Many thanks to my betas Anaith and Rhi for their help in bringing this story to the finish line.  Rhi contributed the opening scene that got this story off the ground.   Any mistakes that linger are mine and will be pounced on and corrected.

Disclaimers: Matthew McCormick belongs to Rysher: Panzer/Davis.  Mulder and the rest of the X-Files gang belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions.  Aidan belongs to Rhiannon Shaw and is used with her kind permission.

Rated: PG-13 for mild profanity.

Storm Surge

Prologue
Tuesday, December 7, 1998

"With the new millennium coming, the public expects a major spring cleaning, Walt."

Skinner nodded from his seat on the other side of the desk.  He understood perfectly that the Director of the FBI would be under pressure to produce results; what he didn't know yet was where, precisely, his boss wanted him to figure into this.  As Assistant Director over Violent Crimes, it wouldn't be a small part.

"There's concern over the number of unsolved cases that are shelved for whatever reason. I want a task force set up to close these files out."

The thought of how many files fell under that category made Skinner flinch.  "Going how far back?  Hopefully, not all the way back to the establishment of the Bureau?"

"Ten years is a nice round number for now," came the reply.   "Eventually, though, someone will need to work the older files, too; compare them with other documented cases to see if the culprit may have been apprehended for something else.  I expect all my AD's to cooperate with the task force, and we'll be drawing on some of the best from each division for this."

The balding AD gave his boss a sardonic look which lost none of its eloquence despite the filtering glasses.   "And what exactly do you need from me for this task force?"

The head of the FBI grinned at him, clearly aware of his worry and not concerned by it.  He tapped a manila folder against the desk as he pointed out, "You've got a hotshot ASAC on the short list for promotion; I want to see what he can do with this.  He puts in two years on this, with a team he picks, and if the solve rate is good enough, well, Seattle's SAC is up for retirement in '02.  He'd end up out there as ASAC and heir apparent."

"You want McCormick."   He left unspoken the fact that this would strip him of one of his best ASAC's - that was Walter Skinner's problem and he did have a few rising stars who could use the expanded responsibilities.   Skinner wanted to make damn sure, though, that the Director knew he'd expect a favor for this sometime down the road.

"You've been saying he's good; let him prove it, Walt.  Put McCormick on it, and I'll tell Samuelson to meet with both of you in a week.  Here are the rough specs for what I want accomplished, and some suggestions for TOE and budget.   I want the man reporting to you as he's been doing, with a monthly meeting with Samuelson to go over results and bottlenecks.  An Associate Director has the clout to make sure everyone cooperates." Now the Director did smile, and there was an edge to it that made Skinner reevaluate just how much of the office gossip he heard.

"I've been hearing that McCormick is by the book...until it gets in his way," the Director went on coolly.   "Then he writes new chapters. Fine.   I want him on this.   Let's see what he can do."

"Where do you want this team located?  Space is at something of a premium."

"Try not to break the budget juggling them, but get them set up somewhere near you.   I want it to be very clear what kind of priority this is, Walt.  And tell the man that if he gets stonewalled, to tell Samuelson who and why."

That got a snort of laughter.   "Matthew likes handling his own problems, but I'll tell him for you.  I'll see you at the staff meeting Friday, then."

"Good. And Walt? I mean it.   I want this to run, and run smooth.   Tell him to grab who he needs... but the results had better justify it."

"Don't worry; I'll tell him."   Skinner grinned at the thought of what Matthew McCormick was likely to do with instructions like that.   It ought to be a hell of a lot of fun to watch.

Fredericksburg, Virginia
Thursday, December 17, 1998 4:30 p.m.

"What in hell do you think you're doing, Agent Mulder?" ASAC Samuel Spelling yelled as he charged across the room.

Abandoning his review of the crime scene photos, Mulder tensed in anticipation of the rapidly approaching storm front.  He was prepared to defend his profile and had been doing so vigorously over the past thirty-six hours in the face of increasing antagonistic responses from Spelling.  It was the methods behind the profile that he would have a hard time defending if he were ever foolish enough to reveal them.  Slowing turning to face his enraged ASAC, Mulder braced himself and put a tight leash on his temper.

Following hard on Spelling's heels, Scully was doing her best to deflect a confrontation that had been brewing for over a week.  Spelling ignored her doomed attempt to intercept him as much as an ocean liner would ignore a dinghy attempting to divert it.  Mulder could count the veins standing out in Spelling's forehead and wondered when his last physical had been.   It would be a stretch for his enemies to blame him if Spelling suffered a stroke, but Mulder wouldn't be surprised if they tried.

Finally realizing that she had no chance of defusing the situation, Scully followed in Spelling's wake with the look of someone torn between protecting a partner and a doctor getting ready for medical intervention.  At least her puzzled expression was an improvement over the look of long-suffering patience Mulder had been seeing more and more frequently in the past ten days.

Mulder knew his profile did not meet Spelling's expectations.  Spelling wanted a simple and prosecutable explanation for seven deaths.   Mulder was very aware of the problems with his profile, but at the same time he knew that Spelling's desire for a convenient suspect and a tidy explanation could not be reconciled with the facts.  The tension between them had gone sub-arctic when Spelling triumphantly announced the arrest of a suspect whom Mulder knew could not be their serial killer.   To give him credit, Spelling believed he'd caught the murderer.  Pressured by the visions of the murders and frustrated by Spelling's intransigence, Mulder flatly told him that he might have arrested a murderer, but not the murderer.

After that, it was only a matter of time before Mulder was faced with a choice between obeying orders or following the truth.  The local sheriff was keenly aware of the dissension in the FBI ranks.  Mulder suspected that he had his own doubts and wasn't ready to accept an easy answer that left the real killer free.  Lamm was an enigma Mulder had yet to solve.

Mulder's only regret was that he hadn't had time to warn Scully that he had defied Spelling's orders to fall in line with his solution to the case.   Scully took her self-appointed role of buffer seriously, even when her efforts had been doomed from the start.  Within an hour of their arrival in Fredericksburg, Spelling had made it clear that Mulder's presence had been imposed on him against his will.  Within two hours, Mulder realized that Spelling wasn't going to listen to any theories that didn't match his interpretation of the facts.

Spelling came to a halt barely an arm's reach away, almost quivering with anger.   As a psychologist, Mulder had a good grasp of body language signals, and years as the FBI's most unwanted had honed his instincts.   Spelling was spiraling out of control; his glare alone would shrivel crab grass.  In the split second between the bellowing challenge and Spelling's charge, Mulder decided to hell with trying to salvage anything and deliberately did not come to attention.  Behind Spelling, Scully was shaking her head and frowning intently. Mulder presumed the frown was meant for him.  He gave her a slight shake of the head to indicate that he wasn't about to play nice.   For the past week, Spelling had made his dislike clear, although he had stopped short of actual harassment.   Shoving unpleasant facts in Spelling's face might not be wise, but Mulder was damn tired of walking away from confrontations.  At least the other agents would be able to testify that Scully had made every effort to be diplomatic.

Scully glared at him, but held her peace.   Mulder could sense the other agents spreading out to give them room.   Although the arrangement of bodies behind Spelling was probably an accident, Mulder couldn't help feeling a bit outnumbered.   Chen and Dobbs were polite, but both of them had made it very clear that they answered to Spelling and saw no reason to back Mulder's refusal to bend his profile to Spelling's theories.

Scully, as usual, was caught in the middle of his battle with conventional thinking.   She had argued the scientific facts of the case that supported Spelling's theories for several hours last night.   He had rebutted her perceived facts with his psychological suppositions and she had dismissed them out of hand.  Relations between them had turned chilly when he reminded her that he was the profiler, not her.   After she stalked off, Mulder knew he had simply asked too much of her.  As much as he wanted to blame her for not listening to him, he really couldn't fault her for preferring Spelling's interpretation.   Spelling's conclusions would make a very straightforward report with no hints of paranormal complications.

At this point, when both their careers appeared to be spiraling downward, Mulder understood her reluctance to accept his arguments.  Asking her to take his hunches on faith when the evidence appeared to point in another direction had always been a daunting task.  These days he had a better chance of receiving a satisfactory evaluation from Kersh than of persuading Scully that his theories made sense.   Mulder braced himself for another awkward discussion with her after Spelling had finished his rant.  Being an optimist, he hoped that maybe, just this once, she'd take that leap of faith and believe his intuition over her science.

"I merely responded to Sheriff Lamm's questions, sir," Mulder responded to Spelling's bellowed question coolly, hesitating a fraction of a second before the sir to emphasize that the title was due to rank rather than respect.

"You have deliberately sabotaged this case, Agent Mulder.   You had no authority to tell Lamm that the suspect we arrested on the basis of sound forensic evidence is not the killer.  When I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed.  Is that clear?" Spelling growled.

"I'm not going to lie to the sheriff if he asks me for my professional opinion.  Callahan may be guilty of this last murder, but he's not our serial killer," Mulder insisted stubbornly, dodging the issue of whether he would follow orders.  "If you're asking me to lie, I want that in writing."

"Mister, that mouth of yours is going to get you booted out of the FBI," Spelling retorted angrily.  His body language shifted ever so slightly and Mulder realized that he was facing a man losing control.  Mulder didn't think Spelling would be stupid enough to launch a physical attack, but being prepared wasn't only a good rule for Boy Scouts.  It also served FBI agents with a penchant for disregarding orders given by self-serving assholes.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mulder could see Sheriff Lamm step into the room and wondered what he made of the situation.  The tension in this room was thick enough to carve with a butter-knife; Spelling nearly glowed with rage.   Ever since his head injury in August, Mulder had become more sensitive to emotional currents.   At least he could take comfort in the fact that with the emotional storm going on, he was not likely to zone out in one of the waking dreams that had plagued him all week.   Dodging Scully's concern had become a regular routine of his life lately.

"I seem to have come at a bad time, Sheriff." A new voice cut through the tension with a cool professionalism.   The calm, slightly reproving tone reduced all of them to children squabbling in the playground.   The tension shattered like fog before a stiff wind.   Curious, Mulder turned his attention away from Spelling to see who just joined the party with such authoritative presence.

Standing in the doorway was a tall, older man whose narrow, sharp features would probably be described as strong rather than handsome.  Graying hair made him look distinguished rather than old.  Mulder estimated that the newcomer was probably in his late fifties.   He was slender, but the leanness wasn't that of a long-distance runner.  Gymnast, Mulder concluded, observing the man's composure.  His gait was slightly hurried, almost abrupt, but he gave the impression that he was in complete control of his body.  The image of a frenetic judo master sprang to mind and Mulder had to repress a smile.   Whoever the stranger was, he didn't strike Mulder as someone who could be easily taken by surprise.

