - Mom, how can this be? You're not making sense here. (His words are fluid, no sign of aphasia. I am so proud of him. But they are spoken in a voice that is breathless and reed thin with strain). If THEY implanted only one fetus, and two were born, then the babies were identical twins. Identical, Mom. If the fetus they implanted was an alien/human hybrid, the second baby, the twin, would have to be, too.

TEENA - Fox William Mulder, I'm not ignorant. I know what the term 'identical twins' means. When they discovered you, the second fetus, that September, THEY were astounded. THEY couldn't believe they had missed seeing you for so long. THEY were so much more advanced than we were, yet nature could still play tricks on THEM. Fox, you were my miracle from the start.

(This time Mulder grimaces at the squeeze she gives his hand, but I don't believe Teena notices).

SCULLY - So you were well into your third trimester when you discovered you were carrying twins? The "visitors" apparently had some type of equipment that disclosed this...

TEENA - Well, that, and the fact one day in my eighth month I suddenly just got utterly HUGE. All in all, though, it wasn't an extremely uncomfortable pregnancy. (She pauses and glances at me. I know she's read the disbelief in my face). Ms. Scully, I assure you I am telling the truth, and I do know what I'm talking about. I might remind you, children usually get their intelligence from their mother's side and Fox is MY son. The visitor's proved that with all their testing. They just couldn't figure out who his father could have been. I believe they tested half of the east coast, from the president down to our gardener and never found a DNA match. What I'm telling you is this - In late January, THEY took one of my ova and through their superior knowledge, fertilized a zygote which THEY implanted in me. In late September, a second fetus was found in my womb. When I came to term, October 13, 1961, I delivered two babies via cesarean section. One, which THEY had named Adam, lived less than a day. THEY wouldn't even let me hold him. I only saw him through the glass, where they took him. When he succumbed, he turned into this green sludge. We were not even left a body to bury.

The second child I named Fox William. He was my son. Mine. I'm the only tie you have here on earth, Fox. You knew that when you were a baby. That's why you spoke to me the moment I first held you. We had that connection, Ms. Scully. I knew my Fox was special from the very beginning. I could hear him in my head. I didn't tell anyone at the start, and when I finally did, when he was three, that's when they took him from me. That's when I lost you, Fox.

(Teena Mulder begins to sob at this point and her son leaves, returning with a glass of water. Mulder offers her a shoulder to cry on. He grabs the hand I place on his own shoulder in comfort, and lightly kisses my palm, letting me know he is grateful I'm there for him. We leave the tape running, but nothing more is said about the past until after lunch, when we finally get the woman back on the subject of Mulder's history. The respite seems to have helped, and once again she picks up the story, almost exactly where she left off).

TEENA - I don't know if carrying Adam "unhinged" me. That seems to be what the general consensus was at the time. I kept knowledge of Fox's gifts to myself, not even telling Bill about them. Especially not telling Bill. You knew, you sensed, Fox, that you should only let me see just how amazing a child you were. Oh, you were being watched closely, by humans and aliens, but all they saw was a toddler that was exceptionally bright, extremely precocious, and somewhat advanced for his age. You knew just when to let it be known you could walk and talk. Early, but not too early. Seven months wasn't terribly young. Eyebrows were raised when you began to read at a little over two years of age, but it wasn't you who let our secret out. It was me. I have only myself to blame.

Things weren't going too well with their little "project". The still births and "un-viable results" were adding up. What happened with Adam and Fox told them that God considered their tests an abomination, but still they continued. I do believe they created a few monsters with their mad little experiments. And what it did to the women varied so, they never knew whether to have a straight jacket ready or if a bullet to the brain would have been more merciful. Maybe it WAS the strain of having Adam or maybe it was trying to hide the ever increasing mental faculties of my miracle child. Regardless, my slip up was so simple it bordered on lunacy. I let my three year old son read the New York Times and he made an off-handed, not very child-like, disparaging remark about the Warren Commission to his "father". How do they say it in the movies? The "jig" was up! They were on to us.

I didn't know it at the time, but Bill called in Spender to do the dirty work. I was taken away and it was February of 1965 before I came back to the real world. It seems that I had been involved in a car accident and my precious baby boy had been almost killed. He was just now coming out of the coma, but sadly, he was severely brain damaged. The strange thing was, I'd never driven a car in my life. You were never the same after that, Fox.

Bill came to the hospital, and informed me that I would be going home soon. I asked him if I'd been injured in this "accident". He told me, "No, only the boy." Apparently, I'd suffered a breakdown, and I was now in a psychiatric hospital. I had been since the "accident", three months before. I told him I wanted to see my son. Bill assured me I would, next week when I went home. I didn't say a word; I was afraid to argue. I was afraid to fight. When I realized what they'd done to you, I knew there was no hope. I stopped fighting back. I stopped caring. I conceived Samantha that month. She wasn't Bill's child, either. The only comfort I found was in the arms of the man who did this to my son. I didn't know, Fox. Spender was Samantha's father. But I didn't know he was the one who hurt you.

(Mulder is sitting at her side, on the arm of her chair. He has his back to his mother as she says these words. I see him stiffen, and a shudder runs through him. But he never turns to face us. Teena Mulder glances at me, a plea for understanding. I can't help her. The interview ends for the day. Mulder and I murmur our good-byes, but the woman doesn't utter another word. She simply slumps in her chair, her eyes haunted, lost in the past).

-DKS-

 

FROM THE PEN OF -
Dana K. Scully
January 5, 2002,
Wellington, Colorado

Mulder is still sleeping, and I do believe he's coming down with something. He roused a bit at daybreak, and I took his temperature. It's a little over 100, so he just might be fighting a bug of some kind on top of fatigue. I'll finish my work here, and if he's not better, I'll see if Dr. Raposa will examine him.

That night, back at the motel, we talked over what his mother had told us. Emotionally, Mulder was spent. He was confused, angry, hurt and frightened by what had been revealed. The questions that had been raised bothered us most. Teena Mulder insisted that Mulder's paternity was a riddle that remained unanswered to this day.

"Scully," Mulder sighed, pulling me close as we lay in bed. Sleep would not come even though we both felt exhausted. "Why did I have the feeling when she kept insisting that I was her "miracle child" she was this close to claiming I came from an "immaculate conception" ?"

I smoothed his perpetually contrary bangs off his high, unlined forehead. My chuckle was uneasy at his bordering-on-blasphemous words.

"Well, she did say you just kind of "appeared" in her womb," I agreed.

"I've had my parentage questioned a lot of times in my life, but I've never been accused of being a son of a deity," he grinned.

"We almost have to believe her, Mulder. I mean, she admitted who Samantha's father was." My reply came without thinking, and I instantly regretted it when his grin vanished at the reminder of his sister's paternity.

"He'd told me that time at the diner that he was her father," he murmured softly, his lips close to my ear, head resting against my shoulder. "But he tried to tell me that clone he brought was really her. Scully, how do we know what's true and what's a lie? Even with my mother, is this all just more of their lies? Or are they delusions? Delusions are really big in my family, huh? Some forms of insanity are hereditary. Like mother like son."

I let my fingers play across the soft, warm skin of his cheek, biting my lip at the wetness that I found there. "Mulder, I don't think what she told us were delusions, or lies. I believe her."

His laugh was bitter, "I guess now we're going to have to make it on the strength of your beliefs. Mine are all worn out."

I let my lips brush his brow. "Well, you rest then. It'll be my turn, okay? I'll just have to find the truth that's out there."

I felt his embrace tighten around me, and I drifted to sleep, praying I'll be able to keep my promise.

 

 

The next morning Teena woke us and invited us to breakfast at "the club". Mulder is not one for dining out, and we wanted to keep his public appearances to a minimum, so we declined her offer. Instead, we grabbed something for a brunch that we could take to her house to share. She thought this "a lovely idea." I ignored Mulder's grinning suggestion of pizza, and after a stop at a local deli we arrived at her door, arms laden with a variety of sandwich works.

Teena shooed her son out of the kitchen, and he retired to the living room where he flipped on the television to some football play-off game, leaving the two of us alone.

"Ms. Scully," she began, breaking the silence just as we'd almost finished our meal preparations. "There's a lot I need to tell Fox today. Do you think he'll be able to handle what I have to say? Is he in good enough health to hear all this? He's been through so much; it hurts to see what he's gone through. Does he have to hear what else THEY've done to him, to his family, over the years?"

I studied her face, and read true concern there, but paused, wondering how to answer her. I discarded my initial, bitter reaction, of hot anger that she'd not been there for him while he'd suffered through so much these last few years. My heart melted at a glimpse of the liquid pain in those eyes that were so hauntingly familiar. Mulder had inherited his mother's eyes. I remembered how I used to look into those green, grey-flecked sea mist reflections of his soul. I saw that Teena Mulder's eyes mirrored what was in her heart just like her son's once did. I miss getting lost in his gaze.

"He has to know," I suddenly replied, not knowing where the words were coming from, but certain they were true. "You have to tell him now. We can't wait for a better time. It has to be now, because of what's coming. He has to be ready."

Teena Mulder's whole body shook at hearing my unexpected statement. She quickly nodded and silently pushed through the swinging door, carrying the pitcher of iced tea to the adjoining dining room. Still stunned by the odd reply that had poured out of me unbidden, I grabbed for the tray of sandwiches but had to stop a moment. I willed my hands to cease their trembling, and my knees to have the strength to support me.

I feel a force is driving us forward, on to the future, and I'm frightened, because once more, I'm just along for the ride. Mulder might be the pilot, but I don't know who, or what is navigating for us on this journey. I just hope it's the one to whom I'm directing my prayers for our safety.

We ate, watched the Broncos finally win a play-off game again, and put off the inevitable for as long as we could, but at last the recorders were once more in place and switched on.

 

KRISTENA ELIZABETH KUIPERS MULDER
CONVERSATION - TAPE 2
JANUARY 3, 2002
Teena Mulder, Fox Mulder, Dana Scully,
Greenwich, Connecticut

TEENA - Fox, before I go any further, I want to tell you about your father, about Bill Mulder.

MULDER - You said he wasn't my father...

TEENA - Fox William, don't be difficult. He's the only father you ever knew. (Mulder sighs, but allows his mother to continue). I sometimes let my anger at the man's frailties overshadow the fact that he was basically a good, decent human being. And he did love you children. Even if you weren't his blood, he loved you.

MULDER - I loved the way he showed it, Mom. Did he go to the same school of parenting as Joan Crawford?

TEENA - Fox, he wasn't a strong man. When he gave them Samantha, he couldn't face what he'd done. That's why he drank. His guilt ate at him until it consumed him. Just listen to me. Maybe you'll see why I can't hate the man. I despised his weakness; I loathe what he did, what he allowed to happen. But I don't hate Bill Mulder. And I don't want you to, either.

(I've never seen such disgust on Mulder's face as he listens to his mother's speech, and I can tell it is taking every bit of self control he has to stay in the room. His hands shake as he wipes at his face, trying to banish anger, pain, all the emotions that war inside of him. I am amazed at the strength he is showing).

MULDER - (His sigh is weary and the strain makes his voice break). Just tell what you have to tell, Mom. Don't worry about me. Just go on with the story.

TEENA - (She is fighting back tears, but she continues, speaking in a flat, emotionless monotone. She chooses to focus on me as she returns to her tale). I asked no questions; I did just what I was told. A week to the day after I "woke up", C.G.B. Spender showed up at the "Hospital" to bring me home. I didn't know the man, he simply showed up, introduced himself as a friend of Bill's, and told me he had been asked to help out. He explained, claiming he wasn't sure of all the details, only that Bill had gone to see about "our" son's release from the special clinic in Maryland where the child had spent the last three months. He seemed a nice man, quietly soft spoken and unassuming. A good Samaritan and friend to my husband, who knew of our family's tragedy and was extending a helping hand.

I grasped the offered assistance without a second thought. My only excuse to what happened was I believed I'd found someone who cared. Bill was gone that one night. Spender left before his return the next morning. Nothing was said, but I believe my husband knew what had happened almost immediately. Perhaps it was all part of some plan. I don't know.

The "accident" had turned my son back into an infant. Bill told me that he even had to relearn to swallow, but the clinic where he'd been taken specialized in treating traumatic brain injuries. With the right therapy, Fox just might recover. At least, they all had their stories straight. When I saw the thin, frail shell that was left of my miracle child, I cried. I looked for signs of what had supposedly happened to my son. They'd shaved his head; his baby fine ringlet's were gone. In their place was a season's growth of coarse brown hair. I noticed a faint, straight scar just above his hairline. This disappeared completely by the time his sister was born.

Therapists who came to the house to work with him were amazed at the progress he made that summer. It was certainly a testimony to the resilience of children. Fox was just like any other normal child by spring of the next year. He started kindergarten that fall. If you hadn't known what had happened, you wouldn't have thought him different from any of the other 4 and 5 year olds there. I tried not to remember. For the most part, I was successful.

I have pictures, would you like to see them?

(I watch her in stunned silence as she vanishes down the hallway toward the back of the house. Mulder rises stiffly from his seat and disappears in the same direction. Teena returns moments later carrying a huge, leather-bound book. She seems surprised when she notices her son has left the room. With a grin she eases beside me at the table, and begins showing off the photographic memories of her children. We are about a quarter of the way into the scrapbook when Mulder quietly returns to his seat).

Teena - Fox, if you want to join us, there's room.

(I start at her polite offer, amazed that she seems not to remember her son's vision problems. Mulder's face is parchment white and he smiles weakly).

MULDER - ( His tone is a soft, patient murmur). That's okay, Mom, I've seen 'em all before.

(Teena chuckles at his teasing truth. I don't know how much more I can handle of this surreal visit. Between shocking revelations, high intensity emotions, and the mercurial mental state of our hostess, I feel I am stranded in some sort of nightmare dream world. It is not quite over. There is more to come. The pages continue to flip, interrupted only by an occasional pause to lovingly study the memories. Every so often, Teena slips in a comment or asks Mulder a question to which he wearily murmurs some reply she only half hears. The routine stops when we reach the shots of her son's 12th birthday).

TEENA - ...And here you are, here's Sam and Nana. This was right before Nana died...

