From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 30/41 NC-17

Date: 19 Feb 1996 05:08:57 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 30/41)

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.



Okay folks.  I didn't post last night, so I'll double post tonight.  

You're well over halfway through this puppy, and I 

know that you never thought you'd get here.  Time to cheer and let 

me know what you think of the humble efforts of Amp and myself.  

Bored?  Just hanging on from a sense of wanting to complete it?  Let 

me hear from you.  And to those who spontaneously threatened me 

out of the goodness of their hearts, thank you!  It makes my day to 

get a decent threat with the morning coffee!



______________________________



     "Hey."  The voice was soft.  Mulder blinked.



     "Hey," he said back, sitting up.  Elijah stared at him, ran

a hand through the soft blonde hair.  "Okay.  I want you to drink

this."



     `This' was a small cup of OJ.



     "Why?"



     "Just drink it.  It'll make you feel better."



     Mulder considered the stuff and frowned.   He took the small

plastic cup into two shaking hands and swallowed.  It tasted odd.

Strange.  He stopped.



     "All of it," Elijah insisted.



     "I don't want anymore."



     "You have to." Strong hands on the cup, holding it.  Putting

it to Mulder's mouth.  "It won't hurt you."



     Mulder tried to resist, but the stuff went down.



     "I put your Thorazine in it," Elijah said, taking the cup

away.  "I got you some Gatorade, too."



     Mulder stared at the soft blue eyes, the gentle blue eyes.

"You what?"



     "You put Thorazine in OJ because otherwise it's bitter."

Elijah smiled.  "And I figured it was easier than giving you a shot

in your butt."



     "Where are we?"  Mulder asked softly.



     "Headed for the water.  Louisiana beaches don't. . .they're

practically empty.  We'll go at night when no one's there.

Someplace secluded."   Elijah pulled a bag out of the front seat,

pulled out a cotton blanket and a light green t-shirt.  "Let's

get the t-shirt on."



     Mulder stared at this man.  "You were my friend once.  I don't

understand."



     "You will.  Everything will be okay.  I promise."





     "We played freeze tag in front of the church.  We ran through

the vestibules, screaming with pleasure.  Ariel. . ."



     "Fox, I'm going to take us both somewhere where we can't be

hurt.  Don't you remember how your father would hit you?  Don't 

you remember how it hurt, all those broken ribs and broken bones?"



     "It was my fault my dad hit me," Mulder spat out angrily, not

meaning to, not caring anymore.



     A look passed across the perfect patrician features.  "You

want to tell me what happened to Sam?"



     Mulder took the t-shirt, tried to get it over his head and

then needed Jon's help.  His head was swimming.



     "Scrunch way over and we'll spread the hot blanket out for

underneath to make your back and bottom feel better," Jon said

kindly.



     Mulder looked away.



     "Why was it your fault your dad hit you?"  The voice was

gentle and patient.



     Mulder rolled over until he was pressed against the edge of

the Cherokee.  "Fox.  What happened to Samantha?"



     Mulder closed his eyes and shook his head, rolled back onto

his back, heard the rip of a package and then cotton was spread

across him.



     "Did your dad kill Samantha?"  It was a tired voice.



     Mulder tried to open his eyes, but he was being drained of

anger and strength.  "I lost Sam.  It was my fault," he said

simply, biting a lip.  He might be a serial killer, he might be

fucking taking Mulder to his death, but once upon a long time ago

they had been children running through the vestibule of a small

church. There had been laughter and the blue of summer lawns after

church.  There had been, one Christmas, a tall, gawky girl who had

shyly accepted a thin, sterling silver ring from a tall, gawky boy.

Mulder stared in Jon's eyes, seeing the insanity and the pain.

"Samantha, when she was eight. . .she disappeared.  I was in the

room.  Mom and Dad were out," he said simply, feeling the drug tug

at him.  "How could you think that Dad. . ."



     "He hit you so much," Jon said with a shrug.  "I remember

when Momma was sick, we'd go see you when the hospital kept you

because you were hurt.  He hurt you so much, Fox.  Maria, she used

to cry after we were finished seeing you."



     "My dad didn't hit me until after Sam disappeared," Mulder

said, pushing hard against the muzzy fog that was invading him. "He

never hit me until then.  That was *My* fault.  MY fault. . ."  He

put his head against the pillow. "He didn't hit me.  My dad loved

me.  He always loved me.  He only hit me because I lost Sam."



     Something sad and unidentifiable passed across Jon's face.

"Okay, Fox.  Okay," he said softly, patting Mulder's hand.  "Okay.

You go back to sleep.  I'll wake you when we get to the coast."



     Mulder stared at the retreating figure.  He felt an urge to

say it again.  "Dad loved me."



     He did not see the tears that stained Elijah's face as he

reflected on the delusions that his friend had built to continue

living.  It would be different in heaven.  It would be all right in

Heaven.  Fox would remember everything and they would see Mary 

and Sarah and everyone would be happy in heaven.  Maybe 

Samantha would be there for Fox.  Fox would be all right in Heaven.









     "The Federal Bureau of Investigation is working with state and

local authorities in a three state search for any information

pertaining to the location of Special Agent Fox Mulder.  Mulder, a

psychologist specializing in profiles of serial killers and other

violent criminals, vanished from the Oklahoma State University

Hospital, where he was being treated for an as-yet-undetermined

illness.  Agent Mulder may be unable to request assistance due to

illness.



     Also being sought in connection with both Agent Mulder's

alleged abduction, and the brutal killings of several area

children, is Jonathan Elijah Gragg.  Gragg in in his mid-twenties,

blond, and muscular in build.  Gragg is to be considered armed and

dangerous.  Anyone seeing either man is urgently requested to

contact the FBI or the police.  The FBI is posting a reward for

information leading to the arrest of Gragg or the location of Agent

Mulder."



     [Attachment: Official identification portrait of Fox Mulder,

and police artist portrait of Gragg]



     ASAC, Dan Harlan rubbed his bloodshot eyes and scanned the

release again.  "Shit, I hate doing this.  We'll start getting

calls on every pair of men from here to the Mississippi.  Maybe ten

percent of 'em will be close to the description.  I guess it's our

best shot right now, though.  Okay, run it out to all the local

affiliates and all.  You know how it's done.  Any chance we'll make

the ten o'clock news?"



     Cooke let his head drop back, and worked his neck muscles.  He

could feel his tired eyes twitching under the lids.  "Not a hope in

hell.  We'll make the morning news, though.  Here, Texas, and

Louisiana.  Do I need to get Averman's signature?"



     "Nah. Mine'll do it.  Besides, I sent him back to his hotel. 

Told him I'd put an armed guard on his door if he didn't get some

sleep.  He and Rodriguez'll be worse'n useless if they don't get

some rest tonight.  Your guys okay?"



     "PR's used to these hours."  Cooke's smile was dry.  "Early

bird and all that shit.  Sign that fucker and let me go rack up

some overtime."



     Harlan nodded, put his Bic to use and watched Cooke's thick

frame weave its way back to his cluster of people.  Breathed a

silent prayer that for once, PR could do more than just make the

Bureau LOOK like it was doing something.









     The Grand Cherokee blasted through patches of mist, following

its headlights down the long, straight stretch of road just south

of Leesville.  A middle-of-the-night talk show kept up a soft

counterpoint to the whine of the road, and Elijah smiled to himself

at the beauty of God's own night out here.  Fox's drugged breathing

from the back was steady and regular whenever he rolled up the

window and listened for it, but right now the gentle scent of the

pines at night was too alluring as it kept the rank air of the car

at bay. Elijah drew in deep, heady lungs full and put his foot

down, loving the sweet flash of the road under his wheels and the

way the night flowed like water around the jeep.



     Sixty-five miles an hour ever since Many, and they were making

good time. Midnight traffic south was sparse and fast.  A luxurious

yawn stretched his jaw and made a popping sound in his throat.  He

figured another hour and a half to Lake Charles, get a room. . .



     Flashing red and blue lights ahead, and he gently tapped the

brakes, letting the big tires grip the mist-slick pavement.  The

cop standing next to the cherry-red mustang eyed him, but turned

back to the blonde in the pony car.  Elijah breathed a soft prayer

and smiled at the black and white, receding in his rear-view

mirror.  "Thank you, God," he murmured to himself. Reached back to

put a gentle hand on Fox's hair, seeing the peaceful way the older

man slept. "See, just like I told you.  God's will.  We'll be home

real soon, and then you'll feel better." He turned back and picked

up speed again, trusting that the rest of the way would be clear.

When the talk show degenerated to insults he popped in a tape and

let the sweet sound of children singing God's praises carry them

the hour or so to Lake Charles.



     The roads were mostly empty now, and only the occasional,

lonely window showed in the dark behind the jaundiced spill of the

streetlights.  The big Cherokee had the road to itself as Elijah

pulled around the lake.  I-10 exit ahead, and he smiled and

whistled cheerfully at the big hotel he could see coming up on the

left.  Downtowner.  Right, that looked perfect. Mid-week and the

parking lot was mostly full of rental cars and econoboxes, but he

found a spot right up by the lobby.



     Elijah's back twinged when he turned in his seat, stiff

muscles pulled in his shoulders and forearms.  He sighed, seeing

that Fox hadn't changed position in more than an hour.  The poor

man would be stiff as a board, but it couldn't be helped.  No one

nearby, and a good view into the lobby, so at least he could leave

the windows down.  The blond breathed a silent thanks to God when

he stepped down and finally got a breath of fresh air.  He couldn't

exactly blame Fox for not wanting to take the Thorazine, but he did

wish he'd known about this whole matter one country meal sooner.



     A pallid young man looked up when he pushed through the door,

and audibly shut a heavy book. Elijah could see his thin shoulders

shift as he pushed it to one side and sat up straighter, managing

a tired smile that looked like it came with the uniform he wore. 

When he stepped up to the counter, Elijah could see a Calculus 101

book, and he stifled a smile.



     "Sorry to take you away from your homework."  Elijah smiled.



     "S'okay.  It was getting hard to concentrate, anyway.  Welcome

to the Downtowner."  He caught himself and put back on his

official, hotel training.  "What can I do for you?"



     "I need a double through tomorrow.  I mean, through Thursday."

Elijah did grin, now.  Watched the young man enter figures on a

keyboard.



     "Okay. . . I have a double on the fifth floor. . . with a view

of the Lake.  Will that do?"



     "Perfect."   He was pulling out his wallet even as the kid

totaled up the bill.



     "Sorry to have to charge you for two days, with you getting in

so late.  That's ninety-five, even."



     "It's no problem."  He handed over the cash.  "Look, I've got

my brother-in-law with me, and he's feeling pretty bad, can you

help me get him into the elevator?"  The kid - his name tag read

'Atcheson Everett Smith,' poor thing - smiled and was out and in

the lobby a moment later.



     "Sure, let me give you a hand with him. . . "



     "It's not against the rules or anything?"



     "Service.  That's what they keep telling us, service. 

Besides," Atcheson's smile stretched even wider, "right now

anything looks better than differential equations."  When Elijah

opened the door and the smell hit him the boy looked like he might

reconsider that opinion, but he stayed, sharing a slightly pale

look of commiseration with Elijah.



     Fox rolled himself tighter into a ball when they tried to pull

him upright, but Atcheson got his legs pulled around and out, and

Elijah got an arm around his ribs, supporting his weight.  His gym

bag over the other shoulder, and they were ready.



     "Whew. . . you weren't kidding when you said he was sick. 

God. . . " The boy slammed the jeep door, then ran ahead to get the

door for them.  Elijah managed Fox well enough once they were in

the lobby.  By then, the agent was starting to wake up and walk

more steadily.  Atcheson got the elevator for them, and Elijah

handed him a ten dollar bill.



     "Thanks.  I think I can get him from here, but you've been a

big help."



     "Hey, no problem!"  Whatever else he was going to say was cut

off by the doors, and Elijah pulled Mulder upright for the short,

five floor ride.





     "Okay, Fox, we're going to walk down to our room.  Come on." 

He glanced at the key in his hand, pulling the taller man along

with him, relieved that Fox was walking, no matter how unsteadily. 

Fitted the key in their door and reached inside to flip on the

lights.  "Come on, let's get you cleaned up and in bed, then you

can sleep as long as you like."



     "Where're we?"  Mulder was staring around with glassy eyes. 

Elijah paused, studied him.



     "You're awake?  Good.  We're in a hotel.  We'll get you

cleaned up, and then we can tuck you in again."  Fox watched him

with sleep-puffy eyes, as Elijah found a glass on the bureau, and

poured him some Gatorade.  "Bet you're thirsty after that long

sleep."  He could see the way Fox's tongue caught, dry, when he

tried to wet his lips.



     Shaking hands took the glass, but Fox just held it there. 

Elijah could feel him pushing it away.



     "C'mon. . . there's nothing in it, if that's what's worrying

you."  He kept his voice soft, guided the glass as Fox finally

pulled it close and drank it in messy gulps, spilling a little down

his chin.  Gave him another and helped him get it down.  "Now let's

get you cleaned up and to bed. . . "



     The drugged man's steps were a little steadier, though still

dragging on the carpet as Elijah guided him into the bathroom. 

Stripped off the stained, green t-shirt and the blue jeans, pulled

the Keds off.  He reached over to run warm water in the bathtub. 

"You're going to have to help me here, Fox.  You're too big for me

to pick up, but you'll feel better if we get you cleaned up."

It wasn't so hard, really.  The agent moved slowly, but he pretty

much did what he was told, and Elijah didn't have to worry about

him slipping under the water the way little kids could do. It

didn't take long to get him washed and shaved, and have him 

wrapped in a towel, getting his hair dried.  Elijah left him sitting in 

the bathroom, propped against the sink, and folded another towel in 

one of the beds.  Poured a glass of Gatorade and added another dose 

of the Thorazine, setting it next to the bed.



     "Come on, I know you're still sleepy."  Mulder's face was

still slack, but his eyes seemed more focused, and he tracked

Elijah closely.  The younger man got him up, and into the bedroom.

Elijah found a pair of boxers in his gym bag and helped him into

them.  "I've got more Gatorade for you."



     Mulder licked his lips and visibly tried to gather himself.

Elijah had the glass pressed into his hands, holding it steady so

the liquid wouldn't spill. One sip and Mulder's long nose wrinkled.

