From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 12/41 NC-17

Date: 1 Feb 1996 04:16:20 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 12/41)

By Amperage and Livengoo

Copyright October, 1995



International Readers:  No third season spoilers

Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence



Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual

property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The

FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana

and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and

everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.



_______________



     One in the afternoon, and Jenni didn't answer.  Frito sighed

and put the phone in the cradle so gently it didn't make a sound. 

He wasn't surprised.  She couldn't sit there waiting for him to

call. . . but he still wanted to hear her voice.  He wandered back

into the other room.



     Francis was twisted into the blanket now, lying long and on

his belly, eyes gleaming in the light of the television.  The

remote was clutched in the hand under his chin.  The Crickets were

hurting.



     Frito flipped open Francis' suitcase and rifled through the

back pocket, found glossy paper among balled up socks and 

deodorant and a paperback copy of Freud that he knew Francis read 

for comic relief.



     "You could have asked, rude, inbred, oily little dust-fucker."

The voice was mild, and he could hear a smile.



     "Careful Francis, you don't know what I'll ask for."  Hmm.

That one.  He knew the centerfold looked like his first lay.



     "Doesn't matter.  Everything you're thinking of is a sin."

The sound dropped.  "No answer on the phone?"



     He didn't want to talk about it, or think about why he'd

wanted to hear Jenni's voice.  "Just watch the boys play with their

big sticks, man.  I know why you like this stuff so much. . . '



     "Hey, if you'd let me out the door, we could both go find the

third dimension. . . "  Sure.  If he thought Marion would look for

any kind of girl who still had flesh on her bones he would let the

bastard out the door.  Glad to.



     "After you asked about spanking bars?  No way in hell.  They'd

kick me out of the Bureau just for knowing you."



     "You are *never* gonna know me, Frito.  And if you did, your

dick could never hold its head up again."



     Sam snorted.  "Your skinny ass couldn't hold it."  Looked up,

grinned to see Marion out from under his barricade, sitting up to

finally pull off his tie and drop it on the shoes tumbled on the

floor.



     "Something that skinny?  Slide right up your ass.  Real

needle-di. . . " and his face froze, just an instant, just a

hesitation.  But Frito swallowed, felt his guts chill and twist.



     "Marion. . . "  What did he say?  He was sorry?  When he'd

likely have to just drug him again?



     Francis had focused on the television.  "Just pull the pages

apart when you're done."











     Mulder sat crosslegged and studied his credit card.  Some kind

of calf-roping was blaring away from the set, and he couldn't hear

springs squeaking anymore.  He slowly, carefully, ran a finger

along the edge of the card, around the smooth, rounded corners. 

How long would it be until Averman brought the food?  The very 

idea of it made his stomach twist.  His ribs ached from the strain of

all the times he'd heaved, and he was feeling light-headed.  He

couldn't recall the last real meal he'd kept down.



     And the card was glossy and tempting.  The card and the rental

booth in the lobby.  Mulder swallowed and ran through all the

repercussions.  They'd find him.  They'd drug him.  Hell, they were

going to drug him anyway, and they weren't going to take him out

there.  They were too scared of what they'd find.  And it made so

much sense.  They just didn't see it. . .



     It would be gambling, turning up one of his few remaining

cards.  Show it now and lose it.  He let himself fall back into the

pillows, across the blanket, and debated.  He was so sick of being

under guard, under eyes.  He wanted to be by himself so much.  God,

he couldn't do this for that reason. . . but he knew he was right. 

The bones were out there.  What had it been?  Oh yeah. . . if he

was going to do this he'd leave them the tip and let them climb the

walls.  The grin almost hurt his cheeks, but it was so hard to

resist.



     So why bother?  They were just going to drug him anyway.  It

was one-forty-five.  Averman figured he'd get to the Bar-B-Que at

two or so, and Averman was punctual.  Wasn't expecting Frito or him

to really meet them there, either.  Not if he'd told Frito to keep

him down.  Mulder rolled onto his side and wrapped his arm back

under his head.  They were only going to do what they absolutely

had to because he scared them.  Stupid.  Stupid.



     And suddenly it was like he couldn't breathe, he could feel

all of it pressing in too close.  Frito had Valium and Haldol and.

. . Mulder bit his lip on the pain of that knowledge.  Forced the

air back into his chest.  And Michael was sitting in a car, playing

with a new toy, or eating food that didn't have maggots in it for

once.  And they weren't in Ashton anymore, but they were close. 

His head ached and his ribs ached and the taste of acid was sour in

the back of his throat, but Mulder knew where he was, and knew 

what was happening.  He knew all that, knew that Frito and 

Averman and Cooke would not be driving up into the hills, to look at 

some fucking tourist trap.



     And his fingers knew the shape of that card.  He rolled very

slowly and carefully off the bed, and grabbed his jeans and

sneakers.  Skinned out of the suit pants fast.  He wanted something

you could climb in, wanted to be something other than Fox Mulder of

the FBI.  He shoved his ID and his wallet into his pocket, and left

the laces undone on his sneakers.  Almost left right then.  It was

inviting trouble not to, but he couldn't do that.  Couldn't just

walk out.  He pulled the little pad next to the phone over, silent,

and uncapped a ball-point, grinned and knew which few lines he

wanted to leave.  See if they could work it out.  This one would be

easy enough.



     'Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and

          shining

     We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,

     Under a tree in the cool of the day, with the blessing of

          sand,

     Forgetting themselves and each other, united

     In the quiet of the desert.  This is the land which ye

     Shall divide by lot.  And neither division nor unity

     matters.  This is the land.  We have our inheritance'





     Damn, that one was sooo obvious.  Mulder hesitated and gave

in, scribbled "pop quiz - 5 pts." across the top of it and set it

on his bed.  Hell, he didn't need a trance or a clue for that one. 

That one was fifteen-foot tall neon letters, good as a road map.

He picked up his shades and stepped so silently to the door.  Hand

flat on the frame to keep it slow, deliberate and quiet.  Please,

Averman, be in the middle of that first round of rolls with butter

you like so fucking much.  Ice tea and lemon, and the door made no

sound at all.  He could feel his chest moving fast with noiseless

little pants and the flush in his face, and he felt so free and so

scared.  Out the door and pull it shut as carefully as he'd opened

it.  Forced himself not to run to the stair well and handled the

door like spun glass.









     The stairwell was cool and dim in the light of the low-watt

bulb.  Mulder's sneakers echoed softly as he half-ran three floors

down, breathing fast, fast, flushed and feeling the blood in

every vein of his body, the smile on his face.  Stop at the

bottom, hand on the knob, catch his breath and hope, and

finally step through, eyes scanning to find the others before they

could find him.  They weren't there, and his face hurt with the

smile.



     The girl at the Avis counter smiled back, curious and

flirting, and her fingers touched his when he took his card back. 

They could trace the charge, and it didn't matter at all.  He

thanked her and she said she hoped she'd see him again.  Handed 

him keys, cool from the air-conditioning in the lobby, the shape of

freedom if only for a handful of hours.  Mulder felt like running,

like laughing, and opened the doors and turned the key in the

ignition, and pulled back, frantic to get away from this hotel as

fast as he could.  Back up and pull out and head away.  The

direction didn't matter, he was free.  He couldn't get enough air,

was panting, it felt so good. . .



     The blacktop whined under the wheels and heat devils flickered

over the road bed.  Get Elvis on the radio, fine if it's Elvis

Costello, it didn't matter, it was someone who wouldn't watch him

or flinch or shoot drugs into his ass when he tried to figure out

what was happening.  Drive until a parking lot was there.



     Mulder pulled in to the strip mall and headed for the big,

discount drug-store.  He browsed in the magazine aisle, until he

found a map with the right tourist sites and a book of them, and of

local history.  Sugar coated, but that didn't matter.  Grabbed a

bag of chips and a couple bottles of iced tea with sugar and lemon.



Three candy bars that looked good.  Ran them all on the card, fast

and easy.  No meat, beyond that he didn't care. 



     Grabbed the bag and back out to the car.  The map was one of

those huge, folded nightmares that spread across the front seat and

the dash as he searched through the right-angled valleys until he

knew where he was going, and wadded it up, too impatient to even

try to fold it back up.  Popped open one of the drinks and pulled

out and got on the highway, driving the prevailing speed and

revelling in seventy-five miles an hour alone, in the car.  When he

saw his own eyes in the mirror they glittered.



     And the radio reeled through song after song after song, and

Mulder almost sobbed.  Bittersweet joy of watching the light on the

damned hills around him.  He could feel this slipping away already,

knew that it couldn't last.  He'd get to the chapel, he'd find what

he'd need to find, learn what he needed to know.  But he couldn't

stay free, they wouldn't let him.  His breathing slowed, but his

chest hurt with it all the same.



     Long before he drove lonely into the hills, his ass ached from

the seat, and driving, and the shots that pushed drugs into his

blood and fog into his mind.  Bruises over his hips, and he had no

doubt there'd be a fresh bruise as soon as they caught up with him.



And he'd have to let them, couldn't be helped.  If he didn't let

them catch him he'd never be Fox again.  Worse, if they didn't

catch him, Michael had no hope at all.  The aching certainty of

that warred with the pain of letting them trap him again.



     FBI procedure would frown on this.  The sudden thought put a

bitter smile on his lips.  Hell, he'd been shot down from the

moment they stopped trusting him to stay alone in his own room. 

Fucking guards.  And he'd just made a jail-break.  God, god, god,

a flicker of black and white behind him.  Shift the mirror to see. 

Yes, black and white on wheels.  Fuck!  Son of a bitch!  The

cocksuckers called the fucking cops. . .



     Outrunning it in this squirrel-mobile was never an issue.  It

pulled up and the red-and-blue flicker behind him sparkled in the

mirror, off the chrome details, through his mind.  It had been so

short, he'd never set foot up there. . . not yet.  The siren blared

for an instant, blared again.  Forget it.  The road was narrow up

here, they couldn't pull around.  Mulder shot the single finger

salute to the cop at the wheel, kept his speed steady and kept

going.



     Not trying to run, not trying to dodge, but no way in hell

he'd pull over so close to what he wanted.  So he'd have witnesses,

just as well.  Proof.  God, the mother-fucker was right up on his

bumper, lights flashing, siren going.  Nice car, shame about your

dick. . .



     Brushed up close and fell back, still noisy back there.

Mulder snarled.



     "I see you, asshole.  I know you're there.  Go blow your

partner and get back to me."



     Oh god, fucker was trying to pull around. . . they'd get ahead

and choke him down.  Mulder pulled the wheel and veered just far

enough to block the asshole.  The big black-and-white brushed up

close, frustration in the driving.  Mulder was too busy to look

back, but was sure he'd see some donut-addict with red-veined

cheeks back there trying to teach him new words for fudge-packing.



     Don't tap the brakes.  Don't give him the bird again, or that

black and white would be right up his tailpipe and giving a

practical demonstration of why the sheep got nervous.  Mulder

swallowed and carefully maintained speed.  Didn't dare speed up or

slow down.  Maintain.  That was all he could do, maintain.  Swung

briefly to threaten the bastard back into the lane behind him and

played pied piper with too few horses under the hood.  His hands

were sweating on the wheel and the bluish shadow of the low hills

broke up the gold light searing the road.  A pick-up flew by the

other way, vague awareness of staring faces.  Thank god, thank god.

That might keep the bastard back there a little longer, keep him

from playing games.



     Turn-off signs ahead, and Mulder felt the warm rush of relief.

He'd almost welcome the end of this, captivity or no.  Yes, that

was the turn-off.  Signal.  Come on, asshole, see the turn signal.

. . slow down. . . the prick went for the tight squeeze, right on

Mulder's ass.  Didn't dare to touch the brakes, let the velocity

bleed off until the fucker dropped back enough to let him brake and

turn, deliberately, carefully, no surprises.  The signal clicked

off as he straightened out on the narrow, asphalt lane.  Keep

precisely to the speed limit and the asshole was still bright and

noisy back there.  What?  He thought Mulder hadn't noticed?



     Oh god, let's flirt with this prick.  Mulder swallowed.  He

could smell his own sweat, sharp with fear like any sane person's

would be.  Tourist signs, nobody up here in the heat of the late

afternoon.  He dropped a bit more speed, shivered.  And there was

a parking lot.  Pull in and gun it across the gravel.  Out of the

car, forget closing the doors, get the ID out of his back pocket

and it's open and never turn around, don't give them a chance,

keep walking, don't, for god's sake, don't run unless a bullet

sounds fun.  He heard heavy, running steps behind him, two sets. .

.



     "Freeze, asshole!"  And now it was time to stop.  He'd gotten

this far.  They'd shoot him from sheer frustration if he kept going

now.  One set of steps coming up fast.



     "I'm FBI."  Level and calm, now was not the time for honesty.



     "Shut up, asshole. . . " and a big hand wrenched him around to

see cheeks flapping with indignation and Mulder had to fight not to

laugh. . . he looked so much like Mulder'd expected.  Hoped he was

wrong, but the fold of fat over his collar and the sweat stains and

the grease mark on his chest. . . He clamped down on the inside of

his cheek to keep the laugh in.  Kept his hands up and the ID

folder open between two fingers.



     Steps behind him and someone patted him down.



     "I'm FBI."  Keep it calm and repeat it and hope it got

through.  The cop behind him grabbed the folder while his partner,

standing there in front of him, gibbered at the effrontery of some

city boy who wouldn't pull over when he was told.  Mulder was glad,

now, that he wasn't carrying his sidearm.  That would be the last

straw for this danger to livestock.



     "Looks real.  And they didn't say to arrest him. . . "  The

voice behind him was much calmer.



     Mulder took a deep breath.  "Look, all I want to do is go up

there and look around. . .  What did they say on the APB?"  Safe

assumption.





     The guy behind him stepped around, edging between his partner

and the fed.  Mulder let himself relax.  His likelihood of being

cuffed had just dropped considerably as far as he could tell. 