MULDER - (Mulder's head shoots up and he straightens). That was October of 1973. We stopped by the house on the lake after we took Nana home. What happened there, Mom? You remember now, don't you?

(His mother seems to shrink at his bitterly spoken words and the Mulder Family Album slams shut with a muffled clap. Time stretches out forever while she silently sits, head bowed, studying her hands that lie clasped together atop the big, brown book. Finally she looks up to stare at her son. I've seen THAT look before, in Mulder's eyes. Usually it had been directed at a person who was always surrounded by a haze of smoke. For once, I am grateful that my partner can't see. I think he feels the heat, though).

MULDER - Finish your story, Mom.

TEENA - This is where it ends, isn't it? Okay, Fox. I'll finish my story. Should I start with the nice sweater Nana bought you? Or later when we popped popcorn in the fire place? Is this what you want to hear?

MULDER - Finish, Mom.

(Teena sighs and closes her eyes. The lids look tissue paper thin to me, and her face sags, a bit more on the right. I try to remember if that was the side her stroke affected. She is so tired and frail. I am momentarily frightened I might be seeing the early signs of another one. I can't recall what affects had lingered after her last ICH. Aphasia, but that usually would have left facial paralysis...I'm still searching my memory when she speaks).

TEENA - We'd known this was coming. Bill had approached me the year before with their group's plan. He asked me to choose. I was supposed to pick which of my children to turn over to that bastard. I knew the truth by then, Fox. I knew what he had done. I was on to him. But, smart as he thought he was, he never suspected I was putting one over on him. I'd played my role, the not to tightly wrapped Teena Mulder, social butterfly. State Department wife and premier hostess for agency parties. But all the while I searched for the truth.

God, I hated them for what they'd done to you. To me. I couldn't love you. Either one of you. I was afraid to let myself love my babies. Not when they could take you from me at any time. What would they do to you next time, Fox? And Samantha? They'd made it so I couldn't let myself care. By the time Bill came to me with his plea for me to make a choice, I'd discovered who had actually taken you from me. I'd unmasked the devil. I knew the experiments had taken a new twist. Once I'd found that Bill was just a pawn in the whole giant scheme of things, I could almost forgive him. I began to learn of the group's plan to try to survive the alien's takeover. I agreed with Bill's quest. It meant a chance for survival. I supported him in his work, until I was told I had to donate one of my children to the cause.

His 'honor' made him want me to choose between you and your sister. I was your mother by blood, so I should decide. I refused. I think he decided on you, Fox, because he didn't want me to think his choice had been influenced by my being unfaithful to him. But for some reason his judgment was overruled. That's what we discovered that night after you children had gone to bed. Spender showed up to tell us that Samantha would be the one taken. I assumed it was Spender's way of getting back at me for rebuking him after I'd exposed his deception. The sheer extent of the man's evil nature is only eclipsed by one thing. His ego. But I was wrong about the reasons why I lost a daughter and not a son.

MULDER - (His control is gone and the husky, raw edge to his voice tells me just how close his tears are to the surface). We heard you arguing that night. I remember him being there. Sam and I heard it all. She told me she was afraid. (Mulder's turmoil at these memories keeps him from hearing his mother's statement about making an error in her reasoning as to why Mulder had been spared. I want to continue down this path, but his anguished remembrances push my desires out of my mind and I quickly hurry to his side. He wraps both arms around my waist, pulling me close). Scully, why can I remember this now? It's like it happened yesterday. So much is gone now. Why is that night there? It wasn't before. Not this plain. Not all of it. That was what I saw with the treatments. What I wanted to see. I don't want to see it anymore, Scully.

(He buries his face against my belly, muffling his sobs in shame. I smooth his thick, soft hair, biting back my own tears, suddenly realizing that his sorrow has finally been borne aloud. I find myself wishing I could make the pain of this sensory birth go away. I don't even recall Teena being here until she places the glass of iced tea in her son's hand. Her own eyes are full, but a wisp of a smile tugs at her lips with Mulder's murmured thank you. He drinks half the glass in one gulp, and his expression of sated pleasure makes me giggle. Mulder's chuckles are a bit less free but, at least, the tension eases. I remember the direction the story had started to travel and broach the subject of Teena Mulder's mistake, as we all take our places around the table).

SCULLY - Mrs. Mulder, how were you wrong? Did Spender have another reason to choose Sam? Could it have been he wanted to assure his daughter was going to survive the colonization, if the experiments they planned worked?

TEENA - (Her laugh is bitter). That would mean that Spender loved Samantha, wouldn't it? Or at least, cared about someone other than himself. You have to have a heart and a soul to love, and that man has neither.

I lost my mind when they took Sam. We left the house that night knowing it could happen at anytime. That THEY could take my baby girl from us. Maybe I just never believed THEY were actually going to do it. I wallowed in self-loathing pity, just like Bill. I stayed wrapped up in myself for over a decade. I knew what was happening in my absence, to my marriage, to my husband. To my son. But it wasn't until Fox went to England, that I finally saw past my pain. I didn't hear from my only child for four years. I was hurt and angry. At first it was at this ungrateful ass I raised. Then the truth hit me! I hadn't been a parent to my child in years. Why should he call? Why should he care? What had I shown him?

I began to think about everything that had happened, all the pain THEY caused me. I hated THEM for what THEY'd done. That led me to the question. Just who was it I despised so? I needed to put a face to my rage. I needed to discover the whole truth. I'd made it my duty to find out exactly what was going on. I decided in order to make sense of the tragedy that my life had become, I should go back to when everything had started to go wrong, and track each step that had been taken along the way.

I knew Spender had taken you from me. I knew it was because it had finally been revealed that you were becoming truly special. I'd seen the fear in those around me at your birth. The very fact that you existed confused and frightened both humans and aliens. That's why I tried to keep your development a secret. I'd failed, and my fears were realized. They took you from me. They harmed you, and they tried to make it look like an accident.

I believed before I'd realized the truth, that it was me they were trying to fool. I thought they'd destroyed your specialness, then tried to cover it up with butcher shop, brain surgery made to look like a car accident. I never stopped to think that they couldn't care less if I knew what they had done to you. Finally, after all those years of believing the lies, I asked myself the one question that I should have asked first.

Why didn't they just kill you? I know the answer, Fox. Dealing with a martyr to some trumped up cause would have been simple compared to the problems they've had in dealing with you. They don't kill you, my dear son, because the don't want to anger your father, God.

 

 

Chapter 7

 

FROM THE PEN OF -
DANA K. SCULLY
January 5, 2002
Wellington, Colorado

I have a call in to Dr. Raposa. Mulder is ill. His latest symptoms make me believe that the fussy little boy we met on the trip to Connecticut, who would only stop crying while sitting in Mulder's lap, was fussy because he was coming down with strep throat.

When Mulder woke just after noon, his fever was up to 103. I gave him some Ibuprofen. He could hardly get the caplets down so I checked his throat. It was not a pretty sight.

I'm watching his fever closely for it just might have been a hidden trigger to his seizure. I don't remember Mulder feeling that warm, but then I wasn't even thinking he was sick, only stressed and tired. Looking back, Mulder hasn't actually suffered any illnesses where he has run a fever since a slight case of pneumonia while he was in the ICU after his gunshot injury. That must be some kind of record for him. It's amazing. Could it be an aspect of the self-healing power I'd never considered or did Mulder's luck at not catching a bug finally run out?

*****

The results are in and I was right, so it's rest, antibiotics, fever reducers and fluids for the next few days. The thought hit me that it might be wise to call his mother to make sure she wasn't infected with the virus, but I'm getting no answer. I have no idea what her routine is, so I don't know if not being able to reach her weekday evenings is the norm. The few times I've contacted her since Mulder's problems began back in '99, she was always home. The next time Mulder wakes up I'll see if he knows of anyone who might help me reach her.

We'd left her that evening in good spirits; she and Mulder were sharing a warm embrace just before he climbed into the rental. I called before we caught the plane yesterday because she seemed to grow a little fuzzy there toward the end. I might as well finish transcribing that last tape while I have a chance. She could have mentioned something in conversation that would give me a clue if she had plans to be out of the house today. I worry because I had concerns about her health, and the possibility that the strain we were putting her through could cause her to suffer another stroke. I will call again after I finish this. I may wake Mulder if she doesn't answer then and find out if he knows who we might contact.

*****

"The first fully formed men to be created were endowed with intelligence and they knew everything in the world. When they looked they would see everything that was around them, and they constantly contemplated the arch of the sky and the round face of the earth. . .

Then the creator said: "You know everything now, but your children . . . what are we going to do with them? That their sight may only reach what is near them, that they may only see a small part of the face of the earth. . . . Are they not by their nature simple creatures, products of our hands? Do they also have to be gods?"

The POPOL-VUH of the Mayas-Quiche

 

KRISTENA ELIZABETH KUIPERS MULDER CONVERSATION JANUARY 3, 2002 - TAPE 2:
Teena Mulder, Fox Mulder, Dana Scully,
Greenwich, Connecticut

(Teena giggles. It sounds strange to hear girlish laughter coming from this woman and it's not simply because 'sixty something' is too far removed from youth. My mother isn't that much younger than Teena Mulder, and her laughter always reminds me that age is just a state of mind. I don't think Mulder's mother was ever one to laugh so hard her underwear was in danger. After announcing to Mulder that his Father was the same Father I mention when I cross myself, she not only gives a chortle, but her cheeks take on the color of an embarrassed teen. It has been a long, exhausting two-day interview. Mulder is too tired to come up with a glib, smart ass remark to cover his concern as to his mother's mental stability).

MULDER: (His whispered queries are actually plaintive pleas for reassurance that she's sane). Please tell me you're joking. Please, Mom?

TEENA: (Her face falls. She reaches out to touch his hand in comfort). Oh, Fox, I'm sorry. I forgot you've never been able to read me. I was just trying to be clever. You've always taken everything I say so seriously. I was being facetious.

What I was relaying is the irony that the visitors, who are so superior, so above we humans, still have the same beliefs that we all were created by some omnipotent Heavenly Father. They won't admit it, even to themselves, but your existence can't be explained any other way. You can't read those expressionless faces of theirs, but everything they've done in regard to dealing with you proves that they believe you are an act of God.

The child, the experiment that would have been Adam, was meant to be a blending of human and alien. Somehow, right before birth, the fetus split in two -EXACTLY dividing into one fully alien child, and one fully human child. That doesn't happen in nature, even after bioengineering. There ARE certain rules of science that even they can't bend. That cannot be broken. The only way they could explain this mysterious, inexplicable happening is that it was a miracle.

I found out that they still, shamefully, secretly, but ultimately, truly believe that we --both human and "Master Beings" alike, were created by one supreme entity. They reasoned that our creator didn't want our two "races" to mix and even though it went against their conviction that they are the ultimate, superior life forms in this universe, apparently, God feels we humans are his chosen people...because Fox survived. They've watched you, this unexplainable child of the creator, and fear his wrath should something happen to you.

Spender made up the story of the car accident, not to hide what he did to you from me, but from the visitors. He has tried every way he can to discreetly get rid of you, but has never succeeded. I think he's even starting to believe what the aliens do, because you keep rising from the dead, Fox. A second coming in the second millennium. I'm joking, son.

(Her wry grin is mirrored on her son's face).

So, actually, I guess you don't have a father. Genetically, you came only from me. Not a clone, of course, but from my essence. >From my ovum and touched by something divine. For a purpose.

(I believe if Mulder hadn't been so weary he would have run from the room, at hearing his mother's calmly uttered prophecy for his future. Instead, he starts to laugh. His harsh, bitter glee goes on a bit too long, and I feel the need to calm him. His hand on my arm, that I have wrapped around his chest, is tight, almost painful. It's as though he is grasping me tightly to hold on to his own sanity).

MULDER: I don't believe you. (He speaks softly, but his tone is raw).

TEENA: I think you do, Fox. I know Ms. Scully does. I see it in her eyes (pause). I'll tell you what I believe is happening now. It's getting past THIS old woman's bedtime and it has been a long two days. I'm tired (pause).

The visitors are here and like willful children, they want something they can't have. They've tinkered so much with themselves that they no longer know what they are. Everything that God put into us that makes us human, the special gifts of the ability to love, to laugh, to cry, to look around in wonder, they've rid themselves of. They thought those traits were useless baggage, and concentrated instead on cultivating the powers of the mind and lengthening their lives. They wanted to be gods. All powerful and immortal. They never realized that the parts of themselves they so thoughtlessly cast away were the traits our Father most wanted to pass on to his children.

Somehow, they know they've lost something, Fox. They want it back, but they don't really even know what it is. They feel their race is dying. Not literally, like in the science fiction literature (laughs). I don't think they're here to use us as breeders to save a dying race. But, they want what we have. Like a jealous sibling, envious of the parents' favored child.

You were put here to teach your brothers a lesson. You're our only hope.

MULDER: (He has calmed a bit). Why do I feel George Lucas should yell 'cut' about now? Does Scully wind up being my sister here, Mom?

(Teena seems puzzled, then a light comes on as she makes the connection).

TEENA: (Smiles). I only watched that movie once, Fox William. You know I like my Science Fiction pure, in novels.

MULDER: I know, Mom -- 'The movie is never as good as the book'.

(I feel I'm lost during this exchange. Teena Mulder's revelations have me stunned and I'm listening to, but not really hearing, my companion's banter, so my serious inquiries call a halt to their light-hearted exchange).

SCULLY: What is he supposed to do? What can we do? Mulder's supposed to stop these aliens from taking over the world? This is crazy!

(Mother and son turn to face me at my place behind Mulder's chair. Their expressions are at first surprise over my sudden outburst then, in unison, apprehension darkly clouds their faces).

TEENA: I really don't know. I just have this feeling that somehow that's his purpose. That's why Fox was born. I know you think this is the demented rambling of a senile old woman. Maybe I AM crazy; I've had an insane life. I feel that Fox is a "wild card" in the hand we humans were dealt, and I think that's why the aliens fear him. I know there's a boy out there that they fear, too. I don't know his part in this either, but I'm sure you'll run across him sooner or later, if you choose to follow through with this.

SCULLY: I think we have met him. Gibson.

TEENA: Yes, I believe that is his name.

SCULLY: We think THEY have him. THEY've hurt him, too.

