DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters in this story belong to CC, 10-13 Productions, and Fox Network. I mean no infringement. Benton Crane, Annelle Hollis, Lucinda Brown and Barbara Hewick belong to me (sorta ). Please don't use them without permission. Thanks go to Paul Leone and Lorna Youngs for the plotting help on this chapter. Thanks go, also, to MaryAnn (MAPBISAC@aol.com) for answering some of my questions about psychologists and hypnosis. This is chapter eight of a pre-quel to my story 12 Degrees of Separation. The events in this story precede the events in 12 Degrees but take place in the same universe. Rated PG-13 for adult language and situations. 12 RITES OF PASSAGE #8: "Reflection" By Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com Margaret Scully's home February 16, 1998 8:04 a.m. Margaret Scully knew something important was about to happen. Something monumental and possibly life-changing. She felt it in her marrow, in that same deep, dark place of knowledge from which previous premonitions had sprung. She'd felt the first vague fingers of unease on Friday, when, in the middle of preparing dinner for one of the diocese shut-ins, she'd been struck with the certainty that something wasn't right with Dana. Benton Crane's call later that evening had both confirmed and eased her fears--Dana had been assaulted but she was all right. And Fox was there with her, too, which eased Margaret's mind. She had thought then that the uneasy feeling would go away. But it hadn't. It had merely grown, transformed. It was about Dana, still--she felt that clearly. But not JUST about Dana. She was tense, on edge, jumping at every little noise. That unnamed something was coming. She could feel it, like the change in air pressure before a storm. When the doorbell rang, her heart leapt in her chest. This was it. She opened the door and found her daughter and Fox Mulder standing on the porch, their bodies close but their souls somehow apart. She sensed the tension and felt a little niggle of sadness deep inside. What was so very clear to her seemed to pose great difficulty for Dana and Fox. Had they not yet come to understand how fragile and fleeting life was? How rare the chances to find true joy? As her first impressions--of tension, fear, anger-- dissipated, she noticed other more tangible things. The scrape on her daughter's chin. The bandage on Fox's forehead and the purple bruises on his cheek. "My God, what happened to you?" Dana ventured a reassuring smile, but it was Fox who spoke. "Dana drove." Chuckling at the glare her daughter sent in Fox's direction, Margaret gestured them inside, her tension eased slightly by the familiar sound of Fox'd dry humor. Even in the very worst of times, back when she'd despaired of ever seeing Dana again, Fox had been able to make her laugh. She would always love Fox Mulder for giving her those few, stolen moments of laughter in an otherwise dark and joyless time. "Something is wrong, isn't it?" She didn't waste time, leading them right to the kitchen, where all the important Scully talks always took place. She didn't ask if they wanted something to drink; she automatically poured coffee for them--Dana's with cream, no sugar; Fox's black with a teaspoon of honey. Dana paced quietly in the doorway of the kitchen, while Fox leaned against the cabinets and watched Margaret prepare the coffee. She was certain that Fox would be the first to speak--he vibrated with unasked questions. But Dana spoke first. "Mom, we need your help." Margaret met her daughter's wary eyes. "Of course." Dana took a deep breath, considering her words. Margaret glanced from her daughter's troubled face to the vibrant gaze of Fox Mulder standing at her elbow. He blazed with nervous energy, the sheer intensity of his expression threatening to overwhelm her. She looked away, marveling at strong a woman her daughter must be to handle a man like Fox Mulder on a daily basis. Dana stopped pacing in the doorway and turned to look at her. "Mom, just before Dad died, did he tell you about a trip he made to Boston to see Bill Mulder?" Margaret released a soft sigh, not quite able to hide the sadness that rippled through her at the memory. William had been so worried about their girl, so afraid of what danger her new partner might pose. He had spent the greater part of his life in the Navy, and though he'd thrived on doing his duty to his country, he had not escaped without a sense of cynicism. He had seen the price of freedom--and the toll of deceit. And he'd feared for his daughter, for the lessons she, too, would have to learn. "You knew about it, didn't you, Mom?" Dana's face reflected pain and betrayal. Margaret closed her eyes for a moment. "Yes." "Why? Why did he want to talk to Mr. Mulder?" Dana's voice was taut with a combination of anger and pain. Margaret eyes flickered open, widening with surprise. "Dana? You know your father would never do anything dishonorable, don't you? Surely you don't doubt that." Fox spoke quickly. "Of course, Dana knows that. We both do." Dana looked up at Fox, her eyes widening slightly. He met her searching gaze with an intensity that only served to strengthen Margaret's certainty that he was the only man in the world for her daughter. Without words they spoke volumes; with mere flicks of their eyebrows they held entire conversations. Yet the most important words could not remain unspoken forever. One of them would have to find the courage to say them first. Dana looked away from Fox, her gaze steady as she met Margaret's eyes. "I know Dad would never have done anything wrong. But he must have had a reason for wanting to meet with Mulder's father." "How did you find out about this?" Margaret asked. Dana reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a slip of paper and what looked like a pocket planner. "We found this in a trunk that Mulder's father left for him." Margaret took the slip of paper from Dana's outstretched hand. She unfolded the note and scanned it quickly, her breath catching in her lungs as she recognized the bold, looping script of her late husband. Tears pricked the back of her eyes as in that small, brief moment she relived every letter, every note, every snippet of correspondence she'd ever seen bearing his handwriting. "What did Dad mean about 'something' Mr. Mulder might consider worth a trade?" Dana asked. Margaret shook her head, blinking back tears. "I don't know." "Did he tell you anything at all?" Fox asked. His voice was gentle, hesitant. Margaret looked up and met his earnest, slightly wary gaze. "Let's sit down, and I'll tell you what I can remember." * * * * * Scully felt Mulder's eyes on her. His gaze was hot and intense, alternately questioning and comforting. She couldn't look at him now, however, not with her emotions raw and exposed. Mulder depended on her strength and her composure. She didn't want to fall apart in front of him again. "Fox, I've told you about Dana's father and how much he loved serving his country." "Yes." "The only thing he loved more than the sea and the Navy was his family. He would have given anything for us. Made any sacrifice we asked of him. He would have turned his back on the sea and his career if we had required that of him." "But we would never ask that of him, no matter how much it took him away from us," Scully murmured, a faint smile touching her lips at the bittersweet memory of her father and his passions. "Ahab and the sea were never meant to be separated. We all knew that." "Sounds like a lucky man." Beneath the table, Mulder's hand brushed lightly over her knee, giving her a slight squeeze. The comfort he meant to convey was colored by her own shivering awareness of his nearness. She took a deliberately deep breath to steady herself. "We were the lucky ones," Margaret said, her voice soft, her eyes misty and faraway. "He was a good husband, a good father. William would have done anything to keep his children safe." "Is that why he wanted to meet with Mr. Mulder?" Scully reached across the table to squeeze her mother's hand. Margaret dragged herself back from her memories and met Scully's gaze. "Yes. When you told us you were working with Fox Mulder, the name rang a bell for him." "Rang a bell?" Mulder asked. "Apparently William and your father crossed paths a long time ago, Fox. You couldn't have been more than a toddler-- Dana wasn't even born yet." "When, Mom?" Scully asked. "Under what circumstances?" "I barely remember, honey--it was so long ago. But it had to do with a military accident. William lost a good friend." "What kind of accident?" Fox asked. "William was in the Silent Service for much of his early career in the Navy," Margaret replied. "He was a lieutenant j.g. on the USS Blaire in 1963 when he and his submarine were called to deal with a rogue Russian submarine-- apparently the crew had mutinied and had loaded the torpedo bays, looking for targets. William and his boat were commanded to sink the Russian sub." "But?" Scully prodded. "But William told me later that the Blaire's sonar operator swore that the Russian sub was no such thing--the sound of the screws was all wrong." "Could it have been another American sub?" Mulder asked. Scully knew he was thinking of the USS Thresher. So was she, to tell the truth. If someone in the government--or