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.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Promptly at 1:30, Mulder walked into the hotel restaurant.  He'd fielded McCormick's wake-up call at 1:00 without betraying the fact that he'd already been up for almost an hour.  The extra half hour gave him the chance to try to recall the fading memories of his fade-out.  Some of the images were clear, but some he seemed to view through smoked glass.  By concentrating on the few sharp memories, he could make shrewd guesses about the hazy ones until he had at least a rough outline of what he had spouted off.  It wasn't a pretty story, but hopefully it would be enough to prevent more deaths.

"Mulder, did you get any sleep?" McCormick asked bluntly as Mulder sat down at the table.  A waiter promptly appeared and hovered attentively.

"Coffee?" the waiter offered.

Mulder recalled that McCormick had a seemingly magical ability to produce attentive and competent waiters.  Apparently, he hadn't lost the skill.  He nodded, using the diversion to marshal his defenses.

"Well?" McCormick prompted.

"Some," Mulder replied casually.

Mulder had the uncomfortable feeling that McCormick saw through the evasion, but was grateful that he didn't seem inclined to press him for details.   Having watched McCormick interrogate a suspect, Mulder wasn't about to relax his guard.   McCormick had a knack for sliding over a slip then returning to pounce on it once the suspect thought he was safely past the oversight.   If the stakes weren't so high, Mulder might have been amused to be on the receiving end of McCormick's style of ferreting out the truth.

"You never slept much at Quantico, as I recall," McCormick offered with a smile.   Mulder made an effort to smile back, but wondered if the smile looked as forced as it felt.

Mulder busied himself with the menu to avoid giving McCormick any opening.  McCormick would get around to his point eventually, but Mulder didn't feel like making it any easier for him.  Ordering a large ham sandwich with fries delayed the questions for a few minutes more.   Mulder used the time to force himself to relax.  If, as he had assured Scully, McCormick was not the enemy, there was no reason to fret himself into reacting as if he were.  Somehow, the issue had seemed a lot clearer in his hotel room.

"The sheriff sends his congratulations on breaking the case.   You'll be glad to know that no one is interested in going public with your part this.  The D.A. almost hugged me when I told him that as far as the FBI is concerned, this is a local matter and it's up to them to handle it."   McCormick's smile was almost feral.

Mulder allowed himself a small sigh of relief.  He didn't enjoy testifying, especially when the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth tended to sound unlikely at best, insane at worst.  From what he could remember, this one leaned heavily on the side of insane.   It would also be awkward to have to admit that he really didn't remember everything he'd told the sheriff.  Selective amnesia annoyed prosecutors.   If his little zone-out was accepted as just one of Spooky Mulder's little performances, he had no intention of telling McCormick anything different.   If only he could shake the feeling that the details were important.

"It's not finished."  Mulder felt as surprised as McCormick looked when he blurted that out.  His sleep had been a series of uneasy segues between nightmares that faded as soon as he awoke, but he still had the feeling that something loomed in the shadows waiting to provide the final act.   Something other than the voices of the three innocent victims crying out for justice, that is.

McCormick came alert.  Before he could frame the question, Mulder shook his head.   "No, I'm not holding out on you.   The case just feels unfinished," Mulder said with a shrug that served to dismiss his fears as much to shoo McCormick away from asking questions he couldn't answer.

"Some cases never do feel finished.  We've done all we can, Mulder.  It's up to the locals whether to prosecute or not.   You stopped the deaths.   Take the small victories where you can," McCormick offered with no hint of condescension.

Mulder recognized the voice of experience and hoped he was right.   He wished he could shake the feeling that the storm hadn't blown over yet.  He wondered if McCormick would actually understand if he attempted to tell him that once you make a deal with the devil, the devil will come to collect.   He felt the deaths hovering on the edges of his consciousness.  If he spoke, could he prevent them, or would this merely delay the accounting?   He decided to try.  There were enough deaths on his conscience.

"I didn't stop anything."   Mulder's voice was a low, harsh growl.   McCormick stiffened to attention, his mouth open to ask questions, but he held his peace when Mulder shook his head.

"These families were playing with fire.   I have to assume they knew the consequences of their bargain," Mulder said slowly, stumbling slightly over the words as he began to remember the searing images of fire and sacrifice that had made collapsing into a dead faint a welcome relief.

"What bargain?"   McCormick sounded puzzled, then his eyes turned cold and he stopped breathing for a moment.   To Mulder's relief, he didn't see disbelief in those eyes.   Instead, McCormick seemed to understand what he was talking about and accepted it.   Mulder wondered if McCormick had ever looked into Hell.   The cold rage in his eyes suggested that he had.

McCormick started to reach for his cell phone when his head went up and he appeared to be listening to something.   After a moment, Mulder head the sirens.  His stomach clenched as he felt the room expand and contract around him.   Shadows seemed to reach out to him from the deep corridors of his mind bringing with them the cold knowledge that now the case was closed.   Mulder shuddered and flinched away from the mental image of burning houses and the screams of the dying.

"Mulder!" McCormick's sharp command broke through the shadows, but it was his hand reaching out to grab his arm that shattered the shadows and brought Mulder back to the present.   Shaking and gasping for breath, Mulder tried to find words to pass off what just happened as an attack of gas.

"What did you just See, Mulder?"   McCormick appeared concerned, but not surprised.  To Mulder's confusion, he appeared to be relieved by what he'd just witnessed.   Mulder wasn't sure whether to be worried by this or reassured.

"Nothing," Mulder replied in spite of McCormick's obvious disbelief.   "Nothing that makes any sense, if that makes it any clearer," he added curtly.

A second siren sounded, followed by a third.   Mulder winced.  There was nothing he could do.   The ominous sense of foreboding that had been looming over him was gone.   Events he had set in motion had reached their inevitable conclusion.

"How long have you been having these flashes of Sight?" McCormick asked softly.

Mulder caught the emphasis on the word.  He had considered precog as a possible explanation for these flashes of insight.   There were cases of precognition appearing spontaneously, but how would precognition explain the odd visions of McCormick in armor or Adler wearing Victorian attire and riding in a horse-drawn cab?

Apparently whatever just happened to him made perfect sense to McCormick.  Mulder hoped that McCormick would explain it to him before he decided it was time to take Scully's advice and check in to the local hospital.  Up to now, he'd been able to keep the episodes private.  Judging from the today's events, he wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to keep them private.  He had dallied with madness before and these incidents bore an uncanny resemblance to some of his hyper-focused profiling moods.

It occurred to Mulder to sidestep the issue; his ingrained defense-mechanisms were demanding that he divert McCormick away from the sensitive subject of his mental stability.   With Scully, a diversion would be automatic, although Mulder knew that if Scully even suspected half of what McCormick had seen, she wouldn't stop until he was sedated and in a hospital.   McCormick seemed willing to listen, but Mulder wasn't sure he wasn't just giving him enough rope to hang himself.

Torn between trust and years of covering his ass, Mulder shrugged.  "Depends on how you define Sight," he offered as a compromise.  It wasn't an answer, but neither was it a flat denial.

McCormick gave him an exasperated glare followed by a reluctant nod.  "OK, Mulder, I'll let you avoid the issue for the moment.   We need to talk, but I want you rested and thinking clearly before we do."

Without further comment, McCormick moved the conversation onto more pleasant topics.  He regaled Mulder with the various cases he'd worked on in Boston.   It was testimony to McCormick's charm that he managed to do it without making Mulder feel like a kid with his nose pressed against the candy store window.   In return, Mulder offered up some of the more exotic X-File cases.   McCormick gave a sympathetic groan when Mulder described taking a bath in the Jersey sewers.  McCormick raised an eyebrow a few times, but seemed to take the extraordinary in stride.  Mulder was careful to present Scully's more mundane explanations even if he couldn't argue very enthusiastically on their behalf.   After an internal debate, he decided to avoid mentioning aliens and conspiracies.  Involving McCormick, even peripherally, would only complicate his life.

"You've carved out an interesting career, Mulder.  Some of the powers that be might judge your work to be frivolous, but I doubt if the people you've helped would agree."   McCormick sounded sympathetic.   "It's not easy swimming against the tide, but I would hate to see the FBI forget that there are times when we need agents who don't spend half their time covering their own asses."

Startled by the edge in McCormick's voice, Mulder straightened up.   It wasn't like McCormick to offer a truce, then renege.  He'd enjoyed the shop talk, but it appeared that McCormick had something on his mind.  Scully's suspicions echoed in the back of his mind.

"Just how bad is it working for Assistant Director Kersh?" McCormick asked with characteristic bluntness.   It didn't take a profiler to deduce that McCormick didn't care for Kersh.  "Rumor has it that Kersh is supposed to convince you to quit.   The office pool has the odds in Kersh's favor."   McCormick smiled like a cat who has spotted a particularly succulent mouse.   "Personally, I think Kersh's chance are overrated," he continued in a silky, amused tone.  

"As a matter of fact, I stand to win a very nice lobster dinner, or dinners, rather.   Fools and their money, as they say," McCormick added with a broad grin.

It took a moment for Mulder to process the idea that McCormick had taken bets on his ability to survive the shit Kersh was throwing at him.  He wasn't sure whether to be outraged that his plight was the subject of office betting pools or pleased that McCormick thought enough of him to wager on his behalf.   It didn't sound like McCormick thought he was backing a loser, but Mulder wasn't sure he had the stamina for a long campaign.   Kersh he could handle.  He was just one more variation in a long procession of people trying to control him.   What was grinding him down was worrying whether Scully could take much more of the humiliation.   They were partners, but every day he could see another strand of their bond fraying.  He'd hoped that this case would ease some of the tension between them, but so far, it had only highlighted the cracks.

"Are you OK?" McCormick asked.

"Nothing that doing real work wouldn't solve."   Mulder allowed some of his bitterness to creep into his tone.  He was aware that eventually Kersh would win when the weight of boredom and uselessness squeezed him dry.  Being exiled from the X-Files was bad enough, but it could have been bearable if the Bureau had given him something meaningful to do in their place.   During his most optimistic moments, he wondered if the waking dreams were brought on by having nothing meaningful to do to occupy his mind.

"I might be able to do something about that," McCormick said quietly.  "I've committed an act of piracy that should give you more to think about than ammonium nitrate sales.  All it needs is your signature and you can kiss Kersh goodbye."

The smirk in McCormick's eyes nearly caused Mulder to choke on his coffee.  Had he just heard McCormick utter a double entendre?   Maybe he was overdue for a mental checkup after all.

"Not literally, Mulder.   I wouldn't ask that of anyone; the Hoover Building might collapse from shock," McCormick added with a devilish smile.

"What are you offering?  Last time I checked, Kersh had both hands on my leash and wasn't about to let go."  Mulder knew he sounded bitter, but decided he no longer cared if McCormick knew how much he hated his exile.   Pride wouldn't let him ask for help, but he wasn't going to refuse to grab a life preserver if McCormick wanted to toss him one.

"A fresh start with a special team to operate under the direct authority of Assistant Director Skinner with orders to clear up the backlog of cold cases.  The Director gave me carte blanche in naming anyone I wanted to the team."   McCormick's smile bordered on a cat's supreme self-satisfaction in stealing the cream right out from under the noses of the people supposed to be guarding it.

"They won't let you do it, McCormick," Mulder warned.   It seemed that McCormick had connections in high places, but Mulder knew that the men who exiled him had high connections as well.

"It's already done.   Once you sign the papers, Kersh won't be your problem; he'll be mine."

Mulder wondered if he could requisition a corner to watch Kersh try to take on McCormick.   Kersh might have the seniority and the rank, but Mulder would be willing to wager that McCormick rarely entered into battles he didn't think he could win.

"Scully?" Mulder asked carefully.  He was pretty sure this transfer was what she had been trying to warn him about.   Despite his much-vaunted "trust no one" motto, she was far more likely to distrust people than he was.  No doubt she saw this shift in his status as a move calculated to put him into a position where the slightest foul-up would mean his termination.

The few stories Mulder had heard out of the Boston field office hinted that McCormick was a demon for procedure and closing the loopholes before he delivered a case to the prosecutors.   Given his own reputation for operating outside the box and a rather casual disregard for procedure when it got in his way, Mulder could see how Scully would see McCormick as a threat.

If Scully had bothered to ask him, Mulder could have told her that McCormick also believed in results and if he had to apply proper procedure after the fact, he would. McCormick followed the book, but he wasn't above writing new chapters as he went along if he felt it was necessary.  Most agents would have dismissed Mulder's phase-out as just another weird stunt by Spooky Mulder, but McCormick had taken him seriously. Unfortunately, this was hardly the example that would reassure Scully that McCormick was flexible.

"If you're a package deal, then yes." McCormick gave him a stern look that melted into a rueful amusement.  "She's highly thought of by the brass who will probably think I included you in the deal just to get her."

After signing for both lunches and assuring the waiter that they didn't want more coffee, McCormick continued.  "I've got a cross-section of agents from different sections.  Her skills would be useful to the team, just as yours will.  I can't promise you that you'll work together on every case.  We're going to be a team, not sets of partners.  I have ideas on how I want the team to work, but I want you safely transferred before going over them."

Mulder considered what McCormick was proposing.  He wasn't sure he wanted to go back to playing musical chairs with other agents.  Scully might be stubborn about conceding the validity of his theories on cases, but her skepticism helped keep him honest.   It had become a challenge to push her to come up with scientific refutations of his theories and she always seemed to rally for a last stand against the paranormal.   On the other hand, working as members of a team would be a change for both of them.  Maybe if she saw that he really could play well with others might ease some of the tension that had started growing between them.

After considering the deal from all angles, Mulder nodded.  At this point, he'd be willing to profile again, even with the attendant risk of insanity, just to get away from Kersh.  A chance to work with someone like McCormick was too good to pass up.  Something told Mulder that if he didn't grab this opportunity, he might not get another.

"Sounds OK, but you'll need to convince Scully," Mulder advised, cautiously trying not to present Scully as unreasonable, but knowing that if he answered for her she'd be furious.

"I understand."   McCormick gave him a sympathetic look. "I think I can come up with some convincing arguments."

Privately, Mulder wondered if McCormick knew just how contrary Scully could be if she felt pressured into acting before she had examined all the ramifications of an action, but he also knew that McCormick could charm birds out of the trees if he put his mind to it.

Five minutes later, as they were walking through the hotel lobby Mulder felt the air temperature drop about twenty degrees.  McCormick kept walking as if he were unaware of the change, but Mulder stopped and his eyes began scanning the lobby for a reason.   Part of him hoped it was merely an open window or door letting a draft in, but when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, he realized that he might be in trouble.

