Condemned to Repeat It - The Collector's Edition by Branwell Disclaimer: Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Ten Thirteen productions created and own the characters you recognize. My writing is for fun, not money. Rating: NC-17 (Language, Violence, Sex) Thanks: Thanks to all of the fan fiction writers whose bravery encouraged me to try this. Special thanks to Karen Rasch, whose graceful prose is a pleasure to re-read and whose web pages point the way to so much of the best fiction being done. Special thanks also to Pellinor for her evocative fiction and her invaluable 'Deep Background'. I also look forward to every opportunity to enter the worlds created by Jill Selby, Vicki Lassiter, Vicki Moseley, Rebecca Rusnak, and others too numerous to name. Summary: The story is set in fall of 1997 after Redux II and before Detour. Mulder and Scully have been assigned to a "routine" X-File by Skinner. They don't believe it will amount to much, but it proves to be more dangerous than expected. As the case progresses they're reading a manuscript that was found among Melissa Scully's things, at the request of Maggie Scully. Melissa believed it was an account of a past life of someone in the Scully family. It raises personal issues Mulder and Scully are not prepared to face. Classification: Story with Humor, Angst, Romance Spoilers: Numerous references through Redux II, especially "Field Where I Died" Distribution: No restrictions on further distribution. Just keep my name with it please. Reactions welcome at COMBS-BACHMANN@WORLDNET.ATT.NET ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** Scully and Mulder sat side by side in the usual discomfort felt by today's airline passenger. On long flights Mulder sometimes toyed with the idea of starting a class action suit against the airline on behalf of those over 5 feet 2 inches tall. They could claim pain and suffering caused by cramped everything. When he had elaborated on this scheme for too long Scully would remind him tartly that the overhead compartments were no picnic for those 5 feet 2 inches and under. Nor did she fail to point out that she could have purchased a new business suit for what she had paid to have the ones she owned shortened. "You know how it is, Scully, the miniaturized version always costs more. Besides, haven't you heard? The best things come in small packages." "Believe it or not Mulder, I have heard that, but usually from guys who are trying hard to unwrap it," Scully replied in mock grim tones. Mulder grinned enigmatically. The grin earned him a warning look. He decided to heed it due to number of hours left on the flight. He didn't want to risk being left with the current case file and no one to talk to. Mulder had an unbelievably boring case file which he went back to reviewing in hopes of finding something interesting. After all of the emotion and drama of his return from a faked death, the exposure of Agent Blevins, and Scully's last minute reprieve from real death, Skinner was playing it as safe as Treasury bonds. He was sending them to investigate some cattle mutilations in Idaho. Mulder suspected their investigation would nail some teenagers who had tipped a few too many fragile cows in coyote country. The patterns in the poorly done photographs were familiar. He didn't have high hopes for a breakthrough case. Scully's reading material looked much more intriguing. "Those papers look a lot older than the rest of our case file. Please tell me they document a series of cow mutilations in the area fifty years ago." "Your luck's not in, Mulder. These are some of the papers Mom gave me from Melissa's storage locker. She didn't feel up to going through them until recently." Mulder winced inwardly. He would always feel guilty about Melissa's death at the hands of a gunman who was after Scully. Yet he could never repress a powerful surge of thankfulness that it was Melissa and not Scully who had died. He added this selfish gratitude to his already considerable burden of things to feel guilty about. Scully continued to explain, without appearing to notice Mulder's discomfort. "Melissa trolled through our grandparents' attics for family documents during her 'channeling' period. That was in the early eighties. She was hoping to find family personalities to contact on the other side. She really hit the jackpot with this thing. It turned out that Grandma Scully had a sister who got deeply into seances back in the twenties. Great Aunt Kate found an eighteenth century letter to one of our great-something or others that referred to an old family legend. She hired a medium to get to the bottom of it. Then she 'interpreted' the letter and the results of numerous seances and came up with a story which she considered a legitimate part of our family history." "Scully now I understand your blind devotion to rationality. You're overcompensating for family members who were a little short in that department." "Sticks and stones may break my bones, and assigning behavior a DSM number doesn't solve a thing," she replied absently. "I'm reading this because Mom was upset by it. She wouldn't tell me why. She said she wanted me to read it without being influenced by preconceptions. She said she might be letting her imagination run away with her." Mulder thought that Margaret Scully's imagination would find running away with her to be uphill work. He had never known anyone who faced the tragic or inexplicable event with such stoicism and calm. "See, Mulder, these first pages are Melissa's notes on what happened when she took the manuscript to this channeler on the West Coast." Scully frowned at the partially handwritten notes. "It looks as though her name is Zenith." The pages were white, with the blurry print that results from being too many copies of copies away from the original. Melissa had entered information on these official-looking forms. There was a page for each date on which channeling was attempted. Melissa had entered the date of each session on the first line. The second line of the form provided a space to fill in the time the entity was successfully channeled. The third line provided a space to record when an unsuccessful attempt was abandoned. Lines to record the answers to standard questions followed. A space was provided for comments. The first five sheets had nothing entered but a date and time recording the abandonment of an unsuccessful attempt. On the sixth and final form there was an entry by Melissa in the comment area. "Zenith finally contacted a guide who knew what was going on with these two. We can't channel them because they've been reborn and are alive right now! What's even more exciting is that Zenith says there's been continuity in the family. I'm related to one of them and the other is someone I haven't met yet. She couldn't get their names clearly, but she says when I need to I'll know. She says when I know I should use lots of caution. When these two meet they become a sort of epicenter of mini earthquakes, figuratively speaking. Things seem to happen around them and to them. So who is it? Bill's temper certainly can score a five on the Richter scale. But Bill doesn't strike me as being an old soul. Dana is way too sensible to cause earthquakes. Charlie is too easy-going. What if it turns out to be Mom or Dad! You just don't want to think of your parents that way." "Anyway, she says these two are well and truly wrapped around the axle. They're blocked by a thousand years or more of pride, jealousy, guilt, fear and mistaken self-sacrifice. She says they have so much shit to work through she doesn't know how they'll ever do it. And to stand well back when they're trying." "But in spite of it all, they just can't stay apart! They start other relationships that last as long as several lifetimes and they end by abandoning them because they don't have the intensity, the depth, that they crave from each other. But they can't seem to get the timing right and be open to each other when it counts. So each lifetime is snarled into a disaster of 'had I but known' situations that end in tragedy. It seems they can't break the cycle." Scully and Mulder sat in silence for a few moments. They were both thinking of the hypnotic regression that Mulder had undergone during the Vernon Ephesian case. There had been enough hard evidence to make them consider the possibility of previous lives. If they believed in the truth of the recovered memories, then the concepts Scully's sister described might be valid. Still, it was a long leap from assuming reincarnation might be true to accepting the validity of this document. The spiritualists of the twenties wanted to please their paying customers as much as the West Coast channelers of the present. Since their experience with Kritschgau, Mulder doubted the validity of any memories retrieved through hypnotic regression, including his own. "Maybe your mother was upset to find that Melissa had totally rejected Catholic beliefs." "No, Melissa never made any secret of her beliefs. I'll have to read this and then maybe I can reassure her. Mulder gave in to his curiosity and read the yellowed, typewritten document over Scully's shoulder. ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** Shrill screams dragged Sister Catherine from a vivid but somehow peaceful dream which involved sinking into icy waters. She woke in deep darkness to find the blanket twisted up at the bottom of the bed. In her dreaming mind the damp chill of the room had become submersion in a cold stream. The screams continued while a sharp rapping began on her door. "Sister Catherine. Sister Catherine. Mother asks you to come to Sister Dorothea's cell. She's very ill. Bring your dressings and medicines." The Mistress of Novices, Sister Michael, entered with two candles, one of which she placed on the only table in the cell. Her instant departure in an uncharacteristic flurry left Sister Catherine fearing the worst for Sister Dorothea. Dressings and medicines? Sister Catherine flung a cloak over her sleeping shift and hastily pinned her veil where it landed on her head. She grabbed her basket of herbs, extracts and clean cloths, and hurried through the dimly lit stone hallways. The screams had stopped. She thought about Sister Dorothea and remembered her complaint two weeks ago of occasional twinges of belly pain. She had also clearly been suffering from low spirits. Sister Catherine had brewed her some mint tea and had offered to lay hands on her belly to determine the cause of her troubles. Sister Dorothea had muttered something in apparent embarrassment about how she would feel better when her menses came. Since then she had moped about and come for no further advice. Had she been so sick and Sister Catherine had missed her true condition completely? The other postulants were clustered in the hallway, frightened, and giddy with excitement all at once. Sister Catherine raised her voice to a level calculated to reach them all and addressed a hovering novice. "Please lead the sisters to the chapel to pray for Sister Dorothea. It will help her more than anything I can do." Sister Catherine privately thought that the greatest benefit would be a quiet hallway, but silent prayer would also aid the postulants in regaining control of their emotions. Dame Agnes and Sister Michael were praying quietly over Sister Dorothea as Sister Catherine entered the cell. She could smell the metallic odor of blood and immediately pulled down the blanket to judge the danger of sister's condition. The truth was clear to her in one glance. Sister Dorothea had already bled enough to soak the cotton mattress through. Blood still gushed out although she looked too gray to have any left to bleed. She was unconscious and breathing with shallow, rapid breaths. Dame Agnes looked at Sister Catherine calmly and asked, "Is she hurt inside? Can you do anything?" Sister Catherine shook her head and asked only "Have you sent for Father Walter?" "Yes, I sent Old Matthew for him when Sister Michael woke me and told me what was happening to Sister Dorothea." Sister Catherine and Sister Michael replaced the blanket and smoothed sister Dorothea's yellow curls in a preparation for Last Rites that was more symbolic than effective. Then the three waited, each in private meditation. "Father Walter may not get here in time," worried Sister Catherine, as Sister Dorothea's breathing slowed and became more labored. Their fears were realized when one long, impossibly slow breath, wasn't followed by another. Her hands ceased plucking at the bedclothes. "Never mind. We don't know how long the spirit lingers." Dame Agnes spoke quietly in the silence. As she brushed tears from her lashes Sister Catherine asked, "Sister Michael, what happened with Sister Dorothea?" "Her screaming woke me. I got out of bed and Sister Adrian was already at my door. She told me that Sister Dorothea was in terrible pain and thought she was dying. I went to see, and by then she was bleeding. I sent Sister Adrian to wake up Dame Agnes and I came to get you." "Mother, I want to talk to Sister Adrian about what happened. Sister Dorothea came to me with some small troubles a fortnight ago. I thought they weren't serious; just the moodiness and the boredom I often see in the young during the winter months. I must have missed something that was wrong." Dame Agnes recognized the possibility of having to live with Sister Catherine while she went through another period of scrupulousness. Her morbid guilt never stemmed from worries about religious duties, Dame Agnes acknowledged to herself with a sigh. Sister Catherine took her spiritual relationships for granted, as a baby takes the teat. Her anguish always originated with some imagined failure on her part to know all and anticipate everything that might harm those she cared for. "Sister Catherine, yes, you may talk to Sister Adrian, but remember she'll be grieving. Sometimes you get caught up in your search for answers, and you forget that the feelings of others may be more tender and less disciplined than yours." "Yes, Mother, I'll try to be more considerate, " Sister Catherine replied with genuine contrition. Dame Agnes almost smiled. You had to be careful with Sister Catherine. A reminder to her to be less scrupulous could add to the Disproportionate guilt she carried for all her faults. They were really very few. She was intense in her quest to improve her own knowledge and skills, but she was also capable of losing sight of her own well being in her empathy with suffering. The two older nuns left for the great hall where Father Walter would be received. Sister Catherine then began a careful inspection of the area. She found nothing out of the ordinary until she went through the clothes chest. Between the folds of linens she found a leather bag with a few pungent curling leaves, and a scrap of paper that described the process of drawing oils from plants. She recognized the leaves as pennyroyal. She then thought she knew the truth about Sister Dorothea's death. Sister Dorothea had had the beginnings of a baby in her, but the pregnancy had gone wrong. She had unknowingly hastened inevitable death by using pennyroyal in an attempt to end the pregnancy. Sister Catherine remembered the first such death she had seen. She had been acting as apprentice to her mother to learn the healing arts. The girl was fifteen, married only a few months. She hadn't used any herbs hasten the day of dying. Nevertheless when the dying began it moved quite as swiftly as Sister Dorothea's did. "The physicians say that the humors are blocked and the blood gathers in the womb when this death occurs," her mother instructed her. "There's never enough warning to bleed the patient sufficiently before the blood bursts a vessel inside. I wonder sometimes what we would find if we called on a surgeon to look at the womb afterwards." They both knew that the Church forbade dissection as a foul desecration of the Temple of the Holy Spirit. Sister Adrian quietly entered the cell. "Sister Michael told me she died, and that you wanted to talk to me. I did everything I could," she said defensively. Sister Adrian looked at the bag in Sister Catherine's hands thoughtfully, but said nothing more. Her grief, if she felt any, was well hidden. Sister Catherine answered gently, "Yes, you did all that anyone could." She continued after a pause, "Had Sister Dorothea been acting different in the last two months? I mean, did her habits change recently?" Sister Adrian considered. "Well, she seemed different. She used to slip out to the stables and play with the kittens to avoid extra work. Then, after Candlemas, she was always offering to do errands and fetch things between the convent and town for Sister Walburga and Sister Michael. She must have carried scores of baskets of herring from the fish monger's stall to our kitchen. But she still got in trouble for daydreaming and being forgetful. Once she put Sister Walburga's two best applewood spoons right in the kitchen fire instead of firewood. That got her three days of kneeling on the refectory floor at dinner." This last memory brought a satisfied smile to Sister Adrian's face. Sister Catherine wondered if the hard-favored Sister Adrian had been envious of Sister Dorothea's once blooming and delicate features, and her big blue eyes. She herself had always found those eyes rather empty of sense, but perhaps that was preferable to full of spite, as the ones before her were. "I really meant, did she eat and sleep well? How did she feel?" Sister Catherine pressed. "She slept so well I could hardly get her out of bed for Matins most days. She'd go back to sleep after the bells, so I'd go in and pour cold water on her face. It was to keep her from getting more penances," she added hastily, on seeing the expression of distaste Sister Catherine couldn't quite conceal. "She didn't eat in the morning at all, but she asked for extra helpings at supper. Sometimes she was so happy she forgot herself and whistled tunes like a serf in the field, but other times she seemed sadder than she ever was before. What was wrong with her?" "Thank you for talking to me when you must be feeling sad. But even with your help I don't know all the answers here. We'll have to wait upon God's mercy to know the meaning behind this death." "Is that bag Sister Dorothea's?" "I don't know." She unconcernedly dropped it into her basket. She was sure that God forgave small lies that contributed to a greater good. "We must trust Sister Dorothea to the loving hands of God, His will be done." The last phrase usually brought the conversation to a satisfactory conclusion. The listener could only reply "Amen." Sister Adrian didn't bother to do so. But she did turn and leave. Sister Catherine thought that God's will had less to do with events than youthful impulsiveness unwisely indulged. She could think of no good that would come out of popular gossiping about Sister Dorothea's pathetic death. Such news only led to much self-congratulatory condemnation of other people's lewdness. She heard low conversation in the hall as Dame Agnes and Father Walter approached the cell. ************ Father Walter braced himself for the worst when Bishop Thomas informed him in hearty tones that he would be welcoming an assistant fresh from Rome. Mother Church didn't train a man in Rome to become an assistant pastor in Derby. Father Doun Martin must have a serious problem. He would be a rakehell or drunkard. God forbid, he might be one of those priests who sniffed around after serving boys or apprentices. Father Walter had locked up the buttery wine cupboard. He hired Dark Alison to do the cleaning and washing for Father Martin. Alison was not young, but she had a come hither air and a reputation for living up to it. Father Walter's theory was that limiting them to the experienced could minimize the evils of lechery. He couldn't imagine a scheme that would lessen the evil of seducing children. When Father Martin arrived he kept Father Walter in suspense for weeks. His manner was quiet and reserved. His interests were scholarly. He performed his duties efficiently and without complaint. He did offend parishioners who committed the sin of beating their wives, children or animals. He made a habit of promising to personally beat them to within a rod's length of the gates of hell if they sinned that way again. Father Walter turned a blind eye on these occasions. He knew that a hot temper was no impediment to a promising young priest. He himself had been known to thrash the odd bully. Father Martin had a still undiscovered fatal weakness. In the meantime he did his assigned tasks every day and he retired to his room and his studies every night. One night Father Walter decided to test a theory and served wine with supper. The appearance of the wine pitcher produced the first smile with real merriment behind it that he had seen on Father Martin's face. Father Walter felt vindicated in his suspicions. But after Father Martin temperately drank his one cup, he refused more with a wink and another real smile, as though he knew he was being tested. Father Walter had observed that Alison missed no opportunity to touch Father Martin and demonstrate her willingness to be touched. He consistently showed her an impersonal courtesy, which kept her at a distance as effectively as a stone wall. He had little to say to boys, except for vigorously discouraging their games of warfare in the churchyard. They prided themselves on the dangerous stoutness of their cudgels. He informed them that none of them could afford to risk losing the smallest jot of his mental skills to a cracked head. As the days got colder Father Martin sometimes lingered after supper in the big rectory kitchen. Father Walter kept the fire stoked in the huge fireplace there until late at night while he read his Bible or went over the parish accounts. "I'm not used to these damp English winters anymore. I was in Rome for three years, " Father Martin said, apologizing to Father Walter for disturbing his privacy. Father Walter thought that the younger priest might also be feeling lonely. He must have had colleagues in Rome who were sorely missed. Father Walter hastily protested that he was glad of the company. This polite lie gradually became the truth. The two men learned that they could enjoy lively theological and philosophical debates over ale and cheese. Neither one took their differences seriously enough to lose their tempers. Father Walter might not have the theological training of Father Martin, but he had a shrewd brain. Twenty years of experience as a parish priest had not been wasted on him. He told many stories about the parish and himself to Father Martin. He was not rewarded with similar stories from his assistant. Father Martin talked little about his past, revealing only that his father had been knight to the Duke of Exeter. Sir William Martin had acted as the Duke's advisor on war strategies. This was a grand connection, and it helped explain how he had gotten the patronage to reach Rome. There was no explanation of how he had ended up being exiled to Derby. Finally, one sharp, cold night, they shared a gift bottle of French brandy in front of the fire, and Father Walter found out about Father Martin's problem. It was a problem they could all live with as long as Father Martin didn't overdo the French brandy with the wrong person. Father Martin had lost his faith--not only his faith in God but his faith in the Church. He could reason flawlessly from any set of postulates about the universe to their logical religious corollaries, but he no longer accepted any of the postulates. He talked of these intellectual exercises dispassionately. When he spoke of his betrayal by the Church his words came slowly and in broken phrases, hinting at a world of pain underneath. He had been approaching the inner circles of power in his Roman appointments. Then a younger but less innocent friend had shattered his complacency. Henri showed him evidence of a cruel and cynical conspiracy that clearly implicated some of the most revered clerics in the Church. He had taken his knowledge and horror to his sponsor, Cardinal Ignatius. In answer he got only soothing words, and orders to participate in a retreat at a monastery outside of Rome. His prescribed meditations for the retreat consisted of admonitions to obey his superiors and trust in God. When he returned he learned that his friend had suffered a tragic accident. Somehow he had fallen from the small window in his room and broken his neck on the courtyard stones. Even if Father Martin hadn't known of Henri's fear of heights, the coincidence would have strained his credulity. He asked a lot of questions very loudly and publicly. He got no satisfactory answers. Then he was ambushed in a dark, deserted street and escaped only because he could run faster than his attackers expected. Whom could he trust? Would he be allowed to live? He had more imposing connections than Henri did. Cardinal Ignatius smoothly presented a plan to allow him to gain experience in his native land. He accepted the farcical appointment with the required serious demeanor. He knew that he had failed a critical test, and that the penalty could have been more serious than a permanent consignment to the backwaters of power. Events had an effect on him that he hadn't expected. He had seen the depravity at the heart of God's supposed Bride, the Church. Now he found that he could no longer dismiss religious doubts that had long assailed him. Nevertheless, the Church held ultimate control over education, politics and wealth in the world he knew. What was he going to do for the rest of his life? He didn't like to think that his future would be the perpetual performance of empty rituals. It was clear that his isolated condition still shocked him, and that he had no idea of what direction to take. "At least here I think I'm safe" he said at the confused end of his revelations. "When you tested me with the wine I knew you weren't part of a plan to kill me. You didn't even know why I was being exiled from Rome." "No I didn't know the reason. But every thinking person has occasional doubts. Usually you should keep them to yourself," he quickly added. "They can cause bewilderment and misunderstanding among the simple-hearted. Maybe the doubts will resolve themselves in a few years." "No, you don't understand. The cardinals in Rome aren't worried about my doubts. It's for what I know to be true that they fear me." "They fear you!" Father Walter exclaimed in disbelief. "If I ever leave the countryside and make myself conspicuous, I expect to meet with a fatal accident." Father Walter didn't know what to reply to this, so he merely yawned and suggested that they go to bed. He had known unbalanced individuals who believed they were always in danger from unseen enemies, but he hadn't before encountered a delusion so limited and precise. He would have to wait until mania ensued or reason returned. He could see why this tendency to over-dramatize and see conspiracies would have alarmed the Roman hierarchy. They liked to maintain considerable discretion in balancing the sensitive issues of Church and state power. He hoped that the dullness of everyday life in a small British town would soothe Father Martin's imagination. The next morning they collaborated in the pretense that neither remembered anything about the evening before. The day was occupied by repairing the leaky roof of the church porch. That evening they were waked out of a sound sleep by a summons to the convent brought by Old Matthew. He informed them that a postulant was dying. When Father Walter didn't know the nature of Father Martin's flaw as a priest, he hesitated to invite him on his visits to the Convent of St. Ursula. He now thought Father Martin posed no threat to the nuns, and that he might enjoy their acquaintance. They took the small cart and horse because of the urgency of the summons. The distance could have been walked in half an hour. "I'm glad you'll have a chance to meet some of the good sisters," Father Walter enthused in spite of the gravity of their errand. "Dame Agnes, Sister Michael and Sister Catherine are among the best souls I know. They're educated women, and I've learned a great deal from them." Father Martin thought that it would be good to know more educated people in a town where they seemed almost non-existent. It also occurred to him that the convent might have a library. Sisters were often employed in copying manuscripts. That would be a blessing. He hoped that the wise old women would live up to their spiritual director's praise. They were led to a hall where he was hastily introduced to Dame Agnes and Sister Michael. There was no time to talk, since Last Rites were only supposed to be administered to the living. Mother Agnes made it clear that haste was needed to maintain even the smallest hope that life lingered in Sister Dorothea. She led them through a confusing series of dim hallways, where soft whispers followed in their wake. As they approached a cell lit by several candles Dame Agnes told them that death had appeared to take place about half an hour ago. She and Father Walter spoke briefly in low tones. ************ Sister Catherine looked up from her book of notes and saw Father Walter's familiar stocky figure beside Dame Agnes. He was followed by a tall slender man whom Sister Catherine guessed to be Father Martin. Father Walter hadn't previously included his assistant in visits to the convent. Father Walter and Dame Agnes carried out a plan of action obviously decided upon before they entered the room. They lost no time in laying out the oil, holy water and crucifix. No introductions were done before the ritual was launched. While the others were occupied with the ceremony, Sister Catherine stood quietly in the shadows. She took the opportunity to observe the new priest. He had soft hazel eyes which missed nothing. His thick brown hair was cut short, but it still showed a tendency to spring up into an unruly bush. His large nose gave him a boyish look, but his full lower lip was distractingly sensual. She supposed that the parish would see a few big-nosed, full-lipped bastards added to the rolls before Father Martin moved on. Immediately she chided herself for an uncharitable assumption about Father Martin based only on a facial feature he could not help. She focused on Father Walter's bald head while he completed the last prayer. After a moment of respectful silence, Dame Agnes invited the priests to the refectory for meat tartlets and spiced wine. Sister Catherine was glad to be left alone to continue her work on her notes. She was lifting the blanket and Sister Dorothea's night shift to complete her observations when the tall priest suddenly re-entered the room. "Excuse me," he quickly reassured her, "I think I left my breviary...yes, there it is." He picked it up from the table. Father Martin was puzzled by the young nun's employment and manner. She had such an air of detachment from the event, and from the body itself. And what was she writing here at a deathbed? Red-gold hair was escaping from under her veil, which had a tenuous purchase on her head. She appeared to be wearing a cloak over a shift which left her slender arms half bare. This could not be approved dress for even a postulant. Her eyes were grey in the candlelight. Their calm gaze implied a serene spirit and confident competence. The decided arch of her nose and her strong jaw suggested a firm and highly individual character. "I'm Father Martin," he said. "Pardon me for questioning your convent's practices, but you seem very young to be left alone here to prepare a body for burial." She gave him a slow sweet smile. "You're too polite to say inexperienced. You've been misled by the candlelight," she replied. "I'm not so young. I was born the year King Henry died. I turned 31 on St. Bridget's Day. Please excuse my dress, but I was called from bed when Sister Dorothea became ill and I haven't had a chance to right myself. I 'm Sister Catherine, the leech here at the convent." Father Martin realized that here was one of the wise old women he had imagined engaging in scholarly conversation. Her tiny stature and the informality of her clothing made her seem younger than her true age. "I'm sorry, Sister," he said. "I took you for a novice. Father Walter spoke highly of you and told me you were one of the wise old heads worth listening to here. I was expecting gray hair on it!" Sister Catherine continued cautiously, "I wasn't preparing the body for burial. Sister Perpetua and Sister Felice do that. I keep a book of notes on sicknesses so that I'll recognize a pattern of symptoms in the future." She was unsure if she should continue her work in Father Martin's presence. Some churchmen had narrow views on the proper duties of religious women. They wanted to limit nuns to sewing and singing. No false sense of modesty prevented her from making complete notes about a patient. Her matter-of-fact attitude toward the human body would bring extreme disapproval from some clergymen. Father Martin gave evidence of no emotion except a barely contained curiosity. Sister Catherine decided to bide her time. She wouldn't risk attracting the attention of the church hierarchy to the Convent of St. Ursula. Attention from above always seemed to bring negative consequences. "The students I knew in Rome never seemed to think of taking their own notes about real patients. They were full of philosophy but short on practice." "You studied in Rome! What a wonderful experience that must have been. Weren't you sorry to leave?" "By the time I left I wasn't sorry. There were many good people, but I also came across many cruel, arrogant and evil men!" The raw emotion in his voice made it hard to frame an appropriate reply. She sensed that he didn't choose to reveal these feelings--they were too fresh and close to the surface to be easily concealed. She wanted to respect his privacy and so tried to distract him with a lure that couldn't fail to cheer a person with scholarly interests. "Perhaps since you're so recently a student you would enjoy visiting our library. We have one thousand and eight books," she continued with pride. "We received seven hundred through a bequest from Lady Alfreda of Gedling. Many of them were copied in Italy within the last ten years." She saw that Father Martin had taken the opportunity presented to overcome his feelings and put the conversation back on the plane of common courtesy. "Are you the librarian as well as the leech," he asked with a smile. "Oh no, that honor belongs to Sister Clotilde. I have small Greek," Sister Catherine lamented. "It would be a great thing if I could read Galen to improve my knowledge of medicine, but I don't have the skill." "If you'd be good enough to introduce me to Sister Clotilde and teach me something about your craft, perhaps I could give you some guidance in learning to read Greek," he proposed. "That's very kind indeed." Sister Catherine thought that this plan indicated that Father Martin had the broadest possible views of the proper activities for religious women. "If Dame Agnes approves I'll be pleased to accept your offer." She decided to proceed with her examination of Sister Dorothea. She pulled the cover down again and lifted dead sister's shift. She made note of the darkened aureolas around the nipples and the line of darker pigmentation between her navel and private parts. Father Martin watched her innocent boldness in astonishment. He knew that Sister Catherine expected Dame Agnes to approve of her plan to study Greek with the new assistant priest. Apparently the Convent of St. Ursula allowed the sisters much independence of mind and action. "I'll try to get more sleep before Prime. I'm pleased to meet you, Father Martin," Sister Catherine excused herself. "We'll all be busy with the funeral tomorrow, but I'll visit during Terce on St. Valentine's Eve," Father Martin replied. ************ The next day was cold and gray. It suited the humor of the sisters as they stood beside Sister Dorothea's grave in the little convent cemetery. She had been light-minded, but cheerful and warm- hearted. No one thought that she would have become learned or saintly, but she had been a pleasant companion. The postulants wept openly, and Sister Adrian had to be caught by the nuns on each side of her when she fainted at the sound of the clods on the coffin. Dame Agnes was greatly grieved. Sister Catherine's explanation of Sister Dorothea's death had deepened her sadness with fears for the young woman's soul. Sister Catherine encouraged her Superior with her own faith in the mercy of God. She never could believe that God would be less forgiving than her own dear father would. The Hell of her imagination might not even contain Satan after the Day of Judgment. Dame Agnes agreed that no good would come from making their theories about her death known to everyone. The tale could bring unwanted scrutiny from the Bishop if it reached his ears. Dame Agnes planned to tell Father Walter because the matter might come up in the confessional. He knew how to keep his counsel. ************ The following day, St. Valentine's Eve, held some promise of spring with blue skies and weak sunlight. A mild wind drove scraps of white and gray clouds across the horizon, reminding Sister Catherine of the lambs that would soon be born. The hint of growing days to come inspired her to go out into the herb garden after Matins. She walked up and down the paths of the walled garden planning what to put into the different beds. She was too deep in thought to hear as Father Martin entered the garden through the stone arch opening onto the winter pasture. The springlike weather and the sight of little Sister Catherine earnestly taking copious notes in her book lifted Father Martin's spirits. He noticed that under blue skies Sister Catherine's eyes were blue. Today, however, she was neatly tucked up in the conventional brown habit and white veil of her convent. They greeted one another and she proceeded to tell him what herbs would grow best in shade, which in sunlight, and which could only be gathered in the wild. She told him about the seeds she had harvested last fall and the seedlings she would seek out in the spring for planting. Her mother might have some interesting new finds to give her as well. "Each month or so I spend a day looking for what's in season in the forest, the marsh and along the river banks. I gather the plants for preservation or planting." "Does Dame Agnes allow you to go alone?" he asked curiously. "She trusts my judgment, and she knows she has no cause to worry about my behavior", she replied. "But usually I ask Young Matthew to go with me. He can carry our biggest basket full of plants with dirt on their roots. I can't carry nearly that much. Have you heard enough about herbs for now? I can take you in to meet Sister Clotilde." "I would be honored to do so," he answered, happily anticipating the investigation of a new library. Sister Clotilde proved to be a well-educated if impractical woman. She rearranged the books and manuscripts of the library several times a year in search of the perfect organizational method. The sisters rarely had time to learn a system before she replaced it. Since Sister had an excellent memory they simply asked her to find the book they needed. Sister Catherine left Father Martin to explore their documents. ************ The cold rain of winter was back the next day. In spite of the weather Father Martin found he looked forward to the cheering atmosphere of St. Ursula's too much to delay his next visit. Sister Catherine had just built up a fire in her workroom when Father Martin appeared in the doorway holding a leather wrapped book. He was drenched. "You have a very comfortable work place here!" He exclaimed at the warmth and the array of clean neat cabinets, tables and benches. "And you have very wet clothes!" Sister Catherine rejoined. She urged him to place his boots, surcoat and cloak in front of the fire she had just stoked. He offered her the book, which proved to be a Greek text. He told her to start studying the Greek alphabet in preparation for their work. "It's an exceptionally fine workroom," she agreed, while he paced the floor in his tunic, breeches and hose. "We're a fortunate community. Many of us come from families with wealth who make generous donations to St. Ursula's. Dame Agnes is wise enough to know that poor conditions distract us from the spiritual quite as much as luxury." "I fear for the future of communities like yours," Father Martin sighed. "In Rome they were full of plans to expand the influence of the Fourth Lateran Council. They'd like to crush out this kind of independence and self-sufficiency. When the bishops begin to feel the discipline of Rome, they'll surely extend that discipline to you." "That's sad news," Sister Catherine responded. "Everyone knows it is better to altogether escape the notice of a prince or a bishop." "It is sometimes difficult to discriminate between their duties," Father Martin added, with a tight smile. "While I still have my workroom, let me show you around. I'm proud of its arrangements." She showed him her basket of medicines and bandages. She hadn't looked into it since the night of Sister Dorothea's death, and only remembered the bag of leaf scraps from sister's linen chest when she started to show the contents of the basket to Father Martin. However the bag was not there. She would have to look around to see if it had dropped out when one of the postulants had carried it back here. She displayed her stored flasks of extracts and infusions, each one labeled carefully. Sealed earthenware pots held dried leaves and stalks of numerous herbs. She had pots, spoons, mortars and pestles--everything required for the preparation of tonics and salves. Another shelf held several numbered volumes labeled "Notes". "I see your current notebook's only one of many," Father Martin remarked. "Yes. And someday my Mother will pass her books on to me. Not that I want that day to come soon," Sister Catherine added quickly. "Does your mother live near here?" "She lives with my brothers on their farm just north of Derby. She taught me leechcraft from the time I was big enough to put a pot on the fire to draw an infusion. People still come to consult her in difficult cases, and I sometimes visit her for advice if a patient has an unusual problem. Her name is Margaret. My father died two years before King John's death. Where does your family live?" "My father is Sir William Martin. My family is part of the Duke of Exeter's household. I was raised alongside his son Edgar." Sister Catherine couldn't decide what Father Martin's regretful tone meant. "You sound sorry. Did it make you envious to grow up with him knowing that he would be a Lord, and you would have to leave the castle?" As he stared into the fire silently, Sister Catherine feared she'd offended him by prying into matters that had nothing to do with her. Then he laughed with a bitter note underneath. "No indeed. I had no interest in a life of fighting, hunting and drinking. I felt lucky to share a fine tutor with him. I was ten when they discovered that I could explain how Canon Law justified a tax levied by Rome on the income of English clergy. From then on I was marked as a scholar and priest. I never wanted anything else. I was just remembering how wonderful it felt to have that future before me." ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** "What about wenching, Scully? He left out a major perk of the aristocracy there," Mulder broke in with a leer. Scully smiled tolerantly and barely resisted the urge to pat him on the head. There had been too much pain and drama in their recent lives. When it subsided, Scully could almost hear the sigh of relief with which Mulder had fallen back into his comfortable role--a workaholic loner given to occasional insinuating or caustic remarks. She supposed it was an unhealthy regression, but it felt like normality--or what passed for normality in their lives. During her illness she had forgotten how good it felt to feel good. She just wanted to enjoy it. She didn't think even Mulder at his most annoying could spoil her mood. "I wouldn't know anything about aristocratic ways, Mulder. In the Old World the Scullys were hard-working but starving Irish farmers." "Did you know that the potato famine was a British conspiracy to reduce the Irish population, Scully?" "Of course. We Irish have known it for years. Speaking of starving, did the FBI travel page have any suggested restaurants listed for Digger, Idaho? "We're going to be on our own in Digger, Scully. Apparently no agents have eaten there in the line of duty, or at least they haven't lived to post it to the travel page." Mulder had found a new and unexpected pleasure in life. For months he had sat and pretended not to notice as his partner faded to a gaunt, gray shadow. She would sit with him at meals and push food around on her plate endlessly. Sometimes he could barely force his own food past the lump in his throat. Other times he had to fight the irrational urge to yell at her to at least make an effort to eat for Christ's sake. Now healthy and underweight Scully was hungry all of the time. It was a delight to watch her eat. He had made a game of it with himself to find the limits of her appetite. She ate fried eggs and cheeseburgers with him in formerly despised diners. She hadn't turned her nose up at the haggis served at Agent MacGregor's retirement dinner or at grilled rattlesnake at the new "Wild Things" restaurant. A small Idaho town might seem to offer nothing unusual, but experience prevented him from underestimating the weirdness which could be found in towns that looked just like Mayberry. He and Scully had sampled more mystery meats in their travels than lifetime inspectors of school cafeterias. He hoped there would be at least one establishment that would challenge its patrons, and provide him with another data point off all previously known scales. While he considered these possibilities, Scully had gotten some smoked almonds and orange juice to hold off starvation a little longer. Mulder stuck with his sunflower seeds. Scully believed she already knew what her mother found unnerving about the manuscript. She wasn't sure how to open the subject with Mulder. Was he waiting for her say something so he could shoot it down, or was he genuinely unaware? After all, he hadn't recognized that BJ and her sheriff boss were lovers. Some insights simply seemed to be above or below his personal radar. On the other hand, he would relish having his skeptical partner be the one to suggest that seventy or eighty years ago some spiritualist had put characters modeled on them into a purported case study of reincarnation. She didn't think she was ready for that discussion yet. Her good mood might be at stake. Actually Mulder had recognized the similarities and silently framed his own theory. But he didn't want to be the one to suggest that his partner's sister had been planning a publishing hoax. He thought it was all faked, including the channeling sessions. She had appropriated their looks and personalities, filtered them through her overheated imagination, and come up with a 'non-fiction' New Age inspirational tome that could earn some quick bucks. He found her use of him and Scully amusing. So far she hadn't had them doing anything offensive. That had better change if she wanted to sustain her readers' interest. Scully settled back to continue reading her manuscript and Mulder resumed reading it with her. ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** Once again Sister Catherine sensed pain and anger barely controlled. This time she remained silent to allow Father Martin to determine the direction of their conversation. If he needed to talk she knew how to listen and keep confidences. She avoided looking at him and busied her hands with dusting and re-arranging flasks. He remained silent. 'Do you want to tell me why you were sent away from Rome to Derby?" she finally asked quietly. A few days ago Father Martin wouldn't have believed how fierce the temptation to confide his fears and confusion could be. Without strong drink to loosen his tongue he'd thought it would be easy to be alone and silent. With Sister Catherine's intelligent and sympathetic face before him, he longed to share his thoughts and hear understanding words. He struggled and overcame the temptation. If she were a spy the telling would endanger him; if not it would endanger her. "I deeply offended Cardinal Ignatius, my patron. I no longer have a future in the Church," he answered briefly. "I hope you don't let your disappointment make you bitter so that you can't enjoy all of the other good things life has to offer. Ambition isn't the most important part of life." "The situation is a little more complicated than just disappointment, I'm afraid. But my difficulties need not interfere with your learning Greek!" With that Father Martin firmly turned the conversation away from his own problems. He proceeded to show Sister Catherine the text he had brought. "It was especially written for Edgar and me when we were learning Greek," he explained. "Edgar didn't want it after we became pages. He never cared that I was leagues ahead of him in our studies. We were well matched in arms exercises, but he always outdid me when it came to organizing the other boys and executing a strategy in mock warfare. He was born to lead. He'll be a worthy successor to his father." "It sounds as though he were a very good friend. Maybe he could use his influence with his father to get you back into the Cardinal's good graces." Why was she worrying at that subject again? Was she trying to get him to say something damaging? "No, I wouldn't want to get him involved," Father Martin hastily replied. "That would put him in a very difficult position." It might put one of us into a lethal position, he added to himself. "What about your father? Can he help you?" He had trusted his father enough to tell him the whole story when he met with him on London on the way to Derby. At the same time he had wondered how much his father had known of the connections between the College of Cardinals and the men in power here in England. His father had called him a fool and worse. "I gave you the opportunity to become a Prince of the Church. Now if you disappear into the countryside and spend ten years in silence you might be considered for appointment as pastor of a God forsaken poor Irish parish. Don't you understand anything about the way the world works? There are those with power and those without. I chose to have power. You made another choice. Don't come to Exeter Castle unless you're sent for. You're bad for our reputation." This speech had left him with no doubts about the extent of his father's collaboration. "No, my father can't help me, Sister. I went too far for reconciliation." He spoke softly, but his expression held all of the pain inflicted by the parent who rejects his child. Sister Catherine was appalled to realize the extent of Father Martin's isolation. No wonder he was not just willing, but eager, to spend time studying Greek and the medical arts with an obscure nun. She broke the silence that followed with a suggestion she thought might divert Father Martin from his troubles. "Are you ready for some real experience at leechcraft? Come with me on St. Julian's Eve. Once a week I visit the poor of the parish who can't afford to send for a physician or surgeon. Can you come here in the afternoon?" "I'll check with Father Walter to make sure I can finish my regular duties before then. Shall I come tomorrow too so we can start the Greek?" "I'll look for you tomorrow." Sister Catherine tried to smile encouragingly and to conceal the pity she felt. ************ St. Julian's Eve was chilly and gray, but blessedly dry when Father Martin and Sister Catherine set out to visit the poorest and sickest people in the parish. Old Matthew drove them in a wagon used in harvest time for hay. The wagon held firewood split by Young Matthew that day. There were loaves of black bread, wheels of cheese, and sacks of potatoes, onions and beans bundled into the wagon. Sister Catherine had her basket of medicines and bandages as usual. She told Father Martin what to expect in the places they would visit. Seth and his wife Anna were merely very old and poor. Gib had been left with six children when his wife died bearing the seventh. Sister Catherine was uneasy about his treatment of Joan, his twelve year old. She feared that Gib might be using her in every way in the place of her dead mother. Hugh and Deborah were not married, but they lived together and cared for one another. Sister Catherine told Father Martin frankly that Deborah was a prostitute. Hugh gasped out his life between the fireplace and his bed. His ankles swelled and his lips were often blue. Sister Catherine had a tonic for him. Joseph Thornapple and Lettice were the parents of eight children. They worked as field laborers and barely earned enough to survive. Sister Catherine had tried to explain to them that they could avoid constant pregnancies by limiting their conjugal relations to certain times in Lettice's menses. They never understood. If she were not already pregnant, Lettice soon would be. Hob and Annice were the old parents of Alan, the Baron's bailiff. He helped them with money for food and shelter, but depended upon Sister Catherine to provide them with the medicines they needed. Annice had pain and deformity in her joints. Hob suffered from a skin irritation. Without the balm she supplied he was driven to scratch until he bled. Father Martin had not been close to such poverty and suffering before. He found it hard to look at it steadily. Sister Catherine seemed not to notice it. She addressed the people she visited as fellow sufferers in a shared world of trouble. When they turned to her, she always had a common sense solution to suggest. Her self- control only failed her once that day. Joan described how she had bled and delivered a dead, scarcely formed baby a few days ago. Her father had told her to throw it in a privy and stop carrying on like a noblewoman with a case of gas. Gib said that Joan lay in the hedgerows with any man who offered. Joan refused to identify the father of the dead baby. Sister Catherine noticed that Joan had a black eye and sprained wrist to testify to her father's displeasure with her behavior. He allowed that he had had to discipline her for her lazy and sluttish behavior. Sister Catherine excused herself to go back to the wagon to get more supplies. When she failed to return in a few minutes Father Martin went out to see if she needed help. He found her weeping silent tears behind the cart. She pounded her fist on it until her hand was bruised while she told him that this was all her fault. She had felt that something was not right. Why hadn't she acted before there had been serious consequences? Father Martin knew that the question was not directed toward him, and remained silent. Sister Catherine then re-entered the hovel and told Joan of her plan for apprenticing her to Martha Brewster. She would live there of course. The convent would pay Widow Sarah nearby to take in the younger children. Joan, a tall and large-boned girl, hugged Sister Catherine so violently that she was thrown off balance, and Father Martin's had to steady her with his hands on her shoulders. Since their arrival Father Martin had recognized Gib as one of those parishioners who had been promised a personally administered earthly penance if he were guilty of backsliding. Gib had not returned to the confessional after this promise, but Father Martin was resolved to keep his word as soon as possible. On the way back to the convent Sister Catherine thought out loud about her options for getting the money to pay the Widow Sarah. She was certain that Sisters Perpetua and Felicity could persuade their families to contribute the funds. The sisters were irresistible when they determined to get money from their soft-hearted fathers. From that evening on Father Martin could no longer seriously believe in Sister Catherine as a spy. As they met day after day, he found his defenses weakening. Conspiracy seemed very far away from this small English town. He began to confide some of the story of his betrayal and exile to her. Although she did not totally believe in the objective truth of his story, she never doubted his sincerity. She reserved judgment on his interpretation of events, but accepted Father Martin without reserve as a friend. ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** "You know, I'm beginning to think this isn't much better reading than our case file. I'm sure your family had nice people in it, but...it's kind of boring. By the way, which is of these characters is supposed to be related to your family? And how are they related if they're both celibate? They could be related indirectly I suppose. Or is there hope this story may develop along the lines of 'Father Peter Meets Three Naughty Nuns?'" "Was that September's Pick of the Month in the Adult Video Guide, Mulder?" "As a matter of fact it was the August Special. But it might still be available if you'd like a copy for research purposes." Scully gave this suggestion the attention it deserved--none-- and thought instead about why this manuscript worried her mother enough to involve her. Granted, the figures in this had a slightly uncanny resemblance to herself and her partner. Did it really need to be explained? She searched for neutral words to discuss this with Mulder. "Have you noticed a sort of resemblance between two of these characters and...," she began tentatively. "Us, Scully? Yes, I think there are resemblances between Sister Catherine and you and Father Martin and me. Although I've never been aware of my lips interfering with anyone's concentration." "With you, it's what comes out of them." He continued without responding to her comment. "It's another X-File: the phenomenon of precognitive historical novelization-a character from the future is depicted in an account written in the present day that records past historical events in the form of a novel. Except that you don't know it's an X-File until you get to the future where it turns out the character is real." "You're kidding about the X-File, right?" "I'm kidding. Do we really need an explanation other than coincidence for this, Scully? I'm sure there's never been a shortage of smart redheaded women in your family. Who's to say Aunt Kate didn't pick your grandmother as her model for Sister Catherine? "But what about Father Martin?" "That's an easy one, Scully. She just described every woman's dream man--tall, dark and paranoid." This won him a real laugh from Scully, and he congratulated himself on his diversionary tactics. He didn't think that there was any point in tarnishing Melissa's memory by unearthing evidence of her involvement with a semi-fraudulent publicity stunt. Let Scully and Maggie have the memory of their idealistic Melissa to cherish. To his dismay Scully continued, "I gave the last page of the manuscript to Mullins at the crime lab before we left. He's going to analyze it for the age of the paper and ink." My God, the woman was relentless. "What cost center did you put that under?" he asked with a serious expression. "Mulder, you know as well as I do that those lab techs spend half the day sitting around discussing football pools...." she began exasperatedly, before she saw the 'gotcha' grin on his face. "They should be calling me with the results in the next couple days," she continued, determinedly maintaining her good mood and even temper. "OK, but keep in mind that Melissa was a pretty free spirit. She might have had a more elastic interpretation of 'true' and 'factual' than you. Maybe she thought if something were true it would be all right to do things that would get other people to believe it...," he trailed off lamely under Scully's steely-eyed scrutiny and then rejoiced to hear the captain's voice announcing their imminent landing in Idaho Falls. "Are you saying she faked it?" Scully demanded. "Please don't tempt me with openings like that," Mulder requested, closing his eyes and assuming a martyred expression. "I have enough problems maintaining a professional demeanor." Scully could see there was no hope of getting a serious answer on the subject, so she turned her attention to packing up the manuscript and taking inventory of her belongings in preparation for disembarking. Their luggage turned up quickly at the right carousel, and the car they had requested was ready outside the rental office. "Scully it's about 150 miles, half of it on two-lane roads, to Digger. Shall we eat on the way or wait until we get there?" "Let's look for something along the way." Scully spotted a possibility within the first twenty minutes of the trip. Woody's Country Inn offered fourteen versions of 8 ounce Idaho beef hamburger, served with fries. The atmosphere was primarily farm flea market, and there were numerous families shuttling in and out of the doors. "How does that look to you, Mulder?" "Sure, I could use an Idaho burger with all the trimmings." As they exited the car they were both grateful for their heavy overcoats and gloves. Winter came early to this part of the country. "It's just our luck to be sent here after the summer sports activities and before the skiing season. Without tourists this is lonely country." "It doesn't look very lonely," Scully remarked as she vainly tried to get the attention of the busy waitress. "We're still in the outskirts of Idaho Falls. Digger is northeast in ranch country. Those ranches cover thousands of acres, with about one person for every thousand of them." "There, she sees us!" Scully exclaimed. Mulder was not surprised when Scully's order rivaled his own. They ate in simple enjoyment with little conversation except for occasional comments on the other patrons. When they got back on the road Scully decided to speak her mind on the subject of the mysterious manuscript. "Mulder I've been thinking about that manuscript. I know what you believe--that Melissa produced a fake old document for some unknown purpose. But I have an advantage here. I knew Melissa better than you did. She simply wouldn't do that. She might not be able to support all of her own beliefs with evidence, but she wouldn't manufacture evidence, even for someone's own good, anymore than you would." "I'll agree to suspend judgment, Scully, in deference to your experience and because the forensic evidence isn't in. And even if the manuscript is fake someone else could have foisted it onto Melissa." "You need to know one more thing about it, Mulder. Mom remembers glancing through it back when Aunt Kate died. She packed it up and put it into storage with other family papers in grandma's attic. So we know it's been around from the time I was five." "You know Melissa had a manuscript that looks like one that your mother saw years ago. Someone could have doctored it or substituted another similar document," Mulder maintained stubbornly. That was certainly an extreme possibility, Scully had to admit. She amused herself by looking at some brochures she had picked up in the restaurant. "I don't suppose we're staying at the "Silver Swan Bed and Breakfast?" "No, Scully, we've got cabins at the Nighty-Nite Motor Court." "Next time why don't you look into the Silver Swan. Their rooms have fireplaces, hot tubs, and king-size beds with down comforters." "The only problem is that two nights would probably blow our expense budget for the entire fiscal quarter." "I know, but just imagine soaking in a hot tub and then drinking wine in front of a blazing fire." Mulder's imagination obligingly presented him with a vision of Scully. She was damp and pink in a terry cloth robe closed with one of those self-belts that was always coming undone. No, imagining was not a good idea. "The theme here seems to be warmth, Scully. Do you need me to turn the heater up?" "No, the heat in here is already making me sleepy." "Go ahead and sleep. It'll be about ten when we get there." She didn't mean to, but Scully woke up to find them pulling into the motor court. They were still thirty miles from Digger. There was nothing acceptable any closer. The Nighty-Nite had seen its best days in the fifties. Scully hoped the cabins would have heat and clean bathrooms. Judging from the length of time they had to knock at the office door, the manager had probably been asleep in the back room. A round, red-faced, man, he pushed the forms across the counter at them with his eyes half shut. He didn't bother to verify their credit cards. Mulder walked Scully to the door of her cabin, and entered briefly while they conducted a routine security check of the place. He apologetically asked Scully for the questionable manuscript. "I hate to bother you when I know you want to get to bed, but I don't have anything to read, and they don't have cable TV here. You know how sometimes I have a little trouble sleeping," he ended diffidently. Scully felt a pang of guilt as she practically yawned in his face when she handed him the manuscript and the pamphlets she had picked up at Woody's. She barely noticed the almost antique bathroom as she hurried through washing and brushing. Her sleep was undisturbed. Mulder was disgusted to find that the TV in his room didn't work at all. He was thankful that he had had the foresight to provide himself with something to read. ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** In the following months Father Martin and Sister Catherine continued to study Greek together. They also shared the charitable obligation of looking after the sick of the parish. Their methods blended so smoothly that they felt they had worked together for years. Sister forgot that she had ever pitied this man. Father Martin had kept his intellectual curiosity in exile. He was a marvellous companion for someone who thrived on learning. Father Martin allowed his memories of corruption and ambition to fade. They were overlaid by the day to day concerns of crops, babies and weather. He redirected his intensity to scholarly work and the puzzle of the medical arts. Father Martin and Sister Catherine became so used to the routine of working together that a day seemed incomplete if they had not met to exchange gossip, insights and jokes. On St. Dunstan's day Sister Catherine planned her second spring trip outside the town in search of wild growing herbs and other useful plants. Father Martin had been busy with the Miracle Plays for Easter when she had made her first trip to the river. This time he was busy with religious preparations for Whitsunday and mundane arrangements for the summer festival days. "Why do you plan your trips when I can't come with you? Are you afraid that I'll outdo you in concocting potions and curatives?" Father Martin teased. "Now you know I don't plan the weather, and that's what determines how well grown the plants I need will be. The comfrey will be perfect for harvesting tomorrow and I need some." "I hope any patients I have in the future will understand if I can only offer them medicines made from herbs harvested in midsummer and fall." "Nonsense, spring will always come again," she reminded him, as she waved goodbye from the convent gate on the Eve of St. Dunstan's. Dawn brought the softest of breezes and a rosy sky. Sister Catherine dressed in an old linen shirt and blue fustian kirtle she had been given by the fuller's wife. The dirt she collected on these expeditions was impossible to remove without washing, and wool habits washed very badly. Besides these old clothes would be much cooler. The kirtle could be loosened at the laces and the shirt unbuttoned at the throat. She wrapped a white linen veil around her head and went to her workroom to get the baskets. She took the three largest and headed for the refectory. She would take bread and cheese for herself and Young Matthew. When she stepped outside she found him preparing to clean the stables. He looked at her and his expression showed great disappointment very plainly. "Oh, Sister Catherine, I forgot. I was trying to get my duties done early so Johanna can work on my Summer King costume for next week." Sister Catherine knew her face must mirror his disappointed expression. She also knew she couldn't insist on her own schedule against his chance to reign as Summer King, in an outfit more magnificent than anything else he would ever wear. "It looks as though I'll be working harder than I expected today. Since I'll be doing all the carrying, I'll have to be especially careful to choose only the best plants. You'll be a gay and handsome King, Matthew. I wouldn't deprive myself of the sight of you dressed in one of Johanna's creations by making you come with me now." He grinned his relief and offered to return the bigger baskets to her workroom. She accepted his offer and set off alone down the lane that went through the plowed fields west of the town. The day thrilled with bird song--cuckoo and lark celebrating the sunrise. The scent of fresh green growing things filled the air. Sister Catherine enjoyed the warmth and sunlight the more for thinking of the cold damp winter that had preceded it. Half an hour brought her to the place where the lane curved south, away from the marshes. This is where she left it and forged her own path in the direction of the river, which was bordered to the west with thick forest. She found marsh marigold with its tiny yellow flowers just opened up to the sun. Farther on she spotted the fuzzy pinkish white blossoms of the bogbean. Within the next two hours she had worked her way to the riverbank, and started east toward the trees. She knew from last year of a good place for comfrey in a bend of the river. The sun was high by now, and she was grateful for the deep shade of the trees. Sister Catherine was scanning the riverbank for the lavender, bell-shaped blossoms of the comfrey plant when she walked into a clearing where a huge man in chain mail was relieving himself against a tree. He saw her simultaneously and turned to her without bothering to pull up his breeches. "I'll bet you've never seen one this big, have you?" he challenged. As her mother's helper at sickbeds Sister Catherine had actually seen many men naked, and in spite of his general size this man had nothing special. It did not occur to her to voice this retort. Interior warning bells were deafening her with their clamor. She dropped her basket and turned to run. With the advantage of her lighter weight clothes and shoes against his mail and boots, she might have escaped if he had been alone. His companion suddenly stepped into her path. The large soldier barked "Grab her, Con!" and Con hooked his arm around her throat. She kicked back at his legs, but inflicted little damage with her soft shoes. He tightened his hold until kicking and screaming were both impossible. "Give her here, Con. I saw her first." "Yeah, but I snagged her, Tom." Tom had pulled out a knife, which he held against her neck under her ear. His arm replaced Con's around her throat. "No screaming, right little cat? Your blood can be all over the ground here in the less than a minute with one pull across." He kicked the basket half-filled with herbs down the river bank, and began pulling her back deeper into the forest. ************ Father Martin also rose at dawn. He wasn't going to enjoy the weather in the countryside. He was going to assist the town guild members in erecting a temporary platform in the town center for the performance of the Whitsunday Miracle Plays. Then he was supposed to sit with the apprentices of all the craftsmen and write down the lyrics they would make up for songs to be sung around the maypole. Father Walter had warned him he would have to edit their efforts ruthlessly. They would create lyrics as personal and as bawdy as they could get away with. More than once the maypole dancing had ended in a brawl between the singers and those who heard insults to themselves in the song. He had been hard at work for two hours measuring wood when Father Walter saw him. "You look as though you could appreciate a big mug of Bride's ale. I won't interrupt you and postpone that experience. I just wanted to pass on some information I got at the baker's. Young Geoffrey, Daniel Shoemaker's son, came back from Linnetvale this morning. There wasn't much news, but the leather dealer there warned him that there was a band of mercenaries moving north from a town south of there. Baron Edmund ended their contracts when they landed at Dover several weeks ago. They were told they could join Lord Morrow on the Scottish border, but along the way some of them are looting and robbing travellers to get supplies and horses. Some of the robberies were very bad. Most of the victims were killed even if they offered no resistance. If the soldiers' pace stays the same they'll be in this area in about two days. People leaving the town should travel in large groups. Just let people know as you talk with them today." Immediately Father Martin thought of Sister Catherine and the expedition she had planned. He told himself that Young Matthew was a stalwart protector. He would not permit anyone to harm her. His notable size and strength made it unlikely that anyone would try to get through him to Sister Catherine. Attacking her would be a sacrilege. There were few men desperate enough to do that. It would be clear from their appearance that neither she nor Matthew carried money. The mercenaries were not expected to reach here for another two days. Geoffrey had traveled from Linnetvale unscathed with a load of fine leather. He repeated these soothing thoughts to himself for half an hour. Then he saw Young Matthew striding through the green on his way to Johanna's. "So Sister Catherine postponed her trip into the forest today," Father Martin suggested hopefully to Young Matthew. "Well no," Young Matthew said, somewhat abashed since he knew he had been excused from an important responsibility by Sister Catherine. He reminded himself that this wasn't the first time she had gone alone. "She went alone because I had to be here for work on my Summer King...." Father Martin immediately stopped listening to Young Matthew's explanations and tried to weigh the odds objectively. They didn't expect the mercenaries in the area for two days. Even if they were here the chances of them encountering Sister Catherine in the marshes or forest were not great. On the other hand they would use the river as a source of water, and Sister Catherine had told him enthusiastically about the comfrey she hoped to find near an old oak copse at a bend in the river. He succeeded in reasoning himself out of his fears for the space of about twenty heartbeats. Then he found himself heading for the rectory, his mind dominated by vivid pictures of his friend as the victim of horrible brutalities. In his room he opened his storage chest and tossed everything out of it until he came to his sword. He had not worn it since leaving the Italy. He knew Sister Catherine would think he looked foolish descending on her armed with a sword. But he could have no peace of mind until he saw her. He would have reason to feel foolish if he arrived to find her in trouble and he was weaponless. Sister had described her planned route and Father Martin quickly traced her path to the river. During this time his mood alternated rapidly between optimistic calm and an anxiety close to panic. He suppressed violent images when they arose, knowing that he would need a cool head if the worst had happened. The riverbank was green beyond imagination with fresh young grass and emerald moss. Occasionally in the damp dirt he saw the shallow imprint of a small foot shod in smooth leather. He listened carefully for voices and scanned the area for oak trees and the characteristic lavender flowers of comfrey. Just as he spotted a large expanse of the plants, he recognized Sister Catherine's favorite basket, the largest she could carry. It was half stuck in the mud at the river's edge. His heart now thudding rapidly and painfully, he detected a trail of partially flattened grass with tufts torn out by the roots in places. A struggle had taken place, but not a big struggle. He knew that even one man would have enough of a size advantage to overcome her resistance very quickly. If there were more than one he hoped he would be good enough to stop them. Assuming he was in time to do something more than just carry Sister Catherine's body back for a Christian burial. That was something he could not allow himself to think about. The trail was leading back from the river to thicker woods and higher ground. The denser foliage and reduced undergrowth made the trail easier to see. Within several minutes he didn't need to see it. He could follow the sound of men's voices raised peevishly in argument. Father Martin began to doubt his decision to choose speed over allies. "Last time in Calais in that tavern basement you went first with that tasty young serving girl. And then you hit her so hard when she bit you she was almost dead even before I started." "Well, that brother of hers would have done for you, Tom, while you were still at it, if I hadn't managed to get behind him with a barrel stave." "The only reason he came back and found us was you took too long getting up and in, Con." "Last time you went first." "Two weeks ago in that miserable little town of Dunnock or Paddock or whatever it was? You mean when you let me go first with that dirty old scrubber of a field hand? I think it was just to make sure she didn't have teeth down there!" "And better she had than the pox she gave us!" They both laughed. "She died hard though, didn't she, Tom?" The noise of the argument allowed Father Martin to approach closely enough to see figures through the trees. From behind a huge old oak he saw a sight that increased his fears for Sister Catherine tenfold. Two big, healthy-looking horses carrying heavy loads were tied to a stake driven into the ground at the far end of the clearing. A black-haired man stood with his back to Father Martin. He had removed a chain mail shirt, and was putting it beside a helmet and sheathed sword. As he turned Father Martin could see that his face was leathery and scarred, providing a sharp contrast to his light blue eyes. He looked strong and tough, a veteran of many battles. The other still wore his mail shirt. He was younger, but a giant of a man. He was at least a head taller and fifty pounds heavier than Father Martin, with a sword to match his size strapped to his side. With one hand he gripped Sister Catherine's hair, while the other held a knife to her throat. "Jesus Christ, I don't think I can handle both of them," he thought grimly. Nevertheless he tried to form a plan. If he attacked the smaller soldier, the large one might let go of Sister Catherine to help his companion. Would she be able to run? Father Martin expected her to be in a faint from hearing the terrifying dialogue between the brigands. But she was highly alert, her eyes darting about the campsite. Obviously she had not yet given up hope of escape. In fact, at that very moment her eyes locked with those of Father Martin and her heart sank. "Dear God, they'll kill him," she thought. Now she knew fear; before she had been sustained by her anger. Instantly she tore her gaze from him and determined how she could give him some slight advantage. It never occurred to her that he would leave her because of danger to himself. Seconds later Father Martin was startled to see her undergo what appeared to be possession by another being. She relaxed her stiff, resisting posture and took a stance that thrust her bosom and hips forward. Her eyelids half closed and her mouth opened slightly. She reached up to her throat, but instead of grasping for the knife, she began loosening the laces of her kirtle and unfastening her shirt until the tops of her breasts could be seen. By now the two soldiers had noticed her behavior and halted their half-hearted argument. She dropped her eyes from Con's and said softly "Sirs, don't you ever let a lady choose who gets to go first?" They both laughed hard at being addressed as "sirs". Con shrugged and answered "Nobody ever asked to choose before. How about it Tom? We're supposed to join the others by sundown. We got to leave time to, um, clean up the campsite before we leave here." Tom confidently answered "Why not?" She appeared to look critically between the two several times, and then nodded up at the man who held her. "So you liked what you saw," Tom bragged. He sheathed his knife with a grin and reached into her shirt and began squeezing her breasts. It was the sight of her struggling to smile at this treatment that gave Father Martin the final furious impetus he needed to stop thinking and rush into the clearing. He lunged from behind at the smaller soldier. Con snatched up and unsheathed his sword in time to deflect the first blow from Father Martin. They parried briefly, equally adept in swordsmanship. Then Con made the mistake of glancing away to see what was keeping his companion from coming to his aid. That was all the opening Father Martin needed. He ran his sword through the soldier's upper sword arm and as his point dropped the priest slashed his thigh. The delay in help from Tom was caused by Sister Catherine, who had grabbed both of Tom's thumbs with all her strength when Father Martin burst into the clearing. He was able to push her off almost immediately, but then she flung herself at his feet and clutched at his ankles. This earned her a tremendous kick, which she was able to anticipate and partially avoid. He then picked her up and literally threw her aside. By this time he had unsheathed his sword, and she could no longer approach him. She had delayed him long enough to allow Father Martin to disable the other soldier. Father Martin knew that even successfully parrying an overhand blow from his new opponent was likely to break his arm. Tom was not as swift or skilled as Con, but he had tremendous reach and power. Father Martin's first strategy had to be to keep his distance, drawing blows, which would not connect. He knew he was fast enough to make this work for while. Then he would have to come up with a second strategy. Sister Catherine had been knocked breathless when she landed on the ground. Within a minute she forced herself to her feet, stumbled over to the horses and began to untie them. The wounded soldier saw her from where he sat leaning against a tree and gasped painfully "Tom, stop her!" She released the bridles, picked up the veil which had been torn from her earlier, and began flapping it at the horses' heads, yelling and darting back and forth beside them. These were not warhorses. Tom and Con had probably stolen them from the stables of a wealthy knight who enjoyed riding. Sister Catherine's activity was enough to send them out of the clearing at a gallop. At this, the giant doing battle with Father Martin strode into him, driving his fist into his chest and using the force of his sword blow against Father Martin's sword to add to the impact. This sent Father Martin flying backwards into a tree. His head hit the tree hard enough to stun him. He slid to the ground. Tom turned with a curse and took off after the horses. Sister Catherine swiftly went over to pull Father Martin to his feet. "Can you walk?" she asked urgently. "Of course," he said, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his head. "I think I know a place to hide," she told him. "We've got to make it more trouble for them to find us than to leave us." "What about him?" Father Martin asked, pointing at Con, who appeared to have passed out from blood loss. "Do you want to kill him?" Sister asked him hesitantly. "Yes I do, " Father Martin replied. "But I probably couldn't bring myself to kill an unconscious man," he added honestly. "Well I can't bring myself to help him," Sister Catherine said in a choked voice. "So let's get out of here before Tom comes back after him." She half led and half pulled Father Martin farther up hill, away from the river. Within ten minutes they came to an even steeper rise, where trees leaned over and all but covered the ground beneath. They sat gratefully on the damp dirt behind leafy branches. Father Martin knew they could be followed by anyone who cared to take the time. He hoped the brigands would concentrate on their own escape from the area instead. They could not be sure how long it would take their intended victims to seek aid from the town. *********** They looked at each other and laughed in silent hysteria. "You should have seen Con's face when you came rushing out of the woods behind him. And then when you fought so well; he couldn't believe he needed help to defeat a priest!" Sister Catherine whispered. "You should have seen the big one's face when he realized the horses were on the way to London carrying all their worldly goods," Father Martin rejoined. They congratulated each other on their fast thinking, and their successful escape. But gradually Sister Catherine became silent and started to shake. She was allowing herself to realize how close she had come to being brutalized to death, and the extent of the risk Father Martin had taken. When he entered that clearing the odds were heavily against him. "Did they hurt you?" he asked her carefully. He didn't know what had taken place before he arrived, but several sickening possibilities occurred to him. She shook her head. She was shivering so hard her teeth were chattering. Father Martin put his arm around her shoulders to try to warm her and started to speak soothingly. "I haven't drawn a sword in months. I was lucky old Con was a little rusty too. You know, university students aren't strangers to swordplay. There are a lot of feuds and political fights and just plain drunken brawling that make it wise to be armed in the streets. I was lucky our master-at-arms was a demanding teacher." "I didn't know you could fight like that," she said shakily. "I thought they'd kill you." She remembered that fear had not played much part in her reaction to her plight until Father Martin was in danger with her. She chose not to examine this thought closely. Now she started to cry quietly. Father Martin gently pulled her head to his shoulder where she sobbed noiselessly for some time. They sat for several hours, unsure of whether they were being hunted. It became noticeably darker in their green glade, and they heard no voices or sounds of pursuit. "Didn't they say they were meeting up with the rest of their group at sundown? I don't think they're coming after us." "No. We can go back to town," she answered. But neither made a move to do so. Going back meant leaving the world of emotional extremes they had shared exclusively today. No one else would ever quite understand their experience in the same way. Going back also meant facing a lot of practical problems. "What shall I tell Dame Agnes and the other sisters?" she wondered out loud. "The truth," Father Martin answered. "We have to tell the town councillors what happened so they can send some real soldiers after those criminals." "But you know what they'll say about me," she continued, her lips trembling and her eyes once more full of tears. Father Martin looked at her to determine if she was in any state to talk about what had happened and to make decisions about telling the story. Her eyes looked green under the canopy of leaves. They were swollen with the crying she had done. His gaze fell to her bosom and he glimpsed her still partially exposed breasts. His cheeks reddened with embarrassment at the sudden arousal he felt at this sight and her nearness. Sister Catherine followed his gaze and reddened in turn. "I see you know what they'll say about me. That I was dressed immodestly, that I was wrong to be alone, and that if I hadn't wanted this happen it wouldn't have." "How can you think anyone would be presumptuous enough to criticize you?" he asked, with such sincerity that she believed he truly doubted she could be suspected of improper behavior. But even as he said it he remembered the talk that went around amongst the pages and men-at-arms when they sat at meals after there had been a complaint from a woman about ill usage. Nod, wink. Nod, wink. Elbow nudge to the ribs. So the kitchen maid complains of being pinched. The dairymaid says she was taken against her will behind the barn. They didn't complain until the father or husband came into the picture. You can't thread a needle if the needle keeps moving away. Her parents say she was rescued before he ruined her, but they would say that wouldn't they? Everybody knows nuns can't get enough of it. There aren't enough priests to keep them.... He flushed again at the memory of the nastiness of the last comment. "How can we let those animals go free to keep doing the awful things they do?" he asked dully. They trudged in silence back to the road, each lost in painful thoughts. Sister Catherine was fixing her clothes. Her strategy had seemed so right at the time. Now she wondered at how she could have behaved like a harlot. Even Father Martin was shocked at her behavior. His red cheeks betrayed him. She was going to pay a heavy price for this trip into the woods. No one she knew would ever look at her again with the same respect. She would be the nun who "almost--well, she said almost--was violated by a gang of brigands." She though she could endure all of it except for the humiliation of having Father Martin witness her wanton actions towards Tom and Tom's subsequent response to it. She had sacrificed the best friendship of her life to save the friend's life, and her own. Father Martin was wondering what on earth was the matter with him. How could he think of Sister Catherine in that way? Especially when she had just been terrified by the prospect of rape. He wanted to protect her from being hurt. It had felt so good to comfort her and hold her head on his shoulder while they sat in their hiding place. He was horrified to realize that that this innocent memory was arousing him more thoroughly than the glimpse of her breasts. Their friendship would end if she knew he felt these things. How could he lose the best thing in his life over these unruly whims of his body? Sister Catherine resolved to face her fears and know the worst. "Father Martin, do you think what I did this afternoon, to distract those men, do you think it was wrong?" Sister Catherine asked haltingly. "Was it a sin?" Since he had known her, Sister Catherine had seemed supremely confident that her actions, if not strictly sanctioned by the Church, were approved by God. She relied on her conscience to interpret God's will directly, and seemed assured that she worked things out satisfactorily between them. Father Martin hated to see that confidence undermined. Then it struck him that she was really asking him for approval, not God. "Lord in heaven, no!" he exclaimed, with as much as much certainty as he could put into his reply. "You saved both our lives! It was a brilliant strategy, worthy of William Marshall." "All my life I've heard the stories about St. Agnes, and St. Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins. The saints are supposed to be an example for us. They all resisted being...attacked, and were killed for it. But I knew all along that it wasn't that simple. Resistance can be overcome by so much less than death. Gib didn't even have to hold a knife to Joan's throat. A man big enough to hold you down doesn't have to threaten. The truth is, I never even thought about dying to be virtuous. I wanted to survive, even if the worst happened. I guess that means I don't believe that being violated is really the 'worst'. But what could be worse than losing heaven just to stay alive a little longer on earth?" In the face of Sister Catherine's need for reassurance Father Martin found his carnal desires miraculously under control. They were falling back onto the conversational mode he was used to. Perhaps they could get through this and still be friends. "I never wanted to influence your faith, Sister, but I've read tales about ancient gods and fairies that are identical to those told about our saints. We can't model our lives on fabulous tales. As you say, reality is more complicated." "You don't believe any of the Church's doctrines anymore, do you, Father." Father Martin had spoken to her about his doubts, but he had never openly challenged her beliefs. What could he offer to replace them? He himself felt like a ship at sea with no pole star to steer by. He couldn't claim that losing his faith had made his life better. "You're right, I don't believe." "Never mind, you'll understand the truth someday. You're an honest person. You won't reject the truth when you recognize it." "No, I wouldn't do that," Father Martin replied. Privately he thought that "No, I didn't do that," would be a more accurate answer. There was a quiet uproar when they reached the convent. Sister Agnes was content with the assurance that Sister Catherine was unharmed. Many of the older nuns had been through wars fought in their own countrysides, and could have told stories themselves. They didn't because they knew the pity didn't outlast the prurience. It was the postulants and novices whose imaginations were set aflame. Many versions were soon circulating, all of them more lurid than the truth. They did not neglect the hurts ofthe heroic Father Martin, who had the bump on his head and the bruise on his chest well-tended. Sister Adrian remarked to more than one fellow postulant that Sister Catherine certainly had no shame about making herself the center of attention. If she didn't want to get attacked maybe she should consider spending more time in the convent chapel and less time running around the town and country. The people of Derby talked of nothing but the adventure of the brigands for days. The next day a large contingent of volunteers was raised to search for the men. They were not found. Father Martin believed the men had moved on that night as planned, and then broken up into pairs to lie low during the day. The town councillors sent messengers to villages north of Derby, and no more incidents were reported. Then people were distracted by the violent fight that broke out after the maypole was celebrated at the Summer Festival. The songs had been insulting and vulgar as never before. Several young men were laid up with bruises and cracked bones. There were still jokes about Sister Catherine in some quarters, but none within Father Martin's hearing after the incident of the carpenter and the millpond. ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** Well, this was getting a little weird. Melissa had shown uncommon insight into his moods, but this left him feeling rather exposed. Melissa had stampeded them, that is, Father Martin and Sister Catherine, into more controversial, if not offensive territory. Mulder found it hard to believe that Margaret Scully was naive enough to be upset at the thought of priests or nuns having sex, or her daughter writing about sex. Was it the sum of these that exceeded her personal standards? No, wait. Mrs. Scully didn't believe Melissa wrote this stuff. Mulder gave it up. This material was not helping him to drift off to sleep as he had hoped. Quite the opposite. With a sigh he picked up the case notes he had abandoned earlier. He started to plan their schedule for tomorrow based on the sparse information they had about the incidents. He was awakened at seven by a brisk knocking on his door. The notes were scattered around him on the bed and the bedside lamp was still on. "Mulder there isn't any coffee here, even in the manager's office. Can we please go get some pretty soon?" "Uh, yeah. Give me a few minutes. I still need to shower. You want to read the next installment of the 'As The World Returns?'" "Sure, they don't have newspapers here either." Mulder pulled his overcoat on over his underwear as a makeshift robe and opened the door. "How did you sleep?" Scully asked as she took the manuscript. "Better than usual. This case seems to be good for my stress levels. See you in about fifteen minutes." Scully put the manuscript away about half an hour later as they drove into town. She shared no comments with Mulder. The document was being to disturb her too, but she didn't want to discuss it. "There!" she exclaimed suddenly, startling Mulder into tapping the brakes and quickly surveying the surrounding street for threatening traffic. "See, there's a place to eat." Among the few small stores selling feed, riding gear and hardware was a small cafe that advertised itself as 'Marge's Kitchen.' "Does that look OK to you, Mulder?" Scully asked in hopeful tones. "I think it better. It looks like the only place in town." The waitress was a comfortable, middle-aged woman who laughed when she heard their inquiries about cattle mutilation in the area. "That would be Old Zeb with his UFOs and abductions and alien cattle mutilation. His son is a police officer in Pocatello. Zeb finds out from him where to send his observations and pictures. He's been bombarding all the law enforcement agencies with 'proof' of an alien invasion for years. I wonder why they listened this time?" "Ma'm, I think there were pro-active potentialities to be realized that led them to hypothesize that the bureau would achieve highly prioritized goals in its mission statement by making resources available to the local representatives of the executive branch," Mulder answered. It paid to stay fluent in federalspeak. The English translation: "We can save ourselves a lot of PR problems if we find these troublemakers some harmless busywork," didn't inspire the same faith in government institutions. "Well good luck, son. If you dig long enough maybe you'll find the pony." "Scully, do you think I look young enough to be her son?" Mulder asked in a pleased tone of voice after the waitress had returned to the kitchen. Scully looked at him and remembered occasions when she had felt she was ministering to a bereft four-year-old. Other times she could swear she was dealing with a sulky adolescent. All she said was "She would have had to marry right out of high school. But they probably do around here." They paid for breakfast and left to walk to the sheriff's office several doors down and across the street. They passed an unadorned bar called "Kelly's". An old house had a dilapidated sign in the yard designating it as 'Mae's Home for Strays.' The yard was dirt, scattered with dog and cat feces of varying vintages. "Maybe we could have gotten a room here that would be more convenient to the sheriff's, Scully," Mulder said, pointing to a sorry looking wooden house with the sign 'Rooms to Rent' in the window. "Accounting would love us, but I think I'd rather sleep in the car and wash up at a gas station." "Now there's a cause the media could hyperventilate over-- homeless FBI agents." After passing a few more old houses, all kept to different standards of repair and cleanliness, they crossed the broad street and approached the sheriff's office. This was another tall wooden structure that dated back at least a hundred years. It had a high, peaked roof and a porch in the front that extended back on along each side. It had been given a newer look sometime in the fifties when a faux brick facing had been applied to the front. As they entered it became clear the redecoration had been skin deep. The front of the house was one large room. Three mismatched, battered old desks, assorted chairs, a fax machine, and a few gray filing cabinets made up the office furniture. The sign reading 'Jail Cells' with an arrow pointing up the staircase on the right declared the second role played by the building. A man about fifty years old sat behind one of the desks. He had sandy hair and a beer belly that strained his uniform to the limit. He looked at Mulder and Scully with raised eyebrows. "Agents Scully and Mulder from the FBI. You were notified we were coming?" Scully intoned, as they displayed their badges. With a broad smile he invited them to find chairs and pull up to his desk. "Cattle mutilations, right? I'm Sheriff Reynolds. I'm sorry you people had to waste your time looking into this when there are serial killers and kidnappers on the loose in every state. What can I do to help you check off your boxes and get back to real work?" "Our case file states that cattle were found dead with strange mutilations. We're looking into possible cult activity. The individual who sent the information suggests the intervention of extraterrestrials," Mulder answered. "I don't know what makes a person act like Zebulon Smith. Was it his childhood, or was he just born with part of his brain out of alignment? He takes perfectly normal events and picks the most outlandish possible explanation to account for them. Do you have any of the pictures he sent?" The sheriff leafed through the pictures, and sighed. "I looked at these myself. My deputy, Bob Hansen, investigated all of these reports from Zeb. He sends them everywhere. These look like classic cases of animal carcasses ravaged by wild dogs or coyotes. Also, did you know they released wolf packs into the Frank Church National Park some one hundred miles north of here? Do people think the wolves are going to stop at the park boundary and decide not to expand their hunting territory?" "In your opinion Sheriff, were these animals killed by the damage predators did, or could something else have killed them and then a scavenger mutilated the bodies?" Scully asked. "There's certainly enough damage to kill them, but that doesn't mean they weren't weakened or hurt and made vulnerable to the predators. But that doesn't sound like something a cult would do." "You're right about that, Sheriff. We'll complete our investigation and at least rule out unusual criminal activity in the area," Mulder answered. "We'd like to start by interviewing Deputy Hansen and Zebulon Smith." "Hansen will start out driving patrol from his own place at 11 o'clock this morning. He won't be back here until 7 o'clock this evening. I can give you directions to Old Zeb's, and you can see Hansen later when he reports in." They spent half an hour making sure they understood the map the sheriff sketched for them. He warned them that there were few road signs and some graveled roads on the route. They couldn't expect to make good time in their standard rental car. If the weather turned bad they wouldn't be able to get around at all in this area. Some sections of the road bounced them around as badly as they had expected, but for the most part the roads were paved. They stopped frequently to re-orient themselves to the map, and incidentally to appreciate breathtaking views of the jagged violet colored mountain range to the north. When they passed the drive to the Bar J, they knew they were close. The next turn off was the Leaning Z. At the end of a very long unpaved drive Zebulon Smith met them with ecstatic welcomes. He fit the stereotypical profile of the UFO fanatic perfectly. He was skinny and sported a white beard that contrasted with the barely silvered brown hair on his head. His house was neat, but filled to the ceiling in places with boxes labeled "Sightings." Each one had a date range written on it. They were organized by date against the walls of the living room, hall and bedroom. The earliest boxes covered the widest range of dates, starting in 1949. Those closer to the present held only about three months worth of whatever it was they held. There were at least one hundred standard size moving boxes. Zeb was eager to share the contents of each and every one. Since Mulder learned of the government's conspiracy to cover up its crimes with fabrications about aliens he took a different attitude toward exhibits like this. Now it was all evidence of the hoax, but his appetite for information remained insatiable. Here was an unparalleled archive. The prospect brought a frightening gleam to Mulder's eye that prompted Scully to take the lead. "Mr. Smith, we want to focus on the recent incident--the cattle mutilations which took place last summer. Can you add anything to the information you sent to the regional office at that time?" "Can I see what you have Miss Scully?" I've sent out so much information over the years I can't entirely say what was in the packet you've got." Mulder gave Zeb the copies of the original complaint and photos from their case folder. Zeb examined them with an increasingly quizzical expression. "Is this all you have, Mr. Mulder? I'm pretty sure I sent more photos than that." He went to his most recent stack of boxes and began digging through them. Scully sighed in resignation while Mulder strolled around checking dates on boxes. "Here we are," Zeb exclaimed with satisfaction, bringing his own folder back to the table where they sat. "See, I've got more and better photos than the ones you've got there. Those make the bodies look more like they were scavenged. These show cuts that look more surgical-like, like somebody planned them. How come you don't have all of them?" "How come indeed?" Mulder echoed. He examined the new photos with renewed enthusiasm. Zeb's photos included a series taken from a greater distance, which emphasized a pattern suggestive of planned cutting, and a series taken from close up, which showed tearing neater than one would expect from teeth and claws. Zeb sensed a change in the atmosphere and grinned openly. He couldn't wait to get a reaction. "Well, what do you think? Pretty impressive?" "Yes, Mr. Smith, these are much more interesting than the ones in our file. Where were these bodies found?" Scully asked. Zeb indicated a hand drawn map he had included with his photos and descriptions. "I see you've labeled each location where a carcass was found with the date. That's very helpful. You've found six of these over the past year and a half. Is this an unusual rate of deaths?" "Not so much the deaths as the way it happens. I lose maybe fifteen, eighteen full grown steers a year to cold, trampling, calving. Only one or two to predators." "There were three in the northeast corner of your ranch, the other three were spread out to the west and center," Scully observed. "What borders your ranch to the northeast?" "To the north is the national forest, with the mountains starting up within a few miles. There are no roads in that area. To the east is the Bar J ranch." "Have they reported any incidents like this?" Zeb looked sheepish. "They won't talk to me. Think I'm a crackpot. But Deputy Hansen told me they didn't have anything they consider unusual. A few scavenged cattle. They didn't bother to report it." "Who are they anyway?" "Some company that does high tech breeding. You know--they're always trying to design a better cow, leaner, more disease resistant. Too bad they don't pay more attention to taste." "What about to the west?" "That's the Circle C. He, that's Timothy Hargity, won't talk to anybody, not just me. Well, I guess he talked to the deputy through the door. Hansen told me he didn't have anything to report." "Well, Mr. Smith, let me talk to my partner here a minute and we'll decide what our next step should be," Mulder interjected. Zeb took the hint and disappeared into the kitchen "If I'd seen all these photos my curiosity would have been piqued. As it was I told Skinner that this looked like a worthless case and that I didn't want to waste our time on it." "What did he say to that?" Scully asked, imagining cartoon steam pouring out of Skinner's ears. "Stuff it up your nose, or words to that effect. I'm fairly sure he didn't know about those extra photos. He would have shown them to me to convince me the case was worthwhile. Conversely, he wouldn't have sent us if he thought the case was substantive enough to become high profile." "So we should also trace the path of the packet from Mr. Smith to the AD's office. I think we should find out more about the adjacent properties." "I was going to ask you to take on the neighbors while I question Mr. Smith about other things he may have seen or heard. Also, Scully, I'd like to take a look in his box for 1973," Mulder added. "That's all right with me, Mulder. I won't feel deprived if I miss digging through years of National Enquirer articles." "Mr. Smith," Mulder called, "Can you give us directions to your neighbor's places?" Scully wrote them down in detail and started to put on her coat and gloves. "Excuse me, sir," Zeb protested mildly, "You're not going to let her go alone, are you?" Both the question and its phraseology screamed out to Mulder that here was a man who hadn't dealt with women since 1962. Zeb was lucky that his partner subscribed to the pragmatic approach, and didn't let herself get distracted by the politics of language. "Is there some reason I shouldn't?" Scully asked reasonably. "It's awful lonely out here, and things are so far apart. I hate to think of a little city lady out there alone. What if you have car trouble?" Scully smiled, reached into her coat pocket, and pulled out her cell phone. "I'm covered," she said. Zeb stood and chewed his lower lip, looking unconvinced. "Don't worry. She's a trained agent. She knows how to take care of herself," Mulder added. "Happy hunting," Scully said in farewell, as she left the house. It hadn't occurred to Mulder that there would be any danger in visiting a ranch and asking about cattle mutilations. Now he felt a nagging worry that he was missing something that made the occupation dangerous in these circumstances. "You don't happen to have any unemployed mercenaries living in the woods around here, do you?" he asked half humorously. "What? I don't understand," Zeb replied in a puzzled voice. "Never mind. Let's talk about the night before the first body was found. Did you see or hear anything unusual?" ************ Scully enjoyed the drive to the Bar J. The sun was high. The snow on the mountain peaks dazzled her. They were not far from the Continental Divide in Digger. This trip was already redeemed somewhat in her eyes. Zeb was right--the neighbors were far apart here. She took the correct turn and soon found herself on a paved driveway that ran for about a mile up to an old ranch house. The drive had high security chain link fencing along its entire length. Razor wire topped it and signs warned that it carried an electric current. The only ways into the ranch itself were through the house, or the large gate across the adjacent driveway. When she knocked the door was answered by an armed security guard. He was young and had a marine style haircut. He gestured for her to enter a small outer office. "How can I help you, ma'am?" "I'm Agent Scully, from the FBI, she answered, presenting her badge. "I need to ask some questions about unexplained deaths in your herds." "Just a moment, I'll see if Dr. Anthony is free." He left her in the anteroom and went into an adjoining room to pick up a phone. There was a window between the rooms to allow him to observe her while he talked. She noted that there was an electromagnetic lock on the door leading into the ranch house proper. "Dr. Anthony can see you for about fifteen minutes." The guard punched in a four character code card to open the door and led her into a living area furnished with overstuffed couches, beautifully finished tables and stainless steel framed chairs. Dr. Anthony entered almost immediately. She was a tall, rangy woman of about sixty, whose long gray hair pulled back into a no nonsense ponytail. She wore a jumpsuit which looked as though it would be extremely practical in the laboratory. Her air was cordial but preoccupied. "Good afternoon, Dr. Anthony. I'm Dr. Dana Scully, from the FBI. My partner and I are here to investigate a report of cattle mutilations that may be attributable to a cult of some kind." "Well at least you're not looking for little green men, like our neighbor." "I understand the sheriff's deputy, Bob Hansen, questioned you at the time Mr. Smith reported his finding." "It wasn't me personally. I've just arrived. I'm here to oversee a special activity. The person whom I replaced, Dr. Francis Howard, talked to the deputy." "Since you've arrived have there been any incidents of unexplained deaths among your animals, or the discovery of any corpses with unusual features? "No, there haven't. And I would have been informed. We keep closer track than most ranchers of the whereabouts of each animal in the herd. We have to due to the nature of our work. But you'll find most serious ranchers keep pretty close tabs on their steers." "I coudn't help noticing the high level of security you maintain. Surely that isn't typical." Dr. Anthony smiled and replied, "I'm sure you're familiar with both international and domestic industrial espionage. There's more at risk here than steak on the hoof. We develop breeding techniques, processes, you understand. Our company is Bio-Gro. The equipment alone here is worth millions of dollars. The real money is in the intellectual property. Bio-gro has used money to accumulate an unrivaled staff here, but other companies have money too. Enough to buy someone's soul, much less their loyalty and whatever they could steal from us." "Is there a chance I could meet other workers here and question them about anything they may have seen or heard?" "Not without a warrant, Dr. Scully. You don't seem to realize the scale of the investment involved here. No one should be given the opportunity to earn that kind of money by simply sacrificing their integrity." Dr. Anthony stood up and Scully followed her back out the door to the anteroom. From there the guard walked her back to her car. Scully had seen the surveillance screens in the guard's area. She knew that her progress down the drive was broadcast from a series of cameras. That will be a short report, Scully thought. She couldn't conclude anything from the statements Dr. Anthony made except that Bio-Gro believed that they had things thoroughly under control, and they feared espionage far more that cults or aliens. ************ It was another long drive back past the Bar J to the Circle C, but there was no traffic to distract her from the grandeur of the scenery. The Circle C had a modest sign to mark the turn onto an unpaved driveway. It circled to the left behind a stand of pines, so that the house was not visible from the road. Before her car had reached the ranch house two Rottweilers ran from a large shed and stood at the gate in the fence. A hand painted sign hung by the gate advising the visitor to honk his horn. Scully honked briefly at half-minute intervals. The dogs bayed like canine lunatics every time. After five minutes of this she leaned on the horn. The ranch house door opened to reveal the barrel of a shotgun. Then a stocky redheaded man in a quasi-military uniform warily emerged. He kept the gun pointed at her as he approached. Scully got out of the car keeping her hands within sight of the man, whom she assumed was Timothy Hargity. "Mr. Hargity, I'm an agent of the FBI. Let me show you my identification". "Oh, I believe you have ID from the FBI. What I want to see is your carrying card from the U.N." "I don't have any credentials from the U.N., Mr. Hargity." "Yeah, right," he replied with a humorless smile. "Are you here to measure the barrels on my shotguns?" "No, I wanted to ask you if you've been having any problems similar to your neighbor Mr. Smith. He's found six dead steers on his property over the past year and a half. The bodies show signs of purposeful mutilation. " This answer appeared to surprise Hargity. He stood in silence for several moments. "I didn't think the feds wanted to call any attention to that kind of thing. Zeb is right about some things. The UFO activity is real--it just isn't aliens. But I can't keep track of it all. There are so many parts to the conspiracy. How do you guys keep it all straight?" He looked at Scully almost as if in genuine appeal for an explanation. Scully thought that he and Mulder might have had an interesting conversation. She thought she should stick to the subject. Hargity was armed, and controversial topics might lead to unpredictable behavior. "Mr. Hargity we know the cattle died and something was done to the bodies. My partner and I are interested in finding out the truth about what happened to them." "Boy do you work for the wrong organization! If you're telling me the truth you better watch your backs. Your own people will stop you cold, however they can." "I don't think this is a matter that would get anyone in Washington excited, Mr. Hargity." "Washington! This conspiracy is global. It's all connected-The U.N., the New World Order, the Bilderbergers, the Masons, SWAT teams, Special Forces, multinational corporations, UPC codes to inventory all of us...." Scully shivered at his mention of the UPC code as part of the conspiracy. He could have no idea of how personally disturbing she found that thought. Her vivid memory of the supermarket bar code reader going crazy when presented with Duane Barry's implanted chip was the prelude to a time that had no memories for her. No conscious memories anyway. Not that she wanted them. She hoped that they would stay decently confined behind figurative cellar doors way down deep in her mind. What would be Mr. Hargity's reaction if she told him he was right, that she herself had been abducted by persons unknown? That they had done unspeakable things to her and left her with terminal cancer. "Are you OK, miss? Scully focused on Hargity and found him looking at her with concern. "I'm fine. I'm just feeling the cold a little." "I guess you can come in and warm up for a minute. You don't look that dangerous. Besides you wouldn't make