TEENA: Oh, no. That poor little boy (pause). But, you see they didn't kill him. THEY're afraid to kill him. That just shows you I might be right in my reasoning, doesn't it?

(Both Mulder and I are lost in thought. I know where my musings are heading, and whether I want to believe it or not, I think Mulder's mother is right).

MULDER: (He finally breaks the silence. His voice is low and sounds as old as time itself). What do you think I should do, Mom?

TEENA: (Sigh) Fox, I know you've found your gifts. Try to develop them. They might not save "us" in the end, but I think you were given powers that will at least keep you alive until you find out what you need to do. Allen Wagner will be able to tell you more about who the enemy is. That will help, too. Still, I think you need to go to the source to really find out what is happening.

MULDER: You mean confront the aliens?

TEENA: (A slight, very Mulder-like grin teases her lips). No, son. I'm telling you, you need to pray. I think somebody up there likes you and might help if you'd just give Him a chance.

(Tape ends)

-DKS-

 

FWM Tapes
Winter 2003
Wellington, Colorado

My mother's smiles were rare. I always felt I had to earn them. Was this wrong? How can I say? She was the only mother I had. I simply know for a brief glimpse of her upturned lips, her eyes glowing warm like some light shimmering beneath a sea, I would have done anything she asked. Because they were so infrequent, I treasure each one I captured in my memory, savoring the knowledge that I'd been given something that she only bestowed on those she considered worthy. What could be so wrong with that?

Tape End
-WSS-

 

FROM THE PEN OF -
DANA K. SCULLY
January 25, 2002
Wellington, Colorado

Well, over two weeks have passed since I've found the time to record my thoughts in this chronicle. So much has transpired and the emotions of everyone concerned have run at such a fevered pitch. The days have just sped by, blurring together so I hope I can make a lucid, logical account of them here. I feel the need to at least write an epitaph to a woman who touched so many lives, but had too few left who care enough to mourn her passing.

The evening of the January 4th, Teena Mulder contacted Jerome Phillips, her attorney and old family friend, to schedule a meeting the following day. She wanted to set up some sort of trust fund to assure that after her death, her son would be taken care of should his disabilities incapacitate him. An appointment had been made at the counselor's downtown office for 4:45 P.M. the afternoon of the 5th.

When the hour passed without word from his long time, unfailingly punctual client, Mr. Phillips became concerned. After several vain attempts at telephone contact, the prestigious attorney had driven out to Teena Mulder's home. One look at the house, silently dark on that cold winter's evening, convinced him something was wrong. Jerome's unanswered knocks and gut feeling of dread left him little choice as to how to proceed. Ever cautious, the man placed a call to local law enforcement asking for some available officer to accompany him in entering the home to check on the elderly woman.

His wait was less than an hour, and with two young patrolmen at his side, Mr. Phillips repeatedly knocked loudly on the front door. When the pounding went unheeded, the officer searched for a less direct entry into the home, finally settling on jimmying the kitchen door lock. Teena Mulder's body was discovered in her bedroom. She was dressed for sleep. No lights were on anywhere in the house.

Later that evening Mr. Phillips called to notify her son of his mother's passing. I took the call and was told the initial findings at the scene were pointing to death by unnatural causes. The preliminary cause of death appeared to be an overdose of an undetermined substance combined with alcohol. Memories of Mr. Wagner's tale instantly played across my mind. It was 8:00 P.M., and I had just finished listening to the last of Teena's interview tapes. I'd gone to grab something to drink before completing my task. I decided not to transcribe the last hour of the recording because it was mostly small talk. I'd planned on copying what I have in here, then submitting it to Wagner for entry in his files. I've yet to do that, but it will have to wait. I have too much on my mind right now.

Jerome Phillips was extremely helpful for he had detailed knowledge of his client's affairs. He asked who I was and immediately recognized my name. I believe Mrs. Mulder had told him I was Mulder's "primary care-giver/nurse". I didn't correct him. Though my thoughts were in turmoil from shock, I still had enough wits about me to realize that maintaining the fallacy that Mulder had not recovered from the ICH was very much in our best interest. I also informed the man that I was legally able to handle all of Mulder's affairs which was true. I'd assumed that task when I first came to Colorado in 1999, and we'd never officially changed anything.

I scribbled down the information Mr. Phillips gave me as to where the body was taken, what funeral home would claim it after the autopsy, his phone number and address. I numbly accepted his condolences, and agreed to call him back when my plans, as to taking care of the necessary family business, were finalized. I hung up the phone, feeling oddly disconnected from reality. I knew I needed to go back to the bedroom to tell Mulder the tragic news, but my body just didn't seem to want to function.

Mulder had laughed that last night in Connecticut, when we had discussed his mother's beliefs about his destiny. We'd made love, long and slow, our weariness replacing the heated rush of passion with something more akin to relaxing comfort. Afterwards, there was whispered conversation. I rested against his chest, warm and safe in his embrace. He had convinced me of the absurdity of Teena's claims. Mulder had assured me the role of savior wasn't one he felt he was suited to or particularly wanted.

Standing there in the kitchen, two short days later, I feared that perhaps our destiny was no longer ours to control. That somehow we were now caught up in some grander scheme that had been preordained long ago. In my mind's eye, a scene played out, over and over. It was the image of dominoes falling, one by one, clicking forward to create an intricate design. The vision seemed terrifyingly prophetic and frighteningly unstoppable. With a sigh, I went to awaken Mulder, flipping off the light as I exited the kitchen. The sound echoed in the darkness. It was a loud, haunting click.

 

 

The antibiotics had yet to start working. Less than eight hours was hardly enough time for this scientific "magic bullet" to effectively slay the beast - streptococcus. Mulder was still very ill when I told him of his mother's death. It might have been a blessing. Even if he hadn't been so sick, Wagner and I would have tried to convince him that an appearance at his mother's funeral would be a public announcement that he was not the brain damaged invalid we wished our enemies to believe him to be. As it was, he was only able to offer a weak, token protest that I was making the journey back to Connecticut alone.

We really didn't even get to talk until I returned, three days later, on the 9th. Before I left, he barely aroused to take his medication. Upon my return, he confessed that he hadn't even realized I was gone until the day I came home. I was grateful for this knowledge. I had fretted over the thought of him having to face his grief alone the entire time I'd been gone.

The trip was uneventful except for two occurrences, both reminders that Teena Mulder's life had been far from mainstream. Why would her death be any different? The first had been the "guest list" at the woman's funeral. In addition to familiar public faces such as former President George Bush and Senator Ted Kennedy, I spotted our old nemesis, C.G.B. Spender, standing beside her coffin looking suitably forlorn. He saw me, and I read in his face that he noticed Mulder's absence. I do believe a flicker of what I can only describe as relief crossed his face as he silently acknowledged this fact. It took every ounce of control I had not to grin at our deception.

Also present was our former supervisor, (and friend?) Walter Skinner. We only spoke for a moment after the brief graveside service, but I was chilled by the harsh lines of age the years have cut into his once handsome face. (I always thought Skinner was one good looking man). He was much thinner and so very haggard looking. I felt a tug at my conscience when he asked about Mulder's health. He winced when I was forced to reply, "He's about as well as can be expected. He has started to recognize ME, on his GOOD days."

My statement was overheard by the rude individual who actually lit up a cigarette there at the grave. That was why I lied so blatantly. I wish I could think of some way to let Skinner know the truth about Mulder's recovery. I do believe the man has been living in a hell borne of the guilt he feels over his part in the Brotherhood debacle. I think he has suffered far too long. I'm sure Mulder will feel the same when I find the time to talk to him about it. (Note to myself -- Make the time, Dana).

The second occurrence was startling proof that Teena Mulder was not the somewhat addled, still recovering, elderly stroke victim she so cleverly made herself out to be. I was going through Teena's belongings, making arrangements to place them in storage until a time when Mulder and I could decide what to do with them. Jerome Phillips suggested putting the house up for sale immediately because it was a seller's market in the area at this time. I found the one item Mulder had requested me to bring back hidden beneath some towels in the hall linen closet. An odd place to keep a family photo album.

Stuck inside the huge, leather bound book was a small tape. The recording was labeled with only a date and a name -- "Fox, January 4, 2002". I knew Teena had wanted her son to hear what was on this tape. I debated listening to it first, but decided her wishes should be honored; that it was for her son to hear...alone if he wished. Slipping the cassette back in its place inside the album, I carried the final message from a mother to her son home with me.

 

RECORDED TELEPHONE CONVERSATION -
TEENA MULDER AND MAN (BELIEVED TO BE C.G.B. SPENDER).
January 4, 2002

SPENDER - Hello...

TEENA - I saw him...I saw what you did to him! You son of a...

SPENDER - Teena?

TEENA - You know it's me. I saw Fox. I saw what you did to my son!

SPENDER - What do you mean, you saw him? (Calmly patient). Teena, he's in Colorado. You've just had a bad dream...

TEENA - You don't know everything. You don't know everything I do. Allen Wagner flew me out to Sky Watch yesterday. To see my son. I saw him. I know YOU did this to him.

SPENDER - (Pause) He did this to himself, Teena.

TEENA - No, YOU did this to him. You set him up. That's what started all this. YOU made him like he is now. Almost a vegetable. You blew off half his face! It's just like you were holding the gun. You pulled the trigger. This time, you're going to pay. I'm going to make sure of that. When I tell, you're going to pay for everything you've done to him. To me, to my whole family.

SPENDER - Teena, they've already investigated what went down with the Brotherhood. The subcommittee proved Fox...

TEENA - I don't plan on telling the Senate, or Congress, or even that horny puppet you made President. I'm telling THEM, Charles. And I think they'll take me at my word. They know I'VE never lied to THEM. I'm telling THEM everything. Everything you've done, from that first time when Fox was three. When you took my baby's mind. You're going to pay for it all. THEY've had suspicions. Doubts about you. You know THEY have. THEY'll believe me...

SPENDER - Teena, we need to talk. You know what they have planned. Don't do this. You can't want them to win. Let's talk. I can be there in two hours. Please, just give me a chance. For the cause, Teena. You once believed in the cause. This is the final act. Don't let them win. Just talk to me.

TEENA - (Long pause) I'll leave the door open...

Tape ends
-WSS-

 

FWM Tapes
Winter 2003
Wellington, Colorado

Scully never transcribed that tape. Skinner and I found it stuck in a box with her last "FROM THE PEN OF -" journal. I'd only listened to it that one time; that first night when she came home. She must have put both journal and tape away that very night. We have nothing more from her that adds to this story from that point on. So other than what Kami and Skinner can tell, I guess it's now my turn to narrate the final chapters of The Damascus Files 2. It's kind of fitting I suppose, that a mad man will chronicle how the world ends.

My mother's message left us with more questions than it answered. The first and foremost on our list was why had she called Spender? She knew what would happen if she threatened him. She knew he would retaliate. She knew he could not be trusted. Allen Wagner informed us at this time that early last summer she sent him some information to "hold for her". Wagner had never opened the sealed envelopes, but stated her note had said they held "proof to help clear Fox". He assumed it must have told what really happened during my undercover assignment, and had temporarily stored it in the tall, four drawer cabinet he had reserved for members of the Mulder family other than me.

When Wagner went to retrieve it for us after my mother's death, the envelope was gone. Of course, we all suspected only one person of taking files that weren't his and Wagner's "son", Alex Krycek was conveniently no where to be found.

*****

The end of January proved to be no better than the first part, but we did wind up gaining an alliance with an old "friend". Dr. Shelia Raposa had been my physician since my arrival in the emergency room that late winter afternoon almost 3 years before. While primarily a renowned neurosurgeon, she had, in effect, become my "family" doctor of the old school. Scully claims she had often wondered why Dr. Raposa followed through with my every day care to such a degree. That type of hands on, primary care is not common with surgeons who practice such a demanding specialty, for obvious reasons. However, since Scully had worked hand in hand with the woman, throughout my recovery and rehabilitation after my gunshot injury, and to a lesser degree, after my stroke, my partner was not really surprised by the good doctor's visit that last Monday in January.

Dr. Raposa came prepared, determined to get some answers, some kind of explanation as to how she had witnessed a miracle recovery in her patient, not once, but twice. She couldn't quite figure out why I merited such blessings from "the man upstairs". I believe her opening question, sitting there in the living room at Sky Watch was -

"I'm here for some answers. Before I decide if I'm going to continue to help you, I need to know why this man" -- (I was told she cut a hard glance in my direction.) "is not sitting in a wheel chair wearing depends and drooling?"

We told her everything. I think for a doctor, Shelia Raposa had an extremely open mind. I was surprised because some people I've known who have training and beliefs that are grounded in the sciences, took quite a bit longer to convince than one morning. Still, Dr. Raposa had been puzzling over the results of the CT scan I'd undergone upon my return from Central America for almost a year. It seems that after my trip to Guatemala, suddenly the left section of my frontal lobe, which had been almost completely destroyed by the exiting bullet, had increased in mass 100% with healthy brain tissue. This is not an everyday occurrence. In fact, it was impossible.

Dr. Raposa had not seen me since mid-July. When Scully had summoned her to Sky Watch during my recent illness it had been a shock to see how, once again, I'd recovered almost totally from what should have been a severely debilitating brain injury. What had spurred this visit was the question of governmental red tape. The Department of Social Security was demanding an update on my condition in order for me to continue to receive my disability stipend, and for my Medicare Insurance to continue. Dr. Raposa was at a loss as to what to tell them about my current condition. She actually believed there might be an investigation if she told them the truth. I was just this side of being officially brain dead a little over a year ago. It was time for all of us to lay our cards on the table and decide where we should go from here.

I listened to the doctors, Scully and Raposa, discuss me, and though I realized I had rarely been in any condition to join in their conversations before this, my interruption was still sharp, and spoken in a voice that dripped with sarcastic bitterness.

"Do you think you could ask me where I want to go from here?"

The silence that followed my question was so complete it made my ears ring.

Apologies came after a heartbeat from both women, and I raised a hand to quiet them. My emotions were in turmoil. As I've stated before, my recovery was far from complete. Even now I sometime lack control enough to speak without my feelings tying my tongue. In discussing her problems in dealing with the government, Dr. Raposa had inadvertently let some information out that I had not been aware of.

