From: livengoo@tiac.net Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW: Oklahoma 18/41 NC-17 Date: 8 Feb 1996 06:23:53 GMT Oklahoma (Part 18/41) 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. Special thanks to Rodent, the editing goddess. Rodent - I have a shrine to good editors. - Goo ____________________ Mulder woke with a start, unable to force breath into his lungs, feeling the crackling, the burning, watching the yellow tongue. It was hot. Hot and he could not escape it, could not run. Hot and the flame of incandescent terror assaulted him in waves of fear. He found the bathroom by main instinct, found the blue knob, blue, the color of God. Twisted and the water fell over him, hard and cold and the flames were burning, crackling and twisting and rising up in arching tantamount swells. Smoke and fire and the ring of sharp white ash. Blisters and burns. He pulled off his clothes, sobbing, feeling the bile and the Gatorade gushing from his mouth. Oh God it was hot. It was hot and he was. . .burning. . . Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one. He leaned against the tiling naked, felt the tears, the tears were hot, his eyes. . .oh god, he could not think, his eyes were burning, were melting in their sockets. He closed his eyes and turned his face upwards, felt the water trickle and steam into his throat and nose. He breathed, felt his body choke. Coughed and sputtered and breathed again. Felt his heel slip on the water, falling, huddling against the cool ceramic, away from the heat. Blazing and burning. A ritual pyre. Michael sleeps and The chill ascends from feet to knees The fever sings in mental wires If to be warmed, then I must freeze And quake in frigid purgatorial fires Of which the flame is roses and the smoke is briars. Jesus loves the little children. All the children of the world. Filled his mouth with water, spat it out when it became warm. Cold water. Sam blinked. Nothing. Go back to sleep. You're imagining things. Yeah, yeah, I'm starting at shadows, going to be as bad as Mulder. . . He rolled over. It was raining. No. Sorry son of a bitch. Up already? It was only 5:30. Didn't the mutherfucker ever need sleep? Had he slipped out so quietly no one heard him go for a run? Oh hell. Sam debated just closing his eyes and going back to sleep. Debated forgetting that he ever heard the shower. Well shit. The door was open, but no steam billowed out. No heat. Water was splattering the carpet. Sam frowned, edged over to the bathtub. Oh Fuck. Marion was asleep under the shower. Cold water, icy, frigid cold water. Asleep and it looked like he'd been that way a long time, sitting under the water. Head against the soap dish, legs at odd angles, discarded clothes a heavy, waterlogged mess. Sam turned off the water wondering what the fuck had happened here. At the disappearance of the current, Francis' head bolted up, startled, frightened. Terrified. Then he relaxed. Deep breath. Shivered. Sam waited quietly. Francis stared at him. Shivered, a full body, uncontrollable shiver. Again. Sam put his hand against Mulder's skin. Clammy and water wrinkled. Worse than clammy. Outright cold. He found the towels on the rack. Three of them. One around Mulder's shoulders, one at his lap. "He burned him tonight, Frito." The voice was very quiet. Sam nodded. "Come on," he said, not caring about wondering what was being said. "Let's get you out of the water." Five short steps, maybe ten, and then he could go back to bed. Marion had been sleeping in ice water, God knows a warm bed should lull him right off. But he shivered harder suddenly, the motion sharp against the arm Sam had around his back to guide him. All the long muscles tensed and he dragged Sam to a stop. Sam looked up at him. Marion wasn't meeting his eyes, was staring at the bed, blinking rapidly. Madre de Dios. Puta. Merde. Fluent in three languages and he should be able to find enough words to describe what he thought right then, with the air dragging in his lungs and a body on the table a few short hours away. "Please don't fuck with me, Marion. It's too late for this shit. . . " Francis' eyes had come down to look at him, and the pathologist shivered. Looked through him. "He burned him, Frito." "That's what you said, now can you. . . " "You don't believe me." The hand on his arm felt odd. Wet and. . . Sam frowned. Slowly reached over to take his wrist, turn the hand with the palm facing up. And swallowed. The ringing phone slapped Averman's ears and forced him from a deep, short sleep. 5:30. Christ. "Nng. Averman here." "Sir, you asked to be informed of anomalous homicides. . . " "Mmhmm. Jesus, man. I sure as hell hope you're not calling with a drive-by." Tactless. He kicked himself, but god, he was so tired. "We have a body recovered in an arson case, sir. Looks like a child." Averman's bloodshot eyes were abruptly staring at the swirled plaster that shone faintly in the light from the parking lot. "Give me what you've got." "How did you get these, Marion?" Very soft, gentle voice. His finger carefully skimmed over the white, blistered surface of Mulder's palm. Grabbed the other wrist and both were blistered. Soft, white blisters, and Mulder flinched when he touched them. "Don't make me go to sleep, Frito. Please. I don't want to go back there." Rational, calm. Then much softer. "I'm afraid." Frito stared back up at him. "Where did you get these?" Not from scalding. The flesh was red. They looked like burns. . . But to get burns like that from a shower? "I picked something up. In the cathedral." "Francis. . . " Frito leaned over and turned on the light to look more closely. The blisters were still there. All over his palms, but none on the sides or backs of his hands. If he'd done this with the hot water, they'd be messier, spread further. The shower head itself couldn't get this hot, surely or, if it did, would make a pattern. He left Francis and went to look at it. Narrow little nozzle that Francis' hand would wrap around. That didn't make those burns. Nothing in here was large enough to leave that even coat of blisters. They would have differentiations. This didn't make sense. Mulder was standing behind him in the door. He had his robe around him now, and was still shivering. Slowly and deliberately, he reached up and wrapped his hand around the shower nozzle. "I'd have had to burn my hand an inch at a time on this, Frito. I didn't. I didn't hurt myself. I was in the fire." "Are you sure it was arson?" "We found definite evidence of accelerants. Gasoline mainly." "Any chance your perp is the victim?" "I. . . if it's suicide it's pretty strange. We'd feel better if you took a look at it." "Jesus Christ." If the locals were asking for the feds to drop by for coffee and donuts, then this one had to be pretty strange. "More or less." "Marion. There's no fire. There's nothing here." Sam could hear the frustration crackle in his voice, the fear of what he'd hear. "Marion smiled, brittle. "In the cathedral. I tried to tell you. He burned Michael tonight. And he'll take the next one tomorrow. . . the day after. Soon. I was there. There's a mosaic in the nave." "Marion." Sam ran his hands through his hair, bit back a curse and a sob and a plea to let him sleep. "Marion. I need sleep. You need sleep. . ." God, Francis was backing away, face pale even though he wasn't shivering so badly. "Please, Sam. . . .please. Please don't make me sleep again. I don't want to go back." He had the bed between them. Sam swallowed, felt the ache in his throat, the pain in his shoulders when he pulled himself upright. His feet were swollen from hours of standing, working with the extraction team. His knees, his back. . . He had to think of the motions to breathe and Francis was standing there, seeking barriers, seeking any escape for even an instant. "Listen to me. I want you to take more Haldol. . . " Mulder's face twisted, teeth showing on his lower lip, eyes shut tight then snapped open as though he couldn't stand that much dark. "You'll sleep hard, you won't dream as much. . . " "If I go to sleep I'll go back." Voice a desperate whisper. "Don't make me go back. I don't want to fight you and I don't want to run. But he saw me tonight." "You were asleep in a fucking tub full of ice-fucking-water!" He could see that Francis startled at the shout. Drew a shaky breath and balled his fists. Averman heard the shout, knocked fast and hard. "Rodriguez! Rodriguez, what's going on? You okay?" No sound for a moment. The bolts twisted back and Frito was staring up at him, dark eyes above smudged bruises of lower lids. Grim, pale mouth. Averman looked past him at Mulder, around on the far side of the bed and almost in the corner. He felt his mouth open on a comment, but held it. Waited for screams, or Eliot or God-knew-what. Mulder watched him with still eyes, tracking and silent. He looked back to Rodriguez. "We got an odd one in Shawnee. The locals want us out