A tall man, wrapped in a dark green cloak, stood in the middle of the lobby.   People moved around the man apparently without noticing him.  Mulder felt his vision take the peculiar lurch he'd come to associate with his waking dreams and he saw that the man was shrouded in fire and smoke.  Mulder thought he could catch the noxious odor of burnt wood.  The burning man held a very solid-looking gun in his hand pointed at Mulder.

Frozen in place, Mulder could only watch helplessly as the figure took careful aim and fired.  Staggered by the impact of the bullet, Mulder stumbled backwards.  Training and instinct took over and even as he fell he was trying to pull his firearm to return fire.

"Did you think we wouldn't take our revenge?"

He felt another blow to his chest as he began to slide into darkness.  Then he realized that he wasn't hearing the man's words with his ears.  Grabbing at an elusive memory, Mulder felt McCormick's hands grabbing him before he could hit his head on the marble floor.  He tried to point to the man who'd shot him, then realized that he wasn't there, maybe had never been there.

Finally capturing the memory, Mulder snagged it just as McCormick's face splintered into a dozen different McCormicks.

"It's not real.   If I don't believe, it's not real," Mulder muttered as he fought to stay conscious.

McCormick tore off his coat and placed it under Mulder's head.  His heart was racing, but his pulse was strong and regular.   Mulder looked pale and gray and his voice was rasping as if breathing and talking hurt. The concierge rushed up.

"Should I call an ambulance, sir?"

Prudence suggested that getting Mulder to a hospital would be the safe course of action, but there was something about this collapse that felt wrong. It was too convenient.   One minute Mulder was perfectly fine, the next he collapsed like a punctured balloon; consistent with heart failure, but something was just a hair off.  McCormick decided to gamble.   If he was right, keeping Mulder out of the hospital might just save his life.  Of course, if he was wrong, Agent Scully would be justified in lodging a complaint with the OPR.

Sulwen where are you when I need you? McCormick muttered to himself.  "Mulder, can you stand at all?" McCormick asked as he carefully levered Mulder up off the floor.

Fighting the urge to pant, Mulder nodded.  With McCormick's help, he managed to stagger to his feet.  McCormick waved off the concierge and steered Mulder towards the elevator.  Mulder decided that not looking at McCormick would keep his stomach from getting queasy.  After a long interval that probably only lasted a few minutes, Mulder felt himself guided into McCormick's hotel room and dropped into a chair.   A moment later McCormick wrapped his hands around a glass of water and a pill.

"Take this for now.  If you are having a heart attack, the aspirin will help.   If you aren't, it can't hurt.  You've just eaten so that should help ground you."   McCormick tried not to sound as concerned as he felt.  Mulder's eyes were unfocused as if he were Seeing something nobody else could see.  His refusal to look at him was dismaying. If, as McCormick suspected, Mulder had the Sight, then he might have to make some rather uncomfortable explanations in the near future.

"Is there blood?" Mulder whispered between pants.   He could feel the shocky pain in his chest and recalled that same feeling years ago when a bullet tore into his shoulder.   His body told him that he had been shot point-blank in the chest.   His mind was fighting to believe it was an illusion.   Mulder knew that if his body won, he would be dead from massive systemic shock.

"No blood.  You simply collapsed.   However, I find it extremely disturbing to the comfortable diagnosis of heart failure that you dropped with your gun in your hand pointing it at empty air.   There is no wound.   If you are going to die, I'd really prefer that you didn't do it in my hotel room.   Think of the paperwork," McCormick added with a note of desperate joking.   To his relief, Mulder chuckled.   The chuckle turned into a coughing fit that seemed to shake every bone in his body but when it stopped Mulder leaned back in the chair with a grin.

"Payback is a bitch," Mulder whispered then gave a deep sigh and relaxed.

McCormick quickly checked his pulse and was relieved to find it slowing down to a steady beat.  Mulder was sweating and still looked gray, but his color was beginning to come back.   McCormick poured himself a brandy and sat quietly sipping as Mulder 's breathing began to slow down.   He poured some brandy into the remaining water in Mulder's glass and waited.

A knock on the door and a familiar buzz told him that Adler was on his doorstep.  Obviously, he had heard about the incident in the lobby.  Hopefully, Agent Scully wouldn't be hard on his heels.

"How is he?" Adler asked as he slipped into the room.

"He'll live, but it was a close thing.  I'm hoping that he'll be able to explain what happened.   If this is related to the case . . ."

Adler held up one hand.

"I suspect it may be, but how is something we need Agent Mulder to explain since his area of expertise lies in the paranormal.   The facts, however, are simple enough.   Local firefighters have been responding to fires that have broken out in two estates, specifically, the estates of the remaining two families Lamm suspects of being involved in this murder-suicide pact.  From all indications, the houses were completely engulfed in flames before neighbors called in the fires.   Alarms failed to function in both houses.   The sheriff is in route to the scenes, but early indications are that there will be no survivors."  Adler's voice was almost clinical in its detachment, but McCormick noted the slight twitch in his jaw and knew that he wasn't as calm as he wanted to appear.

McCormick stared down at Mulder and wondered.  Something he'd said during his rambling discourse early this morning now made sense.  The devil didn't take excuses.

"Accident?" McCormick offered more as a question than a solution.

"A tragic accident or arson.  In either case the sheriff wanted me to assure you that investigating it does not require the FBI, nor are my services required." Adler added crisply.  "I also took the liberty of suggesting to the concierge that this incident should fall under the hotel's renowned reputation for privacy.   He was most amenable.   Agent Scully's concern for her partner does her credit, but in this instance I believe that the less attention drawn to Agent Mulder's condition, the better."

McCormick nodded his thanks.   No doubt Scully would find out eventually, but at least Mulder had a breathing space before having to deal with her relentless drive to hospitalize him.  She might have her partner's best interests at heart, but if she couldn't open her mind to the possibility that Mulder's distress was not based on a physiological or psychological imbalance then her intervention would only worsen Mulder's condition.

"Thank you, John.  I'll have to talk with Agent Scully soon, if only to insist that she not act precipitously," McCormick said as he glanced down at a slowly awakening Mulder.

"Then you think that this collapse is connected with the case?" Adler asked.

"There's no overt evidence, but I don't like coincidences like this.  If Mulder is correct and the families of the victims were engaged in black magic, it's entirely possible that one of the survivors is attempting to avenge the breaking of their pact." McCormick hoped he didn't sound as worried as he felt, but knew that Adler wouldn't be fooled.  Adler wasn't the problem.  Scully was the one he needed to convince that nothing was wrong and that he had everything under control.

"As improbable as this hypothesis is, the alternatives are even more improbable," Adler agreed.

The room phone rang startling both of them and eliciting a confused groan from Mulder.   McCormick stepped around Mulder to pick up the phone wondering what else could go wrong.   The way this day was going, it was probably Agent Scully demanding to know where her partner was.

"Agent McCormick, Sheriff Lamm here.  Is Agent Mulder with you?" The sheriff sounded agitated and very tired.  McCormick could sympathize.   If his estimate was correct, the man had not slept in nearly two days.

"He's right here.  Mr. Adler informed me that the services of the FBI were no longer needed.   Is there a problem?" McCormick asked as he mentally petitioned his name saint for a breathing space for Mulder.

"Adler's with you?   Thank God.  Tell him, or let me tell him, that I'm officially deputizing him.   I want Agent Mulder under constant watch.  The Coakes boy came to my deputy babbling about how his father told him that they were all going to Hell, but that he'd see Mulder got there first.  While the deputy was off finding me, the boy up and died.  Not a mark on him, but I don't ever want to see a look like that on another face as long as I live.   I'm not sure if police protection is enough, but it's all I have to offer.  I've got every deputy and special deputy I could round up out looking for Coakes.  I'll apologize later, but I commandeered your two agents and told them to sit on Agent Scully if they have to.  I'm not going to start losing FBI agents in my town."   Lamm's anger could be felt through the line.   It was an anger McCormick could sympathize with.

"Good idea.  I'll give them a call and confirm your order.   I'll also tell Agent Scully that she's to stay in her room.  Coakes may have already made a try for Mulder and failed.   If he tries again, we'll be waiting for him," McCormick said with a bit more confidence than he felt.  He'd seen Mulder collapse trying to point his gun at thin air.   If this Coakes could attack from a distance, protecting Mulder was going to be difficult.

"Thanks, Agent McCormick.   I'll let you know when we catch the SOB.  Meanwhile, don't take any chances.   The way this case is going, I wouldn't take it amiss if you took Agent Mulder to the Episcopal church.   It's not high church, but it's as close as we got."

McCormick heard the crackling static of Lamm's radio as he hung up.   Raising a hand to forestall Adler's questions, he quickly dialed Agent Dobbs' cell phone.

"Dobbs, Agent McCormick.  I'm confirming the request made by Sheriff Lamm.   If Agent Scully objects to being quarantined, tell her to call me and I'll make it a direct order.   You will stay with her until either Sheriff Lamm or I tell you otherwise.  Is that clear?"

"I gather that events have taken a turn for the worse?" Adler asked as he glanced around the room as if assessing defensive possibilities.

"The head of one of the families made a threat against Agent Mulder.  The timing of the threat and Mulder's unexplained collapse may be coincidence, but I would prefer to take precautions," McCormick said after he hung up the phone.  "By the way, you're now an official deputy.  We're on our own, but I doubt if one of Lamm's regular deputies would be of much help right now."

McCormick walked over to the windows and closed the blinds after scanning the small park across the street.  There were obvious places for a sniper, but he hoped that the suspect wouldn't be aware that Mulder hadn't returned to his own room.   Mulder's room was one story higher and on the opposite side of the hotel.   Even if the suspect was using black magic to attack Mulder, the room change might slow him down.

"Then you believe that there is a possibility that we are dealing with a practitioner of magic?" Adler asked curiously.

"Right now, to borrow one of Agent Mulder's favorite lines, I'm willing to entertain a belief in extreme possibilities."   McCormick smiled grimly.   He would prefer to deal with the concrete reality of a sniper or even an armed mob assaulting the hotel, but he wasn't going to close his mind to the idea that the suspect might be able to transcend the physical and attack on a purely immaterial plane.   Psychosomatic suggestion could kill if the victim believed and Mulder was a believer.

Other than psychic abilities, the only magic McCormick had ever personally witnessed was Voodoo.   He had known Voodoo believers and even a few Voodoo priests in Louisiana before the War.   Most of them were good people whose religion offered hope to a people with little other opportunities for hope.   A few, however, used their powers for personal aggrandizement and he had seen, firsthand, the havoc they could cause.

"We appear to be well-prepared to handle a conventional, physical assault.  A magical assault will be more difficult, but not impossible to defend against.   The suspect may be anticipating your presence, but unless he followed me here, I may be able to provide an unexpected backup."   Adler sounded very matter-of-fact about the prospect of corporeal and non-corporeal assailants.   "I very much doubt if the suspect can anticipate our having swords.  Iron is antithetical to some forms of magic.  In these modern times, no one expects a sword. Guns, knives perhaps, but rarely swords in the hands of people who know how to use them."

"Let's hope we don't have to resort to swords.   The coroner's report would create too many headaches," McCormick reminded him.  Adler canted his head to one side as if agreeing, but McCormick saw him shift his cane ever so slightly.

Sword cane, McCormick thought.  From the looks of the cane, it could also be used as a formidable weapon on its own.  He preferred the broad sword resting under the pillows of the second bed.   If the fight came down to swords, he was going to have hell's own time explaining the mess.   Hopefully, they could manage without resorting to swordplay.

McCormick noticed small changes in Adler's stance and how his eyes swept the room.   Adler probably saw the same changes in him.  They were both survivors in the ruthless Game.  McCormick didn't know how many heads Adler had taken, it wasn't the sort of question one Immortal asked of another, but he could recognize the signs of a fighter preparing for battle.   If the rumors he'd heard about Adler spending time in Tibet were true, then Mulder's life might come down to what the man had learned from the temples there.

"Ouch."

Mulder's voice startled them and provoked resigned smiles as they realized they had forgotten the third man in the room.  McCormick gestured to Mulder to drink his brandy-laced water.   Thankfully, they'd just finished lunch so there was no need to call room service.   If the siege lasted until night, however, they might have to take the risk.   McCormick wanted Mulder awake and alert.  If he could remember what happened in the lobby, they might have a better idea of what they were facing.

Coping with a newly aware Seer was not his area of expertise, but right now it was the least of his worries.  If this day continued going downhill, there were going to have to be explanations on both sides, awkward and difficult ones requiring a lot of trust.  He prayed to any listening saint that he could keep his secrets for a later day.

Tasting the brandy, Mulder came fully awake.  It was very good brandy, but why was it in his water?   Closing his eyes, he tried to reconstruct the events since his last coherent memory.  He was walking through the hotel lobby, following Matthew after a very good lunch.   So far, so good.

The next part was hazy but by prodding the scattered snippets of memory together, he managed to construct a rough outline of an attack, his collapse, and a painful sense of deja-vu.   This time he'd managed to deflect the attack without the intervention of a helpful ghost child.   That was the good news.   The bad news was that his attacker would probably pull out all the stops next time.  He didn't have any doubt that there would be a next time.   Appeasing the devil might be impossible, but revenge could be a satisfying next best.

"What happened downstairs, Mulder?"

Reluctantly, Mulder opened his eyes and cautiously scanned the room.   Adler was moving around the room, soft-footed and quiet, but careful.   Bracing himself, Mulder looked up at McCormick.   There was a confusing collage of images overlaying McCormick's face; each one a variation of the same face, but subtly different as if he was seeing McCormick as himself playing different people.   The longer he looked, the less distinct the images became until they receded into a filmy halo effect like shadows cast by distant lights.  Adler's halo images took a little longer to face, but after a minute or two, they also faded into hazy shadows.  Adler had fewer images; a significant point Mulder thought, but not one he had time to pursue.

Mulder decided it was time he put McCormick's open mind to the test.  Adler was a complete unknown, but something about him suggested that he might be open to extraordinary possibilities.

"Someone's idea of revenge," Mulder said quietly.  "Or my overactive imagination," he added with a hint of sardonic provocation.

"Sheriff Lamm is both intelligent and imaginative and little given to hyperbolic whims.   He is convinced you are in danger.   Thus, we may dispense with the hypothesis of hysteria," Adler commented with a wintry smile from his position by the windows.