Elijah sighed as he pulled back, turned his head to avoid the

glass.



     "Fox, you need to drink this. I know you don't like it. . . "



     "I donn't want it." He was still slurring, but forcing the

words out.  Elijah's mouth tightened, lips pulled thin with regret,

and tried to pull Mulder's head around.



     "Come on, Fox.  It's going to be easier for you if you drink.

. . ."  Hissed as the agent slapped the base of the glass.  "Damn

it!"  Sticky, yellow-green liquid splattered all down Elijah's

front, and Fox scuttled back on the bed, away from him.



     The young man screwed his eyes shut against the quick burn of

anger, felt his fists ball up tight and small.  Long, deep breaths

slowly unknotted his shoulders and arms, and he opened his eyes to

see Fox, crouched at the foot of the bed, watching him intently. 

He carefully moved into the middle of the room, keeping between 

Fox and the door, and backed up until he could get his gym bag from 

the table next to the picture window. 



     "We've been through this before, Fox.  I'm sorry. If you won't

drink it, I have to use a needle. One way or the other, you need to

take the Thorazine.  It's not for that much longer. . . "



     His fingers found the bundle of medical supplies in the bottom

of the bag, and he glanced down to pick out a bottle and a sterile

syringe.  The faint sound of feet on carpet brought his head up,

finding Fox braced against the wall, trying to edge towards the

door while Elijah was distracted.  A step sideways put Jon in front

of the door, and Fox slowly backed up into the room, shaking his

head in careful, deliberate motions, never looking away from

Elijah, who filled the syringe in quick, sure, movements.



     "I don't want the drug." The effort to say each word clearly

was audible.  "I want all of you to just leave me alone."



     Elijah felt the weariness of the long drive, and of necessity,

pushing down on his shoulders.  All he wanted now was a little

sleep, the small peace God had granted to mankind.  He did NOT want

to fight with Fox.  Bracing himself, he stepped in and away from

the door, gauging the way the agent moved.  He was slow and clumsy

from the drug still in his system, but adrenaline could still give

him a short burst of speed.



     "Don't you see, Fox. . . all of us felt that way.  Most of us

feel that way again.  If Jesus had left us alone, we'd all be

damned."  A careful step, two, into the room.  "Sometimes, we can't

leave each other alone and still be true to our consciences, still

be true to God. . . ."



     Jon edged into the room a bit more, turning on the television

as he passed it.  The sound flooded the room, loud enough to cover

most of the noise they might make.  Mulder was on the far side of

the second bed, edging towards the head of it.  He'd have to roll

across the bed to get to the door past Elijah. Jon gauged the

distances, and Fox's speed, and feinted at him around the foot of

the bed.



     Fox dropped and rolled, as he'd known he would, too clumsy

from Thorazine to be able to simply dive across the narrow

mattress.  Elijah lunged and grabbed his ankle, yanking him back

and dropping onto his back to pin the thinner, taller man down. 

Fox tried to scream, and Elijah had to force his face into the

comforter to muffle him, keep him softer than the television.



     Fox was thrashing wildly now, like he had in the Cherokee,

trying to throw Elijah off of him, or hit him hard enough to knock

him off.  Elijah scrambled until he had a knee in the small of

Fox's back, the way they'd taught him in wrestling in junior high

school.  He'd need to be off-balance to inject the drug, and even

weak and muzzy, Mulder might still be able to push him off.  Elijah

shifted his weight to make it harder for Fox to throw him off his

back. Twisted until he could shove the boxers off one hip and drive

the needle into the clenched muscles of Fox's skinny butt.  Winced

at the shriek as he pushed the plunger down, driving the drug into

the muscles with what couldn't help but be painful speed.



     Fox was still thrashing, trying somehow to keep moving enough

to fight the Thorazine off.  Jon wrapped his arms around him,

letting him lash out, feeling the blows get lighter, weaker.  His

breath was caught in his own chest, but with grief rather than

exertion as Fox slowly lost the tension and slipped into the

cloudy, compliant mood of the drug.



     Elijah rocked him as he felt his old playmate slide into calm.

Words spilled out of him, even though he knew Fox was too far away

to hear them now.  "I'm sorry, Fox.  I'm sorry.  I wish you could

understand.  You've slipped so far into the dark. . . You don't

leave us any other way.  Your friends didn't want to hurt you, but

they didn't know how to help.  And I don't want to hurt you.  I'm

sorry, you didn't leave me any other way, but I'll make it better. 

You'll see.  I am taking you where you can be whole and well and

safe.  It's not for very much longer, Fox. It's not."



     A faint gleam showed under dark lashes, but Mulder's face and

body were slack with the drug.  If he knew what was happening

around him, it was only in the faintest, vaguest way.  Elijah

sighed with relief and stroked his hair, settled him back and

pulled the comforter up over his shoulders.  Almost as an

afterthought, he snapped a cuff around Fox's wrist, and the other,

heart-shaped cuff around the bed frame.  With the drug in his

system, Fox probably would never know it was there.



     "There. See? It won't be for very much longer. . . "  Kept

stroking his back, the way he had with the smaller ones, soothing

people for whom sleep held terrors. "Remember Eliot, Fox. . .



     The inner freedom from the practical desire, 

     The release from action and suffering, release from the inner

     And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded 

     By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving, 

     Erhebung without motion, concentration 

     Without elimination, both a new world

     And the old made explicit, understood

     In the completion of its partial ecstasy, 

     The resolution of its partial horror. . .

     Time past and time future

     Allow but a little consciousness.'"



     Three in the morning. The too-bright green numerals marked the

dark behind Elijah's lids when he let his head rest heavy on his

hands. Pulled himself straight on the indrawn breath and reached

over to set the alarm.  Two hours' sleep, and then he'd be on his

way.







     In Oklahoma City Maryann Parmenter called her husband, woke

him out of a sound sleep, and let him know he'd have to get the

kids ready for school in the morning. He grumbled a moment - PR

wasn't supposed to drag his wife away from home the way her sales

work had - but he knew she was on Cooke's media contact team. He

wished her luck and went back to bed, setting his alarm to get him

up an hour early.









     Jack Averman slept restlessly and dreamed of the faces that

never came home from Vietnam. He'd woken twice and phoned to 

see if any word had come in, but for all the activity there was very

little news to be had.  He finally slid back into deeper sleep,

waiting for morning.









     Sam Rodriguez, next door, kept his lights on. He didn't want

to be alone in the dark. His back ached and he couldn't find a

comfortable position to sleep. The sky was faintly gray when he

reached over and dialed his home in Virginia, listening for the

sleepy voice on the other end of the line.



     "Mmhm. Hello?" He felt his face pull into a smile, seeing her

with her eyes shut, and her hair tangled and spread on the pillow.



     "Hi, Jenni."



     "Sam?" He heard her come suddenly more alert, and bit his lip

at a twinge of guilt. "It's five in the morning. Are you all right?

Did you. . . did you find Fox?" Her tone dropped, soft and worried.



     "No baby. I'm sorry I woke you. . . "



     "It's okay. Sam, I don't mind. . . it must be four o'clock

there. . . ."  He could hear her jaw crack as she yawned, and her

words were muffled and stretched by it. "Have you heard anything?"



     "No. Well, sort of. Marion got ahold of a phone for a few

minutes.  We know they were heading south. That was around five in

the afternoon. We haven't heard anything since. The roadblocks and

all just came up totally blank."  He stopped, swallowed against the

tight pain in his gut.



     He heard her take a deep, long breath. "Do you think he's. .

. I mean. Sam, do you think he's still alive?"



     "You've been around me and Marion too long. But, yeah. We've

got another analyst helping. She's still in DC, but she thinks

he'll pick a really visible means. . .God. I don't want to talk

about this with you."



     "It's okay. You won't give me any new nightmares." He could

hear the sad smile in her voice. "How are you holding up?"



     "I'm fine." Screwed up his face as his voice cracked on the

words.  Sniffed in through his nose. "I just. . . I wanted to hear

you. I should have waited. . . "



     "No, you shouldn't. I hate getting in and hearing those

messages on the machine, and then having to wait or call all over

hell's half acre to reach you. I'm glad you called.  I've been

worried about you."



     The hiccup of laughter hurt deep in his belly. "I'm not the

one in trouble out here."



     "For a smart man, you say some really dumb things. You want to

tell me what you're doing out there?"



     "No.  I. . . we don't really know what more we can do right

now.  Maybe. . . Jenni.  Will you do something for me?"



     Her sigh was long and kind.  "Sam. . . "



     "I know you don't really. . . I. . . Jenni. Will you go to

church tomorrow.  And say a prayer?  Light a candle?  For Marion

and, I guess, maybe for me?"  His teeth hurt his lip, and his

throat felt tight as he listened to her breathe.



     "Of course, Sam.  I'd love to.  Of course I'll pray for you. 

Pray for you both."



     He had to sniff in, rubbed at his nose.  "I love you, Jenni."



     "Me too, Sam.  Can I do anything else?  Call anyone?"



     "No. I ought to hang up."





     He could hear her breathing. Then. . . "Why don't you just

stay on the line, Sam? Just so I can hear you there?" His eyes

stung a little, and his nose felt stuffy. He wiped at it. Cleared

his throat.



     "Okay, Jenni. Okay."



Continued in part 31..................





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

======



From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 31/41 NC-17

Date: 20 Feb 1996 06:25:46 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 31/41)

By Amperage and Livengoo

Copyright October, 1995



International Readers:  No third season spoilers

Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence



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

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

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

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

everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.



_____________________



     The rising sun flashed off little pools of water and put a

haze across the windshield as Elijah drove over the border into

Texas. The radio news told him things were as bad as they'd been

for the last century. He nodded, unsurprised by the news, and

prayed softly that the lost souls of the world might find peace.

The Christian talk show was about Jimmy Swaggart's plea for money. 

The comments put a brief jeer on his face. It was un-Christian of

him, but he had rather hoped that Swaggart's bluff would be called.



     With Texas housing tracts around him, he tuned in the local

news and listened to the bulletin about the missing FBI agent. That

might make things interesting, but he wasn't too concerned. A

little care on his part, and God would see him through. Traffic was

heavier now, and he smiled to see it. Hard to see license plates

with the sun in your eyes, too. Yes, God was good.



     





     Robert Gastineau scratched his balls and poured a cup of

strong, black coffee. He sighed and made a face at the taste. The

water here tasted differently than it had back in Austin, and he

still wasn't used to it.  More iron or something. He dumped in

sugar and grabbed a piece of toast, leaning against the kitchen

counter and turning up the news.  Hopefully the traffic wouldn't be

so bad today. There'd been some kind of problem with the parking

lot booth the day before and it took forever to get out of the lot.



     The local anchor had terrible hair, but a nice jawline. Bobby

watched his lips move a moment before he realized the man was

talking about Okie U. Hospital. The picture had changed by the time

he got the sound turned up more. A photograph and one of those

police sketches that could be anyone you saw on the street. This

one looked vaguely familiar, though. . .



     ". . . are also seeking Jonathan Elijah Gragg, in connection

with both Agent Mulder's disappearance and the slayings of several

area children.  Anyone with information regarding Gragg, or the

location of Agent Mulder is urgently requested to contact . . ."



     Bobby Gastineau didn't really feel the hot coffee splash his

legs as his cup hit the floor. All he knew was that his hands were

shaking when he tried to dial the number he saw on his television

screen.



     "Hello? Is this the FBI? Oh god, give me a moment. My name is

Robert Gastineau. I know Jon Gragg, except that's not what he calls

himself anymore. I mean. . . look. I think I know the man you want,

the one on the TV. Who do I need to talk to?"











     "So what's this asshole's name, and how does he know our boy?"

Jack Averman ate two Tylenol and washed them down with bad, FBI

coffee.



     Harlan flipped through the thin file in his hands. "Robert

Michael Gastineau. Moved from Austin, Texas to Oklahoma City about

two years ago. Apparently he used to party on down with Gragg, 

back in Austin."  He handed the folder over to Averman.



     "Okay, let's see what he can tell us." The interview room was

cool and white, with clean walls. It didn't have the smell of stale

sweat and fear that local cop shops decorated with, but the feeling

was there nonetheless.  Gastineau sat with all four of his folding

chair's feet firmly on the ground, and the sickly, fluorescent

light picked out the sheen on his forehead.  Averman settled down

across from him and studied him.



     "Thanks for coming in, Mr. Gastineau. I'm Jack Averman. I'll

be taping this if it's all right with you?" He flipped open his

badge, let the young man across from him look it over. Let his hand

hover over the tape recorder until he got his badge back and a nod

from Gastineau. "I understand you know Jon Elijah Gragg."



     "Yes. Yeah, I do, but he goes by John Gregory these days. Umm.

. . "  He rubbed his face. Averman saw a man, perhaps in his early

thirties, good looking and well built and scared shitless.  Leaned

forward.



     "I want you to know we really need your help on this matter.

You told the agent on the phone that you'd seen Gragg - Gregory -

on Tuesday morning?"



     Gastineau nodded. "Yeah. I work at Oklahoma State and. . .

look, am I going to get in trouble for this?"



     Averman ground his teeth. "No. We need your help on this one,

we're not likely to be pressing charges or anything." He managed a

thin grin.  "If it helps, we think a man's life may be in danger if

we don't find Gragg soon.  Anything that you can tell us might

help." The man across from him took in a deep, hard breath and 

some kind of barrier seemed to break.  He let his head tilt back and

nodded.



     "Okay. I hadn't seen Jon since I'd come up here, and I was

really surprised. He said he was into a pretty heavy scene, and he

needed. . .needed Thorazine. Oral and IM. And syringes. I got them

for him."



     A sick thrill ran through Averman's gut. "How much Thorazine

does he have?  Could he keep a man drugged for several days?"



     "God, he could keep a man in orbit for weeks with what he's

got.  Somehow I figured. . . I thought he was using this for an

orgy, you know?"  The pleading tone put Averman's back up, but he

swallowed the reaction.



     "Excuse me a minute. Would you like a cup of coffee?" The

relieved nod gave him an excuse to get out of there smoothly.

Averman shut the door, turned to the guard.



     "I'll be back in ten minutes.  Give him a coffee, and set one

up for me.  He's cooperating, so we're polite as shit to him,

okay?"  The young man nodded, hurried off to do what he was told.



