From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 25/41 NC-17

Date: 14 Feb 1996 03:35:07 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 25/41)

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.



_______________________



     Despite his best efforts, Mulder went back to sleep before

7:30.  Meyers watched the agent drift off, watched him fight it

with movement around the bed, with focusing on Sunday night

television, with playing mental games.  Like his sister's kids when

they didn't want to admit they were tired.  But finally Mulder's

mouth hung open, the tenseness left his body.



     "How is he?"  Rodriguez' voice was distant over the phone,

disembodied.



     "Well he's asleep right now," Meyers said.  "He wanted to see

the site.  He's not. . .he's pretty lucid.  He's weak, but he acts

like maybe he's feeling better."



     Rodriguez sighed on the other end.  He wanted to deny Mulder,

wanted the analyst in bed until they could fly back to DC and

hospitals that didn't see a lot of rodeo injuries.  "Don't wake

him.  If we're lucky he'll sleep until morning, then he can

go down with everyone.  He down anything?"



     "Two cans of juice."



     Rodriguez' sigh was relieved.  "Look, we don't know what's

causing Mulder's problems  It could be something neurological. 

Watch him, anything odd at all you get me."



     Meyers swallowed.  "Yeah."



     "Okay.  I'm going to get the body situated.  Take some

pictures.  We'll be in in an hour or so.  You want anything to

eat?"



     "Yeah.  Whatever."



     "Okay.  Umm, we'll bring Mulder an icee or something and some

more juice."  A voice in the background.  "I gotta go."



     Meyers hung up the phone, stared at Mulder's sleeping figure.













     They came back just as Mulder's IV bag was giving up it's

final gurgle.  Tried to be quiet, Cooke handed Meyers one of the

bags of burgers.  "God, I hate small towns on Sundays," he

muttered, sitting on the highboy.



     Averman sat beside him, pulled out his own sandwich.  "We're

lucky anything was open this late on a Sunday," he said

conversationally.



     "God, you're lucky you missed that site," Cooke told Meyers

while they watched Rodriguez pull out another IV bag.



     "Hmm?" Meyers said, trying to squeeze ketchup out of the fast

food packets onto the spread burger wrapper between his legs on the

floor.



     "Momma and Step-Daddy come down, all hysterical, in their good

church clothes.  Da-dee is on the town coun-cil.  Momma is the

closest thing they've got to a Jun-ior Leaguer."  Cooke took a bite

of burger, chewed contemptuously.



     Mulder's eyes fluttered open.  He stared confused a few

minutes.  "I thought. . .Meyers you said we'd. . ."



     "You were asleep," Sam said quietly.  "You weren't going out

there tonight anyway."



     "I'm not a fucking invalid."  Mulder pushed up against the

bed, made no comment as Sam changed out IV's.



     Sam sighed.



     "Just wait until the morning," Averman said, taking a sip of

his diet coke.  "And you can go see it."



     "Fuck it.  Elijah's out there," Mulder said, swallowing.

"He's out there and he's going to do it over and over again.  We're

close to catching him. Right now we're close."



     "And right now, best medical opinion is to get you posthaste

into a major hospital," Rodriguez replied, getting up.  "Hope you

like Black Cherry."  He handed Mulder an icee.  "We can't isolate

the cause of the fever."



     "Fuck it.  I'm feverish because Elijah is out there," Mulder

said, pulling the paper from his straw.  "I won't get better until

he's caught."



     Rodriguez took a deep breath.  "Francis, look, you. . ."



     "No.  You look, I *need* to see that site.  I need to know

what Elijah knew."



     "Oh right.  With the IV in your arm and you can't walk twenty

feet without keeling over," Sam muttered sarcastically.  He took a

deep breath and tried again.  "Marion, please.  Stop arguing.  If

we have to carry you out of that lab, you'll go straight to

University of Oklahoma Hospital.  I would much rather postpone

the trip and make it a hospital in DC where there are people you

know."



     Marion stared at him, eyes suddenly bright.  He stared a long

time.  "It's just the damn case.  That's all it is.  I'm feeling

better since you stopped fucking me over with the drugs."



     "If it's just a reaction to the drugs, then you still need a

hospital."



     "I was doing just fine until you and Averman stuck your noses

into things.  I've been dreaming for a year and a half now.  And I

was doing just fine."  Each word distinct and angry, spat out like

the words were venom.  "Just fucking fine.  And then you come along

with all your fucking drugs and your fucking, overweight, hispanic

psychiatrist and try to tell me that *I'm* crazy.  I never was

crazy.  If crazy is knowing who killers are and how they think and

what goes on inside their skulls then we need to comb the locked

wards for new FBI agents, because if I weren't here, if they'd

sent someone else, we both fucking, fucking well know that Elijah

would still be five steps ahead of everyone.  You'd have no idea

what was going on."  Mulder pushed up against the headboard.



     Averman stood, having had enough of this tirade.  "Agent

Mulder," his voice barked.  "You are *way* outta line."



     "Am I?"  Mulder's voice was insolent, angry.  "Am I?"  He

pounded his untaped arm against the bed.



     Averman took a deep breath.  Expelled it.  Moments like this

were ones he'd settled with Lisa and Chris with extended timeouts.

Time outs?  He'd called it sitting in the corner, staring at the

wall.  "If you want to be treated like a working, functioning

member of this team, you damn well will act like it.  I am your

supervisor."  He felt Cooke and Meyers stare at their sandwiches,

pretend not to be there.



     "And right now, according to the reports Rodriguez got back

from your blood sample, you are probably one very sick young man.

The prudent thing to do would be to ship you to Oklahoma City and

let a team of doctors poke and prod you.  However, there is, as you

so profoundly pointed out, a serial killer on the loose and you are

the best link the FBI has in capturing this man.  But the FBI has

lost links before and still caught their man."  Averman paused to

collect his thoughts.



     "You cannot walk very far without collapsing, and you still

need to be on IV's.  Those two facts make it difficult logistically

for you to see the site tonight."  Another pause, this one for

effect.  "Now.  I made copies," his voice dripped sarcasm, "of all

the preliminary work and I brought polaroids of the crime scene."

Mulder looked up from his perusal of the icee in his hands.  His

face was pale and the circles under his eyes were like smudges of

coal, cheek scraped raw and bruised.  He was gaunt and a thin sheen

of sweat covered his skin.  Averman let the sarcasm drop out of his

voice, staring at the bright, sad eyes.  God.  The kid could be

dying.  Averman wondered how he could go to the funeral and see 

the parents, knowing what he knew about the kid's past, knowing 

what he knew about how much pain they had let their son grow up 

in.  He shook the image away.  Rodriguez had also said they didn't 

know *what* it was.



     "Look, you can go in the morning.  You'll be a lot more

hydrated.  Your fever's obviously not as high.  I know it's

important to catch Elijah, but I won't kill you as a sacrifice for

him," Averman finished.  "Get it through your skull."



     Mulder swallowed.  He stared at Averman just a moment,

acknowledging the older man.  Then he nodded.  "Yes sir," he

muttered, giving up.











     Mulder managed to stay awake for a couple of hours.  Averman

had claimed the room with the connecting door, Rodriguez right next

door.  Mulder sprawled across his bed, reviewed the files Averman

had brought him.  Stared at the skeleton.  "Averman?" he called

through the open door.



     Averman rushed over, toothbrush in his mouth.



     "Finish your oral hygiene," Mulder said. "Wouldn't want to be

accused of making your mouth unpalatable for some pretty young 

ho's cunt."



     Averman shot him the finger and returned to spit.  He was back

in a few minutes.  "Whatcha' want?" he asked, wiping his mouth.



     "Tell me about the parents?"



     "Umm. . .they came in dressed for evening worship."



     "The locals hadn't notified them?"



     "Hadn't gone through the purse," Averman replied.



     Mulder nodded.  "Small town idiots. . ."  He thought a moment.



     "Didn't it strike anyone odd that these people have what. . .a

twelve year old?"



     Averman nodded, sitting down on the edge of Mulder's bed.



     "A twelve year old daughter who's disappeared and they went to

Sunday church like nothing was wrong?"



     Averman grinned.  "Oh yeah, I asked in my most concerned,

parental support voice."



     "And?"



     "And the stepdaddy informed me that Adeena often spent time

with her friends."



     "Uh-huh," Mulder muttered.



     "They're locally prominent.  Mom's as close to a junior

leaguer as they come in a city like this.  Dad's on the City

Council."



     Mulder nodded.   Put his head back against the headboard.

"This doesn't make sense."



     "What are you talking about?" Averman asked.



     "He should have taken care of her body in some way that left

evidence of the incest.  He compares this girl to Sarah.  This girl

*is* his Sarah, at least in his mind.  And then he disposes of the

body so that no physical evidence is left."  Mulder closed his

eyes, rubbed his face.  "Doesn't make the least fucking bit of

sense."  He paused.  "Elijah knows I'm out there," he said softly.



     "He  knows.  He's trying to preach to me, but I. . .I don't

know what he's saying.  You don't have any poetry.  Did he leave

any?"



     Averman shook his head.  "Not that we could find."



     Mulder nodded, considered this fact, stared at his bandaged

hands.  "My family's lived on the Vineyard for a long, long time,"

he said quietly.  "When I was little my great aunt Miranda would

take me out to the family cemetery and point out all my ancestors. 

It was an old cemetery.  Most of the graves were from the 1800's. 

It didn't scare me, playing where all my relatives were buried. 

That never scared me."  He paused, eyes distant.  "There aren't

many fresh plots.  Did you know that?  Most family cemeteries like

ours are closed.  You have to go to the mainland to get buried. 

The cemeteries aren't allowed to grow anymore.  They say it's

because of ecological concerns.  My dad used to say it's because of

tourists.  But Aunt Miranda had three plots that were still clear. 

I was her favorite.  I have a plot."  Mulder rambled calmly, lost

in family politics and family wars.



     Something in Averman's gut twisted.  He wanted to ask a

question, to snap Mulder out of this macabre mood.  He swallowed

and said nothing.



     "Elijah. . .he's trying to preach to me.  He wants me to

understand.  He's younger than I am, maybe by a couple years.  But

he sees us as brothers. . .I think. . ."  Mulder paused, picked at

the bandage.  Silence filled the room.  Averman struggled not to

speak, not to fill the silence with inane noise that would drive

off the fear rising and twisting and filling him so that he could

not breathe.



     "Is it a dream or something else

     When the surface of the blackened river

     Is a face that sweats with tears?



     For the dull brain, the sharp desires

     And the quick eyes of Woolly Bear.

     There is no relief but in grief.

     O when will the creaking heart cease

     When will the broken chair give ease?"



     Mulder's voice was low.  "He lost his family.  I guess, in a

way, I lost mine too.  He came from Massachusetts. My father

graduated from Amherst.  My mother was at Boston College a couple

of years before she met my dad and quit to go with him to his first

posting in Europe.  His mother went to Radcliffe and his father

went to Harvard.  Graduated Harvard Divinity School.  They all had

their entire lives ahead of them then.  But all the promises of

goodness. . ."  Mulder trailed, not wishing to take his analogy any

further.  "At night, when he closes his eyes, he can hear the

cold Atlantic.  He can see the whales and the dim grey days of

winter.  He's never been back, but it's all he thinks about.  If I

die, and I'm buried there, I won't mind.  Elijah knows I come from

the Vineyard.  He knows the salt air will slide across the grass

that grows over my grave."  Mulder looked up.  "Even if I couldn't

get into the Mulder cemetary, I don't want to be buried in

Arlington.  I don't want to be lost.  There are cemetaries in New

Bedford and Chatham and even Boston is an old whaling town.  My 

mom and dad have plots in Boston."



     Averman swallowed, took Mulder's shoulders in his hands,

turned the younger man to face him.  "What the fuck are you trying

to tell me?"



     "I didn't see it, because I was lost in dreams," Mulder said,

mind suddenly clear.  "I was trying to preach his word, his gospel.

The drugs. . . I couldn't think. . . He did this one neatly, for

us.  There's Eliot there, some dumb fuck just lost it for us." He

shook his head.  "I don't. . . I'm not sick, Averman.  There's

nothing wrong with me except what the fire brought to me."  He

moved his hands inward, swinging the IV line.  "I only just now

understood, only now just realized it.  He killed Adeena as a way

of putting Sarah to sleep.  Doing for her what he could not do for

Sarah.  I'm next.  He'll send me to Jesus, let my body go back to

what he remembers as Edenic--Massachusetts.



     "With glory and derision,

     Light upon light, mounting the saints' stair.

     Not for me the martyrdom, the ecstacy of thought and prayer.

     Not for me the ultimate vision.

     Grant me thy peace.

     (And a sword shall pierce thy heart,

     Thine also).

     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."



     Mulder swallowed, staring at something only he could see,

preternaturally calm.  "If you'd kept me on the Thorazine, I never

would have seen it," he said softly.  "I would have just slid into

the darkness.  You said that. . .that you wouldn't let me be a

sacrifice for Elijah.  That's what. . .I guess that's. . .But

Elijah's. . .he knows the facts are distributed widely now.  And

I'm from Massachusetts.  And I'm the only one who understands

what's going on. . . He's ready now.  Ready to kill me and to die."



     Mulder swallowed.  "Sarah's body is clean.  Sarah has escaped.

Now it is time for the prophet to withdraw and take his servant

with him."



Continued in part 26...............





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

======



From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 26/41 NC-17

Date: 15 Feb 1996 06:05:29 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 26/41)

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.



_____________________



     "Mulder.  Mulder, listen to me."  Averman swallowed, feeling

the ice that wrapped through his bowels sent shivers along his

nerves.  Looked into dark eyes that let no light back out.  "I need

you to work this through with me.  You're telling me that Elijah's

coming for you next."



