Something I wrote during Christmas Vac.  It's rather long and

disgusting and I divided it into sections.  I give it an R for adult

situations involving gore.  And of course, of course, I beg forgiveness

for stealing the characters of the X-files from Ten-Thirteen

productions.



Amp.



THE SACRIFICE - part 2

By Amperage@aol.com

2/1/95



Greer and Mahoney were replaced at lunch with Turner and Keyes,

both of whom looked extremely disappointed to be brought in for the

express purpose of babysitting the pariah.

     Both had been briefed on the case.  "Just don't get in my way."

Mulder said after an uncomfortable meal.  "Don't interfere with our

investigation.  The agency sent you here to keep me from getting

killed.  Not to do my work."  He paced the floor of his hotel room.

"We're going to Lysander, Mississipi today.  Commuter plane from

Baton Rouge to Natchez, then take a car."

     "The place they found the latest body." Keyes said.

     "Actually it was the first murder, but our latest find." Scully

replied.

     "From the kid's notebooks?"

     "Yes."  Mulder did not elaborate.  Scully could see the signs now,

things that pissed most other FBI agents.  He was getting high, that

was all, but he would be terse and sardonic with everyone else in the

Bureau from now until the time he finished this case.  He didn't act

that way with Scully because he knew what side she was on.  He knew

he could trust her.

     Briefly Mulder filled the pair in on his current working theory

about why the murders were occuring.  He expected ridicule and in

most situations would have gotten it.  No doubt when Keyes and

Turner were alone together they would ridicule Mulder and their

reports would echo this, but for right now Mulder was the senior

agent: it was his show.

     "We need to go shopping right now."  He told the pair.  "I don't

have any other clothes."

     Scully silently gave thanks for her mother who had fed-exed her

four more suits, otherwise she would be in Mulder's boat--she had not

planned to be in the field this long.



     "How do you work with him?"  Turner asked as Scully perused the

limited book and magazine selection of the Hilton gift shop.

     "Hmm?"  Scully picked up TIME and Newsweek, Life, Discover

and on impulse the New Orleans Picayune newspaper.  She planned to

take a long soak in a hot tub and read until they went to the airport.

     "I mean, he's so. . .weird."

     Scully smiled as she put her purchases down on the counter, and

added a pack of gum, breath mints and a candy bar to the stack.

"Don't forget I was abducted for a month and have no memory of the

encounter."  She said wickedly.

     "But you don't believe in UFO's or Little Green Men."

     "Who do you think abducted me?  They and secret governmental

forces."  She tried to keep from smiling and did not succeed.

     "Oh, ha-ha."  Turner replied.

     "No, really.  I had an alien baby while I was gone.  It was Elvis's

love child."



     It was funny to read about yourself in the newspaper.  Of course

they never gave any names.  But the story kept coming back to "a pair

of dedicated FBI agents, including the FBI's expert on Satanic rituals,

who found the psychic lead and have identified several locations where

murders have taken place."

     The media would get their names eventually.  Scully could just see

a movie about their `quest to find the horrific Coven Murderes'.

Maybe they would get Jody Foster to play her.  She sank down into

the steamy water and let it immerse her to the very tip

of her nose.  She would never get a life at this rate.

     She sat back up, embarrassed at her thoughts, then shrugged. At

some point you had to stop thinking of everything seriously. Just for a

while.  Otherwise, one day, they found you with the back of your

head blown out.



     Lysander wasn't a bad little town.  They were used to nice little

towns.  Except they got to see the bad things, the bottoms where the

worms and bugs hid.   When they drove up the church was empty.

No reporters, no parishoners.  The minister let them in and

Scully got rid of their two bodyguards by foisting the minister off on

them.  Mulder went into the auditorium and sat in the back.

     "It all started here."  He said softly as Scully sat beside him.

     Scully nodded.  Mulder pulled out Scully's copy of Meredith's

notes.  They were minus some notations of course, but still useful.

     "A murder.  I sat in the back.  They put down plastic, like painters

use.  They had a boy tied to a table.  The man cut him. There was

blood everywhere.  In Preacher's church.  There are long stained glass

windows of Jesus dying.  The organ has pipes.  The carpet is dark blue.

The pews are light.  The piano is a white baby grand.  The leader told

them what to do.  He sat two rows ahead.  He looked at me.  He did

not say anything to me."

     Mulder sighed, wrapped his arms around his chest.  "They know."

     "Know what?"

     "They know Meredith is there.  They know she's watching.  They

want her to watch.  Or he does at any rate."

     "Their leader?"

     "Yes."  Mulder hit the pew with an open palm.  "Why are they

keeping me alive?  I'm getting too close."  He put his fingertips to his

mouth, thinking.  "They know that tossing blood in my face, trashing

my hotel room, they know that those things won't scare me,

won't dissuade me.  It's. . ."  He groped for a word.  "It's just a

smoke screen."

     "For what?"  Scully asked.

     Mulder shook his head.  "I don't know.  I don't know."



     Mulder was moody and withdrawn the rest of the day.  He didn't

order any supper, only drank coffee.  They all had seperate rooms.

Scully had to wait until eleven to slip over to Mulder's room.  She felt

vaguely embarressed, sitting on Mulder's bed, flipping through

the television channels, waiting for him to come out of the bathroom.

     When he did emerge he was draped only in a towel.  Scully didn't

know what brought on the foul mood, but ignored him until he had put

on a pair of boxers and spoke to her.

     "I'll be all right tonight."  He said.

     Scully snorted in disbelief.  "You'll all right yourself into a psych

ward."  She replied.

     "I'm not going to bed tonight anyway."

     "So you're going to obsess about why you haven't been killed?"

Scully stopped herself suddenly. She was getting catty.  Just because

Mulder was argumentative that was no reason for her to arch her back

and hiss.   She took a deep breath.  "There's nothing new

in this case for you to read up on or write a field report over."

     "I know why now."

     "Yes, but at this point anyone reading that report would dismiss

your thinking as paranoid and unfounded because you've been

threatened recently.  I know you're dedicated to the truth, but at this

point, you shouldn't do anything to jeopordize your standing on this

case."

     "I still have to do the profile of the coven and the leader." Mulder

shrugged.  "I might as well get it over with."

     Scully sighed.  "If you decided to kick back and watch t.v. or if

you get stumped you'll come to my room and wake me."  It was not a

plea.  It was a demand.  Mulder nodded.

     "As long as you'll give up your powerbook."

     "Sure."  Scully led him out.



     . . .The leader of this "coven" is a white male, between the ages of

30-50.  His I.Q. is at least above the third Standard Deviation.  He has,

at minumum ,a master's degree from a prominent university.  I suspect

multiple degrees.  The main focus of his training has been philosophic

or theologic. . .

     . . .It is obvious that this person possesses a good deal of money.

I doubt this fortune was amassed by the indivdual, nor is he of the

"nouveau riche" class.  He is comfortable with his wealth and not

given to excesses of taste.

     He is also a neat individual and a compulsive planner.  The

churches have all been chosen with regards to location, ease of

entrance, and possibility of being seen, as well as speed in returning

all church furniture to exact original placement: for this reason he

favors evangelical churches.  Every detail has been taken care of.  . .

     . . .He is a charasmatic individual and has no history of psychiatric

difficulty nor has he ever been accused of breaking a law. . .

     . . .The "coven" under their leader's tuteledge will consist mainly

of caucasians.  They will possess either a minimal or no religous

background and training. Several may be avowed athesits.  Ages will

vary, and members will be both male and female.

     I.Q.'s will fall somewhere in the upper 2nd Standard Deviation. For

the most part they will have some college, a few completing a B.A.

degree at a local university or college.   The coven members will not

have accomplished as much as they believed they were capable of

before "working" for their leader.

     They are not anti-social in any way, but have instead been carefully

trained and desensitized.  Their thinking will be highly similar to that

of the German guards who served in death camps. . .

     . . .They are well-paid and comfortable with the amount of money

they make.  They know enough of their leader's plan to make

competent self-justifications for their work possible but do not know

all the details, nor will they question his leadership. . .

     . . .None will have a criminal or psychiatric record and will have

been judged by their families, past friends, and past co-workers as

well-adjusted people. . .



     Mulder was sending his profile over the phone line when Scully

came over, ready for another day of life on the road.  He looked up at

her from the door, went for his watch.  "Damn.  I got to working."

He said, racing to a Goudcheaux's hang-up bag for a new suit.

"Profile's done."  He told her, getting a towel.

     Scully nodded, sitting down on the couch, in front of her

computer.  "Good morning to you too."  She said under her breath,

waiting for her chance to read his analysis.

     "You don't mention occult powers or Meredith Aimes."  She

commented when he emerged from the bathroom, buttoning his shirt.

     "That's not part of a profile."  Mulder replied.  "It's in my field

reports."

     Scully nodded.  "You don't give any clues about how to catch

them either."

     "Well."  Mulder tucked his shirt in, buttoned the top button of his

pants, sat beside her on the couch to put his shoes and socks on.  "I

can't very well tell them how to catch the murderers when I don't

know that myself, now can I?"

     Scully peered at Mulder through her reading glasses.  "You don't

know?"

     Mulder focused on tying his shoes.

     "You have an idea."  Scully sighed with exasperation.  "What's

going on in your skull, Mulder?"

     Mulder looked up at a non-descript pastel print hanging on the wall

above his bed.  "I think it's time to head back to Washington.  We

won't learn anything new from chasing around to new sites.  And as

much as I hate to say it, we can't do anything else for another week

and a half.  Do you know where Meredith is?"

     "They're putting them up in Lafayette."

     Mulder nodded.  "I need to talk to her, but not for another couple

of days."

     "Why?"

     Mulder rubbed his face.  "I think that if Meredith tells the the

leader something--if she makes a demand--he'll have to give an

answer."

     Scully nodded.

     "Also, I need to get back."  He smiled crookedly.

     "What are you going to do?"

     "I don't know.  What should I do?  I have to go to an FBI

psychiatrist, not a private shrink, because. . .well, as much as I hate to

admit it, this relates directly to my performance.  I think we need to

rehearse our stories, minimize the damage to our service records."

     Scully nodded.

     "Tell them that you had no reason to worry until this trip.  Then

you argued with me, thinking it would be much more theraputic for

me to go voluntarily.  Also you were blinded by your devotion to

justice.  You knew I was the best agent for the job. Now

clinically the syndrome I'm suffering from is closer to Night Terrors

than nightmares."

     "I know that, but sufferers usually have no cognition of any

dreams.  Later on, you do remember your dreams."  Scully replied.

     Mulder grimmaced and shrugged.  "Atypical pattern, obviously not

Sleep terrors.  We've been calling them nightmares." He closed his

eyes and rubbed them tiredly.  "All right you discovered my dreams

were causing such distress *on this trip*." He emphasized.

"No evidence before that." Mulder shifted on the couch.  "My butt

and my shoulder are still sore, by the way."

     Scully smiled.  "What are you going to tell them?"

     "I'm having nightmares.  When I wake I experience intense,

extended flashbacks."

     Scully nodded.  "What do you think they'll do?"

     "Skinner will call us into his office and act terribly worried.  He'll

rant and rave about Agent safety and tell you that you acted

irresponsibility but that he understands how you got carried away and

he's letting you off with an informal warning--nothing in your jacket.

In normal times he'd make me take an extended psychiatric leave and

my career-what's left of it--would effectively be over."

     "But now?"

     "He needs me too much."  Mulder stood, went for a tie.  "He'll

tell me I have to attend mandatory therapy and take my medication like

a good little nutcase.  If they want to hospitalize, he'll make them wait

to make that recomendation until after I've outlived my usefulness on

this case."

     "If you get better?"