there." "To the cathedral." Mulder's voice. Rodriguez' eyes squeezed tight shut. The doctor let his head and shoulders slump. "He burned him in the cathedral. They found him on the altar. Michael slept until he died and the fire took him." He could see the pale man swallow across the room. "What happened, Sam?" He kept his eyes on Mulder. "I woke up. He. . . he was in the tub, in ice water, asleep." The words were gasped out on choked breaths. Rodriguez had let his head loll against the door, using the wood to hold himself up. "I was burning. I was with him when he died and it was burning. Elijah didn't know." Sam's lashes were dark and his face was tight with the fury of exhaustion and despair. "He has blisters on his palms. Even coat on both hands. Fuck me if I can figure out how. . . all I can make of it is psychosomatic damage." Averman looked from Rodriguez to Mulder. Shivered. "You're going there. He's waiting for you. Please. . . " Mulder's voice choked off. Sam looked back over his shoulder. "We can get Meyers up and I'll hit him with enough Haldol. . . " "Please don't make me sleep." The words were bitten off fast and hard. "Let me. . . let me see this site." Rodriguez rounded, shoulders gathered and fists tensed again. "You said you were scared of the fire. Hated the fucking fire, that's exactly what you said. . . " Sam caught himself trembling. Shut his eyes. Lowered his voice. "Mulder, why do you want to do this?" Because you won't have to sleep? The thought ran through three sets of eyes at once. Mulder nodded slowly. "That. And I need to be close to where he was. I need to. . . see what he saw, smell it, walk there." Distracted from distraction by distraction. "I don't know as that's a good idea, Mulder." Averman's voice was soft, more controlled than Sam had been able to manage. Listening to them argue to drug him back where men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind that blows before and after time would take him all unknowing and undefended to Elijah. To the fire. Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs, into the faded air. "We've never been so close. . . " They looked at him. "He's taking us to the heart of it, Averman. Do you see it Frito? 'Your building not fitly framed together, you sit ashamed and wonder whether and how you may be builded together for a habitation of GOD in the Spirit, the Spirit which moved on the face of the waters like a lantern set on the back of a tortoise.' "Fire or fire. He redeemed the child in the abandoned house of worship. Burned the abandoned house of the soul in the abandoned house of god." "Mulder." Averman had stepped in and was moving slowly and carefully towards the young man. "It's all right, we believe you. You saw it burn. . . " He swallowed, felt fear in his chest. He did believe him, believed he'd seen, could see the marks on his hands, and feared. "This is a crime site, and not safe. You. . . you're not thinking so clearly right now. You don't need to be there. Just let us help you get calmed down. We'll bring the reports." God, if he was so scared of fire that was the last place Averman wanted him. He could hear Rodriguez getting what he needed in the next room. Was grateful that Mulder wasn't freaking out, wasn't violent or sobbing. His eyes were dilated, and he gestured, trying to draw Averman into whatever he was arguing, but he didn't have time for this. Frito had another fucking needle ready. His skin crawled at the memory of the sharp sting and the cold drug creeping into his system and smothering him. "No Eliot. I don't care. Let me see the site, please, Averman!" Mulder backed into the corner by the bed, caged by the two of them. If he fought, they'd call him hostile and Guiterriez would have him. If he slept Elijah would have him. "Please. . . " Not for me the ultimate vision. Grant me thy peace. "It's not so much. . . " I am tired with my own life and the lives of those after me, I am dying in my own death and the deaths of those after me. Let thy servant depart, Having seen thy salvation. What images return Oh my sister. Mulder was crying, quiet tears from under his eyelids. He felt Averman's arms around him in a rough embrace like he was a child, like he would fight hard, grabbing his wrists, pulling to the bed. "Shh. . .it won't hurt long. . .shh." Averman's voice, rough, the whisper of a coarse voice, softened. The voice Averman's children must have heard when they woke from nightmares. It was a voice like his father's, stroking his forehead when he was in pain, telling him it would be all right, the voice when he had cried, not able to play Little League because of the damn cast, the patient voice. The needle stung like. . .fire. He felt the heat slide into his skin; he twisted, screamed. Felt Frito's hand. "Don't struggle." Sharp voice. "Shh. . .you're going to be all right. Shh. Calm down. . .Shh. . .it's going to be all right. . .shh. . ." The needle left, but the fire burned on, it spread, it danced in his veins, it held him hostage. "Fire." Mulder whispered. "Elijah danced around the fire when he was little. They built a fire on Halloween. His father didn't know. His mother laughed. His mother was British and she always lit a fire on Halloween, tossed herbs in it to appease nature. Salt turns it a lovely shade of blue. . .When the fire was low, the children jumped over the coals. A pretend sacrifice, another kind of baptism. . .the world was destroyed once by water. The second destruction will be of fire. . .The prophet Elijah called down fire to prove to the king that. . ." deep sobbing breath, "his God was the only true one. . ." The words became harder to say. "I know. You can tell us later. Shh." Averman let go. Quietly they put him into the bed. Meyers had his paperwork, his portable, a couple of books and a candy bar when he came in. He was still dressed casually. Averman nodded in approval. "Stay with him all day," Sam ordered. "He'll be out most of today." Averman turned to the short doctor. "You told him `it's not so much'?" he asked mildly. "It isn't, considering how much I wanted to give him," Sam replied drily. "But I don't want him coming back up for a while." He checked his watch. 6:10. Forty minutes? Had all of that only taken forty minutes? "We need some cortisone salve and gauze to wrap around his hands." "Any idea what happened?" Averman asked. "There's nothing in this room he could've done it on." A frown, shake of the head. "There are some reports in the literature of psychosomatic burns. . .I don't know. . ." a shrug, "I don't think it was intentional." Averman nodded. "I'm going to go get changed. You need to do the same. How long do you think you'll need?" Mulder mumbled something softly. They ignored him. "Hell if I know. I'm going to get dressed, find someplace and get him something for his hands," Sam said. He glanced at Averman. "Is that something that comes natural when you get a kid?" Averman smiled, shook his head. "Yeah. Yeah it does." He was so far away. Dry cotton was a sour mess on his tongue, and he couldn't swallow. Dry in his nose, his eyes. And cold, chilled cold. Someone with Frito's voice took his hands, smeared them and muffled them up tight and numb. When Mulder tried to move them a little, he felt bindings around them. Frito talked to him, to others. Told him things, but he was too far away to really hear them. He tried to tell that to them, but his words never made it back, and only his own ears heard them. There were strangers' voices, talking about things that made no sense. Mulder tried to remember the language but found he could not. Someone spoke in Meyers' voice and there were words. So hard. Something about television, something about sleep. He felt sleep waiting for him, in the dark, and he tried to talk to it, too. Tried to tell it to go away. He wasn't going to sleep. But it didn't hear him either. They left, for the case, left Meyers sitting with the Spooky. Awake, but somewhere lost within. Occasionally he mumbled, but the words were indistinct. The young man propped his feet on another chair and settled a pad of paper on his lap. God, this was going to be a long day. Write up finding the second body. Write up taking the extraction team out there. He sighed hopelessly. And Spooky was over there under the covers staring at nothing. Meyers tried to think. He'd never seen anyone on drugs so heavy they made you drool. Was quite sure he didn't want to go into psychiatry as a profession. He'd always wondered why the homeless people in DC went around muttering, and refused to take their drugs so they would be sane. Always thought it was because they wanted to stay on the dole. Fuck that. If Meyers had ever been so drugged that he just lay curled loosely fetal, staring at nothing, he probably would have negative feelings towards his meds too. It wasn't . . .it wasn't like Rodriguez and Averman had choices. He'd seen Mulder get manic, he'd seen Mulder