more than a mouthful for Moby and Dick here," he added, with a gesture toward the eager dogs. He unfastened the padlock on the gate with a key from his pocket. After Scully entered he locked it behind her. She couldn't help thinking what a perfect hostage she would make if Mr. Hargity turned out to be even more unbalanced than he appeared. She hoped that the BATF wouldn't be called, and that Skinner would direct the FBI rescue operation. Mr. Hargity's house was small and well kept. Inside someone had furnished it in a cozy and traditional fashion. The two dogs sat, alert but peaceable, on each side of the front door. Hargity positioned himself between Scully and the passage to the rear of the house. "This is a comfortable place you've got here," Scully remarked. "Yeah, my girlfriend, that is my ex-girlfriend, picked out the furniture. This place is well stocked too. I've got an extra basement with a year's worth of food and water filters," he said proudly. "And I've got a few special items for bartering." He raised his eyebrows significantly. Scully noticed a PC in the far corner of the room. Hargity followed the direction of her glance and boasted "You have to be on the Net these days to know what's going on. You wouldn't believe how much forbidden information you can find out there." Since her job sometimes required her to monitor sites like this, she was well aware of the tons of misinformation e-mailed far and wide, and linked to from other dubious sources. She walked over to the PC and picked up some of the diskettes scattered in front of it. The labels read "Black Helicopters Over Hometown USA," "The New World Order in Your Child's School," and "Your Guns: Use'em or Lose'em." If poor Timothy Hargity had any sense, she was the last sort of person he should be allowing into his defensible area. Maybe he had really been concerned for her. Or maybe he was too lonely to resist sharing his expertise with a seemingly harmless woman. Of course he might not be intending for her to leave at all. "I understand Deputy Hansen questioned you about the bodies, Mr. Hargity." "Yeah, old Bob is OK. He and Sheriff Reynolds know the people around here. They haven't installed any SWAT teams in our county yet. Bob came out and we talked through the fence. But as much suspicious stuff as I've seen and heard about, I never found any dead animals that looked peculiar. They just look picked over, depending on how long they been laying out in the open." Clearly he wished he had more inside information on this new manifestation of the conspiracy. "Have you ever seen unusual lights or activity in the area?" Hargity shook his head vigorously. "That's why I moved out here, you know. I like being solitary and controlling what goes on around me. Heather couldn't stand it out here, away from everything. That's my ex-girlfriend." Then he looked up at Scully from his armchair with a sly smile. "Sometimes, though, I think I'd like a woman to live here with me." Scully held her breath, watching for him to telegraph a move, or send a signal to the dogs. She spoke to break the silence that followed. "Your dogs are Moby and Dick. Are you a fan of the novel?" "Yeah, that Captain Ahab was something, wasn't he? He went on and on, no matter what other people said about him. Of course I guess they were right--he was crazy. People call me crazy too." Scully thought that this was not a good theme to explore. "My father loved that novel. I used to call him Ahab, and he called me Starbuck." "Was your father a redhead like you?" "He was then. His hair went white later." "I guess us redheads have some things in common. Did you ever think about living out in some lonely beautiful place with hardly any people in it to ruin it?" he asked with a wistful air. Scully thought a moment and answered, "No, I have family and a partner who depends on me. I couldn't leave them. In fact my partner will be expecting me back from your place any minute now." "Well, if you ever change your mind be sure and give Tim Hargity a call," he joked and signaled to the dogs to heel as he opened the door. He escorted Scully back to her car and waved good-bye from behind the fence. She stopped at the end of the drive and took several deep breaths, feeling like Alice after the tea party. Had the drama been all in her head? Probably. Tim Hargity was a crackpot who was all talk. Mulder's suspicious nature had rubbed off on her. The bottom line was that she still had nothing to report on the case they were investigating. When she pulled up in front of Zeb's house, Mulder came out to meet her looking even more enthused than when she had left. "Guess what, Scully. Zeb's ranch hand found another body this morning. You're just in time to come with us and see it." Zeb came out of the house talking to a wiry, leather-skinned man who appeared to be in his fifties. "Miss Scully, Mr. Mulder, this is Jack Chambers, who's worked on this ranch for twenty years. Jack says that steer was OK the day before yesterday." Jack nodded. "We'll go out and see it and then you can decide what you want to do," Zeb continued. "What have you been doing with these bodies Mr. Smith?" Scully asked. "Deputy Hansen told me to burn them right away to avoid any chance of disease spreading. I get Doc Sharp to incinerate them in his crematorium." "A doctor lets you dispose of barnyard animals in his crematorium?" Scully inquired incredulously. "No, no, he's a vet. He has the incinerator to get rid of animal corpses that are infectious." "A vet. Hmmm," Mulder murmured thoughtfully. "Does he do autopsies on animals that die for some unknown reason?" "I don't know. I think maybe he checked some dead coyotes for poison once." "Scully, let's see if he has the equipment and you can do an autopsy on this steer." She shook her head. "I'm not trained in animal pathology, Mulder. And I'm sure the equipment wouldn't be adequate." "Scully," he began, in that matter of fact tone that made the most outrageous propositions sound judiciously reasoned. "We can send tissue and fluids to the regional lab for analysis and you can take a quick look inside for gross abnormalities." A quick look indeed. Did Mulder have any idea what it would be like trying to look inside a half a ton of steer? But the more she thought about it, the fewer alternatives she saw. Maybe Doc Sharp would assist her. Maybe she would require Mulder to assist also. "All right, Mulder. We'll see what's available," she said resignedly. They all climbed into Jack's jeep and took an off-road drive that felt just as rough and unsprung as it looked. Mulder anchored himself to the side of the jeep with his left arm, but Scully bounced up and down painfully between him and Zeb. Mulder encircled Scully's shoulders with his long right arm and drew her close. "Sorry about the rough ride, Scully," he said. She relaxed against him and wondered if either of them were really very sorry. Mulder kept his arm around her a few seconds longer than strictly necessary when they pulled up beside the steer carcass. They had reached the far north boundary of Zeb's property. Fir trees grew sparsely in the pasture, becoming more numerous toward the fence marking his property line. Jack had come across the body while riding the fences. It was clear that he wouldn't have had to be close enough to see it to know it was there. "Are you sure this animal was alive the day before yesterday?" Mulder asked skeptically. Jack nodded. "This looks--and smells--like it's been dead for at least a week," Scully agreed. There were pieces of flesh, large and small, missing from the carcass, particularly around the nose and underbelly. If a predator had attacked, or a carrion species had fed, there should have been large chunks of meat missing. The shallowness of the tears had been less obvious in the photos. "Have all the bodies shown this much decomposition in such a short time?" Scully asked. Except for Jack they were all covering their noses with handkerchiefs and stepping away frequently to escape the stench of rotting flesh. Jack nodded again. He alone stood stoically, not turning away even when the breeze changed direction and he was downwind of the corpse. Mulder thought he must have watched too many Westerns with unflinching laconic heroes. "The temperature hasn't risen above forty degrees in the last two days." Mulder remarked. "Could the body have been inside somewhere for part of that time?" "Where?" Zeb asked, gesturing at the miles of empty pastureland around them. The hard turf showed no tire tracks, not even their own. "Zeb, can you get this body to Doc Sharp's place?" "Sure, he's only half an hour's drive south from here. We got a truck and lifting equipment. But I need to get hold of him first and let him know we're coming." "You can use my cell phone," Mulder said, offering it to Zeb. "Agent Scully will need to speak to him too, about doing an autopsy." Mulder walked away from the animal carcass in widening concentric circles, but found no suggestive debris or prints. Ten minutes later Zeb and Scully walked out to him and reported on their phone call. "Doctor Sharp wasn't anxious to provide us with facilities. Zeb persuaded Sheriff Reynolds to call him and tell him to co-operate with us. The Doctor still doesn't want us to do anything until he can be there and that won't be until tomorrow morning. He's sitting up with a sick horse tonight. " "Why does that sound so much like saying he has to stay home and wash his hair?" Mulder said shaking his head. "Doc is going to let us use one of his outbuildings, and he said Miss Scully can use his equipment, but he won't get involved in it. Miss Scully says that means you'll have to help her with lifting and sawing bones, since Doc doesn't have electric cutting tools," Zeb offered enthusiastically. Mulder paled slightly at this news. With all of the things he had seen and done since re-opening the X-files, he still found it hard to witness some of the most stomach churning moments during post- mortems. He'd have to skip breakfast and make sure he had a clear path to the door during this one. "Zeb, can you and Jack and I stay out here tonight? I've seen too much evidence disappear in these cases. You can go on back and interview Deputy Hansen, Scully. And stay the night at the motor court. Three of us will be enough here. Get directions to Doc Sharp's and you can meet us there in the morning. Is that OK with you, Zeb?" "This is pretty exciting, Mr. Mulder. Guarding the evidence. Do you think a UFO might land here tonight?" "No, more likely a truck full of men in berets. This is just a precaution." Scully felt guilty about having a bed to sleep in tonight, and a chance at getting dinner at the cafe. But she didn't really think this vigil was necessary. She agreed to Mulder's plan. Jack drove her back to ranch. There was no relief from the bone-shakingly rough ride this time. When she arrived at their car, Scully saw that she would just have time to make their appointment with Deputy Hansen. Dinner would have to be forgotten. It was pitch black by the time she drove back into Digger. She would never have made it without the detailed directions from Sheriff Reynolds, which she consulted frequently by flashlight. Deputy Hansen had been waiting five minutes when she entered the office. He was not as heavy as the sheriff, but he was a big man. He had light brown hair and grey eyes. His skin was reddened by exposure to sun and wind. "Good evening Deputy Hansen. I'm Agent Dana Scully. Sheriff Reynolds has probably told you why we're here." Deputy Hansen smiled back at her with a look of shrewd appraisal. "Now don't take this personally, Agent Scully. I've got to tell you that your presence here doesn't raise local opinion of the FBI. You know, people haven't forgotten Ruby Ridge around here. They've heard you're here to find a cult and are taking evidence from a UFO nut....you know." He waved his hand dismissively. "Yes, Mr. Hargity made it clear that there's a lot of doubt about federal agents around here. He's got quite a diskette collection based on our involvement in the New World Order conspiracy." This observation appeared to shock Deputy Hansen considerably. "He never let federal agents into his house! You can't be serious." "Well it was just me actually. My partner was interviewing Mr. Smith." At this Deputy Hansen looked thoughtful. "I still find that pretty hard to believe. So he let you in and showed you around, hmmm?" Hansen said. "Did you find out anything relevant to your investigation? I certainly didn't." "He just seemed rather lonely. I thought maybe that's why he let me in. He had no disturbances or cattle mutilations to report." "That's probably because he doesn't have any cattle. He can't afford to ranch. He owns the land but he has no capital. His income is family handouts. It's sad, but he's not really the independent lone wolf he likes to think he is." "Tim told me that company that owns the Bar J made him an offer for the ranch. I don't think he'll take it because he won't be able to live with less than ten miles between him and every other living soul," Sheriff Reynolds volunteered. "I also visited the Bar J, where they had plenty of cattle-- and nothing to report," Scully informed him. "Yeah, that outfit Bio-Gro. They got their own police force too. They don't need us, do they, sheriff?" The sheriff shook his head absentmindedly. Scully continued, "Up until shortly before I left we hadn't come up with anything. Then Mr. Smith's hand reported in. He found a dead steer today with the same type of mutilations as before. We've made arrangements for me to do an autopsy on the corpse at Doctor Sharp's tomorrow morning." "What? FBI agents aren't qualified to do autopsies," he snapped. "Sheriff, did you know about this nonsense?" Sheriff Reynolds made a noncomittal noise. "Well, it's only a steer, so anyone would have a right to dispose of the corpse as they wished, with Mr. Smith's permission. As it happens, I'm a doctor with a specialty in forensic medicine. I've taught the subject at Quantico. Although I'm not well versed in animal pathology, there are universal principles that can be applied. In addition, we plan to send fluid and tissue samples to the Boise regional office," Scully explained in her most authoritative, let's- have-no-nonsense doctor voice. "I've never heard of such a thing. Autopsies on cows mutilated by aliens," he snorted. He wasn't laughing. He was angry but trying to appear calm. Scully was suddenly very tired and hungry, and got up rather abruptly to leave. "I think I'll get back to my room for the night. Good night Sheriff Reynolds, Deputy Hansen. Thank you for your help." They both muttered good night. Reynolds barely seemed to register her departure, while Hansen watched her out the door. As she had feared the diner was closed. Scully had a long, cold, dark drive back to the motor court. She missed her partner's stream-of-consciousness smart aleck remarks more than she would have predicted. By the time she arrived her blood sugar level had plunged so low she was shaking. At the airport she had stocked up on a few chocolate bars and thankfully ate one now. It wasn't good nutrition, but it was comforting. It gave her the energy she needed to write up her field report for that day. Then she washed and brushed and fell into bed. The alarm woke her at seven and she proceeded to dress way down for the messy ordeal ahead. Casual Day didn't begin to fulfill her requirements. She needed a Wear and Burn outfit for this. She had just dressed when she was surprised to hear another car pull into the otherwise deserted parking area. She was alarmed to find it was the Sheriff's vehicle parking beside their rental car. Her first thought was that Mulder had come to grief during last night's camp out at Zeb's. What if someone, or something, had attacked them? Hansen left the sheriff's car and knelt behind the back wheels of the rental. Scully ran outside and went to the passenger side of the car. "Sheriff, is my partner all right?" "As far as we know he is," Reynolds replied shortly. "They're a match, Sheriff," Deputy Hansen called, with triumph in his voice. Sheriff Reynolds opened the car door and got out. "Dana Scully, I'm placing you under arrest for the murder of Timothy Hargity..." the Sheriff began. Later Scully remembered that he had duly Mirandized her. Events had taken her by total surprise and she was at a loss to make sense of them. "Bob, go check her room for guns." Reynolds quickly patted her down, but she hadn't yet put on her shoulder holster. Fifteen minutes later the deputy appeared in the doorway with her Smith and Wesson in a plastic bag. "This is the only one I found." "Sheriff you can't possibly think...." Scully started to speak. "Timothy Hargity was shot in the head through the fence yesterday. His dogs were shot the same way. I know he had to have died before the dogs because he would have had time to shoot back otherwise. Then someone cut the padlock on the gate and rifled his place. The gunshot wounds indicate a weapon very much like yours. You're the last person known to have seen him alive. I faxed a copy of fingerprints we lifted from the diskettes inside his place to Boise and they came up with a match to yours," Sheriff Reynolds interrupted. "But I never denied being inside...." Scully tried again. "I knew that claim was a lie when I first heard it. Hargity never let anybody in. And there weren't any tire tracks over yours at his place," Hansen said harshly. "I went out there last night to check out your story, and that's when I found the body." "Have you made the arrangements to do residue testing, and to send my gun to the FBI regional office for ballistics tests?" Scully asked. "Yep. It's going off to Boise as soon as I deputize a driver. And if they live up to their reputation for taking care of their own, they'll have results for us in twenty four hours," the sheriff answered. "How about my phone call?" "You'll get one. Over the jail phone line." "How about things I'll need in jail?" "What kind of things?" "Personal things, like toothpaste. Or do you provide it?" "The truth is we don't have much use for our cells. They aren't what I'd call state of the art. I guess you might as well get some things. Deputy Hansen, supervise Agent Scully here while she gets some items from her room." Scully noticed that Hansen was not too concerned with what she put in a plastic bag for her use. She slipped her field notebook into it. Last night she had entered her notes in a more readable form into her laptop. She wanted to be able to re-read them in the light of these new events, and to record new observations. She asked Hansen to take her cell phone. At least she would be able to inform Mulder when they released her. On the ride back to Digger she sat in silence in the back of the sheriff's car and tried to figure out what in the hell was going on. When they arrived, the sheriff settled Scully at a table with a phone. "OK, make your phone call." "I need the number for Dr. Sharp's veterinary clinic," Scully informed them. Deputy Hansen checked a slim telephone directory and wrote a number down on a yellow pad. He pushed it wordlessly across the table at Scully. She hoped that the group bringing the carcass to the clinic had arrived. ************ Scully's call was answered by Doctor Sharp's receptionist, who put the call through to Doctor Sharp's office. He aggrievedly sent one of his employees out to find Mulder, who was supervising the transfer of the overripe body to the shed provided. "Agent Mulder, Doc says your partner is on the phone. She says she's in jail in Digger." "You must have misunderstood. She's at the jail for some reason." The young man shrugged agreeably. In the office Mulder picked up the phone and Doctor Sharp listened curiously to his end of the conversation. "What's your excuse, the alarm didn't go off?" Then he listened for a long time, his smile fading, to be replaced by puzzlement, then anger and frustration. "Damn it, Scully, they must be out of their minds. Why would you shoot him over evidence? That's just no motive at all." He listened for moment with a look of exasperation. "I know they don't have to have a motive but don't they want to solve this case? Their perp isn't going to turn out to be an FBI agent with a good record who suddenly snaps and blows a witness away for no reason. They're wasting time detaining you, while he's getting all the head start he needs. They better get off their...." He was listening again with a set jaw and a determined glint in his eye. "Right, I'll get the machinery moving. Don't worry, we'll save the corpse for you. I can't see you being in there more than twenty- four hours. That is if you didn't do it. Those little talks we had about keeping our tempers and refraining from wasting innocent bystanders have been paying off, haven't they?" He winced and held the phone slightly away from his ear. His smile was back, but it had an edge. Mulder then called everyone he could think of from A.D. Skinner on down through the head of the regional lab in Boise. Skinner said much less than usual about how following proper procedures would prevent agents from requiring the legal department so frequently. He seemed stunned to find that a case handpicked by him to avoid controversy had resulted in his most conscientious agent being locked in a county jail accused of murder. The woman who directed the lab in Boise reassured Mulder that they would speed their analysis up and that she did indeed understand how he felt. His usual contacts on legal matters and patterns in rural homicides were at a loss to explain what the sheriff might be thinking. They all ended up hinting that there might simply be a lot of bitterness toward federal officers in that area. After the calls Mulder returned to the shed where the steer now lay wrapped in a tarpaulin. He explained Scully's predicament to Zeb, who expressed mild surprise at developments. "You don't suppose she got scared and shot him in what she thought was self-defense, do you Mr. Mulder?" "No, not Scully. She wouldn't shoot him through a fence; she'd take cover and call for back up. And if she did have to shoot someone, she'd report it immediately." "Mr. Mulder, I'm sorry but I can't wait all day. I've got to get back to my ranch and it doesn't sound like we know when this autopsy might happen." Mulder considered his options. He didn't want to leave the body unguarded, but he needed to have transportation. "Zeb, I'm sorry to take you our of your way, but could you drop me off at our motor court? I need to get the rental car." "No problem, just another sixty miles of driving," he replied, seeming eager to please. Mulder looked at him sharply and realized he wasn't being sarcastic--that kind of distance meant nothing to him. Nothing was close to anything else in this country. During the ride Mulder remembered to ask Zeb how he had sent his original packet of photos and evidence to the FBI. "I gave it to Aaron, my son, to mail in Idaho Falls. Our post office service can be a little unchancy here." Then he explained that Aaron worked the second shift as a police office in Pocatello, and Mulder recorded the phone number where Aaron could be reached. When he reached the motor court he searched out the manager, who looked as puffy and sleepy as he had the night they checked in. Mulder convinced the man to let him into Scully's room, where he found the keys to the rental car on the nightstand next to the bed. Good old Scully. He was pretty sure that if he were arrested unexpectedly in the early morning he wouldn't have the presence of mind to leave the keys to the car for his partner. He'd probably take a couple of swings at the arresting officers as well. He did a quick inspection for signs of a break-in to plant evidence and found none. This whole charade must be sheer cussedness on the part of the sheriff. He had to stay focused on the importance of continuing their investigation. This was just an annoying distraction. Mulder knew that he was being immature, but he couldn't help enjoying, just a little, the thought of Scully cooling her heels in a jail cell. Perhaps she would have more sympathy for him in the future if he should happen to land in a similar situation again. Oh, he knew she had spent time in a federal prison for refusing to answer a question during a congressional investigation. But there was nothing like the indignities and disorganized small miseries of a city or county lock- up to increase your appreciation for freedom. He would bet that the next time she showed up to bail him out, he would see understanding and commiseration on her face instead of the slightly superior and long-suffering look he usually got. He took off for Doctor Sharp's clinic as fast as he could, pulling up outside the shed about five minutes before Deputy Hansen arrived. He was checking the door when the deputy accosted him. "I took Agent Scully's statement this morning and heard that she was meeting you here. We can't have potentially diseased animal carcasses kept where they might be a danger." "It's locked up safely." Mulder pointed out the padlock on the door and patted his back pocket. "I'll be right here to make sure nobody's exposed to anything." "I thought you might be out working to get your partner cleared." "Will you let me examine the murder site and the evidence you collected? Can I go through your files for information on Hargity, to help me identify who his real enemies were? Can I scan your records of all homicides in this area for the last twenty years to look for patterns? "You know I can't let you touch that stuff. You have a conflict of interest." "Then I'm better off letting the Boise office do their stuff. They won't have any trouble clearing her because she didn't do it." "So you're going to sit here doing nothing while your partner sits in jail?" "Sometimes sitting and thinking is the path to enlightenment," Mulder deadpanned. It might be, he thought. This would be one of the few instances where he tried that approach. "I need you to come into the town this afternoon and give us a statement as a witness," Hansen persisted. "Send someone out and I'll make a statement, but I'm not going to leave here until this autopsy gets done. I talked to our legal people this morning, and you can't prevent me from performing my duties. I'm not at your disposal until you have a reason to jail me or I'm relieved. And to be frank, the Assistant Director is not eager to send another agent out here since he thinks you have such a flimsy case against Scully that it's going to fall apart like wet toilet paper in the next twenty-four hours." Hansen reddened in anger at this remark, but kept his temper in check. He turned and walked away. Too late Mulder hoped that outburst didn't sound like a dare to Hansen. What was that all about anyway? It seemed as though Hansen was trying to make him feel like a traitor for pursuing the investigation instead of hanging around the jail and harassing the sheriff. Maybe the Code of the West required that kind of primitive loyalty from a partner. He went into the clinic and talked to Dr. Sharp, who stared in disbelief when Mulder explained that he'd be there until Scully was released from jail. The doctor grudgingly agreed to let him stay in the clinic building that night. Mulder congratulated himself on his comfortable stakeout. He would have a coffee maker, bathroom and light to read by--all of the amenities. Then he called all of his contacts on Scully's behalf again. When he judged that they had all been nagged almost to the point of perversely wanting to obstruct her release, he knew it was time to call it quits. He offered a twenty to one of the high school boys who cleaned stalls and exercised animals to keep an eye on the shed while he tried to sleep a little. The previous freezing night on the ground in a sleeping bag about ten yards from a putrid animal carcass had not included sleep at all. He located a cot in a disused room and asked Jay to wake him before he left for the day. When Jay came to get him he was surprised to find he had slept the five hours until dark. For no extra consideration Jay offered the rest of his lunch to Mulder. It consisted of an apple, banana and cookies. They weren't very filling, but a lot better than nothing. He prowled around a little, opening refrigerators hopefully and browsing through waiting room magazines. Several refrigerators held medicine and nasty specimens. One contained an advanced brand of animal feed that was so glowingly described on its packaging that he started to seriously consider eating it. The magazines featured articles on hunting, fishing or animal diseases. Having exhausted the entertainment possibilities of the clinic, Mulder resigned himself to his fate with a sigh. He went out to the car and dug out Melissa's puzzling document. He still thought Clifford Irving had nothing on Melissa Scully. ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** The flurry of interest in the convent, and Sister Catherine in particular, subsided in the press of work. Sheep shearing and hay harvest required almost continuous effort from the community. At St. Ursula's the lay nuns and hired laborers did the heaviest, dirtiest jobs, but the rest had to pitch in doing the everyday tasks. When this season ended Father Martin and Sister Catherine made plans to return to their routine. Father Martin showed up in sister's workroom in the late morning of the Morrow of St. John the Baptist's feast "Are you ready to get back to Galen, Sister Catherine? You've probably forgotten all you ever knew." "Yes, I'll need your primer again to remember alpha, beta, chi," she agreed laughingly. Her initial efforts at translation proved that the situation wasn't that bad, but she had to interrupt Father Martin's reading several times to ask the meaning of new idiomatic phrases. "Father, this can't mean what I think it does!" She pointed in feigned shock at the page. Father Martin went over beside her and bent over the page. Their shoulders touched and Father Martin was dismayed to realize that his thoughts and feelings about Sister Catherine were once more beyond the boundaries. He couldn't take his eyes from her softly rounded cheeks and full pink lips. He imagined how it would feel to touch her skin with his fingertips. If he couldn't take her face in his hands and cover her lips with his own, he felt he would die of longing where he stood. "Well does it?" she inquired, cocking her head to look up into his face. "Yes, it does actually," he mumbled, and hurriedly walked over to the other side of the room. He gazed out of the window, needing time to regain his equilibrium. He paced up and down and thought about his difficulty. That day in the forest his view of her had changed irrevocably. It was like some trick pictures he had seen in Italy that played with perspective. You might look at one of these puzzles in the same way for years before you suddenly saw the other picture concealed by the artist. Then you could never unsee it. Events had changed his perspective. When he noticed his surroundings again, Sister Catherine was giving him a puzzled look. "Are you all right?" "Yes, I'm fine. Just a sudden pain." At her look of concern he added quickly, "It's gone now," and gestured toward his chest. The bruise he had gotten there had long since healed, but what would heal this deeper damage? For the rest of their study time he was careful to keep the table between them, asking Sister Catherine to slide the book across to him instead of standing beside her. After supper that night he sat with Father Walter and thought about his past ignorance of the emotions that ruled him now. He had always laughed to himself over the extravagant songs about unrequited love his mother had enjoyed at the great dinners they had attended. She liked to sit and hold his hand as they listened, sometimes sharing a smile with him at some particularly affecting part. Now, from the perspective of a sufferer, he felt that the minstrels had understated the case. He also understood enough to ask himself what those songs about Lancelot's and Guinevere's agonies meant to his mother. They certainly had nothing to do with his father. She barely acknowledged his existence by the time Father Martin left for the University at Paris. There had been a few women who had offered themselves to him at the right time and place. He had given in to what he then regarded as sin. Afterwards he confessed and never gave the incidents much more thought. Reviewing his memories of these events, he thought he could seduce Sister Catherine if he wished. She trusted him. That's what would make it possible and impossible. He couldn't take advantage of her trust. Nor could he bear to contemplate the shame and ridicule that would be heaped on her if they were discovered to be lovers. The randy priest and insatiable nun were two stock figures in comical tavern songs and bawdy jokes. He already knew what it felt like to have your world come crashing down around your ears. How could he inflict that on her? He would have to improve his self-discipline. And look to the Bible, specifically the strategy Onan employed, to strengthen his resolve. "You either have a lot to think about tonight, Martin, or you are very sleepy." "I was just wondering how often they get lightning strikes around here. Good night, Father." Father Walter smiled at the curious reply and congratulated himself on how well his assistant was doing. Father Martin no longer seemed to brood about Rome and conspiracies. He had taken his place in the routine of the church and town. One small worry crossed his mind when he saw Father Martin and Sister Catherine together. Should he caution the younger priest about the snares of the flesh in regard to their association? There was something about their bond that bothered him. It seemed too...elemental, as though it would override practical, even spiritual considerations, if a conflict occurred. He couldn't imagine how to put it into sensible words for a lecture. He would have to hope that they were too smart and cared too much for each other to ruin their lives for a fleeting gratification. ************ Two months later Father Martin was enjoying the soft warmth and blue twilight of an August evening, as he swung down the lane that ran from the outskirts of town through the outer fields, to the convent of St. Ursula. Farmers and their families still worked side by side with their hired labor in the fields. Only the oldest inhabitants of the town could remember a harvest as bountiful as this one. One of the workers hailed the priest as he passed. "Father Martin, hey, stop over by here a minute." When he strolled over to them he saw that one child of the group had been sent speeding away. As he drew close he recognized Timothy and his three middle sons. Farmer Timothy was a peasant, but he was also the proud owner of a stone barn as well as four plow horses and enough pigs to spare one for the rectory at Christmas time. His harrow with iron teeth was the object of universal envy. "Father, my Martha has a treat she wants to share with you and Father Walter. She calls it a compotey, or some such thing. It's fruit she dried and cooked, and then soaked in our own honey. Sometimes I think Martha gets close to sinful pride in her cooking," Tim said, with a broad smile that made light of the accusation. Timothy was famous for his hives and the delicately flavored honey his bees produced. His wife Martha regularly sent excellent dishes to the rectory. Father Martin didn't object to waiting. They discussed the unprecedented prospects for this year's harvest and exchanged hopes that the weather would stay fair. Young John came racing back with a crock of the promised compotey. "Please thank your good wife for thinking of us. We've enjoyed everything she's sent us from her kitchen." Father Martin thanked him with unfeigned enthusiasm and continued his walk. Harvest time was a period of feverish work for everyone, and he had not been able to visit the convent for several days now. Sister Catherine had no time for study. She was pressed into doing household work. He justified his late visit by supposing that she would use the evening for her reading or writing. Perhaps he could help. When he arrived he went directly to her workroom. There he found her at work over a fire and several steaming pots. The familiar room looked different lit only by the light of the candles and firelight. There were mysterious dark corners, and shadows jumped about the room as the flames leaped up and subsided. The heat was oppressive. Sister Catherine had wound her veil up around her head to allow the air to reach her face and neck. Her sleeves were rolled up above her elbows. Father Martin was sharply reminded of the night they met. He could still see the scene, but it looked so different to him now. Time had overlaid it with powerful emotions and the infinite shadings of experience. "Good evening, Father," she said in some surprise. "I've been too busy during the days to do my own work, so I try to get something done in the evening. What are you doing here?" The truthful answer was "I wanted to see you." He gave the prudent answer. "I wanted to ask you to visit a woman of the parish. She feels weak and is short of breath. She says she's not bleeding, but she's very pale. Can we do something for her?" "She probably needs better food. I'll come by tomorrow morning and you can show me where she lives." "I'll meet you at the church toward the end of Terce," Father Martin said rather thickly through a mouthful of honeyed fruit. "What are you eating?" "Timothy's wife gave us a crock of sweets. Here, try some." She hesitated, but answered, "I'm hungry and I know she's famous for her cooking, but I have to get this done. It's so late." It was very late for people used to rising with the sun and going to bed soon after sundown. Their fatigue and the unfamiliarity of being together in the evening added a dreamlike quality to the dusk. "It's fruit soaked in Timothy's own honey," Father Martin said wheedlingly. Sister Catherine was in the process of raking out the ashes in preparation for building a slower fire. She looked at her blackened hands and shook her head. "I can't stop now to wash my hands." Without thinking he replied "Here, I'll feed you," and scooped up a bite of the messy concoction. Sister Catherine wordlessly opened her mouth and Father Martin immediately realized his mistake. In thought he admonished himself, "You can do this. It's just food." Her open pink mouth dominated his attention, but he placed the bit of fruit more or less inside it. She laughed at the messiness. Then she stuck her tongue way out and licked her lips and chin where the honey was smeared. She opened her mouth for another bite. In his nervousness Father Martin had gotten a bite that was dripping honey all over his fingers. This time, to prevent too much dripping down her chin she licked his fingertips when he placed the food in her mouth. Then she noticed a stray trickle of honey rolling down his index finger on the palm side. She swept the length of it with her tongue, seeming to enjoy the sensation. He could not read her expression now. She was turned inward, trying to interpret some interior dilemma. When she opened her mouth again Father Martin knew that something awful was going to happen, but he couldn't stop now. He scooped up another supremely messy bite and inserted it a little farther than before into her mouth. He allowed the sensation of her warm wet tongue sliding like silk across his fingers and the feel of her lips closing briefly around his fingertips to overwhelm him. She swallowed. His arms went around her, with as little thought as though he were extending them to catch himself during a fall. He placed one hand on the back of her head to turn her face up to his and pulled her close. Then he kissed her as he had imagined a hundred times. Reality was much more compelling. He was both wildly elated and frightened when she opened her mouth to his kiss. His whole body ached for more pressure, a closer embrace. Sister Catherine had instinctively thrown her sooty hands out from her sides to avoid dirtying Father Martin's clothes. For what seemed like minutes she stood frozen, as lost in irresistible passion as he. Then she forgot cleanliness and fiercely began pushing him away. She was breathing fast ragged breaths to match his. She began to flush scarlet from her collarbones to her forehead. "Oh God! I'm so sorry! Why did I do that? Oh, Jesus," she gasped. She stepped back to get farther away from him. The she hid her face with her hands and tried to think. When she brought her hands down and started speaking she looked away from Father Martin steadily, refusing to meet his eyes. "Something is the matter with me. I think something happened to me when I was out the woods. Those men, they terrified me. I think they spoiled me somehow, the way I feel. I can't control my feelings anymore. I have feelings for you I didn't have before. How I think about you, it changed after that. I don't understand how they did that, but I'm spoiled." "Sister, they ..." he began, with some relief. He could explain his own change of heart and reassure her that she was not under some evil influence. "No, don't say anything," she interrupted him. "I can't bear to hear what you think of me for leading you into this. I'm so ashamed. Please believe me. I'll never do that to you again. Now, please, leave so I can start to forget this." She glanced over at the table."And take that crock!" she added on a rising note of hysteria. Father Martin hardly knew where he was in the jumble of his emotions. Every time he tried to say something Sister Catherine said "No!" in a louder, higher tone of voice. Although he hated to leave her like this, he didn't want to make a public scene that would shame her. Reluctantly he prepared to go. "Good night, I'll see you tomorrow morning." She heard that, and she looked directly at him. "Remember, the woman I asked you to visit," he prompted gently. "Yes, I'll be there. Good night." Her voice had returned to its normal register, but her eyes were staring off into some other reality again. After he left Sister stood in the middle of the room trembling, until the candles had sputtered out. She was asking herself what had happened to her life since she had met the priest from Rome, and been ruined in the woods. ************ The next morning Sister Catherine arrived at the rectory as promised, with an impassive face firmly in place. When Father Martin noticed that she cringed slightly if he came near her, he was careful to keep his distance. As they walked he tried to open a conversation about their disastrous encounter in her workroom. "Sister, last night you said you were spoiled. There's nothing wrong with you. Something happened between us, but it wasn't...." "Father, we can't continue to work together if you insist on referring to something which shames me to my soul," she retorted coldly. He accepted her ultimatum against his better judgment. The threat of being completely cut off from her quieted him. He hoped she dreaded that prospect as much as he did. But deep down he was wounded that she felt so dirtied and dishonored by her passion for him that she couldn't even speak of it. The vehemence of her rejection added to his pain. For the rest of the day it seemed as though they spoke written lines to one another. ************ A month later Father Martin sat on the bed in his room and gazed unseeingly at the books before him. After weeks of pretending to talk to Sister Catherine and pretending to receive real responses from her, he felt lonelier than he could ever remember feeling before. Perhaps he had been this isolated when he first came to Derby. Now there was a past time of sweet companionship to contrast with his present solitude. Heaped on that was his desire for physical solace, an ache that had not ceased since that August evening. As she always did, Alison knocked on his door to see if he needed anything before she left for her lodgings. This time he hesitated before answering, "No." Sensing his uncertainty Alison advanced farther into the room with an eager look. Putting a hand on each of his shoulders she looked down at him. "Are you sure there isn't some little thing I can do to make you more comfortable?" Father Martin gave in to his instincts. "I, I've got a knot in my hose that I don't seem clever enough to undo. I don't want to have to cut the laces," he almost stuttered. Alison knelt down in front of him and lifted his tunic. The evidence of his real need was clear to her immediately. She rested her hands on his thigh while she slowly untied the laces on his hose-all of which were innocent of knots. Then she moved her hand to his hard penis and stroked it deliberately. He pulled her up onto him while he lay back on the bed. She lifted her skirts and he struggled with his breeches. Within seconds their bodies were locked together in silent convulsive motion. They reached mutual satiety in minutes. She let herself fall on top of him, and moved to kiss him. He realized he could not do so. Turning his head away slightly, he placed her head on his chest, loosely embracing her shoulders. He already knew he had made a serious mistake. The feeling reminded him of biting into a ripe whole pear and getting a mouthful of earthy tasting mold. Alison didn't answer his needs in any way except the most primitive. Her presence made him feel lonelier than before. She felt wrong, sounded wrong, smelled wrong, here in his bed. What could he say to her? "You had me convinced for a long time that you weren't interested in women, dear. But you're well made and more than ready to present arms. We're good together. Maybe next time we'll be able to get all our clothes off first," she said with a laugh. Father Martin's depression deepened. Next time. What had he gotten himself into? "I'm afraid you'll have to go now," he told her. "I don't want Father Walter to know." He knew his words were ungracious, but he couldn't think of anything else he wanted to say. "Don't be foolish. I know he hired me because he thought I could take care of all your needs." Father Martin thought he would be surprised and annoyed by this development. "Nevertheless he wouldn't want a scandal. Since it's so late I'll walk you back to Anne's." He rolled Alison off gently and began to dress himself. She rose from the bed and began straightening her own clothes. She had been with many men who felt disgust after abandoning themselves to the mindless indulgence of their lusts. Most preferred to feel disgust at her rather than at themselves. She was the occasion of sin, in the flesh. She had to admit that Father Martin concealed his aversion better than most, but her disappointment went deep. She was not prepared to give up. Perhaps she could do something to remove at least one obstacle between them. "I'm sure Father Martin would be better pleased by you and me as lovers than by you and the saintly Sister Catherine. I noticed all of those long red hairs on your tunic after you supposedly ran into those terrible men in the forest." "They pulled her head back by her hair while they held a knife to her throat," Father Martin explained. "I held her afterwards when she cried." He tried to speak in neutral tones, but his expression betrayed the horror he felt when he visualized the scene again. She accepted this explanation in silence and did not speak again until he had seen her safely to the home where she boarded. He had confirmed her belief in a rival. Now she could form a plan. "Good night, Father Martin," she said graciously. To his relief the next day Alison treated him just as before. He stayed on his guard and avoided her company. Shortly after that night, on the Eve of St. Jerome, Father Walter received a letter from Bishop Thomas ordering him to welcome a representative of the papal legate to his parish. The priest, a Monsignor Dangelo, was to deliver a message from the pope at the Sunday Mass. The monsignor would be staying at the manor of Baron Philip. Father Walter was disappointed that Father Martin's strange fears reappeared under these circumstances. He refused to meet the papal representative and stayed away from the church during his sermon. He heard about the event from Father Walter. By then Father Walter was more disturbed by Monsignor Dangelo's message than his assistant's obsession with hierarchical conspiracies. In fact, Father Walter had to admit that the divisive and interfering nature of the message tended to reinforce, not rebut, the young priest's accusations. "He's got a face that's too girlish for my taste, and he's young--probably younger than you. I'd have respected an experienced, less aggressive spokesman more. He instructed the congregation to think about it and then come to him at the manor house with any suspicions they had about wrong doing by their neighbors. They were to ignore the position of the person they charged--they would be protected even if it was the parish priest! His actual words! Most people would do a lot better to keep their blame for their own examination of conscience. They should mend their own ways before worrying about their neighbor's conscience. There's too much maliciousness and envy to allow secret accusations to be made." This news confirmed every fear Father Martin had entertained in the past year. He would be taken off at the instigation of some angry parishioner and imprisoned until the crack of doom. The arrest which actually took place stunned him and most of the town as well. Four days after the Sunday sermon, Monsignor Dangelo sent his men to the Convent of St. Ursula to arrest Sister Catherine for witchcraft. Dame Agnes sent for Father Walter immediately after this happened, and Father Martin accompanied him without discussion. Dame Agnes was worried, but confident that it was all a mistake that could be corrected. The monsignor had told her that Joseph Thornapple had accused Sister Catherine of causing his wife's death in childbed. According to him she had advocated that he and his wife avoid childbearing by using magic practices. When they had refused, she had taken revenge by causing his wife to lose the baby and her life. Father Martin winced at hearing the confused account. Sister Catherine had tried to explain safe and unsafe times. They had interpreted the explanation as a magic spell. He remembered the fight Sister Catherine carried on to save Lettice's life a month ago. She battled the fever and infection following the still birth for five days, barely taking time to sleep or eat. He had been able to help some. She had explained to him what to do and why in the remote voice she always used with him these days. When it was over she had turned away from him with the stone face he saw now when she grieved. She would never trust herself to take comfort from him again. The Church Court was making the accusation, but where the death penalty might be the sentence, the King's justices made the final decision. The Royal Court would sit in Baron Philip's territory within two months. There would be time to look for other witnesses and to convince Joseph to reconsider his accusation. In the meantime they made plans to ensure that Sister Catherine would be safe in the prison cells of the manor house. "I've already sent Old Matthew with a cart load of things. Wool blankets, sheets and wood for a fire. Her room might have a fireplace, mightn't it?" Dame Agnes asked, looking anxiously at Father Walter. "Some nights are quite cold now. Every other day Matthew can deliver milk, eggs, and bread, and every week I'll send wine, cheese, vegetables, fruit and a chicken." "I'll have someone visit the manor to ask after her every day," Father Walter reassured her. "I'll do that," Father Martin volunteered. He was heartsick at the thought of Sister Catherine in prison, but thought that daily contact would bring him some peace of mind. "I can offer to hear her confession and bring her communion." His hopes were not entirely realized. The next day he made the hour walk to the manor house and was admitted to see Sister Catherine. They met in the outer room of the cell area. He was heartened to see that she looked well enough. Of course one night would not make too much difference, he reminded himself. His spirits were raised farther when he found that she looked at him as she used to do. Her expression was open and sympathetic to his feelings at seeing her here. She asked the guards to step farther away so that she could make her confession. She had never gone to confession to him before. Their close friendship would have made it embarrassing. Now she only seemed anxious to talk to him. "Father, I've been mean of spirit and uncharitable. I wronged a good friend by punishing him for my own faults," she whispered hurriedly, looking at him with worried eyes. "Your sins are forgiven, Sister, if you committed any. What you've confessed wasn't sinful. You were confused and needed time to think. Your friend understands. There's no penance." he answered firmly. Encouraged by his forgiveness, Sister Catherine went on talking softly. "Now I need to explain something to you Father, that you won't like, but I hope you'll forgive this too. I won't accept any more visits from you or Father Walter or anyone else. Anyone I'm close to is at risk of being accused along with me." "But the King's court won't sit for two months! We need to know you're all right while we wait. We're sure you'll be found innocent, but in the meantime...." His voice failed him at the look on her face. She was scared to be here, but determined to avoid endangering anyone else. "We're already working on challenging the testimony against you," he said encouragingly. "I'll come every day and ask if you want to see me. If you feel like you have to, you can refuse." He concealed his own dread at being kept from her, to avoid burdening her further. When he returned to the rectory Alison had already heard the news about Sister Catherine. She wondered if it was too soon to renew her attentions to Father Martin. In the rectory hallway she came up behind him and bade him good day. When he didn't answer she walked around him and looked at his face. She recoiled at the anguish she saw there. He scared her because he looked like a man in hell. A man in hell might do anything at all because he had nothing left to lose. She had better stay out of his way. For three weeks Father Martin walked every morning to the manor, where the guards told him that Sister Catherine didn't wish to see anyone. He inquired if she needed anything and heard every morning that all her needs were met. Father Walter spoke frequently with Joseph Thornapple to give him spiritual advice. Father Walter confided in Father Martin that getting a new idea across to Joseph was like trying to stuff a pillowcase with a wagon full of down. There just wasn't room for all of it. Still, he thought he was shaking Joseph's conviction that deliberate harm had been done to Lettice. This was not enough for Father Martin, who felt that he must take the ultimate step for Sister Catherine's sake. He feared the consequences, but sent a letter to Edgar begging for his intervention in the case of a nun from St. Ursula's Convent unjustly accused of witchcraft. He deferred to Edgar's judgment on the question of whether force, bribery or threats seemed most appropriate in resolving the situation. He shamelessly played on Edgar's memories of favors done for him by Father Martin. Finally he wrote that if all else failed he felt obligated to act as Sister Catherine's champion in a trial by combat, no matter what the danger to his own life. This was stretching truth to the breaking point, since there had not been a trial by combat in this area for fifty years. He asked Edgar to keep the request from both his and Edgar's father. Was Edgar still the same ingenuous fellow he had grown up with? Did he have the power to fulfill his request? This was the only way to find out. He paid Young Matthew generously for undertaking the weeklong trip to carry the letter to Exeter castle. Matthew was instructed to hand the letter to no one but the Duke's son, Edgar. Then Father Martin could truly think of nothing more to do than wait. *********** It was so cold now that a thin layer of snow whitened the long grass and hedges on either side of the path to the manor. The advantage for the traveller was that the paths that had been all mud earlier in the fall were frozen as hard as iron. Father Martin found the walk to the manor house went much more quickly now. He had finally gotten used to the chilly English weather, and he had a fine wool cloak that kept out most of the cold. He saw that Dangelo's soldiers had a big bonfire going outside the door to the guard room today. They took frequent turns warming themselves. They hadn't had time to accustom themselves to this climate. No doubt they were longing for the milder seasons of Rome. Edgar had sent back a short reply to his letter with Young Matthew. He said he would consider the matter and come up with a solution. No other word had followed. The sitting of the King's justices had already been postponed one more month, and Father Martin moved through his daily life in a sort of waking nightmare of anxiety. His daily visits for two months had followed the same routine. Father Martin spoke to the sergeant, who sent one of his men inside to find out if Sister Catherine wanted to see a priest. A few minutes later he would return and tell the sergeant, that no; the prisoner refused religious comfort. What Father Martin didn't know was that several weeks ago the men had stopped bothering to inquire what the prisoner wished. The answer was always the same, so what was the point? Today things went as usual until Father Martin was starting to turn away. They were all startled when Alan Hobson stuck his head out the door and called out "The prisoner has changed her mind. She wants to see Father Martin." The sergeant looked uneasy, but had no answer ready to dispute the claim. Father Martin eagerly approached Alan and descended the steps to the prison cells. Alan stopped him when they reached the area outside the cells. "I need to talk to you. I don't really know if she knows what she wants anymore. She's very ill, Father. This priest from the Vatican must be respected in Rome and London, but I'm heartsick at what's going on. I think it might be a sin too. Dame Agnes sends meat, puddings, eggs and delicacies here every other day. She sent several wool blankets and linens when Sister Catherine was first imprisoned. But do you know what I have to do? I have to turn all these things over to Dangelo's soldiers. She sleeps on nothing but straw and gets nothing but a little bit of the coarsest rye bread and water. He says it's to mortify her soul, but...I know she's