Blinking at the brusque dismissal of his self-depreciating misdirection, Mulder wondered what had happened during his brief collapse.  If he was genuinely in danger, then what about Scully?   Jerking upright, Mulder started to surge to his feet hampered by the fact that the room was swaying back and forth.   "Scully?" Mulder gasped as he tried to will the room to stop spinning.

"Agent Scully is under the watchful eyes of Agents Dobbs and Chen," McCormick assured him as he pushed Mulder back down on the couch.   He was stronger than he looked. After a brief attempt at resistance, Mulder sat back down.

Stepping back, McCormick continued, "Whoever is orchestrating this attack came after you, so I'm going to assume that you're its primary target.  It would help if you could tell us what happened downstairs.  From my point of view, you simply collapsed without warning.   Since you were doing a very credible job of pulling your weapon, I must assume you saw a target."   McCormick gave him a flicker of a smile.   Mulder grimaced as he recalled his penchant for dropping his gun under stress and the hours McCormick had spent trying to bypass that reflexive clumsiness.

"You muttered something about not believing before you fainted.  That suggests either a visual hallucination drug-induced or by some sort of psychic projection," McCormick said matter-of-factly to Mulder's astonishment.

"Don't look so surprised, Mulder.   It's a theory at the moment, but the information Lamm passed on suggests that it might be appropriate to include the paranormal possibilities in our plans."   McCormick seemed amused by Mulder's stunned reaction.

"Eliminate all the likely theories and the improbable begins looking probable," Adler offered with the first broad smile Mulder recalled seeing from him.  "I would dislike to be caught off-guard because I rejected the logical, albeit extraordinary, conclusion that we are dealing with magic.  Most magic is illusion, but illusions can kill."

Mulder stared at Adler for a moment and wondered who he was.  He sensed that Adler and McCormick were connected in some way that tied into the fact that he didn't see halo images with anyone else but these two.  If McCormick's suggestion that he was Seeing things was right, perhaps he was catching glimpses of past lives.   The images didn't feel like discarded lives, however.  They seemed to be shadows of their current lives.

McCormick nodded in agreement to Adler's comment.  "I think we can eliminate airborne drugs since no one else was affected.  Drugging your food is an attractive possibility, especially when the alternative is magic, but I'm leery of being too easily lured by that theory.  If necessary, I'll ask Sheriff Lamm to look into the restaurant staff when all of this is over.  Meanwhile, we should proceed as if we're facing a suspect capable of striking from a distance.  Perhaps you should practice disbelieving for the next several hours, Hawkeye."

Mulder scowled, but saw his point.   It didn't matter whether the burning man was an illusion or a very real physical manifestation, the strength of his belief in its power could kill him.  The problem was that Mulder believed in evil.  He'd come nose to nose with it too many times not to believe in its power.  For that matter, if a certain cabal of elders was correct, there was a demon out there who knew his name.

On the bright side, if this thing, whatever it was, depended on the belief of its victims, then Scully should be safe.  The trouble was that Scully would continue to disbelieve long after prudence suggested a bit of healthy belief.

McCormick said, "Just let me know if you start seeing anything, Mulder.   If you're the target, we might not be able to detect an attack until you collapse.   I would prefer that we react sooner than that."   McCormick continued to examine the room for options, weapons, and escape routes as he spoke.

"Let's hope that whoever is behind these attacks is being sufficiently distracted by Sheriff Lamm's manhunt to be unable to bring his full attention to locating Agent Mulder," Adler offered with a look that suggested he wasn't about to relax his guard.

"Then we might as well make ourselves comfortable.  Mulder, I want you to stay right where you are.   You're out of line of sight from both the door and the windows.   John, pick whatever spot you feel suits you.   I'll take the chair by the window where I'll have a clear line of fire.   Hopefully, we'll spend a boring afternoon staring at nothing," McCormick added in an ironic tone that told Mulder he wasn't expecting to be bored.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Dusk, 5 :30 p.m.

Shifting position for the twentieth time in ten minutes, Mulder decided that he simply wasn't going to find a comfortable position in a chair not made for long-term sitting, much less built to accommodate someone his height.  He envied McCormick's and Adler's ability to sit or stand perfectly still for hours on end waiting patiently for an attack that Mulder was beginning to believe would never come.  After two hours of sitting, his legs were twitching and he was fighting to stay awake.  He'd fallen asleep once and awoke to find McCormick shaking his shoulder with a very concerned look that made it clear he was taking no chances.  He wondered how long McCormick was going to hold to this vigil and whether it included a bathroom break.   Mulder has no desire to emulate Elvis, come to that.

The room was dark except for the soft red glow from the bedside alarm clock.   Mulder killed a few minutes pondering whether a hell-sent assassin would be hampered more by darkness or by light.   It was a question that had no answer and no way to anticipate the answer.  Barring the proverbial toss of a coin, Mulder decided that he preferred the darkness.   His mind was prepared for something emerging from the dark.   The monsters that came out in daylight were the ones he found most terrifying.

In the end, it was Mulder's sense of smell, not his weirdly screwed-up sight, that gave him warning.  Maybe whoever had come to kill him wasn't aware that the reek of charred wood and stone preceded him.  He had an instant of warning before he heard the sharp crack of breaking glass.

"He's here," Mulder quipped in a stage whisper that trembled a little more than he liked.   McCormick never moved, but Mulder sensed that he was fully alert and waiting for something he could latch onto.  Adler seemed to disappear into the shadows by the door, presumably stepping into the small alcove that served as a closet.

"Welcome to Hell, Mr. Mulder," a figure wrapped in flame said as it stepped out of the curtains by the window.

Line of sight, Mulder's mind helpfully supplied as he struggled to his feet.   Disbelieving with all his might, Mulder was dismayed to see that the curtains were on fire.   The figure made a throwing gesture at the chair where McCormick had been sitting and the chair exploded into flame.  He heard McCormick give a startled shout as he dove over the bed a split second before the fireball struck.

"You brought friends. How nice."   The burning man's laugh sounded like crackling flames.  The fire that was consuming him had burned away any resemblance to human form.

Mulder started to sweat.  The room was definitely getting hotter and he knew he was losing the battle with his pyrophobia.

"Move!"

Instinctively reacting to the authority in Adler's voice, Mulder threw himself out of the chair and rolled until he hit the wall.   Scrambling to stand up, he tried to tell himself that the smoldering embers on his shirt were all in his imagination, but they hurt when they melted through to his arm.

The burning man stepped forward whipping arcs of fire at Mulder.  Forced to dodge furiously while swatting out the embers as they landed on his arms and chest, he began to panic.  All he could hear was the roaring of the fire and the laughter that came out of the heart of fire.  From a distance, he heard a shot and the remnant of sanity left to him told him that McCormick was firing at the figure.  The sprinklers in the room went off along with the shrill clanging of the fire alarm.   If this was a hallucination, it was a damn good one.  Of course, he thought as he threw the phone at the advancing enemy, he might have gone insane and McCormick was being treated to the sight of him dodging nothing.

A thick quilt came flying out of the corner of the room where Mulder had last seen McCormick.  It draped over the burning man, a moment of respite before it began to burn.   From somewhere, McCormick had acquired a heavy sword and was advancing on the fiery figure.  Mulder wasn't certain, but he thought he could discern a few saints' names in McCormick's shouts.  It must be nice to have faith to fall back on.  Lacking faith, Mulder fell back on the wooden chair by the desk and decided that if he was going to burn, he'd rather do it trying to stop this thing than by cowering in a corner.

There was almost no resistance to the impact of the chair on the blanket.  Through the flames, he saw McCormick stagger as his sword hit the blanket and on through.   Frantic with fear, Mulder swung again and felt the blow meet resistance.   Encouraged, he swung again and saw McCormick swinging his sword in a rhythmic series of blows, first one side and then the other.  Fire splattered out with every blow that landed, but Mulder knew they didn't dare give the thing a chance to recover.  The smell of scorched flesh filled the room and Mulder knew that this time he wasn't going to avoid that trip to the emergency room.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Adler striding across the room to the windows.   Heedless of the flames, Adler pulled the curtains down, rods and all.  For some reason, it didn't surprise Mulder to see him pull a thin sword out of his cane.   It seemed to be the night for unorthodox weapons.  His chair was now on fire, but it was sturdily built and Mulder battered away at the burning man, forcing its attention away from whatever Adler was doing.

In a quiet voice that somehow pierced the sounds of fire and combat, Adler started reciting words in an odd, atonal voice.  As he chanted, he sliced his sword through the air between the windows and the burning man.

"Noooooo!" the burning man screamed and made one final lunge for Mulder who stumbled back so fast he bounced off the wall.  With a roar, the figure exploded in a shower of sparks and silence fell.

Gasping for breath, Mulder dropped to a sitting position and cradled his burned arms in his lap.  He hoped the disappearance of the burning man meant that they had won.   If this was just round one, he didn't have the energy to face round two.   Across the room, McCormick sat on the bed leaning his head on the pommel of his sword.   His hands were raw and red and his hair was smoldering.

"What just happened?" McCormick's voice was raspy and he coughed as he spoke.

"Unless the monks who told me about this trick left something out, it's over.   Somewhere, in line of sight to this room, there's a badly charred corpse."   Adler sighed heavily and sat down on the other side of the bed from McCormick.

"That's it?" McCormick asked dubiously.

Adler smiled and nodded.   "It helps that it isn't necessary for me to believe in the magic.  It is only necessary that the person behind this attack believes."

Mulder stared at the window then back to the charred circle where the burning man had stood.   His brain was too shocky to provide an explanation, but obviously Adler had severed the connection between the very real illusion and the man behind it.

"If this was Coakes' doing, he must have been drawing an enormous amount of power from somewhere.   At least we have evidence of a physical attack," Adler said as he reached down and picked up a piece of melted metal.   "That should make the official report easier for official minds to accept," he added.

"An incendiary grenade would account for the damage to the room and for our injuries, wouldn't you say, Hawkeye?" McCormick offered with the air of a man hoping not to have to argue the point.

Mulder nodded.  Sorcery.  Swords.  Oriental chants.   None of these would go over well with the FBI brass, who preferred simple explanations.

From down the hall, the sound of heavy boots moved closer.  McCormick hastily shoved his sword back into a scabbard and pushed sword and scabbard into a long duffel bag.  Adler's sword was swiftly returned to the cane.   A quick look around the room assured Mulder that nothing that would undermine their story was laying about.   McCormick gave him a thumbs-up.

"I think the cavalry is here," McCormick said with a coughing chuckle.   "Let me do the talking, Mulder.   You've earned a rest.   We're going to talk about you taking a couple of weeks leave when they finish with you in hospital."

Adler made it to the door just as a heavy fist started pounding on it.   He opened it and wisely stood aside as two firemen and a paramedic poured into the room.   Within a minute, the last smoldering embers were covered in foam.  McCormick waved the medic over to Mulder, who decided the quickest way out of a hospital stay would be to cooperate.  A few minutes later, a second medic arrived and started giving McCormick oxygen.   Adler was busy answering questions.  When the words "FBI agents" popped up in the explanation, the firefighters immediately called for their captain.

"Agent Mulder."   One of the firefighters who arrived in the wake of the captain approached him cautiously, then relaxed after getting a nod from the medic.  "Do you have a partner named Dana Scully?"

Mulder grimaced inside the oxygen mask.   Something told him that Scully was making life miserable for whoever was standing on protocol and prohibiting non-firefighter personnel from entering the hotel.

"Yes.   She's my partner.   Tell her that I'm OK.   She probably won't believe you, but assure her that I haven't managed to do anything permanent to myself.   At least nothing that a nice trip to the hospital won't fix," he added with a coughing effort at a laugh.

"Tell Agent Scully that I'll give her a full report as soon as Sheriff Lamm gives us the all clear, " McCormick said, showing the firefighter his badge and ID.   The firefighter nodded and stepped into the hallway to radio down the message.

"I'll find Sheriff Lamm and bring him up to date on what happened here and assist him in locating Coakes' body.   Mr. Mulder, it's been a rare pleasure meeting you.  I hope we can meet again under less stressful circumstances," Adler said as he gave Mulder a slight bow before slipping out of the room.

"All right, gentlemen.  You can continue this conversation later.   Right now, we need to get you both downstairs where the medics can take a closer look at those burns.   Do you feel up to walking downstairs?" the senior medic asked.

Mulder gave an emphatic nod.  His arm stung where the embers had burned holes in his shirt, but he could walk.   McCormick also declined a free ride.   With medics on either side, they made their way down the smoke-clogged stairs to the lobby.

As they passed the crowd of guests and hotel workers on the street, Mulder caught a brief glimpse of Scully arguing with Dobbs and a uniformed firefighter before he was hustled to an ambulance.  He attempted to wave, but the firefighters hustled him towards the waiting ambulance before he caught her attention.   While the medics were still cleaning him up and assessing the damage, McCormick walked over.   His hands were slathered with a thick cream and his clothes reeked of smoke and burned cloth, but he seemed to have come out of the battle with minimal damage.   One of the firefighters handed him a water bottle and advised him to re-hydrate.

"Well done, Mulder.  Let them take you to hospital and check you out.   You can use the rest and I think the FBI can manage to survive a night or two of hospital charges.   Besides, that will keep you out of reach of the newsmen," he said looking resigned at the prospect.  Mulder didn't feel inclined to offer to trade.

"You're still smoking a little," Mulder advised looking at McCormick's scorched hair.

"Thanks," McCormick said as he poured water over a comb and ran it through his hair.  "I'll handle the press.  It's time you became accustomed to the idea that you don't have to cope with them.  I'll also apprise AD Skinner of the situation and explain that our reports might be a little delayed.   Get some sleep and we'll talk in the morning."   With that enjoinder, McCormick took a deep breath and headed over to the clamoring crowd of newsmen.   Watching his confident walk, Mulder had no doubt that somehow McCormick would spin a tale that would neatly explain everything and defuse the rumors of weird goings-on that were probably beginning to circulate.