prophesying. It wasn't pretty and it wasn't fun and it didn't leave you with much else to do, because Fox Mulder was hot shit, and he knew his stuff, no fucking doubt about that, but there were times he wasn't in control. Meyers sighed with frustration. Turned back to his paperwork. Baptist. The sign was large. Calvary Baptist Church. Welcome. Rodriguez picked his way through the rubble, watched the FBI agents swarm. He was tired. His feet hurt and he was going to have to look at another corpse. The smell of ash and water filled his nostrils. The site was still smoldering, more heat on top of searing heat. Rodriguez squinted, walked along, looked inside the doorway, past the yellow tape. There was a large man talking with Averman and the local Fire Chief. Rodriguez ducked the tape, walked into the foyer, which appeared to mostly have suffered water damage. Through one of three sets of swinging doors into the large sanctuary. Blonde pews, a high arching ceiling. Not really an altar. No exalted place dedicated to God. There was a clear acrylic podium with two microphones and a large open area, well-worn. A large open area behind that must be the Choir loft. Lots of seats in the semi circle of the auditorium. A balcony above him. It must have taken a lot of gasoline. "Hello?" A tall man, older. He'd once had acne. An expensive suit. The way he said it made it clear he thought Sam had no business here. "I'm Pastor Greer. And you would be?" "I'm Special Agent Rodriguez. You're the pastor?" "I'm the Minister of Finance." The man clasped his hands at crotch level, one hand folded over the other. He smiled in what he must have imagined was a trusting sort of way. Expensive wig. Darting eyes. "Oh. Sorry," Sam replied. Smiled. "You're Southern Baptist?" "No. We don't be-lieeeve in denominations. We belieeeve in Gahhhd's work." The stretching of syllables was annoying. "We belieeve that Gahhd does not-a want us confined to such. The Bap-tiists are tooo liberal in Pastor Porter's oh-pin-e-on." Southern Baptists too liberal? Ah. . .okay. What planet did this man live on, just exactly? Sam thought about Marion's profile. Golden opportunity. Let's see if he bites. "What is your church's position on homos?" "The Bihbull takes an ex-plic-it view of-a su-huch mah-ters. Homosexuality is an un-natchurall act-a. It is an abomination in the ey-us of Gahd." Sam nodded neutrally. "And what about AIDS?" "Natchurually we feel sohrry for those ah-flicted with that dread, dread dis-ease-a." He did not say anything else. Sam could guess the rest. But they're gay, they get what they deserve. It wasn't an uncommon opinion. "How much of your money goes towards missions?" "Oh. Yayhus. We have many, many miss-ssi-ions. We have a quite extensive-a television min-ist-uhre." Somehow Sam figured that one. He nodded. "Thank you for your time, Reverend." He extended a hand. The man took it and did not let go. "Hahve you-uh been sahvud Special Agent? Do you know Jaysus as your-uh personal Sav-ior?" Sam smiled, several rather cruel things passed through his mind. "Have you ever been audited?" he asked softly. The man released his hand. Sam strode out into the sunlight. Averman was leaning against a car. "I want you to know, not all Baptists make your dick crawl up your ass and hide." "I know." Sam grinned. "I think this one's pretty obvious." Averman nodded. "And think of the media exposure. They're already beginning to swoop. It's just going to get bigger." "I met their Pastor of Finance. I need a bath." Averman grinned. "Remember we play nice." "When do I get the body?" "When ever we get back." Averman glanced at Sam. "Why don't you just take a uniform and go over there now." Sam nodded, relieved. It was a pathetic charred thing that the Coroner showed Sam to. "He was dead before the fire ever got there," the old man said, taking a stool, putting his back against a cabinet. "You haven't done any work?" Sam asked, washing his hands, shaking out a gown. The Coroner, Dr. Robin Taylor, shook his head, grey-white hair moving. "I've been a physician for forty five years. You learn. He didn't struggle, so he had to be dead or drugged. The outer signs of an OD have been removed. The boy was bathed." Sam stared at the man. "You don't look over sixty." "Seventy next month," the man replied, digging through his pockets for something. Gum. He offered Rodriguez a stick. Wasn't surprised when it was refused. "You're native gentry aren't you?" Sam's eyes narrowed. "I'm of Spanish ancestry and my people have been here three hundred years, yes." "Figured. What does your father do?" "He's a cardiac surgeon." Taylor nodded as though this confirmed his suspicions. "I'm just as happy to let you have the poor thing. Indian, dirt poor I'd guess. I hate autopsying children." "Yeah." Sam pulled on gloves, went to the small blackened body. Michael. This little boy had been named Michael and the happiest days of his life had been spent with the man who was going to kill him. They would find pills in his poor stomach. They would find Eliot hidden in his body. Michael did not care anymore. Sam wondered if he really cared himself. The arms were drawn up like a boxer's, defensive and stiff. Legs bent. Brilliant light spilled down from the faceted, concave body of the lamp but was trapped and drunk by the charred surface. Sam paced around the burnt thing, reading sizes and observations into the recording equipment that would be the last testament of Michael Weaverbird. The child's body left greasy marks on the smooth, brushed metal of the examining table. . . . victim appears to be a child judging from the size and build. . . " Taylor listened as the crisp, unaccented voice read off a description. He knew Rodriguez had little doubt of the child's identity, but those speculations did not belong in an autopsy. Just the facts. The pavement burned against the soles of Averman's dress shoes. His pale gray, summer weight suit masked a shirt plastered to his back, his sides. The tie around his neck held his collar in itching contact with his neck, and his hair had long since grown dark and clumped with the drops that rolled down scalp and face, that made the earpieces of his glasses slippery. Door to door. Had a man and a child been seen in this neighborhood? Any strange cars? Anyone by the church? On and on, questions and questions. And Averman was reasonably sure that he already knew everything he could learn here. The FBI, however, taught a man to believe in the evidence of eyes, ears, mind. Not of a sad, lonely voice in the night that spoke of what it could not see. Averman kept asking. Continued in part 19............ ===================================================================== ====== From: livengoo@tiac.net Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW: Oklahoma 19/41 NC-17 Date: 8 Feb 1996 06:26:55 GMT Oklahoma (Part 19/41) 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. And thanks to those who have sent email feedback. I like email with the morning coffee before I go toil in the bowels of corporate America! Goo _____________________ Sleep was a vast, dark shape beneath him, calling and reaching to smother him. Mulder balled his fists and clung to what little pain he could find. The voices around him kept blurring. Sometimes light flickered at the edge of his vision, and he feared to blink, but the darkness was thick, and heavy, and huge, and he was very, very small. Frito had sent him to this, Averman had held him while his partner drove him down, into the dark, alone. No. Not alone. "NO!" We are children quickly tired: children who are up in the night and fall asleep as the rocket is fired; and the day is long for work or play. We tire of distraction or concentration, we sleep and are glad to sleep, Controlled by the rhythm of blood and the day and the night and the seasons. And we must extinguish the candle, put out the light and relight it; Forever must quench, forever relight the flame. Frito probed the mouth. Found paper. Stained, oily, and ragged. But it had been protected from the worst of the heat and, as he spread it between two plates of glass, he could see words. They would wait for later, but he already feared what they said. Rodriguez rolled the body one way, another, read his findings into the machine. They were few. Bodies did not want to burn, but enough heat would do the trick. Accelerants would do the trick. He spoke of indications of gasoline from deeper, unusual charring. >From the temperature Michael would have to have reached to become this wretched, flaking mass. When he tried to shift the arms so he could begin the abdominal incision, one broke. Frito bit his lip, shut his eyes tight. Heard a thin voice tell him about burning and had to hold his breath to quell the stab of pain and dread. ". . . damage to the bronchial passages, esophagus and nasal tissues. . ." Taylor's jaw stopped, the wad of gum in a mass that pressed the side of