Codes: MSR, XRA
Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance, Scully angst, X-File, Scully first person, UST, RST, mucho angst
Rating: very NC-17 (sex, language, adult themes, violence)
Spoilers: US6; this is post-"Arcadia," but not a direct follow-up. Includes spoilers for the movie and seasons 1-6.
Timeline: This story takes place after "Arcadia," and part of it takes place during "Alpha" and then after. Since the dating in "Arcadia" was wonky, I'm sure my own is suspect. If you don't worry about it, I won't either. :)
Disclaimer: They aren't mine, but if they were, this would be a two-part episode during sweeps week and you'd win a cute convertible just for tuning in.

Likewise, the places in this story are real, but I want to stress that the people are *not*. This is a work of fiction. This story deals with some heavy subject matter, death, love, racism, lies, and the like.

As I was writing, the tragedy at Columbine High School took place (about twenty miles from where I live); it really brought a few things into sharp focus for me. The disgusting things I show in my story *do* happen and it makes me sick.

Summary: While on a case that takes them to Louisiana, Scully considers the men she has loved in her life. Solving the murder of Ophelia Washington will take all the strength Scully has.
Thanks To: la, Kathy, Kim, Pellinor, Gillian Anderson, John Bartlett, Deep Purple, and Sarah Brightman

This piece is dedicated to la. I honestly don't think I've ever had a better friend than you. Thank you for providing me with a very interesting twist for this story, and the courage to see this through to the end.

I. BEGINNINGS

The sea of faith
Was once, too, at the full and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

~ Matthew Arnold

The first man I loved was my father. My earliest memory of him is his ribbons, those he wore on his uniform. He once told me the blue one was my favourite, which didn't help me at all, because so many of them were blue.

Five years ago, I folded his uniform into a box along with those ribbons; my mother asked if I wanted to take any of them, but I said no. Somehow, it didn't seem right. I placed the worn copy of *Moby Dick* atop the uniform and closed the box, placing it in the hall closet with the sympathy cards that we had received. So many people cared, yet my mother had closed the funeral to everyone other than family.

We went through his things in record time--everything had to be ship-shape. When it was done, the house looked the same and I wondered how much of my father had really ever been there. His place was on the sea; there was no sorrow when the water ate his ashes, for it was where he belonged. There was only sorrow that we would never see this man again, that he would never read to me, dance with my mother, or laugh. But, he'd wanted to see the watery part of the world--and now he truly could.

I loved him first, though not best. I loved him from a distance; he was someone to respect before one reached love. I did it in reverse. My brothers seemed to get the pattern down easily enough, but I loved first and only respected in the latter years of his life. I challenged him and dared him and defied him in my youth; not until my adulthood did I realize what a treasure I had in him. I don't know if Melissa ever realized.

After his funeral, I went home to a quiet house; my copy of *Moby Dick* glared at me from the bookshelf. I took it out and tossed it in the fireplace, fully intending to burn it. It lay there for weeks, forgotten when I was called away on business. When I came across it, I returned it to the shelf, smoothing down the blue ribbon which marked the place I had last stopped. I haven't opened it since my father died.

Melissa once told me that book was like another Bible to me and that when I turned away from it, I turned away from part of my faith. She may have been right.

~*~

March 1, 1999 Washington, D.C.

The office was quiet enough that I could hear people speaking as they passed in the hallway. I closed my eyes and listened; one woman spoke to another about an encounter with a male agent in an elevator--they had finished between floors. A smile stole across my face and I wondered how they had managed it. The voices vanished, replaced soon after by two men, arguing about finance reports.

I bowed my head to the desk, chuckling. Nothing changed in this place--not even the speed of the elevators if people could time them well enough to have sex in them. I dug my fingers into my neck, imagining that I was in that elevator, that I was the one pressed into the metal wall, my legs wrapped around the slim hips of--

That's where the fantasy dissolved. It always did--it didn't matter what fantasy it was. If it involved sex, when I got to the part about the man involved, things always fell apart. It was easy to picture Mulder's face, but what I couldn't envision was how he would move or touch me. A scientist at heart, I couldn't work without evidence, which made for a sometimes-dull fantasy life.

I could picture him holding me, for I knew the feel of his arms; I thought about him holding me often, because it was a comforting memory. Yet, it was a stagnant one at the same time. Holding was a beginning, but we had never gone farther. I wanted to and I knew he did as well, but work kept coming between us. Work, family, a conspiracy to populate the Earth with human-alien hybrids. The typical conflicts young couples face nowadays.

I longed for a few days away somewhere, in a place where no one knew my name, or Mulder's. We would share the same room and the same bed and the same joy. Envisioning a hotel room was not difficult--I've spent my time in so very many, they were easy. But none that came to mind were right for this fantasy, and ultimately, I could place Mulder's body there, but couldn't make him move. It wouldn't be an honest response and I value honesty, even in my fantasy.

Mulder never came into the office. The hands on my watch reached 8:30 and he still wasn't here. I headed upstairs, toward Skinner's office. We didn't have a meeting scheduled, but I wondered if Mulder had found his way up here rather than downstairs. Staying downstairs, the most fascinating thing I had to do was continue to sort through a box of half-burned debris, the remains from the office fire. Old mail, old files, someone had to go through it and Mulder said I could have the honour; he called it the Office Autopsy.

Kim Cook ushered me in, but Skinner was alone in his office. He hung up the phone as I entered and gave me a tight smile. His control always amazed me; his smiles were few and far between. I hadn't seen him much over the past year, since the closing of the X-Files; now that Mulder and I were back under his jurisdiction, there was a sense of relief. Kersh had never felt right to me. This man did feel right. It was right that Walter S. Skinner should hold the reins; he'd done it for so long, I wondered if they left imprints on his palms.

Skinner collected two airline tickets from his desk, handing them to me along with a file. I looked down at it, unable to conceal my frown when I noted the destination. New Orleans. I looked up at Skinner, wondering if I should thank him for seeing that we were going there well after Mardi Gras--not that Mulder wouldn't have been appreciative of women baring their breasts for plastic beads.

"Your ultimate destination is Mandeville," Skinner told me. "Everything is in that file--what seemed to be an open and shut case of a disappearance and eventual murder looks to have a paranormal slant now; there have been reports of burned bodies and the like. Considering what we learned about the..." He broke off; I knew what he was going to say, but that didn't make it any easier. "...alien rebels, I think it should be looked into."

I nodded. Learning about the Syndicate's plans certainly hadn't made our jobs any easier; for so long, Mulder and I had fought for the truth, but now we were absolutely mired in it. We were waist deep and sinking. Had the invasion begun? I hesitated to call it that, but failed to find another word that suited.

"I've tried calling Agent Mulder, but he's not answering. You two leave in a little more than an hour."

"I'll pack my things and pick him up--if he's not ready, he can fly in his pajamas," I joked.

Skinner laughed; his control broke and his entire face lit up with his laugh. I didn't realize my gaze had lingered until he cleared his throat and said I should be going.

"Good luck," he added as I reached the door.

I turned and looked back at him, hearing the seriousness in his voice; he was concerned and though he wanted to tighten his hands on the reins, he was forcing himself to ease up and let go. I nodded.

"We'll call tonight, when we're settled and know more."

I left Skinner's office feeling uneasy; I'd had little time to adjust to this entire "alien invasion" theory of Mulder's and now that we were handling a case that might actively involve said aliens, I couldn't stop myself from shaking. In my car, I gripped the steering wheel, looking at the file folder Skinner had given me. I wished I had more time to review, though the flight down to New Orleans would have to be time enough. I dialed Mulder on my cell phone as I pulled out of the parking garage and waited patiently as it rang and rang.

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II. HALLWAYS & NUMBERS

Numerical precision is the very soul of science.

~ Sir D'Arcy Wentworth Thompson

Mulder and I always seem to be standing in hallways. We are always waiting, for each other, for other people and things. The room outside Skinner's office could easily qualify as yet another hallway, a place we waited. Hospital hallways were the worst, and yet they've brought me the closest to the people I love.

I have spent a lot of time in Mulder's hallway, the one outside his apartment; I have studied the worn floor and contributed to its wear. I know his neighbours by the sounds that spill from beyond their doors; the woman who likes Jeopardy, the man who prefers Miles Davis, the single mother with a screaming son; the writer who favours a typewriter to a computer.

Today, being in the hall was different. It was silent. Mulder hadn't answered his cell phone on my drive over and I was beginning to wonder what had happened to my partner. I knocked on the door again, looking at my reflection in the gold numbers on his door. My mind wandered.

In Numerology, 42 dissolves to a 6; six is a double Trinity. In *The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy,* 42 is the answer to life, the universe, and everything.

42 is the natural vibration frequency of human DNA and white mice DNA. Odd, that. The total number of dots on a pair of dice is 42. There are 42 Oreo cookies in a one-pound package.

I know too much about the number 42 for my own good. I withdrew my cell phone and dialed Mulder's number again. I could hear the phone ringing from beyond his door, but he didn't answer. At the far end of the hall, the elevator doors slid open, and there he stood, framed by his own Trinity--Frohike, Langly, and Byers.

I cut the connection on the phone, listening to them laugh. Mulder spotted me and called out my name. Frohike turned toward me like I was a magnet. Maybe for him, I was. Mulder waved and gave a little jump; he was plainly excited to see me. I couldn't help but smile. Mulder hefted a bag containing two more goldfish.

"I don't want to know where you've been," I said, shaking my head.

"Sigmund and Freud," he said, giving the fish a shake. The water sloshed and the fish changed directions; I felt sorry for them, wondering how long they'd been trapped in that bag. "What do you think?"

"I think you'd better get them dumped into the tank and then start packing. We're leaving town on a case."

Mulder handed the bag of fish to Frohike, who smiled down at them. I couldn't help but wonder if the fish could see him, looking down through the plastic, blinking through water-distorted eyes. Mulder opened the door and we all shuffled in, Frohike taking the time to inquire as to how I'd been. I told him that work kept me busy, and that chasing Mulder down kept me even more so. He chuckled at that, making his way over to Mulder's fish tank. He popped a hole in the bag and placed it inside, letting the waters mingle; it wouldn't do to startle the fish in the bag. This way, Frohike said with great authority, the fish in the bag and the fish in the tank could get to know each other without anyone really violating anyone else's space.

Personal space was important, I knew that. Relinquishing that space--letting anyone inside--was difficult. Mulder went back to his bedroom, grumbling as he packed. Langly and Byers thought they would be of help; I wondered if they hadn't heard Frohike's treatise on violating space.

"Where're we going?" Mulder asked in between batting Langly away from his closet and pushing Byers away from the dresser.

"Mandeville, Louisiana," I said, "by way of New Orleans."

"Crawfish for dinner, Scully," Mulder said, chipper to the end. He wasn't annoyed by this sudden change of plans.

~*~

9:45 a.m.

On the plane, we had the row of seats to ourselves. Mulder took the window, giving me the aisle. I whispered a thank you as we settled; I'm still not a very good flier, even though we spend a great deal of time in the air. The less I had to look out the window, the better. Mulder even pulled the plastic shade down.

After takeoff, the flight attendants came around asking about drinks. Mulder took iced tea, I went for orange juice. My morning had been rushed and I was already in need of a nap. When Danish was served, I could hardly believe my eyes; Mulder even forked his over, saying he had stuffed himself with hot dogs and sodas. That still didn't make me want to ask where he'd been.

As we looked through the photos Skinner had included in the file, I almost wished I hadn't eaten. Stapled to the file folder itself was a photograph of a young girl, ten or eleven by my guess. Her ebony skin was flawless, her teeth brilliantly white as she smiled for the camera. Her hair was a mass of dark dreadlocks, her eyes shining like river stones.

Her name was Ophelia Washington and a week ago, she had gone missing. Three days ago, she was found in the street outside her home, dead. The file went on to speak about ghostly white figures and crop circles. People claimed the girl had been abducted by aliens and returned as a warning. The entire community had closed itself off, though. No one would talk. When mention of the paranormal came up, the case shifted from the Louisiana Bureau to me and Mulder, thanks to Skinner. He believed in our ability to squelch the rumours and get to the truth.

If that truth had anything to do with rebel aliens, I wanted out. That wasn't fair of me, to look at this girl and deny her the solution to her murder, but everything about this unsettled me. The murder of a child is never something that would sit easily, but something in Ophelia Washington's eyes bothered me. She had trusted the world and she had been snuffed out like a candle flame.

Mulder and I worked through the flight, planning how we would attack the case once we reached Mandeville. Somewhere over Georgia, I fell asleep, vaguely aware of Mulder requesting a pillow and tucking it between my shoulder and cheek. The pillowcase was thin paper, easily disposed of before the next flight; it rubbed my cheek as turbulence made the cabin shudder.

My dreams were disjointed; I was following Mulder through a swamp decorated with Spanish moss. He was chasing a ghostly white figure and when he caught it, he pulled away the rubbery alien costume to reveal Diana Fowley hidden beneath. I came awake with a groan, clutching the pillow in my fist. I didn't need to be a dream analyst to know what that one meant.

The plane shook again and the lights flickered. The captain came on and told us to keep our seatbelts on; flight 242 was coming into New Orleans in heavy rain.

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III. THE SENSES OF THE SOUL

Once he drew
With one long kiss
My whole soul through
My lips.

~ Tennyson

The house seemed to sing around me as I tiptoed downstairs that night; I thought I knew every creak in the floor, but I was proven wrong. Everything was thrown into blue-black shadows and I half expected something to jump out at me. Mostly it was my imagination that was jumping.

I found my mother's purse easily enough, and the pack of cigarettes right where I knew they would be. I slipped one out and took her lighter, slipping out the back door. I crouched on the porch, contemplating the rolled tobacco between my fingers. A shiver of delight ran down my spine; I sat on the top step, needing a little more balance.

The night was filled with cricket song and was as still as a casket in the ground. Nothing moved. The sky was clear, filled with a billion stars. I didn't want to be up there; the things I wanted were down here. No, I didn't want to be an astronaut. When I graduated from college--maybe I'd be a vet, even though I couldn't stand snakes. My clinic wouldn't take them--that would be simple enough.

I placed the cigarette between my lips, getting used to the feel of it there. The filter was spongy and already had a faint taste of tobacco. I flicked the lighter, the flame erasing my night vision. It wavered and I realized my hand was shaking.

*Come now,* I thought. *Fling the back door open and rail at me. Come now. Last chance.*

No one came. I brought the flame to the end of the cigarette, listening to the paper and tobacco crinkle as it burned. I drew in a breath and coughed, smoke pluming around me. It filtered into the clear night sky, up toward my parents' window.

*Come now. Smell it and come down. I dare you.* My father and mother slept on, oblivious.

I put the lighter out, watching the glowing tip of the cigarette. I brought it back to my mouth, inhaling slowly this time. The smoke filled me and for a moment erased everything else. And then I coughed again. I spit to clear my mouth and throat, and then laughed.

I inhaled again; it was smoother this time. This was somehow exciting; I knew it was something I wasn't supposed to be doing, and it made me shiver. At any second I could be caught and--

A throat being cleared made me turn in alarm. Panic punched me in the gut, but it turned to surprise when I saw Paul Overstreet standing at the side gate. I looked at him through a haze of smoke and he looked more mature than he had in previous weeks. Paul and I had been flirting for a long time now; while I went to an all-girls school, Paul went to the neighbouring all-boys school. Why they put the schools so close together was still beyond me.

Paul and I had seen each other at joint school functions, basketball games and the like. Melissa was always dragging me to them, and once I'd spied Paul, I hadn't much minded. His smile was beautiful even with the crooked front teeth, and so were his hands. His eyes were like the whipped chocolate on my last birthday cake, while his hair was sandy like a beach.

I stubbed the cigarette out on the porch and made my way to the gate, smiling at Paul. I was dressed in only my white cotton nightgown, while he wore jeans, a dark jacket pulled over his T-shirt.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. He didn't live all that far away, though it was after midnight and we had school tomorrow.

"Was just out walking," he said, shrugging.

My smile widened. Paul was on his school's track team and had the longest legs. He was tall, his body well defined from hours spent running and walking the track. "Just walking," I said, coming up to the gate. I stepped up along the bottom edge; this still didn't put me even with Paul's height.

He looked down at me, brushing his finger down my bare arm. "I saw the light on in your window," he said, hands resting on the flat top of the gate. "Thought I should see if you were all right."

"I'm all right."

Paul laughed. "Yeah, out here sneaking a cigarette." His thumb brushed over my lips. "You smell like smoke."

"I probably taste like it, too." Unintentionally, it was an invitation. I leaned forward, not really aware of how close I placed myself to Paul until his hands took hold of my arms. His hands were warm compared to my night-cool arms. I looked up at him and he pressed his mouth over mine.

My hands tightened on the gate; new sensations flooded me, heat in my lips, a twist in my belly, and a tug even lower which surprised me most of all. He pulled back, staring down at me with a mixture of surprise and desire. My mouth quirked in a smile; was he surprised that he had actually kissed me, or that I hadn't shoved him backward and run away? His hands still held me and I stood on my tiptoes, feeling the gate sway as I kissed him this time.

Paul's mouth tasted like toothpaste and I squeezed my eyes shut; he hadn't just been out for a walk. This time, I parted my lips ever so slightly. Paul's mouth opened to me and when his tongue swept against mine, my feet came off the gate. I thought I would soar straight up into the stars, but I came down against the ground. Paul's hands tightened on me and we laughed.

"You do taste like smoke," he said.

I smiled, rocking back on my bare feet; the grass was prickly under them, cool.

"But I don't mind," he added.

And then he was gone, down the path that wound around the house, disappearing into the night. I hugged my arms around myself and twirled in a circle, spying the cigarette butt on the porch step.

As I went inside, I left it there. The night was full of mystery; let them wonder.

~*~

The rain in New Orleans was so heavy that Mulder and I decided to wait it out at the hotel. We got checked in, finding that our rooms were at either end of an impossibly long hallway. I glared at its length. Another hallway.

It was all the hotel had, if we wanted to share the same floor. If we didn't, well, the rooms could be closer. The glare I gave the desk clerk didn't help anything. So, I was in room 601, while Mulder was in 650. So be it. At least the rooms were warm and dry.

I hung my coat up and pulled the curtains open, watching the rain come down. While Mulder continued to try and charm his way into a room closer to my own, I settled in with the file, going through the photographs and evidence one more time.

Ophelia Washington would never know a boy's kiss; she would never smoke a cigarette on her parent's back porch, waiting and daring someone to catch her. That made my throat go tight. There were so many things this child would not get a chance to experience--and that just wasn't right.

Before I let myself go farther down that path, I looked through the solid evidence, distancing myself from anything emotional. Through the years, it was as though I had become two women--one emotional, one not. Turning one off had become easy, and I briefly wondered if that should scare me.

Ophelia Washington had vanished on February 22 and had been found dead on the 26th. We had sketchy reports from people regarding the night of the 22nd; the weather had been clear and the sky had been full of lights. People spoke of pale figures roaming the field behind the Washington home, and there was talk of crop circles. The local press was screaming alien abduction; they took cows before, hadn't they? Now, they'd stepped it up, for Opheila Washington was no cow and her death deserved a swift resolution.

I scowled at the talk of alien abduction, but knew that it could be all too true. Admitting that was still difficult, but after everything I had seen and learned lately--refusing the truth would be even more difficult. I thought of the faceless aliens and wondered if they had come to take Ophelia. Had they come for her before? Did she have a chip? No--she couldn't--she was too young. Wasn't she?

I reached back, rubbing my own chip. Just under my skin, it felt like an ever-present bug bite. Not that it itched, but it was like a small welt. I held firm the belief that Ophelia's abduction had more earthly origins, yet that didn't exactly comfort me, either. I had seen what humans were capable of--too many times.

The phone rang and I went to it, wondering when we had become slaves to such bells. Mulder was on the other end, still trapped in room 650. He made his voice echo over the line and it made me smile. He noted that the rain hadn't let up in the least, and wondered if we should get lunch, call Skinner, and then get in touch with the Washingtons.

It sounded like a plan to me. Mulder said he would handle lunch, if I would handle Skinner. Far be it for me to shirk my duty. I retrieved my cell phone from my case and punched the single button that would get me to Skinner. Kim Cook picked up on the second ring and transferred me right away. I listened to the perfect silence of the line; there wasn't a shred of static.

*It was silent like this in the white room. Was it silent like this for Ophelia?*

"Scully."

Skinner's voice slicing across that silence made me close my eyes. I swallowed hard, skin turning to gooseflesh. I opened my eyes, focusing on the rain beyond the window. It poured down in an even thunder; the sky was pewter, brushed with charcoal and I didn't like the sketch.

I told him where things stood, that we were mostly settled, but waiting out the downpour. The Washingtons would be called after lunch--which was really when I should have called him, when I knew more. Skinner said he was glad to hear from me now and I smiled, knowing how frustrating the walls of his office were. I told him I would call again after we had spoken with the family; he said they were expecting a call, and were anxious for any help the FBI could lend.

There was a sharp knock at my door and Mulder in a falsetto voice calling out "room service!" I ended the call with Skinner and tossed the phone aside, letting Mulder in. He wheeled a cart into the room and I frowned.

"Did you steal someone else's lunch?" I asked; room service had never been this quick before.

"I paid for it," Mulder said, parking the cart near the table, sweeping the lids off the plates. "Ah, we got good stuff."

I closed the door and joined Mulder at the table, taking the club sandwich before he could claim it. I did not want the hot dog slathered in sauerkraut. Mulder dug into it happily, asking how Skinner was around his mouthful of food.

We passed the hours as we had so often before; we worked well together, and we began to order the evidence we had and prepare for meeting and questioning the Washingtons. Mulder asked me to make the call to them; he said a female voice might be more personable, more approachable. It wasn't the first time it had been suggested to me. I made the call, realizing I was shaking as I dialed the number.

I reviewed the names in the file as the phone rang, not wanting to screw up and ask for George. When the phone was picked up, I was met with a slight hiss of static, and then a man's voice.

"Washington residence."

I asked for Jeffrey Washington, the father, and he turned out to be the one who had answered. I explained who I was and the change in his voice was remarkable. He was plainly thrilled that we had come out so quickly. His reaction should have put me at ease, but it didn't; I suddenly felt like a circus performer, like I was juggling a dozen plates at once--and that they were all rare pieces of Haviland china. The Washingtons had placed such faith in us--I hoped that we wouldn't let them down.

"We'll be out as soon as the rain lets up," I said, looking out the window again. There was no change; the rain beat down as though it meant to make a permanent impression on the ground.

"You don't want to drive across that bridge in rain, Agent Scully," Jeffrey said. "Y'all take your time and we'll see you when you get here--we have enough room if the storm blows back up and you want to stay."

I closed my eyes, feeling a little nauseous. *Please don't do this,* I wanted to say. *Don't place this much faith on our tired shoulders. Please.* But, of course, I didn't say any of it.

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IV. REDUCED TO RUIN

Where there is ruin, there is hope for treasure.

~ Rumi

The rain eased up after three, and Mulder and I headed out, taking the rental across Lake Pontchartrain. The bridge was wreathed in fog; fog covered the surface of the lake so completely that we couldn't see the water. It felt like we were driving through a marshmallow. The twenty-four mile bridge is low to the water and at times, it felt like we were sinking.

Mandeville was situated on the northern edge of the lake, nearly straight across from New Orleans. In the nineteenth-century, it had been an escape of sorts for the wealthy. The Washingtons lived in one of the older neighbourhoods and--

The tires shrieked against the road and Mulder's hand slapped into my belly, pressing me back into the seat. A car zipped past us, spraying water over the windshield. I grabbed Mulder's hand as the car slowed and came to a stop; other drivers sped past us, honking as though we were a hindrance.

"And you complained about California drivers," Mulder said.

"We should have waited until tomorrow," I said. "This fog is miserable, Mulder; the headlights barely cut through it." But waiting until tomorrow would have been hard for the Washingtons; easy on us, but hard on them. They wanted to get moving and the quicker we got into this, the better our chances for solving it.

We had brought overnight bags just in case; Jeffrey Washington had invited us, though I couldn't quite imagine staying. I never wanted to trouble people, though Mulder was always ready to take bed and food where it was offered. I often likened him to a stray kitten; he always took it, because he didn't know when it would next be offered.

Mulder eased the car back into motion. "I'd just like to get things started so we have a better chance for solving this," he said. "If this has anything to do with the rebels--"

He broke off, and I nodded. "I know," I said, looking down at my hands in my lap; they were curled around the seatbelt. "It's almost more terrifying if it doesn't have anything to do with them."

Mulder echoed me. "I know."

~*~

The Washington home was beautiful; two-stories, rising amid a canopy of trees that seemed older than the Earth itself. The house was white, black shutters flanking each window, a deep covered porch running around the entire circumference. Ferns and purple-black fuschia hung from the porch eaves, plush furniture well sheltered from any storm against the house itself. It was everything that said tradition and safety. Ophelia Washington should have been safe here, but she hadn't been.

It made my heart ache. That wasn't an unfamiliar feeling for me, though, so I pressed on. Mulder and I made our way to the front door, rain dribbling on us from the trees; the storm had passed, but the leaves were still wet and heavy with moisture.

Before we reached the door, it opened. The man who stood there was tall, and I could tell by his grin that this was Jeffrey Washington. This was the grin I had heard on the phone; this was the man who had placed his daughter's soul into our hands. We were to see that she was made safe.

"Agent Scully," he said; his voice was smooth like whipped butter and his hands were large, like towels warm from the dryer as they enclosed my own. I returned his smile, knowing how to put that old mask in place and not show the unease I really felt.

"Mr. Washington."

He shook his head. "Call me Jeffrey," he said, giving my hands a squeeze before moving on to greet Mulder. "You, too," he insisted.

Jeffrey took us into the living room, a bright place coloured in yellows, oranges, and white. The walls were alternately white and yellow; it made the place feel like the inside of an orange, like we had been swallowed by fruit. Oddly enough, it was comforting. Mulder and I sat on the couch, Mulder's fingers absently tracing over the orange and brown pattern there.

I wondered if places like this were uncomfortable for him. I saw again that stray kitten, poking its head in from the rainy day, looking around in wonder because all of this was so very un-familiar. This was nothing like the worlds Mulder and I had come from; it was closer to my own, but not by much.

The photograph of the dreadlocked girl on the mantle seemed to call out to me; I caught sight of it immediately. I crossed to it and looked at Ophelia, the pictures of her parents and grandparents. She was an only child--had been an only child. When I looked back at Jeffrey Washington, he had tears in his dark eyes.

"You have a beautiful place," I said.

He smiled and nodded, blinking the tears away. "Ophelia said it was like a fairy castle; she often pretended to fly through the trees in the back--" He broke off, shaking his head. "I know this isn't what you came for. We might as well get down to it. Mae is putting the finishing touches on some tea for us."

In moments, we were joined by Mae Washington; I could see where Ophelia had gotten her smile. Mae brought a tea tray laden with cups, a steaming pot of tea, and snacks. There were small, crustless sandwiches, cookies, and small candies that looked like leaves. While she poured, Jeffrey began to detail his daughter's disappearance.

His words sounded rehearsed, and I had to wonder how many times he had gone over this with the police. After the Smith and Ramsey cases, suspicion fell to the parents much sooner than it ever had before. Watching Jeffrey and Mae, I didn't believe them capable of doing this. There was something inside of Mae that I recognized--the need to nurture and not harm, the desire to protect anything that came close to her. With her tea and snacks, she said that she would take care of us during our stay; she said it silently, but it was loud enough for me to hear.

The band of gold around Mae's finger was worn smooth; Jeffrey's was likewise. I knew from the report that they had married out of college, and had had Ophelia two years later. This was the American dream. They were working at the careers they had longed for--he a computer analyst, she a poet--they had had their beautiful daughter and their perfect home--and something had reached out and taken that away. I knew it wasn't fair. They knew it wasn't fair. We had to deal with this twist in the dream.

I was reminded of the twist in the dream I'd had on the plane; Diana Fowley in the alien suit. I sipped at my tea, hiding the shiver the memory gave me. No need to dwell on that; the dream was no mystery to me.

"Was there anything odd about the day Ophelia vanished?" Mulder asked. Despite his suggestion that I be the first one to approach the Washingtons, I knew Mulder could have a delicate hand when interrogating. He knew when to use force and when not to. Now, his voice was soft and inquisitive; he sounded as though he really wanted to get to the bottom of this--he sounded as genuine as I knew he was.

Mae shook her head. "I took her to school like I usually do; she had her flute with her because she had band after classes. That night, she just never came home."

"The police report says that none of her classmates saw anything amiss," I said.

Jeffrey nodded. "They said Ophelia headed home, the way she usually goes. She usually walks alone, so that wasn't surprising."

"To you or whoever did this." I hated to say it. "Whoever is responsible may have been watching your daughter. They may have known that she walked alone. You haven't been able to provide the police with a list of suspects, is that correct?"

"There's no one who would do this--no one in our circle," Jeffrey said. "I was insulted by the implication that we might know who did this--but I got over that. We didn't do it, and we don't know who did."

Mulder's teacup clicked against its saucer. "Mr. Washington, the reports from neighbours say that there were lights in the sky that night, that there are some crop circles in your field."

Jeffrey nodded. "There is also talk about pale figures walking out in the fields. Are you going to tell me you think my daughter was killed by aliens, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder shook his head. "I'm not going to tell you that. Not right now. We are, however, investigating all possible avenues."

Mae Washington exhaled; it was like watching the air go out of a balloon. Jeffrey reached out and squeezed his wife's arm. She leaned into him and we all sat in silence, waiting for something I couldn't define. As I watched, I saw the flood of expression on Mae's face. She was in her early thirties, but now, she looked aged. She looked like she would need a cane to walk; she needed Jeffrey's strength to merely sit and listen to the questions.

When Mulder squeezed my arm, I jumped. I covered his hand with my own and looked at him, smiling softly. It was a smile I had given a hundred thousand times, to dozens of people. Mulder was one of three people who knew how to read through it. The smile said "I'm fine, I can handle it, let's continue." The underlying message was "bullshit--I am not fine with this and just want it to end."

Mulder looked from me to the windows, gauging the rain.

"It's too wet to walk out to the field tonight," Jeffrey said. "You'd get soaked to the bone. Why don't you two stay here tonight and depending on the weather, I'll take you out tomorrow? We've got plenty of room."

"Thank you," Mulder said.

Silently, I decided that it *would* be better than driving back to the hotel in the foggy darkness. Mulder followed Jeffrey into the depths of the house, Jeffrey going on about the many bedrooms this place afforded. I looked at Mae, watching as a new emotion bloomed across her aged face. This place had a lot of bedrooms, yes it did, and Mae had intended on filling each and every one of them.

"Mae."

She looked up at me; in that moment, she caught me. Maybe it was my voice, or my expression, but I could tell that she knew. I, too, had lost a child somewhere along the way; I, too, had dreamed of filling bedrooms. I, too, would never be the same, but always hoped I'd somehow be stronger for the experience.

Mae smiled then and reached out for my hand. "Come with me."

She took me upstairs; from here, we could hear the rain beating against the roof as it began to come down hard again. Mae drew me to the back corner of the house, to the room that could only be Ophelia's.

The room was drawn in shades of green; it was easy to see that it had been Ophelia's favourite colour. The bedspread was covered with twining leaves and vines and there was a brilliant bouquet of sunflowers in the corner window. The walls were covered with a pale green paint that reminded me of the belly of a frog.

Her interests were plain--she loved books and science. Looking at her microscope, I was reminded of my own childhood and pain welled up inside of me. So much had been taken from this family, I honestly didn't see how Mulder and I would be able to set this right.

Mae asked nothing of me--but she had brought me into this room. With that, I felt an unspoken request. *Please understand that there are real people involved here, that there is more than a file; there is a real child, and a real need to find her killer. Don't file her away like so many other cases.*

I remembered Mae saying something about Ophelia's flute, but I didn't see the case anywhere and then remembered that Ophelia had had it with her the night she disappeared. There was a stack of sheet music in one corner and I smiled; I would have liked to meet Ophelia--but maybe she was still here.

*See this,* I could hear her saying. *This is my microscope, a gift from my grandmother two years ago. The first thing I looked at was a piece of grass; it ended up making me sneeze because I've got hay fever. And here's my books--I like fantasy books the best, especially C.S. Lewis. Look how worn the spines are--Momma wants to replace them with new copies, but I like the old ones.*

"I don't know what to do with it all," Mae said. "It still seems like she'll be coming home--even though I know she's down at the morgue."

I knew the look on her face--I'd seen it before, on so many different faces, I'd lost track. She wanted to ask if I would have to see Ophelia. I nodded. "I will likely see her tomorrow."

Mae nodded, smoothing the corner of the bedspread down. "I saw her--and whatever did this to her, it wasn't an alien." She sniffled, but didn't cry. She shook it off and smiled at me. "Come with me--I'll show you around, show you the guest rooms."