"They said you might be. . .well. . . "



     "In some danger?"  Mulder raised an eyebrow and tried to

imagine how Averman could have phrased it to convey danger 

without any details.  Not 'danger to himself.'  That would cost him a

resource real fast.  Maybe, just maybe, in danger from others. . .

"They mention a possible problem with the Kid Killer?"  Bingo.  The

younger one nodded.  His buddy was letting his veins burst about

ten feet away, stomping harmless plants to death.  "We're on that

case. . . I can understand the concern."



     "Would you mind coming with us?  Or we can follow you back?"



     Mulder hesitated, considered how to get what he wanted.  "I

came up here on a lead.  Look, I can see why they were concerned. 

I don't care if you come with me.  I'd rather, in fact. . ." 

Started walking, calm and steady again.  The younger one stayed

next to him, the duck-fucker about ten feet back.  Mulder grinned,

but figured he wasn't in any danger from the bastard as long as he

didn't sound like a farm animal.



     It wasn't a long walk to the chapel from here.  He felt a

vague sorrow for the loss of freedom, of the brief space of being

alone.  But it wasn't important here.  He stopped and closed his

eyes.  The asshole blithered, but Mulder could tune him out.  The

man next to him didn't understand.  He stood there and listened,

and slowly paced into the small cup of the valley, hearing the

trees around him.



     He smelled it before he saw it.  Tangy and clean, fresh.

"Juniper. . . "



     The dirt under the tree was hard.  Thin grass marred it.  Old

and packed and hard.  And bare in one patch.  Mulder crouched 

down and cursed, wished for a shovel or something. . .  Polished 

shoes stopped next to him and his neck cracked when he looked up.



     "Do you have a pocket knife or something. . . ?"  The guy

looked at him oddly, but pulled out a red pocket knife that

probably had tools for disarming nuclear bombs on it.  Mulder found

a single, tough, thick blade and started scraping.  The soil here

had been hard for a long time, and he didn't need to go very deep. 

He could hear the older cop insulting him.  The younger one had

crouched and was watching him with very worried eyes now.  And 

the blade scraped on something.  He dropped the knife and brushed 

with his hands until he could see a flash of ivory in the twilight

violet glow.  Licked his lips.



     "I want a team out here."



     "Agent Mulder. . . why don't you tell me what this is about?"

Fox Mulder looked up at him with the sad eyes of a man who wished

he was wrong.



     "Dig here."  He patted the spot where he'd scraped a few

inches away.  "This is where the killer buried his first one, or.

. .or. . .the one before that."  Used the knife to scar the tree

and marked the spot.  Any evidence left was hidden in the hard

flesh of the land.  Then turned and walked away, to sit slumped in

the car and wait for the cops, and the fuss, and the cage to slam

shut around him.



     Will the veiled sister pray for

     Those who walk in darkness and chose thee and oppose thee

     Those who are torn on the horn between season and season,

          time and time, between.

     Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those

          who wait

     In darkness?  Will the veiled sister pray

     For children at the gate

     Who will not go away and cannot pray;

     Pray for those who chose and oppose



          O my people, what have I done unto thee.



     Will the veiled sister between the slender

     Yew trees pray for those who offend her 

     And are terrified and cannot surrender

     And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks 

     In the last desert between the last blue rocks

     The desert in the garden the garden in the desert

     Of drouth, spitting from the mouth of the withered apple-seed.



          O my people.



Continued in part 13................





=====================================================================

======



From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 13/41 NC-17

Date: 2 Feb 1996 01:29:46 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 13/41)

By Amperage and Livengoo

Copyright October, 1995



International Readers:  No third season spoilers

Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence



Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual

property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The

FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana

and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and

everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.



_______________



     It didn't take long.  Muttpumping mutherfucker must have

called the moment he had Mulder's tight ass in his line of sight. 

Frito in the Taurus, and Averman with the other agents.



     "Are you going to do this hard or easy?"  Sam's voice was hard

and low.



     "What's hard?"  Mulder asked speculatively, not rising from

his seat behind the steering wheel.



     "Hard is I drug the shit out of you and let a psych hospital

find out how hard it is to keep you in a room."  It didn't even

sound like Sam.  "How the fuck could you do that?  Didn't you know

we would go fucking crazy?  Left a fucking piece of fucking fucking

T.S. Eliot on the pillow, you asshole."  Sam's brow furrowed with

his anger.  "You shiteater, you faggot, you fudge factory with

legs.  I don't believe  you did this.  Fuck."





     Mulder closed his eyes, for the first time imagining Sam

coming back through the connecting door, finding Mulder gone, not

in the room at all. Terrified, not knowing anything.  Not finding

Mulder.  "I'm sorry," he muttered.  "I'm sorry man."



     "You fucking better well be.  Why the hell did you run off?

Just want to see if Frito's heart passes a fucking stress test? 

Damn it Mulder, I have been trying to see you through this.  I have

been trying to be patient.  I have been trying to keep you out of

a funny farm."



     Something snapped in Mulder then.  His face contorted with

rage.  Oh fuck the Sheriff's deputies and fuck poor Sam's feelings

and fuck the entire FBI.  "What the hell are you talking about? 

What the hell?  All the goddamn progress of this case, every

fucking thing you've got you got because of me.  Because of Spooky

Mulder mumbling in the dark, listening to shadows and talking to

the spirits.  Because of what I see and what I know and damn you

all to hell, because I knew that she was out there.  I knew it!  He

held her and he held her and she fucking died anyway and he buried

her here.  She liked it here.  It was her favorite spot, especially

in winter when there was a thin patch of snow and no one else would

come!"  Mulder stood, entire hand stretched out towards the chapel.



     "She loved the beauty and the barrenness and when she died all

he could do was hold her.  He sent her on to Jesus.  Because he

loved her and it was all he could fucking do for her and here you

are and you fucking refuse to go look.  You just give me drugs and

tell me to take naps and get scared of me when I tell you the

truth."  



     Mulder paused, looked around.  Samuel and Cooke and Meyers.

Averman and Williams and Hitchens and the local ewe rammers 

were

gone, down to the site, down to where an innocent girl lay buried

in the burning earth.



     His voice crackled with rage.  "You only go so far before you

turn away, scared of what you cannot see.



     "I will show you fear in a handful of dust."  Mulder's voice

was soft.  He closed his eyes, let his shoulders fall forward. 

Over.  All over.  And he was going to go back to that hotel, that

damn fucking hotel and Meyers was going to hold his shoulders 

while the needle sang and burned and left him pulled away in that 

other world where he could not think, could not see.  He wanted to 

run, he wanted to leave, to go somewhere where no one knew 

Spooky Fox Mulder, knew he was the up and coming hot shot.  Where 

no one knew he was coming off his rocker.  Where he was simply no 

one.



     *When you open the door, is it still your sister you see?*



     Mulder opened his eyes at Sam's touch.  "Get away from me you

brown little turd.  Get away from me."  He pushed his body against

the sun hot fiberglass of car.  But Sam was not there.  It was not

Frito's gentle touch.   Mulder shuddered.  Sam was going through

his briefcase.  Mulder sank to a squat beside the car.  There had

been freedom for a moment, a running away.  A sweet delicious

freedom.  If they locked him away, oh god, he would be a fucking

escape artist.  If felt so fucking good, with your heart pounding

in your chest and your mouth dry and every sound magnified and 

then you were free and nothing could hurt you, at least not for a 

while.



There was the open sky and the long rows of fields and it was all

beautiful because no one else was telling you what to do and



     *Is that all you run from?  From Frito and from Averman?  From

their physical restraints?*



     Mulder closed his eyes again.  Put his face in his hands.  Was

reminded of a time when he simply could not face another beating.

Simply could not endure another night of screams.  There had been

three in one week, three and his wrist was already in a cast and

his head hurt and the welts on his butt had broken out into pussy

sores.  He had a fever, but he wouldn't say anything.  And that

gun, the same gun that hadn't protected Samantha, that gun that

hadn't helped him keep her home.  It was smooth and cool and quick

and then there would be nothing.  No thoughts, no pain.  No fear. 

It was the closest he had ever been to suicide.  Nothing mattered,

not the future, not his mother, not himself.  He just wanted to

avoid the pain.  Then his father had come in.  Come in ready to

rage and to belt and to hurt and he had seen his son's closed face

and the gun.  And gently pried it away from his son's fingers.  And

cried, while Mulder stared, not understanding why his father would

be so sad.  It wouldn't bring her back, but it would pay.  His

death would pay.  His father had been so drunk, Mulder doubted he

even remembered the gun or the tears.  He surely hadn't mentioned

it and nothing had changed.



     "Here."  Sam's voice was quiet.



     "No."  Mulder turned his face away.  "Fuck you, Frito.  Fuck

you.  No more drugs.  I just want to go away.  Stop hovering over

me.  Stop controlling me.  Stop telling me to have emotions."



     He heard a gentle sigh.  "Francis, Francis, please look at

me."



     And Mulder couldn't, or he could but he was terrified of what

he would see.



     "Marion, I'm going to give you some Valium.  Then you're going

to get into the car and go back to the hotel with Meyers."



     "No.  I've got to stay here."  As he said it, he knew it was

true.  The whoosh of tires, the guttural sound of combustion

motors, the grinding of loose gravel on asphalt.  There were other

cars.  Several other cars.



     "They're not digging her out right now.  We've got to get a

team from Oklahoma City.  Averman's already asked for it."



     *When will they find Samantha?  Will some other agent driven

by internal ghosts dig through the soul with the edge of a barlow

and find the white of bones, the rot and decay of brown hair, once

kept back in neat braids?*



     Mulder jerked to look at Frito.  Sam started.  Heard Meyers

and Williams talking to the locals, telling them what to do. 

Francis' face was twisted, almost inhuman.  Then it relaxed into

something less frightening, into the face a child.



     "We got more problems?  Helluva' a thing.  I thought, boy's

gone 'round the bend."  The voice was Hardman's.  Sam put up a 

hand

to stop the ceaseless chatter.



     "Where is Samantha?"  Mulder asked softly.



     Sam closed his eyes, felt the blood drain out of his face.

Took a deep breath and returned his friend's gaze.  "No one knows."



     "I have to find her.  It's all the matters.  I found this

girl.  Why won't they let me find Samantha?"  A soft, plaintive

voice.  "I'm so scared.  All I want is to find her.  Why won't they

let me find her too?"



     "I don't know, man.  I don't know.  Come on, let's get some

antibiotics back into you before you spew again."  Sam's eyes were

kind.  Mulder swallowed.  Nodded.











     There was silence, a sharp, dank silence between Mulder and

Meyers.  What Frito had given Mulder was not Valium but more

Haldol, a clear shining cup of liquid. Mulder had looked at Sam,

betrayed.  Sam had shrugged apologetically.  "You kept talking

about your sister."



     Mulder had wanted to throw the cup to the ground, wanted to

make an issue of it.  But he did not want to be restrained, to have

the fat buttfucking sheriff fall on him, watch a needle bury itself

into Mulder's flesh.  And then, at that point, there would be no

more words, and Michael would die.  Would most certainly die.  In

the end, his own feelings and his own terrors did not matter.  All

that mattered was a small boy who did not understand why his new

keeper did not want his dick sucked.



     So now he rode back to the hotel, and he could already feel

the drug coursing in his veins, could already feel a numbing

tiredness dragging into his joints and into all his muscles.  The

drug was robbing him of anger, of energy.  It was beginning to dull

his thoughts, to stop the racing and the knowledge.





     "Stop here," Mulder directed.



     Meyers' grip tightened on the steering wheel, and he did not

slow down.  He glanced at Mulder, trying to shape words.



     "Fucking stop, I'm going to vomit," Mulder said more sharply

than he meant to.



     Meyers' foot on the brake was sharp and sudden, a starting

like a rabbit caught in headlights.  They were on the shoulder and

Mulder opened the car door, tumbled out.



     He could not think, could only wrap his arms around his

terribly bruised chest, only let the candy bars and the tea come

out of his mouth, only sit when he was done, only sit with his eyes

closed, and then lean against the open door of the Buick Century. 

No energy left, nothing in his stomach, nothing that would stay

down.  His chest and his diaphragm hurt.  His fingers shook.  He

shouldn't have tried to eat candy bars and potato chips.  Oh God. 

Everything was numb.  And the Haldol, most of it anyway, was lying

in bile and the half-digested remains.  All he wanted to do was sit

there quietly, let the hot Oklahoma sun pull out the cold chill in

his bones.



     A smell, fresh.  Mulder opened his eyes.  Meyers had some baby

wipes, the little carry-all package they put up as impulse

purchases in Wal*Marts.



     "Williams likes these after cheap ribhouses," Meyers said

apologetically.



     Mulder's fingers shook too much to pull one free so Meyers did

it for him.



     "You were three sessions ahead of me at Quantico." Meyers

said.  "All I heard about."



     Mulder tried to wipe his face.  His hands were tired.  Sore.

He felt Meyers take the wipes.



     "Spooky this and Spooky that.  Is it true that they handed you

a real case and told you it was just practice?"



     "No."  Meyers finished wiping his mouth.  "No.  They thought

they had solved it.  Sent the wrong guy to jail for a few years. 

I got it as a practice case, did the profile.  When they told me I

was wrong I took the profile apart point by point, did the same for

the rest of the case. . .it would have lowered my rank to the

bottom of my class, and left an innocent man in jail.  Does

Williams believe in water, or just wipes?"



     Meyers grinned. "It's said you were never posted to a regional

assignment.  No water.  First convenience store we come to. 

Water."





     Mulder nodded, pulled himself up on the car.  God, he hurt.

They were buckled in, barrelling down the long straight highway

when he bothered to answer Meyers question.  "They were scared to

let me converse with local yokels," he responded weakly, grinning. 

Fuck you Frito. I got enough to make me sluggish, to do what the

Valium might have done.  Most it's lying on the Oklahoma roadside. 

Fuck you, Samuel Rodriguez.  It was an escape of a kind.  "So they

paired me off with Reggie Pardue in Violent Crimes.  A fucking ASAC

shepherds a rookie around.  Like I was bone china and they were

scared of dropping me."  Mulder snorted.  "I've heard that really

good bulls, their sperm sells for thousands of dollars."