someone on the fringes of the government--had wanted the Thresher scuttled for whatever reason, they knew how to make it happen. They knew how to cover it up, too. "That's what William came to believe," Margaret admitted. "That question haunted him 'til the end. Because the same day the Blaire sank the so-called Russian sub, his friend Thomas Linwood died in a freak submarine accident in the same area." "The Thresher," Mulder murmured. Margaret looked up at him, surprised. "Yes. How did you know?" Mulder reached into the breast pocket of his suit. "This was in my father's trunk." Margaret took the newspaper clipping and glanced over it, her forehead creased. "Why do you suppose your father kept this?" "Because I think it's connected to this." Mulder handed her another slip of paper, this time the State Department memo referring to the Russian submarine incident. "My father wrote that memo about the sinking of that so-called Russian sub. But I think maybe Capt. Scully was right. I think maybe the Blaire sank the Thresher." "But why?" Margaret asked. Scully looked down at her hands, twining and untwining her fingers. Why, indeed? Had it been a simple snafu? Lack of communication leading to a horrible accident that the military and the State Department later covered up? Or had the sinking of the Thresher been deliberate, a direct order from higher ups with their own hidden agenda? "Did Capt. Scully ever voice his suspicions?" Margaret nodded. "He did. He was thanked for his concern and informed that any further inquiry into the matter was the business of military intelligence." "And nothing ever came of it." Margaret looked at Mulder. "William agonized over that for all the years of his life. He had followed protocol, informed the proper authorities in the subscribed manner--" Mulder made soft, derisive sound. Both Margaret and Scully looked up at him, and he reddened. "Sometimes it's hard to keep track of who the good guys are." Margaret nodded. "William said the same thing." "You said that Capt. Scully had crossed paths with my father during that incident. How?" "I'm not clear on that," Margaret admitted. "He was out to sea for a long time on that tour of duty. And there were things he couldn't tell me about his work because of security concerns." She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. "But I think I know where you might find more answers." Scully and Mulder stood as well, exchanging quick glances. Mulder's eyes were dark with excitement. Scully herself was torn between anticipation and dread. "Where, Mom?" Margaret's face softened, and her lips curved in a slight smile. "Your father can tell you in his own words." * * * * * Margaret Scully's House Feb. 16th, 1998 8:58 a.m. Mulder walked slowly around William Scully's study, noting the simple, masculine feel of the room. Tall bookshelves lined two of the four walls, while a battered but sturdy mahogany desk and two Navy surplus file cabinets filled the wall in front of the window. For a second, he was back in the old house in Chilmark, in his father's study. The trappings were finer there, but the same utilitarian austerity prevailed. Bill Mulder and William Scully had shared that much in common. What else might they have shared? Mulder had told Mrs. Scully that he had no doubts about William Scully's honor, and for the most part that was true. But he'd seen too much, lost too much to trust anyone completely. Anyone but Scully. He glanced at her. She leaned against the edge of the desk watching her mother unlock one of the file cabinets. Scully's posture was deceptively relaxed, but Mulder had been with her long enough to recognize the lines of tension in her forehead and the rapid rise and fall of her chest as her respiration quickened with anxiety. She was scared. She was scared to death that something they found here today might compromise her respect and admiration for her father. He envied the fact that she still had illusions left to be shattered. His own had been crushed long ago. The most recent revelations about his father's treachery were nothing but overkill. She turned her head, her gaze meeting his for a moment before sliding past him to stare at the wall beyond. "My father kept a journal for as long as I can remember." Her voice was faint, far away. "I remember when I was small, he would ask me how to spell words he wanted to use in his journal entries. It was a game we played. Mostly he'd ask me about easy words like 'run' or 'water'--but sometimes, he'd get the most mischievous look in his eye and ask me how to spell a word like 'refraction.'" She chuckled softly, gesturing at the small wool rug by the desk. "I learned how to spell right there, sitting in the floor at my father's feet." "Won the state spelling bee when she was in the fifth grade," Margaret tossed over her shoulder. She gave a strong yank and the bottom drawer of the file cabinet opened. She reached inside and withdrew several thin, leatherbound volumes from the drawer. "These are the journals from the early 1960's." She handed them to Scully and opened one of the upper drawers. "And this is from 1992 and 1993." She gave that journal to Mulder. He took the volume and pulled his glasses from the breast pocket of his jacket. Settling in one of the leather armchairs in front of the desk, he opened the journal and began flipping pages, looking for his father's name. "I don't know if I can do this." Scully's voice broke into his concentration. He looked up and found her clutching the journal against her abdomen, a deep frown on her face. "I feel as if I'm invading Dad's privacy." Margaret crossed to her daughter and slipped her arm around Scully's shoulder. "Dana, Dad would have been glad to help you find the answers to your questions." Scully cut her eyes toward Mulder. He read her gaze with the ease of a long-time companion. She knew as well as he did that it was time to ask the OTHER question raised by the information they'd gathered from his father's belongings. The question of what happened to Melissa in 1973. Scully didn't want to bring up the subject. She didn't want him to say anything, either. She didn't want to think about it. The reluctance was written all over her worried face. He was torn, himself. He had no desire to add to Margaret Scully's sadness--but if he could find out what happened to Melissa, maybe he could find out what had happened to Samantha, too. Maybe he could finally find proof of what had been done to her, where he could find her remains. Maybe he and his mother could finally put Samantha to rest and get on with their lives. "I need to run some errands, sweetheart." Margaret spoke, snapping the band of tension stretching between Scully and him. "You and Fox feel free to stay here as long as you need. Make yourselves at home--there's tea in the fridge and makings for sandwiches. I should be home before lunch, though." Scully was silent until she heard the front door shut behind her mother. Then she turned to Mulder. "I think this is really hard for her. She tries to hide it, but she misses Dad so much. He'd retired just a year or two before his death--they had so looked forward to the time when they would be together every day, just the two of them...." Mulder nodded. "Life can be unspeakably cruel." Her eyes softened with compassion, and he felt something stir deep inside. He knew with utter certainty that if he went to her now and let go of the pain and fear he harbored inside him, she would open her arms and take it all. Weep with him, rail against heaven in his stead, hold him up with her steely strength. Just when he'd gotten used to being horribly alone, she'd been foisted upon him by his enemies. Thank God. Still, he couldn't let go of his tight grip on his pain. Sometimes he thought that the pain was the only thing holding him together. It was the glue that kept him from shattering into a million little pieces. If he could feel the pain, he knew he was still alive, still breathing. He looked back at the journal in his lap. He'd flipped pages up to March 1992. He turned to March 6, 1992, the day Scully had been assigned to work with him. No entry, but three days later, William Scully had jotted a brief notation: Dana has been assigned field agent status. She says she's glad to be trying something new, but I don't like the thought of my baby girl on the streets wearing a gun. She's been assigned to an odd division as well-- a project, she says. Called the X-Files. I asked Bud Cromwell about the division and he laughed. Apparently some eccentric Bureau genius has taken to lurking in the basement of FBI headquarter, looking for ghosts and goblins. Good God, is this what I went to sea to protect and serve? And now poor Starbuck has to deal with this oddball. Well, if anyone in the world can put the fellow in his place, it's my girl. Mulder's lips curled slightly. Indeed she could. But he was sad that Scully's father had seen him this way, as an oddball, a pariah. Someone whose unwelcome presence his daughter was forced to endure. Despite his tendency toward self-loathing, Mulder recognized that he was much more to Dana Scully than a millstone around her neck. He'd saved her life just as she'd saved his, many times over. He'd been there, for the most part, when she'd needed his comfort and support. And