"My name is John Adler," the newcomer said as he stretched out a long narrow hand to Spelling.  With the other, he offered a business card.   Mulder couldn't see what was written on it, but he could see Spelling's look of surprise segue into irritation.

"And you must be Agent Mulder," Adler said with a smile as he offered a hand and a card to Mulder.  Adler had a strong grip that exerted just enough pressure to be marked, but lacked the macho vise-grip so common among law enforcement.   Whoever Adler was, he didn't seem to feel the need to establish his place in the pecking order.

As Adler went around greeting Scully and the other two agents, Mulder glanced down at the card.

John Adler
Consultant
Virginia State Police

Lamm must have taken his objections to Spelling's theory to heart if he brought in reinforcements.  Lamm probably wanted someone not involved in the case to tell him if Mulder's theory was worth bucking the FBI.

"Sheriff Lamm asked me to come in and evaluate two opposing views on the recent wave of murders.  If the theories are indeed irreconcilable with each other, then it will be my task to advise him on which one he should officially sanction," Adler said firmly, giving both Spelling and Mulder a quelling look when it appeared they hovered on the verge of interrupting him.

Scully was staring at Adler with the same mix of surprise and irritation as Spelling, but probably for far different reasons.   Adler was an unknown variant in the equation.   Scully didn't like sudden changes in social dynamics when they were on a case.   She tended to catalog people and fit them into neat boxes so she knew exactly how to relate to each and every member of the team.  There was something about Adler, Mulder sensed, that was going to make classifying him difficult.  Mulder couldn't put his finger on the reason, but he could feel the hazy shadows gathering that presaged one of his waking dreams.  Sternly he tried to lock down his errant mind.  Going all loopy in front of Spelling and Adler would not be a good way to argue his theories.

On the other hand, it might be a relief to argue with Adler for a change.  His arguments with Scully were fast becoming exercises in futility.  As his profile evolved from straight-forward analysis into what she called hypothetical fantasy, she retreated into scientific rationalism.   Her manner left no doubt in his mind that she found his behavior disappointing.

Five years of profiling Scully's moods suggested the ominous possibility that this case might be the straw that broke the camel's back.   They'd finally gotten a temporary reprieve from Kersh's purgatory and from Scully's point of view Mulder was screwing up their chances to stay out of trouble.  She was staring at Adler, probably wondering if he would help or hinder her efforts to keep Mulder from self-destructing.

"I'm sure the sheriff will be glad of your advice, Mr. Adler, but at the moment, the FBI is still in charge of this investigation.  Sheriff Lamm can, of course, call the Richmond office and request that we leave. . . " Spelling said with officious distaste.  He let his gaze pass over Adler, then turned away as if dismissing him.  It was clear he ranked a consultant one step below a local sheriff in importance.

With his attention still focused on Adler, Mulder saw him suddenly stiffen and his eyes narrow as if he was reacting to a potential threat.  Adler's head was already turning towards the door when a new voice rang out.  It was becoming rather crowded all of a sudden.

"I'm afraid that's already been done, Agent Spelling. That's why I'm here.  If there is an investigation to salvage from the current mess, of course."

Adler tensed, then relaxed as if he recognized the voice.  Mulder certainly did.  He hadn't talked with Special Agent Matthew McCormick in nearly twelve years, but that curt Southern drawl wasn't something he'd forget.  Either the cavalry had just arrived, or McCormick was here to deliver the coup de grace.  Mulder wasn't sure, but from the stunned look on Spelling's face, this was not a welcome interruption.

"Who in hell are you?   Did Lamm send out fucking invitations to the whole goddamn world?" Spelling demanded angrily as he stared down at McCormick.  Spelling enjoyed intimidating men who didn't measure up to his six foot four inches.   Unless McCormick had changed over the past twelve years, Spelling was going to be in for a disappointment; McCormick didn't intimidate easily.

"The Director has been receiving some disturbing reports concerning the effectiveness of this investigation.   At 1:58 p.m., SAC Paulson requested that he be put on sick leave.   As of 2 p.m., I'm Special Agent in Charge of this task force, Agent Spelling.   Matthew McCormick is my name.  I'm here by order of A. D. Skinner to bring this investigation back on track," McCormick said sharply.

Mulder tried not to grin at Spelling's discomfiture.   McCormick was one of the few men Mulder knew who could actually sound like the edge of a razor.

McCormick strode into the room looking very little different from his days at Quantico.   Mulder felt a flicker of envy.  The years had been kind to McCormick; command evidently agreed with him.  Mulder had always thought that McCormick would be a natural SAC.   Shedding his coat, McCormick looked every inch the professional FBI agent clear down to his crisp white shirt and dark tie.

Spelling stood there gaping at McCormick.   Chen and Dobbs became very busy trying to be inconspicuous.  Adler observed the confrontation with a frosty smile that disappeared the instant he saw Mulder take notice.  Mulder wasn't certain, but he could swear that Adler gave him a brief nod.

The emotional currents and subtexts swirling in the room were giving Mulder a headache.   Spelling was furious.  Dobbs and Chen were pretending to be invisible.   Scully was confused, which was making her irritated.  Right now, fluid was the best word Mulder could come up with to describe the dynamics.   Adler was almost deliberately not looking at McCormick who, after a sharp, startled glance, was also avoiding meeting Adler's eyes.  Mulder wondered what sort of history these two men had.   Putting all the subtle clues together, Mulder decided that they knew each other, probably respected each other, and walked softly around each other.

An image of swords superimposed on Adler and McCormick spun out of the shadows for an instant, then faded.   Mulder tried to smother a groan.   His head was starting to throb.   If he didn't get out of this room soon, he'd lose control of the shadows and there'd be hell to pay.   Not the least of which would be Scully trying to commit him.   His latest adventure in the Bermuda Triangle had convinced her that he was teetering on the edge.   Collapsing in public would probably seal his fate.

Scully stared at McCormick with a look that told Mulder that she didn't know who he was and wasn't sure whether he was friend or foe.   It might help if she knew which side of this dispute she was on.   Mulder sympathized with her predicament.   She had been trying to be loyal to him and to science and more often than not lately, she had been finding herself torn in two.  McCormick was a friend, or at least used to be, but Mulder knew that McCormick wouldn't cut him any slack if he'd screwed up this case.   On the other hand, McCormick would listen to unusual theories with an open mind, and Mulder had learned to be grateful for small favors.  That was more than most agents had done over the years.

"John, this is an unexpected pleasure."   McCormick finally turned to greet Adler with a smile.   They exchanged handshakes and Mulder sensed that some issue had just been settled between them.   The tangled emotional texture of the room began to unravel.   He'd probably have a headache for the next several hours, but now he could hope that nothing was going to happen to make it worse.

"I'm acquainted with Sheriff Lamm's grandfather who happened to mention that my assistance would be appreciated.  I'm here as a favor to an old friend and to offer my expertise and advice.  If Agent Spelling had allowed me to continue, I would have pointed out to him that I carry no official standing.   I am merely an adviser."

Adler assumed an air of modesty, but Mulder thought that modest was the last adjective he'd use to describe him.  McCormick's eyes glinted, but he maintained his grave professional demeanor.  Mulder doubted Spelling was catching any of this subtext.   Spelling was an eminently superficial person.  To his surprise, Scully didn't seem to be reacting to the by-play between McCormick and Adler.  Her preoccupied glare told Mulder that she was probably still trying to sort out what the addition of two complete strangers had done to the dynamics of the team.

Blown them all to hell, Mulder thought ruefully.   Now he had two people to convince.   McCormick had an open mind, but he wasn't going to give Mulder any breaks just because they'd roomed together at Quantico twelve years ago.

"Agent Spelling, SAC Gregg has requested that you return to Richmond as soon as possible to explain why you kept SAC Paulson's incapacitation off the record," McCormick announced brusquely.  He waited for a response from Spelling, but despite a withering glare directed at the man who had just undercut his advancement plans, Spelling refused the bait.

"Agent Dobbs, I want you to interview Callahan again.  At the moment, I'm inclined to agree with Agent Mulder that he is merely a copycat, but there are still many unanswered questions about this latest murder.  Suggest to Callahan that standing trial for one murder would be preferable to being held responsible for seven."

The agent who had been leafing through an old issue of the Smithsonian shrugged and heaved himself off the sheriff's desk with a tired grunt.  Mulder had sized up Dobbs as a decent agent who deserved better than an ASAC like Spelling.  Dobbs had been surreptitiously cordial, but made it clear that he wasn't going to buck Spelling's obvious antagonism.

"Agent McCormick," Adler began in a formal tone.  From the tone of voice, Mulder guessed that he was about to start advising.   Mulder glanced at McCormick who appeared willing to listen.   "Might I suggest that Agent Dobbs pay particular attention to Callahan's selection of a victim?   I would like to interview the man later, but for now I believe that the key to the latest killing is Callahan's relationship with the victim."

Dobbs looked at McCormick who nodded his approval.  With a shrug, Dobbs headed off to the holding cells.   For all his slouchy appearance, Dobbs had a sharp mind for inconsistencies.   Mulder wished that Spelling had let Dobbs get first crack at Callahan when they brought him in.   Spelling had made too many assumptions and Callahan had simply shut down.

"Agent Scully, I want you to go back and review the autopsy tapes for all of the murders, frame by frame if you have to.  Agent Chen, you will assist her.  I want to be absolutely certain that nothing, however unlikely, has been overlooked."

McCormick's tone was civil but firm.   Mulder doubted if Scully had missed anything, but McCormick would have to find out for himself just how thorough she could be.   Scully might not be prone to thinking outside the box, but she was meticulous about considering everything in the box.

"Sir, I have reviewed those reports.   There's nothing else to add," Scully interjected coolly, bristling slightly at the suggestion that she hadn't been thorough.

And she chides me for being blunt.  Mulder knew that Scully's pride had been stung by McCormick's suggestion that she might have missed something.

In the background, Mulder saw Adler watching all of them intently, no doubt observing and cataloging them as carefully as he might a crime scene.  Mulder wasn't sure whether to be amused or irritated at Adler's cool assessment of everyone in the room.