     Meyers glanced at him, then shrugged, evidently deciding that

the drugs were working all thrusters now and that Mulder was

rambling.  "Yeah," he replied.



     "That's what I am.  Except that instead of sperm I give off

profiles. I catch killers.  I'm not a real person.  I'm just a

bull, jerk me off a few times and then take what you want."  It

would not do to keep talking.  Meyers was expecting drugged out.

Mulder folded his arms around his chest and closed his eyes.









     "We're here."  The hand was gentle.  Mulder opened his eyes,

squinted at the hotel.  Nodded.  "Listen, they want me to sit in

the room with you."  Meyers was apologetic.  "I need to go by my

hotel room first, grab some work."



     Mulder nodded.  "Yeah.  Okay."  His stomach hurt.  "You got

any change?"



     Meyers rooted around.  Came up with forty cents. Mulder had

sixty.



     "Why don't I get us some Cokes while you get some paperwork?"



     Meyers snorted.  "I may not be the Spooky, but I'm not

stupid."



     Mulder glanced at Meyers.  He really hadn't thought about

running.  "That would be pointless.  I went because I had somewhere

to go, something to find.  We need that body.  If we can identify

her we can identify him."



     "The woman said you were prophesying," Meyers said

pointlessly, walking with Mulder to the elevator.



     "What woman?"



     "The woman at the tent."



     Mulder frowned.  "The tent revival?"



     "Yeah.  You know the one that scared Rodriguez and Cooke

shitless?"



     Mulder nodded as though he understood.  Decided to let it drop

and act woozy.



     They found a Coke machine on Meyers' floor.  Mulder hung back,

let Meyers select the drinks.  Coke and a Sprite.



     Let Meyers get his shit together in a briefcase.  Followed

Meyers up to the room.

     

Continued in part 14................





=====================================================================

======



From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 14/41 NC-17

Date: 3 Feb 1996 07:54:14 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 14/41)

By Amperage and Livengoo

Copyright October, 1995



International Readers:  No third season spoilers

Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence



Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual

property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The

FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana

and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and

everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.



____________



     Individual blades of grass and specks of dirt cast stark

shadows in the lights.  The heat of them pulled sweat from

Averman's skin, squeezed his eyes shut with the pain of their

brilliance.  He could smell the sap of the junipers where the

casings of the lights sent baking thermoclines up into the tree,

hear the buzzing of the filaments, stunning summer insects and

animals into a humming silence.



     Beads of sweat on Rodriguez' face caught the light, refracted

it.  Averman could see the sweat that matted the shorter man's

black hair.  The doctor's sunglasses threw back the light,

unnatural under stars.  A faint, welcome breeze could do little to

truly cool the tiny space that had been a chapel for so many, a

chapel for one, a grave for some.



     Sam worried his lip, trying to see everyone at once.  It would

be hours until the real evidence team got out here, but he had to

secure the site, be sure the locals didn't trample it or damage

what little was here.  Oklahoma City's office had squawked, not

seeing the urgency of such an old grave at first.  It had taken

Averman to convince them.  If Sam had ever doubted Averman's

military career, he didn't after that.  Clint Eastwood probably

called Averman to consult when he did that stupid movie, the one

about that moronic raid.  Guy should have stuck to westerns.



     Averman, next to him, heaved a long, deep sigh.  "You have any

trouble with the kid?"  The first words he'd said that didn't have

to do with evidence.   Frito ran his fingers through his soaked

hair, trying to let the air reach his scalp.



     "Some.  He didn't want to take the Haldol.  Hell, I didn't

want to give it to him."  That still hurt.  The look on Marion's

face while he studied that cup and considered the odds.  "Thank God

he drank it.  For a second there. . . "



     "Yeah.  I know.  I wasn't that sure you wouldn't have to use

the needle, myself.  But I was hoping.  He tell you why he hared

out like that?"



     "Maybe.  I don't really. . . he was talking about the case,

and about listening to voices in shadows and how we were all so

scared of him."  Sam felt his mouth pull tight, holding back the

fears for a friend.  Hell.  Hell and shit.  Friends were people you

and your wife invited to dinner and sent Christmas cards to. 

Pathologists usually didn't spend all that much time in the line of

fire, but the time Sam had spent over the last year and a half had

been spent with Fox Mulder.  That wasn't a friend.  Sam looked up

into Averman's squint.  "He said every advance we'd had was 

because of what he'd seen and figured, and he was right.  We can't 

send him home, and he knows it."



     "If he's a danger to himself. . . "  Averman's voice was dry

and hollow.



     "Hell, man.  He's been a danger to himself on this since day

one.  We just don't have anyone else who can get a handle on this

asshole, so we use the barb-wire and bubble-gum on Francis and 

hope we can pick up the pieces after we're done."  Sam heard the 

sour notes in his own voice.  Thought of the drugs in his briefcase 

and how he'd feel. . . and was glad he hadn't eaten because he'd have

done a Francis and blown it.  He glared at a young cop with a big

camera who might have been too close to the site but probably

wasn't, screamed at the asshole to get away from there and leave

it alone.  Averman didn't even twitch.



     "Pendajo, fucking shit-berries. . . "  Sam got himself back

under control.  Frowned.  "I'm going on vacation after all this

shit is over.  Gonna try to forget I ever set foot in this fucking

state."



     A smile on the narrow, tan-dry face of the AIC.  "You know, I

own a house in Oklahoma City, but sometimes I feel just the same

way."  Watched two of the young cops, and the fat one who'd been

bragging about pulling over the crazy fed, as the three of them ran

yellow tape around the scene.  More a matter of having something to

do than anything else.  "Rodriguez, you got any idea at all what

we're looking at next?"



     The pathologist didn't even pretend not to understand.  "He

took this kind of hard, Averman.  I don't know. . . I guess he

keeps thinking he'll find his sister.  I just don't really know. 

But I really, really doubt we'll have an easy night tonight."



     And they waited, in the violent light that not would be the

last assault those poor, lonely bones would have to suffer.











     Meyers frowned and looked back over his report, marking out

handwritten lines until half of it was scribbled out.  God, he

hated doing these.  Hated having to write all his thoughts out like

this, knowing he'd missed the best ideas.  Everything on the page

looked so stupid when he read back over it.



     He glanced up at Spooky, lying there with the Coke can held to

his head like a compress, remote in hand.  Wondered what Spooky's

paperwork looked like and if he ever had to struggle over it.



     "How'd you like to do my paperwork, Spooky?"  Soft, in case he

was wrong and the guy was sleeping.  The flickering light from the

television screen cast blue highlights, and the low sound could

almost cover Meyers' voice.



     Nope.  Head turned too fast, and his eyes, open but flat and

glazed.  "Sorry, Meyers.  You'll have to fuck up on your own.  I do

it and they'll call you a genius, then shoot you full of drugs." 

Meyers winced.  Spooky went back to nursing what might have been 

a headache.



     "Uhh. . . you want any food, Mulder?  I mean. . . if what

Cooke was saying is true, you could use it."  Slow, empty smile but

Spooky left his eyes shut.



     "So what'd Cooke say?"  Far away voice.  Yeah, the drugs were

hitting the Spookster all right.  Meyers shivered and wondered what

was going on in his head.



     "He said you were ill.  Said you were weird anyway, but that

your head was really fucked up with the flu."  That wasn't what

Cooke had said, but it sounded good to Meyers.  "He said the

antibiotics and all were making you loopy, but you still had the

best handle on the bastard."



     "Thanks, Meyers.  I think I'll wait for breakfast so I can

listen to Cooke myself."  And Mulder finally rolled onto his side,

pulled the ugly, patterned spread over himself and relaxed.  Meyers

watched him until he saw a slow, steady rhythm of sleep move his

ribs.



     Half out of his mind, and he could still think like a

fucking baby-killer was what Cooke had really said.  Tried to kill

them all, but the best chance they had of nailing the murdering

fucker's dick to the wall.  Somebody should make sure Cooke didn't

drink at lunch.  Averman had about strangled him with his own guts

and Cooke had finally shut up.  Meyers went back to his report.









     The television was showing static and hissing when a faint

noise snapped Meyers' head back out of the nod, hurting his neck. 

The empty bed caught his eyes first, and his guts twisted in dread.



The sound of piss hitting water reminded him he could breathe, and

his shoulders sagged in relief.



     Two in the morning and no one but Spooky here.  Dead of the

night.  The evidence team must have arrived from Oklahoma City by

now, and the doc and the AIC would be supervising.  Meyers heard

water running, heard Spooky spit.  He must be trying to clear the

taste of the drugs and puke and whatever from his mouth, poor

bastard.



     Knock on the bathroom door.  "Hey Spooky, you okay in there?"

Heard the water shut off.



     "I can take a leak by myself, Meyers.  I don't need anyone

holding my dick."  Cripes.  Remind him not to hover over Spooky

Mulder again.  It might not bother Rodriguez, but the women in his

class would have racked his balls if he'd talked like this guy did.



The door opened.





     Spooky's face was still wet, but he was dressed in running

shorts and a sweatshirt now.  Christ.  When had he gotten up

and changed?  Meyers shivered at the bright gleam in his eyes, the

quick, abrupt way he moved.  It reminded Meyers of his home in

Florida, of the way iguanas flickered across the road in the heat,

moving too damn fast to catch.  It sure as hell wasn't what he

expected at two in the morning on a gut full of sleepy drugs.



     Spooky had the sheets flipped up, looking under the bed.  He

tossed one sneaker out, fast and hard into the middle of the floor.



Was fishing for the other. . . "



     "Uhh, Mulder?  What are you doing?"  Meyers swallowed. 

Christ, he could see what Spooky was doing.  What he really wanted

to ask was how he could be doing this with that much crap in his

bloodstream.  The look on Spooky's face said he knew exactly what

Meyers was thinking, and didn't care.  How could eyes look glazed

and bright all at the same time?



     "Running.  I like to get in four miles a day, and I spent

today on my ass.  Get your sneaks, Meyers, or Averman'll ream you

a new asshole for letting me out of sight."  Mulder thought it was

funny.  Shook his head.  "Think you can keep up with me?  You went

through Quantico after I did. . . or have you been back on the

donut wagon?"



     Meyers shook himself loose and scrambled for his stuff, hoping

Spooky told the truth when he said there'd be no point in his

trying to get away again.  Not like he could rent a car at two a.m.



Meyers was back upstairs fast, and Mulder was stretching out.  God

in heaven, but Meyers didn't like this.   Tied his laces and

listened to Mulder pace while he wrote a note telling the AIC where

they were and what they were doing.  He didn't venture to tell him

why.



     Then followed Spooky down the stairs, not even bothering with

the elevator.  Through the lobby and out the front doors, ignoring

the stares of the graveyard shift staff at the desk.  It was

finally cool out here, with mist hanging along the highway.  Stars

overhead, and crickets and frogs noisy in the dark.  And Spooky,

falling into long, loping strides along the shoulder of the

highway.



     Cars blew by, few and far between.  Meyers hung back about

twenty feet, trying to pace himself.  Spooky wasn't a lot older,

and god, could he run.  Meyers was in shape, but Spooky was still

running smooth and steady as Meyers felt his heart slamming and 

his muscles going tight.  By the time Mulder turned around Meyers' 

feet hurt, his calves burned, and the stitch in his side was eating his

guts.  God, how could the bastard run when he hadn't eaten, barely

slept, and was drugged to the eyes?  Spooky, spooky. . .



     Oh god, miles and miles.  And a car pulled in next to him,

slowed.  Oh god, he could barely see and some pervert was going to

kill him and Spooky would keep running and then Averman's voice 

was telling Meyers to get in.  Opened the door.  Meyers just imploded

into the seat, sweating and gasping and so weak he could barely

pull his legs into the car and pull the door shut after him.  God,

his eyeballs felt tired.  His hair felt tired.  And Averman put on

the blinkers and paced Spooky Fox Mulder back to the hotel, where

the bastard actually helped get Meyers up to the second floor and

back to his own room, pulled off his sneakers and dumped him into

bed, drenched with sweat and still wheezing for air.  Meyers was

asleep before he ever felt the covers go over him.  Never heard the

door shut.



     And Averman stood outside his door, jaw working, and stared at

Mulder, taking in movements that were still too quick even with the

drugs and running and exhaustion and no food.  Controlled the urge

to hit the younger man.



     "I thought someone as bright as you could have figured this

one out by now."  Mulder glanced at him, tried to focus on him, but

couldn't keep his eyes still.



     "What, that you'd rather drug me stupid than let me work?"



     "This wasn't working.  This was more of your bullshit,

Mulder."  He kept his tone conversational.  Walking down the hall

and letting Mulder set the pace up the stairwell, now that they

didn't need the elevator for another victim of Spookiness.  "You

knew Rodriguez'd be frantic when you vanished.  Knew what we'd

think when we got back tonight."



     Mulder glanced back, and Averman wondered how he was doing

this on the amount of Haldol Rodriguez had made him drink. 

Shuddered.  God, the muscles in the kid's legs were spasming, and

his breathing was so fast.  Averman wondered if he could even feel

what he was doing to his body.



     "I don't need this shit, Averman.  I took my babysitter along.

We left a note.  Obviously you had no trouble figuring out where we

were.  I'm twenty-fucking-seven years old and I made it this far

with nobody looking out for me."  Averman thought of Mulder,

staring at a wall and talking about his father hitting him, and was

willing to bet that last was too true.  Spooky shoved the door open

too fast, and it slammed back against the wall.  Averman caught the

door on the rebound, shut it.



     Mulder was pacing, wired.  Averman was wishing Rodriguez

wasn't still out with the evidence team.  "Son, either you sit down

and get ahold of yourself, or I sit on you."  Mulder glared at him

again.



     "See how hard you can push me, Averman.  Call me 'son' again

and we'll see."