his tongue. He felt the gag reflex and let his tongue drive the gum forward. He was shivering as Rodriguez' clinical voice rolled on for the recorder, describing what bright lights could show. Describing death by smoke inhaled. Taylor had prayed the child was dead before the fire could take him. Taylor had been wrong. Meyers rolled into another sit-up. His feet, hooked under the bed, hurt a little, but he did not want to fall asleep sitting there over his report. His candy bar was gone, but it wasn't time for lunch. The only sounds were the television and the occasional low mumble from the Spooky. Meyers swallowed a sour taste, glanced over when he came up the next time. Mulder was still lying there, drooling a little. Looked like Rodriguez was right and they wouldn't be running today. Meyers picked himself up off the floor, got a glass of water and went to see if there was enough of Spooky in there to know if he was thirsty. The water felt cool and smooth over his fingers, struck the bottom of the glass. When he stepped back out, Spooky was mumbling again, almost a whimper. He settled onto his knees, trying to see into the flat, hazel eyes. Mulder had barely moved. Still curled on his side, hands loose and open on the bed in front of his pale, hollow-cheeked face. His eyes slid shut as Meyers watched, and he said something the agent couldn't catch, opened his eyes with almost panicky speed. Meyers worried his lip, leaned close. Saw Spooky's eyes slide shut again, stay, stay. He set the glass to one side. "NO!" Jumped and spilled water, turning back, but Spooky's eyes were shut now. There was a faint line between his eyebrows, but his eyes were shut. And they stayed shut, as his breathing deepened and he made no more noise after that. Averman stared at the church, at blackened timbers and caved ceiling, and found Eliot in his mind. "To be redeemed from fire by fire. . . " "Eh?" Averman spun, startled by the voice behind him. A tall, barrel-chested man with an expensive suit and an avuncular air smiled at him. "I'm afraid I didn't catch what you said. Can I help you? I'm Minister Foster." "Ah. I think I've seen you on. . . " "Television. Yes." The man's smile was capped and unnaturally white and wide. The accent was magnolia-smooth and sweet, a cadence more than an accent. "Well, you must forgive me if I seem pale today, I feel sure God condones make-up only before the cameras which may carry his word." Averman could feel the warmth of the smile through the insipid words, and found himself shaking the hand offered to him. "Perhaps you can help me. I'm trying to get some information on people who may have been interested in your church. . . " "My life is devoted to those interested in God's church." "O Lord, deliver me from the man of excellent intention and impure heart: for the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked. Sanballat the Horonite and Tobiah the Ammonite and Geshem the Arabian: were doubtless men of public spirit and zeal. Preserve me from the enemy who has something to gain: and from the friend who has something to lose. Remembering the words of Nehemiah the Prophet: "The trowel in hand, and the gun rather loose in the holster." Those who sit in a house of which the use is forgotten: are like snakes that lie on mouldering stairs, content in the sunlight. And the others run about like dogs, full of enterprise, sniffing and barking: they say, "This house is a nest of serpents, let us destroy it. And have done with these abominations, the turpitudes of the Christians.' And these are not justified, nor the others. And they write innumerable books; being too vain and distracted for silence: seeking every one after his own elevation, and dodging his emptiness. If Humility and purity be not in the heart, they are not in the home: and if they are not in the home, they are not in the City. The man who has builded during the day would return to his hearth at nightfall: to be blessed with the gift of silence and doze before he sleeps. But we are encompassed with snakes and dogs: therefore some must labour, and others must hold the spears. Frito sagged, felt the counter cold under his hands. The seared smell behind him no longer registered. Taylor had fled, and the hot, small popping of the lights was the only sound. The Eliot rolled in his eyes, in his head as he let the rigid control loose and felt his shoulders slump, let his head fall so that his chin struck his chest. Eliot. He heard it in Francis' voice. "Fire. . . " And there it was. He let it hit this time, the deep, wracking sob that twisted his diaphragm under his ribs and bruised his throat. Shut his eyes and saw his friend's open, empty eyes, fighting sleep. Tears burned hot and bitter in his eyes and he ripped off rubber gloves and scrubbed at his eyes with talcum-stinging hands. "Damn it, Francis. Fuck." Whispered words that hurt in his mouth. He walked to the door and locked it, then picked up the phone and dialed home. And listened to the phone ring, again and again and again, until the machine clicked on. "Jenni? It's me. . . " He sniffled. Wiped wet across the sleeve of the coat. "Jenni-honey. I miss you so much. This is. . . Francis isn't. . ." He choked on his words. "Jenni, I can't help him. I don't know what to do anymore. I just want to leave this place. Jenni, I miss. . ." The phone cut off, as the tape ended, leaving him with the phone in his hand. And the tears rolled down his face, as the pain of being helpless welled through him. It was dark here, but he wasn't alone. He knew that, knew it so certain and hard, and he froze in the dark and prayed to a god he did not believe in that the things that were in the dark would see him no more than the friends who had shut him out of the light. And there were voices here, too. Then there was light. A narrow angle of it, a wedge overhead. Someone was behind him, but he could not wait. He pulled himself up into the light, finding himself on flagstones, with one set to the side, and a big, empty, sterile white church arched over his head. He felt someone behind him, but feared to look. The podium was to one side of him, large, smoky lucite. A hand on his shoulder pushed him to look past it. A large, powerful-looking back was to him, facing a child. A naked child. Mulder saw the man kneel before the child. The man leaned in, and he shut his eyes and shook with nausea as the child whimpered in fear. Wet sounds and whispers, and a voice in his ear that commanded him to look. And he looked. The man's fingers dug white patterns in the boy's skin. His face was buried, and wet sounds left Mulder ill, and longing for the peace of darkness. Steps rang hard, and stopped, but he could not look again no matter that the unseen hand pulled his chin up, to see, but closed eyes blinded him still. "What are you doing here?" Angry, ringing tones. Scrambling, and the child's whimpers receded with slapping feet and sobs. "I came to file the schedule, the children who will be baptized this week." Neutral. Mulder felt the hand slide to his neck, almost pinch, and opened his eyes. The large man was wiping his mouth, putting his swollen cock back in his pants. The other watched, steadily. "Whatever you saw or thought you saw. . . " The big man's voice shook just the slightest amount. "Why don't you tell me what I saw?" Fear and hate greeted the calm. "You bastard. You say one word and. . ." "I. . . Mr. Foster, I know that child's parents." The stranger's voice sounded odd. Forced. "And I know your kids' parent. I know you. And I know you fuck your son's asshole stupid every night. You say one word, and every other member of the congregation's gonna know that, too. . . . " Mulder shut his eyes, forced his hands over his ears and still heard them, heard them, heard them, negotiate away a mortal sin. Bargain away the innocence of children. Averman felt the weight of his memo recorder in the pocket of his suit. The names of men who had worked for the church, and worked in the mission to the indians knocked against his chest each time the recorder and it's little tape slapped him as he walked. His car threw off shimmering waves in the sun, but would be cool soon enough. The other agents would trickle back to Shawnee or Ashton, and call him, as they finished. The door burned under his hand, but was worth it. He slung himself into the car and turned on the air. Rodriguez wiped his nose and stared at the phone in its cradle. Across the room a little more Eliot unreeled its poisoned works from the mouth of the dead. Sam rinsed his face in the sink and went to unlock the door. The paper gown in the trash, briefcase in hand, and he left. He wanted to get out, to see his partner and hope against hope that Joe Cool was back to talk about the fucking autopsy and rag him for the fucking drugs. Or maybe to sleep, and try to forget how angry and scared and lonely he felt. The sun was an insult when he walked out the