innocent. I've known her since we were children and she is no witch." Alan looked around fearfully, but continued speaking. "Two days ago this man arrived at the manor and asked for Father Dangelo. He had a wagon with a heavy load of metal and wood tools. The Italian soldiers unloaded these things and took them to an upstairs room. Father Dangelo had them working all night, and they took Sister Catherine to that room yesterday. Father, they've started questioning her on the rack! I heard Father Dangelo cursing the man who brought the rack for dislocating her shoulder yesterday, on the very first day they used it. They put the shoulder back into place so they can put her on the rack again. I don't think they want her to live long enough to receive the judgment of the King's court. I think they want a confession at all costs and a convenient death. That Father Dangelo, I don't see how he can be holy enough to be a priest. He gets some kind of nasty pleasure out of seeing her suffer." Father Martin was struggling to stay on his feet while black spots appeared and expanded before his eyes. The room seemed to tilt unsteadily, but he knew that it was his knees starting to buckle. He grabbed for the table in the center of the room and lowered his head while he braced himself on it. "You couldn't have known, could you?" Alan asked uncertainly, catching a glimpse of Father Martin's white face. "I've got to see her," Father Martin forced out in a hoarse voice. "Yes, yes," Alan said. He was clearly relieved at transferring some of the responsibility he felt to someone else. When Alan first opened the cell door their eyes had to adjust to the dim light. Father Martin soon saw why Alan felt no uneasiness about letting him in, possibly against Sister Catherine's wishes. She lay unconscious, almost swallowed up, in a large heap of straw in the corner. "At least I can give her plenty of clean straw. But it's not enough to keep her warm," Alan observed mournfully. "It's her left shoulder that's hurt. I think they just didn't allow for her being so much thinner and weaker than she used to be." Her emaciation and pallor were hitting Father Martin with the impact of a mace. He went over to where she lay and sank down to his knees beside her. Behind him Alan went on talking. "The kitchen maid told me she had it from one of the soldiers that she never let out a scream yesterday, or even said a word. He told her it was uncanny how she seemed to just kind of leave her body, like no one was home. I said to her 'Who'd want to be home when the likes of them come calling?' Bea said 'Yes, but I'm thinking she might be close to deciding not to come back.' But last night she was back all right. She moaned and sobbed almost all the blessed night. In the morning when I came in with bread and water she was awake and said 'Alan, I can't eat that anymore. It's too much work to chew.' I said 'I'll get another bowl of water to soak it in first.' I felt so bad. She said 'No, don't be upset. It's not your fault. I just can't eat that anymore. Don't worry, this won't go on much longer.' I think she's right. She's so weak. Even if they don't torture her anymore...." His voice trailed off. "Now I can't get her to wake up at all." Alan noticed Father Martin touching Sister Catherine's bare head with a puzzled look. "He had them shave her hair off and take her veil the first week. For penance, he said," Alan explained. He saw that Father Martin no longer heard him. The priest's attitude confirmed everything Alan's wife had confided in him about the two last summer. "I saw Father Martin and Sister Catherine come out of your father's house this morning, Alan. They were talking about your father's scrofula and the salve he uses." "How are my parents?" he answered, only half listening as he ate a bowl of soup and a huge piece of bread. "They do as well as ever. I took them one of the loaves I had baked today. Did you ever notice how Father Martin and Sister can practically finish each other's sentences? And they have all these little jests that no one else understands. What are they going to do when they realize what a situation they have gotten themselves into?" "What situation is that?' he asked, concentrating on working a small piece of bone out of his mouth before he swallowed. "Why being in love with each other," she answered in a matter- of-fact voice. Alan had scoffed and remarked that summer's fancies often cool with the weather. His remark had seemed justified when he saw them in September. There was no sign of anything but courtesy between them then. Now Father Martin's face expressed every forbidden facet of his feelings for the nun. He didn't even notice when Alan left and shut the cell door behind him. Father Martin removed his cloak and gently pulled Sister Catherine from the straw to lie against his body, as he leaned back against the pile of straw. When he had to move her left shoulder she moaned, but didn't open her eyes. He tucked the cloak around both of them. It frightened him to feel how cold and still she lay. "Catherine, it's Father Martin. I'm going to get you out of here. Why didn't you let me visit? If we'd known what was happening we could have protested. We were so sure you'd be free by now. It never occurred to us that they would treat you this way." He spoke to soothe himself as much as her. What if she never woke up from this stupor? She jerked suddenly in his arms, and cried out in pain at the movement this caused in her shoulder. "Martin, is this all right now? Us, like this? What if someone sees?" Her eyes were wide with shock and her voice full of alarm. "It's all right sweetheart, no one can hurt us now." Father Martin half sobbed, half laughed with relief. "Don't worry for a while, just rest. Try to get warm." Her body relaxed again. He didn't know if she believed him, or if her strength had failed her. For several hours they lay there. Sister Catherine drifted in and out of consciousness and Father Martin formed and rejected plan after plan for securing her release. Then he heard the door open and the scathing voice of Father Dangelo. "Well this is an edifying sight. Do I have the pleasure of meeting the priest and his mare?" The insult made no impression on Father Martin as he tried to contain the immense rage that possessed him at the sight of this man. He knew that self-control would be required to accomplish his goal. Sister Catherine had snapped awake at the first word from Father Dangelo. Her face showed bewilderment and naked fear. Father Martin lifted her and placed her back on the straw, carefully covering her with the cloak. He spoke to her in low tones. "You trust me don't you, Catherine? Remember, I told you no one would hurt us. I know you haven't confessed anything. Stay quiet for just a little while longer." Then he straightened up and faced Dangelo. "You weren't going to put her on the rack today," he challenged Dangelo, failing to keep his voice from trembling a little on the last few words. "No, I wasn't. We're interested in getting at the truth, after all. We don't want her executed before she comes to trial. I judge she needs a few days to recover from that clumsy first attempt. In fact, I was going to let her have a little gruel today." Turning to Sister Catherine he continued smoothly, "Alan tells me your stomach is too refined for our bread. Perhaps you have a strain of noble blood. Let's see your father was a....farmer? But maybe your real father wasn't. And like mother like daughter, I see," He added, looking meaningfully from Sister Catherine to Father Martin. Again he failed to get the reaction he sought from his audience. They were far past such concerns. Sister Catherine was scared and confused. She remembered dreaming that Martin had been holding her in his arms, keeping her warm. If he really had been, what might they do to him? There seemed to be no limit to Dangelo's cruelty and power. "Alan told me you had asked for spiritual comfort, Sister Catherine, so he admitted Father Martin. My men tell me that was quite a while ago. Are you sufficiently comforted?" The facts of Sister Catherine's physical condition made his innuendo appear ridiculous. She waited, still feeling that silence was safest. "We'll assume you are. Allow me, Father Martin." He pulled the priest's cloak from Sister Catherine and shook off the clinging straw. "You wouldn't want to suffer from the cold on your walk back to town." Stay calm, Martin told himself. You have to think. Don't feel. Think. "Father Dangelo, Sister is so ill. If you don't want her to die in here before her trial you have to release her right now to await trial in her convent. That's how imprisonment of a member of a religious community is usually done in this country anyway. Your actions here have been extremely unusual: I might even say unprecedented. If Baron Philip were here he wouldn't have allowed it. There's something else you should know. The original accuser, Joseph Thornapple, is retracting his accusation. It's very likely she'll be found innocent, and it would look bad if you've harmed an innocent woman while she was in your custody." Father Martin congratulated himself on getting these rational arguments out in a dispassionate manner. "First of all, I don't think we can take it upon ourselves to say what Baron Philip would or would not allow if he were here. His Chief Steward and the Baroness seem content enough to leave things to my judgment. Secondly Joseph wasn't the original accuser. It was, what do you call her, Dark Alison. Oh, heavens, she was supposed to stay a secret witness," Father Dangelo exclaimed in mock dismay at his mistake in speaking her name. "Oh well, I'm sure the two of you can keep secrets. Alison wanted to keep her identity hidden due to the compromising nature of the situation when she found evidence of Sister Catherine's witchcraft. But that situation is no secret to you, is it Father Martin? She confessed to her carnal relations with you, and then showed us the witch charm she found under your mattress. She knew Sister Catherine had made it to bewitch you because it had her red hair mixed with some of yours, along with a number of foul substances added for the spell's purpose." Sister Catherine had her gaze fixed on Father Martin's face, looking for help in understanding the accusations being made. His stricken look told her that there was enough truth to be dangerous. "I believe Joseph was more receptive to Alison's persuasion than he would have been if his dear wife hadn't passed on some weeks ago. Alison convinced him that Sister Catherine had done harm to Lettice and the baby. Then we found a postulant at St. Ursula's who had kept some suspicious leaves. They were in a pouch that was seen in Sister Catherine's possession after the death of another postulant was hushed up. The leaves were identified as a plant used to cause miscarriages. Sister Adrian was reluctant, but felt it was her duty to bring the evidence to my attention. Don't be too quick to deny the charm, Father Martin, because if you aren't under a spell, you can be charged with choosing to participate in witchcraft. After all you helped take care of Lettice too. In fact I heard you were at the convent the night that young nun died." He enjoyed watching Father Martin try to maintain an impassive expression. Father Martin was lecturing himself on what was important right now. He must not think about the sorry origin of this tragedy, and instead concentrate on his goal. Remarkably, he succeeded. "No matter what the evidence or testimony, it's contrary to law and custom for you to keep Sister Catherine here in danger of her life. I intend to protest to Father Walter and to the town councillors immediately. You may have no idea of the high regard the people of this town have for Sister Catherine, but I assure you they'll be outraged to find out she has been treated so cruelly. It would be better for you if she were back in the convent before I bring a force of townspeople here to witness her imprisonment." Father Dangelo looked at the two inexpressive faces before him and wondered what he would have to do to get through that reserve and make progress in breaking them. He hadn't even succeeded in dividing them with that little revelation about Alison. Suddenly he knew. Sometimes the simple answer was the best. He bent down toward Sister Catherine and took her left hand in his, as though in a parting gesture. Suddenly he jerked down hard, and followed this by violently pulling her arm up over her head with a twisting motion. Sister Catherine could not prevent a scream at this sudden, unexpected agony. She writhed in pain for endless seconds until he released the arm. Tears poured down her cheeks, and she breathed with sobbing gasps, while she fought to regain her self- control. "What holy purpose did you have for doing that?" Father Martin asked tightly, as he approached Father Dangelo. A red cloud of anger was blotting out reason in his turbulent mind. "It doesn't always have to have a holy purpose," Dangelo answered with a foolish giggle. "You don't take on a position like mine if you don't sometimes enjoy the duties for their own sake." Father Martin hit him on the jaw so hard that he was thrown full-length on the stone floor. Seconds later two of Dangelo's men had stormed in from the outer room and immobilized Father Martin with his arms pinned behind his back. A third helped Father Dangelo to stand up. Dangelo touched his already red and swollen jaw. He approached Father Martin closely and spoke to him. "I don't enjoy receiving the kind of attentions I bestow," he said with a vicious smile, while he ran one finger deliberately down Father Martin's cheek. "He's accused of attacking a priest and striking him. Put him in the cell next to this one," he ordered the soldiers. Despite the fog of pain that had enveloped her, Sister Catherine had missed nothing of these events. Abruptly she spoke up. "Father Dangelo, please send for a clerk. I wish to confess to witchcraft, including the bewitching of Father Martin. I made him come here today to help me escape, and I made him attack you." Father Martin sent her an agonized look and pleaded with her. "Catherine, don't confess. You're innocent, and the court will find you innocent if you can survive. If you confess they might..." "Get him out of here," Father Dangelo interrupted. As they dragged him out he heard Catherine and Dangelo talking. "If I confess you must release him. He can't be held responsible for his actions." "We'll see. He does have some protection from friends of his family." Then the two waited without speaking for the scribe. They listened to Father Martin being pushed into the adjacent cell over strenuous resistance. He continued to yell over the scuffle. "Catherine trust me. Don't confess. Don't lie because you think it will help me. Dangelo, what if I confessed that I was the head of the damn coven and told you that she wasn't in it!" "Then I would accuse her of bewitching you into making a false confession," Father Dangelo mused aloud. Then he went to the tiny barred window in the cell door and ordered the soldiers to tie and gag Father Martin. In the resulting silence Sister Catherine asked rhetorically, "You never lose do you?" When he shook his head she continued, "Why has it become so important that I not be found innocent? You were planning my death in prison to avoid that. Why?" "It's nothing personal, Sister," he replied."I'm here to demonstrate the power of the Pope and the Roman Catholic Church, a power from which there is no recourse. I needed an example to put fear in the hearts of these people. I didn't know what kind of accusations I would get, but the one against you was perfect. There were three witnesses and physical evidence. The problem is that the testimony seems to be slipping away. I can't let you be an example of how someone might escape from the power of the Church if the evidence wasn't quite good enough. I want people to remember how an ordinary person, even a nun, could be destroyed by us on a mere accusation. It will strengthen our control here for years. Truthfully, Sister Catherine, we're still planning your death, but maybe we don't need Father Martin's." It distressed her to think that Father Martin was blaming himself for the accusation that had come from Alison. She knew that Dangelo had planned that revelation to break down their united defense against him. It hadn't worked. What Dangelo didn't know was that she knew a deeper truth than jealousy. Her refusal to acknowledge the full extent of their love, her constant cold deflection of what she knew were attempts to talk about their bittersweet attachment, had set Father Martin up for that kind of fall. He had had a temptation that she had not, and he had succumbed. It didn't alter the nature of their connection. But Dangelo had won in the end anyway, not by clever strategy but the simple threat of violence against the other. Neither of them was proof against that. The scribe was shown into the cell to take down her words, since she was too weak to walk to the outer room and sit at the table. She confessed to everything they asked her to, but she would not implicate others. One look into her eyes convinced Dangelo that she would not yield on this point, not even for the sake of Father Martin. After the confession was signed and Dangelo had left, she lay in the dark and wished she could have thought more clearly. Her thoughts had been clear during the first weeks. At first she had prayed for release and expected it to happen. As she was questioned over and over again, and answered honestly, she couldn't understand why God didn't reveal the truth to his earthly representatives. She came to see that these men weren't interested in the truth, but in the goal of finding her guilty. That was when she stopped talking. In the enormous silence that followed she thought a great deal about the God who selected these torturers to act for Him. She realized that she had always put her father's face on God when she prayed, or wrestled with questions of conscience. Her father's face didn't suit the new God of her imagination. She couldn't find a face that fit except maybe the blind, blank face of the sky, which rained, blew, snowed and shone with impartiality across the landscape. This new God didn't have much influence with her. Her thoughts had become very hazy after two months of near starvation, but she remembered once thinking that Father Martin was right after all about religion. When imprisonment and starvation didn't result in her confession, Father Dangelo had tried the whip. He still failed to get the response he sought. When they finally put her on the rack it felt like the suffering from some terrible disease or random accident, whose cause could not be deciphered. Only one thing remained clear to her--she had to protect Martin from this affliction. She had done so. Now there was no need to think anymore. Gradually she escaped the torment of her newly injured shoulder by slipping back into unconsciousness. Outside the cells Dangelo sent for Alan. "Alan, start making arrangements to hang Sister Catherine tomorrow. She signed a confession to witchcraft," Dangelo ordered "Monsignor, only the Royal Court can approve an execution. The Church Court can't....," Alan stammered, dumbfounded at this sudden decision. "With a signed confession and evidence I'll take the responsibility. After it's done, Father Martin can be released. I may be back later tonight to talk to Father Martin about his crime. You start making arrangements with the manor servants for tomorrow. Is there a local man who can be trusted to do the hanging quietly and efficiently?" Alan thought of Richard Butcher, whose sister had been brought through a difficult childbirth by Sister Catherine. He suggested his name, in hopes that when a strange soldier approached him on the matter he would raise the hue and cry against Dangelo. "Hmm, I'll think about it. She's so light I don't know if any of my men has the skill to do it quickly. I don't want to waste the day from dawn to dusk while she strangles. But if the drop is too high or the weights too heavy, it will be a very messy decapitation." Sister did not hear the interchange in the area outside the cells. Father Martin heard the discussion, as he knew he was meant to. None of the anxieties that had haunted him previously had been quite so grim as the reality that was unfolding around him. Should he offer to pay for an executioner from Nottingham? A master swordsman could painlessly sever that delicate little neck with one stroke. He was probably good enough to do it himself. His eyes closed reflexively as though the action would banish the image from his mind's eye. He couldn't be sick into his gag. That would make it even more difficult to concentrate. He had one last strategy to try before their situation was hopeless. He sat trussed up on the floor of the cell all of that evening, except for one short time when two of the soldiers came in and untied him so he could use the privy. Dangelo's soldiers seemed to be ordinary professionals. They didn't appear to share his perverse enjoyment in making others suffer. When they tied him back up again he thought they even looked at him with some pity. He was emboldened to ask them to leave the gag off. He convinced them that he would be quiet. It would do no good to make noise here anyway. Dangelo returned at midnight with a man Father Martin had never seen before. They entered the cell and set a bag on the floor. Father Martin concentrated on his strategy. "Monsignor Dangelo I can make you a bargain that can help you to rise high in the Church," he said quietly. "And what do you have to offer me?" he responded, sitting down on the floor next to Father Martin. "Information. You can use it against somebody or for somebody. I'm sure you could think of an infinite number of ways to make it pay for you." Martin tried to slide away from Dangelo. "When you release Sister Catherine I'll give you the details. I'll wager when you hear them you'll think it's worth your while to let me go too." "How do I know it's worth my while to let her go?" Dangelo asked leaning in closer to him. "You don't even really care if I let you go, do you?" "I'll give you some of the facts now. There was a murder four years ago, in the highest court. I can tell you who in the Church ordered it to be done, how it was done, and the person in England who carried it out." "King John! You know who the people were behind that?" Dangelo exclaimed in real surprise. "No wonder you have a reputation for being a suspicious person. I'm surprised you've lived this long. But I can't make a deal with you. Even for that information I can't let her go. It would make me look weak. Besides, I have a feeling knowing those details would be more dangerous than useful." "You miserable bastard. I hope you and your ambition end up in the Tiber like the rest of the sewage." Father Martin finally stopped trying to be conciliatory. Father Dangelo raised his hand over Father Martin, who ducked away from the expected blow. Instead Dangelo just gripped his jaw with that hand and grinned while he forced Martin to look him in the eyes. "I'll let you go, but I'll make you regret hitting me first." "You think I can regret anything more than I do already?" Martin almost laughed. "We'll see, won't we." ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** Scully didn't know if she should be pleased or upset that Mulder could joke about her predicament. He rarely lost his ability to find the humor in a situation, no matter how grave. She had to admit that his final irreverent comments had raised her spirits by emphasizing the absurdity of the accusation against her. There would be ample opportunities for paybacks. Sheriff Reynolds escorted her upstairs. The upstairs had been remodeled about ninety years ago to install cells. The stairs led to a hallway on the left. Originally four bedrooms had opened into the hallway. Now there were two enclosed areas on opposite sides of the hall, each with its own door. Inside the door on the right was a room containing two barred cells, like cages, side by side and separated by a five feet of space. Each cell had a mattress on a metal frame bolted to the floor against the bars, which were set against the wall at the back of the cell. The bars were old, but sturdy. Sheriff took out a huge key off his belt for the correspondingly huge lock on the cell door. Scully was relieved to see modern plumbing--a sink and toilet- in each cell. "Did this town have to hold very many hardened criminals when these were built," she asked curiously. "Oh yes, during the silver strikes there were arrests of some big-time highway and bank robbers. Sometimes those boys had gangs that would try to storm the sheriff's office and break their buddies out. They never succeeded here though." "We don't have a matron, Agent Scully," he continued, with some embarrassment. "I'll knock before entering the outer door and wait for an answer." "Sheriff Reynolds I have a request." He looked at her silently, expecting a wish he couldn't grant "I'd like a really big breakfast from Marge's Kitchen. It's almost noon now and I didn't get any dinner last night." He couldn't help grinning at that. "That we can do something about. I'll give Marge a call." He left, returning in half an hour with a tray of eggs, sausage, pancakes and coffee. Scully almost forgave him for arresting her on the spot. Time dragged after breakfast. Scully had nothing to read and nothing new to put into a report. She was bored enough to wish that she had Melissa's unsettling manuscript to read. They had hauled her off to jail this morning before she even had a chance to call Mullins about the results of the date testing. She sighed and decided that as long as she was in jail she might as well be tortured further. She took out her notebook and began outlining her five-year career plan and self-assessment of her job performance for the past year. Skinner had been nagging them to file these documents so he could complete their performance review paperwork. Scully had to admit that Skinner had the worst of it. She shuddered at the thought of preparing a performance review for Mulder that had to incorporate his own notes. She was always careful to indicate that she was not interested in the administrative career ladder. Scully began writing: Five year goals 1. Survive 2. Prevent an unknown cabal from taking over the earth 3. Get a life 4. Persuade my partner to follow procedure. Get serious she scolded herself. Scratch number four. Limit yourself to attainable goals so your evaluations will look better. She was glad of an excuse to stop working at two o'clock when the Sheriff discreetly knocked and waited for her answer to enter the cell. The sheriff entered on hearing her "Come in." Scully tried not to stare as he brought a wizened, old woman into the cell area. Her gray hair stood out in spikes. She exuded an air of belligerence that was almost palpable. The sheriff spoke soothingly to her as he opened the cell door, but insisted on taking her purse before he locked her in. "We can't have you smoking in here, now. It wouldn't be safe." "Safe!" she answered with a snort. "I'm sixty-seven and haven't lived safe yet. D'you think I'm going to start now?" "What about your roommate? She might insist on her right to a smoke free environment." It was only then that the woman noticed Scully sitting on the bed in her cell. "First time I ever remember having a roommate," the woman muttered. "I'm sure you'll get along just fine," the sheriff asserted with confidence. "I'll see you ladies later." "Drunk and disorderly," the old woman barked suddenly. "What about you?" Startled, Scully answered shortly, "Murder." The woman's bushy eyebrows went up at that. "I had you figured for drugs or shoplifting." "I didn't do it." "Was it Tim Hargity, or did the sheriff just stop you for speeding and find out there was a warrant out for you?" Scully was beginning to wonder why this woman was here. She didn't seem drunk. "It was Hargity. Did you know him?" "Nobody knew Hargity very well. He liked his privacy. A lot of us do. My name is TJ by the way, for Thelma Jean." "TJ, is Sheriff Reynolds so hard up for work that he locks up a mature woman for having a few drinks?" "What's your name?" "Dana." "Dana, it's true I'm not very drunk. But I'm a mean drunk when I get a real skinful. Sheriff Reynolds believes in preventive jail for me when I get started." "You realize he's violating your constitutional rights, don't you?" "We get along all right with Sheriff Reynolds in this town. Anyway this time he had cause." As TJ spoke, she was reaching into an inside pocket of her gray polyester suit jacket. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter with a satisfied smile. "You don't mind, do you?" she asked, not waiting for an answer to light up. She took a long drag and began coughing lustily. "Can you believe I found a twenty dollar bill on our front porch this afternoon? I went to let the dogs in for the afternoon feeding, like always, and there it was, stuck between two boards. Emmie (that's my sister) never lets me have any money. She even buys my cigarettes. It just about kills her to do it, but I'm about as mean without my smokes as I am with a few beers. I call her Emmie for Mabel Ethelyne, that's her given name. Anyway, I tucked that bill away and went for a walk to Kelly's this afternoon. I always tell myself I'll keep it under control this time. But somebody always says something to put me over the edge." "What did they say this time?" "Pete said 'I can't serve you anymore, TJ.' So I picked me up an empty and threw it at him. Didn't hit him though. He sent somebody for the sheriff and here I am. I don't feel so mean now. Last time I broke the big TV in the bar. Emmie had a hard time getting over that one. I went short on cigarettes quite a while so we could save up to replace it." "Where do you and Emmie live?" "We live right across the street. We're Mae's Home for Strays. It's a disgrace how many people drive up north this way to dump off pets they're bored with. But God that place stinks. Still, it's Emmie's place. She's good to let me stay there or I'd be one of those homeless ladies with a shopping cart somewhere." "We've come down a long way in the world," TJ sighed. "Our Daddy was J.R. Young, direct descendant of Brigham Young in Salt Lake. When he got to be a man he didn't get along too well with those clean- living Mormons. He came up to Idaho during a silver rush and made a bundle. When he got married Momma's family had money too. They bought a ranch and Daddy made it a big success. It was the Bar J." "It still is the Bar J, isn't it?" Scully exclaimed. "I guess they never bothered hanging up a new sign, but it doesn't have much to do with ranching now. We don't have any transportation so I haven't seen it in years. It was wonderful once- miles of cattle and horses with the forest and mountains around it. They walled off the world. Emmie and I rode bareback, like Shoshone braves, right along with Daddy. Momma didn't like it, of course, especially when we got older. She wanted us to get married. That never seemed as exciting as being with Daddy. He was a beautiful man." She stopped talking and flushed her cigarette butt down the toilet. "So the Bar J isn't a ranch anymore?" Scully urged gently. "We sold it to a speculator back in the seventies. It didn't stay in anybody's hands long. Then some corporation bought it two years ago and closed it down tight. I heard from a friend who works in the cattle trade that the Bar J hasn't sold any cattle in two years. They've got some animals, and they're doing some kind of breeding experiments, but they're not raising a product. I know a guy who picks up odd jobs that helped transfer one of their deliveries from a commercial truck to one of their own trucks in Rexburg. He said they were getting two hundred beehives! On a ranch! With no crops to pollinate? I ask you!" Scully felt her anxiety increase as TJ spoke, and she put this information together with what she had learned yesterday. There was a lot of money, expensive high tech equipment, a remote area, serious security, and an anonymous corporation. Most damning of all there were bees. And Mulder was loose alone in this highly suggestive landscape. "TJ, I'm in Digger because I'm an agent with the FBI. This murder accusation is ridiculous. I should be released tomorrow, after they test my gun. In the meantime I'm going to write down what you said, and I'd like to ask you a few more questions." "Sure, write it down. But what for? It's a free country to not sell cattle in and to keep bees for a hobby if you want to." "Yes, but this may tie in to what we're here to investigate. Zeb Smith reported finding steer carcasses that were mutilated. He thinks aliens from UFOs are responsible, but we want to eliminate the more obvious possibilities first." Scully got her notebook out of her bag and began to record TJ's information. She reflected that the same lax procedures that allowed her to keep her plastic bag had allowed TJ to keep her cigarettes and lighter. I guess they don't believe I'll suffocate myself in despair over one night in jail for a crime I didn't commit, she reflected wryly. TJ sat silently smoking another cigarette while Scully wrote. When Scully finally looked up again from her writing, TJ had drifted off to sleep sitting on her bed and leaning against the wall. This new information made it even more frustrating to be mewed up in here. She longed to go back out and push Dr. Anthony a lot harder on the nature of Bio-Gro's work In the absence of other activities she started wondering what Marge would send over for dinner. This question was answered at six thirty when a knock at the door was followed by the sheriff and deputy, each carrying a tray. TJ woke up at their entrance. "I'll be leaving for home in about half an hour. Deputy Hansen will be staying downstairs all night," Sheriff Reynolds informed them. They had meatloaf with two vegetables and pie for dessert. TJ picked at hers with little enthusiasm, but Scully ate everything she got. Deputy Hansen returned alone at seven-thirty to pick up the trays, and to release TJ from custody. No charges would be pressed. They appeared to be following a familiar routine, with TJ helping Hansen by carrying her own tray downstairs, and him remonstrating that she should have eaten more of her vegetables. "Good-bye Dana. I hope you get out soon and get back to your investigating," TJ called on her way out. About fifteen minutes later Hansen came back up and fussed around in a housewifely manner in TJ's cell. He cleaned the toilet and sink, and aligned the blankets on the bed to within a millimeter of symmetry. "I won't be back up tonight unless you call me," Hansen told Scully. When he left Scully took advantage of the solitude to see to her personal needs. Afterward she at on the bed and had nothing to do once more. It felt like those last afternoons and evenings in the hospital when everyone was sure she was getting better. She had no monitors or IVs that required checking. Her doctors had gone home, and the nurses had no attention to spare for non-critical patients. Her visitors had gone back to their regular schedules, anticipating her return home any day. Sometimes it seemed as though the world was going on without her, just as if she had died instead of recovered. Doubts about how long her remission might continue would begin to intrude on her thoughts. Then Mulder would slip in with a shy smile at seeing her cheeks pinker every day. He would tell her about the horrible surveillance job he had done that day as ongoing penance for maverick behavior. He had been right about Blevins, but a mole at the highest levels of the FBI didn't excuse an agent from following procedures. She would sympathize and pass on family gossip, or something funny she had overheard the nurses' station. He never hesitated to offer her the comfort of a good-bye hug. It would be nice to have a visit like that right about now. She lay down and tried to think about tomorrow. The light was still on in the cell area, but she decided not to call Hansen to turn it off. If she woke up in the night, she might want the light. She woke up with a jolt two hours later. The first thing she noticed was that the smell of cigarette smoke was stronger now than when TJ left. When she looked up she detected a haze gathered at the ceiling. She looked over at the other cell and could barely detect a wisp of smoke rising from the mattress. Her first dazed reaction was to wonder what the penalty was for omitting fire alarms in the cell area. What if she had slept straight on through smoke inhalation to death? Her family could have brought a wrongful death suit against the county. Or maybe you couldn't sue them because they were government. Then she came to her senses and took action. "Deputy Hansen, there's a fire! Fire! Fire!" she yelled. She took off her shoes and banged on the bars as hard as possible. Nothing else was loose in the cell to use as a noisemaker. After five minutes of this her anxiety increased. Hansen must have heard her calls. Could smoke have drifted through the ventilation system and overcome him already? She saw only one opening on the floor of the cell area. Smoke would rise, not sink. There was no window in the room containing the two cells. The bed was bolted to the floor. All she could do was attempt to dismantle the bed and use the metal framework to pry at the door, or at least to make more noise. She kept her fears at bay for half an hour by working on this project, not forgetting to yell for Hansen at intervals. Damn TJ and her damn cigarettes. Damn the sheriff for not confiscating them. Damn me for not making a fuss and forcing them to take her cigarettes away. These refrains repeated themselves in her head while she kicked, pulled and twisted at the bed. She actually succeeded at freeing the pipe that formed the head of the bed. It was pitifully flimsy compared to the tempered steel of the bars. It bent when she applied it as a lever between the door and frame. So she took it and made the bars ring until her ears rang painfully too. If Hansen didn't come now it was because he was dead or gone. He wasn't coming. It finally sank in and Scully realized it was going to happen. This kind of fire could smoulder for hours and then suddenly blaze up and consume the whole room in a matter of minutes. She might or might not die from the smoke before this happened. Methodically she looked around for the means to prolong her survival until a possible rescue, however small the chance that rescue would come. She took the two blankets off the bed and soaked them thoroughly at the sink. Choosing a spot accessible to the cell door, but against the wall and as far as possible from the other cell, she set the soggy blankets down. Soon she would have to place her head at floor level to minimize lung damage. She took her notebook and tore out the pages containing TJ's information. These she put into her plastic bag. It might survive under her body if the place was not entirely consumed. She couldn't prevent herself, finally, from looking over at the other cell again. Although she had tried to prepare herself mentally for the worst; she couldn't stop a choked exclamation when she saw that the wisp had become a swift stream of smoke. Teasing little flames occasionally leapt up high enough above the mattress to be seen. The wall behind the bars and mattress had already been breached. It was so close already. It was really going to happen. She tried to control her breathing to avoid total panic. OK it was going to happen. Was there anything else she could do? Painful as it was, she forced herself to consider her family and her partner. Her brothers had their own lives. They would have survived her death of cancer, and they would survive this. Her mother had her faith and would soon have her third grandchild. Tragic as the loss of her other daughter would be, she did not see her mother defeated or in despair. But Mulder? She almost cried out again when she compelled herself to picture the aftermath for him of her death in this fire. Right now he would be doing the meaningless little things one did when trying to beguile the boring hours of a stakeout. What would it be like for him to realize later that he was searching for a radio sports talk show while she was dying in this jail cell? More than once she had smiled a little at the knowledge that Mulder was cooling his heels in jail as a consequence of taking some insane risk. "At least," she would think, "he'll be kept out of trouble for a while." Then she would go bail him out and deliver the standard lecture with a slightly condescending air. He had to be enjoying this turnabout just a little. The memory of that enjoyment would twist in his guts like a knife after she was gone. To make it even worse, fire was one of his greatest fears. Her death would be one of his worst nightmares come true. And he would live it over and over again in his imagination, because he would torture himself endlessly with alternative scenarios. In his head he would do something differently and she would escape danger, or he would do the same things again, and this horror would result. In his own mind, he would be the cause. Except that he had not caused this horror. This was a dreadful accident growing out of many inconsequential factors, a completely unpredictable event. How would he deal with it? She supposed that his risk-taking would escalate to heights that would make "suicide" the only truthful cause of death on the certificate that would not be long in coming. The contemplation of it was unbearable. She made up her mind and tore blank pages out of her notebook. Her pen shook, but the words came easily. There was a lot to say, and this was the very last chance to say it. Maybe she could leave him with enough comfort and reassurance to pull him through the first shocking impact of grief. When she finished she added these pages to those in the plastic bag, and tucked it into her waistband. Lying prone on the floor she pulled the wet blankets up over herself. Then she readjusted by pulling her legs up under her. It wasn't dignified, but it was as close as she could get to the comfort of curling herself into a ball. ************ What a dickhead that Father Martin was, letting two months go by before he checked out the actual conditions of Sister Catherine's imprisonment. Mulder had begun by enjoying his role as a swashbuckling priest in Melissa's saga. Out of curiosity he had taken fencing lessons while he lived at Oxford. He had shown a natural aptitude. There was nothing wrong with being a babe magnet either, except it didn't seem to happen in this life. Now only boredom drove him to read on. He had a bad feeling about the eventual fates of the priest and nun. Their faults irritated him disproportionately because he suspected they reflected some of his and his partner's real life failings. Had Melissa seen him as a useless bungler during the months of Scully's abduction? He didn't want to think about what her portrayal of Scully meant. Mulder glanced at his watch. It was 11:30 P.M. Zeb Smith's son ought to be home now, so he could take the first step in tracing the progress of Zeb's original packet of information from the Leaning Z to A.D. Skinner's office in Washington D.C. He dialed the Pocatello number and asked for Aaron Smith. "Speaking." "Mr. Smith, I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI on assignment in Digger. I need some information from you concerning a packet you mailed to the FBI for your father. He sent the local office an envelope of pictures and information last summer concerning cattle mutilation." "Oh, right. My dad already called me. He's very proud to be in an FBI investigation. Me, I wonder what you guys are thinking." "One thing we're thinking is that the package he gave you to mail in Idaho Falls was tampered with somewhere between here and Washington. Could you by any chance have lost some of the contents of that envelope by accident?" "He told me you were going to ask me that, and I racked my brains. He gives me an envelope like this to mail about every six months, so I didn't want to get the occasions mixed up. What happened was I looked in on Sheriff Reynolds on my way back through Digger. I wanted to talk about whether the sheriff thought my Dad was getting a little too fanciful and needed more overseeing. Sheriff didn't think so. As I was leaving Deputy Hansen got up and walked out the door with me. He told me he was going to Boise with some quarterly paperwork for reporting crime statistics. He said he'd be happy to drop the packet off at the FBI regional office. The envelope was sealed all the time I had it, so I know I didn't lose anything out of it. I wasn't curious. Dad had showed me every single thing in it--twice!" Aaron laughed fondly and continued "Dad is really something isn't he?" "Yes, your Dad is one of a kind. Thanks for the details. They could be very helpful. Good night, Mr. Smith." Mulder's memory held a clear image of the original envelope on Skinner's desk. It had been postmarked in Idaho Falls. Deputy Hansen must have taken the packet from Aaron to drop off in person, and then mailed it from Idaho Falls instead. He had a perfect opportunity to remove any of its contents first. Deputy Hansen found the body of Timothy Hargity. Deputy Hansen had strong opinions about disposing of dead animals right away. Deputy Hansen seemed awfully anxious to get Mulder away from the body to be autopsied. He failed. Now, while Mulder zealously stood guard over a dead cow, Deputy Hansen had total access to the other necessary element for that autopsy. "Scully." Mulder finished his thoughts out loud. He ran to the car. A voice in his head never ceased. Mulder, you dickhead. Won't you ever learn? Not in a thousand years? He had to drive with deliberate speed or risk losing his way on the unlit and unmarked two lane roads. His attempts to reach someone at the jail on his cell phone were useless. A recorded message asked him to hold the line, but the connection was broken each time before anyone answered. While he drove he tried to convince himself that he was overreacting. Instead he only felt that he was way too late. The voice in his head taunted him with reminders of what happened to Sam Hartley during his one night in jail. How could he have been smug enough to actually enjoy the thought of Scully locked up under undeniably odd circumstances? Ten minutes away his heart rate went into overdrive when he saw a column of flames and smoke reaching up to the sky from the town. It wasn't until he reached the main street itself that he could see the building that was on fire. It was Mae's Home for Strays. He told himself to relax, but the inner voice responded with an obscenity. He grabbed his overcoat from the back seat and threw it on over his flannel shirt and jeans. Sheriff Reynolds stood among the men directing fire fighting efforts and the rescue of strays from the house. There were at last ten people standing around, anxious to provide assistance to animals in distress. Others were dousing the flames with a fire house, but they were not wearing fire fighting equipment. "Sheriff, is everything under control here?" Mulder inquired perfunctorily. "The people are out, and almost all the animals. The fire truck from Dubois won't be here for another half hour." "Sheriff, I need to see my partner." "Why Agent Mulder, Deputy Hansen called me at home at six- thirty to tell me that he got a call from the FBI Boise office. Their ballistics testing had exonerated Agent Scully. He asked me if he should release her, and I said yes." "She would have called me," Mulder said disbelieving. "She didn't have a car." "Probably Bob gave her a ride back to where you're staying," the Sheriff offered. "He told me you were staying at the clinic, so you wouldn't know if she were back at the motor court." "She would have called me," Mulder insisted. Ten feet away from them stood a spike-haired woman in a chewed-up bathrobe. She appeared to be about seventy years old, but a cigarette hung rakishly from the corner of her mouth. She watched the burning house with a resigned expression while she openly listened in on their conversation. The woman interrupted them without apology. "Sheriff, that little redhead was still in the jail at seven-thirty when I was released. Hansen didn't say a word to her about getting out." "I have to get in there right now," Mulder said frantically. Hansen and Scully could be anywhere by now, but he had to start somewhere. "The offices are locked up and empty. Keep your shirt on. First let me make sure no one gets hurt here." Mulder couldn't wait and sprinted for the office alone. When he reached the building he saw that entry would not be a problem. They had no more than a conventional lock on the front door. The last time he had limped in to visit with Frohike after kicking a door down, his friend had helpfully presented him with a small, elegant set of lock-picks. After a short but intense course in their use, Frohike pronounced him ready to deal with the average door. "Really Mulder, when you know what you're doing, it works even faster than a foot." Now Mulder invoked Frohike's name like that of a saint, and had the door open in seconds. He learned instantly that they were in deep trouble. The lights he flipped on showed him what he already knew--lack smoke swirled down the stairs into the office. He ran up the stairs two at a time, following the arrows helpfully labeled "Jail Cells", yelling "Scully" all the way. At the top of the stairs there was a left turn into a hallway with a window at the far end. To slow his momentum he pressed a hand against the wall at the landing. He was alarmed to find the wall was hot to the touch. Each side of the hall had a door leading to a cell area. The one on the left was open and dark. The one on the right was closed, but smoke was drifting out from under the door. This door Mulder immediately threw open, and finally heard an answer to his calls. "Over here, Mulder," Scully rasped, her voice almost gone from previous shouting and the smoke filling the room. It was hard to see. Mulder noted that the cells were like two cages placed inside a room. As he turned toward Scully's voice, the source of the fire was clearly to his right in the other cell. He checked the empty cell's door and found it locked. He went up to the bars of Scully's cell. Pushing blankets aside, she approached him from the far wall and stood on the opposite side of the bars. "Mulder, how did you know?" Scully asked. He was rattling the heavy door of bars that confined her to the cell. His mind was working on the problem, but his body screamed run, run, run at him, always with greater urgency. It worried him that his body might mutiny and take over the decision-making from that stubborn brain. His fears increased when he took in the size of the huge old-fashioned lock on the door. His delicate lock picks would break off and jam a lock this size. There had to be a way out of this. He couldn't have gotten here just to watch helplessly while Scully was, Oh my God, burned to death. Don't think about it. "Scully, where are the keys?" he asked in what he hoped was a calm voice. "The sheriff and deputy carry them on their belts," she choked out painfully. "Deputy Hansen is supposed to be downstairs. Why isn't he there?" There was no time to spin theories. "I don't know. Scully, I've got to go across the street to get the keys from Sheriff Reynolds." They both looked at the fire burning busily in the mattress fifteen feet away. The wall behind it had begun to char from within. The fire had found its way into the building's structure, and now burned between the inner and outer walls. At any minute the entire house could be ablaze. It fairly hummed with the energy of the heat. They looked at each other and saw realization of what was going to happen register in each other's faces simultaneously. Surely hell itself couldn't offer the damned a moment of keener agony. "Here, put this in your pocket. It's my report. Don't try to come back in. Please. Don't," Scully said, thrusting a plastic bag with papers in it through the bars and into Mulder's hands. He stuffed it into his pocket mechanically. Looking away from him she asked in a hoarse voice, "Mulder, can I have your gun?" "No, Scully, I'll be back in time. I swear;" he yelled back, already running for the stairs. Scully resumed her position on the floor next to the far wall. She looked one more time at the door, and saw a new orange light pulse from the direction of the landing. Mulder wouldn't be able to force himself past that conflagration on the stairs, although she believed he would try. She hoped he escaped dying in the attempt. If only he had been willing to leave her his gun. Scully had assisted in treating burn victims, and she had a clear picture of might await her in the next minutes. She turned her face to the wall and shut her eyes. Mulder raced across the street. He would have given Scully his gun, if only to give her some slight sense of control over her fate. Never mind his own terror that she would use it prematurely. But what if he needed it to get the keys from Sheriff Reynolds? He and Hansen could both be involved in the plot to stop their investigation. He didn't intend to waste one second in discussion of any kind. Mulder was covering Reynolds with the gun from inside his overcoat pocket as he approached him, but he didn't need it. One look at Mulder's haggard sooty face brought the sheriff trotting to him while he fumbled for keys, and the words "The jail's on fire and she's in it" were enough to galvanize the man into a run. They came through the front door at full speed, but the sheriff recoiled instantly when he saw the flames at the top of the stairs. They were both coughing uncontrollably from the smoke. Mulder tried to pull the sheriff up the stairs with him, but Reynolds resisted strongly. "The fire may be under the stairs right now," Reynolds choked out. With that Mulder grabbed the keys held by the sheriff and pulled his overcoat up over his head. He ran up the stairs past flames licking at the landing wall resolutely refusing to have an imagination, or even reason. Only a machine could do this. At the top of the stairs he let the overcoat drop back down to his shoulders and entered the outer cell area. This time there was no response to his strangled, "Scully?" He hurriedly tried each key on the ring and succeeded in gaining entry with the third. By now he could no longer hold his streaming eyes open. He crawled to where he had seen Scully and felt around on the floor for her. She lay prone under the damp blankets against the wall with her legs drawn up under her, like a child hiding in bed from closet monsters. Lifting her dead (no he corrected himself mentally, her unconscious weight) with the blankets and overcoat to contend with, seemed impossible at first, but desperation produced the adrenaline he needed. Mulder staggered to where he thought the doors were. He was almost right, banging his own shoulder into the bars, and Scully's head into the frame of the outer door. The hall was momentarily clearer than the cell area, but he saw that the landing was now entirely engulfed, and that flames were swiftly moving down the hall toward them. With seconds to act he stumbled as quickly as he could to the end of the hall, pulled a piece of the blanket over his own head and simply threw himself and Scully backwards through the window. His sensations were pain and a sickening dizziness. Together they were rolling uncontrolled down the sloped roof of the side porch, tangled in blankets and coat. He tried to protect his limp partner by embracing her and shielding her head with his hand. He took the brunt of the impacts with own arms and legs. He didn't see it, but spectators told him afterward that a huge burst of flame had roared out of the window immediately after them, hungry for the oxygen now available through the broken window. Then, abruptly, they were in the air. Mulder tried to twist so that Scully would land on him, but he wasn't sure which way was up or down. More by luck than art, she did land on him with what felt like a great deal too much weight for one small person. Mulder was vaguely aware of excited people around them, but his chief concern was that he was never going to breathe normally again. The wind had been knocked out of him so thoroughly he thought he wouldn't ever stop sucking air in long enough to exhale. ************ He didn't resist the paramedics who had just arrived on the scene from Dubois. They loaded both Scully and him into the ambulance and set out for the community hospital in Rexburg. The medics called the doctor on duty there and relayed the details of Scully's condition. He instructed them to continue to the Idaho Falls General Hospital. Mulder was coherent by this time, and he made the mistake of asking why they had to go to a bigger hospital since neither of them were burned. The medics proceeded to scare him properly with a full description of the cascading lung failure known as ARDS. It could require the patient to spend extended time on a ventilator and to receive heavy-duty drugs which would have to be monitored very precisely. The syndrome manifested itself within 48 hours after an exposure similar to Miss Scully's. She might not have that much damage, they assured him cheerfully, and anyway half of the patients survived. The hefty dark haired woman who was driving urged him not to worry. The other medic was an African-American who hummed golden oldies as he continued to take Scully's vital signs at frequent intervals. Occasionally one of them would glance at Mulder with a kind of awe. He paid no attention--he was used to receiving strange looks from the medical community. Scully started to regain consciousness during the trip. Mulder had already surreptitiously removed the strap that held him on the stretcher. He rolled painfully off of it and crossed over to kneel by her so she would see his face first. Experience had taught him how comforting a trusted face and voice were when you were disoriented after an injury. Hell, he would appreciate that kind of reassurance one out of two nights when he woke from nightmares. "Mulder, we made it?" she gasped out between coughs. "We made it. You're not burned. They're going to treat you for smoke inhalation." He left it at that. She probably knew more about ARDS than he did anyway. Her return to consciousness raised the spirits of the medics to greater heights. After the next vitals check, they high-fived each other, and of course Mulder. By the time they arrived at the emergency room Mulder was beginning to quite like them. Scully was taken away for blood gas and respiratory function testing. Mulder went to radiology after a routine blood battery. X- rays showed that he although he was bruised and abraded in numerous places, there were no fractures. The radiologist gave him a set of scrubs to wear so he wouldn't have to put his smoke permeated clothes back on. When he left radiology and reported to the emergency room for processing out, he was pleased to find that Scully's condition had been upgraded from fair to good. She had a regular room where he could go to see her. When he met Dr. Apesos outside of the door to her room, she assured him that Scully's prognosis was excellent. She wanted to keep the patient for 48 hours of observation to be on the safe side. Since he was prepared to enter and celebrate good news he was all the more horrified to find her lying down and attempting to stop a flow of blood from her nose. When Scully saw his expression she was quick to reassure him. "Don't worry, Mulder. It's just a bloody nose. Apparently my nose banged against something when you were getting me out. When I sat up the clot came loose." Remembering all the banging and bumps they both received, Mulder didn't find a bloody nose hard to explain. He tried to dissociate the bleeding from past despair and take it as lightly as it deserved. This attempt somehow resulted in his ingloriously burying his face in the mattress and gripping its edge as hard as he could to avoid making a sound. What the sound would be he didn't know, but he was sure he could never stop making it if he once started. Scully stroked his hair until his shuddering subsided. Then she started talking quietly. "Everything is OK, Mulder. I'm going to be all right. In fact I don't think I'm going to give them 48 hours of observation. 