Author: Daydreamer
Posted: August 18, 1998

Profiles In Caring - The Emerson Case II – Part 2

“Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.”
Elizabeth Barrett Browning

They continued working, Mulder sorting through pictures, papers, notes, lists, everything that had accumulated in the first case, and now the new information from this one. Since Emerson had escaped, a huge paper trail had been created.

Mulder pulled a list of properties owned by Emerson's family, and the few friends that had claimed him. He kept looking from that list to the file on the latest victim - Sara Teffy.

He was again sunken deep in himself - gone to a place he hated. That place where he was one with a killer - he knew what was felt, knew the whys of what was done. In that dark and scary place, it all began to make sense. He didn't want to be there. Admission cost too much of his humanity, and he knew he had little enough to spare. If not for Scully, he wondered if his own humanity would even be credible, or if his own alienness would overshadow all aspects of humanity.

Scully was watching him - he was pale and drawn, but he had stayed in his chair, and followed all her instructions. It was nearly midnight now, and she knew he was chafing to get up. To go. To do. To be involved.

She went to him, standing in his field of vision, waiting for him to acknowledge her. When he didn't look up, she spoke his name softly, “Mulder.”

Still no response. Skinner had turned and was watching now, too. She looked at him and saw only concern in his eyes. She reached out and touched Mulder, stroking his arms. He was so deep in himself, he barely reacted. But as she kept rubbing, and speaking softly to him, he began to register her presence. His eyes lifted and the fog cleared, and he saw her in front of him.

She began to caress the still red flesh around his wrists, remnants of his encounter with the AI. “Mulder, I know I said you could get up at midnight, but I would still like you to go to the hospital and let them check you out.”

He looked at her hands, and his own arms under her gentle fingers, and an unexpected shudder surged through him. “No, Scully, no hospital. You're my doctor and you checked me out.” He sought her eyes with his own. “I'm ok, much better now. Please, no hospital.”

She sighed. “Well, at least let me look at you one more time, then.” She pulled her pen light and did the neuro check, then took his pulse and respirations. She felt his head for fever, then used the aural thermometer for confirmation.

“Ok, Mulder, get up. Let me see you walk.”

He rose steadily to his feet, if slowly. He walked over to the door and returned, no shakes, no trembles.

Skinner and Mulder were both looking at Scully now, awaiting her decision. She looked back at them with hands on hips, finally saying, “All right, Mulder, you can go.”

As he immediately moved to the closet to pull out new clothes, she stopped him with a blunt, “BUT . . .”

He froze and turned again to face her, hands falling to his sides, his body stiff.

“You stay with me or Skinner, you got that?”

He nodded and when she fixed Skinner with a look, he nodded too.

“And, absolutely no running off and chasing people, no matter what happens, understand?”

Mulder nodded again, and turned to closet for clothes, then went into the bathroom to dress.

Sara Teffy - He kept coming back to the woman. They were at the site where Sara's body had been found. An abandoned office in an abandoned warehouse. Dust covered everything, including the floor. Thick layers of dust, everywhere but where it had been stirred by feet, and where it had been darkened by blood. There was something here, he just knew it. He could feel it deep inside him.

He looked up to find Skinner watching him. The AD had the first 'shift,' staying with Mulder, while Scully went to the morgue to look at the body.

Sara had been beaten to death. No subtle messages of choking, it wasn't swift, it wasn't clean, and it certainly wasn't painless. It looked as if she had run and been caught, then been released to run again, only to be caught once more. And that it had happened over and over again.

Each time Emerson caught her, he beat her a little more, and each time he let her go, it was harder for her to run. He was like a cat, playing with it's prey. Mulder dropped his head. <He just wants to play.>

Why Sara Teffy? All the victims from before were connected to Emerson in some way. But they could find no connection for Sara. So why did Emerson choose her?

Mulder dropped down against a broken desk and wrote in the dirt on the floor.

SARA TEFFY

He played with the letters for a while, but couldn't make them tell him anything. He got up and began to prowl again. He opened the desk drawers, one at a time, each one empty till the last. And there, waiting for him, a clean, new phone book.

He pulled on latex gloves, and took it out, opening it to the Ts. And there it was, circled in red - SARA TEFFY and the address. So Emerson had sought her out - but why?

He called Skinner over and showed him what he'd found. Skinner bagged the book as evidence, and went to call Scully, to see if she had anything new to tell them.

Mulder sat in the dirt, and began writing again, anagramming Sara's name. Suddenly, it appeared to him - SAFETY. But that still left A R F. He tried other variations, but kept coming back to SAFETY. That had to be it.