She led me to a room far down the hall from Ophelia's room. The room was small and cozy; the rain blew against the windows now, but the panes didn't rattle. The house was solid, despite the storm outside.

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V. GETTING THROUGH

Think in the morning. Act in the noon.
Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night.

~ William Blake

"What did I tell you, Scully--crawfish for dinner."

Mulder was grinning from ear to ear when Mae and I entered the kitchen. Jeffrey had started dinner and the kitchen was alive with marvelous scents. Mulder lifted two crawfish, then placed them back in the water-filled sink with their brothers and sisters.

Despite the reason we were here, the kitchen was a bright, happy place. Mae joined her husband in the cooking, scrubbing the red potatoes and shucking corn. As they worked, Mulder and I perched on barstools at the kitchen island and watched. We listened to them talk--of anything other than Ophelia. Mulder and Jeffrey traded barbs about basketball teams while Mae smiled and shook her head, taking the roasted garlic from the oven.

We ate right there in the kitchen, slathering the garlic on thick chunks of fresh bread. The crawfish, corn, and potatoes were taken from the pot and dumped into the center of the kitchen island; newspapers soaked up the water and we helped ourselves to the mess. Mulder was like a kid; he approached everything with an enthusiasm that I often envied. All the crap he had been through hadn't dimmed the light in his eyes.

The spices that had been added to the dinner did make his eyes water, though. Mae and Jeffrey laughed at him and offered tissues while Mulder shelled more crawfish.

As the candles and conversation dwindled, I felt my eyes drooping. Mulder went for our bags, while I helped Mae and Jeffrey tidy the kitchen--as much as they would let me. They shooed me away soon enough and I wound my way to the front door, watching Mulder out at the car.

The rain had stopped, though fog lay close to the ground and thick in the trees. I was glad we wouldn't be driving back to the hotel in it. I crossed my arms, looking up the street, then down and across. The neighbours across the way were watching me. A man and a woman stood arm in arm at their front door, their faces stony. They saw me notice them and I smiled, but they didn't move.

When Mulder joined me, I took my bag and inclined my head to the couple. Mulder looked at them, but they still didn't move.

"Boo," Mulder whispered. It was only then that they turned and went inside. "That was spooky," he said. "They didn't look very friendly."

Living where we did, it was easy to avoid one's neighbours. We all came and went our own ways and didn't have to talk to anyone if we didn't want to. In a community like this, it seemed people should be closer. They should spend weekends mowing laws and sharing lemonade. The idyllic premise might have been naive of me, but that is what a community like this said to me. It was nothing like what we had seen in California--this place felt like a real community, or at least it had until I'd seen the neighbours.

"Do we have any information about them?" I asked Mulder as we went back inside and closed the door.

"We have statements from all of the neighbours, but I'm not sure who they are specifically. We'll have to look them up."

Mae and Jeffrey invited us for drinks in front of the fire, but Mulder and I declined; we were both fading fast. In my room, I settled in with the statements taken from the neighbours. The couple were Mary and Charles Newlin. They had seen the lights in the sky on the night of the 22nd, but other than that, nothing out of the ordinary. They had one child, Jeanne, but according to the report, Ophelia and Jeanne hadn't been friends. Charles Newlin had been the one to report Jeffrey in the road with Ophelia's dead body.

There was a knock on my door and I crawled out of bed, letting Mulder in. He joined me on the bed and we shuffled through the reports together, talking about the Washingtons. Mulder agreed with me--the parents weren't suspect at all.

"I'm going to take a look at the field tomorrow," Mulder said. "I hope all this rain hasn't destroyed any of the markings." Mulder also needed to be in touch with the police who had handled the case initially; we had to claim the rest of the file, which included photographs of the field and the supposed crop circles.

I nodded. "I figure I should head to St. Tammany Parish and examine Ophelia for myself. Get the full coroner's report." They hadn't wanted to release it electronically; someone would have to come in person. "What do you make of the Newlins?"

Mulder shook his head. "They don't know who we are--they could have just been watching out of curiosity."

"I smiled at them and they didn't move, Mulder. They just stood there like statuary."

"Can't be easy for the neighbours," he said. "Dead body found right on your own street. I can't imagine what that's done to this community. You can take the rental tomorrow, Scully; Jeffrey said he'd take me anywhere I needed to go. Unless you wanted me at the hospital?"

His hand brushed over my arm, a comforting gesture. It seemed to me that Mulder and I always touched more when the case was a complicated or disturbing one. This one was both. I shook my head.

"I shouldn't be there too long. Claim the file, examine the body. Three hours, tops. Thanks for offering, though." I smiled and Mulder ducked his head, as if embarrassed that he *had* offered. I squeezed his hand before he could draw it away.

"Night, Scully," he said.

"Night."

He slipped out of the room as quietly as he had come and I lay back into the pillows, reading through the Newlin's statement again.

~*~

Things went smoothly at the hospital; the file was completely in order and everyone was helpful. If this was a genuine X-File, or had alien involvement of any kind, I hadn't seen it yet. In the cool autopsy bay, Ophelia was waiting for me.

For a moment, she reminded me of an Egyptian princess. Her body was draped in a white sheet, and it almost looked as though her arms were crossed over her chest. I could envision her jeweled sarcophagus, decorated with beetles perhaps, since she liked science. I drew the sheet back and had to look away, even though I knew what I would find. While waiting for the body to be prepared for me, I had read the complete file on Ophelia Washington.

When I looked back at her, nothing had changed. Her skin was dusky gray, marred by the wounds that had taken her life. The injuries to her didn't look like anything alien; they looked far too human. The coroner had ruled the weapon to be a knife, perhaps even a scimitar sword. Nothing alien, the girl had just been cut into ribbons.

She'd been sewn neatly together post-autopsy though, and I felt no need to open her back up. Working through the notes, I confirmed everything to my own satisfaction. I stood and looked at her for a long time, wishing she could tell me who did this.

I wished she could open her eyes and tell me, step by step, what happened to her from February 22nd to the 26th. What had happened after school and what had happened during those four days?

The medical report said Ophelia hadn't been raped or sexually abused in any way; her hymen was intact, her mouth, vagina, and anus were free of any semen or injures. That surprised me; young children were commonly returned with evidence of sexual abuse. There had been none here.

That relieved me more than I could say, but looking at the wounds that *had* been done to her, I shivered. Whoever had done this had been motivated by violence alone. Ophelia was left like a tattered flag, but why? Who would do this to her and why?

Her teachers at Mandeville Middle School had been interviewed; all were shocked and saddened. According to the reports, Ophelia was one of their best students, which hadn't surprised me after seeing her room. She had liked learning.

I wondered if she had learned something she shouldn't have, if she had crossed a line that someone had drawn. It didn't seem likely to me. Looking down at her still body, I didn't have the first clue why this had been done to her. Maybe, when there were other victims, I could--

"When." The word echoed in the cool room. No--there wouldn't be others. There couldn't be. This was not the work of a serial killer--at least I hoped.

The city had instituted a curfew and I thought that was wise. Just in case. Part of me wanted this to be the work of Mulder's aliens, but I was beginning to believe that it wasn't. The autopsy report showed nothing abnormal about Ophelia's body; no implants, no radiation, no unidentifiable DNA. Nothing out of the ordinary.

What it lacked was also important, I supposed. There had been no fibers, nothing to be scraped from under the nails; nothing that would allow anyone to trace the killer. That told me the killer was smart. I didn't like smart killers. Why couldn't we get a stupid one, one who left his business card tucked inside the victim's pocket or something?

Realizing how disturbed that sounded, I covered Ophelia and left the bay, letting the dienar know that he could put the body away. Ophelia would remain in the morgue until we were satisfied there was nothing her body could tell us. I wasn't ready to release her for burial, even though I knew the Washingtons were anxious for that.

Leaving the morgue, my cell phone rang and I closed the file I carried, lifting my phone. "Scully."

"Scully, it's me."

I smiled. Those words had done different things to me through the years. The first time I had heard them, I'd been annoyed. *This agent doesn't know how to identify himself and properly address me? That's Agent Scully to you, bucko.* I hadn't said any of that to Mulder; he had launched straight into the matter he'd called about.

As time wore on, I had grown accustomed to the three words--if Mulder began with anything else, I knew something was up. There were times when he answered with something salacious, when he knew I would be calling. I have counted one hundred and ten different ways to answer "what are you wearing." I think Mulder sees it as a challenge now.

"The file from the sheriff is in perfect order," Mulder said; I could hear him shuffling through papers. "In fact, it's more orderly than anything I've seen in years. They really know how to handle things down here."

I wondered if that was because they had perfected a good system or because they'd had so many murders and so much practice at filing those reports. I hoped it was the former. While Tammany Parish was one of the quickest growing in all of Louisiana, their crime rate was low.

"Same with the hospital files," I said. "Are you heading out to the field?"

"Yeah, I'm on my way back to the Washingtons now."

"I'll meet you there."

The drive back to the Washingtons was silent; the rain had stopped, though thick clouds still churned in the sky above. I knew that it would rain again tonight and I looked forward to it. I smiled, remembering when, at seven years old, I had run outside into a rainstorm. It had been the middle of the night; my mother had yelled over the thunder, worrying about me catching cold.

"You don't get sick from being cold!" I had screamed back at the top of my lungs. The neighbour's dog had taken to barking at that and I had laughed and laughed, twirling around while the rain soaked me.

My father had pulled me back inside, wrapping me in a warm towel, rubbing my hair until it stood on end, making me look like I had been caught in the lightning. He told me that for tonight, I was his white whale. He had caught me and we could all sleep soundly now.

I tossed and turned, wondering exactly where the harpoon had caught me.

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VI. SHEDDING LIGHT

When the lamp is shattered
The light in the dust lies dead--
When the cloud is scattered
The rainbow's glory is shed.

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley

When I reached the Washingtons, Mae told me the men had gone out to the field. She took me through the house to the backdoor, pointing the way. A flagstone path trailed around the backyard, winding its way through a line of trees. Beyond that, I could see the field, stretching toward another line of trees.

Mae stayed in the house; I couldn't blame her for not wanting to come with me. She said she had work in the house to do, but I knew the truth. If the evidence in the field had anything to do with her daughter's disappearance and subsequent murder, she wanted to stay as far away as possible.

The grass was still damp, the ground soaked from the rain. The trees had begun to bud, though it was still cool enough to require a coat. I pulled mine more firmly around me, shoving my hands into my pockets. The stone path went straight to the field, ending in a dirt path. The dirt path trailed in both directions from the tree line, and I could imagine children running down it, summer wind tugging their kites upward.

Mae told me this was a place where the community would come. This is where summer picnics were held, where more than one wedding had taken place, where everyone felt free to have fun. Now, it was silent, winter-pale grasses rising toward the sky. In the distance, there was another line of trees; through the limbs, I could see more houses.

Mulder and Jeffrey were farther into the field. Mulder had his collection of photographs out, and Jeffrey made a gesture to the far east end of the field.

"Lights all over the place," I heard him say.

"Lights--specifically, or in general?" Mulder asked. "Could you see individual lights, or was it just bright out here?"

Jeffrey considered the question. I stepped into the tall grasses, following the path Mulder and Jeffrey had made earlier; the grass was bent by their footsteps, and farther out, it was smashed into a clear circle. It was beginning to come back up, but the pattern was still clear. I bent to the ground, puling out my gloves. The police had been over this field, but I didn't want to destroy possible evidence.

The stalks of the grasses were bent at the ground, looking like they could have been smashed with feet stepping on a board. The number of crop circle hoaxes were great; those which remained unexplained were few. I straightened, brushing my hands over the top of the grass around me. I felt as though I had been swallowed in the grass; I could see why children would take a liking to this place. They could hide easily.

"I'm not sure," Jeffrey said, in answer to Mulder's question about the lights.

"Did Ophelia play here?" I asked him, walking out into the circle.

Jeffrey turned toward me with a faint smile. "She came here to collect bugs. I wouldn't say she played; she didn't have many friends outside of school, none who would come over for a play date or anything like that."

"And on the night of her disappearance, there was activity out here?"

"Of some sort. All of us heard the noise and saw the lights. I just don't know if it was lights or light in general like Agent Mulder asked."

I looked at Mulder. "Lights" could imply an alien craft, while "light" in general could imply a more human source. The crop circle looked human-made to me, the same way Ophelia's wounds had looked human-made.

"Can you describe the noise?" I asked.

Jeffrey shook his head. "It was..." He exhaled. "I tried to describe it for the police and I couldn't. Squealing tires and chalk against a board is the best I can come to doing it."

Tires and chalk, both of which made no sense out here in this field. Mulder and Jeffrey walked on, out of the circle, to another marking in the field. I followed, taking the file of pictures from Mulder. It almost looked like an arrow, two lines coming together, one shorter than the other, as though it were pointing toward something. The grass here was burned. Further on, there was a similar mark, and a third, and forth.

Mulder and Jeffrey continued to each one, but I stayed at the first, breaking off a piece of the charred grass. I brought it to my nose, smelling. It smelled like fire, very basic and elemental. I touched the grass to my tongue, tasting. It tasted of burned grass and rain, nothing more. No accelerant.

The police report confirmed as much. Mulder was right when he said the report was thorough. I was impressed by the detail. I flipped through the many photographs, a few of them taken from the air. There was no specific pattern to the markings that I could see; the arrows, if they were that, didn't seem to point to anything of importance. One went west, one went east, another mostly northeast.

I closed the file, watching Mulder bend over another of the marks. He brushed the grass aside the way he might caress the cheek of a lover and I shivered. The grass rippled under his gloved hand, then slowly settled. I followed the line of his back, up to the sky, watching as a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds.

It looked like that moment in *The Wizard of Oz,* when Dorothy looks at the sky just before the storm comes rambling in. Right before all hell breaks loose and her life is changed forever. I looked away from the clouds, willing the sunshine to retreat. I don't know why it bothered me, but right then, it made me feel uneasy--as though it would show me something I didn't want to see.

And then--I did see it.

A young man across the field, lurking in the trees. He turned away, and was swallowed by shadow. A shiver traced its way up my spine and I realized I was gripping the folder hard enough to make it curl. He emerged back into sunlight, in a back yard to one of the houses over there. He looked back once, then vanished inside.

In that moment, the clouds closed back over the sun.

I made my way back inside then, finding Mae in the kitchen. She was emptying the dishwasher, cleaning up from last night's feast. She gave me a tight smile as I settled onto a barstool, placing the file of photographs before me.

"Have you seen the photographs of the field?" I asked.

"Didn't need to."

"Mae--"

"I didn't need to see that field ever again, Agent Scully." She stopped her work, looking at me with eyes that seemed to have seen a thousand horrors. "I went there with Ophelia the day before she vanished; she found a grasshopper, just a tiny thing. Caught him in her jar and looked at him for a good long time. She would have to let him go back to his momma--he was too small and deserved a chance to grow up."

Mae turned away from me, shaking her head as she stared out the kitchen window. Ophelia would never have that chance, I thought.

"We lived here for two years," Mae said. "Nothing but good times. Nothing but."

Yet, I thought to myself, Ophelia hadn't had any close friends. In two years, this little girl had kept to herself, within these walls, the yard, the field. Her friends had been bugs and knowledge; she hadn't had slumber parties, or girls to giggle with. Where were the good times, I wondered.

"Are you sure about that?" I asked.

Mae turned around, her eyes filled with unshed tears. She blinked and they rushed down her cheeks, but she wiped them away. "What do you mean by that?" Her voice came out sounding strained, like she knew exactly what I meant.

"Your husband said Ophelia didn't have any friends; I get the impression that her classmates were just that--people she happened to share classes with, no one to make a long-term friendship with. Do you have friends within the community?"

Mae didn't answer me. She turned back to the dishes, withdrawing a glass from the rack, wiping its bottom dry.

"Mae--"

"I think you had better go, Agent Scully."

Her voice had dropped to a whisper now. It was a whisper that said "don't you dare tell anyone this conversation happened because I will deny it to the bottom of my soul."

So, I went. I traced my way back to the guest room I had been given, looking at the family photographs that hung on the walls.

In the silence of my room, I looked out to the field, watching Mulder and Jeffrey, watching the young man who had returned to the edge of the trees to covertly watch them.

My phone rang then, making me jump; for a moment, I felt like I had jumped straight out of my skin. I withdrew the phone, continuing to watch Mulder examine the marks in the field. "Scully."

Skinner was on the other end; he sounded like he was having as trying a day as we were. As I repacked my overnight bag, I told him we would be back at the hotel that night, and that we didn't have many leads on this case. When I told Skinner that the attack didn't look to be alien related, he sounded better; I could actually hear the change in his voice.

Through the years I have known him, he's had one tone of voice. Usually, that tone is a disagreeable one; he's always ready to snap at someone. Some people call him surly and when they do, I always picture an eighth dwarf, best friend to Grumpy.

Rather than surly, I think of him as a man who prefers to be alone. When he deals with others, he likes them to be as efficient as he is; he expects people to do their best and when they don't, he tends to snap.

This time, despite the progress we hadn't made, Skinner sounded pleased. He still had a concern over the markings in the field and the reports of the pale figures. I told him that I wanted to speak with some of the neighbours myself, that the police reports, while thorough, weren't enough for me.

Skinner wasn't surprised. I smiled when he said he had hoped they wouldn't be enough. Talking one on one with a person was always better than reading a report; I wanted to hear their own accounts, I wanted to see if anything had been forgotten.

When Skinner asked me about Lake Pontchartrain, I was too surprised to answer. He wanted to know if it still had the magical quality he remembered when he had last been there. I asked him when that had been.

"Thirteen years," he said.

I could hear the longing in his voice and I could understand it; while crossing the lake the previous day, there *had* been something magical about it. Whether brought on by the low fog or something else, I didn't know.

"Something else," Skinner said with a laugh.

I hadn't realized I had spoken aloud and I felt the colour burn in my cheeks.

"Try to see it in the morning," Skinner told me. "I think you'll like the sun coming up over the water. Sometimes, I wish they hadn't built that infernal bridge straight across her belly."

Her belly. He spoke of the lake like it was a physical thing, like it was a woman. I told him I would look at the lake in the morning; my hotel room faced the lake and Mulder and I would likely be back there tonight if the weather didn't turn sour again.

After confirming that we would be staying to continue looking into the murder, we ended the call. As I slipped my phone away, I looked across the field again. The young man had vanished.

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VII. ASHES

The great mystery is not that we should
have been thrown down here at random between
the profusion of matter and that of the stars;
it is that from our very prison we should draw,
from out own selves, images powerful enough to
deny our nothingness.

~ Andre Malraux

I lost my virginity to the strains of Cyndi Lauper's "All Through the Night," on December 7, 1984. My boyfriend and I were guests at Ronald Chamberlain's Christmas party; his folks were in Hawaii for the winter, and the house was completely his.

My boyfriend, James Mitchell, had promised that we would join the festivities. I hadn't been looking forward to it; I had three mid-terms to study for. The next week was going to be entirely impossible at school. I knew that I had been a bitch to put up with, but somehow, James made it through.

I picked a black dress for the party; it didn't make me look as short as some things did. I pulled my hair back in a simple bun, which, of course, started to come apart just as we arrived.

Ronald Chamberlain's house was always a thing of beauty, but at Christmas it was even more so. The entire place was covered with white lights. The trees in the yard looked magical. The party was filled with people we knew from the university. Seeing that I wasn't the only one skipping an evening of studying made me feel a little more at ease; a glass of champagne helped matters.

James and I spent a great deal of time wandering and talking to everyone we knew; it was liberating to be at a party like this. In two weeks, I would be at a similar party with my family, but worrying about that could wait. My mother would welcome me as always; my father would be critical of my grades. My brothers would tease and Melissa would likely be snotty when it came to whatever dress I wore. As we all grew older, we grew into people I wasn't sure I liked.

For the time being, I did like who I was with. My wandering with James took us into the dining room; James loved the leaded glass windows there--he was studying to be an architect and everything about the Chamberlain house fascinated him. As we stood in the darkened room, it began to snow; the snow looked like cotton as it came down from the sky, light and pure white.

James reached out and fingered the thick section of my hair that had come free from the bun. I grumbled, settling my champagne aside, but James shooed my hands away when I went to repair the damage.

"It looks good mussed," he said softly. "Like you've been well loved."

I looked over at him, his beautiful face lit in hues of blue. His eyes were dark here, not the sparkling green I had fallen in love with; something about the darkness made me shiver. When James' hand curled into my hair and began to pluck the pins out, I started to shake even harder.

The pins dropped to the dining room table with little clicks and somehow, I knew this was the moment. Neither of us had planned for it to happen this way--every time we *had* planned to be together, something had gotten in the way. I think we both realized the moment would catch us both off-guard; it wouldn't be by our own planning, but by Fate's, if there were such a thing.

My hair completely free, James pulled me close, nuzzling my neck. I went into his arms without a complaint. We had been dating for more than a year now--somehow, I had always known that he would be my first. My mother and my priest had counseled me to wait until marriage, though my mother was more understanding when it came to the desires of a young woman's heart and body. She told me that I would know when it was right.

Tonight, I knew.

I stripped James' jacket from his broad shoulders, letting myself really feel him underneath his dress shirt. His muscles were tight and I could feel the tremor slice through him. I looked up at him and smiled.

"You're nervous," I said, tugging his tie down and then away. I stood on tiptoe and kissed him. He kissed me back, his breath coming hard out of his nose. I couldn't help but laugh softly. I didn't want to embarrass him, but the sight of him nervous made me relax. "Oh, James."

I took his face in my hands and kissed him, long and deep. As I did, he relaxed. James Mitchell was afraid of nothing. He dared the world on every level, yet here I was, making him shake.

He murmured my name as he calmed, undoing each little button that held my dress together. He turned me around and kissed my back as the buttons came open.

In the living room, Cyndi began to sing, that beautiful, wavering voice coming to us through the closed French doors. As I realized there was no lock on those doors, I shivered, my dress dropping to the floor.

James turned me back to face him; being in panties and a bra before him wasn't new. We had spend a good many nights making out on couches, in beds, and clothing was generally stripped away. Always, right when things would heat up, there would be an interruption. A phone call, a knock on a door. Tonight, I knew that we would have none of that.

I smiled at James and undid the buttons of his shirt, moving my hands down to his belt and trousers. We stripped each other in silence, and when fully naked, James drew me against him, just holding me. I could hear the thud of his heart against my cheek and I squeezed him tight. I knew James wasn't a virgin; he had told me as much during the early stages of our relationship. As friends, we had told each other pretty much everything--which meant he knew I *was* a virgin.

Was he nervous because he wanted to make this night special? If so, he had nothing to worry about. Everything was going as it should. I felt as though we were in someone's hands--though I hesitated to call that someone God.

Naked, with the cool air brushing over us, I wondered where we were going to make love. The dining room table looked none to comfortable. Desire twisted like a roller coaster in my belly; I was already wet with longing and James was pressed hard against me.

He bent to the floor, retrieving his pants. He fumbled for his wallet, but eventually withdrew a condom. Taking my hand, he withdrew a chair from the table and sat down. As he opened the condom package, I reached out and took a hold of him. He drew in a breath and looked up at me, watching my eyes as I stroked him.

I had never felt him without a barrier of fabric before. My own boldness should have shocked me, but it didn't. Touching him like this felt natural. I looked away from his eyes, looking down at his hard length. I had seen images of the male body in textbooks; I had even taken an art course which had featured a section on drawing the human form. But this moment made all of those others pale.

James unwrapped the condom and together, we rolled it over him. My hand slid farther down, cupping his balls. He was so warm there, it startled me. His hands slid up my body, then down my breasts, palms rubbing against my nipples before he gently pinched them to even harder points. I groaned softly, leaning closer. As James licked one nipple, the Cyndi Lauper record skipped and we laughed. His hands slid down my body, one between my legs.

He stroked gently, spreading the wetness. James had brought me to orgasm before; he was a generous lover when it had come to our play sessions before. Tonight was no different. Standing there, with the snow falling silently outside, James made me come--my teeth digging into my lower lip so I wouldn't make a noise someone might overhear.

My body was still tingling when I straddled James on the velvet chair. James' hands slid down to my hips, gently guiding me in the right direction. I rubbed myself against him for a while and James let me do as I would; he kissed my breasts and belly, letting me take my time. In this position, it was up to me. All of it. I could go forward, or I could withdraw.

I went forward.

Hands gripping the back of the chair, I sank down over James. His flesh pierced mine, pain flaring through my abdomen. I moved up, then down, thrilling at the pleasure that replaced the pain. Under me, James shuddered, hands now helping keep my motions steady. At this angle, his cock brushed my clit with each downward stroke and I felt myself coming. As I came, James' body hastened under my own; his mouth covered mine, tongue tasting, hands pressing, flesh melded to flesh.

The orgasm reached out like the ripples in a lake after a stone is thrown. It touched every part of me. Holding James' head against my chest as he came, I watched the snow filter down beyond those beautiful lead glass windows, thinking all the while that it was stars falling from heaven.

~*~

I woke with a start, knowing right away that it had been a dream. I sat up, shoving the blankets away. Fifteen years and that memory could still bother me.

Two weeks after that party--two fucking weeks--James had died in a car accident. Black ice on the road, a drunk driver behind the wheel of the other car.

I was amazed that it still hurt as deeply as it did. Then again, I shouldn't have been. My first lover, dying tragically--in another life, someone might have written an epic poem for us. In another life.

Since then, I realized I had closed myself off from men, from the opportunity of getting hurt like that again. There had been a few men in my life, but I could count them on one hand. I think my father was disappointed in the whole thing, that I didn't settle down and marry.

I swung my feet to the floor, reaching for my robe. With little thought, I rummaged through my purse until I found a handful of change, hopefully enough to buy a pack of cigarettes from the vending machine downstairs. This entire floor was non-smoking--I would have to go outside. I didn't even bother to check the weather before I shoved my feet into slippers and left.

At the vending machine, I fed my coins in, impatient for the pack as it tumbled from the metal spiral. It was only when I stepped outside that I realized I didn't have matches or a lighter. I groaned, shoving my hands and the pack of cigarettes into my pocket. At least I hadn't forgotten my room ke--

Mulder stood outside, cigarette smoke curling upward from the cigarette he held in his hand. His back was to me; he seemed to be watching the lights on the lake. I watched as he lifted the cigarette to his mouth. He inhaled deeply; this was no first-timers inhale. Mulder knew what he was doing.

I walked over to him, my feet quiet in my slippers. He glanced over at me, then looked away. When he looked back at me, the surprise was plain in his eyes.

"Caught you," I said. Mulder was still dressed; I wondered if he had been working all this time and looked down at my watch. It was after one in the morning. Mulder dropped the cigarette butt and ground it out with his shoe, shrugging.

"Old habits sometimes creep back up," he said.

I withdrew the pack of cigarettes I had bought, handing them to him. "I know," I said.

"Case bugging you?" Mulder asked, removing the cellophane from the pack. He tapped the pack against his hand as the cellophane fluttered away on a night breeze. Withdrawing two cigarettes, he handed one to me, striking a match.

I breathed in slowly and choked. The cigarette didn't hold the same charm it once had. I shook my head and dropped it, letting Mulder stomp it out.

"Yeah, it is," I said, watching him light the second cigarette. "I spoke to Mae while you and Jeffrey were out in the field. She turned cold, Mulder. I asked her about the neighbourhood and she just froze. I asked her about the marks in the field and she acted like she just wanted to push it all away. I know that shouldn't be surprising, considering what they've been through, but--" I drew in a breath. "When I spoke to Jeffrey, he wanted us to do everything we could to help solve this. Now, his wife is acting like she wishes they'd never called."

Mulder and I stood in silence and together, we watched his cigarette turn to ash.

~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~

VIII. CRAYONS

I am not tragically colored. There is no great
sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind
my eyes...I do not weep at the world--I am too
busy sharpening my oyster knife.

~ Zora Neale Hurston

Sunrise over Lake Pontchartrain. It was like nothing I had expected. I have seen dozens of sunrises, many sunsets, but I never really focused on them. After my talk with Mulder, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about the conversation I'd had with Mae Washington.

Sitting in front of the window, I looked out over the lake; its surface shimmered with a few lights, but remained mostly dark, save for the strip of bridge across her belly. Those words sent a shiver through me and right then, the sky began to lighten.

When the sun came up, it kissed the surface of the lake and revealed the wisps of fog that clung to it. Slowly, the fog parted, giving way to the light, and it was the most lovely thing I had seen in a long time. The light divided the fog and for a moment, bleached everything of its colour. Everything was simply brilliant.

Then, the sun rose a little higher as the Earth turned and the moment was broken. Colour flooded over the lake and through the sky, telling me that it was going to be a beautiful day.

Mae's words hung with me while I showered and dressed; I couldn't understand why she had been so short with me. I tried to tell myself that it was frustration; she was still mourning the loss of her daughter and couldn't even do that properly, thanks to her still being in the morgue. I wanted to release the body, but knew I wouldn't--we needed Ophelia for answers; somehow, she had to tell us what happened.

Back in Mandeville, Mulder and I didn't check in with the Washingtons; our research today could be conducted independently of them. Later this afternoon, when we hopefully knew more, we would call them.

Mulder took the west section of the neighbourhood and I took the east. We were speaking with neighbours who had already spoken to the police, but we wanted to catch the few who hadn't as well.

As I worked my way from house to house, I noticed a curious trend. Everyone was most courteous when they answered their doors; they looked at my ID and invited me inside. And then, when I mentioned I was working on the Washington murder, they went silent. Their faces turned to stone and they repeated what they had told the police. There was nothing new for me to learn according to them.

The fifth time this happened, I wanted to scream. Instead, I picked up my cell phone, ranting to Mulder while I walked toward the sixth house.

"You know, Mulder, these people are worse than those we met at The Falls."

Mulder's laugh was reassuring, but his words weren't. He was having the same trouble, it turned out. "You would think they would want to solve this little girl's murder," he said before we ended the conversation.

But someone had wanted that. I availed myself of the bench along the sidewalk, opening my briefcase to withdraw the entire case file, knowing I had read about outraged neighbours. But I was wrong. It hadn't been neighbours, it had been members of the local press. I closed the file, knowing that outrage could have been driven by the need for ratings. Aliens were a hot topic right now; if Ophelia Washington had been snatched up by one, the entire world had a right to know about it, and if the ABC affiliate stood to make a few million from it, so be it.

I snapped my briefcase shut, looking at the next house. It was like so many of the others, two-storied with a wrap-around porch. I could hear the creak of a rocking chair and spied the figure sitting in the shade, face nearly buried in a book. I withdrew my notebook, checking the address with the names I had. Wren Hopewell lived in that house; the report had referred to her as "Widow Wren."

I picked myself up and approached her house slowly, not wanting to startle. When she heard my sharp footsteps on her stairs, she looked up, setting her book down. It was the newest Maeve Binchy book and I smiled.

"Wren Hopewell?" I asked.

She nodded, pushing herself up out of the chair. She extended one ebony hand toward me, the slim sliver bracelet around her wrist sparkling. She grasped my hand with the strength of a twenty year old boy and I couldn't help but gasp I surprise.

"You'll be Agent Scully then," she said to me, gesturing toward the other chair at the tea table. "I've got limeade, and though the day's not so warm yet, it tastes mighty good."

"I'll bet it does," I said, sitting; the fabric cushion was firm beneath me, not one of those plastic covered things which would hiss air when anyone sat. "Thank you."

"Heard you was out here," Wren said, pouring limeade into a fresh glass for me. "Someone said you was with a young man who looked like he was out of the society pages."

I smiled as I took the limeade. "My partner, Agent Mulder."

Wren grunted and nodded, downing the last of her limeade. She poured more. "I 'spect you'll want to ask me about Ophelia." Wren pushed a plate of chocolate chip cookies toward me and at her insistence, I took one.

I nodded. "In the police report, you said you and she spent a lot of time together."

"She called me her wrinkled Nana," Wren said, stroking a hand down her wrinkled neck. "Her real nana wasn't wrinkled at all, and Ophelia wanted wrinkles." Wren laughed, looking out over the lawn. "She used to come here everyday after school, just to chat. We both liked bugs--caught ourselves a cicada last year and she was happier than a thief rollin' around in money. She didn't come that day and I just knew something was wrong."

"Did anything seem out of ordinary before that?" I asked. I took a bite of the cookie; it was so fresh, the chocolate chips were still melty in the center.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Wren said, sipping her limeade.

I leaned back in the chair, considering the words. Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe whatever took Ophelia wasn't out of the ordinary for these people.

"Anything ordinary?" I asked.

Wren didn't answer me right away. She looked straight at me, though, and I felt a little uneasy under her frank gaze. "You're a pretty woman," she said. "That pale skin and those blue eyes. God, if I had a cap of hair like that." Her voice faded in a chuckle. "You were what I wanted to be when I was a little girl."

I choked on the next bite of cookie. "What?"