Scully and McCormick were not getting off to a good start, but Mulder knew that if he made any attempt to interfere it would only make matters worse.  Did Scully think that she needed to stay to protect him from the new SAC?  It wouldn't surprise him.  She had been keeping a close eye on him ever since his return from the Bermuda Triangle, with the air of someone waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Mulder hadn't dared tell her that he'd been dreaming very strange dreams and not always when he was asleep.  Scully meant well and had his best interests at heart, but he feared that her concern might just propel him into five point restraints.   He'd taken one trip into a psychiatric hospital because no one, including Scully, had believed him; he had no intention of ever letting anyone do that to him again.

McCormick stared at her for a moment, then lowered his voice to comment softly, "Agent Scully, my orders are not open to discussion.  I wish to talk to Agent Mulder about his profile.  Unless he has forgotten the English language, I don't believe he needs an interpreter." McCormick paused, then continued in a warmer tone, "Or a protector."

Mulder winced.  So, Scully's over-protectiveness had become that obvious?

Scully blinked at the open comment on her self-appointed role as guard dog to the Bureau's resident maverick.  McCormick waited for her to make the next move with no sign of impatience, apparently prepared to wait as long as necessary for her to decide to follow orders.  As far as Mulder could tell, he hadn't left her many options. She had been neatly driven into a corner.

"Scully, it's OK," he hastened to reassure her.   Spelling had been a known quantity.   McCormick was unexpected and Mulder suspected that she wasn't comfortable taking orders from him, especially when those orders implied that she had overlooked evidence.  Her intention, Mulder hoped, was to be here to back him up, but what was coming across was her manifest distrust of his ability to handle himself without her.  Meanwhile, McCormick was watching them both, absorbing the dynamics.

"I'll be OK," Mulder added softly hoping that for once she'd trust his judgment.

After giving him a resigned scowl, Scully stiffened to attention.   After a sharp nod of her head in McCormick's direction to indicate acquiescence, she turned on her heels and stalked away.   Her shoes tapped out her irritation in a sharp staccato on the tiled floor.

Agent Chen sprang for the door and managed to pull it open an instant before she hit it.  He turned one imploring look upwards before following her.   Mulder didn't envy him, but he knew that once Scully had had a few moments to vent her exasperation, she'd calm down.   Chen was going to be in for a long night, though.   By suggesting that somehow she had overlooked something, McCormick had goaded her into taking a microscope to those reports just to show him how wrong he was.

"Agent Scully, the science of knots is much underrated," Adler offered as she stormed past him.  She glared at him and continued as if she hadn't heard, but Mulder knew that she would pay particular attention to the knots used in the killings.  If for no other reason that to put a dent in Adler's self-assurance.

Mulder waited for McCormick to make some comment about Scully's lack of trust and was prepared to defend her.   Scully might drive him up a wall sometimes, but she'd also bring him the ladder to get back down.

"Now, Hawkeye, tell me about this profile of yours," McCormick asked with a slight smile as he gestured to the break-room the team had been using as a field office the past ten days.  "John, feel free to join us and jump in with questions whenever you have one."

Adler nodded and followed them to the room after carefully hanging his tweed jacket on the hook by the front door.   The coat reminded Mulder of one of the English tweeds men wore at weekend hunting parties: expensive, but well-worn.   Adler might reside in Virginia, but Mulder recognized the English roots in Adler's cultured Southern drawl.

Trailing McCormick into the room, Mulder smiled as he recalled the nickname McCormick had given him at Quantico.   He hadn't heard it in years.  McCormick had thought Hawkeye sounded better than Spooky, but his nickname never stood a chance.   By now, most people had forgotten that he got the nickname Spooky for his profiling skills.   Now, he was simply Spooky Mulder, the guy who chased aliens and monsters.   He'd gotten used to it, even defiantly using it at times to emphasize that he didn't think inside the bureaucratic box.   Lately, though, the nickname was becoming eerily apt.

"Nice work, Agent McCormick.  I've been wanting to swat that arrogant puppy for two days.   Tell whoever's in charge that if Spelling ever comes into my district again, I'll find something to arrest him for.   Jaywalking will do in a pinch," Sheriff Lamm commented from his desk.   "If you need me, just holler."

McCormick nodded, but said nothing.  McCormick was too smart to say anything that might get quoted, but the cat-in-the-cream smile he was wearing told Mulder that he'd enjoyed taking Spelling down.  Lamm grinned and sat down at his desk with a self-satisfied smile.

After closing the door to the break room, McCormick swept the table clear of the Styrofoam debris and crumpled-up wads of paper that had accumulated during the five days Spelling had used this as a command center.   Adler threw open a window.  The fresh air felt good, although very cold.   The last time Mulder had checked the temperature outside, it had been a frosty twenty-five degrees.  After three days, the room had become stupefying with accumulated cigarette smoke.  Mulder had had good reason to spend most of his time exploring crime scenes rather than hashing out theories with other agents.

"About that profile, Mulder," McCormick prompted as he pulled a folded up copy from his briefcase and laid it on the table.

Mulder stared at it warily.  He wasn't sure what McCormick wanted him to say.   He had gone to great lengths to make sure that it was a fairly standard profile.  When he did suggest paranormal influences, he phrased them as one possibility among others more mundane.  Despite his grudging effort at diplomacy, there was no easy way to hide the fact that he believed there was something uncanny about the motives behind these murders.  He refused to believe that they had a random serial killer on their hands.

In his dreams, he stalked the connection between the apparent disparity of the victims, but the connection eluded him.  He had delved into the psyches of killers before, but these waking dreams terrified him.   If he thought that giving in to the dreams might provide him with the name of the killer, he might take the chance rather than see more people die, but they were merely snapshots of the murders as seen from the killer's point of view.   There was nothing he could use as evidence that the law would accept.  All he had was a dawning awareness of the connection that tied the victims together and vivid nightmares that hinted at the motive.   The one thing he knew was that the killer was not insane, at least legally.  Perhaps not even psychologically.

Abnormal psychology wasn't as neatly delineated as the categories in the DSM suggested; science too often ignored the reality behind the psychoses.   What scared him about this case was that the seeming randomness of the murders was a smokescreen.   Truly random serial murders were extremely rare.  Even those cases where the victims were apparently selected at random often turned out to have a pattern once the killer has been identified.   Mulder knew that investigators tended to see what they expected to see.   It was his job to see what the killer saw without drifting loose from sanity.

At first glance, the case had elements suggesting the violent resolution of long-standing family feuds.  The lack of forensic evidence was disturbing, but could have meant that they were dealing with an extraordinarily intelligent and careful individual.   The rough draft of his first profile had been written in classic style.   Scully was actually beaming after she read it.  Her good humor had grated on Mulder's uneasiness at trimming out his paranormal suspicions, but he understood.   Scully wanted a normal case.   She'd stopped short of reminding him of the sacrifices she'd made to his obsessions, but her silence on the point suggested that her patience was running out.   He wanted to give her a normal case and would, as far as he could without compromising his integrity.   He had hoped that this would turn out to be one.

Then the dreams started.

Mulder had occasionally seen a murder scene through the eyes of the killer, even sensed his or her motivations; if it helped catch a killer, he was willing to take an occasional trip through someone else's mind.  Mulder lived with the fear that one day he wouldn't get out in time, but it was a calculated risk.

These dreams felt different.  For one thing, Mulder hadn't been asleep when they hit.   Involuntary dreaming he could pass those off as an over-active subconscious trying to purge itself of filth.   These waking dreams were instant flash pictures of the crime in progress, vivid enough to recognize that the patterns he had been assuming existed were diversions masking the true purpose of the murders.   The dreams connected six of the seven deaths, putting six victims in an elaborately staged dance with each victim having their proper role in the dance.   The seventh death was an intrusion, using the other deaths as cover.

The final draft of his profile had taken him most of twenty-four hours to write.   He hadn't given that much care editing his senior thesis.   Normally, he just didn't bother.  Someone asked him for a profile, he gave it to them and let them take it or leave it.   Give him facts that pointed to a paranormal suspect and he'd write it up without a second thought.   This time, he didn't know how to present a profile based on the uncomfortable fact that he had dreamed most of it.  So he'd edited, revised, and compressed until he had boiled it down to the bare facts, just the facts, and hoped that somehow that would be enough.

"Lamm thinks very highly of you," McCormick said, startling Mulder out of his reverie.

How long have I been sitting here staring into space?  I hope not long.   McCormick is extremely difficult to lie to, Mulder thought as he braced himself for questions he wasn't sure he had answers for.

"Sheriff Lamm also expressed his high opinion of you when we spoke of this case, Agent Mulder.   I have read your profile as well as Agent Spelling's report.  Superficially, Spelling's conclusions are reasonable, but I'm convinced we haven't correctly evaluated all the evidence," Adler said dryly.  McCormick shifted position but didn't look irritated at the implication that the FBI had overlooked something.

Mulder hunched his shoulders and looked at both men as he waited for the other shoe to drop.   This good cop, good cop routine was different, but Mulder kept hearing the unvoiced 'but' in the praise.  They wouldn't be talking to him if his profile was convincing.

Mulder mentally reviewed his profile.   Most of it he could back up with what little forensic evidence they had, plus conventional psychological analysis.  Unfortunately, there were gaping holes in the chain of reasoning he'd presented; he'd taken Spelling's dislike of subtlety too much for granted.   Spelling would never look between the lines to see where Mulder was conjuring theories out of thin air, but he had a feeling that Adler knew that Mulder had left a lot unsaid in his profile.   McCormick might catch some of the lapses, but with luck might put them down to Mulder's habit of looking for the paranormal.  Something about Adler however that suggested a passion for minutiae.  Trying to avoid revealing the source for most of his deductions was courting a walk through a verbal minefield.

"What's up, McCormick?  Why have I suddenly become so special that the Bureau pulls you down from Boston to run interference?"  Mulder went on the offensive in the hopes of shaking loose the reason this case was attracting so much attention.   He'd been living with the conspiracy for so long that there were days when he didn't trust himself.  It had been twelve years since he and McCormick had roomed together at Quantico.   Back then, they were the golden boys, destined for great things.   A lot had changed over twelve years, but McCormick was still one of the fair-haired boys of the Bureau.  Mulder's suspicion of McCormick was based on nothing more than the fact that McCormick was still on the upward ladder.   Maybe he was too paranoid, but it was paranoia earned the hard way.

For that matter, he wasn't sure who Adler was or why Adler felt like a kindred spirit.   Mulder's paranoia told him to be wary, but for some reason he didn't find Adler threatening other than a nagging sense that it wouldn't be easy to misdirect him away from the holes in the profile.   Mulder could reason out why Adler didn't alarm him later.  Being cautious would probably be a good idea, though, until he knew how Adler would react to hearing supernatural theories from an FBI agent.