     Mulder nodded, calm and definite, still seeing the long dunes

and grasses of the Vineyard.  The slate and blue waters where the

warm Gulf Stream cut through the icy, northern sea, off the coast

of Massachusetts.



     'And men who turned towards the light and were known of the

          light

     And led men from light to light, to knowledge of Good and

          Evil.

     But their light was ever surrounded and shot with darkness

     As the air of temperate seas is pierced by the still dead

          breath of the Arctic Current;

     And they came to an end, a dead end.'



     "Mulder, how does he know you?"



     The eyes came back from a place nearly two thousand miles

away.  A perfectly reasonable smile answered Averman's fears. 

"We've been all over the news.  He'd have a hard time not knowing

I'm from Massachusetts.  Particularly after Foster's sermon this

morning."  Puzzled frown as Averman shook his head.



     "No.  You said he only takes abused children.  And we both

know he only takes the ones who've been saved.  He hasn't yet taken

a child too young, or not Christian.  I don't have any doubt you're

right about that.  So why you?  He won't just break his pattern,

Mulder. . . "



     The agent's face closed up, went tight and professional.  And

that scared Averman more than the lost stare focused on sea grasses

and the offshore breeze.  The AIC couldn't leave it there. 

"Massachusetts he knows, but how does he know you were beaten?  

How does he know if you've been saved?  You could give me a reason 

for knowing about each of the kids, Mulder.  When we get the 

subpoenas I'm sure we'll find a connection, just like you predicted." 

Averman stopped, frowned, feeling the edges of something.  Stared

long and hard at the analyst, who'd withdrawn into a burrow of

blankets.  With his eyes shut and his thin, pale face he looked

terribly young.  Like he'd looked the first afternoon at Social

Service, gesturing across his own chest. . .



     "You said abused kids don't wear banners, Mulder, but maybe

they do.  You seem to know the ones who are too quiet or too

well-behaved."  Averman could hear the excitement pick up in his

own voice.  "And Rodriguez and I spotted you. . . "  He looked away

from the man, worked his hands on his knees.  Couldn't sit still. 

Paced to the window and resisted the urge to look out and see if

anyone was out there.  Mulder was watching him now.



     "I need you to think back and try to remember.  Go over every

fucking thing you can remember.  You haven't been on television, no

interviews.  None of that shit.  But if Elijah watched you long

enough he'd probably see about what Sam and I saw.  Fucking hell! 

He could have been right on top of us and we'd never have seen him.

But you might have picked up on it. . . "



     "So you want me to tell you if I remember anyone watching me?

Would that be before or after you started fucking me over with the

Haldol and Thorazine?"



     "I don't care, so long as you can get an answer for me."  He

stood and watched the agent a moment.  He'd been right each time,

was probably right this time, God help them.  He had to have seen

someone, or something.  The alternative just didn't bear thinking

about.  "Sleep on it, Mulder.  And tomorrow, when we go to the

site, you keep an eye out."



     He'd talk to Rodriguez about it in the morning.  Make sure

both he and Meyers knew they had a potential stalking situation on

their hands.  Cooke would be useless until they had to work up

press releases on the whole mess.  Averman ran back through his 

own logic, and over what Mulder had said.  Scary still, but now he

could make sense of it.  Now he had a place to start.  Through the

open connecting door he could hear even, exhausted breathing, and

let himself drift into the dark finally, hoping for a calm night.









     Sleep came quickly and inevitably, rolling in waves over him.

Under the surface, in the dark, chimeras and fantasies called, and

a voice beyond them.



     'Our gaze is submarine, our eyes look upward

     And see the light that fractures through the unquiet water.

     We see the light but see not whence it comes.

     O Light Invisible, we glorify Thee!'



     Mulder moaned in his sleep, and rolled.  He pulled a pillow

close, all unconscious, and clung.  In the light he saw his mother

and sister, and the water washed around them.  He shivered, and

looked for his father but could not find him.



     "Hello, Fox.  I knew you remembered it.



     'I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each."



     He wanted not to know the next words.  Sleeping lips shaped a

whisper. . .  "I do not think that they will sing to me."



     And other lips replied, in a voice that was not his. . .



     'We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

     By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown. . . "



     Fox frowned, feeling the sand under his feet.  The sun

glittered in the waves when he looked out.  His sister's brown hair

shone when he turned to look behind him.



     "Woke to my hearing from harbor and neighbor wood

     And the mussel pooled and the heron

     Priested shore

     The morning beckon

     With water praying and call of seagull and rook. . . "



     In the dark, a young man cried for the sea he barely

remembered.  Walked next to a companion on a beach he'd never

known.  A girl with long, gold hair, and a woman who taught him. .

.



     'Love is most nearly itself

     When here and now cease to matter.

     We must be still and still moving

     Into another intensity

     For a further union, a deeper communion

     Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,

     The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters

     Of the petrel and the porpoise.

     In my end is my beginning.



     The chill breeze off the water called through the grass and

whispered in the voice of the sand but Fox barely felt it against

the heat and the ache of the light in his head.



     Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,

     Time held me green and dying

     Though I sang in my chains like the sea.



     And the light hurt his eyes as his own startled gasp caught in

his throat.  And it was quiet.  He lay so still, and could hear

Averman snoring.  Feel the faint trickle of sweat as the fever

broke again.  His head ached when he stood, and the light from the

bathroom door hurt his eyes, but the water felt cool and good in

his hands and soothed him.  His feet left the silence whole again,

as he padded back to his bed.  A good natured sneer as he taped the

IV back to the head of the bed, and curled into warmth and safety

again, in the dark.



     When he finally slipped under again, the sea did not lap at

his dreams, and when human voices woke him, he did not drown.











     "Are you sure you feel all right?"



     "Meyers, quit hovering."  Sunlight cut through the windows to

shine off the floor where Adeena Wells' clothes had lain in a

neatly folded pile.  The aluminum and enamel laid grid patterns on

the dark lenses of Mulder's glasses, eerie indoors.  But the light

hurt his eyes, today.  Ached, and echoed, and he kept trying to see

it move.



     Mulder pulled himself out of the tired slouch, and turned to

the specimen drawers.  His hand scratched idly at the bruise and

the bandaids Sam had plastered on when he'd finally pulled the

needle loose.  Mulder wasn't looking forward to being punctured

again.



     The analyst led Meyers around the room, just looking at

first.  Fletcher was there.  The hair that had been gray under

fluorescents was colorless floss caught in the sun behind him.  The

Special Agent squinted from behind his lenses, ignored his younger

colleague, and stared into the drawer where Elijah had cleaned his

dead and laid their souls to rest.  Swallowed and shuddered at the

shifting mass of carpet beetles.  At the sudden sense that the

tiles beneath his feet were not so solid or firm.



     "Thank you."  He was happier when Fletcher had shut the

drawer.  Chrome.  Aluminum.  Enamel.  Smooth and cold and clinical

under his fingertips.  Smells of death and jungle and ether and

solvents.  He shivered and remembered doctors and nurses and the

smell of death and illness.  And salt.  And sand.



     "Agent Mulder, you look like shit."  Meyers' voice was low and

trying to be assertive.  "Dr. Rodriguez is going to kill me if I

let you wear yourself out."  He could see his own reflection,

chewing its lip with worry, then Mulder's blank expression lifted

in a thin smile.  If it reached his eyes, there was no way to tell.



     "All right, mom.  We can go.  You can tell Frito I left before

they had to carry me out."  Shook his head as the kid puffed out a

sigh of relief, and tried to put a hand under his elbow.  "Save it

for old ladies in Florida, Meyers.  You're not my type."  No spring

or lightness to Mulder's step, but he managed the car without

passing out or collapsing.  When he dropped into the passenger

seat, Meyers allowed himself to hope for an uneventful morning

after all.



     "So, did you see anyone, Meyers?"  Spooky had let his head

drop back on the headrest, and Meyers could see his eyes shut under

the glasses.  The scraped bruise was dark on pale skin, from where

he'd fallen the day before.



     Startled scan around the parking lot.  No one really visible,

but with the light that bounced from gleaming metal and glass, he'd

be hard put to tell.  "I. . . "



     "Take a good look.  My head hurts too much, but Averman's

going to want details.  No one sitting in cars?  No one on the

street who's not doing the only sane thing and trying to get out of

the sun?"  The words were steady, but drained.  Spooky heaved a

sigh, and let his head roll to look at Meyers.  Somehow, he knew

the hazel eyes were open now.  Shivered in the heat.



     "I really don't see anyone, Agent Mulder."



     Got an answering snort.  "Don't worry.  I didn't really think

you would."  It was a good idea, but Elijah wasn't there.  He

didn't need to see him.  He never had.



     'To be conscious is not to be in time.'



     'Human kind

     Cannot bear very much reality.'













     "He said that?  Jesus Christ, we're fucked."  Sam Rodriguez

rubbed his eyes.  Six unbroken hours of sleep had felt like heaven,

but it just wasn't enough.  "And you bought it."



     "I have enough trouble with Mulder yanking my dick, Rodriguez.

I don't need you jumping my case, too."  Averman's voice was mild,

but the set of his jaw was tense and nervous.  "Waiting for Tyler

makes me feel like the ugly girl who wants to go to the prom."  He

sat back and idly dragged a french fry through ketchup.  He knew it

would take time to get through the records back in Ashton and in

Oklahoma City, but Tyler could hit something the first time out, or

the fifth, or the hundredth.  Cooke could sit and wait for the

afternoon, but for now it was Averman's turn.



     "Look, do you expect Tyler to call anytime soon?"



     Averman shook his head.  "Why?"



     "I need to get hold of Taylor, but I want to see Marion when

he comes in. I want to see him before he gets a chance to collect

himself."  The AIC turned the phone to face Rodriguez.  Watched tea

colored fingers punch out a quick code.



     Sam caught the phone next to his ear with his shoulder,

pulling paper and pen close, and waited.  Averman watched him, saw

him wait, tapping the pen in time with the ringing of the phone,

tracing the edge of the pad with an unconscious gesture.  Saw the

muscles flicker across his face as he straightened and drew a

breath.



     "Dr. Taylor, hello."  The automatic, professional smile the

listener can hear was on Sam's face.  "They did?. . . Good.  What

did they. . .



     Averman felt himself hunch forward as the professional smile

became a faint, puzzled frown.  Watched the pathologist jot down a

series of figures, then review them, tapping the point of the pen

at each one.  Rodriguez' frown was slowly etching itself into his

features.  It seemed like he wrote forever, and he had moved onto

the third sheet before he spoke again.



     "You're sure of the leucocytes?. . . and the hematocrit?. . .

The Western Blot? . . . "  A brief sigh of relief lightened his

features.  Then his head came up suddenly.  "They really think so? 

No. . . . No, I understand.  It would certainly explain the

heightened anxiety. . . And that's the best choice in the state?" 

The doctor's voice had suddenly gone flat and quiet.  "Ostler.  All

right. . . If it comes to that, I'll be sure to ask for him. . .

No, you've done more than . . ."  His smile was faint and

humorless.  "No.  Thank you.  And I'll keep you apprised.. . . Good

bye, Doctor.  Thank you again."



     Rodriguez put the phone back onto the cradle very, very

carefully.  It barely made a whisper of sound.  Averman watched his

impassive face and felt an odd twist of dread, and sympathy, and

relief.  Gave him long, long seconds to stare blankly at his notes

and collect himself.  The young man finally shook himself free,

looked up at Averman.



     "I really hate the fucking taco circuit."  His voice was soft

and disengaged.



     "What did Taylor say?"



     Rodriguez stared at him, hefting the pad and letting it flap

in his hand.  "He says. . . the lab results come up just about

normal.  Pyrogens elevated and every other damn thing they can

think to test for is fucking, goddamned normal!"  Flinched as the

man spun and pitched the note pad into the wall.  It thumped when

it hit the floor, a few loose pages fluttering down after it.

"Taylor's been to path and neuro and all they can come up with is

a fucking tumor affecting the hypothalamus.  God DAMN it!  I hate

the fucking state of Oklahoma and every fucking cow town that ever

grew where some asshole took a shit."



     Averman felt his face flush, but held his tongue and watched

the doctor's back, seeing the tension of the muscles along his back

and his neck.  The tight, unhappy way he stood, muscles clenched

and nothing to kick.  Nothing to hit.  It took what seemed like

forever, but may have only been five minutes.  When Rodriguez

turned back his face was barely flushed.  He dropped onto the bed

and knit his fingers, hiding his chin and mouth behind steepled

knuckles, eyes unfocused.



     "Talk to me, Sam.  What are you thinking?"  The AIC kept his

voice low, used the same tones he'd used to keep Mulder calm and

thinking. 



     "I've let Marion corner me.  I should have pushed him harder.

. . I can't force treatment on a competent adult unless there's

imminent harm.  I also can't sit there and let him commit suicide,

but I don't think a judge would find imminent harm here.  Not yet."



     "I know he looks bad, but the fever's been dropping since we

cut the Thorazine.  If you can get his fluids back up to normal. .

. "



     Rodriguez was shaking his head.  "No.  This was sudden onset

and the progression's been fast.  If it's a tumor, like Taylor

thinks, we've got to start testing and locate it fast."



     "What about Elijah?"  The old marine sat forward, elbows on

knees, staring intently.



     "He told you Elijah was stalking him now.  Classic paranoid

delusions.  He's been suffering anxiety and fear responses since

the onset of the fever. . . "



     "Which is abating."



     "So what, Averman?  So what!  He was going through a lot of

the fear responses even before the fever. And the vomiting?  And

that show under the tent?  He's been getting sicker and sicker

since we flew in here, and I let him back me off!  Fuck it."  Sam's

voice was a low snarl.  Angry and dangerous.



     "And he's been right every time."  Calm, steady response.



     "So he's a genius, Averman.  Two-hundred IQ, or whatever the

hell it is.  Geniuses get sick too, and they get irrational and

they die and I'm damned if I will just allow it to happen."