"You know that Whoopi Goldberg was on Broadway in the late 80s? Well, she was. She did a routine about a little black girl who sat in bleach. Wanted to bleach her skin white. Pranced around with a white dress shirt over her dark hair, sayin' it was her long, luxurious blonde hair. That was the dream."

I swallowed the cookie; it felt like dry dirt in my mouth all of a sudden. "Wren--"

"I got over that by the time I was seven," she said, waving her hand. "Seeing Whoopi's routine brought it all back, though."

"And--Ophelia's death?" I asked, reaching for limeade to wash down the cookie.

Wren nodded. "That, too."

"Did Ophelia wish that she was white?" I asked.

Wren shook her head now. "No," she said strongly. "But there were those who said she should be--to live in a place like this. I'm sure you've noticed--I am the only other black woman on this block. Me and the Washingtons, that's it for this entire neighbourhood. And don't look at me like that, Agent Scully. I know this is the 90s and we're supposed to be above colour, but some of us aren't."

"You think Ophelia's murder was racially motivated?" I asked. When Wren didn't answer, I considered her words. She was right in that every person I had spoken to was white. I hadn't thought about it; people were people as far as I was concerned. We were all the same on the inside, something medical school had taught me early on. Outside coverings didn't much matter.

"Parts of the South haven't changed much," Wren said. "Some people still think they're superior, that they have more rights than anyone else."

"Do you know people like that here?" I asked, watching Wren nod. My stomach churned and I was sure it wasn't a complaint against the cookies.

"I moved into this neighbourhood sixty years ago, Agent Scully. People didn't like it then, and there are still those who don't. My Reginald always handled it better than I did. When the Washingtons moved in, I thought things around here might finally be changing."

Sixty years in the same neighbourhood. I couldn't imagine it. Sixty years, living near people who resented you for being there--and simply being.

"There are no Latinos, no blacks. There are two families of mixed race--but they pass for white and never tell anyone what they really are--no one cares to look any further."

Wren's voice held no malice; she accepted all of this as simple fact. Me--I could feel the anger bubbling up inside. "How have you been able to stand it for so long?" I asked.

Wren shook her head and smiled at me; I could see a trace of sorrow written in those dark eyes. "It's just how my world has always been, Agent Scully. Ain't nothin' more than that. Now, come inside--you need to see the child's smile."

I followed Wren into the house; here, the air was cooled with fans whirring overhead. Wren lead me to the sideboard, gesturing with a wide sweep to the photographs that filled it. Here was Ophelia, her smile as bright as the sunshine had been coming up over the lake. Here she was swinging, her hair thrown back by the invisible breeze. There she was in an Easter dress--Wren tapped that picture.

"Gave her that dress myself," she said, standing straighter with pride.

I smiled, looking at the school portraits and the candid shots; Ophelia had been loved and treasured, if only within a small circle of people. I hoped that she hadn't known of the hate some people might have held for her. I picked up a photograph and looked down into her bright eyes. Maybe this was the beauty the sunrise had promised.

~*~

My taffeta skirt rustled against the tree, against Marcus Verlain's tuxedo trousers. His mouth was like a small tornado against mine--no, definitely a hurricane. Wet and hot, his tongue stroked mine, his body rocking closer. A curse slipped from his mouth; he couldn't get close enough and damn my skirt and petticoat.

"Who the hell wears a petticoat?" he asked against my neck, his hand sliding over my breast. "It's 1982--a petticoat?"

A shiver ran through me and I laughed. "It goes with the dress," I said. I shifted closer to Marcus, still not brave enough to slide my hand down and feel him through his trousers.

"Mmm."

He was kissing me again. I wrapped my arms around him and held on, kissing him for all I was worth. It was prom night and I was with the boy I loved. Our senior year was coming to a close and we were as happy as we had ever been.

There was possibility surrounding us; everywhere, I could feel it leaking out. The world was an exciting place. I had been accepted at the University of Maryland and planned on studying medicine. I knew where I was going and what I would be doing.

"Dana?"

Marcus had stopped kissing me; my thoughts had wandered. I reached up and touched his cheek. "Sorry," I said.

He smiled down at me, that always-crooked smile of his as endearing as it had ever been. His eyes were as dark as the night around us, his hair blond and tousled. It was almost a Flock of Seagulls hairdo. Almost.

"Sylvia told you, didn't she?"

I looked back toward where we had left Sylvia and Burwood; I couldn't even hear them, but could see shadows from the campfire. "Told me what?" I asked, looking back to him.

"I'm going to Stanford."

The four words took a moment to register. As they sank in, I realized what Marcus was saying. We had talked about spending the next four years together, at the University of Maryland. "You...?"

"I'm sorry, Dana. I'm moving out there this summer. It's a better pre-law program than the one at Maryland."

Marcus reached out and wiped away the tears I hadn't realized I had shed. I grabbed his hand, letting it all sink in. He was leaving this summer. We wouldn't be together as we had planned. I looked at him in his tuxedo, his jacket a little too big, his cummerbund a little too green. And I started laughing. Marcus frowned, then slowly began to smile and laugh with me. We were eighteen and about to graduate. It was prom night and we were about to go all the way.

"We can worry about it later," I said, pulling Marcus close to me again. His body crushed against mine, shoving me back into the tree. Pine needles rained down and Marcus plucked them from my hair and dress with his teeth, his hands lifting my skirt to stroke my stocking-clad legs.

Marcus's mouth against mine was sweet; I could taste the Pepsi he had earlier, but was more concerned with the softness of his lips and the heat of his tongue. He slid a hand between my legs and I jerked in shock at the contact; through stockings and panties both, but I felt as though I had been branded. No boy--no man had ever touched me there before. He found the gentle bundle of nerves and began to rub; my eyes slid shut and I arched against him, my dress rustling with the motions.

That was when I heard the siren. It cut through the silence of the night, making Marcus and I pause. I smelled the smoke then, saw it curling through the trees and undergrowth.

"Shit!"

That was Burwood yelling, as lyrical as ever. Marcus groaned.

"I cannot believe this!" Marcus said.

"My dress! Oh GOD! The lace! The beads! Dana Katherine! Where the hell are you? Aaaiiieeee!"

Sylvia. My mother was always amazed at her; how could I have chosen someone like her for my best friend? Perhaps "best" was stretching it a bit.

When Marcus and I got back to the campsite, Syvlia was rolling on the ground, trying to put of the fire on the hem of her skirt. The trees were on fire around us, the campfire having gotten completely out of control. Idiot Burwood wasn't doing anything to help; he was frantically trying to shove his pack of cigarettes into his coat pocket, but he kept getting tangled up. Apparently, he and Sylvia had been a little farther along than Marcus and I; Burwood's dress shirt wasn't buttoned and his coat had likely been off.

While Marcus went to help Burwood, I ran to Sylvia, stomping on the hem of her gown. That was when the water caught us. The fire truck screamed to a halt and water spewed out of the hose. It knocked me flat and I cowered behind Sylvia, watching the fire around us vanish.

Dripping wet, the firemen helped us into the truck and drove us back to town. On the lawn of the school, they let us out, having to respond to yet another call. Marcus hugged me against his wet side and the four of us laughed together, walking home rather than returning to the dance.

Two months later, I said goodbye to Marcus, and never saw him again. Sylvia and Burwood married that summer; I didn't attend. I was too busy getting ready for my freshman year of college. That August, I met James Mitchell, and fell in love all over again.

~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~

IX. BY THREADS

Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And Hope without an object cannot live.

~ Samuel Coleridge

When I reached the hotel that afternoon, I left Mulder at his room and made my way down the long hall toward my own. Inside, I shucked my shoes, my clothes, my briefcase, and gave myself up to the warm water in the shower. I leaned against the tile wall and angled the showerhead so it hit me perfectly. Eyes closed, water cascading down my body, I thought about the Newlins.

They had been my last stop today, the house that I most dreaded going to. I could still remember the way they had looked at me and Mulder when we had spent the night at the Washingtons. Up close, that expression hadn't been any better.

The house had seemed cold to me, even though it was decorated pleasantly enough. It didn't look like anyone lived there--it looked like a showroom, white couches with ivory throws that looked as though no one had ever sat on them. That was reinforced when Mary Newlin led me to the family room; it was drawn in browns, but still looked showroom perfect. Her husband Charles joined us and the conversation had gone as I had foreseen.

The Newlins hadn't seen what had happened to Ophelia. Charles had been the one to hear Jeffrey Washington screaming in the street the morning Ophelia was found; he saw Jeffrey out there, hugging his daughter's limp body against his own, and had called the police. Jeffrey had still been holding her when the police came.

Mary said that she and Charles had tried to shield their own daughter, Jeanne, from the incident, though they were certain there was talk about it at school. They confirmed what the initial report had said, that Jeanne and Ophelia hadn't been friends.

Toward the end of the conversation, as the ice grew thicker in the room, Charles laughed as I made a note in my file, and shook his head. "Can't believe they'd send someone like you out on a case like this."

The words had caught me completely off-guard; I had no way to respond. I smiled and was out the door before the words came back to me. "Someone like you." "A case like this."

I stepped out of the shower and wrapped the towel around me, crossing to the fogged mirror. I dragged my hand across it, cleaning a small space. My refection stared back; pale skin, blue eyes, copper hair--every thing Wren Hopewell had once wanted to be.

I pulled my comb through my hair, remembering what else Wren had said. The South was still divided by racial tensions; the Newlins had proven that to me today. "Someone like you" meant "someone white," and "a case like this" meant "a case that doesn't much matter because it's about a little black girl."

Anger welled up inside of me, swift and furious. I understood the look the Newlins had given Mulder and me now; the Newlins didn't much like us because we were trying to help the one black family on the block--even worse, we had spent the night in their house. To them we were traitors.

The afternoon sun was coming in through my window; I pushed the curtains back and curled up on the couch, closing my eyes. I don't know how long I napped; the trill of my cell phone woke me and I fumbled for it, answering with a voice that sounded more like a croak.

"Scully?"

"Sir." I sat straighter at the sound of Skinner's voice, shivering in the cool of the room. I'd slept straight through the warm of the afternoon in nothing but a hotel bath towel.

"Were you sleeping?" I could hear the amusement in his voice. I reached for my watch on the table, squinting at the numbers. It was after five here, which meant after six for Skinner.

"A nap," I confessed. "Long day." I told him about Wren Hopewell and her suggestions of racial tension. That did little to cheer Skinner; he wanted Mulder and me to stay and solve the case, no matter its cause--aliens or human hatred.

"Did you watch the sunrise over the lake?"

The question shouldn't have surprised me. Skinner is a thorough man, though it did surprise me that he had mentioned the lake and sunrise to me at all. It was a part of him I hadn't expected to be allowed into. It was a private place where few had ever been. "I did," I said, "and it was--" But I couldn't tag it with a word. The moment had been magical, but it went beyond that.

"I know," Skinner said.

Silence filled the line; I wondered if he was remembering the sunrise the way I was. I pulled the towel closer around me and leaned back into the couch with a soft groan.

"You okay?"

I heard the concern in his voice; suddenly, everything we had been through together in the last year and a half surfaced. Me, Skinner, Mulder--it hadn't been an easy ride. I lifted a hand to the bridge of my nose, knowing what lay inside of me. Dormant now, but still lurking.

"This case," I said. "It's wearing me down." It was the truth; saying the words took a little of the burden away. "I know we've only been here three days, but this neighbourhood--there is something that unsettles me. It's more than the fact that a little girl was killed."

"Let's hope it's not another uber..." Skinner struggled with the word and I smiled. "--ubermenscher."

"Or a flukeman," I said. I knew Skinner was trying to lighten the mood and I appreciated it. The "trash monster" in California, the flukeman in the sewers--both made me smile right then. "I'll fax today's interviews to you," I added, hoping he might see something we were missing.

Closing the connection moments later, I rose from the couch and unwrapped myself from the towel, lobbing it into the bathroom. I pulled on a bra and panties, jeans and a T-shirt, dialing Mulder's room before walking down the long hallway.

There was no answer and I wondered if he was on his way down here, or if he'd gone out to smoke another cigarette. It was odd that we had that in common, I thought. I hadn't smoked in years and had only gone to it this time for an escape. Something to do with my hands and mouth.

Something to do--for they'd been much too idle lately. I thought back to the women I had overheard talking about sex in the elevator; I thought back to my idea of Mulder and a hotel room where no one knew who we were.

I looked out into the hall, finding Mulder half way down its length. "They've got a great cafe, here--want to grab some dinner?" he asked.

My answer was a firm yes. I was starving. When Mulder reached my room, he propped the door open while I gathered the notes I had made throughout the day and slipped my shoes on.

"Scully--c'mon, no work."

I looked back at him with a smile. "I need to fax these to Skinner. After that, I'm though for the night."

"Excellent," Mulder said.

On the main level, Mulder accompanied me to the fax machine and we sent the notes to Skinner. The caf, wasn't crowded at all; I suppose a hotel restaurant isn't that big a draw on a Wednesday evening. Business meetings were likely still being conducted; in an hour or so, this place could be crammed. Hopefully Mulder and I would be out of here by then.

Mulder waved the hostess toward a corner booth; I had no objections, for the table looked cozy and private, exactly what I needed tonight. Quiet, and time to put this case to the side. I set the file of notes on the red plastic bench beside me, taking the menu the waitress offered.

Mulder ordered iced tea, while I ordered cocoa. For some reason, it sounded good. Again, something warm and cozy, a break from the rain we'd been having; something to hearken back to a good time in my childhood. When the drink arrived, I smiled at the tall cap of whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles.

"Scully--that's indecent," Mulder said.

"I know." With little thought, I scooped a finger through the cream and brought it to my mouth, licking it clean.

"You're just mean," Mulder said, but when I offered the next cream-laden finger to him, he seemed even more put out. "Scully--"

"Go on." It was a dare, no bones about it. *Give me just a little more for my fantasy life,* I thought. *This way, I will know the feel of those devil-lips around my finger and the touch of your tongue.* "C'mon, Mulder. Chicken?"

The next thing I knew, Mulder was grabbing my hand. He brought it closer to his mouth and proceeded to suck my finger clean. After he'd finished with the index finger, he moved to the second finger, to the ring finger, to my pinky. He saved the thumb of last, sucking it for all it was worth. His tongue swirled around my finger, warmer than I had imagined.

I would have laughed, but the look in his eyes told me he wasn't doing this to be funny. *Give me something for *my* fantasy,* I could almost hear him thinking. *This way, I will know the feel of those fingers.* When he freed my hand, I drew it into my lap, hoping he couldn't see the way I was shaking.

I had been this man's partner for six years now; in those six years, Mulder had touched me often. Never had it affected me the way this touch had. It had been a playful dare, but it had turned into something more. Mulder lifted his menu, as if needed something to hide behind. The move annoyed me.

*Six years, Mulder--we've been together for six years. It finally comes down to this and you hide?*

Then, it dawned on me. For six years, Mulder had found refuge in adult videos, in phone sex, magazines, and his own hands. There had been as few women in his recent life as there had been men in mine. Was intimate contact with another body that foreign for him? Over the top of his menu, I could see part of his face and it was coloured in pink.

His embarrassment made me smile. I picked up my menu and looked at the selections, hoping Mulder wouldn't mistake my smile for gloating, for it wasn't meant as such. Mulder ordered a bowl of jumbalya, while I went with the shrimp scampi. In the silence that lingered after the waitress' departure, I realized Mulder was still feeling uneasy. I didn't know what I could do to make him less so.

I sipped my cocoa; when Mulder reached out and wiped the line of cream from my lip and then licked his finger, I realized he wasn't uneasy at all. He was just--horny. I had given him the go ahead, by offering my hand. How long had he wanted to touch me in a sexual way, I wondered. Had he just been waiting all this time, to make sure it was okay?

Despite the intimate things we had shared, there was a distance between us. I think we both did the same thing; we didn't want the other to get too close, because if we lost our personal objectivity, how could we ever--

I cut the thought short. *Don't analyze this to death, just enjoy the memory of his tongue on your fingers.* I realized that, beneath the table, my legs were shaking. I pressed my feet against the floor, realizing how silly all of this was. I felt sixteen again.

The food was quick to come and for that, I think we were both thankful. My shrimp had come on two long skewers, but I wasn't even half way through one when we heard the page come over the hotel speaker.

There was a call for Agent Mulder or Scully at the front desk; it was tagged as urgent. Neither Mulder nor I had brought our cell phones with us tonight. Setting work aside meant setting the phones aside as well. Mulder told me to take the call; he would settle the bill for the food and get the leftovers wrapped up.

I grabbed the file of notes and made my way to the front desk, dismayed by the large group of people who were awaiting check in. I weaseled myself around to the side, and flashed my ID for the desk clerk; he bounded over, giving me a phone.

"Line two," he said.

I punched the button and hear nothing but sobbing. My heart lodged in my throat. "This is Agent Scully," I managed to say.

"Agent Scully--"

It was Mae Washington; she could hardly speak through her tears. I gripped the phone tighter, wondering what in the hell had happened. "Mae?" I asked, spying Mulder coming toward me across the lobby, a white plastic bag held in one hand.

"It's Wren," she choked out. "She's dead."

In that moment, the words were not real. How the evening had taken this turn was beyond me. I couldn't understand it. "We'll be right there." I don't know how I managed the words. I hung the phone up, still hearing Mae's sobbing in my ears.

When Mulder's hand curled around my arm, I realized I was about to hit the floor. I gripped Mulder, looking into his eyes; I saw only Wren Hopewell, handing me cookies and limeaid, showing me pictures of Ophelia and the needlepoint they had been working on. I blinked, forcing myself to stand steady, but Mulder still didn't release me. For that, I was silently thankful.

~*~

Wren's house was flooded in blue and red light. Three police cars were parked at the curb, a fourth in the driveway. They allowed Mulder and me through and an officer took us to the backyard.

She was hanging from one of the lower branches of the massive oak she had told me Ophelia liked to swing from; they had taken the tire down the summer before, needing to find a new one. A noose connected Wren to the tree now, a photographer circling her, the flash of his camera illuminating the scene.

I turned away, trying to collect myself before I went any closer.

"Scully, do you want to speak to the officers while I--"

"No, Mulder." I turned back around, forcing myself to see only the scene, not the person beneath the crime. I hadn't shared the afternoon with this woman; this was just another crime scene.

The noose was expertly tied and it immediately brought to mind lynching. Part of me envisioned a pack of young white men chasing Wren until they cornered her and could string her up. There was a ladder on the ground; they had likely kicked it out from under her after getting her up there. I could envision Wren making her way up those steps with nothing but pride in her eyes; I slammed the door on that thought. If I thought of her that way, I would only cry.

Officer Jones joined me and Mulder, Wren's body coming down when the photographer had all the shots he needed. Jones was a short man, on my level, and I smiled at his honest brown eyes and sad grin. He was about my age, maybe a little older; I wondered if he had known Wren.

"Neighbours said there was a terrible ruckus," Jones said. "Came here to find the poor woman still swinging from the branch."

"Who called it in?" I asked, watching Mulder as he neared Wren. He snapped a glove on and touched the noose, counting the circles of rope. One, two...

"Mae Washington," Jones said, consulting his notebook. "She was real upset about it, too. Said she'd come down to give Wren a microscope, knowin' she would like it. It's sitting inside the house--she must've left it when she couldn't find Mrs. Hopewell."

Three, four. Mulder's fingers moved with precision over the loops of rope. I wondered who had made such a weapon and if Wren had started to shake like I did upon seeing it. *No, she was a hundred times stronger than that.*

"Any sign of forced entry?" I asked, looking around the yard. The gate had a long black mark along it, as though it had been forced open.

Five, six, seven. *Mulder, please stop counting.*

"Just the gate." Jones gestured to it. "We think they came in that way, and pulled her out of the house; there are scuffs on the backs of her shoes, and on the kitchen flooring."

Eight. Nine. Ten. Mulder cursed as a bit of the rope caught in his glove. He pulled the sliver out and kept on counting. Eleven. Twelve.

"Thirteen," Mulder said, straightening and coming to me and Jones. "It's a proper noose."

*Well God, Mulder, we wouldn't want it to be improper.* He must've seen the look on my face because he immediately explained himself.

"Thirteen is the typical number of loops in a hangman's noose," he said.

"Kind of tradition," Jones added. "To reinforce the supposed bad luck of the one being hanged."

I felt numb and directly responsible for Wren Hopewell's death. She had talked to me; she had been the one honest voice in the neighbourhood. She had spoken of the racial tensions and now, she was dead, hanged in her own backyard.

"Officer Jones, have you been aware of the racial climate in this neighbourhood?"

Jones laughed a little. "How could I not be? This is the South, Agent Scully. Although we should be beyond looking at colour, a lot of people aren't. If you're saying this crime was racially motivated, I'd have to agree one-hundred percent."

"Mrs. Hopewell spoke with me earlier this afternoon," I said. "About the Ophelia Washington case."

Jones nodded. "Yeah, her nephew mentioned that." Jones gestured toward the officer heading toward us. "Nick Tremont. Said he talked to his aunt just a while after you left."

Tremont came and closed my hand in his, smiling down at me, white teeth flashing in his cafe-au-lait face. He could have passed for white; his skin looked tanned. His nose was broader than typical, though, his eyes almond-shaped, his lips pleasantly full. I hated that I noticed all of this; before, I simply would have seen an attractive man without making a judgment about his race.

"You must be Agent Scully. Aunt Wren couldn't stop talking about you this afternoon." He grinned and pumped my hand. "I'm glad her last afternoon was a happy one."

He talked about her as though she'd died a normal death, as though she had gone in her sleep in front of the TV. "I'm glad I had the chance to meet her," I said.

"Your visit and Nick's phone call considered, we're placing her time of death around five this evening," Jones said. "Course the coroner will determine that a little more accurately when he looks her over."

I looked down at my watch; it was only half after six now. Turning away from the scene again, I looked at Nick Tremont, wondering if he was one of the families Wren had mentioned earlier, one of those that could pass for white.

"Well, that no-work policy has been blown," Mulder said with a wink as he joined me on the back porch.

I smiled slowly; Mulder never failed to cheer me in some small way. Even in the bleakest times, he was always there, making me smile. "Did you happen to speak with the family that lives straight across the field from the Washingtons?" I asked, remembering the young man who had been lurking amid the trees.

"I'm not certain," Mulder said. "I'd need my notes, and they're back in my room. Let's hope the hotel doesn't burn down this time." Mulder reached out and squeezed my shoulder. I leaned into the touch briefly, looking back to the officers who compared notes and made new ones.

"She was my one lead, Mulder," I said. "I was getting somewhere with her."

"We're still getting somewhere, Scully," he said, letting his arm drop back to his side. "Don't lose the faith now."

Mulder left my side, rejoining the officers. While they talked, I lifted a hand and touched the small cross around my neck, promising to not lose faith or hope, no matter how thin a thread it was hanging by.

Hanging.

The irony was not lost on me.

~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~

X. PEEKING

Discovery consists of seeing what everybody
has seen and thinking what nobody has thought.

~Albert Szent-Gyorgyi von Nagyrapolt

"Dad is going to kill me."

I looked over at Melissa, watching as she plucked the prickers from her knee-high socks. "Why just you?" I asked, annoyed that dad wouldn't include me in the slaughter.

"He's used to this from you--you're the tomboy."

My right hand curled tightly around the slingshot I carried while my left brought the end of my braid to my mouth. I nibbled at the frayed copper hair, watching Melissa continue to clean off her socks. We had come out with Bill and Charles; they were stalking rabbits, but Melissa had stopped, grumbling about the prickers and the bugs. I decided to hang back; if it had been me, I hoped someone would have stayed back with me as well.

I was the tomboy; well, Melissa had that much right. I was always running off with Bill and Charles. The first time I had done it, it had annoyed my brothers to the point they had turned around and come back home. The first time, my mother had hollered at me to get back in the house; of course I was abandoning piano lessons to go with my brothers at the time.

All around us, I could hear bird song; I looked down at the weapon in my hand and dropped it, suddenly disgusted. I didn't want to kill or hurt anything that was out here--I just wanted to pal around with my brothers and today, with my sister.

"You wanna go back to the house?" I asked.

"I really do," Melissa said.

I could tell that she wasn't comfortable out here; when I saw the tear in her skirt, I knew that's what she was really worried about. It was her favourite skirt, now ruined. But I knew she could sew it and make it as good as new. Still, as good as wasn't enough for her. She was fourteen and obsessed about her appearance. I don't know why she had come at all--I wondered if it had anything to do with why I had come, just to be close to my family.

We traced our way back to the house; the woods were still damp from last night's storm. In the distance, we could hear Bill and Charles cheering; I wondered what creature they had taken down and realized then that I'd left my slingshot behind. I looked down at the ground, something crunching under my foot.

In the dirt beneath my shoe, I found a small pink crystal. I picked it up and wiped the dirt off, nudging Melissa when I caught up with her. "Look."

She took the crystal after I had wiped more dirt off. "It's pretty," she said, and offered it back to me.

"You keep it," I said, happy that something today had made her smile.

Back at the house, our mother was in the kitchen working on dinner. We skipped upstairs, promising that we would get cleaned up before dinner was served. Dad would be home soon; he was on an extended leave and was off visiting some admiral or something today. I hadn't paid much attention.

Upstairs, Melissa and I got cleaned up, washing the crystal in the sink, crying out when it almost went down the drain. Melissa wondered if she could somehow wear it on a chain, but for the time being, settled for carrying it in her pocket.

She brushed my hair out for me and re-braided it; I wanted to learn how to do that on my own, but still couldn't master the technique. Melissa told me it would happen in time.

Two years later, she was right. I finally got it. I was in the middle of my first perfect braid when Melissa burst into the room. She threw her books on her bed and sat down with a groan and a sigh. My sister was known, at times, for her dramatics; Mom said she thought Missy would be an actress someday. Melissa always said no, she wasn't going to have any job where people expected her to be there at a certain time for a certain reason. She was a free spirit.

Today, she looked like one; her hair was a mess, her clothing disarranged. I looked at her in the mirror, watching as she lay down and ran a hand over her belly.

"Are you all right?" I asked, turning the radio off. Abba seemed out of place all of a sudden.

Melissa looked up at me and she smiled a smile I knew I would never forget. "Bobby Fablazoni."

I frowned. I had always thought it was a horrible name, but now, the way she said it made it sound like it was glossed in sugared roses. "Missy..."

She started laughing and then told me that she had given her virginity to the one and only Bobby Fablazoni. I stared at her in utter shock.

"Missy!" I screamed loud enough to make Mom wonder if we needed help. I hollered back that no, we were fine, and continued to stare at my sister. "Missy." She was sixteen and had given what should have been given to her husband.

"Dana, don't look at me like that." She rolled over, clasping her hands together. "When the time is right for you, you'll know it."

"When I'm married!" I said, turning back to the mirror. I tasted blood in my mouth; my lip had caught on my braces. I sucked at the wound, looking at my sister's reflection.

"What if you don't get married?"

Well--I had no answer for that. Getting married was part of the plan, wasn't it? Grow up, finish school, get married. Melissa got of the bed and stood behind me, hands on my shoulders.

"Your braid looks perfect," she said, helping me tie the elastic around the end. "Dana, please don't look at me like that. Please." She pressed her cheek against mine, squeezing me. "It was wonderful--it will be for you, too."

"But it goes against everything we've been taught," I said. Looking in her eyes, I couldn't help but see how happy she was. If denying that part of herself was what we had been taught, I wondered if that teaching wasn't wrong. "What--what was it like?"

Melissa's smile turned mischievous. "I hardly have a word for it. It hurt at first, but then..." Her voice trailed off and her eyes went unfocused. I pulled out of her arms.

"You should have waited," I said. "You should have--"

"Don't you dare tell me what I should have done," Melissa said. "I thought you would understand. You're my sister!"

"And you're mine and now you're going to Hell!" I cried, tears pouring down my cheeks. "Oh Missy, oh God."

Melissa started laughing and she brought me a tissue. "I am not going to Hell."

"Father--"

"Don't bring any father into this conversation," Melissa said. "Not ours or the kind who wears a backwards collar. Dana, it was right for me and Bobby."

"Is he going to marry you?"

Melissa shook her head. "I hope not. I don't have plans to get married."

I felt like the world was collapsing around me. I sat down on my bed, horrified that I had even asked what the experience was like. Why should I care? Boys were still a nuisance for me; I didn't care about them and they didn't care about me. Boys made for admirable science partners, but beyond that, I had no need for them. I looked at Melissa, with her pretty curling red hair, and sniffled.

"You really are going to Hell," I said.

Melissa grabbed her purse, glaring at me. "I would have thought your science taught you there is no Hell," she said.

She slammed out of the room and we didn't talk for four days. They were the worst four days of my life. Every morning, I kept waiting for Satan to come up through the kitchen tiles and yank Melissa down; she would hit the edge of the table and corn flakes would spray everywhere. Mom would mutter about the milk and Dad would tell her not to cry.

Someone called my sister a pagan; I told them to keep her dressing habits out of the conversation. I didn't know what it meant--I thought pagans were clogs or something. Later that day, I looked it up in the dictionary and knew that they were right--Melissa really was going to Hell, but the Devil wouldn't bother coming for her in our kitchen where the world could see. He would come in darkness and shadows; he would come with violence and a speed that wouldn't allow Melissa to get away.

I cried myself to sleep for a week; Melissa tried to make me understand what she was feeling and doing. And I tried, I tried. But I still saw the shadows coming, even if she turned her face away from them.

~*~

Dr. Ben Foreman conducted the autopsy on Wren Hopewell. I observed, making notes as he worked, but did not help or interfere. The noose lay in a plastic bag in the autopsy bay; Foreman checked it with the wounds along Wren's neck, confirming that they matched.

Wren lay as still and as dignified as Ophelia had, darker though, filled with more--life. She was still fresh; her champagne coloured eye shadow still clung to her lids. She would pale in time, though--I wondered if her murderer would take pride in that.

Foreman finished his routine exam and asked if I needed anything special looked at. There hadn't been anything out of the ordinary with Ophelia. Still, the ordinary was what Wren had talked about as being wrong.

"Any sexual abuse prior to the hanging?" I asked through the speaker.

Foreman shook his head. "No signs. It looks like a simple, straight-forward hanging."

I nodded. "Okay."

"Simple. Straight-forward." He laughed and it was a hollow sound, echoing in the room. "Listen to me."

Foreman pulled the sheet up over Wren, and came out of the room, handing me the noose. He pulled his gloves from his hands and shoved his gown into the nearby bin. He was a tall man, in his mid-40s if I had to guess. He smiled down at me with bright green eyes, and for a moment, reminded me of James Mitchell, my college boyfriend.

"You think Wren is somehow connected to the Washington murder?" he asked me as we walked out of the morgue.

"I'm really not at liberty to discuss the case," I said as Foreman signed out and the dienar went back to place Wren in her bay. Foreman retrieved a white bag from behind the desk and I placed the noose inside, thankful I wouldn't have to carry the clear evidence bag where everyone could see what was inside.

"It makes me sick," he said. "I live about three blocks from the Washingtons; they're fine people."

"Did you know Wren?" I asked, going through the door he opened for me.

"Had occasion to meet her last summer," Foreman said, the door thumping shut behind us. "She brought limeaid to the summer picnic in Grover Field."

"The field behind the Washington home?"

Foreman nodded, plucking his white coat from the coat tree outside the morgue entrance. Across the small lobby, Mulder waited with Officer Jones.

"Have you ever seen anything unusual there?" I asked.

His mouth parted in a smile. "Define unusual, Agent Scully. I've seen children sullen and frowning when they should have been happy there. I've seen Thelma Tucker win first prize for her god-awful rhubarb pie. I've seen Hattie McCoy's dog trying to mate with a watermelon. I'd call that all unusual." But he held up a hand before I could define it. "If you mean light, yes I've seen light in the field. I've smelled smoke as if from fires, but I've never seen the flames. Hattie thinks it's aliens come to take her dog for study. Maybe they should."

"Why were the children sullen and frowning?" I asked.

Foreman shrugged. "Folks probably wouldn't let them wander down to the ruins."

"Ruins?"

"About a mile from the Washingtons, there are the remains of a barn. Rotting wood, sink holes, delightful place. The neighbourhood has tried to have the ruin removed, but someone mucked it up, claiming it was a historical site. The whole thing is in limbo now." Foreman looked down at his watch, sighing. "Agent Scully, I have another case to consult on; if you have any more questions, do call me. The autopsy report will be filed by the end of the day tomorrow."

Foreman pressed his business card into my hand and with a murmured goodbye, was gone. Mulder and Jones came to my side, Mulder's eyes twinkling with a humour I knew too well.

"Was his first name Jack?" Mulder asked me, gently nudging.

"Bambi, actually," I said, handing the bag to Officer Jones. "The autopsy report will be filed by tomorrow evening." Foreman had rushed the autopsy tonight; I was surprised it had been possible, but pleased someone had wanted to take the time.

"Agents." Jones nodded to us and departed.