     The AIC sighed, crossed his arms.  Wondered if the jokers in

D.C. really had their heads up their asses, or if they just figured

they'd use Spooky until they'd wrung him dry, and then lock him up

somewhere.  God, when would the kid crash?  Would he have to call

a doctor?  Maybe Guiterriez knew somebody out here.  When he left

the site, he had figured Rodriguez had another hour out there

before he could leave.  He might be as little as fifteen minutes

away now, might be another hour or two.  So, call and find out? 

Get somebody else?  Or wait and see if Mulder ran himself into the

ground?



     Oh Lord, oh Lord help him.  The kid was flipping open the

computer, booting it up.  Hadn't they had enough?



     "I don't think we need any of this tonight, Agent Mulder. . ."



Spooky shook the hand off his shoulder, fingers flying wildly over

keys.  He was not even looking at what he wrote, choosing to glare

at Averman, drive him away from him with anger as hot as the lights

had been.  Typing blind.  Sweat rolling down his face.



     And Averman watched the gloss of sweat over pallid skin, hands

trembling and muscles twitching as a mind that couldn't rest forced

them on and on.  He knew this, had seen it before, but Rodriguez

had cut it short.  This time it just went on and on, and Averman

had no idea what to do for it.  The doctor had the drugs, all

Averman could do would be to call 911 and slam the door on Fox

Mulder.  Do that and admit the kid was gone, no way back home, on

the long trip into the dark.  And a little kid, at least one little

kid, would take a trip into the dark courtesy of a man who'd send

him to Jesus.  Averman fought down his own nausea and watched,

until he heard keys rattling in the hall, felt relief well through

him.  Mulder's eyes weren't tracking away any more, were fixed on

his typing.  And his fingers stumbled more and more, pausing

sometimes.



     Frito heard the keys, heard harsh breathing and no television

and felt red flare in front of his eyes.  Threw his briefcase onto

the bed.  His hands shook as he popped the latches and drew a

syringe.  He didn't even need to look.  Fucking Fox Francis Marion

Mulder up and pulling chains again, more Eliot, more raving.  The

bastard was going to sleep and he'd be damned if he didn't.  Frito

was so tired. . .



     He had the needle in his hand, went through the connecting

door with his anger around him and stopped, seeing Averman's long,

sad face, and Mulder, pale and entranced, fingers dragging across

the keys.



     "Marion. . . "  He couldn't feel his anger now, through the

cold bitterness.  Francis' eyes flickered, but stayed on the screen

as though he could not look away.  "Marion, you need to sleep."



     "Leave me alone, Frito.  You all left me alone when they took

her away.  Leave me alone now."





     Frito swallowed.  "Nobody here wants to hurt you, Francis."

No, not now they didn't.  What had he said this afternoon?   About

his sister, and the old woman had talked about his father   "We

want to help you find her, Francis.  Jack and I. . . we won't let

anyone hit you."



     Dreadful, flat eyes.  He looked gaunt.  Frito didn't think

he'd kept down a full meal since they'd arrived.  No wonder he was

hallucinating.  Now he was just staring back, and his fingers were

finally drifting still over the keyboard, eyes drifting shut to

snap open again.  Frito bit his lip, then put the needle down and

helped pull Francis onto his feet.  Averman stepped in to help get

him into bed.



     "Glad you showed.  If he'd kept it up any longer I'd have had

to take him to the emergency room."



     "What happened?"



     "He was running Meyers into the ground, just like the other

night with us.  Least the note they left didn't have any damned

Eliot."



     Sam turned back to get the syringe while Averman got Francis'

sneakers off.  He was quiet now, but he needed sleep so badly, and

Sam didn't trust that he could stay down on his own.  He tried to

find a spot that wasn't bruised to inject, but both skinny hips

were black and blue.  Sam pulled the sheets and quilt up against

the cold he was sure Marion would start to feel.  Looked up at

Averman, who was saving and printing out what Spooky had written.



     "He'll give me hell for this tomorrow.  You'll have to tell

him he had a chaperon and no one took advantage."  Averman 

smiled, but both of them knew it really wasn't that funny.  He 

handed over the first page.



     'I do not know much aboutgods; but I think that the river

     is a strong brown god - sullen,untamed and intractable,

     Patient to somedegreem at first recognized as a frontier;

     Useful, untrustworthy as a conveyorof commerce;

     Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.

     The problem once solved, the brown god is almst forgotten

     By the dweller in cities - ever, however, implacable,

     Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyr, reminder

     Of what men choose to forget.  Unhonoured, unpropitiated

     By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and

     waiting.



     His rhythm was present in teh nursery bedroom. . . '



     Our killer started began in tehgentle, coastal regions. 

     Green, rolling, most likely Atlantc.  The river is both

     physical frontier for him, and spiritual symbol.  Teh

     Christian symbolism of water and the rivermshould need no

     exploration.  He took Michael Weaverbird from teh river

     despoiled and delivered him to Jesus by tehriver innocent,

     baptism.



     Frito looked up at Averman.  "He's using past tense, like the

kid's already dead.  Even he says the kid's still alive. . . "



     "I know."  Averman handed over the second sheet, and Frito

tucked it under and went back to the page he'd already begun.



     WHere is teh end of it, the soundless wailing,

     The silent witherring of autumn flowers

     Dropping their petals and remaining motionless;

     WWhere is there and end to teh drifting wreckage,

     Tehprayer of the bone on the beach, the unprayable

     Prayyer at the calamitous annunciation?



     There is no end of it, the voiceless wailing,

     Nooend to the withering of withered flowers,

     To teh movement of pain that is painless and motionless,

     To the drift of teh sea and the drifting wreckage,

     The bone's prayer t Death its God.  Only the hardly, barely

     Prayable

     Prayer of teh one AAnunciation.



     It seems, as one becomes older,

     That teh past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere

     sequence -

     Or even development: the latter a partial fallacy

     ENcouraged by superficial notions of evolution,

     Which becomes, in teh popular mind, a means of disowning

     the past.

     The moments of happiness - not tehsense of well-being,

     Fruition, fulfillment, security or affection,

     Or even a very good dinnner, but the sudden illumination -

     We had the experience but missed teh meaning,

     And approach to the meaning restores the experience

     In a different form, beyond any meaning

     We can assign to happiness.



     Will i find you under some tree somewhereorwill another hear

     teh voices and pull back the balding scalp of the earth?



     The backward look behind teh assurance

     Of recorded history, teh backward half-look

     Over the shouldre, towards the primitive terror.

     Now, we com to discovr that teh moments ofagony

     (Whether, or not, due to misunderstanding,

     Having hoped for tehwrong things or dreaded teh wrong thngs,

     Is not in question) are likewise permmanent

     With such permanence as time has.  Weappreciate this better

     In the agony of others, nearly experienceed,

     Involving ourselves, than in ourown.





     He hasn't touched me, not like mama's men.  I have toys and

     food, but he looks sosad.  He says that it will hurt just a

     little, but then I'll be with Jesus and no one will hurt me

     again.  I like him, I call him daddy adn he dosn't make medo

     the things mama makes me do.



     I can't remember.  Why didn't they take me insted?



     Sam had to look up.  His hands were shaking and he tasted the

acid of bile in his mouth.  Averman was sitting still, hands open

in his lap, watching Mulder lie unconscious, rather than asleep.



     You cannnot face it steadily, but this thng issure,

     That time is no healer: the patientt is no longer here.



     "There have been so many times I just knew I was going to have

to ship him home the next day," Sam sighed.  "And then he'd wake 

up and. . .and just be okay.  But this time. . .  He's stopped

teetering on the brink of psychosis.  Now he's starting a long,

slow slide down the hill.  He's not just channelling anymore.  He's

started incorporating it into whatever happened to his sister."



     "Mulder has what?  A PhD from Oxford?"



     "Yeah."



     "A guy like that, probably he could write his own ticket.  Do

whatever he wanted, get on with any good hospital, start his own

practice, do research for fucking NIMH or whatever.  Could be a

professor.  Fox Mulder applies to the FBI before he's finished his

orals.  I was recruited before I finished my ten with the Marines.

FBI, DEA, CIA, NSA.  I liked the FBI best.  Appealed to some

romantic sense of knighthood I guess."  Averman sighed.  "Why did

Fox Mulder want to be an FBI agent?"



     Rodriguez sighed, considered the wrapped figure, curled up in

bed.  Swallowed.  "Because his main goal in life is to find his

sister."



     Averman nodded.  "He's no further gone than he has been this

whole case.  We're just getting down past all the veneer and all

the nicey-nice defenses.  He found someone's sister.  And he's

probably thinking it's pretty fucking unfair that he can find

someone else's sister, but not his own."



     "You think she's dead?"



     "Probably.  But he doesn't.  To Fox Mulder the idea that

Samantha is dead is terrifying.  But it's one he has to face

everyday."  Averman got up, found himself some water.  "He wants

her back.  If he could ever get Samantha Mulder back, he thinks

everything would be all right, would be perfect.  His whole life is

trying to get her back and failing that. . ."





     "To bring other ones home," Sam finished for Averman.  "To

see justice done."



     "To know what really happened.  The truth."



     "What is he doing on this case?  I don't think he's ever done

this before.  Not consciously, not like he's doing it now."



     "What?  Found messages in Eliot, spoken with spirits and had

the BVM come bless him?"  Averman's voice was rough.  "Hell, I

think we could all go a lifetime without that happening."



     Sam frowned.  "So what do we do?"



     Averman shrugged, rolled the waterglass around in his hands.

"I don't know.  I honestly don't know.  Keep him safe I guess.

Drug the hell out of him when we have to.  Maybe I'll call

Guiterriez in the morning. . .  Look, go get some sleep.  How long

will Mulder be out?"



     "I don't know."



     Averman nodded, deliberating.



     "We'll get Meyers to watch him tomorrow."



     "I don't understand how he managed to move, much less go for

a jog."  Sam's voice was flat.  "I fucked him over with the drugs.

Fourteen milligrams.  Enough to turn him into a zombie for a while.

He must have really been wired."



     A sudden thought occurred to Averman.  "There were candy bar

wrappers in that little Escort Mulder rented.  Three of them and a

bag of chips."



     Sam's eyes narrowed.  "Oh shit.  Oh fucking shit," Sam sighed.

"I'm going to give him Dramamine instead of Haldol whenever I can.

It'll help stop some of this vomiting, hopefully, and it's

something Meyers can administer.  And I'll make out a list of

things to get Mulder, start pouring food down his throat and hope

some of it sticks."











     Mulder was still curled around his pillow when Sam got up,

sourly bitching about not getting enough sleep.  He had moved from

unconsciousness to sleep, was tightly coiled around the second

hotel pillow.  Sam sat down, began making a list.  A knock came

hesitantly and he opened the door with sigh.  Meyers stood

nervously in the doorway.  "Averman said that I was going to help

you with Spooky?"



     "You look tired, kid," Sam said.



     Meyers snorted.



     "Okay.  Whenever he gets up make him take a valium.  It's not

much and its not heavy.  Four milligrams.  It won't do much, maybe

take the edge off," Sam dictated, handing Meyers the bottle.  "Take

him to the grocery store.  These are some of the things you can

bring back."  He handed Meyers the list.  "Make sure you get a lot

of Gatorade.  That's the one thing he really, really needs to be

drinking."



     Meyers nodded.



     "And watch him today.  I won't have time.  If he starts

vomiting the Gatorade, cut it with water.  As long as he takes the

Valium, and goes to the store with you calmly, and keeps a jug of

Gatorade with him, let him come to the sheriff's office.  We'll

have the body ready by then.  If he starts losing it, force these

down his throat."  Sam handed the kid a bubble package of

Dramamine. "Two of them and he'll curl up ready for a nap."



     A swallow, a nod.  "I've never been around anyone who's. .

.crazy."



     Sam grinned, chuckled.  "Sure you have kid.  Lots of them.

Mulder just finally got caught.  Look, what's happening to Mulder

is. . .part of it is just how well he's gotten into the killer's

head.  There isn't a shrink diagnosis for that because most

shrinks, the ones that come up with diagnoses anyway, don't go out

into the field and dig up dead bodies."  Sam swallowed.  "Now

listen, the rest. . .some of the things I'm going to tell you I

need for you not to talk about.  Mulder. . .he doesn't need every

field agent from here to Maine knowing about it, but if you're

going to take care of him, you probably need to know. . ."



     Meyers nodded.



     "Not to your partner or your girlfriend or your supervisor."



     Another nod.  "If he has to be protected, then he has to be

protected.  There'd be a kid killer we couldn't track without him."



     Sam let go of the pent up breath in his gut. "Okay.  The other

part is a disorder called PTSD and you'll be damn lucky if you

don't suffer from it to some extent before you retire.  It means

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. . .it's. . .you see something

terrible, horrible, awful, something happens where you might get

killed, something that's so scary you can't think. . .and then your

brain gets a little fried.  Decides fuck this, it plans to never

let this happen to it again.  Mulder's little sister disappeared

when he was twelve.  He was there and he doesn't remember what

happened to her.  Add to that some other bad things. . .his dad

beat up on him for losing her. . .and then all the things he's seen

since he came to work for the efffbeeeeye."



     "That's . . .it's like what veterans go through.  My dad was

in Vietnam, he was in the infantry.  A Sergeant, then they gave him

a field promotion to Lieutenant.  He made Captain before he left.

He did four tours.  He used to scream at night and sometimes he'd

do weird shit.  Not very often."



     "That's exactly what Mulder's going through, just worse

because of the baby killer.  Normally he's just like your dad."



     The look on Meyers' face was not frightened anymore.  He

understood, he could relate it to his own life.  Mulder was like

his dad and his dad was undeniably *not* crazy.



     "When will he wake up?"



     Sam shrugged.  "Did he vomit on you?"



     "Yeah.  On the road."



     Sam nodded.  "He vomited up all the Haldol I gave him. That's

why he was able to run your socks off."



     Meyers shut his eyes.  "I feel like such an idiot.  I should

have known that. . .Oh God.  I'm sorry.  I should have called you

when he puked.  I should have. . ."



     "Don't worry about it."  Sam snorted.  "You're the one who

paid for it.  Not any of us."





Continued in part 15..................