     "Then I'll have a notation about being in therapy."  Mulder

shrugged.  "So?  I have three such notations already.  Some people

consider it part of the `Spooky' Mystique."

     "I'll make the call for you."  Scully said.  "I can get you in to see

Stephanie Richards."

     "You know her?"

     "Vaguely.  I carpooled with her to a symposium once."



     The next morning in DC they met with the other agents assigned to

the case.  Everyone had read Mulder's profile, everyone agreed it was

impressive.  There were no snide comments about "Spooky" Mulder.

     ". . .But we still don't have a motive strong enough to fit your

profile, even accepting all these New-Age Ideas."  Agent Barnes,

who'd made the first connection between a murder and a church,

spoke up.

     Mulder nodded.  "I don't know."  He replied.  "As my profile and

field reports state, this man is not your usual nut-variety Satanist.  If

he does consider himself a Satanist--which I doubt highly--he won't

even have read books such as the Satanic Bible."  Mulder rubbed the

back of his neck. "He's more versed in Cabbalistic theories, in

Medival Alchemy, the worship of Bahomet and other dieties secretly

worshipped by Europeans in the middle ages.  Hell, he could even

have knowledge of Eastern black magic stories and AmerInd sorcery.

And what he knows he won't follow, not in such an easy straight line

that we'll be able to pick it up. So I don't know.  His thinking is his

own."

     "But the killings in the churches are highly symbolic in a traditional

way."

     "Are they?"  Mulder yawned.  "If you accept that he has some sort

of control over Meredith, then he kills in churches because Meredith

associates Churches with power.  She's a minister's daughter and the

Church is the holy place--especially a Baptist church or some close

variant, which is where most of the murders have taken place.   If she

were a druid's daughter he'd kill out in the woods.  If she'd been

taught to worship Coca-Cola, then the murders would take place in

bottling plants.  Besides, the church is where she was taught by

Preacher."

     "Is there anyway that we can figure out this man's thinking any

better?"  This from Task Force leader Aarons.

     Mulder shrugged.  "If I had gotten a PhD in Comparative Religon

as well as my PhD in Psychology, we *might* be able to find part of

his pattern of thinking.  You could run a detailed description of the

slayings, along with photos and diagrams of locations to someone

whose lifework has been Medival Mysticism. There are several good

people in Italy.  If that's even where he's gotten his ideas about power

from. If it isn't, you could send your materials to whomever's tops on

Black Magic in Non-traditional American Folklore and see.  It's really

a stab in the dark.  I'm guessing Mediveal mysticism, because of what

I know of his heritage and because of the secondary evidence.

     "Look, as I've said before.  We're not dealing with a mainstream

nut."  Mulder closed his eyes. "This man has too much education and

is too intelligent.  His experiences are from vicarious sources--books,

manuscripts--his behavior patterns are not easily revealed."

     "So there's no way to know?  I find that hard to believe."

     "You mentioned secondary evidence as your best idea that he is at

least partially following European tradition."

     Mulder paused, let the first question drop, addressed the second

speaker.  "The sacrifice of taking a heart from a still living victim can

be traced to almost any culture.  But the number of initiates indicates

European origins."  He wondered if these people had brains.  They'd

completely missed Meredith.  Any high school kid could tell you about

the number required for a coven. He was conscious of Scully beside

him, willing him to act decently.  He wasn't the wunderkind anymore.

He had to play nice.  Yeah, right.   "Besides, the spot is a rather sick

joke."  He smiled, striving for a light touch.

     Their blank faces annoyed him.  "If your brand of religon has a

Communion table read the titling on the table next time you're at

worship and the minister's getting boring."  He said.  "`This do in

Rembrance of Me'."





     Richards nodded as Scully finished her description of Mulder's

behavior.  Scully did not mention the incident in the bathroom.

Richards's face had creased in worry the further Scully went into her

description.

     Richards was an older woman.  Rumor had it that she had been a

housewife until 38 when her doctor husband dumped her for a twenty

something nurse with big tits.  Usually Richards did not look as

though her life had been anything but happy, but right now

Scully could see the lines from sadness.  Familiar lines, accustomed to

appearing on her face.

     "When did this start?"  Richards asked Mulder.

     "I don't . . .Maybe two months ago."

     "You weren't worried?"

     "I've been living with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder all my adult

life.  Some times are better than others."

     Richards nodded, closed her eyes, and massaged the bridge of her

nose before speaking.  "Has Agent Mulder ever tried to harm himself?"

She asked Scully.

     "No.  Not to my knowledge."

     "Is he able to care for himself at other times?"

     "Yes.  There's no question of that."

     "What about his moods, is he acting normally?  Is he excessively

moody?"

     "Mulder is always moody on a case.  I don't know."

     Richards took a deep breath, exhaled.  "Let's lay our cards on the

table."  She said.  "Clinically, I'm keeping the diagnosis of PTSD as

the primary diagnosis.  I'm adding a diagnosis of My gut instinct is

hospitalization, but I have been told that is not an option unless you

are, in fact, hurting yourself or completely unable to care for yourself-

-guidelines for immediate involuntary in other words."

     "My choices are limited. You need to talk to someone, probably

two times a week minimum.  I'll get that set up, but you're still jetting

around the country, so you'll have a hard time seeing a therapist."

She took a deep breath.  "And as for drugs. I don't know."  She

looked at Scully directly.  "What good does that Ativan seem to do?"

     "It makes it easier for Mulder to sleep.  But other than that, I don't

know."

     "My first thought was Imiprimine, because that seems to reduce

panic attacks during sleep, and has been recognized as having

beneficial effects on persons with PTSD, but I don't think it will help a

great deal, not if the dreams are as bad as you say, and also the time it

takes for the drug to be effective isn't. . .well, it takes longer than I

can afford, what with your superiors breathing down my neck."

     "Listen, what if I continue to moniter his behavior?"  Scully cut in.

     "It's not your purview.  I can't ask you to. . ."

     "You're not asking me.  I've been taking care of Mulder for seven

days now.  What if we start on imipramine combined with injections

of Nembutal when nessessary after psychotic dreaming episodes?  He

can sleep on my couch, where he slept last night.  I know that in

clinical studies the MAO inhibitors and tricylics have taken around

eight weeks to show significant effect, but at least it might help

eventually, and isn't that what we're really after, bosses or no bosses?"

     Richards's next question was unexpected.  "Agent Scully, are you

having sex with your partner?"

     "No."  Scully replied, tired of the assumption that caring for a

person of the opposite sex meant that intercourse must be taking place.

There were many partnerships in the FBI that involved a man and a

woman.  Was theirs the only one where she had to combat a

constant assumption that they were involved sexually, breaking a huge

taboo?  No one assumed two male partners were having sex, even if

they didn't have steady girlfriends or didn't go tomcatting around.

     Richards stared at Scully a moment.  "All right.  Along with

intensive therapy.  Since Dr. Scully's willing to live with you and deal

with your terrors."



     Skinner behaved on cue.  He ranted and raved, expressed

disappointment, and showed sympathy.  He did not take Mulder off

the case.  No disciplinary action or reprimand was given.  As long as

Mulder followed the recommendation of his primary therapist he

would be given leeway.

     "How are you planning to catch them?"  Skinner asked, having

dispensed with the meat of their conference.

     "Sir?"  Mulder questioned, giving Skinner a wide-eyed look.

     Skinner took off his glasses and stared at Mulder.  "I know you

have an idea.  You always have an idea.  That's why people are scared

of you, Agent Mulder."

     Mulder considered playing dumb, glanced at Scully and decided

against it.  "Meredith Aimes is going to make them tell her."

     "Your psychic?"  Skinner replied.

     "Yes sir."



     Scully moaned in ecstasy as she took her first bite of deep dish

supreme gourmet pizza from Tony's.  Mulder grinned at her reaction.

     "The last time I had pizza. . ." Scully defended herself when she

could talk "was two months ago and it was horrible.  Now shut up or

I'll sedate you."

     "I didn't say anything."  Mulder protested, taking a sip of diet

coke, wishing for beer--Scully's veto, even though a "moderate"

amount of alcohol is "permissable" for someone on tricylics.

     Scully decided to ignore her partner and concentrate on the pizza.

The last time she'd indulged, she'd rented *Gaslight* and ordered

pizza, planning to have a cozy evening at home, but the pizza could

have been put to better use as a manhole cover and *Gaslight* had

broken just as Ingrid Bergman was about to discover that her husband

was trying to drive her crazy.  Scully remembered the next morning

Mulder had drug in looking miserable.

     She looked up from the pizza suddenly.  Ingrid Bergman's

husband had tried to drive her crazy.  Two months ago Mulder's

dreams had started.

     "When was the first corpse found?"  She asked.

     Mulder stared at her, puzzled.  "About eight months ago, why?"

     "Nothing."  Something important had happened in the case two

months ago.  What was it?  "When did they connect the deaths

together?"

     "About two months ago, when the third body was found."

     "When did your . . .problems start?"

     Mulder stopped eating and stared at his partner across the

polyurethened table of the Pizzeria.  "You're not suggesting. . ." he

trailed.

     Scully wiped her fingers on the generous red napkin in her lap and

considered.  "I don't know."  She said.  "Could be a coincidence."

     "If I had gone in for therapy before being assigned to this case. . ."

Mulder paused.  "I'm known for my work dealing with Satanic Cult

slayings."

     Scully took a sip of her own diet coke.  Now that she had

suggested the link, she wished she hadn't.  She stared hard at the

pizza, suddenly not hungry.

     "I was doing fine."  Mulder told himself.  "No major problems.

Not like when. . ."

     "When what?"  Scully asked.

     "Nothing."  Mulder looked up, drawn from his musing.

     "Like when I was abducted?"

     "Yes."  Mulder admitted easily.  "I didn't sleep then."

     "Did you wake up from your dreams psychotic?"

     "No.  Crying, my stomach knotted into cramps, in a cold sweat,

but not psychotic."  Mulder pushed his slice of pizza away, fingered

the cut on his forehead.  "Do you have bad dreams, Scully?"

     "You know I do."

     Mulder nodded as if this confirmed something.  "Do you ever

dream about what they did to you?"

     "No."

     "I don't dream about what happened to me at Ellens Air Force

Base either.  Except sometimes I dream about this white light and

running from red lights."  Mulder stared at his partner.

     "What are the dreams about?"  Scully asked very softly.

     Mulder looked away, towards a family: Mother, Father, a school

age child and a baby.  The father was dishing up pizza, the mother

dealing with the baby.  They looked happy.  He looked back at Scully.

"About people disappearing."  He replied.  "I . . .I . . .I think men

like Deep Throat and Cancer Man and Mr. X, they were all like you

and me once.  Dedicated to the truth.  And then the search killed

something or someone and it made them the way they are.  I can't

become like them, Scully.  I thought I could, but I can't."

     Scully digested this in silence.  "I'm not hungry."  She said. "Let's

just go."

     They got a box of leftovers and paid.  Scully drove home.

     "If I died, what would you have done?" She asked half-way to her

apartment.

     "I don't know."  He sighed.  "Yes I do.  I would have tried to go

on.  I would have done my best."

     "Mom says you were going to make her your next of kin.  What

were you scared of?  Waking up one day and rolling over and deciding

there is no Truth?"

     Mulder stared straight ahead and said nothing.

     "Is Samantha out there or not?"  Scully asked very softly.

     Mulder clenched his eyes shut very tightly.  He did not want to cry

in front of her.

     Scully let him be.



     She knew he cried in the shower, long painful sobs that drug their

way on barbed spurs through his lungs and esophagus, clogged up his

nose so that he couldn't breath.  She'd cried like that before.  After

her father died, after Jack died.