     Rodriguez must have been told where the AIC was, because he

was in the hall, shifting from foot to foot with impatience.  He

fell in next to Averman as the older man traveled down the hall

with a long, ground-eating stride that was almost as fast as a run.



     "Well?"



     "We just started.  I've got a new name.  The Cherokee was

registered to Gragg, but his credit cards are probably under John

Gregory."  A quick stop in the nerve center.  Watkins had gone

home, but his assistant took the new name and rushed off to get it

distributed so they'd get word the minute John Gregory's cards

surfaced for a purchase.



     Averman turned back to Rodriguez, retracing his steps to their

gold mine and giving the doctor what little he had as yet.  "It

looks like Elijah's got enough Thorazine with him to keep a small

city stunned. We're not going to be able to count on Mulder coming

out of it and being able to contact us."



     The doctor slammed his hands together in helpless frustration.

"Oh shit. Oh SHIT. I'm beginning to think the bastard's right and

God's on his side. Fuck."











     Elijah smiled at the sweet, young thing at the rental car

counter, and handed over his credit card.  She was able to run the

card through the slide, grab a pen and hand the whole collection of

card, slip and pen to him without ever dropping her eyes or her

flirtatious smile.



     "Now, all the conditions are on the reverse, and you can

return the car to any one of our offices."  She was running her

finger down a long list of numbers in a booklet, making sure his

card wasn't stolen.  He kept the mild expression on his face and

waited until she was satisfied, and had turned her perky face back

to him.



     "Wonderful.  You got an office down around Corpus Christi?" 

The keys jingled softly and reflected the bright sunlight streaming

into the airport terminal.





     "Oh, yes, sir!  I'm sure they'll be glad to help you any way

they can.  We have other services. . . "  She was reaching for a

handful of brochures.  



     "That's all right, Miss Emerson.  I know the way.  But thank

you."  He signed with a flourish, tearing off his copy and tossing

it into the trash.



     The humid, blast-furnace heat of Galveston hit him as he left

the terminal, walked past the parked Cherokee, and got into the

rented sedan.  Nine in the morning, and he'd be back in Lake

Charles by noon.  He worried his lip as he considered the timing,

then decided that Fox would be all right if he got back a bit late.



He pulled onto Route 45 and headed back up to Houston.  A quick

stop at a Wal-Mart for new clothes for Fox, and one at a car

dealer, and he'd be ready to go.  He smiled to himself, and popped

one of the gospel tapes he'd salvaged from the Cherokee into the

tape deck.











     The voices wouldn't let him sleep.  A dried trickle of spit

pulled and cracked at the corner of Fox Mulder's mouth as he rolled

onto his side and groaned.  His mouth tasted like something had

died in it, and his ass hurt like someone had been beating him.  So

hard to think through the cotton-wool in his head. . .  He didn't

know how long his eyes had been open before he realized he was

looking at the other bed.  It was another forever before he

understood that the bed was empty.  He tried to pull his arms in,

to shove himself upright, but there was a cold, steel pull on his

left wrist, and a fucking, heart shaped cuff that held him to the

frame of the bed.  Mulder stared at it, trying to put everything

together and wanting to scream with frustration as the thick,

stubborn fog choked his thoughts and kept threatening to send him

back into a hazy nothing.



     No one else was here, he was sure of that by now.  The

bathroom, across the room, was empty.  Drawn curtains.  He tried to

think of why they'd be drawn, and remembered a pretty lake, a cool

balcony.  Looked with sudden hope to the door, but the 'Do Not

Disturb' sign wasn't hung on the knob anymore.  No one would be

coming in to help him.  Fox sagged back onto the bed, yanked at his

wrist in forlorn hope, but the cuff held him and refused to open. 

Between the beds, an electric clock told him it was about eleven

in the morning.  On the bureau, snug against the opposite wall,

some talk show prattled on and on.  The phone, next to it, might

have been a million miles away.



     Mulder sucked in a deep breath, and screamed.  Screamed long

and loud for help, over and over until his throat was hoarse and

his breath came in little pants.  And no one even pounded on a

wall.  Middle of the fucking morning in the middle of the week. 

And whoever had been in the rooms to either side was driving away

somewhere in a business lunch, in their business suits, with phones

and help and people in reach.  Everyone but Mulder.  He wrapped

himself around a pillow finally, and felt the sure knowledge that

he was all alone, and couldn't even get out of this bed.



     He curled up, back against the headboard and rocked back and

forth glaring at the telephone and getting angrier and angrier as

the drug slowly pulled its claws out of him.  The headboard slammed

the wall as he started hitting it, lashing out sideways with the

one hand that wasn't cuffed.  Hit it over and over, until he could

feel the pain of it even through the fucking Thorazine and it

didn't make a bit of difference.  No one heard him, no one pounded

back or knocked or came to get him out of here.  Mulder was panting

with the anger as he tumbled out of bed, slammed his hand against

the wall and dented the damned wall board.  He was too angry and

scared to hold still no matter what.  He slammed the wall again,

seeing the bloody smudge his knuckles left.  He tried to pull the

lamp up, but it was bolted to the nightstand.  Found himself

yanking on it, shrieking in rage and past any thought or reasoning

until he finally dropped to his knees, exhausted.



     The cuff still pulled his left wrist tight, tethering him to

the bed frame.  Fox stared at it and felt the slow anger kindle

again. Wrapped both hands around the chain of the cuffs and dug his

heels in and pulled with everything his skinny body had left.  When

it moved and he fell on his ass, the pain that shot through him

made his vision swim for a moment.  God, the muscles in his butt

hurt.  It took a while to realize that something had moved, or he

wouldn't have fallen.



     At first Mulder thought the chain had given somehow.  It took

forever for his drug-fogged wits to understand that the whole bed

had shifted towards him.  When he realized, he bit down on his lip

to hold onto the surge of hope, and dug his heels in and pulled

again.  And it moved.



     "Jesus Christ. . . " he breathed, hearing his own slurred

voice and not really caring.  Moved closer to the head of the bed

and wrapped his hands around the chain and pulled again, sobbing 

as the bed hung up on the nightstand, and yanked until he had 

pulled it loose.



     Mulder was gasping for breath, muscles aching and wrist a

bruised mess by the time he'd dragged the bed into reach of the

phone.  He sagged onto the floor, phone dangling off the edge of

the bureau, as he desperately tried to punch Averman's cellphone

number in.  A recorded voice told him that the number he wanted 

was out of service or out of range, and he slammed the disconnect

button in frustration and tried again.  By the third repeat he was

sobbing in frustration, teeth clenched and face red with the tears

he was holding back.  Finally dialed the operator and begged for

her to put him through to the FBI.





     When the voice answered he thought it was the sweetest thing

he'd ever heard.  He drew in a sniffling breath.



     "My name. . . "  His voice caught in his throat.  "I'm Fox

Mulder.  Help.  Please. . . "



     "Sir," whoever this woman was, her tired, irritated voice held

no patience for him, "please state your business clearly.  Your

call is being taped."



     "I told you, I'm Fox Mulder."



     He could hear a sigh, cut off short.  "Sir, I'm transferring

you to one of our field agents to address your call.  We have

received numerous calls regarding Agent Mulder, and there may be a

short wait.  Please hold on."  Across the room, the clock ticked

off the minutes after noon, as he sat and listened to muzak. 

Mulder gulped, swallowing another sob.  And gradually became 

aware of the midday news on the television over his head.



     When he leaned out, phone clutched in his bruised right hand,

left still held taut to the bed frame, he could see his own face,

and a grainy snapshot of Elijah.  He swallowed as he listened to

the news announce him as abducted, and he saw the phone numbers 

on the screen.  He'd been on hold more than three minutes.  And the

number was up there on the screen, broadcast across the entire,

fucking state.  Mulder felt his face pull up into a sob or a scream

as he remembered just how many people phoned that kind of 

number.  Hundreds.  Maybe more.  He curled back against the bureau 

and hung up.  Deep breaths.  Hard ones.  Then he tried again, dialing 

9-1-1.



And heard nothing.  Waited and waited until a recording finally

announced he'd been disconnected and advised him on how to get

directory assitance.  The second time it happened he wanted to beat

the phone into little bits of plastic and chips.  He tried once

more, and a sudden memory flashed, almost too fast to catch.  The

Washington Post, maybe.  And a story about phones. And about 9-1-

1.



And this area didn't have 9-1-1.  His teeth were grinding and his

neck hurt with the fury racing through him.  Mulder struggled to

get another breath in past the anger and the despair.  Fuck this,

he couldn't think.  Slammed his head back against the cheap veneer

and chipboard, over and over until the pain in his head matched the

pain in his hands.



     Finally, he tried the phone again.  There was no point dialing

the local FBI, they'd just put him on hold again.  One phone number

was clearer in his head than any other.  He dialed the long

distance exchange for Washington, D.C. and waited as the phone rang

at VICAP in the J. Edgar Hoover Building.  Sitting there, with his

left arm stretched back behind him and his aching right hand

wrapped around the hotel phone, Fox Mulder prayed, for the first

time in years, asking a god he didn't believe in to please, please

let someone pick up the damn phone at VICAP before the fucking

answering machine kicked in, or Elijah walked through the

door.









     He dreamed of Ellen in her smooth green dress.  Garters

without panties and her breasts were soft underneath the sturdy

cotton bra.  Her father's farm and the hot Oklahoma sun.  The

little Mustang, wedged tight in the back seat, rising and arching

with his hands against her sweating back.  Her face, soft and her

eyes those of a gentle doe.  They had walked through the endless,

sweating fields.  Her short black hair.  "Did I ever tell you how

beautiful you are?" Jack asked, raising one of her small hands to

his mouth.



     Ellen laughed and her laughter was like listening to the

sound of crystal bells. Her neck was smooth and long and the

hollows collected sweat, tempting his mouth to rove and his tongue

to feel.  The green dress with only garters on.  His hands pushing

against her legs, feeling the soft, warm curve of bottom and her

nervous shiver as her eyes half closed.



     "Did I ever tell you that I loved you past anything?  That I

will always love you?  That you are my entire world and

everything?" Jack whispered, wanting her to understand his

desire.



     "I know."  Ellen stared into his eyes.  She was not the

college coed of twenty five years ago.  She was his Ellen.  His

Ellen who had chanced to cross an intersection when a trucker

wasn't watching.  His Ellen that they had pried from the frame of

his Mustang.



     "I love you so much."  Jack pressed her tiny, bird-like frame,

against his chest, wrapped her tightly in his arms.  "I love you so

much."



     The smell of her White Shoulder's perfume was heavy in his

mouth and nose as he buried his head in her raven hair.











     "Averman?"  The SAC's voice was sharp.  Jack Averman blinked

several times, clearing cobwebs.  His eyes teared as he remembered.

He said a silent prayer.  He did not know if it had been a dream or

if it was, somehow, Ellen.  He knew what he would choose to

believe.



     "Yeah," Averman said, finally, sitting up on his bed.



     "John Gregory used his credit card this morning.  Just got it

in.  We think he's headed to Corpus Christi."



     Averman blinked and swallowed.  "Oh hell," he muttered.  "Oh

fucking hell!"  A sudden smile slid across his face.







     "VICAP."  The tart voice wasn't one Mulder recognized.  He sat

a moment dumbly.  Some part of his mind had expected it to be 

Sandy or Kay, the secretaries.  He took a deep shuddering breath.



     "This is VICAP."  The voice repeated.



     "Hello?" Mulder said shakily. "I'm Fox Mulder. . ."



     "No more sick jokes please," the voice said sharply.  "Now

state your business.  This is an internal line authorized only for.

. ."



     "I want Sandy or Kay.  Where's Kay?"  Sandy, twenty pounds

overweight and forever bitching about how life was unfair that

Mulder could eat and eat and if she looked at a jelly donut her

thighs expanded by four inches at least.  Kay, bubbly and blonde

always ready for a good pun.



     "Sandra Markston and Katherine O'Neal are on other

assignments."



     Mulder closed his eyes.  He hurt.  Everything hurt and he was

tired and now there was some woman who didn't know him.  And

he was tired and sleepy and Elijah was coming back anytime and. .

.



     "Is there someone else you would like to talk to?"



     "Thompson?"



     "May I have your name?"



     "Mulder."

 

     The phone clicked in his ear.



     Mulder closed his eyes, curled up with his chin against his

knees, just curled up.  He was beyond angry, in some strange quiet

place where anger just didn't matter anymore.  He saw his body

lying in state and he saw the cemetery and the quiet plot and the

rich, living smell of water curling in across the grass.



     He sniffled and tried to think.  Dialed the number again.



     "VICAP."



     "I am. . ."  A sob interrupted.  Mulder did not know where the

strange, tight sound came from, but it was obviously within him.

"I am Fox Mulder and I want someone I know.  I don't know you.  I

want them NOW.  He's gonna kill me.  I want Kay or Sandy or

Thompson or even Gillis or Johana.  I want. . ." another strange,

sharp sob. "I want somebody!"



     Mulder heard words and voices and the phone started to click

and then a voice.



     "Hello, this is VICAP, will you please state your business?"



     "Sandy?"  Mulder sniffled.  "Sandy?"



     "OHMYGODIT'SMULDERSOMEBODYGOGETATRACE."  There were

voices now and then Sandy's soft voice.  "MULDER?  Is that you?

Mulder, where are you?"



     "I doan know. . .nobody believed me."  Mulder closed his eyes,

listening to that familiar voice.  Sandy.  Up in Washington D.C.

an overweight woman named Sandy was wearing a headset and

talking to him.  Somewhere somebody was listening to him.  "I. .

." Another sob rocked him, made his gut hurt and twist and churn.

"I. . .I doan know where Elijah is. . ."



     "Tell us what you know. . .it's okay.  Fox, look around you."

New voice.  He didn't know it.



     "I want Sandy," Mulder sniffled as the familiar, gentle voice

was torn away.  "Where's Sandy?"



     "I'm here."  Voices buzzed.  In his head?  On the phone?

"Mulder.  Tell us what you know?"



     "I'm in a hotel room."



     A pause.



     "Is there a number on the phone?"



     "57."



     "Are you alone."



     "Yes," Mulder sniffed.



     "Can you leave?"