With McCormick's departure, the medics closed in.   Reluctantly, Mulder allowed himself to be guided onto a gurney.  A brief discussion ensued over whether he was going to let them insert an IV, but the pain in his arms was beginning to reach nails on chalkboard levels as the adrenaline surge wore off.   Agreeing to fluids spiked with a painkiller suddenly sounded very attractive.  If he was lucky, he might be able to sleep until the ER doctors had finished salving and bandaging his arms.   Scully might not be happy about not getting a chance to say 'I told you so,' but there would be plenty of time for that once the drugs wore off.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

9 p.m. Fredericksburg General Hospital

With a frustrated groan, Mulder gave up trying to find a comfortable position.  The pain meds had finally worn off, leaving him restless and too aware of the prickling pain from the burns on his arms.   Personally, he'd rather be in a hotel room, but someone had apparently advised the doctors that an overnight stay in the hospital would be good for him.   He'd be willing to bet that McCormick was the guilty party, if for no other reason than the absence of any inquiries about fainting spells.   If Scully had maneuvered into the hospital, she would have alerted the doctors to his recent collapse along with guarded words suggesting that a mental evaluation might be prudent.   McCormick wanted him out of the way with the overt motive of putting him somewhere to rest which was exactly what the emergency room doctor had suggested.  The problem was, it was too damn quiet in hospitals to sleep.  There was also the small problem that hospitals made him jumpy.  It was entirely too easy to arrange an unfortunate accident in hospitals.   Mulder preferred to do his resting in places where he could lock the doors.

The doctor had warned him that his arms would be very painful for a day or two and strongly suggested a sedative to help him sleep.   Mulder had emphatically refused the offer.  Disregarding the entire security issue, drugs compromised his ability to build stout walls around the emotional debris of a case gone to hell.   This case reeked of hellfire and brimstone, Mulder reflected grimly.   The image of the burning man desperately grasping for one last act of revenge would haunt his dreams for a very long time.  Could he have prevented the useless slaughter that followed his Pythian revelations?   Mulder didn't know, but he still felt the weight of their deaths on his shoulders.

Wincing, Mulder gave up trying to find a comfortable position.   With awkward grunts and careful maneuvering, he finally managed to pull up to a sitting position and resolved never to take functional arms for granted.  Thankfully, everything in the room was governed by a handy remote control pad.  Once the lights were on, he started channel surfing the available TV stations until he gave up in disgust.   Obviously, people weren't in the hospital to watch cable TV.

Five channels and not a cheesy movie in sight.  How was he supposed to sleep?  Frustrated, restless, and bored, Mulder considered overriding his dislike for mind-numbing drugs.  An older nurse poked her head in the room with an inquiring look and Mulder glared at the remote.  He had not summoned a nurse; at least he didn't think he had.

"I was just passing and heard the TV.   Can I get you anything, other than a sedative, that is?" the nurse asked with a carefully neutral expression.  At Mulder's startled look, she laughed.  "One of the emergency room nurses warned us that you seem to have a very unusual reaction to Tylenol-3."

Mulder winced slightly and wondered what he'd done or said under the influence.   The lack of restraints and the nurse's cheerful chiding probably ruled out untoward sexual comments or ramblings about aliens.   That still left a lot of embarrassing possibilities.

"Since you seem to be a music fan, I thought I'd offer to let you listen to a live jazz CD a friend sent me.   She played at some club out west and got permission from the owner to tape the nights she was there.   I keep it on hand for patients who can't have drugs.   At least it will give you something to think about other than how much your burns hurt," she added sympathetically.

Before Mulder could reply, she placed a portable CD player on the bedside tray and handed him the earphones.   Abashed, Mulder nodded his thanks.   He had a sinking feeling that he'd entertained the emergency room staff with his Isaac Hayes imitation.

"We've had far worse, Mr. Mulder," she assured him with a laugh.  "I also stopped by to see if you'd like something to eat.  The dinner trays have already gone out, but we can scrounge up something if you're hungry," she said with a conspiratorial smile.

Mulder shook his head.  "You wouldn't consider giving me a pass to go find a hamburger?" he asked hopefully.  His clothes were around here somewhere and a quick trip outside might be just the thing to relieve his boredom.

"How about we bring you the hamburger, Mr. Mulder?   Hospital administrators get very upset when their patients go wandering," she added with a grin.  "I'd be buried in paperwork for a week."

This time Mulder gave her an understanding grin in return.  Apparently the FBI and hospitals worshipped at the same altar of forms in triplicate.  He'd rather go out for a burger, but even take out sounded good right now.  Lunch had been a very long time ago and, now that food had been mentioned, he realized that he was hungry.

"Quarter-pounder with everything and a side of fries with a large coffee, please."   Mulder relaxed when the nurse nodded and gave him a thumbs up.  He'd been half afraid that somebody in the chain of command might have restricted his diet.  Now he was sure that Scully hadn't had anything to do with his incarceration; the strangest things seemed to happen to his diet charts whenever she had access to his hospital records.

"OK, one everything hamburger coming up.  By the way, I'm your nurse tonight.   My name is Ann if you need to call me.   I'll call in your order.   One of the local cafes delivers and they're quite used to getting phone calls from us.   They're also very discreet."

Ten minutes later, losing himself in the soothing rhythm of a blues improvisation session, Mulder began to relax the guards he had placed on his emotions and let himself drift with the music.  Voices in the background made him feel like he was right there in the club.

Ann showed up with a Styrofoam take-out box and hot coffee in a mug.   She waved off his attempt to pull out the earphones so he said thank-you with a surprised glance at the mug.  He'd been expecting take-out coffee.  Ann mouthed back something about 'nurses lounge' and 'closer and fresher.'  Mulder decided that he was really going to have to do something nice for her when he got out.

A half hour later, Ann slipped in and cleared out the evidence and left him replete and relaxed.  Mulder had never considered jazz as a prescription for boredom before, but he was going to have to keep it in mind.   One of the voices in the background called to mind a dark and stormy night with a mystery lover that, for all he knew, was more than half sea-god.  He wondered whether Adam was still at the cottage or whether he had moved on, but true to the spirit of that night, he'd made no effort to find him.  The memories were good ones and Mulder allowed himself to drift with them into a safe, warm place where his nightmares couldn't find him.

More than half asleep, Mulder became aware of footsteps coming down the hall and smiled.   That determined stride could only belong to one person, his partner.  Scully had obviously tracked him down.  Long habit of deciphering her moods by the pattern of her footsteps told him that she wasn't angry.  He listened to the footsteps until they stopped in front of his door and seemed to hesitate.  By now, Mulder was completely awake.  Scully had many moods when he ended up in hospitals, but hesitant was not usually one of them.

"Scully?" he called out to assure her that it was OK to come in.

"Mulder," she said allowing one word to include worry about his health and exasperation that once again he'd ended up in the hospital because he didn't listen to her.

"I'm fine, Scully," he replied then remembered how he'd grown to hate those brush-off words whenever he presumed to openly question Scully about her health.   "A bit scorched, but otherwise unscathed.   At least it makes for a change from the usual frostbite and hypothermia," he quipped.

Scully gave him a suppressing glare, but her lips twitched a bit.  Mulder saw the hopeful signs of a thaw.   His ability to quip while sitting on the brink of destruction always gave her fits.   He wasn't sure whether she wanted to laugh and didn't want to encourage him, or whether she was genuinely annoyed that he seemed to take physical assaults so lightly.

"The guard wouldn't let me in to see you," she explained in a brisk manner that told Mulder some poor deputy had caught hell for following orders.  "Actually, Agent McCormick wouldn't let me out of Chen's sight until the sheriff sent an all-clear.   That came through ten minutes ago and Agent McCormick told me that you were now allowed visitors.   It's nice to see he's taking the threat on your life seriously," she added brusquely.

Scully stared at the bandages on his arm, then looked into his eyes as if assessing how much psychological damage he'd taken from the fire.  There was a haunted look in her eyes that told him how worried she'd been.

"Doctor says I have the equivalent of a severe case of sunburn.  I'll have polka-dot arms for a week or two, but I came out OK, thanks to McCormick," Mulder assured her.   She didn't look reassured, but she nodded her acceptance that once again he'd taken damage, but kept on ticking.

Scully might still harbor suspicions about McCormick's motives, but most of the outright hostility had disappeared.   She wouldn't have enjoyed being placed in protective custody, but McCormick's obvious concern for her partner's safety was a definite mark in his favor.   That McCormick, or perhaps Lamm, had put guards on him was a surprise, though.

Scully did a quick vital signs check on him and, finding nothing out of order, visibly relaxed.   Mulder never quite understood how she could put her trust in doctors and hospitals while at the same time felt compelled to double-check their work.

"What happened, Mulder?   Chen was talking about an incendiary grenade attack.  I thought the case was over," Scully said with a quizzical, half-raised eyebrow.

"That's the official story," Mulder confirmed carefully.  "One of the families involved didn't like my interference and tried to take me down with them.  It's thanks to McCormick and Adler that I'm still here even with the warning Lamm sent.   The devil doesn't accept failure." Mulder let Scully mull that one over.   Even with all they'd seen over the years and close encounters of the personal kind with demonic forces, Scully was still reluctant to acknowledge that the devil could make people do things.   Or, to put it another way, fear of the devil could make people do some very nasty things.

"You're determined to find a paranormal explanation, aren't you?" Scully asked with a tsk of exasperation.

"It doesn't matter what I believe, Scully.   McCormick is the one submitting the report and talking to the media.  You don't think I'm in here just for my health, do you?" Mulder asked with a touch of indignation that was only half feigned.   McCormick wanted him to catch up on his sleep, but he'd also made it clear he wanted him out of reach of sensation-hunting reporters.

Scully actually looked impressed.  Mulder mentally crossed his fingers that her doubts about McCormick were undergoing some revision.

"Scully, McCormick arranged the transfer to keep me out of trouble.  Somehow, he's stolen a base on Kersh.  It's a fresh start.   For you, as well, if you want it," Mulder added, trying to lock onto Scully's eyes, to convince her by sheer willpower to accept this gift out of the blue.

"He's already asked if I'd be interested.   Why would he risk a confrontation with Kersh and the OPR?" Scully asked in honest bewilderment.

"Maybe he likes fighting dragons, like those knights of old who used to run around the countryside looking for monsters to slay," Mulder offered with a grin.   There was a nagging sense that he was striking closer to the mark than he intended with this allusion.  Some of the aura images around McCormick had been of him in armor.   If he was seeing visions, then maybe he was seeing McCormick as he saw himself -- or else he was catching glimpses of past lives.  Somehow he didn't think Scully needed to know about these insights.  The two of them were beginning to bridge the gap that had arisen between them; she didn't need to be reminded of her doubts about his mental stability.

This time Scully laughed out loud and shook her head good-naturedly at him.   Mulder simply grinned back at her and reveled in seeing some of the tension lines disappear from her face.

"It's a chance to work on real cases, again, Scully.  It might not get us the X-Files back, but I'm willing to bet that there's an EBE or two lurking in those cold case files," he said with a mischievous grin that prompted a stern glare that dissolved into a rueful laugh.

"Only you, Mulder," she said with mock resignation.  "I need time to think about it."

Mulder tried not to be disappointed.   Scully liked to look things over carefully three ways before making decisions.   It was only logical that she wanted to make sure he wasn't rushing into a trap before she agreed to follow him.   He wasn't perfect.   Diana was a glaring example of misplaced trust, but on the whole, his batting record was pretty damn good when it came down to trust.  Hell, he'd trusted Scully after their first case when he'd known that she was sent to debunk and destroy him.  Look how well that leap of faith had turned out.   This was probably not the time to remind her that she'd been pretty untrustworthy on the surface when they first met, however.

"I told him I'd let him know Monday morning.   It looks good, Mulder, but I don't want to be caught in the middle of some power play between McCormick and Kersh."   Scully reached out and touched his hand as if promising him that she would give the matter her most serious consideration.

"Ask Skinner about McCormick, Scully.   The team he's assembling will report to Skinner so we'll have another layer between us and the brass."

"I'm going to stay over tonight and drive back to D.C. in the morning," Scully said, deliberately changing the subject and warning Mulder off of the topic.  Mulder accepted the no-trespassing sign and settled back into the pillows.  "The doctor said they'll discharge you in the morning.  I can drive us both back to D.C., unless you have other plans," she added hastily after a barely perceptible pause.

"Thanks.   I can probably drive, but maybe I'll be good this time and follow all my doctor's orders," Mulder said with a smile that spoke of all the times he hadn't.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Mulder," Scully chided him.  "I'll be by around ten o'clock."

Scully stood up to leave, started to turn for the door, then stopped and turned back.   With uncharacteristic gentleness, she laid a hand on his hand.   "I trust you on this, Mulder.  I really do, but I need time to decide if this is what I want.   I came close to quitting in August.   Refusing to let Kersh win was reason enough to stick it out these past few months, but McCormick's offer means that I have to decide whether I still want to stay with a Bureau that tries to destroy good agents."

Before Mulder could rally to respond to this unexpected burst of emotional honesty, Scully gave him a quick smile and was out the door.   Confounded by being privy to Scully's doubts, Mulder took refuge in the blues CD and let his mind wrestle with the problem of how to convince Scully that he respected her doubts, but even with them she was a damn good FBI agent and the one he trusted to watch his back.   Somewhere between listening and thinking, he fell asleep.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Rousing from an uneasy sleep, Mulder discovered he had somehow wrapped the cord on the earphones around his head.  No wonder he'd been dreaming that he'd fallen into a giant spider web.   Carefully untangling himself, Mulder turned off the CD player and bundled it safely out of the way.   He was grateful he hadn't wrapped the cord around his throat.   Glancing at the small bedside clock, he realized that he'd only been asleep an hour, at most; just enough to shave the edge off his weariness and made it difficult to go back to sleep.   Restlessly, he began surfing the five TV channels in search of something to lull him back to sleep.

A knock at the door was a welcome interruption from his fruitless search for a mind-numbing B-movie.

"The nurse said you might be awake, so I thought I'd drop by and bring you up to speed on the case," McCormick said in the soft voice people seemed to instinctively use when visiting hospitals.

"Come in."   Mulder hit the remote and let the bed do the work this time of easing him into a sitting position.  Flapping his bare ass at his new SAC wasn't what he had in mind as a best-foot-forward move.

McCormick settled into the one comfortable chair in the room with a sigh of relief.  He looked tired, but had a satisfied with life air about him.   Mulder hoped that this meant that the loose ends were neatly tied off.

"Lamm found Coakes, or rather something we think was Coakes.  The body is burned beyond recognition, but it was found in a small copse of trees about a hundred yards from the hotel with a direct line of sight to my room.  No one has ventured an explanation of how he turned up seven miles from the house where he supposedly burned to death," McCormick offered in a tired voice.

"Will there be an explanation?" Mulder asked, knowing that the truth probably wouldn't be well-received locally or at the FBI.

"My report simply states the facts.   Sheriff Lamm is satisfied that the case is closed and has officially thanked the Bureau for our support."   McCormick maintained a neutral tone, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.

"So the evidence of black magic is there in plain sight, but no one wants to look at it," Mulder commented with a hint of bitterness.  He wondered what it would take for the FBI to actually admit there were more things out there than they were prepared to admit existed.