24 should be enough" "You know all of the nurses are talking about you," she went on. "Shirley and Greg, the paramedics who brought us here, have been spreading the story all over the hospital. They saw you go into the sheriff's office. Nobody expected you to come out when the sheriff turned back and said it was too late to rescue me. Everyone was amazed when we came bursting out of the upstairs window with the flames behind us. Shirley is telling everyone it was like seeing an Indiana Jones movie." This made Mulder laugh, as she had hoped. "More like Barney Fife. I was so scared I couldn't let myself think about how scared you must be. But what scared me most was thinking that I wouldn't be able to force myself to go back into that building the second time. Bill called me a sorry son-of-a-bitch at the hospital, Scully, but he was wrong. I'm a very lucky son-of-a-bitch who didn't quite kill you this time either." "Mulder, I don't understand. How is it your fault that my cellmate was a careless smoker and the county sheriff is lax on searching prisoners and observing safety precautions?" Scully asked. Mulder practiced deep breathing to help him regain his self control and explained what he believed to Scully. "That fire wasn't accidental. It was meant to stop you from performing that autopsy. The evidence was staring me in the face and I didn't put it together." Scully looked skeptical. "You probably haven't thought about it yet," he continued, "but those paramedics were there because they had already been called when Mae's Home for Strays caught on fire. Don't you think two accidental fires in one night in a town the size of Digger is stretching coincidence a little too far? I think everyone was meant to concentrate on saving the animals and preventing the first fire from spreading. People would assume that any smoke or smell of burning came from there. Meanwhile the jail would burn up from the inside out, and even when the fire was noticed, everyone would believe the place was empty." "I know who did it too. Remember how Deputy Hansen found Hargity's body? What if he killed Hargity and broke in himself? The only tire tracks would be yours and his. Once you were in jail I was expected to lose my cool and drop everything to run around trying to prove your innocence, so Hansen could do what he wanted with the dead steer. He was probably expecting me to be gone already when he got there earlier today. He could have gotten on with the disposal right away. Then he tried to goad me into action. When that didn't work he told me I was required to abandon our investigation and come to Digger to make a statement. Unfortunately I knew my rights. So he was left with his fallback position--make it impossible for you to do that autopsy. He knew they couldn't keep you for long, so he had to arrange an accident fast." "But we don't have any evidence," Scully protested. "Hear me out, Scully. What finally got through to me was hearing from Aaron Smith, Zeb's son. He turned that packet of photos over to Hansen to hand carry to the Boise office. But the envelope was postmarked from Idaho Falls. Hansen just wanted a chance to edit the evidence Zeb was sending. I'm seeing Hansen everywhere. There may be evidence now that we know what to look for. He must have had the gun that killed Hargity. There'll be signs of arson in both buildings. And Hansen not only deserted his post last night, he called the sheriff and told him a deliberate lie. He asked if he could release you because of a call from the FBI that cleared you. The sheriff said fine, Hansen set the fire, locked up the office, and left you to be burned alive," Mulder ended on a shaky breath. He looked down at the floor so Scully couldn't see his eyes. He was wishing desperately that he could erase the image of his partner hiding under the blankets from the fire monster. "He must have been planning to blame the fires on TJ's smoking. That twenty dollar bill she found--he must have planted that too!" Scully agreed, as her memory of the afternoon in jail became clearer. "I'm going to start making some phone calls. I don't know if he intends to try to live down the lies or if he's already made a run for it. I'm not going to take any chances on leaving you here until I know more about what's going on. We still don't have a clue here to that elusive and supposedly unnecessary puzzle piece--his motive." "Wait a minute, Mulder. Yesterday afternoon is still a little hazy to me, but I need to see what I wrote on that report I gave you. Remember? You put it in your overcoat pocket," she prompted as Mulder continued to look blank. "My overcoat is in a plastic bag in a locker because no one can stand the smoky smell. Can you remember anything you wrote?" Scully thought a moment about what she now remembered writing all too well, but she also began to recall what TJ had said about the Bar J. "My cellmate at the jail was TJ Young. Her family used to own the Bar J. She follows the gossip about the place. She heard they haven't offered any cattle on the market for two years. And two years ago they had at least two hundred bee hives beehives delivered to their compound." "Beehives," Mulder muttered, his mind racing. "Is beekeeping a big industry here?" "I don't know, but two hundred hives isn't enough for a commercial enterprise and it's too much for someone's hobby. It's a ranch, not a farm, so they didn't want them for cross-pollination. Why would they combine ranching and raising bees?" "Scully did we walk blindly into the middle of experiments in biological warfare? They could be continuing those experiments in using bees as disease vectors." "The last time, in Canada and North Carolina, they were using smallpox. You described premature decay of the body as another effect of the strain they developed. That's been happening here too. Mulder, what if they were cutting up these carcasses to remove signs of smallpox pustules? I would have seen them on the internal mucus membranes during an autopsy. Then I would have known exactly what tests to have the Boise office run on the samples I took." "They preferred to have the bodies found, so the ranchers could make insurance claims. Otherwise there would have been a lot of curiosity every time a full grown steer disappeared mysteriously." Mulder picked up on Scully's train of thought. "Anyone but Zeb would have shrugged and figured the coyotes were learning better table manners. Probably Hansen is on Bio-Gro's payroll to follow up on disposal of the bodies. " "Hansen might have thought killing Hargity would earn him extra points with Bio-Gro. I heard the sheriff say that they were interested in buying Hargity's land, but he didn't think Hargity would ever sell. I wonder what all this damage control tells us about the success or failure of the experiments. Did they expect to have so many animals from outside the ranch affected?" Scully wondered aloud. "I'm going down the hall and make a call from the pay phone. Then I'll come back here and make some calls from the room phone," Mulder informed her. Scully knew that meant he was going to call "The Boys" as she thought of them, or the Lone Gunman, as they styled themselves. "Say 'Hi' from me," she ordered him. Mulder bent down and hugged her before he left. He could do that here. The smells and sounds of the hospital, as always, acted as a highly effective anaphrodisiac. He wasn't gone for very long, explaining when he returned that they wanted him to call back after they had had time to gather some information. They would look into the backgrounds of Bio-Gro and Bob Hansen. The other calls required some thought. They were safer if no one knew their theory, so his inquiries would have to be indirect. First he planned to find out the fate of the steer's body. He still had the key to the outbuilding in his pocket, but he didn't think that would stop the forces at work here. "Doctor Sharp, this is Agent Mulder. Have you heard about the incidents in Digger last night? "Yes, about 3 A.M. this morning Jay called and asked me to meet him here to treat a dog from Mae's for burns. He told me there were two fires there last night and your partner had a close call. Is she going to live?" he asked in a milder voice than usual. "Actually she's doing quite well. She'll probably be released tomorrow." "That's strange. Deputy Hansen came out here shortly after Jay did, and said he had word from the hospital that she probably wasn't going to make it. If she did she'd be hospitalized for weeks. That was why he ordered me to cremate that steer carcass you brought here. He said there couldn't be an autopsy now, and it would be too dangerous to keep the body around. That was one nasty job, Agent Mulder. I figure the feds owe me one," he said in his habitual abrasive manner. "I'm afraid they'll just add it to their tab. Thanks for the use of your shed." The account only confirmed what he already believed. The decision to stay with his partner here in the hospital would have been much harder to make, if he hadn't already been convinced that the steer had been barbecued to ashes hours ago. Next he called the FBI office in Boise and learned without surprise that the forensic evidence cleared Scully in Hargity's murder. He found that they had finally gotten through to Sheriff Reynolds at his home, after repeatedly failing to reach him at the jail. They passed on the forensic data and got the story of the fire from him. The sheriff had already contacted the hospital and was able to reassure them as to the safety of their agents. They were eager for details from Mulder, but he assured them that everything would be in his report. He saw Scully roll her eyes heavenward as he said this. "Well that's one problem solved. You're no longer a known felon, Scully." Then he called Sheriff Reynolds at his home and asked if he knew the whereabouts of Deputy Hansen. "No, Agent Mulder. I haven't been able to locate him. You're not the only one looking for him," he answered wearily. "The county Fire Marshall is here with a team of investigators. They're going through the debris. They have some questions they'd like to ask him. They haven't told me what they think about the fires." "What do you think, Sheriff?" "Well, Hansen was keener than I was to arrest Agent Scully. He was so insistent that Hargity would never let a fed inside his house. I didn't know Hargity that well. There was an incident a few years back that made me think he would bear watching." "A young woman hitchhiker came to my office and complained that Hargity wouldn't let her out of his truck after he gave her a lift from Rexburg to Digger. He told her his dogs would attack her if she tried to open the door. She had no ties to anyone or any place. She was bumming rides to get to the Alaskan highway, for no particular reason, I guess. Anyway, Hargity kept her in the truck for three hours trying to convince her to stay with him. She finally agreed, but told him she had to go to the bathroom at the cafe before they started the drive out to his place. She told Marge what was going on, and Marge just escorted her right over here. Hargity was gone when I came out. When the girl heard what a commitment it would be to press charges, she was gone too." "Ever since I've been kind of worried that Hargity might come up with a little more aggressive plan. Agent Scully might have looked to him like a woman who was vulnerable, although she doesn't strike me that way. I could believe that he let her in with some plan in mind and then decided not try anything. So I didn't have that much trouble with her story." "So you believe Hansen tried to frame Scully and then tried to kill her in that fire?" "I think he must have, but why? He didn't know her, and your investigation had nothing to do with him." "We're looking for leads right now. In the meantime I suggest that you get a warrant for Hansen's arrest. And consider him extremely dangerous." "Done already, and I've requested a temporary deputy." The sheriff gave a deep sigh. "I've known Bob Hansen for years. How could I miss seeing that he was that evil? This is the worst thing that ever happened under my jurisdiction," the sheriff observed dejectedly. "I'm sorry, sheriff. Believe it or not, I know how you feel. But this guy was pretty slick. I think he had a lot of help." When Mulder hung up he had a disgusted scowl on his face. Scully had come to recognize it as his expression of self-loathing at something he saw as a failure on his part. "It turns out that Hargity had some kinks that the sheriff thought were worth keeping an eye on. There was an incident a couple of years ago but no charges were brought. Reynolds was able to believe your story because he thought Hargity might have thought about kidnapping you." "I had that feeling too, Mulder, while I was there. He was watching me and trying to make up his mind about something. But he never said or did anything threatening. After I left I figured it must have been all in my head. While I was in there I was just hoping that, if he did take me hostage, the BATF wouldn't go in with flame throwers," she joked. When he didn't respond she took his hand and reminded him, "Hey, I'm a trained agent, just like you told Zeb, remember? I learned how to communicate with an armed subject under heavy stress. They even taught me how to get through to a guilt-ridden, unresponsive partner." "The ultimate challenge, I guess," he sighed; now looking remote and depressed. "Even Father Martin had enough sense to worry about Sister Catherine in the woods alone," he said, remembering his light-hearted question to Zeb about mercenaries. "What? Oh, Melissa's manuscript," she remembered. "If I'd gone with you on those interviews none of this would have happened." "We don't know what might have happened. You know they would have come up with some scheme to stop the autopsy, and we might never have made the connection to Hansen and bees as biological weapons. Isn't it about time to call the Boys again?" she prompted, anxious to distract Mulder from dwelling on a trivial decision that had had totally unpredictable consequences. Mulder raised himself slowly from the visitor's chair. It was only now that Scully noticed how carefully he moved across the room, avoiding any sudden changes in position. "Hey, are you sure you're all right?" she asked. She was ashamed the she hadn't inquired further into how he felt, after she learned that he didn't require further treatment. "They tell me I don't have any broken bones. Some of them feel kind of bent, though," he answered. "I'll be fine in a few days." "Thank you for saving my life, Mulder, " Scully said seriously. "You're welcome. But I'm not proud of my performance so far. The score is them, three, and me, zero. I was wrong about Hargity, wrong about Hansen and I still lost the steer." If he hadn't already gone Scully would have asked "Don't you get even one point for not losing me?" ************ This time Mulder was away longer than previously. When he returned he was absorbed in a new plan. "They found us a contact here, in Idaho Falls, who can give us a ride back to Digger this afternoon," Mulder told her. "There's a militia leader named Jimmy Flynn living in a cabin out in the mountains who helped out Langley and Byers with information in the past. They say there's a lot more to him than the usual militia type. I called him at his job and he offered to meet us here. He's going to fill us in on the backgrounds the Loan Gunman dug up." "I don't know, Mulder. Do you think militia members tend to be stable enough, and, well, smart enough to be helpful?" "I know what you're thinking, but can you guess what his job is?" "He's the minister of the Church of Elvis, the King of Kings." "No, Scully. I think you're guilty of stereotyping. He's a loan officer at the Idaho State bank." "What's his background?" "Military. Special Forces. After that, in the eighties, he went on one of those doomed trips to Laos to find American POWs. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five then. When he left the military he earned his MBA at University of Pittsburgh and came out here to live. He tells the people in his group they'll still need MBAs after the Tribulation. His group is the Joshuas, by the way. Their motto is "Let the walls come tumbling down." "Do you think there might be a song in that?" Scully asked with a resigned smile. "I'm going to rescue our clothes from their lockers and wash them. They've got washers and dryers for visitors. Flynn will pick us up at four and drive us back to Digger." "It's probably just as well we're leaving soon. One of the nurses told me the paramedics are talking about nominating you for the Congressional Medal of Honor." At this news Mulder stared at Scully with a truly appalled expression. He headed for the door and looked both ways before he exited, as though he feared being stalked. When the attending doctor stopped by shortly after this, Scully persuaded her to sign a release form for that afternoon. Mulder returned with the freshly laundered clothes, carrying his overcoat in a sealed bag. They took turns changing in Scully's bathroom, and were standing in the main lobby at four o'clock. In spite of showers and clean clothes they felt like refugees from a natural disaster. Both of them were wearing the clothes they had intended to wear at the autopsy. Mulder's were borrowed from Jack, and hung and clung in all the wrong places. Their shirts and jeans were dingy with indelible soot marks, and they still smelled smoky. Scully's hair was pulled back into a ponytail with a rubber band. Mulder hadn't been able to shave. They were freezing in the blasts of cold air coming in through the constantly busy automatic doors. Presumably Scully's coat was in ashes under the burned ruins of the sheriff's office. Mulder's was unwearable because of smoke, burns where hot ashes had landed, and rips cut by shards of window glass. Both of them moved like elderly arthritics, trying to protect bruises and pulled muscles from sudden stress. The sight of Jimmy Flynn did nothing to improve their self-esteem. He jumped gracefully from his four by four, and walked right up to them. Scully wondered what Mulder's description of them had been like. Flynn looked as though he should be auditioning for the lead in the next James Bond movie. He had black hair, and eyes the color of bachelor's buttons. His features were finely cut and complimented by a long, straight patrician nose, a type which turns up with some regularity in families with an Irish heritage. His tall, trim body made the pseudo-military fatigues he wore look like an outfit featured in GQ. He flashed white teeth and began to introduce himself. "It's a pleasure to meet you Agent Mulder, Agent Scully. I know you think you're going to find out we've done something illegal, but I assure you I'm a law-abiding patriot. Let me tell you about our organization, and you'll see for yourself." He indicated his vehicle with a flourish. Flynn carefully helped Scully into the front seat while Mulder pulled himself painfully into the back seat. "You look a little the worse for wear, Agent Mulder. I heard about your escapade last night. Very exciting." "No, Mr. Flynn, exciting is a seat for a Knick's game. I call last night terrifying," Mulder said brusquely. "Mr. Flynn," Scully broke in hastily. "What did you mean about us investigating you? You know we're not here about the Joshuas." Flynn turned his attention back to Scully. "That was for the benefit of any surveillance at the hospital. I don't want anyone to know what areas I'm really interested in exposing. Some of my own guys aren't sophisticated enough to grasp the complexity of the threat we face. That friends and enemies can be found within any group." "That fire you were in last night, Agent Scully, reminded me of an incident in the jungle back in 1985. It was in Laos, and we were looking for...." In the back seat Mulder drifted off into uneasy sleep. A tight curve taken slightly too fast disturbed his balance and woke him up half an hour later. They were somewhere on the two-lane road between Dubois and Digger. The sun had set, and the mountains were deep purple on the horizon. Scully and Flynn were still talking. "Your dad must have been a great guy to serve under. What a story!" Flynn was saying enthusiastically. Scully looked pleased and animated at his appreciation. Flynn told another story that caused Scully to laugh softly. Scully looked back over her shoulder to see if Mulder was still sleeping. She was surprised to find him awake and sitting quietly, with a look so haunted that she assumed he must have had a nightmare. She didn't want to ask him about it in front of Flynn. "Mulder, are you feeling all right?" "Sure, I'm OK Scully," he replied, lapsing uncharacteristically back into silence. "Now that you're awake, let's make some plans for getting more information on Bio-Gro." Mulder was puzzled at the eagerness in Scully's voice. Perhaps Flynn's conversation hadn't been as riveting as he thought. Scully kept looking at him expectantly, and she saw some of the bleakness leave his expression. Mulder sat forward and addressed Flynn. "I understood from Byers that you've been observing Bio-Gro's activities since they bought the Bar J. We'd like to know what you've already come up with, but first, do you know of any way we can get into their compound to get hard evidence?" "A lot of things happened pretty quickly since you made your plans to take that steer to Doc Sharp's. My observers noted unusually heavy truck traffic in and out of the ranch starting Tuesday night. That was the night after Jack Chambers found that steer. I have a contact who reported helicopter landings in the northeast corner of the property on Wednesday night. That was the night of the fires. But I'm told there's been no sign of life in the place since that time. I have a friend who did a high flyover this morning with some good equipment, and he says there are no longer any people or animals on the property." "They've sanitized it already. Why did it take so long for me to make the connections?" Mulder asked rhetorically. "Until the fires and the information I got from TJ our only connection was that dead steer. You can't connect one dot. Nobody did any background for us on the people and institutions in the immediate area because they didn't take it seriously enough," Scully observed sensibly. "Yeah, and neither did I until it was almost too late. In fact it probably is too late to prove anything," Mulder said disgustedly. "If anyone had done background they wouldn't have sent us," Scully added. "It seems as though they were exposed because no one was doing Cancerman's job," Mulder said quietly. "Whatever Beltway concerns you may have, we need to act quickly here if we're going to salvage something in the way of knowledge or evidence," Flynn broke in. "What you call 'Beltway concerns' we've found have tremendous impact in places you wouldn't expect," Mulder replied with asperity. "Sure, sure. I'm trusting you because of Byers and because you both came within about thirty seconds of being murdered by a law enforcement officer. From what Byers told me I believe Hansen set both fires. He was taking a chance that the fire truck called from Dubois during the first fire might arrive in time to rescue Dana." Mulder's head came up at the use of Scully's first name, but he said nothing. "The timing had to be perfect, and it was. Byers found out that Hansen worked some twenty years back in Mitchell, South Dakota as a fire fighter. Before he left that job he had his picture in the paper a few times as the chief investigator into several different mysterious fires. He got a lot of praise for pursuing his investigations more vigorously and persistently than usual. Unfortunately the cases were never solved. But when he left the department they didn't have any more mysterious fires in the area. Since then he's worked in law enforcement with no incidents traceable to him. I'd like some hard evidence of arson, but his background along with the circumstantial evidence convince me that he's the guilty party." "Here's the pattern we've seen in five different places, all in western states or Canadian provinces. A wealthy corporation buys up a lot of land. Their name is new and if you look behind it you find a series of shell companies, with no genuine history. The trail ends with a company that has government top secret security reasons for concealing everything about itself. Or sometimes it ends with a foreign company located in a country with no disclosure requirements. The corporation installs state of the art security and then brings in expensive lab equipment and computers. We once validated a report of a Cray computer on the premises. The latest three examples, including this one, have associated mortality among the cattle on the neighboring properties with unusual signs of predation. After one and half to three years the people running the places disappear with no incidents. We have observations of beehives reported, no but information on how they are related to other activities. The ranches, or farms, whichever they call themselves, never offer any produce or animal products on the market." Mulder couldn't help whistling admiringly. "Your people are a lot better than the FBI at detecting these enterprises." "Who knows what information you never see, Agent Mulder." Mulder then told Flynn about his experience with bees carrying a smallpox virus. He described the exceptionally sudden death in humans that resulted from the infection, and the accelerated rate of tissue decay it caused. "Tissue decay, yes," Flynn said thoughtfully. "But we haven't heard a word about human deaths or disappearances connected with these experiments, or whatever they are." "So what grudge did they suddenly get against cows?" Mulder wondered. In Digger they pulled up next to the rental car Mulder had left in the street last night. Mulder and Scully avoided looking at what was left of the sheriff's office. There was nothing but a charred foundation scattered with blackened timbers and gray ashes. The lingering smell of the smoke alone brought last night's terror back too vividly. There was little more left of Mae's place. The sight of Marge's Kitchen suddenly reminded Mulder that they hadn't eaten since yesterday. Neither of them had felt like eating at the hospital. He was surprised Scully hadn't protested before this. "What do you say, Scully, are you ready for some of Marge's pot roast?" he suggested. "No, I'm not really hungry right now," she answered absently. When she saw how crestfallen he appeared at this, she changed her mind, and observed that she would have something after all. When Marge came to take their orders Flynn and Mulder ordered the roast beef plate. Scully asked for the salad plate with crackers instead of chips. She was puzzled to see that Mulder looked disappointed again when she gave her order. "You look depressed Mulder. Is anything bothering you?" she asked, while Flynn was in the men's room. "Well, Scully, I was just wondering if you feel OK. I mean recently you've had a healthier appetite." She considered this for moment. "You know you're right. I was so relaxed after I got well, and food tasted so good. Since last night I don't feel the same way. That feeling of relaxation is gone. I'm not sick," she assured him hastily. "I'll get hungry and eat, but I can't focus on just the pleasure of eating anymore." They looked at each other sadly, realizing how many of the simple pleasures of life had slipped away from them during the last few years. When Flynn returned he and Scully had a lively discussion of colorful places they had eaten. Finally it was Scully who again turned the conversation to the problem at hand. "Mulder, do you still think we should consider going out to the Bar J?" "It's the one and only thing we can do. Is there any chance the virus could be isolated in the bodies of dead bees, or in manure?" "The classical smallpox virus isn't shed in feces, but I don't know about dead bees," Scully answered. They both looked at Flynn. "OK, I can arrange for some of my men to get us into the property, and get through their security, if any of it is still operational. But I won't take any risks for you, and that includes any risk of exposure, arrest or legal entanglements. What I'm doing is too important to endanger for any one person, or mission." "Understood," Mulder assured him. They agreed to meet at eleven o'clock that night at a point along the Bio-Gro security fence that was partially screened from the road. There they would enter and separate into groups to examine the main house and outbuildings for possible evidence. As they watched Flynn drive away, Mulder remarked, "We've got to find Sheriff Reynolds at home." At Scully's questioning look he added "He should be glad to lend you a replacement for your gun. Hansen is still at large, and you were his last target. I don't think he has any motive to kill you anymore, but I'd feel better if you were armed." Scully felt sorry for the harried sheriff. He was making statements for several different investigative agencies. At intervals he used his radio to talk the temporary deputy through an abbreviated patrol of the county. Scully's presence made him uncomfortable. His expression combined guilt, concern and embarrassment. He couldn't meet their request for the loan of a handgun quickly enough. On the drive back to the Nighty-nite Mulder was still strangely quiet. "Mulder did you have a nightmare when you dozed off in Jimmy's car?" "Yeah, it was a nightmare." "Do you want to talk about it?" "No. Jimmy's a good talker isn't he?" "Yes," Scully laughed. "He reminds me of my cousin Ryan. Mom used to say that he must not have stopped at kissing the Blarney Stone; he bit a piece off and swallowed it! At St. Anthony' High School he charmed A's out of Sister Griselda Marie, without actually doing any work to speak of. It was amazing. The kids called her 'Grizzly Bear' behind her back because of her temper. He fascinated the bras off half the girls in the school by the time he was a senior, according to Bill." Mulder looked over at Scully and raised his eyebrows. "No, not me. I was a skinny fifth grade twerp who knew that boys were the most obnoxious creatures on earth." "So, today he's in politics, screwing his constituents in a charming manner," Mulder suggested sardonically. "No. He cheated on three wives, and ran two businesses into the ground. His mother invited him back to live with her, and he ended up working in a neighborhood bar. He was killed a couple years ago driving home drunk one night." "Sorry Scully, I didn't mean to insult a dead relative of yours." "I was never close to him. If he had ever been forced to be around me, he would have charmed me too. He couldn't help it, anymore than he could help breathing. That kind of charm doesn't mean anything special. My dad used to use him as a horrible example of what happened to you when everything came too easy. I always remember Ryan when I meet someone like Jimmy." This perspective on Jimmy Flynn left Mulder feeling absurdly pleased. He told himself that he was reassured to find his partner's judgment was not impaired by surface charisma. "I must admit, I find it hard to like a man who has his fatigues tailored," Mulder said. "Oh, he doesn't," Scully said with mock horror. Mulder nodded knowingly. Scully was glad to find that her story had distracted him from his nightmare. They pulled up in front of their cabins and agreed to rest for a while before meeting at ten to start for the Bar J. "Scully do you want your manuscript back? I got through to where your relative and her unhappy friend are about to meet their fate. I bought some newspapers and magazines at the hospital gift shop, if you'd rather have some of those." "No thanks, I'll take the manuscript. I promised Mom I'd read it." An hour later Scully had showered and changed again, and her reading had reached the place she thought Mulder was referring to. The lack of self-knowledge on Sister Catherine's part, and the impulsiveness of Father Martin exasperated her. She found herself wanting to shake them both and help them make better decisions. Then she remembered the notes she wanted to retrieve from Mulder's coat pocket. Feelings you didn't want to die without expressing weren't necessarily feelings you wanted to express before that time came. She went over to his cabin and knocked softly, so that she wouldn't disturb him if he were sleeping. As she had expected he opened the door immediately. It dismayed her a little to see him putting his overcoat back into the bag provided by the hospital. "I was just checking to see if it was a total loss. It is," he said resignedly. "Can I have my notes back so I can enter them into the laptop? Of course they may not even be legible anymore," she remarked with a weak laugh. Mulder made no comment. He reached into the correct pocket with no hesitation and pulled out her plastic bag. She tried to read his expression as he handed it to her. His face revealed nothing unusual. "So what do you think of Sister Catherine's and Father Martin's predicament?" he inquired in a neutral voice. "They irritate me, Mulder. But I understand them," she added, surprising herself, since she hadn't realized that fact until she said it. "I'll be back in an hour, ready to go. Since we don't have coats be sure to wear a lot of layers," she advised him. "It's going to be below freezing tonight." He nodded and closed the door after her. Scully tried to remember how she had folded the papers to determine if they had been re-folded differently. She found she could not recall the moment. Probably it had been an automatic action on her part. There was just time to enter the report data into the laptop before she had to start dressing. Afterwards she held the papers uncertainly for a moment, trying to decide what to do with them. Should she shred them thoroughly and dispose of them, or should she keep them? Decisively she folded them up again and inserted them into the innermost pocket of her briefcase. They represented the truth of her, distilled of the elements required for daily survival. Normally its translucence had to be colored and clouded to maintain the surface tension of everyday relationships. She knew this was a record of what ultimately mattered in her life. She proceeded to layer her remaining blouses and sweaters on top of the blouse she had on. Her pajama bottoms under her jeans served in place of long underwear. When she emerged into the cold dark night, she wished she had more layers to add on. Mulder was lucky enough to have brought a deliciously thick and wooly-looking zip up sweater. They saw Flynn's men in three dark pick-up trucks at the meeting place. Only a few of the men had left the trucks when they arrived at the fence where they would enter. These men carried electrician's tools and fence cutters. They came back and reported that the power to the fences was off when they arrived, and that they had cut an opening in it. Now everyone but a few sentries left the trucks and assembled just inside the fence. Flynn made a quick speech describing how the operation was going to work. "As I explained to you earlier, Mr. Doe and Miss Roe are looking for biological agents in this compound. Some of you have been assigned to find bee hives and bring back any dead bees you can find. Others will search outbuildings and other areas for stored chemicals or substances of any kind. Miss Roe will accompany a group of you to the laboratory and you'll follow her instructions. I'll accompany Mr. Doe to the main house and its outbuildings, where we'll search. No one is to turn on any lights. Use only the flash lights you were issued. We'll meet at the laboratory no later than fifteen hundred. You all know what your assignments are. Remember that the first rule is to take no risk of exposure. Our greatest strength is our invisibility. Don't take a chance on revealing our group's true goals." The various groups soon realized that their searches would be relatively short and fruitless. One of the men looking for bee corpses jokingly suggested that they must have gone over the hives and the ground around them with an industrial strength vacuum cleaner. His group leader agreed seriously that that was probably precisely what was done. The laboratory had been stripped clean and hosed down with a chlorine solution, judging from the smell. The generator had been left running, but there was nothing else to be found in the building. Mulder and Flynn found no furniture, no papers, and no sign of any biological substances of any kind. Mulder descended to the basement, which had been swept clean. He began checking for hidden panels around the furnace or cracks in the cement that might be closely fitted openings to storage cupboards. Flynn was performing the same type of search upstairs. After concluding these inspections with no results, they considered the two outbuildings. "Do you know what that building is?" Mulder asked, pointing to a concrete block building located about 1,000 feet down the road that led on to the laboratory. "Our surveillance reports don't have anything on its function. The other one, on the side road over there is described as a barn used to store heavy ranch equipment and vehicles," Flynn replied. "I'd like to take that one while you do the barn. Is that OK?" Mulder asked perfunctorily, as he started down the road. "Certainly. I'm only in charge of this expedition. Why ask me?" Flynn murmured. Mulder was too far away to hear. When Mulder arrived at the black square of the doorway he stopped and shone his flashlight inside. The beam revealed one cavernous room with a few gaping holes in the floor where large rectangular objects had been removed. There were channels built into the cement floors leading to large drains. The room smelled strongly of chlorine. Despite what was obviously a thorough cleaning, reddish stains remained on the concrete. He concluded it must have been a killing floor--small, but big enough for the infrequent needs of the research project. The place had an unpleasant feel, but he forced himself to step though the doorway into the building. Then a soft feminine voice behind him startled him into a quick half turn. "None of us ever came here. We lied to ourselves everyday about the scientific purpose of our research and worked like fools to create lethal new viruses. But, dudes to the end, we couldn't stomach seeing our test subjects butchered." During her quiet speech Mulder saw that the woman had him covered with a handgun. He also noted that she was standing much too close to him and was more focused on her memories than on his movements. He had her gun in his hand after one feint and a quick blow to her wrist. "I knew I wouldn't be any good if I had to handle something like this," she said with weary resignation. "Well, what are you waiting for?" The woman looked like someone's grandmother. She was probably in her mid-fifties. Her hair was done in a short frosted perm, and she wore a short parka over relaxed fit jeans. Her glasses were the square-shaped style with plastic rims that were popular fifteen years ago. "I'd like to know who you are and what you're doing here." "Just get it over with," she answered. "I'm not going to shoot you if you don't attack me. I'm a federal agent, and I'm searching the premises for evidence of the manufacture of biological weapons. What are you doing here?" "That can't be true," she replied. But she was unable to prevent a little hope from creeping into her voice and manner. "Here's my ID." Mulder displayed it, although it was hard to see in the negligible light. "How in the world would the FBI get this close? There are so many layers of protection between Bio-Gro and the legal system. It seems impossible." She was still skeptical. "We were lucky," Mulder said simply. "If you're not really a federal agent, you'll kill me no matter what I tell you. If you are a federal agent and you belong to the people who own Bio-Gro, you'll betray anything I tell you. If you're honest, you might help me." The woman pondered her pathetically few options. Mulder tried hard to look trustworthy. "I don't think I have anything to lose at this point," the woman continued. "I'm going to do what I came to do. If you shoot me, well, I tried." Mulder watched her movements closely as she reached into her pocket and took out a flashlight and a knife with a long thin blade. She went to the nearest corner and scanned the cracks between concrete blocks. Most were very tightly fitted, but she counted off blocks up and sideways until she came to two with a wider space between them. Inserting the blade carefully, she worked out a piece of laminated plastic. Mulder focused his flashlight on the object, which was about the size of a business card. "There's a microchip embedded in this," she informed him. "It holds evidence I compiled on the experiments Bio-Gro was doing at the Bar J. It also has information on past experiments I was involved with, and projects still going on that relate to the one here." Mulder tried to suppress the surge of excitement that he felt at these words. All of his past experience taught him that he would never be permitted to retain any hard evidence of the conspiracy. Nevertheless he couldn't help letting a little hope into his heart too. "I created more than one as a fail-safe," the woman told him as she counted off more blocks from the corner. "You know my name," Mulder said as he watched her work. "What's yours?" "I'm Debbie." "How long have you worked for Bio-Gro, Debbie?" "Twenty years. Twenty five years ago I was doing genetic research at a university when they tried to recruit me. They weren't Bio-Gro then, but it was the same people, the same agenda. They didn't tell me their agenda of course, but I sensed there was something illegitimate about them. Why hadn't anybody I knew ever heard of them and their work developing vaccines? They offered me more money than I would have earned in an entire career at the university, and I still turned them down. Then five years later my son, Hugh, was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy. I dug out the business card they had left with me. There was no address, of course, but there was an answering service at the number on it. They got back to me the next day and made me an even better offer than before. Why do you suppose I saved that card? Had I always meant to contact them again eventually?" The questions were rhetorical. She went on talking as she worked. "My money bought Hugh a heart transplant when it was still experimental at teaching hospitals. The corporation had access to surgeons and facilities where it wasn't so experimental anymore. Can you imagine what was like to be tempted by money and medical technology like that when your need was as great as mine? I knew what they were up to almost from the beginning, but I went along. Bio-Gro is only the latest project I worked on. There were years of expensive maintenance drugs and intensive nursing care whenever he went through a rejection crisis. Talk about selling your soul to the company store." Debbie gave a sad little laugh. "Have you ever loved someone like that, that you would do evil to save them?" She eyed him conspiratorially. "You know nobody can absolve you but yourself. What I've done or haven't done has nothing to do with it," Mulder replied expressionlessly. "Why did you decide to stop going along?" "Last year Hugh died during an attempt at a second transplant. The first heart was hopelessly damaged after years of staving off rejection. Then I was free to do what I should have done twenty years ago. I knew the day would come, and I'd been planning it for years in my head." "There's something I've been wondering about. Why do they use steers? Shouldn't they be using rats or monkeys?" "They first told me it was because of the nature of the viruses. There could be some truth to that, since the viruses are related to cowpox. But really it's because there's no interference from animal rights groups and no investigation of lab conditions. It's just farming." "And what is it really?" "They've set very high goals for themselves. They want to create a large number of designer viruses. Each one would target a very narrow section of the human population, based on shared strains of DNA. They have an amazing database of DNA types available to them. They started with viruses targeted at steers with closely controlled bloodlines. The bees were infected with selected agents. They had mutated these strains of smallpox to precise specifications, but they couldn't keep the mutations under control in the bee population. Almost every time an outside animal was exposed to the virus it succumbed to the disease immediately, no matter what its DNA structure was. Damage control became more and more of a problem. Our vaccines never worked more than once. The big decision makers at Bio-Gro decided to close the experiment down." "So who's going to get the chips?" "Tell you that, and implicate other people?" She smiled at Mulder. "All I really know about you is that you haven't shot me yet." Mulder knew he could claim all of the chips as evidence and bring Debbie in for questioning. He also knew he wouldn't do it. Her chances of surviving in government custody long enough to testify against Bio-Gro were dismal. The microchips would emerge from an official analysis with nothing on them but tips on bee husbandry. "Give them to as many people as you can get to listen to you," Mulder advised."But I've got some friends who could do wonders with one of those chips." By now she had retrieved five of the cards. She stopped her counting and merely looked at him. "These are personal friends, not government employees. I've got personal reasons for wanting to stop these people," he added. "I know how powerful personal reasons can be, don't I? But I had other people in mind from the beginning for this evidence. You'll have to shoot me to get these. I can't trust anyone." Debbie was backing away from him toward the doorway as she said these words. Before she quite reached it she stopped. "Do you have a post office box, Agent Mulder? How about giving me the number and zip code?" Mulder complied eagerly. "Watch your mail. Don't throw away the junk. I'll send you a P.O. Box number and key. If I haven't made it there to pick it up before you, then it's lost anyway. And so am I." Mulder watched from the moon shadows as she moved quickly across the grass and disappeared into the line of pine trees along the perimeter fence. Was this decision any more of a major screw up than what he had already done on this case? Perhaps he had scared Debbie away before she had retrieved all of the chips. He went back inside and started scanning the walls for unexplored cracks. He finally concluded that she had used the few good hiding places available. He returned to the main house with nothing to show for his search or his encounter. He was walking through the hall to the back door to find out if Flynn had returned when he heard a familiar voice growling out an order. "Drop your gun and put your hands up. Now lie down slowly on the floor." Hansen quickly patted Mulder down and removed his gun and cell phone."So you're bravely carrying on by yourself while your partner fights for her life in the hospital. Nothing unusual about that behavior, huh?" Mulder was actually tempted to defend himself against this accusation of callousness. Of course the less Hansen knew about who else was out here tonight, the better. He remained silent. "Now get up slowly and start walking down the hall. I'd rather not put a bullet in you, but I'll do it if I have to." Hansen was too canny to come close enough to give Mulder an opportunity to jump him, but he was always close enough to have a perfect shot at him. Anyway Mulder was slowed down by his injuries. Tonight he couldn't pull off a surprise attack on someone as wary as Hansen. "So, are you going to murder me the way you tried to murder Scully?" Mulder asked as loudly as possible. He would warn Flynn if he could. "Not necessarily. I just doubt if I can depend on you to stand back and let me make the final arrangements here. The big guys don't want to leave any loose ends. Believe it or not, you and your partner have been bit players since the beginning." Hansen directed him into the room that had been Dr. Anthony's office. There he told him to lie down on the floor again, where he simply left him alone, shutting the door carefully. Then he headed for the basement. Mulder immediately checked the door, which was reinforced steel. The lock was electronic, controlled by a keypad which required the entry of a password. Mulder excelled at word games, and he was anxious to try his skill on this lock, but the keypad wasn't working. He didn't know if it was entirely disabled, or only on his side. He checked his watch. It was two forty-five A.M., only fifteen minutes until their rendezvous. Flynn must have made a clean getaway. If he came back for Mulder, he took the chance of exposure. Mulder was fairly sure that Hansen planned some kind of arson for this building. He wasn't counting on the ex-deputy to go out of his way to release him before the house went up in flames. There might be time after Hansen's departure when he could be rescued without risk. What both worried and reassured him, was his certainty that Scully would not hesitate, whatever the risk. He hoped something would happen soon. He couldn't stand being locked in this office sniffing anxiously for the first whiff of smoke for very long. When Flynn arrived all of the other groups had already gathered at the laboratory. They had come up with nothing but a few dead bees painstakingly picked up one by one from the ground in random locations. They were impatient to call the disappointing evening quits and head back to their vehicles. Flynn immediately hustled everyone behind the laboratory and quickly outlined his plan for their hasty and invisible retreat. "Where's Mul...Mr. Doe," asked Scully, as soon as Flynn had paused in his speech. "He ran into a problem while we were searching the house. Someone entered from the front while I entered the back. I had time to get out, but unfortunately Mr. Doe was found. Since he's not connected to our group by any known ties, his discovery won't endanger us." "Well, who came in?" Scully asked impatiently. "I heard Bob Hansen's voice. There may have been others with him." "What's the plan for getting Mr. Doe out?" Scully was extremely concerned now. "There isn't any. Our highest priority has to be getting ourselves out of here before we're detected. Remember, I told you we wouldn't risk ourselves for you." "Who'll go with me to get him?" Scully turned to the other men. "Anyone who goes against my orders is out of the Joshuas, but still bound by secrecy, under pain of the severest penalties," Flynn said emphatically. The men looked abashed, but no one stepped forward, or even met her eyes. "I don't want you to take a chance on compromising us, Miss Roe," said Flynn, moving as if to restrain her. Scully stepped back instantly and drew her gun. "A gunshot would draw attention to you," she stated simply. She headed for the main house as swiftly as her still achy body would allow. The lights were on inside now, making it easier for Scully to approach with confidence that she wouldn't be seen. She entered cautiously through the back door, with her gun at the ready. Stopping at the doorway from the kitchen to the hallway she heard steps coming up the basement stairs. She quickly took a position behind the basement door. As Hansen stepped through it she aimed her gun at his head and ordered him to throw down his weapon. He jumped with more than a startle response at the sound of her voice. "You don't want to fire your gun, Agent Scully. This house is filling up with gas. You'll trigger my explosion prematurely. You were lucky enough to escape last night. Don't throw away your second chance." "Where's Mulder?" she asked, keeping her gun trained on him. "He's in one of the offices. I needed him out of the way for a while. If I knew the password I'd tell you. I don't have any orders with regard to him." With that he turned and fled out the front door. Scully was afraid to fire. Her own nose warned her of the truth of Hansen's statement. She started calling Mulder's name, and was answered almost immediately from behind the door of Dr. Anthony's old office. "Are you all right, Mulder?" she inquired. "I'm fine except for being locked up behind this door when I think this place is going up in flames any minute. Hansen needs to tie up loose ends, as he put it, and his favorite tool for every job seems to be a match." Scully could hear the tremor in Mulder's voice behind the light words. "Hansen is gone. The door is locked from this side too." she informed him. "But there's a light that glowed red when I tried a password on the keypad. I'll go see what might be going on in the house. Then I'll be right back and we'll work on getting this open." Scully went to check the basement to see if the gas could be turned off. Before she had gone half way down the stairs her head started to swim. Mulder's cell phone and gun were on the third step from the bottom. Before attempting to retrieve them, she looked around the basement for the gas control valve. Then she saw that Hansen had used a wrench and removed an entire section of the gas pipe. She could never replace it before passing out. In any case it would be too dangerous to wield a metal tool in that gas filled room. A spark could be fatal. The triggering device was not visible from the stairs. She made it to the bottom of the stairs and returned with the gun and phone, holding her breath the whole time. To be safe she stepped outside before dialing the operator to report the gas leak and the trigger set to ignite it. She did a quick survey of the rest of the empty house looking for other signs of fire or explosives. Then she returned to the office where Mulder was imprisoned. "Is the house on fire, Scully?" "No, nothing is burning. And there aren't any mattresses or furniture where he could have set a slow fire." "Then watch out. He might be coming back with an accelerant." "I'll be ready for him. I've called the fire department on your cell phone. Mulder, this keypad takes four characters if it works like the one the guard used when he let me into the building proper. The office belonged to a woman named Dr. Anthony. Do you think we can assume the password had some meaning for her? Any ideas on things I could try?" She tried to concentrate on the solution to the problem instead of wondering what it would feel like to be blown up. Would it hurt, or would you never know what happened? "Try variations on 'ANTHONY' and 'TONY'. Try parts of 'BIO- GRO', backwards and forwards and scrambled. And 'BARJ' with variations." None of these tries worked. Scully began trying dates of holidays. She pushed to the back of her mind that today's date might be commemorated forever on their tombstones. "It's too bad you weren't in her office the other day. You might have seen something that would have given us an idea of her thinking processes," Mulder said with regret. "Her predecessor was named Francis Howard. I'll try some variations on that. Anthony was new, so maybe she hadn't changed the password." Scully hoped that some family member wouldn't have to view too grisly a scene to identify her. It would be best if she could be vaporized, leaving perhaps her gold cross and a few teeth to allow positive identification. Mulder made a mental note to challenge the Lone Gunman to produce a hand held electronic lock pick that could generate thousands of passwords per second. "Scully we should commission a miniature electronic lock pick from Frohike and company." "I'll try 'LONE', 'KING', 'JACK' and 'RUBY'," Scully tried to joke. She remembered a very interesting session with the Gunman that he had recounted to her. They had given Mulder chapter and verse on the history of Cancerman. You can't let that guy win from beyond the grave, Dana, she told herself. Would it feel like an earthquake or a wave rising up under you? Or would thought and feeling just cease? She remembered the story of the woman in Kansas City whose leg was amputated while she lay conscious and trapped in the wreckage. Well, this house wasn't large enough or substantial enough to result in that scenario. Probably. Stop letting your mind wander, Dana she admonished herself. "Start trying some names. That's the most common way to pick a password. The name of a relative, friend or pet." "OK give me some names." The gas was beginning to make her a little dizzy. It would be too cruel if she were rendered unconscious and Mulder was left uncertain if she had deserted him or been hurt or killed. Until, of course, he was killed too. He offered her names at a rapid clip until he made the observation she dreaded. "Scully, I'm smelling gas in here. Is there a gas leak?" "Yes, as a matter of fact there is," Scully answered, never stopping her testing of the