By Amanda Finch
Chaelysq@aol.com

Disclaimers, etc. w/ first part.

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Sheehan, Nebraska
NeuroMast Headquarters
5:31 PM

I looked at NeuroMast and I saw a large beige box, more of a rectangle than a
square, with a lower level jutting out of one end that gave the building an
L-shape. The windows were there to allow for a modicum of sunlight, and were
glazed with a dark, slightly reflective tint. The only thing I saw if I
peered into one of them through the binoculars was a panorama of the trees
and hills we were standing in. Our focal point matched-up with a fifth floor
view, and the small mirror image of myself with sniper glasses was unnerving.
Someone could be watching me there, and I'd never know. I felt eyes on me.
But that was paranoia, not divination.

Behind me, Jonson paced. Twelve feet out to the edge of our evergreen
camouflage, then twelve feet back, a military cadence apparent in his step.
I'd mistaken it for a show of anger, but I realized now he was just trying to
keep himself awake. He wasn't much on coffee, and even No-Doz knew when it
was time to hang it up and quit sending adrenaline fireballs to the brain.
I'd forgotten that some people need sleep simply to remain tolerable, and in
Jonson's case, the more the better. Slinging his bagged rifle from hand to
hand in a sort of ROTC exercise, he waited. What could we possibly
accomplish? He hadn't asked the question, if only because our talk in Phoenix
still sat prominent in his memory.

He didn't have to ask. It was a good question that I was currently trying to
answer myself.

"D.C. Tactical officer." I remarked, offhand.

He stopped. "Yeah. Made the cut when I was twenty-six. I put in ten years
before I joined the Command Unit."

"Hmm."

"What?"

I lowered the binoculars and looked at him sideways. "'A good tactical
officer can map a maze without looking at it, can stand outside a source and
render walls and constraints transparent.'"

"That's the federal PR," he said suspiciously.

"Hmm." I raised the glasses again, scanning the well-manicured expanse of
green on all four sides of the building. "You'd at least need some sort of
architectural blueprint..."

"That's the idea."

I nodded slowly. "You ever done any rappelling?"

"I did the training drills but -- " His dark eyes suddenly compressed into
slits as he bounced his glare from me to the roof of the building.
"Ohhh...you are out of your fucking mind."

"So they tell me."

The duffel landed on the ground next to where I was crouched like he'd just
thrown down the gauntlet. Limp or no limp, I was on my feet in seconds as if
he'd just pulled the pin from a grenade.

"The safety's on," he grunted, and stalked twelve feet perpendicular to the
path he'd worn in the brush. "You put any dope on a rope around that
building, you go ahead and make the funeral arrangements now. It'd be like
dangling weak meat over fucking *sharks*, okay?"

"I wasn't talking about you. I was talking about me."

He interrupted the pace again, his sneering face only inches from mine.
"That's what I meant by dope on a rope."

I dropped halfway to one knee like I was going to resume my crouch, put down
the binoculars and calmly punched him in the face. My shoulder sang with
pain, but the shrill shock of it was currently falling on a deaf system. I'd
been numb the moment I walked out of the Minot police department and
realized, with the trenchcoat shoved under my arm, that I couldn't feel the
cold.

Jonson wiped at his mouth, regarding the blood that dripped lethargically
down his fingers like it was battery acid. I only caught the last misstep of
his surprised stagger.

Now it was I who stood inches from him. "My forgiveness in this situation is
very tentative," I replied evenly. "Whether or not you hold the gun, whether
or not you ultimately feel sorry about what went wrong, we wouldn't be here
if it weren't for you, if it weren't for me. You're at least partly
answerable to the consequences."

Wiping at his mouth again, his countenance and posture both faded into
neutrality. "Only partly?"

"I'm the one who entrusted you to keep her away from the very scenario you
walked her into, so yeah, only partly." I was aware of what the words twisted
in him, and I hope they twisted it thoroughly. He retrieved his duffel from
the ground and started his pacing anew. Anger would keep him from being
sleepy now.

Until I'd found McGrath dead and rigored under the bed in Pam Wyeth's
bedroom, I'd assumed his betrayal just as tangibly as I had Jonson's. That
speculation had been as misguided as my own belief that my profiling could
discern the liars from the altruists. Serial killers were one thing, but once
Scully and my family had been dragged in as variables, my objectivity was
null and void. I couldn't even tell the McGraths from the Jonsons, much less
the Spenders from the Smoking Men or the sisters from the Syndicate. Distrust
was the only failsafe.

"It's getting dark," Jonson pointed out.

"So?"

"So I hocked my night-vision goggles and I'm tired. Let's -- "

I froze in his sudden silence. "What?"

He raised his hand sharply. Listen, he mouthed soundlessly.

At first I patiently listened, hearing nothing. Then came the unmistakable
footfall against the winter ground, a boot flattening a nest of dry vines
under the brown carpet of pine needles. That step brought with it the sharp,
involuntary inhale of a hunter who'd just given himself away to the hunted.
The power had just exchanged hands. I drew my gun and waited for the attack.

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