"Why am I on Social Security...What about the bureau...?" My voice broke before I got the words out, and I had to stop, unable to complete my question.

Scully realized immediately that I had never understood the full extent of what had happened as a result of my being labeled insubordinate in my dealings with the Brotherhood. I'd known that I had been made a scapegoat and had been accused of almost causing a Waco-like catastrophe, but I had never sought to find out what the results of the so called investigation had done to my reputation. I found out I had been denied all benefits due me from my years of service at the FBI. In effect, my entire career was wiped out by the lies that had been told against me.

I've had to accept what has been done to me. What I have trouble with is, what THEY, (always THEY,) have done to those I loved. I believe that is what angered me when I found out my career was gone. I came to terms a long time ago with the fact I could never go back to the bureau. I knew from the start, that part of my life was over. But by robbing me of what was due me from my years of service, they have put a hardship on those who care about me. And they have ruined My reputation -- My name. What bothers me about that, is that one of the only things I got from my father, from Bill Mulder is -- My name.

So, my mother got her wish. The gauntlet was picked up. My allies and I began to make plans. We decided we were going to save the world. I wonder now, were we actually the ones who spurred the final destruction?

 

 

Chapter 8

 

FWM Tapes
Winter 2003
Wellington, Colorado

Scully came to me last night in a dream. It was so real. I woke with the fresh, clean scent of her on my clothes. Skinner smelled it, too. He has been reading his Bible all day. I think he believes it's another sign. Of what, he won't commit, but I guess we all take our omens any way we can get them. I believe she came to me to keep my faith alive. I believe she is making her way home now, as I speak. I want to believe. I HAVE to believe.

*****

February began with Scully setting us up a plan of action. During the day she would put to use her vast storehouse of knowledge obtained the preceding year during my recovery from the ICH, and attempt to define, harness and train my powers. The nights were to be put aside to study everything Wagner had in his files on the visitors, C.G.B. Spender, the consortium, and the project.

I knew Scully was a harsh task master from my time spent as her partner, and even more so because of the regimen she had me under during my latest rehabilitation. Wagner joked that Scully missed her true calling. He claimed she would make a wonderful Marine Boot Camp Drill Instructor. Personally, it's my opinion, from the stories I've heard my friends and acquaintances who attended parochial schools tell, Scully would have made an excellent nun.

The second week in February brought one of those rare, late winter days in Northern Colorado that tease you into thinking spring is just around the corner. Sunny, temperature in the upper 60's. Even the air takes on the aroma of rebirth. The soil almost calls out for seedlings to burrow into its melted, snow-moistened richness with its pungent earth scent. My demanding partner had allowed me a break from my lessons of trying to increase my abilities at what I teasingly referred to as the Vulcan mind-meld, to take a ride with Wagner. We were the furthest we'd ever ridden; the beautiful day calling us to range ever deeper into the rolling foothills that bordered Sky Watch to the west when it happened.

The young buck must have just been feeling his oats when he leaped from the brush across the trail. I don't think his feet even hit the ground, because I saw the blur that meant he was gone before my horse reared. Still, I wasn't ready for my animal¼s frightened reaction, and before I knew it, the ground rose up to meet me. Hard. The good news was my fall was broken somewhat. The bad news was my tumble was forestalled by a fence made of barbed wire.

"Don't move," Wagner cautioned, touching my right shoulder, the only place I think he felt was safe to touch.

I was in so much pain, the obvious, smart-ass rejoinder of "Don't worry" didn't occur to me until later.

"I'm going to have to cut your legs free," Wagner murmured. I heard the unmistakable snip of wire cutters as my tangled legs were freed from the metal that had wrapped around them. I remember rejoicing that this man was with me because who else but S. A.Wagner would have had the presence of mind to be carrying wire cutters? "Oh, shit, Mulder." His words were a fearful epitaph, and I felt his hand move down to touch the inside of my left leg.

"Son of bitch!" I cried. I felt the bones of that ankle grind together when he pressed hard against my calf. I pushed his hands away. "I fucking broke my ankle! Don't touch it."

Wagner exhaled a deep sigh. "Mulder, that's not all you did. That fence nearly tore your muscle off. You're bleeding like a stuck pig."

"That's not good, I take it," I muttered, not quite able to force a laugh. I tried to push up to see what I could tell about my injuries. I couldn't help the scream that came out when fire shot through my right shoulder and upper arm. My body seemed to tingle as dizziness swept over me. I think I blacked out for a bit because the next thing I realized was Wagner covering me with his coat. "Is it time for a nap?" I asked weakly.

"Mulder, I'm gonna have to go get help," Wagner said, pushing himself up to stand.

The thought of being left alone was not that appealing to me and I panicked. I tried to sit up. The pain almost took me out again. "Don't," was all I could manage to get out.

"Mulder, I need you to listen to me, okay?" His voice came from my side. I was so frightened I couldn't seem to get my eye to focus. I was blind, hurt, and he was going to leave me. I grabbed at Wagner with my weak am, clutching his shirt in desperation. "Okay, but don't leave me," I breathed.

"Mulder, calm down. Please. Take a few deep breaths, okay?"

I tried his suggestion and discovered it did help. I was finally able to perceive his blurred form above me. Unfortunately, I was also now suddenly aware that there weren't to many places on my body that didn't hurt. "My leg is broken, right?" I sighed, starting an inventory of aches. "And I fucked up my shoulder."

My sight had returned enough that I could see his nod that I was correct in my assessment of the damage so far. "It's either your upper arm, or your shoulder or both. I didn't wanna hurt you more so I didn't try to find out for sure. I'm not a doctor. Mulder, at least, your arm and your foot are broken, but what worries me most is the way your calf is bleeding on one side. Also, this other big gash here on your weak arm that looks like it's just pumping blood." He gently moved my hand to feel the wound. He was right. I could feel the blood flowing over my fingers.

"I'm going to try to put a pressure bandage on your leg and make a tourniquet for your arm. It's gonna hurt like hell but you gotta let me do it, and I have to hurry. I can make it home in about 20 minutes. I can have Scully back here in maybe 10 more. Let me do this or else I think you're gonna bleed to death.¾

The warm stickiness pouring over the top of my hand made me nod mutely. I believe I was gone from the moment I felt him wrap something around my leg and start to tighten it, until I heard his boot heels moving away across half frozen, hard packed dirt. The sound of him riding off made my stomach lurch. I remember trying to spot the sun, but not being able to find it. My world was a dim, gray blur. Trying to ignore the pain in my shoulder, I cautiously reached to discover if he'd quelled the flow of blood from the gash in my right arm. I could still feel the liquid trickling out, a rhythmic ooze that matched my pulse.

I think what saved me that day was fear. The last words Wagner said to me had been about bleeding to death, and they stayed uppermost in my mind. Of course, I didn't want that to happen. I don't believe I consciously realized I was healing myself until I felt the smooth, new skin beneath my fingertips. The act was complete. With the understanding of what I'd done to the jagged tear on my right forearm, I realized that the tourniquet Wagner had made from his belt to quell the bleeding, was now a danger to me. I struggled to remove it. I finally managed to get the leather binding off, although my shoulder injury announced its presence with eye-watering agony.

I lay on my right side, trying to decide what to do next. I remembered the damage to my calf my friend had spoken of. Pulling my knee up I forced myself to examine the wound. The broken bones were throbbing constantly, but until I touched the wound, I wouldn't have known my muscle was half ripped off, if Wagner had not told me. The sharp, searing agony told me I had the right spot. My breath came in quick gasps as I tried to control the pain. I focused the energy, running like an electric current through my hand, into the savage rip in the muscle of my lower leg. Scully, Dr. Raposa and I found out later that knowledge of anatomy did help me focus the energy, but the ability to know what to do came from pure instinct. It took me more than a month of analyzing the memories of what I had done out on that trail, before I was able to pick apart the process enough to explain it to anyone.

I could feel the fibers of the muscle regrowing; the tissues and damaged nerves, blood vessel, tiny capillaries, reforming to make the injured leg whole. My task was almost complete when I heard the jeep tearing up the hill to where I lay huddled on my side. I was exhausted and hurting, but still had enough adrenaline remaining to offer Scully a grin when she hurried to my side.

"You know, nobody as little as you should make that much noise when they walk, Scully." I laughed breathlessly, elated over what I had accomplished and the touch of her warm, soft hands on my skin as she mutely began to examine me. "I'm almost done here," I murmured, lifting my hands away to let her see my work.

"I'll be a son of a..." I heard Wagner gasp, and felt his presence as he knelt at my feet to gape at my handiwork. "Scully, that leg was filleted wide open, down to the bone, I swear..."

I chuckled wearily, "Scully, let me rest a bit and I¼ll finish up, okay?" I knew I was rapidly running out of steam, so I spoke as quickly and convincingly as possible. "Scully, just take me back to the ranch. Not to town." I knew I was about spent. My words were starting to slur. "Scully, no hospital. You and Raposa can make sure nothing goes wrong, but we need to know what I can do. How I do it, too, okay?" I tried to grip her arm, but suddenly my strength was gone. I could hear Scully and Wagner talking; their voices blended, fading into a droning buzz. I sank back into the cold darkness that rose up and around me like a shroud.

*****

I awoke in a hospital bed. It took me less than half a heartbeat to recognize it was the same one I'd occupied for so long this past year, before I'd graduated to the wonderful queen-size mattress I shared with Scully. While I wasn't thrilled with what had been decided for my sleeping arrangements, I was thankful Scully had complied with my wishes and not taken me to a hospital. The fact that I was totally sightless told me it was most likely night. I listened for the telltale sounds around me to try to establish exactly where they might have put me. The soft, rhythmic half snore that filtered from somewhere to my side let me know that regardless of where I was, Scully was there also.

I cautiously began to access what had been done to me. My ankle had been casted, but the slightest movement of my foot informed me that my self-healing had not extended to the bones I'd splintered in my fall. My groan at the pain my movement caused wasn't loud, but it was heard. My partner was by my side before I even realized I'd awakened her.

"Mulder? It's me..." she whispered, flicking on the lamp.

"I'm..." My mouth was dry and there was a strange, metallic taste. The words stuck in my arid throat, but Scully instantly had a straw to my lips. The cool water helped. „My mouth tastes like ozone," I murmured, placing the odd, tangy bite that wouldn't wash away.

Her chuckle was a hushed, ruffled flourish against my cheek, and I turned to plant a kiss wherever it might land. Happily it was the warm tenderness of her lips. I'd wanted the contact to linger but she pulled away too soon.

"You need to save your strength," she whispered softly, letting me feel the gentle touch of her fingertips on my temple. The slight sting told me I must have been stung by barbed wire where she touched, and I flinched a bit.

"I hurt everywhere. My lips are the safest place to touch, Scully," I complained.

"I think you¼re right," she agreed and granted me a quick peck before moving away to grab some pills, which she began to feed me one at a time, slipping the straw to my lips after each dose.

"What are all these?" I managed, in the small break between tablet 7 and 8.

"Your normal meds, plus antibiotics, vitamins and a couple of pain relievers."

"The good stuff?" I asked hopefully.

"Oh-h-h yeah," Scully laughed, finally finishing up on what I think was pill number 30 -- more or less. There were a few moments of silence as she fussed about the room. I don't know what she was doing, but I soon felt the wonderful signs of the pain meds kicking in. I was allowing the foggy mist to begin its embrace when she spoke again. "We're going to do this right. At the first little sign of fever or anything the least bit off, you're on your way to PVH. Right?"

"Right," I smiled. She was also right that it was the good stuff. Everything was already getting nice and fuzzy. I knew I needed to get my answers quick or I wouldn't remember what they were. "Scully, what was the final damage?"

"Well, not having a x-ray machine we can't be completely sure, but you broke eight bones, all on the left side -- your clavicle, humerus, two ribs, and four bones in your foot and ankle."

"Ground was pretty hard I guess." My tongue was getting very thick.

"And you don't bounce like you used to.¾ I could hear the smile in her voice so I knew she was happy I was not in pain. I was getting fairly åhappy¼ myself. "We decided to help you out. You have a total of 108 stitches at various places on your anatomy."

"Isn't that cheating?" I grinned, fighting a losing battle to keep my eye open. "Well, how long will it take to get me back on my feet?"

My comment brought her best laugh, free and wild. "Mulder, you're the miracle worker here, you tell me. This is on your clock, remember?"

I grasped her hand with my clumsy 'bad' one, and moved it toward my mouth. I think the thought that I was only going to have use of my weak side flitted across my drug addled brain, but at that point I was feeling to good to care. "I love ya, ya know?" I slurred, brushing my kiss across the smooth, tender flesh of her palm. "Always, forever and ever."

"I know." Her lips caressed my neck, light as a sigh, warm as her heart. This time I drifted into darkness wrapped in a blanket of contentment, hearing her whisper, "I love you, too, Mul..."

 

 

Chapter 15

 

FWM Tapes
Winter 2003
Wellington, Colorado

Looking back on it, I guess we could call our project a success. My recovery, while not amazingly swift, was more rapid than 'normal'. We did learn quite a bit by trial and error. While the exact limits to this particular power proved to be impossible to ascertain, we did establish some guidelines as to what I could and couldn't accomplish with my gift. This is when we developed the theory that I cannot create something out of nothing. I can speed up the rate that new cells reproduce, which is in essence how our body repairs itself. I don't actually know if the doctors were correct in their educated guesses as to the hows and whys of what I can do. Personally, I don't believe they were positive of their findings themselves.

The only tapes of mine we found in the entire basement, other than my mad rantings from that time before Mexico, are my musings during our little controlled experiment. What follows are a few excerpts of my thoughts from that long, sometimes fascinating, frequently boring month.

 

FWM Tapes
February 11, 2002

It has been two days and I'm think it's time for me start healing myself. I think this positive attitude should help, shouldn't it? I did my arm and almost rebuilt my leg all in a matter of an hour according to Wagner. So why can't I get the inch long cut on my ass to at least quit itching in 48 freaking hours? I know, Scully tells me it¼s itching like this because it's healing. Yeah, it's itching and burning and stinging like this because I've been lying on my ass for two solid days!

I can't move! When I felt myself flying through the air, I must have instinctively tried to break my fall. Now, since my right side is weak, I'm automatically going to try to land on my left side. That's only logical. So I wind up breaking half a dozen bones on my "good" side. Which effectively leaves me with no "good" side. Until I heal, I can't even scratch my own ass.