     "Round and round, Sam.  Same old question.  What are you going

to do?"



     The pathologist ground the heels of his hands into his eyes,

pushed his fingers back through his black hair.  When he finally

spoke, his voice was soft and determined.  "I'm going to give him

a choice.  He's got twenty-four hours.  He thinks Elijah's that

close, and he could be right, so he's got another day.  Then he

lets me ship him home and straight to Hopkins or GW, and a full

round of testing.  If he says no, I'll call in Guiterriez and we

see about legally forcing him."



     "Shit, Sam.  That's coercion."



     "He knows it.  He's known that was the choice since this

started.  Averman, he's got the psych degree, he's been playing

this off on us since day one.  I cannot sit there and let him yank

us around until it's too late to help him."



     "Are you so sure you can get him declared incompetent?  It

looks spooky as hell, but he's been able to give solid reasoning

for every call he's made."



     Sam's eyes were hollow when he looked up.  "After the fact.

But now he's telling you Elijah knows about him, and is after him."



     "If he's been tracking. . . "



     "No.  You suggested that to Mulder.  If you ask him, I'll put

hard cash down that he tells you Elijah divined it in a dream, or

Eliot told him, or shit like that.  He might have had reasons for

most of it.  I believe that, somehow, he must have seen stuff that

triggered in his subconscious.  But this last bit?  No.  No, I

can't see any way he managed that.  Excuse me.  I need to go put a

call in to Guiterriez.  I think we need to prepare, just in case. 

Call me when they get in, will you?"



     Averman watched him walk out, into the heat and the sun, and

felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature in the

room.













     Meyers had shut up and let him rest, thank god.  Mulder was

glad to let the kid look around for Averman's evidence.  The

analyst just dropped his head against the rest and thought about

what he'd seen.



     Flashes of white, and chrome, and. . . the green highway sign

for Oklahoma City?  Ninety-eight miles to Oklahoma City.  God, he'd

be glad to see the last of this state.  Glad to see the tall green

of trees along the Potomac.  Smell salt water off the Chesapeake,

and see the sand and shingle beaches of. . .  No.  He wasn't

remembering the Chesapeake, or the Eastern Shore.  Mulder reached

for the aluminum and chrome and white again, shutting away 

beaches where tropical currents cut through the icy, northern water, 

and old, whaling towns struggled through the twentieth century.  The

light was a throbbing ache behind his eyes, that burned in his

teeth and his skull.



     Chrome and enamel, scalpels and glass, but the smell of death

and dust and God's own decay.  Thousands on thousands of legs that

skittered across skin, and a hunger that waited for man, and could

only be held at bay.  Never stopped.  Never vanquished.  He

shivered, smelling chemicals and sickness, and his eyes flew open

to see endless miles of open land, smeared here and there with

asphalt and houses.  Oklahoma City, ninety-eight miles.  Green

sign, nothing like the green of the coast, and the trees, and the

grass on the beach or the ocean in the sun.



     Miles of sere, dun grasslands slid past in the heat.

Unconsciously, his eyes scanned, finding the trees nurtured by man,

or clinging along the rare banks of streams.  The radio slid from

one song to another, all alike. 



     'Still.  Will heat move

     Only through the mocking-bird

     Heard once?  Still hills

     Wait.  Gates wait.  Purple trees,

     White trees, wait, wait,

     Delay, decay.



     He swallowed in the heat that burned through the windshield

and cut a sharp edge between light and dark.  The cold breeze from

the vents could only press that heat back in tiny currents, and

chill the salt sweat that burned the scrape on his cheek.  The car

slowed, turned.  The tiny, asphalt island shoving back the grass,

but when the motor's growl died the heat still waited for them.



     Meyers pulled the door open, and Mulder flinched from the hot

wall of air that crashed over him.  Opened his own door, and let

his feet fall to asphalt that shone soft, and liquid-black in the

sun.  So few steps to the shade and pale concrete.  He forced

himself upright and leaned against the burning metal of the car,

breathing the air that had waited for them to come out of hiding,

out of a car, or a room.  Meyers was next to him, hand hovering by

his elbow.  Mulder pulled his mouth into a sour grin.



     "I don't need a walker yet, Meyers.  And I usually don't

belly-flop on concrete if I'm not drugged, so go play with

yourself.  Hands off."  The kid grinned back, shrugged.  Looked

around, probably trying to find spies and killers in the few

shadows that could survive out here.  One?  Maybe.  But the sun was

overhead.  Ghosts walked at midnight and noon, when the shadows

wouldn't scare them.  Mulder grinned like a skull and walked the

few steps that could take him to cool, dark shade again.



     Averman was on the phone, acknowledged them with a look, and

went back to repeating the names of women.  Radcliffe, at last. 

Finally, things might fall into place and he could stop fighting so

hard.  Sam must have been watching for them.  He was on their heels

as they found the bubble of chilled air that hit the sweat on

Mulder's face and sides.  The hand in the middle of his back was

cool.



     "Let's get you on your back.  You look like you're about to

keel over anyway."



     "Thanks, is that a formal diagnosis?  Or do you just want to

get me into bed?"



     "You been having hot dreams again, Marion?"



     "Thought you preferred blondes, Sam."  He grunted

as he dropped back against the pillows.  Shivered.  The hand around

his wrist felt icy.



     "I don't know if your dreams are hot, but your fever is.  Hold

still. . . "  Mulder looked away, tried to think of an insult or

snipe, and was grateful when Sam saved him the trouble.



     "This will prick a little."  Fucking IV again.



     "I've always said that about you, Frito."  Winced as he got a

new bruise for his collection.  Watched Sam tape the thing in. 

"Jesus, it's gonna look like a bondage flick by the time you get done."



     "Wishful thinking.  Though sometimes I would like to gag you."



     "Remind me not to let you near me with handcuffs."  He let his

head fall back, and his eyes slid shut.  He was seeing chrome and

enamel and green of signs, all over again.   Frowned.  Felt the

bed rock as Frito got up, and faintly registered Meyers, getting

the traditional rookie job of running out for lunch.   Wondered,

vaguely, how Cooke was doing with the Enid evidence team.  There

wasn't a lot there for him to either find or fuck up.  Averman set

the phone down.  Mulder heard it click into the cradle.  Felt the

bed jar, and cool fingers looking for the pulse in his wrist.  The

currents of cold air traced past his skin and sounds echoed like

they had halos.  "Thermometer, Francis.  I want to get a

temperature."  Let Frito lodge the thing in the tender spot under

his tongue.  The bed drifted, currents around him, breeze, but the

smell of cold alcohol and death still hung in his nose, and his

eyes flew open, half-expecting to see white sheets and pastel

walls.  Relaxed again, to see the dark polyester and panelling of

the cheap motel.



     The glass, now warm, whipped out of his mouth and Frito cursed

with some truly vile Spanish oaths that made Mulder grin.  Averman

had settled his elbows on his knees and was watching them.



     "Was it worth it, Mulder?  Tell me what you think you saw out

there?"



     He managed a faint snort.  Sam was glaring at both of them,

and there was something in the look Averman gave him that made

Mulder's guts chill.  He cleared his throat and tried to organize

the floating impressions.



     "He's moved from the abandoned church to the modern one."

Read the puzzled expression on their faces.  "Oh come on, it's not

subtle at all.  God is dead?  The new god?"



     "I didn't find any Eliot on the body this morning."  Mulder

grinned at him.



     "I'll bet.  Frito, you didn't find ANYTHING on that body.

That's the damned point.  All the Eliot is in the body itself, and

the setting.  _Murder in the Cathedral_ - 'wash the bone, wash the

brain.'  That's one.  Just like I told you it would be.  I didn't

see the other one until I went out there, but it's there.  He's

foreshadowing, I think.  I'm not sure what, exactly, but he's

giving us another piece of Eliot, just a little."



     "Okay, dazzle us some more."  Sam's dry, quiet voice made

Mulder nervous. His voice was thin and shaky, but the words were

there.



     "Men have left GOD not for other gods, they say, but for no

          god; and this has never happened before

     That men both deny gods and worship gods, professing first

     Reason,

     And then Money, and Power, and what they call Life, or Race,

          or Dialectic.

     The Church disowned. . . '"  He faltered to a stop.  Watched

Sam chew his lower lip, staring back with flat, dark eyes.



     Mulder licked his lips, tried to read the conversation that

wasn't happening and maintain the one that was.  "He started with

the corn gods and fertility sacrifices, images of food and

fertility.  And then Michael and the consecrated Church, abandoned

and gutted. . . and this last one, in a lab.  Church of Science,

but he chose a method that was more primitive than man. . . "  He

trailed again, and shivered.  Pulled the comforter up and around

him against a chill that wasn't at all in the air.



     "Marion, listen.  I talked to Taylor."  Mulder could feel

Averman watching, but he couldn't look away from Sam.  His guts

felt watery and his mouth was desperately dry.  "The lab can't find

anything that indicates an infection, or obvious organic cause for

the fever or the vomiting."



     "It's psychosomatic.  Frito, it's a reaction to. . . to

thinking into Elijah's head. I don't know why, but I know it IS. 

I've been studying the way he thinks, and how he lives, what he

believes.  You saw my hands, the fire. . . "



     "And you also told us prophecies, and you told Averman that

Elijah's coming for you.  That he knows about your childhood."  The

gentle, brutal words hung in the air.



     "It's not like that.  You know it's not."



     "Mulder.  Your fever's back up.  Yes, you were just out in the

heat and running around, but you're sick.  You've been getting

sicker and sicker since we came here."  Sam sat next to his feet,

eyes on a level with Mulder's.  He still felt menacing as hell,

with his calm, patient expression.  Mulder choked the urge to

panic, to fight.



     "Sam, he's escalating.  He knows who I am and where I come

from.  Look at the killings.  The kids are getting older, and more

middle class.  He's not picking them at random, he's talking to

us."



     "I know.  This isn't about Elijah."  Mulder could see Sam draw

a deep breath.  "You're really good.  You deflect beautifully.  But

you're sick and getting sicker.  Against my better judgement, I'm

letting you have twenty-four hours more.  Then you go home, and 

we put you in a hospital."



     Mulder was shaking his head, feeling what little color he

still had drain from his face.  "We catch Elijah and I'll be fine."



Knew it was wrong, even as he said it.  Knew he'd made a mistake.



     "No.  The only thing we can find to match these symptoms is a

tumor.  You can't play games with that, this has too fast a

progression.  I don't like letting you even have the one day, but

it lets me call ahead and make the arrangements with the airlines

and the hospital.  You want Hopkins or GW?"



     "Sam. . . "  Shut his eyes tight, stinging.  "Don't do this."



     "I know people at both.  Don't force me to do this the hard

way, Marion.  You know Guiterriez will back me."



     Mulder looked up, staring at Rodriguez' sad, hard face.

Looked for Averman, and saw no help.  And he couldn't catch his

breath.  The air felt heavy and painful in his lungs, and his head

hurt.  "You aren't listening to me."



     "I am.  I hear a very ill friend, who isn't thinking clearly."



     "Shit!  You aren't listening at all!  I can find Elijah for

you, and. . . "  Bit down on his own lip, held the words.  Nodded

slowly.  "All right.  All right, don't call Guiterriez.  Give me

the twenty-four, and then I'll go back.  You can put me in GW." 

Bitter, bitter words.  Sam relaxed and breathed out.  Smiled at

him.  Patted his ankle.  Mulder controlled the flinch, felt his

face freeze.



     Averman had stood, scooped up his notes.  Mulder could see, in

the mirror over the bureau, what the AIC saw.  Pale face, dark

smudges under his eyes, matched by the scraped bruise on his jaw

and cheek.  The patient, sympathetic look galled and made sense.



     "Why don't you get some sleep.  I'll use the phone in here.

You call me if you need anything."  Mulder watched Averman go,

faintly heard him settle at an identical table, identical phone. 

Looked back to find Sam watching him.



     "Good work, the stuff about the churches I mean.  It makes

lots of sense."  The tone was light, but the words hurt.  "Marion.

. . "  Mulder felt himself flinch, saw the hurt in Sam's face. 

"Christ, I didn't want to do this to you.  We'll talk about it when

you're feeling better."  Sam picked up a blanket and pulled it over

him.



     Long shaky breaths while he just stood there.  Mulder finally

pulled down, into the blankets and shut his eyes, shut them all

out.  Let the heat and fever and exhaustion pull him under until

they all went away.



Continued in part 27..................





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

======



From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 27/41 NC-17

Date: 16 Feb 1996 11:05:05 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 27/41)

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.



_________________



     He could see chrome and white and tile.  Glass and starched,

hard, white cotton.  Beds with rails, and sharp things around him,

light that held him trapped while cool hands probed and voices

asked him questions.  Enamel cabinets with glass, cylinders of

glass with needles, metal rails and tables and hard edges all

around.  But the smells were death and illness.  Sand under his

feet, and fire that ran through his veins.



     '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.'



     "No.  This is not my church, I do not follow this faith."  But

he heard the voice now, loud at his shoulder.



     "You've worshipped here often enough."



     Fox felt the sand shift under his feet, and the water lap

cold, and salt.



     'And death shall have no dominion.

     Under the windings of the sea

     No more may gulls cry at their ears

     Or waves break loud on the seashores. . . '



     Somewhere a girl with gold hair found peace in the sands left

when an inland sea died and an age of the world ceased to be.  Fox

turned to find a different face.



     'Am I not sister, too, who is my saviour?

     Am I not all of you, by the directed sea

     Where bird and shell are babbling in my tower?'



     "The old drunkard knew the sea, too.  But he didn't keep

faith."  A woman stood on the shore, reading to them both.



     'Lady, whose shrine stands on the promontory,

     Pray for all those who are in ships. . .

     And those concerned with every lawful traffic. . .