"People don't want to know what lurks beyond their comfortable perceptions.   What do you think the response would be if they did look?  Once upon a time, people believed that magic was real.   They burned innocent people in fear of that magic.   Ignorance fears the truth and ignorant people are dangerous when they are afraid."

Hearing the sharp edges in his tone, Mulder wondered who McCormick had known who had fallen afoul of such fear.   Mulder had spent his life fighting to bring the hidden truths into the light, but sometimes he wondered whether he was doing truth a favor.

"In other words, let sleeping dogs lie," Mulder retorted caustically, uneasily aware that part of his desire to expose the truth was to justify himself.  As long as people could ignore the truth, he would always be Spooky Mulder, the nutcase who chased monsters and aliens.

"Unless the dog poses a threat, it might as well go on sleeping," McCormick retorted evenly with a hint of amused commiseration.   "The role of a Seer is never an easy one, Hawkeye," McCormick added while giving him a contemplative look that made Mulder faintly uneasy.

"I'm not a seer," Mulder protested despite of the small voice in the back of his head that said it was as close a description as anyone had to what he was experiencing.   "Next thing, you'll be offering me a robe with stars and moons on it," he continued with a bitter, sarcastic bite designed to warn McCormick off.

To Mulder's surprise, McCormick laughed.  "No, I'm afraid you're stuck with the same business suit and tie the rest of us have to wear."  McCormick paused for a moment, then continued on in a serious tone, "No one's going to hand you a crystal ball and ask you to prophesize.  Seeing doesn't work that way, I've been given to understand.   All anyone else has to know is that you're a very good profiler who analyzes outside the box to great effect. "

Mulder relaxed a little.  He wasn't sure where McCormick was going with this discussion, but he recognized a promise of confidentiality.   Of all the people he least expected to understand his strange waking dreams, McCormick would have been high on the list right after Scully.

"I may know someone who can help you with whatever's happening to you.  With your permission, I'd like to tell her what I've seen and anything else you can tell me -- in strict confidence, of course.  No names will be mentioned until you tell me you want help.  I need to know how to react if you have another vision.   You're one of my team, now, and that means I stand between you and the people who want to take you down.   Let me find out what I need to know to protect you.   When you're ready, that will be time enough for names.  Remember, whoever I'm asking for help doesn't want publicity any more than you do," McCormick said seriously.

Mulder leaned back into the pillow and considered his options.  McCormick appeared to be offering to help.   What he wanted was for these visions, or whatever they were, to go away, but he was beginning to think that option had been removed from the board.   That left trying to cope on his own or getting help, either psychological therapy or the kind of help McCormick seemed to be offering.

When all the choices were bad, take the one that looked the least catastrophic.   His first instinct was to circle the wagons and tell McCormick that he was coping just fine and not to worry that old Spooky Mulder would embarrass him in public.   However satisfying throwing a tantrum might be to his inner child, the brutal fact of the matter was that he wasn't coping well.  His collapse in Lamm's office was vivid proof that he had absolutely no control over these psychic spasms.

"Sleep on it, Mulder.  I don't need an answer right now.  Why don't we meet Sunday evening after we've both had a couple of days to sleep and think?   Say around 8 p.m. for dinner at the Green Man?" McCormick offered after the silence had stretched into minutes.

Relieved, Mulder nodded.   Apparently, Scully wasn't the only one who needed time to consider all the angles before making a decision.   He smiled at the thought of both of them ensconced in their respective apartments wrestling with paranoia and hope.

"Lights out, Mr. Mulder.   It's nearly midnight and time to at least pretend to sleep," Ann chided as she stuck her head in the door.  "Anyone who doesn't have their eyes closed when I come back will get a cup of warm milk," she added with a mock glare at both men.

Mulder shuddered at the thought of warm milk and promptly closed his eyes, only opening them when he heard the door close again.

"Never argue with a nurse, Mulder.   They have entirely too much practice thinking up ways to make you wish you'd listened in the first place," McCormick said with a broad smile.  "I'll see you Sunday evening.   I'm going to my hotel room, a nice suite by the way, courtesy of the county to get some sleep.   I've fed the media and Lamm has made it clear that further bulletins will be coming from his office because the nice FBI men are going back to Washington where they belong.   That man has a masterful command of how to put out fires before they become media firestorms."  McCormick gave Mulder a weary smile, a handshake, and was out the door before Mulder could comment.

A few minutes later, hearing footsteps stop outside his door, Mulder closed his eyes and did his best imitation of a cooperative, sleeping patient until the footsteps continued on down the hall.  He didn't feel much like sleeping, but Ann's threat of warm milk was enough to keep him in bed rather than wandering the halls.  Eventually, his body's need overwhelmed his restless mind and he slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Saturday morning

The ride back to D.C. was conducted in a comfortable silence.  Mulder knew that prompting Scully to talk about McCormick's offer might propel her into making a contrary decision.   It had taken him years before he realized that pushing Scully was the wrong tack to take if he wanted a fair consideration of whatever proposal he was making.  As much as he enjoyed talking about options and possibilities, Scully enjoyed keeping her own counsel and making her decisions alone.   At least with Scully, the silence meant that she was giving serious consideration to the problem at hand.  A smile, a brief touch to reassure, and a companionable lack of chatter was comforting rather than disconcerting.

For once, Mulder was content to let her drive.  Other than a fleeting sharp look when he headed for the passenger side, Scully refrained from reminding him of a certain unfortunately phrased sneer.  He doubted if she'd ever let him totally forget his comment about short legs and, to be honest, he had no defense other than planetary convergences and even to him that came across as lame.

Besides, he had his own concerns to mull over: whether to take McCormick's offer of help or to keep on trying to perfect his high wire balancing act.  If he accepted the offer, he'd be admitting to having psychic abilities and he'd been very careful to avoid that concept whenever he thought about the waking dreams.   Dreaming sounded much less threatening than having visions.  The latter carried with it the unmistakable scent of sterile hospital rooms and mind-numbing meds.

After Scully dropped him off at his apartment, Mulder spent the rest of the day restlessly prowling his apartment until he finally bolted out the door for a long walk.  Returning long after dark, he stared into his refrigerator at the meager supplies, then headed back out to a nearby tavern for their Saturday special chili.  It was late when he returned, but the familiar feel of his couch and the soothing sounds of a classic B-movie lulled him into sleep.

He spent Sunday morning on his favorite bench by the Potomac.  Washington weather was living up to its reputation for unpredictable turns, with a warm front passing through after three days of freezing mist.  Fog cloaked the city and shrouded the monuments along the Potomac with only their lights visible across the river.   Few pedestrians were venturing out which suited Mulder just fine, he needed to think.   Other than the patrolman who stopped by to make sure he wasn't planning to suicide, he had the benches to himself.   In just under eleven hours McCormick was expecting an answer and he still didn't know whether he wanted help or wanted to continue flailing about on his own

Lacking a precedent, it would be easy to dismiss his current experiences as the result of the bullet that waltzed around his skull last summer.  Unfortunately, these waking dreams weren't all that different from some of the intuitive insights he used to experience when profiling.   Not every case prompted the disturbing spiral into a killer's psyche, but enough that he began worrying that one day he'd go in and wouldn't be able to find his way back out again.

Scully had seen a taste of what he went through in the Mostow case.  Her appalled expression as she stared at him over the barrel of her gun trying to decide if he was a murderer still had a recurring role in his nightmares.   She had studiously avoided mentioning the case ever again.

The aftereffects of a concussion, complicated by his trek across the Antarctic, combined with a prolonged case of boredom, might explain his mind wandering and would be a very comforting theory to believe.  However, none of these factors would explain the visions he'd experienced in the lost city under the mesa in April; those occurred before he lost the X-Files and before his head played host to a bullet.

Albert had accepted his insights with typical calmness, but then as a shaman he was probably used to walking in two worlds.   Mulder was aware of the dream paths shamans took into the past, but only from a scholar's point of view.  Albert hadn't sounded like he was discussing theory.  Now it occurred to him that Albert might have been telling him that his mind wasn't locked into one world any more.  It would certainly explain his recent brush with an alternate reality in the Bermuda Triangle.

Psychic powers or insanity, the fact of the matter was that he needed to talk to someone about the flashes, to bounce ideas and theories off an understanding listener.   McCormick was offering such a person.  The question was whether he could believe that whoever McCormick had in mind could be trusted.   Albert had made it clear that Mulder had his own path to find and follow.  McCormick's offer of help seemed genuine, although Mulder sense that he wasn't being completely open with him.   Still, McCormick had always been reserved, even at Quantico.   Maybe they could work out some sort of deal -- trading trust for trust.  He smiled grimly at the thought, then decided he either believed McCormick or he didn't.

Staring morosely into the fog, Mulder finally isolated what had driven him out of his warm apartment -- a recurring dream that had first showed up in the hospital after the gunshot and which had appeared almost nightly.  Actually, it was more of a recurring sound, he decided.   The sound was elusive, as if a half-remembered memory was floating just outside his reach.  It was a pleasant sound, like soft bells in the evening air or raindrops on a pond, and it seemed hauntingly familiar.   Eventually, he realized that the sound contained words.  The language wasn't English, Latin or Greek, but seemed to be a language composed of musical notes.   Nonetheless, he seemed to know what the words meant, or at least he had a general idea.  They were words of reassurance that spoke of strong walls built to stand against a storm.   Last night, for the first time, he sensed an urgency in the voice -- walls couldn't stand forever and alone he could not stand against the storm.

Maybe his subconscious knew he needed help, but Mulder didn't think these dreams originated with him.  There was something achingly familiar about the voice, but he couldn't place where he'd ever heard a voice that flowed like water running over stones.   For some reason, he trusted the voice.   It was possible that this was some post-hypnotic suggestion planted by the conspiracy, but the voice felt clean of that kind of contamination.

In the end, as he stamped his cold feet and shuffled off to his car, Mulder decided to take McCormick's offer of help.   Whether the voice in his dreams was merely an artifice constructed by his more sensible subconscious or came from one of Albert's helpful spirits didn't matter.   It was offering good advice.   Left alone with his visions, he was going to either go mad or slip up in public.  In either case, the result would be the same: confinement, medications, and forced retirement.   He was going to have to trust in McCormick's judgment.

He expected the decision to leave him feeling uneasy.  There were risks to what McCormick proposed and Mulder was well aware of the potentials for betrayal.   Instead, he felt calm, as if he'd stopped fighting the wind and turned into it to let it take him where he needed to go.  He was gambling with his sanity, but it wouldn't be the first time.

With him most immediate demons silenced, he wanted to get back to his apartment, straighten up some of the mess his restless prowling had left in its wake, and grab a hot shower.  His official case report, as well as log his unofficial report for his personal files, could wait until tomorrow.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sunday night, December 20
Green Man Pub

A concussion of music and voices hit him as he opened the door.   Taking a moment to adjust to the decibel levels, Mulder looked around for McCormick.  The Green Man catered to an eclectic mix of clients and the cardinal rule was that no one asked anyone who they were.  Mulder had never been able to figure it whether the pub was a gay bar that welcomed straights or a straight bar that welcomed gays, a lot depended on the night and the mood.  Tonight appeared to be a hodgepodge as far as overt sexual liaisons were concerned.  McCormick had a wicked sense of humor hidden behind that proper poster-boy expression of his.   No doubt he was enjoying the flood of speculation among the regulars that their rendezvous would provoke.   Mulder wasn't sure about McCormick's orientation, but it wasn't his business.   For all he knew, McCormick might be just as uncertain about his orientation.

A waving arm caught his attention and Mulder edged his way through the tables to a booth in the back.   As he slid into the seat, McCormick waved his arm again and a waiter appeared with a pitcher of dark beer and two mugs.

To his dismay, Mulder found himself fighting the nauseating effects of double vision and belatedly realized that he'd neglected not only lunch, but had skimped on breakfast as well.   He was seeing more shadows overlaying McCormick's familiar face, like layers on an onion.  The more he tried to make out who or what the shadows were, the faster they appeared until he was drowning in shadows.   Desperately, Mulder tried to pull his mind away.  To his surprised relief, he felt the vision waver and dissolve.  He felt lightheaded and slightly nauseated, but the effect wasn't as overpowering this time.  Theories about stimuli and cause-and-effect surfaced, but he shoved them aside.

"How do you do that?" Mulder asked with as much of his old grin as he could manage.   McCormick's ability to summon waiters out of chaos bordered on the supernatural.   McCormick always refused to tell, but Mulder could never resist asking.  One day, McCormick might slip and share his secret.  Not tonight, however.  McCormick merely smiled and poured beer into the mugs.

"Nachos, salsa and a meat pie," McCormick told the waiter. "Better order now, Mulder," he advised forestalling a hasty departure by the waiter to fill his order.

"Same." Mulder's stomach was responding to the odors of food and beer with sharp complaints.   "And add a second meat pie to my order," he shouted to the waiter's departing back.  The waiter waved a hand to indicate that he'd caught the order and would return soon bearing food.

"I know I told you to get some rest.  Did I neglect to mention eating?" McCormick chided.

"I ate a big meal last night.  I had a bagel and coffee for breakfast," Mulder offered in his defense.  "You told me to think about your offer.  I have." He didn't expect to divert McCormick so easily, but it was worth trying.

"Next time I'll remember to add eating to my suggestions."   McCormick didn't press the issue.   As far as Mulder could tell, he seemed content to wait on him to accept or refuse the offer.

Even now, at the last moment, Mulder was tempted to strike a deal, to temper his acceptance with conditions.  Maybe getting out from under Kersh's iron fist would ease the tension and allow him to get a grip on whatever was spawning these dreams.   Looking at McCormick, Mulder knew he would accept conditions and that made him uneasy.   McCormick was a pusher.  A polite pusher, but nonetheless he was someone who kept driving at a goal until he reached it.  Mulder was afraid, but it was beginning to dawn on him that McCormick was going to a lot of trouble to help him out. Why?

"What if I refuse your offer?" Mulder couldn't help asking.

"On my part, nothing.  I requested your transfer after I saw you pull answers out of thin air.   You'll be a full member of the team . . . as long as you're able," McCormick ended while deliberately making eye contact.

Mulder wondered if McCormick was trying to send subliminal messages, but decided that was going a bit far even for his imaginative paranoia.  Then McCormick's phrasing hit him and he blinked.