"Skinner said you'd be suspicious . . . and he told me some of the reasons why," McCormick added softly with no trace of a smile.  Knowing Skinner, he had probably given McCormick a complete rundown on Mulder's descent into the basement and his subsequent exile.  Even after five years, Mulder still didn't know if Skinner believed in aliens, but he'd had ample evidence that the government was hiding something and would go to great lengths to protect its secrets.

Adler looked interested, but didn't ask any questions.  Mulder was grateful.  Adler might be induced to accept a paranormal slant on the current case, but aliens usually stretched everyone's credibility to the limit.   Mulder didn't want to prejudice his case by telling Adler his career had been sidelined because of an alien-human conspiracy.

Not trusting his inner wiseacre behave, Mulder simply nodded.  In the past five years, aside from Scully, Skinner had been the only colleague even vaguely interested in looking past the smart-ass mask he wore.  His relationship with Skinner was ambiguous at best, often adversarial and contentious even when they knew they were on the same side.

"Mulder," McCormick started in an exasperated tone, but fell silent when Adler raised a hand.  Mulder began to wonder just who this John Adler was that McCormick was willing to stop and listen.

"My apologies, Agent Mulder.   It should have occurred to me that someone who could craft a profile like the one you wrote must endure skepticism and rejection more frequently than praise.  I'm not prepared to accept your conclusions without proper debate, but I do intend to listen with an open mind," Adler said with a slight nod and a thin smile.

"Sheriff Lamm told me that you disagreed with Agent Spelling's identification of Josh Callahan as the serial killer.   However, he also said that if he explained, he might prejudice me with his beliefs.   I've read the crime reports and Agent Spelling's summation, as well as the profile you developed before this last murder.  I've not yet had a chance to read your latest profile, so, Agent Mulder, please tell me why you are so positive that Callahan isn't the killer."

Mulder felt Adler watching him with eyes that nearly burned with the intensity of his curiosity and wondered if he'd ever been a profiler.  He had watched suspects with that same intent gaze; waiting for a slip or a change in body language to tell the lies from the unlikely truths.

"Mulder, I happen to think that you're right," McCormick said. "Callahan may have murdered Sam Bell, but Spelling's conclusion that he is the serial killer is based more on wishful thinking than solid evidence.   Right now, I need you to explain why you were so convinced that Callahan wasn't the killer that you were prepared to go around Spelling's direct orders not to discuss your profile with the sheriff.  For the record, that order is going to come back to haunt Spelling," McCormick added with a grim look.

Mulder didn't waste time feeling sorry for Spelling.   The man was an overbearing ass who had been more concerned with closing the case in record time than in making absolutely sure he'd collared the right man.

"If through logic or forensic evidence we can eliminate all the alternative theories, then we must consider the remaining theory, however improbable, as the potential solution," Adler said with a wintry smile that prompted an answering smile from McCormick.

"In short, Mulder, we're going to comb through the evidence looking for reasons to debunk your theories, but if we can't find any, then you better be ready to explain how we're going to catch something that leaves no trace evidence behind," McCormick warned.

Mulder stared at both men, as he weighed the risks of being open with these two men.   Finally, he decided to give them chunks of the truth and play it by ear.

"Callahan copied the method used in some of the deaths, but the victim is all wrong.  Bell's death has an immediate and direct link to Callahan.   As far as we can tell, none of the other victims have any connection with Callahan other than living in the same county.  Callahan isn't ruthless enough to kill six people, three of them from prominent families, in order to cover up the murder of Bell," Mulder said with a rush, as if once he decided to talk he couldn't get out his points fast enough.  McCormick covered a smile, but leaned back to listen intently.   Adler quietly pulled up a chair; his eyes never leaving Mulder's face.

"Callahan also isn't smart enough to cover his tracks as effectively as the serial killer has done so far.   Doesn't the fact that he left his prints all over this crime scene suggest that he's not the killer who has managed six other murders with little or no trace evidence?"

"Criminals make mistakes.  Are you suggesting that the presence of forensic evidence in the Perkins case excludes Callahan as the suspect in the serial murders?" Adler asked quietly.

Mulder had to admit that putting it that way did make his theory sound rather shaky, but the existence of forensic evidence was a break in the pattern.  He became suspicious when a ruthlessly canny killer suddenly became inept.

"When we get forensic evidence dumped in our laps after six murders with almost none, it's a break in the pattern," Mulder replied shortly.   So far he was on solid ground and hoped they could keep it that way.

If he could keep McCormick and Adler focused on the forensic psychology in his profile, he might stand a chance of avoiding uncomfortable questions about some of his conclusions.   The profile was a good, solid piece of work that would stand up under cross-examination if the case ever got that far.   The killer was obsessively tidy, highly intelligent, well-read in basic forensic evidence, and lucky.   Damn lucky in Mulder's professional opinion.   Based on the way the victims had been killed and the times and places the crimes had had been committed, it was obvious that the method of murder suggested an emotionally remote killer who distanced himself (or herself) from the actual act of killing.  The profile was a rough sketch since they had very little forensic evidence to build a more complete report on.

"Fair enough, but there's more to your argument than this, Mulder." McCormick pushed a little harder and Mulder felt his shoulders tense.  "Mulder, I'm not your enemy, although I'll admit that you'll have to take my word on this," McCormick added with a touch of resignation in his tone.

Mulder felt a vise tightening around his skull in time with the inexorable knotting of his shoulders.  There might be a good explanation, but it wouldn't be true, and McCormick had a damnably good ear for a lie.  McCormick's expression darkened as Mulder hesitated.

"Damn it!" McCormick barked.  Adler looked mildly startled at the outburst, then his lips thinned into a smile.   "What have they done to you, Hawkeye? I knew that the Bureau Lilliputians wanted to pull you down to their level, but we used to be friends."   McCormick took a deep breath as Mulder absorbed both the words and the angry tone.

Mulder could only sit there, abashed that McCormick had taken his ingrained paranoia personally.  It was comforting to tell himself that McCormick was safer not being a friend, but that didn't make him feel as good as it should.   McCormick should take warning from Scully's fate.  Taking her down with him should be enough for one lifetime: he didn't want to add another friend to the Mulder debris field.

"John, can we agree that anything said in this room will remain confidential?" McCormick asked, catching Adler's eyes and holding them.

"I believe it would be prudent to do so, Matthew.   It has been my experience that the FBI is somewhat intolerant of theories that stray outside the boundaries of science.  If we are dealing with some unknown force that science has not yet explored, then it will be necessary to obtain proof in more ordinary ways," Adler said formally, then shook his head and gave a brusque chuckle.  "My apologies. I have spent too many hours carefully choosing my words in debates with lesser minds," Adler said with a casual assumption of intellectual superiority that Mulder felt certain was one part ego to three parts fact.

"Agent Mulder, I am willing to entertain the possibility that the solution to these crimes may involve some aspect of what might commonly be called the paranormal.  Our primary concern should be how to stop the murders.   If you have any information that will help us, let us judge whether it is relevant," Adler said earnestly as he made a point of pulling up a chair and sitting down at the table.

"Mulder, I don't care if you composed your profile while reading tea leaves.   This whole report reads like you were trying not to say what you mean.   Just tell us what it is and I promise I'll take it just as seriously as if you derived it from Jung or Freud.   Possibly more seriously," McCormick added with a wry smile.

Despite his tension, Mulder smiled.  McCormick had an aversion to Freudian analysis that rivaled Mulder's aversion to accountants.

"Gentlemen, maybe I can help Agent Mulder over the hump," Lamm said from the doorway.   "His profile might not be saying anything to y'all, but it comes close enough to what I suspect to be giving me nightmares."

Adler nodded as if Lamm had just confirmed something rather than dropping a bombshell.   Mulder got the feeling that Adler wasn't someone who was often surprised.  McCormick, on the other hand, looked completely taken aback for a moment, then rallied with a stern look directed at Lamm.   "Beg pardon?" he drawled, slow and dangerous.

"Now hold on.   I wasn't holding anything back, exactly.   How seriously would Spelling have taken me if I started spouting off about curses?" Lamm asked.   He didn't look at all abashed by McCormick's glare.   Lamm nodded in Adler's direction. "Should have figured my grandpa would have dropped a hint or two.   Not that he believes the story, mind you, but he's a cautious man and likes other people to be cautious."

"Then you have already made up your mind which theory to follow, but you needed me to give some legitimacy to your decision.   I thought that might be the case.   You're many things, August Lamm, but indecisive isn't one of them," Adler said reprovingly.   He didn't look angry at the deception, which seemed to relieve Lamm.

"Maybe I hoped you would prove Agent Mulder here wrong.   I'd rather be wrong than have to tell the county prosecutor that he's going to have to try someone for carrying out a five hundred year old curse.   Plus, there are three murders I can't fit into my figuring.   Guess I also wanted to hear how Agent Mulder reasoned out that this wasn't some normal serial killer," Lamm said with a rueful laugh as he pulled up the remaining chair to the table.

"What?" Mulder started, indignant that he'd been used.

"Calm down, Agent Mulder.  All I had a was suspicion.  Guess I wasn't as obvious as I thought I was by insisting Spelling bring you in." Lamm snorted as he mentioned Spelling.

"Sheriff, why don't we proceed as if we're dealing with an ordinary criminal?   We'll go over Agent Mulder's profile and see if it holds up under scrutiny.   If we conclude that the paranormal may be a factor, then you can tell us what you suspect.   Your grandfather was vague about the details so I feel I can approach this without prejudice."   Adler's eyes were sparkling as he pulled out a notebook.   The pages were covered in an illegible scrawl, but Mulder assumed they were points he intended to cover.   It was going to be a long afternoon.

"Define ordinary, Mr. Adler," Mulder shot back.  Normally, he could passionately defend one of his profiles, even those that strongly suggested a paranormal element to the crimes.  Arguing his case before a skeptical, even hostile audience usually left him unfazed.   Facing three men who said they were keeping their minds open to all possibilities threw him off-balance.   For once he had a receptive audience, but why did it have to be for a profile he wasn't sure could be defended without earning him a trip to a psychiatrist?   The paranormal aspect didn't bother him; knowing that he gained insight to the killer by a series of waking dreams did.