     "I'm chained to the bed.  Nobody's here.  They put me on hold

when I said I was Mulder. . ."



     "I know.  We've had a lot of calls. . ."  Long pause.

"Mulder, is he giving you anything?"



     "Thorazine."





     "A lot?"



     "Yes."



Continued in part 32...................





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

======



From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 32/41 NC-17

Date: 21 Feb 1996 08:54:19 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 32/41)

By Amperage and Livengoo

Copyright October, 1995



International Readers:  No third season spoilers

Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence



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

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

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

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

everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.



And thank you to the nice people who wrote and gave me good stuff 

to read with the morning coffee!

Goo

________________



     Elijah's hand was strong.  The phone went back on the cradle.



     Mulder stared and scooted back, back to the headboard, behind

it.  Felt his stomach rise in his chest, balloon against his lungs.

He could not swallow.  Closed his eyes.



     A soft and gentle voice.



     "Fox.  It's okay.  It's okay."  Elijah was there suddenly.

Mulder was trapped in his corner.  "Fox.  I won't get mad.  It's

okay.  I was gone a long time."



     "I don't *care*!" Mulder spat out.  "I don't *care*!  You're

wrong.  When you die it's all black and death and decay.  There's

nothing and no one!  THERE ISN'T ANY GOD, you fucking faggot!

There isn't any God.  He doesn't exist.  There isn't any heaven.

You just killed those children.  You sent them down into the

darkness and you KILLED them."



     Elijah's breath was deep and he just sat there, waiting.  It

was not much of speech, and it was hard for Mulder to get the words

out, hard to summon the anger.  Mulder didn't care, he sat,

seething, puffing breath out through his mouth, staring at his

captor.



     Mulder watched the pretty boy looks and the healthy tan and

the lithe, athletic frame and suddenly his free hand snaked out,

began hitting.  Elijah dodged and then grabbed Mulder's free hand.

Mulder didn't care.  It didn't matter.  Nothing mattered.  Elijah

was going to take him to the coast and kill them both and nothing

would matter then, except to the maggots.  There was nothing, no

heaven, no hell, nothing but darkness, endless, eternal darkness.

Sam was dead.  Sam had been dead for a long time.



     Elijah made the mistake of bringing his hand close to Mulder's

mouth as he sought to contain the older man's hand without

causing any further harm.  Mulder snapped hard, teeth meeting on

air.  Elijah sighed.  "Fox.  Don't do this.  Don't let your anger

talk for you.  I know, you're far into the darkness.  I know you're

scared.  I know.  But, don't do this.  It's all going to be all

right in just a little bit."



     "NO IT'S NOT!"  Mulder yelled as loudly as his hoarse voice

would allow.



     Elijah let got of Mulder's hand and scooted away.  Mulder put

his face in his knees and braced for what was to come.



     Elijah worked for the hand first and Mulder kicked out hard,

kicked and screamed and tried to move and he felt his bare feet

connect again and again on Elijah's legs, although he never hit the

genitals, which would be his prize goal.  Eventually his free hand

was cuffed and attached to the leg on the floor, turning him over

so that his face was pressed up against a fake pattern of wood.

Mulder squirmed and kicked and screamed, but it was an easy 

matter for Elijah to simply sit on his legs and then the boxers were

bunched down below his buttocks and the needle hurt.  Oh fucking

hell it hurt so bad.  He felt Elijah's hand against his bottom,

massaging the bruises and the tired skin and felt the fire rushing

up and radiating out and he could not control it.  It hurt so bad.

. . Mulder bared his teeth against the sudden fuzziness.   Bared

his teeth and growled and bucked hard.



     Elijah rolled off of Fox as the drug reduced his friend to

incoherence.  Another 75 milligram shot.  More than was

recommended.  It was the only thing he could do to give his friend

some relief.  This last had been horrible, like watching a dumb

animal faced with something unknown.  And Fox was in such bad

shape.  Jon hadn't planned to be gone so long.  Rent a car, buy a

car, come back here.  He'd used his Dallas account.  Greg

Johannson.  He knew that no one had that name yet.



     Greg Johannson.  Elijah remembered Luke and smiled fondly.

Luke's hands had been gentle and his kisses moist.  And how

incredibly young and stupid Elijah had been.  The big bedroom and

the story that Luke was his cousin.  The prayer breakfasts with

Pastor Crisswell and never telling the truth because the other

christians did not understand the truth of love between men.  Luke

had been older but it had never mattered.  And when Luke died,

there had been the trust for Elijah.  For Greg Johannson.  Elijah

already had the stock investments. Done what Luke said to do.



     Luke was in heaven.



     Elijah sighed and smoothed the hair sadly.  His friend was so

confused and frightened.  Oh God, what had Fox's dad done?  The

blood from a cut in Fox's scalp smeared Elijah's hands.  Fox'd hurt

himself. One wrist, the one first cuffed, was cruelly marked and

puffy now, and looked horrible.  The other hand was cut open and

bruised.  He was going to lose the fingernail on his littlest

finger.  Elijah vowed to keep Fox down until it was over.  He

didn't want Fox to hurt himself again.  Didn't want Fox to go

through the fear.











     Sam Rodriguez rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the words.

Mulder had called VICAP.



     It hit him.   Mulder had fucking called VICAP.  He was muddled

and hysterical and didn't sound too good and the conversation had

been cut off and they didn't have a perfect trace, but they knew

the area code.



     Mulder had called VICAP.  Sam listened intently, leaning over

close to listen to Jack Averman speaking over the helicopter's

radio.  They were half-way to Corpus now and it turned out Mulder

was in Louisiana?  Louisiana of all places?  Jimmy Swaggart and New

Orleans all in one pot pie.



     Rodriguez felt his stomach lurch and realized that they were

turning.  Beside him, Meyers turned green.  Meyers was Rodriguez'

idea.  If they found Mulder before. . . When they found Mulder, he

was likely to have problems.  Extremely ill, possibly psychotic.

Mulder trusted Meyers.  If Rodriguez or Meyers were there the

likelihood of Mulder cooperating with the program went up several

notches.



     Rodriguez put his head against the warm metal frame of the

helicopter and told himself that Jenni was right.  He needed to

stay in fucking D.C.











     Mark yawned and finished pouring milk over his raisin bran,

flicked on the kitchen TV and began eating.  It was still quiet in

the house; his parents weren't in from work, his kid sister was

still in school  He was out of classes.  He'd eat and then stumble

into bed until ten, an hour before his shift at the Downtowner

started.



     Nothing, nothing, nothing.  Mark left his finger down on the

cable remote and surfed through the channels, letting the TV scan

for signs of intelligent life.  None of the good cartoons were on.

He settled finally for CNN and turned up the sound.



     The weather.  Hot and muggy with a continued chance of hot and

muggy.  Oh wow, like how could he have guessed *that* one?



     Entertainment. . .yeah, yeah.  Lisa Lisa's smiling face.  It

wasn't a bad song in a boring little way, Mark guessed.  He yawned

again.



     Gorby and his anorexic little woman. . .Mark finished the

first bowl and reached for the purple box.



     "In other news, the search for Fox Mulder, the kidnapped FBI

Agent, continues today with police intensifying their search along

the Texas coast.  The FBI has said that they. . ."  Cut to a press

conference but Mark wasn't listening, he was staring at the

photographs open mouthed.











     Elijah sped along the narrow road leading through Cameron

Parish.  It was all so much marsh. Marsh and the smell, when he

rolled his window down, the smell was one Elijah had almost

forgotten.  Rich and teeming and full of humus.  He laughed at the

alligator crossing sign.  How very, very quaint.  Made even the

quainter by his knowledge that the sign had not been put up as a

come-on to tourists.  No, these people really had to worry about

alligators crossing the road.



     Fox murmured something to himself, face buried deeply in the

pillow.  Elijah sighed.  It would not be long, not now.











     The hotel room was empty.  The State Police had sent in their

SWAT team and come up with absolute-fucking-zero.  Rodriguez felt

the snap of gloves.  Prophylactic gloves.  God, Rodriguez

remembered Mulder had a hysterical story to tell about a date who

liked Mulder wearing the damn things like he was her gynecologist.

Crime Scene tape.  At least the state police didn't have far to go.

Their regional headquarters were about three hundred yards down 

the beach.  The beach.  Rodriguez looked out the floor to ceiling glass

window, across the lake at a metal balustrade, at a concrete and

stone structure, at luxuriant live oaks.  Sailboats.  Bayliners.

Party Barges.  Bass Trackers.  People were relaxing in the warm,

gentle sun. Probably didn't even know that a federal agent was

somewhere, drugged and sick and dying.  Didn't stop to think that

there were kids being beaten somewhere in their fair city.  Kids

who would grow up to scream in the dark.  Hell, some of those

people in their fiberglass and aluminum boats might be the ones who

wielded the belts and the broomsticks.  They might also be the ones

who still started sometimes, wondering when the next blow would

fall.



     The local field agent, who specialized more in fugitives and

interstate drug-running, a big burly man, was talking with Averman.

Rodriguez went into the bathroom.



     Needles.  Two needles.  A single vial.  When Rodriguez picked

it up he read a familiar label.  The same label he'd been staring

at since he'd given Mulder his first shot of Thorazine.  He hissed

through his teeth and shook out an evidence bag.



     "In here."  Meyers' voice from the bedroom, high on the

register.





     Rodriguez moved quickly.



     Meyers was staring at the bed post.  He was staring at a dent

in the wall.  He was staring at marks on the headboard.  Rodriguez

flashed the scene.  Mulder's hand beating against the wall.  Mulder

beating his head again and again, screaming in frustration and

rage.



     Sam dropped to his knees.  Mulder would have had to pull the

heavy bedstead five or six feet. There were small dark spots on the

floor.  Blood.  Elijah had cleaned thoroughly, but not under the

bed.  Blood.



     "He didn't leave towels or anything?"



     "There weren't any in here," Field Agent Marleson replied

drawling.



     "Can we get someone to check the laundry?" Rodriguez asked

Averman.  "I'd like to see if Elijah shoved bloody towels out the

door or something.  It might tell us if there's any head trauma or

damage to his hands."



     Averman eyed the marks in the headboard and nodded.  "I'll put

someone right on it.  You're thinking self-inflicted?"



     Rodreguiz nodded.



     "Okay."













     Holly Beach.  Hwy 27.  Holly Beach.  Elijah took a right, like

he'd been told.  He drove and drove and saw the ocean pounding

against the Gulf.  It was not home.  It was not the Atlantic.  It

was not the Vineyard.  But it was the ocean, full and round.  It

was the pulse and throb of the water and the force and the smell of

salt and decay and life.  It was the water.  One could almost hear

the toiling of the bell on the Dry Salvages.













     No other clues.  No one had seen them leave.  No one had seen

a small black Cherokee Limited with wood panels, which they had

been told was Jon's current vehicle "but he buys a new one every

year or so.  When he gets bored.  You know?"





     No, Rodriguez did not know.  Jon, Jonathan, Elijah, whatever

the hell the guy's name was, had money.  Money pouring out his ass.

Been some rich old family oil baron's "companion" in the late

seventies and early eighties and been left a trust fund and tons of

money of his own. 



     Hell.  They had the local TV stations running bulletins.

Hell, they didn't have to fucking ask.  The most exciting thing to

happen in this little backwoods town in years.  They probably had

convenience store clerks eyeing every man who came in, hoping to 

be the one who spotted Elijah and Mulder.



     It was a good bet where they were headed, according to the

local authorities.  Cameron parish.  There were two roads going

north/south into Cameron Parish.  And when a hurricane came out of

the warm humid waters, Rodriguez was told, they evacuated 

Cameron Parish and the roads only went North.  Two lane one ways 

for getting the hell out.  The Cameron Parish sheriff and his deputies

were putting word out, and the State Police were rushing down.

Cameron Parish only had one patrol car.  Well, two, but that was

counting the sheriff's car, and that belonged to the sheriff, he

just charged the parish for mileage when they used it for official

business.



     Putting up roadblocks, combing the beaches.  They'd find them.

They'd find them and Mulder would be safe.  Mulder would be safe

from Elijah anyway.











     "Hi."  Carlyss eyed the young man with his dark hair and light

skin.  He should have been born a blonde, but some freak of nature

had made him a soft brunette.  He was fine too, and even in his

loose OP shorts you could still tell what kind of butt moved

underneath.  Oh my, and that smile would just about melt you down

to your Keds.  You couldn't see his eyes beyond the wide Hobie

frames, but Carlyss was sure that would just finish off the picture

that was making her feel weak.



     "Hi yourself," she flirted.  He set down two cokes and two

Gatorades and two boxes of sandwiches.  She rang him up.  "You

going fishing?"



     "Yes'um."  The man smiled and pulled out his wallet.  There

was some more money in that wallet too.  "Like Peter and James and

John."



     Oh fuck, why'd he have to be another one of those religious

nuts.  One of them fundamentalists who spent entirely too much time

worried about church.  Go to confession, go to mass, go to

communion and when the time came you had all your ducks in a 

row, right?  Carlyss didn't understand why normal people took it this

far.  It was like, even the priests weren't so annoying.  Yankee

protestants.  She chewed on her gum and whipped out a bag, keeping

the friendly little high-school bimbette checkout girl look firmly

frozen on her face.



     Pity too, as fine as he was.  You know, she bet if she got him

good and horny, he'd drop all that twelve apostles shit.



     "They say people been catching them all along the water's

edge."



     The man nodded.



     "Which one of the cabin places is best?" the man asked, as

Carlyss bagged his food.



     "Well. . .Margaret Simms has the Rest-your-head.  They're on

a par with the rest, but Margaret's are a lot cleaner."



     "They're on the water?"



     Carlyss nodded.  Oh word he was fine.  She could give him the

sacraments in spades.



     "Yeah.  Go down to the Get-n-Go and there's a road that says

Public Beaches?  Take it.  The road to the beach goes straight, but

there's a right hand road with some fresh gravel.  Take it.  Tell

her Carlyss Anne says hi."



     The man thought this through and nodded.



     "You not from here?"



     "I'm from Leesville."



     "Oh."  Sleezeville.  No wonder.  Carlyss Anne didn't know

psychology, but she understood a few things.  "Well.  You pass a

good time,now."



     "I will."  He took his bag and walked out to his big, brand

new white Suburban.  He'd boughten it in Texas.  Some people.