I looked up at Mulder, seeing the fatigue that coloured his face. "Dr. Foreman mentioned the remains of a barn in the field," I said as we left the hospital, making our way back to the car. "About a mile from the Washingtons. I'd like to check that out tomorrow."

Mulder nodded, amicable as always. "Sounds good."

Calling Skinner to tell him about Wren's death was difficult; he didn't bother to hide his anger--I figured Mulder could hear him swearing, even though I was the one on the phone with Skinner.

That night, back at the hotel, snug under the scratchy hotel sheets, I thought about my dinner with Mulder. I closed my eyes and let myself drift. I thought back to the elevator scenario, about being pressed into the cold metal of the wall, my legs wrapped around Mulder's hips. Now, I could see his face and I could feel that mouth against my finger, suckling with more force than I ever suspected. I could feel the softness of his lips and the rasp of his teeth. The warmth of his saliva and the sweep of his tongue.

That fantasy, now coming together, pulled me down into ever-comforting sleep.

~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~

XI. GHOST WORDS

I am not yet so lost in lexicography as to
forget that words are the daughters of the
earth, and that things are the sons of heaven.

~ Samuel Johnson

Mulder and I returned to the field in the morning; the air was damp and fog hung low to the ground. There had been reports of flooding because of the heavy rains; Mulder wondered aloud how many caskets were sailing out of broken tombs, straight down the French Quarter. I told him he was free to go count, but he stayed with me.

The field was something out of a Stephen King novel this morning; I felt like there were monsters in the mist and that with each step I took, another one would jump out at me. Mulder stayed close; we swept flashlights over the field for even though it was morning, it was difficult to see as we went farther into the field. At one point, we couldn't see the houses that bordered it, and we nearly stumbled across the ruin of the barn.

Dr. Foreman had said it was a place of rotting wood and sinkholes. Looking at the place, I wasn't surprised he hadn't elaborated any more than that. Three walls of the barn still rose, skeleton wood rising into the mist. Moss clung here and there, a bird's nest perched in one corner. The roof was entirely gone, mashed into the ground by countless feet. Footprints could be seen in the mud; some were small, some were larger.

The front face of the barn was gone, but the doors lay off to the side, metal handles poking up from the rotting wood. The entire place smelled like a swamp and Mulder pressed his coat sleeve over his nose as we walked deeper into the ruin.

Birds fluttered up in alarm, reeling through the sky with a shriek. I held a hand against my chest, wanting to draw my gun. Having it in hand would make me feel safer; it would keep the mist monsters back.

"As a kid, I dreamed about places like this," Mulder said. "Wanting to find them, digging around, finding treasure."

"Pirate's treasure?" I asked, skirting a pile of rotting debris.

"Big chests of gold," Mulder said, bringing his sleeve away from his nose. "It smells like someone died here," he added.

I had to agree. Beyond the smell of the wet, rotting wood, it smelled like death. We scouted the entire ruin, dodging sinkholes and screaming birds, but found no bodies, no blood, no anything that might point to someone being killed here.

"Rain could have washed it away," Mulder said.

"True enough. Nothing survives long here." I brushed my finger along the closest wood surface; bits of wood fluttered away, vanishing into the wet ground. I looked at my finger and found that it was smeared with black. It smelled like soot, as though this place had once burned. Dr. Foreman hadn't said how the barn had become a ruin, only that it was being considered for the historical site list. I remembered Skinner mentioning burned bodies to me when he had brought the case to me; I wondered if the light people had talked about was fire, though none of the official reports had mentioned fire or burned bodies. Skinner's report looked to be based on rumour alone now; I didn't think we would find any burned bodies.

"Mulder, does anything about this case make sense to you?" He turned and looked at me and I saw the uncertainty in his eyes. "I didn't think people could be so--cruel. A young black girl is killed and then an elderly black woman. They are connected in many ways, our investigation being one of them. Did someone kill Wren just to shut her up--or because she was black? Likewise with Ophelia. Was it race or something else?"

Mulder exhaled, turning in a slow circle. "I checked my notes this morning and I did speak to the family across the field from the Washingtons; the Youngs have lived here longer than almost anyone, excepting Wren. They said they haven't noticed any racial problems or tensions."

"Mulder." I laughed; I couldn't help it. "Are you saying Wren invented those tensions because she's black?"

He shrugged, his shoulders rolling easily under his coat. "I'm saying it's just as possible that the Youngs have simply closed their eyes to it. It's a hard thing to ask people, Scully. 'Do you hate that woman because she's black?' I mean--we're treading on shaky ground here."

"It is hard, and I realize we don't want to turn this community against us, but if we *don't* ask it, nothing will be solved. You saw how the Newlins looked at us for helping the Washingtons and spending the night--it's like they thought we were contaminated. When I spoke with them, they laughed and wondered why someone like me was on a case like this. I have never been ashamed of my colour, Mulder, or anyone else's, but the behaviour I've seen makes me sick. I want to stop this before someone else dies."

~*~

Finding nothing of major consequence at the ruin, we left the field, making our way back to the car. By the time we got there, the sun had risen and was burning off the fog; the heat was quickly rising and I pulled my coat off, shoving it into the backseat as Mulder did the same with his.

We headed toward the Washingtons, finding Jeffrey on his way to work. He needed to go in and set a few things straight; he would be back early that afternoon. Mae welcomed us in, but had little to say when we asked her about any racial tensions in the neighbourhood. It was like her closing up in the kitchen the other day; she would not talk about it.

I wondered if she had managed to close her own eyes to what was happening around her and her family. Was ignoring it better than facing it straight on? If so, I hoped the deaths might make her come around; I knew it was entirely possible that they would also close her up even tighter. When an armadillo is attacked, they don't fight back; they simply roll up and close themselves in their armor. I hoped Mae Washington wouldn't do that.

Jeffrey came back sooner than expected and he and Mulder went off together; I knew Mulder would ask him the same things we had asked Mae earlier. Mae made some tea and asked me to come up to Ophelia's room with her. I followed, noticing the change in Mae once we were alone. She seemed excited about something and as we went into the bedroom, I saw what. Mae picked up the book at the foot of the bed and handed it to me.

It had a yellow cover, with one word pressed into it. DIARY. The edges were worn and the lock was tarnished. On the back, Ophelia's name was neatly printed.

"I don't know where the key is," Mae said, "but if you want to take it and..."

*Pick the lock.* I almost handed Mae the diary back. But then I held it a little more tightly and nodded. Reading through this might give us the lead we needed. "I'll look through it tonight."

"Please don't tell Jeffrey. He wouldn't want it to go outside the house." Her words sounded uncertain; she was definitely afraid that Jeffrey would find me with the diary, but I wondered if it was for the reason she said. Maybe this was Mae's way of letting me know what she couldn't say aloud. Maybe she knew that her daughter spoke of dark things in her diary, things her father had forbidden her to discuss.

On the way back to the hotel, I showed Mulder the diary. He voiced his surprise, but that faded when I told him how Mae had cautioned me.

"Jeffrey denied that there was any kind of racial trouble in the neighbourhood. Said they haven't had a problem in all the years that they've lived there. I got the idea he was lying to me, Scully." Mulder jabbed his fist against the steering wheel. "They wanted us to solve this and now it's going in a way they apparently don't want."

"It might have been easier to blame aliens instead of someone who was racially motivated," I said, Ophelia's diary in my lap. My fingers stroked the edge and I wondered what I would find inside.

I had kept a diary off and on during my childhood and teen years; the writing had grown more erratic as time wore on. I had started a journal prior to joining the FBI, but had abandoned it soon after, writing case reports rather than journal entries. As I touched Ophelia's diary, I realized I had missed writing longhand, letting my thoughts flow with the ink.

Mulder left me at the junction of corridors and elevators at the hotel, kissing my cheek before he walked down toward his room. He looked back once, smiling softly at me. I was reminded of that mouth around my finger and I smiled back, heading to my room. I could hear him muttering about his ruined loafers all the way down the hall.

Inside my room, I slipped out of my shoes, coat, and jacket, taking the diary to the couch. There were no messages waiting for me, so I proceeded to work on the diary lock, with the pick kit Frohike had gifted me with for Valentine's Day.

The small package had been delivered with a single rose and a simple card. I had appreciated the gesture very much, even more so when the diary lock came open with a soft click. "Guaranteed not to scratch," Frohike had told me and he was right; the diary lock was unmarred despite my intrusion.

I replaced the picks in their case, for Frohike told me they needed to be cared for, and opened the diary. The spine gave a small creak and a piece of paper fluttered out. It was folded and marked in purple pen, reminding me of notes I had traded with friends in school.

I unfolded it, shocked at the words on the page. *We never liked you, Brownie; go back to where you came from or I'll send you there with my foot. Sambo, go home! Go home before we turn *you* to butter!*

Looking away, I felt the disgust rising in my throat. I folded the paper and set it aside, wondering why Ophelia would have kept such a hateful thing.

Neat printing in blue ink filled the first page, each letter made with a precision I envied. I wished I could write that neatly; I'm sure Skinner wished the same thing when reading through case notes.

On the page, Ophelia had quoted a poem and I carefully read:

Still I Rise
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

She had tagged the author as "M.A.," which left me momentarily puzzled. I opened up my laptop and got on-line, searching. When I discovered it was Maya Angelou, I was again surprised. Ophelia had been eleven; I didn't connect someone of her age with the works of Angelou. It served to reinforce what I already knew about Ophelia, though; she was well-educated and had loved learning. Science, reading, poetry. Black activism.

I looked back to her diary, and began to read the first entry, dated June 3, 1997.

*And so we come to Louisiana. Grand-momma told me the gators would eat me alive, but I'm still okay. Daddy doesn't start work till next week, so we got time to settle in. Momma loves the house--she's already painting the kitchen yell-o. She promised crawfish for dinner; Daddy said I could have some fantail shrimp, too. I want to paint my room. Maybe green.*

I smiled at the enthusiasm in the writing. Ophelia had been nine when she had written that, yet she sounded much older. I compared the handwriting to that used on the poem and figured the poem had been added later; it had a more refined look to it. Flipping through the pages, 1997 blurred past, childish, round writing giving way to neater print. 1997 was filled with promise and joy; Ophelia liked school and had looked forward to each and every science class.

I found myself relating to so much in her life, I couldn't help but smile and nod as I read. The diary almost read like a novel; when I reminded myself there was a real girl behind these words, I sobered, especially when I came to the later entries, those made after she had entered the sixth grade.

*Rebecca touched me today and screamed when my colour didn't come off. She told me she thought I would smear like paint. I saw the look in her eye; she wanted to see how I would react to that. I wasn't the first black kid she'd seen and I wasn't the first she had tried to smear.*

The entry came out of nowhere; the previous one spoke of the summer spent with her family. They had gone to Disney World for a reunion and Ophelia was thrilled with her mouse ears. I remembered seeing them hanging in her bedroom, on the wall, her name embroidered in yellow on the back.

*Rebecca told Shelly and Shelly told Tammy and by the end of the day, everyone wanted to touch me, just to see if Rebecca was telling the truth. They followed me around for days, wiping their hands on me. I was surprised *their* colour didn't come off on me. Maybe that was what they wanted.*

I closed the book, exhaling. This was not the bedtime story I wanted.

~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~

XII. LITTLE CAT FEET

If I love you, what business is it of yours?

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

"I believe in the idea that God's hand can be witnessed."

I saw Kevin Kryder standing in a shadow, in the shadow of a massive cross. When I turned to look at the cross, it was Emily's body. She fell forward and Kevin caught her, lowering her to the ground. He wiped his right hand across her forehead and murmured something only she could hear.

"Even if science can't prove it?"

Mulder was standing there, questioning. For a moment, I looked through his eyes and saw two children at play. Through my own, the miracle continued to unfold. Kevin wiped his left hand across Emily's cheek and she rose from the ground, whole and healthy.

"Maybe that's what faith is..."

In the darkness of my hotel room, I came awake with a cry, dry sobs causing me to shake. I held the sheets close, looking at the clock. It was after two. I reached for the phone, but my hand brushed Ophelia's diary; I picked it up instead, sinking back into the pillows.

As I opened the book, I read a few entries from 1997. Ophelia was happy in those pages, though she did miss her friends in California. Still, she wanted her father to be happy, and wanted him to be a good "puter tekie." I smiled at the spelling. In some ways, Ophelia had an old soul; in others, she was but a child.

With a deep breath, I opened the book to the 1998 and 1999 entries, trying to focus on 1999. There weren't many, but those that were there were enough to disturb.

*January 9, 1999. Saw Rebecca and Adam cutting through the field. They were holding hands and I saw them kiss.*

*January 11, 1999. Told Rebecca I saw her and she hit me. Told me not to tell a soul, especially Adam's dragon daddy. Told me to keep my dark mouth shut and if she heard I was talking, she'd cut my tongue right out. I'm not afraid; I've seen her in science class and she can't even cut a frog with a scalpel.*

*January 20, 1999. My birthday. I'm eleven. Doesn't feel much different than ten. Momma tells me I've always been older than I really am. Wren came over; she made me a cake with my name spelled in green frosting. She doesn't make cakes for anyone else; she makes me feel special, deep down. She brought me a book by Maya Angelou. I can't wait to read it.*

*January 28, 1999. Adam tells me I'm a darkie and won't be anything more. He tells me that one day, they will lock me in a clear cage and people will pay money to look at me because I will be one of a kind. I smiled at him and told him I would look forward to his money in my pocket. He called me an idiot and walked away.*

*February 5, 1999. Went to check on my science project and found it ruined. Someone had set the bugs free; a few of them were stuck to the cork board with long pins--pinned by their wings which left their little legs flailing. I cried and cried. Mrs. Mannus came and helped me let them go--of course they couldn't fly with their damaged wings. Had to kill them and make it quick.*

*February 14, 1999. Someone left flowers on the porch, but they were all dead. I was up before Momma or Dad, so I shoved them into the garbage, deep. They didn't need to see that.*

*February 19, 1999. Rebecca says no one will ask me to the spring dance. I have a new dress; it has the prettiest green sash, but I know I won't ever wear it. No boy will dance with me and my patent leather shoes won't get worn out. Momma tries to smile, but I think she knows what I know.*

It was the last entry.

I closed the book, tears stinging my eyes. Three days later, Ophelia disappeared and four days later, she was dead in the street.

I clutched the book against my chest and sobbed. The helplessness welled up and poured out. I had felt helpless over my Emily, too, but this, this was beyond description.

Rocking back and forth, the tears subsided and I was able to set the diary aside. I wiped my hands over my face, feeling the heat of my cheeks. I drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly, feeling the hammer of my heart. I couldn't be alone with this tonight. I couldn't.

Grabbing my room key, I left the room. Barefoot down the hall I ran, toward Mulder's room. I pounded on the door and he answered in short fashion; his room was lit in the familiar blue glow from a TV and I knew I hadn't woken him. He drew me inside and I hugged him tightly, just needing to feel another human body against my own. He seemed to understand the need.

As the door latched shut, Mulder drew me to the bed and under the covers. He held me in the circle of his arms while Ron Popeil extolled the virtues of his latest gadget. Mulder turned the sound down and I told him about the diary, about everything I had read. He rocked me and slowly, sleep claimed me for its own.

~*~

5 March

Mulder's body jerked beside mine and I came awake, listening to the rumble of his breath in his nose. Almost a snore, it was building. I bit my bottom lip, just waiting. When the snore broke, it was more like a snuffle and a snort. Mulder shifted, drawing me closer against him. Our noses were nearly touching now; my feet were tangled around one of his knees. I shifted and my own knee brushed against something I hadn't wanted to contemplate.

I turned away from Mulder, but he refused to relinquish his hold. He pulled me back against him; he was warmer than a kitchen on Thanksgiving morning. He was dressed in his FBI sweats, though I had all the blankets. I wondered if I had been a sheet hog; I hadn't slept with anyone in so long, I didn't have any way of knowing my own habits. There was no one to tattle on me come morning.

Against my bottom, I could feel the press of his morning erection. I closed my eyes, telling myself that it wasn't a response to me being there. Still, the fantasy inside my head continued to build. I had the soft wetness of his mouth burned into memory; now, the feel of his lower body began to imprint itself as well.

Shameless, I reached back and slipped a hand between us. I stroked the length once, upward through the material of his sweats. I felt him harden, felt the swell of the head, and then I pulled back. It was enough information for a dozen fantasies. Maybe more.

Laying there, I shook a little, feeling my cheeks burn. I remembered my reaction when Melissa had told me she'd lost her virginity--or rather, had given it up. I remembered the fervent desire to wait for that pleasure until I was married.

Somehow, I felt Melissa's eyes on me now. *You knew when the time was right with James,* she was saying. *Now, you feel the time is approaching with Mulder. Don't shy away from it. You have worked toward this for six years--any sane woman would have thrown herself into his arms the first night you stripped down to your undies. Dana Katherine--*

That's as far as she got, because I stopped listening. Mulder was snoring rather loudly now and I gave him an elbow in the gut. Mulder grunted and turned away, on his back. I slid farther away, freeing his right arm which had been under me. I looked over him; the erection was no better from this angle. Sitting up, I tossed the sheets over him and ran a hand through my hair, looking at the bedside clock. It was still before seven.

I crept to the window, parting the curtains with two fingers. Sunlight spilled over the surface of the lake and I watched it in silence, Mulder's snores having faded. The sun came up and I turned away from the window, looking at the assorted files on Mulder's table. I sat down, sorting through them.

Mulder had gotten pretty much what I had from the neighbours. If there was racial trouble, no one wanted to talk about it. I thought back to Ophelia's diary and decided I needed a list of names. I would look into each of the name she mentioned, making sure they hadn't had anything to do with this crime.

I hardly thought any of her classmates capable of such a thing; they were all her age, likely of her size. As Ophelia said in one entry, she doubted Rebecca could come through on her threats, for she couldn't take a scalpel to a frog.

All I had to go on were first names, but obtaining a class list from the school wouldn't be difficult.

Mulder snorted again and I looked over at him, his bare feet peeking out from under the blankets. I took a slip of paper from his notebook and wrote "thank you; I'm taking the rental to the school to check some names" on it, leaving it on the pillow beside his head. I picked my room key up and left as I had come, jogging down the long corridor to cover the distance between rooms.

In my room, I heard the ring of my cell phone. I fought with the card key, but got inside, practically throwing myself at the phone. "Scully," I said, landing with a flop on the couch.

"Anything new to report?" Skinner asked. His voice made me smile; it was good to hear from him. It was a voice that grounded me.

"Well, I caught the tail end of the sunrise this morning," I said and on the other end, he chuckled. "As for the case, we're making a little progress. Mrs. Washington gave me Ophelia's diary to read through and I've found some disturbing things, all of them relating to race."

"Any suspects?"

I knew Skinner was anxious for us to wrap this case. Frankly, so was I. "Not yet," I said. "The neighbourhood is filled with people who are afraid to talk. The one person who did talk to me is dead."

"Wren's death isn't your fault, Scully," Skinner said.

"I know," I said, and I really did know. After reading Ophelia's diary, I got the feeling that she and Wren had been marked for bad things long before we had come on the scene. "I think I have a few leads from the diary, though, so I'll be pursuing those today. Mulder will likely finish the walk through the neighbourhood. There were a few houses we didn't get to."

"When you get back, remind me that you're in need of a vacation, Agent Scully."

I smiled. "I promise you that."

~*~

The first man I hated was my father. "Bye, Starbuck," he said, ruffling my hair, kissing Melissa on the cheek before he turned to say goodbye to our mother.

He was leaving--the Navy needed him. Apparently, he thought they needed him more than we did. The spring air pulled at my loose hair and for once, I didn't try to smooth it back into place.

I hated him; he didn't have to go, he was just going because he didn't want to keep his promise and take me to the zoo. He hated the zoo, so he was sailing away.

*Go then, Ahab, and I hope your boat sinks. I hope it sinks and you drown. That'll teach you, won't it?*

He turned and looked down at me, eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. Had he heard me? I could only hope. He reached out for me, but I turned away and then ran back to the car. I didn't want to see him or his stupid ship. I ran into Bill and shoved him away when he tried to hold me.

"Dana--"

"Get away." Tears were blurring my vision now and I didn't want anyone to see. I crouched behind the car, feeling the warm bumper through my dress. He could just go away and drown. I didn't need him. I hated him.

Hated him.

Hated him so much I cried as he walked away from Mom and got onto the boat. I came around the car and threw rocks as the ship pulled away, while Mom and everyone else waved.

I didn't count how many days he was gone; I convinced myself that it didn't matter. I concentrated on my school work and my friends and ignored my father. I ripped out the first chapter of *Moby Dick* and turned it into small bits of confetti.

Hating him came so easy, it should have alarmed me. Shutting him out was as easy and closing my eyes. I went to church and confessed my sin; I hated my father, how was that possible?

The priest told me it wasn't uncommon, that the Bible was filled with hate. He said I should try and decide exactly why I hated my father. Once I did, I would feel better.

I doubted that, but that night, I thought about it. I flipped through the Bible and read the hateful chapters. They didn't make me feel any better or make me understand why I hated my own father. I slapped the Bible shut and shoved it into the drawer with the torn copy of *Moby Dick.* I vowed not to open the drawer until my father came back.

It was Christmas by then.

~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~

XIII. BLACK & WHITE

Your mind now, moldering like wedding-cake,
heavy with useless experience, rich
with suspicion, rumor fantasy,
crumbling to pieces under the knife-edge
of mere fact.

~ Adrienne Rich

Mandeville Middle School was like dozens of others I had seen; red brick, ringed with trees still budding, looking like the very heart of innocence dwelled inside. Today, the heart of sorrow was more like it.

Everyone I spoke with was very sympathetic to the task ahead of me and everyone seemed to want to lighten that burden. I was provided with a list of every student at the school, making up grades four, five, and six. The parents, as much as the teachers, wanted this "horrible crime" solved. I asked the principal about any students named Rebecca and as luck would have it, there was only one in the school. Rebecca Callas was in the sixth grade. She was a good student, very active in every class. She had been chosen as student of the month twice last year.

Looking at her picture, I was surprised that Ophelia had had anything to do with Rebecca. She was blue eyed, with straight blonde hair that reached beyond her shoulders. For picture day, she had dressed in a bright blue dress, which made her skin look like porcelain; I'm sure her mother was well aware of the effect. It had been captured perfectly in the photo.

I returned the photograph to the file. The Callas family lived on the other side of Mandeville, nowhere near the Washingtons. Back in the car, I wondered if this could be the same Rebecca Ophelia had mentioned; she had written of Rebecca and Adam walking through the field, yet it was on the other side of town for Rebecca. Still, it had to be her; it was the only Rebecca in the school.

I drove back to the Washingtons' neighbourhood, finding Mulder sitting on the sidewalk, flipping through his notebook. He looked up when he heard the car and I slowed, letting him in.

"Any luck?" I asked him.

Mulder shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. You?"

I handed him the list of students. "There was only one Rebecca, but I haven't looked for an Adam yet; will you?"

"Sure--want to stop for lunch?"

Lunch sounded grand. Mulder and I left Mandeville and crossed back into New Orleans. He wanted to find seafood and the moment he mentioned it, my stomach growled. We found a small restaurant that wasn't too crowded yet, and took up a booth, spreading out the list of students, searching for anyone named Adam. We found four of them, three in the fourth grade, one in the fifth.

But that didn't make sense.

I opened Ophelia's diary, turning back to the entry she had made concerning Rebecca and Adam. Ophelia mentioned them kissing. I supposed it could have been Adam Goldman from the fifth grade, but I doubted it was any of the Adams from the fourth. Fourth grade boys didn't go around kissing girls--though neither did many fifth graders.

"Scully, if you suck that shrimp any harder, I won't be responsible for giving you something else to suck."

I looked up at Mulder, realizing then that I hadn't eaten the shrimp as I'd intended; I was only toying with it. I popped it in my mouth and chewed, enjoying the crispy tail. I swallowed and apologized to Mulder.

"No apologies--you've just got this way with food," he said. "Makes a man hungry."

I remembered the whipped cream and my face flamed with colour. "You should have seen my home-ec class," I said lightly and Mulder laughed.

"I'm sure you got all A's."

"You're an optimist." Truth be told, I had burned the chocolate pudding and my cookie dough had lumps in it that even a steam roller wouldn't get out.

"I'm optimistic that we have an address for Adam Goldman," he said, flipping through the list I'd been given.

I shook my head. "Just names. The principal wasn't comfortable releasing names and addresses both." Mulder grumbled, but I understood where the principal was coming from. If the papers fell into the wrong hands, it would be a rich database. "I'll call the school."

The principal released Adam Goldman's address to me, though it was on the side of town opposite of Ophelia and Rebecca. After lunch, Mulder and I went to visit the Goldmans, and as we left, it was plain he wasn't the Adam we were looking for. This Adam was in a wheelchair, and likely wouldn't be walking with Rebecca across Grover Field. He was being home schooled for a couple of weeks while he recovered from a bout of pneumonia. Mulder and I wished him a speedy recovery as we left.

We returned to the school, asking if we could speak with Rebecca Callas. The principal sent an office assistant to retrieve her and settled Mulder and I in one of the counseling offices to wait. Mulder ran a finger along the career books that weighed one shelf down and he grinned.

"You know, in school we took career aptitude tests," he said.

"And you should have been what?" I asked.

"Grave digger, which oddly enough, works, doesn't it?" He smiled at me, taking his coat off, draping it over the chair before he sat down.

I sat in the chair beside his. We didn't have long to wait for Rebecca. She came in, looking scared; I remembered what it was like to get pulled from a class. Everyone would turn and look with judgmental eyes; I remembered that far too well. Rebecca looked as sweet as her picture; I had a hard time believing that this was the girl who had threatened Ophelia in so many ways.

"Rebecca, I'm Agent Scully and this is Agent Mulder. We're with the FBI and we're looking into Ophelia Washington's murder."

If I thought she looked scared before, I hadn't seen anything. Her face crumpled and she started to cry. Big tears rolled down her cheeks and part of me wondered how long she had been saving up for this occasion. I looked at Mulder and it was clear that he shared my suspicions.

"Rebecca--"

"I don't know who would want to go and kill such a sweet girl," she said between her sobs. "Ophelia was so small and sweet."

The words were plainly not meant. Right then and there, I got the impression that Rebecca Callas *did* know who would want to kill Ophelia.

"Rebecca, we know that you and Ophelia weren't friends," Mulder said, cutting to the chase. "You're mentioned many times in her diary--Ophelia says you hit her and threatened her."

Rebecca's eyes went wide and the tears stopped. "And you'd believe that darkie over me?" When she realized what she had said, she took in a breath. "I mean--she was always playin' her colour up. Wanted us to feel sorry for her and stuff. I didn't go for that--I treated her like anyone else."

"Ophelia wrote that you hit her after she saw you kissing Adam in the field," I said. Maybe Rebecca would tell us more about Adam.

"I shoved her," Rebecca said. "Didn't hit her."

"Didn't want to leave a mark, eh?" Mulder asked.

I was surprised at Mulder's comment, but Rebecca nodded. I bit the inside of my cheek, holding back the retort I really wanted to let loose. Little girls fighting--it wasn't uncommon, yet something about this little girl chilled me.

"She fell and cried, but she was small and not too strong," Rebecca said. "She had no right to talk to me about Adam. I think she was jealous."

"Is Adam your boyfriend?" Mulder asked. "Pretty girl like you, must have a string of boys after you."

Rebecca grinned. "He is," she said. "We've been going out for...about three months now."

I hadn't had a boyfriend when I was eleven, and I was surprised that Rebecca Callas did have. By the look on her face as Mulder continued to question her, the relationship was serious. I wondered how serious an eleven year old could be about a boy, though. And then, Rebecca said something which made things make a little more sense.

"He's up at Covington."

Covington High School, I was willing to bet. I wrote the name down, intending to pull any information I could. Rebecca Callas involved with a high schooler.

"Adam Lane is gonna be someone, you know," Rebecca said softly, her head bowed. "He's gonna be someone important."

I wrote the last name down, underlining it. Mulder asked Rebecca what she meant by that, but the school bell rang and she asked if she could go on to her math class, which she really enjoyed. Mulder and I said yes, but we said we might be in touch with her again.

When she had gone, Mulder turned to me, asking what Covington was. When I told him it was the high school, his eyes widened.

"Shit, Scully--Rebecca's...eleven?"

I nodded, wondering what we had stepped into.

~*~

The high school wasn't as complying as the middle school had been. The principal wouldn't release any information without a court order or after discussing it with the school board. He didn't want to convene the board, and knew that Mulder and I were probably too late to get an order issued today.

Still, I called Skinner and told him we might need one. As I explained the reasons, I could hear the frustration in his voice. This case wasn't getting easier; it had taken a twist that none of us had suspected.

Skinner spoke with the principal, but didn't get anywhere, either. The principal was less friendly when he ended the call with the AD.

"Bring me your court order tomorrow, and you can take what you need," he said.

School had just let out for the day; the lobby beyond the office was filled with kids and slamming lockers. I looked at them, wondering what in the world I could say to convince this man. When I looked back at him, I saw the pictures on his desk. He was a father.

"Look, we're trying to prevent other deaths in the community," I said. "We don't want this to happen to--"

"And you think I do?" he shook his head. "Look, the last thing I need is parents breathing down my neck over this. They aren't going to want to release records--"

"We don't need records, simply names to see if you have who we need to speak with."

"And then you'll need that record." He shook his head. "You need a court order, Miss Scully."

"Agent Scully," I said, trying not to bite my tongue.

"I want to cooperate, but I want this legal so the school isn't brought to suit over this."

I could understand that well enough. Mulder and I left the school as we had come, empty-handed. Mulder wanted to walk through the Washingtons' neighbourhood again, but I really wasn't up for it. I asked Mulder to drop me at the library; unless he called with new information, I would catch a cab back to the hotel and we could compare notes over dinner.

The library was still; even the students there were quiet. The librarian behind the main desk smiled at me and I made my way back to reference, hoping my hunch proved correct. The reference librarian welcomed me to her little nook of the library, and was more than helpful. When she finished, I was surrounded by the most recent yearbooks from Covington High.

The 1999 volume hadn't been released, so I started with the 1998 book. Going through the freshman pictures, I was reminded just how gawky I had been at that age. I went through as quickly as I could, scanning for the name Adam. I turned up one, but his last name was Bell. I moved on to the sophomore class.

1998 proved empty; in fact, there were no Lanes listed at all. I began to worry that I'd hit a dead end, but started looking through the 1997 volume. In the sophomore class, I was rewarded, but what I found made my stomach clench.

Lane wasn't Adam's last name; it was his middle. Adam Lane Young.

The Youngs lived directly behind the Washingtons, across the field. Adam and Rebecca crossing the field made sense now. I went back to the 1998 yearbook, but Adam's picture was missing from the junior class. I found a small section of text which listed students who hadn't made photographs, and his name was included.

I studied his picture from the 1997 book, surprised by the cold fury in his light eyes. The black and white picture bleached him of colour, but his hair was as light as his eyes and skin. He could have been the poster child for the white race. He didn't smile, his mouth drawn in a flat line, his eyes blank of anything other than anger.

I photocopied the page and continued to look through the yearbook, wondering if Adam had been involved in any sports, but he wasn't listed anywhere else.

I looked at his photo from the 1996 book and was surprised by the change; Adam was smiling in this picture. I copied it as well. That was when the reference librarian came to see how I was doing. It was getting dark outside and drizzling. I figured I should head back to the hotel, but what the librarian said next stopped me from going.

"The Youngs," she said in a whisper, stroking the picture of smiling-Adam. "Such a shame."

"What do you mean?"

She shook her head and looked around, as if making sure we were alone. There was one student working at a desk, but she had headphones on; the cassette holder on the desk said FRANCAIS in blue script.

"It's not something anyone likes to talk about--mostly rumour, you understand. You done with these books?"

I nodded, helping her put them back on the metal shelves that ringed the room. "What rumours?" I asked.

"Mostly talk about his daddy. You know--white sheets and how he likes to go riding around in them."

"White sheets?" I asked, shaking my head.

"The Klan," she said, shoving more books onto the shelf, this time with more force than necessary.

I barely heard the two words; they were hidden by the clang of the books. What I had heard was enough. "As in--"

"Yes, the KKK," she said. She touched my arm, the last batch of books in her other hand. "No one talks about it above a whisper, Agent Scully. You should do the same."

I nodded, feeling numb and angry at the same time. I called a cab and returned to the hotel, clutching the two photocopies in my hand. My mind was blank, there was no thought as we crossed the bridge back into New Orleans. The world seemed silent around me. I paid the fare and left the cab, walking up to my room, noticing no one around me.

Inside the room, I stood, seeing nothing. Rage bubbled up inside of me. The librarian had said it was rumour, but I saw it as truth. When I was able to move, I crossed toward Ophelia's diary and opened it, looking for the half-remembered passage. When I found it, I traced the handwriting.