(Loudly). SCULLY!!! (Pause).

S.A.WAGNER - (Sound of door opening). Yeah? Scully ran down to the store. You need something, Mulder?

(Barely audible). Never mind.

End Tape
-WSS-

 

FWM Tapes
February 15, 2002

If we could store sleep to use later, I think I'd have a backlog that would carry me through åtil doom¼s day (pause). Not a good thing to say anymore, I guess. Maybe I should demand the chance to use all that sleep. Buy us a little time.

Shit. Shit. (pause) Shit. I've got to get better. The days are dragging, but we're running out of time. I know my powers are working. I'm down to being 99% covered with barbed wire cuts. God. Raposa and Scully make me feel like I'm the latest fad. You bored? Let's go watch Mulder heal a sore. I ought to charge admission. I want to forget the freaking cuts and work on the bones. The stiches'll take care of the cuts. Damn. (Pauses and takes a few deep breaths to gain control). And what is wrong with me? Why am I always so tired? Is it because I'm using the powers?

End Tape
-WSS-

 

FWM Tapes
February 22, 2002

Well, the doctors finally figured out what's wrong with me. I'm anemic from the blood loss. Apparently that's one thing I can't do. I can't make my red cells multiply or divide or whatever it is that they think I'm doing to heal myself. So that's one type of cell I can't manipulate. They've got me on Iron shots and I'm already starting to feel stronger after only 3 days. I've been able to get up and make it to the couch. I hate the fact I'm such an invalid here. Wagner is almost carrying me when he helps me get about, but I refuse to let him drag out the wheelchair from the medical supply storage shed he has accumulated since having me as his house guest.

I've been better able to focus since starting the shots and I've told Scully to cut out my pain medication, which has helped my concentration. Yesterday afternoon and this morning, I tried a direct, hands on effort at healing my ankle. I can actually feel the difference. Mr. Wagner has an old friend, Mary Filson, who is a vet. (I believe she's the same Mary Scott who went to DC with him, so long ago, and she wound up marrying the son of Wagner's old housekeeper). She has an x-ray machine in her mobile, equine/large animal hospital, so we're going to check out my shoulder and ankle this after noon. I believe everything is knitting up fine.

*****

I've hobbled out here to the living room because Scully's snoozing and I had a few things on my mind. I really don't want to wake her. She's been sleeping so lightly since my tumble, she wakes everytime I change positions in the bed. I believe it might help if we get OUR four-poster back in and start sleeping together again. I'm such a restless bed partner, that out of self-defense, she's learned to snore through someone tossing and turning beside her all night. We need to get her back to being able to sack out through an earthquake. Plus, I rest better with her beside me.

It didn't hit me what was wrong with her all day. I couldn't figure out why she seemed to be just this side of tears when, all in all, our morning and afternoon had been relatively smooth and uneventful. The vet van x-rays showed my broken bones were healing perfectly. In another week or so, I'll probably be good as new. We'd been on the couch, and she was doing her Obi-wan routine, helping me heal my ankle when it all just came pouring from her.

I don't really think about what happened very much anymore. Now that's not to say I don't think about what that black lunged bastard has taken from me. No, there's not a day that goes by that I don't think about Sam, or how he destroyed my family. How he set me up and stole my life. But the actual injuries that resulted from that day don't cross my mind that often. Oh, sometimes, I feel the pain. I can't see the light that makes Scully's eyes sparkle that crystal blue when she laughs. Or catch the way her cheeks color when something excites her...or embarrasses her.

Still, I do know my other senses have heightened. Naturally or paranormally, I see things now I probably would have missed, even with all my training and 'spooky' ability. I can hear her smile, I can feel her blush, and I know the touch of her soul. It's imprinted on my mind. I know where she is and what she is feeling even when she is not physically around me (pause).

When she started crying, everything came out in such a flood of pain that I had to struggle to understand. Today is THE ANNIVERSARY. Apparently, this day has hit her this way every year since it happened. She finally admitted, with red faced embarrassment, that what bothers her is that this event happened the day before her birthday. Makes it hard for her to forget it, huh?

I did what I could to comfort her. I think just getting her feelings out helped. Scully is nothing if not resilient. Once her pain was spilled, she dried her face and it was business as usual. That is Scully. Back to the task at hand. Get the job done. She has made me her life. I wish I could give her more.

 

FWM Tapes
March 1, 2002

I'm on my feet. They took another x-ray at the mobile horse hospital, and my bones are all back together. The casts are off. I think that, all in all, our little experiment worked out great. To have healed half-a-dozen breaks in under a month is amazing. We've learned a lot from this. It's helped prove some theories Scully had on how I might be able to learn to project and channel my powers. Apparently, while I was in Central America, I was able to harness my abilities enough to do some very amazing feats. Scully says she witnessed a city that she believes I created from memories that were stored at the ruins where this ancient place had been. She claimed it was more than a vision, it was real.

Where did it come from? I don't remember that time, but Scully is not one to imagine things or to embroider on the truth. If she claims I made this place, that she saw this miracle with her own eyes, it really happened. It excites me. And yes, it frightens me, that I have that kind of power within me. I need her to help me draw it out, to help me control it. I truly believe that without her here to guide me, this would be a 'gift' that would be best not opened.

Tape ends
-WSS-

 

From the Journal of K.W. Wagner
March 10, 2002
Sky Watch, Wellington, Colorado

"Ain't it good to be back home again. Sometimes this old farm feels like a long lost friend, and ain't it good to be back home again." John Denver.

You don't grow up in Colorado without knowing a lot of John Denver songs. There's even a high school in Fort Collins called Rocky Mountain High. Hey, that's a great lead in, so my next number will be...

Too little sleep does this to me. Should any future readers of this tomb wonder, two hours sleep and too much coffee make Katmandu Wind Wagner, world renowned physician and paragon of medical research, a bit punchy. Scully would probably tell me this weekend will be good practice for my on call stints during my residency. Shall I say a few Hail Marys for my patients? Will I even have patients? No, wait, I'm getting ahead of myself here.

The last two days have been so confusing, almost like a dream. Nothing seems real anymore. I'll try to get some order in this. Let me start at the beginning, wherever that might be. I'll start with the day after the fight with Derek. That's as good a place as any. As I wrote in the 10 pages of tears, anger and angst, Derek has chosen a different path than mine. With another person. Only thing new on that is -- I kept the ring. : )

Problem was my spring break plans went in the toilet, because it was his parent's condo in Aspen where we were going to stay that week. I planned on spending the final weekend at Sky Watch so I called Daddy and told him I was coming home. He seemed strangely distant at first, but then he said 'Come on down'. (It's actually up, but I knew what he meant,) so I grabbed my bag and ran home to lick my wounds.

Dad knew something was wrong the minute he hugged me, just like I knew something was on his mind, too. We both made a silent, telepathic agreement to talk about it later, and settled for small talk for the moment. Hi. You look great. School's fine. Yadda, yadda. Derek's name was not brought up so I knew he knew, but was waiting for me to pick the time to discuss my broken heart. My father is the best. I know that now.

I asked about M&S. He just gave me a quirky sort of smile, and told me they were down in the horse barn working on Mulder's exercises. Of course, my next question was, what exercises? But he just kept smiling that same silly grin and suggested I go check it out. Now I knew about Mulder's accident. It took Mulder himself ordering me not to miss any school to keep me from coming home. But, I didn't get all the details about what he'd done to himself this time, only that he'd broken some bones. The 'some' part bothered me, but Mulder reminded me that he is a fast healer. What are a few broken bones to a man who came back from both a traumatic brain injury AND a severe ICH? I took him at his word.

I walked down to the big barn picturing what various forms of tortuous therapy Scully might be putting him through. (I know, I'm a bitch when it comes to my Mulder). I must admit, tennis balls and broom handles never even crossed my mind.

The exercise was in full swing as I entered, and neither participant noticed when I walked into the very dimly lit building. Scully stood in front of me, tossing day glow, orange tennis balls down the aisle that separated the two rows of stalls. I must admit, the woman has a mean fast ball. I was impressed until I realized she was slinging these missiles at Mulder who was clear at the other end of the barn. I wouldn't have been able to see him in the gloom except his jersey was the same bright orange as the balls.

Shock was my first reaction. With the lighting as poor as it was I knew Mulder would have been totally blind. Why was Scully pelting Mulder with tennis balls? "Well, it's better that baseballs," crossed my mind. That just shows how upset I was. That was when a bright orange object hit my leg. Hard. My pain laced expletive interrupted the exercise.

"Kami!" Scully yelled and rushed over to me, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I murmured, rubbing my leg where the ball had stung me. It wasn't bad. After all, it was just a tennis ball. I glanced up to see Mulder shuffling over to me. There was a moment's concern as I noticed his gait was off. I know the man's walk like my own. Normally he hides his weak side so masterfully there's hardly a limp, but as he walked toward me his stride was almost a lurch.

"It's getting better. He broke the talus and all three inner tarsels. You know how the PT always goes slower than the actual healing." Scully whispered in my ear just before Mulder made it to me to get his hug.

He'd lost weight and tears filled my eyes as I returned his embrace. "You just can't stay out of trouble, can you?" I choked when he pulled away. His expression was a mixture of sheepish embarrassment and concern. I felt horrible at my chastising greeting, and clutched him again quickly. "I'm sorry, but you've got to quit hurting yourself. Okay?"

His face was still bright scarlet but he managed a weak smile. "I'll try," he offered, then broke into huge, boyish grin. Naturally, my mood brightened. How could it not, seeing that smile? "But I healed myself in a month. No hospital. Not too bad, huh?" He didn't notice the worried glance I shot Scully or the brief look she gave that told me -- later.

"When aren't you amazing, Mulder?" I asked, matching his grin.

"Hey, you want amazing, watch this." He hustled off in his odd, swagger/trot toward his spot at the rear of the barn, stopping to grope for something when he found his place. "Okay, Nolan! Let 'em rip!" Mulder yelled, as he fell into a batters stance, a cut-off stick at the ready.

Scully gave a muted chuckle and slight shrug. "You know, we have to humor him when he's like this."

Despite her words I could detect a note of excited pleasure and pride at what was about to happen. Scully paused a moment, then with perfect form cut loose with a hard, beautifully thrown curve ball. I followed it's neat arc as it moved straight toward my sightless friend. I watched, mouth popping agape, as Mulder's smooth swing connected expertly with the pitch. The ball bounced off the far side of the barn in a sultan-of-swat-like homerun.

"Way to use the force, Mulder," I murmured to myself. Scully's laugh ricocheted off the cavernous walls just like the ball.

Watching a game of blind man's baseball was just the start of this wild weekend. Mulder¼s exercises are only part of Scully's ingenious plan to help Mulder discover, focus and use his PSI-powers. We had a moment alone while Mulder was showering. The good doctor explained how Mulder wound up avoiding the dreaded hospital after his latest accident. I was glad to hear we now had Dr. Raposa in our confidence. Scully says that so far she has been able to keep the new of Mulder's miracle recovery under wraps. For how long, no one knows. I was soon to learn just how important nondisclosure of my friend¼s actual health might be when my father finally revealed what skeletons have been hidden in his basement.

I found everything out during our prerequisite home from college father/daughter talk. I thought I was going to be the one with the number one news flash. Everyone else had gone to bed, and Dad and I were chatting in the living room. I finally broke down, crying on his broad shoulders as I wove my lonely heart¼s soap opera of Derek and the new love of his life. This naturally lead to the topic of my future. I discovered I might have over planned my life a bit. It appears anything beyond this summer should carry an astrik - * subject to change should the Alien Colonization occur. I wonder if my student loan carries an Apocalypse clause.

I have to laugh, because I'm afraid I¼ll start crying. I'm torn. Should I be angry at my father? Why did he and my mother even consider bringing a new life into a world where there was no future? And he has lied to me my entire life. He has always promised me that I could grab that brass ring -- the tomorrows of my dreams, yet he has known all along what was coming. Okay, maybe not when, or for certain. But he knew THEY were here and what THEY wanted and still he has showered me with false hopes when what he should have given me was the TRUTH.

I didn't want to return to school. Why spend my last days preparing for a life that I'll never have. Mulder changed my mind. I had driven my father from the room with my angry tirade at hearing his story. I must have woken the whole house with my response to what I felt was my parent¼s ultimate betrayal -- giving me a life that could bear no promise. I was lying on the couch, dry eyed and feeling utterly hopeless when Mulder came in.

"Did he tell you everything?" Mulder asked, his voice soft and low.

"How should I know? You knew, too, didn't you? I guess everyone I know lies," I retorted bitterly, then immediately regretted the ire I'd directed at my friend. Scully once told me that before the accident Mulder¼s face always personified bland inscrutability except for those who knew him. She said she always knew what he felt because she could read it in his eyes. He no longer has the ability to hide his emotions. I could see the pain I'd caused the moment I spat the words.

"What is truth, Kami?" he murmured, sinking down in Dad¼s chair across from me. "What should he have told you? Better yet, WHEN should he have told you? Your 16th birthday party? Should he have given you the truth as a graduation present? Last Christmas? When you told us about you and Derek and Medical School? What good is truth? Does it change anything?"

He was right. He held me while I cried.

"What can we do, Mulder?" I finally asked when my tears were spent.

I watched his face as he searched for an answer. He looked at me, through me in the near darkness. I felt a chill at his sightless gaze. His answer offered no warmth. His voice was cold when he spoke, a tight grin tugging at his lips. „We just go on living -- and hoping. There's still hope, Kami."

 

 

FWM Tapes
Winter 2003
Wellington, Colorado

"Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." Hebrews

I told Kami there is still hope. I had no idea what I was talking about. What could we humans do to stop this horde of highly advanced beings from another planet from taking over the World? These creatures had the support of some of the most powerful men and women on our planet.

Skinner, you said you read some of Wagner's files while I was sick. What did you think?

SKINNER - I just wish you'd documented your X-Files half as well.

(Laughs) If I'd had Wagner's money in my expense account maybe I could have. Did you believe what they said?

SKINNER - (Long pause). Considering what they said has come true, I believe I have to, Mulder. I believe in a lot of things now. I think we live in times when an open mind might be our only chance to survive. That and our faith.