door. Meyers had been relieved at first. Spooky was finally quiet. But when he was still quiet five hours later, hadn't moved, hadn't twitched, it was hard not to feel nervous. This was normal with that kind of drug. He told himself that over and over again. But when he changed the bandages and rubbed cream over angry, thin-walled blisters and Spooky never moved Meyers couldn't help but feel afraid. And now, after seven hours, there was nothing there. The water by the bed was warm. The Gatorade untouched. And Meyers felt a sick little fear that this wasn't what Rodriguez had meant when he said Meyers wouldn't need the Dramamine. It would be supper soon and Mulder was completely locked away inside his mind. Places reeled through Mulder's head. And one voice in his ear. And now they walked down a long, dusty street and he still couldn't see who walked just one step behind. The hand on his shoulder. The voice in his ear. "Fox. Which one is the next one? Which one?" When Mulder's eyes opened, Meyers was relieved. "Do you want something to drink?" he asked softly. "Let's get you some fresh Gatorade." He took the cup from Mulder's bedside. The small bottle was floating in a nest of cold water. Meyers poured quickly, nervously. Turned back. Mulder was huddled, sitting up now. Knees tight against his chest, eyes dark and staring, arms wrapped around his legs. Meyers sat on the edge of the bed. "I saw the nave. I saw the body rotting in the nave. I saw the pattern on the floor. The devil cannot follow the maze, but they make their deals around it in knots too intricate to unwind. Oh, dark, dark, dark. They all go into the dark." Mulder's throat worked. Meyers saw that Mulder was shaking badly. A bead of blood appeared on his lip as he bit through the soft flesh, caught in some nether world of nightmares. "Samantha or Elijah held my shoulders and made me watch the darkness slide into the light of God. The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets Useless in the darkness into which they peered Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us, At best, only a limited value In the knowledge derived from experience. The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies, For the pattern is new in every moment And every moment is a new and shocking Valuation of all we have been. We are only deceived Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm. In the middle, not only in the middle of the way but all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble, On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold. And menaced by monsters, fancy lights, Risking enchantment." Mulder put his head to his knees, eyes closed. "The pastor of the church that burned down. How long has he been the pastor there?" Meyers puzzled this one. "I don't know." "Can you find that out and find out what ministries they have?" Mulder's voice was calm. Meyers nodded. "Is there anything else you need?" "If they had a ministry among the Native Americans about nine years ago, tell them to find out who the. . ." Mulder swallowed, began shivering violently. "Tell them to find out who the head of that mission was." His voice was barely discernable. "See if they can find out who he was." "All right. I will," Meyers agreed. "Do you want to stay awake?" The nod was almost completely subsumed in his shaking. "Dr. Rodriguez said that you had to eat something. Even if I had to spoonfeed it to you." This produced a small smile. "I'm cold." "Curl back under the covers," Meyers suggested. "I don't. . .want. . .to sleep," Mulder replied. Meyers sighed and went over to Mulder's bags, rooted through them. A pair of warmups, but no sweatshirt. Well, who *would* pack a sweatshirt for *this* place? He got the spare blanket down, wrapped it around the agent's shoulders. "Come on," he urged, putting strong arms on Mulder's knees. "Come on. Let's get you back under the covers. You can sit up if you want. He pulled pillows, arranged them behind Mulder's back. "Do not let me hear Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly, Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession, Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God. The only wisdom we can hope to acquire Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless. The houses are all gone under the sea The dancers are all gone under the hill," Mulder whispered. "The man who ran the Indian ministries, Meyers. He's Elijah's father." Meyers swallowed, grew pale. "Find him and we're one step closer. Elijah hasn't gone by that name for. . .since. . .but we'll know him." Mulder's eyes were fixed on the television when Rodriguez and Averman came in around six. It was a safe bet he had no idea what the plot was or what any of the characters were named. He was still wrapped deeply in his blankets, though he had broken out into a drenching sweat. "The church isn't being very cooperative," Averman told Meyers quietly, taking him into Rodriguez' room. "He just. . .told you that the head of their Indian ministries was Elijah's father? Did he give you any proof? Anything that can be used to convince a judge tonight?" Meyers shook his head. "He talked about bodies in naves and then quoted some Eliot. Then he told me." Averman took a deep breath and then released it. "Meyers, tell two of the other agents to go bug the sheriff of Pawnee. See who remembers the head of Indian Ministries in what? 1978? If they can't find anyone who remembers get Cooke to stir up the waters. Tomorrow's Sunday. Surely some of the good townsfolk will be incensed to come in from listening to the reverend wax lyrical about God only to find that he's trying to fuck the FBI." Meyers swallowed. "Yes sir." "You're a good kid Meyers. And you're a damn fine agent." Meyers smiled, fled. Rodriguez turned off the television. Mulder's attention wavered, momentarily. "Hi, Frito," he said weakly. "Hi yourself." Rodriguez slid his hand against Marion's forehead. "Swamp Foxes need to drink vinegar or they catch diseases," he muttered. "How are you feeling?" Francis was burning up. "I. . .don't make me go back to sleep. Please. I'm so scared of sleeping." Sam smiled softly. "Okay man." He felt the thin ribs and pressed his hand against the flat stomach. "Ow." A pained expression passed over the sweaty face. "We're going to have to get some food down you tonight." "I've been keeping Gatorade down," Mulder replied querulously. "I know. But that's not enough. How about some Jello, maybe some clear broth?" Francis made a face. "No candy bars or anything like that." Rodriguez smiled. "Baked potato?" "Sorry. You had your chance with those. We're going to have to start you off on something milder." "Have they checked the church?" "The pastor's giving them a hard time." "He's a pedophile," Mulder replied. "They. . .Elijah's dad made a deal with him, they don't expose each other and Elijah's dad gets what he wants." Sam nodded, not questioning anything at this point. "I'm sorry, Sam. I'm so sorry to drag you through this." Mulder's voice was soft, shaking with anguish. "I. . ." "It's okay, Francis. It really is." Rodriguez put a hand on his friend's shoulder, moved the hand so that it cupped the short, dark hair. "I know it isn't intentional. You don't want to be like this." "But that doesn't make. . ." Francis closed his eyes. "I'm going to order you some room service." The fever was new and worrisome, but after spending the night in ice water, it could be normal. Marion nodded. Averman came back over, leaned in the door. "We'll find that name." He said gently. Mulder looked up, watched as Rodriguez disappeared into the next room. "He's scared," he said quietly when the doctor had disappeared. Averman entered the room, frown creasing his brow. "Don't put a lot of grief on Frito," Mulder whispered. Averman nodded, craned his neck into Rodriguez' room. "Why don't you go to dinner tonight," he barked. "I'll stay with wonderboy tonight. We need to discuss the case." It was a blatant lie and it fooled no one, but Mulder heard Rodriguez agree. "There. You're stuck with an old Marine Sergeant," Averman said. "If you weren't psychotic before, my war stories will push you over the fine edge." Mulder grinned weakly. Averman had meant what he said. Rodriguez wandered down the hall to meet the other agents, left Mulder and Averman staring at foods that the Hispanic had deemed "safe." "Let's get some clothes on you first," Averman decreed, not wanting to face puke green jello. "I've got a sweat shirt if you don't mind my daughter's college on the front." Mulder nodded. "I have some sweatpants." He lurched up. Averman's hands came down on his shoulders. "I'll get them. You look like you couldn't walk very far." "Well I better be able to make it to the john." Mulder grimaced. "I also don't want to stare at your dick longer than I have to." "What's wrong, Averman?" Mulder teased, watching as the AIC dug through his bags, found his ratty FBI