Adler smiled, but didn't rise to the bait.  Mulder hadn't expected him to, but the ploy had won him a moment of breathing space to marshal his thoughts.  McCormick gave him a slight scowl. Then the questions started.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

By 7:00 o'clock Mulder felt the walls start to close in.  Adler and McCormick had put his profile through a sieve, sifting hypothesis from deduction until they had rendered it down to the bare bones.  Despite copious amounts of iced tea, Mulder's throat was dry from explaining his conclusions.   It fretted him that McCormick appeared to carefully avoid confronting him on the points Mulder knew he'd have a hard time justifying.  McCormick's detour around them only emphasized that he was aware of their significance but wasn't ready to zero in on them just yet.  Under other circumstances, Mulder might have appreciated the interrogation technique. Now, he just wished the other shoe would drop.

After a great deal of polite wrangling, Adler and McCormick had agreed to eliminate the latest victim from the serial killer's list, which removed Callahan from consideration as the serial killer.   They had also agreed with the basic tenets of Mulder's profile.   The suspect, gender unspecified, had, by some means yet to be determined, rendered two women and four men immobile, caused death by strangulation, and then left the crime scene with minimal forensic traces of his or her presence.   The lack of trace evidence suggested an intelligent awareness of the basic concepts of forensics, and the patience to sweep the crime scenes clear of anything that might be incriminating.

Or a lot of practice, Mulder thought grimly.

Motives for the murders were unclear.  Except for the most recent victim, none of the other victims had outstanding conflicts with anyone.  Each victim had been found in an entirely different location.   Mulder had not been prepared to declare a pattern in the choice of crime scenes, although he argued that the crime scenes were deliberately chosen for each victim and had a possible ritual significance.   The only consistent factor in all the deaths was the method of death.

If Mulder's vague suspicions were correct, the killer was not finished and would continue until he had completed whatever ritual pattern he was following.   Of course, it was always possible that they had run into a purely random series of murders, but unlikely.  A small voice in the back of his mind whispered that to find the motive, he only had to look deeper into the shadows.

Here be monsters, Mulder thought grimly as he told the small voice to shut up.

Adler's logic was cold and calculating with an uncanny eye for the leaps of assumption Mulder was prone to make.  The one time Adler came close to zeroing in on the discrepancy in the profile, McCormick steered the conversation away.  Adler gave McCormick an odd look, but complied with his obvious desire not to confront Mulder yet.   Mulder wasn't sure whether to be grateful or not.

"So, there's nothing here that tells us whether the killer is male or female."

Mulder nodded wearily.   They'd been over this point a dozen times.  Statistically speaking, the odds were heavily on the side of the killer being male.   However, there was absolutely nothing in the evidence that could eliminate the possibility of a female killer.  In fact, a woman might have a better chance of getting close to men.  Mulder had tried to keep his profile neutral, but he knew that more than once he'd used the male pronoun.   How much of that was due to convention and how much was derived from the flashes he'd deduced from the dreams, he couldn't say and hoped McCormick wouldn't ask.  At least this was a common oversight and one McCormick would understand.

Adler scribbled something in his notebook and shook his head.  "It is not logical that the pattern of deaths should be so variable.  Discounting Callahan's victim, we have three victims from families of the original settlers in the area and three scattered between long time residents and newcomers.  The only consistent pattern is that the victims are young, healthy, and, if we are to believe their friends and families, disinclined towards suicide.   If we were only considering victims from the first families, a suicide pact might be a remote possibility, however, there is no evidence that ties the second group of victims to the first except their manner of death.   I am afraid we are left with a serial killer who is selecting his victims by some method we have yet to discern."

Mulder wondered how long it would take Adler to see the pattern within the apparent randomness.   Only after he'd submitted his profile and had spent the night studying the crime scene photos did he begin to see the pattern the killer was following.  Three of the victims were from a small select group within the community -- within the same social set and sharing the same network of friends.  Three of the victims were from the working class; employed in jobs once considered part of a servant's duties: landscape designer, plumber, and taxi driver.  The latest murder was the exception with the victim being an artist.  The deaths appeared to be random with no connection to the more affluent victims until he started viewing them in pairs.

After he'd seen that pattern Mulder had tried to make time to do a little research, but the pressure to produce a working profile had made research a luxury.   Spelling had been on his back from day one, demanding a profile.  Mulder conceded that the situation was urgent -- seven murders in four months but he should have insisted on time to do the research before submitting the profile.

"The families are the key," Mulder finally interjected in a flat, tired voice.   Was he really as emotionally exhausted as he sounded to himself?   God, he hoped not, but three months under Kersh, under Scully's unrelenting suspicions about his state of mind, and under his own gnawing fear that she was right to worry, were wearing him down and out.

Adler shot a quick glance over at Lamm who nodded.   "I wondered what Martha had told you.  That jackass Spelling never bothered to ask the right people the right questions.   I had a feeling you'd find our local gossip cum historian," Lamm said with a smile.

"Explain." McCormick's tone was brusque.  For once he looked straight at Mulder with an intensity Mulder found unnerving.

"Accidental deaths are common in rural areas, even more so before the advent of trauma centers.   However, I find it curious that every forty-nine years the same five families experience a tragic surge in accidental deaths of family members, all within months of each other.  Not every family every forty-nine years, but the deaths cluster within those same families.  If there are other 'accidental' deaths in conjunction with the deaths from these families, the legends don't say, but it wouldn't surprise me if there were clusters of deaths that involved strangers or lesser families."

Mulder dropped his bombshell and sagged back in his chair.   Despite the open window, the room felt over-heated and stuffy.   The mild headache that had been with him all morning had turned into an anvil chorus inside his head.  Closing his eyes against the harsh overhead light, Mulder felt the shadows begin to close in around him.  He had walked in and found what they hid, but he had no guarantee that the shadows would allow him to walk back out, again.

Damnit, not now, Mulder pleaded with the shadows as they swooped in and enveloped him.   In the distance, he heard Adler and McCormick asking him questions.  He opened his eyes and promptly shut them again.  How in hell could he talk to men who wore images of themselves in overlapping layers?  Shapes danced in the shadows, reaching out for him, and he was helpless to resist.  Exhaustion, hunger, and stress had stripped away his defenses.   His last coherent thought was to try to bolt for the door, but hands held him down and he fainted with the sound of iron wheels on cobblestones ringing in his ears and the smell of coal smoke.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Sheriff, I would appreciate it if Agent Mulder's collapse stayed in this room.   There are people looking for an excuse to fire him.  " McCormick looked up from helping Adler lay Mulder down on a sleeping bag Lamm had dug out of a closet.

Lamm stared down at Mulder's crumpled form and gave a heavy sigh.   "Agent McCormick, even if I did mention it, no one would believe me.   I hold an elective office in this county.   Eccentricity is acceptable, but there are limits.   Now, if you gentlemen don't mind, I have to go try and prevent another murder.   Whether the D.A. will ever be able to prosecute will be his problem.  Tell Agent Mulder thanks if he wakes up before I get back.  I'll leave word with my deputy that no one comes in here short of a presidential order.  He'll like that," Lamm added with a chuckle.

Adler sat back on his heels and allowed McCormick to straighten Mulder's limbs into a less cramped position.  He handed him a cotton blanket almost before McCormick had time to look for it.

"Thanks."   McCormick stood up and leaned back until he heard the vertebrae pop in his back.   This case was going to leave him tied up in knots.   He'd heard of Mulder's talent for getting in over his head, but nothing in the gossip had suggested that he had the Sight.

Try as he might, McCormick simply couldn't come up with a logical way Mulder could See the murders as they were being committed.  He'd known there was a discrepancy in Mulder's chain of logic, but had never suspected that he had been Seeing things.   If Mulder came out of this without a nasty case of nightmares, he would owe his guardian angel an offering.  McCormick couldn't erase the image of grown men cooperating in their own deaths for the sake of some bargain their ancestors allegedly made five hundred years ago.  Five families, four deaths every forty-nine years so that their families would prosper for another forty-nine years.   Bad enough if they'd kept it within their families, but to murder innocent strangers as sacrifice or camouflage spoke of a dangerous arrogance spiraling out of control.

No wonder we couldn't see a pattern, he mused.  Each time the cycle reached the turning point, a different family out of the five would oversee the 'accidental' deaths of the heirs of the other four.  If he understood Mulder's hypothesis, each family was represented by either a direction or an element and some characteristic in each death had to reflect this allegiance.   The crime scenes had been chosen to represent those elements.   The outsiders were slaughtered to provide the sacrifices with servants in the afterlife.  McCormick grimaced at the cold and callous souls that would kill strangers to perpetuate their prosperity.  Lamm's expression turned predatory, reminding McCormick of a hawk diving for a pigeon.  He made a mental note to ask Lamm to explain how that fit in with the current cases and the past deaths.

Looking down at Mulder, McCormick was briefly tempted to say to hell with the case and get Mulder somewhere safe, but he saw too many complications with that kind of direct action.  He presumed Mulder wanted to keep his job.   Disappearing in mid-case would give Mulder's enemies the ammunition they needed to terminate him.   Of course, if news got out that Mulder had started spouting off solutions to murder cases while in a trance, losing his job would be the least of his worries.   Lamm had a vested interest in keeping quiet.  Adler was another matter.   How far could he trust?   They had had brief encounters over the years, but no chance to actually sit down and talk to get a feel for each other.

"I presume from the worried expression on your face that this was not what you were expecting?"   As he asked the question, Adler walked over to the depleted coffee machine and threw out the thick, scalded brew left on the bottom of the pot.   With practiced ease, he rinsed the pot and began making a fresh batch of coffee.   McCormick gratefully accepted that Adler was giving him time to collect his thoughts.

"No," McCormick said with a tired sigh as he positioned his chair where he could keep an eye on Mulder and the door.   Abruptly, he decided that blunt honesty was his best hope of keeping this mess under control.  Adler had to be willing to subvert due process if Mulder was to have a future with the FBI, or any kind of future outside an asylum, for that matter.

Sulwen, I hope you haven't gone into retreat, because I have an early Christmas present for you and his name is Mulder.  McCormick shunted the problem of how to contact his elusive, erstwhile business partner of 500 plus-years ago into a back corner of his mind.  First get Adler's cooperation, then worry about finding Mulder some competent help.

"Yet you were slowly driving Agent Mulder towards revealing his source for the disturbing imagery in his profile," Adler prodded.  "Yes, I also caught the vivid description of the murderer watching his victims die.  At first I put it down to an over-active imagination.   The pressure on gifted profilers to fit into the murderer's head can produce a peculiar form of empathy.  On occasion, this empathy is genuine.   But this was more than empathy born of analytical psychology, if the last few minutes are any indication."   Adler glanced down at Mulder's sleeping form with a sad smile.