Gotta go to a big city for every little blessed thing.  Carlyss

sighed and reflected that she could learn to appreciate hand-waving

if the price was right.









     "A buddy and me, wanna' do some fishing.  I heard the specks

and the reds are running in the surf."



     Margaret Simms nodded.  "Five days you said?"



     "Yes'm."



     "Okay. . .That comes to 220."  She fairly licked her lips as

the young man shelled out money.  He smiled at her.  Margaret took

the three hundred dollar bills and went to her cashbox.  She

glanced at the wanted poster of Jonathan Gragg and Fox Mulder

pinned above the 8x10 Wal-mart photo of her latest grandbaby,

Ashley Renee.



     "They've got checkpoints out all over," the man said,

adjusting his worn Astros cap.  "Got stopped twice on the way down

here."



     Margaret nodded.  He didn't fit.  Brown hair, not blonde.

Besides if he and his buddy didn't go surf fishing she'd call Bubba

Landrineaux, the Sheriff and inform him.



     "You're in the last cabin," Margaret informed him, handing

back the eighty.  "Number four."  Margaret handed him two keys and

some towels.  "I don't think I put any out there."



     He smiled and pulled at his brim for her.  A gentleman.

Didn't get many of those down here.  Even if they did drive fancy

trucks.









     "Come on."  Elijah's hands were strong.  Mulder, snuggled

around his pillow and the blanket, did not want to move.  He

wrinkled his face tight and clung to his fetal position.



     A sigh.  Strong hands, holding him and pulling him.



     Just let go.  It's so easy.  The darkness is not so very bad.



     No.



     He smelled salt water, heard the roar.  Seagulls screaming.

Wind and the taste of the air.



     Rush and retreat.



     "DoyouthinkyoucanwalkordoIcarryyou?"



     Mulder opened an eye.  Sea Grasses.  Sand.  Endless horizons

of blue.



     Strong hands.  It's so easy.  It won't be very long.



     Feet on sand and he cannot. . .

     Lifted up and move your feet.  So hard to do.

     The bed and the sound of waves collapsing on the sand.

     Pull your wrist up and snap.  Waves roll and suds.  

     Endless blue horizons.



     Spinning round and round and round on the empty places.  Aunt

Mira is tending the old graves.  So many names. Mostly Mulders. His

dadda had told him he looked feral when he was born so he named 

him Fox, but there was another Fox Mulder here too.  Feral meant 

you looked like a fearsome animal.  Fox liked to pretend growl at

Dadda, when Dadda was being nice.  He spun and spun and spun 

among the grasses.  You could hear the ocean from here.  You could 

see the ocean from here.  Spin and spin and spin.  His arm hurt in the

cast.  Someday Fox would die too.  But that was okay.  Spin and

spin and spin.  You went to heaven when you died.  This was just

for people to visit so they wouldn't get lonely and so your

descendants could go to be reminded that you'd been here once.











     Sam was gone.  Fox's fingers dug against the molding as he

hung in the doorway.  He didn't like Reverend Agayar.  He smelled

funny. And they'd made the Graggs leave.  It wasn't fair.  Mary

had been his girlfriend.



     The Reverend was saying things about God's will and generous

creator.  Fox did not speak.  He stayed quiet, and hid in his room.

And sometimes he could forget that Samantha was gone.  Sometimes

he knew she was back.  At school it was best.  He could forget all

day.  Besides if he wasn't quiet they would hear him.  Dad and the

things.  If he was quiet Dad would forget about him through

suppertime.  Fox dug his fingers deeper into the molding and edged

back out.



     Everyone lied.  Everyone said.  Everyone lied and it was like

Fox pretending Sam was back.  If you pretend very hard you can 

make it real to you.  But it isn't real.  God was a story that people

made up.  He slipped out the kitchen door without a sound and went

into the backyard.  Huddled against a tree.  If there was a God

then God had let them take his sister.  God had done this.  But

there wasn't a God.  There never was and there never, ever had

been.



     There were only maggots and stench and nothing else.  Fox put

his head to his knees and wrapped his hands around his chest,

pulling at the skin until he left his ribs in bruises.  On top of

the old bruises.  Until he could just barely stand to breathe and

sometimes wished it hurt bad enough not to breathe.



     He felt like crying, but he could not find the energy to cry.

He couldn't even cry anymore.



Continued in part 33...............





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

======



From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 33/41 NC-17

Date: 22 Feb 1996 03:27:54 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 33/41)

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 felt so heavy, the air in his lungs was hard to expel.  It

hurt to breathe in, to breathe out, hurt to be.  Air on his skin

burned, and his muscles ached on his bones.  When Mulder opened 

his eyes, the lids grated.



     He didn't know he'd made a sound.  He didn't see Jon, but he

was suddenly there.  Mulder's skin crawled as a strong arm wrapped

around his shoulders and helped him sit up, propped him against

pillows, and a cool hand smoothed the hair back from his forehead.



     "Here.  You've been asleep a long time."  Elijah let him see

the seal on the lid of the Gatorade before he twisted it off. 

Mulder wanted to reach for the bottle.  His mouth was so dry. 

Elijah finally put a straw in the bottle, and held it to his lips. 

Mulder drew a sip, leaned back to catch his breath.



     "I haven't been asleep.  I've been drugged."  The words rasped

from his throat.  Sorrow creased Jon's smooth face, thinned his

lips.



     "You left me no choice."



     Mulder just stared at him, finally took another sip of the

thin, swamp green stuff.  It was cold in his throat and he

shivered, but pulled more of it into his mouth, letting it chase

the thick, woolen sourness from his tongue.  His chest heaved,

trying to draw in a breath as he let the straw slip loose again. 

Sharp twists of pain lanced from his hips and butt every time he

shifted, wracking his back.  He let his head fall onto the pillows.

"Why?"



     How Elijah ever heard the whisper was hard to say.  When he

leaned forward the sun shaft from the window limned his hair and

lit a glow in the peach fuzz on his skin.  "I don't understand,

Fox. What do you want to know?"  His voice was gentle, as though he

feared it could shatter the man in front of him.  Mulder's eyes

were wide and dark in a smooth, pale face as he pulled his head

upright again, staring into blue eyes that showed just the first

hint of crowsfeet, lines of stress and pain pulling the muscles

around his eyes.



     "I don't want to die.  Why are you taking me?"  Mulder's voice

was low and calm, too exhausted to be angry or frightened in that

moment.  Elijah stared into his eyes, and licked his lips, tongue

hovering at the dry edge of his lower lip, to dart out and moisten

it.  Instantly caught it between his teeth and looked away.



     "Don't make me stay, Fox.  Please. . . it hurts so much."  His

voice was still quiet, but low and choked now.  His adam's apple

worked as he swallowed.  Sucked in the air in a sniff.  Looked

back.



     "You know, I heard Jesus when I was small.  He spoke to me,

and his voice was so gentle."  Mulder didn't look away, watched the

blue eyes scrunch shut on some memory.  Features still rounded by

youth drew into a tight pattern of flushed skin and pain.  "When it

was just me, I could still hear Him. . . "



     "What do you mean?"  His head was too heavy for his neck, and

Mulder let the muscles drop it sideways, seeing the way his vision

fogged at the edges and hearing the slow slurring of his words as

the drug clung to him.



     "There are so many of them, screaming, and I can't hear Him

anymore, Fox.  All the little ones, and so many of the big ones,

too.  It hurts so much, and I don't want to stay any more. . ." 

Elijah's soft face was pulled like a child's, wrinkled and red,

eyes glistening.





     Fox felt his mouth go dry again.  Shifted off the bones of his

ass, trying to ease the pain of the bruises.  "I understand, Jon. 

I understand that they hurt you, and you don't want to stay, but

that doesn't give you the right to kill. . . "



     "No!  No, oh Fox, oh God, why can't you understand?  I can't

betray all of them like that. . . ."  Elijah's shoulders shook as

he tried to calm himself.  Turned his face from the light that

burned across his hair and sparkled in the wet trails under his

eyes, his nose.  Rubbed his sleeve across his nose.  "I'd take them

all, help them all, if I could.  I can hear them screaming so loud

and it hurts so bad, and they won't stop hurting them.  You scream

so loud in my head."  He bit his lip until the skin around his

teeth was white from the pressure.



     "I. . . listen to me, Jon.  Please."  Mulder felt the dry fear

of hope in his throat.  Forced himself up on his hands, leaning

forward.  His shadow narrowed the bar of light trapped by dust,

trapping the killer.  "I never called you, I don't want what you're

offering.  I don't want to die.  I don't want to go with you."



     The sadness in Jon's eyes was as deep as the night, and

smoothed his face again.  "You scream so loud, and you can't even

hear it.  I'm betraying them already, Fox.  All the ones who call

to me, and scream to me.  I can't save them all, Fox.  I'm not the

Savior, I'm only one man.  And I want to go home, Fox.  I'm so

lonely, and it hurts so much. . . "



     "It's all right, I understand."  He could not afford his

conscience, it would kill him.   "It hurts you.  But, Jon, it

doesn't hurt me."  His hands, on his own chest, felt the fear and

dread in the quick pattern of his breaths.  "You aren't taking me

home, that isn't my home, I. . . "



     He pulled back.  Elijah was reaching for him, pity and grief

and sorrow on his face.  The hand on his hair was gentle.  Mulder

tried to hold still, very still.  "It hurts to stay, and it hurts

to know how many I'm leaving, betraying.  There are so many who

need so much, and I'm so tired.  But I can't leave you.  That's

just. . . you were our friend, and I didn't see it.  I can't let

them hurt you any more, Fox."

 

     Mulder stared at him, and felt the bottom drop out of his

stomach.  Finally shut his eyes.  He was tired of looking at dead

ends.











     "He puked all in it." Averman's voice was tired as he watched

Rodriguez' eyes open, watched the compact, dark skinned man sit up

on the couch in the State Police offices.  Meyers was in the john,

taking a crap.  "They found his Cherokee in day parking at Houston

Airport."



     "Oh Fuck," Sam muttered, rubbing his eyes.  "Fucking hell."

It was no more than they had expected.  But the knowledge still

hurt.  "I called St. Patrick's, Captain O'Donnell said it's the

best hospital in the region.  They've requested Marion's records

from University Hospital."



     Averman nodded, watched as the pathologist stretched.  They

all ached with the search and the lack of sleep and the intensity

of the last two weeks and the grief.



     Meyers came out, slumped into his chair.  Averman related the

news. Watched Meyers absorb it.  The kid was abso-fucking-lutely

shellshocked.  He was functioning; he was trying hard, but the case

was having its effect on him.  Hell, who wasn't it having an effect

on?  Averman himself must look the same way.  Sam was just sitting

there.  "What else did they find?"



     "A sweatshirt, umm. . .more empty needles and bottles.

Several empty Gatorade bottles.  The same thing we found in the

hotel room."



     "Did the hotel ever find the towels?"



     "No.  They'd been sent off and were already being laundered."



     Rodriguez nodded.



     "The Coast Guard is going to start heavy patrols," Meyers

said tonelessly.  He looked at Averman and for a moment the AIC

didn't know what Meyers was asking.



     "I keep forgetting you've lived on the coast," Averman said.

"Do you want to coordinate that?"



     "If I could be their FBI link," Meyers replied.



     "Are you sure you're up to it?"



     Meyers shook his head.  "But I've got to do it.  Mulder is my

friend."



     Rodriguez stared at his words.  "You know.  He doesn't have

many friends, Meyers.  I'm glad he's got you."



     Meyers nodded, a simple acknowledgment of a lonely, hurt man.











     Jon considered the fishing poles and reels he'd bought in

Houston.  The tackle box and all the various lures and baits and

weights and corks and hooks.  He'd torn everything out of its

packaging and put it all into the tackle box.  Jesus had been a

fisherman, but somehow, Jon doubted Jesus had ever had to worry

about Rattle Traps and Cacaho Minnows and which weight of

monofilament line to buy.



     The combo already had line, but he'd had to figure out how to

reel line in on the others.  Fox was asleep, drugged again.  But

Jon had only used a few milligrams of Thorazine.  Not like the

other dosages.  Fox hadn't wanted it, but had been cogent enough to

realize it would only be harder if he didn't acquiesce.  He hadn't

been willing enough to drink the stuff, but he hadn't contracted

the muscles in his bottom and he hadn't kicked as much when Jon sat

on him.  It gave Jon the option of choosing the least used site.



     Jon had no idea how to put on some of the baits.  The rattle

trap was pretty simple though.  A bright, stainless steel convex

piece of work about an inch long with shot in it.  Two sets of

treble hooks dangled underneath and a little bit of paint had been

added to make it look even more like a small fish.  He tied the

line onto the round ring on top of the bait.  Put other lures on

the other rods.  It didn't matter if they were the right ones.  The

sun's dying resonance and fire cast soft purples and pinks across

the sky outside  the patio doors.  Jon had tossed a towel over the

Jenny Lind frame so that no one would see Fox's handcuff if they

walked by and looked in.  A couple of people had walked by, but at

that time the angle of the light had been such that they couldn't

have seen in.



     "Jon?"  Fox's voice was soft.



     Jon finished with his bait and got up.  Fox was staring at

him.  "Jon.  Let me go."



     "I can't."  Jon wiped Fox's brow.



     "If I die, Sam won't be able to find me.  Sam won't know where

I am," Fox muttered, staring at Jon.



     "What if Sam is dead?"



     "Sam's not dead," Fox replied, shaking his head.  "Sam's not

dead."



     Jon did not know what to think of this.  It might be something

confused in Fox's mind, or it might be another one of the delusions

that Fox was using to keep himself functioning.  "Tell me what

happened to Sam again?"



     Fox stared at him a long time.  "I was babysitting.  And then

they came and took her.  And I didn't stop them."



     "When was this?"  Elijah let things click in his mind.





     "Right after you left."



     "I didn't stop them," Fox repeated as though this were

important.



     Jon considered this information.  Fox had made it sound like

a stranger abduction.  Now ugly thoughts were forming in the back

of Jon's mind.  "Who took her?"



     "Oh. . ."  Fox's eyes half-closed. "Oh the ones.  The ones who

used to come."