Faith. (Mulder gives what can only be called a derisive snort). Faith in what? That we're in the last days? Is this Armageddon? Words in a book of myths, is that what you believe in now? Where's your proof? You always demanded proof from me? What changed you? One little parlor trick, me making your body speed up a natural process? Why, if we had a phone you'd be asking the Amazing Yappy about your sign. Hey, you think he saw this coming? (Laughs).

SKINNER - Just say I saw the light, Mulder.

Yeah, well, so did I, and now I'm blind (pause). So, help me out here. The files are down in the basement buried in 20 feet of snow. If we're going to finish this up I need to remember what they say about the "visitors," as my mom called them. Where should we start?

SKINNER - Genesis?

And they call me a smart ass. I remember Wagner had an interview with one of the Jeremiah Smiths. He explained who all those Smith boys were.

SKINNER - I caught that. Clones. One of the first tries at Alien/Human hybridization. The original Jeremiah Smith was an American scientist who offered to help them back in 1947. The man died in 1951. From what I understand, the clone Wagner talked to thought they were a success except for that one missing thing.

Oh, God, I should have known you'd buy that part.

SKINNER - Well, it makes sense, Mulder. Smith knew he had no soul. Only God can give us the spark of life. The aliens must have believed that's what they were missing, too. Right?

Well, if you want my opinion, I think for all their knowledge, the aliens are pretty lousy scientists.

SKINNER - I believe that's what their problem is. The alien's have lost their sense of wonder. THEY have no imagination. That's where genius truly lies. They can't dream. They've become stagnant. That's why they feel they need us. New blood. THEY want to get back what they're missing.

Okay, I can swallow that a lot more than my mother's "chosen people" theory.

SKINNER - It's all one and the same. We're all created by the same entity, but they threw away the gifts the Creator thought most important.

(Mulder's tone is angry). You sound just like my mother. I need the facts here, Skinner. All you can spout is religious fairy tales. How about just letting me get back to my work?

SKINNER - Okay, you tell your story. I'll go try to find some wood. We're running out of trees around here. Looks like that fence of the neighbor's might be my next haul.

You said they left back in August. I think that gives us squatters' rights. (Sound of door opening). Be careful! (Reply inaudible as door closes).

Wagner's files gave us the truth, but "there are truths that are not for all men, nor for all times." The governments of the world hid the fact that there is alien life on earth --with the lie of alien abductions, but to what purpose? It depends on who was asked and when they were questioned. The plan was to hide behind an uneasy truce; in order to buy time. The object was to create a human/alien hybrid to survive the proposed take-over. The plot was to concoct a vaccine that would render the visitors' killing machine, the black oil, useless against us. The desire was to save the world. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. The liars were lied to, the betrayers, betrayed. In the end only the devil and his minions were left standing. And of course, THEM.

(Sighs). This next part is hard. Skinner calls these powers my "gifts". They're a curse. Absolute power does corrupt absolutely With Scully's help we began to explore what I could do. We used information from Wagner's files to study the abilities the aliens had shown and sought to uncover them in me. They were there, waiting beneath the surface. It was like opening Pandora's box.

I practiced alchemy, clairvoyance, levitation, precognition, psychokenisis, psychometry and telepathy. I found I could control what another person thinks, sees, does. This is one way THEY are able to change their appearance. The simplest way. THEY implant an image of how they wish to be seen in the mind of the unsuspecting viewer. I got fairly good at this that summer. Imagine if I had tried my hand at acting. Why the money I could have saved the studios on makeup alone would have kept me in demand. Hollywood might have been breaking down my door except for one problem. I couldn't fool the camera. The talent I learned was another parlor trick. I think learning to truly morph would have taken more time than we had. I don't really know. I don't plan on using any of my gifts ever again, unless I truly have to. They are too dangerous. I think I can control the powers; it's myself I have the problem with.

*****

Skinner came back, so I had to stop. I don't want to talk about what happened in front of him. I know he will transcribe this, but I'm going to make sure I'm not around when he does. Let's just hope it's not snowing at that point. It's night now. He's asleep. Hopefully, I can get this done by morning. If I do it fast, maybe it won't hurt as much to tell it. Yeah, right.

We were like children, playing with fire. What we found out about my abilities during our days of discovery were only the surface facts. We had no idea how striking this match could set off a force that could consume us. Skinner's beliefs in my abilities being a gift from God will probably change when he hears this part of my story.

By the end of July we were all impressed by what I could do. Still, the thought of confronting our conquerors-in-waiting was daunting, to say the least. What could one man do against THEM, even with the powers. THEY, also, were gifted. To attempt to stop them without a plan was more than insanity. It was suicide. Of course, it never came to that. The arrival of Alex Krycek changed our course of action. Did he discover what transpired that next week when we went to Washington? Did he tell THEM what I could do? Is that what spurred the aliens to finally follow through with the colonization? I forgot to ask Krycek that last time I saw him. I was too busy bleeding.

Scully, Kami and I were taking a much needed vacation at the Estes Park cabin, when Wagner's prodigal son made his appearance, so we missed him. His dad coerced a confession out of him. He did steal the file. It did contain information that could clear me. Wagner then asked Krycek to leave, and he was gone before we arrived home that afternoon. I was ecstatic when I was told that the missing file contained copies of records confirming that I had received Marty Fulcher's identity in the Kansas City Office of the FBI.

It was then that Wagner explained that Krycek had not actually returned my mom's vindicating gift. No, the thief had hidden his pilfered information in a certain basement office. The manila folder had become an X-File. Our plan to get it back was nothing more than smoke and mirrors. The magic worked to the extent that we got what we went for. It also led to Scully not being here with me tonight.

We entered that dark office building on Pennsylvania Avenue at just past 10:00 p.m., August 4th. Mike, the guard let us pass without a second thought. After all, the faces and ID we showed him belonged to Alex Krycek and Diana Fowley. Why should he doubt his own eyes? My next trick was to momentarily disable each camera we passed, all the while assuring that Mike, ever alert at his security post downstairs, saw nothing but what I wished him to.

Scully was worried, walking beside me down that dimly lit hall. I could smell her nervousness, feel the staccato rhythm of her heart, taste the hot, wetness of tension in each of her exhaled breaths. But we made it to the door of our old office without a problem. It was locked, of course. I stilled her hand when she reached for her tool kit. Using my powers, I unlatched the bolt, allowing us to enter. That was when I first noticed a faint flutter of fear in my partner-in-crime. It wasn't because of the felony we were committing; it was because of what was happening to me.

She could feel the change, sense the energy that was coursing through me. I knew this, just like I knew everything else that was happening in the building. I "saw" Mike, cheating to solve a crossword puzzle. I heard the faint, straining hum of the air conditioning, working overtime on this sultry summer night. I smelled the pine scented mop as the ancient janitor wearily scrubbed the fifth floor bathroom. I knew that Krycek had placed my proof in the cabinet where his own file was stored.

"It's under "P" right next to Krycek's file," I instructed Scully. She chuckled as she flipped past prick, but her laughter died quickly when she found our prize.

She read the contents to me by the beam of her penlight. My concentration wavered those few brief minutes; so I didn't realize we had company until the door opened. Instantly the harsh bite of ozone shriveled the membranes of my nose and tongue. I felt my composure evaporate. I was flooded with emotions, smothered with sensations; my control had slipped to leave me hanging by my finger tips. The heavy, electric smell choked me as it seeped from my pores.

Diana Fowley was there at the door. Lights flashed on. She murmured something I didn't catch, for I was immediately engulfed by a wave of loathing and apprehension that surged out from the two women standing on each side of me. I was inundated by sharp words, bitter, cutting phrases, hatred, jealousy, distrust...passions, violently swirling within Scully's and Diana's thoughts.

"What do you want...so he's an idiot savant...his mother's file...Krycek stole...half a mind, like him...shut up...Fox...Mulder...leave him alone!" The women's voices blurred together; the venomously uttered rage burned my senses.

Somehow, I also felt the sting of the slap Scully delivered to Diana when she finally tired of the womanís taunts. Fowley uttered an angry hiss in response to the blow. My eyes watered in pain when a fist hit my jaw. It was only when Scully collapsed against me that I realized Diana had struck my partner, not me. A crackling, blinding burst of anger exploded from me in a thundering scream of primal energy, and the world fell suddenly, completely dark. The room was showered with sharp, tinkling glass as the light overhead burst. As the blackness swallowed the world, I felt an amazing calm encompass me. Once again my consciousness was able to expand. The guard, Mike, was trying to use a cell phone to report the blackout. It was not working. The hum of the air conditioning had stopped. The janitor was blindly stumbling to the stairs. Scully huddled near my feet, but I felt her hands grasping my pants legs as she tried to rise. Diana Fowley was slumped in the doorway, so very, very still.

I helped my partner to stand. She blindly attempted to bring some light into her world, clicking and reclicking the flashlight switch.

"It won't work," I murmured, my throat still raw from the cry that had strained it the moment the overload had been released.

"Mulder," Scully's voice was a small moan, almost lost in the night. "Mulder, what...what happened?"

I held her close, trying to lightly brush the tiny, crystal shards of glass off her hair and shoulders. She was trembling. Her small frame began to shake, but her sobs were silent. I continued to comfort Scully, but I reached out mentally to the limp form on the floor, wanting to see what help I could offer.

What happened next is completely my sin. My only excuse is ignorance. Scully had told me some of what I had done while I walked in the footprints of ancient Mayans, but she had not related the tale of Felicia. So I knew nothing of my prior mistake. The sound of Diana stirring announced that my unholy act was a success. At this point, Scully didn't know of either of the sins I'd committed that night. I knew though. I knew the moment the creature, who had once been Diana Fowley, made it to its feet. I touched a mind that was as dark as the grave it belonged in; as cold as the hands that clawed at me, crying out for release.

"Mulder?" Scully questioned, feeling the tangible shade as it moved beside her. I perceived her horror when she realized what I'd done, both the murder and the incomplete resurrection. "Oh, God! God, no, Mulder." My name was but a whisper.

We both backed away, shrinking from the abomination that shuffled toward us, desperately seeking liberation from its soulless agony. I granted it release and let the fire go. The walking corpse burst into flame. Instantly, water began to pour from the overhead sprinklers. With my thought they ceased their deluge. They'd served their purpose. The lump of charred flesh on the floor had been put out. Scully pressed her face to my chest, gagging at the sickly, sweet stench that wafted up from the body.

"We need to finish up here. Can you see if you can find me a plastic bag?" I asked, when the last of my partner's quaking finally stopped. She gave a loud, choking swallow, but moved to do as I requested.

We left the building unnoticed, and traveled through the darkened city streets unseen. I had Scully stop at the closest dumpster where I disposed of the remains. I felt no sadness at that point. The damning power still drove me. Scully never said a word the entire trip to the motel. Silently, she followed me inside. I heard her groan as she collapsed on the bed. Moving through my familiar darkness, I slid alongside her when her tears finally came.

"Rest," I soothed, stroking her back. She felt so tiny, so fragile. At last her gasps quieted, and she lay mutely against me. Her breath was a warm whisper on my outstretched arm. Minutes ticked away; an hour passed. "Scully, I need you to take me to his house," I said softly, finally making my decision.

Sleep had almost claimed her. Her reply was a soft, mumbled, "Who?"

"We need to finish this. I know where Spender lives," I answered, speaking louder than I wished with the excitement of knowing that justice was at last going to be served.

This is what makes my shame so hard to bear. This time, I can't claim illness; my mind was clear. I remember it all. The powers had consumed me, but I let it happen. I wanted these feelings to go on forever. Finally, I was in control again. I'd been a hopeless, helpless cripple for longer than I cared to remember. For the first time since I'd scrambled for my life in that cold, snowy field, praying to a God I wasn't sure existed, I felt whole. I felt good.

Scully gently pushed up to stare at me; the curtains were open. I was sure she could see me in the moonlight so I offered her a grin.

She moved to sit, grabbing my hand. I felt a tingle as her lips caressed my palm, lingering on the thumb where once there had been a scar. It had long since disappeared. Another "gift" of my gifts.

"Let's go home, Mulder," she murmured, placing my hand so it cupped her face. "Please. We have what we came for. Please." I was surprised to feel a warm droplet splash against my skin. "Tonight, okay? I can be ready in 10 minutes. We've got Wagner's platinum ticket back to Sky Watch. Please?"

I couldn't believe she didn't share my excitement. That she didn't understand my purpose, but I kept my voice low. "Okay, but I need to take care of this. You can wait in the car. I'll find him myself. It'll take 5 minutes, tops."

Her reaction surprised me. I took it as simply anger. Why couldn't I read her? What kept that part of me so blind? "No, do you hear what you're saying? Don't you know? All this makes us no better than them! Let's leave Mulder! We need to go home now. No more, Mulder. Please!"

She stood beside the bed. She was almost screaming. Why didn't I hear her fear?

"YOU don't understand. Why can't YOU see why I have to do this? I'm finally standing up for myself. I've finally got control. Why don't you want me to feel this way? You want me to stay weak, to stay a cripple. Then you can control me." My voice was loud. I was on my feet now. The taste of ozone was once again in my throat.

Scully stopped. The air was thick with tension. Finally, she sighed. "Then you go alone. I'll call a cab for you." She began to frantically rush about the room, gathering her things.

I stood, stunned speechless, amazed by what was happening. The click of the suitcase shutting brought me out of my stupor. "You can't leave me!"

She didn't answer. I heard the door open. I reached out to stop her with my will.

Scully's cry was a frightened gasp as the air left her lungs. I knew I had hurt her. She crumpled to the carpet in a heap. The sound of her head hitting the door echoed in my brain.

"Scully," I groaned, lurching to her side.

She pushed away from me, shuddering at my touch.

"I'm sorry." I tried once more, but she winced from the contact. I stopped, allowing my hand to fall away. "Scully..."

"No," she choked.

I fell back. The wall was my only support. "I'm sorry," I murmured. Panic made me reach for her blindly. My power was gone. My strength was beside me, struggling to stand, threatening to walk out that door. I frantically clutched at her hand, but she shook free.

"If you ever cared, Mulder, let me go," she whispered.

I let her go. The door closed behind her with a soft click; she was gone.