sometimes, though she'd never admit it, he made her laugh. He looked up and found her engrossed in the open journal in front of her. He stole that moment to just watch her, notice the way her facial expressions changed subtly as she took in the words in front of her. He'd known her for so many years--his relationship with her was the most intense, exclusive and long-lived relationship of his entire life, and yet he never really seemed to tire of her. He always seemed to notice something new, something different about her every time he looked at her--the way her hair curled around her chin, the almost imperceptible beauty mark above her lip, the way her eyecolor changed as often as the weather. "Any luck?" he asked. She looked up, blinking as if he'd startled her. "I'm up to April 11, 1963, the day after the Thresher sank. Mostly Dad's entries are about losing his friend. He hasn't said anything about his suspicions concerning the connection between the Thresher and the alleged Russian sub. But that's how Dad would have been--he'd have pursued the proper channels first before even speculating in writing." Mulder nodded and turned his attention back to the journal in his lap. He slowly flipped through the pages, scanning William Scully's entries in search of familiar names or dates. He found another mention of the X-Files in October of 1992: Dana visited today. She seems happy with her work on the X-Files, although when I asked her about her partner, she rolled her eyes at me. Poor sad fool, she's probably got him cowering in the basement by now, trembling at the sight of her. That's my girl. Mulder chuckled softly. "What?" Scully looked up from the journal she was reading. "Your father's opinion of me...left a lot to be desired." "He never met you, Mulder." "Well, apparently you gave him the impression that I was like some kind of human mold, hiding out in the basement of the FBI building, afraid of direct sunlight and hard-assed G-women." Her eyes twinkled for a moment. "I don't know WHERE he'd have gotten that idea." He arched one eyebrow at her and returned his attention to the journal. The next entry of interest was dated October 15th, 1993: Confirmed my lingering suspicions. Dana's Mulder IS Bill Mulder's son. Suddenly I'm wondering just who assigned her to this mysterious X-Files division and why. It was bad enough spending my whole career being manipulated and lied to--that's NOT going to happen to my daughter, too. The danger to her is too great. I won't stand for it. She'll be angry with me for my interference, but I can't stand by and leave her in the heart of danger without trying to stop it. And then, November 12th: I sent a letter to Bill Mulder, asking him to meet with me in Boston on November 19th. I told him I was willing to make a trade--something I want for something he wants. It won't hurt for him to believe I know something more than I do. It's a risk, perhaps, but my sources say that Mulder is persona non grata among his previous associates, that he's a drunkard and a coward. I doubt I have anything to fear--but I'm certain I have much to gain. Mulder released a small sigh of relief. Whatever doubts he had harbored about William Scully had faded to nothingness, leaving only a deep and growing respect and admiration for his partner's late father. Mulder regretted that he'd never had the chance to meet him. Any man who could capture the heart of Mrs. Scully and rear a daughter as fine as Dana had to have been a hell of a man. Then his relief faded into regret as he re-read the passage. "...he's a drunkard and a coward...." Mulder arched his eyebrows slightly. Come on, Captain Scully, don't pull your punches. Tell me what you REALLY think of the Mulder men.... "Mulder--listen to this." Scully's voice tugged him back from the edge of darkness. She began to read from the journal in front of her. "I finally presented the Naval Review Board my suspicions about the Russian submarine incident. I relayed sonar operator Joffrey's concerns about the screw signature and my own confirmation of what Joffrey heard, but to no avail. The Review Board informed me that a team from the Pentagon under direct supervision of the State Department had thoroughly investigated both incidents and there was no correlation. They showed me the State Department memo settling the matter. "I don't believe we are being told the truth, but I have no proof to contradict the official report. I do have deep reservations about the State Department's handling of the inquiry, however. Neither I nor Lt. Joffrey was ever questioned by anyone concerning the incident. And now Lt. Joffrey has gone AWOL, so I have no one to corroborate my own observations. All I have are suspicions--and the name of the State Department's point man. William Mulder." Scully looked up at him. "This must be the connection Mom was talking about." Mulder nodded. His head suddenly hurt; he pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Anything else? Any mention of Lt. Joffrey's death?" Scully arched her eyebrows. "Death?" "You don't think he simply went AWOL? That would be pretty damned convenient, wouldn't it?" "I suppose." She sighed softly, returning her attention to the journal. Mulder watched her for a moment, suffering a surprisingly sharp pang of sheer jealousy. Must be nice, he thought, knowing your father was such a damned paragon. Capt. Straight Ass "I never met a rule book I didn't like" Scully. Mr. "I'm so fucking perfect I make Bill Mulder look like the goddam anti-Christ!" Scully.... Mulder wanted to throw something, break something, kill something. Just for a second. Just long enough to remind him that he still had the capacity to be his father's son. Then the anger seeped away, leaving guilt and remorse in its wake. He didn't resent William Scully, he knew. He resented his own father's weakness and evil. God, he'd give his right arm to have been William Scully's son. To have a father who'd have fought the devil himself to protect his children. William Scully would never have let anyone force him into making a choice between his children. He'd have died first. Bitter tears stung Mulder's eyes. He rubbed his burning eyes with his fingertips, trying to regather his wits. Feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to solve this case. "Joffrey was found dead in a back alley in San Francisco two weeks after the submarine incident." Scully's voice was low and tired. He looked up at her, his vision slightly blurred. "Murder?" "Opium overdose." He nodded. "Same thing." "That's what my father thought." Scully lay the journal on her father's desk and pushed her hair back from her face. "I had no idea he had gone through something like this. He never told us." "I suppose he wanted to spare you that kind of story. Kind of hard to teach your children about patriotism when your own country is screwing the hell out of you." "Were you always this jaded, Mulder? Didn't your father try to spare you, even a little bit?" "Oh, yeah, he spared me," Mulder muttered, his voice thick and ugly with bitter anger. "He spared me at the expense of my sister's life. Thanks, Dad." Scully's lower lip trembled a little, and he kicked himself mentally, angry that he'd dumped his pain and anger in her lap yet again. She didn't need any of this--not the danger she faced daily because of him, not the loss of her innocence and her faith-- "What about you? What have you found?" Scully regained control over her trembling lip and nodded toward the journal in his lap. "Just a rundown of the Mulder family failings." He tried to smile, but his face felt stiff. "I'm about to check your father's account of his meeting with my father in Boston. Assuming Dad bothered to show." Opening the journal, he flipped through to the entry dated November 18, 1993 and began reading aloud. "Bill Mulder was so much smaller a man than I expected. Not just physically but emotionally and spiritually as well. He was more a shell than a man--a husk of humanity covering utter emptiness. He has no life now; I didn't need to hear almost those very words from him to know the truth. He has lost everything, and for what? To what end? I don't know. I don't think Mulder knows. "I wanted to hate him because of the lies he has perpetrated for all these years, but somehow it was pity that most plagued me upon meeting him. I felt sorry for him because I realized that I have what he longs for most--a family who loves me. A clear conscience. A reason to live. Mulder swallowed with difficulty and dropped the book in his lap, suddenly unable to return his eyes to the page. Scully rose from her father's desk chair and walked around the mahogany desk to crouch at Mulder's side. She put her hand over his and looked up into his face, her sheer will forcing him to look at her. The gentle compassion in her eyes almost broke him. He thrust the book at her. "Please finish." "Are you sure?" He nodded. She took the book from him and stood, leaning against the edge of the desk. She began reading aloud. "He was drunk. He was shaking and weak. He spoke in riddles, his voice slurred. He asked me the strangest question...." Scully's voice trailed off. Mulder met her wary gaze. "What is it?" She didn't answer right away. "Read it, Scully." He braced himself mentally--and physically as well, his hands clutching the arms of the chair. She took a breath and began again. "He asked me the strangest question. 