=====================================================================

======



From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 15/41 NC-17

Date: 3 Feb 1996 21:00:20 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 15/41)

By Amperage and Livengoo

Copyright October, 1995



International Readers:  No third season spoilers

Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence



Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual

property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The

FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana

and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and

everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.



__________





     The kid was pale and white faced, eyes dulled somehow.  But he

had a half-liter bottle of Gatorade in one hand and was chugging

it down.  The sheriff's office was littered with fibbies, all

jockeying and trying to look busy.  When Agent Mulder came in, they

all glanced, were somehow, Hardman didn't know. . .deferential,

Hardman guessed, that's the only way to put it.



     And the young crown prince just strode through them with

Meyers following like a puppy dog.  "The body?" he asked in what,

Hardman guessed, he thought was a polite tone.



     "Downstairs.  Ethel," he barked at Ethelred, one of the

deputies, trying to fill out his traffic tickets in the midst of

all this madness.  "Show Agent Mulder the morgue."



     Ethel swallowed, nodded.



     "You feelin' any better son?" he asked sympathetically.  He'd

had intestinal flu several years ago.  It wasn't something you soon

forgot.  Kept him in bed a week.  And this kid was working.  Fuck.



     Mulder shrugged, glanced at the Gatorade bottle.  "If I'm not

better soon, Meyers here has orders to shoot me and put me out of

my misery."



     "My doc gave me Compazine when I was puking my gut once."



     Mulder chuckled.  "I hallucinate on Compazine.  Magic bullets

of schizophrenia to shove up my butt."



     Hardman blinked.  Oh.  He stared at the flat eyes of the

Special Agent, understanding why the kid seemed to be talking to

the spirits.  Whatever they were giving him. . .probably scared he

was going to hurt himself when he went out on the road yesterday.













     The body was carefully arranged on the table.  Evidence bags

holding all the bits and pieces of cloth and hair and jewelry were

scattered on the floor.



     "You look like shit," Frito observed, hand curled over an

evidence report.



     "Thanks.  I feel like a decaying rodent the cat forgot about.



     Sam glanced up at Meyers, who shrugged.



     "What have you got?" Francis asked, kneeling in front of

the evidence bags.



     "Umm. . .ten to twelve year range probably. . .girl.

slender."



     "How did she die?"



     "I'm getting there, Marion.  Hold your fucking dick until I'm

ready to come too," Frito said mildly.  "Blonde child.  She's been

dead ten, fifteen years."



     "Try six or seven," Mulder said calmly, looking down on the

pathetic collection of bones and small bits of flesh.  "Her body

was in a. . .a crypt or a vault or something for a while, so it

dried out faster.."



     "Who's the ME here?" Sam asked, frustrated.



     Mulder looked up, grinned.  "Sorry Sammy.  Didn't mean to step

on your balls."



     "It's okay," Sam dismissed.  "Have you kept the Gatorade

down?"



     "So far."  Mulder hopped up on a clear metal counter, put the

bottle between his legs.  "Get on with it."



     "Umm. . .she ate pretty well, no real nutritional problems.

She was a battered child."



     Mulder looked up.  "Okay."



     "There is still evidence of scars on her buttocks.  Someone

laid into her pretty heavy."



     Mulder swallowed.  "Then we're not looking at someone in the

upper strata of society.  If you're middle class, they. . .umm . .

.they stop before it starts leaving sores, mostly.  Work over a

bunch of different places. . ."



     Meyers stared at the floor.



     Sam just nodded. "I don't know much else."



     "What evidence for sexual abuse?"



     "I don't know."  Sam shrugged.  "Honestly.  If I could tell

you, I would."



     "Do we have an ID?"



     "No.  Jewelry was all cheap fake stuff.  Except for this."



     Sam went over to the evidence bags, pulled something up.



     "What is this?"



     "It's a Tri-Delt sorority ring, with medical tape behind it so

it wouldn't fall off her finger.  Probably belonged to her

mother."



     "The mother was dead, so she had the ring," Mulder whispered.



     "There's lettering in it.  ADF.  Eighteen karat gold,"  Sam

finished.  "We've started a trace, looking for women with those

initials who were tri-delts from the mid fifties to around 1972."



     "How did she die?"  Mulder looked up from the ring.  "And it

was in the sixties.  At Radcliffe."



     Sam swallowed, glanced at the report. "She cut her wrists.

Slashed them pretty badly.  There's still sand in the cuts, so she

was lying in a spring or something like that when she killed

herself."



     It was Mulder's prediction.  Marion and Frito exchanged even,

level glances.  *I'm not crazy*



     *You were right.  You're still crazy.*



     "She was pretty," Frito said evenly.  "Really, really pretty.

The kind of beautiful that walks down runways and makes men

stumble.  Or she would have been."



     Mulder nodded.  "I bet her brother looks like a catamite,"

He whispered.  He closed his eyes.  Deflating suddenly.  Looking

tired and weary and unhappy.  "Can I go out to the site?" he

asked, hand still clutching the evidence bag.



     Sam nodded.  "Averman called Guiterriez this morning.  He's

going to call back around four, so you need to be in your room."



     "Oh fuck that."



     "Mulder, do you remember talking about Samantha yesterday?"



     Mulder opened his eyes, drew the veneer of arrogant bastard

back over himself.  Rodriguez didn't let it phase him.  "You were

getting them mixed up."



     Mulder stared.



     "Do you remember your notes?"



     "What about my notes?"  Mulder swallowed noisily.



     "You talked about Sam in your notes."



     "So?"



     "So, you need to talk to Guiterrez about it.  I'm just a

pathologist."



     "I'm not ready to be committed just yet."  Each word sharp and

steady and clear.   Mulder stood stiffly and walked out.



     "If he loses it out there," Sam closed his eyes, "Call 911."

Meyers watched the physician sit down heavily on a stool, stare at

the body lying peacefully on the exam table.  He looked, suddenly,

very old.  Very old and very weary of life.













     But Mulder didn't lose it.  He finished off the Gatorade,

looked over Meyer's notes.  "Okay. Look," Mulder circled something,

"these are your notes until you put down the final form and turn it

in.  Don't worry about format.  Just write down the key facts and

rearrange them on the paper until you can see the pattern.  Use

different colored pens for different trains of thought so you don't

get confused. . .use highlighters to bring out things that are

important from things that are crap."



     "But what about procedure."



     "I knew a girl named procedure once. . ." Mulder said, leaning

back, not finishing the age old joke.



     "I'm not a genius."



     "Bullshit.  You had to be pretty bright to get in.  What's

your background?"



     "A degree in Criminology, a couple of years in Ft. Lauderdale

PD.  But it wasn't. . .it was upper middle class types mostly.

Mainly we tried to keep out the riff-raff and solve domestic

disputes."



     "Well, then if you've done domestic you can do anything.

Every fucking thing goes back to the home."



     Meyers kept his hands on the wheel, glancing occasionally at

what Mulder was writing on his notes.  The tidy sheets of black

ball point in neat lines were covered with blue marks now, some

just pointing out lines, others highlighting whole sections.



     "Do me a favor, Spooky. . . "



     "Hmm?"  Flat eyes, lips a bit jaundiced looking from the way

Gatorade stained.



     "Autograph it when you're done.  No other way the guys'll

believe I got tutored by Spooky Mulder."



     "Christ.  I'm not writing 'to Meyers with love, Spooky' on any

damn field notes.  You can do your own reports if you want that

kind of shit."  He tilted his head back, letting the last of the

Gatorade slide, luke-warm and salty-sweet, down the back of his

throat.  "God, it's like drinking sweat.  Drop me off at a massage

parlor and at least I can have a good time drinking sweat."



     "Yeah, I can see explaining that one to Rodriguez."



     "Hell, he's probably checked them out already."  Mulder's tone

was mild.  He tossed the empty bottle in the back with the two

already there.



     Miles of rolling hills, on and on forever.  Meyers missed the

comfortable distances and certainty of water of his home.  How had

humans ever survived this barren, rolling land of grass and sky?



     Spooky had long since finished marking up Meyers' notes, and

might have been asleep, leaning back in the seat.  The change in

rhythm as they turned off the interstate brought his eyes open,

watching.  He glanced back.



     "This is where I picked up the watch dogs yesterday.  Better

stick to the speed.  They see me again and the locals are gonna

shit bricks."



     Meyers nodded, feeling his shoulders slowly unknot, tension

leaking away from him, thankful that Spooky was behaving, being

normal.  They pulled into the parking lot of the park unnoticed,

and over to where Spooky directed him.  This time he locked the car

doors.  This time they didn't have cops behind him, just one guard

on him.



     Meyers followed him up to the quiet place between the hills.

The tiny bowl that had yielded the dead in the night was empty

today.  A huge gash of dun-brown marred the hillside under a

juniper.  They had taken what they wanted and left, sure that

nothing remained.



     Trees ranged here where the hills kept the wind at bay.  They

stood tall and strong until they crested the hills, then bent,

twisted out of their shapes by the world that surrounded this

protected place.  The ground under them was hard, and dry, clothed

in creeping grasses and plants except where men had disturbed the

ground.  Mulder was pacing the line of trees now, staying to the

empty bowl of the meadow just below them.  Pacing and counting.



     "Do you know the stations of the cross?"  His voice was sudden

in this place, and Meyers jumped, then shook his head.



     "Sorry.  I can help you with the Torah a little. . . "



     Mulder shook his head, staring up at the trees and circling

again.  Meyers watched, and tried to see his father's tempers, his

father's fears.  Tried to see how you wrote this up.  Which stare

do you highlight, Agent Mulder?  Which snatch of poetry do you

write in colored ink?  And when you stop at the sycamore, what do

you see?



     He was shaking his head, chewing on the earpiece of his

glasses.  Finally smiled just a little and beckoned Meyers over.



     "What do you see?"



     Trees.  Thin grass.  A few wildflowers.  Meyers swallowed,

pictured the grade book.  "Uh, nothing. . . "  Spooky glanced up at

him, let his smile widen just a little.  With the flat eyes it

looked. . . hollow.  "Does this have to do with. . . anything from

the Bible?  Or Eliot?"  Oh god, more prophecies?



     "Archeology."  Shaking his head now.  "Even if the extraction

team missed this, Frito knows better.  And Averman should have." 

He was crouched, brushing at the thin grass, and Meyers was

fingering the Dramamine in his pocket.  "In England, aerial

photography shows medieval villages.  Soil that's been disturbed

has different heat absorption qualities, even thousands of years

after it's been touched."  He looked up at Meyers, who simply

stared and tried to remember what Dr. Rodriguez had said.



     "Meyers."  Mulder read the look, sighed.  "Meyers, grass grows

differently on disturbed soil.  Now, what do you see?"



     "Thin. . . thin grass?  I mean. . . "  Meyers eyes felt wide,

and a smile raced across his face.  "They missed something?"



     And Fox Mulder, star of Quantico, Spooky Mulder who solved

three year old cases blind, and saw visions, grinned back.  "Could

just be a rock, but maybe, just maybe. . . "



     "So what do we do?"



     Mulder stood again, brushing his hands off.  "We call Frito

and tell him he's slipping, and that we may have found something." 

A sudden sour look.  "And I wait for my 4:00 call."











     "Rodriguez?"



     Sam straightened to look back at Averman.  His shoulders

ached.  He couldn't remember how long he'd been leaning on the

examination table, staring at the remains, mind racing and getting

nowhere.  The AIC's bloodshot eyes scanned around the room, came

back to him.  "You okay?"



     "Yeah.  Yeah, I'm fine.  Just. . . thinking."



     Averman sighed, ground the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Looked back at the pathologist.  "Looks like we're back out to that

damned Chapel.  Maybe, just maybe, we missed something."



     "What?  We went over that site. . . The extraction team

practically took half the real estate from up there."  Frito felt

hot, tired.  And he had a bad feeling about anything to do with

that site or any bodies.  Francis had gone up there. . .



     "They had good reasons this time, Rodriguez.  And not a word

of Eliot in the whole mess."  Averman's smile was strained.



     "Christ.  I'm going to just drug him next time."  He regretted

it the minute it hung in the air, but his shoulders ached and

sagged, and he had to work to draw a breath, he was so tired.  But

he grabbed what he needed and followed the AIC out of the cool

world of the morgue, where everything to be found lay in front of

a doctor who knew how to look.  Out of procedure and sanity, and

into the hot light of chaos.











     Spooky was back at the hotel and Averman wanted Meyers up at

the site, to go through the reasoning and help with the work.  The

only agent available to watch Mulder was no one's first choice, and

Meyers winced at the memory of Cooke and Spooky, perched on

opposite sides of the hotel room, trying pointedly to ignore each

other and pretend to be engrossed in paperwork.  Somehow, Meyers

didn't think Mulder was going to be highlighting Cooke's reports.



     Sam stared at the patch in nervous disgust.  "Thin grass.  We

knew this might be a favorite site, and we missed it."



     Averman had been listening to Rodriguez develop this vein for

several minutes, and was too tired to be patient.  "Yes.  We should

have caught it.  Absolutely.  And yes, we missed it for good

reasons.  Dark, lights didn't reach here, take your pick and get it

over with."  They wouldn't call the extraction team back until they

were sure there was something - someone - to extract.  It was going

to be a long afternoon.



     The area had been cleared and marked with string.  Hardman had

one of his people, a tribal liaison with some archeology

experience, supervising a slow, careful exploratory dig.  Sam

swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth.  He had caught exactly

this kind of thing in the past, was trained to observe a site and

see this.  Be honest with himself.  He hadn't missed it because of

lights, or darkness.



     "I missed it. . . because I wasn't looking past that damned

prediction.  I was so scared last night. . . "  His voice was soft,

but Averman caught it.  Nodded.



     "Yeah, me too.  Me too."











     "Hi.  They tell you I'm going psychotic?"  Mulder's voice was

dry.  "You're punctual."





     "Thank you.  They told me you were having some problems

distinguishing between reality and fantasy."



     "Oh.  No.  I don't think so."



     Mulder heard a chair creak as Guiterriez leaned back.  "Do you

want to talk to me?"



     "Not particularly."