     She gave him the imiprimine when he got out, watched as he took

it, then sat with him in front of the television set.  Scully popped in an

Indiana Jones movie and they watched without speaking, Mulder

curled up under a quilt Scully's grandmother had made. He was quiet,

but otherwise all right.



     "How do you feel?"  Scully swept the used needle, the alcohol pad

into her trash can as Mulder sat up the next morning.

     He shrugged.

     Scully had done what was, at this point, routine for them both.

He'd woken with his sobs, she'd administered Nembutal.

     "I want to go see Meredith as soon as we can."

     Scully nodded.  This was expected.  She'd wondered how long

they'd have in Washington before Mulder wanted to go to Lafayette.

"All right."  She replied.



      Meredith had a new Barbie house, Barbie pool and Barbie ice

cream shop.  "The agents bring her something new every day."  Ellen

explained, leading Mulder and Scully through the small house.  They

were 18 miles outside Lafayette, in the country.  "Trying to win her

trust I guess.  I'm sorry about your things."

     Mulder smiled.  "The Agency's pretty good about reimbursing for

that sort of thing."

     "Still."  She pointed down a hallway.  "Meredith is in the room at

the end.  I suppose Agent Scully and I should go sit and have coffee."



     Meredith was sitting on the floor in front of a television set,

watching cartoons.  She did not acknowledge Mulder, who took a

chair behind her.

     "Agent Scully is giving you drugs."  She said after a few minutes

of silence, still facing the television.

     "Yes."

     "Sometimes she does it like you do with a little kid.  In your

bottom."

     "She doesn't have much choice."

     Meredith nodded, but did not turn to face him.  "I like talking to

you.  I don't have to lie.  When I grow up, I think I won't be as able

to read."

     "I don't know."

     "I won't.  I learned to do it because I had to.  Because I was going

to go crazy if I didn't.  But as I grow older I won't need it."  She

swivelled around, finally facing Mulder.  "I can't see most people.

Preacher because I needed to.  Why can I see you?"

     "I don't know."  Mulder swallowed.

     "I can see your dreams.  I saw them before I met you, but I didn't

know they were you.  I didn't know until I tried to call you."

     "Why didn't you mention it last time we saw you?"

     Meredith shrugged.  "I didn't. . .it isn't nice to listen in."

     Mulder sighed, thought a moment.  "My dreams started right after

the bodies were connected to the churches."  He told her.

     Meredith thought about this.  "Your dreams aren't real."

     "No."

     "You don't know what's real after you have them."

     "No."

     "My dreams aren't dreams are they?  They're something else."

     "Yes.  It's called OBE.  Out of Body Experience. Yours is

probably the best substantiated case I've ever studied."

     "Oh."  Meredith thought about this.

     "I think that you aren't there just because they picked Preacher's

church as their first.  I think they picked that church to start because

they knew you were having OBE's in it.  Preacher is the ghost of your

father's best friend."  Mulder paused, thought about what he was

going to say next.  The truth?  Which truth?  What part of it?

     "Somehow, the leader knew about you.  About your power.  He's

calling you to the churches, making you watch because you are his

thirteenth."

     "On purpose."

     "Yes.  He wants you to watch.  I think he may be using you."

     "He's making you have your dreams.  That's why I can see them."

     "I think so."

     Meredith was silent a long time.  She reached for the remote,

turned off the VCR and TV.  "What can I do?"

     "Well, I think if you decide to, you can make him talk to you."

     Meredith nodded.  "Like I did to you."

     Mulder touched his cut self-consciously.  "Yes.  Exactly."

     "Oh.  Why?"

     "He's using your powers, your. . .ability. I think that he may have

to do things.  He's nothing but a thief and he knows it.  Now, most

theological people who believe in the devil say that if you tell the devil

to go away he has to.  I don't think our leader will stop killing

children because you tell him you won't let him steal from you

anymore.  But I do think that if you demand he tell you where the

next victim will be he will tell you."

     "The devil is the father of all lies." Meredith replied, proving she

was her father's daughter.

     "That's true.  But he wants to keep you.  He wants your power."

     "He can't read my mind."  Meredith said suddenly, looking aslant

at Mulder.  "I know he can't read me."

     "So you have to act really coy.  Do you know what coy means?"

     "Mhm.  Daddy says that just because you know you have clean

underwear on it doesn't mean you have show everyone you meet your

drawers."

     "Exactly."  Mulder smiled at this description.

     Meredith nodded.  "Listen, I want to talk just for a minute."

     "All right."

     Meredith looked at her Keds, then at Mulder.  "You're not bad

because your sister disappeared.  You're not bad because Agent Scully

disappeared.  I know you think it's all your fault.  But it wasn't.  It

never was.  You just tried to do what was right.  You loved your

sister.  You did everything you could.  You love Agent Scully.  You

did everything you could."  Meredith sighed.

     "I can hear your parents yelling at you.  It's so loud."  She

winced.  "But they were wrong.  It wasn't your fault.  Never was."

She stopped herself, bit a lip.  "I don't know what to tell you. But you

need to talk to the shrink.  You have to talk.  I don't know how I

know that, but I do.  Because someday, maybe she will die."

     Mulder stared silently at Meredith until Scully came into the room

and found them locked in their reveries.



     She waited until they were back in the Hilton, with its view of the

Vermillion river.  "What was going on between you and Meredith?"

She asked, taking off her jacket.

     "Nothing."  Mulder smiled easily.

     "Don't give me that."

     Mulder's response was to take off his tie and shirt and wander into

the bathroom.  Scully sighed and went through the door to her own

room.



     "I'm going jogging."  Mulder stood in her doorway, looking

unseasonably comfortable in a cut-off sweatshirt and grungy shorts,

and old black baseball cap turned backwards on his head.  Scully

surveyed him skeptically.

     "Want to come?"

     "No.  Thanks.  It's after 11.  I'm just winding down with my

laptop."  She smiled.  "Do you ever jog any other time than the middle

of the night?"

     "Yes.  Fairly often too."

     "Mhm."  Scully leaned against the door.  "This is how rumours of

mental instability get started."

     "Very cute."

     "When will you be back?"

     "I don't know. . ." He checked his watch.  "Maybe an hour."

     "Well, don't stop by when you come in.  Just open the connecting

door."

     "Yes ma'am."  Mulder saluted and jogged down the hall.



     Scully's travel clock had to be wrong.  She woke, sat up.  It was 2

something.  Mulder would have woken her opening the door when he

came in.  She glanced through the shadows.  The door was shut.

Damn him.  Men.  With a groan Scully got up, wondering if it would

be childish to tell on her partner to Dr. Richards.  She opened the

door, looked in.

     And was suddenly wide awake.



     Her first phone call, made with her stomach doing flip-flops, was

all she needed to make.  They kept her on hold an interminadble

amount of time checking her credentials.  Then came back on line. "A

man answering your partner's description was taken to Charity

around one." A new voice informed her.

     "What?  What are you talking about?  He went out for a jog."

     "He was seen in the parking lot of a local bar. . .um. . .two patrol

officers were called in.  Subject was hallucinating and psychotic, they

called for back-up and an ambulance.  He kept talking about the devil

coming down in human form and saying he would follow the devil to

hell in the church. . .  The paramedics determined he was not under

the influence of any hallucinogenic drugs and took him to the Charity

Hospital."

     "How did they determine that?  Did they do a blood work-up on

the spot?  Did they do a gas spectography right there in the parking

lot?"  Scully asked, indignant.

     "Ma'am.  I'm sorry.  I'm just reading the report."

     Scully calmed herself.  "Look, officer, can you tell me where the

Hospital is located?"

     He did so.  Scully forced herself to write the directions down.

"All right.  Can you call them and tell them I'm coming? I'm Agent

Mulder's listed next of kin.  They have to let me in to see him, so

make sure they're ready for me."

     "They're just the night ward. . .I don't know. . ."

     "Fine.  Then I'll argue them down when I get there."  Scully hung

up the phone, pulled on her blue jeans and a shirt, rammed her feet

into jogging shoes without worrying about socks, got her purse.  Ran

back in the room for her gun, shoved it underneath her

oversized plaid button down.



     Scully managed to argue her way through the building, using a

combination of threats and her badge, to the doctor on call.  "You

have Fox Mulder."  She told him, cutting through any preambles.

"And I am listed as his next of kin.  I want to see him."

     The doctor tried for the rational approach.  "Agent Scully, your

friend is still in isolation.  We've given him some drugs and he really

doesn't feel like. . ."

     "Drugs?  What drugs have you given him?"  Scully stared hard at

the short, rabbity man in front of her.

     "Just some drugs to calm him down, control the agitated thinking."

     "What?  Antipsychotics or Sedatives?  What?"

     "Your friend is suffering from some form of psychoses.  We gave

him. . ."

     "What?"

     The doctor held up his hands.  "We gave him some Haldol."

     "How many milligrams?"

     "12."

     "Twelve?"  Scully stared at the man, stunned.  "You gave him 12

milligrams of Haldol?"

     "Agent Scully, he was violently psychotic.  I felt it would be best

to calm him down."

     "Calm him down?  That much Haldol will probably make him

catatonic."  Scully stared at the man with distaste.  "Did you take any

blood?"

     "Blood?  No.  Why?"

     "Because,"  Scully took a deep breath.  "My partner has been

attacked in the past four days by people trying to intimidate him into

dropping a case.  A case which requires special expertise very few

people have, but which my partner is very skilled in."

     "Three days ago, in DeMarr, his hotel room was trashed.  The

perpetrators used urine, blood, and feces to do their work.  It is not

unreasonable of me to assume that he was given some sort of drug in a

continuing effort to induce him to drop this case."

     "Now look."  Scully stared at the man.  "I am getting very agitated

and I pack a gun.  A very large gun.  I want to see my partner.  I

don't care if he's upset, I don't care if he's violent. I want to see my

partner.  Now."



     He was curled under a blanket.  The restraints had been taken off,

but still hung from the metal railing around his bed.  An aide sat with

him, stroking his hair.

     "Hi."  Scully took the aide's seat, watching as the rather ponderous

black woman moved back, into the doorway of the tiny room.

     Mulder stared at her; he was awake, just barely.

     Scully put a hand to his face.  "Do you know who you are?" She

was carefully slow.

     He closed his eyes, licked his lips.  "Hi.  Scully."  He said softly.

     "Did some one give you something?"  She asked.

     Mulder closed his eyes.

     "Mulder.  I need to know.  I know you're confused.  I know.  I

know everything seems scary." A pause.  "I know it's hard to talk.

They gave you some drugs to try and make things less scary, but the

drugs are really heavy, so it's hard to think." Another pause.  "I need

to know this."  Scully finished, wondering if he understood.  The

amount of Haldol they'd seen fit to pump into Mulder was obscene.

     Mulder stared at her thickly.  "Meredith."  He managed.

     Scully sighed.

     "Meredith."  Mulder repeated in a whisper.  "OBE."  His eyes

drifted.

     Scully leaned back, leaving one hand on his arm, thought about

this.  "Is Meredith trying to contact the leader?"  She asked.

     Mulder's eyes were on a far point.  Scully snapped her fingers.

"Come on.  Mulder.  Come on.  Is Meredith talking to the leader?"

     Mulder tried to focus.  Found he couldn't.  Blinked.  Blinked

again.  "Scared.  Flying Lights."  He said softly, closed his eyes

again.

     "All right.  I'm going to take some blood."  She might as well

have been talking to a brick wall; Mulder's powers of concentration

had been taxed past the limit allowed him in this state.

     "It took six men to move him."  The aide told Scully as Scully

cleaned her partner's arm.  Scully thought about Mulder's last words.

"Did he mention anything in particular?  Repeat anything?" Scully

asked.