'Captain Scully, if your children were in danger and you could only save one, how would you make that choice?'" * * * * * Scully paused, glancing at Mulder. He closed his eyes, as if unable to bear the sight of her pity. "Go on." His voice was raspy, as if he'd swallowed broken glass. She resumed reading. "I was so angry at the question I almost hit him. But then I saw that he was in agony. I had heard that his daughter disappeared when she was a little girl--that must still haunt him. I can't imagine such pain myself--I don't want to imagine it. So I walked away. I suppose I found the answer I sought--Bill Mulder and his son are not threats to my daughter. It was wretchedly obvious that Bill Mulder means nothing to anyone anymore--probably not even his son." "He was wrong," Mulder murmured. "No matter what my father did, no matter how he hurt us and failed us, I loved him anyway. I still wanted his approval and his love. How sick is that?" Scully looked up at him, her heart breaking. "Mulder, he was your father. You loved him because you were his son." She touched his arm. "Sometimes that's all the reason that's necessary--and there's nothing wrong with that." Mulder pulled away from her touch, his movements quick and jerky with anger. "He let me believe that it was MY fault Samantha was taken, Scully. He KNEW why they'd taken her-- for God's sake, he made the choice himself!" He raked his fingers through his hair. "I wish he'd chosen for them to take me instead, Scully. I wish they'd taken me." Scully shook her head violently. "No." "At least I wouldn't have lived the last 25 years with this empty place inside me that nothing else can fill." He shook his head, his anger visibly transforming to bitter sadness. "I've tried to fill it, Scully. I've tried my work, my obsession with finding the truth. I've tried liquor, I've tried sex--" He paused, turning his head slowly to look into her eyes. "When we first started working together, I thought maybe I could fill that place with you. You could take Samantha's place for me. But you're not her." Scully's heart sank into the deepest place inside her. She couldn't bear to look into his eyes and see the sadness and disappointment. "I'm sorry." He reached out and cupped her jaw, forcing her to look up at him. "No, Dana." She blinked, surprised by his unaccustomed use of her first name. "You have your own place inside me that you fill perfectly. I realized that when you were taken from me." He slid his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her to him, his other arm slipping around her shoulders to draw her into a fierce embrace. He brushed his lips against her forehead. "I used to take courage in the fact that you came back to me. I thought maybe someday she would return as well." He sighed, his warm breath stirring her hair. "But that's not going to happen, is it?" She tightened her arms around his waist, wanting to give him hope, to offer something to ease the soul-deep ache she felt from him with the empathy of a long-time companion. But more than compassion, Mulder valued honesty. And the truth was, there was little reason to hope for Samantha's return. Mulder released her. "You really do put up with a lot of crap from me, Scully. I don't say thank you enough." "Cuts both ways, Mulder," she assured him with a smile. "So--what now?" "Well, we've cleared your father--that's one thing off our minds." She glanced at him, warmed by his obvious relief. She wished she could find a way to at least partially redeem his own father in his eyes. For all the damning evidence to the contrary, Scully had a gut feeling that somewhere before the end, Bill Mulder had tried to make amends for his earlier sins. Maybe it was as simple as the confession he'd been trying to make to his son right before he'd been shot. The night of Bill Mulder's murder, when Mulder had been so out of his head from the drugs in his water, he'd told Scully all he could remember from his meeting with his father. The details were blurred by the drugs, but she'd gleaned enough to realize that Bill Mulder had been trying to tell his son all the dirty secrets he had to hide. He'd wanted to do the right thing in the end. That had to count for something. "There's still the question of Melissa, though." Her stomach lurched and fell. "We have to be misinterpreting those papers, Mulder. I can't believe my sister could have been missing for two days without my hearing something about it. Even at nine, I would've known something was going on." "What else could those papers be, Scully?" "I don't know." She crossed to the file cabinet and rested her hand on the drawer marked "1970-1980." The brass handle beneath her fingers was cold and smooth. "There has to be another explanation." "That's what we're looking for, Scully. An explanation." She looked up at him, searching his face. Is that really what you're seeking? she wondered, studying the eager glint in his eyes, the taut anticipation that corded every muscle in his body. Or are you looking for evidence to prove your own theories about what happened to your sister? Are you looking for proof that my sister was an abductee? She looked away, sudden anger firing through her. Damn him, she thought. Damn his obsessions and his single-minded pursuit of his narrow version of the truth. Sometimes she wondered what would happen if they discovered proof that her own missing time was a result of extraterrestrial experimentation, as she knew he'd theorized. Would he be thrilled? Elated? Would he rejoice at the final, unalterable proof of his theory, even if it meant that something unspeakably foul had been perpetrated against her? Would he sacrifice her for his own truth? In the throes of her anger, she remembered a dark night and a moonlit bridge outside Bethesda, Maryland, when Fox Mulder traded a woman he believed to be his sister for Scully's safety. She knew he'd hedged his bets, taken every precaution to ensure that neither of them were hurt, but the bottom line was, he'd risked the goal of his quest for her. And deep in her heart, beneath her questions and fears, she knew he'd do it again. She tugged on the file cabinet drawer. It opened with a low, metallic groan. She looked through the neatly filed journals, noting the dates written in bold black strokes on the narrow spines of the books. She found the book labeled "October 1972 - September 1973" and withdrew it from the drawer. As she opened it near the back, she felt Mulder come up behind her, his body heat seeping through the layers of linen, cotton and silk she wore. She closed her eyes for a second, taking strength from his nearness. Then she looked down at the open journal. She flipped forward to August 18 and glanced over her father's entry for that day. "He was at sea then," she murmured, noting the litany of daily duties and amusing shipboard anecdotes her father had recorded. She slowly flipped forward a few pages, scanning the pages for any mention of Melissa. Still nothing--no mention of any of his children, except a brief statement about calling them all as soon as the sub was allowed out from under radio silence. "Nothing?" Mulder asked, his voice tight with disappointment. Scully shook her head, turning to look at him. "Nothing." "Then we have to ask your mother." "Ask me what?" Scully's heart lurched at the sound of her mother's voice. She had been so intently searching her father's journal that she hadn't heard the front door open or her mother's approach. She pressed her palm against her chest. "You scared the life out of me!" Margaret looked from Scully to Mulder, her eyes wary. "What do you want to ask me, Fox?" Scully put her hand on Mulder's elbow and squeezed, hoping he'd get the message. If he did, he ignored it. "Mrs. Scully, in August of 1973, was Melissa missing for any period of time?" Her mother's eyes widened. "Yes. How did you know?" Scully's heart dropped. "She was? When?" Margaret walked deeper into the room. "Like Fox said, it was August. Middle of the month, I think--I don't remember exactly. Melissa was at summer camp just outside Bristol, Virginia--Our Lady of Mercy. It's a Catholic girls' camp." "I don't remember anything like that," Scully protested. "You weren't there, honey. That was the summer you went to Maine for the Young Scientists Camp. Remember--you won first prize at the commencement fair." She nodded, the memory teasing her mind. "But how--what--?" She didn't know what question to ask. "What happened, Mrs. Scully? How long was Melissa missing?" "Only a day and a half. She went off in the woods by herself and got lost. When they found her two days after, she was fine. Tired and a little scraped up, but fine. She said she went looking for trilliums in the woods and got distracted by a family of rabbits playing tag in the underbrush. She followed them and lost track of where she was. The more she wandered, the more lost she became." That sounded like Melissa, Scully thought. Never had a great sense of direction--and so easily distracted. She couldn't squelch a sad smile. "So that was it? She got lost, and then she was found?" Margaret nodded. "I didn't even think about it after it was over. I didn't mention it to your father until weeks