     Jon bit his lip.  He remembered Fox, sweat beading his brow

and biting his lip, trying to act brave because Mary was in the

room.  Terrified of darkness.  Several scenarios played out in his

head and all of them were ugly.



     "She's not dead.  They just took her.  She's coming back.

Please, Jon.  If you have to go, all right.  But Sam's coming back

and I've got to be here."



     "We're going where Sam is," Jon hushed, not wanting to

enunciate the images Fox's words had created. Not sure how Fox

would react.  "We're going to go where Sam is and it'll be all

right."



     "She's *not* dead!"



     Jon took a deep breath.



     "She's not dead.  She's not dead," Fox ranted.



     "Okay," Jon calmed.  "It's okay."  Fox didn't remember all

the abuse.  Had there been sexual abuse?  Jon remembered the

physical abuse.  Sexual abuse, no, he didn't remember that, and

he'd thought Fox hadn't put out the right. . .smells. .. for sexual

abuse.  Now, looking at his old friend, staring at the desperate,

pleading face, he wasn't so sure.  Someone had abducted Samantha.

Someone who had hurt Fox before.



     "We're going to go driving," Jon said, finally.  He had been

certain and sure of what he had to do, but even if he hadn't this

confession would have resolved the matter for him.  He could not

leave Fox here, not in this state.



     Fox looked up at Jon, desperate.  "I *have* to be there.  When

she comes back.  I have to be there.  Don't kill me, Jon.  I have

to be there when Sam comes home.  Don't you understand?"



     Jon nodded and thought of how good it would be for Fox when he

finally did get to heaven and Sam was there.  No, probably no

sexual abuse.  But then, there didn't have to be.  The damage to

Fox's soul had been just as great as any child Jon had sent on to

heaven.  He watched his friend sorrowfully and wondered how many

more children would suffer while the world watched blindly on.  It

was so fucking unfair.













     The pen stood upright in a mass of sodden french fries and

congealing ketchup.  Sam Rodriguez stared at it, choking down the

urge to giggle.  He pushed the whole mess - fries, pen, cold,

brown-rinded burger and all - into the trash can next to his desk

where half full cups of stale coffee fermented, splattering the

side of the desk.



     "Get out of here, Rodriguez."  Sam looked up at the AIC,

taking in the grizzled stubble and the odor of ground-in sweat and

Louisiana dust.



     "Fuck off, Averman."  Rodriguez was too tired to put much tone

into it.  He rested his head in his hands and let his fingers

massage his temples.  Felt lank, black hair, heavy from days of

work, of sleeping on couches, and scrambling for the next empty

room or abandoned car.



     Jack Averman sighed, settled onto a  chair, straddling it

backwards.  His sleeves were rolled up and Sam could see the

farmer's tan that ended at his wrists.  "All right, Doctor.  Tell

me what you're working on that's so important?"



     Sam rocked back, feeling the sprung frame of the chair.  "Same

as you, Jack.  Reviewing any report from the coastal regions that

doesn't include Elvis.  Passing them on to the cops or Meyers."



     Averman eyed the stacks of files, nodded.  "Find anything

worth checking out?"



     "One or two.  Not many.  When you start phoning on them you

keep finding that one guy's too old, or black.  I don't know how

these people can live with that few functioning brain cells."



     "Relax, Rodriguez.  You really do need to get out of here. 

There are other people here who know how to use a phone."



     "I. . . "  The ringing phone kept Sam from having to tell

Averman what he really thought of the AIC's opinion.  He reached

for it so fast he almost knocked it off the hook, scrambling to get

the thing to his ear, hoping that one of the rare reports had borne

fruit.



     "Sam?"



     "Jenni?"  He didn't know whether he was more happy or

disappointed.



     He felt his shoulders sag, leaned forward to rest his elbows

on the desk.  Averman took in the expression and the posture, and

got up to go.  Sam looked up at him, seeing a disappointment

mirrored in his face that put a painful tightness in the

pathologist's chest.  The older man nodded at him, turned and

walked away, feet dropping into each step with a heavy solidity

that spoke of days of nervous wakefulness.  Rodriguez turned back,

rested his forehead on his hand and listened to his wife's voice.



     "Sam, honey.  They said you were in Louisiana, and the news

out here. . . "



     "Yeah.  We were following a false trail into Texas and Marion

got a phone call out.  He called VICAP and they traced it to. . ."



     "We heard.  We heard.  Have you heard anything else?"



     "No.  Jenni. . . "  He had to stop, take a few deep breaths.

"We found the hotel room they'd been in.  He'd. . . this bastard is

drugging Marion, and he was hurt.  There was blood. . . I think

he's getting worse.  And Mulder said Elijah was coming back to kill

him."



     "Sam.  Oh God.  Sam.  I went to church for you last night. .

.Look, Sam, Daddy's here. . . "  He heard the phone fumbled

and handed off. 



     "Senator?  I didn't expect. . . "



     "Where else would I be, son?  I gather you've had bad trouble

out there."



     "Yes, sir.  I imagine you've been in touch with the FBI?"



     "You imagine correctly, Sam.  They say you don't have a solid

lead on where the Butcher's taking your friend yet."



     "No."  Sam pulled one hand down over his face, hard, pushing

against nose and eyelids, feeling the slick, oily sweat.  "No.  We

found the hotel room the bastard used last night.  There were empty

Thorazine bottles.  And blood on the floor."



     "I met the boy, didn't I?  That young man you two had over to

dinner, Fox Mulder?"  Sam grunted an affirmative.  "You think this.

. .Elijah's harmed the boy?"



     "I don't know. . . actually, I think Mulder might have hurt

himself, trying to get loose.  I think. . . God.  I think even if

we get there in time to stop Elijah that Marion's going to be in

trouble.  I think he's so fucked up by now. . . "  He had to bite

his lips to stop the words and fear from spilling loose.  Turned so

that all he could see was the wall, so that the rest of the room

knew only what his back could tell them.



     "Yes.  Jenni said he was ill before he was abducted.  Sam,

son. . . listen.  I know you've got a hard time ahead.  I want you

to know that. . .if you find him, you won't have to worry.  I'll

help.  I'll do whatever I can to help.  Do you need anything out

there now?  Are the Louisiana people helping you?  Do you need me

to put a word in?"



     Sam sniffed, felt a small laugh escape him.  His face felt

wet.  "No, sir.  Thank you.  No, they're bending over backwards out

here.  We've got Meyers, he's a young kid, out with the Coast Guard

on patrols, and we're handling the roads.  The state troopers are

doing everything short of a door to door to find them.  I just

don't see what more we can do. . . now it's just wait and see."



     "And that's the worst of all, son."  Sam sat back, heard

Senator Matheson sigh.  "I'll be keeping up on this end.  You just

let me know if I can help, Sam.  Let me know if there's any way I

can help at all."











     It was so dark, and he could hear the crickets.  Crickets and

soft tears, that might have been his own.  Mulder listened,

straining for any sound at all, smelling the salt air and the odor

of old sweat.  His body ached, bruised pain in his hips and rear

fusing and sending long, dull, rolling pain through the rest of his

body, to ripple through the cloudy confusion in his head where it

crashed into flaring icepick stabs that ran from the back of his

skull to right behind his eyes.  Little flashes of stomach twisting

hurt-light flashed through his eyes as he rolled his head a little,

trying to see beyond the explosions that he knew came from inside

his head.  It was so dark. . .



     "Dad?  Dad, are you here?  Please let me turn on the light,

Dad, please. . . ?"  His voice sounded funny in his ears.  Hoarse,

and low. 



     "Fox?"  Another voice, not his own.  Too deep to be Sam's.  He

felt his heart squeeze into a cold ball of pain with the certainty

that it couldn't be Sam's voice.  Mulder felt his face crumple.  A

light crashed on and he crunched his eyes shut in sudden pain,

throbbing echoing from his eyes to the burning point at the back of

his head. Opened them to stare at the young man sitting on the bed

across from him.



     "I had to kill it, Fox.  I didn't even want to catch it."

Shaggy bangs hid the boy's face, but his heavy, bulky shoulders

curved forward, cupping a pain that had no physical form.  Mulder

blinked, trying to understand.  Slowly let just his eyes trail into

the gloom, looking for a man with a high forehead, and brutal

hands.  For the smell of cigarettes.  Found no one.



     It took so long to think.  Mulder stared at Jon, and tried to

remember where his father was.  Shifted in bed, gasped at the

bruised, cold throbbing of his wrist and butt.  Not so much like

the pain of a belting after all, now that he thought about it.  Too

many places hurt all at once.  He didn't know what the needle

bruises and torn flesh reminded him of, but he also didn't much

feel like remembering.



     Jon looked up at his gasp, and the tear tracks were silvery on

his face.  Mulder was faintly aware of the scent of fish and water

hanging around the younger man.  Tried to sit up a little, and bit

his lip as cold metal jerked on his wrist.  Lay back down.  He knew

what he was feeling now.



     "What did you kill, Jon?"  His tongue was thick in his mouth,

but his head was starting to come just a little clearer.  He fought

for clarity and studied the man sitting across from him.



     Gragg's hair looked wrong, dull and flat.  It took a moment to

remember why it wasn't blond.  Jon wiped his nose on his sleeve

with a long motion like a little kid's.  "I went fishing.  I didn't

think I'd catch anything.  I n-never fished in my life.  I thought.

. . but the pole was pulling and then there was this fish.  I took

it off the hook and I wanted to throw it back, but these people

were there.  And they'd have seen.  I had to put it into this

bucket.  I bent the hook so it wouldn't catch anything else, but

my fish was dead before everyone went away.  I didn't want to kill

it. . ."



     "Jon.  It was just a fish."  Mulder felt his face pull, and

couldn't decide if he wanted to laugh hysterically or cry.  Maybe

both.  "It's just a fish. . . "  bit his lip.



     "But it was God's, and it wasn't in any p-pain, and I didn't

need it.  Fox, I didn't mean to kill it. . . "



     Mulder clenched his teeth, balled his fists, lying there on

his back, staring at the water stained ceiling.  Carefully sat up

so he wouldn't pull on the shackled wrist.  Then he changed his

mind, and gave it a fast tug.  The pain of the torn skin ate holes

in the fog in his head.  "You killed half a dozen children.  You're

planning to kill me.  And you are sitting there telling me that you

are crying because you killed a fish?  He could hear his own voice,

low and disbelieving.



     "You don't understand.  It was innocent.  God made it, and it

was innocent, and I killed it when it didn't do anything, and no

one hurt it.  Fox. . . I helped those kids go to heaven, but a fish

just dies.  It hasn't got a soul.  Daddy used to say the dumb

animals just didn't have any souls, and even Eliot and Momma said.

. . It isn't gonna go to heaven or anywhere and now it isn't even

gonna go swimming around."  More tears.  Mulder stared at him, felt

the sheer breadth of the gap between them, and wanted to cry

himself.



     "Jon. . . look at me."  He waited for blue eyes, too deep and

empty, to look up at him.  "Listen, if a fish hasn't got a soul,

what makes you think we do?"  His head was still so muzzy, it was

so hard to think, to try to map out all the old arguments.  Hard to

even remember Oxford and philosophy in this little cabin, smelling

of warm, Louisiana waters and mildew.  The ideas throbbed behind

his eyes.



     Jon stared at him, and Mulder bit at the inside of his lip,

swallowed, stared back, holding his breath to see if any of it

reached through that shell of certainty.



     Shut his eyes as he saw Jon's face slowly go gentle, then

serene.  Felt the sob choke deep in his own chest.



     "You really are so far in the dark, Fox.  You don't even know

the light that God gave to Man, and Man alone."  The young man

reached out, put a hand on Mulder's knee.  "It's going to be all

right.  Thank you for trying to help me. . . "



     Mulder flinched away from him, stared.  "It's not going to be

all right.  You are going to fucking gut me just like you did that

fish tonight."



     "No.  No, you have a soul, Fox.  And you've been hurt."



     "By you. . . " he hissed, words forced through clenched teeth,

breathing so hard from the effort of sitting there, trying to talk

to this man.



     "No."  Elijah leaned forward to push the sweat soaked hair off

Mulder's forehead, stopped when the agent pulled back.  "No.  You

keep telling me no one's hurt you, and that you're fine, but look

at you, Fox.  You twitch every time anyone gets near you.  You hate

your life so much that the very idea that we go on scares you.  No

wonder you want to believe we end when we die.  Try, just for a

moment, to trust me.  Believe in me."



     "You're going to kill me.  I don't see much point in trusting

you."



     "I'm going to help you.  If you weren't so hurt you'd see

that.  You'd stop fighting me."



     "Or you'll drug me again?"  Jon sat back.  Mulder watched him,

watched blue eyes studying him.



     "No. . . no, I won't drug you again."  The voice was low and

steady, soothing.  It made the agent's bowels go cold, like ice

water.  "I want you to have the chance to see it for yourself, Fox.



I want you to be able to stop being afraid for once in your life. 

Stop waiting for us to all hit you.  I'm not your father, Fox.  I

don't know how many other people you've found to tear you apart,

but I'm not any of them.  And I won't let them keep hurting you. 

You're my friend. . . "  He sniffed and laughed, wiped at his nose

again.  "I can't let them keep hurting you."



     Mulder stared at him taking that in, trying to find the

meaning of the words down that small tunnel of clarity that ran

through the gray fog.  "You won't drug me. . . then what are you

going to do?"



     Elijah got up, looked around the little cabin.  "I'm going to

take us for a ride, Fox.  I want to see the sun rise over the

water.  We're going to go to the sea."



     Fox Mulder stared and shivered as Elijah reached over and

unlocked the cuff.  When Jon pulled him to his feet, Mulder felt

his legs nearly buckle, and a strong arm looped around his back to

hold him up.



     "So thin.  I can feel your ribs.  You're halfway there

already, Fox."  Elijah laughed softly.  A pleasant, rueful sound.



     Mulder felt his lungs starting to draw in fast, panicky

breaths as Elijah practically lifted him off his feet, pulling him

towards the door.  "You aren't taking anything?"



     "I don't need any of this.  Neither do you.  C'mon, it'll be

all right."  The arm around his back flexed, pulling him a little

tighter against Elijah's side.  Mulder tried to dig in the rubber

soles of his feet as they crossed the threshold, but the packed

dirt crumbled and his feet were barely touching the ground now.