     Also pray for those who were in ships, and

     Ended their voyage on the sand, in the sea's lips

     Or in the dark throat which will not reject them

     Or wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bell's

     Perpetual angelus.



     He twisted in his sleep, listening for the bell, and heard

only voices from so far away. . .



     "Jesus, he's burning up. . . " - "I'll call an ambulance." -

"No.  It'll take too long.  They can't cope with this here.  Get

Oklahoma City and a chopper. . . "  Cool hand on his forehead,

cutting through the heat and fog, calling him, but another voice

was louder.  Green trees.  Green sea.  Green sign.  Oklahoma City.

. .



     'Let us go then, you and I,

     When the evening is spread out against the sky

     Like a patient etherised upon a table. . . '



     He drifted somewhere, he didn't know where, but when he shut

his eyes he could hear the rain and pretend he was in

Massachusetts.













     Mulder considered the big-chested, blonde student nurse.  If

he hadn't been leaning over, vomiting his guts out, this might have

been an enviable position.  As it was, even being able to see down

the front of her smock didn't make him feel any better.  He closed

his eyes.  Fuck it hurt.



     He sat miserably as she recorded the fluid he'd sent back into

the ecosystem and wet a washrag.  She'd come in with implements of

torture, and despite the fact that she was indeed a midwestern,

corn-fed coed who probably stripped part-time to pay for college,

he wasn't feeling terribly friendly.  An IV machine with a

Thorazine drip.  There was also a fucking needle and a small

bottle.  He didn't need to guess about that one.  The Valium they'd

given him for the CT scan was only just now wearing off.



     He leaned back against the bed, grateful Frito had put it in

a semi-reclining position before deserting him to go read test

results.  Not the full recline like he wanted, but a decided

improvement on sitting up straight.  His head hurt like hell.  Not

a pounding ache, more a. . .oh what would you call it. . .just a

general ache that reverberated through him and made noise hell. 

The CT scan hadn't been bad, even with the Valium in his IV.  But

the spinal tap, letting a doctor puncture him with a hot knitting

needle three or four times, before heading him straight into

exquisite torture.  Mulder could see uses for that procedure in

getting suspects to talk.



      "Okay.  I'm going to put some Valium into your old IV.  It'll

make you feel calmer."  Mulder finally read the blonde's name tag.

Brenda.



     It figured.



     "Not like I have much choice," Mulder replied.



     Brenda glanced at the restraints like they were something

polite people didn't talk about.  She flushed and shot the Valium

into his IV.  Mulder didn't even ask about the chances for getting

the restraints off.  When he'd gotten here, still in a haze and

they'd shoved him in the room, he'd almost cried.  The little

private room was almost refrigerated, and then they'd slapped a

cooling blanket over him.  Taken his sweats and put him in a gown.

He was so fucking cold.  So cold his teeth chattered.



     The Valium hit his arm, already bruised and sore, with a

burning singe that should be familiar by now, but wasn't.  Mulder

closed his eyes against the fresh onslaught of pain.  It was really

too much.  He was freezing cold and strapped to his bed and his

back hurt where they'd poked him and they'd brought in all these

big hulking orderlies like Mulder wouldn't be able to hold himself

still in the fucking position of a fetus and his head hurt and no

one believed in Elijah.  He bit his lip to keep from crying, found

it already raw but didn't really care.  But the Valium was already

robbing his misery of its power, leaving him with a vagueness and

a not caring, that, in its own way was worse.



     Brenda ripped Frito's tape off.  Mulder scarcely felt it as

she changed out needles and IV's and Thorazine began making its

slow way into his bloodstream and into his body and into his

thoughts.











     Francis was out when Rodriguez got back.  The CAT scan didn't

show diddly.  The spinal and the blood tests weren't back yet. The

X-rays told everyone else what Sam already knew.  He sat down on

the cheap, vinyl, couch-convert-a-bed, back to the window, and let

himself collapse.  Fox Mulder was sick, maybe dying and the list

of possibilities was being whittled down bit by bit by bit.  Rare

and exotic poison, meningitis, toxoplasmosis encephalitis, Lupus

and Reiter's syndrome. . .It wasn't fair and it wasn't right.



     Marion's mouth hung open in sleep.  Sam grinned sadly,

thinking about old jokes shared between them, and about how like a

little boy this made his friend look.  His hands hung in the

restraints, twisted up as though he had been fighting in his

dreams, but the hand itself was loose, fingers gently splayed like

those of God the Creator in Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel.  The LED

readout on the IV machine made an infinity sign that constantly

moved, indicating that nothing was wrong, that the flow of drugs

was constant and precise.  And that Fox Mulder was stoned out of

his mind.



     "What?  You're Frito the Neato Bandito?"  The stranger had

dropped a file onto Sam's already cluttered desk, mouth riding up

at the corners in a cruel smile.



     Samuel Rodriguez was used to bigots.  You got a tough hide or

you got out of the Bureau.  He eyed the tall man up and down.  "I

sure as hell ain't the Cisco Kid," he replied.



     The brown haired, doe-eyed man had burst out laughing as Sam

opened the file.  Oh.  Fox Mulder's case.  The new kid.  The cocky

son-of-a-bitch everyone was talking about.  The asshole whose dick

was bigger than everyone else's.  He was incredibly bright, scarily

good, and was supposed to be a wonder boy.  Add to that the fact

that his father had worked for the State Department and you got

someone other people were just dying to hate.  So, Rodriguez

guessed, the kid just gave everyone a reason.  Real aristocrat this

one.  Oh yeah.  "Francis Marion," he replied.



     The man blinked.  "Excuse me?"



     "I bet one of your ancestors was Francis Marion, the fairy

Swamp Fox with the faggot feather in his cap."



     Fox Mulder's cruel smile became a delighted grin.  "Fuck you.

My ancestors were Scotch-Irish.  They didn't know when to bathe 

and wore absolutely nothing under their kilts."



     "Probably because there was nothing there for anyone to worry

about."



     "You know what they say.  Small hands, small feet.  Big hands,

big feet?"



     "Want a wheelbarrow to carry it around in?"



     "At least I fucking don't have to rub on both sides before she

knows I'm there."













     "Frito?"  It was a moan.  Sam swallowed.



     "Hi, Francis."  He stood, leaned over the bedrails and wiped

his friend's sweaty brow.



     "I'm so cold.   Please let me have a couple of minutes without

the blanket."



     "I'm sorry, Francis.  I can't.  You know I can't."



     "Please."  It was a beg.  "I'm so cold.  I'll do anything."



     "I know.  But we've got to get the fever down."



     Mulder smiled at this for some reason.  "Glad you kept your

gay loves to yourself," he muttered.  "The nurses keep using the

thermometer as an excuse to view my butt."



     Sam grinned for Mulder's benefit.  "They've got a whole crop

of student nurses here."



     Mulder grinned.  "Young, chesty, blonde. Sounds like a cheap

b-movie."



     "Yeah, and you should see the female ones too."



     This caused a bark of laughter.  "Stop making me laugh, Frito,

you fucking bastard.  It hurts like hell."  Mulder swallowed.  "Has

anyone called my parents?"



     Oh shit.  Oh fucking shit, Sam berated himself.  "No.  I'll.

. ."



     "Don't, please.  I don't. . .please don't.  My records have

Reggie on them.  I don't. . .Mom won't leave the island.  Dad's. .

.he wouldn't know what to. . .don't let them bury me at Arlington.

Make them bury me on the Vineyard.  Sam will look there when she

finds out. . ."  Mulder trailed.



     "You're not going to die.  Stop being self-pitying," Sam said

harshly.  More harshly than he'd intended.  "You're sick.  You're

probably sicker than you've ever been in your entire life, but

you're not going to die."



     Mulder swallowed, forced his eyes open.  "Elijah's coming for

me," he said softly.



     Sam took a deep breath and expelled it.  It was no use trying

for logic.  Mulder's mind was not rational.  Paranoia.



     "You're safe here," Sam said gently.  "Don't worry about

anyone doing anything to you.  You're safe."



     Mulder stared at his friend sadly.  "I'm sorry, Sam."



     Rodriguez stared.  He rarely heard Mulder use his first

name in direct address.  "There's nothing to be sorry over," he

said finally, softly.



     "Yes there is.  You shouldn't. . .this. . .this wasn't. . .it

wasn't fair . . ."  Mulder paused.  He licked his lips.  "Not to

make you come. . .come this far from your world."



     Sam stood a moment, tenuous, knowing he had to make a

decision.  Play it safe and play doctor or walk out on tottery

boards and be a friend.  Jenny would never forgive him for playing

doctor.  "I followed you, and fair or unfair wasn't involved," he

whispered.  "You're my friend."



     Mulder stared at Sam for a long time.  Understanding.  "I'm

sorry," he whispered again, eyes struggling to stay open.



     "Nothing to be sorry about.  Now close your eyes and go back

to sleep," Rodriguez ordered, laying a heavy hand over Mulder's

face.











     Averman's foot was light and Mulder did not stir.  Rodriguez

set down the last of his USA Today, on top of his growing stack of

newspapers and stood.  They went out of the icy little room and

stood in the hallway.



     "How is he?"



     Rodriguez shrugged.  "He's on Thorazine.  He's still spiking

a high fever.  He's still vomiting.  Nothing to tell."  He felt

like sliding down the wall and just sitting on the floor.



     Averman leaned against a wall, stared across the hall at

another hospital door.  "Why's it so cold in there?"



     "They're treating symptoms.  Trying to keep his body temp

down.  He's under a cooling blanket as well.  Ice cold water

circulating over him," Frito explained tiredly.  "Anything new?"



     Averman made a face, sighed.  "They're sending us another

analyst in a few days.  No more bodies.  Does Mulder still think

Elijah is coming for him?"



     "Unfortunately yes," Sam replied, rubbing his eyes.



     "I wonder if he isn't right."



     "He's sick.  He's delusory."



     "He was dead on with every murder.  It makes sense," Averman

argued.  "It really does make sense.  We know the mother went to

Radcliffe.  Oh we got their names.  Rosamund Delia Freye.  And

Clarence David Gragg."



     "Rosamund Delia?" Frito replied.  Blinking.  And then the

white boys thought *his* sisters were named funny?  Oh yeah, right.



     Averman nodded.  "We're going through the Massachusetts

records now for a marriage license, info on the kids, got people

interviewing.  I'll have all that by. . ."  he checked his watch,

"6 or 7.  The Massachusetts' Clerk of the Register wasn't

thrilled with us, but we got her to work late for the first time in

her life."  Averman grinned.  "Listen, Meyers is getting us rooms

close to the hospital.  Why don't we get him to come up here and he

can babysit Mulder while you and I go to supper.



     Sam shook his head.  God he was tired, but there was a couch

in there, after all.  "I need to be here, if the spinal results

come back, or any other symptoms develop. . ."



     "I had a Retriever bitch that was like you.  Every litter of

pups, had to literally drag her away from the whelping bed. . ."



     "What are you insinuating?" Sam asked darkly.



     "Don't make me get the leash."



     "Watch out.  I'll shed my fleas."



     "Yeah, you and every other wetback.  What else is new?"













     Mulder woke to the back of Haunted Mesa and Louis L'Amour's

photo.   "Hey," he muttered softly.



     Averman put the book down.  "Hey yourself.  How are you

feeling?"



     "Like hell.  But the scenery's nice."



     Averman nodded appreciatively.  "If I were twenty years

younger..."



     "If you were twenty years younger the sheep would still be

scared," Mulder managed.  "They discovered my fetish."



     "What?  Bondage?  Hell, that secret's been out.  You gotta

stop screwing the secretarial pool."



     Mulder gave a half-shrug and smiled.  "And here I thought no

one knew."  He shivered.  "Anything new on the case?"



     Averman shook his head.



     Mulder nodded, eyes distant.  "I'm scared.  Elijah's so

close."



     "We're not going to leave you alone.  I promise."



     Mulder stared at Averman.



     "We won't.  Someone will stay with you."













     He'd bought the Cherokee Wagoneer new.  A limited.  Four wheel

drive, six cylinder, leather interior, keyless entry, black with

wood panels.  Automatic everything.  Heavily tinted windows.

Childproof locks.



     The children had loved it.  Especially with the back seat

folded down, so they had room to play, to stretch out, to nap.

Elijah yawned, considered the building of the Hilton, the teddy

bear that had been Michael's.  Everytime he closed his eyes he

remembered.  He hadn't meant to hurt Fox or Michael.  He'd thought.

. .he'd thought Michael was in a coma.  He'd thought Michael was

almost dead.  But Fox had been so frightened and Michael hadn't

died until the fire ate at him.  Elijah didn't remember Fox being

frightened of fire.  But Elijah had been young and simple then.  He

had known that Fox was in and out of the hospital far too often,

that he always got the room across from the nurse's desk, that Fox

was clumsy.  But he hadn't understood.  No one had violated Elijah

yet.



     Elijah was unsure of his next step.  He would pray tonight,

pray and hope for inspiration.  He planned to go visit Fox in the

hospital tomorrow morning.  He didn't want Fox to be in such

misery.  Fox had trusted God.  When Fox died, when Elijah died,

they would be in God's warm arms and it would be all right.  And

people would know, because Fox had told them, that children were

hurt.  And so those people, they would be able to see that Fox had

been hurt too.  And that just because a hurt child grows up, it

doesn't mean that they outgrow being hurt.  But it would be okay.

Because Fox and Elijah would be safe in the arms of Jesus.  And no

one would ever break Fox's leg again and no one would ever slide

his penis up Elijah's butt and breathe hot on his neck, fingers

digging into soft skin.



     Elijah closed his eyes and grabbed Michael's bear into his

arms.  It was an expensive, soft bear.  Michael had chosen it.

Elijah decided to leave it here.  He closed his face off, the way

he had been taught, and got out of the Jeep, headed into the Hilton

with his overnight bag.







     The wounded surgeon plies his art

     Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.