     "He kept screaming about seeing a UFO and about the army."

     "A military UFO?"  Scully asked, peering at the woman.  "Did he

mention Budahauss or Ellens Air Force base?"

     The woman thought as Scully filled three vials with blood.

     "Yeah.  He kept saying Budahauss.  I thought he was talking about

that religon.  And Ellens.  I remember that girl's name.  And another

girl's name.  I remember this one because I got a little godchild named

it.  Aurora."

     "What did he say?"  Scully pulled the needle of out Mulder's arm,

applied pressure to stop the bleeding.  "What can you remember him

saying?"

     "I don't know. . .somethin' about a hangar.  And a ambulance. A

triangle in a hanger.  People givin' him shots and tyin' 'im down."

     Scully stared at Mulder, stared at the vials.  If he had been given

something she wanted to take it, screw the cost to her career, screw 

being tossed into the violent ward of a psych hospital.  If it brought

back all the memories it was worth anything.



     "I think Agent Mulder was given something."  Scully explained

over a hospital phone to a cranky, sleepy Assistant Director Skinner

"I don't know what, but something. . .No.  They gave him more

Haldol than is indicated and didn't take blood.  He's still there.  In the

morning I'll take custody and. . .They're saying what?  No, I did not

threaten anyone. If anyone's got a right to be upset it's me. . .don't

tell me to calm down, I am calm. . .they're the ones who have

acted. . .all right, but he's my partner.  You know  it's our

responsibility to cover each other's butts. . ."

     Scully stood, paced the tiny, generic office.". . .I got several

samples of blood.  I don't know if we'll get much of anything useable,

but it's worth a shot.  No.  I think I need to stay on this case.  I

know Agent Mulder was the primary agent, but I'm the only person

to whom he confided his theories. . . .Well, we're working with

Meredith Aimes. . .The flashbacks?  No.  I doubt it.  What does

Richards say?  . . .Well, then trust her."  Scully switched ears on

the reciever.

     ". . .Yes sir, Agents Mahoney and Greer would be great as agents

to help me escort Mulder.  At least Mulder's met them, they won't be

quite as strange. . .if he's not lucid or at least calm, I'll have him

transferred to a private hospital here in Lafayette until he can be

moved. . .I really don't see any options. . .I don't know."  Scully

sighed with frustration.  "All right.  I'll call back around noon

and I'll get in touch with Dr. Richards as well sir."



     Mulder woke around noon, sluggish.  "Hi."  Scully said, gently.

     "Hi."  He replied.  He could focus again, a little.  "Where am I?"

     "Hospital."  Scully told him, not bothering to say more right now.

"Do you remember anything?"

     His eyes clouded with some forgotten pain.  "There were doctors.

Made me forget.  I. . .and then that man with the glasses. . .he was

saying something, but I never found out what. . ."   He trailed, looked

off.  "I'm scared."  His voice was childish with the weight of Haldol.

     Scully sighed.  "I'm here. I got you out of the other time.  I'll get

you out of this.  You just go back to sleep.  All right?"

     Mulder nodded.

     "Okay.  Just close your eyes.  Go back to sleep."  Scully chanted,

hoping he would be okay, hoping he wouldn't be like this when the

Haldol wore off completely.



     "Good evening."  Scully said to her partner, as he woke.  She

lowered the railing on the bed, then handed him a glass of orange

juice, hoped it wasn't too warm.

     "My head feels like. . ."  Mulder moaned, sat up, took the o.j.

     "It should."  Scully told him, getting up from her seat.  Mulder

sipped at the juice, made a face and handed it back.  Scully put it back

on the bedside table.

     "Where am I?"  He asked, groaning.

     "The psych ward of the local charity hospital."

     Mulder pulled his head out of his hands, stared at the walls, at the

aide hovering in a doorway.  "What did they give me?"

     "Enough Haldol to stop a tank."

     "Shit."

     "Succinct and intelligent as usual.  Yep, you're lucid."  Scully

said, crossing her arms.  "What do you remember?"

     Mulder sighed, closed his eyes.  "I remember you coming in.  I

couldn't think.  I remember . . .Meredith."

     "That's what you said last night."

     "Meredith contacted him."

     "Their leader?"  Scully asked concernedly.

     "Yes.  And. . .I don't know. . .I saw it."  Mulder stared at Scully.

"I saw him.  You remember when Meredith called before.  Well, this

time she was. . .terrified."

     "Do you remember anything else?"  Scully asked concernedly.

     Mulder shook his head.  Scully nodded, deciding not to remind

him.

     "Mulder, listen, think back."  Scully interupted the flow of words.

"You went jogging.  You got to Halloran's.  It's a bar. Someone gave

you something or injected something.  A hallocenoginic drug or

something."

     Mulder stared at Scully.  "I saw him."  He repeated in the tone of

voice used to address slow children.  "He saw me.  Meredith tried to

contact the leader."

     "I know that's what it seems like.  But Mulder.  You hallucinated.

You were psychotic and violent.  It took 6 men to wrestle you into

restraints."  Scully took his face in her hands.  "You were given

something.  I don't know what because they pumped you full of

Haldol and didn't take any blood."  She glanced at the orderly and put

her lips to his ear.  "And if you don't stick to that story they won't let

you out of here."

     "Oh."  Mulder nodded slowly.  He agreed to Scully's version of

events until they were in the back of Mahoney's Taurus.

     "I remember his face."  He told Scully, glancing forward at Greer,

smiling.

     Scully stared at Mulder.

     "He saw me."  Mulder finished.  "Meredith called me and I

came."



     Scully told Mulder the plan on the plane, a comfortable two rows

away from Mahoney and Greer.  "Dr. Richards managed to get you a

bed in a hospital in Georgetown."

     "Hospital?  I'm not. . ." Mulder searched for the right word.

     Scully made a motion, to say `wait, let me finish'.  "It's a

completely open ward, no locked doors.  It's the only alternative open.

     "I'm still on the case, and you cannot stay alone.  Even if there

were someone for you to stay with, I don't want you to and neither

does Dr. Richards.  Your dreams are frightening, and worse, they're

very hard to deal with.  Also, for the moment we are assuming

hallucenoginic drugs were involved.  In that case, you need continued

care, at least for a few days."

     "They weren't"  Mulder protested.

     "If they weren't, then you *really* need sheltered care of some

sort, because then you're having psychotic episodes."  Scully leaned

back in her seat.  "Look, this is the best alternative Richards and I

could find.  You're already off this case and have been ordered to take

a leave of absense.  If you refuse admittal, that's your business, but

the FBI will look at that refusal when you want to come back to work.

If you have another episode like this past one you'll be put into a

locked ward and held involuntarily.  That won't look good on your

record."

     Mulder stared at his partner, betrayed.  "You've really thought this

thing through haven't you?"

     "Yes.  I spent most of the morning trying to figure out some way

to keep you out of a hospital.  I even thought about putting you up

with my mom, but Mulder, I don't want to make her have to deal with

any of it."

     "Where is this place anyway?"

     "It's the Cloister."

     Mulder nodded.  "It's very good."

     "It's one of the best.  Your ward is completely open, no locked

doors.  Richards managed to get you in.  You need to thank her

profusely."

     Mulder nodded.  "What happens on the case now?"

     "I'm still on it.  Skinner wants me to pursue everything you were

planning to.  He didn't say, but I think he wants me to run things by

you."

     Mulder nodded.  "You need to see Meredith."

     "All right."

     "No.  You don't get it.  See Meredith as soon as you can.

According to the pattern we have a little less than a week left before

the next child is killed.  Meredith established some kind of link last

night.  She may know the leader's name or where he plans to kill the

next child."

     "You think."  Scully qualified.

     Mulder shrugged.  "See Meredith."

     "All right."



     "Fox Mulder?"  The speaker was a tall, black woman dressed in a

conservative suit.  Mulder stood up, glanced around the overly chic

reception area, then looked back at Scully.

     "Hi."  The woman extended her hand.  "I'm Janice Davis."

     "Hi."

     He was conscious of Scully beside him, standing with her trench

held protectively in front of her body.

     "You must be Dr. Scully."  The woman added, extending a hand

to Scully.

     "I'm your case worker, Fox."

     "Uh."  Mulder didn't think he could handle "Fox" for very long.

"It's Mulder.  Just Mulder."

     The woman frowned and looked at her record.  Mulder wondered

how badly he'd pissed in her Cheerios, but he was not about to be

called Fox.  "All right.  Mulder.  Let's get your bag and go on back."

She led them past a receptionist desk and down a glassed in

breezeway without a further word.

     "The Cafeteria is across the atrium."  She told them, pointing

across a large open area made park-like by a variety of potted trees.

"The Activity center is on the other side.  We have an indoor track--

there's also an indoor pool, but we're having some work done to it."

     Mulder nodded.

     She led them down a third corridor, to a last set of doors and

smiled awkwardly as she pulled out a small card, put it flat against a

reader.  "These things are persnickity."  She explained, watching a red

light.  It turned green and the door clicked, unlatching.  "We'll give

you a card as soon as you're admitted." She finished.  "You have to

slid it in, make sure it's flat and then wait for the green light before

you take it out."



     A low desk seperated the nurses station from a large open area.

Several doors edged the area.  Everything had been decorated in

expensive, careful pastels.  The prints on the wall were French and

American Impressionist.  It strived for a decorator comfortable, but

Mulder noticed that here, as in every other psych hospital ever built,

they were careful about the materials used, about the lights for

example, which were built into the end tables, constructed with

plastic shields so that it took a maintence worker with two different

kinds of screwdrivers to change a light bulb.

     Davis led them into a small, tasteful, office.  There were three

wing chairs and a small desk.  Papers had been opened and spread

across the desk.

     "Dr. Richards has already called and spoken with our Dr.

Simoneaux.  He's agreed to be your psychiatrist here if you don't have

any objections."  Davis told them taking a seat at the desk, turning

sideways to face them both.

     Scully nodded to Mulder.

     "That's fine."

     "All right.  Good.  Have you ever been hospitalized for

psychological problems before?"

     "No."  Mulder said, shifting in his seat.

     "All right.  As I understand it, you've been experiencing

something close to Night Terrors.  Can you describe your behavior?"

     Mulder shook his head, stared at Scully.

     "After the worst dreams Mulder remembers about five minutes of

crying and confusion upon waking."  Scully said.  "But this period is

usually preceded by about 10 or 15 minutes of. . .atavistic behavior

that he doesn't remember.  He eventually becomes aware of his

surroundings."

     "Lucid?"

     Scully hesitated, "he's aware of what's going on and can react to

his enviroment.  But his behavior is not normal."

     "Dr. Richards says you've been helping Mulder through these

periods by giving him injections of Nembutal?"

     "Yes."

     A nod.  "When you say `atavistic'. . .could you explain?"

     "Umm. . .he rocks and sobs; he displays rigidity and complete

unawareness of his enviroment."

     Davis nodded, flipped through a page and made a note.  "If no

medication is administered, he eventually does return to normal

however?"

     "I did before everyone got involved."  Mulder replied.

     Davis looked up at the touch of hostility in his voice.  "And this

has been going on two months, getting progessively worse?"

     "Yes."  Scully replied quickly.

     "Another concern Dr. Richards notes is your lack of sleep.  How

many hours of sleep did you get before these dreams started?"

     "Mulder's always had bad dreams."  Scully interupted.

     "Is that true?"

     "Yes."  Mulder considered his partner, decided to tell the social

worker before she could. "And, it's also true that a few months ago I

was getting two or three hours of sleep maximum."

     "A night?"  Davis blinked.

     "Yes."  Mulder shifted in his chair.  "Dana was. . .abducted. . .

she was thought to be dead. . ."