"How willing are you to believe in things science doesn't concede, John?" McCormick asked carefully.

"Well, Immortals exist, yet scientifically there is no reason why we should," Adler responded with an amused chuckle.  "As I told Agent Mulder, I am willing to keep an open mind.  What might have been considered magic two hundred years ago is now accepted science.  One hundred years ago space flight and lasers were flights of fantasy by fiction writers.  Immortals are at the core of many legends, yet I feel very real.   There may be a grain of truth in many tales of myth and magic; if I exist, so might magical talents or creatures dismissed by science."

Adler left the coffee percolating and said down beside McCormick.  He stared down at Mulder before he spoke again.

"What we heard here could either have been the ramblings of a mind collapsing under too much pressure or it could be the truth filtered through Mulder's mind like light through a stained glass window.  Are you saying that you believe that we're dealing with a cult that demands sacrifices every forty-nine years?"

"Whether there is an actual curse is not the province of the FBI.   Killing people, whether for religious or secular reasons, is.  Reason says that Mulder subconsciously processed all the information along with whatever gossip he picked up from the local historian.   He communicated his as he did because he was literally on the brink of physical and emotional exhaustion.   I can't go into precise details, but if any man has reason to collapse, Mulder does."

McCormick let some of his anger at Kersh and the officious bastards in OPR seep into his tone.  Most of the time, he was grateful that the time had passed when dueling was more common than bathing.  On rare occasions, however, he regretted not being able to soundly thrash obnoxious people who destroyed good men with their pens while hiding behind their rank.

"An explanation that would pass muster in an official report, if one is made," Adler agreed cautiously.

"I don't intend on reporting this, John.   Mulder has too many enemies," McCormick admitted slowly.  "If we're lucky, Mulder will never have to testify and his profile will simply be one more piece of paper in the case file.  Lamm has the confirmation he sought and has taken the investigation back under his authority.   Unless we uncover evidence that can be used in a court of law, we are in the unfortunate position of knowing who the killer is, but without legal recourse to arrest or prosecute.  We're going to have to hope his clean-up of the sites destroyed his chances at establishing an alibi."

McCormick hoped that his belief that the situation was under control wasn't a fool's hope.   If Mulder's 'gift' became public knowledge, he might be forced to abandon this identity years before schedule to get Mulder to safety.   It would be inconvenient but necessary if there was no other way of getting Mulder the help he needed.   Competent Seers were not covered by the Bureau's medical plan and he would abduct Mulder himself to keep him out of a psychiatric hospital -- partly because he liked Mulder, but mostly he didn't want to spend the next fifty years dodging a furious Sulwen if she learned he'd stumbled across a Seer and left him to the devices of modern psychiatry.

"Since I have no official standing and, thus, no official report to make, this brief lapse of Agent Mulder's is no concern of mine, as far as the record is concerned," Adler said with a prim look that nearly set McCormick to laughter.   Adler smiled at the response.

"I would like a chance to talk with Agent Mulder if he remembers what he told us.   It is entirely possible that he won't," Adler said with regret.

McCormick wasn't sure whether he wanted Mulder to remember or not.  He'd scribbled notes as fast as he could while Mulder spun out a dark tale of fortunes bought at a terrible price in a eerie monotone that raised the hackles on the back of his neck.   Even if Lamm succeeded in stopping the cycle, it would be difficult to bring the perpetrator to trial.   McCormick was completely neutral when it came to 'deals with the devil,' but if the people involved believed, their own fear of failure could end the thing without recourse to the courts.

Adler continued with cool precision, "However, if we proceed on the logical assumption that Agent Mulder subconsciously synthesized local folktales with data we had overlooked, then he is a more gifted profiler than his reputation suggests.  And the FBI is a bigger fool for wasting such talent.  I have scant tolerance for fools and see no reason to bewilder them with reports beyond their capacity to understand."

This time McCormick laughed and felt better for it.  He'd hoped that Adler would be reasonable; he would have had few alternatives if Adler had decided to be difficult.   One of these days, he must remember to do something very special for his patron saint.  Dealing with Mulder when he woke up was going to require tact and patience, but thanks to Adler's understanding, he wouldn't have the hounds of bureaucracy breathing down his neck.

With any kind of luck, Mulder would be up on his feet before his partner finished reviewing the autopsy reports.  If half of what the Bureau gossip said was true, she would not take no for an answer if he tried to deny her access to Mulder.  From their brief encounter earlier, she might prove to be a problem if she insisted on treating this as a psychological or physical problem.   Skinner had warned him that Scully worshipped skepticism and modern science especially where the welfare of her partner was concerned.  For himself, McCormick had been disturbed by her earlier reluctance to trust Mulder's ability to handle himself without her support.   Mulder was neither frail nor incompetent, but Scully's attitude would certainly give that impression to anyone who didn't know Mulder, or who knew him only from the Bureau gossip.  McCormick wondered if she knew what impression she gave onlookers.  It might be worth mentioning to her.

McCormick made a note to warn AD Skinner that he might be receiving an angry call from Agent Scully.  If he had to, McCormick would pull rank, but he hoped, for Mulder's sake, to resolve this without raising a firestorm.

As he knelt down to check Mulder's breathing and pulse, McCormick tried to remember how Sulwen reacted when she'd come out of one of her visions.  Ravenous was how he best remembered her at those times.

"How long will he sleep?" Adler asked softly.  They had both been talking quietly to avoid arousing the deputy's curiosity.

"On the one hand, I'd feel better if he slept for several hours.   On the other, he has an overly protective partner who will probably be back by dawn.  He'll need food when he wakes up, and quiet," McCormick added as he flashed back to Sulwen wincing at loud noises.

"You seem to be well versed in how to handle a collapse of this nature."

"Back in the 15th century, I had a business partner who had an uncanny ability to See things.   Her talent saved our business and our people more than once.   I have no way of knowing if Mulder has suddenly acquired psychic abilities, but I'm going to treat him as if he has and sort out the truth later.   Besides, it's hard to go very wrong with food and rest," McCormick said with a reminiscent grin.

"Then it would be logical for me to go and acquire the food since I have no place in your chain of command.   You have had experience, however limited, and the deputy is needed out front to handle the locals.  Any suggestions for food?" Adler asked as he shrugged back into his outer coat.

"Thank you.  Meat sandwiches, roast beef would probably be easiest, but any meat will do, plus some orange juice."

"A pity that Americans never developed the taste for meat pies.   I have been trying to persuade a local tavern in Richmond to stock them, but local tastes appear to run to 'fast food.'  Somewhere in this town there must be a good deli.   Allow me to reconnoiter and see what I can turn up," Adler said enthusiastically and he swept out the door.

After Adler left, McCormick leaned back in his chair and considered how to get Mulder to a safe refuge.   Ever since he'd learned of Mulder's fall from grace and exile under AD Kersh, McCormick had been making plans to commandeer him for the new cold cases task force he'd been asked to command.  It had proved ridiculously easy to maneuver the Director into authorizing him to select his own team from whatever department he chose.   Ceirdwyn had been a good teacher in more than the arts martial.

Finding that Mulder had been sent out on a case felt like a gift from heaven.   However temporary the restoration of Mulder's field agent status might be, it did exist.  Under ideal conditions, McCormick had hoped to get Mulder's consent before drafting him, but the man's collapse made the transfer urgent.  McCormick wanted Mulder safely under his authority before any hint of this collapse reached the Bureau.   Carpe diem was a sound military tactic and paperwork and proper protocols were technicalities.   If AD Skinner passed on the request, then Mulder was his.

Moving carefully to the far side of the room so he wouldn't disturb Mulder, McCormick hit the speed dial on his cell phone.   Thankfully, Skinner was a conscientious man who would remain at his post until he got the all clear.

"Assistant Director Skinner."

"Agent McCormick here, sir.   I believe that we are moving towards a successful conclusion to this case.   Agent Mulder's input has been extremely useful.  You will be receiving my report on ASAC Spelling's competency," McCormick said with the deep Southern drawl that warned friends and co-workers that he was displeased with someone.

Skinner coughed, or possibly chuckled; McCormick couldn't tell and didn't feel it necessary to ask.   "Good job. Any idea when you'll be back?   The Director has sent me three emails urging the quick resolution of any and all impediments to the launching of the new task force," Skinner replied brusquely.

Despite the tone, McCormick sensed he was well-pleased by the outcome.   Spelling was going to be in for a shock if he tried carrying his complaints up the chain of command.   If Spelling didn't walk very carefully, he might find himself looking for a new ladder to the top.

"Sir, I called to request that you expedite the transfer request I submitted this morning for Agent Mulder.   I believe it would serve no purpose to send him back to Domestic Terrorism only to pull him out again in a few weeks."

After a long pause, Skinner responded.  "Problems?"

"Nothing that a week of rest wouldn't cure.  I don't believe Agent Mulder has remembered to eat or sleep in recent days.  Assuming that you approve of the transfer, as his new SAC, I would like to request a two week vacation for him starting immediately.  I'll clear it with Personnel when I get back in town.  I want to get his ideas on how to proceed with some of the cold cases; he does have extensive experience in investigating unusual cases.   As you recall, I requested two week's relocation leave four days ago.  Once Agent Mulder catches up on his sleep, he can help me move and I can pick his brain."

McCormick took pride in never lying outright to a superior if an evasion or a half-truth would do the job.   No doubt Skinner was reading all sorts of things between the lines, but he wasn't the type of leader to allow his curiosity to get in the way of his common sense, or his commitment to the men who served under him.  Marcus Constantine would like Skinner; his teacher's teacher would appreciate the steel in Skinner's spine.   McCormick made a note to arrange a meeting someday.

"Granted. If you can get Agent Mulder to actually rest, you'll be the first.  Not even his partner manages that very well."   Skinner sounded amused.

"That brings up another point.  Agent Scully seems to be extremely protective.   I may need to explain some things to her that she won't want to hear.   Just giving you a heads-up, sir."

"Thank you, Agent McCormick," Skinner replied gruffly.  "She's a good agent. The two of them have been through a lot.  You might consider taking her into the task force, but that's your call."

"I'll take it under consideration.  Now, I have some loose ends to attend to," McCormick said in a noncommittal tone that would tell Skinner that he might consider it, but wasn't going to promise anything.