     The great physician now is near

     The sympathizing Jesus.



     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.



     And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.



     Those are pearls which are his eyes.

     I am not permitted to see.



     His screams were wordless and sounded at the top of Mulder's

register.  They echoed down the corridors and brought the night

staff running, armed with more Valium, prepared to reprogram the

bastardized calculator that measured and controlled the amount of

Thorazine entering Mulder's bloodstream.  Mulder was pulling

against the restraints, his eyes wide and scarily dilated.

Screaming and screaming and if he didn't shut up Meyers would

fucking go insane.



     The figures clustered around his bed made matters worse,

terrified him.



     He was screaming something now,  screaming words.

"LEGGO!LEGGO!!LEGGOLEGGOLEGGOLEGGOLEGGOLEGGOLEGGO!!!!!"  

Pulling and tugging at the restraints with everything in him, every 

vein in his arms standing out.  The intern, Kit Sanderson, who was, 

Meyers had discovered after the first nightmare, Meyers' age, filled a

needle with Valium.  A lot of Valium, and pressed it into the IV.



     Mulder was crying now.  Oh God, Meyers hated watching this

process, having seen it once before, knowing that it made his anus

pucker and his scrotum draw up and his stomach churn and he just

wanted to sit on the couch with his knees to his chin and clench

his eyes shut until it was all over and Mulder was asleep again.



     Please make it better, please make it better, make it stop,

Meyers demanded silently of the walls.



     Sanderson watched as the Valium ran into Mulder's body as

Mulder's loudness abated.  Mulder had tears running down the sides

of his face and he was still scared.  He was sobbing now, angry

sobs, he was fighting the Valium with all of his strength.  Turning

his head back and forth and trying to find some direction to look

that didn't involve staring at the staff.



     Kit got rid of the rest of the nursing staff, everyone.  That

just left Kit and Meyers and Mulder, just like before.



     Meyers felt so damned helpless, standing now, since all the

people were gone, standing on the other side of Mulder's bed.  Kit

had told him what to do last time, but this time he could handle it

on his own.



     Meyers grabbed the box of Kleenex on his own, a whole wad.

"Come on," he told the older man.



     Mulder stared at him.  "Come on.  Your nose has got to be full

of snot."



     Mulder blew his nose, like a little kid.  Meyers could see the

Valium working, loosening him, making it hard for him to

concentrate.  The sobs were dying a quick death.



     "You're okay."  Meyers felt stupid.  This was Spooky Mulder.

Despite all that he had seen, all that had happened, this, this was

the worst.  It was a violation.



     They had known that he was going around the bend, they had

known that, but Mulder was still an agent.  Mulder was still one of

the best, even if he was half crazy.  Even when he'd sobbed in Jack

Averman's arms, you still had to respect the man.  But this.

Mulder was tied to his bed, covered in something out of a bad Buck

Rogers episode.  It was so fucking cold in here that Meyers had yet

to take off his suit jacket, and then when Mulder had a nightmare

they didn't give him time to calm down, they just drugged the hell

out of him and upped the Thorazine.



     Meyers didn't know what other choices they had.  But. . .he

stared at Kit.  The guy was really nice, and pretty good or he

wouldn't be here, but still.  Mulder was just a nutso patient to

him.  Reset the IV machine so that he was sent into deep la-la

land, out there where the elves lived.  This Kit Sanderson didn't

know that Mulder was the swingingest dick in VICAP.  Didn't know

that Mulder was responsible for capturing killers on worthless

clues.  Didn't know that the man he was so blithely sedating had a

fucking genius IQ and eidetic memory and a PhD from fucking 

Oxford. That his father had beaten the crap out of him and that his 

sister had been kidnapped while he watched helplessly.  This man 

knew none of that.  He saw a loopy patient screaming.



     Meyers stifled his anger and went back to calming Mulder with

words that meant nothing and went nowhere, words that merely 

served to let Mulder know that Meyers was there and would not 

leave. Words that helped Mulder fall back into that pit of nightmares

called sleep.













     Meyers sat with Sam over plates of cafeteria food.  He was so

fucking tired.  Every pore of his body ached.  He slumped over the

orange plastic tray with his OJ and cereal and toast and little

packets of apple butter, five cents a fucking piece.  <Five cents

for little packets of apple butter?  The hospital had you by the

balls and they knew it.>  He was weary.  So weary.  The Thorazine.

Mulder was on so much Thorazine he could have impersonated a

deadhead.  And early this morning, before breakfast for some

ungodly reason no one could explain, yet another intern and some

nurses and a lab tech had come in and wanted bone marrow.  They'd

pulled out a needle the size of something from a Marx Brother's

comedy and held Mulder down.  Mulder had been so far gone, he

hadn't really understood what was going on.  He'd only known that

it hurt and that they were poking him again.  And Meyers had had to

crouch at eye-level and lie and say that everything was okay.  That

it would be okay.  It would be all right.  Everything would be

fine.  And Mulder couldn't even wipe his own tears or blow the snot

from his nose.  Meyers poked at his fruit loops and tried to

swallow.



     Well, at least when he'd left, Mulder had been okay.  He'd

gone back to sleep, and woken up when the meal cart made its

incredibly loud groaning stop.   Rodriguez and Meyers had left him

with a student nurse and some Gatorade and jello.  Good luck.

Mulder might be stoned, but he wasn't the least bit complacent.



     Averman came in, looking clean.  "We've got the team in from

Ashton," he said sitting down.  "How's Mulder?"



     Rodriguez shrugged.  "Drooling.  He did his psychotic

impression last night, according to Meyers."



     Averman took a deep breath.



     "You weren't hoping to use him?" Rodriguez asked.



     "We have the names."  Averman wiped his face.  "Let me get

some coffee."



     He returned a few moments later with a pint sized cup and some

packets of Sweet-n-Low.



     Averman took a deep breath.  "The Graggs had five children.

Just like Mulder said."  He pulled a notebook out of his inside

breast pocket.  "Maria Ariel Gragg.  Jonathan Elijah Gragg.  Anna

Sarah Gragg, Ezekiel Zebodee Gragg and Timothy Mark Gragg.

Their father was a minister at the Episcopal church at West Tisbury

between the years of 1957 and 1965."



     "West Tisbury's on the Vineyard."  Rodriguez felt a cold chill

go down his back.



     Averman nodded slowly.



     "Oh my God.  Oh my God."  The cold chill tinged with the blue

of electric fire.  Rodriguez' spit went dry and his mouth filled

with a metal tang.  He felt his hands and face grow cold as blood

seeped out of them.



     Meyers said the words for them.  "He knew Elijah."



     "We don't know that," Averman replied.  "But it wouldn't

surprise me any."



     "Elijah. . .Fox. . .they. .. it wasn't guessing or telepathy.

Mulder knew him. They probably played each other in Pee-Wee 

league.

Where did Mulder's family go to church?"



     "I don't know.  I don't know any thing like that. . ."

Averman sighed. "You've got to convince them to let him out of the

fog of Thorazine.  If Mulder and Elijah were friends. . ."



     "Oh my God,"  Rodriguez repeated.











     "Testing?"  Rodriguez blinked. "There wasn't supposed to be

anymore testing."



     The duty nurse sighed and pulled down Agent Mulder's chart

from the large revolving rack.  "He had the papers for thyroid

function tests. . ."  She flipped through the charts.  "Okay.  Dr.

Chang ordered them for this morning."



     "And then we cancelled them," Rodriguez replied, indignant.



     "Look.  You're not on staff.  If you have a problem, speak

with Dr. Chang."



     "Where *is* Dr. Chang?" Rodriguez asked, not for the first

time wanting to do violence to an RN.



     "On rounds, I assume."



     "Where would Mulder be if he was going for these tests?"

Averman asked, not so concerned with the fact that Mulder was 

being tested as he was with the fact that they didn't know where 

Mulder *was*.



     "Third floor," the woman said, not volunteering anymore.



     "I would like an orderly to show me where, exactly," Averman

said patiently.



     "They're all busy."



     "Then unbusy someone.  I don't care who you unbusy.  But do

it.  Or I'll charge you with obstruction of Justice."  Hell, he

couldn't do that just because this old biddy with the Loving Care

dark brown hair and the ovoid reading glasses with the chain

holding them to her neck was being a pain in the butt, but she

probably didn't know that.



     The woman pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes and stared at

Averman, unintimidated.



     "I'm going right by there," a pleasant female voice said.

"I'll take them, Grace."  The speaker was a woman about the size of

Averman's right thigh, who wore a lab coat with her name

embroidered on it.  AnnaLou Eichlemann, MD



     "Meyers," Averman barked.  "You up to it, or you want to

catch a shower and a shave."



     Meyers snorted.  "You married?" he asked the chipper little

thing.



     "No," she replied confused.



     "Maybe I'll get lucky."



     "In your dreams Jewboy," Frito shot out.



     "Don't you know that's why Hitler tried to exterminate the

race?" Meyers replied, surprised at himself.  "Nobody else could

get a date with us around."



     AnnaLou Eichlemann was grinning from ear to ear at this

exchange.



     "You're Jewish?" she asked as she led Meyers to the

elevators.



     "With a name like Meyers?  You gotta be kidding. You

observant?"



     "Only when my mother's around.  She nearly went into mourning

when I got engaged to a Baptist boy from Tulsa."



     Meyers snorted.  "Mine wouldn't care what religion as long as

she didn't keep a rosary on the bedstead or sacrifice chickens in

the living room."



     AnnaLou burst out laughing.



     "Okay.  Who're you looking for?"  AnnaLou asked, going behind

the counter, moving around clerical types.



     "Fox Mulder."



     AnnaLou checked long lists.  "Yeah. He was scheduled, but then

it was cancelled.  Last night."  She looked up, confused.



     Meyers swallowed and tried to think clearly.  Just a mix up.

Mulder's probably just sitting against a wall right now, stoned,

waiting for someone to find him.  Like he'd always done at Dillards

when he was in preschool and his mom forgot she'd brought him and

went in search of bargains.



     "Can you call up and get my friends?"



     AnnaLou blinked.  "It's just a mix up."



     "We're FBI agents," Meyers began.



     "Oh well duh," AnnaLou replied.



     "Don't get sarcastic or I won't make your mother happy,"

Meyers whipped out.  Being around Mulder had rubbed off.  No more

skin mags for Meyers.  He was going to get laid now.  "Look. .

.umm we're on the taskforce looking for the Babykiller."



     AnnaLou swallowed and went slightly pale.



     "Mulder thought that the killer was coming for him, but we

thought it was just. . .paranoia. . .now we need to find him,

quickly."



     AnnaLou nodded and picked up the phone.



Continued in part 28................









From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 28/41 NC-17

Date: 17 Feb 1996 01:25:53 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 28/41)

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.



____________________



     Elijah glanced back again at Fox, who was still asleep, still

comfortable from the drugs. God had provided.  The wheelchair and

the patient and even made him calm and quiet with drugs.  Elijah

had his old, heartshaped, steel love-cuffs but he'd broken out the

self-release clasps so they were perfectly secure to hold Fox.

When they got to heaven and Fox saw how all the children were safe

in the arms of Jesus, Fox wouldn't be mad.



     He snorted at himself.  Kind of like a cat and a mouse, right?

He finally caught it, now what the hell was he going to do with it?

First things first, he had to get Fox out of that disgusting

hospital gown.  God, those things were embarrassing.  Show your

butt and your dick to half of the free world.  (He'd actually tried

a hospital gown out at an orgy once with a male nurse who was hung

like a horse.  Not too bad, but a good PVC thong bikini was always

going to top it out as Elijah's preferred form of outerware for

such events.)



     Second, he had to expect Fox's unbelieving, blasphemous

friends to come after him.  Massachusetts was too far away.



     Elijah worried his bottom lip as he drove along the freeway,

trying to figure out where to go.  They had to get out of Oklahoma.

Forever.



     Beaches.  Elijah skidded through the lanes of traffic to an

offramp.  He was headed the wrong way.  He needed to be headed

South.











     "What do you mean, we've *lost* a patient.  The only patient

I've ever lost had Alzhiemer's.  Wasn't my fault she wheeled

herself into pediatrics," Grace Halverson heaved.  "Fox Mulder is

not lost."  She stared at the short little chink doctor.  He might

be world renowned and all that, but he was still shorter than she

was.



     "Then where is he?"



     "Someone came and took him."



     "Did you check his orders?"



     "The orders were written up in his chart.  Why would I check

his orders?"



     "Did you know the orderly?"  This from Averman.  They were all

sitting in the nurse's lounge, and Grace now understood what an

inquisition felt like.



     "This is the largest hospital in Oklahoma.  I can't know

*every* orderly."



     Averman put his head back against the wall.  So far nothing.

They had agents on every floor, going over every space, but so far

no Fox Mulder.



     "Do you even know the name on his badge?" Averman asked.



     "Whose badge?"



     Averman counted to ten.  "The orderly's badge?"



     "No.  It wasn't important."



     Because orderlies weren't important.  FUCK.  Jack Averman

stood and picked up his cellular phone, dialed a number.  "I need

an APB on Mulder.  We think he's been kidnapped. . .yeah.  Well, if

he's here he's hiding in the fucking boiler room with a nurse.

Yeah, my regards too. . ."















     Elijah watched as Mulder woke and took in the surroundings.

"Hi," he said gently.  They were at a mall.  Elijah had Mulder's

general size now, he thought.



     Mulder stared blankly, dully.  He knew he'd been kidnapped,

but the drugs were evidently making it hard for him to react.

"It's been a long time, Fox."



     Mulder blinked at him.  "Has it?"



     "Yeah.  About twenty years."



     Zoom.  Right over Fox's head.  Elijah sighed.  "You were sweet

on Ariel.  Don't you remember?  Mary and Foxy sitting in a tree,

k-i-s-s-i-n-g.  First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes

Fox with a baby carriage."