     Two hundred feet away, another cabin hulked in the moonlight,

but no lights were on.  They were next to the Suburban now.  Mulder

could see his own moonlit reflection, and Elijah's, in the

mirror-dark tinted glass of the windows, until Elijah pulled Mulder

around, pushed him back to lean against the car as he unlocked the

door, one hand still braced under Fox's arm to hold him steady. 

Mulder grabbed Jon's wrist, tried to pull, loose.



     His tendons ridged and the salt-laden night air scored the

ragged flesh where the cuffs had ripped his skin.  Opened his mouth

to scream for help.  Then Jon pulled loose, and the hand was over

his face, clamped over nose and mouth.



     "I'm sorry, Fox.  I know it's scary.  Just trust me. . . "

The hand shifted, pressed tight over his face, and his lungs were

starting to implode, trying to draw in air and only pulling on

themselves.  Mulder grabbed Jon's wrist, dug in his fingers and

pushed, feeling screams and sobs and fear all caught in his throat,

trapped behind that hand, and the sound of surf in his ears was

loud, roaring.  His skin tingled and his head hurt horribly where

Jon pushed it back against the side of the car.





     He was hanging there, feeling his knees go and his face hurt,

his head hurt, couldn't even feel his hands anymore, so hot. . .



     Faintly, miles away, he heard a car door open, and saw light

spill over a face shadowed by moonlight.  A strong hand slid under

his left arm to lift him up, dark edges on his vision bleeding into

his sight, and the painful empty screaming ache in his lungs where

there should be air and he was thrashing, trying to breathe and

nothing was getting to him, the ringing in his head reverberated

through the bruise and echoed down his spine. . .



     Air flooded into his mouth and nose, sweet and cool, taking

the sob from his chest and rushing through his head like wine. 

Hands pushed him back into soft support, and held him there as

straps went over his lap and chest.  A slamming sound that rang

through the noise of air in his head, and another, then a hand

pushed his head back against a seat rest.  Words that jumbled in

his scared, confused mind.  Mulder heard an engine start, and saw

light spear out in front of them.



Continued in part 34...................





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

======



From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 34/41 NC-17

Date: 23 Feb 1996 04:59:46 GMT





Oklahoma (Part 34/41)

By Amperage and Livengoo

Copyright October, 1995



International Readers:  No third season spoilers

Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence



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

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

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

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

everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.



______________________



     The Suburban jerked forward, wheels rutching over the packed

dirt of the primitive road, wheeling up past the darkened, useless

cabins.  People were in there, sleeping in comfortable safety,

waiting for sunrise, and scores of sunrises after that.  Mulder

scrabbled blindly for the door handle, sobbing in sweet salt air,

tasting dead fish and seaweed and all of it heady and pure. 

Fingers snatching at the handle and red sparks of pain stabbing at

his tendons and joints each time his fingers flexed.



     Spun a glance over his shoulder to see Jon's profile,

tranquil, focused on the road that rushed through the figure eight

of the headlights.  Not watching the agent at all.  Mulder slowed,

feeling the gray contraction of his stomach as he hooked his

fingers under the handle and deliberately, carefully, pulled up. 

And felt the loose, empty click of a disconnected mechanism.  Let

his eyes trail down in the dim illumination of the dash to find the

bank of switches by Jon's left hand.  Found the master switch for

the windows and doorlocks and heard the quick sob of 

understanding before he even felt it leave his throat.



     The Louisiana night blew into the cab through the air vents,

warm and wet, full of life.  Fox let his head rest against the cool

glass of the window he could not lower and smelled an entire world

he could not touch.  Wrapped his arms tight over his ribs, feeling

the ridges of bone that should have been clothed by flesh, laid

bare by Oklahoma and Louisiana.  Small, wet spots stuck to his

sides where his wrists pulled desperately tight around his body,

holding onto the need and feeling the air move in and out of his

chest, and the too-apparent play of muscle under a delicate,

attenuated skin.



     Beside him Elijah sat still and serene, seeing the dark world

around them.  The faint glow of dawn hung in the rear view mirror

but the night was still liquid deep in front of them.  Mulder felt

his lips thin, tight against his teeth, barely holding against the

scream behind his teeth and watching the starry sky and trees

glazed by moonlight blur past the smoked glass.   Flat land. 

Coastal land.  The tide pulled them south down that tiny last

stretch of road to water itself.  The only sounds were the humming

wheels, the whisper of air through the vents, and the choked

breaths Mulder heard forced through his nose.



     He couldn't talk.  Pain shot up his spine and belled through

his head every time the Suburban vibrated, and his shirt was glued

to his ribs under his wrists.  The tang of his own blood stained

the fecund air that licked their faces.  The muscles that banded

his thighs and arms were trembling now, shivering in long,

uncontrollable ripples that worked up and down through his limbs,

burying themselves in chills that ate through his torso and clotted

under his breastbone.  The words had deserted him, and Jon's faith

loomed in the dark to take Mulder as it had taken so many children,

as it would take Elijah himself.



     The green numerals on the dashboard screamed out an

unequivocal four-twenty in a morning that saw their headlights'

lonely skimming across blacktop and shiny, silver and yellow paint.

Silent miles hummed under their wheels, with only the sounds of

night's denizens calling.  Frogs and insects, owls and mice wove a

net of life just outside the metal and glass shell that wrapped Fox

Mulder and held him in a tiny space where the scent of Elijah's

pain and truth overwhelmed any hope or need that Mulder might 

spill into that thick stillness.



     A flush of gray-peach tainted the pure darkness around them as

Jon left the two lane highway, pulling onto a waffled pavement that

jolted Fox's head into bitter little sparks.  Grasses and sparse

bushes riffled in the light air.  The nose of the Suburban dropped

over a small rise and found the Gulf of Mexico.  Catspaws played

over silver-gilt water that tossed back the bright image of lights

on a flat, wallowing boat at a sturdy dock.  The Suburban trundled,

almost rolled in neutral, down the slope of the dune.  It could

have rolled on, out onto the dock, but it didn't.



     Elijah pulled over, and the ratcheted burr of the parking

brake was a sudden violation of the quiet.  Mulder swallowed, felt

his skin crawl when Jon heaved a deep, quiet sigh.



     "I can't trust you, can I, Fox?"  The quiet sorrow in his

voice drew the older man's eyes around in an alarmed snap of the

head.



     "What are you talking about?" Mulder's voice rasped in a

suddenly dry mouth.  Elijah was studying him with empty, intent

eyes.



     "I didn't want to drug you again.  I thought you might finally

understand it if you could just think a little about it. . . "  Jon

visibly chewed the inside of one cheek, a bitter frown creasing the

smooth skin between his eyebrows.  "But you still don't understand.

You're still so lost."



     "Jon. . . " the psychologist pulled himself around to face a

man with a child's face in the pale light of a peach-gray sky. 

Tried to find an answer for a question that had not been asked.  "I

do understand, I know you're hurt. . . "  The sudden sharp anger

that flickered on the smooth, rounded features stopped the breath

in Mulder's throat and clenched his guts in an icy grip.



     "You don't understand.  You refuse to understand.  The

children knew but you. . . "  Mulder watched him take a breath,

consciously relax.  Smile ruefully.  "I'm sorry, Fox.  You just

make it so hard. . . hold your hands out, Fox.  Please."  Elijah

dropped a square, heavy right hand into his pocket, and the federal

agent heard a quick rattle of metal.



     "No!"  The door handle was in his back, knees drawn up to try

to kick almost before Mulder knew he'd moved.  Jon watched him 

with eyes that held more sorrow than anger now, one hand held out 

where it could shield or catch equally well.



     "Don't do this, Fox.  You keep forcing me to hurt you.  I know

you really don't know any other way to be, but I really hate

hurting you.  You make it so hard when you don't leave me any

choice. . . "



     "Fuck you!  I don't make you do any-fucking-thing, Jon!"  His

face burned and his eyes prickled with anger, teeth suddenly

gritted as the adrenaline burned in his blood.  Mulder hissed and

twisted over onto his hands and knee, driving his leg into a long,

extended kick, trying to catch Elijah's face and knowing the

strength would fade so soon, too soon. . . 



     That square, solid hand wrapped around his ankle and slammed

it into the back of the seat past a calm, watchful face.  Elijah's

other hand darted out to clutch tight around the back of Mulder's

neck, shoving his face down into the leather of the seat.   A knee

in his back kept him there as the cuff closed tight, and Elijah

pulled his wrist down.



     The knee vanished, and Mulder shoved himself back off the

seat, spinning, panting in fury and pivoting on the arm dragged to

the floor by the cuff.  Elijah held the other cuff, waiting. 

Mulder's breathing was harsh and loud in the close confines.  He

could feel the muscles in his arms, his legs, trembling and

shaking.  The low, choked growl from his throat drove him when he

lunged.



     Elijah was heavier, stronger than Mulder had been before he'd

ever set foot in Oklahoma.  The agent lashed out wildly, with

nothing of training or plan, clawing for blue eyes.  The younger

man bobbed sideways, took the strike on the side of his head,

across one ear.  His hand closed tight around Mulder's wrist,

pinned it down.



     "Are you done?"  His voice was cold, calm.  Mulder felt

fingers dig into the tendons of his wrist.  He tensed his back, his

sides.  His muscles ached, resisting Elijah's pull.  The ache in

his head had exploded into a spiked agony that ground whimpers 

from his gut.  He barely noticed the pain in his wrists as Elijah

clicked the other cuff and let go, sitting back and stroking his

friend's hair, trying to calm him.



     "Fox, Fox, I am so sorry.  I didn't want to do this to you,

but you don't leave anyone any choice.  You didn't leave your other

friends any choice, and you don't leave me any."  The sound of the

parking brake releasing sent broken-glass though Mulder's head as

Elijah set the car rolling again, and it bumped down the road and

onto the dock.



     Mulder kneeled in the well, face cushioned on the seat and let

his fingers tell him he was shackled to the supports of the seat

he'd ridden there in.  His face felt hot when he buried it against

the leather, teeth clenched against the pain and the words that

could only show him the anger behind Jon's mask.



     The wheels bumped, vibrated over a studded landing plank to

slowly move forward.  Turning his face, Mulder could see Jon,

concentrating on edging the big vehicle into place.  His captor was

moving the wheel in delicate little jumps, reaching down to engage

the brake between motions.  Mulder felt the tremor in his muscles,

felt the sickeningly quick release of the tension in his body and

the bleak, aching acceptance of defeat.  Shut his eyes and let go

of the brief moment of hope and strength and wildness until only

the colorless void where his emotions had surged wrapped around

him.  And finally found the calm he knew he'd need.



     "Are you going to leave me like this?"



     Flat eyes glanced down at him.  "No.  As soon as we're safe on

the island I'll let you loose again, but I can't let you take this

from me."



     Mulder smiled bitterly.  "And if I scream?"



     The answering smile carried little more than regret.  "I doubt

anyone could hear you outside the car with the windows up.  You

can't reach the locks or releases.  Please don't hurt yourself any

more trying to reach them, Fox.  I. . . I hate seeing you hurt like

this."



     Mulder's smile widened to carry the anger he could not let

himself feel.  "Then don't hurt me, Jon.  Let me go."



     "I'm not the one hurting you, Fox.  I never have been."  The

hand rested on his hair until he shook his head, and Elijah let him

throw off the touch.  "I need to go pay for the ride.  I'll be back

when we get near the island.  It takes about half an hour."  Jon

turned the key, turned on the radio.  "I like this boat, Fox. 

Jesus liked boats, too."



     "You, Jon Gragg, are not Jesus."  Low, bitter tone.



     Elijah looked out over water studded with dead fish, past the

people who held their childrens' hands tethered in tight grips.  "I

know that, Fox.  Believe me.  I know that."



     The slam of the door cut off any reply Mulder might have made,

and then only the soft music of the radio broke the quiet, as Fox

Mulder buried his face in the leather seat beside him and felt the

rhythm of the boat take over his stomach and his inner ears.











     Meyers let strong, black coffee dribble down his throat,

savoring the slow burn of hot caffeine.  The dark stuff - so much

thicker than coffee in D.C., or Oklahoma, or Florida - was sloshing

against the lid of his travel mug as he shifted his weight with

unconscious grace to meet the swell-rocked deck.  The metal and oil

tang of a Coast Guard cutter, and the slow, salty odor of the shore

spiced the night.  Black silk darkness still smothered the shore,

and only late stars and the faint glow on the horizon promised that

it would ever end.



     "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."





     "What the hell's that?"  The voice came out of a sudden flare

of light, the lambent glow of a cigarette ember lighting in a

morning that was still night.



     Meyers tried to see the Coast Guard officer by the faint light

of that small flame, and moved upwind.  "Eliot.  It's T.S. Eliot. 

I only remember the poem because it's one of the ones Mulder

expected Elijah to use."



     "Hnh.  Weird case.  So what's the poem tell you?"



     "Not nearly enough.  Spooky. . . .Mulder thought the poems

could tell us why this guy was killing and where he'd show up next.

The ones I read had a lot of stuff about water and the Thames, and

deserts.  So we're out here. One out of three."



     The Coastie was quiet for a long moment, drawing his cigarette

to fiery life, then letting it fade to a dull intensity.  When he

spoke again, his voice was neutral.  "You know, you won't be able

to see anything out there yet.  Not for about an hour.  It's a ways

yet to dawn."  



     "I know.  I just. . . Maybe there'd be headlights or

something."



     "We can put the spots on.  They'll light up a big stretch of

shore."



     "No.  No, we've got about fifteen boats out to cover more

miles of coastline than I really want to think about.  There's no

guarantee Elijah'd come here, or be on a spot when we lighted it. 

Our chances of actually finding the bastard that way are up there

with the Cubs winning the pennant, but our chances of spooking him

off when the local papers report on it are damned high."



     So you just hope you trip over him in broad daylight, before

he does your guy?"  The suddenly bright coal lit resigned,

weathered features.



     "Yeah.  Actually, we're hoping someone spots them.  Or, if

we're really, really lucky, that Mulder gets another call out."



     "Fuck.  He could already be dead."  Frustration as thick as

the smoke drifted over both of them.  "I hate pulling dead ones out

of the water, Meyers.  I hope to Christ this cop of yours is still

alive."