letters of the alphabet by fours. "Scully he's got a plan to set off an explosion instead of a fire. You need to leave the building until the emergency rescue people get here and turn off the gas at the source." They both knew how long it had taken the crews to reach Digger from Dubois. It would take even longer for them to locate the Bar J. Scully kept tapping. "We're not going to get it by random guessing. You've got to get out of here before something happens. Please leave." Mulder was starting to sound panicky. "OK," she answered, continuing to try every possible combination of month and day in the year. A minute went by, and Mulder spoke, "Scully I know you're still there. I can hear you hitting the keypad. Please leave for real this time," he pleaded in increasingly anguished tones. "Don't let them get both of us." "Mulder you know I can't leave you," Scully explained patiently. "Help me by thinking of passwords. If anyone can figure this out, it's you." "Scully, I'm begging you. You shouldn't die here. You should get the word out on what we've learned." This was his last card to play. His voice took on a solemn, authoritative cadence. "You have a responsibility to the world to continue our work." Scully was nothing if not responsible. "Yes, but I have other responsibilities too. You know there are some things worth dying for." "Think about your family." Scully decided she would have to be brutal. She knew he was scared as well as concerned for her. But he had a better chance at working this out than she did, if she could only get him to concentrate. "Mulder, you're distracting me. If you can't help me solve this, you'll have to be quiet. I'll pass out from the gas in about fifteen minutes." Mulder was convinced. She wasn't leaving. He forced himself into his profile mode. "What did Dr.Anthony talk about? What was she like?" "She wouldn't talk to me about what she did, except that it involved breeding, which it didn't really of course. How about 'BEES'"she asked , trying the word as she spoke. "How about 'POXY'," Mulder suggested. "She was obsessed with the money that was available for the work. She kept talking about how tempting all that money was. Anyone would be corrupted by that much money, she kept saying." "Scully try 'CASH'," Mulder shot back immediately. "I think this woman was very conscious of having been bought." Between her dizziness and her conviction that this solution was too simple, Scully almost missed seeing the green light go on. She tried the handle, and when it moved she opened the door very gently. They moved through the house carefully, not touching anything, finding it hard to restrain their impulse to run. When they came out into the cold, clear night air they picked up the pace to the extent that their abused bodies would allow. They didn't stop until they came to a slight elevation about three hundred yards down the driveway. They lay flat on the far side of it and waited for the explosion. "What happened to 'Jimmy'?" Mulder asked with more sarcasm than he had intended in his voice. Scully gave him a searching look at the tone of the question. "He and the Joshuas are on their way home to their warm little beds. They couldn't risk exposing themselves to go back for you," giving her own derisive twist to the answer. "He was right, Scully. What they're doing is more important than what happens to any one of us, including me." "Not to me," she said. "I should call Sheriff Reynolds and give him a lead on Hansen, although I'm sure he's long gone." She proceeded to do this, and Reynolds promised to be out at the Bar J within an hour. They waited for something to happen for another fifteen minutes. happen. "I'm getting too cold lying here," Scully finally said. "I'm going to stand up and move around a little." They both stood, still watching the house. "You know Scully, maybe Hansen's plan isn't going to work. Maybe I could go back and figure out the location of the gas tank that supplies the house. If I turned the gas off at the source there might be a chance of preventing the explosion and finding some evidence, " Mulder offered tentatively. "Tell me you're kidding Mulder," Scully instructed him, "because if you're not, I'll have to shoot you in the leg." "On the whole, I prefer the shoulder," Mulder said, rubbing his left thigh with a reminiscent grimace. "What is it that's worth dying for?" he asked suddenly. "Besides success in exposing the conspiracy." "It's faith. Faith and trust, yours in me. With all the uncertainty we live with, we have to be able to believe in each other. It's the only thing that allows me to go on." Mulder searched for the right quip to lighten the mood. While Scully lay apparently dying, his emotions were reduced to the starkest possible terms. He had allowed himself to feel and show his grief, his fear, his sense of losing part of himself with her loss. The rejoicing after her remission had been just as simple. Then, with their return to the field and his self-contempt for his previous gullibility, emotions got complicated again. Luckily he knew the answer. It was the same solution he had relied on for years. He would exhaust himself with work seven days a week, provide himself with a steady diet of adult videos to deal with hormones, and shoot down any surviving emotions with cynical jokes. Experience proved it worked. That's why he was now astonished at what he heard coming out of his mouth. "It's so strange Scully, that was what I meant to say yesterday when you thanked me for saving your life. Somehow it changed before it got out. It turned into some egoistic remark that implied that I was more concerned about making points in a stupid head game than I was about your life. What an awful thing to say. And it won't be the last awful thing I say, will it?" he added, with gloomy self-knowledge. Scully worked at concealing her surprise. Mulder hadn't ever spoken about himself that way before. If he were experimenting with expressing himself emotionally she didn't want to make him self- conscious by overreacting. "No, it wasn't awful. I knew you didn't mean it that way." "Yeah, I guess you've known me long enough to notice. Half the time I don't know what I'm feeling, much less know how to talk about it. It's our only family tradition," he added flippantly. When Scully pictured Mulder as a child she couldn't shake the image of the boy Kay playing with ice crystals in the palace of the Snow Queen. Shards of her magic mirror were lodged in Kay's eye and heart, freezing up his human emotions. In the simple world of fairy tales his friend Gerda melted the shards with her tears. Unfortunately real people were much more complex. Mulder had been damaged by most of the important people in his life. Contemplating the origins and extent of the damage was enough to bring some tears of rage to her own eyes. "It's OK, Mulder, I understand." She offered a reassuring pat on his hand. "Yow, your hand is like ice," he yelped. "Here, take my sweater," Mulder offered, unzipping it. "No, you don't have any more layers than I...Look!" The house appeared to levitate and expand as they watched. Microseconds later the long booming roar of the explosion reached their ears, and the house disappeared into a boiling orange mass of flames. The smoke billowed out looking charcoal gray in the light of the blaze. Within a minute the outbuildings went up in the same kind of fireworks, although they were not as spectacularly clear to the watchers. Mulder took advantage of the distraction to place his sweater around Scully, putting an arm around her shoulders to keep them both warmer. If felt so good that Scully couldn't bring herself to object again. "You've got to give the guy his due. He's an artist at arson. That place is sanitized down to its atoms," Mulder remarked. It was Zeb who arrived first at the scene. He had heard the explosions and was deeply disappointed to find that no UFO had crash landed on the property. They told him that Hansen had blown up the buildings to conceal illegal animal experimentation by Bio-Gro. He observed that fifteen years wasn't really enough to get to know a man. The fire fighters from Dubois arrived next. Mulder approached the fire chief and told him the story, with judicious edits. "I guess it isn't really an emergency anymore," he ended. "Are you supposed to call and cancel when this sort of thing happens?" "You're joking of course, sir," the chief answered, smiling determinedly. "We're used to getting to a fire with nothing left to do but monitor the cooling of the ashes. That's the price you pay for the wide-open spaces. We're just glad there weren't any casualties." Last of all came a worn Sheriff Reynolds. He heard the story of the events from Mulder and Scully, who presented themselves as lone investigators of the Bar J. Flynn might have been less than the perfect comrade, but his work deserved their protection. They agreed to come into Digger the next afternoon to make their statements. Sheriff Reynolds gave them a ride to their car. When he saw the neatly cut fence he only said with a tired smile that the FBI certainly issued their agents some excellent cutting tools. It was dawn by the time they arrived back at the Nighty-Nite. Scully had dozed off in the car. Mulder prepared himself for a wait in his room, while she got some sleep. He retrieved Melissa's manuscript from Scully's room during the perfunctory security check. Scully barely had time to undress before she dropped onto the bed and into sleep almost simultaneously. Mulder stretched out on his bed and began thinking about the bees that Flynn had retrieved from the Bar J. ************ Mulder's next coherent thought was "Don't panic, you're in the motel." A nightmare had placed him back in the fire at the jail. This time the blanket wrapped body that landed on him tumbled free of its covering and was revealed as a blackened corpse. He lay on the ground staring up at white teeth exposed by shriveled flesh in the parody of a grin. He was too late after all. He couldn't live with this. He couldn't breathe. At the sound of knocking he sat up before he woke up and managed to exhale. Oh no, it was one o'clock in the afternoon. He knew there was little hope for sleep tonight. He opened the door to Scully. She had expected to sleep and had therefore set her alarm for eleven. She was fresh and wrinkle-free, a contrast to his unshaved face, and hair and clothes that were equally rumpled. He stepped back to let her in. Scully felt awful when she saw Mulder. He suffered enough from insomnia that his sleep was not to be lightly interrupted. When she tried to apologize he stopped the words with a casual gesture of dismissal and a few words. "I was having the kind of nightmare Stephen King can only dream about. No apologies required." Scully had also had a nightmare that woke her several differend times that morning. Her dream replayed the search of the Bar J in a bizarre and disturbing fashion. She and Mulder were examining the interiors of beehives. She reached into one and found it was packed with dripping honeycombs. For some reason the honey on her hand caused her to panic, so Mulder offered to clean off the honey. He approached her and lifted her sticky hand to his mouth. This development sent her into an anxiety attack so shattering that her pounding heart woke her up. She would rather have slugged it out with another liver eater than disclose this dream to anyone. Even thinking of it embarrassed her. Of course, she had that miserable manuscript to thank for the dream's content. Mulder seemed to be gazing at her face with unwonted satisfaction. She wondered what her expression had been moments ago. "Let's plan on leaving for the sheriff's in about half an hour," Scully said, more brusquely than she intended. "Sure," he replied with a start, heading for the bathroom and leaving her to let herself out. In the shower Mulder considered the statements he would have to make concerning the Bar J and Hansen. On the whole it would be easier to let Debbie's role go by unremarked. What Scully didn't know, she wouldn't agonize over keeping secret. He wondered whether Debbie had enough sense to get her evidence in the mail immediately. It had been clever to avoid taking the chips from the site on her person when they were evacuated. The employees were probably subjected to exhaustive searches and scans as part of the security routine. Still, the corporation was undoubtedly as paranoid as he was. How was she accounting for her time between assignments, and would they check her cover story? In the light of his own bitter experience, he was afraid to disclose Debbie's existence to Sheriff Reynolds or to the team from the FBI in Boise. Information had a way of zipping from government offices to the agents of the conspiracy at the speed of gossip. As he dried himself he remembered his thoughts right before he went to sleep. He needed to get back in touch with Flynn to see what could be done with the few bees they had found. Despite Scully's lack of interest, he insisted that they stop at Marge's for a sort of combination breakfast, lunch, and dinner. After they ordered, he told Scully they should speak with Flynn once more before they left. Mulder made the call to the Lone Gunman while they waited for their food. He wanted a phone number for Flynn, or a call from him at a prearranged time. Then he ate his cheeseburger platter efficiently while Scully worked on her turkey sandwich. At the end of the meal he called back and heard the arrangements that had been worked out with Flynn. He wrote the directions down while Scully took care of the check. The sheriff's place was no longer packed with investigators. He and his new temporary deputy, Andy Trevelyan, were going over maps to plan a search of likely hiding places in their county for Hansen. Trevelyan had to take their statements down in longhand, so he felt nothing but gratitude for their brevity. They signed the statements and discussed the possibility of Hansen still being in the area. Both Scully and Reynolds agreed that Hansen had taken off for a new identity immediately after the explosions at the Bar J. Mulder was not so sure. Given the strong psychotic element in Hansen's personality, he might feel omnipotent enough to defy the odds. "It's frustrating to know that he's probably gotten away with all of it--murder, attempted murder, arson, breaking his oath of office," Sheriff Reynolds mourned. He clearly considered the breach of the promise made when assuming the office of deputy as grave a crime as the others he mentioned. Mulder sympathized with the sheriff's chagrin at being blindsided by Hansen's corrupt behavior. Outside the sheriff's house Mulder revealed the plans for the rest of the day to Scully. Flynn had been thoroughly intimidated by last night's events. He had gone to ground in a hiding place known to no one else. There was no chance of getting a number for him. He refused to call Mulder at the motel or on his cell phone, due to his judgment that the phones were not secure enough. He would only meet them in territory he considered safe. They were to drive south until they hit Route 33, and then go west on it until they came to a sequence of gravel and dirt roads that paralleled the Little Lost River. They would be driving north between two national forests. This road crossed another river, and that was where they were to meet Flynn within an hour after dark. The distance from Digger was not great when measured in a straight line, but there was no such route to the meeting place. Langley had confided that Flynn's requirements left him feeling like an risk-taking extrovert. The sun was already low on the horizon. Scully was not happy about the meeting on a lonely road. She kept her doubts and worries to herself since they really needed to talk to Flynn. They rocked down the road between miles of dark pine trees, backed by shadowy towering peaks. There were no other people and no road services. Running out of gas or getting caught in a downpour on this road would have serious consequences. When they reached what they thought was the meeting point there was no sign of Flynn's vehicle. They went over the directions again by flashlight to confirm their location. This appeared to be the place described. A primitive wooden bridge crossed what was now a mostly dry river bed. If there were enough rain to swell the river and flood the bridge, the road would be impassable anyway. Scully rolled down her window to listen for an approaching vehicle. What they heard instead was the far-off ululating howl of a wolf calling to the members of his pack. Ancient memories of being prey brought the hairs on the back of their necks to attention. Rationalizations about weapons, the speed of cars and the wolf's fear of humans didn't reach those instincts. Scully tried to appear nonchalant as she rolled the window up again very quickly. "Sounds as though the children of the night are in full voice. Do you think Flynn has a more fundamental secret than his connections to the Joshuas?" Mulder queried. "When I was ten they featured that movie as a kiddie matinee at the base theater. I'll bet plenty of parents were mad afterwards. I couldn't sleep until I hung rosaries on the window catches and rubbed garlic buds on the window sills in the room I shared with Missy," Scully informed him tensely. Mulder decided to drop that line of joking. "How did your mother react to waking up to the redolence of an Italian restaurant?" "She just made me wash it off. It was Missy who was mad. She thought it would have been fascinating to entertain a vampire in our bedroom." She couldn't help smiling at that quintessential Melissa moment. "You know wolves never attack if there's more than one person ," Mulder comforted, manufacturing wolf lore from wishful thinking and scraps overheard on the Discovery Channel. "You can hear them when they're still fifty miles away." "Look, that must be Jimmy," Scully said, pointing to a pair of headlights approaching from the opposite side of the bridge. They both had their hands on their weapons as the vehicle crossed the bridge and pulled up next to their rental car. Flynn was at the wheel, but he was hardly recognizable as the cocky militant of the previous day. Tonight his face looked gaunt, and his eyes flickered nervously from side to side. He was pitiably frightened. "What did you want to ask me?" he inquired tersely. "What's going to happen to the bees you found?" Mulder asked. We've sent them to a contact at the CDC with a cover story. They'll test them for viruses and bacteria." "You need to have them tested for DNA anomalies as well. The people we've been dealing with do a lot of experimentation with cloning and gene manipulation," Scully interjected. "She's right," Mulder agreed. "Will you get in touch when the results are in?" "I'll contact the Gunman if I think it's safe. I won't accept any further communication from them" "Has something happened to make you think further precautions are needed?" Mulder asked in a puzzled voice. "Good God!" Flynn exclaimed. "We nearly got caught last night. We could have been killed in those explosions if they had been rigged earlier in the evening! Are you and your partner too heroic or too stupid to worry about things like that? We have to lie low until any possible tie to us is lost. How can we accomplish our mission if we get caught or killed?" The words reminded Mulder of the strategy he had tried last night. He would have said almost anything to get Scully to leave the Bar J without him before the explosives went off. She hadn't bought the premise that any action was acceptable to ensure the continuation of the mission. "You know Flynn, there comes a time when, if some risks aren't taken, the mission becomes an endless loop of paranoia. You need to watch for opportunities to take the right risks. There's a whole world out there that's in danger." Flynn shook his head angrily and drove down the road to turn his vehicle around for the trip back. "For a guy that patronized me by referring to almost burning to death as 'an exciting escapade', he's running awfully short on machismo tonight. And he sure brought us a long way for nothing much." "We forget how much anxiety and danger we take for granted, Mulder." Mulder couldn't help wondering if someone had gotten to Flynn since last night. They turned the car around and made the trip back to the Nighty-Nite without incident. There was plenty of time left to write up their reports before they went to bed. They agreed to start for Digger at seven o'clock to check in one more time with Sheriff Reynolds. Then they would drive to Idaho Falls and take the eleven o'clock flight back to D.C. Mulder had his report to write and he still had Melissa's manuscript to finish. He doubted these would provide enough material to keep him occupied for as long as he would be awake, but what could he do? He wrote a few short paragraphs summarizing the information he thought the FBI needed to know and picked up the old typewritten pages with a sigh. ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** "Roberto, go see what that knocking is," Dangelo ordered. Father Martin had concluded that he must be the man who brought the rack. The bag probably contained other tools of his trade. He supposed they would soon have him regretting he had ever been born. Different only by degree of urgency from his current state of mind. Could he stay quiet enough to deprive Dangelo of the pleasure of wringing Sister Catherine's heart with his screams? He supposed they would refuse him a gag now, if he asked for it. He and Dangelo sat waiting for the return of Roberto for ten minutes. The suspense seemed harder to bear than knowing the worst. Dangelo was fairly twitching with eagerness. He started a little game of raising a hand in a threatening gesture and then merely laying his hand on Martin. There was something about Dangelo's touch that made his flesh creep, and Dangelo was obviously aware of his aversion. It was beginning to make him frantic, when they all heard a strange voice in the area outside the cell. "This one's empty." "He's not in this one. This poor soul isn't going to be here much longer either." Dangelo had risen and reached the door when it swung open and revealed a man with his hood pulled down over his face. There were holes cut for the eyes. "He's in here," the hooded man called back over his shoulder. It was impossible to tell whom he referred to as he spoke. Then he walked over to Father Martin and cut his bonds. "Who are you?" Father Martin asked, as the stranger tried to help him stand up. His feet and legs were numb. He lost his balance and fell down as soon as support was withdrawn. Dangelo moved as if to leave the cell. The stranger stepped in front of him and gestured menacingly with his knife. "Are you from...." Father Martin began. The hooded figure lifted a finger to where his lips would be and jerked his head emphatically toward Dangelo. After picking up the ropes that had tied Martin, he went to the cell door, pushing Dangelo out before him. He spoke again to someone outside. "He can't walk. I'll take care of the monsignor here. Then you can tell him what's going on." "Did that piece of offal hurt him? I'll never forgive myself if I waited too long." The familiar voice came closer. This time Father Martin used the wall for support and made it to his feet in time to stagger to the door and embrace the hooded man who appeared there. "I'd given up on you Edgar." "Don't ever do that." Now that the area had been cleared of Dangelo and his soldiers, Edgar pushed his hood back. "What's your plan, Edgar? You've always got a plan." As Martin spoke he was urging Edgar toward Sister Catherine's cell. A tall, dark man looked in from the hall. He smiled broadly at the sight of Martin. "Dru, you've got a lot more beard than the last time I saw you," Father Martin greeted him. "Be respectful, Martin. Dru is my sergeant-at-arms now. He took over when Gregory got too stiff in the joints," Edgar admonished him jokingly. "Dangelo and his men are tied up in the outer room," Dru reported. "We should be able to leave within the quarter hour," Edgar told him. Dru went back to other duties as Martin guided Edgar firmly into Catherine's cell. "I need a cover for her," Martin said, as he stood once more beside her Edgar handed him his cloak wordlessly and explained his plan. "Tonight we're riding to a hunting lodge between Gedling and Nottingham. In the morning you and I and a few others will ride west, starting for the coast. You can sail to Ireland from Bristol. When the memory of your 'crime' has had time to fade, father will end your outlawry by paying a fine, and you can come back." As Edgar explained his plan, Father Martin was carefully tucking the cloak around Sister Catherine. She opened her eyes and indicated her recognition of him, but did not speak. "Ride? Catherine can't ride. Do you have a cart?" Edgar looked extremely uncomfortable at this. "She can't come Martin." "She has to." "Look, I can't be caught interfering with the official actions of a representative of the Pope. Father's special arrangement with the Vatican would be compromised. The only reason he let me come at all was because you might be hurt in some way. I made sure he knew you were in danger. He said I wasn't to act unless something threatened you, and I wasn't to burden us with the nun who'd bewitched you." The Duke had made it sound simple enough when he explained the rules to Edgar. Even at that time Edgar had suspected this would be a more difficult moment than his father anticipated. Now he watched Martin tenderly touch Sister Catherine's cheeks, checking for a fever, and he knew it would be impossible. The look on Martin's face was familiar to him from childhood. He had never backed down, not ever, when his face had taken on that look. "She didn't bewitch me. That's nonsense. She's innocent of witchcraft". He paused in thought and then went on. "You mean you've been here watching for weeks until I was imprisoned?" "We stayed at the hunting lodge I spoke of. The hunting was good. I've been paying two of the servants here to pass on information every evening to one of my men. When I heard that degenerate swine had accused you and locked you up, I came as fast as I could." "All this time, all I had to do was endanger myself," Father Martin said, with a baffled look on his face. "Father would have preferred that we didn't get involved at all," Edgar reminded him. "I lost my temper with Dangelo, fell right into a trap he set for me. I tried so hard not to let him provoke me. I might have been able to get the support of the town and force her release. But there was no way he could lose. There was no limit to what he would have done to anger me." "From what I've heard from the servants, Dangelo would have Christ Himself brandishing the cross at him like a cudgel," Edgar remarked, continuing hastily, "You can't kill him. It would cause too much trouble." "Edgar you know when I'm serious. I can't desert her, so decide whether you want to rescue both of us or neither of us." "You know she won't be able to travel for weeks." If she doesn't die, he appended silently, and then we'll have had all that quarrelling with the Vatican for nothing. "She'll hurt your chances of getting out of England." "You can take all night to decide, but my terms aren't changing." Of course that was exactly what he couldn't do. Someone in the manor could waken at any time. Edgar knew his father would be furious if he brought the nun, but he would be equally furious if Martin were left in Dangelo's keeping. Given these choices, Edgar decided to follow his heart. "Dru, go find a wagon and a docile horse. Don't wake anyone." In a quarter of an hour Dru returned with the report that the best he could do without disturbing anyone was a two wheeled cart and horse used by the cook's helpers for going to market. "We've got to get on the road quickly. Traveling with a cart is going to slow us down. Dru, get two of the men to help you bring the wine in and let's start taking care of the guards. And the good monsignor, of course." Edgar turned to Martin explaining, "I brought drugged wine. They all get the choice of drinking it or being knocked on the head. We took them so much by surprise we didn't have to kill anyone, thanks be to God." "Where are they?" "They're tied up in the outer guard room. My men have kept their faces hidden, and have been careful not to mention names or places. When the wine has made them groggy we'll untie them and pour the rest of it over them. Then we'll see what tale comes out of tonight's doings." After the doses had been given to the guards, Father Martin asked for help in carrying straw out to the cart. Several of Edgar's men offered to help, and gave him their cloaks for bedding. When the cart was ready Father Martin began to lift Sister Catherine from the straw. The slightest movement made her cry out from the pain in her shoulder. He laid her back down and his heart sank as he thought of the hours of travel over rutted roads that lay ahead. He went to the door of the guardroom where most of Dangelo's men were already unconscious. "How much of this should I give her?" he asked Dru, holding up one of the half-empty bottles. Dru took a pottery mug down from a cupboard shelf, and poured it half full. "That should be about right. But in truth you're taking a chance, because if she's weaker than I judge, she might not wake up." "If I don't give her something, the suffering and strain of the journey may kill her," Father Martin answered quietly. He held Catherine's head up slightly and coaxed her to sip all of the wine, telling her that soon she would feel much better. Within minutes she had fallen into a sleep so deep that she didn't stir when he carried her out to the cart. The group walked the half-mile to where the horses waited, with one man leading the horse pulling the cart. Edgar instructed the man to mount and continue to lead the cart horse. There was a horse for Martin. The wagon undeniably forced a much slower pace than the group was capable of. They didn't arrive at the hunting lodge until dawn was breaking. Edgar drew Martin aside and told him they needed to decide on a another plan. "My men and I should move on immediately. By now they've discovered Dangelo and the guards. Our numbers draw too much attention to this lodge. I could find a woman to take care of Sister Catherine here so you could come with us as planned," Edgar suggested hopefully. He knew before he stopped speaking that Martin would reject this plan. Its greatest weakness was the likelihood that an outsider in daily contact with her would almost certainly lead searchers straight to Sister Catherine. Edgar didn't much care if this happened to her, but he couldn't tolerate Martin running the same risk. He looked doubtfully at his friend. "Could you manage here alone with her?" "I can except for getting food and maybe cutting firewood until she's better," Martin asserted confidently. Their reversal of fortune with Edgar's arrival at the manor made anything seem possible to him now. "I'll have Dru give you what we can spare from our supplies. We'll cut you some firewood before we leave. I planned to find a place to sleep in Nottingham tonight. I know some reliable people there who can count their coins in silence. The story I used to borrow the lodge was that I was going to hunt. I'll see that a rumor goes around that that was a lie. I'm really using it as a place to keep a ladylove who's inclined to let her fancies wander if she has too many temptations. Do what you can to make that story work." They were all busy for an hour clearing out the rubbish and sweepings Edgar and his men had left in the lodge. Catherine remained in the wagon, still sleeping deeply while this messy, noisy work was completed. There was large bed with a down mattress in the lodge, which led Martin to think that the place was indeed used more often for trysting than for hunting. The furs and woolen covers on the bed were of dubious cleanliness, but they would have to suffice for now. He would wash the sheets when he could. When Martin finally got Catherine settled in the bed, he was able to do what he had been longing to do since yesterday when Alan had admitted him to the prison. In spite of her continued drowsiness, he succeeded in getting her to drink a small amount of sweet wine with egg yolk and sugar beaten in. When she didn't vomit he thought she might live. Edgar came into the lodge to bid Martin farewell. "Edgar, I've been trying to understand what's going on here. You felt you had to tell your father about my request for help. Were you afraid to act without his knowledge, or are you involved personally in the diplomatic connections...like my father is?" Martin asked with some apprehension. "Oh no, I want nothing to do with those lying weasels from Rome. There's no honor in it. I knew father would want to know about your troubles." "Why? Why did he allow you to help me at all? My own father doesn't care what happens to me," Martin asked, trying to keep the catch out of his voice. Edgar paced up and down the small room several times in silence, clearly trying to make up his mind. "I thought he would tell you before you left England. I learned it years ago from a young woman who was the daughter of the old bailiff. My father is your real father, Martin. We're half brothers," Edgar said with a worried frown, looking at Martin and trying to assess his reaction. "Lady Elizabeth married Sir William in May. You were born in October. The marriage was arranged quickly to conceal her condition. Father always cared a lot about you. When things went wrong in Rome, he got the place in Derby for you. He planned to bring you back when the Vatican furor had a chance to fade. He thought he could get a place for you in some grand household in England. Sir William was supposed to tell you that part when you met in London." He looked at Martin apologetically, noting his bewilderment. "I have to assume he didn't. God's Blood, Martin did you think we'd all abandoned you?" Martin nodded mutely, trying to rearrange his understanding of his situation to fit these new revelations. What did it mean for his future? He hadn't even thought in terms of having a future since Sister Catherine had been imprisoned. Before that he had assumed that he would pass the rest of his life in Derby. He had begun to see some compensations in life lived on a small scale, without the ugly plots that dominated the higher levels of power. "I can't think about this now, Edgar. Sister Catherine needs me. Just remember that I loved you as much as any brother could before I knew we were brothers in blood. I'll never forget what you did for us." "If you need me before we return in two months send a message by the man who'll deliver your market goods. Isaac Goldstone will be holding money to be spent for what you need and its delivery. God help you." It wasn't until they were gone, and Martin stood alone in the snow dusted forest that he felt the full weight of his responsibility. He was the only defense between Sister Catherine and all that threatened her. He was soon too overwhelmed by the hour to hour details to dwell at length on this fact. ************ At first she could do nothing for herself. He had to help her with her most private needs. Once the mere thought of this would have embarrassed him, but he found he could do anything that she needed done without discomfort. When he had to undress her, he felt nothing but grief at the sight of her starved body and the evidence on her back of the use of a whip. Her shoulder was bruised black and blue. Dangelo's violence hadn't dislocated the joint, but it was severely damaged in some less obvious way. Martin tended the fire constantly, keeping the lodge warm, but conserving firewood as much as possible. He didn't bother at all with cooking. There was no time. Bread and cheese were enough for him. He continued to give Catherine small amounts of egg, wine, honey and milk, throughout the day. After a week of this she had recovered enough strength to walk across the room with his help. She suggested that he ask for game or mutton from the man who brought their food and instructed him in making broth. All of their conversations were like this. They talked about food, household tasks and the weather outside. He had explained how they were supposed to be a knight and his mistress. She accepted this gravely, without comment. Martin told her of Edgar's plan to get them to Ireland. He thought that some of her spirit might return with the prospect of hope for the future. However she asked for no details and continued to live each day largely in silence. Her expression, when she thought she was unobserved, was intolerably sad. It changed to a politely neutral look when he addressed her. Then after three weeks of slow but steady improvement came the terrible night of Christmas Eve. By then Catherine was able to sit by the fire and feed it small sticks while Martin cut more wood. Truth be told, he looked forward to these chances to escape the confines of the smoky lodge and the sight of Catherine's desolate face. That afternoon when he returned he found her lying doubled up on the floor in agony from pain in her belly. Within a short time she was vomiting and purging at least once each hour. This went on and on until three in the morning, when the symptoms eased. Many suffered briefly from this kind of sickness, and recovered from it easily. Her thinness and general weakness made it questionable that Catherine would. She had lost so much fluid that her pulse was weak and dangerously rapid. "Here Catherine, you need to drink this" Martin said resolutely. "It's water with salt and honey. It might not taste very good, but your body needs it." "I'm too tired right now." "I know, but your pulse is like a thread, and your heart is racing. Look at this." He pinched a fold of skin on her arm and showed her how long it remained tented. "If you don't replace some of the elements you lost, you'll die. Your heart will lose its rhythm. Remember, you taught me that yourself?" He kept hoping that the old, confident Catherine, proud of her knowledge and skills, would emerge. He had to get her to understand what was necessary. "I can't keep it down," she said weakly, turning her head away. "Please try, Catherine," he urged, now with tears in his eyes. When she remained as she was, he put the cup down and took several deep breaths. Then he gently turned her face to his. "Do you want me to let you go, sweetheart? You've suffered so much. You can't imagine how hard it will be for me, but I'll just hold you while you slip away, if that's what you want." Tears were on his cheeks, and his face was twisted with grief, but he said no more. He sat on the bed beside her and held her hand. Her expression had changed to a puzzled look. Something had broken through the barrier of numbness that had allowed her to survive prison and torture, but now made survival seem pointless. Then her face changed again and he saw on it a mixture of fear and suppressed fury. "You don't understand. I'm not afraid to die anymore, I'm afraid to live. " She said in a low, rough voice. "I know I can't promise to protect you. You've seen that. I can only promise to try," Martin answered, burying his face in his hands. "I was glad when you stopped coming to ask for me. Then I didn't have to make the decision every day to deny myself the comfort of seeing you. Sometimes, after a bad night, I'd tell myself that maybe, even if you visited me, they'd let you alone after all. But I could never take the risk. When you gave up I could let myself endure without hope of anything except that the pain would end eventually." "Christ, Catherine, I never gave up. Those bastards quit telling you I was there." Martin sat in helpless silence as the minues went by. The longer he sat with his eyes covered, the more afraid he became to uncover them and see what the silence meant. His own panicky breathing started to make him light-headed. He thought that perhaps death would take him too, right here at her side. He would be spared digging her grave alone in the cold ground outside the lodge. Catherine's voice broke in on his despairing thoughts. "You say you're willing to let me go, but you're making me feel. I'm trapped here by those feelings." After a long moment, she sighed. "You can't help it, anymore than I could. Yes, please hold me. You know, the remedy may not work anyway, but I'll try to drink it." These words seemed to release a band of iron from Martin's chest. He took the flask he had prepared and settled himself beside her on the bed instead of retreating to his usual nest of skins and blankets on the floor. Until he nodded off into the sleep of exhaustion in the mid-morning he kept offering her drinks and she valiantly tried to swallow as much as she could. While he slept Catherine tentatively reached out to him. She traced his features with her fingertips and touched her lips to his cheek. When he woke his arm was around her and her head rested on his shoulder. He was astonished at how familiar the pose felt. When he checked her pulse and heartbeat the results were encouraging. Later that Christmas Day Catherine talked of Derby for the first time, weeping for her mother, Dame Agnes, and Father Walter, whom they were never likely to see again. But she made greater efforts to eat and drink that day. During the following two weeks Catherine regained some of her determination and energy. Martin had been worried about her shoulder. When he had suggested that he move it for her each day, to keep its flexibility during healing, she had refused repeatedly, saying that it was too painful. It had healed some and the bruises had faded, but the joint was frozen. Catherine began trying to exercise it, increasing its mobility by the tiniest amounts each day. One day she proudly demonstrated that she could lift her left hand a span away from her hip. "I'll start working on forward and backward as well," she planned aloud. She suggested that they add vegetables to their requests for food to be delivered. She directed Martin in concocting more substantial soups. One evening she asked him to help her fill the tub he used for baths so that she could have a real bath too, instead of washing out of a basin. As she stepped into the tub, Martin ran his eyes over her, rejoicing in a hoped for gain in weight. He had been seeing her with the eyes of a physician for so long that he was shocked to realize his perspective had changed again. Her naked body stirred desire in him, and he didn't look away immediately. When he suddenly turned and busied himself with rearranging cups and bowls on the shelf, he realized Catherine had noted his stare. He was careful to keep his gaze directed at the floor until she was dressed again. Neither of them referred to the incident, but he noticed she was more careful to maintain her modesty afterwards. Two nights after that Martin was wakened a few hours after they had fallen asleep by an unusual chilliness in the air. The temperature outside had dropped more than usual that night. He got up and added more logs to the fire. While he stood making sure that the additional wood would burn steadily he heard Catherine stir in the bed. He looked over to make sure that she was all right before he returned to his pallet. In the rosy light of the renewed fire, she was beckoning him to the bedside. When he got there and bent down to ask her what was wrong, she silently lifted the blankets and invited him with a gesture to lie down beside her. He backed away in confusion. Two weeks ago he had been able to offer solace by holding her. Now he feared he would be tempted to offer much more. She continued to hold the blankets for him. As he hung back, her face took on a hurt expression. He couldn't reject her implicit need for comfort with no explanation. He approached the bed intending to explain the need for separate sleeping arrangements. She dropped the blankets and reached out with her right hand to grasp his hand and draw him toward her. Since he had left the proximity of the fire, he had begun shivering with the cold. He decided to lie down briefly and warm himself while he told her the shameful truth of his doubts about his own behavior. Catherine put her head on his shoulder as though it were their routine. Then she took his left hand and drew it to her mouth. She closed her eyes and began kissing his fingers. When she began delicately licking and sucking at the fingertips he could not pretend to misunderstand her meaning. Her approach lacked subtlety, and she was obviously inexperienced; but she was trying to seduce him, rather than artlessly seeking comfort. The problem was that the lack of subtlety didn't preclude results. The heat of her body next to him and the memory of their first delicious, disastrous kiss started to cloud his judgment. He knew that she could feel his erection through his shirt. She didn't shrink away. Instead she opened her eyes and gave him a timid smile, as if pleased with her success so far, but silently asking for help in progressing farther. He found he couldn't refuse an opportunity for another kiss. He rolled on to his side and pulled her to him putting his lips to hers very gently. This time she took the first step in making the kiss more intimate, pushing her small tongue between his lips, tentatively at first, and then more eagerly, as if finding this new activity very much to her liking. After they had enjoyed kissing for several minutes, Martin was thoroughly distracted from his reservations about consummating their love. He slid his hands down to her small breasts and stroked them, rubbing her nipples through the cotton shift with his thumbs. Her breathing quickened at his touch. Now Martin was no longer thinking. He was only experiencing sensations, and he took the initiative instinctively. He rolled onto his back, unfastening his shirt and stripping it off. Then he sat up on the bed and did the same with Catherine's shift, remembering to be careful when easing it over her left shoulder. He gazed at her body in the light of the fire for a full minute, until he noticed that she was lying under his scrutiny with her eyes shut and her head turned away in embarrassment. She reached up for him and clearly sought to bring his body back into contact with hers. He lay down on top of her, taking his weight on his elbows and knees, and began kissing her more forcefully than before. She relaxed again and returned his kisses with enthusiasm. He put one knee between her legs and she awkwardly opened them for him. Then when he began pushing between her legs with his erect penis he felt her go rigid beneath him and try unsuccessfully to close her legs again. He nuzzled her neck. "Do you want me to stop, Catherine?" he breathed into her ear. She silently but emphatically replied by shaking her head and ending her resistance to his entry. Nevertheless Martin could still feel the stiff way she held her legs, and the clenched muscles in her jaw. He longed to ignore these indirect signals of protest and achieve penetration, but he couldn't do it. He continued to hold her while he rolled back on to his side. He was dismayed to see her eyes wide open with what looked like fear. "What's the matter, sweetheart? Are you afraid it will hurt? I'll be very careful." Again she shook her head. "I want you to love me, Martin. I want to do this for you. But I didn't understand how it would be. I feel like I'm going to lose control or make ugly noises. I don't know what I'll do." The last thing Martin wanted to do was laugh, but he couldn't help seeing the humor in it. Catherine might know all about the way the body worked, but some things were clearly far outside her experience. "You understand that you aren't supposed to do this just for me, It's supposed to be for you too." "I've heard that some woman grow to like it,"she said doubtfully. "I like to kiss you." Martin responded to this by giving her another long kiss. Then he asked her "Would you think it was ugly if I made noises?" "What do you mean?" He took her hand, curled it around his penis and moved it slowly up and down several times, giving out a series of soft, convincing moans. Catherine moved restlessly next to him and unconsciously grasped him harder. "No, that's not a bad sound." She found herself savoring the sound and the feeling of mastery it gave her. "You need to trust me enough to give me some power over your feelings, as I trust you. I'm going to go a lot slower now, and you tell me if something doesn't feel good." He began stroking her naked breasts gently while he kissed her, and then lowered his head and took each of her nipples in turn between his lips. This made her breathe more rapidly, and she arched her back to increase the force of his mouth crushing her breasts. He went on sucking her nipples in turn, and he started to gently stroke the hair that covered her pudenda. This caused her to flinch slightly, but as he continued to be gentle, she relaxed into the sensation. Very gradually, he began to increase the pressure, and to make his movements circular. This brought small groans of pleasure from Catherine, and she lifted herself against his hand to add to the sensation. Martin was beginning to doubt his ability to postpone his own climax as long as necessary. He found her increasing arousal almost unbearably exciting. Martin drew one finger between her legs, penetrating her a little farther each time, stretching the thin membrane there, instead of leaving it to be violently broken by his thrusts. After he had done this for several minutes, she opened her legs with no prompting to allow him more access to her. He decided to take his chance, and once more rolled over to cover her body with his. This time when he stroked her opening with his erect penis, her hips smoothly rose to meet his. The slight pain she felt at his penetration was lost in the intensity of the enjoyment of being filled. She met each further thrust by raising her buttocks. He couldn't last long with this stimulation, but they still reached their climaxes together, shuddering with the blazing, melting power of their surrender to pleasure. Catherine gave a low shriek that contained elements of both release and surprise. Then they both lay stunned at the dimensions of their action. The experience had overtaken them like a tidal wave crashing irresistibly over a beach. Now they would have to determine what it had brought and what had been swept away. Catherine was staggered by the profound nature of their consummation. Now she understood the Biblical description of marriage as being two in one flesh. They had now been united in every way, and she felt a comfort and ease with Martin she couldn't have imagined before. Before this event she had had the physician's understanding of the mechanics of intercourse. The emotions were a closed book to her. As a girl of thirteen she had talked the matter over with a cousin of the same age who was preparing to marry. Lucy had confided that her mother had told her to put her hands over her head and allow her husband to have his will of her body. A year later when her cousin's baby was christened Catherine had tried to ask about the marriage act again. Lucy just shook her head and told her that she was lucky to be going into the convent. She didn't have to worry about it. From this scanty information she had concluded she could make a gift of her body to Martin quickly and simply. She had been surprised when he had expected more: she had been shocked that she wanted to give it. The important gift had turned out to be her naked emotions, rather than her naked body. Martin's heart felt so full of lust, love, tenderness and fear that he though it might burst. He was already longing for their next opportunity to make love. At the same time he took the greatest pleasure in simply holding Catherine protectively, and rejoicing in her existence. Underneath these emotions lay the not unreasonable fear of losing her. It was grounded in the reality of all the dangers that still threatened her, and the uncertainty of the future they faced if they managed to escape their immediate perils. ************ During the following days Catherine and Martin gave themselves up to their enjoyment of each other. Lovemaking became the new focus of their lives. Martin was surprised to discover how quickly Catherine learned to give and take pleasure in it. He sometimes caught hold of her and thrust himself into her after the briefest of fondling and kisses, not pausing to remove any clothing. Catherine explored her power to tease him with her hands and her mouth, refusing to allow him release until he was almost begging. They invented a game where the first person to wake up in the morning would start trying to arouse the other, while the sleeper had to pretend to be asleep even when thoroughly wakened. The object of the game was to see how long the sleeper could refuse to respond to the most seductive sensations. No one ever lost. There were long evenings of slow, deliberate caresses ending in almost painfully intense climaxes followed by sleep. The mute fears that hid behind this desperate explosion of sensuality were spoken of only once. "What will become of us, Martin?" Catherine asked one day. They were outside looking for firewood. Partially melted and refrozen snow remained on the ground in places shaded from the midday sun. The world was poised on the edge of a change in seasons, with the days gradually lengthening again. They expected Edgar to arrive within the next two weeks. Catherine had difficulty remembering when she knew what to expect with every day of every season. It had only been four months since she had been shut up in a prison cell, but it felt like a lifetime. Since then she had lost her place in the world, her friends and family, her faith, and the use of her left arm. Now she had a lover who was an outlaw like herself--a lover on whom she was utterly dependent. She had chosen him over her integrity and over death, when death had seemed like the greatest boon the world held for her. How could she possibly know what would happen now? She looked over at him to see if he had heard her question. His expression was troubled. "I spoke to Edgar when he left us here. The plan was to sail for Ireland. At the time I was only thinking of a safe place for you to live, probably in another convent. That was before things changed between us. We can't be parted now," he said with finality. "I'll have to make my family understand that. There's work I can do for the Duke, as Sir William does." Catherine knew how he felt about the conspiratorial activities carried on by Sir William. "Don't look at me that way," he admonished her. "There's more to administering a dukedom than foreign connections." She stepped over to Martin and pressed herself up against him as closely as possible, putting her arm around his neck. "I know," she said. "Let's not talk about it anymore until Edgar gets here." They didn't discuss their future again while living in the lodge. There were other things to talk about. They sat in front of the fire and talked about what had happened to them over the past year. "What did you think when you first saw me?" "I thought there'd be numerous babies left in the parish with your wonderful nose and mouth." "I don't believe it. You can't tell me you felt that way about me from the first time you saw me." "No, not immediately. But it took so little time before I felt a special connection with you--as though we were meant to be together. Now it's your turn." "What do you mean?" "Be fair! You know, what did you think when you first saw me?" "I thought why is that lovely young girl here, pretending to know what she's doing at a death bed?" Catherine smiled at him and then her face changed. With her right hand she touched her gaunt cheeks and rough, uneven hair. She stared at her left hand lying in her lap. "No one is likely to make that mistake again," she remarked sadly. "I doesn't matter. You're still beautiful. Even if you weren't I'd love your face because it's yours. It makes me happy," Martin responded. He ran his hand through her short hair, down her neck and shoulders, to her breasts. Gentle strokes through her shift led to fiercer caresses. Martin picked her up and carried her from the fireplace to the bed, where they hurriedly joined their bodies in the welcome rush to ecstasy followed by oblivion. Martin woke up in the middle of the night to find that the fire had burned so low that the room was in almost total darkness. He got up and revived the fire. When he returned to the bed in the light of its orange glow, his chilly skin woke Catherine. She snuggled up to warm him more quickly. "Catherine? I never told you before. I'm so sorry for what I did with Alison. I betrayed you. I betrayed you more than I knew." "I knew you were sorry. It wasn't really your fault. You were suffering, so unhappy and alone. I knew that, but I was relentless. It was cruel to both of us. As soon as Dangelo shut me away from you I knew my mistake. I found out I needed to see you if only to punish you. And then I saw how wrong that was." "If I'd never came to Derby and made Alison jealous you wouldn't have been imprisoned." "No," she agreed. "I suppose I'd have been lying in a shallow grave by the river these seven months. It's all too mixed up to figure out how things might have been different. But I can't regret loving you." "At the Vatican I read some Latin translations of Arabic texts. The Persians trade with an eastern land where the people believe everyone is born over and over again." "Life after life, forever?" "No, with each life the person is supposed to become more noble and spiritual. When he's pure enough his soul merges with the World Soul, and he has no separate existence anymore. Some of the Greek philosophers played with the idea." "So, the two of us, we might get a chance to come back and avoid the mistakes we made the first time?" Catherine couldn't keep the longing out of her voice. "Do you think we can assume this was the first time, Catherine?" Martin asked with a laugh. "We may have made a tangle of things a score of times before. Do you remember Athens? Or Babylon? Or leaving Egypt with Moses?" "I'm willing to keep trying." Catherine laughed too. "But I always want to be with you." They didn't either of them really believe there would be another life for them, but what an enticing idea it was. The next day brought pale blue skies, ragged white clouds, and enough sun to melt the remaining snow. This kind of day had once stirred Catherine to start planning for her annual garden. Instead she sat in the doorway for the daylight and tried not to think about it. She was working on clothes she would need when it was time to leave. Martin had commissioned their