     Mulder closed his eyes.  "Jon?  Jon?"  Open the eyes

again."You moved after your Mom died. . .I remember I was in the

hospital with. . ."  He didn't remember what.  "Jon.  You aren't a

killer."



     Elijah felt a spark of anger and pushed it back down.  "No.

I just do the Lord's work."



     "I don't believe in God."



     Elijah bit his cheek sadly.  Oh.  That explained so much then,

why it had been so hard for Fox to understand.



     "What happened to Sam?"  Sam had been Elijah's age.



     Mulder closed his eyes.  Elijah swallowed.



     "Is she dead, Fox?"



     Mulder swallowed, loudly, painfully.



     Elijah sighed.  "I'm going into the store for some clothes for

you.  Is there anything you want especially?"



     "No Baylor sweatshirts," Mulder moaned.



     Elijah grinned.  "You and me both," he replied happily.  "I'm

going to put a cuff on you, so you won't be able to get out. You're

pretty weak and you might hurt yourself."  He cuffed Mulder's

untaped arm and then hung the cuff around a ring on the bed of the

cherokee.  "I won't be gone long enough for the Cherokee to get

hot."



     "I'm thirsty," Mulder muttered.  "They won't let me have

anything but Gatorade."



     "That shit tastes like piss with honey and lemon."



     Mulder shrugged.  "You shouldn't have killed those kids, Jon,"

he muttered, eyes closing.  "You shouldn't have."



    "I'll get you something," Elijah promised sadly.  He wondered

what had happened to Sam.  What had happened to Fox.  Oh God, we

were all once innocent and happy.  But Fox's dad beat him and then

my dad fucked me.  He didn't want to think about what could have

happened to Sam.  Ariel, Fox's girl was dead.  Elijah felt tear

tracks run down his cheeks and he made his way into the Ardmore

mall as he wept for a time long past in the Massachusetts air,

playing tag on the front of a church lawn.











     "Oh yeah, that must have been when they brought that guy in,

around ten-thirty this morning.  The one who went totally fucking

nuts in the post office.  God, took five of us to hold him down,

fucking psychopath. . . "



     Meyers' pleasant smile was slowly becoming a rictus as he

watched the guard's florid face quiver with indignation.  "And he

pushed the guy out into the parking lot?"



     "I figure.  Like I say, that's when they brought that lunatic

in.  I've got better things to do than look after orderlies."  The

man's jowls quivered as he shook his head in disgust.  "Asshole. 

Left the wheelchair out there like I'm some kind of fucking grocery

store clerk here to pick up their carts.  What's he think?  I don't

have anything better to do?  Well he's gonna learn to laugh out of

the other side of his face after I get him up on a disciplina. . .

"



     Meyers was patting the air, trying to cut off the tirade.

"This is important, the patient, did he look like this?  He'd have

had a bruise on his face, and he might have been a little thinner.

. . "  Held out Mulder's FBI ID, with its official portrait.  The

guard took it in his calloused hands, studying it.



     "Yeah, I guess that could have been the guy.  'Cept he was

sound asleep and drooling and really skinny.  He did look kind of

like this, but really skinny.  Another wet-brain, huh?" 

Snickering, and Meyers gritted his teeth.



     "So, can you describe the orderly?"  From the frown on this

man's face, Meyers wasn't cherishing any great hopes.



     "Uh, young guy.  Real smug little shit.  Smiling like a damned

fool.  Umm.  He had blond hair, and I guess he lifted weights.  Got

the other guy into his car all on his own, didn't he?"



     "You remember the car?"  Sudden quickening of interest.

Meyers felt a surge of hope for the first time since they'd

realized that Mulder really was gone.



     "I already told you I was busy with that shooter."  The guard

eyed Meyers.  "I never saw him leave, but he didn't need any help,

did he?  Nobody else out there.  Anybody else and they should have

remembered to bring the fucking chair back.  That all?  I only got

ten minutes of my break left, and you're wasting my time."



     Meyers stared at him, almost told him what he thought of him

and his break and his fucking wheelchair.  Then spun and walked out

the door.  Down to the exit, retracing the route that Elijah had

used to leave.  Stood staring at the booth by the exit, where the

attendant took tickets and collected money for parking.  Stared

until his eyes widened, and he raced up to the booth, baking in the

Oklahoma summer sun.



     "Listen, do you keep records of the cars that go through

here?"  He glanced at the camera, set to record transactions and

get license numbers.



     "Yeah.  What do you think the camera's for?"  The tired

attendant gave him a tolerant, insolent look, leaned past Meyers to

collect money being waved out a car window.



     "I need to get the tapes."  That stopped the guy.  His eyes

narrowed.  Meyers whipped out his FBI badge and let him get a good,

long look at it.  "Official investigation.  I need those tapes and

I need them now."



     The attendant scanned the badge, swallowed, and reached for

his phone.  "Just let me get my supervisor, Agent Meyers, and we'll

see about getting you your tapes."











     Mulder's arm was falling asleep, and he was dizzy from the way

the Cherokee rode when Elijah pulled off the highway and found a

closed-down warehouse simmering along the railroad tracks.



     "Okay, Fox.  Let's get you out of that stupid gown."  He got

out, came around to the back.  Leaned down from the open door to

unlock the cuff from the tether ring on the floor.  Mulder

swallowed, trying to get enough spit to make it worthwhile, but the

thick, cottony feel of his mouth left him dry.  So hard to think. 

Jon helped him sit up, and untied the hospital gown, pulled it off.



Shook his head at thin ribs, bruises down Mulder's spine, and on

his hip from the tests.



     "You don't need to worry at all, Fox.  Everything's going to

be all right.  No one's going to hurt you again."



     Except you, ran through his head.  And maybe it wasn't the

Thorazine leaving his mouth so dry this time.  Jon handed him a

pair of boxers.



     "Here, I wasn't sure what you liked, but I figured these would

do."  Mulder pulled them on, and took the blue jeans.  That wasn't

as easy.  The Valium and Thorazine made him dizzy, and he was still

weak as hell from the fever.  The seat back propped him up as he

pulled them up, and Elijah reached over to help him get the loose

jeans tugged up and around his waist.  Smiled at him with that

blinding, innocent grin.



     "Scootch up now, and we'll get these the rest of the way on.

Don't worry, I helped the kids get dressed, and my little brother

too.  I figure you must feel pretty lousy with all the stuff they

did to you."  He helped Mulder pull a Sooners sweatshirt over his

head.  Reached to help button the jeans, when he saw how Fox's

hands shook.  "It's okay, Fox.  Really.  They hurt you a lot, let

me help you here."



     Mulder shook his head, hissed in frustration.  Elijah finally

let him finish the buttons, and grabbed a pair of Keds, started

pulling them over bare feet.  Let Elijah tie the laces in big bows,

double knotted like a kid's, so they wouldn't pull loose.



     "C'mon, you can ride in the front now.  You won't feel so

dizzy if you can sit up and see the horizon."  Mulder scooted to

the door, felt a heavy, muscled arm go around his back.  Winced as

Elijah brushed against the bruises from the spinal tap.



     "I'm sorry, Fox.  I know you're still sore from all those

tests."  Elijah half lifted Fox into the front seat.  Fastened the

seatbelt as the drugged man let his head drop back against the

headrest.  The smudges under his eyes, and the gray and yellow

bruise on his cheek were stark against the pale, cool skin.  Elijah

felt the familiar twist of sorrow.  Shook his head.  "You just kept

on finding people to hurt you, didn't you, Fox?"  Closed the door

and headed around to the driver's seat, never seeing the watchful

gleam under dark lashes.



     Mulder's hazel eyes opened wide as Elijah got back into the

jeep.  "Where are we going, Jon?"



     "Home.  We're going home, at last."  The warmth in that smile

was terrifying.  Elijah reached into a bag and pulled out two

bottles.  "I wasn't sure whether you liked Coke or tea. . . " 

Mulder took the tea, twisted off the cap, feeling the cuff rattling

off his wrist and slapping his chest as he lifted his hand to

drink.  Elijah sipped his soda, then offered an apologetic smile

and reached across as Mulder lowered his hand, caught the free cuff

and locked it around the panic bar on the door.  Mulder swallowed,

stared at his trapped wrist and carefully shifted his drink to his

left hand.



     "You really don't need that, Jon.  Where could I go?"



     "I'm sorry about this, Fox.  But you might hurt yourself if

you got out.  It'll be okay, you'll see."  Finished his Coke and

started the engine.  The tape deck came on, a tape of spirituals

and gospel by some a cappella group.  Mulder swallowed and leaned

back in his seat.  The dashboard clock said it was after one, and

the signs said they were on I-20, heading to. . .Tyler?  Tyler

where?  The signs flashed by so fast, and it was hard to

concentrate.  He sat back and tried to think.  By now Frito and

Averman had to have figured out he was gone.



     The land was gradually starting to get greener, and to roll.

Elijah was humming along to the tape.  The tires made such a sweet

hum in his head.  He could hear it when he leaned his head against

the glass of the window.  It was so nice, just to drift with his

eyes shut, and feel no fever, and no cold.  He hadn't felt chills

or fever in hours.  And the dark was waiting.  He slipped under to

the calm hum of tires, and the lilt of a man's voice, singing.









     Averman took a long sip of coffee and rubbed his eyes.  The

map in front of him looked terrifyingly huge, with concentric

circles marked in colored ink, radiating out from ground zero in

Oklahoma City.



     "Dallas.  Joplin.  Amarillo.  FUCK!  That bastard could be in

another state or right under our noses."  His words cut through the

ringing clatter of the big room.  Men and women, lined up in desks

to phone police and the FBI in seven states.  Speed traps and

traffic cruisers were being alerted in a broadening ring of

possibilities.  Guards at airports, train stations, bus stations

for Christ's sake, all being put on the alert on the off chance

that Elijah would show up there.



     Calls were flooding in from police and citizens who thought

they might have seen a man meeting the scanty description they

could offer for Elijah, might have seen Mulder.  A good-looking

blond man and a skinny, ill, dark-haired man, possibly drugged. 

God, how many hundreds of people could match those descriptions. 

They'd had dozens of calls already, and none of them had panned

out.



     Behind him, a woman looked up from the list of license plates

and names.  Close scrutiny of the parking lot tape had given them

thirty-two license plate numbers for people who had exited during

the time between when Mulder had been taken from his room, and 

when the guard had wheeled the empty chair back into the hospital. 

Thirty-two numbers with names to track down.  Thirty two people,

most of whom were at work.  Phone messages left on machines,

urgently requesting a return call to the FBI.  It would be hours

before they heard from some of them.



     License numbers.  A process of elimination to find the license

plate number to add to the APB.  And just hope Elijah was too busy

or too dumb to change his plates.  And names.  Names that looked

nothing like Jonathan Elijah Gragg.  But Mulder had said it had

been a long time since he'd used his own name. . .



     Calloused fingers were rough on tired eyelids.  Averman had to

work to focus his eyes enough to see across the room.  Tyler and

Hitchens were over there, briefing four fresh people just coming

on-shift.  A hand dropped onto the AIC's shoulder.



     "Christ, Jack.  You look like you're about to keel over."

Charlie Watkins, the Oklahoma City ASAC, was watching him with

worried eyes.  "You're not doing your man any good like this.  Go

get some sleep.  You already sent Meyers and Rodriguez off, take

your own advice."





     Averman shot him the finger and shook his head.  "Hell no.

Your guys don't know Elijah and they don't know Mulder.  I 

promised the kid I wouldn't leave him alone.  No way in hell do I 

walk out of here until we pick up a trail."



     "We'll find him.  We will."  Familiar voice.  Cooke, calling

neighbors and trying to track down workplaces so they could whittle

down their choices, sounded so confident.  Averman wanted to throw

his coffee at him.



     "We'll find him, all right.  Yeah, we'll find him.  Get back

on that list, Cooke."  The AIC picked up the phone at his own desk,

stared at a pile of pink notes a moment.  These were the few that

were close enough that one of them might be Elijah and Mulder.  So

far, they'd all been near misses, but sooner or later they had to

surface.



       Hoped, briefly, that Rodriguez and Meyers were sound asleep.

They were going to need fresh minds when the search continued into

the night.  The locals were enthusiastic, but just not up to this

kind of operation without a lot of guidance.



     And they needed an analyst, God knows they needed an analyst

now more than ever.  He'd called DC, asked them to get their

analyst on the line.  Allen Brackman was still tied up with a case

in California, but he'd call as soon as he picked up his messages. 

Averman cursed, and dialed the FBI in Arkansas.  And every fucking

minute, Elijah got harder and harder to find.











     He was hungry.  For the first time in so many days, Mulder was

hungry, and he could hear his stomach growling.  The sound, and the

empty discomfort, had woken him out of a long, drifting sleep to

find the land greener and hillier than ever.  It was so loud Mulder

had blushed, and Elijah had started to laugh.



     "I guess we'll have an early dinner, Fox.  If I'd known you

were starving I'd have stopped to get lunch."



     "I didn't know I was starving."  He sat up and worked his

shoulders, winced at the pain in his right wrist as he tried to

lift his hand.  Remembered who he was with, even if he wasn't at

all sure of where he was.  "Where are we?"



     "Almost to Rusk.  There's the best Dairy Queen God ever put on

the face of the land there.  I'll stop and get us something." 

Mulder stared at him.  Blond hair.  Broad shoulders, and a square

chin.  He'd been right.  Elijah had looks, just like his sister. 

Blue eyes met his.  Kind, warm, flat, mad blue eyes.  "Are you

okay?  Do you need to use the rest stop?"



     Mulder shook himself, realized suddenly that Elijah had asked

the question twice.  "Uh, yeah."  Swallowed and suddenly tried to

force his mind to work.  "Yeah, I'll need to take a piss whenever

we can pull over."  Bit the inside of his cheek and looked back out

the window.  The sun was hard and still high in the west, and

Mulder felt a shiver in his bowels.  The clock said it was after

four.  Jesus, six hours unconscious.  Rusk.  Where the fuck was

Rusk?