*January 11, 1999. Told Rebecca I saw her and she hit me. Told me not to tell a soul, especially Adam's dragon daddy. Told me to keep my dark mouth shut and if she heard I was talking, she'd cut my tongue right out. I'm not afraid; I've seen her in science class and she can't even cut a frog with a scalpel.*

"Adam's dragon daddy," I whispered, tears stinging my eyes. I closed the book, my heart hammering furiously in my chest. I exhaled, trying to get a grip. Right now, this was all conjecture. That's all it was. That's all. That's--

I unfolded the photographs of Adam, placing them on the table. One, so happy. One, so angry. What had happened to harden this boy? He would be a senior now, seventeen, maybe eighteen. And he was using eleven year old Rebecca Callas for--

"For what?" I asked the silent room. I was so angry, I was shaking. I couldn't stop. I wrapped my arms around myself, crying out when my cell phone rang. I let it ring for a moment, then withdrew it from my pocket. "Scully," I managed to spit out.

"Scully...? It's me--you okay?"

I exhaled again, trying to let Mulder's voice calm me. "Not really," I admitted, certain that Mulder would fall over when he didn't hear my usual "I'm fine." "Where are you?" I asked.

"Just got back to my room. Didn't turn up anything new at the Washingtons, though I walked the field again, looking at those burn marks. I don't think they're crop circles, Scully."

No shit, I wanted to say. In my mind, I drew up an image of a burning cross, vomiting flames and smoke and light into the night sky, kicked over in the end when someone could get close enough. The burned crossbeam would fall, laying in the grass, burning a pattern like an arrow.

"Scully?"

"Order room service, Mulder," I said. "I'll be down in a bit." I cut the connection, tossing the phone aside. I jerked my coat off and kicked at my shoes, not caring where they went. I felt dirty and angry; I was filled with something I couldn't define and I had to get it out.

I stripped my clothes off and went to the shower, turning it as hot as I could stand it. But the water didn't erase the image of the burning cross, or the others that rose beside it. Memories from history class of white-clad men riding dark horses, carrying torches, taking black men and women from their beds to burn them and hang them, to threaten them with burning crosses and how dare they defy the word of God. How dare they!

I sank to the shower floor, shaking. I wrapped my arms around myself, willing the water to wash everything away. When my legs stopped shaking, I pulled myself back up, washing my face, pushing my damp hair back, trying to not believe the Klan was the answer to this crime.

When I stepped out of the shower, an hour had passed. I dried myself off and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I didn't want to face Mulder with any of this; I wanted to turn around and leave. I didn't want to be involved in this any more.

But I was. I knew my duty was to solve this. If Adam and the Klan were somehow involved, I would deal with it, as I had handled so much other crap through the years. I would come through. I always did.

XIV. SECOND HAND

As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.

~ Henry David Thoreau

I took the pictures of Adam and Ophelia's diary to Mulder's room. Room service had gotten there before me and the room was filled with the scent of beef stew. It looked wonderful, but I couldn't eat. I knew I couldn't. It would only come right back up.

In Mulder's room, I handed him the diary and let him read through it. He skipped, as I had done, to the latter pages, those which served as a record of Ophelia's last days on this earth. As he read, he nibbled at his bottom lip and shifted in the chair, clearly uncomfortable. When he finished, I handed him the photographs of Adam Lane Young.

I told him what the librarian had told me about Adam's father. About the white sheets. About the Klan. Mulder stared at me with those clear hazel eyes and I could see the rage building, much as it had in me when I had heard. He reached out for me, taking my hand in his. He squeezed tightly, and I looked down at our joined hands. White skin blending into white. I jerked my hand away and turned around.

"Scully?" The bed creaked when Mulder came off of it. I heard him set the photocopied pages down and step closer to me. He didn't touch me; he knew better.

"I have never been ashamed to be what I am," I said. "Now--that's all I feel. Shame for being--" I broke off, realizing what my shower had been about. I was trying to wash away the shame of being white. I had scrubbed at my skin until it glowed pink, but the white came back. It always did.

"For being?" Mulder asked.

"White." There, I'd said it.

"Scully, we don't know that Adam or his father did this to Ophelia."

"No?" I turned around now, looking up at Mulder. "You read that diary entry again, the one for January 11. 'Adam's dragon daddy.' What else does that mean, Mulder, if not the KKK?"

"We clearly need to speak with the Youngs again," he said softly, "We can't afford to jump to any conclusions--not that I think that's what you're doing here. I just want us to be certain. Scully--"

Now, he touched me. Gently, on the shoulder. I could feel the heat of his hand through my T-shirt; it was a comfort to know that I wasn't alone here.

"Don't hate what you are," he said.

His hand tightened on my shoulder and he drew me closer, so close that my breasts came to rest against his lower chest.

"What do you see when you look in the mirror?" he asked. When I shook my head, his hand slipped under my chin, holding me still. "Tell me."

"Until this case, I saw a reasonably strong woman, someone who knew what she wanted from life."

"You didn't see hair colour," Mulder said, his hand now stroking my still-damp hair. "Or eye colour." Fingertips brushed over my eyelashes, causing my eyes to flutter. "Didn't see the pale line of cheek."

I shook my head. "Not really. It was all just there." I thought about Wren and how she'd wanted to look like me once upon a time. It still didn't make sense.

"Scully, why are you really ashamed here?"

When Mulder asked, the answer rose so quickly, it astonished me. *Because I am white and I am safe from hateful things like this. Because I am white and no one will ever come to my house burning a cross, threatening to hang me simply for my colour. Because I am a coward.* Nausea rose in my throat and I reached for Mulder, gripping his arm as I swayed.

"It's okay to be that," Mulder said.

I hadn't realized I had spoken aloud. I closed my eyes, leaning my head against Mulder's chest. His arms went around me, a hand tightening on the back of my neck. There were no words after that. I shifted against Mulder, lifting my head as his descended.

Perhaps he meant to kiss the top of my head; I'll never know. His mouth met mine and our eyes closed. For a moment, we stood still, as if in shock that it had finally happened. I moved first, opening my mouth to the kiss. Mulder came closer, his mouth retreating, then coming fully away. I looked up at him, my hand sliding to the back of his neck. He was warm, as if flushed with fever, and his heart was racing.

His mouth came back to mine, with more conviction this time. I licked his lips as he came back and he trembled under my hands, arms tightening around me. His mouth was like a halved peach, my tongue the knife, cutting into the sweet flesh, licking. I could have drowned in the juice and been happy. He tasted faintly of cocoa and I thought about him sucking the whipped cream from my finger. Shivers traced my body, outlining me in gooseflesh.

My tongue touched Mulder and he groaned, gathering me even closer. I could feel his half-hard length against me and I remembered stroking him just that morning. He had been beautiful in sleep, but was even more so awake. Now, I slid a hand down his body, stroking him again. Our mouths parted and I saw the recognition in his eyes; he had thought this morning's touch a dream. Now he knew better.

Mulder guided me toward the bed; I thought it was a good thing since I was uncertain about my legs holding me for much longer. Still standing, he pulled my T-shirt out from the waist of my jeans, his fingers skimming over my flesh. I lifted my arms, letting him pull the shirt free. Cool air hit my skin and my nipples hardened; I hadn't put on a bra after my shower--or panties, I realized, feeling the denim touch my wet skin.

His eyes were warm on me; soon, I didn't notice the temperature of the room at all. I reached out to Mulder, doing what he had done. I pulled his black T-shirt up and out of his jeans, half thankful he had changed from his suit. As I tossed the shirt aside, I realized Mulder was deliciously barefoot, just as I was.

My hands skimmed down his chest, brushing over his nipples. He leaned closer, into my touch which grew firmer. I avoided the fly of his jeans, running my hands around his waist. I pulled him close, simply hugging him, enjoying the feel of my breasts against his bare skin.

Mulder's hands slid down my back, raising more goosebumps. We began to sway, dancing to a silent music, just enjoying the feel of another body. His fingers traced the waist of my jeans, coming around to the button fly. One by one, he undid the buttons, then slipped his hand inside, running it over my belly, down between my legs.

When he discovered I was commando, he drew in a sharp breath. His fingers slid through my curls, finding the wet hollow beyond. I swayed into his touch, my jeans keeping his hand firmly against me. Mulder's touch was gentle, precise; I could feel him shaking through his fingertips. I looked up at him, drawing his mouth down to mine with a hand against his neck.

I kissed him softly, letting him know it was all right to be terrified of this moment. Without words, he let me know he understood. His hand quickened, broad fingers sliding deep inside me. I groaned, knees buckling. Mulder pushed me down to the bed, pulling my jeans down.

Entirely bare to him, my skin flushed with colour. Mulder didn't take his own jeans off; he covered my body with his, and kissed his way down. The weight of him against me was pleasurable; he was solid and whole and warm. His mouth made a trail from my collarbone, tongue slithering between my breasts. His mouth went to the summit of each breast, pointedly avoiding each nipple until the very end when it finally closed fully over and sucked and licked.

I could feel the pull of pleasure in my gut; it started lower, and worked its way up. It seemed Mulder sucked it through me and into his own mouth, returning it to me with each lick and kiss. He slid down my belly, kissing, tonguing my belly button as he slid even lower. He slid off the end of the bed, settling between my legs. Mulder kissed my inner thighs, licking downward, closer to my core. When he finally touched me with his mouth there, I closed my eyes, unable to bear the sweet sight of him there.

Mulder devoured me, slowly yet with purpose. His tongue worked my clit in beautiful, torturous circles, his fingers sliding back into me. He licked and stroked until I came, my entire body shaking; I felt like an old house blown apart by a strong wind, dust lifting off every surface. I reached for Mulder then, my hand threading into his hair, pulling him upward. He came up as he had gone down, kissing and licking.

His mouth touched mine and the taste of myself on his tongue was extraordinary. I kissed him clean, my hands going to the buttons of his jeans. Mulder took hold of me and rolled us, so he was beneath me; I slid off so I could strip him of his jeans and his gray boxer briefs. I remembered seeing him in them once long ago, after I'd shot him to prevent him from killing Alex Krycek. Now, I discarded them as I had wanted to do then and looked at his fully naked body.

Mulder was put together nicely; I had known this, so it wasn't as big a revelation as one might think. I had seen him nearly every day for the past six years; by the way his suits hung on him, one could tell he had a nice body underneath. I had seen him partially undressed before; the chest was no surprise, either. His waist tapered into slim hips, hair making a fine line down his belly, toward the dark nest which twined at the base of his cock.

I stroked a hand down his hard length; muscles strained against my hand. The head of his cock was incredibly smooth, the same bundled tissue my own body contained; testosterone had turned his into his cock, while the lack of had turned mine into my clit. It was difficult not to marvel at the medical wonders of the body; my fascination went beyond clinical interest, though.

My hand went lower, stroking over his balls, gently. Mulder groaned and closed his eyes. I smiled and stroked him again, enjoying the way he thrust against my hand. I covered his belly with kisses, sliding lower just as he had. I licked the length of him, delighting in the way his hands fisted into the sheets.

I took him into my mouth then, getting him good and wet. I sucked and licked, working up and down, but in the end letting him set a rhythm. He pumped into my mouth, one hand coming up to take hold of my hair. He held me with a tenderness that did surprise me; it made me moan softly, and that was when Mulder pulled me away, pressing me down into the bed with his own body.

Spreading my legs with one of his, he came down, guiding himself into me with a steady hand. I pushed upward, letting him fill me. For a moment, as it was when we had hugged, we simply lay there, enjoying the feel of our joined bodies. When Mulder moved, I twined a leg around him, letting him set the pace again.

He was fast, he was slow, he was gentle, he was furious. He was everything we both needed. His mouth covered mine time and again, tongue sliding down to lick my breasts. He worked one hand between us, rubbing my clit; I could feel the orgasm approaching, like half-heard hoof-beats on a dirt road. The sensation began where Mulder touched me, and spread outward, through my belly, up my chest, through my arms and fingers, and finally out my mouth in a soft "oh."

When Mulder came, he went absolutely still, clutching me against his sweat-damp body. He stroked once, then twice, then stilled again, his breath pouring in hot sheets down my shoulder. I held him tightly and we lay there in the lamplight, drifting.

We lost more than nine minutes of time that night.

~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~

XV. BY MORNING LIGHT

Enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

The confessional smelled like cigar smoke, which caught me off guard. I stumbled over the raised threshold, scuffing my saddle shoe, and sat with a firm thud.

I was alone. There was no one to hear my confession.

I exhaled, bending my head to my knees. I had a lot to confess, God had to know that. Smoking a cigarette and kissing Paul Overstreet all in the same night, I was surely going straight to Hell.

I looked up, listening as someone walked past the confessional. It wasn't the priest, for the adjoining booth stayed quiet. I looked into its depth, the lattice shutter between this half and that pleasantly dark, almost like mahogany. There was nothing beyond, just silence.

Pressing myself back into the confessional, I listed to that silence. *Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It's been a week since my last confession--you'll remember that Missy made me come and I still don't think that what I did qualifies as a sin, but that's moot. I don't want to sit here and argue the point any more. My mother says an adult knows when to concede a point, when a child will just continue to whine and whine.*

The back of the confessional was hard; only the small bench seat was padded. I shifted forward; my feet brushed over the worn floor. I wondered who had been here before me, and why the priest wasn't here now; I was here during his posted confessional hours.

*I smoked a cigarette and kissed Paul Overstreet. So, what do I do now to put me back in your good graces, O Mysterious One? Are you even up there? No--of course you are. How can I question that. You're up there. You are. Forgive my wavering faith--which is, I suppose, yet another sin.*

I looked down at the scuff on my shoe, knowing that later today I'd be polishing it out. I don't know why I never remembered that the confessional booth was a step up from the floor. It seems I am destined to stumble my way into confession.

*So, what can I do to correct my human failings?* I wondered. *How does God forgive a smoke and a kiss, all in the same night? Would He forgive that quickly, or would it take a really long time? By the time I reached Heaven, would He have forgiven me? Or would He still be thinking it over?*

I groaned.

*It'll be on the checklist, won't it? Dana Katherine Scully, you smoked a stolen cigarette and kissed Paul Overstreet on the same evening. How do you plead?*

"Guilty. Guilty. So guilty," I whispered, breaking the silence.

*You also failed to make up for your grievous ways, didn't you? You confessed to an empty booth, which just doesn't count in my book."

*He'll boot me out and I'll be stuck on an outlying cloud of Heaven. I'll be able to see Heaven, but I won't be able to partake of the wonders.*

I sighed. *Maybe,* I thought, *God was too busy watching over everyone else and he just didn't see me. I mean, Missy needs more shepherding than I do. If no one sees you commit a sin, does it still count?*

The curtain on the other side of the booth was brushed back and I jerked upright, gasping in surprise. The priest came in and sat with a huff, the curtain swirling shut.

"My child?" he asked. "Forgive me, for I was in the restroom."

I bit my lower lip. "And how long has it been since your last confession?" I asked.

I heard the smile in his voice when he replied. "But an hour ago. As for you--go on with your day. I figure you've tortured yourself enough in here."

He was quite right. I left the confessional and walked outside, the sunlight hitting me smack in the face. I began to walk home, watching the people who were out as I went. There was Sophia Connley; she leaned over and kissed Thomas Upshaw. I wondered if sin was contagious, but suddenly, my actions didn't seem so criminal. They seemed perfectly normal for a kid my age.

Feeling better, I ran home.

~*~

I woke alone, Mulder's side of the bed cold to the touch. There was a note scribbled on the hotel paper, likely with the hotel pen, which said he'd gone out for a run.

I was slow to rise, but eventually, I got myself back to my room and into the shower. My cell phone was ringing when I got out and wrapped in a towel, I ran for it. It was Mae Washington; she wanted me to come out and talk about Ophelia's diary. I could be there within the hour and she was thrilled. Hanging up, I realized I should call Skinner and update him on the Adam Lane findings, but something made me hold back.

When I spoke to him, would he notice a change in me? Was I different since I'd had sex with Mulder? I looked at myself in the steamed mirror, wiping my hand across the surface. I couldn't see any difference. And when I spoke, I sounded like the same old Scully.

"The same old Scully," I whispered.

I drew on my makeup as I always did, and styled my hair in the same manner. My hands didn't shake when I got dressed and my legs didn't buckle when I walked in my heels. Same old Scully; untouched and untouchable. I frowned at that thought, hoping it wasn't true. Mulder had touched me last night, deeply.

Hadn't he?

I left him a note under the one he had written to me; seeing our handwriting side by side, I wanted, for one moment, to have someone analyze it. What was really spelled out in the letters there?

I told Mulder I'd gone to the Washingtons, and as I left the hotel, I left the same message at the front desk. I took the rental, leaving Mulder to get a cab out this time.

At the Washingtons, Mae was eager to see me. Her husband was out on business and she was all smiles and coffee and croissants as I came inside. The breakfast was welcome; until I smelled the coffee, I didn't realize how hungry I was. We ate, making the small talk which easily fills otherwise gaping spaces. We didn't speak of the case then, as we drank our coffee and ate croissants slathered in raspberry jam then dunked in cream.

When we finished, we retreated to the kitchen, where Mae began to clean up. It was work that would distract her from the reason she had called. I suspected that her house was cleaner than it ever had been; since Ophelia's death, housework was an easy way to distract one's self.

Still, I had things to tell her, things she needed to know. She wouldn't like any of them, but if she could help shine more light on this, I needed it.

"Mae, do you know the Youngs?"

She didn't look up from her dish washing, but she nodded once. "I know most everyone in the neighbourhood." A plate clinked against another so loudly I wondered if either had been chipped.

"How much do you know about Adam Young, or his father--" I looked down at the file I'd brought. "Abel." Very Biblical names; I wasn't surprised by that.

Mae shrugged, placing one plate in the rinse water. "Much as I need to. They keep their yard neat, they contribute to the annual picnics, they don't have loud dogs, they--"

"Mae." I realized that circling what I really wanted to tell her wasn't going to get us anywhere. "I was reading Ophelia's diary and she made mention of Adam's 'dragon daddy.' Later, I was at the library, looking for a photograph of Adam and I was told that the family might be involved in the Ku Klux Klan. Is there any truth to that?"

Mae dropped the plate she was holding; soap foamed up around it, the water providing a cushion. It hit the bottom of the sink, but didn't break.

"I hate to have to ask you this, but Opheila's diary is riddled with comments on race and how she was treated by those she went to school with."

"You don't call them her friends," Mae said.

I shook my head. "Not after what I read. They were cruel to her, Mae."

When I saw the tears in her eyes, I saw that she had known, but she had tried to deny it. I wondered how long she had known and she answered my unasked question.

"Ever since we moved in, people have looked at us. I thought it was because we were new at first, but when the attitude didn't go away, I knew it was something else. Ophelia was always coming home with a ripped shirt or a missing jacket. She would lose books and earrings. She'd never been one to lose things before, not until we came here. She told me once that a girl pinned her down and threatened to beat Ophelia if she didn't hand over her hair ribbons. Ophelia went to the dreadlocks after that."

Mae exhaled, shaking her head. "We asked her if she wanted to transfer schools, but she loved the programs at Mandeville Middle. The teachers loved her and her grades were better than they'd ever been. She liked it there, despite all the crap. She was a strong girl, Agent Scully. Strong."

"Did you consider moving?"

"Yes, but what good would that have done?" She looked up at me, with her endless ebony eyes, and I felt the frustration inside her. "Running away never does any good; my parents taught me that. If we only go where we are accepted--"

She didn't have to finish the thought. I understood. I nodded. "I am not placing the blame at your feet. You have a right to live where you like." I smiled softly, thinking this whole thing ridiculous. I'd never felt such shame to be white.

"As for the Youngs, it's mostly rumour," she said, going back to washing the dishes. "Wren was the first one to tell me about it, right after we moved in. She wanted to warn me, I think. When I saw her hanged, the Klan was the first thing I thought of, to be honest. But Agent Scully, it's 1999. I just--it makes no sense. Why Ophelia? Why Wren?"

It was a simple answer--too simple. *Because they're black.* I wanted to say it, but didn't. Part of me hoped it went deeper than that, that there was some other motive at work here, but I wasn't certain of that.

"I don't know that yet; I'm not even certain of the who. I'm going to take another walk through the neighbourhood and speak with the Youngs as well. I'll see what I turn up and head back here around lunchtime."

~*~

Naturally, telling someone what I was going to do was easier than actually doing it. Two families that had been welcoming in prior days turned me away, saying I was violating their privacy and that they'd told me all they knew.

I walked down the silent streets, picturing Ophelia riding her bike down them, a butterfly net streaming out beside her as she tried to add to her collection. It was fantasy; another part of me was sure Ophelia hadn't ridden her bike with such freedom, scared of what would be around the next corner.

I walked the looping street, following the arc of houses; between each, I caught a glimpse of the field; it almost seemed like a football field, the houses being spectators.

Approaching the Young house, I didn't have the first clue what I was going to say to them. I wished that I had taken the time to scan the Web for any KKK information; maybe it would have given me a starting place.

As it was, I never reached my destination.

The group of men seemed to come out of nowhere. I certainly hadn't heard them. They looked like something out of a dream, clad in white sheets and hoods. Before I could draw my gun, they were on me; they shoved me down to the damp pavement, jerking my jacket up and ripping my gun out of its holster. They bound my arms and legs, gagging my mouth. They wrapped me in a white sheet, as though claiming me as one of their own.

They carried me off the street; I could hear the rustle of many feet through grass. The sheet smelled like bleach, but underlying that, I could smell blood. It was something I would always recognize. I struggled then against the bonds, panic welling up inside of me. One of the men cuffed me, catching my shoulder, and I stilled.

They carried me for a great distance and when they put me down, it was none to kindly; they tossed me down like I was a sack of potatoes. I hit the soft, storm-wet earth with a grunt; I could smell the rotting wood through the sheet and knew that they'd brought me to the ruined barn in the field.

When the sheet was ripped open, it fell around my neck and shoulders. I looked up into the hooded face, wondering why such supposedly brave men had to be masked to carry out their actions. Blue eyes blazed through the holes in the hood, showing me only anger.

It was an anger I recognized. Adam Lane Young had shown me that same anger in his sophomore photograph.

"Agent Scully, you are hereby found guilty of invading the privacy of this community," he said. "We commend you into the hands of God because only He will know what to do with you."

My name coming from his mouth made me shiver. Of course he knew it; my presence in the neighbourhood was no secret. When he would have walked away from me, I kicked out, tripping him. He went down with a splat and bit out a curse that he would certainly need to go to confession for. I spat the gag out; it rolled into the mud.

"Did you also commend Ophelia Washington into the hands of that God?" I asked.

"There is only one true God," he said.

I shook my head; the same God I loved could not be the one this man also embraced.

"A disbeliever!" he cried, picking himself up. His white robe was muddied; he looked like he'd crapped his pants. "Then we will have to show you the true way."

"Like you did Ophelia?"

"Like we did the nigger," he said, nodding.

The others had clustered in a circle around us; there were nine of them, one holding my gun in his gloved hands.

"We brought the nigger to the temple, but she refused to see. The nigger's eyes were dark and clouded. She was not created in His image; the nigger was not meant for this place."

I closed my eyes while he rambled on; I thought about Ophelia being brought to this place and how very scared she must have been and-- No, no, she would have been strong. I had seen that strength in the Maya Angelou poem she had chosen. She was a strong girl; these men would not have frightened her, and that had likely angered them even more. Maybe they hadn't intended to kill her, but her resolve had pushed them to the next level. Had she cried and repented, maybe they would have let her go. A simple warning.

"Why did you kill her?" I asked in a whisper.

The leader turned and looked down at me. "There is a purpose in every thing," he said. "The rain nourishes the land and the land nourishes us. In turn, we--"

"This is not the fucking circle of life," I said. "You are not a lion simply feeding on antelope."

He seemed taken aback by the analogy. A few of his followers laughed.

"What is this?" I asked. "The Covington High KKK Club? What ever happened to chess?"

As the third question left my mouth, I was backhanded. I bowed my head, waiting for another blow, but it never came.

"The nigger was as lippy as you," he said. "Her bravery got her killed."

He wanted me to cower, to admit defeat. Good fucking luck. "I've seen worse monsters than you," I said.

Now, the second blow came, rocking my head back the other way.

"You want to be cut into ribbons like she was, don't you? Nigger-lovin' skin peeled back from your sweet pink muscles; nigger-lovin' skin cut to ribbons we'll use to tie our gifts up with."

I looked up at him, wishing I could rip the hood off. "Why didn't you touch her?" I asked, still not understanding why Ophelia hadn't been sexually violated. He knew what I meant without me elaborating, which in my mind, confirmed his guilt.

"The nigger was not worthy of the seed," he said. "It would have been a waste--a sin." He caught sight of the cross around my neck and he tugged it gently. "You know these things. You have read the word of the Lord. Why question what you know?"

I shook my head. "Sometimes, I don't think I'll ever really know."

"Then it is good we have brought you. I will show you the true way."

Thunder rumbled overhead and he lifted his arms, as if welcoming the input.

~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~

XVI. THE CHILDREN OF MEN

Hatred comes from the heart; contempt from the
head; and neither feeling is quite within our
control.

~ Arthur Schopenhauer

Adam withdrew a Bible and joined me in the mud. His followers remained circled around us. Adam opened the Bible as it began to drizzle; the thin pages soaked up the water, but Adam didn't seem to mind.

I closed my eyes as he began to read; I didn't want to hear the words I treasured read by this confused boy. I didn't want to know what spin he would put on them. Every now and then, those who stood around us--almost as witnesses--would whisper "amen." I was reminded of my first memory of church; the entire thing had been surreal.

"You see, Dana, why the nigger had to die." Now, Adam tucked the Bible under his robe.

I shook my head. "No, I don't."

"Pleasing the Father, Dana."

"Our Father who art in Heaven--or your father?" I asked, looking at him. The rain had plastered his hood against his head, but he still didn't remove it.

"Both," he said. He looked up at the others and told them they could go; they were slow to move away, but eventually went, vanishing into the gloom of the day. I had the feeling they wouldn't actually leave; they would remain, in the distance, ready to follow the word of their leader.

"So it goes beyond the word of God," I said when we were alone.

"My father is an important man," Adam said. "A Grand Wizard. We follow his ways and question not his word."

"Did he ask you to do this, to kill Ophelia?"

"You listen, but you do not hear me," Adam said, shaking his head. He sounded sad, as if he really wanted to convert me to his thinking. "My father asks for nothing; what he has taught me is simply true."

I looked away from him, considering the words. What did the Klan teach? That whites were superior to any other race. Ophelia had been black, so she was deemed beneath consideration. She had to be removed, she and her kind. If Adam's father hadn't asked his son to do this, Adam had done it of his own free will.

"Why did you kill her?" I asked.

Save for the soft drizzle, the world was still around us. Adam seemed to be considering the question; or maybe he'd gone to sleep under that hood, I didn't know.

"I would like the answer to that myself."

A new voice. We looked up together, focusing on the man who stood at the far end of the ruined barn. He wore no robe, no hood, yet I knew who he must be. Adam's father, the Grand Wizard. He crossed the ruin to us, Adam's followers behind him, along with other older men who were un-robed. Abel Young was a large man and from the photographs I'd seen of Adam, they favoured each other; light eyes and hair, the poster children for the supposed Uber Race.

Young looked at me and shook his head. "You asked the wrong questions," he said plainly.

"And Wren? Was she wrong to answer them?"

Young crossed to his son and ripped the wet hood off. Adam blinked up at his father, saying nothing, that same anger outlining every feature of his face. He looked younger than seventeen, I thought; but anger knows no age.

"My son and his followers were wrong," Young said, kneeling before me and Adam. "I told you we move as a group and the decisions are sanctioned. What you have done was not approved."

"Father--"

"Silence. You sought to join a club that would not have you."

"I sought to prove myself!" Adam cried.

Young's hand connected with Adam's cheek. The slap was loud in the cool air, Adam's cheek flaring with heat.

"You have proven yourself incapable of following the word, that is all," Young said. "The Klan will not embrace such a reckless man. We have rules, we move in silence, in order, and you have done anything but."

"Father." It was a whisper this time, perhaps a plea.

"No more. You have disregarded the word and my rule. You have shamed yourself and I will not have one such as you at my side. This woman is none of your concern."

"She's a nigger lover," Adam said.

Young shook his head. "And she's here because of you. You've brought these people to our midst; had you left the niggers alone, none would have come. You kill them without care and think no one will notice? You are reckless--foolish--not my son, not in my Klan."

Adam looked up at his father. For a moment, I thought Adam would raise a hand and strike him. Instead, he spat on his father. Young grabbed his son by his short blond hair and hauled him to his feet; Adam slipped in the mud, but Young held him upright, forcing his son away from my side.

"Nigger lover!" Adam screamed back at me. "Fucking nig--"

His father knocked him flat. Adam sank into unconsciousness and my breath went out of me as the other Klan members approached him. They picked him up and carried him off; I wondered what would become of him.

"Your son is a suspect in a murder," I said to Young as he came toward me. Young lifted me by the arms, standing me up. I looked up into his clear eyes, wondering what he meant for me now.

"You realize I can't let you go," Young said.

"My partner knows where I am." I tried to fight Young picking me up, but only managed to throw us off balance. He regained his balance, tightening his hold on me.

"Not for long," he said, carrying me out of the ruin.

~*~

Young blindfolded me inside the van; another man was driving, yet another in the passenger's seat. I didn't know where we were going until I felt the familiar bridge beneath us. We crossed Lake Pontchatrain in silence, the wheels whistling along the bridge. Off the bridge, I was once again clueless to our destination.

When the van stopped and Young led me out, it was still drizzling. We went into a building and up a set of stairs. A door closed and I heard Young's boots on the hard wood floor. He closed a set of curtains then came back to my side, removing the blindfold.

The room was a bedroom, finely appointed. It was exactly what one thought of when they thought of New Orleans; the wallpaper was a deep red with a floral border, the bed was a double canopy, draped in the richest linens. It was the best of old and new world styles.

Young freed my hands and feet, stripping the muddy, wet sheet away from me. He bundled the sheet and tossed it into the trash can beside the dresser.

"You will be fed and cared for," he said. "There is a bathroom straight through there." He gestured to the door on the far wall.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I am not cruel to my own kind, Miss Scully."

"I am an agent with the Fed--"

"Save me the spiel. Your partner will not find you here; no one will."

"Mr. Young, none of this changes the fact that your son is a suspect in a murder case. He will be found." Part of me doubted that. They could have gone anywhere in the time since we'd left the ruin. "You are now an accessory."

"Miss Scully, I didn't ask my son to kill that girl or the old woman. What he's done jeopardizes the every thing the Klan stands for."

"You wouldn't have killed them?" I asked.

Young shook his head. "No, ma'am. Would have given them a scare to send them runnin', though. Peace can only be achieved through racial separation. Those people didn't belong in that neighbourhood. You didn't belong in their house."

Young left me then, locking the door behind him. I went to the window and threw back the curtains, but the window had no way of opening. I thought about breaking it, but looking down, I saw I was on the third floor. There was no eave for me to perch on, either. It was a straight drop to the pavement below. I went to the door, but the lock was so old, as old as the house, certainly, it was one-sided, meant to keep people in, rather than out.

I spent most of the first night alone; a white servant brought me a meal on a tray, but did not return for the dishes. I slept fitfully, tossing, turning, and waking every hour. I couldn't settle. When morning broke, I looked out the window again, trying to see a street sign or anything. There was nothing save for the row of nearly identical houses running down each side of the street.

My cell phone had been left behind; I thought of it on the couch in my hotel room. I wondered how many times Mulder had tried to call me. Surely he was looking for me; he knew I'd been out at the Washingtons and he knew I suspected the Youngs. Still, I couldn't wait for him to come to my rescue. He would have a hard time tracking me to this house.

When I heard the key rattle in the lock, I stepped behind the door, watching it swing open. The maid came through carrying a tray of food, though she paused when she didn't see me. I came around the door and went into the hall, pulling the door shut behind me. A turn of the key locked the maid inside and I heard her surprised cry when she realized it.

I turned, somehow not surprised when I saw the man standing there. Young wasn't an idiot; he wouldn't leave a single woman to tend to me.

The man approached me and went for his gun. The strap on his holster stuck and I took advantage of the moment, plowing into him. He was probably twice my size, but any man will crumple if you ruin his knee. I kicked him hard and he buckled, slamming his elbow into the floor. He howled, his left knee likely throbbing, his left arm now worthless.

As luck had it, he was left-handed.

I made a grab for the gun, wrenching it and the holster free. I realized then why the strap hadn't come free easily; the gun was mine, in a holster not made for this Smith and Wesson. Young had probably thought it clever to have me guarded with my own gun; I thought it was stupid. I slammed the butt into the man's temple and his eyes rolled upward, closing. I jerked the gun out of the holster, tossing the latter aside.

Making my way down the hall, I was keenly aware of the silence that cloaked the house. There hadn't been a phone in my room, but I looked for one now. There was one in the kitchen, but it wasn't working. I wondered if Young had set this place up in the event of an escape.