     The young man swallowed another bitter mouthful of coffee,

smelling warm breezes from the East and dead fish that the farm

chemicals killed off the Louisiana shore.  Took a deep breath of it

and rocked into the swell another moment.  Finally forced out the

answer that had sat in his throat, hurting there.



     "We think Mulder's still alive.  We think Elijah's got another

lesson to teach."











     Averman startled awake with his own snore rattling in his

ears.  The chair under him creaked and tipped dangerously, and his

neck snapped with sudden pain as he tried to get his balance.



     "OW! Ow, shit!"  It almost tumbled him backwards before he got

back upright.



     "Nice nap?"  The Louisiana trooper across from him was

smirking.



     "Franklin, your momma ever teach you that everybody likes a

little ass, but nobody likes a smart ass?"  The AIC ran his hand

over stubble on his chin, slowly eased the crick in his neck and

scanned the graveyard shift's scattering of, phone handlers.  The

few, quiet voices were muffled by the indoor/outdoor carpet on the

floor.  "Rodriguez finally go back to the hotel?"



     "Shit, no.  He's sacked out on the Chief's couch.  We tried to

send him off with a driver and the little spic nearly took our head

off."



     "I'll take your head off if you call Dr. Rodriguez a spic

again."  Averman glared until Franklin gestured an apology.  "Any

calls come in?"



     "A few."  The other man chewed a messy hole in a jelly donut,

spilling red stuff on his desk blotter.  "There's this one.  Early

fisherman called it in.  Said he saw two guys kind of fighting, one

dragged the other out and kind of shoved him into this jeep." 

Franklin's tongue licked powdered sugar off his lips, but missed

the jelly on his chin.  "Get this, he said he figured the one guy

was drunk.  Kind of woozy on his feet.  Finally called it in when

he got the news and heard about your boy.  That's the twelfth

drunk-call we've gotten since yesterday.  One more for the

collection."



     God, his eyes hurt and this man's voice grated in his ears.

"Give me that, Franklin.  We've already missed them twice because

fools assumed just that."  The rattle of the paper was loud against

the whisper of voices.  A book slid to the floor, and Averman saw

two startled faces turn from their phones to watch.



     Thomas Stearns Eliot stared up from the floor, looking into

whatever empty space he'd watched when photographed so long in 

the past.  The FBI man felt his face twist in distaste, suddenly hating

the spitless, restrained image of the poet.  Rodriguez must have

sent some gofer out to pick up the only tattered copy in a

Waldenbooks in some mall.  Hope to Christ the place had been air

conditioned better than this swamp-sweat hole of an overcrowded

state trooper's station.  Jack swallowed and shut his eyes, took

several deep breaths, and picked the book up, tossing it onto the

desk.



     "What the hell is that, anyway?"  Franklin was licking white,

powder sugar off his fingers.



     "Poetry.  Our killer likes poetry."



     The trooper flicked a bit of jelly off one cheek.  "Hell with

that.  It doesn't even rhyme.  So why'd the doc send Ron out to get

it?"



     He felt so tired.  Let his head rest on the heel of one hand

as he skimmed the contact report he'd snagged from Franklin,

answered absentmindedly.  "Our boy's preaching the gospel 

according to Eliot.  That's what Mulder figured.  Picked all his killings 

to go with some poem or other."  The words on the page were 

crabbed, bad handwriting that swam in front of his eyes.  Rough, 

calloused fingers rasped on the soft skin of eyelids.



     "What's the point of preaching something nobody can

understand?  In my church they'd call that downright stupid. 

Sounds like your killer's gonna kill the only congregation he's

got."



     The pencil in Averman's hands snapped, splinters of

yellow-painted Ticonderoga 2 wood showering the paper.  Both men

started at the sudden noise, looked up at each other, and

Franklin's shoulders twitched in an apologetic shrug at the look he

saw in the Oklahoman's eyes.  "Hunh.  Umm. . . guess that's why the

doc wanted it, huh?"



     "Very good, Franklin.  You might make the next grade yet.  Now

call those fucking numbers you got in front of you and let's see if

we can't just maybe, this once, try to get there on time when this

asshole shows up."



     The phone was ringing in Averman's ears.  Three, four, five.

. . on the seventh ring it was picked up, and a tired voice with

the broad, flat vowels of the Northeast answered.



     "Hello?"



     "I'm calling for Stephen Trent. . . "



     "I'm Trent.  Who is this?"



     "I'm Jack Averman, with the FBI."  He almost smiled at the

sudden intake of breath.  "I'm sorry to bother you, but I need to

follow up on this report you called in and time might be critical. 

Now, we know you saw two men.  Could you just start at the

beginning, and tell me exactly what you saw?"



     Flat, New York words told him about two men, one who had

fished, young and friendly.  The other one had kept to the cabin,

supposedly with the flu.  Heinekeneitis was Trent's diagnosis,

after seeing his buddy help the mystery man out to the Suburban,

and hold him upright.  Averman felt his back stiffen, swallowed a

sense of frustration and guilt.



     "When did you see them leave, Mr. Trent?"



     "About an hour ago, maybe more."  The muscles twitched along

Jack's jaw at the words.  He let his eyes roam to the three people

across the room, sitting under the clock.  Four-thirty.  Two of the

troopers, a man and a woman, had phones to their ears.  One, the

woman, straightened suddenly from her exhausted slump.



     "And you called up at four, Mr. Trent?"  Averman's pen left

little black marks where he tapped it on the contact report.  He

wrote at the bottom, noting the probability that this was a genuine

contact.  Feeling the seething knowledge of a near-miss.  "If you

don't mind my asking, why did you wait so long to call?"



     The woman across the room was now hunched over her desk,

writing fast, shoulders jerking in quick motions.  The man next to

her was leaning back to watch her.



     "I didn't wait."  Trent's voice was impatient over the phone

line.  "I was looking for the early news, the sports scores, and

this guy's picture came up on the screen.  Looked a lot like the

kid here, except for the hair. . . "



     The woman spun, hanging up.  She lunged to her feet,

negotiating desks like a broken field runner, waving her contact

sheet.  Trent was still talking. . .





     "This guy had brown hair. . ."



     The woman was close enough for Averman to read her name tag,

"Marie."



     "Sir!  Got an ID and the witness is positive. . . "



     Into his own receiver. . . "Thank you, Mr. Trent."  Dropping

the receiver into the cradle as he reached for the report. 

Franklin was on his feet now, sensing what was happening.



     "I'll get Rodriguez."



     Marie was tapping lines of description, shifting from foot to

foot.



     The AIC could hear Rodriguez' voice coming down the hall,

questioning Franklin.  Marie was still giving him details.



     "A ferry boat pilot picked up a Suburban this morning and

landed it on Monkey Island about twenty minutes ago.  He thought

he'd seen the driver on television, but couldn't remember where. 

Get this, he said he figured him for a Dukes of Hazzard actor, then

two guys were talking about Mulder and he suddenly pegged the 

face.  He's certain that it's Gragg, just certain."



     "Any sign of Mulder?"  Rodriguez' voice was tense and blurry

with too little sleep, stretched around a yawn.



     "None, but the jeep had smoked windows and this guy never

rolled them down.  You always roll 'em down and look when you 

drive off a boat, but he never did.  Sir, I'm betting the pilot was

right, and that he's still got Mulder with him."



     Averman nodded, looked to Franklin.  "You got a chopper.  Get

your pilot up here, and call Meyers.  Tell him we're on our way,

and give him a dock down there where he can pick us up."



     Franklin had the phone in hand.  Rodriguez was right behind

Averman as he headed out the door, jogging across a landing pad

behind the station.  A man with headphones dangling from his neck

nodded to them.



     "I"ll be flying you out there."



     "Fine.  Let's get the fuck off the ground.  We've lost too

much time already."











     Mulder panted and curled around the miserable core of sickness

in his belly.  The seat leather was soft and warm under his cheek,

dark where his saliva soaked it.  The boat shimmied and another

dry, empty heave folded him over his chained wrists, with nothing

to bring up but the thick, sour saliva that trailed from his mouth

to puddle on the carpet.  He sagged, letting his forehead fall

against his knees, and moaned as the slithering rock of a boat on

water twisted his sense of balance again.



     Fresh blood from his wrists was dying the clear mucus, and he

watched it through half-open eyes.  The coppery smell and the

smooth, queasy shift of everything under and around him cramped 

him up double again, coughing and choking.  Every organ in his body 

was trying to come up from the feel of it, and the little trickle of

bile he still had in him was burning in the the back of his throat

and his sinuses.  Fox dropped over onto his side on the rough

carpet of the floormat and groaned a curse that could have been

for all boats, or Jon Gragg, or existence in general.  The throb of

the ferryboat's engines grated up through tires, and metal, and

bone, humming in his skull.  Sometimes a choppy little wave

disrupted the steady oscillation, slapping his brain in his skull,

his organs against his ribs.  Going to Jesus was starting to look

damned good, so long as he didn't have to get near a boat to do it.



     Oh god, the whole fucking thing was shuddering now.  Painful,

jagged motions that rattled through Mulder's body as the engine's

pitch changed.  He'd stopped being human so long ago that he

couldn't even come up with a comparison to make sense of how he

felt.  How humans had ever braved this to colonize America was

beyond him.



     The grinding of the engines was shivering in his bones when

the door opened.  A wave of salt-fresh air stirred the acid taint,

and words and the voices of gulls spurred the pounding ache behind

Mulder's eyes.  Jon's voice, and another. . .



     ". . . anks!  I'll be sure to try that."



     "You do that now!  You sure you was never on television?"



     The laughing question drowned the faint sound Mulder could

summon.  Everything hurt as he struggled back up onto his knees.



     Jon was still draped over the door, blocking any view into the

Suburban.  "Not this week, sorry.  But you pray hard enough and

you'll get a famous one yet!"  Jon's laugh, and the stranger's left

no hope that a voice scoured to a sliver by screams and sickness

could reach anyone.  Mulder felt his mouth twist with bitter regret

as Jon closed the door and the outside world went away.



     The easy smile evaporated as Elijah's solemn expression fell

over his features.  The ferry engines went dead, and he reached to

twist the ignition key, bring the jeep's engine to purring life. 

Mulder watched him glance down, saw flat, blue eyes take in what

had to be a green-pale, sweat-slick face and the dark stain of spit

on the leather.  Gragg's straight nose wrinkled at the faint stink

of bile.



     "How long have you felt sick, Fox?"  His voice was mild.  It

had been mild, too, when Jon had cuffed him.  Mulder swallowed.



     "Since just after we left the dock."  Cradled his cheek on the

edge of the seat again, watching Jon shift gears.  Heard him sigh

from deep in his chest.



     "Okay.  It'll be all right."  The Suburban slowly rolled

forward.  "We'll take care of it as soon as we find a place to pull

over."   The words were just jumbled sounds for a few moments,

random syllables.  Then they jostled each other, came together in

sentences that might mean nothing, and then again might mean all

too much.  The agent braced his hands on the floor by the seat as

the Suburban jounced off the loading ramp and onto dry land.



     "What are you talking about, Jon?"



     "I was hoping you'd be all right, Fox.  Hoped the nausea

would have gone away with you not eating, and all.  We'll have you

feeling better. . . "



     "What the FUCK are you saying?"  He leaned against the seat,

trying to keep his head from hitting the dashboard, staring up at

Elijah.  Gragg watched the road, eyes searching for a convenient

place to stop.  "Oh fuck!  Oh, son of a bitch."  Mulder shut his

eyes, felt the little color he'd regained drain away again. 

"You've got the Thorazine with you."



     "Fox, I know you don't. . . "



     "Seasick!  I get seasick, Jon.  This is not. . ."



     "Seasick?"  Elijah's eyes, amused, flicked down and back to

the road.  "Fox, you grew up on an _island_.  I know you don't like

the Thorazine, but that's ridiculous."



     "It's true."  Frustration knotted his guts and dread put

shivers up and down his spine.  The Suburban slowed, rolled onto

the shoulder of the road.  Panicky little breaths rasped in

Mulder's throat.



     Jon was reaching over, past Mulder's face, to open the glove

compartment.  The crinkle-rattle of plastic and the clink of glass

answered the flex of muscle in the young man's arm.  Mulder

instinctively jerked at the cuffs, trying to reach and slam that

goddamned compartment shut.  Jon sat back in his seat with a small

bundle in his hands.



     "Jon, listen to me, please.  Look at me.  I mean it.  Really

LOOK!  I-get-seasick.  I hate boats!  Please. . . I won't get sick

again.  Please don't drug me again."  Mulder could smell his own

sweat, sour with fear, and cold on the skin of his hands, his

sides.  Underlying it all was the thin, acrid scent of drugs

clinging to him, still in his system.  His lips felt dry and it

hurt when he bit down on his lower lip, shut his eyes and tried

to gather his scattered thoughts.  Jon's voice cut off the frayed

thread of argument he had tried to gather.



     "Fox. . . "  He was sitting there, behind the wheel.  Mulder

could make out his face in the green dashboard lights, see his

outline in the early, faint glow.  He was pulling the long shape of

the syringe back and forth between his fingers.  "Why can't you

just trust us?  Trust me?"



     Mulder scrunched his eyes shut, balled sweaty fists up to

smother the tremor in his hands.  Forced his voice past numb,

chilled lips.  "Please, Jon.  Don't do this to me."  Shut up as he

felt his voice catch.  It hurt when he cleared his throat, and his

eyes prickled, blurred when he opened them to look back at Jon's

concerned, indecisive face.



     "Please.  Everyone I meet takes something away from me.  All

of you steal little pieces of me. . . leave me this much, Jon. 

Please?"  He didn't really know how Gragg could hear him.  He

barely heard himself, but the younger man's lips thinned with

contained sorrow.



     "I know it must look that way to you, Fox.  You've got to

trust me.  I'm taking you where you'll be whole again, and no one 

will ever hurt you."  His hands had gone still, one held the needle,

still wrapped in the white paper packaging, the other curled

around a small bottle.



     "Leave me this, Jon.  Please.  Leave me my mind.  Leave me my

self."



     "I only want for you to be at peace. . . "



     Mulder tucked himself up close to the seat, letting solid

floor and seat anchor him.  Swallowed hard against receding

sickness and rising fear.  "I know, Jon.  I know you're only trying

to help us."  Pressed hard against the seat, all wound