     A sigh.  "Let's talk about your sister."



     "No."



     "Okay.  We do need to talk about these manic states, if only

so I can guide agent Rodriguez in his choice of medications."



     Mulder sighed.  "I've had them before."



     "This badly?"



     "Not that often."



     "Okay, what's the usual frequency of ones this bad?"



     "I don't know.  One every four or five months maybe."



     "What do you do?"



     "I go jogging.  They won't let me go jogging because they

can't keep up with me."



    "What do you think they're scared of?"  A calm voice.



     "Fuck you.  I'm not some paranoid schizophrenic with a head

full of dope."



     "So answer the question."



     "They're scared I'll lose it," Mulder said, resigned, lying

back on the bed, staring at the ceiling of Rodriguez' room.  Cooke,

in the other room, was studiously working on a press release.



     "Have you given them reason to believe that?"



     "I know it's fucking reasonable.  That doesn't make it any the

more fucking easy for me to accept.  Okay?"



     "Calm down."  The voice was quiet.  "I know you're frustrated.

But we have got to talk about this."



     "Why?  So you can tell Frito to keep pumping my butt full of

antipsychotics?"





     A deliberate pause.  "Yes.  So I can tell Rodriguez what to

do."



     "Oh, fuck you."



     "Agent Mulder, I'm not going to make you answer, but I want

you to think about what you might do in one of those manic states

when you can't go jogging, if you can't work it off.  Agent

Rodriguez said you hit your hand against the wall."



     "You are so full of shit.  I wouldn't hurt myself."



     "You wouldn't?"



     "No.  I wouldn't," Mulder replied sarcastically.



     "But let's say you're stuck in the hotel room and you're in

the middle of one of those attacks.  And you can't do anything.

But you've got to do something.  Would you find something to make

it go away?  Something that might not be really good for you?"



     Mulder was silent.  He closed his eyes.  "Yes," he whispered.

"I don't want to but I can't help it."  Oh god, he wanted to talk

to someone.  He didn't want to tell them, but he wanted someone to

know.  He was alone and it was dark and he didn't know where to go.



     "Is jogging a way to hurt yourself?"



     "I don't. . .It. . .it makes it go away and I'm still

smiling."



     "Makes what go away?"



     "I don't know. . ."  Mulder paused.  "I don't know," he stated

finally.



     "If you don't have the jogging outlet what happens?"



     "I just. . .I. . .you know."



     "If it gets too bad, would you hurt yourself?"



     Mulder paused, suddenly aware of the trap Guiterriez had laid

for him.  He rolled over to the phone base and gently hung up the

handset.  Mutherfucking bastard.



      When it rang again he did not answer.  Did not react, just

lay on Sam's spread, staring at the nondescript print of some

flowers.



     Cooke finally came back in, answered the phone.  Mulder felt

Cooke's hand on his shoulder, shaking him.



     "Get away from me, you cocksucking babykiller," Mulder

snarled.  "Leave me alone."



     Cooke solemnly reported the conversation.  Mulder heard Cooke

swallow.  He sat up.  Cooke's face was draining of color.  Mulder

snatched the phone away.



     "I'm not going to hurt myself you son of a bitch.  I'm fine,

just fucking fine.  Leave me the hell alone."  Slammed the phone

back down.



     Cooke stared at him.  Swallowed.  "Rodriguez left some

Dramamine for you," he muttered.



     "Oh Fuck off," Mulder snarled, got up, stalked off to

Rodriguez's bathroom, locked the door.











     Sam's face was white under his olive skin as Averman drove to

the hotel.  "Are we going to let Guiterriez commit him?" he asked

softly.



     Averman glanced at the younger man.  "I don't know."



     "He technically didn't say, `Yes, I Fox Mulder will hurt

myself.'  If Mulder shows up for a committal meeting all Joe Cool,

he can explain that tape away."



     "And if you tell them about his vomiting and odd behavior and

hitting his fist against a wall. . ." Averman sighed.  "It might

stick."



     "Might and probably wouldn't," Rodriguez replied sourly.  "He

needs to be someplace safe.  Where he can't hurt himself."



     "Agreed."



     "If we do that, we're looking at several more murders."



     "Agreed."



     "Do you think he'd kill himself?"



     Averman considered this question for several minutes.  "No.

Not unless he found out something more about his sister."



     "Like she was dead?"



     Averman nodded distractedly, pulled into the hotel parking

lot.



Continued in part 16.........................





=====================================================================

======



From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 16/41 NC-17

Date: 5 Feb 1996 11:09:32 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 16/41)

By Amperage and Livengoo

Copyright October, 1995



International Readers:  No third season spoilers

Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence



Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual

property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The

FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana

and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and

everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.



______________________________



     There were sobs in the bathroom.  Cooke was sitting on the

floor against a wall, white faced.  He'd been crying.



     Oh God.  Sam swallowed, nodded to Averman.  "Get him some

Valium and get him out of here.  Send Meyers up."



     Averman nodded.  Tugged at Cooke until he was up, in Mulder's

bedroom.



     "Francis?  Francis, come on."



     The sobs were soft.  Oh shit, they were wrong.

ohshitmulder'striedtopulltheplugohshitaverman'swrong.



     Rodriguez recalled Quantico training that he'd hoped he would

never have to use.  One-two-three and fuck. . .his shoulder was a

mass of pain, but the fucking door was open.  Mulder was curled up

under the sink, a tiny little ball, staring at his knees.  No

blood.  No cuts.  How could anyone that tall fold up into such a

little ball?



     "Leave me alone."  Mulder's voice was sharp.  "Leave me the

fuck alone."



     Sam swallowed.  "You know I can't do that.  You know that."

He sat down to await Meyers's arrival.  "Guiterriez must have upset

you."



     Mulder continued crying.  He was trying desperately to stop,

Sam recognized the breathing pattern, the holding to keep in sobs,

then the relaxing, and the choking wails.  Trying to stop it, and

couldn't.



     "What's wrong?"  Meyers was panting.  And Williams.



     "Meyers, sit here with Mulder."  Sam got up, went back into

the bedroom where his syringe and the Haldol waited. Averman was

just coming back in as Sam began drawing the clear liquid.



     "He's hostile right now, thanks to Guiterriez," Sam said

sourly.  "I'm drawing up ten mgs of this.  That should be enough to

calm him down, but he's not going to want to take it.  You're

probably going to have to hold him."



     Sam sat on the floor beside Meyers.  Meyers was ashen faced,

but just sitting quietly.  "You want to talk about it?" Sam asked

quietly.



     Mulder eyed the needle.  "Guiterriez."



     "I don't know what to do, and neither does Averman.  We need

somebody to help us."



     "He set me up.  He kept pressing and pressing and pressing and

I didn't have any choice.  I won't hurt myself.  I'd let you drug

me first.  I don't want to hurt myself.  He's going to want you to

put me in a hospital tonight.  Mutherfucker."



     "Mulder, he's seen a lot of people in similar circumstances.

He knows how easy it is when you're fragile to. . ."



     "Bullshit."



     "No.  It isn't bullshit," Sam replied patiently.  "He thinks

you're going to fall completely apart."



     Meyers shifted uncomfortably.



     "Before that happens he wants you someplace safe, someplace to

cushion the fall."



     Mulder swallowed.  Stared at Rodriguez and Meyers. "I think

about her.  A lot.  Sometimes when I'm really tired, when I'm

coming in from a case, I'll fall into this daydream.  I'm coming

home and there'll be a message on my machine.  It'll be from Sam.

She's in school and she's coming up for the weekend or she just

wants to talk about her new boyfriend.  But when I get in there

isn't a message.  Sometimes I manage to keep the fantasy alive long

enough that I go to bed happy.  Usually when I go through my

messages and she hasn't called I know she's still gone."



     Sam sat still and listened.



     "I shared a bedroom with her.  Our dad was a professor and he

did work for the state department; he had a lot of papers and

needed a study, and there were only three bedrooms.  Sam and I 

both

were scared of the dark.  Sam was kinda' scared of it, and I was

phobic, so they let us sleep together. . .we left her half of the

room the way it was, so she'd know we hadn't forgotten about her.

I'd come in and go to my room and stand there with my hand on the

doorknob and think; I'd close my eyes and think really, really

hard. If I could think hard enough, if I could believe hard enough

she'd be there.  Just like. . .like nothing had ever happened.

Bugging me for help with her homework or something.  But when I

opened the door. . ."



     Mulder put his head in the nest between his drawn up legs and

his torso.  Began crying.  A soft, gentle sadness.  "She's gone and

I don't know what happened, and I've got to find her someday," he

managed softly.   "And I see. . .I see other little girls and

parents and siblings and I. . .how do we all make it?  Do we just

pretend?  I don't know."



     "Guiterriez wants to say I'm crazy and maybe I am."  Mulder

lifted his face.  "But I'm not going to hurt myself, even when I'm

too full of energy.  Sometimes I. . .it's like I can't concentrate

but nobody notices. . .I have to replay things over in my head from

my short-term memory, to catch what people are saying. I know

that's because of what happened.  And I get really angry sometimes,

and I know that's because of what happened.  The nightmares are

because of it too.  But I'm not psychotic.  I can take care of

myself when I have to.  I'm not suicidal.  I'm not self-

destructive.  Sam, please.  I'm not any of those things. I don't

know why this is happening.  I've never. . .I can feel them and I

can see them and I know what's rolling around in their skulls, but

not this way.  I've never had anything like this happen. I don't

know why it's happening now.  I've never had . .I've never. . .I

feel like I am going crazy.  But I'm not.  I swear I'm not.  I

don't want to hurt myself."



     Sam felt his mouth go dry.



     "If you want me to take that stuff I will."  Mulder swallowed.

"I know you've got people out there ready to hold me down.  Don't

make me leave this case.  We're getting so close.  We can catch

him."



     Yeah, and maybe you and he can be on the same ward of the

psych hospital, Sam thought.  He nodded.  "Come on out of there

and let me drug you into submission."



     "What are you going to do?"



     "I don't know."



     Mulder stared unwaveringly.



     "We're not going to commit you tonight."  Sam sighed.  "For

what it's worth, I think you probably need some time in a psych

hospital, but not against your will and. . ." he closed his eyes,

"and not when there's a baby butcher out there."



     Mulder nodded.



     "Come on."  Sam stood, held out a hand.



     Mulder stumbled when he stood, needed Meyers' help.  He

crawled back to his room, watched as Sam closed the door.  Meyers

and Rodriguez gently helped him shed his clothes, down to his

shorts.  "Go get the liquid," Sam told Meyers gently.  He'd waste

the suspension Haldol.  The plastic of the syringe had already

begun to absorb the chemicals.  He sighed.



     Meyers came back with the briefcase.  Let Sam find and fill

the little plastic cup with its lines.  "Okay.  This is going to

make you absolutely shitfaced."



     "You don't have to," Mulder replied.





     Sam snorted.  "Right, Marion.  You *are* losing your grip on

reality.  You need some down time after that stunt.  Time to

stabilize. I can't sit with you because we've got the team coming

*back* out.  And you won't have to listen to them bitch.  Isn't it

great how you have these things down?  Don't have to listen to

`well why didn't you catch this before?'  `Why didn't you see it

yesterday?'  `Costing us money out of our budget and. . .' Bitch

and moan. Bitch and moan."  Sam smiled, watched as Mulder gulped

the liquid down.



     "Are you hallucinating?" Sam asked gently.



     Mulder swallowed, but it had nothing to do with the

medication.  He nodded.  "Not. . .I know they're hallucinations."



     "What are you seeing?"  He nodded and Meyers left for the next

room.



     "I'm hearing voices.  They keep asking why I can't find Sam.

. .I see this little girl.  The one you dug up.  Elijah sees her.

That's why I see her.  He thinks she's like. . .heaven lets her

help take the children he sends up to heaven.  The kids can see her

too."



     Sam nodded.  In normal times he would know Mulder was

suffering from some form of psychosis.  Right now he just wasn't

sure.











     He slipped back over quietly.



     "Meyers, you're the official Spooky watcher when I'm not

around," he said tiredly. "He trusts you. I'll teach you how to

give him the shots."



     "How is he?" Averman asked quietly. He was ready to get in a

car and drive Mulder back to Oklahoma City.



     "He's going to be good to work for a while. He got rid of a

few things."  Sam watched as the FBI agents filed out, left them

alone, disaster averted.  "He needs someone to talk to, but he's

terrified of telling anyone anything. Telling me because I work

with him. Telling you because you're a superior, telling Guiterriez

because Guiterriez wants him in a hospital. . ."  He sighed.



     "I think I understand his behavior. He's. . .I don't know. .

.I could say he was psychotic, but then I saw the BVM. Most people

would say I'm psychotic for thinking that. I don't think he's

crazy. He's just. . .tired.  Tired and wishing his sister were back

and she's not. If he were psychotic, he wouldn't know that she was

gone. But he knows it. He knows it too well."  Sam sat down on his

bed.



     "Why don't you all go to supper? You can bring me something

back. See if you can get a mashed potato or some plain rice or

something. And a couple of packets of butter. We'll feed it to

Mulder when he wakes up."



     Averman stared hard at Sam, then nodded.



     When he was alone, Sam closed his eyes, curled up in bed. He

called home, but Jenni was out, probably with her friends. The

misery that Oklahoma had become was nothing that touched her or

affected her unless Sam called.  He listened to the message on

their machine. Hung up, dialed back. Listened again. And again.

Finally left Jenni a message. Took a cue from Mulder and curled

around the second pillow. Tried to nap. It would be a long night

when the team got in. And then Mulder would wake up and who the

fuck knew what kind of mood Mulder was going to be in anymore?











     He felt something bitter in the back of his mouth and tried to

smack some saliva back into himself. Moaned and rubbed sleep crud

out of his eyes.



     The room was mostly dark, with a glimmer of light through the

connecting door. Mulder stared at the door. Oh God, he'd . . .no.

He'd done what he had to. Guiterriez was trying to lure Mulder into

a web. That was no doubt fine for the people Guiterriez normally

saw.  But Mulder wasn't one of those people. Mulder had a degree

that surpassed Guiterriez'.  An intellect that surpassed

Guiterriez'.