Outside, I tucked the gun into its holster at my lower back and ran for all I was worth. Even the neighbourhood was silent; my footfalls sounded like thunder. At the end of the road, I saw a busier street and headed for it. There, I caught a cab and made my way to the Washingtons.

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XVII. ERASED

Come, give us a taste of your quality.

~ William Shakespeare

I was running away and that was all there was to it. Bill was an idiot and Charlie was right there with him. Missy--well, I would miss her terribly, but she would get along without me just fine. She was strong and my brothers, well I didn't care about them.

My suitcase was filled with everything I would need; my father seemed to make it on his own out there with a single suitcase. He didn't need photographs or other sentimental things. I wouldn't need them, either. Nope, I was just going.

I stomped down the stairs, my shoes making solid thunks against the bare wood. At the bottom, my mother was there, wiping her hands on her apron, looking up at me expectantly.

"Where are you off to?" she asked, looking back toward the front door and the windows in the upper half. "It's about to rain, you will probably want your raincoat."

A raincoat was acceptable; my father would take a coat. I nodded. "Good idea," I said, watching as she went to the closet and withdrew my raincoat; it was bright yellow with red trim and red lining. I set my suitcase down and she helped me into my coat.

"Want some cookies before you go?"

Cookies. The house smelled like oatmeal-raisin cookies and my stomach, traitor that it was, growled. I shrugged. Cookies couldn't hurt. "All right," I said, following her back into the kitchen.

"Oh, you'll probably want your galoshes, too," she said. "I think they're by the back door."

She was right; they were propped by Melissa's. I grabbed them and stuffed my feet into them. They were the kind that could be worn over shoes, fastening on the side with a little loop of elastic. They matched my coat.

"Here you go."

I sat at the table and Mom gave me a plate of four cookies and a tall glass of cold milk. As I picked a cookie up, she sat down across from me.

"I'm going away," I said.

She nodded. "I was afraid of that. Your brothers weren't very nice to you yesterday, were they?"

"No." I swallowed some milk; it was the perfect thing to have with these cookies. "They were mean."

"So running away solves it?" she asked.

I shrugged, reaching for another cookie. "I won't have to see them."

Mom got up, taking another tray of cookies out of the oven. Those smelled like they had chocolate in them as well as raisins and my stomach rumbled again.

"You know, we're having your favourite for dinner tonight," she said, placing the warm tray aside for the cookies to settle, then picking up yet another tray and sliding it into the oven. She set the timer and looked around for her spatula. "Who will eat the shrimp tails if you're not here?"

I frowned. It was true that no one else in the house liked shrimp tails. "Poke them down Bill's throat," I said.

She laughed at that and it made me smile. "Oh, Dana Katherine. I've spoken with your brothers and they're busy over at Mrs. Riley's as part of their punishment."

My eyes went wide at that. Everyone in the neighbourhood was afraid of Mrs. Riley; Bill and Charles spoke especially ill of her. Everyone said she had died ten years ago, but was still somehow upright and walking.

"What are they doing there?" I asked.

"Cleaning her yard, her rain gutters, things like that. After that, they'll have other things to keep them busy. Why, they should be so busy, they won't even notice you until after Christmas. Can you help me with these, Dana?"

I nodded, getting up and coming to her side. I helped her put the cookies in the jar and after a while, had to take my raincoat off because it was really too warm to wear while baking. The rain hammered against the windows as we worked, making silly shapes out of the cookie dough. I made a small bear and included a chocolate chip belly button for him. When he cooked, I ate him bit by bit, until nothing but the crumbs were left.

That night, I slept better than I had in weeks.

~*~

As I expected, the Washingtons' place was busy with police. The Youngs had taken only my gun, they hadn't searched my pockets, so I was able to pay the cab driver. I made my way up the walk, ringing the bell. Mae answered the door, Mulder standing behind her like he was her backup. Both of them smiled at me and Mae launched herself into my arms.

"Dana! We were worried. Come in."

She pulled me into the living room which had turned into a still blue sea of police officers. They looked at me, and then went back to their work.

"Abel Young--"

I didn't get any further. Mulder squeezed my arm, nodding. "The Youngs are gone, Scully." At my frown, he continued. "Packed up in the night and left. The house is completely empty, no one will say anything about where they might have gone."

"It was Adam Young who took me, him and a group of his friends. They've been having meetings down in the barn ruin. Klan meetings," I said. "He essentially confessed to killing Ophelia--he did it to impress his father and prove his loyalty to the Klan."

Mulder exhaled, his hands resting on his hips. He looked toward the ceiling, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

Mae moved away from us and Mulder reached out to me, squeezing my arm again. He drew me away from the police, out to the porch. There, he took his cell phone out and called Skinner. I spoke with Skinner and could hear the relief in his voice. I told him what had happened, with Adam and Abel and the other Klan members. Skinner told me that he was pulling Mulder and I out of the area; we wouldn't be helping with the manhunt, at least not directly. With my brief abduction, it had gotten too personal. He was calling us back to D.C.

Early computer searches showed that the Youngs had a place in Virginia and possible connections to militia members there. We were to come back to D.C. and work on tracking the Youngs from there, while other agents, including Michael Antonio and Henry Saker, remained in the field. They would be working with local law enforcement and, if necessary, U.S. Marshals.

While I talked with Skinner, Mulder stood behind me, hands on my shoulders, as if protecting me. He leaned into me and his presence was a comfort. So was Skinner's voice on the other end.

I realized then how many times both of them had been there for me; how many times Skinner had been there for me *and* Mulder.

After assuring Skinner we would be leaving Louisiana by night fall, I leaned back into Mulder. His arms came around me and he hugged me, pressing a kiss against my cheek. I don't know how long we stood there; I was aware of others only vaguely. I felt numb from the events of the past few days. I felt tired, so tired I thought I could sleep for a week straight and never once wake.

When I went back into the house, I found Mae in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee. She smiled softly at me and then shook her head. "You're going back to D.C., aren't you?"

"Yeah, we are, but we're only a phone call away."

"Agent Mulder made sure I have business cards. I'll call." She measured coffee beans into her grinder, spilling some on the counter. They looked like ants as they scattered. I helped Mae pick them up, realizing how badly her hands were shaking.

"Mae?"

"I thought this would be a chance for a new start," she said. "But I saw the hate in their eyes right off. They never wanted us here, and Jeffrey knew and oh he tried to get us to move, but I was stubborn and I said no, not this time, please not this time. And so we stayed and I knew, deep down, we were just asking for trouble."

It was guilt that bowed her shoulders now and I had no way to ease it. I could tell her it wasn't her fault, but she would brush it off, choosing her voice over mine. I knew it wouldn't change anything, but I still said it. "It isn't your fault," I said softly.

The coffee grinder whirred. One tear fell from Mae's cheek. She brushed it away and stopped the grinder, measuring the fragrant coffee into the French press.

"They told me Ophelia's body would be released whenever we're ready for the funeral," Mae said. "Looks like we have some plans to make. I had this dream that after we buried her, someone dug her up to do another hateful thing to her. I don't think she'll ever rest, Agent Scully."

"I think she already is," I said. "It's been tagged as evidence, but I think you should read your daughter's diary. She was a strong girl."

"I know she was."

I shook my head. "I don't think you know how strong. Adam Young told me she didn't cry or beg to be let go. She was strong right up to the end. You should be proud of that."

That was when Mae lost it. Whatever control she'd had snapped. She swept the French press to the floor and it shattered, scattering coffee amid glass. She came toward me, blinding swinging her arms. Tears streaked her face and rage poured from her mouth. She cursed me and the world and the Youngs and most especially, herself. I caught her hands and held her firmly, letting her shake and cry in my arms. We sank to our knees, and that was when I realized I was crying.

I had given my daughter up willingly. I had refused to condemn Emily to a life of tests and injections and study. The doctors had kept her alive with that, but I hadn't been able to stand seeing her that way.

Mae had had no choice. Her daughter had been taken from her, left dead in the street. I tried to imagine what it had been like to see Ophelia that morning and all too easily, I could. I remembered looking at Emily through the hospital doors and windows, thinking it a barrier that would keep me safe and keep her from creeping into my heart. It hadn't. I was certain Mae had wished for a barrier that morning, had wished for anything to make the horror a little easier to bear.

But there would never be anything like that. The loss was forever--given willingly or taken by force.

I saw Mulder and two officers standing in the doorway and I shook my head. Mulder guided them away, leaving me and Mae to our mourning.

I told Mae then about the diary entry Ophelia had made about her green dress, the one they'd bought for a dance. Mae said she knew the one. I said that maybe now, Ophelia would get a chance to wear it. Mae was certain she would make a pretty angel, tied in her green sash, dreadlocks spilling down the pale green fabric.

I couldn't help but agree.

~*~

Mulder and I caught a flight back to D.C. three hours later. Under the scratchy blanket, a pillow separating my head from the oval window, I slept. I felt Mulder's touch once or twice, pulling the blanket up when it slipped. I heard his voice a few times, intruding into my disjointed dreams.

I dreamed about the alien in the woods again, but this time, I pulled the rubbery mask off to reveal Ophelia's face. She smiled and laughed, running away, twirling through the trees in a shimmer of green. I grabbed her sash and she came undone, unraveling into a pile of fabric.

The fabric vanished under a hard wind and I found myself back at home, watching Mulder dribble a basketball against my wood flooring. I chided him. He continued dribbling. I turned away from him and into the arms of my sister.

Melissa pulled me close, smoothing a hand over my hair. She rocked me, saying that loss was an important part of life. Nothing is forever, she said. Nothing. We all turn to dust. I told her it wasn't fair that I'd suffered so many losses and she asked why mine were so important in the scheme of things; God wasn't keeping score, she said.

Wasn't he? I wondered. Melissa told me that it was easy to focus on the losses, but equally easy to turn away from the victories, no matter how small. She told me I had a lot to look forward to, that I had many secrets to uncover. Some would lead me to victories, some would lead me to another loss. I needed to decide which I would hang on to, and which I would let go.

Which was more important to me? Was I willing to learn from the loss and move on? Or was I willing to hang on to the loss until it became my very world? I had to choose.

Melissa took me by the hand and we walked through a lovely garden. Many of the flowers were losing their beauty already, even though it was early spring; heads drooped and petals turned brown. Wind sent petals scattering over the grass where they vanished, while other flowers bloomed new, in thick tangles with sharp thorns.

"Everything has a price," she said, handing me a pale rose. Her hand was bloodied and I remembered when we'd crawled through Mrs. Gosling's rose garden to find the perfect orange bloom for our mother. We'd been scratched and bloody by the time we finished. I looked down at the rose Melissa had given me and watched as it fell apart, pale petals unraveling and turning green as they hit the grass.

"Forever is relative, Dana."

I looked up at her, watching as she, too, began to unravel. I reached out for her and felt her kiss my fingertips.

"And dust can be beautiful," she added before she completely faded.

I woke to the feel of Mulder's fingers against my cheek. I watched as they came away wet with tears. I closed my eyes again, but Melissa didn't come to me this time.

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XVIII. RETURNS

A little season of love and laughter,
Of light and life, and pleasure and pain,
And a horror of outer darkness after,
And dust returneth to dust again.

~ Adam Lindsay Gordon

Sleeping in my own bed was a heaven I couldn't fully describe. The night sounds were familiar, the sheets were a comfort, the slight dip in the mattress held me like it always had. In the morning, Mulder and I were meeting with Skinner, but tonight was entirely mine.

I'd spent a good portion of it submerged in the tub, listening to absolutely nothing. My novel ended up tossed aside; I didn't want to focus on it; it would be an easy escape, but every paragraph had my mind wandering, typically back to Ophelia and Adam Young. Now, I was beginning to let that go as sleep wrapped an arm around me and drew me to its side.

By the time morning came through my windows, I was ready to be up and back at the Hoover Building. I dressed in my favourite suit and actually arrived early, making my way up to Skinner's office. He was just getting there himself, before Kimberly even, which seemed odd. Skinner saw me and smiled, handing me his tall Starbuck's coffee as he reached into his pocket for his door key.

The coffee smelled wonderful and my stomach growled, despite the quick breakfast I'd had at home. Skinner fumbled with the lock, as if he was used to it being open prior to his arrival. I wondered where Kimberly Cook was, but didn't question it as the door finally came open and we went inside.

Skinner's office was silent and dim; his windows faced west and wouldn't catch sunlight until that afternoon. He flicked the lights on and the dimness evaporated. Skinner glanced at me as he went to his desk, placing his briefcase down, slipping out of his coat. I set his coffee down, suddenly feeling a little awkward.

Had Skinner come in early to have some time alone? I felt like I was intruding, but his smile assured me that no, I was welcome.

"It's good to see you," he said.

I smiled and nodded. "It's good to be seen," I said, stealing the line from a movie I'd seen long ago. Now, I couldn't even remember the title, but the line was appropriate. It *was* good to be seen; for a while with Adam Young, I had wondered.

"I'm sorry this case has been so difficult," Skinner said. "In light of Emily and all."

At one time, her name on his lips would have hurt me. Now, it didn't. I actually smiled. "In a way, it's been almost healing," I said. "Sharing a similar loss with someone else has been a good thing. I think it was for Mae Washington, too; good to have someone who understood."

"Good." Skinner settled in behind his desk and looked at his watch. "It's not even eight--if you have things you'd rather be doing--"

I shook my head. "No, I was hoping to get an update on the Youngs," I said. "I know it hasn't been very long, but has any progress been made?"

Skinner handed me a file from his briefcase. "Nothing yet," he said. "No one in Mandeville is talking. We have their place in Virginia staked out, but haven't turned up anything. Since the records were fairly easy to find, I'm thinking they may have another place, somewhere no one knows about."

I wasn't surprised, yet I felt disappointment all the same. It was far too early to have a lead on them, especially if no one was talking, yet I had hoped the Youngs would come to a quick end.

"Vacation."

I blinked, looking up at Skinner. I shook my head. "Sir?"

"You were a million miles away," he said. "You all right?" He rounded his desk and took me gently by the arm, guiding me toward the leather sofa. I went without complaint, sitting with a sigh. I looked up at Skinner, surprised when he joined me there. "Mulder made your capture seem pretty straight-forward; was there something he left out?"

When I didn't say anything, Skinner continued.

"The report I received from Mulder said that Adam Young and his group took you to the barn ruin. From there, Abel Young took you to a house in New Orleans where he held you for one night until you escaped."

"Right."

Skinner frowned; I thought I was accustomed to the look, but there was something different about this expression.

"You have yet to file an official report about it," he added. "Which isn't news to you. I could assume that is due to the lateness of the hour at which you got in, but there seems to be something else going on here."

I looked at him; his frown had gone, replaced with a look of genuine concern. When I didn't say anything again, Skinner nodded and rose from the couch.

"I happen to know Karen Kosseff has some free time this--"

I grabbed his arm, holding him where he was before he could cross to his phone and call Kosseff. I looked up at him, my face mirrored back in his glasses, and I saw the uncertainty, the fear--the same things that Adam Young would have relished in me or Ophelia.

Skinner sat back down. I didn't remove my hand from his arm, not immediately. The strength under that crisp white shirt was calming. I drew in a long breath and let it go, looking at my fingers against Skinner's shirt as I spoke.

"I told Mae Washington that I was going to speak with the Youngs. I walked that street as Ophelia must have done a thousand times; I felt what she must have felt--sorrow and fear. Bone-deep fear. I put myself in this girl's place and I was afraid. How had she been able to stand it? Where had she found the strength? Adam and the others took me to the barn and told me what they did to Ophelia. They called her a nigger and said she had no right to be here. She defied them and they killed her."

I took in another breath, looking at the shadows my fingers made against Skinner's shirt. I drew my hand away then, looking at him.

"They didn't physically harm me, but as I listened, I could feel what was happening inside. The rage and the desire to destroy. I looked at Adam and his father and saw myself emptying a clip into them, simply to stop them and shut them up. I could feel that hate, pure and hot, and it scared me. It was hate, not anger. It went beyond anger, far beyond. I--if that was anything near what they felt when they looked at Ophelia--"

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "If they felt that when they looked at her, I began to understand how easy it was to give in to that feeling, to let the hate guide you. I didn't want to know that."

"After I speak with you and Mulder, I want you to take the rest of the day off," Skinner said. "Take a few if you need it. Computer searches--"

"Sir, I thank you for the offer, but I'd like to stay on this case. The sooner we track the Youngs down, the sooner I can put all of this behind me."

"You think it'll be that easy?"

"I--"

"You know it won't go away. I know that hate you speak of. I've felt it, in Vietnam...and more recently."

The last three words were so soft that I almost missed them. I watched emotion slip over Skinner's face and then drain away. Whatever thought he'd had, it was gone now, shoved down into the dark place it normally lived. Whatever it was, he lived with it day in and day out. He fought that hate on a daily basis. That thought jolted me. I had known it for a brief moment and it had sickened me. What was it that Skinner lived with, what hate lived inside him and tortured him?

The phone on Skinner's desk rang and he left my side, picking up the phone on the second ring. I leaned back into the couch, realizing that I had felt that kind of hate before. I had simply turned away from it, thinking it easier than dealing with it.

I had known hate for Melissa's killer. I had known anger for Duane Barry. I had known anger for those who had used me as a vessel for Emily Sim.

I had channeled that hate into--into what? Was hate what fueled the quest for the truth?

It was certainly what fueled Mulder's search. He knew hate for those who had taken Samantha. He had known hate for his own parents for their part in the scheme. He had known hate longer than I had, had felt it as deeply as I had felt the fear when Adam had taken me.

Nothing ever changed. The hate never vanished. Whoever said that time would ease things had been wrong. The hate was always there, even if just buried.

I closed my eyes, not liking this idea at all. Was there never a solution to the hate, a way to erase it? Why were we all filled with such anger and hate? Why?

Skinner placed the phone down, looking over at me. "Mulder is on his way in." He leaned against his desk, seemingly at ease, but I could sense that he was on edge, just as I was. "I knew this case would be difficult, whether the culprit be human or alien. I knew you would have a hard time of it. Anyone would. It's why I called, why I shared the lake with you."

The door opened and Mulder came in. My eyes lingered on Skinner then went to Mulder; I looked at both of them together, emotion skittering along my nerves like quicksilver. Both of them, so determined to ease my burden; both of them, there for me whenever I had needed.

I looked away, bowing my head. Behind closed lids, the sunlight on the lake played, brilliant. A place to focus, a moment to ease the grief of the case. Warm and golden, silent and seemingly mine alone. A small escape, given to me by someone hundreds of miles away.

The meeting went smoothly. Mulder was actually on time. We all had a good laugh over that. We compared notes on the case and made sure we were all on the same page. I promised to file my report on my capture later that afternoon.

While Antonio, Saker, and others were out in the field physically searching for the Youngs, Skinner had committed a dozen agents in D.C. to the search as well. Along with Mulder and me, they would be searching records for absolutely anything that would be of use. I grew tired just thinking of the paper trail we might have to follow, but the hate in my belly twisted and renewed my energy. I would see these men caught if it was the last thing I did.

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XIX. WIN & LOSE

Out of the dusk a shadow
Then a spark;
Out of the clouds a silence
Then a lark;
Out of the heart a rapture,
Then a pain;
Out of the dead, cold ashes
Life again.

~John Banister Tabb

It rained the day we said goodbye to Melissa; it rained when we buried my father at sea, as well.

Melissa hadn't come to his funeral; she hadn't been able to catch a flight. I think my brothers resented her for that, and even though she is gone, they may still. I understood; part of me hadn't wanted to be there, either. I didn't want to watch the sea consume his ashes.

My sister was cremated as well; my mother held the urn, not knowing what to do with it. It later sat on the kitchen counter while guests milled around, eating and talking and remembering. Someone put a heart sticker on the urn; I never found out who. Bill and Charles made a concerted effort to avoid the urn--and me. Their eyes were cold, their hugs were distant. That I could feel the distance in their arms--it was amazing.

I left the reception, walking through the wet back yard. I took my shoes off and my stockings were soaked by the time I reached the back gate. I opened it, following the trail down to the dock. Fog had settled over the lake; it seemed quiet out here, peaceful. The wood pulled at my stockings and tore the fabric. I didn't care.

I sat at the end of the dock, looking out at the small lake. My mother had picked a good neighbourhood. Many of her neighbours had turned out for the funeral and reception. Her "family only" rule was abandoned today; she seemed to need a great many people around her.

My feet dangled in the water. It was cold, but I kept them there, aware of the chill and the slight prick of pain. I closed my eyes, hearing the gunshot echo in my apartment. I hadn't been there, of course, but it should have been me. I could hear Melissa dropping to the floor and I could see the blood.

It wasn't how anyone would have chosen to die, I'm sure. I didn't know how I wanted to go. Quickly so I wouldn't suffer, or slowly so I could remember what it had been to live?

Sitting there on the dock, I heard the voices before I saw the people. Their boat floated by in the fog, and I don't think they ever saw me. Her upper body was bare and his arms were wrapped around her while she moved against him, lower bodies hidden by her damp skirt. They moved past like a pair of ghosts, speaking of love and marriage and how they wanted this moment to last forever.

The boat vanished into the fog and I shivered, drawing my feet out of the water. I walked back up the dock slowly, started by the angry voices I found beyond the back gate. My brothers were there with my mother, and Melissa's urn was placed on the path.

"Mom?"

They all turned to look at me; I can only imagine what they thought, I must have looked a mess with my wet stockings, damp clothes and hair.

"There she is--give it to her, let her finish what she started," Bill said, gesturing to me with an angry, sweeping hand.

"Dana, you knew Melissa better than any of us," our mother said. "I thought you might like to be the one to scatter her ashes."

"Maybe in your entry way," Bill said, "since that's where she was murdered."

Charles seemed to shrink against the house; he shoved his hands in his pockets and watched Bill pacing, angry, so angry.

"Bill--"

"I don't want to hear it," he said. "You're my sister and I love you, but right now, I hate you. You should have been the one to die. You." He jabbed a finger at me.

"You think I don't know that?" I asked, my voice rising. "You think that this doesn't touch me the way it has you? I know it should have been me! I know!"

My mother placed a hand on my arm, but I shook it off, moving toward Bill. I grabbed his arm; he moved away.

"Don't do this. Don't shut me out. Don't--blame me."

He turned and looked down at me, glaring the same way our father could glare sometimes. I took a step back and another when Bill advanced on me. He grabbed me by my upper arms and gave me a firm shake.

"It should have been you! You!"

He screamed until the veins in his neck stood out. His eyes were wild with anger and I squeezed mine shut so I wouldn't have to see. Another shake made me open my eyes. I could see the words he wanted to say, but he held back, listening to our mother sob, perhaps finally feeling Charles's staying hand on his arm.

He shoved me away then; I went down into the grass and sat there, stunned. He went back into the house and Charles came to me, offering me a hand up. I shook my head.

"Don't pick up the pieces this time," I said to him. He left and I watched the rain beat against the lid of the urn that held the remains of my sister.

I stayed there until the rain ended and then carried Melissa inside. Mom was the only one around then, in the kitchen keeping busy with dishes. I set the urn down on the counter and retrieved a Ziplock bag. Taking the lid off the urn, I scooped out a handful of the ashes. It wasn't anything like fireplace ash; I could almost feel bits of bone.

I put the ashes in the bag and sealed it tight, clamping the lid back on the urn. "Bury her," I told my mother and she nodded, holding me for a moment before I left.

I carried the handful of Melissa's ashes cross-country. I took the rest of my funeral leave and flew to San Francisco, from there taking a ferry to Angel Island. I spent the first night in the small room I had rented, contemplating the map Melissa had given to me years ago. It seemed she had known she would come to an early end; she told me to bring at least part of her here, before or after.

In the morning, I rented a mountain bike and with a backpack of gear and Melissa's ashes, I made my way along the paths. Naturally, I didn't stay on the path.

This had once been the starting point for the Chinese when they had come to the States. The immigration station was saved from demolition, and Melissa told me I had to see the poetry carved into the walls, poetry from those who waited to enter our country.

I would see the poetry, but later. For now, I opened the bag and let Melissa blow around me as I wound my way into the cool trees that covered the island.

~*~

Mulder was in another part of the Hoover; I had the basement office to myself. I slipped my shoes off beneath the desk, scrolling through another set of files on the computer. I was running through the militia members in Virginia and the list was long and proud. It seemed Abel Young had purchased his home there from one Wallace Bradford. Tracking him down might be a first step in finding Young himself.

My mind wandered. My left middle finger rubbed a path on the desk and I thought of the way Mulder's fingers had touched me three days ago. I remembered the fine tremor beneath his fingertips and the way it had slowly evaporated. I remembered the slow dip of his fingers along my hip and down my inner thigh.

It made me shiver.

My glasses slipped down my nose and I took them off, closing my eyes for a moment. The words on the screen, though I hadn't really been seeing them, seemed to imprint themselves on my eyes. I rubbed my temples, fingers tangling in my hair. I remembered the way Mulder's fingers had done the same and I smiled.

If Skinner had sensed a change in me, he hadn't shown it. I supposed that was a good thing, although I half wanted someone to notice the changes that must have taken place in me. I had changed. I could feel it, so why couldn't anyone see it? Surely Mulder had left a mark on me.

I opened my eyes and then the middle drawer of Mulder's desk. I withdrew the long letter opener and looked at myself in the shiny surface. Nothing had changed on the outside; there was nothing for anyone to see.

Then, it hit me. While my lovemaking with Mulder had been a wonderful thing, it had been a single moment. It wasn't something to build a future on. Once, I might have considered it with Mulder, but knowing him as I did, I knew he certainly didn't look at the night as a foundation for a future together.

He was, as always, a stray kitten. For one night, he had found a soft place to land. For one night, it was what it was. Beautiful and tender, needful and overwhelming. But nothing more.

I had gone to Mulder out of need; he had come to me the same way. He hadn't questioned anything I had done because he needed the same thing I did. To be close to someone and prove that we both weren't dead. To erase the horror of this case and for a small time, just forget everything but the pleasure that burrowed inside.

The realization hurt. I returned the letter opener to its place in the drawer and then closed the drawer. I drew in a long breath, realizing that I had thought having sex with Mulder would make me fall in love with him. I had thought it would change me that much.

I loved Mulder, but wasn't in love with him. They have always been two very different things for me. I knew that Mulder loved me, but again, he wasn't in love with me. His first devotion was to the X-Files--it always had been. I wasn't jealous of the work; it was what he had always had, but I was concerned that I would follow his footsteps and have only my work to cling to.

Could I fall in love with anyone? It had been years since I had given myself--

"Permission."

One shouldn't need permission from anyone else to fall in love--especially from one's self.

I bent my head to the desk, tears coming as they had come when I had held Mae Washington. I was mourning another loss, this time the loss of the cocoon that had sheltered me from so many things in the past.

How much of life had I brushed away with a simple "I'm fine"? How many opportunities had I closed my eyes to, simply because I was scared of taking a chance?

I had closed myself off from men, from the possibility of being hurt, thinking I was doing myself a favour. It would mean less hurt in the long run, or so I'd thought. Now, I knew differently. As the realization hit me, like a doubled fist under my chin, I cried.

My father once told me that I wasn't a crier.

For years, I had believed him. I followed his example, shutting myself off from the horrors that made other little girls cry. I didn't shriek at snakes or run from spiders. I didn't cry when I scraped my knee or when Bill slammed my finger in a door by mistake.

My father told me to keep my chin up. Suck it in and deal with it, sailor. Put that wall up and don't let it inside.

I wasn't a crier. I followed his example. Even at his funeral--no tears. At Melissa's funeral--no tears. When I learned of my cancer, only a few.

Tears were a sign of weakness, they were a vulnerability and we Scullys were not vulnerable in any way. Never. Never. Chin up, sailor. Suck it in. Work through the pain.

Now, all those years of holding back were making me crumple. Alone and in the silence of the basement, I cried into my cupped hands.

"Scully."

I didn't hear him until he was beside me. Mulder turned me toward him and drew me into his arms.

I cried because I knew my future didn't lay with Mulder. When I realized he was crying too, I knew he understood the same. He hadn't questioned me when I had come to him; he had needed what I needed. A momentary escape. That was all.

"I love you," he said, crushing me against him. "You haven't lost me or what we've always had. It won't change."

But somehow, I knew that it had already changed and wondered when he would realize the same.

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XX. AN EXTRAORDINARY CORRESPONDENCE

Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls;
For, thus absent friends speak.

~John Donne

Two days later, Mulder and I met Karin Berquist. Mulder had never spoken to me of her, and meeting her was a surprise. Mulder told me, in her office, that they met through e-mail some time ago. I watched him around her and saw the shine in his eyes. Here was someone who fired the quest inside of him.

I watched them together and saw that Mulder was once again, a stray kitten. They worked well together and his hand covered hers on the mouse as though he had done it a hundred times. I wondered how far their e-mail correspondence had gone. Had it been intimate? Seeing the expression on Karin's face when she looked at Mulder, I then knew that it had. He had told her things he hadn't shared with anyone else; he had shared a part of himself he kept otherwise closed.

Distancing myself from them or the search for Mulder's "bad dog" was impossible. I could tell Mulder and Karin wanted some time alone, but I couldn't give it. I was suspicious of Karin; over the course of the case, something in her eyes changed.

When Mulder and I found Karin and Detweiler dead, it came as no true surprise. I could see Mulder's grief; it hung over him much as his coat did, heavy and dark.

We left California and headed back for D.C. again. No progress was being made in the search for the Youngs. Their place in Virginia was still empty, and every person connected to the Youngs seemed to disappear before the FBI could speak to them.

The mailing tube was delivered with a stack of other mail. I looked at the address label, brushing a finger over Mulder's name in Karin's hand. I took the tube to him and left him, not wanting to know what Karin had sent him. Love letters, wishes for what could never be, it was better to wonder than know.

Mulder caught up with me in the parking garage. He took me by the arm and asked me to dinner. Said we needed to talk. I saw the raw need in his eyes and I nodded. He had lost someone special to him and didn't want to be alone.

An hour later in the restaurant, the air too warm and the pasta too garlicky, we sat sipping wine and water, listening to the roaming band, not bothering to pretend that everything was okay.

"She sent me her poster, Scully--the one like mine," Mulder said,scooping another spoonful of sauce off of his pasta. Fork in righthand, spoon in left, he twirled the pasta onto the fork and shoved it into his mouth without dribbling sauce anywhere.

"Karin sent her 'I Want to Believe' poster?" I had seen it on the wall in her office. It was one more thing she and Mulder had in common.

Mulder nodded. "I put it up in the office." He set his spoon and fork down, wiping his mouth with the napkin. "It gets harder to believe in things, Scully; harder not to lose faith."

I had to agree with that. "How long had you and Karin been writing to each other?"

Mulder shrugged. He couldn't stamp it with a date. He only knew that he enjoyed talking with her and that she'd become a fast friend. "I mentioned you," he admitted. "I think Karin was a little jealous of you."

"Jealous." Maybe that made her attitude toward me a little more understandable. Jealous because I got to see Mulder every day, even on those days he was being as asshole? Jealous because I could turn heads and she couldn't? "I think she was a little lonely," I said.

"No doubt about that," Mulder said. "She was a lot like me in that respect, choosing to be alone."

I leaned against the high-backed chair, finishing the wine in my glass. Placing my glass back on the table, I saw no sorrow in Mulder's eyes, but instead a sharp realization.

"Things have changed between us, haven't they?" he asked. He looked at me with those beautiful eyes of his and I couldn't deny him the truth.

"They have--but, I honestly think it's for the better. We needed to be close to someone and right then, there was no one I trusted more than you to take that need and not twist it."

"We killed time and hurt eternity."

I frowned, shaking my head. "Did you think we had eternity? Mulder, we would kill each other inside of a week." I smiled softly as he laughed. "I think our time at the Falls at Arcadia proved that."

"Sammich!" Mulder said, gently dropping a fist to the table. The candle within the hurricane lamp shook. "And that green mask...oh, Scully." He shook his head and laughed, a rumbling sound deep inside. "I don't regret any of it."

"Neither do I." I leaned forward, reaching for his hand. He unfolded it and turned it palm up; I slid my hand into his. "I cherish you and what we have."

"But you aren't going to feed my goldfish."

It was as simple as that. Mulder's statement wasn't made with a childish edge; in fact, he sounded happy that his life was his own. As happy as I felt. We finished our meal and afterward, went our separate ways, to our separate homes, and we were both okay with it.

~*~

"It's really coming down out there." I let the curtain close and turned back to Jack, watching him stack more wood into the stove. One log cracked under the heat and the scent of cedar filled the living room. "You think it'll clear by morning to go ice fishing?" I drew my feet up, Indian-style, rubbing my hands together.

His parents' cabin in Pine Barrens was beautiful, but cold. No one had been up here all winter and there wasn't much wood in the shed. I half-worried what we would do when it ran out.