"You're beginning to show signs of stress fatigue, Mulder.  How long do you think you'll be able to conceal your visions when we start tackling a full case load?   If you collapse on a case, I might not be able to protect you.  You have enemies.   Don't give yourself to them as a gift-wrapped present.   With help, I believe you can control these visions, or at least learn how to let them roll over you without taking you down.  Without help, I give you maybe six months, possibly a year, before someone who cares about you, like Agent Scully, decides you need medical intervention."

"Damn," was the only response Mulder could muster.  Obviously, he wasn't doing as good a job as he thought in concealing the nagging sense that he was losing the battle for his sanity.

Before he could come up with more excuses, Mulder took a deep breath and let go of his fear.  "Fine. Contact this friend of yours.  If she thinks she can help, I'll talk with her."

"It may be a few days before I can track her down.   Meanwhile, you are officially on vacation; one of the perks I insisted on with your transfer.   I realize that the concept of vacations is an unfamiliar one for you, so you can ease into it by helping me move down from Boston," McCormick said with a relieved smile.

Mulder shot him a mock glare, but nodded.  No doubt McCormick wanted to keep an eye on him which was fine.  He hadn't been to Boston in years.   Technically, he could refuse to be shanghaied into helping his new boss move, but it beat sitting in his apartment waiting for a vision to hit.  Besides, it would give him a chance to get to know McCormick again.

"That covers any business, then.   I have various things to attend to the next three days here and in Boston, but I'll see you in the Boston office Wednesday afternoon.   I have a spare bedroom, so you don't have to worry about getting a hotel.  We can discuss various candidates for the team while you help me pack.  You know the Washington agents from a perspective I never get to see," McCormick said, his smile tinged with more than a little evil amusement.

Mulder was still wondering what he'd gotten himself into, but going back to Kersh after being this close to freedom was simply unthinkable.   Still, it might be fun to be the one passing judgment on agents who regarded him as the freak who lived in the basement.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stuffed and relaxed, Mulder bounded up the stairs to his apartment and saw Scully starting to walk away from his door.  The memory of her attempts to tell him in August that she was leaving flashed across his memory and he stumbled.  Startled, she turned and saw him.

"Leaving again?" Mulder managed to ask, forcing the words out in a neutral tone.

"What?" Scully looked genuinely confused for a moment, then blushed as she remembered the last time she'd come to his door with a decision.

"No, Mulder.   I'm not leaving.   Far from it," she hastened to assure him.   In August, he had had to reassure her that she mattered in his life and his work; now, she seemed slightly amused that the tables were turned.   "I wanted to tell you before I talked to Agent McCormick.  I'm accepting the job," she said with a shy smile that broke the ice around his heart.

"It will be different," Mulder felt obliged to point out.

"Different isn't always bad, Mulder," she assured him with a smile.  "We've taken risks before.  Maybe it's time to stop being such a 'good soldier.'  Besides, I don't think I'd be able to keep from decking Kersh without you around to keep me in line," she added with a prim look that soon dissolved into a laugh.   "According to scuttlebutt, there are agents willing to commit murder to secure a place on this team.  How could I refuse an offer that didn't involve murder?"

Mulder could say anything, but he walked slowly towards her and opened his arms.  He'd accepted her insistence that their relationship should remain platonic, even understood her reasons.   This was a brotherly hug he was offering.  To his relief, she allowed herself to be folded into his arms.  They stood there for several minutes before Mulder felt her begin to stir.   He released her and stepped back.

"We'll show them, partner," he said softly, grinning at her as she smiled.   A year's worth of worry lines seemed to disappear from her face.   Whatever her reservations might be, she would be at his side for awhile longer.  Mulder was content to celebrate the small victories these days.

"Will I see you tomorrow?" she asked tentatively.

"Probably.   I need to collect my things and wait for the official OK to tell Kersh to go to hell.   Once I'm free, McCormick is actually making me take vacation, the brutal SOB," Mulder said with a laugh.  "You might be needed to administer CPR to some of the Personnel clerks when the paperwork hits their desks, though.  I'll be going up to Boston on Wednesday to help him move, so you see I'm already hard at work buttering up the boss."

"I may ask for vacation as well.  Mom's been wanting me to take some time over the holidays so we can have a family reunion," Scully added dubiously.   Mulder carefully refrained from commenting; Scully's family didn't have a high opinion of him.   At least this holiday season, Scully would have some good news to relate.

"Go for it, Scully," Mulder encouraged her.   "I want to be there to see Kersh's face when my transfer goes through," Mulder said with a mischievous grin, then he sobered.  "And I want to say goodbye to Foster.   I'll miss him."   Foster was the one agent who had tried to make their exile bearable in spite of Kersh.

"If McCormick moves as fast as you say, I may be cleaning out my desk as well.   That's a cheery thought to take home with me," Scully said as she turned to go.   Only then did Mulder realize that they'd held the entire conversation in front of his door.

"See you tomorrow, partner," Mulder called after her.  He waited until the elevator door closed behind her before entering his apartment.  For the first time in weeks, he wasn't dreading Mondays.   It was too soon to be sure, but maybe his downward spiral had finally leveled out.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Matthew McCormick frowned at the phone as he considered his options.   The number he had for Sulwen had led him to an Aidan Logan up in Seacouver.   Unfortunately, the message on her answering machine informed him that she was away for an indefinite period.   He was tempted to wait, but like all immortals, Sulwen's sense of time was elastic.  Mulder might not have time to wait for her to resurface.   If she'd had to ditch her current identity, it might take him months to track her down.   Failing Sulwen, or Aidan as he now had to think of her, he would have to contact his teacher.   Ceirdwyn might know someone who could help a fledgling Seer adrift without a guide.

There was a chance Sulwen might be at Russell Nash's Christmas party.  Matthew had a standing invitation which he rarely exercised, but had planned to attend this year.  Give the change in circumstances, he'd have to put off his curiosity about the recent line war until next year.  Mulder needed him and he wasn't about to take an uncontrolled Seer into Nash's usual eclectic mix of guests.  Besides, he intended to keep Mulder very busy helping him organize the new task force.   The Director had made it clear he wanted the team up and running before the end of January; Matthew intended to see it launched well before then.

If he couldn't approach Nash in person, he'd attempt contact by phone.  Nash had given him his private number, so he could hope for some privacy for a conversation.   Still, it would be prudent to be circumspect with any message he might have to leave.  Mentally composing a message in case he reached Nash's answering machine, he held onto hope until the fourth ring.  When Nash's automated message ended, Matthew explained his problem in three sentences.

"Hello, Nash, McCormick here.   Tell Sulwen I need to talk to her, soon.  I have someone who has just discovered his Sight and needs help."  After leaving a number where he could be reached, Matthew hung up.   It was a start.  Once he finished moving down to D.C., he'd contact Ceirdwyn for suggestions about how to keep Mulder stabilized until help arrived.  Pouring himself a large bourbon and water, Matthew went out to the balcony of his hotel and stared out at the distant lights of the Jefferson Memorial.   Getting the new task force up and running should give Mulder plenty to occupy his mind in the next six weeks.

A terse email from AD Skinner contained a warning that Kersh intended to contest Mulder's transfer on Monday.  Kersh's interference wasn't an unexpected complication.  Matthew was prepared to battle for Mulder.   That included digging up a few trifles in Kersh's background that would provide interesting ammunition if Kersh failed to accept the fact that Mulder was no longer under his control.  Mulder had a reputation for paranoia, but this whole set-up reeked of connivance and political payback.   Matthew wondered what Mulder had stumbled on that made breaking him so important?

Tomorrow's meeting should prove very interesting.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

10 a.m. Monday morning
Associate Director Samuelson's Office

"Ah, right on time. Have a seat, Agent McCormick," Samuelson said as he leaned back in his chair and stared at AD Kersh who acknowledged McCormick's arrival with a stiff nod and a frown.   McCormick sat down and waited, attentive, but apparently not alarmed by Kersh's hostility.  In fact, McCormick appeared unfazed by the prospect.

Samuelson prided himself on his ability to read his men.  Kersh was outwardly respectful and dutiful to his superiors, with a reputation as a hard-nosed by-the-book administrator who demanded excellence and received it.   On the surface, AD Kersh was a model mid-level manager.  Samuelson distrusted surface impressions.   Spit and polish looked good and an ability to play politics might win allies in the never-ending political gamesmanship of the Bureau bureaucracy, but Samuelson liked to know what lay under the surface.

Matthew McCormick, on the other hand, was one of those rare agents who managed to combine spit and polish with a proven track record of competent and often brilliant field work.  Up until three months ago, Samuelson would have said that McCormick was content to remain ASAC of the Boston field office.   He admired men like McCormick, who cared more for field accomplishments than pursuing personal advancement, even though he was often frustrated by their reluctance to accept promotions that removed them from field offices.   The Director must have done a magnificent sales job when he talked McCormick into accepting command of the Cold Case Task Force.  If McCormick had been bitten by the promotion bug, he might have to look to protecting his own job in a few years.   Samuelson wasn't greatly concerned.   It never hurt to have someone breathing down his neck; it reminded him not to get complacent or too comfortable.

Noting Kersh's angry reaction to having his authority challenged, Samuelson considered the possibility that Kersh had become complacent, and if so, why.   Samuelson had excellent contacts in the Bureau's gossip circle and knew that scuttlebutt painted a very different picture of AD Kersh than the one he presented to upper management.   It appeared that Kersh was someone's good soldier who could be counted on to break mavericks and bend strong-willed independent-thinkers to the proper behavior the Bureau expected of its agents.  The methods appeared to be unimpeachable, but Samuelson questioned the zeal Kersh displayed in rooting out the unconventional agents.

Before calling this meeting, Samuelson had met with the Director to confirm his instructions to provide McCormick with all possible assistance in activating the Task Force, up to and including the right to handpick the agents he wanted for the team.  Samuelson suspected that Kersh had no idea that McCormick had the Director's backing.   This should be an interesting meeting, although he doubted if Kersh would think so by the time it ended.

"Special Agent McCormick, in light of Assistant Director Kersh's official objection to your request for Agent Mulder's transfer to your task force, I have reviewed Agent Mulder's record.   There are certainly a number of red flags in the quantity of reprimands, but these appear to be balanced by the sheer weight of his solve record in Violent Crimes as well as in the now-defunct X-Files.   Perhaps you would care to explain why you considered Agent Mulder for your task force?   There are certainly many intelligent, highly qualified, more conventional agents who would be eager for a place on your team; why Agent Mulder in particular?"   Samuelson's tone was casual, even friendly as he invited McCormick to explain why he was willing to buck an Assistant Director to get one erratic, quixotic, and, above all, disgraced agent.

Samuelson was interested in what tack McCormick would take in defending his choice; that might tell him much about McCormick that his record couldn't tell him.   Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kersh relax with a thin, satisfied smile.

"Cold cases, by their nature, require unconventional thinking, sir," McCormick replied easily.

Samuelson looked interested and waited for McCormick to continue.  There was no defensiveness in McCormick's approach nor did he attempt to defend Mulder's record, yet.   This meeting was proving to be very enlightening.

"When we can require the criminals to follow conventional behavior patterns and the crimes to exist solely within neat, orthodox boundaries, then there will be no need for the unconventional agent.   Agent Mulder is a gifted profiler who follows the evidence, even if it leads him in the direction of unorthodox solutions.   There are currently 150 unsolved cases in the files assigned to my task force.   If conventional thinking has been unable to solve these cases, then it's time to apply some unconventional thinking," McCormick continued in an easy, almost conversational tone.

"That sounds good, but part of our responsibility is to prosecute those responsible for crimes.  Given Agent Mulder's past history, are you prepared to have to deal with the possibility that he might ask us to name Big Foot as a leading suspect in a case?" Samuelson asked with a straight face.

McCormick smiled.   "I'll endeavor not to present the courts with beings outside their jurisdiction, sir."

Kersh frowned and rumbled something under his breath that caught when Samuelson chuckled.   After a moment spent in reviewing the file on his desk, Samuelson reassumed his serious demeanor.   He would have to be careful with this decision.   He liked McCormick.   What was more dangerous, he agreed with him.   It always amused him that men like Kersh never bothered to research the careers of the men they reported to.   Kersh might not be so complacent if he knew just how unconventional a certain young Agent Samuelson had been forty years ago.  Unlike Mulder, Samuelson had learned to camouflage his eccentricities.  Also, unlike Mulder, he had pursued promotion.   Mulder appeared to be one of those rare agents who couldn't care less about office politics or promotion; a rare breed here in Washington.   Samuelson was amazed that Mulder had lasted as long as he had.   The man was beginning to intrigue him.

"Don't make promises, Agent McCormick," Samuelson suggested sternly as he turned slightly to face Kersh.

"Now AD Kersh, perhaps you would like to explain to me, and to Special Agent McCormick, the reasons behind your refusal to sign off on Agent Mulder's transfer?" Samuelson asked as he relaxed back in his chair with the air of genial curiosity.

"I wasn't aware that my executive decisions required approval by SACs," Kersh responded coldly.  "Agent Mulder was assigned to me for disciplinary action following an OPR hearing.   His persistent obsession with matters outside FBI jurisdiction had progressed to the point where his irresponsible and insubordinate behavior seriously jeopardized the lives of his fellow agents and the success of ongoing investigations.  It was the board's unanimous ruling that Agent Mulder be removed from active field duty and placed where he could do no more harm."  Kersh pronounced his judgment of Agent Mulder with a certain grim satisfaction that reminded Samuelson of an executioner.

If some of the rumors Samuelson was privy to were accurate, Kersh was supposed to be exactly that as far as Agent Mulder's professional career was concerned.   Whoever had it in for Agent Mulder was playing an odd game.  It would have been much easier, given Mulder's record of disciplinary letters, to simply dismiss him.  Why the elaborate charade designed to force a resignation?   Samuelson made a note to dig a little deeper into the matter.  It wouldn't be the first time other government agencies or politicians used the Bureau to carry out their turf wars, but Samuelson liked to make a point that such games usually cost the players more than the results were worth.

"Yes, I have reviewed the OPR report; most disturbing," Samuelson said with a reproving tsk.   Kersh seemed to glow with self-satisfaction.  Samuelson found McCormick's impassive reaction interesting.   Some men might rush in to defend their choice; McCormick seemed content to give Kersh the field without appearing to concede any ground.  Very interesting, indeed.

"Still, I have in hand a very complimentary letter concerning Agent Mulder's recent efforts in Virginia.  The local sheriff was very impressed by Agent Mulder's criminal analysis.   In fact, in reviewing Agent Mulder's file, I find that his profiling abilities are consistently rated in the superior to excellent categories."  Samuelson fired his ranging shot as he watched Kersh carefully.   Out of the corner of his eye, he saw McCormick watching Kersh as well.  So, McCormick sensed that something wasn't right about the setup, but was content to let his superiors duke it out.   Well, that's what we get paid for, Samuelson thought with some amusement.