messenger to get them some clothes for their journey. He had nothing except the clothes he wore to the manor that day, and she had nothing but the shift and penitential smock she wore in the prison cell. She struggled to alter one of the gowns Harry had brought back from the market. Her desire for inconspicuous clothes had meshed well with their pretext for staying in the lodge. Martin had made a show of jealousy, demanding that Harry bring gowns that were old, plain and very modest. The results exceeded the requirements, since they proved to be ugly as well. Catherine had never found sewing a pleasant task. Now it hurt her shoulder when she tried to hold the stiff material still against the push of the needle. She felt frustrated and clumsy, but was determined to do something useful, even if it was only a plain hem. When Martin had finished the washing, she was still trying. For a while, he watched her repeatedly drive the needle into a finger or turn white with the pain of using her left hand. He found it very difficult to refrain from snatching the work away from her and seeing what he could make of it. She had already refused his offers of help twice, and he didn't think she would welcome a third offer. Once upon a time she would have punctuated her activity with occasional appeals to Mary, Jesus or God. Her silent efforts reminded him of a worry that had been growing since their rescue from the prison. "Catherine, you don't have to talk about this, but I've noticed that you don't pray anymore. Have you given up on your salvation because of....us?. Please tell me you don't think you're too sinful to pray. Even the Church recognizes that sins of the flesh are not the great sins." "What should I pray for? Should I pray for the strength to resist you, and sleep with a sword between us--if we had a sword?" she asked him, with a smile. "We do have a sword. In prudence, Edgar left me a sword. However it's remarkably sharp, and you won't find me in any bed where it lies unsheathed." "There you are. The sword would make virtue simple for me. But I couldn't pray for that strength because I don't really want it. I don't believe what we do is wrong." It was not these words, but the ones that followed that brought a blush of embarrassment to her cheeks. "I'm ashamed to say that it was my own ordeal that caused me to lose my belief in God while I was in prison. If I'd really allowed myself to see the suffering that was going on around me in the past, I'd have lost my faith long before. Suddenly I knew so clearly that it was all random chance. Look at Deborah, Hugh, Joan, even Gib. They trudge on like animals under burdens I couldn't begin to bear. Suffering isn't ennobling them, or saving them. They just try to duck away from it, the way the village dogs dodge stones. But they usually don't succeed." Martin was relieved that Catherine wasn't in fear for her soul, but against all reason he regretted the loss of the sweet, childlike confidence she had once had in the Universe. It was a dark place with no Father in the sky to turn to when all else failed. Most of all he bitterly regretted the anguish that had brought her to this stark acceptance of the indifference of the cosmos. "You have nothing to be ashamed of, Catherine, You never turned away from someone without doing what you could to help, and it wasn't just prayers you offered them." Martin waited a few minutes and tried to figure out how to offer his help again without seeming to question Catherine's competence. He went over to the doorway and sat on her left side. As she began to push the needle through the fabric one more time, he simply placed his right hand under her left elbow, bracing it so she didn't have to tense the left shoulder. At her look of reproval he smiled and tried to make an unanswerable argument. "You aren't going to make me feel bad by making me turn away from someone who just needs a little help until she heals more?" He further disarmed her by following up with a kiss. She gave in when she saw how much faster the work went. The hem was good enough. The clothes themselves, with the necessary veil, reduced her to little more than a pair of huge gray eyes, a prominent nose, and a very decided chin. What she could see of her reflection when she looked into the well made her glad she didn't have a looking glass. She thought Martin was very kind to pretend not to notice how dreadful the clothes made her look. ************ Edgar arrived at the end of the first week in February. He was their saviour, but he was also an intruder into their exclusive world. He had brought an escort of fourteen armed men. When he saw Martin's surprise, Edgar drew him aside and quietly told him of the messages he had continued to get from informants among the manor servants. Dangelo was still furious over the successful raid of the manor prison cells. He had put spies everywhere to find out who was responsible and where the prisoners were. He kept a party of soldiers ready to act on any information he got. There had been total confusion the morning after the raid. About half of the guard swore that Sister Catherine had summoned the fair folk from under the hill to her rescue. The gentry had hidden their faces, sneaked past the soldiers and then put them to sleep, all by the use of their magic. The other half of the guard testified to a force of fifty bandits lead by a hooded giant who forced them to drink what he swore was poison. Unmoved, Dangelo patiently looked for evidence to support his story. He maintained that a few clever men, obviously well trained as soldiers, had carried out the rescue. "He sent people to talk to your friends and relatives. Matthew, the man you sent to me with your message, must have let something slip. People have been asking questions about me in the town of Nottingham. They haven't learned anything definite yet, but that's too close to take chances. We'll be leaving tomorrow," Edgar informed hm. "I believe Catherine is well enough to ride now," Martin agreed reluctantly. He felt the sorrow of irreparable loss at the thought of leaving their seclusion and their illusion of safety. He hated being made to face the anxiety and fear again, but he and Catherine had known this day was inevitable. Courtesy required that he invite Edgar to say in the lodge with them that night. "No, I won't accept your kind invitation, Martin. It's better if I stay with the men and go over our plans; " Edgar answered. He would give them their chance to say good-bye. Given the realities of the world, that's what tonight would be for them. That night Martin and Catherine held each other and reassured each other of their love as though they had to fit in enough words for a lifetime. Each silently vowed to hold the shape and feel of the other in memory forever. When they left the lodge the next morning, it felt like a death. Edgar introduced Sister Catherine to his leaders in the pale darkness of early dawn. Most of them already knew Martin. Only Edgar's sergeant-at-arms, Dru, was able to look Catherine in the eye and wish her a good morning. Catherine knew she made the soldiers uncomfortable. They didn't know what role to assign to her. Was she a holy nun or a camp follower? She was no one's wife or daughter or sister. Edgar treated her with politeness, but his distant attitude was clear. She tried to stay out of everyone's way. Martin helped her onto her horse. Catherine had ridden little since her childhood on the farm. As hard as she had worked on her left shoulder and arm, she had regained nothing more than the initial small increase in range that came with first moving it. She was worried about how she would manage the mare Edgar had brought for her. The horse was both skittish and stubborn in temperament. But they set an easy pace the first day, and the animal appeared satisfied to walk among the other horses without balking or shying. The only mishap occurred at the end of the day. When Catherine dismounted her legs were so tired from the unaccustomed activity that they shook and gave way beneath her. She ended up sitting on the ground and feeling foolish. Dru noticed her predicament and quietly came over to help. When she proved unable to stand immediately, he laid one of her blankets on the ground and helped her make herself comfortable against a fallen log. "You did very well to keep up with us today, Sister," he said encouragingly. "I remember how you looked two and a half months ago. I was afraid you wouldn't still be with us. I certainly didn't think you'd be ready to ride." "Thank you for your help, sir. Father Martin is the one who worked the wonder." "He is a remarkable man. But so are you a remarkable woman." Edgar had asked Martin to remain behind for a while to keep a lookout for anyone who might be following them. Until he arrived, Dru brought water and food to Catherine, and helped her arrange her blankets for sleeping. When Martin arrived later he was full of thanks to Dru for his care of Catherine. The other soldiers found it much easier to ignore her. "You'll never leave her, will you," Dru stated, rather than asked. He was sitting with Martin by the fire as he ate a belated meal. "That's true. You can have no idea yet of the bravery and sweetness of her soul, and the breadth of her mind. There's no one else like her in the world. I know what the men say about us, and what Edgar thinks. It's all one to me. We need to be together and we will be." Dru thought that Edgar didn't really understand what he was dealing with. He persisted in thinking that Martin could easily be distracted from Catherine by the prospect of a good position with a noble family. Dru saw that their connection had such deep roots that tearing them out would do serious harm to the lovers themselves. "I found she's not one to complain. Watch her on this journey. She'll fall off her horse in exhaustion before she'll protest the pace," Dru observed. "Not one to complain," Martin echoed, feeling a hysterical laugh rising up in his throat. He managed to choke it back. "In that prison. There were whips. Do you know what they had started to do...?" Dru shook his head and held up his hand to stop Martin's words. They had to be as hard to speak as to hear. "How could they bring themselves to do what they did to her?" He spoke so quietly that Dru believed he did not expect an answer. They both knew there were a thousand reasons for cruelty and none of them were sufficient. Martin went back and arranged his own blankets as close as he could get to Catherine without contact. They had agreed to strict propriety in their actions to avoid giving offense. He placed the sword he always wore now within easy reach. ************ On the second day of the journey Catherine sat out of sight with her back resting against an old oak while they ate a mid-day meal. Edgar had again asked Martin to watch the road behind them. She heard a group of the soldiers settle down on the other side of the tree. "I don't believe she was ever in a convent. There's nothing shy or pious about the way she looks at Father Martin. His fascination with her is no mystery. I'll wager her mother broke her in early and taught her everything she knew." "By Christ's Cross, it's got to be witchcraft," asserted one of them, in a voice that boomed as if it came through a hollow log. "She looks like something you'd see in the churchyard on the Eve of All Souls." "She's not that bad, Jack. And who knows what's under that ugly gown? With that complexion I'll bet she's a redhead." "So? Redheads have bad tempers," Jack said smugly. "One more fault." "But I've heard they're uncommon lusty." "Well, why don't I just find out? " The third speaker sounded much younger, but he was trying hard to match the worldly, cynical tones of the older men. There was total silence for a moment. Then Catherine thought she heard a suppressed laugh that turned into a coughing fit. Jack's voice boomed again. "Yes, why don't you do that? What's your name?" "John. John Woodson." "Here's what you do. Wait 'til we stop and Edgar sends Father Martin on one of those eternal errands. When she goes off into the woods for her modesty's sake, you follow her and tell her she's stolen your heart and you have to have her or you'll die. Women like to hear that. Then lay her down flat and take her. She may be saying 'No', but a man of your experience knows she'll be grateful when you raise her up. Be sure to remember to find out if she's a redhead." "I'll have her begging for more," the young man bragged. "We're depending on you, John. Does anyone want to place a wager?" "Not on the question of hair color but maybe another matter," a fourth man volunteered. There were several snorts of laughter at this. "Why are you men sitting around here telling tales as though it were December in the great hall? We're getting ready to leave" Catherine recognized Dru's voice. "Wait a minute, John. I need to have a word with you. I heard some of what you were saying before you knew I was there," he went on after a moment's silence. There was an inaudible mutter from John. "I hope that's true. Jack and the others were trying to make trouble. You're new to Edgar's service, and they're taking advantage of your ignorance. Touch the hem of that woman's gown disrespectfully and Martin will be handing you your balls on a trencher, before you know they're missing. He may be a priest but he's as good as Edgar with the sword. And you'd better be careful about what you call foolish jests. You know that Lady Elizabeth is Martin's mother. It took Jack a month to recover after Martin heard him 'jesting' about Lady Elizabeth having a paramour." Catherine sat in a sick daze. She felt humiliated, degraded and terrified, but she was safe. She was safe only because she belonged to a man whom the soldiers respected and feared. What kind of life was this going to be? She heard Martin's voice then, first calling her, then demanding to know where she was. If only they could be together in peace and safety. She walked toward his voice and once again enjoyed the sight of his face brightening as he caught sight of her. She knew his expression was matched by her own. Catherine had been avoiding public acknowledgment of their relationship by forbidding herself any physical contact with Martin. Now she allowed herself the comfort of touching his hand and laying her head briefly on his chest. She worried that he would draw back in embarrassment. That would be painful to bear. Instead he embraced her tightly and turned her face up to his own for a lover's kiss. Yes, Catherine thought, for better or worse they belonged to each other. ************ By the third day of their journey the chance of a challenge from Dangelo had diminished. They were leagues from Baron Philip's demesne. Still, Edgar sent men ahead and behind them to look for any signs of danger. In spite of a greater sense of security, the weather lowered everyone's spirits. There was no sun. The chill mist of the day became a clingy wet fog with the onset of evening. Sounds were dampened and visibility was reduced. The band of travellers felt more isolated than ever. They were coming up to the crossroads where the road to Coventry turned off to the east, and the road to Worcester continued south. The lead riders were a little frightened when they heard the sound of harp strings, slightly distorted in the damp air, from an area off the road. They were all for continuing on very quickly in case the fair folk were at market or revelry, but they duly informed Edgar of the discovery. He was riding with Martin, who laughed off their fears and disappeared in the direction of the music, greatly increasing his reputation for bravery. He found two damp and unhappy men preparing to make a camp for the night. He introduced himself using the name 'William,' and told them he was one of a large group. They told him they were Sean and Padraic, Irish musicians who were travelling to Coventry, and picking up what earnings they could on the way. "We're late from Ireland, sir," Sean volunteered. "We came across from Dublin to Bristol and we've been travelling on foot ever since." "Why don't you join us around our fires, and share some food with us. We'd be pleased to hear some of your music in exchange," Martin offered. They were happy to abandon their fruitless attempts to start a fire and join the larger group. Dru directed everyone who was not engaged in taking care of the horses or unpacking food to search for dry firewood. This was a tedious business on a wet night. The general disinclination to wander very far from the others through the mist shrouded trees made it more unsuccessful than usual. After half an hour spent gathering small branches, Martin came on a log protected by a cluster of holly bushes. He brought it to one of Edgar's men, a soldier known for his skill at starting fires under difficult conditions. Then he began looking for Catherine as he looked for more wood. When half an hour had gone by without his catching sight of her, he began asking others if they'd seen her recently. He ended by bellowing her name into the forest at intervals for fifteen terrifying minutes. For him they went by as slowly as fifteen hours. Catherine tried to approach him unobtrusively when she re- entered the cozy circle of firelight, but Martin caught her by the waist and greeted her with loud exclamations made up equally of reproach and relief. "Do you know how thoroughly you can get lost in a fog this thick? If you had gone very far in the wrong direction we might never have found you." He shuddered as he imagined passing the rest of the night being urged by the others to wait until dawn to start a search. "Think what it would be like never knowing what happened to you." "I'm so sorry, Martin. I didn't mean to be a worry. It was hard to find dry wood and I just kept walking and looking." "When did you realize you were lost?" he asked, keeping his hand on her arm, as though fearing she would slip away again. "I never did," she said with a shamefaced smile. "But as soon as I heard my name I realized that I wouldn't have known which way to go without your voice as a guide." "Why are you shaking so much? It's damp tonight but not freezing." "I was in a hurry on the way back. I stumbled into a pond or puddle and got a little wet." Martin ran his hands over her cloak and gown and realized her feet, skirts and sleeves were soaked. "Here, come right up to the fire. You need to dry out." Catherine stood as close to the fire as she safely could. The flickering, rosy glow softened the sharp angles of her face, and erased some of the lines added recently by suffering and anxiety. Her serenely contented expression, as she stood in the comfortable warmth with Martin's arm around her, restored more youthfulness to her aspect. Edgar saw her and felt a pang as he thought of the plan he meant to carry out tomorrow. Would he truly be doing a favor for his brother? The Irish whistle player noticed Catherine also, and questioned the young soldier beside him about her. "You've got one woman with you. Isn't that strange? A respectable woman usually brings at least one companion along to avoid talk of scandal. Or is she just a camp-follower?" "They tell me she's a nun," the young man said, with sarcastic emphasis on the work 'tell'. "She was living with this so-called 'priest' in a hunting lodge near Nottingham. The two of them are going to Bristol. Apparently they're outlaws being chased by some interfering monsignor from Rome. That's why there are so many in our party. This Italian has his own soldiers and is trying to hunt them down. Don't get any ideas about her--that pious priest Father Martin will fight like a cornered badger in defense of her 'honor'. So I'm told." "How interesting. And what a romance," Sean commented. The youth looked sour, and went to claim his portion of food. When the food had been doled out and eaten, Edgar called out for some music. "Let's have something lively to chase away the ghosts and goblins!" Sean and Padraic obliged with a jigs, reels and marches. Some of the soldiers kept time with Padraic, who accompanied the whistle on a small drum. After more than an hour of these, Sean finally spoke for both of them and admitted they were too tired to play any longer. "I want to play one song for the lady in your midst before we quit. It's an old one that we call 'The Black Rose'." They began an air quite different from the preceding dance tunes. The melody was like the call of a lonely bird, singing of unbearable loss and regret. Padraic counterpointed the notes with low silvery notes on the harp that seemed to promise peace, if not hope to the melancholy caller. At the end of it Catherine and Martin could not trust themselves to speak. They stood leaning against each other and staring into the fire. "That was pretty, but too gloomy to end the evening with," Edgar spoke up. "Let's have another jig to send us off to pleasant dreams." "There are times when cheerfulness isn't a reasonable humor, sir," Sean replied with a sad smile. "In my homeland I get as many requests for the beautifully sad airs as the for the jigs, reels, and dances. We can't play any more tonight." If Sean's aim had been to restore a sense of eerie isolation to the group, he had succeeded. The men sat up as late as they could manage. They gazed into the firelight with the white wall of vapor at their backs, concealing who knew what. That night, as they settled side by side, Martin pulled Catherine to him and curved his body around hers. He told himself that no one could see them in the heavy mist. The wistful piping haunted their dreams, but they clung to each other, and were. ************ The next morning it was quickly apparent that the musicians had disappeared from among them during the dark hours. This made Edgar uneasy, especially since they hadn't stolen anything. Some of the men whispered among themselves that they had been right all along. The two music makers had been of the gentry who live under the hills, come to play for Sister Catherine. Nevertheless, improvement in the weather made the day brighter, both literally and figuratively. There was enough weak sunlight to disperse the fog by midmorning. The sky took on a white burnished look, like polished tin. "Martin, would you ride ahead and find out how long it will take us to reach the river crossing?" Edgar asked. Martin nodded. He wanted to assist Edgar, but he also knew that his errands were a deliberate strategy to separate him from Catherine. He would humor Edgar to some extent, but he was beginning to feel the limits of his patience. When Martin had been gone for a while, Edgar came to Catherine's side and opened a conversation. It was the first time he had directly addressed her. "Sister Catherine, I've been watching you for the past several days. I'm a good judge of character. I believe you're a good woman, and that you really love my brother. I hope you don't plan to ruin his future by staying close to him. He's got the ability to reach some of the highest Church and state positions in England. The English prelates don't care about misunderstandings in Rome. Our father can get him into households where his abilities will be noticed. After that there are no limits on what he can accomplish. A continuing scandalous attachment to a nun who signed a confession to witchcraft--well, I probably don't need to say any more." "I understand," she answered in a suffocated voice. "Martin will never abandon you. He is loyal. No matter what his personal preferences might be he'll honor any promise he made to you. It will be up to you decide if he should be freed from such promises so that he can rise as high as his own merits permit." It felt to Catherine as though Edgar had neatly and kindly cut out her heart and quartered it before her eyes. She could not imagine telling Martin a final goodbye, but that might be the most loving thing she could do. Edgar went on. "I made some inquiries and found out about a convent in Ireland that would take you in as a laywoman. They're known for their excellent library and the beautiful manuscripts they produce. Why don't you give some thought to your own future?" He nodded courteously at her, and urged his mount forward a few paces. Martin was riding back from the crossing and saw them in conversation. What in the world was Edgar saying to her? They both looked composed, but he had hoped never to see that white, desolate look on Catherine's face again. He reached them and addressed Edgar first. "The crossing is only a fifteen minute ride from here. But we won't be able to cross there. The current is too strong, and the river is too deep. The snow hasn't usually melted this much by mid February. We're going to have to continue south until we reach a bridge." "The next bridge is at the village of Clentcombe," Edgar responded confidently. "It's only half an hour's ride farther." Then Martin was sure that Edgar knew this route well--too well to need him as a scout. He resolved to question Catherine about their conversation when they got a chance to speak alone. Catherine was thinking, as Edgar had advised. For the first time she could not visualize any future for herself. She wanted to be with Martin the way she wanted air to breathe. How could she make the choice Edgar had so clearly pointed out to her? It would be like sailing off the edge of the world. "Catherine, do you need to stop and rest? She had unconsciously dropped back behind the last of the group. Martin had come up beside her. She shook her head. "What was Edgar saying to make you so miserable earlier. I saw your expression." "He was describing a place I might go to live after we leave England, " she revealed reluctantly. "You, but not me." Martin understood instantly what was going on. "Edgar has no right to interfere between us." "What he said was true. I can't ever be anything but a liability to you." "Since he doesn't know how things are between us, he has some excuse for saying that. What's your excuse?" he retorted cuttingly. She looked up at him, as shocked as if he had slapped her. He was terrified of her power to withdraw herself from him. Fear for their future, and the unwelcome knowledge that, in the worldly sense, Catherine and Edgar were right, fueled the anger he now directed at Catherine. He continued to speak bitterly. Didn't she feel, as he did, that the problems would just have to be solved? Whatever sacrifices had to be made, would be made. You couldn't bargain away the necessities for the luxuries. The words themselves were not cruel, but the tone of voice came through more clearly than the content. Catherine had never seen him angry with her before. Was he already realizing the burden she represented? She still had enough pride to refuse to become anyone's grudgingly borne cross. Enough pride to hold her face stiff and blink back tears of hurt at being attacked for her self-doubts. "We'll find a way. Don't you remember? You told me yourself that I shouldn't let disappointed ambition ruin my life. I'm going to ride ahead to Clentcombe so I can let Edgar know what kind of provisions we can expect to get." Unnecessarily, his conscience reminded him. He had spoken more temperately, but Catherine was grieved still by the cold look on his face. Before his mount had passed the first riders in their group he was fighting a powerful urge to turn back and end their misunderstanding. Catherine too readily blamed herself for things that were not her fault. Edgar had hit upon the perfect approach to separate them by using this weakness. His own reaction had only made things worse. He should have directed his anger at Edgar, not poor Catherine. But he couldn't afford to quarrel with Edgar right now. The future scared him too. He would be an outlaw for a while, dependent on the Duke's support. Later his help could allow Martin to be reinstated as a lawful citizen. The Duke wouldn't want to help Catherine with that step, even if it could be done. Edgar agreed with the Duke, and Sir William didn't want anything to do with him. If the Duke were willing to provide a place for Catherine to live separately they might have to agree to it temporarily. The thought of it plunged him into misery. How could he go back into a black cave after knowing the joys of light and color? So if she was the light of his world, why was he hurting her by staying away from her now? It would have been so much better if he had told her of his fears, allowed her to comfort him. Then he could have told her that her presence was as necessary to him as the sun to the earth. If he hadn't already arrived at the bridge that led to Clentcombe, he would have turned back. The village could be seen from the bridge, so he continued on to find someone who was interested in selling them supplies. The narrow streets seemed strangely empty of people. When he reached the town center he saw why. A crowd surrounded performers of some kind. As he drew nearer Martin froze as he recognized the plaintive notes of 'The Black Rose' performed on the tin whistle and harp. Sean and Padraic were supposed to be on their way to Coventry. This was the wrong route for them. What else had they lied about? Martin approached on horseback. He came close enough to catch Sean's eye over the heads of the crowd as the song ended. Martin's expression conveyed his question to Sean as eloquently as words. Sean's wordless reply had the same clarity. He glanced up at the sun and shook his head sadly. Then he gave a shrug and showed Martin a rueful smile. He briefly touched the newly heavy leather purse at his side to reassure himself that it was secure. Martin turned his horse and raced back over the path he had just travelled. He promised himself the pleasure of returning later and wringing the necks of those traitorous Irish villains. When he came within sight of the bridge he saw their group had already begun to cross. He was in time to witness their being ambushed from both sides by a score of men. Martin recognized Dangelo at the far side of the bridge by his bearing and his rich clothing. Martin kept his horse to a gallop as he approached and tried to judge their chances. They were only outnumbered by five, thanks to Edgar's cautious planning. But most of their group was trapped on the bridge between the attackers. Martin saw Edgar send one man over the side almost immediately. He was carried downstream swiftly on the snow and rain swollen river. Catherine was close to Edgar, but far from Martin. She barely kept her seat as her horse tossed its head and frantically looked for an escape from the confusion and smell of blood. No one was paying any attention to her difficulty. The men required all their energy to defend themselves. He thought Dru might be trying to cut a path to her from the far bank, but he was making little progress. Just as Martin reached the closest participants in the struggle, he looked again and saw Catherine's riderless mount moving toward him. If she had fallen under the horses' hooves...Oh, God, he should have been at her side when this attack came. They had a good chance of winning, but someone should have seen to it that she was safely removed from the fighting. Catherine had just caught sight of Martin approaching them when the soldiers came out of hiding at each end of the bridge. The incursion caught even Edgar by surprise. They had believed they were beyond the reach of Dangelo. In any case an ambush rarely took place so close to a village. The unpredictable activities of the populace made it too difficult to plan effectively. Catherine's panicked mount immediately began seek escape. When her rider tried to control her movements she bucked and finally rolled to gain her freedom. Jumping and scrambling away from the chaos of men and horses that surrounded her, Catherine shrank back against the low stone wall of the bridge. She saw that the attackers had particularly targeted Edgar and the newly arrived Martin. Each of them was dealing with two soldiers. The effort required for defense kept them totally occupied. Their only hope lay in the ability of Edgar's men to overcome their single opponents and turn the fight around. As she pressed as close to the wall as possible, Dangelo himself passed her. He was ready to attack from behind, adding his sword to the two already pushing Edgar to the limits of his strength. Edgar would certainly be killed. She grabbed the bridle of Dangelo's warhorse from the side and dragged on it with all her strength, while screaming a warning to Edgar. At the same time Dangelo caught hold of the hand that held his bridle. She effectively destroyed Dangelo's advantage of surprise, and momentarily disrupted his control of his horse. One of Edgar's opponents was distracted enough to allow Edgar to deal him a disabling blow. Dangelo regained his mastery over his steed, shifting his grip to Catherine's wrist. Then he ended her interference by driving his sword into her from above. It entered below her collarbone and went deep. He withdrew it to administer a second blow. Instead he let go of her wrist and she staggered backwards. Dangelo had to deal with Dru, who was attacking with the savagery of a Berserker. His face was a mask of grief and rage. Catherine supposed sorrowfully that someone dear to him must have been hurt in the attack. She immediately thought of Martin, but a look reassured her that he was defending himself successfully. She hoped Martin had not seen what happened to her. He needed all his concentration to deal with the fighting. Maybe she could brace herself in a sitting position against the wall and draw her knees up to her chin to hide the blood that already saturated her shift and kirtle. The annihilating pain that began to pulse through her caused her to misjudge her footing, and she toppled over the wall into the rushing river. Martin had not been able to follow the activity on the ground, but he caught the movement of Catherine's fall. He knew that her useless left arm would make it impossible for her to gain the shore against the powerful current. He would have to go in after her even if it compromised their defense. He managed to fend off the two soldiers he had been fighting while maneuvering his horse to the side of the bridge. As he pivoted from his horse to the bridge wall, he felt a blow to his side from a third figter. Ignoring the pain, he located Catherine struggling in the water ten rods downstream. He jumped in with their relative positions fixed in his head. When he surfaced he expected to be next to her. He was surprised to see her still some five rods away. His head was spinning with the effort of swimming, even though he was moving with the current. He could not breathe deeply enough, but he reached Catherine on his next try. She was working too hard in her effort to keep her head above the water to notice his approach. He called her name and showed her how to rest her head on his shoulder so that she could stop struggling. Then he saw the deep and wide gash in her chest spilling blood steadily. He hoped it wasn't as bad as it looked. Catherine was happy that Martin was out of the fighting. Unless Edgar lost the struggle, and Dangelo found him, Martin would be safe. "I'm going to get us to shore," he told her, with more confidence than he felt. When he tried to fight the racing stream directly he was left gasping and powerless to combat it. "I can't seem to breathe enough," he panted. "I don't know if I can get us to the river bank." He placed his left hand under Catherine's chin and began to struggle ungracefully toward the bank, fighting hard for every breath. This time he tried to use the current to add to their momentum, making very slow progress away from the middle of the river. The broadening of the river around the next bend worked for him, rather than against him. The current was less powerful in the wider shallower bed. With one last effort Martin managed to plant his feet in the muddy shallows and stumble out of the water. He was able to float Catherine close to the shore and drag her out until they lay together in the cold mud, among the dry, dead reeds of the previous summer. With an awful sense of foreboding, Catherine painfully turned herself to face him. She ran her hand around his body until she felt a warm flow from his side. She gently explored with her fingers a wound very much like her own. "You're bleeding," she said. Her sad face told him the rest. "I thought so." Her head once more rested on his shoulder. They had been shivering in the water at first. Now, even though they lay in wet clothes in the chilled air, the sensations of cold began to recede. Martin found breathing increasingly difficult. Shallow breaths were easier and less painful. Then he remembered there was something important to say. "I'm sorry I got so angry. It was just that I was so afraid of losing you." "Sssh, sssh, Martin," she soothed. "I'm sorry too for my mistakes and cruelties. It's behind us now. We won't hurt each other anymore." They lay looking up at the flat pale February sky for immeasurable moments. The hurrying river gurgled by them, the only sound within their hearing. At first Catherine thought that somehow the sun was burning its way through the clouds. Then she realized that all of her sensations were dissolving into light. "Martin, I love you so," she said, and strained to give him a kiss on the cheek. The world bleached white before her, and she could not respond to his answering words of love. That was all right, he thought. Let her sleep. She had forgotten to shut her eyes, so he gently brushed his fingertips over the lids. For a short time he held her close, until the world faded from his vision too. ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ****** There was script on the back of the last page. Someone had pressed so hard that the lines of the sharply pointed and dramatically slanted letters stood out in relief through the typewritten words. Mulder turned the page over and read the short note. "November, 1994. I know who they are now. They're suffering so much. Why did this idea seem so fascinating ten years ago? The reality is horrible. I've been to the hospital. Dana is probably going to die. This is where I once pictured myself, with my privileged information, stepping in and saving the day. I would tell everyone what to do to restore harmony to the Universe. Now I see it would be like trying to use tree rings to help someone decide if they needed an umbrella that day. Goddess help us all." So, Melissa hadn't been as self-assured as she appeared during that awful time when Scully lay comatose. And how ironic that even with what she considered the advantage of her "privileged information" Melissa had become a victim of the tragedy that haunted them. Or had Melissa known exactly what she was doing and offered herself willingly as a substitute to save her sister's life? No, that was impossible. There was no privileged information--only a romantic story that had its hooks in his mind right now for no good reason. He needed action. That would quiet the nagging little voice that invited him to analyze the evidence and learn from it. If felt as though the story added details to a shape that already existed in his mind, like aerial photographs of the countryside timed so that the long rays of the setting sun highlight the slightest depression or elevation. Historians bring back the long lost contours of an ancient village using this technique. They work with tangible things. His impressions weren't good enough. He knew how suggestible he was now and he wasn't buying it. Why had Mrs. Scully pressed this dispiriting document on Scully so urgently? It was Mrs. Scully who continued to be a refuge and powerhouse of strength for her adult children in their times of trouble. Even he had found her a source of comfort while Scully was missing, clearly a topsy-turvy state of affairs. She was upset? Something outside the contents of this manuscript had caused that upset, and it must have been mind wrenching. Mulder paced the room, growing increasingly agitated. He needed to figure out a way to pack a basketball when he went on these field trips. It was already clear to him that he wouldn't be sleeping tonight. As he passed the table by the bed for the hundredth time, one of the pamphlets Scully had picked up caught his eye. Craters of the Moon National Park. He'd always wanted to see that. The map on the advertisement put it at 70 miles from here. Of course the roads weren't highways, but how much traffic could there be in the middle of the night to the Craters of the Moon? It was only 2 o'clock. He could make it back by 6 o'clock. He started the layering routine with his shirts, and topped them off with his sweater. Should he take his cell phone? No, he'd just be tempted to call Scully and try to share obscure astronomical facts at 4 in the morning. No need for a note. He'd be back long before she'd be up to read it. He grabbed the car keys, turned out the lights and headed out the door. The moon was almost full tonight. It was bright enough to silver the distant mountain peaks, and to make the driving easy. Something about being in motion made it easier to think about threatening subjects. It was almost as if the winds of passage carried his thoughts away as they took form. Mulder now agreed with Scully that Melissa hadn't written that manuscript. She wouldn't perpetrate a hoax that was dedicated to proving that her sister was doomed to an eternity of tragedy and misery. And all because of him! He couldn't deny that Scully had suffered greatly as a direct result of her work on the X-files. Yet it was her choice to remain with him and continue to risk her health and life in pursuit of the truth. He knew that in the beginning it was the excitement of the work that drew her. Now loyalty was involved. Was pity a factor as well? Surely Scully wouldn't let her life be consumed because she felt sorry for him. He hoped it was because she was eager to expose the forces that would destroy their world if left unchallenged. Whether it was aliens or conscienceless people, someone was creating evil weapons that would enslave the human population. Leaving the X-files wouldn't save her from that. So what did their supposed shared karma have to do with the threat of global conspiracy and its damage to Scully's life? Nothing, he answered himself triumphantly! Case closed. He could safely ignore Melissa's cursed document. He watched the white dashes that separated the lanes as they flowed by at a respectable clip. The resulting alpha waves almost caused him to miss his turn onto highway 26. By 3:30 A.M. he was pulling up in front of the closed gates to the park. It seemed ridiculous to try to lock up 85 square miles of barren countryside, but everyone had gone home at 4:30 P.M. according to the posted hours. He was sure he had cracked tougher security than a national park's fences. He drove past the main gates until he came to what appeared to be a one lane utility road. It ended conveniently at a small gate in a chain link fence. Mulder required about ten seconds to scale it. The land around him was unlike anything else he had seen on earth. Deserts were barren too, but the volcanic activity here had produced countryside that belonged on the surface of another planet. He remembered the paintings in the children's books on astronomy that he checked out of the library while planning his career as an astronaut. This was how the artists pictured the surfaces of the other planets in our solar system--cratered, sharply peaked in places, or rising in a series of surrealistically identical round hills. The twisted pillars and bridges formed from piled up molten lava looked like they belonged on the covers of science fiction stories set in distant galaxies. The volcanic rock was gray and harsh, although the moonlight softened the edges of distant cones and craters. He started to walk toward a crater and realized the abrasive lava was cutting his shoes to pieces. He found an alternative path of cinders that crunched under his feet like the old cinder tracks behind his high school. This was a high desert climate, with a crystalline atmosphere far from big cities. The brilliant moon ruined the night for stargazing, but not for beauty. It diminished the number of stars in half of the night sky, but hundreds more peppered the other half. As a child he had been fascinated by the idea that looking into the night sky was like looking up into a time tunnel to the past. The light rays that reached his eyes had begun their journey thousands of years ago. Not long ago he believed someone out there had overcome the distance that created our isolation in time. They were now in our time--or so he had believed. Back then he had asked himself how they had conceived of such a journey, only to behave like unimaginative, third-rate technicians taking control of a colony of bacteria when they arrived. Didn't they possess a sense of wonder at their encounter with another world? Did they think it was enough to inventory, catalog and biopsy its beings? Didn't they want to stand like this and marvel at looking back into their own past? Kritschgau had answered those questions definitively--we were still alone, and in grave danger from our own kind. He came to the lip of a crater and stared down into its darkness. The moon was low enough to cast a shadow across half of the interior. Meteorites caused moon craters while these craters were extinct volcanoes, but the resemblance was uncanny. He imagined jumping down into it weighing less than thirty pounds, as he would on the moon. He looked up and almost expected to see a glowing blue- green earth in the sky. As barren as the rock looked at this time of the year, according to the pamphlet it was carpeted with wild flowers every spring and summer. Over thousands of years their roots, with the help of wind and rain, would break the volcanic rock up into soil that would support all kinds of vegetation. Time mended so many things. Usually human beings didn't live long enough to see it. Volcanic activity had continued here for 13,000 years. The volcanoes had already been dormant for a thousand years when Martin and Catherine walked the paths of Derby. They did not, his left brain remonstrated. It was a story, fiction. Get that through your right brain please. He walked more quickly, as though he could distance himself from part of his own mind. But he couldn't get away from the feeling that he had been part of that story. You've always relied on your intuition to create profiles and analyze evidence. Why are you afraid to think your thoughts and then dismiss them if they're nonsense? Because if they are true it will be too complicated, he answered himself. Allowing the existence of aliens makes life too complicated for most people. The absence of dogma and absolute moral laws makes life too complicated for most people. And believing that this transmigration of souls took place will make my life too complicated. He had ignored so much for so long in the effort to keep his priorities simple. From the first moment he met Scully he hadn't been able to maintain the customary barriers of distrust and secrecy that he always needed to feel safe. He knew she was a spy, but he knew simultaneously that it didn't matter. She could never be his enemy. At first she surprised him by anticipating his moves, being there for back up before he asked for it. Gradually he started taking it for granted, congratulating himself on having such an intuitive as well as intelligent partner. Then one day this growing sense of familiarity culminated in a shocking moment of recognition that he had refused to examine ever since. He had every excuse to dismiss it as a hallucination brought on by extreme stress. They were approaching the solution to a series of grotesque killings motivated by cannibalism, when the murderers took Scully. He arrived just in time to prevent her decapitation. After freeing her, he looked into her face and barely restrained himself from blurting out "It's you! I've been waiting for you!" He even thought he saw a confused flicker of recognition in Scully's eyes. Now he knew why the shocking prospect of a beheading might have had the power to revive a past life memory. At that moment of recognition, utter chaos surrounded them. The miserable townspeople of Chaco were panicking and trampling each other in their attempts to evade capture. Their duty was clear and strenuous, leaving no time for private insights. As they took care of official business the vividness of the moment dimmed. Hours of paperwork with various law enforcement agencies used up their energy. The right time to explore that apparent moment of remembrance passed. He told himself that Scully would only have given him the short lecture on the phenomenon of deja vu. In the end he had buried it deeply along with an increasingly troublesome urge to take Scully in his arms and do his best to become her lover. Mulder had long ago perfected the art of repressing his feelings. He was more than equal to the challenge of concealing these desires. His double-blind method blended punctiliously correct behavior with boyish innuendos, designed to demonstrate how lightly he took doing the 'wild thing.' In reality his attitude was more complex. He knew from experience of the power sex had to wound or heal. If he went to bed with Scully he would bring so much baggage there wouldn't be room in the bed for it, much less the two of them. The whole story most strained his credulity when he tried to picture himself as Martin, the adept lover. Mulder remembered his first time. There hadn't been much finesse or sensitivity involved. Phoebe and he had met about a week before. She had cut him out of the herd of new undergraduates with all the efficiency of a wolf in her prime. They were necking to the point of spontaneous combustion at her apartment when she had simply climbed on. It was over quickly for him--too quickly for Phoebe to catch up. She didn't say a word. He had already learned that that was the worst sign of all. The next time, just as she lowered herself onto him she drawled carelessly: "I had a look at that paper in your desk for Psychological Disorders. Don't you think it's awfully derivative and stale? That fantastic memory of yours has impressed people up until now, but I think you're about to be shown up for what you really are." As his eyes widened in shock and his erection softened, she grinned a grin so canine he almost expected her tongue to loll out of the side of her mouth. "Just kidding, but now there's plenty of time for me to enjoy this too," she exulted, indicating their coupled bodies. She only had to perform a similar trick on one other occasion to train him to the right response. He supposed that in their infinite adaptability, human beings could develop a tolerance, even a taste, for martyrdom. At the beginning of their affair she had told him he was the best she'd ever had. At the end she told him she had faked most of her orgasms. At times Mulder wondered idly if it were possible to have a more screwed up start to a sex life, short of being sexually assaulted. What would he do if one night Scully invited him into her bed? Would he take a running dive into it and make a fool of himself, or would he make some witty but detached remark designed to freeze the blood in her veins, and forever protect him from having to make such a decision again? He didn't even know. Luckily it would never come up. He had always been a little suspicious of the motives behind their impeccably professional behavior with each other. They carefully observed the unofficial boundaries laid down for partners. Yet they didn't let official policy limit them in their investigations. They had the best of both worlds. Their "work" allowed them to have an intense relationship with none of the bothersome issues of intimacy and vulnerability. Each could push the other away at any time, and no questions could be asked under the terms of their partnership. That wouldn't be so easy if they shared a bed every night. If they really had any eternal issues to resolve with each other they were probably compounding them with their avoidance mechanisms. But why put off until tomorrow what you could put off for 800 years? "Are you happy now?" he addressed his right brain. "I explored the issue and concluded that reincarnation explains a lot of totally subjective observations I've made of myself and Scully. Due to circumstances we choose not to control, we are doomed again to frustrated and unfulfilled lives. At least the circumstances beyond our control will probably keep them short." Mulder looked around and realized that he had lost track of where he was walking. Expanses of gray rock stretched away from him on all sides, with no distinctive landmarks in view. At the same time he felt that the cold had penetrated through his multiple layers of clothing. He should go back to his car. Could he assume that he had kept the moon at his back the whole time he walked? He wasn't sure. If he had he could start walking back toward it. It was only 4:30 now; it hadn't travelled too far in the sky to be a rough guide. Following it would at least bring him back to the fence. He started jogging to warm up, and reached the fence safely within a half an hour. There was no sign of a gate in the fence at that point, and of course his car was not in sight. As he stood and tried to decide which way to start walking, the faint sound of a car engine came from his right. Lacking any other basis for a decision, he started that way. Ten minutes of fast walking brought him to the gate he remembered. A park ranger's vehicle sat running next to his car. The occupant, a small, slender man in a khaki uniform and leather jacket, got out and motioned him to the gate. Mulder sheepishly exited the park through the now unlocked gate under the ranger's neutral gaze. "Sir, did you know the park is closed, and unauthorized personnel aren't permitted inside?" "Uh, yes, but actually I stopped here in the course of a federal investigation." Mulder dug his ID out of his innermost flannel shirt pocket. "I'm a federal agent, and my partner and I are here to investigate possible cult activities. I thought I saw something of a ritual nature taking place out there." He gestured broadly at the empty landscape. "I think the moonlight on some of those lava pillars must have played tricks with my eyes." The ranger examined his ID in the headlights and continued to look at him consideringly. If he were asked how he happened to be driving aimlessly by here at 4 A.M., Mulder would have a hard time finding an answer. "The next time please ask for assistance from a park ranger before you enter the park when it's closed. I was worried about whoever was out there. People shouldn't leave the paths without notifying us. There are very few landmarks in this park. The volcanic rock is so magnetized that compasses don't work. There are no natural water sources in the entire area, and no shelter. An unprepared hiker who got lost would probably die of hypothermia or thirst before we could find him. You don't appear to be ready for this terrain," he said, looking pointedly at the now shivering Mulder and his shredded shoes." The ranger waited to make sure Mulder's car started, and then drove away. Mulder checked his watch. It was now 5:15 A.M. He hoped Scully had not planned to get up a little earlier than usual. He concentrated hard on the driving now, trying to make the best time. It was going very well until he caught up with a group of ranchers on horseback who were in the process of carrying out a change of pasture for hundreds of steers. The long column of animals filled the entire road for what seemed like miles ahead in the early paling of the sky that precedes dawn. He got close enough to one of the horsewomen to look at her pleadingly. She smiled, but only gave him a 'what can you do?' shrug before she rode off to nudge a reluctant steer back into the herd. He fidgeted behind the maddeningly slow mini-cattle drive, moving forward inch by inch, for more than an hour. He had plenty of time to think about the implications of his thoughts among the craters. What was Scully going to think after she read the manuscript? Neither of them had talked about the possibility that it was true. If it were, how could they maintain the working relationship they had? The ghostly images of Martin and Catherine would overlay their familiar and carefully constructed personas. In his heart Mulder knew it was too late for him. He couldn't unsee the hidden picture. He had never thought he would be thankful for his cold, silent upbringing, but he knew that its effects would enable him to continue working with Scully without betraying his deeper feelings. And people thought he was emotionally handicapped! You just had to know how turn things to your advantage. Still, maybe he should give her the opportunity to talk about her impressions of the manuscript. If she confirmed his conclusions...what then? To have a love like that--wouldn't it be madness to refuse the chance? No, Spooky, it would be madness to try to realize it in this twisted lifetime. You have nothing to offer but pain. Apparently that was nothing new. Finally he came up behind the last of the cattle as they turned in at the gate of their new pasture. The ranchers waved him goodbye cheerfully, while he noticed the clock on the dashboard and groaned. It would be 8 o'clock before he got back to the Nighty-Nite. Mulder cursed his miscalculation on the time it would take to do the drive. There was an excellent chance that Scully had been looking for him for some time. She was going to be very worried and then she was going to be very angry. ************ Scully sat up in bed with a start. Was that smoke she smelled? She sniffed the air and listened, but there was nothing unusual to smell or hear. Then she heard a car engine in front of the cabin. She hopped to the window in time to see their rental car pull out of the parking area. It was too dark to see who was inside. Her heart began to race as she mentally reviewed the possibilities. Mulder had been known to go out jogging in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep. Car trips were usually not so innocent. Could this be an emergency run for provisions? He might have to go as far as Rexburg for an all night mini-mart. Get real, Dana. He's doing something he doesn't think you'll approve of, or that is so risky he'll feel guilty if he takes you. Scully flipped her lights on. He could have found a lead last night that he wanted to follow up alone. It would have to be because his source wouldn't trust her, because it was highly illegal and compromising or downright dangerous. The worst possible case was that he had been forced into the car against his will. She had no idea which scenario came closest to the truth. Scully dressed quickly and went to knock on