"It'll clear," Jack said. He stripped his coat off, snow sliding to the floor to melt. He turned and smiled at me. "You'll love it out there."

"I'll fall on my ass," I said, imagining myself slipping on the snow- scattered lake, going down hard.

"I'll catch you." Jack placed a final log on the fire and came over to the couch. "How's brandy sound?"

"Good." Jack went to the kitchen and I snuggled into the couch, following the line of the vaulted ceiling with my eyes. Stairs lined the far wall, going up to what looked like a loft. When Jack came back with brandy and glasses, he saw me looking up that way.

Jack handed me a glass, working the lid off the brandy. "There's a great view from the deck up there," he said, pouring brandy into my glass. "Not tonight, though."

"No?"

Jack stopped pouring and I set my glass down. Like a shot, I was going up the stairs; the loft itself was a bedroom, a double bed tucked between bookshelves. The ceiling was low, an arced, snow-splattered window above the headboard. To the left, there were double doors, locked with a simple latch. I went to the doors and opened them, hearing Jack coming up the stairs.

A freezing blast of air blew my hair back as I opened the doors. In the distance, beyond snow-draped evergreens, lay a great big nothing. Jack had been right; the view had been taken in for the night. I stepped backward, into his arms.

"Dana."

It was a whisper, one that made me shiver. "I guess you were right. No view."

He pointed to the darkness. "The lake is out there. We'll look at it in the morning when the sun comes up." Jack nuzzled my hair, licking snowflakes from my cheek.

I turned in his arms, wrapping mine around him. His mouth was warm, snow filtering down over us. His hands were impatient, tugging my wool sweater and turtleneck up. I lifted my arms, the feeling of the cold air and his warm hands on me a sharp contrast. I moaned softly, tossing my sweaters aside, leaning into Jack's embrace.

When we could bear the cold air no more, he pulled me back inside, kicking the doors shut. He brought me to the bed and lay me down, licking more snow from my skin. Nipples tightened under his expert touch and I slid my fingers through his now-damp hair, holding him closer.

Come morning, the snow had passed. Jack took me to the lake and as predicted, I nearly fell on my ass. Jack did catch me, as he had so many times before, and he held me close, making me feel safe and treasured.

That night, we snuggled on the couch under a blanket as the wood ran out. The clothes came off slowly; I felt like I was back in high school, making out with a boy, fearing my parents would walk in at any moment. My stomach tightened at the thrill and as I straddled Jack, he pulled the blanket tighter, as if to ward off any peeking eyes.

We left the cabin the next day, driving back to D.C. The roads were a mess and it was slow-going. We sang the entire way back, Jack laughing at my horrible voice, making me blush when he told me it was still pretty and something he would never change.

Back in the real world, our paths began to take us in different directions. Jack began our paper romance soon after the first of the year, letting me know exactly what he was missing and what he'd like to do with me and a few hundred feathers. The letter made me laugh, but I tucked it away and wrote him back that very night, taking my time and scenting the paper with perfume--Chanel No. 5, a Yule gift from Melissa who no longer celebrated Christmas, but who had taken to more "traditional" holidays--or so she called them. It was a wonderful scent and one I knew Jack would appreciate.

He did. His next letter was three pages long. Our correspondence continued throughout the year; even when we planned on getting together, the letters would continue. And when the romance itself began to fade, the friendship remained strong.

~*~

I went to my closet and took the cedar box down; Jack had given it to me as a birthday gift, the year before he died. I opened it and the letters fanned out, spilling over my feet and the floor.

I sat among them, reading for hours. They all smelled of cedar and that reminded me of the fire at the cabin and the lovemaking under the woolen blanket. I can remember the pleasant scratch of it against my backside.

I hadn't touched these letters since his death five years ago. Another loss in my life, yet in these letters, a victory. Proof that I had loved and had been loved. Evidence that I had made someone happy once upon a time, and that the happiness remained even when the sexual spark faded. A sign that I could love and let go and still live a beautiful life, even with my warbly singing voice.

My eyes burned with tears, happy and sad, but I read each letter, having no need to wonder what had become of my responses to the letters. They hadn't been among his things when I had gone through them after his death. His last letter spoke of my own words.

"I committed them to the fire, Dana, giving them up to the world. I sent the paper and ink into the flame and watched as each one was carried up into the stars."

I gathered Jack's letters and carried them into the living room, casting each one into the fire.

I kept the cedar box, placing it back on my closet shelf, letting it hold the memory of the words.

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XXI. SLUSH PILE

There is a passion for hunting something
deeply implanted in the human breast.

~ Charles Dickens

A conference room had been set aside so we could coordinate search efforts and information. I looked at Mulder at the desk beyond my own, his face bathed in a sickly green glow that made him look like an aphid.

"I've already searched that web site, Mulder. There isn't anything there."

He looked up at me and I handed him the sheet of sites I had gone through. He went back to the main search page on the Web, going to one of the sites I hadn't yet hit.

"Mulder, what did you say to Karin about me?"

Mulder looked away from the monitor, smiling that devil smile of his. He leaned back in the chair and it gave a loud squeak, causing a few other agents to look our way. They went back to their work quickly enough; I waited for an answer and Mulder delayed as long as he could, clearly trying to pull my chain.

"You know me, Scully," he said.

"Which is exactly why I ask." Mulder leaned forward, elbows crinkling my web site sheet. I reached for it and smoothed it back out, typing in the address of the next site. "Mulder."

"I told her," he said, "that I was wondering what to do with a very enigmatic woman in my life."

My eyebrows lifted a little at that. "Enigmatic? Mulder, when I was in medical school, there was a lecture called 'The Enigmatic Esophagus.' Never use that word in relation to me again." I winked at him, but was entirely serious about the lecture. I had fallen asleep. I believe to this day it was that class which taught me how to sleep anywhere, anytime.

I trusted Mulder not to speak to anyone about our night together; he wasn't a talkative man when it came to things like that. If he had been with other women in the years I had known him, I hadn't heard of them.

The militia web site I was on failed to provide me with any new leads on the Youngs. I went back to the records on the Youngs and Adam in particular, scanning through them, hoping to catch something I may have missed before.

I didn't see anything and during the afternoon briefing, nothing new was revealed either. Antonio and Saker failed to check in, and Skinner didn't seem all that surprised. Given their history, I wasn't either, but Skinner's disinterest seemed different than mine. I shook it off, figuring I was looking too hard for inconsistencies and new evidence.

That evening, I took what Mulder had called the Office Autopsy home with me. The box of half-burned debris still smelled like smoke, but if anything, it would be a good diversion from the search for the Youngs. Perhaps the remains of an old case would allow my mind to consider new paths in the current one.

Sifting through the burned and once-wet debris, I thought how odd it was that I now looked to salvage something of its like, when last night, I committed paper to fire myself. The remains of Jack's letters rested in the fireplace, soft ash amid the gas logs. The paper in the box on my coffee table was a little more substantial.

I withdrew one file, placing it on the towel I'd spread over the table. Charred bits of the cover flecked away. Inside, I was startled to see my own name. It was the file Mulder had opened on me after my abduction by Duane Barry. I read the few words that I could, then closed it, slipping the entire thing into a large Ziplock bag. I would ask Mulder if he wanted to keep it. As for myself, I could go either way.

It was a remembrance of a horror, and yet, of a blessing too. A backward blessing, my mother would have called it. The days following my return are some of the happiest I can remember. Seeing my mother again, Melissa, Mulder. They brought me a joy I still can't properly define.

Most of the contents of the box were charred beyond hope of resurrection. Thus, most ended up in the trash can beside my left leg. I hated throwing it away, but knew that none of it would be of any use to us like that. Enough time had passed for us to know if it was something we would well and truly need; anything we needed had already been missed and cursed over.

I picked up a bundle of envelopes next; the rubber band was melted to the top and bottom envelopes. I set the entire stack aside, scooping out more charred paper, sifting it into the garbage.

A small picture frame lay in the bottom of the box. I picked it up, not surprised that it was a picture of Samantha and Mulder. It looked to be taken at a birthday party, for they both wore pointed paper hats. I rubbed my thumb along the frame and it came away black. I remembered the feel of the burned timber beneath my thumb in Grover Field and shivered. The glass was dirty from being exposed to the heat of the fire and the picture underneath was half melted. I placed it in a small Ziplock and set it aside. Mulder would want it.

The moment I set it down, I realized what had been bothering me all day. I washed my hands and pulled the Young file from my briefcase, sorting through until I found the section on Adam. My finger traced over his birthday. In two days, Adam Young would turn eighteen.

My phone was in my hand a second later; I dialed Skinner's home number, listening to it ring and ring. When his machine picked up, I left him a message saying only that we needed to talk. I tried his office phone, but there was no answer there, either. I tried his cell phone next, and came up equally empty.

I looked across the room at the clock. It was approaching eight. Perhaps he was out getting dinner and hadn't taken his cell. I didn't waste time creating a list of places he could have been. I gathered the Young file and shoved it back into my briefcase, taking it with me when I left.

During the twenty-five minute drive to Skinner's place, my anger and suspicion grew. I hated to voice the thought, but I knew it was all too possible. Eighteen. I remembered turning eighteen. One day, I was seventeen, the next day I was eighteen. A child, and suddenly over night, an adult.

The doorman at Skinner's place let me in with a nod. I made my way upstairs, clutching the handle of my briefcase as thought it could save me from the impending confrontation. My fist rapped against Skinner's door, loud in the long hall. There was no response and I blew out a breath, trying to calm down. I was working on nothing but suspicion, but--

"Agent Scully?"

I looked to my left, down the hall. Skinner was approaching, a brown bag in his hands. Grease stained one side. Oriental take out. My stomach growled just looking at it, despite the dinner I'd had earlier.

"We need to talk," I said as he came closer. His long coat was open, showing his dark trousers and now-rumpled shirt, minus tie, the top two buttons undone. My stomach rumbled again and I took a step back, giving him access to the door. His keys jangled in his hand and he dropped them. I bent before he could and swept them from the floor, pressing them back into his hand.

"Everything all right?" he asked me, slipping the key into the lock. For a moment, the lock stuck and he wrenched it free and muttered "damn it."

"No, it's not," I said, following him into the apartment. I bypassed him, heading for the couch and coffee table. I heard him close the door and set his bag down, shrugging out of his coat. He gathered the bag up again and came to the living room, popping the staples on the bag open.

"There's plenty for two," he said softly. "It's like they're feeding an army even when you order for one."

I jerked my own coat off and opened my briefcase, pulling out Adam's information sheet. I shoved it into Skinner's hand; one corner smeared with grease from the bag. I watched him scan the document and then he looked up at me. He blinked and shook his head.

"What am I supposed to see, Agent Scully?"

"Adam Young will be eighteen in two days," I said.

Skinner shook his head again, placing the paper down on the table. He withdrew the cartons from his bag, along with napkins and plastic chopsticks. He crumpled the bag then and straightened, looking at me with his hands on his hips. I hated that stance. He looked ready to chastise me. I stood from the couch, feeling more like an adult and less like a kid who was about to be punished for speaking out of turn.

"And?" he asked me.

Relief seemed to wash over his face. Had he thought I was going to confront him about something else? I bit the inside of my cheek. *One suspicion at a time,* I told myself.

"And if agents wait two days before bringing Adam Young in, he will be able to be tried as an adult," I said. "Is that your intention here?"

"Agent--"

"At this afternoon's meeting, you didn't seem at all surprised when Saker and Antonio didn't check in. Add to that the fact that none of their team members checked in. Where are they? Do they know where the Youngs are?"

Silence.

As I waited for an answer, I realized this wasn't the first time Skinner had stonewalled me. I didn't like it any more this time.

"Scully." He looked down at me and I saw the indecision in his eyes. "I cannot confirm your suspicions."

He said it so carefully that I almost believed him. "Bullshit."

Skinner's eyes opened a little wider and a smile quirked his mouth upward. "No, it's not. I cannot confirm your suspicions, though I do share them."

The last four words rocked me back down to the couch. I sat with a sigh, staring at the white containers that littered the coffee table. "And?"

"And nothing, really." Skinner lowered himself to the couch, to my left. "When they didn't check in, I remembered Adam's birth date and Antonio and Saker's less than by-the-book methods at times. It wouldn't surprise me if they are waiting."

The sad thing was, I didn't know how I felt about it. Tried as a juvenile, Adam Young would likely suffer very little for what he had done. Tried as an adult, he could be tried for murder one, he could face the death penalty.

"And you're letting them."

Skinner nodded, reaching for one container. He opened it to reveal fried rice. He picked the chopsticks up, and plucked a small shrimp out, eating it. "I am," he said. "Scully, I heard it in your voice when we talked, when you were in Louisiana. None of this has been fair. Adam killing Ophelia wasn't fair by any stretch of the imagination. If we can wait a couple days and bring him in as an adult, why shouldn't we?"

I had no answer for him.

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XXII. ARITHMETIC

One in whom persuasion and belief
Had ripened into faith, and faith become
A passionate intuition.

~ William Wordsworth

I drove home from Skinner's with the windows open. Still, the scent of his food seemed to cling to me and certainly his words were there as I turned into my neighbourhood, driving down the quiet streets, doused in night, but illuminated here and there by warm light.

Why shouldn't we wait? he had asked me. Why? If Adam could be tried as an adult, why shouldn't he be?

I half wondered why Adam's father wasn't pushing to have him brought into custody before that fateful day, when child would become adult. I remembered the cold calculation in Abel Young's eyes and the way he had taken hold of me to carry me from the ruin. He was a determined man. I clearly recalled the way he had spoken to his son and the sorrow in his eyes. Abel was disgusted with his son, yes, but in the end, he was family and family would be protected.

The following morning, I resisted the idea of going to speak with my mother or Father McCue. My mother would tell me to see the latter and the latter would tell me to seek the truth within a higher power. Knowing that, I looked inward and decided that even Skinner's suggestion, that I speak with Karen Kosseff, wasn't right.

On my own, I needed to decide how I felt about this. In my quiet, sun-flooded kitchen, I spread the evidence out on the table and looked at it. I looked at Ophelia and Wren, at Adam and Abel. I saw in two pairs of eyes, a cautious defiance, and in two others a hatred that went down to the bone. In my own, reflected in the glass bowl which held a single white cala lily bloom, I saw confusion.

On the one hand, I could see Adam Young paying for what he had done with his life. For so the Bible did say, "eye for an eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot."

"He that smiteth a man, so that he die, shall be surely put to death," I whispered, staring down into Ophelia's eyes. So dark and endless, like the dark fudge my mother would make when I was a young girl. But those eyes had come to an end. By Adam Young's hand. It was right that he should lose his life in return.

Wasn't it?

For the Bible also said "thou shalt not kill." How would killing Adam justify things?

I looked at Adam and saw nothing but hate in those eyes. His eyes, unlike Ophelia's, contained an end that I could see. Growing up, I had been taught that everyone was capable of being redeemed. My work in the FBI had taught me that wasn't necessarily true. "Why would God let such people be?" I had once wondered. "Why did you think God would always be perfect?" a voice had answered.

"Because it's what I was taught," I said.

In Adam, I saw no such hope for redemption. I saw the path he was walking; I had seen it that day in the barn. He would vanish into the background for a while, but that hate would continue to grow in his heart, and contempt in his mind, and he would never be able to shake them off, even behind prison walls. It would simply grow and consume him.

It had to come to an end, here and now.

Closing my eyes, I could picture Antonio and Saker crouched outside a cabin, somewhere the in the Virginia woods. I could see them in dark clothing, with their Indiglo watches, counting the minutes, the seconds. Was he eighteen yet? Could they nab him?

The method made my stomach churn, and yet, I knew it was for the best. Adam had taken the life of a child. If he was old enough to commit such an act, he was old enough to be punished as fully as the legal system would allow.

I opened my eyes and looked back down at Adam. Was I simply missing the potential? No, I still could not see it as I looked down into those angry eyes, pupils burning like black stars back at me. I saw a wasteland; where I had been taught tolerance, Adam had been taught hate and where I had been taught love, Adam had been taught that it just didn't matter. In his world, what mattered was dominance and control. If he couldn't control it by conventional means, he could do so through death.

The page rustled when I picked it up, drawing Adam's picture closer to me. Slowly, feeling the edges digging into my hand, I crumpled the paper.

~*~

Sleep was slow in finding me. When it finally pulled me under, it came with unsettling dreams once again.

I sat in a dim room, looking at a pile of dust. Amid the remains, my cross lay, its slight weight making a dent in the pile. I didn't reach out for it; I left it where it was. I stood and moved away from the dust, motes scattering as the air moved around me.

I left the room, walking into the hall, where warm hands closed around my bare arms. Starlight filtered down from above, the universe exposed, and in the silence of the room, I could hear him breathing. Those warm hands stroked me, and time seemed to slow. I could feel the world around us breathing then; I watched as roses bloomed on the wallpaper, slowly unfolding each petal to the starlight.

A kiss. Lips closed over mine, whispering as they kissed. *I did so much, why won't you see? I ache to tell you. Ache. Let me take this, for I've given so much.*

I didn't understand the words. I moved farther down the hall, stars now raining down over me; their touch against my bare skin was cold and then warm, those hands returning to brush the bits of starlight from my shoulders.

And the kiss again. That whispering mouth tracing a line from my shoulder to my neck. *Share this with me. Look there, I want to take you across that sea.*

I looked and saw the water, stars reflected in the still surface. As my toes suddenly touched the shore, the surface exploded in a hundred ripples, sending the heavens to churning. I stepped back into the steady arms that held me and looked back into a face that was built of starlight and rose petals.

My fingers touched the face and it too rippled apart. But the hands remained. I felt the pain arc up through my nose and burrow deep into my cheek. I groaned, pressing a hand there, feeling the throb of death beneath my skin. But those hands, those hands.

They kissed every inch of my skin, that voice whispering around me while the stars continued to fall. I looked to the roses and saw them wilt; standing farther beyond them, I saw Ophelia. She lifted a hand and I went to her, walking through the roses, scattering petals and stardust in my wake. I took her hand and she lead me through the garden, showing me her beetles, her dragonflies, her butterfly net.

The sheer netting was sticky, like a spider's web. Ophelia laughed and scooped me up, carrying me along with her. I didn't fight her, letting her take me where she would. She took me down paths dark and bright, she took me through walls of words, powerful and fragrant. Happiness smelled like marmalade and sorrow smelled like rain.

As we passed under a bridge, dripping with dew that smelled like cloves, I felt the hands on me again. I leaned back into them, feeling the rest of the body then. Corded muscles molded themselves to my back, while the arms came farther around, holding me firm. Angel wings seemed to enclose us, and the butterfly net vanished, though Ophelia continued on and we followed.

It was like being in a sailboat without the water. As the thought crossed my mind, I felt wetness against my fingertips...

...and woke crying.

~*~

The morning briefing was short. Little progress was being made. Rebecca Callas had been questioned again and was now under observation on the chance that Adam would try and stay in touch with her.

I looked down the length of table at Skinner, into those brown eyes, and saw him betray absolutely nothing. But then, his eyes closed in a long blink and I saw the muscle in his jaw leap. I looked at Mulder who was closing his file, speaking with Agent Crawford who had been actively coordinating things with Saker and Antonio before they'd left. Crawford hadn't heard anything from them, either.

Looking back at Skinner, the moment had passed. I gathered my files and told Mulder I would join him in the conference room shortly. He and Crawford walked off together and I headed for Skinner. That was when my cell phone rang.

"Scully."

It was Mae Washington. Her voice caught me off guard and I swayed as Skinner walked past me, heading toward Mulder and Crawford before they could completely leave. Skinner's hands came up against my arms to steady me and I looked back into his eyes. For a moment, I swear he was made of starlight and rose petals. I had to tighten my hand at my side to prevent myself from reaching out to touch him.

Steady once again, Skinner left me, and his words faded to whispers. I could envision the tips of his angel wings brushing through puddles as he left my side. The images didn't make any sense. I turned my back to him and the images vanished, though not the curious tingling in my arms.

Mae invited me to Ophelia's funeral. It was being held the next afternoon. Both she and Jeffrey wanted me there, and there was no way I could say no. I promised I would come and the happiness in her voice made me smile. The smile was a relief.

The call ended and I slipped my phone away and grabbed my file, joining Skinner and the others in the conference room. I motioned for Mulder to join us and told them that I was going to Ophelia's funeral. Both agreed that I should.

And still, in Skinner's eyes, I saw starlight.

~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~

XXIII. TRAVELLING SHOES

I looked over Jordan, and what did I see?
A band of angels coming after me,
Coming for to carry me home.

~ Swing Low Sweet Chariot

Ophelia's funeral was a time of celebration. I was happy to be included. The church was old, its congregation made of both black and white, of cream and red, of yellow and brown. It was a sea of colour, one that thrilled and surprised me.

As lunch was served on the lawn of the church, four ladies from the church ooohed and aaahed over the Jell-O salads and the fried chicken, the jambalaya, and the cornbread. They went on and on. Plates were piled high with food, and I helped myself for fear that the ladies of the church would pummel me with the paper plates if I didn't.

Mae and I sat under a young oak tree, while Jeffrey spoke across the lawn with some friends. Mae told me there that she was pregnant, twelve weeks. She told me through her tears that she and Jeffrey would be leaving the neighbourhood. It was one thing to fight. It was another to bring a newborn into the environment. Jeffrey had accepted a transfer to Seattle; they would be moved by the end of next month, the company helping to sell the house on this end.

I left after finishing my food, leaving Mae and Jeffrey to their few friends and their new life. I drove across town, sitting outside Rebecca Callas's house for the longest time, until the shadows grew long and I risked missing my flight back to D.C.

I slept on the flight home and called both Mulder and Skinner once the plane touched down. On my way to my house, I stopped for Chinese food, and half an hour later, settled down to eat while I continued working through the Office Autopsy. I cleaned the box out, setting a few files aside that Mulder should look out before we discarded them entirely. I came at last to the stack of letters I'd set aside earlier.

The rubber band, melted to the top letter, broke with a snap. I took that first letter out of the envelope, reading through the smudged ink that Mulder's service warranty on his computer was about to run out. That went straight into the circular file, along with that stupid rubber band.

The mail was old now, and it amazed me that so much time had passed since the office fire. I remembered holding Mulder in the ruin and the way he hadn't held me back. It had been, I realized, his loss. I shared in it only slightly; the space was his own, it always had been and I still marveled that I could feel like a trespasser at times. I remembered a conversation I'd had with my friend Ellen, telling her that Mulder was a jerk, amending it with the fact that he wasn't actually a jerk, he was just obsessed with his work. It remained true to this day.

The letters were mostly trash, though the last one caught my attention. The envelope had been burned, and the letter wasn't in very good condition, either. What remained of the letterhead read S. G., two letters between them burned away.

Holding the letter up to the light, I could see that it was addressed to me. Reading with the light shining through the paper, I couldn't make out much.

*Agent Scully, --- need -- know ---- --- ----- -- tell you.*

I lowered the page after the first sentence, shaking my head. I placed the letter aside, grabbing my container of chicken with garlic sauce. The spicy concoction made my lips tingle. After shoveling more into my mouth, I picked up the letter again, wondering if it was going to take a case of aspirin to get through the burned document.

Words were scattered over the page; where the letter had been folded, it was burned the worst, the charred marks making their way up like small highways. They should have led me to something, but I was left even more confused.

Whoever had written the letter seemed to have something to tell me. They seemed to believe I needed to know it and had taken a chance in writing to me. I was annoyed that that was all I could get from the letter.

The ringing of the phone made me jump. I grabbed the receiver and pulled it close, reassured by Mulder's voice on the other end. "It's me," he said, just like always; it was a standard that kept me grounded.

"Just a quick update," he said. "I heard from Saker tonight. Nothing new on that end."

I frowned, wondering if Skinner and I had been wrong to suspect them--or if Saker was just covering. I thanked Mulder, and he asked about the funeral. I told him about Mae and Jeffrey moving, and that they were expecting another child. He seemed surprised about them moving; then again, this is a man who has stayed in a place where he has been done great harm. I couldn't quite understand that, either. Though, now that I thought on it, I'd lost rather a lot in my own home.

I debated telling Mulder about my suspicions when it came to Saker, Antonio, and them waiting for Adam's eighteenth birthday, but in the end I kept them to myself. Why send Mulder running down there to possibly interfere? If Antonio and Saker did know where the Youngs were, we should leave them be, trusting that they had the situation well in hand.

When I hung up from Mulder, I called Skinner and let him know that Saker had called. We both thought it odd that Saker had called Mulder of all people, rather than Skinner. Then, we decided it was par for the case. Nothing about this had been right. I didn't think anything ever would be.

Phone work done, I looked back at the burned letter and decided that tomorrow, I would take it into the imaging lab and see if they could reconstruct it for me.

~*~

Morning burned a slow path across the horizon. As people came out for their morning papers, I padded a path down the streets, in my FBI sweats, Mozart keeping me company in my headphones. It was one of his symphonies, the twenty-fifth, I believe. It was actually good for running.

Running. Something I had picked up from Mulder. He swore by it and though it had been hell at first, I'd slowly gotten into it, enjoying the activity. I liked being up in the morning, before most anyone else, winding my way through the quiet streets, watching the light come over the horizon.

Horizons. My father had taken me and Melissa out sailing once; just him and his girls, he'd said. I kept asking him when we would reach the horizon, while Melissa kept frowning about what the sea air was doing to her hair. My father told me that we could never reach the horizon, that by the time we began to, it stretched out behind us and before us all at once, becoming everything that surrounded us. Something that we had gone through and something we still had yet to reach.

I hadn't understood. Now, I moved toward another horizon and still couldn't reach it. Behind me, there was another, one that I was forever moving away from, and over all, it still didn't make much sense to me. As a young girl, I had liked the idea of a flat Earth, that we would sail to the edge and simply stop, having arrived at the horizon as happy as could be. Now, it seemed the horizon lied to me, that it was something that could never be reached, no matter which direction you began.

But when I arrived back at my place, breathing hard and soaked with sweat, I figured that home was as good a horizon as any.

~*~

Agent Jean Mortman took the letter from me, looking at it through the bag I had encased it in. Her blue eyes narrowed and she shook her head.

"I love a challenge," she said with a quick smile. She gestured for me to follow her to her microscope and she slipped on Latex gloves before removing the letter from the bag. She placed it on the flatbed and took a scan of it, pulling it up on her computer monitor while she looked through the scope. "This may take a while, Agent Scully. Do you need me to rush it?"

I shook my head. Technically, at least for Mulder and me, the office fire was still an open case. We were pursuing leads when it came to solid proof as to who had torched the place. Even so, it wasn't an urgent case. "There's no real need," I said.

"We aren't that busy down here," Mortman said, gesturing to the lab around us. Computers hummed, analyzing data quicker than any human could. "I might have something for you by this evening."

"Feel free to send a scan to my computer if you turn anything up," I said. "Ah, bits and pieces of a work in progress," she said with another smile. "You like to draw the pleasure out."

"I hope it's a pleasure," I said, intrigued more than ever about the letter. "With my luck, it'll turn out to be a notice that I've won a VCR."

"Or maybe ten thousand dollars," Mortman said. "Do you need fingerprinting done on this?"

I hadn't even considered it. "I've handled it so much, I may have smeared any you might pull, and the fire damage..."

"You'd be surprised."

"Might as well."

I headed back upstairs, to the conference room we had claimed as our own. Mulder wasn't anywhere to be seen, so I settled in at the computer, continuing through my list.

Mulder came in an hour later, looking as though he had swallowed a fork. If he turned another shade of red, I would escort him to the hospital myself.

"Mulder?"

As the door slammed into the wall, slowly swinging back out, every agent in the room turned to look at him. With his hands on his hips, Mulder surveyed the place, shaking his head.

"The militia connection was a false lead," he said. "Young had connections with the leader, but they quickly went their separate ways."

"Their plans for taking over the nation differed, eh?" an agent asked. Mulder brushed the comment away with an annoyed wave.

"Wallace Bradford, the gentleman Young bought his Virginia residence from, has vanished into the mists as well. We had a lead on him last night around midnight, but it turned into a dead end. The search continues."

The day was long; I ate at my desk, sipping Pepsi and hoping the caffeine would keep me up and pumped for work. Young had done a wonderful job in covering his tracks; there was little mention of him anywhere in the files I sorted through. From what I could tell, he paid his taxes and kept his nose clean.

Around four, I pulled a file that surprised me. I found out that Young had petitioned to speak at the United Nations in 1997. His request had been turned down. As I read the account, I had an image of him standing there in his white robes, the UN members splattering him with tomatoes and telling him to take his pipe dreams elsewhere.

Had Young really thought he would get an audience with the UN? I didn't know and didn't want to contemplate it. As I went to print the file to add to the record of activity, a series of letters caught my eyes.

SRSG.

Special Representative of the Secretary General.

I sent the file to the printer across the room, my computer beeping to indicate that I had an e-mail. I pulled up the window, finding e-mail from Agent Mortman.

*Here's your partial, Agent Scully. More to come.*

I downloaded the image, a three inch section of the page loading. The image was still speckled with burn marks, though Mortman had enhanced the letterhead enough to be read. Now, I had a full set of very familiar letters. SRSG. It was letterhead from a special representative of the Secretary General.

~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~

XXIV. MOSAIC

There are very few human beings who receive the
truth, complete and staggering, by instant
illumination. Most of them acquire it fragment
by fragment, on a small scale, by successive
developments, cellularly, like a laborious
mosaic.

~ Anais Nin

Agent Mortman sent me a follow up e-mail, letting me know she would probably have a complete restoration by the next afternoon. The computer didn't see the damage as extensive as we did, and the imaging was coming along nicely.

I went down to the basement office, SRSG running through my head. At Mulder's desk, I pulled his Rolodex close and began to scroll through the cards, believing Mulder had a contact in the UN. I came up empty, though, wondering if my belief had been wrong.

I called Mulder up in the conference room, and he sounded more annoyed than ever. When I asked if he knew anyone at the UN, or specifically an SRSG, he seemed puzzled.

"Does this have something to do with the Young case?" he asked.

"No. I went through the box of stuff that was leftover from the office fire and I came across a letter to me. It's on SRSG letterhead and I thought that at one time, you had a contact there."

"I did," he said. "Marita Covarrubias, though I don't believe she works there anymore. Last time I tried to contact her, I came up empty."

"Spell her name for me, Mulder."

He did and I copied it down. Why this woman would be writing me, I didn't know. I didn't know why *any* SRSG would contact me, but it was a good chance that the one Mulder had known would be the one.

I went home that night, full of more questions. I got on-line and searched through nearly every database I had access to. I found little on Ms. Covarrubias, other than the fact that she had been a valued employee of the government. She had left her position last year, of her own free will. Where she had gone remained a mystery to me, for it wasn't listed in the files I could access.

Sleep was, once again, slow in coming. I got out of bed twice, running through more files on the computer, looking for anything on Covarrubias or the Youngs. I came across a photograph of Covarrubias standing with other SRSGs. She was a striking blonde woman, whom I did not know. I knew none of the others in the picture either, but took note of their names, just in case it was one of them who had written me. It could have been any of them.

Come morning, I went into the conference room, trying to focus on the Youngs. It seemed everyone was on edge, Skinner most of all. He paced the length of the conference room more times than I wanted to count, tension and worry written in every line of his face.

As the day wore on, we found ourselves chasing false leads on the Youngs. Skinner suggested that we give up the hunt, and Mulder screamed what I wanted to, that if we did that, how could we ever forgive ourselves. We were close, we had to be. Young couldn't be that far. I knew Skinner wouldn't actually close the case but there was nothing like fear of closure to light a fire under a group of agents.

Young could have been anywhere, I thought. Those who were helping him would be of no help to us. It was frustrating, knowing we had been so very close to them when we had been in Mandeville.

When I received the next e-mail from Agent Mortman, I downloaded the attached file and printed a copy. This was the letter, the letter sent to me and then nearly destroyed in the fire. I looked down at the print, amazed at the quality Mortman had been able to extract. She told me to contact her if I needed anything else done with it. Fingerprints had been pulled from the page, mine and those of Marita Covarrubias, the sender of the letter. Mortman had verified the signature at the bottom as authentic, through the UN, the same way she'd handled the fingerprinting.

I went back to my desk, reading what Covarrubias had written to me last spring, right before the fire.

~*~

Agent Scully, you need to know what I'm about to tell you. Forgive the dramatic nature of that first line, but I regret that I am unable to contact you in person and have little other way to convey the seriousness of this matter. Please know I am taking a risk in writing to you at all.

You do not know me, as such you do not know my nature. I am not a selfless woman, I can assure you. Though, times being what they are, I feel I must speak out and tell you these things. Sometimes, we must do things that scare us. I commit my words to paper for the first time in years and that scares me.

Last year, I was contacted by your Assistant Director. He sought me out for one matter, though its details are of no real consequence to you and why I write you now. He came to me as a means to an end, to learn something that would, ultimately, in his hope, help you.