     "Dana?  That's Dr. Scully?"  Davis asked.

     "Yes."  Scully replied.

     "And I understand you're partners?"

     "Yes."

     Davis put the loose report she was working on away and looked

through several other papers.  "You have Dr. Scully listed as your

next of kin.  And Dr. Richard reports high personal level of

involvement. Also that your dreams center around Dr. Scully's

dissappearance."

     "And the dissappearance of my sister."

     Davis put her finger on a xerox of handwritten notes. "Samantha

Mulder."

     "Yes."

     Davis considered her papers, looked at Mulder and Scully.  "If

Dr. Scully is out of pocket and we need to contact someone, is

there  anyone else?"

     "Margaret Scully."  Mulder replied.

     Davis tapped her pen against the desk.  "What relation is she to

you, Dr. Scully?"

     "My mother."

     "I see."  Davis considered this a long time.  "I'm sorry for being

so intrusive.  It's been a while since I saw a case so classic."

     "Excuse me?"

     "I did my first work in a VA hospital."

     "Oh."  Mulder smiled awkwardly.

     "Who was your listed next of kin before you knew Dana Scully?"

     "Reggie Pardue.  He's dead now."

     "I take it he was another FBI agent."

     "Yes."

     "All right."  Davis flipped back to her original file.  "I note that

you've been in therapy required by the FBI and in voluntary therapy at

various times."

     "Yes."

     "Including regressive hypnotherapy."

     "Yes."

     "To remember your sister's abduction?"

     "Yes."

     A nod.  "All right.  The main focus of your admittal is the incident

which took place last night.  The consensus of your friend, Dr. Scully,

and of Dr. Richards is that you need some sort of sheltered care, at

least until it can be proven that you will not experience any more

psychotic episodes.  Also, according to Dr. Richards, both she and

Dr. Scully feel safer knowing that several people will be able to help

you manage your problems at night.

     "Let's get back to an earlier line of thought.  About your sleep.

How many hours a night?"

     "In normal times. . .I don't know.  5 hours max."

     "Where do you sleep?"  Davis reached into a desk drawer, pulled

out a sheet of lined paper, began to make notes.

     "On my couch, in front of the television set, mostly."

     "How much now?"

     "Three or four hours."

     "So you go into one REM cycle and wake."

     "Yes."

     Davis scratched notes furiously across the paper.  "Do you ever

have periods of depression?"

     "Moodiness maybe."

     "Dr. Richards makes the working diagnosis of Post Traumatic

Stress Disorder.  This is apparently the same diagnosis made by your

other therapists.  You suffer all minimum criteria established to be

classified under this category?"

     "Yes.  Flashbacks, nightmares, exagerated startle response.  I've

had various phobias relating to my sister's abduction and I try to avoid

thinking about it, even though I can't stop."  Mulder paused.  "But by

the same token, I'm drawn into circumstances which show similarities

to the abduction.  I have periods of irritabilty, I have hallucinated my

sister.  Umm. . ."

     "That's enough for me."  Davis held up a hand.  "Have you ever

thought about suicide?"

     "Not seriously."

     "What about now?"

     "No."

     Davis nodded, flipped through several pages of forms.  "All right.

Dr. Richards asked that we authorize you to have your Powerbook and

paperwork.  There's no problem there.  The people on this ward are

all here voluntarily.  None are psychotic or a danger to themselves.

No one on this ward is chemically dependent.  We have two rooms

close to the nurse's station.  We'll give you one of them and put a

moniter in that room.

     "We're very structured here.  It gets pretty busy."  Davis pulled

out a chart.  "This will be your schedule.  Paperwork. . .the patient

phones are turned off at 10.  There are only three phones, local calls

unless you use a calling card.  We don't enforce a bedtime or anything

like that, but the ward lights dim at 11 and the t.v. goes off at 10.

Now, I understand that your normal bedtime is probably what. . .2?"

     "Something around there."  Mulder acknowledged.

     "We'll have to work something out on that score."  Davis slid her

three forms over.  "You need to sign on the lines I've x'd.  The first

form says that you understand and agree to your treatment plan.  The

second says that you are voluntarily entering the hospital."

     Mulder looked at the form.  "I want an informal voluntary

committal form.  Not a formal."  He handed back the form.

     Davis stared at Mulder nonplussed.  "There's really no

difference."

     "Yes.  Yes there is.  The first gives me the right to leave if I feel

like it, as long as I say I'm leaving.  The second makes me wait

twenty-four hours while you marshal forces to keep me here."

     Davis glanced at Scully whose emotionless stare let her know that

Davis would recieve no support on this fight.  She thought a moment.

"All right.  I'll get another form when we're through and we'll use

that one instead."

     Mulder nodded, satisfied.

     "All right. The third form asks for a next of kin and states that you

understand that if we upgrade your treatment plan we will call the

listed person and inform them of this change."

     Mulder signed this without comment.

     "All right."  Davis smiled.

     "When are usual visiting hours?"  Scully asked.

     "Um. . .for this ward?  4-6 on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  If

Mulder asks beforehand he can have visitors at any time.  And as

Mulder's listed next of kin, we'll also arrange for you to see him

whenever you feel nessessary.  Mulder can go off hospital grounds at

any time, however, we insist that he preplan such visits with either his

doctor or with me.  In Mulder's case I'll want someone responsible

with him at all times.

     Scully nodded at this.  Big deal. "I may be forced to call after 10."

     "That's fine.  I'll give you the number of the nurse's desk."



     It was a small room, very dormish in style and appearance, with a

small, open wardrobe, a comfortable chair, a wide desk and a bed.  A

window faced a carefully landscaped courtyard.  Another impressionist

print had been bolted to the wall.  Scully left after getting telephone

numbers. She had a plane to catch.  Back to Dulles to Atlanta to New

Orleans, a commuter plane to Lafayette. Mulder wondered where she

planned to go on her frequent flier miles.



     "Hi."  The voice was masculine.  A tall balding man, in his early

thirties, dressed much younger.

     "Hi."  Mulder finished putting away his jogging shoes.

     "I'm Dr. Tyler Simoneaux.  You must be Fox Mulder."  They

shook hands.

     "I read your work on the Clear Creek slayings."  Simoneaux told

him.  "I did my residency at Willowmarch."

     "Davis and Cohen." Mulder replied.  "Yeah, I used some of their

responses to questioning in the creation of my analysis of the Clear

Creek killer." He thought back.  "How did you get a copy?"

     "It made the rounds among all the residents who ever did a turn up

in the Grey House."  Simoneaux could not contain a shudder.

"Willowmarch is a great place, don't get me wrong, but. . ."

     "The Grey House.  `For 90,000 a year for the rest of his life, your

beloved psychopath can avoid a lengthy trial and possibly the death

sentence.'" Mulder said mockingly.

     "`And keep your name out of the paper.'"  Simoneaux added. "For

that they could double the fee and no one would blink."  He shook his

head.  "Dr. Richards asked me to take your case."

     "I've been told."

     "I know, technically, that you're here for custodial care.  The FBI

is picking up your bill in exchange for baby-sitting services until they

feel confident you won't pull another psychotic episode, scare the

neighbors and the yokels.  But I think we can help you."

     "How?"

     "Look, I know you've been in and out of therapy, probably most

of your life.  Most people with PTSD are.  What are the dreams

about?"

     "My partner dissappeared for over a month.  No word, nothing.

They combed the mountains.  The man who kidnapped her. . .I was

involved in a situation.  The man took me hostage.  He. . .I got him to

trust me and then betrayed him.  He believed he was abducted by

aliens.  He took Scully in hopes they would take her instead of him."

     "What do you think happened to your partner?"

     "There are people in the government who have. . .I've been

involved in cases some people would just as soon forget exist. I've

seen people executed, had my own memory wiped, had files

dissappear, had corpses get up and walk out of morgues.  My division

of work was shut down, Scully and I reassigned.  We continued with

our investigations."  Mulder shrugged.  "And then Scully was gotten

rid of;" pause.  "No one knows where she was or what happened to

her."

     "Including Dr. Scully."

     "No."

     "But you thought she was dead?"

     "There was a stone in the cemetary with her name."  Mulder

considered the nurse's station across the hall.  "I don't know.  I was

still looking.  I dream about that.  About her.  I dream Scully is dead.

And my sister is dead.  And all I'm doing is running in circles."

     "I think maybe you need to talk about that.  About your partner."

     Mulder nodded.  "A friend told me recently that I had to accept

that this is a dangerous business and Scully could die."

     "How close were you to Reggie Pardue?"

     "Not like with Scully.  There's. . .It's been a long time since I

trusted anyone like this."

     "Before you were twelve?"

     "Probably.  I've thought I've been in love.  But I never trusted like

this.  For both of us. . .we can't trust others, not any more.  Can't tell

them what goes on, even if we do care about them."  He smiled.

"Scully's always making comments about how neither one of us has a

life."

     "It sounds like it could be dangerous for anyone to get close."

     "Exactly.  Dangerous for us, dangerous for them."  Mulder

shrugged.  "It's hard when paranoia becomes your only means of

survival."



     It was six thirty when Scully arrived.  Meredith was coloring,

spread across the floor with a big box of crayons.  The kind of box

with the crayon sharpener built in.  Scully sat on the edge of a

recliner, not sure what to say.

     "I hurt Mulder."  Meredith said, pulling up, sitting on her knees.

"I didn't mean to.  I'm so sorry."

     Scully stared at Meredith, not sure what to say.  At this point she

had to put her own thoughts away.  Her own feelings.  She had to

believe.  "Agent Mulder says you contacted him last night."

     "I. . .we talked about it.  He said that they were using my powers.

My powers, not theirs, and that if I wanted answers they would have

to give them.  So I reached out.  I found him, their leader.  I found

out as long as he's on a churchground I can reach him."  Meredith's

eyes' narrowed.  "I can see him and he doesn't have to know I'm

there until I let him know."

     "What did you see?"  Scully asked, mouth dry.

     "I was in a church parking lot.  It was an itty-bitty church, and it

didn't really look like a church, but it was.  It used to be somebody's

house.  But they built a front onto it, an auditorium.  They painted it

white.  He came to make sure everything would be right on the night

they kill the next child.  I walked around.  He didn't know I was

there.  Then I let him know I was there.  And I asked him who he was

and why.  And he came towards me.  He scared me."  Meredith

dropped her face.  "I screamed.  The only person I could think of was

Agent Mulder."  She looked up, crying.  "I saw him."

     "Agent Mulder?"  Scully asked.

     "Mhm. I called him and he came.  He was there.  Their leader saw

him too.  Agent Mulder got really mad at the leader.  He started

screaming something.  I think he wanted the leader to look at him and

not at me.  Like you do with a snake or something. So I

let go."

     "Of Mulder?"

     "Yes.  I woke up."  Meredith tried to stifle her sobs.  "Agent

Mulder was. . .I don't know.  I couldn't talk to him.  He was seeing

things.  There were things. . ." she wiped her eyes, looking throughly

miserable.  "There were people strapping him to a table and there were

UFO's he wasn't supposed to see.  I don't know. . .I couldn't talk to

him.  I tried and tried."

     "He's all right now."  Scully told Meredith.  "He's doing fine.

He's somewhere safe now."

     "A hospital."

     "Yes.  It's really nice.  They'll help him when he has nightmares."

     "Will they make him talk about things?"

     "I don't know.  I hope so."

     "He's scared.  He doesn't want to ever lose you."  Meredith stared

hard at Scully, still crying, but less so now.

     "I know."

     "I know where the church is.  It's the church they're going to

use."

     Scully stared at Meredith, not sure if she should breath. "You

know where?"