     Overhead highway signs told them how to get to places in

Louisiana and Texas.  Okay, he took a moment to focus his eyes. 

The cars around them had more Texas plates than Louisiana plates. 

And there were more signs for places he recognized as being in

Texas then Louisiana.  For all the good it did him.  It looked very

much to Mulder like he was headed for Rusk, Texas.









     He was back in his residency, and it was summer.  The kid in

front of him was thrashing, screaming with that horrible, thin

sound that a man made in agony.  Sam knew his face had to be

twisted up, but he didn't look.



     He couldn't.



     He was too busy trying to keep the kid's guts inside his body,

trying to keep pressure on the horrible, gaping wound that split

the young man from his pubes to his sternum, and sent yellow fat

and intestines spilling out of his abdomen.  The smell of blood and

faeces and shocky sweat was a thick, choking cloud around Sam, and

the screaming was coming intermittently now, a buzzing, vibrating,

hollow sound.  Sam looked up to find Fox Mulder's face, twisted in

screams, even as his mind finally understood that what he was

hearing was the ringing of a phone.



     He knocked the receiver off the hook the first time, hand

shaking.  It was almost a surprise to see that there was no blood

on the phone, on his hand.  The two Valium he'd taken left him

feeling leaden, made it hard to think.



     "Hello?"



     "Sam?  Oh my god, Sam.  Where the hell have you been, Sam?  I

called the Tulsa office and they gave me Jack Averman's cellular

and. . . "



     "Jenni?"  He could still smell blood in his nostrils.

Shivered in the air conditioning and stared around him at a hotel

room he didn't remember having walked into.  One with no 

connecting

door.



     "You haven't called in days.  I got that message on the

machine, but I couldn't reach you.  They said you were in Enid, and

then I couldn't find you at any of the hotels there. . . "



     "Oh God."  He rolled on his back and rubbed his eyes.

"I'm back in Oklahoma City, Jenni.  I'm sorry, I. . . "  Bit his

lip as he thought of those words.  "I'm. . . I'm sorry.  Mulder is

gone."



     Dead silence.  It lasted a long, long time.  "Fox?  Sam. . .

?  You said he was sick, but. . . "



     "Jenni," he rolled over onto his belly, "he's gone and I don't

know where he is.  Honey, he was so sick.  His fever just kept

going up and up and. . . he said Elijah was coming for him, but we

thought it was just the fever."  His voice choked deep in his

chest.



     "Sam."  Her voice was low and patient, pulling words from him.

"Oh baby, oh I'm so sorry.  Oh god, Sam.  How could he be that

sick?"  He could hear the catch in her voice.  "When did it happen?

Oh god. . . When are you coming home?  When are you. . . when are

you bringing him home?"



     Sam swallowed.  Looked at the glass of water by his bed and

got a sip, trying to make his mind work.  "Bringing. . .?  Oh

Jenni, no.  I. . . Jenni, the killer took him.  He's been missing

since this morning, and we think he was right.  The killer walked

in and just. . . walked out with him.  The stupid guard damned near

watched the fucker wheel Fox right out of the hospital and never

thought twice about it, and now we don't know where he is."  Anger

was burning through the drug now, burning through his aching grief.



     "Wheeled?  Sam?  Are you telling me The Babykiller kidnapped

Fox?"  Her voice had dropped to a horrified whisper.



     "Yes.  That's exactly what I'm telling you.  He's been missing

since about ten-thirty this morning."  A glance at the clock on his

nightstand.  Big, glowing numbers told him it was about four in the

afternoon.  "He's been gone more than six hours.  Oh God, Jenni. 

He could be anywhere.  That bastard has him all alone and he's so

sick and. . . Oh god."  Bit his lip until it hurt, and just lay

there, aching.



     "Oh my god, Sam.  Oh my god."









     Averman's eyes hurt and his head hurt.  He didn't know how

long he'd sat there with his head in his hands.  They were getting

calls back now, as people came home and found their messages.  Buzz

of all those voices on the phone, low and steady, eliminating one

rumor after another, one name after another.





     The phone in front of him rang, and he knocked over his cold

coffee as he lunged for it.



     "Hello?"



     "Hello, Agent Averman?  This is Carol Loftus.  Dr. Brackman

couldn't call, but I'm another of the analysts.  DC asked me to

call you."



     "Dr. Loftus, thank you for calling."  He wiped his face,

pinched the phone between shoulder and ear, pulling a pad and a 

pen

in front of him.



     "I understand you have a problem on your hands.  Has your. .

. Elijah is it?  Has Elijah got another child?"  Her voice was

clinical, steady.



     "Thank you for calling back.  I know you've got to be busy."

Lord, the rush of relief and exhaustion was making him stupid. 

"And yes, we have a real problem on our hands.  You know our

analyst, Fox Mulder?"



     "Mhm.  I know him."  Averman had to shake his head and grin at

her tone.  Recalled the swinging dick-asshole he'd met at the

airport and totally understood her reaction.  "I heard Mulder was

feeling pretty ill.  I take it he's out of commission for a while?"



     "Dr. Loftus, we've got a real bitch of a complication on our

hands.  I'm not sure just how to explain this but. . . Mulder's

been abducted by Elijah; he's been missing over six hours now; and

we desperately need any help you can give us to figure out where

Elijah will take him, and exactly what we might be dealing with if.

. . when we find them."



     He could hear her breath puff out in shock.  When she spoke

again her voice was flat, stunned.  "Umm.  They faxed me a file

with Mulder's assessments and. . . Let me see."



     He waited, tracing designs on his pad of paper.  Heard her

whispering to herself as she reviewed the file.  Then the sound

stopped.  He could actually hear her gulp over the phone.  "Are you

sure this man has Mulder?"



     "We're almost certain.  There really is no other explanation

we can find for his disappearance."



     "All right.  Mulder did an amazing job.  Very detailed.  I'd

say it's obvious that your man will head for the coast.  It's what

coast. . . Umm.  He might head for Massachusetts.  He'll want to. 

It's a long way but. . . "



     "Yeah.  We've got APBs out all along that route, and in all

the states surrounding Oklahoma."



     "Oh god.  Yeah, he could be anywhere.  Umm.  Look, all I can

see here to work with right off the bat is that fixation with the

coastal landscape.  I'll need time to look this over and try to get

some theories.  The Eliot stuff may tell us a little, and it looks

like Mulder was starting to quote Dylan Thomas, too at the end.  I

mean, if what you people wrote down is what he was saying.  If he's

that close. . . Jesus.  I could develop more if I were there and

working with this man and his pattern, not just from a file, but

you don't have time. . . "



     "No.  We don't.  Mulder doesn't."



Continued in part 29.......................





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

======



From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 29/41 NC-17

Date: 19 Feb 1996 05:06:35 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 29/41)

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.



Sorry this is posting a bit late.  A weekend away, etc. etc.  But that's

okay.  After all, we're not in a very exciting part. . . . And I don't get

much email, so I guess not that many of you are reading it. : ) : ) : )



__________________



     The parking lot of the Dairy Queen wasn't totally full, but it

was a long way from being empty, too.  Families with their minivans

and station wagons, trucks, couples on dates.



     "What is this, the only four-star Dairy Queen in the world?"

Mulder couldn't believe the crowd.



     Elijah laughed, a long, clear sound.  "Pretty much.  The

country basket here is a wonderful thing, and they've got Heath bar

topping for the Blizzards.  You said you needed to use the

bathroom?  They've got one here."  He leaned over and unlocked the

cuff from Mulder's wrist.



     Mulder's knees buckled when he dropped out of the jeep.

Elijah had come around to the passenger side, and almost had to

catch him.



     "Sorry, still a little shaky on my feet."  He knew his eyes

were still glassy.  Shivered in the heat.



     "That's okay.  Really.  I don't mind at all."  Elijah stayed

close, reached out to steady him once or twice.  They walked across

the parking lot at Mulder's pace, slow and steady.  The agent

glanced around, taking in the cars, and the phone stand on the

tongue of land between the restaurant and the gas station next

door.  Elijah held the door for Mulder, pointed to the sign for the

men's room, at the back of the restaurant.



     He'd never thought about the fact that taking a piss felt

good, but it was so nice not to have a nurse with that damned

bottle trying to "milk" him.  He turned and rinsed his face in the

mirror, shaky but enjoying the feel of air on skin that didn't hurt

with fever, and a head that didn't ache.  No Eliot in mind, no

fever.  Elijah could talk to him now, and he didn't need the

visions to understand what was going to happen to him.



     When he looked in the mirror he winced at the dark bruise on

his face, the hollows under eyes and cheekbones.  He had a feeling

he knew what Elijah was seeing, then shuddered at what Elijah 

would do about it.



     No one looked at him when he stepped out of the men's room.

Normal enough.  He hesitated.  Elijah'd still be in line.  There

was no exit door back here.  Mulder looked out the plate glass at

all that space, so far away.  And saw black.  Black and white to be

exact.  Swallowed, and recognized the sudden pounding of hope in

his chest.  There.  Two cops, with their dinner, sitting at a

table.  Oh, god, he might get out of this yet.



     "Excuse me."



     Both of them looked up at him.  He took a deep breath, looked

up to be sure Jon couldn't see him, back at the two cops.  "My name

is Fox Mulder, I need your help.  I'm. . . "  One was looking away,

clearly annoyed.  The other had an amused expression on his face

that choked the words in Mulder's throat.  He saw the eyes flicker

to his wrist.  To a hospital bracelet that wasn't coming off

without a knife.  And realized that Elijah might not be the only

one who saw only what he expected.



     "Look, buddy.  I'm real glad you got a day pass, but I know

you've got someone looking out for you, and they're gonna be

worried about you if you don't go on out and meet them.  I bet

they're looking for you now."  Soothing, patronizing voice.



     "You don't understand.  Christ.  Look, I'm with the FBI."  The

annoyed one was laughing now.  His friend must have been chewing 

on the inside of his cheek.  Mulder felt his guts twist, and

understood exactly what they saw.



     "Listen, kid, you need to start behaving or they won't let

you out again.  We won't call State this time, but don't let us

find you picking on anyone else."  They both went back to

cheeseburgers and fries and shakes.



     Shakes was just about what Mulder had.  A numb, scared feeling

in the pit of his stomach as he walked away from them.  Elijah was

still in line, and waved when Mulder walked by, smiled when he

headed back for the Wagoneer.  Of course he smiled.  He must have

figured this out miles back.  Not worried at all.  Mulder wanted to

vomit, and didn't for once.  Just walked to the jeep, turned to see

the pretty girl at the counter flirting with a handsome customer. 

It would take a few minutes.  He had that much.



     God, staring at the phone and wracking his brains.  He walked

over, let his fingers drift over the buttons.  Closed his eyes and

remembered a phone in a room, and he had the number.  Fingers

racing through the number he could see on his card, see on the

keypad.  He hesitated.  Not much time.  He could hear the pulse in

his ears, feel sweat on his sides.  His balls were light against

his body and he had to hold onto the phone to stay upright.  He

didn't bother to look behind him.  Knowing couldn't help one way

or the other.



     He finally chose Averman's cellphone number.  If the AIC

wasn't near a tower he'd have wasted his time, but if he called the

Tulsa office number he remembered, he'd waste more while they

tossed him around.











     "They've pulled over a shitload of guys but none of 'em's a

match for any of our licenses.  We got names and descriptions just

in case, but so far they're all clean.  No sign of Mulder at all."



     Sam's face was tight as he stared at Averman.  "What if he's

in the trunk of the damned car?  Are they checking?"



     "You know they can't without cause.  I asked Dr. Loftus, and

she figures Elijah won't do anything that would be uncomfortable

for Mulder. It makes sense."



     "Makes sense, hell.  Nothing about this makes sense.  Marion's

sick, Averman.  Running a fever.  If he doesn't get treatment he.

. . "



     The phone was ringing again.  Averman's cellular this time.

Sam shut up and watched the older man pull the antenna out, hit a

button and hold the thing to his ear.  And watched his eyes go wide

and startled.



     "Mulder?  Where the hell are you?"  Barely finished the words

and Sam found himself yanking the phone out of Averman's hands.



     Marion's voice.  God almighty, it really was him, panicky and

fast.  "I'm at this Dairy Queen just outside of Rusk in Texas and

Elijah's got me and nobody believes who I am and. . . "



     "Francis?  Oh my god. . . Rusk?  Where is he taking you?  Does

he know you're sick?  Are. . . "



     "I don't have time for this, Frito!  He just keeps saying he's

gonna take me home to Jesus!  Get the fuck out here!  I am in shit

over my head and. . . "



     The clicking tone of the disconnect was the loudest sound in

the room.  Averman reached took the phone out of his hand,

listened, shut it.  Sam could feel Tyler and Meyers staring at him.



     "Well.  Now we've got a place to start."  Jack Averman looked

past Sam.  "Tyler, you and Meyers get on the phone to Ma Bell. 

Tell them to get their fucking computers in gear and get us the

point of origin.  Sam, c'mere.  He told you where he was, didn't

he?"  Averman picked up a pin, spread his fingers across the map. 

"Give me a starting place, Sam.  Let's see if we can pin this

bastard down."











     Mulder let his head fall back against the box of the phone,

shut his eyes to block out Elijah's face.  Waited and prayed the

cops were watching, that someone could get out here before it was

too late.



     "You called your friends, Fox?"  The cheerful, patient voice

snapped his eyes wide open.  Elijah wasn't frowning, was smiling. 

"I hope they're not worried any more.  You did tell them I'm taking

good care of you?  Let's get you back in the car."  Set the food on

the hood and helped lift Mulder back into his seat.