sweatpants. "Scared that you won't be able to look at your puny equipment without distaste after you've seen what manhood can be?" "Your dong couldn't hold a handle to a real man's. I've had black soldiers whimper and beg me not to ever let their wife see my dick, because it made theirs look like a vienna sausage," Averman replied, grinning. "Do you need help getting these on?" "I think I can do it myself." "Good." Averman tossed him the sweats on his way out of the room. He came back a moment later, as Mulder was tying the drawstring. "You missed it Averman. I know you Marines just salivate for a good look at another man's butt." "You have obviously mistaken Marines for pansy, new FBI college boys who majored in limp wrist psychology at faggo universities like Oxford." He gave Mulder the sweatshirt. "Baylor? You're daughter's at Baylor?" "Damn straight. It's a damn fine school," Averman growled. "She loves it too." Mulder blinked, decided not to tease Averman about his child's choice of schools. He put on the sweatshirt, got up and hobbled to the bathroom on his own. A few minutes later he emerged, went to his bag. "My feet are cold," he complained. Averman was staring at the dinner. "There's chicken consomme, applesauce, and lime jello," he informed Mulder. "I didn't know anyone ate lime jello straight." "What do you do with it then?" Mulder came to the bed, put the socks on and curled back up in his nest. "Well, Ellen would make this salad with marshmallows and cottage cheese. . ." Averman recalled. "What happened to your wife?" "Her car got hit by a log truck when we were stationed in North Carolina. She died instantly." Averman got the broth and a spoon. "I'm sorry." "She was a wonderful person. I believe in a heaven. When I die, I'll be with her again." Mulder stared at him. "You don't believe that way?" Mulder shrugged. "I don't. . .I don't know." He held out his hands for the soup. Averman watched his hands for a moment, stared at the bandages that made Mulder awkward and the cold and fever that made Mulder unstable and shook his head. "You couldn't hold it without spilling." He put the bowl down on Mulder's cluttered bedside table, got a towel to put under the agent's chin. "I haven't spoon fed anyone since Lisa was a baby," he muttered, grateful that Mulder had decided against fighting him on this. "My dad used to, when I got hurt and the drugs made me dopey," Mulder said conversationally. "You got hurt a lot," Averman said gently. Mulder nodded, accepting the spoonfuls. "He was in government work for a while, he worked with the military." Averman nodded. "What did he do?" "He worked for the state department. Cold war secrets." Mulder smiled. "Mostly he took care of the German scientists. Elijah told me he wants me to choose the next one." Averman froze, stared at the agent coiled up in bed. "What are you talking about?" "I have to. . ." Mulder swallowed. Averman watched as his eyes moved from clear, level sanity to some terrifying inward place. "He. . ." Mulder closed his eyes. "He showed me two children. Asked me to choose the one God wanted." Averman put the broth down. Whether this was real or not, it was real to Mulder. "What did you say when he asked?" "Elijah knows he hurt me. He didn't mean to. He didn't know I was so scared of fire." Mulder sighed, stared at his hands. "I always felt. . .responsible for my sister. I always tried to take care of her. If someone had hurt her, molested her, I would have killed them. Elijah doesn't deserve the death penalty for what he's doing." Averman nodded. "He's not. . .he thinks he's helping those kids. He loves them. Do you think that they'll let him be committed?" "I doubt it. The case is too high profile. He'll fry." Mulder considered this. "Are we finished yet?" he asked softly. "No. Not yet." "I'm not hungry." "You've got to eat. Rodriguez will have our heads." Averman proffered more of the broth. Mulder pushed it back, distastefully. "Jello?" Mulder sighed unhappily. "Do you think I need to be hospitalized? Frito does." Averman switched bowls. Thought about his answer. "You need some time off when this is over. Go someplace where you aren't Spooky Fox Mulder and no one knows you write profiles of serial killers." "I think I can handle feeding myself Jello if you've got a fork." "Good. This color is making me sick." Continued in part 20............. ===================================================================== ====== From: livengoo@tiac.net Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 20/41 NC-17 Date: 9 Feb 1996 00:10:33 GMT Oklahoma (Part 20/41) 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. __________________ Six people, two cars. Frito rode with Meyers and Tyler and Cooke, listening to the country-western that was just about all they could get on the radios in the cheap, government fleet cars the FBI assigned to them. He missed the luxury of Averman's Taurus. "Spent the day with the Spookster?" Tyler's voice was quiet, self-conscious. Sam tensed, but he kept his mouth shut and waited to see what would happen. "Yeah. He was pretty tired, but he may have hit another break through today." "Hmm? What's that?" The kind of quiet, truly casual tone that said Tyler wasn't watching his words and talking pretty. Behind them, Sam heard Cooke shift, but the PR man kept his mouth shut. "He figures the guy's old man ran the Indian Ministries when he came out here, about nine years back." The turn signal ticked as Meyers followed Bond's car onto the strip. "How's he get that?" Frito felt his belly go cold, and the sweat felt sour on his butt and his ribs as he waited for Meyers' reply. The kid hesitated, and Sam was about to interrupt when he started in a voice that caught as he worked it through. "Well. . . the early kids were Indians. And he's killed off more Indians than other kids. . . " "So? They're like fleas on a dog around here." Sam felt sudden heat, snapping anger at the memory of a child on a table. Too many children on tables. The young agent's voice started again before the acid words could sound. "And Social Services tracks a lot of those kids. Why's he figure it's a ministry instead of through Social Services?" Meyers' tone was suddenly firmer, on ground where he felt more sure. "The religious symbolism and the poems the Butcher leaves with the bodies. Spooky says that they're not just there to give us something to read while we're wanking off, Tyler." "Okay." The older man's tone was laughing now. Frito felt the rueful grin on his own face, hearing Meyers work to sound like Mulder. In the dark glass of the window his reflection stared stared back, lit by the passing lights of malls and cars. "What about you, Rodriguez? What do you make of all of it? You worked with Spooky before. . . " "This one's a little different." Sam cut him off in a rush. Reached for the rope Meyers had left dangling. "But given the age of the man Sally Weaverbird described, and the ages of the bodies we got out at the Chapel, I think that nine year figure is a good ballpark. Maybe work two or three years up and down the line. We'll have an even clearer picture when we get the names back to match that sorority ring." He sat back and took a deep breath. The rush of relief as they pulled into the - inevitable - rib house was almost dizzying. Tyler and Cooke got out, but Meyers looked back at Sam a moment. "Should we order anything to take back, Dr. Rodriguez?" Sam stared at him a moment, hearing a different question entirely. "We'll take something back for Averman. . . Good take on all that, Meyers. Very good take." Sam's smile was brilliant in the dim light of the parking lot. He ducked to get his head clear of the door frame, and grinned as his stomach growled at him. He almost laughed, running Meyers' analysis back through his head. So simple. So very simple. They pulled a short table and a long one together to make room for six, and settled into the comfortable chairs to wait for one of the cheery and brassy waitresses to fight her way to their corner of the world. Rodriguez would have been happier not to be sitting next to Cooke, but saw no point to antagonizing the man. The pudgy, Irish features shone with relief and sweat and sunburn as the waitress took their drink orders and dodged back with a full tray. Frito heard ice in Cooke's glass clatter as that first amber sip slid down his throat. Frito's own ale tasted rich and smooth, wonderfully foreign to the hot, dry land held at bay by the air conditioning. He breathed a silent prayer for a rib-house owner with good taste in beer. Hitchens was at the opposite end of the table, playing with an unlit cigarette. Frito could hear him discussing horse racing results with Bond. Tyler's voice overlaid them, talking with Meyers about women, and cars. "You're married, aren't you?" Cooke's harsh voice half-startled Frito, brought his eyes open and he cocked his head forward to study the slick face next