later, when he managed a trip home." "What about Bill and Charlie? They never said anything." Margaret frowned slightly, arching one eyebrow at Scully. Scully blushed, realizing her questions had sounded like a cross-examination. "Bill was at boy's camp, and Charlie was only four--I doubt he even knew what was happening." "What about Melissa?" Mulder asked. "What did she remember about the incident? Did she experience any missing time?" Scully and Margaret both turned their heads toward him, and he flinched slightly under the dual onslaught of their gazes. Scully added a hint of warning to her gaze, hoping he'd realize the wisdom of allowing her to ask the questions. But, as happened far too often, Mulder ignored her. "Did she have a span of time she couldn't account for, Mrs. Scully? Did she tell you a story about where she'd been and how she'd passed her time that seemed implausible?" "Mulder--" Scully began. Her mother cut her off with an upraised hand. Slowly, she approached Mulder, her chin held high. "Fox, what are you suggesting?" Mulder stared back at Scully's mother, his face flushed but his jaw resolutely set. "Did she have missing time, Mrs. Scully?" Scully swallowed with difficulty, trapped between her mother's anger and her partner's stubborn defiance. She had never seen Mulder and her mother at odds this way; it felt wrong, she realized with surprise. "Mulder, I think we should go--" "She was eleven years old, Fox. She couldn't account for every second she was missing, but I'm not sure an adult could have done so." "Did she tell you she was in the woods the whole time? Or did she say that she'd found shelter of some sort? Maybe an abandoned cabin or a hidden cave?" Margaret's eyes widened, and Scully's protest died in her throat. "Yes," Margaret said. "Melissa said she found a shack in the woods where she spent the night." "But no one in the area knew of any such place, right?" Margaret nodded slowly. "How did you know?" Mulder looked down at his shoes. "Abductees often return with 'cover stories' that fill in their missing time. The 'cabin in the woods' is a common story--researchers theorize that perhaps it's a post-hypnotic suggestion." "What are you trying to tell me, Fox--that my daughter was abducted by aliens?" Margaret's question reverberated in the ensuing silence. Tension roiled, thick and hot, between the three of them. Scully didn't know what to think, how to feel. Anger was inescapable, but so was fear. So was dread. "After Melissa's--experience--in 1973, did she ever display any strange behavior? More occurrences of missing time? Episodes of sleepwalking or sleep paralysis?" "Sleep paralysis?" Scully looked at her mother, her stomach sinking. "Did Melissa suffer sleep paralysis?" Mulder persisted. Margaret nodded. "It terrified her. She'd be drifting to sleep and suddenly feel as if she were paralyzed. She told me she could hear people talking, but she couldn't respond. She couldn't move. She felt as if something huge and heavy was sitting on her chest, sucking her breath from her lungs. It terrified her." Scully realized she remembered this. She remembered Melissa's nightmares, her cries and her terror of going to sleep. Her parents had thought it was a pre-adolescent phase, and within a year the incidents of night terrors had subsided. But after that, Melissa had been--different. Quieter. More inward, more contemplative. That had been the beginning of her interest in New Age spiritualism. Once, not long before Melissa left home for what had turned out to be years of estrangement, Scully had asked her sister why she'd turned to crystals and chakras for enlightenment. At the time, she'd found her sister's answer typically vague. "It's the only thing that allows me a sense of peace." "Sleep paralysis and sleepwalking are textbook manifestations of post-abduction trauma," Mulder said, his words tinted with a hint of excitement. Scully's anger tripled and she turned on him, planting herself firmly between him and her mother. "There ARE no textbooks on the subject of alien abduction, Mulder, because there are NO substantiated reports of any such phenomenon!" He glared at her, his expression flitting between anger and pity. "Scully, something happened to Melissa in 1973. Something that changed her life. Something that had to do with my father and his work--" "Your father?" Margaret interrupted. Mulder and Scully both turned to look at her. Mulder shifted next to Scully, his arm brushing against hers. She could feel the tension vibrating through his body. "My father took part in a conspiracy to obtain tissue samples from every person who was ever innoculated with the smallpox vaccine." Margaret's brow creased. "To what end?" "We don't know," Scully interjected before Mulder could frighten her mother further. "We have no evidence of ANY sort suggesting the purpose of the tests." "How do you know about this?" Margaret asked. "Is this something you found out over the weekend?" Mulder shook his head. "Right before Melissa died, Scully and I discovered a mine in West Virginia that housed a massive filing system of medical records. My sister's file was there. So was Scully's." "Dana's?" Margaret looked at Scully. Scully squeezed her mother's arm reassuringly. "All we know is that the files contained medical data. It may be nothing." "We were unable to secure the files at the time, and our subsequent visit to the site revealed that the files had been either removed or destroyed," Mulder added. "But it's not out of the question that there was a similar file for Melissa." "And this 'missing time' you're asking me about--you believe that someone took my daughter and performed some kind of...tests...on her?" "We don't know anything, Mom," Scully insisted before Mulder could speak. "Mulder is only speculating." She turned to her partner, pinning him with a furious glare. "We have the answer we came for. I think you should be going now." Mulder's eyes darkened and his lips pressed into a thin line. "Come to dinner tonight?" Margaret asked. Scully turned to look at her. "Of course." "Actually, Dana, I was asking Fox. But you know you're always welcome, too." Scully looked at her mother, surprised. She should be angry at Mulder, not asking him to dinner. But her mother's expression was placid, even affectionate, as she met Mulder's questioning gaze. "You'll come to dinner tonight, won't you, Fox?" Margaret asked. Mulder glanced at Scully. She closed her eyes and gave a slight nod. "Okay, Mrs. Scully. I'll be here." Margaret tucked her arm through Scully's as she walked them to the door. "You'll come too, Dana?" Scully nodded. "Wouldn't miss it." Margaret gave Scully a kiss before she left. She reached out and squeezed Mulder's hand as well--once again reassuring him that all was forgiven, Scully recognized. Her mother's capacity for unconditional love was astounding. "Thank you, Mrs. Scully, for all your help. I know that answering my questions was difficult." "If I remember anything else, I'll let you know," she assured him. "See you both around six-thirty?" Scully nodded and bent in for another hug before her mother closed the door behind them. She walked a half-step ahead of Mulder, silent until they reached the car. Then she whirled and grabbed the front of his shirt. "What the HELL did you think you were doing?" * * * * * Mulder looked down at the small, strong hand clutching the front of his shirt. "I was asking your mother questions about your sister's mysterious disappearance in 1973. Isn't that part of the reason we came here?" "You implied to my mother that my dead sister was an alien abductee, Mulder! No subtlety, no sensitivity--" "I asked her reasonable questions, Scully. She didn't seem to resent them, so why do you?" Scully's cheeks reddened with anger. "There is NO proof that Melissa was abducted by aliens or even humans, Mulder. Her name on a list doesn't prove anything." "Not yet." Her lips tightened with impatience. "You had no right." "No right to what? Ask your mother about Melissa's disappearance? Or no right to question YOUR rigid view of the world?" "Rigid?" She pressed her curled fist against his chest and pushed herself away from him, letting go of his shirt. "I'd say YOU'RE the rigid one, Mulder. You're so damned rigid you won't consider ANY possibility that doesn't include aliens or monster. Have you ever stopped to consider that Melissa may simply have wandered off into the woods and gotten lost, just like she told my mother?" "Have you ever stopped to consider that the reason you fight me about this subject is because you're SCARED SHITLESS?" Mulder grabbed her shoulders. "I know you're afraid of what happened to you. I'm afraid, too, Scully. I am. But is it really easier to live in fear and doubt than to face the truth about what happened to you? Wouldn't it be better to know the truth than to wonder about it for the rest of your life?" She shrugged his hands away from her shoulders, turning her back to him. When she spoke, her voice was low and slightly unsteady. "I know what happened to me. I saw the boxcar where I was held. I remember Ishimaru and the other doctors. I remember a probe in my gut...my stomach distended. The only information I'm missing is the why...and whether or not I can expect to die of an 'undiagnosed cancer' like the women