End Tape
-WSS-

 

FWM Tapes
Late Winter 2003
Wellington, Colorado

I saw the sun yesterday, finally felt its warmth against my face. Is spring coming, or is this just one of God's practical jokes? Now, why did I say something like that? I don't even believe in God, and I know it'll just upset Skinner. I think I'm becoming a bitter old man, filled with hate. Even with the change in the weather, I feel old today. Maybe it's because of the change. I know that this is a false spring. Soon, maybe this evening, maybe tomorrow, another storm will come in, and the fair days will be gone; gone as though they were never here. I feel a cold darkness seeping into my bones. There are still bad times ahead, and I'm so tired.

*****

The blizzard hit as soon as the sun went down. The little bit of snow that had melted during the warm days froze instantly. Now we can't get the door open. The drifts have long since covered our two small windows. Skinner and I are trapped with a rapidly dwindling supply of wood (laughs). Wouldn't it be 'perfect' if we wound up having to burn these files?

End Tape
-WSS-

 

W.S. Skinner
Est. Date March 25-30
2003 Wellington, Colorado

The storm left us late last night. The morning dawned bright, but Mulder is still caught in a depression that hasn't lifted in a week. I know he is taking his medication. I don't believe he has the energy to use his powers on me, fooling me like he did Scully. My father used to call this type of mood his "black dog". It has always brought to mind the picture of a hound, slowly moving about, eyes sad, ears drooping. All Mulder wants to do is sleep. I am getting worried.

My part in recording this history starts now. It was late evening on August 7th. I was in the office of my insurance investigation agency, Skinner/Ross Investigations, when I received a call from a man inquiring if I was "An ex-FBI man named Walter Skinner?"

I answered in the affirmative, so the caller continued. "Well, my name is Amos Williams. I run a gas station over here on 14th Street. 'Bout three hours ago I caught some punks beatin' up on this white guy. I ran the assholes off and brought the guy here to the station. I thought he was a bum, ya know? But he claims he used to be FBI, too. I was gonna call him an ambulance 'cause they beat him up pretty good, but he wouldn't let me. All I could get outta him was your name so I looked you up. Do you know a tall, skinny, blind, one-eyed white guy?"

The only person I knew that would remotely fit that description, from what I'd last heard, was a bed-ridden, semi-vegetable, living over 1500 miles away." Did he tell you his name?"

"Mister, how many tall, blind, skinny, one-eyed, white guys do you know?"

The man did have a point. "Just give me the directions. I'm on my way."

*****

It wasn't until the next day that I finally got Mulder's home phone number out of him. From the time I picked him up at Amos Williams' gas station, until he awoke the following morning, Mulder spoke lucidly only once, and that was to inform me that a hospital was not necessary. Then he started muttering about having healing powers. I had assumed his ramblings were just part of the brain damage he'd suffered.

I'd last seen Mulder that day in January 1999 when I'd given him the undercover assignment. Here and there, I'd heard snatches about his condition. I knew he'd suffered a stroke the next year. I had thought he was brain dead. The half-crazed, mumbling maniac I picked up had me baffled. I was even more surprised by the monosyllabic, manic-depressive wreck who greeted me that following morning with a tearful plea to find Scully. I was afraid to guess how he'd lost her. I tried Margaret Scully's house, but to no avail. That's when he'd finally mumbled out the number to Sky Watch.

S.A.Wagner was grateful to hear from me. He had no idea what had happened to his two long-time house guests, not having heard a word from either of them since August 4th. I was asked to bring Mulder home. Scully wasn't there, but we would deal with one problem at a time. There would be a ticket waiting for both of us at Dulles Airport. After making a call to Kim to inform her of my travel plans, we left to catch our flight to Colorado.

 

From the Journal of K.W. Wagner
August 9, 2002
Sky Watch Wellington, Colorado

I haven't written in here since spring break. The news my father gave me quelled my desire to finish this book. I guess I thought no one would be around to read it, but I couldn't help myself. There are two more pages, and I can't stand the thought of leaving something undone. So sue me. I'm a Virgo. That means I'm a perfectionist. Perhaps the little green men (oh, forgive me, Mulder claims they're gray) will be curious as to what a young, female Homo Sapiens once thought about life, love and the world in general. Then again, probably not, but I don't give a shit. I'm finishing this up anyway. Go ahead and burn it, you frigging, hateful E.T. bastards.

God, that felt good. : )

I guess I have enough room left here to tell about Scully's and Mulder's return. It IS romantic, in a way. It is a good way to end this journal. My two friends left on August 4th to recover Mulder's files from where my asshole adopted brother had hidden them. Apparently, that part of their mission went well because Mulder returned home yesterday with the proof he needs to clear his name; but he returned without his Scully.

It seems that they had a disagreement somewhere along the way. I haven't learned all the details, and my father is right, it is their business. Still, I am a bit put out that Scully left Mulder, alone and helpless, in a town like Washington, DC. (Not that I really know Washington, DC is a bad town. But, I imagine it's not as friendly as Fort Collins). He'd even gotten mugged. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the way Mulder looked when his old boss, Walter Skinner, brought him home. He was clean at least, but he had half a week's worth of stubble on his battered face, and he was wearing Mr. Skinner's clothes, which hung like sails on his lanky frame.

From what I gather, Mulder hadn't had any of his medications since the day he and Scully left here, but that doesn't totally explain his mental state. We finally had Dr. Raposa come out and examine him yesterday. She diagnosed that he was in shock and sedated him. He still woke up two hours later when the phone rang. The man is half deaf, filled with enough drugs to put him out for a week, and he still knew the minute she called. Mulder IS more himself today. Why shouldn't he be? His Scully is coming back to him.

We finally got hold of Margaret Scully. From what Maggie said, when Scully showed up on her doorstep, just before dawn on August 5th, she wasn't in much better shape than Mulder is in now. Mrs. S had simply assumed that Scully's condition was stress related, and had taken her distraught daughter away for a short rest cure. They returned to Baltimore this morning. Maggie claims Scully still hasn't told her the entire story. But she had gotten enough out of her daughter to know that Colorado was where she should be. So, both women are due here this afternoon. Mr. Skinner has gone to DIA to pick them up, because Mulder seems calmer with me here, and Dad doesn't make trips to Denver. Maybe when they arrive, we'll find out exactly what happened.

I do know that the couple's differences arose because of something that happened when Mulder used his powers. From what Maggie told us, Scully became frightened because he got a bit out of control while "using the force" this last time. What exactly did he do that terrified her so much she felt the need to desert him? For me, that IS the most puzzling question. Okay, so Scully did leave him all their cash and credit cards, but that just happened to be what got him mugged. Mulder was so "out of it" during his lost three days that he never understood that he had a way to come home there in his pocket.

During their mother/daughter talk, Scully confessed she has become frightened by some of the things Mulder is able do with his gifts. Maggie reminded Dana that it was she who convinced her partner to cultivate these hard to control abilities in the first place. I guess Scully didn't remember how scary it was while we were down south, and he had his gifts turned on full force. How could she have forgotten? I mean, was she actually able to convince herself those earthquakes that destroyed most of North Eastern Guatemala were a coincidence?

Scully did realize, thanks to Maggie, that she can't live without Mulder. She finally came to her senses, and accepts that she and Mulder are meant to be together. She and her mother should be arriving in Denver just about now. So, all's well that ends well. I just love happy endings.

I'm running out of room so I guess I'll stick this down in Dad's files. If, perchance, the next reader of this book happens to be someone who has English as a second language, AND cannot claim the planet Earth as their place of birth, I have just one thing to say -- Fuck you AND the space ship you rode in on!

 

W.S. Skinner
Est. Date March 25-30
2003 Wellington, Colorado

Scully's flight was due in at 11:45 a.m., but I could see that it was delayed. Strangely, every flight was delayed. The airport was crowded; the travelers and those waiting for incoming flights were growing restless. The ticket agents were growing desperate, but one young woman kindly informed me the plane had departed on time. Finally, flight 1013 from Baltimore, MD landed. I rushed to the gate, watching closely as each disgruntled passenger passed before me. Neither of the Scully women were on board.

Hurrying to a phone booth I tried to call Wagner, but, for some reason, all I got was a harsh click and a deafening squeal. I then attempted to phone Margaret Scully's house. The circuits were all busy. I had the same problem when I attempted to phone my office. It was then that the frantic shouts came from the smoking lounge that a news flash had just been aired. Alien beings had taken over our country in a bloodless coup. Pandemonium broke out almost immediately.

At a time like this, I knew a crowded airport was not the best place to be. As I ran for the exit, I saw the woman at the ticket counter, who had been so pleasant to me, get shot in the head. Someone was not happy that they were not going to be making the trip home. The panic had already begun, but would only get worse. It took me 18 hours to travel the 80 odd miles back to Wellington. I'm lucky I made it there alive, but then maybe it wasn't luck. Perhaps it was just part of His plan.

 

 

Chapter 9

 

FWM Tapes
Early Spring 2003
Wellington, Colorado

I feel as though I can finish this now. Spring is here. There might be more snow, but I know the worst is over; just as I know Scully is on the road, coming home to me. What I'll tell about here is hard for me to talk about, but it needs to be told. I feel stronger now, confident in the future. (Laughs). I don't know why.

Skinner talks constantly about faith. He embellishes the word with mythical, mystical qualities. I've always felt faith is here in each of us, in our hearts; we feel it stir when it's touched by love.

I remember the announcement. I still wasn't over what had happened in DC, but Dr. Raposa's magic elixirs, my medication, food, rest and most of all the knowledge that Scully was returning to attempt to salvage our relationship, had done wonders for my mental state. I no longer felt I was wandering in some twilight zone, nightmare world. The news that the colonization had finally occurred frightened everyone. I saw it as nothing more than a minor bump in the road. This does say quite a bit about the drugs I was on. This inner calm lasted until sunset.

I had wandered outside to watch for Scully's return. The part of County Road 76 that fronts Sky Watch didn't get much traffic. Most of the time you could even hear vehicles as they passed down Highway 1, almost 3/4 of a mile away. That is the direction from which Scully was to come. That is the direction from which THEY came. My instincts were dulled that day. The powers were nil.

At first I assumed the heavy trucks moving slowly up the dirt path that ran in front of the ranch belonged to the neighboring farm across the road. It was summer and the time for hiring pickers was near. The harvest that year would have been a bumper crop. Our neighbors¼, the Terrys, would need all the help they could get. I was leaning against the vintage wagon that decorated Wagner's front yard when the first shot of the attack was fired. It hit me in the head. This time I was lucky, I guess. The bullet only grazed me. Still, the wound took away what little sense I still possessed, and I crumpled to the ground, stunned.

When the haze lifted, I found there was a heavy boot pressed against my neck and the unmistakable touch of the muzzle of a rifle against my temple. My oppressor barked orders that rang loudly in my head. "He with the crushing footwear" sounded vaguely familiar. I puzzled to put a name to the voice, but my head was pounding too painfully from the recently given part in my hair, so my efforts were in vain. All thoughts of solving the conundrum vanished with the sound of a deafening shotgun blast followed instantly by Kami's loud, plaintive tears. She cried out for her father. He didn't answer.

I almost toppled my mystery captor when I shoved up from the ground. My young friend's keening wails floated on the evening's breeze, cutting through my daze. The air had grown cooler. A storm was coming. Thunder shook the dirt beneath me. Once again, I pushed hard to right myself. The booted one tumbled back, crashing in a heap behind me.

The moment I got to my feet, something slammed hard into my right side, knocking me back down to the dirt with its force. My injury burned with a searing, fiery agony and a warm wetness soaked my shirt. Kami gave a piercing scream. I moaned as I listened to a staccato riff of gunfire cut her down. I tasted her death when her blood splattered across my face; the hot, coppery bitterness of it making me choke. She landed hard on top of my wounded side. I cried out in pain. For her; for me.

*****

I smelled the smoke, a faint odor of wood and gasoline wafting through the pitch darkness that surrounded me. A hand lightly touched my neck. I heard a sigh. Someone was happy that I could still force a heaving, gasping breath.

"Mulder, it's me," my concerned companion murmured softly, directly into my ear.

I finally placed who "me" was, but by that time I was hurting too much to care that he was here.

"You've got a chance. You're right next to the stairs. I made them set the fire at the front of the house, on the second floor. They think you're dead. We'll be gone by the time you make it up to the main floor." Krycek paused, giving me a quick shake. I groaned. "You still with me?"

"Fuck you." It was a whisper, but he heard me. He laughed.

"You've fucked me over so many times I think you're starting to like it," he chuckled.

"Gonna kill you..." I had more to say but I couldn't quite get it out. A faint buzzing rose in my ears, growing so loud it swallowed me.

"Hey, you with me?"

Krycek was whipping my face with a cool, wet rag. Blindly grasping for his hand, I tried to make him move it to my mouth. He let a few drops of water trickle between my parched lips, then gently pushed my hand away. "Listen, you need to stay awake. THEY're loading up. You've got a chance if you head to the back door. The kitchen door. Do you hear me?"

"Kitchen door," I mumbled, trying to stay awake.

He grabbed my hand. "Here are the stairs. Sorry I can't help more but..." He stopped, then with both hands he pulled me up to lean against the wooden steps. "Remember, I gave you this chance. If THEY ask, I tried to help."

As he bolted away, his stomping feet shook my perch, making the pain in my side flare. I groaned again, but I started my climb.

*****

There was nobody there to cheer when I made it to the top. I pulled myself up on the landing, struggling to gasp some non-smoke filled air. I drifted in and out. For how long I couldn't say. At one point I opened my eye, and I would swear I saw bright red flames consuming the ceiling above me. That would be impossible; how would I know red? The sudden shift in the floor finally pulled me from my stupor. I bolted upright, grasping for purchase. The once solid, wooden foundation beneath me listed, and I began to slide.

I caught hold of the railing to stop my fall. I became conscious of the sound of crashing timbers. Wrestling against the pull of gravity, I finally managed to hike my left leg around the heavy, stairwell post. Flickering sparkles of light split the darkness. I knew my world was burning, turning to ash around me. Fear kept me moving, squirming, scrambling upwards. At last I succeeded in grasping hold of a board that must have been the open shelving at the end of the heavy, butcher block kitchen cabinets.