     The thought of what he had told Frito rolled through his head.

He hadn't planned it, but it worked.  He was so tired. He sat up,

reoriented the world once it stopped spinning. Found the door.

Meyers was sitting on the bed, flipping through channels. Johnny

Carson was on.  Meyers glanced at Mulder nonchalantly. "Why. . ."

Swallow. "Why don't we get you some clothes or a robe?" he asked

softly.



     Mulder suddenly realized he'd come over dressed in his boxers

and nothing else. He nodded. Went back to his room, found some

shorts and a t-shirt.



     "What's going on at the site?" Mulder's voice was thick and

blurry. Not slurred, just not. . . easy. As though the words took

work to form.



     Meyers stared, suddenly nervous. Mulder watched him, flat,

empty eyes that slowly came back into focus. "What's going on at

the site?" Meyers started as the question was repeated.



     "The extraction team's back out there." He smiled

apologetically. "They're bitching and moaning. Want overtime, too."

Mulder nodded.



     "Yeah, they like to get it all done at once." He vanished back

into his room, came back with his laptop dangling from one hand.

"No chance of us getting out there tonight, is there?" It wasn't

much of a question and the smile that accompanied it wasn't much of

a smile.



     "I. . . I don't think that's a good idea. It's just the

excavation now, anyway. I think. . . " Meyers licked his lips.

Looked back into Spooky's empty stare.



     "You mean Rodriguez and Averman don't think it's a good idea."



     "They brought something up." Meyers picked up the styrofoam

box of mashed potato and Texas toast, held it out like a peace

offering. Spooky took it, slightly wrinkled his nose, took a piece

of the toast and nibbled at it.  Meyers fished out a Gatorade and

handed it to him.



     He turned back to his reports, glancing up every few minutes.

Spooky was sitting cross-legged on the other bed, his computer

open, the soft whine of it just below the audible range. He just

stared at it for a while, eyes reflecting the blinking cursor. The

sudden clatter of his fingers on the keys startled the other man.

Meyers looked up to see the flicker in his eyes as letters scrolled

across the screen.



     In the uncertain hour before the morning 

     Near the ending of interminable night  

     At the recurrent end of the unending

     After the dark dove with the flickering tongue 

     Had passed below the horizon of his homing 

     While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin 

     Over the asphalt where no other sound was 

     Between three districts when the smoke arose 

     I met one walking, loitering and hurried 

     As if blown towards me like the metal leaves 

     Before the urban dawn wind unresisting.

     And as I fixed upon the down-turned face 

     That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge 

     The first-met stranger in the waning dusk 

     I caught the sudden look of some dead master 

     Whom I had known, forgotten, half-recalled 

     Both one and many; in the brown baked features 

     The eyes of a familiar compound ghost

     Both intimate and unidentifiable.



     "Why do you think he does it?" Meyers head snapped up at the

sudden question.  Spooky's hands hovered above the keys, dark,

hazel eyes watching him.



     "Does what?  I mean, you wrote the profile. . . you're the

psychologist."



     "So I have my degree piled higher and deeper. I still want to

know why *you* think he does it."  Meyers shivered.  Felt lost and

must have looked it.  Mulder sucked in one cheek, considered.

"Start at the beginning, Meyers.  Start with the first body."



     "The earliest one or the first one we found?"



     "Which helps you more?"  Soft voice, and the lights from the

screen were an amber highlight along his cheekbone and jaw, a tiny

gleam across one eye.



     "The first found."  Finally, firm ground. "It's the first time

we have an influence we can absolutely identify if his behavior

changes."



     Spooky nodded. "And that was Christopher Raintree. Details."



     "They found him in Ponca City. Asphyxiated and left in a

crucifixion position.  Um, no signs of recent molestation, but

indications of long-term abuse. Anal trauma. The coroner found a

poem, but didn't keep it."



     Spooky nodded again, led him through the details of each death

they'd found. As he reached Erika he had to include the FBI

releases in his timeline. Brought it up to the present, with

Michael Weaverbird.



     "All right, those are the outlines of the deaths. The bare

facts.  What do they tell you, Meyers?"  He had to know everything

Meyers could say.



     "He. . . he doesn't molest them. There is usually a week or

two between their abductions and their deaths. The killings are

relatively painless.  The mutilation is post mortem."



     "The symbolism of the mutilation?"



     Meyers swallowed again. He had hated Socratic method when he

was in school. "I. . . I agree with your evaluation. I read it and

the symbolism is biblical and sexual. He either displays them in

positions of Christian violence, or he damages the body in a manner

related to the abuse suffered."



     "And the poetry?" Spooky's head was tilted, expression mild

and questioning.



     "I'm not really sure. . . I . . . We don't study a lot of

poetry in criminology classes."



     "What do you know about Eliot?" He could have been asking

about the weather.



     "Um. English poet, wrote in the thirties, around the same time

as Yeats.  Um.  Lots of obscure references.  He was Catholic.  His

wife was a nymphomaniac."



     "That's open to debate." Mulder's smile caught the same amber

light that reflected in his glazed eyes. "He was born in America.

His grandfather founded Washington University in St. Louis."



     "He was from St. Louis?"



     "No. He was raised Protestant. He graduated from Harvard. He

was an Anglophile, erudite. He became an English citizen. You're

right that he wrote in the thirties. He converted to Catholicism

late, in his fifties.  He wrote the Four Quartets after his

conversion.  The poems before that. . . have a lost, searching

aspect.  The Quartets are challenging, but they reflect a knowledge

of a peace to be found through faith."



     "Loss. . . and faith and peace."



     "The still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor

fleshless."



     Meyers listened to the soft, dark voice. Nodded. "A paradox.

How can something be both?"



     "What does the flesh mean? What's the symbolism?"



     "Sin. The sins of. . . the flesh are sexual?" He wracked his

brain for recollections of Catholic and Baptist friends and

problems that had seemed small compared to vandalized synagogues.

"And adults commit the sins of the flesh."



     "Sex and death. And he takes the children touched by the sins

of the flesh." Mulder's voice was certain, coaxing. Leading Meyers

through arguments he'd long since understood. Paths the younger 

man had not really thought through, leaving them for the experts in

madness.



     "How does he find them?"



     "You had us search the records at Social Services. . . ?"



     "But he's been on the road. Finding these children. Killing

them."



     "So he found them before a certain date? And after a date. .

. " Meyers nodded. "But he's not choosing them for just any abuse,

he's taking kids who were beaten or raped. . . " Meyers stared into

glazed eyes. "How did he know?"



     Mulder's glazed eyes stared back. Long, slow blink.



     A very soft whisper, horrified now. "How do you know?"



     Mulder looked back at his computer. Meyers saw his throat

work. Felt a chill twist in his guts and looked away, finding his

own report. And tried to tell himself he hadn't just looked over

the edge of an abyss and into darkness that might never end.



     So I assumed a double part, and cried

     And heard another's voice cry: 'What! are *you* here?'

     Although we were not. I was still the same, 

     Knowing myself yet being someone other -



     I sit on a warm, vinyl seat. The car smells like vanilla, and

     I eat ice cream whenever I want. I will go to Jesus but I will

     play until I do. And Jesus will take the little children.



     Too strange to each other for misunderstanding, 

     In concord at this intersection time

     Of meeting nowhere, no before and after, 

     We trod the pavement in a dead patrol.

     I said: 'The wonder that I feel is easy, 

     Yet ease is cause of wonder.

     Therefore speak; I may not comprehend, may not remember.'



     The little children must be saved. They must return to their

     creator before their souls are violated further. The sinners

     will reap as they have sown and the call of the resurrection

     shall not fall upon their ears.  The child comes to know peace

     and accept the love his Creator, and his time will be upon

     him.





     There are three conditions which often look alike 

     Yet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow:

     Attachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment

     From self and from things and from persons;  and, 

     growing between them, indifference

     Which resembles the others as death resembles life, 

     Being between two lives - unflowering, between 

     The live and the dead nettle. 

     This is the use of memory:



     Sin is Behovely, but

     All shall be well, and

     All manner of thing shall be well.





     We have taken from the defeated

     What they had to leave to us - a symbol: 

     A symbol perfected in death.

     And all shall be well and

     All manner of thing shall be well

     By the purification of the motive

     In the ground of our beseeching.



     The symbolism of the victims has moved from the spiritual to

     blunt messages of physical manipulation. Children are 

     portrayed as sexual toys - their value removed by destruction

     of their sexual organs. Ericka Jones was prepared as food for

     law enforcement and publicity. The radical change of

     symbolism from religious or related to specific abuse to more

     obvious and animal fodder for societal response patterns marks

     a shift of imagery from personal to global. The symbolism of

     a child murdered and left as garbage, fertilizing the staples

     of modern animal needs like food or elimination reinforces

     this assessment. I anticipate the next victim will continue

     this trend of social commentary rather than personal or

     religious symbolism. A return to sexual imagery, but in a

     global rather than a personal aspect, is highly probable.



     Who then devised the torment? Love.

     Love is the unfamiliar Name

     Behind the hands that wove

     The intolerable shirt of flame

     Which human power cannot remove.

     We only live, only suspire

     Consumed by either fire. . . or fire. . .



     "Fire." Meyers looked up again, heart beating fast, fearing

now where Spooky might lead him. The other man paused, hands 

over the keyboard.  "Fire. . . " His voice was hoarse. "He'll. . . he'll

burn him." He swallowed. Pulled away from his computer in quick,

jerky moves, rolling off the bed so fast he almost fell on legs

full of pins and needles. He caught himself and nearly ran into the

bathroom.



Continued in part 17................





=====================================================================

======



From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 17/41 NC-17

Date: 6 Feb 1996 05:59:08 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 17/41)

By Amperage and Livengoo

Copyright October, 1995



International Readers:  No third season spoilers

Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence



Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual

property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The

FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana

and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and

everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.



_________________



     Meyers lunged out of his chair, felt the trill of fear as he

lost sight of Mulder for even the moment it took to cut around the

bed, then heard the water run. Spooky hadn't closed the door,

hadn't bothered. The water was running full-blast and he had his

hands buried in the stream, splashing his face, his whole head.

Sobbing. Meyers stopped at the door, pale, looking nervously back

at the table where Rodriguez had left Dramamine.



     "Fire. Meyers, he'll use fire.



     "The one discharge from sin and error the only hope or else

despair lies in the choice of pyre or pyre to be redeemed from fire

by . . .fire." Spooky looked up at him, face dripping and slick

with water, hair matted dark.  And his eyes were as dark. "Fire."

Meyers nodded, didn't know what else to do.



     "C'mon. Spooky, tell me what you're talking about. . . "



     Mulder stared at him. "I couldn't move, Meyers. It was

burning, and I was cold. I was safe where it was cold. . . " His

voice was thin and small.  Meyers reached for him, slowly, so

slowly, and pulled very gently.



     "C'mon." Just like dad, and loud noises. This he knew. This

wasn't voices and spirits, just fear. Fox Mulder followed him,

talking about fire and cold. Meyers turned for only the time it

took to get water, pills, and handed them to Mulder.



     "I don't. . . If I'm not awake I won't know when it starts.

I'll be trapped. . . "



     "You promised, Mulder. You said you'd take them. You promised

Rodriguez, promised Sam. . . "



     "Sam? Sam wants me to take these?" He stared at the pills,

baffled. "But she's gone. . ."



     "She's gone. Sam wants you to take them. . . " He didn't know

why the name worked, but he could see that it did. Mulder stared

back at him, chewing on the inside of his cheek.



     "Sam's gone, Meyers. He'll burn Michael. He'll do it soon, but

not yet.  We have to get there. . . the next one will be a girl.

It's time for a girl again." His voice was lower, not the thin,

terrified voice when he'd spoken of fire. He was burying that fear

again. Deep. Meyers closed his hand around the pills, pushed it

towards him.



     "You promised Sam. You said you'd take these. Don't lie about

this, Mulder." He held his breath and waited. Spooky finally shut

his eyes, face pulled in a flicker of. . . pain? He swallowed them

fast.



     Meyers left him sitting at the table. He couldn't bring

himself to read what Spooky'd written. He was afraid of what he'd

find. He saved it and booted down and put the machine back. 

Mulder watched him, wide eyes, and very dark. Meyers stared back 

and suddenly felt old and tired, looking into a smooth, pale face that

hid everything he'd never thought he'd know.  It took more than

half an hour, and it may have been Miami Vice rather than the 

pills that left Spooky sprawled again, in dreams. Meyers looked at 

him, but closed eyes gave no hint of empty space and places a kid 

from Miami had ventured only on paper, in the cold, crisp words that

told of pain and the things man did to man.













     Sam ran his hands over his face, digging the heels of his

palms into his eyes. He'd scrubbed and scrubbed, but the smell of

death still hung with him, under his nails, in his mind. Three

months in the ground. Death did not frighten him, but it's pall

still oppressed.



     Averman was sitting at the table, holding the computer Meyers

had handed him, wishing he could wait for day to read what it 

held. The dead of night, he smiled grimly. He'd seen the dead of night

already. It was the quick that scared him. He took a deep breath

and flipped the catches, opened the cool, modern toy. Booted up 

and brought up the directory.  Looked for the marks of old, old 

things left in traceries of magnetic patterns, flowing electricity.



     Meyers had told them in rushed, nervous words about following

the first steps into the dark. Had told them about reviewing with

Spooky and about Eliot. God, two of them now, talking about Eliot.

And fire and cold. He braced himself and opened the files the kid

had written. Rodriguez looked up to watch him, hair a wreck from

sweat and the nervous tracks of his hands. Listened to the printer

run, and took the sheets as Averman handed them over.



     These took less time to read. Sam sat there, staring at the

wall, pages in his hands. Francis was sleeping in the next room and

couldn't explain, and Sam didn't want to wake him. He feared what

his friend would say. The pages were smudged and rippled when 

he finally put them down. He heard a low moan in the next room, 

wasn't surprised. The Dramamine couldn't hold him as long now. Sam

gathered the part of himself that was a doctor, and went to look

for Marion, stopping in the door to look at the empty bed.