in Allentown expect to." He closed his eyes, leaning against the car. God, he didn't know what he wanted to believe. Would it really be easier to believe that HUMANS had taken her? That they had put that implant in the back of her neck, that they had done God only knows what kind of tests on her? Would that be easier than believing that other-worldly creatures had perpetrated those crimes against her? He opened his eyes. She still stood a few feet away, her back to him. She looked so small, so damned fragile. Deceptively so, he knew--she was the strongest person he had ever known. But a long time ago, someone had reminded him that despite her strength, she was still human. Flesh and bone. She still bled and she still cried. He took a deep breath before he spoke. "Scully, those papers in my father's file must mean something or they wouldn't be there." She turned slowly, her eyes blazing at him with barely checked anger. "So why don't you go back over those files and see what you can uncover?" "What about you?" "I have a lead I'd like to follow." "What?" She shook her head, looking away. "I'm not sure. I'll tell you more when I know more." She was being deliberately vague, purposefully keeping him at a distance. Now his own anger began to roil inside him. She always accused him of going off on his own, never heeding her words, but she had a nasty habit of going off on her own as well. It wasn't a physical act--her escape was to a hidden place behind a wall of ice. She froze people out, making sure that they couldn't get close enough to hurth her. She even did it to him. Sometimes ESPECIALLY to him. "Don't shut me out, Scully." Her head snapped up and she arched one eyebrow at him, reminding him of the irony of his words. He sighed and looked away, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He'd slept less last night than usual, and the result was the beginnings of screaming headache. He sighed deeply. "I don't like not knowing where you are, Scully." She made a low, dry sound that might have been a laugh. Not that she was smiling when he turned to look at her. Her expression was a mixture of anger and resignation. "So...so...so what?" He threw up his hands, angered by her stony silence. "This is payback?" "You said it. I didn't." "Oh, you said it, all right," he muttered. "I'm sorry, Mulder, but I'm tired." She passed a hand over her eyes. "Of me?" She looked up at him, her expression sad. "Sometimes." Jaw clenched, he looked down at the cracked sidewalk under his feet. Guess I asked for that, he thought. "Why do you even bother to hang around?" "Because I don't trust you to take care of yourself," she answered. He looked up to see if she was joking, but her expression was deadly serious. She DIDN'T trust him to take care of himself. And he could hardly blame her--his track record in the self-preservation department was horrendous. Scully had seen him in action too damned many times. "I don't want you to feel responsible for me, Scully." "Too late." She shrugged. "I imagine you put up with my 'rigid views' for much the same reason." Not true, he thought. I stick with you because you keep me honest. You make me look before I leap--at least, most of the time. And because you're the most amazing person I've ever known. Why couldn't he say those things to her aloud? Because he was afraid of what it might reveal about his feelings for her? Hell, three days ago, he'd been set to pursue an honest-to-God relationship with Dana Scully and now he couldn't even find the guts to tell her that she was his best friend? Talk about scared shitless.... Scully released a soft sigh. "I'm going to talk to a hypnotherapist that Melissa knew. IF, as you suggested to Mom, Melissa was having episodes of sleepwalking or memory loss, I believe she might have talked to Dr. Pomerantz about it. So I want to see what he might be able to tell me." His eyes widened with surprise. "A hypnotherapist?" She looked uncomfortable. "Melissa didn't have the same doubts about the reliability of hypnosis as a therapy tool that I have." "Think she might have undergone regression hypnotherapy?" "If she thought there were things about her past that she couldn't remember, I KNOW she would." Scully's gaze shifted slightly, as if she were watching a scene happening somewhere a million miles away. "And I'm sure she'd have gone to Dr. Pomerantz." She focused on him again, her face losing that soft, far away expression. "You go see if you can figure out what those lists your father compiled for you really mean. See if any other names are recognizable or if you can discern a pattern of any sort. You're good at that." He accepted her gentle words as the peace offering they were. "Okay. I'll call a cab. You take the car." He held out his hand to give her the car keys. Her fingers closed around his hand briefly as she refused the keys. Her lips curved slightly. "I wrecked the car; I'll call the cab." He met her gaze and nodded slightly, as if to reassure her that they were really okay. Her eyes softened with a sort of affectionate resignation. "I'm going to see if Mom has a copy of both of our birth certificates. I think I'd rather approach Dr. Pomerantz as Missy's sister rather than as an FBI agent." He nodded again. "Good idea." "I'll call you as soon as I finish with Dr. Pomerantz. See if you've had any luck." She stepped back as he opened the car door. He slid behind the wheel and looked up at her. She gave a little wave and turned back toward the house. He watched her go, waiting until she was knocking on the door before he slipped the car into gear and drove away. * * * * * J.Edgar Hoover FBI Building SciCrime Division 11:13 a.m. Alan Pendrell tried not to squirm under the intense gaze of Special Agent Fox Mulder. It wouldn't do to let the older agent know that he was feeling distinctly intimidated. Let that happen and he could kiss his dream of being a field agent goodbye. "Well, I think you're probably right about the notations on this list. Definitely looks like a record of physical and psychological testing." He swiveled his chair and tried not to flinch as he realized how close Mulder was standing. The lean, dark-haired agent had a habit of invading people's personal space-- particularly that of his partner, Dana Scully. Pendrell had heard all the scuttlebutt about "Spooky and the Ice Queen." He hated both terms--Mulder might be unorthodox, but Pendrell knew that the guy was brilliant. In his ongoing effort to work his way up to field status, Pendrell had made a point to learn all he could about what it took to be a great agent. And all that he'd discovered had led him to the unshakable belief that Fox Mulder was a top notch investigator--one of the absolute best. As for Agent Scully--he'd never found her to be cold. She was a dedicated, single-minded investigator in her own right, but she wasn't a bitch about it. She worked hard and expected hard work from others, but she was quick with praise and gratitude. And when that woman smiled...God. "Is there any way to run these names through the FBI database, see if we can gather enough data to come up with some sort of commonality?" Mulder interrupted Pendrell's thoughts. "Maybe a pattern will emerge, explaining why these particular people were abducted." Mulder's words sent a little shiver down Pendrell's spine. He knew, of course, about Agent Mulder's more unusual views on the question of extraterrestrial life. Knowing what he did about some of the cases Mulder and Scully had investigated, Pendrell could understand why Mulder's view on paranormal phenomena was a bit more inclusive than the standard view. Of course, he himself tended to side with Agent Scully on the matter. Surprise, surprise. He hid a self-deprecating smile. "Running all those names through the records search program could take several hours." "Any way to trim that time?" Mulder's voice was tight with impatience. "Possibly." He could probably tweak the program a bit, cut out the dreck. He met Mulder's fierce gaze, his expression a bit wry. "Do you trust me enough to let me use the disk itself? Having the names already typed in will speed things up considerably." "I made a copy just for you. But I'm trusting you, Pendrell--NOBODY sees this disk but you, and you take it with you EVERYWHERE you go. Deal?" He tried not to betray his surprise--or his wariness. "Deal." Mulder handed over a blue plastic floppy disk. It was unmarked except for a small "x" written in pencil in the upper right corner of the disk. "See what you can come up with, Pendrell. I need printouts of everything." Pendrell held back a frown of frustration. The way Mulder talked, you'd think he believed that what he was asking was no more difficult than tying one's shoes. But far be it from HIM to complain. Whining wouldn't get him that bump up the ladder he wanted so much. "You've got it," he promised Mulder. Mulder nodded, sparing a brief half-smile. "I'll be in touch." He turned and left the SciCrime lab. "So what did Agent Mulder want?" Annelle Hollis rolled her chair closer, her dark eyes sparkling with curiosity. Pendrell glanced at the dark-haired fingerprint technician, surreptitiously pocketing the disk Mulder had given him. "Just some names he wants run through the computer." "Too bad Scully wasn't with him, huh, Alan?" She winked at