to him. "What's your wife like, Rodriguez?" "Jenni's. . . " Frito let his head tilt back again. Let his fingers drift up and down the smooth, wet, cool curve of his glass as he thought of his wife. "Jenni's from Virginia. Horse country. She's spoiled and aggravating, and expensive, and she has the most wonderful voice." He knew his own voice had gone languid, wasn't really listening to the clatter and voices around him any more. He was trying to remember how the meadows smelled where his wife liked to go horse-back riding, and the smell of her, mixed with horse and hay, and dust and love, when they'd lain exhausted in the loft of the barn behind her father's house. He swallowed. Took a sip of the beer, and let the dark liquid and froth slide down his throat. Cooke scowled into his glass. "My ex has the kids. Timothy and Eleanor." Somehow the names didn't surprise Frito. He sighed and focused on the man next to him. "I wish she'd get married and quit soaking me. He looked away from his glass. Was quiet a long time, but Frito could see his throat working, see him working through words. He finally tossed back the rest of his drink and looked at Rodriguez. "I found a Catholic church. It's near here. This is Saturday and they're open late tonight and I'm going after dinner. . . " Frito stared at him, considered the offer unsaid. He felt the word 'no' in his mouth as he felt his head nod. "All right. I'll ride back after dinner. We'll stop there." The slow, shaky smile on Cooke's face wiped away the pugnacious ugliness of him, and left a man who was just painfully plain, and painfully frightened. "Thank you, Dr. Rodriguez. Thank you." He turned back and leered hungrily to see the waitress with a huge tray heading their way from the kitchen. The bedside lamp made queasy, twitching refractions through the swamp green of the jello. Every so often, the kid would take a slow, careful nibble and pull a face, but he mainly looked at the papers spread around him, and at his computer screen. The heavy cable ran back over his knees and into a wall socket by the bed. Jack Averman sighed and stared at his own work, rubbing his blurred eyes and regretting the messy handwriting of his notes. At least the others had to submit their contact reports to him typed up. Thought of a smug, big man with too-white teeth and no make-up. "And the first went, and poured out his vial upon the earth; and there fell a noisome and grievous sore upon the men which had the mark of the beast, and upon them which worshipped his image." "Revelations?" Mulder was staring at him, puzzled. Averman grinned back. "Yeah, I think I met one of the ones who got splashed, but the mark wore off a little. Think that's why a nice God-fearing, Baptist killer's using a papist mackerel-snapper of a poet, and not the Bible?" Spooky snorted. "We already ignored the old prophets. Time to find a new one." He gave his jello a listless stab with the fork. "So what does Eliot say about plagues, Mulder?" Averman sat back and watched, looking for Agent Mulder instead of Spooky Mulder for the first time in too many days. Dark hair was darker still with fever sweat, but the agent's eyes were clear when he slumped back into the nest of pillows. He shivered and thought for a minute, eyes flickering back and forth over lines in books Averman couldn't see. When he smiled and started his voice was thin, but steady. "The wounded surgeon plies the steel That questions the distempered part; Beneath the bleeding hands we feel The sharp compassion of the healer's art Resolving the enigma of the fever chart. Mulder was grinning, a wry, reflexive expression. Averman almost laughed. "Better not let Rodriguez hear you quote that one. What's the rest of it?" "Our only health is the disease If we obey the dying nurse Whose constant care is not to please But to remind of our, and Adam's curse, And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse." <'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.' "The whole earth is our hospital Endowed by the ruined millionaire, Wherein, if we do well, we shall Die of the absolute paternal care That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere. Mulder's teeth chattered just a little, and the sweat rolled from his temples, down his jaw. The words were small and stippled with the sounds of fever. Pop! Goes the Weasel! He was vomiting onto the hard surface of the picnic table onto. . . the bed and then there was a waste paper basket and strong hands holding his head forward and choking and coughing and green, it was all so fucking green. "Shh. Shh." Averman's voice. Rubbing his back. Waiting for anything more. Waiting. Mulder coughed, choked, made a sound like a man searching for a good spit. Spat something up. Mulder put his face against the smooth of the shirt. felt an arm go around his back. The wastebasket moved. Cold and he hurt. His ribs were crying, not screaming, just crying like lost children. His throat was doing all the screaming for everything else. His head, oh hell, his head hurt. He could feel it throbbing. His arms felt dead, sweat had dried on him. It was so cold, all that sweat. He heard Rodriguez' feet, did not feel up to looking at him, at turning his head from the protective haven of warm stomach and soft cotton. Heard Averman's voice, heard Frito answer. Indecipherable. Words without form or meaning. Sounds carrying across the desert and landing in the black water. And then someone pulling on him. "Go 'way," he muttered. His arms were too heavy. Oh he was tired. And there was puke. No. No. Only little kids vomited in bed. He hadn't ever vomited in bed. Averman's voice was clearer, sharper. The covers were rolled down. He had vomited in bed. Mulder moaned. "I'm sorry." "No. It's okay," Averman whispered. He was speaking English now instead of those noises. "Come on. Let's get you to bed over in Sam's room. Sam has two doubles instead of one King. Okay?" Mulder nodded. He removed his head from Averman's waist. "Are you going to take me to the hospital?" he asked softly, hesitantly, terrified of the answer. "No," Sam replied as Averman bent down. Averman pulled Mulder to his feet, supported almost all his weight. It would have been easier, he supposed, for Averman just to carry him next door. But Averman was going to give him that dignity. Rodriguez took Mulder's other shoulder over his and helped him into the room, let him collapse onto the bed. "You're burning up," he muttered. "Elijah is travelling," Mulder whispered, feeling the close of cotton sheet and Sam's extra blanket over his covers and then Sam's bed cover over that. Averman disappeared, returned with a washcloth, a glass with some water in it. "He's headed north. Almost to Colorado. You can see for miles and miles and miles out there. It's all fields and the aquifer." He lifted his head to swish water around in his mouth. Spit back into the glass. Wiped the washcloth over his face. "I saw him at the rest station. He was dancing out in the rain. . ." Rodriguez and Averman exchanged glances at the soft mutterings and ramblings of Spooky Mulder. Great. North. More car trips. Why couldn't the baby butcher just stay in Oklahoma City or Tulsa or something. There were plenty of kids who were sexually abused in those cities. Really there were. "Okay. Can it wait until in the morning? Can we find Elijah now?" Rodriguez asked gently. "She's a teenager. She's older. I saw her." Mulder closed his eyes. "She's beautiful. Just like Sarah was. I don't think Sam would have been drop dead gorgeous." "I don't know. Her brother sure is." Sam went over to his briefcase, pulled a bottle of Tylenol. "Come on. Two big pills. Think you can choke them down?" Mulder frowned. "What are they?" "Tylenol. It'll help the fever," Rodriguez replied with a smile, the smile a doctor reserved for patients. He looked up at Averman. "Let's run him a cold bath." "All those videos finally go to your head?" Mulder asked, taking the pills. Rodriguez grinned. "Yeah. You keep dreaming. And you better hope you keep that down." "If you say the word suppository I'll vomit all over you," Mulder managed to growl as he sat up, and let Frito help him pull the sweat shirt off. "Okay. I won't say it." "I'm cold." He was already shivering. "I know. I know. But we've got to get the fever down," Rodriguez replied. "Come on. Back up." Mulder struggled to his feet, leaned against Sam. Tired and sore and he could feel a butterfly's wings if it shuddered the air. "Do I have to get buck naked in front of you both?" he bitched, collapsing on the toilet seat. Averman grinned. "I already told you I don't go for menage a trois." "No. You stay," Mulder ordered querulously. He stared at them both from fever ridden, bright eyes. "Sam, go lust after Madonna." "She's not a natural blonde." "Neither is Jenni," Mulder shot back. "She's got the same color as her mother." "Same bottle." It wasn't up to the usual, but Sam grinned