"I would hardly call eight people dead an impressive display of Agent Mulder's capabilities.   The body count always seems to go up when Mulder is involved," Kersh snapped as he stiffened in anger.   "I would remind the Associate Director that I did not approve Agent Mulder's temporary transfer.  His assignment, over ASAC Spelling's objections, was authorized in my absence.  I believe that my assistant faced undue pressure from another Assistant Director to facilitate the transfer," Kersh said angrily.

Samuelson suspected that Kersh's resentment over being sidelined played a big role in the official complaint regarding AD Skinner's actions that arrived in his office mail this morning.   "So you are contesting Agent Mulder's qualifications and experience as a profiler, A. D. Kersh?" Samuelson asked quietly, knowing that Kersh would recognize a mine field when he saw one.

"His record as a profiler is unquestioned," Kersh replied cautiously.   "However, Agent Mulder personally requested the transfer from Violent Crimes to pursue his obsessive interest in the occult," Kersh added with sarcastic emphasis on the word occult.

"I find it interesting that you chose not to employ Agent's Mulder's considerable skills as a profiler despite a formal request by Section Chief Andrews that he be assigned to work in Violent Crimes.   Are we so overrun with good profilers that we can elect to sideline one of the best to handle clerical duties, AD Kersh?" Samuelson asked sharply, his genial tone turned brusque.

Kersh stiffened even more until he resembled a cast-iron toy soldier then turned to glare at McCormick.   He received only a cold smile in return.  "Agent Mulder chose to leave profiling for the X-Files.   I believe this action and his subsequent behavior raises doubts about his commitment to profiling."

Samuelson waited for McCormick to object to this high-handed assertion either by interjecting a comment or by some subtle shift in body language, but McCormick seemed unperturbed.   Wise man, for so young an agent, Samuelson thought.  Kersh was doing a fine job of hanging himself, but few agents McCormick's age would realize that.

"Yet, we are left with his commendable performance on this last case."   Samuelson saw Kersh stir and decided to stop playing with him.  "True, we have extremely critical reports and recommendations for censure from ASAC Spelling regarding Agent Mulder's behavior during the preliminary phases of the investigation.   However, since ASAC Spelling is currently under investigation for operational and administrative misconduct, these reports are somewhat suspect."

For the first time since he entered the office, Kersh looked uncertain.   Samuelson wondered if it was finally dawning on him that this interview wasn't going the way he'd expected.   The political fallout from this meeting was likely to prove very interesting.  Whoever was backing Kersh would not be happy that he had allowed Agent Mulder to slip through his fingers long enough to pull off an impressive job of profiling.   Samuelson suspected that he would also come in for some flak, but he considered flak part of the job and, in this case, tracer-fire that might lead back to the real opponents.

"Special Agent McCormick," Samuelson said in a brisk tone.  McCormick's slight shift to full attention would have been unnoticeable if he hadn't been looking for it.   The man was good.   Samuelson realized that he was going to enjoy his assignment as mentor to this task force.   Having McCormick and Skinner make monthly reports on its progress would be a way of reminding the Bureau of the Director's interest.

"I'm going to take a chance, Special Agent McCormick, and let you have Agent Mulder.   If you're willing to put your head on the block for him, then I don't feel I can stand in the way.  Make it work, McCormick, or our next talk might be less satisfying," Samuelson concluded.

McCormick nodded without smiling or giving any sign that he had just won a major victory over an Assistant Director.  Samuelson hoped McCormick realized that he had made an enemy in Kersh.

"Assistant Director Kersh, you are no longer responsible for Agent Mulder and I would advise you to have no further contact with him," Samuelson cautioned, accessing the rage building up behind Kersh's stern expression.   The man was not a good loser; a few quiet investigations into how he ran his departments might be prudent.

"Thank you, sir," McCormick said simply as waited for Samuelson to signal that he was dismissed.

"Just get the job done.  You'll be reporting to me on a monthly basis concerning your progress in clearing up the backlog," Samuelson said sternly, then allowed a rueful smile to emerge.  "Besides, I think one or two of your cold cases were mine.   I'll be interested to see what you turn up that I missed."

Samuelson made a brief show of closing the folder on his desk and signing a form which he handed to McCormick.  "This meeting is over, gentlemen," he said dismissively.

With a final glare at McCormick, Kersh stormed out of the room not quite slamming the door behind him.

McCormick gave Kersh a fifteen second lead before striding towards the door.   Samuelson let him reach it and pull it open before speaking very low.  "Watch your back."

McCormick gave no sign that he heard, but Samuelson was certain he had.  It was all the warning he could give and was more than he should give, but he wouldn't send any man out into battle without letting him know that he had made a dangerous enemy.  Who in hell was Agent Mulder and how had he managed to acquire such deadly enemies during a relatively short career?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mulder arrived at work to find his desk buried under a mountain of files waiting for his attention.   It looked like Kersh had made sure his daily assignments had arrived on schedule at his desk during his absence.  Pity all of Kersh's venomous pettiness was all for naught, this time.   A few feet away, Scully was already at work, shifting stacks into manageable piles.  Mulder hoped McCormick wouldn't take too long in arranging Scully's transfer.

"You missed the show, Mulder," Foster said as he pulled up a chair and sat down.   "Kersh walked out of here about half an hour ago looking like a man in search for another scalp for his belt.   Scuttlebutt says you're out of here with hard money backing Kersh to keep you.   Me, I have my money on McCormick; he looks like a dark horse to me," Foster said with a sly smile.

Foster was an older man, somewhere in his late fifties, who served as the unofficial father figure to new agents and pariahs alike.   Jonathan Foster had been one of the best agents in Violent Crimes a few years before Mulder joined the FBI.   Like him, Foster was now in disgrace, but unlike Mulder, Foster had accepted his sentence without overt rebellion.   Foster had made the first few days of Mulder's exile bearable with advice and home-baked cookies.  While the other agents tended to avoid him as if he were contagious, Foster had always made a point of stopping by for a friendly chat.

Just about the only thing I'll miss down here, Mulder thought.  With Foster, he didn't have to watch his words or guard against him using them for his own purposes.   Foster was a good man who'd made one mistake and understood just how far the Bureau will go to exile one of their own to keep their image tidy.

"McCormick is way behind in snagging your ass." Foster sounded sympathetic.

"How did you hear about my transfer?" Mulder asked curiously.

"I may be old, but I have my contacts.  Kersh doesn't have the faintest idea who he's trying to steamroll this time.  If McCormick wants you, I suggest you start packing."

In reply, Mulder pulled out a heavy canvas tote bag and sat it on top of his desk.   Scully glanced over and rolled her eyes at the "See Scenic Area 51" logo on it.  Foster just laughed.

"Good luck, Mulder.   It's about time you got back to work.   I'll be keeping an eye on you.   Fuck up, and I'll make sure Belle finds out and then you can explain yourself to her," Foster threatened with a stern look that struggled to avoid slipping into a smile.

Mulder raised an eyebrow in response then nodded his head with a cocky, albeit slightly sheepish expression.  He wasn't aware that Foster knew about his friendship with the lady who cleaned their offices.  He'd met Belle back when he first started with the X-Files and they had shared many a late night cup of coffee over conversations that ranged from extreme possibilities to Belle's insightful comments on the Bureau bureaucracy.  Mulder would rather face a full dress-down by Skinner than have Belle tear into him.   Mulder wondered if Belle would finagle a way to find him when he started pulling late-nighters again.

Looking at his desk, Mulder realized how little he had to pack.  Nearly twenty years of work would just about fit in the tote bag.  He'd lost more than just the files when his enemies had torched the X-Files office.   He'd lost bits and pieces of his life that he'd accumulated over the years.  Books had been the hardest to lose, but he'd also lost small mementos of people and places he'd known.

Half an hour later, Mulder had finished stuffing odds and ends into his bag when the agent nearest the hallway door gave the high sign warning that Kersh was heading their way.  Even agents on legitimate coffee breaks put aside cups and pastries in order to look busy.  Mulder considered putting his feet up on his desk, but relented in the face of Scully's silent plea.

Mulder's phone rang just as Kersh stormed into the room.

"Mulder, you're mine.   Get your things and get out of there.   Meet me up in Skinner's office.   Tell Agent Scully that she shouldn't start anything she can't get finished today," McCormick's slightly triumphant voice announced.

Mulder grinned and gave Scully a surreptitious thumbs up followed by another thumbs-up and a point in her direction.   She smiled, then quickly lowered her head as Kersh barreled past her desk.   Realizing that he was Kersh's target, Mulder muttered a quick thank you to McCormick and hung up.   He couldn't help grinning at Kersh who looked mad enough to commit murder in front of a room full of witnesses.

"Agent Mulder, don't think you've won anything except the chance to bring someone else down with you when you fall.   Now get the hell out of here," Kersh ordered angrily.

"I'm almost packed," Mulder announced as he held up the tote bag.

Kersh snarled, spun on his heel and stomped out of the room.  One of the agents literally plastered himself against the wall to avoid being run down.  A general sigh of relief was heard when Kersh's footsteps disappeared around a corner.   Murmurs were heard as the other agents speculated on what had happened to turn Mulder's luck around.   After scowling at Mulder, three agents got up and walked over to Foster's desk and counted out his winnings.  Mulder was too far away to estimate how many bills were being passed over, but it looked like Foster had made a tidy killing.

"You're next, Scully; McCormick said not to start anything you can't finish, today," Mulder advised with a grin that took ten years of worry and stress lines off his face.

"Be careful, Mulder; Kersh isn't going to forget this.   I'll call you later," Scully promised with a soft smile that turned mischievous as she pulled out a tote bag of her own.

Mulder did a double-take, then laughed at the famous photo of Einstein sticking out his tongue.  Carefully stowing the bag under her desk, Scully resumed her disguise as a prim, proper agent.   Giving her a thumbs-up, Mulder picked up his tote bag and started for the door.

Foster clapped him on the back, "Go get 'em, Mulder," as he headed back to his desk.

With another few strides, Mulder stepped out into the hallway and shook his shoulders free of the tension that had accumulated there over the weeks he'd spent under Kersh's control.  A long hallway followed by a short trip up the elevator took him to the familiar hall leading to Skinner's office.  To his surprise, McCormick was waiting for him with an expression of mock reproof.

"Five minutes late," McCormick said with a tsk that dissolved into a welcoming smile.  "I was about to come rescue you.  AD Kersh wasn't pleased to lose you, but I think he's beginning to re-evaluate his place in the general scheme of things." McCormick sounded quietly satisfied that his plans had succeeded.

"You have to know that pushing for this transfer is going to upset some very important people," Mulder pointed out, but McCormick seemed unconcerned by the prospect.   Mulder didn't have the slightest doubt that McCormick knew the length and breadth of the waves he'd just sent rippling through the Bureau.   From McCormick's smile, Mulder suspected that not only did he know, he was enjoying the prospect.

"Then we'll just have to prove that putting you on this team was more important than sidelining you.  We have ten years of unsolved cases to investigate and only ten agents to solve them.   You're too good an agent to leave decaying behind a desk." McCormick sounded completely indifferent to the political storm he was unleashing.

Mulder gave him a dubious look, but decided that a public hallway was not the place to try to explain someone like Cancer Man.

"It's going to take Personnel most of the afternoon to process your paperwork.   As long as you're still on the clock, I want a chance to talk with you over lunch at Brisco's before I turn you loose on vacation," McCormick said smoothly with a hint of a smile.

Mulder raised his eyebrows at the idea of having a business luncheon at a very expensive restaurant.  "You must have one hell of a budget," he said with an admiring grin.

"Don't get too used to this, Mulder.  When the team gets up and rolling, you'll be back to living off take-out and stale coffee," McCormick retorted.

"I have a quick errand to run that shouldn't take very long.  Wait for me in AD Skinner's office.   I've gone to a lot of trouble to hook you and reel you in and I don't want some eager beaver snatching you up when my back is turned," McCormick said with a mock glare.

"Sure," Mulder agreed, although he doubted if anyone was really interested in him except a few stray enemies.

"I have to fly back to Boston tonight and expect to see you there on Wednesday.  Skinner wants this task force up and running by January 4," McCormick said as he held open the door to Skinner's office and waved Mulder through.

Walking into Skinner's office gave Mulder an odd sense of coming home.  He wondered how Skinner felt about having his own personal pain in the ass back under his command.   There was no doubt about Kim's reaction - she took one look at the tote bag and started chuckling.

"Welcome back, Agent Mulder," Kim said with a bright smile.

Mulder couldn't help but feel that she was honestly glad to see him.  He smiled back at her.   "Thanks.   It's good to be back."

"Is AD Skinner in?" McCormick asked after collecting a thick folder from the small desk behind Kim's.

"He's in a meeting, but the conference room is free until four o'clock if you need it.   I've started the coffee.  Let me know if you need anything."  Kim waved them towards the big conference room Skinner used for official meetings and turned back to her work.

"Mulder, wait here or wait in the conference room.   I have to stop by Personnel and sign off on Agent Scully's transfer papers, so make yourself at home until I get back."   McCormick was out the door before Mulder could say a word.

Mulder decided that waiting in the conference room, out of the way of curious eyes, was probably a good idea.  The conference room held few memories, good or bad, for Mulder.   Most of the time, Skinner preferred to ream him privately in his office rather than call in the brass and perform a public chastisement.   Still, it felt strange to walk in and make himself at home.  Taking in a deep breath then exhaling abruptly, he shed the months of penance doing clerical work and stepped back into the world he thought he'd never see again.  Sipping the hot coffee carefully from a mug, Mulder was pleased to see that Kim's coffee was as good as he remembered it.   With a long, slow sigh that released more tension, he settled into a chair and pondered the abrupt change in his fortunes.

"Agent Mulder," Skinner said from the doorway with one of his enigmatic smiles that Mulder had never really been able to read.  "It's good to see you back."

Now that was direct enough.  "Thanks," Mulder murmured, warily.   "Coffee?" he offered with a wave of his hand.  If Skinner wanted to talk, he'd make it easy for him.   Skinner nodded and walked over to the coffee pot.

"I see McCormick finally pried you loose from Domestic Terrorism," Skinner said after a satisfied grunt as he settled in a chair.   Mulder was taken aback by the informality and a bit wary.