"Go. I'll send forward the paperwork and email you when it's been approved.   With the Director's signature already in place, I doubt if there will be any serious problems.   Well done, Agent."  With that commendation, Skinner hung up.

McCormick hope Skinner was right; even the best-laid plans could go awry.   He had accepted this fill-in assignment with the express purpose of sounding Hawkeye out about joining the new task force.  After learning the details of Mulder's exile, he thought that dangling the prospect of real work along with a few judicious bribes of steak and beer would be all that he needed to snatch him away from Kersh's control.  Now he was glad he'd taken the precaution of filling in Mulder's name on one of the blank personnel requisition forms co-signed by the Director.

If half of the Bureau gossip was accurate, Mulder had been pushed, harassed, and manipulated by people he should have been able to trust.   McCormick prepared himself to deal with an angry man who might see this transfer as yet another yank on his chain.  From the few hints Mulder had let drop plus a couple of oblique comments Skinner had made, Mulder had reason to fear being locked up.  As far as McCormick could tell, Agent Scully would probably help for Mulder's own good - at least in her mind.  McCormick did not intend to let that happen, not to a man who was now under his command.

If Agent Scully tried to interfere, she was going to learn that Mulder had more friends than she ever counted on.   If Sulwen took him under her wing, Mulder might end up with a very large, protective, and occasionally ferocious family.   It might do the man some good to realize that there were people out here who still believed in honor.   Whatever demons Mulder believed he was facing, he shouldn't face them alone.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Friday, 5:30 a.m.

The first thing Mulder was aware of were loud, contentious voices.  His thoughts felt sticky and slow, like cold molasses sliding off a spoon.  Opening his eyes seemed like too much trouble, even moving his arms and legs required more energy than he could muster.   A vague memory of a similar total collapse of mind and body surfaced; he had attempted a marathon on a dare in college and had literally fallen across the finish line in a dead faint.  Now as then his physical body felt too heavy and cumbersome to move.  Sound and scent were suddenly transformed into a hypersensitive conduit to the outside world.

As he lay there trying to remember how he came to be lying on the floor, he sorted out the voices raised in dispute a few yards away.   Scully's voice was sharp and angry.   She was arguing with someone and, if Mulder was any judge of the nuances of her tone of voice, she was losing the argument.  It took him almost a minute longer to identify McCormick as her opponent.  As always, McCormick's voice was calm, although slightly more Southern than usual.   Mulder had learned at Quantico to gauge McCormick's moods by the degree of drawl that crept into his tone.   Most of their classmates had learned that lesson by end of training.  What few ever grasped was that if McCormick was truly angry, his Southern drawl turned ice cold.   Thankfully, Mulder could hear the warmth of the deep South comfortably at home in McCormick's tone as he and Scully clashed.

"No, Agent Scully, you may not go in to see Agent Mulder.   The deputy was obeying the orders of his superior in refusing you entry.  You had no cause to berate him, nor to attempt to defy those orders.   I expect the agents under my command to behave with civility and respect towards fellow law enforcement officers.   Do I make myself clear?"

"You have no right to keep me from seeing my partner.   I'm a doctor. If he's ill, then he'll need me," Scully retorted angrily.

"Indeed?   Unless I am mistaken, your specialty is forensic pathology, rather than general medicine.  If you have a license to practice as a general physician then of course you may attend him."   There was a pause.  As far as Mulder knew this was the first time anyone had directly challenged Scully on her medical qualifications.

After a moment, McCormick continued, "Mulder is asleep.   There's no need for you to concern yourself.   If he was ill, I would have summoned a doctor to attend him," McCormick said smoothly.  His tone was conversational, even polite, but very firm.

"I'm a doctor."

Mulder heard the anger in her voice and winced.   McCormick's challenge had stung her.   She'd always used her medical degree to establish her dominant right to be at his side in a crisis and it had never occurred to Mulder to check on her credentials.   Most of the time, he preferred her help to the kind of help he might have gotten from other doctors.   McCormick obviously had other ideas.   He could be a stickler for protocol, but Mulder couldn't figure out why McCormick was being so protective.

"Agent Scully, Mulder is resting and I would prefer that he continue to rest.   When he wakes up, if he calls for you, you'll be welcome to come in and ensure that I haven't mistreated him."

Suddenly worried that Scully might actually defy McCormick and land in more trouble than she could cope with, Mulder struggled to sit up.  He managed a confused thrashing for a moment before collapsing.

"Be easy, Agent Mulder.   Give yourself a few moments to remember how to move."

Strong hands gently shifted him into a quasi-sitting position leaning against the wall and steadied him until the wave of dizziness had subsided.   Warily, Mulder opened his eyes to a dimly lit room that had more or less stopped spinning like a demented top.

"Here, drink some of this.  It will help."  Mulder finally identified the voice as belonging to John Adler.  The orange juice tasted sweet and sent a jolt of sugar through his system as he sipped from the glass Adler held to his lips.  After several swallows, Mulder impatiently took the glass in his own hands.  Adler sat back on his heels, hands ready to steady him if he started to topple.  Defiantly, Mulder ordered his trembling muscles to shut up and stabilize.  To his surprise, they did.  Relieved of the worry that he was gong to topple over again, Mulder drained the glass.

Before he could set it down beside him, Adler poured more juice from a jar and handed over a thick sandwich.  "Eat. I was informed that this is the best genuine Virginia ham sandwich between the Shenandoah Valley and the sea," Adler said as he released Mulder's shoulders.

Mulder's innate stubbornness wanted to refuse, but the smell of the thick slice of ham was too good to resist.  He made a mental note to express his indignation later.   Until he'd smelled the sandwich, he hadn't realized just how hungry he was.

Well, lunch had been several hours ago, he reminded himself.   Then it occurred to him that he might be missing several hours.   Although the blinds on the window were closed, the quality of light coming through suggested that dawn was imminent.   No wonder Scully was upset.   If she'd just pulled an all-nighter and came back to find him incommunicado, she would naturally leap to the conclusion that he was in trouble.  Scully's temper was chancy when she was thwarted in her determination to take charge of him.

"Agent Scully, get some sleep.   We can continue this discussion once you have rested and re-collected your perspective.  You're tired.   I promise you, no harm is going to come to Agent Mulder on my watch.  You have my word."

McCormick's tone softened to the point where Mulder could barely hear him.   Mulder recognized the olive branch being extended.   The question was whether Scully would.   Chewing quietly, Mulder tensed, praying that Scully would listen to reason.   If she didn't, he'd demand to see her before she got herself put on report.

"Fine. Since I'm not needed here, I'll go to my room, but it will be to write a report of your refusal to allow me to assist my partner." Scully's voice was cold and biting.

"McCormick." Mulder called out, hoping to defuse the situation before Scully ended up on report herself.

"Mulder!"

There was a brief confusion of voices and sounds that sounded as if Scully had attempted to follow up on her call with an all-out charge for the door.

"Agent Scully, you will sit down, now," McCormick snapped. "Mulder, are you feeling up to a visitor?"

"Please," Mulder replied.  It was probably already too late to hope that Scully and McCormick would get along.   The best he could hope for was an armed truce, but he felt too emotionally drained to try for even that much.

The door to the break room opened and Scully marched in, still wearing an expression of resentful anger.  She glared at Adler who withdrew to a nearby chair.  For a long moment she stood by the door, obviously expecting Adler to leave.   Instead, McCormick walked through and joined Adler at the table.

"Mulder, what happened?" Scully shifted instantly from anger to worry as she knelt beside him.   She looked tired.

As he started to reply, it occurred to Mulder that he didn't know what happened.   He could make a good guess, but what he thought happened would hardly reassure Scully.

"I forgot to eat.  No big deal, Scully. McCormick didn't torture me, although running out of sunflower seeds might qualify," Mulder quipped, hoping to draw a smile out of Scully's grim expression.

"We'll get you to a hospital, Mulder."

That was Scully.   She never did listen to him.   For her, all answers lay inside a hospital room with him on the receiving end of medication.  Ordinarily, Mulder didn't really mind hospitals, although he usually spent as little time as possible in them.   Right now, with his recurring blackouts, a trip to the hospital might end up with a lifetime in restraints or so heavily medicated that he might as well be dead.

"No." Mulder only realized he'd said that aloud when he saw Scully's expression freeze. "I'm fine, Scully."   Mulder heard the echoes of Scully's unceasing rejections of help during her bout with cancer and wondered if he sounded as unconvincing to her as she had to him.

Patting him absently on the shoulder, Scully pulled out her cell-phone and began punching in a number.  Mulder wouldn't put it past her to have keyed in the number for the nearest hospital.   True, she had experience with his ability to attract injuries, so it probably seemed like a sensible precaution, but it exasperated him nonetheless that she seemed to assume she would need it.

"I believe Mulder said no, Agent Scully."

Scully twisted around to stare at McCormick.  "Sir, he needs medical help, not platitudes about rest and food."   Scully's acid tone made it clear that she was through tolerating fools who interfered with her proprietary rights over her partner.

"Unless you're claiming that Mulder is incompetent to make decisions regarding his own state of health, he has the right to refuse your generous offer."   McCormick's voice was chilly as he pointed out Mulder's right to make his own decisions.

The room faded for a moment as Mulder flashed to McCormick delivering a deadly challenge in the same cold accent.   Thankful that Scully's back was to him, Mulder exhaled slowly and forced the shadows back to the edges of his consciousness.  McCormick gave him an odd look, but didn't betray him to Scully.  Mulder resumed eating his sandwich and prayed that he could avoid any further episodes until Scully gave up on her idea of taking him to a hospital.

At least now he had a fair idea why he was lying on the floor.  He must have had a major fade-out in front of McCormick, Adler, and the sheriff.   Why he wasn't already in a hospital under medication was a question that would have to wait until he and McCormick were alone.

"Mulder, be sensible.  Let me get you to a doctor."   Scully turned back to him, deliberately turning her back on McCormick.

As he watched her expression, Mulder flinched.   This time the flashback did not involve the roiling shadows boiling out of his subconscious.   Scully was standing before him demanding that he declare that he trusted her above all others to have his best interests at heart.   Then, his belief in Diana Fowley had been the spark that ignited weeks of cold distance between them.  Now, once again, she was making the issue a personal one.  Mulder felt his headache return as he fought against the panic of being cornered.   No matter what he said, he was going to come out losing a vital part of himself.  Either he gave up his freedom and his mind or he antagonized Scully, perhaps pushing her over the edge.