     Meredith nodded.  "He doesn't know I know.  He thinks its okay,

because I didn't see enough.  But I saw."

     "What did you see?"  Scully barely breathed.

     "I saw the name.  First Tabernacle Gospel Lighthouse of Faith, it's

on a sign out front.  And I saw an old ticket somebody left in the

parking lot.  It was to a Point of Grace concert last Thursday at

someplace called the Centroplex."

     "Point of Grace?"  Scully asked, mystified.

     "They're a gospel singing group.  They came to DeMarr and

everybody went."

     Scully took a deep breath.  "Point of Grace. Centroplex. Last

Thursday.  First Tabernacle Gospel Lighthouse of Faith."

     "Momma has one of their tapes."  Meredith offered helpfully.

     Scully nodded.



     The ward really wasn't that bad.  15 residents max, 14 current

census.  Mulder thought he would mind the badges, little laminated

things with The Cloister's logo and their name printed in blue.  There

had been one with Fox on it, but Davis had traded it out for

"Mulder," for which he was grateful, but at supper he understood the

reasoning.  The Ward ate together.  A girl name Margot making sure

he took a spot at their table.

     "Self defense, right."  Margot said.  The others nodded.

     Mulder considered the food he'd gotten from the buffet line,

sighed.

     "That's why God made salad bars and frozen yogurt machines."

An older woman, Kim, told Mulder with a grin.  She had nothing but

a salad on her tray.

     "Green ward comes in at the same time we do."  Margot told

Mulder, cutting up her salisbury steak.

     "Technically we're on the same level."

     "But we all have our own keys."  A youngish man with red hair,

Alex by tag.

     "For which we pay through the nose for liability insurance."

     "And they'll put anybody who's not ready for closed ward levels

in Green."  Margot again.

     "What are you here for?"  Kim asked.  "I'm post partums."

     Mulder stirred his zuchini around a moment.  "I have nightmares

and flashbacks. I. . .last night, I had a psychotic episode. . .my

partner thinks I was given some kind of hallucinogen."

     "Partner?  Wife?  Boyfriend?"

     "Partner."  Mulder replied.  "I'm FBI.  They're paying for the

Cloister to babysit me until everyone's sure I won't hare out again."

     Silence descended and everyone looked at everyone else.  Then

green ward came in.



     There was recreation after supper.  The recreation room was large,

multipurpose, with rubbery floors of the sort Mulder had mostly seen

used on volleyball courts.  There was exercise equipment and about an

eighth of a mile indoor track and the "recreational therapist" had an

activity they were supposed to do. But there was also a basketball

goal.  There was a wire hamper full of basketballs.

     "Can I play?"  He asked the rec therapist "intern" a petite creature

who had obviously been a gymnast in another life time.

     She narrowed her eyes, gestured towards the activity.

     "Please?" Mulder was not accostumed to begging.

     She went over to "Bob," the rec therapist, came back.  "No. In the

morning, if you want instead of aerobics."

     "I'd like to jog in the morning.  I try to do four miles a day."

     The intern whistled.  "Yeah sure.  They've got a great track if you

don't mind the boredom.  Listen, I've got a radio we don't use for

morning aerobics. Why don't I leave it out?  It's better than running in

circles listening to yourself."

     Mulder smiled at this description.



     No one pried.  They knew who his doctor was by the coding on

his record book that was kept with the others in a rack behind the

nursing counter.  They played card games and watched television.

Mulder was invited into games of Uno, hearts, and five-card-stud-

for-pennies, but declined all invitations, wandered back to his room.



     "I need Fox Mulder."  She said.  "Yes, I know it's after ten. Yes.

It is an emergency.  No.  I'll wait."

     "Scully?"  It was Mulder, sounding breathless.

     "We know."

     "Know what?  Scully, make sense."

     "Meredith told me where the next murder will take place."  Scully

outlined their conversation.  "Point of Grace was in Amarillo last

Tuesday."

     "And?"

     "We found the church.  It's in Maurice, Texas, about 20 miles

south of Amarillo."

     Mulder leaned against the wall, stretching the phone cord.

     "Skinner wanted to call and congratulate you on cracking the case,

but I think he was scared to."  Scully told him wrily.

     "Finally, a positive side to being here."  Mulder replied.

     "Meredith made me promise to ask your apologies.  She says she

caused what happened to you."

     "Tell her it's all right."

     "I already did."

      Mulder stared at the head nurse who pointed to her watch.

"Listen, I can't stay on.  Where are you?"

     "Lafayette Hilton.  I'm flying to Amarillo tomorrow though.  I'll

call and give you my hotel."

     "Great.  Scully, take care."

     Sitting on her bed, over a burger, blouse hanging out, shoes and

hose strewn about the room, Scully smiled.  "All right.  You too."



     He lay on the floor, cooling off.  A shower would feel good, but

he was too hot for it.  For now, the best thing to do was lay back and

enjoy the high from running.

     "Hi."  A voice announced.  Mulder lifted his head.  Simoneaux.

He put his head back down, took a deep breath and sat up.

     "Hi."  He acknowledged.  Simoneaux took a seat at Mulder's

desk, opened up a file.  "Morning rounds."  He told Mulder, almost

apologetically.  "I see you were up around three."

     Mulder shrugged.

     "And they note you went to bed around eleven-thirty.  That fairly

typical?"

     "Yeah."  Mulder got to his feet, sat on his bed.  "Has been most of

my life."

     "Any nightmares?"

     "That also is fairly typical."

     "Bad nightmares?"

     "Yeah."

     "Our moniter didn't catch it?"  Simoneaux looked at the blue and

white Fisher-Price moniter on Mulder's beside table.

     "I don't think anyone was listening that closely.  But it wasn't bad.

If it had been bad, they would have heard."

     Simoneaux nodded at this, but Mulder knew there would be

comments to the night staff.

     "Janice seems to think we can't offer you very much." Simoneaux

said.

     Mulder searched.  Janice Davis.  Right.  "Why?  Aren't many

people here experienced in dealing with the kinds of Post Traumatic

Stress Syndrome found in Law Enforcement and military personnel?"

     "Most people don't know what you go through."

      Mulder agreed. "And it scares the general public.  We're

supposed to be protecting them.  Not terrified of memories."

     "I understand you're still working."  Simoneaux nodded towards

Mulder's laptop.

     "Not officially."  Mulder replied, wiping sweat from his brow. He

was cold.  Now was the perfect time for a warm shower. He shivered.

     "Richards didn't tell me you were on the Church Murders."

     "I'm their expert in Satanic Rituals."

     "The blood tests came back."  Simoneaux added.  Mulder looked

up.  This was leading somewhere.

     "The results were inconclusive.  They found Haldol."

     "No hallucinogens?"

     "No."

     Mulder nodded.  "What do you think?  Did I flip out?"

     "I don't know.  We accepted you onto this ward in the belief that

you had been drugged."

     "Ah.  `Has my anxiety disorder gotten so bad that I'm unable to

cope with reality?  And do we need to move this psycho to some place

with bars on the windows?'"

     "We've spoken with Agent Scully."

     "And?"

     "She was quite defensive."

     Mulder smiled.  Translation: Scully had gone into Bitch Mode,

which she was quite good at when properly motivated.  If she hadn't

packed a gun, Scully would have been formidable.  Packing a gun

gave Scully the confidence to be absolutely terrifying when upset. "If

you called Agent Scully you wanted to change my placement."

     "We've decided to leave you where you are for right now."

     "Ah."  Thank God for the temper of a red-head.

     "She seemed convinced you had been given something.  Possibly

something either not tested for or something untraceable.  She refered

to an incident last year?  Somehow amnesia was induced?"

     "Oh."  Mulder nodded, outlined the clinical details of the case, his

own experience.  ". . .Scully had a friend at Georgetown University

run blood tests privately.  Nothing.  But I had several puncture marks

from needles and some irriation in my eyes, as well as marks from

struggling against leather restraints.  Apparently during

my . . .episode. . .I ranted and raved about the supposedly

`wiped' memories."

     "Agent Scully has almost no memory of the entire time she was

abducted.  We suspect similar chemical agents were involved."

     "Ah."  Simoneaux nodded.  "She wasn't quite clear on that."

     "She doesn't like to be reminded."  Mulder replied.  "And she was

mad, which tends to cut down on her clarity factor."

     ". . .so if you remembered anything, it would be likely that

chemical agents were involved."

     "Exactly.  And they would be things that would not be tested for."

     "Unlike LSD or mescaline."  Simoneaux nodded.  "Is that what

you think happened?"

     Mulder thought about giving a non-committal shrug.  "Don't you

have rounds?"

     "I made them all while you were running around like a gerbil on a

treadmill.  What do you think happened?"

     "Does this get recorded?"

     Simoneaux considered the pen in his hand.  "Is this an off-the-

record-fireside-chat-with-Spooky-Mulder?"

     It had been years since Mulder had heard that expression, since

he'd started working with the X-files and turned from star to kook.

He stared at Simoneaux dumbfounded.

     "I know Robert Maxwell at Quantico."  Simoneaux explained.

     "Maxwell thinks I'm a loon."

     "Someday, after Maxwell is dead, I'm convinced they'll find out

the man wrote porn novels or wore wedding dresses to bed."

     Mulder smiled, shook his head.  "Yes, this is an off the record."

     "Okay, done unless you start ranting about really being an alien

from the planet Reticula."

     "Deal."   Mulder explained the case, explained Meri, explained the

timing of his nightmares.

     "So she called out to you and you came?"

     "I was drawn."  Mulder stood, paced.  His jogging shoes felt

clunky on the carpetting.  "I can't guarantee it won't happen again.

And I think. . ."  He paused, realized he was putting himself over a

thin line.  "I think that things are going to get worse.  This man, the

leader.  He's very intelligent.  He's very careful. He's not going to let

me wander around fouling up his plans, whatever they are.  I saw his

face.  I'm more dangerous now than I have ever been to them.

Meredith can read people.  He can't. But he can attack those things

which he already knows about.  That my sister disappeared, if

someone chose to hunt around, is public knowledge.  With that

information, most of my actions make sense.  It would be logical

to deduce that the incident did cause me to suffer from Post

Traumatic Stress Disorder.  My partner was abducted and returned.

Again public knowledge.  He plays on it.  Lets me fill in the details."

     "Only God can read minds."  Simoneaux said.

     "What?"

     "My Grandmother used to tell me that only God knows what we're

thinking without asking.  The Devil just makes damn good guesses."

     Mulder laughed aloud.

     "All right."  Simoneaux rubbed the bridge of his nose.  "For right

now I'll leave you on this ward.  If there are any problems we bump

you.  Me, Dr. Richards, Janice Davis and your partner if she's in

pocket, Margret Scully if Dana isn't.  We'll make a decision on level

of care."

     Mulder moaned to think of Scully's mother helping decide his

placement in a psych hospital.  But he hadn't had anyone else.

Scully'd suggested it, and at the very least, Mulder could trust Mrs.

Scully.  "Going past Scully to her mom won't help you very

much."  He warned Simoneaux, lying through his teeth.  "Scully got

most of her temper from her mother."



     The basketball court was empty.  In the time that was supposed to

be Lunch, after occupational therapy, Mulder snuck over to the rec

room.  The lights were off, and it was empty.  He hadn't played a

good pick-up game in weeks.

     . . .15 and Varsity squad, the only sophmore.  The feel of the ball

against his hands.  The spontaneous thought of strategy as players

moved, as each second brought new patterns to be overcome.  There

was only the feel of the ball in your hands as you made the perfect

shot, ran the perfect layup.  Only the adreneline and roar that came

from the crowd, from inside your head, from the pumping of your

blood.   It didn't matter who was in his mother's bed.  It didn't matter

about the blood that trickled down his ear the last time his father hit

him.  It didn't matter that he woke up at 4:30 every morning after

going to bed at midnight, that his sheets were usually sweat drenched.