     When he'd got into his own side, and locked the cuff around

Mulder's wrist again, he smiled and handed over the food. "I'm

sorry, Fox. You must be feeling pretty silly.  I really should have

warned you.  I figured you might talk to someone, but the state

mental hospital is just up the road.  It's only natural those two

cops thought you were out on a day pass.  I wish you could have

seen your face when you walked out."  Mulder watched him shake 

his head.  Shut his eyes on freedom so impossibly far out of his 

reach.



     "Eat your country basket.  They're not so good when they're

cold."



     Elijah handed Mulder a small box and the smell was heavenly.

Despite the disappointment heavy and leaden in his stomach, Mulder

felt his saliva glands go into overtime, producing more than

enough spit for the first time in weeks.  He almost tore open the

box and Elijah wove out into the four lane.



     The feeling of fear receded in the face of real, live, edible,

fast food.



     Six steak fingers, some fries, toast and a small container of

milk gravy.  Mulder inhaled.  Food.  Real, actual food.  And it had

never tasted quite this good.  He smothered everything in the cream

gravy before putting it in his mouth.  The steak fingers were hot

and sizzling.  The toast soft.  The fries were limpid, but good and

salty.  Greasy.  And soooo hot.  Mulder ate and ate, conscious of

Elijah in the seat next to him, smiling bemused at the scene.



     "You act like you haven't eaten in days," Elijah said,

stopping at a light, considering his Texas State Highway map, free

at your local tourist bureau.



     Mulder looked up from his frantic devourment.  "I haven't,"

he replied.  "You want yours?"



     "You've still got a large Blizzard to go," Elijah reminded

him.  "And remind me to keep my arms away from you until you're

sated.  I'm scared any small appendages would get smothered in

gravy and eaten."



     Mulder smiled, went back to the dinner.



     He left nothing, not so much as the crisp end of a french fry

or a molecule of cream gravy clinging to the side of the cup.

Elijah *did* end up giving him some fries and toast, as well as

Elijah's left over gravy.  It tasted heavenly.  Mulder was noshing

on the blizzard, having gotten over his feeding frenzy, when he

suddenly became aware that something was wrong.  It was a vague

feeling of indigestion at first, then an odd feeling.  The first

wave of cramps rolled through his body.  Mulder groaned and the

Blizzard dropped down onto the carpeted floor of the Cherokee.  His

body contorted as he wrapped one arm around his middle.  The 

cramp coursed through him, intense and sharp, like he'd swallowed 

fucking razorblades instead of fries.  Wooden blocks were being 

rolled around in his tender stomach.  Something was ripping and 

tearing at his gut.  He was only vaguely aware of Elijah pulling over.  

Of warm hands.  It hurt everywhere.  Fuck.  Fuckitalltohell.



     He doubled over, pressed against the door, hearing but not

understanding Elijah's words.  He couldn't think.  Couldn't

breathe.



     He found his face at his knees and a sharp, cold sweat broke

out over his forehead.  His spit glands felt funny and odd and he

moaned as the cramps passed through him with merciless regularity

and as the razorblades kept tearing and tearing.  He just wanted to

die.  Oh fuckinghell.



     Elijah's hand touched him and Mulder growled.  He did not have

energy for a scream and the way his teeth were locked together, jaw

clamping hard, he could not have emitted a scream anyway. A 

thought rolled through Mulder's head suddenly, without warning and 

he could not make it go away.  You have to vomit.  You have to vomit

or that food is going to tear your stomach and intestines apart.

vomit now before it can really hurt you.  You're going to be sick

a lot longer as is.  Vomit it all up now.



     A wave of nausea started down in the pit of his stomach and

Mulder felt his body rolling and rolling, like the torso of a puppy

that ate something bad.  The door was open and the cuff was off his

arm.  He stared at the carpet and his knees and didn't have energy

to move to the bahai grass.  His vomit spewed across the carpeting,

spilling over the cup with the cartoon pictures of Dennis the

Menace and Margaret and Joey enjoying wintertime pursuits, over 

the bright red spoon, over the spilled ice cream and heath bar bits.

Vomit.  He kept expecting to see blood, bright red blood that would

indicate that his stomach hadn't been able to take the food, that

he would die from a fucking meal at Dairy Queen.  But there was no

blood.  He vomited it all, the chewed up steakfingers and the fries

and the fucking country toast.  He vomited and vomited and

wondered, obliquely, if the peanuts he'd eaten on the flight into

Oklahoma City were going to come up.



     When he stopped he wasn't aware of it for a moment.  He felt

his face pressing against rough denim and realized hot acid and

half-digested food wasn't coming from his nose and mouth.  His

stomach still hurt like fuck, but he wasn't vomiting.  His feet

were in a stew of vomit, and his jeans were splattered.  His mouth

hurt and burned and his nose was stuffy.  He sat a moment,

listening to rustling in the back of the Cherokee.



     He felt Elijah's hands, gentle now.  "Come on.  Let's get you

out of the front seat."  Hands undid the seat belt and pulled

Mulder out of the seat.  He tried to support himself and fell to

his knees in the tall grass.  The hot sun beat down on them both

and the tall cool pines and the long Texas road leading over the

hills.  Mulder squinted, felt Elijah put hands under his armpits,

pull him into the back of the Cherokee to sit.



     Mulder put his head against the leather seat edge, and sat

dumbly as Elijah pulled the shoes off his feet and set them down

on the front seat.  The younger, blonde bent down and got a box of

baby wipes.  He wiped Mulder's face as he would an infant.  Put a

wipe to Mulder's nose and told him to blow.  He wiped the vomit off

the blue jeans and then took the Keds and wiped them clean as well.



     "Do you need to vomit anymore?" he asked, squinting in the

bright, late afternoon sun.



     Mulder shook his head, just barely.



     "Okay."  Elijah nodded.  "We'll stop and get you some water

and Gatorade.  Come on."  Elijah helped him center in the Jeep,

get his legs in.  He rolled Mulder onto one side and put the cuff

back into the ring.  Mulder heard more rustling.



     "They had you on Thorazine to control the vomiting?"



     "And the dreams," Mulder said softly.  "I dreamed all about

you.  Did you dream about me, Elijah?  Or did you simply know?"  He

sat, staring at traffic zooming by outside the darkly tinted

windows and got no answers.  "They said I was crazy.  Jon?" he

asked.



     He felt the other man get into the Cherokee with him, and then

a hand on his waist, the top button on his jeans.



    "NO," Mulder said as loudly as he could, trying to sit up,

restrained by the handcuff, by soreness.



     Elijah sighed and grabbed his other hand as he put one leg

over Mulder's squirming abdomen.  The filled hypodermic needle sat

on the tirewell.  He snapped on another of the fucking heartshaped,

stainless steel cuffs that must have had a self-release latch at

some point, although they no longer did, around Mulder's other

wrist.  "NO.  I don't want it," Mulder said, kicking as hard as he

could as he could, as his arm was drawn over and he was forced

onto his side, one arm cuffed to the ring in what would be the seat

back if the seat was up, one arm cuffed to the hold bar above the

backseat.



     "I'm sorry, Fox.  I'm really sorry."  Elijah's voice was soft

as he moved down Fox's body, sitting now on Mulder's legs.  "I know

they hurt you and I know you don't like needles.  I know you don't

like things that put you to sleep.  It scares you.  I know.  But we

need to give you something and this's what the hospital was giving

you.  I got what they were using."



     Mulder swallowed.  "Please.  Please," he said, terrified.  He

would be stoned and Elijah would be driving closer and closer to

the coast.  "Please don't," he pleaded, very close to tears.  He

felt the blue jeans unbuttoned, felt his jeans and boxers tugged

down.



     "Please don't.  Don't. . .Jon.  Please."



     The cold of an alcohol prep pad.  Then the sharp biting sting

of the needle and then the hard ache as the Thorazine was pressured

into his butt.  It hurt and stung and Elijah remained on top of

him, fingers pressing and massaging the spot and it fucking hurt.

Mulder began sobbing, twisting his body and fighting and arching,

as much as his weak, sore body could or would.



     "I'm really sorry Fox.  I'm sorry."  Tears choked Jon's voice,

but Mulder refused to look at him.











     "They what?"  Averman couldn't believe it.  He felt anger

grow and threaten to strangle his guts as he and Rodriguez waited

on the helicopter.  "They did what?"



     "You have to understand," the chief of police said, as he'd

already told the Dallas ASAC and the Oklahoma City ASAC.  "We have

the state mental hospital in our town.  People get used to

patients.  Your boy had a hospital bracelet and he had this. .

.well.  Sometimes, people who're long term, they can't always buy

their own clothes, so their clothes don't fit.  And this guy had on

a Sooners sweatshirt in the middle of summer and blue jeans and it

was all new and all too big.  He was wearing Keds for Chrissake,

with double bows like a toddler."



     "We fucking put out an APB!" Jack replied, even though he

knew how things were.  That APB had gone around to a lot of people.

A local beat cop in his patrol car didn't have any realistic

expectations of seeing Fox Mulder.  Oh, of course, if Jack were a

cop and somebody who *looked* like he belonged on a wetbrain 

ward came up and told him he was a kidnapped FBI agent, Jack 

would believe it.  Uh-huh.  Oh sure.  Still.  Logic had absolutely

nothing to do with Averman's anger.



     "I hope you've got the roads south closed?" he asked.



     "Yeah.  Just did it.  Got the Cherokee County Sheriff to run

a check of drivers on the main highway."



     But that was nearly twenty minutes ago.  Fuckfuckfuckfuck.  If

Elijah was as smart as Fox said he was, he would know that.  He was

probably on some small side road, or headed in a different

direction. Or something.  FUCK.  There was a sound like razorblades

fluttering and Averman knew their ride had arrived.  "I'll be in

Rusk in an hour or so," he told the man.  "Just do whatever you

can."













     Mulder licked his lips.  Opened his eyes.  He had a blanket

and a pillow.  He was hot.  Hot hot.  His back hurt from sleeping

on the carpet.



     He moaned softly.  They were still travelling.  Mulder looked

out the back at darkness.  Music filled the Cherokee.  He jerked

the blanket off.  Still hot.  Panted.  Mouth was dry.  He dimly

remembered Elijah giving him some water a long time ago, making 

him wash it around in his mouth and then spit it out and then letting

him drink, but that water was long gone.  "I'm thirsty," he

muttered.  "And hot."



     "You're awake?"



     "Yes."



     "We're going to be in Many in just a bit."



     "Many?" Mulder asked softly.



     "Yeah. I figure your friends will be looking for us."

Elijah's voice sounded confident.  "How are you feeling?"



     "Sore."  Mulder couldn't hold the anger out of his voice.



     "Fox.  I'm sorry.  I just didn't want you to hurt."



     Mulder had no answer for this.  He just sighed and stared out

the window at the night sky as he suddenly realized he wasn't

attached to a handcuff.



     "Are we going to a hotel?" he asked after a while.



     "I had planned on it. . .but I don't know.  I feel good.  I

figure we could drive straight on down."



     Mulder nodded.  "You'll stop in Many?"



     "Yeah.  I'll stop. I'll wake you up.  Go back to sleep, Fox."

The voice held a chuckle, like a father reassuring a child.



     He did not want to go back to sleep, but he was too tired to

do anything else.  He sat up with the last of his strength and took

off his sweatshirt, then he put the blanket underneath him, so that

the blanket could soften the bed for his back and his butt.











     There was nothing.  Fucking two cops in Rusk.  If they'd been

listening instead of sucking each other's dicks none of this would

have fucking happened.  Fucking HELL.  Frito wondered why Mulder

hadn't pulled a hissy and gotten himself arrested.  Mulder was good

at hissy fits.



     Because he had been shot higher than the fucking space

shuttle.  That was fucking why.  He breathed through his teeth,

sounding like a kettle, stared at the map.  They could be anywhere

by now.  Anywhere.  At least Jack Averman would probably chew 

those damn redneck cops up one side and down the other.



     Averman worked his jaw, reading the responses of the girls in

the Dairy Queen.  They remembered him.  And their uniform

description was of someone a bubble off the level.  They didn't

remember who he was with or what vehicle he got into.  He'd come 

in and pissed and then gone out and used the pay phone.  They tried 

to remember who was in there, but so far no luck.  No one could

identify anything.  FUCKING HELL.  He took a deep breath, pulled a

Texas state map close to him.  Miles had been ringed off by hundred

mile radii.  They knew where he'd been at five.  If Elijah drove

like every other Texas driver, doing around 65, that put him around

a hundred and fifty miles away.  He wouldn't head north or due

west.  Averman knew that.  He took his pencil and blocked out a

section.  There.  Now which way?  South and West was Padre Island.

South and East was Louisiana's coastline.  Either one would be

good.  Deserted.  Elijah was taking Mulder to the coast.  To kill

him.  They had until tomorrow afternoon and then Mulder would be

dead.



     Averman felt his mouth fill with bile.  He thought about the

feel of Mulder's face against his chest as tears streamed down the

younger man's face and the feel of Averman's hands on Mulder's

wrists, and the feel of the battered hands clutching at Averman's

shirt. His gut churned.  He wanted to find Mulder's old man and

beat the living shit out of the guy.  It's over a decade later and

your boy is still fucked up from what you did to him.  How the hell

could you hurt him?  How the hell could anyone hurt their kid and

then see the fear and the terror and go on hurting them?  He

breathed through his nose hard and glanced up at the Texas Ranger

sitting across from him, handed the maps over.  "Tell them to watch

to either side.  He won't go on 69.  He's bright.  Very bright.  We

figure he made his money in the computer industry here in Texas."



     The ranger, who was cast in Averman's mold, considered the

flinty eyes across from him.  "You know the kid well?"



     "Who?  Elijah or Mulder?"



     "Mulder."



     "Well enough," Averman replied, putting his arms up, covering

his face with his hands.  "Look, just. . .we've got to find him."



Continued in part 30....................





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