Mulder's door. As she expected she received no answer. She reluctantly went to the manager's office and spent twenty minutes knocking and calling before he appeared at the door, flushed red with sleep and grumpiness. He made no pretense of listening to a word she said. "Here, take the master key until you leave. Which I hope will actually be today," he growled, tossing the key across the counter. He slammed the door to his living area so hard that the picture of the biggest potato in the world fell down from the wall. Scully hurried to Mulder's cabin and entered cautiously. A quick look around showed nothing unusual. No furniture was disturbed. His gun was gone and most of his shirts, as she would have expected if he planned to meet someone outdoors. She was dismayed to see his cell phone on the bedside table. Under it were the pamphlets she remembered picking up at the hamburger restaurant on the first night they were here. There was no note, so if he left voluntarily he probably expected to be back before she got up. Melissa's manuscript had been placed on the bed in a slightly untidy bundle. He had brought no papers besides the case file, which she examined meticulously. She was looking for a pattern that might have suddenly clicked with Mulder and sent him out into the night on a mission. She failed to find one. Without a car or a clue, Scully was condemned to wait and agonize. Her imagination was more than equal to the task of working out what might be happening to Mulder. She could picture the look of disbelief on his face when a bullet slammed into his chest as he approached someone who was supposed to give him a lead. If his plan involved infiltrating some supersecret government installation, they might simply make him a permanent, unacknowledged prisoner. She would never see him again, never know what happened. Or he might be searching for evidence in some lonely, wild place. If he were hurt he could lie dying for days, hoping that she would somehow figure out where he was. Meanwhile she would be waiting for reports from search parties. When they finally found his car, they might find some of his bones. Please, Mulder, please be OK, she prayed silently, you irresponsible jerk. I know you think I'm deficient in imagination. I only wish it were true. She wouldn't be able to interest anyone in Mulder's disappearance until morning. There were too many innocuous possibilities. He might still walk in the door with half a dozen bags of sunflower seeds, she comforted herself. It was only 4:30 A.M. now. She would try very hard to concentrate and finish this manuscript as her mother had requested. Scully turned out the lights and returned to her own cabin. ************ When Scully looked up from the note at the end her eyes were full of tears. Oh, Missy, I wish you were here to argue with, she thought. Neither of us ever had all the answers, and I still don't. I'm so confused-and this story you've collected doesn't help a bit. Even if I believed it were true, I wouldn't know what to do about it. Every day we get lost in the decisions about little things and then wonder how we ended up where we are. I already know that I love him, Missy. That surprises you, doesn't it? You always assumed that I didn't know how I felt because I didn't always act on my feelings. It's poor Mulder whose feelings are out of his reach. I'd love to invite him into my bed. What if he just said, "Are you coming on to me Scully?" with that superior smirk, and walked away? He might be saying it just to protect himself against more heartbreak. But I'd never be able to forgive him, and that would break my heart. "Is that all that's stopping you Dana?" she seemed to hear Missy ask."What keeps you from hinting to him that advances would be welcome? Didn't you see his face when he broke in on you and Eddie Van Blundht?" Yes I did, and you didn't by the way, but we'll ignore that for purposes of discussion. OK, there is something else. I'm worried that if I give him all of me, I'll be lost to myself, like a planet pulled from its own orbit to become the moon to another planet. I would never be first with him, the way he's first with me. Her imaginary Missy had a comeback. "He's never really had a chance to be close to another person. Give him that chance. You know he's totally dependent on you in almost every possible way already." OK, I'm afraid. I'm afraid to lose control by letting emotions take over. Are you happy now that we know why? "You're still scared after 800 years?" Now where did that come from, Scully asked herself with a start? My Missy is a figment of my imagination, and she no longer believes in that past lives nonsense. It seemed that even as a figment, Missy was strong-minded. "Haven't you felt it Dana? This is familiar ground and you're with a person you've been with many times before." No, it's not true, Scully protested. What about evidence? "I think you know where to find the evidence. You have to look inside yourself." Scully threw the papers against the closest wall, where they cascaded down to the floor in a heap. There was independent evidence for Sullivan Biddle and Sarah Kavanaugh. And it contradicts this story. If I'm supposed to believe in this claptrap then shouldn't I also believe in Sarah, Mulder's soulmate from the Civil War? "Ask him, Dana. Ask him," Missy answered, with a mildness that Scully knew was out of character. Scully looked at the clock and realized with a jolt that it was 8:00 A.M. I can't ask him if he's dead, she rejoined blankly. But the Missy of her imagination was gone. Scully jumped up and ran to the bathroom as all the dire images from earlier assailed her at once. Oh God, she thought, retching until it felt as though she would turn inside out, I'm going to have to start organizing search parties and wait for reports. It was her habit to negotiate with fate. She would imagine the absolute worst that could happen, and then try to use the ensuing pain as a bargaining chip against it actually happening. It didn't always work. She rinsed her mouth and started a mental list of numbers to call. At that moment she heard a car pull up in front. She was out the front door before she had time to formulate any thoughts at all. "Mulder, are you all right?" she called, with a break in her voice, as she came toward the car. "Where have you been? I woke up about 2 o'clock and heard the car driving away. I knocked at your door, and then got the manager to open your cabin and you weren't there. I was afraid something had happened to you." "So you've been up waiting for me since then?" he asked, putting off the inevitable confrontation by getting all the facts straight. This was going to be worse than he had thought. He got out of the car as slowly as possible. She nodded. Her eyes were circled, and reddened. The sight made Mulder want to wrap his arms around her and stroke her hair as her head rested on his chest. Of course he couldn't. "Scully, have you been crying?" he asked, knowing instantly that he had said the wrong thing. "My eyes are tired. I'm fine. Where were you?" This time the question was rapped out with an attitude. "I couldn't sleep so I went for a drive. Actually down to the Craters of the Moon National Park. Did you know that NASA took some of the astronauts there to get them ready to do geological studies on the moon? It's an unbelievable place. There's no pollution or city light near it. The sky is full of stars. It's so alien. It's like being on the moon, or another planet, and looking into space. I had a lot of things to think about, Scully. We should probably talk about some things." He could see Scully's lips tighten and her eyebrows rise with a mixture of shock and disapproval. "Sometimes I think you do live on the moon, Mulder, in spirit if not in body. Do you have any idea of the things I've been thinking for the last six hours? The last time we were here you ditched me and got yourself taken into custody at a secret Air Force Base. They only let you go because I went to get you out with a hostage. Are there any secret Air Force Bases around here that you didn't think I needed to know about? Or how about stashes of evidence that you found out about last night, but you made the executive decision that it was too risky for me to participate in looking for them? Or for all I knew one of the numerous people you've pissed off in the course of your investigations kidnapped you, and took you out to a field where they shot you in the back of the head." Oh shit, he hadn't thought about the fact that he still hadn't bothered to tell Scully about Debbie and the lead to possible evidence against Bio-Gro. He had left her to tormented worries for six hours and she wasn't fully informed on the investigation. This much guilt made him defensive, not apologetic. Instead of acknowledging his lapse, he let the sullen adolescent within him come up with the response. "I don't have to account to you for everything I do! I'm entitled to take my own risks." he retorted. Scully was tired. On top of that she was still disturbed over the feelings stirred up by the manuscript she'd been reading. If she didn't stay angry she'd burst into tears. "No, you're not. Why do I have to do all the before-the-fact worrying in this partnership? You're always first in line to take on the guilt after things fall apart, but I have to take the responsibility for preventing things from falling apart. Do you have any idea how much I worry that I'll miss something and fail to take action when I should? That you'll die because I fail? Mulder haven't I done enough to convince you that I value your life? What will it take? Why can't I get through to you? Don't you feel any connections here?" She laid her hand over her heart. "Try to understand, just because you don't have normal feelings doesn't mean other people don't have them." There, that got him. His gaze fell to the ground. "You're so right Scully. I'm sorry I worried you." He turned and headed for his cabin. "I'm going to drive into town to return the gun Sheriff Reynolds loaned me. When I get back we can leave for the airport," Scully called to his retreating back. Scully could have had the gun sent to the sheriff by one of the express delivery services at the airport. She just didn't want to sit in her cabin doing nothing but regretting her part in this fight until Mulder was ready to leave. He came back and handed her the car keys without a word. Mulder entered his cabin wishing he could go back and live the past six hours differently. He knew that her anger was a measure of how worried Scully had been. Still her words hurt. Worst of all was knowing that she had been right. No matter what happened between them in some distant past life, he didn't have the capacity to experience passion and intimacy in this one. Old news--nothing new to be depressed about. So why did it feel worse than usual? He started to remove his extra layers of clothing. It was just as he had gotten down to his shirtsleeves that Mulder heard the voice from his bathroom. "Stop moving. I've got you covered. Turn around. Kneel down. Hands on your head." He recognized Hansen's voice. You're smooth today, Agent Mulder, he told himself. Hansen frisked him thoroughly, removing his gun from its holster. "Here," he said, handing Mulder the receiver of the old- fashioned dial phone provided in the room. "I'm going to dial your partner's room. Ask her to come over for a minute." "What's the occasion?" "Just do it." "No, we had a little fight. She's not in a good mood. I'd rather let her cool off for a while." "OK," Hansen replied, unsurprised. "Hands back on your head. How about if I call her and tell her step to outside right now and throw her weapon where I can see it. Then she has to come in here. Otherwise the next thing she'll hear is the shot that explodes your skull. Is she so mad that she'll say 'Go ahead, shoot the bastard?'" Mulder swallowed uncertainly, but he replied, "Probably. She's in a really bad mood. Besides, she's too smart to walk into a trap." "Sometimes our emotions get the better of our smarts," Hansen commented knowingly. He thought he had these two figured out. His opinion had changed after he heard the details of the jail fire, and saw what happened at the Bar J. He paused a moment to relish the memory of sitting in the tree blind watching with binoculars for the explosions. Hearing about your creations later just didn't compare to the excitement of witnessing them. He had waited and waited for Scully to give up and flee for her life before the blast occurred. Even he didn't know exactly when that would be. When they finally left the house together, he knew there must have been enough gas inside to come close to causing unconsciousness. These two were prepared to die for each other. If he had one of them, for all practical purposes he had both. Then he heard the car out front start. Hansen went to the front window, carefully keeping Mulder covered. "She's driving away. Well I guess it can't be helped. I'll figure out another way. At least there's no chance she'll be warned by hearing the shot. Put your hands behind your back, slowly." He cuffed Mulder's hands behind him. "Where's she going?" Hansen asked. "To Idaho Falls, to catch a plan back home. She didn't even want to fly on the same plane with me," Mulder said, making an unhappy face. "But you've got the plane tickets. I've had plenty of time to search this place. Don't you people ever sleep? I started watching your cabins at midnight. You're up 'til 2 o'clock, then you take off for God knows where. One minute later her lights go on, she rouses the manager. Comes in here. Leaves, but keeps the lights on in her cabin. I broke in here, figuring I'd take you by surprise when you got back. I got pretty tired of sitting on the toilet waiting." "If you're looking for sympathy, I'm the wrong guy to ask. I assume you're planning to kill us. Why now? You had every chance last night." "I didn't have any instructions to do it then. Your deaths would just have been a by-product of my actual assignment. Personally I thought you were pretty harmless. Without evidence you didn't have anything. But things happened the next day that changed the picture. They put me on the trail of one Deborah Greenfield, disgruntled employee turned spy. After I questioned her for a while she eventually told me where she had sent all those chips. Except one. Unfortunately it turned out she had a heart condition and I must have been a little too aggressive in the interrogation. We did get as far as her admission that she came across you and was greatly impressed by your integrity, as compared to the corporation's. We need that chip or the information on where to find it," Hansen ended menacingly. Mulder tried to turn his thoughts away from the scene of Debbie's final interrogation. He imagined her telling him that she knew she wouldn't be very good if she had to handle something like that. "Sorry, I didn't hear anything about any chips. I just grabbed her and questioned her. She gave me some half-baked story about wanting to explore one of the old ranches. I didn't believe her, but she didn't give me any information I could use." "So why didn't you arrest her and take her in for questioning? She gave you something. I figured you wouldn't be scared into giving it to me very easily. But ask yourself this. Agent Scully will return eventually. How long can you hold out against my persuasive techniques when you experience them second hand?" Mulder lost control of his expression for only a few seconds, but Hansen saw enough to make him regret the brevity of the time available. It would have been very interesting to determine how much damage the agent would allow him to inflict on his partner before he conceded the struggle. "I can't take the time to extort your cooperation," Hansen said, with evident disappointment. "This area is getting pretty hot for me to keep on hanging around. I found out you're famous in some circles for being a loner. I'm sure you haven't told anyone but your partner. If I kill you two, no one else will ever get it." 'Well, actually I didn't get around to telling Scully about Greenfield. So there's no need to kill her." "I could say I didn't believe you, but I do. I have to kill her anyway just in case my instincts aren't right. Besides I don't want to leave someone who might make the revenge of your murder her obsession. Maybe I can make it look like a murder-suicide after a lover's quarrel." Hansen grinned. "The FBI would be glad to bury that story." Hansen took up a position where he had a clear shot at the back of Mulder's head, but was not close enough to be spattered by blood or brains. "I think that kind of shooting is called 'execution style,' not 'apparent murder-suicide,'" Mulder suggested helpfully. "Be quiet. I'm trying to decide how to set this up." Mulder had held a gun to his own head more than once. The feelings were the antithesis of what he felt now. Holding the gun on himself meant being in control. Then he was in charge of the suffering in his life. He could bear almost anything, knowing that he had the power to stop it when it became unbearable. This was atrocious. All he could think of were reasons to live. One reason was to take Hansen by the throat and beat his head against the wall for all the suffering he had caused them. Another was his work. Now that he had learned the truth about the UFO hoaxes, he was that much closer to exposing the whole conspiracy. And then there was his partner. He knew that she was already regretting some of the things she had said earlier. Bitter regret would be his eternal legacy to Scully. When she returned it would be her added punishment to find his semi- headless corpse. Would her reactions be slowed enough by that discovery to make her easy prey for Hansen? He would never know. Suddenly that ignorance seemed to be the hardest thing to bear. My God, she wouldn't even have a gun. There was nothing he could do except leave as many warning indicators as he could to alert her at the earliest possible moment. Shouting, multiple shots and blood on the walls might be the extent of it. If only that sluglike manager weren't so likely to miss all the auditory clues. "Get up slowly and walk into the bathroom," Hansen's voice interrupted his plans. Apparently Hansen had finished strategizing. He would be shot in the bathroom so Scully could be surprised after she entered, as he had been. Mulder recognized his cue to die as messily and noisily as possible. ************ Scully had barely turned around to re-enter her cabin when she felt the need to mend the misunderstanding between them. Did that feel as good as kicking the cane out of a blind man's hands, Dana? Yes, just about that good, she answered herself. She was ashamed of throwing Mulder's inadequacies in his face, as though he weren't already well aware of them. The night before she had indulged in a self-satisfied comparison between herself and other important people in Mulder's life who had hurt or exploited him. Where had her vaunted compassion and understanding gone? She hurriedly combed her hair and holstered the borrowed gun. After one more glance at Mulder's cabin she started the car and drove out of the parking lot. She most hated herself for ripping into him about lacking feelings when he was actually in the middle of trying to share some with her. He had taken refuge in a bleak landscape, probably because of bad dreams or insomnia, and had come away enthusiastic about its beauty and uniqueness. Instead of picking up on this opportunity to share some good feelings, she had focused on her anxieties and worries. Of course he had been outrageously inconsiderate of her--but that was just Mulder, wasn't it? If she hadn't already arrived at the turn off that led to Digger....Scully swung the car into a 180 degree turn in the middle of the intersection instead of making her left turn. She didn't even try to rationalize what she was doing. If Mulder wanted to twit her about woman's intuition she would just have to take it. Within two minutes she was back at the Nighty-Nite. Instead of pulling into the parking lot she left the car on the shoulder of the road outside it. She took the gun from her holster. Approaching Mulder's cabin silently she took out the key the manager had given her last night. It was the daylight entering through the open door that alerted the men to her presence rather than any noise she made. The sun shining in from behind her gave Scully the advantage of a second or two in reaction time. Hansen had to squint at her while his eyes adjusted. Mulder continued in the awkward motion of rising from his knees to his feet with his hands cuffed behind him. He looked as though he were waking from a trance. Scully had Hansen covered before he realized who was at the door. "Drop it," Scully ordered. Hansen recognized a ruthlessness equal to his own in Scully's face and voice. He dropped it. She would have killed him instantly to protect her partner. It wasn't much comfort, but he was pleased to find his assessment of their relationship confirmed. "Are you two telepathic?" he asked curiously. "Back away from it." Scully picked up his gun. "You get down on your knees now, Hansen. Right now! Put your hands on your head. Where's your gun Mulder?" she asked, glancing over to where he stood, swaying slightly. "In his right jacket pocket." Scully noticed that Mulder was having a little difficulty staying on his feet. He had tremors in his arms and legs as though he'd been carrying a heavy weight a long way. "Why don't you sit on the bed a minute, until I can get the cuffs off?" she suggested. Scully approached Hansen with great care and extracted Mulder's gun, which she put in her own pocket. Hoping that Hansen was a creature of habit she fished around in the same pocket and came up with the key to the handcuffs. Backing away from Hansen she kept him covered while Mulder turned sideways on the bed so she could unfasten the cuffs. "Thanks, Scully." She took the cuffs and put them on their prisoner. "Lie flat on the floor, " she now instructed him. "Mulder, can you call the sheriff?" "It would be my pleasure," he replied, and he proceeded to call Sheriff Reynolds at home. He was happy that at least Reynolds would have the satisfaction of bringing Hansen in himself. "Mulder are you sure you're all right?" Scully asked after he completed the call. She had put her hand on his shoulder and felt him still shaking. "I'm fine, but my blood is probably about fifty percent adrenaline. When you came through that door, I was getting ready to jump him." "While you were cuffed? That would have been suicide!" "He was going to shoot me anyway. What did I have to lose?" "Time, during which something might happen to save your life. What if I'd been a minute later?" "Why did you come back so soon? Not that I'm complaining." Scully remained silent, lifting her chin and keeping her eyes on their prisoner. "Scully so help me, I won't make a joke even if you tell me you were touched by an angel," Mulder assured her, making the childish 'cross my heart' gesture on his chest. "In fact to me you looked a lot like one yourself when you came in that door." "I don't know," she admitted. "I'd gotten to the turnoff to Digger, and I had to come back. I just knew everything would go wrong if I didn't." "So you've given us another chance, Scully," he observed. "Us?" she inquired. Mulder looked down at his hands, which still hadn't stopped shaking. There were two ways to interpret the phrase he had let slip and he didn't really want to discuss either. He chose the less controversial one. "He was going to set up an ambush for you, too." Of course, Scully thought. She would have gone in looking for Mulder after returning her only gun to the sheriff. Probably she would have been distracted by her aggravation that he wasn't answering his door after already pulling one disappearing stunt. She would have opened the unlocked door and started to search the room. She'd probably never have known what hit her. "That's why you were going to rush him. Jesus, Mulder." Scully's own knees felt a little weak. She sat beside him on the bed, but kept watching Hansen for any sign of movement. Her nearness triggered a reaction that took Mulder by surprise. He was suddenly seized by a powerful urge to roll over and press Scully down onto the bed with the length of his body. He needed to lose himself in making love to her. He felt such a famished hunger for this woman; it had been so long....No it hasn't, Mulder told himself, his reason ruthlessly breaking in on his passions. You've never had her and you never will. At that thought he felt such a renewed longing that he didn't even trust the presence of a dangerous criminal under their guard to keep his behavior appropriate. Proximity was going to cause more frustration than he had counted on. He stood up. "Sheriff Reynolds should be here in about fifteen minutes. Shall we search Hansen for evidence first?" he asked brightly. ************ As it turned out, Hansen the man was as thoroughly sanitized as any of his sites after his work was done. He carried nothing that pointed to bank accounts, alternate identities or credit card trails. Mulder wouldn't have to worry about concealing any evidence from Sheriff Reynolds. If Hansen had any sense of self-preservation at all, he would simply refuse to talk without a lawyer, who would undoubtedly be chosen and bankrolled by Bio-Gro through some arcane corporate smoke screen. Scully called the airport and rescheduled their flight for the next day. She made Mulder go and break the news to the manager of the Nighty-Nite. Not only was his cabin a crime scene, but they were staying one more night. He didn't respond well to Mulder's cheery observation that it could have been a lot worse. He could have found himself needing one of those crime scene clean up services that specialize in removing blood from walls and brains from the carpet. The rest of the day consisted of making and reading depositions to be used in bringing charges of murder, attempted murder, arson and numerous lesser charges against Hansen. Debbie Greenfield's name and story never came up. As bad as he had felt at keeping Scully in the dark about that earlier, he was glad once again that she didn't have to wrestle with her conscience over keeping the information from Sheriff Reynolds. Mulder did hurry to call the Lone Gunman at the earliest opportunity and tell them how to get the promised key from his box. He hoped Bio-Gro and its hired gunmen would anticipate his enlisting allies. Now they couldn't be sure who, if anyone, had gotten the chip. This should lower his murder on their list of priorities. When he called Skinner to fill him in on the latest developments, the AD was surprisingly low key in his response. Mulder was relieved to think that for once there would be no major reprimand to face when they returned. After confirming the date his agents would be returning to their office, Skinner turned to his PC and selected the Training icon. It was a smiley face wearing a mortarboard. Skinner smiled back grimly. He double-clicked to the training page and scanned the current offerings. When he saw one that might meet his needs he double-clicked on it with unnecessary force. The workshop that fulfilled all of his criteria finally popped up in front of him. He copied the details into an e-mail to Kim, which he instantly dispatched as having High Importance. There, Skinner thought. Even they won't be able to turn a Teamwork Seminar into an X-file. Unless they try to tackle the mystery of how anyone manages to stay awake at one. The FBI team from Boise arrived that morning to examine the Bar J. From there they went to the Nighty-Nite and viewed the only crime scene that hadn't been incinerated--Mulder's cabin. When they decided not to release it yet, Scully suggested that Mulder bunk down on the floor of her cabin that night. He instantly decided that the backlog of work in D.C. required them to fly back that evening, despite the fact that the next day was Sunday. He lobbied successfully for permission to take the seven o'clock flight out of Idaho Falls, and he called the airline to reschedule their flight. At three o'clock they fortified themselves with lots of coffee from Marge's and started south. As the person most able to function with no sleep, Mulder was driving. However, Scully still felt wide-awake from coffee and the stress of the past few days. "I made some phone calls this afternoon before we left. I called Mullins at the lab, and then I called Mom," she informed her partner. Mulder's heart accelerated into a harder, faster beat. He both dreaded and welcomed the chance to talk about the meaning of the story they had read. "What's the verdict?" he asked with apparent casualness. "The manuscript tested as totally genuine according to its representation. The paper and ink were manufactured in the twenties. The typeface matched that of several typewriters manufactured from 1918 through 1925." Mulder remained silent. "Well, what do you think now?" Scully asked. "I decided last night from internal evidence that Melissa didn't write that document. I'm sure that's all we'll ever be able to prove." "Prove, yes, but what do you think?" Scully questioned, with the emphasis on the 'think'. "What did your mother have to say? "I'm worried about her, Mulder. She told me a very strange story about why she sent me the manuscript. She brought home a box of papers and sorted through it. The papers we've been reading were in a box for the trash. Mom said she got a phone call that woke her up in the middle of the night. The caller told her to take Aunt Kate's manuscript and give it to me. She got up, took it out of the trash pile and then went back to bed. That morning was the morning Mom called me." "Who was the caller, Scully?" "She said it was a woman," Scully answered reluctantly. "She said it was Missy." Scully looked over at Mulder, who remained impassive. "Don't tell me you aren't surprised," Scully continued uneasily. "I know your mother. I knew it would take more than a questionable family history to shake her up." "Do you think she's OK? Should I take her to someone to have her evaluated?" Mulder allowed himself a laugh at that. "Scully, you're asking that question of a guy who's participated in an exorcism, stalked a werewolf, and witnessed a massacre caused by black magic. Among other things. What does your Mom think about her sanity?" "She thinks maybe she dreamed the call, but that it was a true message from Missy." "A very sensible woman, your mother. Did you fill her in on everything that's happened here?" "Well, not all the details. Just the big picture. The original investigation was inconclusive, but a murder was committed in the course of it that led to an arrest. The accused has also been charged with destroying evidence and obstructing our investigation." "That masterfully boring report on our week goes a long way toward convincing me that good sense is determined by our genes." There was silence for a while. Neither one said a word as they passed a sign notifying drivers of the upcoming turnoff for the Craters of the Moon National Park. "So what do you think about the document now?" Scully persisted. Mulder could picture her senior entry in the high school yearbook: "Dana 'Pit Bull' Scully." He gave up. "I think it's valid." "By valid you mean--" Scully prompted. Scully was puzzled. With her Mulder was usually pretty open about his theories. This time he was holding out as though she were trying to pry personal information out of him. Did this theory have personal meaning for him? "Mulder, do you mean you think that the whole package is literally true?" Scully suddenly exclaimed. The two lane road they were on had no shoulder to speak of at this point. Mulder found a gate to a field with an area in front of it that was wide enough to park the car. He pulled into it and turned off the motor. Then he turned and looked Scully in the eye. "How about it? Do you remember Athens?" His voice aimed for playful but missed. He hoped--he didn't know what he hoped. As she stared into his eyes, for a dizzying moment she thought she recalled seeing them under dazzling blue skies. The raucous bustle of the market place went on around her and the taste of resinous wine was in her mouth. Even more confusing was the almost-memory of hearing that same question while lying under the bright gaze of those eyes in a firelit, smoky room. No, I'm Dana Scully and no one else. She brought her wandering thoughts back into proper order. Mulder had followed the play of emotions across her face-- reflection followed by surprise, succeeded by a slightly panicky expression. Then he saw her square her jaw and press her lips together with the effort of banishing images that couldn't be true, no matter how true they felt. He had his answer no matter what she said. "People are very suggestible. What hard evidence do we have...?" Mulder cut her off. "I don't want to argue about it. I already said we couldn't prove anything except that Melissa didn't produce the manuscript. This isn't a case. We don't have to prove anything. As we almost always do, we see two different truths." He checked for traffic and pulled the car back onto the road. Scully was taken aback at the deep disappointment in his voice. He didn't usually take her challenges to his ideas so hard. He wasn't even trying to convince her. Then Scully remembered the question she wanted to ask. "Mulder I've been thinking about the Vernon Ephesian case." "Oh, yeah, we had a disagreement about reincarnation during that one," he said listlessly. "What do you think now about the results of that hypnotic regression?" "I think using hypnotic regression to get at a memory is kind of like using a Berlitz phrase book to translate 'War and Peace'. You're not only going to lose the fine details, you'd need tremendous luck even to recognize the big picture.' "That's a lovely but content-free simile, Mulder. Not an answer." Scully persevered with a determined smile. "Some truth came out of it. I was Sullivan Biddle. I was engaged to Sarah Kavanaugh in that life, and Melissa Ephesian was she. I'd say the therapist didn't keep very good control of that regression, wouldn't you agree? She didn't do orderly questions to establish dates. She let me rant and rave without using the proper distancing techniques. The timeline I talked about during the regression doesn't gibe with historical dates as we know them. Cancerman would have been a young man in the U.S. when I saw him as a Gestapo guard in the regression. And who and when was Sidney, and how did he fit in with a life for Melissa in Germany in the 1940's? You probably thought of all those things at the time, Scully." Mulder glanced over at her questioningly, and she nodded thoughtfully. "I wasn't being very rational, Scully." At the expected smile on her face, he grinned back. "Yeah, laugh, but you know what I mean. The truth is I was drowning in guilt. I remembered believing I loved her, telling her I loved her. At the same time, from the perspective of this life, I realized I hadn't known what I was talking about. All that was left now was this hideous guilt for not returning her feelings and for landing her in the lousy life she was in with Ephesian and that crew. I think I must have tried to repeat the role of lover in the life in Germany, but failed miserably. That one is pretty much a jumble to me. Maybe I was trying to lay some of the blame that belonged on me at Cancerman's door." "When I talked to her later, I felt so sorry for her, so responsible, but....I think Melissa sensed how I really felt and that's why she went back to Ephesian. She finally realized what was important to me even back then, when I was writing Sarah poems, and taking her to dinner on Sundays at the hotel." Scully was baffled as to where this was going. Leave it to Mulder to figure out a way to carry guilt several lifetimes beyond the grave. "Sullivan had a boyhood friend named Billy. We grew up together in Apison. That was a beautiful town, before the War. We had good lives as children. Our families loved us and took care of us. We shared everything, including a dream for the future. We read the classics with Billy's father. He was a minister and a quiet man. He didn't fit in too well with the lively Methodist preachers in that part of the country, but the people in the town liked him. They were used to him. He taught us to respect the law, and we decided that someday we'd open a law practice together. Our practice would be the noblest one in the South. No one would go without a defense, even if they couldn't pay for it up front. We'd read our Edgar Allan Poe, too. We were convinced that we could solve questions about guilt and innocence by simple observation and deductive reasoning. We were so naive. We were going to move to Murfreesboro to read law with Billy's uncle. Then the War started." "I couldn't wait to sign up. It seemed so romantic to fight for my hearth and home. Billy enlisted with me, of course. He didn't really want to fight, but he wanted to be with me. He helped me to write a farewell poem for Sarah when we left in 1861." "The funny part was that Billy did a lot better in the army than I did. I always seemed to be at odds with my commanding officers. You got to be a sergeant almost right away--promotion by casualty list. We learned about the reality of war during the next two years. By 1863, when we heard about the Yankees advancing into Tennessee, there wasn't any romance left in the war." "We ended up outside that farmhouse under heavy enemy fire. I can't remember if we considered surrendering. It was such a confusion of noise with enemies all around us. You saw a sharpshooter taking aim at me, and pushed me down. He got you square in the side between the ribs. I held you and watched you leave me, so quickly, I couldn't believe it, even with all the death I'd seen. No time for more than one look, one terrified look while you choked on blood. How could my whole life be gone just like that? I went crazy. I started across the field shooting. It took five shots to bring me all the way down." Mulder paused and worked on slowing down his breathing. He realized he had slipped and started talking about Billy in the second person. That was bad--it made his account too personal, and it would scare Scully. "That's what I meant about the drawback of the regression method. I knew this story when I was Sullivan. But nobody asked me the right questions. Not that I wanted to blurt it out in front of her. Sarah was going to be my wife, but everything important I shared with Billy. That's how Sullivan thought it always had to be between men and women." And there was a lot to be said for the simplicity of that arrangement, Mulder said to himself, as he waited for Scully's reaction to his answer. He sneaked a look at her and saw that she was staring off into the distance and apparently thinking hard. Scully didn't know what she thought. From the scientific viewpoint, all of this was a grand illusion spun out of moonbeams, worthy of submission to the "Journal of Irreproducible Results." It would be so easy to tell Mulder, gently of course, that it was all in his head. She sighed, remembering that when they first started reading the papers Mulder was adamant that it was a fraud. How had this turn around happened? Something had created emotional connections for Mulder with the stories of Martin and Sullivan. He had trouble with the simple emotions in day to day life. Did that somehow clear the way for him to relate to past lives? Or did it just make the idea of previous lives too appealing to reject? The odd thing was that she thought she remembered starting to feel some emotional resonance with these stories also. Her mind just wouldn't bring back those feelings, even from five minutes ago. But Mulder was always braver, or more reckless, than she in letting dangerous influences into his head. "Mulder, why didn't you say anything about those details before now?" "I didn't want to believe them, Scully. It was simpler to go with the taped session." Mulder wanted to be honest but he didn't want to go too far. "See, I already had these feelings of recognizing you from a past time when we were very close. I was trying to ignore them." "I don't...." Scully began. "I can't remember anything, Mulder. Sometimes it feels like I almost do. I don't know what it means." "Never mind. It doesn't matter." Mulder told himself it was better this way. They didn't need the monumental problems that would result from mixing the volatile elements of sex and romance into their relationship. He knew he could introduce these elements with no recourse to past life feelings, but he'd never have the nerve. Underneath the conscious reasoning was a simple longing that expressed itself in silent pleas to Scully. Don't wait too long to remember me. Please don't wait until we're dying in some field. Scully felt as though she were all the way through the Looking-glass and observing the room she just left. Mulder had almost told her that he loved her, hundreds of years ago. Conspicuously absent were references to present day feelings. On the other hand she knew quite well that she loved Mulder right now, even though she would never act on it. But she had no recollection of previous life relationships. As always, Mulder preferred to focus on the paranormal phenomena rather than the reality under his nose. She suspected that he thought all difficulties would be resolved like magic, if she just let herself remember. Well, she couldn't do that. Reincarnation was physically and spiritually impossible. Perhaps if Mulder would open up a little, get some counseling, he could get in touch with his emotions in this life. That would probably happen about the same time she learned to relax the control she needed to have over her own feelings and totally cut loose. That's OK, she told herself. Not everyone wants or needs the unchecked passion of Grand Opera in her life. "Do you think I'll see red in my next life, Scully?" Mulder asked as they approached the airport road. "What? What do you mean?" "You know--I'm red/green color blind. Do you think that stays with me from life to life?" Scully considered the question as a whimsical distraction intended to lighten the mood. She responded in kind. "It's a sex-linked genetic deficiency. If you're female next time you probably won't suffer from it," she said mischievously. "We couldn't have the same DNA in every life. I could be male and still not be color blind," he protested. "I'll always be sorry I missed your hair, though." Scully waited for a punchline about hair dyes, but none came. He didn't take his eyes from the road. "There are a lot of things about me that might be fixed next time around. Be sure and look me up, Scully. You're so well acquainted with my faults, you'd really be in a position to appreciate the overhaul." She knew he meant to be funny, but there was a hint of wistfulness that undercut the humor. They pulled up in front of the door to the car rental office, and switched their psyches to business/professional mode. After checking the car in, they ran separate errands. Mulder scanned the magazine and newspaper racks, while Scully looked for a suitable card for Jerry Hodge's Over-the-Hill birthday celebration. After he made his purchases at the newstand, Mulder entered the gift shop in search of Scully. He approached her from behind and noticed that her shoulders were shaking. "Do they have some really hilarious ones about prostate problems?" he inquired, picking up a card at random beside her. When she didn't answer he looked over and saw that she was not laughing, she was weeping silently. At the same moment he recognized the melody playing throughout the shop. That in itself was a neat trick, since he couldn't usually remember a tune and its name until he had heard it a hundred times. He didn't remember hearing it--he just knew it, the way a sheltered house pet knows the nature of a snake with no tutoring required. The shop had a display of CDs incorporating a stereo system. Customers could hear the music before buying. The CDs were the popular New Age/World/Mood types, and the current selection was Celtic music. He hurried over to the counter and asked Aggie, as her identification pin urged. "Ma'am, could you play something else right now? My friend has some bad associations with Celtic music. And please let me know the name of that song." "Of course. I know what you mean," she continued as she went to the display and switched to the next CD. "My husband can't bear to hear 'Danny Boy', because it was his mother's favorite song. That selection was on 'The Song of the Irish Whistle.' It's called 'The Black Rose.' "I'd like to buy a copy." The saleslady's smile faded and she eyed him suspiciously. "You're not going to use it to tease that poor little thing?" she asked with narrowed eyes. "Of course not," Mulder answered, a bit flustered at the unexpected challenge. That was rich. He'd have to be sure to share that with Scully later--poor little thing indeed. His eyes followed the saleslady's glance in Scully's direction. She was standing unseeingly in front of a display of birth announcements, her shoulders braced for whatever new blows came her way. Mulder realized that something about his perceptions was changing. He had the odd sensation of feeling his understanding expand into previously closed off compartments. It made the difference between seeing one thing focused in the hot beam of his obsession and seeing a whole landscape in the light of day. In this light he saw right through the confident Scully facade to the bewildered, lonely woman behind it. She could not admit to her confusion and distress. Usually he was happy to leave these inconvenient emotions walled up behind her pretense of total self- sufficiency because it served his purposes. And of course she sensed how little he wanted to hear about any insecurities or fears. Invariably, whenever he looked at her and asked, "Are you sure you're all right?" every muscle in his body was tensed with readiness to walk away and get on with the investigation. It didn't take a Ph.D in body language to figure it out. Day after day she followed him into situations that were terrifying, and encountered things that challenged her most cherished assumptions about the world. And under these conditions she was brave, utterly trustworthy, and always ready to offer comfort to him. Was it any wonder that after the past four years of loss and horror her unconscious mind tried to protect her from more emotional devastation? He needed to keep the awareness he had in the hospital of the fragility and brevity of their lives. That perspective would teach him how to get over the barriers they both threw up to protect their wounded souls. He needed to be patient with himself and with her. She wasn't a poor little thing. She was, like everyone else, vulnerable to a myriad of hurts from the world around her. Why did he always insist on adding to them, instead of protecting her to the best of his ability? He could change. If he changed, so would she. Remembering some shadowy past really didn't matter. "Did you want to pay with a credit card?" Mulder took out his credit card silently. Already the impression was fading. He no longer felt connected to the wisdom and compassion that he had somehow pulled from deep within him. He wondered if the music had triggered some usually inaccessible part of his--what?--his soul? He felt a brief but overwhelming moment of dejection. Had he experienced the person he had once been, could have been again? His parents had a lot to answer for. As he was now, any gift shop clerk had more insight into his partner's vulnerabilities than he did. After completing his purchase, Mulder went back to the card display where Scully still stood. To his amazement, she held out her arms for a reassuring hug. He wondered if she had also experienced some insight into the person she had been. But it didn't work out too well. She seemed to sense the possessiveness he couldn't help expressing in his return embrace. She gently pushed him away with the slightly panicky look he had seen in the car. His optimism dimmed as he recognized the potential for reliving old mistakes. This was going to be like inhabiting two worlds at the same time. He was going to have to maintain more distance, literally, between them, to avoid making a big mistake. The frustration was going to be exceptional. This was certainly what he needed in his life. A revelation to stir up its smooth, uneventful course and add another layer of complexity to his most important work relationship. Of course he had to admit that Melissa's document had probably saved their lives. Its influence on Scully's unconscious mind as she started for Digger that morning had been the only thing between them and death. "Do you want to know the name of the song that was playing?" he asked conversationally. She shook her head. "I think the extreme adrenalin levels we've been experiencing the last few days have made us overly emotional," she told him. "I'm sorry for the teariness." She had thoughtfully provided him with an excuse for his "overly emotional" hug, he noticed. He wondered how many times she would be ambushed by her own inexplicable reactions before she discerned a pattern that made sense only when she accepted the possibility of past life memories. He had managed to explain away quite a few of his own. Scully was probably right. The extreme stress of the last week had made them more susceptible to buried memories. As time passed the vividness of their impressions on reading the manuscript would fade. Their old personas would regain a firm grip on their behavior. "Maybe Melissa's document affected me more than I thought. It was touching even if it was fiction," Scully remarked, as they approached the waiting area for their flight. "I felt so bad for them, dying like that, after they struggled so desperately to survive and be together." Scully thought she remembered getting a lump in her throat. Had she felt something more? She didn't remember anything now. "It was goddamn tragic, Scully," he replied shortly. His reply didn't encourage further conversation, so Scully sat in silence, catching up on the news in the "Post." Mulder sat similarly concealed behind the "Times." Instead of reading he was mulling over a problem. How could he reveal to Scully the possible lead from Greenfield without catching too much flack for keeping the secret until now? He decided to put it off until they were back in D.C. Airports and airplanes were too public to risk some of the observations he wanted to make. After the tension of the take-off, Scully was immediately overcome by the accumulated sleepiness of three wakeful nights. Her head bobbed as she failed to find a secure sleeping position. Before the well-meaning but overworked flight attendant could offer a pillow, Mulder put his arm behind Scully's neck and let her head rest on his shoulder. Now his arm was pinned in addition to his legs being folded up unnaturally in the too small seat. Instead of dwelling on the discomfort, he found himself caught up in the sensation of his lips in Scully's hair. He also realized that he should never again put himself in this position unless something had changed. All he could think of was her tantalizing physical presence, and it was driving him to distraction. He made a mental note to start keeping all of these good resolutions about putting more distance between them. Scully woke up once and realized her position. She could make a fuss and rearrange them both, or she could pretend she had never actually waked up in the middle of the flight. She hadn't really woken up all the way. Not enough to analyze why she felt so much like she had come home. We are closed in, and the key is turned On our uncertainty; somewhere A man is killed, or a house burned, Yet no clear fact to be discerned: Come build in the empty house of the stare. "The Stare's Nest by My Window" W.B. Yeats The End ******************************************* Appendix A— Vignette from Condemned to Repeat It Title: Casting Off Author: Branwell Classification: VA (Vignette/Angst) Rating: PG Spoilers: Almost all the mythology through Redux II Distribution: No restrictions on further distribution. Just keep my name with it please. Reactions welcome at COMBS-BACHMANN@WORLDNET.ATT.NET Disclaimer: Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Ten Thirteen productions created and own these characters. My writing is for fun, not profit. History: This was written as part of the longer work "Condemned to Repeat It". It became too long and too dark to work with the rest of the story. I turned it into an independent vignette, and include it here for the sake of completeness. It takes place after Scully and Mulder leave the hospital in Idaho Falls and return to Digger with Jimmy Flynn. ************************** CASTING OFF In the back seat Mulder drifted off into uneasy sleep. A tight curve taken slightly too fast disturbed his balance and woke him up half an hour later. They were somewhere on the two lane road between Dubois and Digger. The sun had set, and the mountains were deep purple on the horizon. Scully and Flynn were still talking. "Your dad must have been a great officer to serve under, Dana. What a story!" Flynn was saying enthusiastically. Scully looked pleased and animated at his appreciation. Mulder knew Scully liked this kind of conversation. Most people did. That's what that whole Eddie Van Blundht thing had been about. Mulder was aware that he was a social cripple. Maybe that was the real reason he had wanted a peg leg when he was a kid. It would have been an outward sign of his emotional condition, and no one would have expected him to be normal. It seemed as though everyone around him thought he was oblivious to his faults and their probable cause. It was strange that they thought this, since they knew he was intelligent. Perhaps they found it too painful to contemplate him as the fully conscious victim of flaws he was powerless to correct. He had a degree in psychology, for Christ's sake. He knew that if a child doesn't develop certain skills within a window of readiness, those skills will forever be missing or stunted. It had taken many years, but he had finally forgiven his poor, tortured mother for the legacy she had passed on to him. How could she raise a whole child, when she herself was maimed by neglect and chilly rejection throughout her childhood? She had used every device and opportunity to avoid any intimacy with her son. When all else failed, she fell back on the platitude and the cliched reaction. Now he knew that her feelings too were locked up in some unreachable core where they churned away chaotically and impotently. His family had made a rare visit one night to a neighborhood family whose breadwinner was not involved in the Project. They viewed a home movie of a backyard cookout that the Mulder family had attended when he was only twenty months old. The person holding the camera panned slowly across the yard, pausing to allow each group the opportunity to clown around. In the background Mulder saw his toddler self plod doggedly toward the swimming pool. In the foreground his mother was listening attentively to every word spoken by a handsome tanned man in tennis whites. She had that fake smile that in seconds could turn to an expression as blank and cool as the face of a plastic doll. The first person to notice him leaning curiously over the edge of the pool was another mother with her own toddler. She tucked her child under one arm and sprinted across the yard to Mulder, whom she grabbed with the other arm. The cameraman noticed her sudden movements, and focused on her agitated approach to Mulder's mother. Tina sat there, unsure of what expression to adopt in this unusual situation. Apparently she finally hit upon humorous and she laughed at the antics of little Fox. She held him balanced carefully on one knee to avoid dirtying her pale blue dress. The other mother backed away, upset, but willing to give Tina the benefit of the doubt and assume she was hysterical. His mother put Fox back down on the ground almost immediately, and he read her lips admonishing him to be a good boy. No one said a word about the incident when the movie ended. His sister disappeared about two and a half years after this night out. It was an event that suggested few appropriate platitudes or cliches, and it put the final seal of silence on the Mulder household. He was better than his mother at going through the proper motions, but he was forever shut out of the complex subtleties that make up intimate relationships. He would never have such a relationship, any more than he would ever see the color red. Early in their partnership he learned from another agent that Scully had red hair. To him it appeared as a shining ash blonde, very pretty to look at. When Scully was so sick he had felt a closeness to another person that he had never expected to experience. Now that she was healthy, the gap between them was widening again, and he couldn't stop it. He pushed her away and she pushed back. He didn't know what to do anymore, without death to make everything simple. During his search for his sister he used to think that maybe when he found Samantha she would be a kindred spirit. He had been there to offer her more attention and affection than he had received as a child. Sam shattered this dream when she fled out of the coffee shop into Cancerman's car that night. She probably didn't have the energy it took to deal with someone like him. He had always tried to be philosophical about his handicaps, rightly believing that many people had worse burdens to carry. Still, he was beginning to feel more distant than he used to from the world around him, and a little tired of holding on. Sometimes he pictured himself as one of those rainbow colored hot air balloons, tethered to the ground in a gentle breeze. The moorings were gradually loosening under the constant pressure of the air currents, and every so often someone threw a bag of sand over the side of the basket. The death of his father, the revelation of the alien hoax, the loss of his sister--he was losing ballast at an alarming rate. Flynn finished a story that caused Scully to laugh softly. She was probably hoping that Mulder wouldn't wake and steer the conversation back into the areas where he could participate--work, work and more work. Mulder knew what would happen when the last rope whipped free. In his line of work he didn't need the drama of a note and gun. All he needed was one bad day where he was a step too slow, a few seconds too late to react, a little bit behind in putting the puzzle together. He wondered what it would feel like to rise fluidly, without effort, into the blue of the sky. The End