It didn't matter.  Only the feel of the ball, the patterns, the adreneline.

The isolation and the unity rolled into one timeless piece of reality,

when he could forget. . .



     "Hi.  No one's supposed to be in here right now."

     The sudden lights hurt Mulder's eyes.  He held the basketball in

his hands, stared at the short woman in her leotard who stood in the

doorway.  The woman tossed back a long braid.  "What ward are you

on?"  She asked.

     Mulder bounced the ball, deliberate in his motion.  This was the

way it had been.  `I don't think you need to play sports anymore.  I

need you.'  His mother.  `How the hell can you play a game?  How

can you live with yourself?'"  His father.

     "You're probably Green ward?"  The woman asked helpfully,

striding over to him.  It was obvious that long years of ballet had

changed her body.  Her feet pointed outwards and she walked from

heel to toe as comfortably as most people breathed.  She searched

for his badge, the badge hidden away in his pockets.

     Mulder stood, let a droplet of sweat roll off his nose.

     "I'm Miranda James.  I'm the Yoga and Dance therapist."  She

held out a hand.  Mulder did not take it.

     "I'm sorry to interupt you.  I have a class in here in. . ."  She

checked her watch.  "Five minutes.  Yoga.  For Closed ward."

     "Oh."  Mulder finally spoke.  He shook his head, clearing

cobwebs.  "I'm sorry.  I was told I could jog in here.  I just thought

no one would mind if I played basketball during lunch."

     Reassured by his talking, the woman smiled.  "Well, it's not

standard procedure, but I guess it's okay.  You're pretty good."

     "I played in high school."

     "Ah.  Do you play any other sports?"

     "Um. . .Baseball.  Swimming.  Soccer.  I can play a mean game of

Cricket, but generally don't unless forced."

     "Cricket?"

     "College."

     "Well, why don't I walk you back."

     "No.  That's all right."  Mulder considered the ball he held. James

smiled, held out a hand.

     "I'll put it up.  Listen, why don't I call a tech?  You were pretty

out of it when I came in."

     "No.  Just. . .startled."  Mulder smiled.  "I'm just across the

atrium in Blue ward."

     "All right."

     She watched as he went back to his own ward.

     No one was happy with Mulder.  He missed Encounters Group,

and Encounters Awareness group by playing basketball.

     "I didn't realize how late it was." Mulder excused, sitting in front

of Janice that afternoon.  The rest of the ward was gone to something

called horticultural therapy.

     "You played for three hours and didn't know it?"  Davis asked

skeptically.

     "Yes."  Mulder replied, realizing how stupid it sounded.

     "Mrs. James was worried about you.  She said you just stared at

her for a long time."

     "She startled me."

     "Did she?"  Davis stared at Mulder.  "I think you lost yourself in

the game.  Mrs. James brought you out of it.  She's probably lucky

you didn't hit her upside the head with a basketball."

     Mulder bit back a laugh.

     "I thought so.  Listen.  Right now, you're in the ward on

sufferance.  Don't make waves."



     Tonight.  Mulder paced the floor.  Three days in the hospital and

tonight was the night Scully was outside the Amarillo Church waiting.

This would all end tonight.  Capturing a monster would get Mulder

off his leave of absence and back to square one.  No problems there.

If he was right, if the dreams were caused by this nemesis who was at

least no longer faceless, then the dreams would lessen, would go back

to their normal place in his psyche.

     "Hi."  It was Kelly, one of three Rec Interns.  She was tall, loose

boned and carried herself like a jock.  "I was wondering if you'd like

to play a game of basketball."

     Mulder considered.  It was 10 p.m..  Kelly came on at 2, went

home at 9 on her duty days.  He wasn't doing anyone any good here,

pacing a worn spot in the carpetting.

     "Sure."



     "You looked like you needed to sweat." Kelly got a ball out of the

hamper.

     "Yeah.  Our case ends tonight.  Swat Teams and Federal Agents."

Mulder replied, letting her take the first lay-up.  She was good, fast,

made the shot without any problems.

     "You're not into it." Kelly complained, tossing him the ball.

     "My partner's out there."  Mulder replied.  "I can't stop thinking

about it."

     "Well, you can't help her any."  Kelly replied practically, stopped

moving.  "If you want to just practice, we can do that."

     Mulder stopped, drippled the ball, thought about it.  "No."  He

said, finally.  "No.  Just give me a minute to get into this."



     The game was good.  Kelly had obviously played in college.

Probably gone on a scholarship somewhere.  She knew how to guard,

how to steal a ball.  Being 4 inches shorter than him had little if any

effect.

     It was 16-21 when it was over; Mulder collapsed onto the floor,

panting.  Kelly smiled, sweat dripping off her face, sat beside him.

     "I think I just got suckered."  Mulder said when he could talk.

"Who'd you play for?"

     "Georgetown."  Kelly admitted with a shrug as though being part

of the premier women's basketball program was just something she did

to keep from getting bored.  "Did you play college ball?"

     "Got offered a scholarship."  Mulder admitted.  "But I went to

Oxford.  An uncle was willing to pay for it."

     Kelly nodded.  "You're pretty good.  You'd be better if you

played more often."

     "I'm an old man."  Mulder replied.  "I play pick-up games when I

can get them, but that's all.  He lay back, stared at the rafters.

     "How'd you go from Oxford to FBI?"

     "PhD in Psych.  Got recruited."

     He heard the ball bounce a couple of times.  "So you're more

qualified as a shrink than most of the shrinks here."  Kelly said easily.

     Mulder sat up, smiled.  "I trained as a clinical psychologist, but I

mostly work with behavioral models to explain actions.  I don't try to

counsel people."

     "But you could?"

     "I have some training in that area."  Mulder admitted.  "But it was

a long time ago."

     Kelly nodded thoughtfully.  "You tired yet?"

     "Why?"

     She shrugged.  "I don't feel like one-on-one any more, but how

about running some patterns before we cool off?  Unless you don't

feel like it."

     Mulder nodded.  "No.  No problem."

     They began running patterns, tossing the ball to each other,

<<The church is empty>> doing layups.

     Mulder shook his head to clear the cobwebs, tossed the ball to

Kelly across the room.  Kelly made a perfect arcing toss that kissed the

rim indecisively before spinning out of the basket.  "You're slipping,

Georgetown."  Mulder mocked, dribbling the ball across the room

<<The church is empty.  The child is dead>> making his own toss

that also spun a moment on the rim before deciding not to take the

plunge into net.

     "Oh yeah, Old Man?"  Kelly replied, taking the ball.

     <<She is smothered.  Her body in a dumpster.  Meredith cannot

see.  This is not for Meredith.  This is for you.>>

     Mulder ran back down the half-court, let Kelly pass it to him

smoothly.  Then tossed it back to her at the last moment, when she

least expected it.  Kelly caught the ball smoothly.  <<She has brown

curly hair and dark brown eyes.  She sits, tied with cotton rags.>>

She tossed the ball back to Mulder, to let him make a layup.

     Mulder did not catch the ball.  He let it hit him in the chest and

stood a moment, shaking his head.

     "What's wrong?"

     Mulder shook his head, listening for the voice.  Nothing.  He

smiled.  "Nothing.  Getting old, that's all." He grabbed the ball, ran

with it.  A perfect, hotdogging lay up that sent the ball straight into the

basket, smooth and sure.



     He had a picture of Sam in a plastic frame on his desk beside his

laptop. She wore a dress their mother hadn't bought Sam because it

was "too dear" and "inappropriate."  So Mulder and his father had

gone down to Macy's and bought it for Sam's birthday.  It was

red satin and somewhat gaudy, but Sam had contended that she felt

like a princess in the dress and worn it on every occasion possible.

When she outgrew it she had given it to the preacher's daughter Katie,

who was two sizes down from Samanatha.  After Samantha

disappeared, Katie had put the dress away.  Mulder wished he had told

Katie to keep on wearing it.  He would have liked her to.



     <<The little girl was crying.  Her eyes were covered, her mouth

taped closed.  She had dark brown hair.  She was eight.  Her jaw was

strong. Just like Sam.>>

     He argued with the nursing staff for nearly a half an hour before

finally getting a phone line.

     "Scully?"

     "Mulder?"  He could hear her confusion.

     "He's not coming."

     "What?  Mulder what are you talking about?"

     "The Killer.  They're not coming."

     "Mulder, you can't know that.  You're just. . ."

     "Scully, they're not going to be there."

     "Mulder, what are you talking about. . ."

     "That child is dead already.  They knew that site was compromised

somehow.  But they have another child."  As he spoke, Mulder knew.

"They're going to Chillmark."

     "What?  Your hometown.  Why?"

     "Because I'm the threat.  Meredith is secondary now.  They have

an eight year old girl.  With dark hair.  With dark eyes. With. . ."

Mulder stopped.  "It'll be tonight.  But not in Amarillo."

     "Mulder, how do you think you know this?"

     "I heard it."

     "In your head?  Mulder, you were given drugs.  Your

thinking. . .it's probably screwed up.  You're not competent . . ."

     "Scully, I just know this."  Mulder cut through her words.  "You

have to trust me."

     She was silent a moment.

     "I'm getting out of here. "

     "You can't just leave."

     "Why not?  I'm here on an informal voluntary committal.  I can

leave any time."

     "Mulder, I'll call the hospital and tell them that your thinking is

disordered.  I'll get them to hold you for 72 hours."

     "Scully, I know this."

     "How?"

     "I don't know.  I just know.  Because they want to scare me.

They want me huddled in a ball somewhere in a locked ward

screaming, to keep me off the case, to get revenge for finding

Meredith, for figuring anything out.  Scully, I know this.  I'm going."

     "You don't have any backup.  No support."

     "Neither does that child."

     "You don't even have your gun.  Or a car."  She was at the

desperate point where she let herself be talked into things. Mulder

could smell it and pressed his advantage.

     "I've got to go.  I don't care.  None of that matters."

     He heard her sigh.  "I'll call the Chillmark police, have them check

things out tonight.  How about that?"

     "No.  Call them, have backup ready.  Scully, you have to trust

me."

     He heard her swear.  "All right.  All right.  If you don't find

anything you know you don't have a career."

     "Since when has that ever stopped me?"





     Her car was outside.  He paid the taxi with trembling hands, ran

inside.  Scully's new apartment was still unfamiliar.  He barely

remembered to disengage the security system her brothers had bought

and insisted upon installing when they made it in from Guam and

Alaska for Christmas.

     His gun was under a pile of lingerie that looked as if it had been

deserted for a long time.  Not much time for sex or lacy underwear

when you're chasing down mutants and UFO's.  Mulder smiled

grimly, put the clip in his .45.



     He had not told Scully which church, he realized suddenly, driving

in excess of all speed limits.  Of course not.  He was supposed to

screw up.  He was supposed to go in alone.  He was supposed to

watch.

     First Methodist of Chillmark Massachusetts.  The church where

they'd had the service for Samantha.  The prayer service his mother

agreed to in leiu of the memorial service the pastor had wanted.  The

church he'd grown up in.  There were probably still teeth marks

in the fifth pew from Samantha digging her mouth in as she waited

quietly through the hymn service.

     He prayed he wasn't too late.  Of course not.  They would wait

until he was there.  Until he could watch.  With a chill he suddenly

realized something important.  It did not frighten him as much as it

should have.  Death was very close.  Like a cat it nuzzled him.  It

would jump in his lap soon.



     "Mulder?"  Hankins stared at his partner.  "They want us to go

around to every church?  Looking for a Fox Mulder?"