him. He blushed and looked at his computer, where brightly colored piranhas devoured each other on his screen saver. "Bite me, Annelle." "Aw, come on, Alan. I was just teasing." Annelle reached out and squeezed his arm. Her grip was strong and warm, forcing him to look up at her. "I'm sure if she wasn't already so nuts about her partner, she'd be nuts about you." "That's just the rumor mill, you know," Pendrell pointed out. "I don't think there's really anything going on between them." Annelle chuckled. "You are SO into denial. I'm not saying they're actually together--just that they both wish they were." Pendrell absently fingered the disk in his pocket, remembering Mulder's territorial posture the night before, when Alan had forgotten himself and touched Dana Scully's chin. Definite alpha male vibes happening there, he had to admit. "Tell you what, Alan--why don't I take you to lunch, let you drown your sorrows in a big old sloppy cheeseburger?" Annelle arched her eyebrows at him, her cheeks dimpling with a gentle smile. "My treat." Her grin was infectious, pushing away his momentary depression. "Wish I could, Nelle. But looks like it's going to be a busy day for me." "Well, how about I pick up something for you while I'm out?" She rolled back to her cubicle to fetch her purse, then returned, pausing behind his chair to ruffle his hair. "A growing boy like you needs his nourishment." He made a face at her. "Just for that, throw in something for dessert." Annelle chuckled, bending close to whisper in his ear. "Dana Scully's a fool, Alan. You're definitely the catch of the day." She squeezed his shoulder, then turned and left the lab. A bemused smile still curving his lips, he withdrew the disk from his pocket and inserted it into his floppy drive. With a soft sigh he shifted in his chair, seeking a more comfortable position as he accessed the record search database. It was going to be a long day. * * * * * HealthServices Building Silver Spring, MD 12:28 p.m. Dr. Mark Pomerantz's name was no longer on the door of the office, Scully noted with surprise. Instead, the placard read, "Dr. Lucinda Brown. Psychotherapy and Hypnosis." She frowned, considering her options. Obviously Pomerantz had moved his office elsewhere. She could check the yellow pages, she supposed. She really should have done so before she came here in the first place. Of course, it was possible Dr. Brown knew where Dr. Pomerantz had relocated. It was worth asking. And if she didn't know, Scully could borrow the yellow pages and look up his new address herself. She pushed open the door. Behind the tall reception desk, a slim brunette was engrossed in a book. Scully glanced at the title on the spine. 'SOUL OVERMANNED': QUEER SUBTEXT IN 'MOBY DICK' She arched one eyebrow. The receptionist caught her expression and made a face. "Grad school," she murmured, as if that explained everything. Scully looked at the engraved placard on the desk. "Ms. Hewick, my name is Dana Scully. Is Dr. Brown with a patient?" "Do you have an appointment?" Barbara Hewick asked. "No, but I'm not here as a patient. I'm trying to locate Dr. Mark Pomerantz." Barbara's expression changed subtly, her eyes darkening. "I see." She reached for the phone and pressed a button near the bottom. A soft beeping sound ensued, followed by a crackle of static. A distorted voice filtered through the speaker. "Yes?" "Dr. Brown, a Ms. Scully is here trying to locate Dr. Pomerantz." There was a thick pause. Then Dr. Brown said, "I'll be right there." Seconds later, the inner door of the office opened, and a petite, pretty blonde emerged, her slim hand outstretched toward Scully. She was immaculately dressed, every stitch of clothing perfectly color-coordinated. Intellect blazed from her cornflower blue eyes. "Ms. Scully, I'm Lucinda Brown." "Nice to meet you." Scully shook her hand, hiding her impatience with the niceties. "As Ms. Hewick mentioned, I'm trying to get in touch with Dr. Mark Pomerantz." "Were you a patient of Dr. Pomerantz?" Dr. Brown asked. "No." Not beyond that one time right after she'd returned from New Mexico thinking that Mulder was dead. "But I think my sister may have been a patient, and I need to ask Dr. Pomerantz some questions." "I'm afraid that will be impossible." Dr. Brown's voice softened, saddened. "Dr. Pomerantz died almost three years ago." * * * * * J. Edgar Hoover FBI Headquarters February 16, 1998 12:29 p.m. Fox Mulder flipped through the printouts of his father's file, wishing he could glean some clue, some truth that would answer all the lingering questions about five decades of secrets. So many lives touched, twisted, destroyed--and for what? For what? He let the pages flutter to the desk top and leaned forward, pulling off his glasses and pressing the heels of his hands to his burning eyes. For him, the questions were distilled to two: What had happened to his sister--and what had they done to Scully? Scully's tight, angry words haunted him. "The only information I'm missing is the why...and whether or not I can expect to die of an 'undiagnosed cancer' like the women in Allentown expect to." He wasn't sure he even believed in a benevolent God who listened to the self-serving prayers of humankind, but he lifted a silent prayer anyway, just in case. Because he couldn't keep going without Scully. It just wasn't possible. Maybe if he'd never met her--maybe then. Maybe he could've kept on the way he had been, in self-imposed exile. But not now. Was that REALLY why they'd sent her to him in the first place? he wondered. To remind him what it was like to have someone--only to rip her from him in the end? Had they known that she would become as essential to him as air? A soft tap on the door startled him. He sat up, blinking to clear his vision. "Yeah?" "I've got some information for you, Agent Mulder." Pendrell's voice was muffled by the closed door. "It's unlocked," Mulder called. He put his glasses back on and straightened the papers in front of him, stacking them to his right. Pendrell entered bearing a thick sheaf of papers. "These are the FBI records on the names listed from 1969 through 1975. There are a lot more to come, but I thought you'd want the first batch." He put the papers on Mulder's desk. "Say, Agent Mulder--have you had lunch?" Mulder arched one eyebrow, surprised by the question. "Not yet." "I suspected as much." Pendrell reached into his lab coat pocket and withdrew a brown bag. His expression was slightly apologetic as he dropped the bag on Mulder's desk. "I should warn you--it's a veggie burger. Agent Hollis thinks it's her duty to watch my cholesterol level." Mulder grinned at the younger agent. Pendrell blushed a little but smiled back. "Women," Pendrell added with a shrug. "She promised me a big sloppy cheeseburger and came back with that." "Hey, Pendrell--you know when they start watching your fat intake, it's a sign of affection." Mulder unwrapped the sandwich and gave a wary sniff. It smelled okay. "I've heard these things are pretty good." "I'm sure they are, but I grew up in Oklahoma. Beef country. Eating a veggie burger is against my religion." Pendrell's half-grin widened. "Well, I'm off to run another batch of record checks. I hope you find something in those files." He headed for the door. "Thanks, Pendrell." Pendrell gave a little goodbye wave and closed the door behind him. Mulder took a bite of the veggie burger and picked up the first page of dossiers. The sandwich had an unusual but not unpleasant taste. He wished he could say the same of the dossier---it was as bland as cardboard and about half as informative. He finished the sandwich in five uncaring bites as he scanned through the FBI records, trying to discern some sort of pattern, some link between the people listed on his father's disk. Two patterns became evident about halfway through the stack. About a third of the people listed either now belonged or had once belonged to some sort of UFO organization. And fully 1/4th of the people on the list were now deceased. * * * * * Dr. Lucinda Brown's Office 12:45 p.m. Scully stared at Dr. Brown, surprised by her words. Dr. Mark Pomerantz had died three years ago? "But I met Dr. Pomerantz myself just three years ago." "It must have been shortly before his death." "How did he die?" "The police seem to think that Dr. Pomerantz walked in on someone trying to steal drugs. He was shot to death and the office was ransacked. The burglar must not have realized that psychologist can't prescribe meds." Dr. Brown shrugged. His office was ransacked? An odd feeling swept over Scully, a strange certainty that led her to a leap worthy of Fox Mulder. "Do you remember when he died? The date?" Dr. Brown's eyebrows quirked slightly. "April of 1995. Late in the month--maybe the twentieth or after? I know it was after the tax deadline, because when I took over his practice right after his death, I was relieved to know I wouldn't have to deal with the IRS right away." April of 1995. Right after her own hypnotherapy session. About the time that Melissa had taken the bullet meant for Dana. Scully's lips trembled open. "I want to see the files on my sister." Dr. Brown looked at her with surprise. "Patient records are confidential, Agent Scully." "My sister died around the same time Dr. Pomerantz died. But some recent information