Afraid that his voice might break if he spoke, he merely shook his head.   As disbelief turned to anger in her eyes, he forced himself not to look away.   Scully had to understand that while he trusted her, this decision was important to him.

"Fine," Scully snapped bitterly. "Since I'm not needed here, I'll leave.  My report will be in your hands in three hours, Agent McCormick."

Scully straightened up and stalked out of the room before Mulder could say a word.  She ignored his outstretched arm and exited with the martyred air of someone slapped down for trying to do her duty.

Mulder wondered how long it would take before she decided to start speaking to him again.   From the set of her shoulders, he thought it would be weeks before he would be given a chance to explain, providing that the explanation included an acknowledgment that she had been right.  Ending up in the emergency room might shorten the time, but Mulder wasn't ready to go that far to win her back, yet.

"Dammit, McCormick."   Mulder's temper flared as he realized just how far out of control the situation had gone.

"Did you want to go to a hospital?   I can call Agent Scully back," McCormick offered casually.

Stymied, Mulder glowered at him.

"Give her a chance to calm down and I'll talk to her.   I'm certainly not going to regard concern for a partner as insubordination.   Has no one ever run interference for you two before?"  McCormick's irritation only served to remind Mulder just how alone he and Scully had been the last few years.  Kersh would help throw them to the wolves rather than offer protection.

"She has reasons," Mulder muttered softly.   More reasons than he cared to count, he admitted to himself.   Still, it bothered him that Scully believed that he needed her to guide his every step.

"If half of what I've heard circulating around the water cooler gossip mill us true, I believe you.   Mulder, you seem to have acquired a reputation for finding new and interesting ways to damage yourself," McCormick replied with a smile.

Mulder's glower twitched into a rueful smile in return.  He could just imagine some of the stories McCormick had heard.   His membership in the hospital-of-the-month club was a running joke in Benefits, or so he'd been told.

"Now, I'm going to escort you back to your hotel room where you will go to bed and sleep for the next six hours.   I'll give you a wake-up call at 1 p.m. for lunch."

Ignoring this, Mulder decided that if he didn't ask now, McCormick would have over six hours to make up a convenient story about what happened in this room.   "What happened?   What did I do?   You're not as obvious as Scully, McCormick, but you're being just as protective as she is."   Mulder went for brusque and confrontational; it usually worked better at jarring loose answers than the subtle, polite approach.

McCormick stared at him as if considering an answer, then shook his head.   "Get some sleep, first.  I promise, I'll tell you exactly what happened, no evasions, but you need sleep.  Hell, I need sleep.  All-nighters don't come any easier these days," he added with a grin.

Frustrated, Mulder simmered, but he recognized obstinacy when he saw it; like recognizes like, he supposed.   McCormick was up to something.   Push him now and he might get half a story.   Allow McCormick time to arrange the story to his liking and the chances were good that he would get most of it, with options to pry loose the remaining pieces.

Reluctantly Mulder nodded.  His first attempt to stand ended with him sitting back down with a thump.  Despite waving off Adler's offer of help, Mulder eventually had to give in and allow McCormick and Adler to help him stand.  McCormick let him stagger towards the door, but stayed close enough to grab him if he fell.  Mulder was determined not to.

"I took the time to book a room at the hotel while I was out," Adler commented as he handed Mulder his coat.  "Take care of yourself, Agent Mulder.  If you ever want to talk, I can be reached here."

Adler handed him a small white card with the name and address of a small rare bookstore in Richmond on it.  Mulder glanced up at him and saw Adler smile.

"I leave you to divine whether I am an amateur bookseller or an amateur detective, Agent Mulder.   I've enjoyed our meeting. Please feel free to call on me whenever you wish."  With that, Adler held the outer door open.  When Mulder and McCormick were through, he closed it and headed off to the hotel with a long purposeful stride.   Mulder stared at his retreating back and wondered just who he was.  Amateur was definitely not an adjective Mulder would choose to use.

With McCormick occasionally offering a steadying hand, Mulder made it to the hotel.   As reluctant as he was to concede any points to McCormick, Mulder fell into bed with a grateful sigh.   If he worried about what he might have said in front of McCormick and Adler, he wasn't aware of it.   He fell into a sound, but restless sleep.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Friday, 12:15 p.m.

A persistent ringing gradually insinuated itself into Mulder's dream, then hauled him awake.   Fumbling for the hotel phone, Mulder mumbled hello several times before he realized that it wasn't the source of the sound.   Edging another notch into full awareness, he realized that the noise was coming from his coat.   A vague memory surfaced of shucking coat, shirt, and trousers before throwing them on the other bed.   His coat was ringing, or more precisely, Mulder's fogged brain decided, his cell phone was ringing.   Mulder glared at his coat then lurched over and grabbed the sleeve and pulled it off the bed.   With the phone now within reach, he paused to shake the last of the sleep fog out of his brain before answering.   He had a good idea who might be calling and he needed to be fully awake.

"Mulder."

"It's me, Mulder.  How are you feeling?"  Scully's tone was neutral.   Mulder wondered whether she had given up the hope of ferrying him to a hospital or whether she was looking for a reason to override his decision.

"Sleepy," Mulder replied evenly as he glanced at his watch.   It was barely fifteen minutes after noon.  McCormick had said he'd call at 1 p.m.   Scully could be very obvious at times.  She wanted to talk to him before he said anything to McCormick that might, in her opinion, endanger their temporary parole from Kersh's purgatory.

There was a faint tsk on the other end of the line.   Mulder admired the way Scully could say volumes with a single raised eyebrow or a simple tsk.   In this case, he suspected she was resisting the urge to upbraid him for not acquiescing in her plan to get him to a hospital.   Mulder appreciated her restraint, but wondered what lay behind this uncharacteristic reluctance to chide him into behaving.

"We need to talk, Mulder."   blunt, but he realized she wasn't going to elaborate over the phone.

"Give me fifteen minutes to shower and change, Scully.   If it's important to talk to me before I give my report to McCormick, then come on over.   He's not an enemy," Mulder added, sure that Scully wouldn't believe him, but conscious that the point had to be made before Scully began to harden her suspicions into unshakeable opinions.

"Fine." Scully hung up and left Mulder wondering what she had unearthed that was so important.

Mulder gnawed on his lower lip as he pried himself out of bed and headed for the bathroom.   A hot shower then coffee should clear the last of the cobwebs from his mind before Scully arrived.   To his relief, he wasn't experiencing the usual headache and disorientation that a fade-out usually produced.   Maybe McCormick was on to something with the food idea.  As far as he could recall, he hadn't eaten anything after the last three episodes.   He'd slept, but hadn't gotten around to eating until much later.   If these episodes didn't stop soon, he would have to remember to stock his refrigerator with deli meats and bread.

Promptly at 12:30 p.m., there was a knock on his door.   Mulder finished pulling on his sweater, picked up the coffee mug, and opened the door.   Scully was dressed in full professional-FBI-agent attire; her battle outfit as Mulder privately called it.  She was prepared for an argument, which meant that whatever she wanted to talk about, she wasn't expecting a positive reception.

"Coffee?" Mulder offered.  Scully's impatient shake of her head didn't surprise him.  She took up a position near the window, her body language indicating someone prepared to deal with a recalcitrant partner.

"Are you aware that Agent McCormick has submitted a transfer order for you?" Scully's tone was brusque, bordering on angry.

"No, but I don't have the inside track to the water-cooler gossip in Personnel that you do," Mulder replied with a hint of a smile.   The news surprised him, but he wasn't quite as ready as Scully was to take this as another veiled attempt by their enemies to destroy him.   It was always chancy to attempt humor when Scully was upset, but every so often it caused her to back up and re-evaluate the situation.

"Try to take this seriously, Mulder," Scully snapped as she rebuffed his effort to lighten the mood.

"I am.  Right now, though, McCormick looks a hell of a lot better than Kersh.  McCormick's a lot of things, Scully, but I can't see him taking orders from that damned Smoker.   We went through Quantico together," Mulder began, hoping that might somehow reassure Scully that he had some background experience with McCormick.

"And Fowley used to be your partner," Scully snorted derisively.

Mulder bristled, but grabbed his temper before it slipped the tight leash he kept on it whenever Scully brought up Diana's name.  It was tempting to remind Scully how often she was wrong in her judgments of people, Skinner being a notable example.   Tempting, but suicidal, unless he wanted to create a breach between them that might never heal.

"People change," he conceded in a curt tone. "  However, I'm not going to judge McCormick until I hear his side of the story.  Not all my friends are unreliable, Scully," he added sharply before taking a deep breath to swallow his anger at her constant mistrust of anyone he trusted.

"If Agent McCormick is so trustworthy, why did he refuse to allow you to seek competent medical assistance this morning?"  Scully looked triumphant, as if she had just scored a slam dunk and was waiting for the cheers from the crowd.

"That was my decision.  All I needed was food and a few hours of sleep.  Sometimes the old remedies are still sound, Scully.  I'm fine."   Mulder gave her one of his most engaging smiles, hoping she'd relax and accept that he wasn't one step away from physical collapse.

Scully gave him a grimace that was three parts exasperation, but at least one part affectionate resignation.  Mulder released some of the tension building up in his shoulders.   Some day, he and Scully really needed to have a long talk, but it never seemed to be the right time.

"Scully, I promise that if McCormick doesn't bring up this transfer, I'll ask him.   Now, I need to pull some of my notes together so I can make a coherent report on the case.  You should give McCormick a chance, Scully; you might find you have a lot in common.   He's a stickler for proper procedure," Mulder quipped as he slipped on a sad, rueful expression that provoked a twitch of Scully's lips that might have been a smile trying to break through the stern glare she gave him.

"I'll call as soon as McCormick cuts me loose," Mulder promised as he headed for the door.  After a moment, Scully seemed to accept that the discussion was over.   He doubted he'd convinced her that McCormick wasn't tainted.   Scully didn't let go of her prejudices easily and, until he had solid evidence to the contrary, she would continue to believe that McCormick was up to no good.

Mulder waited until she was halfway down the hall before closing the door.   The coffee was cold, but he slugged it down anyway; he needed the caffeine.   He also needed a few minutes to come up with an explanation for his collapse that McCormick would accept.  McCormick had a keen ear for a lie, but a bit of misdirection might fly under his radar.  Meanwhile, Scully's accusation slithered around in the back of his mind.

He was so damn tired of suspecting everyone of ulterior motives.   Of course, going behind his back to arrange a transfer wasn't McCormick's usual style.  Maybe after he talked with McCormick he'd have a better idea of what was going on.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~