     Gregg nodded.  It was odd, but orders were orders and these came

from the FBI.

     "Fox Mulder.  Well, I can tell you what church he's at."

     "Hmm?"

     "When I was seven, a girl was kidnapped from Chillmark.  Made

all the papers.  Taken right out of her living room around eight

o'clock at night.  My momma was scared to death.  Name of

Samantha Mulder.  Her brother was Fox.  He was a basketball star in

high school.  Kind of touched in the head, but good on the court and

real smart.  They went to First Methodist."

     "Down on Main?"

     "Corner of Main and Wilson."  Hankins nodded.  "Might as well

call and tell the other squad to meet us.  If he's still weird as he was,

no telling what he's up to."



     The church still didn't have any parking worth a damn. Mulder

pulled Scully's Taurus into a no parking zone and got out.  The old

elementary school was across the street, the Courthouse on the third

corner and Old Man Henkin's drugstore fronting the fourth

corner.  Only now the drugstore was an Antique shop and the

elementary school housed an Adult Education center.

     The door was heavy.  And open.  Dying in a church was as good a

place as any.



     She had been tied with black nylon straps.  A little girl.

Samantha.  Plastic sheeted the front.  But no people.  Mulder twisted,

looked.  No one.  Only the girl.  What was this?  What was going on.

     A figure knocked the breath out of him. Mulder fell hard against

the edge of a pew, then down onto the thick red carpetting.  The gun

was in it's hands.  Mulder looked up.  A small, neat beard. Balding

head.  Congenial eyes.

     "We finally meet."  It said.

     "Where is your coven?"  Mulder asked, wincing involuntarily at

the pain in his kidneys.

     "Coming."  The man smiled.  "Why don't you have a seat and I'll

call them.  We can dispose of her."

     "Why are you doing this?" Mulder did not move from his spot on

the carpetting.  He watched as shadowy figures came into the

auditorium.

     The man considered Mulder's gun, then kicked Mulder hard in the

ribs.  "Get up and stop arguing with me."

     "Why?"

     Another kick, this one with a great deal of force.  Mulder

screamed.  For a while he was unable to see for the pain that

descended, that emenated from his side but covered him entirely.  The

man grunted, kicked again.  Mulder couldn't breathe.  The pain

screamed at him to shut up, to do what was required.  Then the man

kicked again.  This time it *really* hurt.

     "I will continue to hurt you until you do what I say."

     Mulder tried to get up.

     Someone, a coven member, grabbed him, pushed him into the

nearest pew, he nearly fainted with the hurt.  His ribs were broken.

He knew the feel, he knew the hurt, the sharp way it was impossible to

breathe through it.

     "I tried so hard to make you go away." The man told Mulder.

"But not you.  I gave you an out.  Agent Mulder's going crazy with

Bad Dreams.  His hotel room is trashed.  But you just will not go

away."

     "Look, I know you're probably getting some sick pleasure out of

this conversation"  Mulder paused, the man stared at him  "--the kind

of thing a cat gets out of playing with a mouse.  But I'm not enjoying

it."  Mulder looked at the stained glass window, refused to any other

questions.  A deep, regretful sigh.  He felt the slap roll across his

face, blur his visions, bring involunatry tears up.  Mulder did not

respond.

     A moment later a woman and a man approached him, holding two

rolls of duct tape.  Mulder was prepared to fight--they would not kill

him, not just yet.  He kicked, bit, fought madly. Screw the pain,

screw it.  It didn't matter if it made their job more difficult.

Eventually five people were sitting on him, holding him.  They were

careful though.  Keep him conscious.  He had to watch.

     Then he could be killed.  They sat him up, taped him against one

of the pews where he would get a good view, where the Samantha's

blood would splatter onto him.  He sat tiredly, heaving in the pain.

They would kill Sam for him and then kill him for Meredith.  You

see?  His mind asked.  It makes sense now.

     Samantha struggled on the altar, knowing her death was at hand.



     Hankins considered the Taurus.  Virginia plates.  "We don't want

to spook him." He said, finishing the last of his bag of diet microwave

popcorn.  The other three officers nodded.

     "There's a door in the back.  It might be open.  We'll go around

front."  They walked quietly.  Hankins wonderd about Fox.  What had

he done that the FBI was so interested?  Hankins remembered a tall

skinny kid.  He remembered a single-minded face.

     The scene disgusted Hankins.  He knew though.  Hell, he watched

the seven o'clock news just like everybody else.

     A child lay tied to a communion table. Hankins did not allow

himself to think, to react to the scene in front of him, to the twelve

men and women in their robes.  He pulled his gun and fired without a

word.  Screw the damn manual.  Screw the criminal justice

system.  Some times, some places, it's just better to kill and save the

taxpayer a few hard earned dollars.





     The cat jumped into Mulder's lap and started purring.  Mulder

looked up surprised.  It wasn't that he didn't like cats.  But cats in

courtrooms?  Past the guards who had managed to even keep

microcassette recorders out of what was still the headline news?

     Scully stiffened.

     The large, orange, neutered tom looked up at Mulder wisely.

     "What the hell?"  Scully whispered.

     Mulder shrugged.  They were still under subpeona but had finished

giving testimony.  The prosecution hadn't needed them as much as it

might have because an extraordinary thing.

      The extraordinary thing was a 38 year old woman with two

children.  In exchange for her ex-husband and children being placed in

witness relocation, being given new identities where they would not be

known as her family, she had confessed to all the murders,

been precise in her details.



     Lewis Maxwell Harrington died despite a trauma team's best

efforts.  The leader of what the press insisted on calling a coven, had

held a post at Covington College, a haven where the indecently wealthy

send their children off to school.   Head of the philosophy/religon

department until three years ago.  He was Harvard educated and came

from a wealthy family.  It could not be said that anyone really

mourned his death.

     He had a country house, a nice large two story house hidden back

in the woods with several outbuildings.  Here, the woman told

investigators, they had trained.  He lead them deeper and deeper into

research concerning a ceremony suggested by a German Alchemist

in the 12th century: if a child with "invisible powers" were to be

brought forth, watching the slayings of "heathens" his own age, he

would absorb more power.  The power might be used as a weapon.

Harrington had been convinced he could channel the child's powers

into his own being.  Sacrifice the few for the good of the many.  It had

been proven to work.  An Italian Nunnery where many, many bastards

had been born to the irreverant nuns and where these bastards had

been killed upon birth, was destroyed in 1445 when a child with

such powers had not been strangled at birth. The child absorbed

the strength of his dead cohorts and destroyed the Nunnery.

Two hundred years later a Cabbalist had come by chance upon the

haunted ruins and used the essence of the power-filled

child to destroy a village.

     It had nothing to do with religon.  The powers just were.  The

religous words, the fear of blasphemy and of evil were dismissed as

irrelevant supersticions.  Things were relevant to the situation. How

many children died every day from causes that were pointless?

So then, why not use the procedure, why not grab the powers?

     The coven had practiced the procedure in Harrington's house on

five children until Harrington was convinced they knew their work

well enough to do the first church, to call the dream-child who played

in the walls of the church.  It was a church because the child believed

in church, knew churches had power.  Harrington could steal her

abilities in a church.

     Or so the woman had told prosecutors.  Mulder read her testimony

over and over and it still didn't set right with him.  He still didn't

understand Harrington.  He went down to Harrington's home, rooted

around the man's books and notes, didn't say much about it.

     Scully figured that in a few months Mulder would write one hell of

a profile on Harrington, but for right now this work was secondary.

The killers were caught and would be executed following the

prefunctory trial.

     Of course no one knew who had thrown human blood into

Mulder's face, who had trashed his hotel room.  The woman claimed

no knowledge, and was believed--after 30 murders, a little blood and

shit isn't going to bother you.  It bothered Scully a little, but

didn't phase Mulder.  "Hired help."  He dismissed out of hand.

"They faded back into the woodwork."

     Faded into the same woodwork, Scully sometimes thought before

she could dismiss the thought, that Mulder's dreams had faded into.

After Harrington's death Mulder had had no more psychotic dreaming

episodes.  Nightmares yes.  But nightmares were normal for him.  No

atavistic rocking, no unawareness of self, not anymore.  Those things

just stopped.

     No other member of the coven died the night that Hankins opened

fire, which was more expensive for the state, but also a great deal

more satisfying for the thirty sets of parents still mourning their

children's death.

     The little girl, abducted in Dallas, to be killed in Chillmark, was

back home.  Her name had been Stacy.  Word was that she was still

having horrific nightmares.  Her parents had been at the trial, they had

talked to Mulder, thanked him.  Mulder seemed amazed at their

thanks, had ducked out embarrassed, leaving Scully to make up

something comforting to say.

     The first case was being tried in Florida because that state still used

the electric chair.  Of course that was not the Federal Prosecutor's

official reason, but everybody knew it was the real reason.  If they

were lucky all twelve would be sentenced to death and this would be

over. If they were not sentenced to death, there were plenty of other

states with a death penalty, and these states were already clamouring

for the opportunity.

     The defense was arguing, quite persuasively, that the eleven had

been brainwashed into obeying orders, that they had come under the

influence of a hypnotic leader who had lead them out of reality and

into his own insane world.

     On the stand Mulder's reply to this defense had been simple.

"Bullshit.  It didn't work at Nuremburg and it won't work here."  The

prosecutor had been more than pleased.  The press had been delighted‹

þ    The cat made itself at home.  Mulder was at a loss of what to do.

The purring was incredibly loud.  Scully bit back a smile at his

predicament.  It started washing itself.  It was quite large and he was

stuck with it.  Thk3 was implausibly irregular.  What do you do with a

cat in a crowded courtroom where the judge is a cranky old bastard?

     Nothing.  You just let itþsit and purr while itþwashes things you'd

rather it didn't.

     "Sorry." The man was tall and somehow familiar; a moment after

recess for lunch he towered over Mulder, scooped up the cat. "I don't

know how Ba'ar follows me to places like this. Silly cat."

     He wandered off before Mulder could ask the man anything.  He

opened his mnutl but the man disappeared into the crowds, past the

news crews and reporters.

     It hit him suddenly.  He turned to Scully.

   þ "Just shut up Mulder."  She said warningly.  For once he took her

advice.



Finis



Author's Note---

     This is something I wrote before The Woods, so any similarities

are because I was following similar trains of thought.



     One of the worst memories I have of my childhood is waking in a

pew of my father's church in the middle of the night.  I thought I sew

the plot of Abraham enacted before me, except this time there was no

goat to take the place of Jacob.  I know I sleepwalked as a

child,þand it is not unreasonable to assume that I made my way from

the parsonage to the church one night.  The sacrifice was probably my

imagination at work: I had just "been saved" and had taken the Lord's

Supper for the first time.  My father made sure I understood why we

ate the bread and drank the wine (or being Southern Baptists

as we were, `drank the grape juice'( so the idea of a sacrifice and the

Communion table were freshly interwoven in my head.

     Sitting in the dark, cold and trembly, watching the knife's pattern

fall, I fainted for the very first and very last time in my life.  When I

woke the next morning I was in my own bed, with dirty feet and the

church keys.  When I first saw Pet Sematary,  I had to run to the

theater restroom to vomit when the main character woke up in bed

with dirty feet.

     Also, sorry for:

     1. The "Mulder totally losing it" repetion of  theme.  I'll try not to

make it happen again, but when there's such fertile ground it's hard to

stop.

     2. The stupidity on the part of the FBI. What few experiences I've

had with them they seem very intelligent, very well trained, very quick

to pick up on patterns.  Except when it comes to computer crimes.

(Which is how I got my $200 cordless speaker phone for $10.

But that's another story.)



Amperage