anyway. Mulder finished getting undressed with Sam gone. "I'm so fucking cold. I can't believe you're making me take a cold bath, when I'm this fucking cold," he muttered, leaning against Averman, dropping down into the water, "My dick is going to sue me for assault and battery." He shivered. "I hate baths." Averman sat down on the floor. Mulder sank down into the water, teeth chattering. Closed his eyes. A shadow loomed. Averman had a towel rolled up. Mulder pulled his head, felt the towel go under his neck. She walked hesitantly. Her hips were small and her breasts sharp jutting knots. But her long hair was the blonde of straw and October sunshine. There was grace in her step and her eyes were the color of the ocean in winter, walking along the shore after Thanksgiving dinner. Cold. It was so cold. The bed would be warm. It was cold. Snuggling under warm cotton sheets. The hard firm lines and the curls of fur and the tufts. He pulls the sheets up and tucks himself in. Silver jewelry and mousse and hair spray and the curling iron. Press it against your skin. Burn and sizzle and bite your tongue, stare at the Bonjovi picture on your wall to keep from screaming. But when you pull it away, the water drops roll off it. Dark mark, boiling away from skin. It does not hurt. You can pluck and pull and it will not hurt. Shall these bones live? shall these Bones live? And that which had been contained In the bones . . .said chirping Because of the goodness of this Lady And because of her loveliness, and because She honours the Virgin in meditation We shine in brightness. And I who am here dissembled Proffer my deeds in oblivion, and my love To the posterity of the desert and the fruits of the gourd. Lady of silences Calm and distressed Torn and most whole Rose of memory Rose of forgetfulness Exhausted and life-giving Worried reposeful The single rose Is now the Garden. The hospital is quiet tonight. A small boy cries quietly, and is soon stilled with the shots. The nurse smooths his brow, bites her lip, wondering how long they will keep him this time, how long before he comes again with his eyes betrayed and full of pain. < Oh, but it hurt just to breathe. His blood felt tired in his veins and the air was heavy in his aching chest. The cold rushed back as he turned off the water. Swept around him as he dragged himself upright. No clean sweats left. He pulled on his jeans, stopped, with them over his knees to gather the strength to stand. The effort to pull them to his waist, button them. Let himself drop back. The sink was cool against his arm and chin where he rested across it. Knocking on the door again. "Mulder, you need help in there?" He wanted to say no. Wanted to tell them all to go away. Heard Averman curse at the quiet, and the knob turned after a moment. Averman was looking at him. Shook his head. "Christ. Let's get you out of here." Picked up the shirt and helped him pull it on, buttoned it up. Hazy. Remembered a time when his ribs hurt, and someone had helped him button his shirts. . . "I'll do it." His fingers were clumsy, but he got them done. Averman helped pull him onto his feet. "What were you doing in there? Minute Rodriguez turns his back to go take a crap and you vanish again. Christ, lucky you didn't go straight down the drain." "I'm from the wrong country for that. You're just sorry you missed seeing my dick. Jesus, I just wanted to get clean, Averman. It's not a federal crime." Mulder let his legs fold out from under him. Stared at the television. Too late in the morning for the local boys now, this was the Crystal Cathedral out in California. What were these people doing that they needed to be saved five times before lunch? Averman settled on the foot of the bed, with his OJ and an Egg McMuffin. Handed a fresh Gatorade to Mulder. "Here. Do me a favor and keep it down." "I toss it and you'll be the first to know." Popped the lid. The blankets, still fresh from the laundry cart, felt rough on fever-sore skin, but Mulder pulled them tighter around himself and took a sip of the nasty, piss yellow stuff. Wrinkled his nose. "When do we go to Enid?" Averman glanced back at him. "You said he'll be done tomorrow. That she's already dead." Mulder hesitated, nodded. "Yes. Today he's. . . " Flitting image of flesh and vermin. The skull beneath the skin. He swallowed. Averman was watching him, and didn't press the question. "It'll be about three or four hours on the road. Bond is out renting a Caravan. If we have to do that drive we might as well do it right." Averman opened his McMuffin, put the hash brown on it. Turned back to the television and started wolfing down the food. Mulder sighed. Looked up as they heard the door open in Sam's room. Swallowed sudden fear when Frito walked through the connecting door, dropped his briefcase and a shopping bag on the foot of the bed. Felt his balls pull up watching Frito get out a syringe and tubes. "Do we really need to do this? I don't feel nearly so shitty. . . " Averman was politely not watching. Frito stared at him. "You can let me do this, Marion, or I can take you to the hospital." Felt the color drain from his face. Swallowed and nodded. Held out his arm for the tourniquet. The sting of the needle was fast, and the tubes were capped and put away. Averman collected them. "Just drop these off at Shawnee General at the front desk?" "Yeah, the guys at the path lab are expecting them. I owe Taylor a steak dinner." Mulder watched them talk over his head. Watched the AIC leave with his blood. Frito turned back, watching him with the doctor-look that he hated like hell. Bit his lip and kept his finger over the puncture wound, pressing to stop the bruise. Finally heard Frito sigh. "You're going to make this hard, aren't you, Marion?" Glanced up to see his friend's tired eyes. "You want to shove an IV and a shitload full of Thorazine in my arm. And you want me to make that easy for you?" Soft, tired voice. "If you think I'm going to make that easy, you're the one who really needs the Thorazine." "If anything else had worked, I wouldn't be doing this." He was pulling out a bag of clear solution, tubing, a needle. "If we don't get fluids into you, we'll have to put you in the hospital." "Right, and as long as you're putting fluids into me, you might as well shoot me with enough Thorazine so you can just lean me in a corner to drool and collect my paycheck." He let his head fall back into the pillows. Swallowed and felt his Adam's apple slide up and down his throat. Felt the anger go thin and pale, too hard to maintain. "I'm not fighting you on the damn IV, Frito. But please, don't fuck me over with the Thorazine." Sam sat down on the bed, next to Mulder's feet. "Francis. Listen, you throw up every time we get anything into you. You're getting dry heaves, for Christ's sake. You keep doing this, and you'll seriously fuck up your body chemistry. You can't keep doing this shit. You'll really hurt yourself if you keep doing this. We need you in Enid. You keep doing this, and we're going to be forced to hospitalize you." Looked into tired, hazel eyes. A thin, pale face that El Greco could have painted. "Fuck it, Frito. Just fuck it. You're going to dick me over one way or the other." Listless. Just let Frito roll his arm over and tourniquet him again, shove the needle in his arm. He didn't have a real stand for it, he used tape and got the thing fixed over Mulder's head with the steady flow into his arm. Waited, while Frito fussed with the needle and ampoules. "You'll give me that no matter what I say, won't you?" Frito's face was pinched, tight. He drew the drugs into the syringe with quick, coldly efficient movements. Mulder pulled himself up a little, and back into the pillows. He couldn't look away from the damned needle. "Frito, wait. . . " Sam glanced at him, then leaned forward to spike the IV. Mulder couldn't help it. Couldn't stop the sound in the back of his throat, low and animal. Couldn't stop as he reached for the needle in his arm, desperate to pull the line out before the drug could hit. Sam grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand up, away from the IV, looked into wide, fear-dilated eyes. "Please. . . " "You can't keep going like this." Soft, soothing tones. "Marion, I can't let you." "You're sending me to hell." He could see Francis swallow, see the color drain out of his face. "I can't keep it away any more when you drug me. I can't. . . " Valium and Thorazine hitting fast, and the wrist in his hand wasn't pulling so hard. Francis' eyes were going out of focus, and the tension in his face was relaxing. Sam leaned forward and pushed his hair back off his forehead. "It's all right, man. You'll be all right. Just relax now, let us help." Murmured words, watching his friend slowly drift into the haze. Felt the frown edge between his own eyes as he stroked dark hair, trying to let Francis know he wasn't alone, they were there. He'd be all right.