Once again I hiked my leg around secure purchase, holding on in desperation. I tried to catch my breath. There was no air left. My inhale was a sob that turned into a rasping cough. My strength and resolve dwindled as breathing became an impossible chore. The beam from the kitchen ceiling crashed down, splintering the countertop of my life raft, showering me with hot, stinging cinders. I tried to scream, but it never reached my ears. My grip was slipping. The floor was no longer there for me to slide down, so I just relaxed, welcoming the plunge into hell.

Tape End
-WSS-

 

W.S. Skinner
Est. Date March 25, 2003
Wellington, Colorado

"The first angel sounded his trumpet, and there came hail and fire mixed with blood, and it was hurled down upon the earth."
Revelations 8-7

I'd left S.A.Wagner's Jeep on the lower parking lot, near where arriving passengers claimed their luggage. The vehicle was there waiting for me, but it was not going anywhere for a while. From my memory of the gridlocked traffic, stalled to an utter standstill by countless abandoned vehicles, that red Cherokee might be sitting in that spot forever.

My hike down Pena Boulevard to the thoroughfare of Towers Road took me almost two hours. I was surrounded by a flood of fellow travelers all wearing the same stunned, stricken faces. Did my own countenance bear that frightened, haunted mask? I'm certain it did. That entire first leg of my journey was spent convincing myself I was not dreaming. The sights I saw that day assured me that I wasn't asleep. Life had simply become a waking nightmare.

Sheriff's Deputy Jesse James (no relation to the outlaw, that he knew of) saved my life that day. About a mile into my trek up the highway I'd stepped aside, off the paved shoulder, to allow a local PD patrol car to pass. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the officer who drove. The huge, bear of a man wore an angry, belligerent expression that stirred memories of several SP's I'd encountered during my tour with the Corps. Some people join the force to serve the public. Others sign up because a badge can afford them power; a stick to strike out and punish others for all the inadequacies they sense in themselves. I labeled this man who passed me as the latter. My instincts were right.

I next spotted this blue suited Hitler a half mile down the road. A middle aged man had stepped up to stop the car, thinking he'd at last found a public servant to help him with his problems. The cop angrily waved at the man, wanting him off the shoulder and out of his way. The citizen made the mistake of tapping on the passenger side glass, trying once again to get the officer to respond to his pleas. I watched in stunned silence as the irate patrolman suddenly braked. Not even fully extracting his huge bulk from his vehicle, he drew his service revolver and blew the side of Mr. John Q. Public's skull off. Because I foresaw what was coming, I had hurried forward, shouting a warning. For my efforts, I was splattered with blood and brain matter, and instantly drew the murderer's wrath. The cannon sized muzzle of his gun was now pointed at me.

A bullet never came. The Neanderthal cop suddenly pitched forward, his face exploding outward in a burst of crimson. Glancing down the road I spotted a tall, copper haired man holding a rifle at ready. My 'savior' was dressed in a bicolored uniform, and it finally registered that he was with the local County Sheriff's Department. The shotgun slowly lowered. I was offered a tired, crooked grin. I gave my thanks with a nod and all the smile I could muster.

The deputy joined me where the dead cop lay. He cautiously watched me reach down to pick up the man's gun. Warm, brown eyes studied me as I held the weapon out to the lawman.

"You might better keep it," he softly murmured, with another smile, nodding to my grotesquely decorated clothing. "The way your day is going, you'll probably need it."

I was then offered a hand to shake, an introduction and a ride. I gratefully accepted all three.

*****

Jesse decided we'd take the "back route" into Fort Collins, traveling up what he called the "Old Greeley Highway". It did make sense. The part of our trip from Towers Road to where we finally passed the last of the small communities of Brighton and Fort Lepton took until nightfall. The tedious task of picking our way through stalled traffic was over once we made it to the older, two-lane road.

The afternoon's thundershowers had become a late evening storm, and we watched nature's light show to the north.

"Looks like bad weather up ahead, "I murmured, in concern. The Northern skies seemed to boil. The moon highlighted the tumultuous, swirling clouds.

"It's normal for this time of year," Jesse replied. "I was born and raised in Fort Collins. Don't worry, it'll probably have blown over by the time we get there. Just like everywhere in Colorado -- if you don't like the weather..."

"...Wait a minute." I watched bright flashes of light, birthed from the black and gray thunderheads. I waited for each low rumble that followed, feeling the sound more than hearing it at this distance. "Do they get tornadoes here?" I asked, trying to recall just how far west the section of the country called "Tornado Alley" stretched.

"Naw, most of the large towns are too close to the mountains. Well, Denver has had a couple, but I don't think Fort Collins has had one in recent history. My Granny Annie would have told me about it if they had. Now some cities out on the plains get them...Lymon, got hit hard a few years back." The young deputy seemed to relax as he talked. I listened, letting him ramble on; thinking this was the least I could do for the kindness he'd shown. I felt I got to know the man a bit in those few, brief hours we shared. I knew him at least enough to grieve his passing. Granny Annie was the only kin he had. I tried to find her when I made my trips into Fort Collins last fall, but I never did.

We'd passed through Greeley fairly easily. We made the turn onto State Highway 14 when we first noticed the lights. The storm had not abated; it had grown more violent. The moon was obscured by the thick black clouds, and our speed slowed with the coming of pea sized hail. From the icy white dunes on each side of the road, I could see that the area had been getting hit with this weather phenomenon for quite a while.

"We got company," Jesse murmured, glancing in his mirror.

I twisted, watching the rapidly approaching lights with awe. "Looks like they're in a hurry."

The blinding beacons were on our tail within minutes. The first bump was merely a love tap, but it jerked the wheel from Jesse's hands, making the man struggle to keep our vehicle on the road. Within minutes we were caught up in a four-wheeled dogfight; the growling sounds of metal upon metal drowning out the thunder. The Sheriff's Department equipped their vehicles with enough power to out run almost anything on the road, but the deputy was afraid to press the limits of his vehicle because of the rain and hail. Still, we had put a little room between us and our pursuers when it happened.

Highway 14 becomes Mulberry Street the moment it passes over Interstate 25 on the eastern side of Fort Collins. It was on this bridge that we lost control. One minute, we felt the pavement beneath us, the next, we were airborne, having crashed through the guardrail. The right, front tire blew, and we rolled several times when we landed. We finally came to a stop in the center gully that separated the north and southbound lanes of the freeway.

I hung upside down, stunned, until I felt my young friend pulling on my shirt. "We need to get you out. I think I smell smoke."

His comment got my attention; and I frantically struggled to unjam my seat belt. There was no door. There was hardly any vehicle left around me, yet I was trapped by a thin, woven piece of fabric that was meant to save lives. It probably had saved me when the car had rolled, but now I fought it like a man possessed. I, too, could smell the odor of gasoline and melting insulation. Not a comforting aroma. With a flick of his knife, Jesse freed me. He grabbed my arm and helped me to stumble away from the wreck. The vehicle burst into flames.

Neither of us had noticed what had happened to our pursuers, so the blinding headlights stunned both me and my deputy friend. I grabbed at Jesse's arm, trying to pull him from the path of the oncoming truck, but I was too late. We both were flung to the roadside when the vehicle struck the young man. I watched from my landing spot, there on the gravely shoulder, as the shiny, four-wheeled drive truck tore off down the interstate, its taillights finally disappearing in the distance.

The rain began in earnest at the same time I made it to the lawman's side. Once again hail started falling, bouncing off me and my companion with stinging abandon, but Sheriff's Deputy Jesse James (no relation to the outlaw, that he knew of) didn't feel it. He was dead.

*****

I left Jesse where he died, there alongside the road; and stumbled up to the freeway in the pouring rain. The hail had stopped. The night was still; no cars passed me during my soggy trek. I took the Wellington off-ramp, and passed through the little burg just as the rain stopped. The stars were out by the time I hit Highway 1. They were more brilliant than I'd seen them in years. Venus glowed its bright blue heat on the horizon, heralding the sun. Dawn had yet to break when I made the turn onto County Road 76, but it was near.

I strained my eyes in the semi-darkness for sight of the sprawling, two-storied house that was Sky Watch. The further I walked the more my fear grew. I couldn't spot the house. The eastern sky was a riot of orange, pink and purple when I stumbled over to stare down into the basement. I was certain nothing could have survived the blaze. I hoped my friends had escaped before it happened. The lingering stench of gasoline told me the destruction had not been accidental.

Looking across the gaping hole, I gazed into what had been the kitchen. Blackened timbers littered the linoleum floor. What was left of the roof lay at a slant atop the half gutted cabinets and appliances. Then, glancing down to see where the rest of the upper stories had crumbled, I spotted Mulder. I knew in my heart he was dead, but I scrambled down into the debris filled pit. I wanted to at least bury his body. The low moan he gave when I touched him told me that idea just might be premature.

*****

Many miles back, I happened to choose a road in life that took me to a place where I learned, with no more than a glance, whether an injured man would live or die. This was not some hither-to latent paranormal talent which just happened to surface in me at that particular point in my life. Actually, almost all of us who followed our destinies' path into those jungles, wound up developing this ability. A year of witnessing the dead and the dying at every turn does tend to give a person a certain insight as to what is hopeless and what is worth the fight. A soldier must learn quickly to assess whether offering aid is worth the risk. In battle, an injured man becomes a liability. Often, the severity of the wound itself didn't matter. It got so we all just knew.

I was certain that Mulder was going to die. Each morning, those first few days after I found him, burned and gut shot in that basement, I expected to wake up with a corpse to bury. Thankfully, he proved me wrong. Still, this error in my instinctual assessment of his mortality had me puzzled. At first I believed that perhaps, finally, enough time and distance had separated me from the hell where I'd once walked that I no longer remembered the evil face of death. I know now that particular knowledge is still burned into my soul. What I failed to see is the divine hand that touches my friend.

This winter I discovered the amazing truth. I've been handicapped for most of my adult life. The fact that I never noticed my disability, just proves how acutely limiting my impairment was. We're all born with the vision needed to see miracles. God's presence in our lives shines bright as a beacon when we are able to hold tight to the faith we had as a child. I found I had lost that gift, long ago, in a dark, war-torn jungle. Because I was blinded on the road of life; I couldn't spot the light of hope that was in Mulder; but then He healed me, and the scales fell from my eyes.

 

FWM TAPES
Spring 2003
Wellington, CO

Skinner saved me. My powers might have helped me to heal, but alone, I wouldn't have had the strength to use them. Gradually, I began to heal, mentally and physically. To keep boredom at bay while I convalesced, Skinner suggested I use the information stored in S.A. Wagner's fireproof file cabinets to tell my story. With his help, we began to piece together this tale.

And, now, our job is done. These files are finally complete. The brutal winter has passed; the season of rebirth is here. I asked my companion, my 'savior', my friend, what his plans are now that spring has come. I do believe he smiled.

"You're the psychic, you tell me. Where do WE go from here?"

I laughed, admitting that I'm blind as to what the future holds for either of us. But he'd answered my unasked question. He's staying. So, together, we'll wait for Scully's return and then...well, whatever comes next, that will be our next file.

End Tape
-WSS-

 

W.S. Skinner
Est. date April 1, 2003
Wellington, Colorado

Mulder made his last tape for this file the day I walked into Fort Collins. I told him that I'd made the trip to claim my long overdue rations. That excuse was true, but my most pressing reason was to see if perhaps another pharmacy night raid might be possible. I knew his supply of medication was dwindling. What I saw convinced me the time had come for us to move on. The security of the building resembled a fortress. There would be little or no chance of successfully making it in and out of the pharmacy.

The notices were posted on the door of the dispensing center. I left without my supplies after reading the announcement. The missal told those who were interested that the final solution to solve the problem of unregistered humans was at hand. The local government was seeking volunteers to assist with a "round-up" of the illegals. The "salary" would be a housing allotment and increased provisions for both the "hired" citizen AND his family. I'd heard the rumors of impending food shortages the moment I walked into town. I knew there would be no shortage of applicants. Mulder now had a price on his head.

I was ready to leave that day. My companion had other ideas. I was informed that leaving our present location was out of the question until Scully returned. I argued that with their PSI-connection, his wandering partner would be able to find him wherever he went. Mulder's only rebuttal was to shake his head in stubborn refusal. He tried to reassure me our wait would be short.

The debate continued the following day, then into the next. By that time, I was seriously considering using one of the bullets I had hoarded for so long. I just didn't know whether to use it on myself, to end my frustration, or on him, to end his stonewalled stubbornness! I went to bed that third night deciding I would sleep on my 'murder versus suicide' quandary.

A full moon was rising when I awoke. Its bright, golden light cascaded through the tiny windows of the tinker shop. I drowsily glanced around, wondering what had interrupted my dreams. Sleep left me completely when I saw that Mulder's cot was empty. Stumbling to my feet, not bothering to put anything on but my shoes, I left to search for my friend.

I knew Mulder had been cutting back on his medication trying to ration what little of the prescriptions remained. With my limited pharmaceutical knowledge, I had no idea what the potential side effects of this reduced dosage might be. I silently prayed that midnight somnambulism wasn't on the list.

I spotted the man as I neared the corner where the dirt county road on which I was walking crossed State Highway 1. Mulder was standing, shaggy head bowed, exactly on the center line of the two-lane blacktop. His back was to me. As I neared, I watched him sway rhythmically from side to side. He seemed almost in a trance.

I'd made it to the junction when I spotted her; tiny, ivory colored arms encircling his waist. I stopped, silently relishing the sight of this long awaited reunion. I had to smile. I was just beginning to turn and start the walk back when Mulder leaned over, almost bending at the waist. He seemed to be whispering something to her. I paused, chuckling to myself at this reminder of the difference in their height.

"Sir!"

My about face was halted abruptly by her call, and she ran to greet me. It stunned me when her small, strong arms moved about my neck in a hug. I might have blushed when her lips moved to gently brush my cheek.

"Thank you," she murmured softly, stretching up on her tiptoes to speak into my ear. "For everything."

My hand was on her back. I could feel her tears. I discovered I couldn't quite choke out a reply, so I nodded instead. We waited for Mulder to join us. Scully wrapped an arm around each of our waists, and together, we walked home.

The End

 

 

Go to The Damascus Files, File 3

 

 


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