has called into question her mental state at the time of her death, and I need to know if something in her patient records can shed light on my sister's life." Scully pulled Melissa's birth and death certificates from her coat pocket, as well as her own birth certificate. She handed them to Dr. Brown. "I don't know what the proper procedure would be, but there is the proof you need to see that I am who I am and I'm telling you the truth." Dr. Brown looked over the papers. "What do you expect to find in your sister's records, Ms. Scully?" Scully nibbled her lower lip, wondering how to answer. What DID she expect to find, evidence of Mulder's theory--that her sister had been an alien abductee? Or proof that he was wrong? She glanced at the doctor, who was awaiting her answer, an expectant expression on her pretty face. Scully took a deep breath and forged ahead. "Dr. Brown, what is your opinion about alien abduction memories?" * * * * * FBI Headquarters 4:29 p.m. Pendrell brought the last of the printouts to Mulder's office around 4:00 that afternoon. He'd offered to stay and help Mulder sift through the information, and Mulder had surprised himself by agreeing. Usually he didn't like sharing an office with anyone but Scully, but to Pendrell's credit, the techie was being quiet and industrious as he flipped through the printouts, looking for the details Mulder had instructed him to seek--vitals like age, sex, race and place of birth, plus membership in UFO organizations. Pendrell was noting such information with singleminded concentration, the tip of his pen scratching lightly across the surface of his notepad. Pendrell finished his stack around 5:15; Mulder finished his about five minutes later. He looked across the room at the techie. "Well?" "Seventy percent female. Current ages ranging from 19 to 49, with approximately 40% between the ages of 30 and 40. Crossreferencing with the dates listed on the original file, most people were...." Pendrell stumbled in the midst of his recitation, apparently seeking the right word. "Abducted?" Mulder supplied. Pendrell reddened. "Examined," he substituted, "between the ages of 10 and 25. Seventy-five percent underwent only standard physical exams, assuming that's what SPE stands for, and RFLP testing. Twenty-five percent underwent Genetic Material Extraction and what we presume to be psychological profiles." Pendrell's numbers were jibing with Mulder's own tabulations. "What about the other factors?" "Approximately 80% caucasion, 15% African-American and 5% other." "An equal opportunity abductor," Mulder murmured. "Right in line with the U.S. population." "Thirty percent of the people on this list either currently belong to a UFO group or did at one time. Of those, 70% belong to MUFON, 20% to NICAP and 10% to various others." Mulder nodded. That wasn't very surprising, either. MUFON was the most accessible of the groups, with a very supportive membership. "And approximately 26% of the people listed on your father's disk are now deceased. Of those, 60% died of various forms of rare cancers, 30% died in accidents, and 10% were victims of either suicide or homicide." Pendrell put down his notebook and looked up at Mulder. "Those percentages are alarming for people in this age group." Mulder nodded, tapping his pencil against his chin. Scully's words still ran through his head, "...whether or not I can expect to die of an 'undiagnosed cancer'...." He closed his eyes, not wanting to think about it. Scully had undergone a battery of tests to ease her mind, Benton Crane had told him. Everything had come up negative. Surely by now she would had developed symptoms if there was anything to worry about. "Agent Mulder?" Mulder looked up, realizing that Pendrell had been calling his name for several seconds. "Yeah?" "Does this have anything to do with what happened to Agent Scully?" Mulder passed his hand over his mouth and chin, wondering how to answer. "Not that we're aware of." Pendrell didn't look relieved. "What else can I help you with, Agent Mulder?" Mulder smiled at his earnestness. Pendrell was obviously bucking for a promotion. Too bad he'd chosen to suck up to the Bureau pariah instead of someone who could REALLY help him out. Still, he supposed, he could drop a hint or two to Skinner. Probably wouldn't hurt Pendrell's chances. "Nah, Pendrell--you've gone above and beyond today. I owe you." Pendrell looked ridiculously pleased. "Any time, Agent Mulder." From his lab coat pocket he pulled the blue disk Mulder had given him that morning. "Here--thought you'd want to keep this with you." He put it on Mulder's desk and headed for the door. Mulder picked up the disk, impressed with the techie's discretion. Pendrell might just do. "Thanks, Alan. I'll let you know if there's anything else you can do to help us out." Pendrell turned in the doorway, grinning. "You do that, Mulder." He closed the door behind him. Mulder sat back in his desk chair, rocking it precariously backwards as he turned the disk in his hands, staring at it as if it could somehow reveal all the secrets of the universe. For all the interesting statistical information the lists had provided, there were still more questions than answers. Why had these people been chosen for these tests? Why were some given different tests from others? And why had so many of them ended up dead? He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, willing away the tension headache creeping up his shoulders and neck. He reached for the phone and dialled Scully's cell phone number. He'd given her the space he'd sensed she wanted but now he needed to hear her voice. "Scully." She sounded tense. "Hi, it's me." "Hi." Her voice softened slightly. "I can't talk right this minute Mulder, but I have something to tell you when I see you." "Same here. Do you need me to pick you up somewhere?" "No, I'll catch a cab to Mom's. I'll see you there, okay?" "Okay." He hung up the phone and started gathering the papers he and Pendrell had just spent the afternoon sifting through. He put them in a cardboard box and locked them securely in the office safe he and Scully had purchased with their own funds just over a year ago. Only he and she had the combination. Then he grabbed his coat and headed for Margaret Scully's. * * * * * Margaret Scully's house Feb. 16, 1998 6:45 p.m. Dana paused on the front stoop, gathering her thoughts before she knocked on the door. But while she was waiting, the door opened and her mother greeted her with a smile. "Hi, honey. Let me take your coat." Scully shrugged off her overcoat and followed her mother into the living room. Mulder was sitting on the sofa, glass of tea on a coaster in front of him. He'd stripped off his jacket and tie, and the sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows. He stood as she entered, a courtly gesture that she found endearing in Mulder, though irritating in almost any other man. "Can I get you some tea?" She arched her eyebrows, unable to hold back a smile. She knew that he and her mother had grown to be close friends over the past couple of years, but she'd always been careful not to intrude on that relationship. It was between Mulder and her mother, and she respected their privacy. Still, it was decidedly odd to have her partner playing host in her own mother's house. "I think I know where the tea is, Mulder. But thank you." She put out her hand, her fingertips brushing across his arm as she passed him, a gesture of reconciliation. She didn't like it when they fought, and considering what she'd found out at Dr. Brown's office today, she might owe him at least a bit of an apology. She poured herself a glass of tea and returned to the living room. Her mother sat in the armchair facing the sofa, leaving Scully to sit next to Mulder. She sensed a bit of matchmaking going on, but she didn't really mind. It wasn't like her mother's wishes were anything new. And it wasn't like the thought hadn't crossed her own mind, especially over the last few days. Besides, what she'd discovered at Dr. Brown's office was a little unnerving. She could use Mulder by her side on this one. She opened up without preamble. "Mulder, Dr. Pomerantz is dead. He was murdered three years ago, only a day or so before Melissa's death. All of his patient records were turned over to a Dr. Lucinda Brown at the time, and Dr. Brown let me look through the records. I found billing statements for Melissa, but her records were missing. I believe that whoever broke into Dr. Pomerantz's office and killed him also took all of Melissa's records and files." Mulder's left eyebrow rose. "And that's not all." Scully reached into the pocket of her suit jacket and withdrew an audiotape. "This is the only thing we were able to find. It's Dr. Pomerantz's notes about a hypnotic regression therapy session. It hadn't yet been transcribed and was found in his pocket, which is why I believe it wasn't taken upon his death as well." "Melissa underwent hypnotic regression therapy?" Mulder's eyes darkened with anticipation. Scully felt the muscles of her stomach knot. She looked from Mulder's expectant expression to her mother's wary gaze. "Probably," she admitted, "but that tape isn't from any of Melissa's sessions with Dr. Pomerantz." "Then...?" Mulder cocked his head. "Mulder...it's from mine." End of #8