Your Assistant Director was seeking a cure for your illness, Agent Scully. Associates of mine are directly responsible for that illness and he was lured into serving so that he might find your illness' cure. These associates used your AD; he placed himself in their hands.

What I saw in the man I met with cannot stay silent within me. You must know who he is and what he has done for you. You may have heard his silences, seen the guarded nature of his eyes. I met with him briefly, yet know him to be a man of deep silence. He holds his tongue, for fear he will speak what overflows his heart.

How romantic of me. You must be questioning every word I have written here. I write to you on SRSG letterhead with the hope that it will prove my sincerity, as well as my identity. I write only the truth here--for the first time in my life. Perhaps it sets me on a new path.

Marita Covarrubias
SRSG, New York
April 1998

~*~

I folded the page in half, willing my hands to stop their shaking. I set the page on the desk, closing my hands into my skirt. Around me, the room buzzed with conversation and work, but I sat still, save for my shaking hands.

*How romantic of me,* she had written. Romantic--perhaps she had imagined it all, the look in Skinner's eyes, the actions he took... I didn't know.

I looked up, searching the room for Skinner. Ms. Covarrubias hadn't used his name, a precaution no doubt, though it had to him she spoke of. *Your Assistant Director,* she had written. *Mine.* My hands started to shake even worse. I bit the inside of my cheek and they slowed so that I was able to pick up the page again and read those six paragraphs one more time.

Barely able to make out the phone number at the bottom of the page, I picked up the phone and dialed, clutching the receiver to make my hand steady. A recording picked up, telling me that the number had been disconnected. Ever-efficient, the recording told me to hold while the call was transferred to main reception.

There, I asked to be transferred to Marita Covarrubias's office, but the woman informed me that no one by that name currently worked in the office I had called. The line clicked as the woman ended our call. I hung up the phone, swallowing the lump in my throat.

Clutching the paper in my hand, I left the conference room, feeling as though I staggered my way to the restroom. There, the air was silent and smelled of lemons. It made me want to retch, but I moved toward a stall and closed myself inside, leaning against the wall, closing my eyes.

My first meeting with Skinner was clear in my mind; he had seemed hard and unforgiving. In later meetings, I came to see that was an asset when it came to dealing with Mulder and my sometimes barbed tongue. Skinner reined us in and controlled us, but within that he guided us and helped us when no other person would have.

He is a man of contradictions; I have seen him strong and I have seen him scared. I have seen him injured and I have seen him bestowing the injury. I have heard him refuse me, and have seen him come to my rescue.

Now, opening my eyes to look back down at the letter, I had little trouble believing it to be true. It was something Skinner would do, and it was something he would never speak to me of. It would show him to be human and that frightened him. Being weak scared him, yet I think it gave him more strength than he realized.

Fear, I had learned as a child, was often what pushed us to do what we normally couldn't. In my adult life, that proved true as well. Fear pushed me every day; fear that I would lose someone else I cherished, fear that I would fail Mulder in some way, fear that I would walk into my apartment and know the same fate my sister had. Dealing with that made me stronger, at least in my own eyes.

I folded the letter into a small square, slipping it into my jacket pocket. Coming out of the stall, I took a moment to look at myself in the mirror. I straightened my lapels and picked a stray strand of hair from my blouse. I looked presentable, when even on the inside I was still shaking. It was par for the course.

In the conference room, Mulder was hunched over his computer, and I could see he was talking on the phone as I neared. I placed a hand on his shoulder and he looked up, nodding at me. He finished his call and placed a check beside a name on his list.

"Do you know where Skinner is?" I asked.

Mulder gestured toward the ceiling. "In his office. Unlike us at the moment, he has other cases to sort through. Did you get the information about that letter, Scully?"

"Yeah." I looked down at Mulder, wondering how much I should share. "It was from your contact, Marita Covarrubias." At that, Mulder's eyes narrowed.

"What was it about?" The question was slow, as if Mulder already had a theory.

I sat down in the chair at the desk beside Mulder's, sliding closer to him. "It would seem that the good AD took some steps into securing a cure for my cancer. Or, should I say he attempted to."

Mulder looked away from me and I saw the guilt flash through his eyes. When he looked back at me, I saw that he had known what Skinner had done.

"Mulder?"

"I think it's for Skinner to tell, Scully."

I expected to feel anger, but I didn't. I was tired and I wanted answers, that was all. I wanted to understand what Skinner had done and why. Mulder could perhaps give me the former, but only Skinner could provide the latter.

Leaving Mulder, I made my way up one floor to Skinner's office. Kimberly let me go right in; he was bogged down in paperwork and would surely welcome an intrusion. Skinner looked up from his desk and smiled; he seemed as surprised by it as I was and it quickly vanished.

*He holds his tongue, for fear he will speak what overflows his heart,* Marita had written. How true.

I closed the door behind me and Skinner set his pen aside, gesturing to the paperwork. "Thank you for saving me from this," he said. "Anything new on the Youngs?"

"No." I stepped away from the door and came to his desk, taking the letter from my pocket. I unfolded it and handed it to him.

"What exactly am I looking at?" he asked, eyes skimming the letterhead.

"A reconstructed letter that I received last year," I said, rounding his desk to sit in my usual chair. "It was found in a box of debris that Mulder asked me to sort through. It concerns you, sir. You and Marita Covarrubias."

Skinner's eyes met mine. I knew the look all too well. Annoyance and fear.

"I had the letter reconstructed because it was addressed to me. You should read it. It's most interesting."

So he did read it and I sat there in silence, watching his hands shake as my own had done. When finished, he set the page on his desk and looked at me, saying nothing.

A man of deep silence. Indeed.

~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~

XXV. CONFESSIONAL

My secrets cry aloud.
I have no need for tongue.
My heart keeps open house,
My doors are widely flung.

~ Theodore Roethke

His leather chair creaked as he got up, making me think of a man coming down from a saddle, brushing the dust from his chaps, making his way inside where he would lay down and rest his travel-weary body.

He crossed the room to his conference table and reached for the pitcher. It was filled with water. He poured himself a glass and drank it down, no doubt wondering where to begin explaining the letter I had brought him.

It was a fluke that I had found it after all of this time. He must have thought his secret wholly safe. Mulder would never speak of it, for it would mean betraying a confidence. Skinner had trusted in Mulder; I thought that remarkable in its own right and couldn't wait to hear the tale.

I didn't press him for answers, though. I would give him the time he needed, and he clearly needed it. He poured a second glass of water and returned to his desk, keeping it between us like a barrier. I was reminded of a story from my childhood, of a dragon and a princess and a moat.

Skinner took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he picked up his phone and told Kimberly to hold all calls no matter what, surprise skittered through me. He set the phone down, not meeting my gaze for more than a few seconds at a time.

Skinner shook his head and exhaled. "I didn't want you to know." He pushed a section of paperwork away resting his hands on the desktop, looking at them as he spoke, the way I had studied my own hands when I had confided in him before. "It was a case that came to Mulder, one that I was asked to cover up."

"By whom?"

"The man we now know as C.G.B. Spender." Skinner shrugged. "I was given another name when he and I first met and it rang false, but I knew better not to question. I spoke with him some weeks before, telling him I would do anything to help cure your illness. He said he had the means if I was serious. I said I was. He came to me with this case and asked that I cover up any evidence of it having happened. Mulder already had the case, and I had a lot of work to do." Skinner reached for his water, and took a sip, keeping his hands wrapped around the glass as he continued with his story.

"A young woman was killed at a post office. Killed by bees. I sanitized the site, got rid of the body, switched blood samples." He brought a hand to his head, groaning as if the actions still hurt. "C.G.B. set me up; Mulder wouldn't let go of the case and I was framed for murder. Mulder got wise to it and helped save my ass."

"And in exchange--"

"In exchange, C.G.B. was supposed to come through with your cure, Agent Scully. Instead, there was nothing." He looked down at the letter I'd brought. "I can imagine him telling Marita about it, gloating over what I'd done, how I'd failed." Skinner pressed a fist to his mouth, turning away from me.

It was too late. I had seen the anguish in his eyes. I looked away, too, feeling the anger come now. It burbled up from my belly, hot and viperous. I stood from the chair and Skinner looked at me, surprised at the motion.

"Sc--"

"Why?" I asked. "You risked your life, your career, your *everything* for this. Why?" When he gave me no answer, I turned away, walking to the other side of the office. I needed distance. I didn't want to yell at him, I wanted to give him time, but my heart was pounding and it was demanding answers. "Why?"

I turned around, sucking in a breath. Skinner stood not four inches away from me, looking down at me with more honesty than I could handle. He took a step forward and I took one back, straight into the double doors. My hands clutched at the handles; I had an easy out. As he took another step closer, I realized I didn't want an easy out.

"You."

I blinked, feeling like I had been punched. The naked sincerity in his eyes and voice made me flinch. I shook my head, but he lifted a hand, taking hold of my chin to still the motion. His hand was warm and so large I thought it would engulf my entire face.

"You," he repeated. "I couldn't bear to think of you in another hospital. I couldn't stand the idea of seeing you get weaker and weaker, yet fighting it every inch of the way. I was afraid to watch you die afraid to let you--" His fingers flinched along my cheek. "Afraid to let you go."

With Skinner holding my face, I couldn't look away. I wanted to very much, because I had never seen the emotions that now slid over his face. I didn't know if I could continue watching the show of emotion.

"I don't understand." And I still didn't. The truth was in his eyes, but I couldn't reach out and accept it. "I don't--"

His mouth covered my own, without a shred of hesitation. And likewise, I returned the kiss. The truth slammed into me and it twisted my gut. Relief poured down over me and I opened myself to it, taking my hands off the door knobs, holding on to Skinner instead. There was no easy out now. Thank God.

Skinner's arms did not come around me; his left hand remained against my cheek, fingers softly stroking as his mouth explored mine. His mouth was hot, determined. He was confident in his kiss as I somehow knew a man like him would be. My body reacted to him in an incredible way. I didn't go weak at the knees; as Skinner's tongue swept gently against my own and then retreated, I felt stronger than I ever had. Desire and power curled down through me, replacing my anger. Now, it made sense, why he had done what he had, why he had risked.

Our mouths came apart slowly and I looked up at him, Skinner looking down at me through heavy-lidded eyes.

"There is so much I want you to know," he said, his hand sliding down my cheek, to rest atop my shoulder. "Ms. Covarrubias was right--I've kept a lot of things inside."

I nodded, swallowing hard. "Dinner, tonight. My place."

He kissed me again and I felt those angel wings enclose me; I could smell happiness and I prayed that this wasn't a dream brought on by the stress I'd been under lately. When Skinner's arms finally pulled me against his chest, I knew that it was no dream; if it had been, the alarm would have intruded right then.

~*~

My apartment smelled like pizza. It was casual food, to offset everything that might be said here tonight. I looked at the clock and wondered if Skinner was going to stand me up. I went to the oven and turned the temperature down, picking up my phone. I didn't dial. The last thing he needed was a prod from me to get over here. He would either show up or he wouldn't--and I was betting on the former.

The idea of what Skinner had done for me was staggering. I wanted to know more. That he would risk so much astounded me and let me feeling somehow unworthy.

The look in his eyes when he had confessed had broken my heart. This man had sold his soul for me, and yet, some part of him still cared for me, still wanted to hold me close and kiss me.

And that kiss.

Why was I worthy of such a beautiful gift? What had I done to deserve it? The look in Skinner's eyes had been plain; his feelings for me went beyond friendship.

And what of mine for him?

On one level, I had looked at him as my boss alone. On another, I knew that I had been attracted to him, much as I had been Mulder. It was normal for someone to gravitate toward the people they worked with. I saw these men every day; naturally, feelings would develop and evolve.

As I had done with Mulder, I had pushed those feelings aside, rather than taking the risk of exploring them. Now, Skinner was giving me free reign to do just that, to take a closer look and see if those feelings went anywhere.

Skinner was an attractive man, not simply in terms of physical appearance. I was attracted to him on an intellectual basis as well as a physical one. Physical was easy; the other ways of attraction were less so. Skinner's background intrigued me; I had seen only glimpses of his private life and while some had been less than perfect, I was still curious about the man behind the starched shirts.

What kind of boy had he been? What kind of young man? Had he once been in love? Had he made love in snow, or a spring field? As my thoughts turned to the intimate, my cheeks flared with colour. I'd never thought of Skinner in such terms. Now, after feeling his kiss, I could imagine his hands on me, and his mouth. After feeling his arms through his shirt, I could imagine the strength he would bring to lovemaking and the determined touch that would make my toes curl.

But, I didn't want to rush this. Whatever this was, I wanted to take it slow and enjoy every moment of it.

I stood from the table, taking the pizza out of the oven. The onions on top were beginning to brown along the edges. I realized onions might have been a bad choice, but dismissed the thought with a shake of my head. Pepperoni, olives, sausage, bacon, green peppers--this pizza had a little bit of everything, slathered over an olive oil brushed crust. My stomach growled.

And the doorbell rang.

I shoved the pizza back into the oven, turning the heat off. It could sit in there for a few more minutes while we got ready to eat. As I approached the door, my stomach knotted and I realized how ridiculous I was being.

Reaching for the doorknob, I paused, thinking how hard the past two years must have been on Skinner. He had kept this secret for so long; I wondered how much of his soul had been eaten up by it. I wondered if I could help him lay a few demons to rest.

I brushed a hand through my hair and pulled the door open before I used it as a barrier between us for the rest of the night.

The scent of spring rain curled around me as I opened the door; I hadn't known it was raining. I looked up, expecting those dark brown eyes, but I was met with clear blue. Adam Young stood there, rain glistening on the shoulders of his dark raincoat. I took a step back, but Adam moved like a snake, grabbing my arm and pulling me against him. I jabbed my elbow into his gut, kicking out with the heel of my shoe. I caught Adam in the knee, but his grip on me only tightened.

He shoved me inside and closed the door, withdrawing a syringe from his pocket. My eyes widened and I struggled to get away; I kicked Adam's knee again and he buckled. His hand came down on the collar of my blouse and he pulled me down with him. My head cracked against the floor and my vision swam.

I felt the sting of the needle in my upper arm. The sedative was quick; it pulled me under as Adam picked me up and carried me from my apartment.

~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~

XXVI. CHASM

There are in every man, at every hour, two
simultaneous postulations, one towards God,
the other towards Satan.

~ Charles Baudelaire

I opened my eyes, looking into the open, but unseeing eyes of Abel Young. He lay as still as a log there on the floor, his mouth gaping open, dried blood crusting his lips, his left temple crushed in. Bits of gray matter clung there and in his hair, drying as well. His eyes were deeply clouded; I guessed he had died less than twenty-four hours ago.

The room we were in was a small bedroom. I lay on the floor beside Abel, twilight throwing blue shadows across the delicately flowered paper on the walls. I sat up, discovering that I was not bound. My blouse had a blotch of blood on it, where Adam had carelessly jabbed me with the syringe. My arm ached, which made me believe that I hadn't been here long. Looking out the window, I knew it had to have been a day at least; when Adam had come for me, it was full dark, and now, it was the twilight of another day.

I stood from the floor, crossing to the window. We were in what seemed to be a farmhouse; across an empty yard, I could see a barn and stables. Horses were out in a fenced area, but as I watched, someone came out and led them inside for the night. The sky faded from blue into black, stars slowly pricking through. Over a slight hill, I could see a river and hoped it was the Potomac. We could be in Virginia.

"You want some dinner?"

The voice started me. For a moment, I thought Abel Young had come back to life. I turned and looked at Adam, there in the doorway. My stomach rumbled and I nodded; I'd missed out on my pizza dinner with Skinner.

Skinner.

As I followed Adam through the house, I knew that my disappearance would have been noted by now. I prayed that Saker and Antonio had known where the Youngs were, but now, I wasn't so certain. If they had been simply awaiting his eighteenth birthday, why hadn't they already come for him. Adam was eighteen now. Where was the cavalry?

It was amazing what a mind could accustom itself to, I thought as we stepped into the kitchen. I had woken beside a dead body and hadn't felt a thing. In the kitchen, the scent of potatoes hit my nose and my stomach rumbled again. There, before the stove, stood a small young woman; when she turned, I stared into the eyes of Rebecca Callas with no small measure of surprise.

She smiled at me, taking the potatoes from the stove. She dumped them into a colander to drain the water, then transferred them back to the pot, to begin mashing them in earnest. "Momma said good riddance when I left with Adam," Rebecca said. "Didn't care where I was going, just that I went."

I sat down at the table, watching as Adam poured me a tall glass of iced tea. It was surreal, this entire setting. The kitchen was like something from a storybook; pale blue walls rose around us, a bright floral rug tossed over the hardwood floor. Canisters shaped like chickens sat along one counter, and the smells reminded me of home. In a distant room, I could hear loud conversation; a disagreement. Adam left us then, and I looked back at Rebecca.

"He's wanted on murder charges," I said. "Kidnapping a Federal agent won't make things any easier on him."

"He didn't kidnap you, Agent Scully," Rebecca said, jabbing the metal masher into the potatoes. "He brought you here to clear your mind."

As he had done in the ruined barn, I had no doubt. "And if he can't?"

"Well, you saw his daddy."

I bowed my head against my hands, elbows braced against the plain wood table. Rebecca was eleven and here she was, playing house with a dangerous man. I looked up at her. "Rebecca--"

"Don't say anything," she said, adding a generous blob of butter to the potatoes. "This is what I want."

"To live your life on the run? You can't stay here, Rebecca." I stood and came to her side, looking at her; she was only slightly shorter than me and I couldn't help but wonder how she fared against Adam's towering frame. "People were expecting me last night. They will be looking for me. It's possible they followed Adam and me here."

Skinner hadn't told me that I was being tailed, but after my disappearance in New Orleans, it wouldn't surprise me. The place could have been surrounded, men just waiting to storm the house. At least I could hope.

"Could be," Rebecca said, adding a dash of salt and then pepper to the potatoes. "You want to finish these while I turn the pork chops over?"

I took told of the masher, wondering where Rebecca's indifference had come from. Her parents? Society? I jabbed the masher into the potatoes, taking my anger out on them. "It's possible," I said, "that you were seen leaving Mandeville. Your house was being watched."

"Not till after I left," she said, lifting a lid on a skillet. She stabbed one pork chop with a meat fork and turned it over. "We've had this planned for quite some time, Agent Scully. That stupid nigger had to go and foul things up."

"Ophelia?" I asked.

"The old one." Rebecca finished with the chops and placed the lid back down.

"She had a name, you know."

Rebecca shook her head. "It didn't much matter to me. Or any of them, either. And if we can't stay here, we have another place to go. You finish them potatoes, I need to set the table." At the doorway, her arms laden with placemats and silverware, she turned and looked back at me with those wide eyes. "Don't think about going anywhere. You won't get to the door before you're taken down. I see potential in you, even though you are a nigger lover."

"Her name was Wren," I said.

Rebecca went into the dining room and the door swung shut. With little thought, I lobbed the potato masher at the door. It smacked the surface with a satisfying thunk, potatoes splattering everywhere.

~*~

After dinner, I was taken into the study. Adam beckoned me toward the chairs before the fire. I went, feeling cold ever since I'd sat beside Rebecca at dinner. She was eleven, yet she spoke as though she'd seen centuries of hatred and war. In her eyes, I had seen the darkness amid the light; the dark had won inside of her, she was fully Adam's woman. I wondered about that, if Adam had taken Rebecca to his bed.

Adam offered me coffee and Rebecca came in to serve it a few minutes later. In Adam's presence, she kept her head bowed. Her motions were efficient and she didn't spill a single drop of coffee as she poured. She added cream to Adam's, turning it completely white. I wasn't surprised. She left as she had come, silent and subservient.

"She's wonderful, isn't she?" Adam asked as the door latched shut. "I met her through her brother, two years ago. She followed him around, wanted to do everything he did. Let's just say I'm thankful she didn't follow him into that ravine."

I closed my eyes. Sisters following brothers. It wasn't supposed to lead to something like this. "You brainwashed her."

"No, she came of her own free will. She loves our ideas and embraces them fully."

"She is a *child.*"

"No more. Agent Scully, I brought you into this home to speak with you," Adam said, staring into the fire as he spoke. "I brought you here to speak the truth to you and give yourself the opportunity to be wholly opened to it. Rebecca tells me you had a disagreement with the mashed potatoes, earlier."

I gave him no answer.

He nodded, reaching for his coffee. "Should you stay on and become a part of this household, you will make reparations for the damage you did." He sipped, long and slow, still watching the fire. "I wonder how I can make you see the truth, Agent Scully. What words will sway you?"

"Your words are wasted on me."

Adam looked at me then, frowning. He set his coffee aside. "I do hate to hear that. You are a strong woman, and you have a strong faith." He reached out and caressed the cross I wore. I slapped his hand away and the flames from the fire seemed to leap into his eyes. "I bring you here and this is how you show your gratitude?"

Adam stood from his chair, towering over me. Fear began to loom behind him, like a shadow advancing on me. I looked away from it, determined to meet this conflict with a steady hand and head. But fear was not alone tonight. Anger and hate accompanied it, poking at me with their bloodied fingers, as sharp as swords.

"If I am supposed to be grateful--" I broke off, having nothing worthwhile to say to this boy. He stepped away from me, turning around and going to the desk. I swallowed hard and stood up, ready for anything.

Adam unlocked the top drawer and withdrew an envelope. He closed the drawer slowly and came back to me beside the fire, handing me the envelope.

"Open it," he said.

I did as I was instructed, sliding my nail under the sealed edge of the envelope. I tipped it sideways and let the contents fall into my palm. I held a lock of dark hair, wirey and shot through with gray. A piece of Wren, I knew.

Adam picked it up and rolled it between his fingers. Fine bits sifted into his palm. "Niggers ain't nothing but dust, Agent Scully." He blew the remains of the hair toward the fire and they seemed to sparkle.

"Even dust can be beautiful," I said in a whisper, tears stinging my eyes as Melissa's dreamed words came back to me. I looked at Adam, shaking my head. "If you can't understand that--"

Adam's hand connected with my cheek. I went down, unprepared for the attack. Crouched on the floor, I waited, every muscle tensed.

"You are the one who needs understanding. You are the one who touched that dark skin and said that you'd come as their saviour. You are the one who promised them niggers that they were equal and deserved justice. You gave them hope and they deserved none."

I closed my eyes, biting the inside of my cheek. Adam circled me, shadows thrown every which way by the fire.

"They are the colour of dirt because they are dirt. They were kept as slaves and didn't revolt because they knew their place. White men seek to elevate the nigger to an equal level and that can never be. They have their place and we have ours. Ours is better, Agent Scully. We rule this nation and expect them to understand that."

My teeth bit into the tender flesh of my mouth, my hands curling into fists. The pain from Adam's attack was gone; it was channeled into the fear and anger and hate that continued to creep up on me. It gave the shadows strength and when they washed over me, I was blind and terrified.

"The nigger must go back to their place, or die. The nigger must see that we are superior. I am here to forgive you for straying. I am here to bring you back into the fold and love you even though you have loved dark flesh. You can be mended and cleansed. You can see the light of the cross and know that it is the one true light."

I tasted the blood in my mouth, flesh torn by my own teeth. My heart pounded like a piston, fast and angry. I saw light; it blinded me to everything except the hate. The hate crawled into me like a lizard; I felt each cold, uncaring foot, up my spine and then down deep into my gut.

I was on Adam before I could consider holding back. He had to be silenced. My left hand curled into his straw hair, and my right fist caught his eye. We went down in a tangle, and I thrilled at the sight of his blood, on his face and my hand. I lifted my fist and brought it back down, Adam screaming out. I felt his cheek collapse under my assault, heard the delicate bones snap. I didn't care.

I pummeled him with doubled fists, kicking and throwing my entire body at him. Adam fought back, striking out at me with equal vehemence. He seemed energized by the entire thing, drawing strength from the hate that whirled between us. As he took strength from it, I learned to as well.

As we fought, it felt like a living thing, another creature in the room with us. I could feel its welcoming caress as I hit Adam again and again. I could feel the waves of approval as blood covered my fists. And when I tasted the blood on my lips, I felt that the beast was hungry and needed more.

That was when I saw her.

Ophelia stood in the corner, reaching out to me with one small hand.

I turned away from her, kicking Adam as he started to get back up. Sweat and blood plastered my hair to my face; I couldn't stop--the beast was hungry and would consume me if I didn't finish this.

Ophelia was there again, reaching out for me with both hands now. Adam's fist knocked into my jaw and I crumpled to the floor, vaguely aware of his hands closing around my throat. He shook me, sending my head into the floor as his hands closed around.

Ophelia screamed and I felt her hands in my hair. She yanked and everything went dark.

~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~=~

XXVII. THRESHOLD

The softest things in the world overcome the hardest.

~ Lao-tzu

I found myself hip deep in a river. Ophelia stood before me, blowing bubbles against the current. I turned in a slow circle; the sky was green, the grass was saffron, and the air smelled like marmalade.

"Where are we?" I asked. My voice, full of curiosity, smelled like freshly baked bread. In my mind, the answer came to the unasked question of why. Ophelia had been fascinated by bread dough as a child, wanting to know why it rose and fell the way it did. It had been a question she had held for a long time, until she fully understood the inner workings of dough. For her, curiosity was bread.

"My new home," Ophelia said in a voice that smelled like roses. Roses, because when they had moved in, her mother had planted a bed of roses against the east side of the house and they had spent many a morning there, watching the blooms open under the rising sunshine. For Ophelia, new homes smelled of roses.

All of this came into my mind, overwhelming and beautiful. I smiled at Ophelia and she smiled back; the air filled with the scent of pears drizzled in caramel. "What a wonderful place," I said, moving closer to her in the water. I lifted a hand and tasted the water on my fingers; it was cotton candy.

"Not as good as home," Ophelia confided. A wind blew across the river, smelling like rain and then compost.

In the distance, over the rolling saffron hills, I saw a house that looked very much like the Washington home in Mandeville. But, there were differences. The paint wasn't as bright and the flowers were falling apart. Ophelia seemed to be losing her memory of that world.

"Why am I here?" I asked. The scent of bread rose around us again, permeating everything.

"You have allowed yourself to hate as Adam does. You can't do that." Ophelia turned away, the ends of her hair trailing in the water as she moved down stream.

I followed her, stumbling over the rocks that made the river bed. "Ophelia...I--"

"You are darkness," she said. "Once, you were light. You trusted in that. I know it's silly and simple, but don't give in to the darkness."

I heard the gunshots and the screams. I turned, wondering where they were coming from. I saw nothing out of order in Ophelia's world.

"Your world," she said to me. "They are coming for you."

I tried to draw in another breath of the sweet air here, but suddenly couldn't. I lifted a hand to my throat, feeling two other hands there, strong and unrelenting.

In an instant, I was jerked out of Ophelia's world and into my own, Adam Young's image blurring atop of me. I tried to fend him off, but couldn't lift my arm or leg.

Gunfire sounded again and Adam jerked, his hold loosening somewhat. Another gunshot and Adam's head snapped forward, blood streaming down his face. He fell on me and I turned my head, his wound sliding down my cheek. Hot blood and brains. Life and a dark soul.

Gone.

Adam's next world would not smell of marmalade and taste of cotton candy, although for a moment I wanted it to. He deserved some measure of kindness, even though he had shown none here on earth. A smile, a hug, a small touch that would let him know he was worthy and cared for. Soft things, to overcome the darkness he had known here.

Men surrounded me, faces familiar and not so. Antonio and Saker, the former rolling Adam away, the latter gently picking me up from the floor. I leaned against him, seeing Skinner standing across the room, gun still in his hand. I was surprised it wasn't smoking.

Other agents fanned out; I could hear them calling to each other as they searched. Saker stripped his FBI jacket off and wrapped it around me, dressing me as though I were a child. He stuffed my arms in and pulled the flaps together, but didn't zip it.

Mulder was there then; I wasn't sure where he came from. And Skinner was closer than he had been before. They guided me to a chair and had me sit. Skinner withdrew a handkerchief and wiped my face clean with gentle, easy strokes. I closed my eyes, feeling Mulder's hands in my own. His were shaking as badly as mine.

When I opened my eyes, I looked at Skinner and then Mulder. Without words, I drew them to me and hugged them tight. Soft things, I reminded myself. Soft things.

~*~

My father pulled me out of the ocean, sputtering. Water streamed across my vision, but his big hand wiped it away as he scooped me into the aft section of the ship. He held me tight and only relaxed his grip when he realized I was laughing and not crying. He looked down at me and I smiled up at him. His faced blurred under a hundred oceans and faded to wet ash.

Paul Overstreet emerged from the ash, smelling like cigarette smoke and feeling like a first kiss. I reached for him and he twirled away, laughing. He turned into Marcus Verlain, who waved his green cummerbund over his head and seemed to do a victory dance. He smelled like wood smoke, and faded away in a thick gust of it.

James Mitchell came to me then, wreathed in Christmas garland, dancing to an unheard song. But I knew the music without having to hear it and I moved with him, feeling the brush of his hand against my cheek before he, too, faded away.

Jack Willis arrived, borne on snow and ice, smelling like a warm wool blanket that had been stored in a cedar chest. He danced around me, too, and we laughed together before he vanished as a smudge of ink against the horizon.

Mulder came last, swirling fog around my ankles and legs. He pulled me along with him, through darkness and light, but always together. He bound my hand to his and we took a blood oath: partners forever, no matter what else would come. He pulled me hard and fast, and a sank through the fog, down into warm, comforting water.

I woke on the couch in the farmhouse, agents still swarming the house. I pulled Saker's jacket around me, leaving the living room. Outside, the air was cool; the sun had yet to rise. I pushed the cuff of the jacket back, looking at my watch. My inner clock was completely messed up after my adventure with Adam. I didn't even really know what day it was.

On the porch, I found the sheet-covered body. Saker was there and he touched my arm as I neared. "You okay?" he asked.

I shook my head, not really knowing. I bent to the sheet and lifted it slightly, looking at the still face of Rebecca Callas. I dropped the sheet and stood.

"She took her own life as we pulled up," he said. "Screamed something about not wanting to go back. I have coffee in the car if you'd like some."

"No thanks," I said, remembering the way the cream had turned Adam's coffee white. I looked beyond the house, to the slight ridge that overlooked the river. There was a solitary figure out there, sitting, arms wrapped around legs. "Where are we?" I asked Saker.

"Outside Richmond, Virginia," he said.

I nodded and walked away from the porch, heading toward the figure on the ridge. My body ached; the feeling of Adam's dead body slamming into mine was fresh, even though I tried to push it away. I wiped a hand along my face, expecting to feel his blood, but I was clean.

The short grass was covered with morning dew; the toes of my shoes were damp by the time I reached the top of the ridge. I stood there a moment, looking down at the Potomac. In the pre-sunrise light, it looked unsubstantial, like a pale blue ribbon lain down by a careless hand. Fog twisted over the surface in places, small ghosts getting ready to flee before day settled in. I sat in the grass, feeling the dew soak through my skirt. I hadn't changed from work attire before my dinner with Skinner.

Now, I looked over at him, and he looked at me, smiling softly. His features were hazy in this light, as unsubstantial as the river below us. I looked back to the river and Skinner exhaled, shaking his head.

"The oven was down so the pizza didn't burn, but you can't imagine the smell I found," he said. "And you should see the pizza--it's like a hunk of dried fruit," he added with a chuckle. "I opened a window to air the place out. Your door was unlocked and thank goodness you have observant neighbours."

I smiled and laughed. "After my first abduction, they so wanted me out of there. Then Vernor, who lives upstairs, agreed that we had to watch out for each other."

"It was Vernor I spoke with," Skinner said. "He saw Adam Young's van, got the license number, and we were able to track him here." Skinner looked behind us, toward the farmhouse. "It's his grandparent's place. They died a few years back and left it to Adam."

"It's a beautiful place."

We were both plainly trying to ignore the events of the past few hours. I shifted in the wet grass, looking at Skinner as he looked back to the river.

"Thank you," I said, and he looked at me finally, features becoming more firm as the horizon began to lighten.

"For?"

"You were the one who shot Adam...weren't you?"

Skinner nodded and I smiled. "I think he would have killed me otherwise. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe." I thought of my conversation with Ophelia, but didn't brush it off as a hallucination brought on by a lack of oxygen. I wanted to believe that I had been there with her, in that sweet smelling place where there was no hate.

"Then I got it right this time," Skinner said.

I reached out and took his hand, squeezing it. "You did fine."

Skinner squeezed my hand, then released it, wrapping his arm around me. He drew me to his side and I rested my head on his shoulder. Together, we watched the sun creep over the edge of the world. It came up more quickly than I thought it would, bursting through the thin layer of clouds in sheets of gold and orange and a hundred hues of blue. As the warm light spilled across the surface of the river, gleaming like fire, the fog vanished.

Right then, I knew. Mulder had been the smoke on the water of my life. Someone else would be the fire in my sky.

THE END

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