"There are a few poorer agents this morning who tried to bet against him.   I learned the hard way not to do that at Quantico."   Mulder got up to refill his mug and sat back down with an awkward attempt at relaxing.  He'd never realized how hard it was not to sit at attention around Skinner.

Skinner looked like he was trying to find the words to say that he'd tried to help, but Mulder shook his head.  What had happened, happened and there simply weren't any words to cover the failures on both sides.

"A word of advice, Mulder.   You don't play by the rules even though that's sometimes what it takes to get the answers.  You're going to be watched by a lot of people waiting for you to fall on your ass.   Don't give them the satisfaction."

Mulder began wondering if this transfer was such a good idea.   It got him out from under Kersh's thumb, but he was beginning to wonder what he was getting himself into.   At least he hadn't had any more of the waking dreams which might mean that they were simply due to stress.   It would be a relief to tell McCormick he was worrying over nothing.

"Just get the cases solved, Mulder, with as few aliens and ghouls as possible.   The Director would like to arrest suspects, not put them in the Smithsonian."   Skinner's smile was trying to break through, but his Marine training was still in control.

"I'll do my best, sir," Mulder promised after making an obvious show of crossing his fingers.   For some reason he couldn't stop playing with Skinner's mind, perhaps because Skinner played so well with his.   Skinner would have made a very interesting partner.

"You bring in a ghost, Mulder, and I'll let you explain to the Attorney General how to prosecute it," McCormick drawled from the doorway.  Mulder wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there, but he was laughing.  "Walt, you're welcome to come to lunch with us, but I need to feed this man before I turn him loose to investigate the strange phenomena called vacations."

Scully was fairly easy to fool -- all he had to do was hold up an empty McDonald's wrapper and she believed that he'd taken valuable time away from a case to eat.   That wrapper died with the rest of his things in the fire, but it had been an honorable way to go.  Mulder began to realize that McCormick was going to be very difficult to fool when he got into one of his extremely focused moods on a case and didn't want to waste time eating.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After they ordered lunch, McCormick showed Mulder the tentative interview roster he'd drawn up.  Looking over the list, Mulder noticed that while the slate was heavily slanted towards people from the various Violent Crimes units, there was also a handful of white collar specialists.  Mulder recognized none of the names from that division.  He wondered how long it would take some of them to realize that what they've heard about him was as much fiction as fact.

When Mulder mentioned this, McCormick simply smiled.

"You let me worry about their preconceptions, Mulder.  This task force isn't limited to just violent crimes, although they make up a sizeable percentage of the pot."   McCormick paused for a moment then gives him an evil smile.  "Besides, I think it's about time you learned some of the tricks the boys in white collar crime use.  Think of it as broadening your education," he said with a wicked smile.

"McCormick, I slept through most of those courses at Quantico.  White collar crime investigation works better than a sleeping pill for me," Mulder protested plaintively.   Only his ability to remember almost everything he read got him a passing grade in those classes, as well as the disgust of the instructors.   Paper trails never carried the emotional weight of dealing with people suffering in the aftermath of a violent crime.   Maybe it was just that he found nothing to grab hold of when trying to profile a white collar criminal.  Their minds were as flat and uninteresting as a blank piece of paper..

"Then you'll just have to use that brain of yours," McCormick said with a chuckle.   "My ASAC, Agent Rhys, is coming over from Bank Fraud and will be coordinating the white collar crime cases until the rest of us learn the ropes.   There's going to be a lot of cross-training on this team, so don't be surprised if you end up working a fraud case," McCormick said with a smile that broadened into a chuckle at Mulder's grumbling.   "Don't look so glum, Mulder, I think you and Rhys are going to get along very well. She's as unconventional as you are, with an equally impressive solve rate."

McCormick sounded inordinately pleased with himself.   Mulder racked his brain for anything he could recall about an Agent Rhys and came up blank.

"Section Chief Palmer hasn't decided whether to curse or bless me for shanghaiing Agent Rhys, but he's wished me luck."  McCormick finally gave in to a chuckle at Mulder's perplexed expression.   "Emily Rhys has gone toe-to-toe with some of the worst misogynists in the Bureau and made them eat their words.  She also has a genius for outguessing con artists, counterfeiters, and jewel thieves."

Both men leaned back as the waiter brought their lunch.   During the lull in conversation, Mulder tried to place Rhys in the crowd of FBI agents outside of Violent Crimes.  For the most part, he rarely dealt with anyone from the white collar sections, but Rhys's name seemed vaguely familiar.

The waiter set out the plates with swift efficiency and, after a brief check to see if they needed anything else, left them to their lunch and their conversations.   Brisco's catered to the downtown D.C. crowd and the waiters were accustomed to sudden lulls in conversations when they approached.   Brisco prided himself on hiring discreet staff - if a rumor began making the rounds, it was a safe bet it didn't begin with one of his waiters.

As he absently slathered sauce on a barbecue sandwich, Mulder suddenly remembered Agent Rhys.   They had never been formally introduced, but he had heard her speak in one of the cross-training sessions the brass held periodically in an effort to remind everyone that they were all one big happy family.   Good speaker, as he recalled -- at least he remembered staying awake for her speech.  He vaguely recalled a tall, older woman with glasses, but he'd never gotten close enough to her to fix her prominently in his memory.

"Let me put it this way, Mulder, if Emily put her talents to use on the wrong side of the law, we'd be in very big trouble."

"She's that good?" Mulder asked in amazement.

"Emily once decided to show some stubborn good ole boys that it was possible to break into a room guarded with the latest high tech security devices.   She beat the system and, in the end, caught the thief.   There were a lot of red faces that day, but Emily made her point."

Mulder was suddenly very interested in meeting Rhys.   It was just occurring to him that a lot of the names McCormick had on his list were agents with a reputation for unorthodox approaches.  Mulder wondered how many wagers were being placed on how long he'd last before this task force disintegrated.   What most of the scoffers probably didn't realize was that to solve unsolved cases, you had to think outside the box.  Hell, sometimes you had to draw an entirely new box.

"When I get back in town after Christmas, I'm going to hold interviews for the few openings left on the team.   I want you to start setting up your desk in the task force room.   When you've moved in, I want you to go down to Records and start ferrying the cold case files to Rhys.   The sooner we can start looking at those files, the sooner Rhys and I can start handing out assignments.   I want this team up and running by the end of the first week in January," McCormick announced firmly.

Mulder didn't say anything, but he wouldn't want to bet against McCormick making his target date, despite the well-known tendency of Bureau bureaucracy to dawdle.

They talked of cold cases they knew about until the waiter cleared the table and brought coffee.   After a comfortable silence, McCormick's expression indicated to Mulder that he was about to branch out into the events of the past week.   Mulder tried not to raise his defenses.   He wasn't sure he was ready to accept the help McCormick was offering, but he knew he might be running out of time and options.  Working cases again might bring on another episode and this time he might not be so lucky.

"I won't push you, Mulder, but I won't be able to run interference for you for very long.  My first choice to help you appears to be out of town, so I'm going to contact a very old friend and see if she has any ideas to carry you over until I can reach Aidan.  Aidan's good friend with experience in talents like yours.  She's also very discreet, as will be anyone I ask to talk with you.  No psychiatrists bearing prescriptions, I promise," McCormick said with a hand half raised as if giving an oath.

Mulder wasn't very reassured, but he decided to at least give McCormick's friends a hearing.   He couldn't very well end up worse off than he was now with random visions marching in and taking over.

"I'll think about it," Mulder agreed grudgingly, more because of a stubborn dislike of corners than because he doubted McCormick had any secret agenda.

"I can give you some advice without consulting anyone -- get some rest," McCormick advised with a smile.

Mulder shrugged, but nodded.   He wasn't sure he remembered how to relax.  Between Kersh's attempts to grind him into surrender and the frustration of playing a game with no rules with the conspiracy, Mulder had forgotten how to relax.   He didn't dare let his guard down and didn't dare tell McCormick why.   Mulder hoped the next blow wouldn't be aimed at McCormick, but he knew there would be payback for this defeat sooner or later.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

9 p.m. Monday evening

Stopping by the gym on his way home had been one of his better ideas, Mulder thought as he popped a frozen dinner into the microwave.   A hard run followed by a brisk swim had washed away the feel of Kersh's hands on his leash.  For the first time, he actually began to believe that he was free of the man.  The fact that he had his freedom without committing murder was an unexpected bonus.

Carrying his dinner out to the couch, Mulder noticed the message light blinking on his phone.   Half afraid that it was McCormick telling him that his transfer had been blocked, he gingerly hit the play button to hear the message.   To his relief, it was Scully.  He'd missed her call by half an hour.  Of course, if he'd skipped the gym, she wouldn't have called until ten.  Mulder hoped that the early call wasn't a bad sign.

Mulder tried not to cross his fingers as he dialed her number.  "Hey, partner, what's up?" Mulder asked cheerfully.

"As of five o'clock, I am officially on vacation.   Kersh was less than pleased to receive my transfer request so soon after yours.  From his reaction, it would seem that we've been placing too low a value on our services," Scully replied with a hint of prim amusement in her voice.

Silently, Mulder pumped his arm and mouthed a "Yes!"   More audibly, he asked, "Give you any trouble?"   People had a habit of dumping their anger at him onto Scully and Kersh had been very angry the last time he'd seen him.

"Nothing that I wasn't prepared for, Mulder.  I'll just have to bear up under the heavy weight of knowing how much I've disappointed him in preferring Agent McCormick's glamorous but wasteful task force over the critically important work in Domestic Terrorism," she said with mock sadness.

"If he'd actually let us investigate rather than mark up questionnaires, he'd have more weight to his argument," Mulder groused.  Phone calls were nice, but field work was better for digging up the truth.

"You know, I do believe I may have mentioned that as I was walking out of his office.   I've been a good soldier, Mulder, but even good soldiers have their limits.   If I've burned my bridges, at least you've taught me to bring the marshmallows," Scully said with a laugh that lightened Mulder's heart.   She sounded relaxed and comfortable with her decision; a far cry from the tense, anxious woman who seemed to second-guess herself (and him) ever since they lost the X-Files.

"Way to go," Mulder cheered with a broad grin.   He felt the tension begin to leave that part of his back that he reserved for worry about Scully.   Maybe they weren't technically partners, but he sensed that they might rediscover that they were friends.

Optimist, he chided himself.

"Mulder, did you know that Emily Rhys was going to be the ASAC on this task force?"   Scully's stern tone seemed to accuse him of holding out on her.

"Not until McCormick told me this afternoon.  I've never met her.  She was a speaker at one of those cross-training seminars a few years back; interesting talk, as I recall.  I stayed awake for that one," he admitted with a grin.

"Mulder," Scully shot back in a withering tone.   "Emily Rhys was one of the early pioneers for female agents in the FBI.  How did McCormick get a division head in Bank Fraud to agree to be his ASAC?" Scully asked curiously.

"Scully, I warned you that McCormick had a way of going through obstacles.   I saw the list of agents angling to get on board and it's impressive," Mulder admitted, being careful to keep his voice cheerful.   He didn't doubt his ability to handle the investigations, but he did worry about McCormick catching flak for taking him on when so many bright boys were standing in line.

"It will be different, Mulder.   We're both used to going it alone with the X-Files," Scully said quietly, sounding as if she were having second thoughts.

"X-Files was your first field assignment, wasn't it?" Mulder asked, although he knew the answer.   It hadn't occurred to him that she'd never had the experience of being part of a crowd of agents in the noisy competitiveness of a bullpen.  She was going to have to find her own way of holding her own with agents as bright and focused as she was.  He was lucky; his reputation from Violent Crimes might carry enough weight to match his reputation as a crazy maverick from the basement.  Scully was going to have to start with a handicap.

"Starting out at the top, Mulder," Scully teased with just a hint of reservation in her tone.

"I thought rewriting Einstein was the top," Mulder stabbed back.   He was relieved to hear Scully laugh. "I don't know how McCormick is going to make this work, but if he does, you'll be able to write your own ticket when the job's done."   This could be her route away from the paranormal, spooky cases if she chose.  Mulder wanted to believe that somehow he would be able to reclaim the X-Files and that Scully would want to join him, but he knew that there would have to be a lot of healing for both of them before her joining him was a given.

"I'm so tired right now.   I'm going to take the next two weeks to try to catch up on a normal life.  I'll probably be bored out of my head by New Year's and ready to take on anything McCormick can throw at me.   It won't be the same without flukemen and man-eating lightning bugs, but I'll make do," Scully's voice sounded serious, but Mulder could see her smile through the phone lines.

"I've got a few errands to run tomorrow before flying to Boston on Wednesday.   If you want to meet for lunch or dinner, give me a call.   Enjoy a normal vacation for a change," Mulder urged.   He hoped she'd call, but was determined not to read more into a failure to call than the fact that she might be busy catching up with her mom.

"We'll see.   I'm going to sleep in and after that, I don't know.   If I don't see you before you go, get some rest.   Oh, and try not to discover any paranormal events for McCormick, at least until after the ink's dry on your transfer papers," Scully suggested wryly.

"Hey, they find me; I don't always go looking for them," Mulder protested feigning innocence.

"Good night, Mulder," Scully said, amused and barely waiting for his return 'good-night' before hanging up.

Mulder stared at his cold dinner and smiled.   Scully seemed relieved by the prospect of investigating normal cases.   He was glad he hadn't tried to talk to her about his waking dreams, the Sight, as McCormick called it.  No need to worry her with the fact that her partner was a walking case of the paranormal.  In this case, he hadn't gone looking for this 'gift;' it had found him and had moved in before he knew what was happening.

Tossing dinner in the trash, Mulder decided to hit the Green Man for real food then hunt up the Gunmen to do a bit of snooping through government sites.  The Powers-That-Be might have yanked him out of the X-Files, but that didn't mean he'd given up trying to find the truth.

It just meant he was using an alternative route.

The End

Feedback is always welcome at gyrfalcon55@gmail.com

The character of John Adler is based on the premise that Sherlock Holmes did indeed die at Reichenbach Falls only to discover that he was an Immortal.   Concocting a rather improbable story of his survival for Watson, he continued on with his life until he retired to Sussex Downs and subsequently died/disappeared.  For a master of makeup and disguise, presenting a convincing picture of age wouldn't have been difficult.  The name he is currently using is an homage to his friend, Dr. John Watson, and to the only woman who ever bested him, Irene Adler.

Mulder's off-key rendition of Isaac Hayes theme from Shaft took place in the season 7 episode, "Bad Blood," well in the future.  However, I'm taking it as canon that he tends to try (emphasis on the word 'try') to sing under the influence of drugs.

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