     The sound of fists hitting the table brought Sam whipping

around, heart slamming under his ribs. Even knowing he had to be

there, the sound was shocking. Marion slammed his tightly balled

fists onto the table again.  His eyes were screwed shut, but he

didn't need to look.



     "You took it." Sam stood there, silent. Felt Averman in the

doorway behind him, knew the AIC was tensed back there. "You took 

my fucking computer." Francis opened his eyes, drew a deep, noisy

breath. "You mother-fucking sons of bitches, you just don't have

the right." He was swinging out from around the table now,

advancing on Frito, eyes still glazed with drugs and sleep, a flush

riding high on his cheekbones, but the rest of his face was

white-pale.



     "Those were personal notes. I write official reports for a

reason." He was right on top of Sam now, tight fist lightly tapping

on Rodriguez' sternum, slowly edging him backwards. Averman 

had edged around to the side, ready to restrain Spooky. "You. Have. 

No.  Fucking. Right. To take my personal notes, read my *personal*

notes.



     "Francis. . ."



     "Don't 'Francis' me. Don't even dare." The pathologist was

backed up against the bureau. He kept his hands low, minimizing 

any threat. When Averman met his eyes past Mulder's shoulder, Sam 

gave a little shake to his head. Mulder saw it. Spun on his heel, hands

up and clawed, almost shaking. Averman didn't back down when 

Mulder got in his face.



     "I talked to your fucking shrink. I took the fucking pills and

shots and naps and. . . "  His voice was spiraling.  A shrill edge

grated on Sam's nerves.



     "Calm down, Agent." The words were soft, posture neutral.

Marion froze, stood there shaking, holding a rage he couldn't

unleash on men who made no move against him.



     "Why? Why can't you just. . . let me deal with this?" His

voice was suddenly soft, thin. "I've dealt with it up until now.

Just leave me alone. Please. Leave me alone." Still trembling.

"Averman, they don't even take a murderer's journal without a

subpoena. Not until he's convicted. You don't. . . you aren't. . .

" Sam could see him bite his lip, let up before he broke the skin.

Averman's hands came up a little.  Mulder stepped back, out of

reach, fearing comfort or restraint. His t-shirt  was stained with

fresh sweat. His bare feet were silent on the carpet when he

turned, scooped up his sneakers and strode to the door.



     Sam was there ahead of him. Francis stopped. His face was

expressionless. Sam swallowed. "Francis, please don't make us. . .

"



     "What? Arrest me? Commit me? You said you wouldn't. . . " He

was whispering. "I'm a legal adult. I have rights. I know. . . I

know what's real, Frito. I do. I just know other things, too.

Please don't do this to me."



     Sam closed his eyes, prayed. Tia Maria, watch over him. Mary,

Madre de Dios, let me be doing the right thing. "Francis, you still

need to rest.  You had. . . you are. . ." Mulder watched him, no

expression on his face, but a terrifying sense of loss in his eyes,

dilated in the shadows. Averman stayed back, letting Sam find the

way to deal with this. "You promised us, Francis. You said you'd do

what we asked. You told me. You promised."



     "You'll hold me prisoner with that?" Ironic, bitter

inflection.



     "You scare me, my friend." Sam stepped forward, and now he

drove Mulder back in front of him. "You see visions, Marion. You

speak of your sister, but cannot remember. You see ghosts in old

women. You know things you cannot know." Mulder opened his 

mouth, Sam could see the protest in his face. "Things you *can not* 

know. Yes, you were right. You were right about the girl and right 

about Michael. Explain to me how you could know this. I want to 

believe there's a way you could know this. I want to believe. . . " And 

he did. Although it made madness of so much, something in him. . .

remembered the priests and incense. And wanted to believe.



     He could see Mulder swallow. Could feel the frustrated, choked

sense of him.



     "Sit down and explain it to me Francis. Please." Sam looked up

at Averman, silently asking him to go get the pages of hell and

pain that Mulder had spilled from his fingers that night. Turned

back to Mulder, and his fragile, shaky control. Averman slipped the

sheets past Sam's shoulder and settled into a chair to wait.



     His own fears were in delicate check, eyes fixed on Francis,

trying to bridge the distance and find the friend under all the

fear, and pain, and mystery. Handed his notes back to him.



     "Tell me."



     Mulder stared. He had told Sam something. Something to keep

himself out of a hospital. And now Sam was taking him up on it. Do

you want to talk or do you want Haldol? Do you want to make 

sense or do you want to rant and rage and scream until we have no 

other choices left?



     Mulder closed his eyes. "Fire is a purification. It is the

cleansing. It is also the symbol of. . ." Mulder swallowed. "At

Pentecost, there were seventy-two followers of Christ in the upper

room. They . . .the Holy Spirit came down and crowned their heads

in rings of fire and they knew God's Word, had it in their hearts.

The Evangelicals. . ." Mulder made an emphasis out of his hands, as

though it were hard to keep the explanations straight to an

audience that did not follow his references. "Evangelical Christian

groups vary on what this means. Some say it's like a special thing

given to those who will prophesy or preach in worship. Some say --

this is the mainline view -- that the Holy Spirit came down at that

point. And that it lives on in all those who have been saved. Some

denominations believe the Holy Spirit cannot leave you because 

once you are saved you can never be unsaved. Others think that it 

can if you sin again. That you become unsaved. Others, like I said, 

don't equate it with salvation so the spirit comes and goes as it will.

. ." Mulder trailed, aware suddenly that he had lost his audience.



     "Before that, fire was also a symbol of God -- the burning

bush that was not consumed. God was a pillar of fire at night,

leading the Israelites to the promised land. Fire was used in all

the sacrifices and altars. It was also a form of light in darkness,

which is a symbol of Christ."



"Mostly though, Eliot refers to the pentecostal fire. Eliot

understood it in a transcendent way. . .as God's communication to

us. . .it doesn't come and go because God doesn't come and go. .

.it is the spirit. . .it is. . .the transcendence. And if we do not

choose the fire of the dove -- the dove is the symbol of the Holy

Spirit -- remember the dove came down to Christ when John 

baptized him? Then we choose the fire of hell. So we have the choice 

of either fire or fire."



Mulder felt a flutter of fear, felt something spin around in his

mind. "You see now, somehow, he knows he's got at least one 

watcher who understands him. He started killing with purely 

personal goals.  Send the hurt children to Jesus. But then he realized 

he could teach us something. So then he got our attention and he sent 

his message out to the masses. Now he's still preaching to the masses,

but he knows he's got some watchers who understand his message.

Like a missionary. He sends the message out to the masses, and 

any whose. . ." Mulder paused. ". . .any whose hearts are softened, are

preached to more intensely."



     "He's going with two different beliefs, drawn from his Eliot.

The first one is that the Holy Ghost comes down," Mulder made a

movement from his head to his chest with one hand, making a 

drawing movement fingers wide at top, touching at bottom, "and fills 

the person and that person is saved.  The second is that when the 

Holy Spirit comes to a person, that person," the hand was open, the 

palm went outwards from his own chest to the room around him, 

"can prophesy. Can know things because the Holy Spirit tells it to 

him.  Can transcend and become part of eternal."



     No Eliot. He was trying, for once, to explain the Eliot to

them both. To explain Why.



     "What did you see after I was unconscious?" Mulder's voice was

soft, but terribly sharp. "What did you see? Who came? Meyers 

said Sam thought it was the BVM. Who came? Who did you see?"



     Sam swallowed, stared at Averman. "This woman came. She said

you were sick.  She said you were prophesying. She said she was 

the mother of the man who owned the revival tent," Sam replied 

before Averman spoke. "I don't know what she was, but she knew 

you like she'd known you from the day you were born."



     "She said *I* was sick?"



     Sam nodded. "She said. . .you started moaning and she said she

loved you like Samantha did."



     Mulder's head jerked up. He stared at Sam. "I don't know," Sam

replied. "I don't know what she knew or how." He put his hands up

in an "I'm innocent" gesture.



     Averman looked as though he was upset. "She was a 

charismatic. You know they believe in tongues and all that horseshit."



     Mulder stared at Averman. "Be not unbelieving, but believing,

because you have seen have you believed?  Blessed are they who 

did not see, and yet believed."





     Averman blinked back. Stared at Mulder. "The devil may quote

scripture for his own purposes."



     Mulder smiled.



     "How can you say that when you don't believe in God?" 

Averman

questioned.  "How can you ask me to believe in what you don't?"



     Mulder shrugged. "I don't know," he said quietly, finally. He

stared numbly at his hands. "I hate fire. I fucking hate fire. He

doesn't know that or he wouldn't be using fire." The voice was very

soft.



     Averman shifted over to where Mulder sat, got close. "What are

you saying?"



     Mulder looked up. "Nothing. Nothing." His face was pale. He

swallowed.  Looked around. "What happened, besides the smell of

rotting flesh?"



     "Not much. We'll have everything ready by in the morning. It

was an adult.  A male caucasian. It looks like a strangulation.

Just like you said."



     Mulder accepted this quietly.



     









     Mulder let himself into bed, left the bathroom light on.  Left

the lamp beside his bed on.  Tried not think.  Pretended things to

himself.  He knew, and he knew it was like being led as a lamb to

the slaughter.  He knew Elijah did not know or Elijah would not do

this.



     Fox was one of Elijah's children now.  Elijah did not hurt the

children intentionally.



     But he was still quiet, still went to bed as he was told,

though it felt like going to bed the night before you were led out

for an execution.  A strange sense of calm, of being someone else,

somewhere else.  It was his body and he was there, but he did not

feel it.  It was not him and yet it was.











     Sam put his face against the pillow.  Too many bodies, no real

answers.  Too many children.  Fox Mulder on the other side of a

terribly thin wall, slipping down into sleep like it was some kind

of river filled with monsters who swarmed under the surface 

waiting for his kicking feet.  He was tired and sleepy and the 

convolutions of Mulder's brain still frightened him.  Fire.  To be 

crowned with either Fire or Fire.  The dark dove of the flickering 

tongue. Madre de Dios, Spooky had him saying Eliot now too.  Like it 

was some short prayer to a saint before you went to sleep.  He fell 

into sleep, knowing that he would have to wake and face the dead.













     Averman swallowed the last of his nightcap, considered the

reports, considered Mulder's profile.  The best are soon gone, he

thought softly.  Fox Mulder was not, right now, a very likable

individual, but Rodriguez thought he was a good person.  Meyers 

had a serious hard on for him.  Averman pulled Meyers report from 

the pile.  It was pretty evident what Meyers and Mulder had gotten 

done together, although you had to admit it *was* Meyers' work.  But

then he'd stride into a room and you just wanted to slap him for

being a general cocky asshole.  When this case was over, there was

no way the old Fox Spooky Mulder would ever come back.  That

creature was an amalgam of fears and horrors that had never come 

to a head.



     Averman thought of his own children.  He remembered the one

time he'd pulled the belt out of its loops, when his son had come

home with all F's in the first grade.  The look of horror and the

realization that he could inflict such horror on another being and

nothing would be said, the remembrance of horror when his father

hit him.  He hadn't hit his son and he had never, ever thought

about belting his kids again.  He didn't understand how men could

do that and stare at the panicked faces of their children and not

be moved.



     They'd pulled Christopher and sent him to a private school

where research was being done.  Told Averman it was something 

they were beginning to get a handle on it.  Christopher reversed

letters.  They called it dyslexia.  You heard about it on the news

now and every pissant little school district dealt with it.  But in

74, it was a thing only liberals talked about.  You just hit them

when they couldn't.  Hit them hard to knock some sense into them.



     How could a man hit a child, an utterly defenseless child,

until, when the child grew up, he heard voices and huddled in

bathrooms crying, until people around him whispered words about

commitment and hospitals?  How could a man stare at an innocent

child, all baby fat and dimples and grins and feel his dick grow

hard?  How could he do things to that child, hearing the screams

and the pain?



     Averman pressed his face against the glass.  What a world we

have created, he thought tiredly.











     Walking through the abandoned Cathedral.

     Water and fire succeed

     the town, the pasture and the weed.

     Water and fire deride

     the sacrifice that we denied.

     Water and fire shall rot

     The marred foundations we forgot,

     Of sanctuary and choir.

     This is the death of water and fire.



     Bright stars through the fallen beams, clear and sharp.  Water

squished in the grass under his feet.  This place had burned.  Had

burned and. . .



     "FOX!"  He turned.



     There was only emptiness and silence in the char blackened

timbers and the brittle summer green that grew.



     Saw the orange and the yellow.  The red of coals and the white

ash fall.



     The only hope or else despair

     Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre--

     To be redeemed from fire by fire.



     Heat and moldering ash and he stood with the smell in his

hair, the embers in his face.  His father telling him that this is

how London smelled when he was there.  Watching and digging 

through the ash for things the flame forgot.



     We live, only suspire

     Consumed by either fire or fire.



     Hot and his hands were burnt.  Stare and someone grabs you.

And you remember watching the fire, feeling the sear of heat along

your face and the blisters breaking out.  Fire is alive it can

swallow and it can roll, billow like a sail, wave like a child.



     The Cathedral was cold. 



     He moved to the front, out of the nave and into the crossing,

standing on ruined mosaics.  A simple angled maze.  The devil

cannot follow corners.  The devil cannot move in straight lines

because the devil is a snake.  His feet in their heavy wingtips

crushed brittle grass, growing between the tiny tiles.  The grass

crumbled into waterlogged mush.  The tiles skittered and pushed

down into the foundation.  A very black night.  The sky was dark

and palpable.  You could touch the darkness, feel the radiation of

the passing celestial spheres.  Glanced at the transepts and

the fallen saints who had rested there. Forward.  Into the choir,

the fallen pews, collapsed and decayed, wood rills along their

edges, telling how long the rot had survived.



     The presbytery had fallen in, and the gold leaf was gone.   He

stood quietly, hands deep inside the trench coat.  Wondering.



     A movement in the back, in the dark.  He w