He pulled out the copies of the notes. The second one was almost signed - with an M. M for Emerson? Was it a shorthand signature? And when you add the M to the A R F, you could make F A R M. That was it!

He jumped up, running out the door, calling to Skinner. “He's got the other girl at the farm, Sir. They're at the farm!

Skinner stood close as Mulder emerged from the car, ready to offer a hand if needed. But Mulder never even looked his way. He only had eyes for the farmhouse in front of him.

“It's been under constant surveillance since Emerson escaped?” he asked again.

“Yes, Mulder,” Skinner answered, “no one in or out.”

“Well, it's time for someone to go in,” Mulder muttered.

The two men walked toward the house and were met by the local police Lieutenant who reiterated what Skinner had just told Mulder. Constant surveillance - no one in or out.

Skinner brought the Lieutenant up to date on Mulder's latest suspicions, and was rewarded with a snort and a disbelieving look. He pulled the man aside, out of earshot of Mulder and hissed, “Look, his methods may be unorthodox, but he gets results! Now, you keep your subjective opinions to yourself and get some people in here to open that house up. We're going in, understand?”

Skinner walked back to Mulder while the Lieutenant strode off angrily. Within minutes, the police had the door open and Mulder and Skinner were entering the front door.

Skinner watched as Mulder paused in the doorway. What was he doing? Adjusting to the light after standing in the dark outside? Getting his bearings? Or something more? Absorbing a killer from his surroundings perhaps? Skinner shuddered and gave thanks again that he had never shown an aptitude for profiling.

He was roused from his introspections by his name coming from Mulder. “I'm sorry, Agent Mulder, what was that?”

“I said, is Scully coming, Sir?”

He sounded forlorn, like a young boy who wanted his mother, or an ill and injured man, doing a dirty job, who needed his support system. “I called her. She is still working on the body but will join us here when she's done.”

Mulder nodded, but still hung back. A deep breath, - gathering his courage? - and he moved into the house. He began to move methodically through the house. He entered each room, pausing in the door, then moving into the room and standing in the center. He would look around, sometimes walking closer to something that caught his attention. He never touched anything.

The whole tour of the house took almost 45 minutes. The local police were obviously bored and unimpressed with the master profiler's results. Even Skinner found himself getting slightly impatient.

Mulder came back to the front room, Skinner still trailing behind him. He began muttering to himself, “Must be south. Sara for south. Can't be north or west. No N or W. Could be East - there's an E in Teffy, but that's a stretch. It must be south, south for Sara.”

“Which way is south, Sir?” he asked.

“South?” Skinner was startled. “South, Mulder?” He thought for a minute, then pointed back toward the kitchen and the rear door of the house. “That way I think. Why?”

“I'm not sure yet.” Mulder began to walk toward the kitchen. The stove was on the back wall, next to the door. Mulder stopped in front of it and studied it.

“What are we looking for, Mulder?'

Mulder waved him quiet and continued to study the stove. Finally, he reached out and pulled it from the wall. It was unplugged.

“Look, Sir, the right rear burner is set at 3. All the others are off. And it's not plugged in.” Mulder stopped with a self satisfied grunt, as if that explained everything.

Skinner, however, had the feeling he had missed a very important piece of the puzzle, that no matter how hard he tried and how much attention he paid, he just wasn't quick enough, sharp enough, smart enough, to keep up.

“Mulder, what does it mean?” he asked.

“I think it means the other woman is three miles south of here.”

The team had assembled outside the cabin that was, as Mulder predicted, three miles south of the farm. Mulder and Skinner stood in the woods on the outskirts of the small yard surrounding the cabin.

As Skinner looked at him, Mulder swayed, his arm reaching out to balance himself against a tree. “That's it, Mulder,” Skinner began. “You either sit here, out of the way, or you go back. You have no business being out here to begin with.”

Mulder started to object, then noting the determination in his boss's demeanor, he lowered himself to the ground, and leaned up against the tree. His head was pounding again, and the dizziness was back. He needed a pain pill, but Scully wasn't here yet.

Skinner crouched down next to him. They watched in silence as the local QRT made their preparations. As they began to advance on the cabin, Mulder suddenly hissed, “Something's not right. Sir, stop them!” He was becoming increasingly agitated.

“What Mulder, what's not right?”

“Look, Sir, stay with me here. He wants to play. He's set everything up as a game and so far I'm keeping up, right? We're here, right where he wants us. He set the board, he made the rules, he invited us over, and now, HE WANTS TO PLAY!”

As the deadly meaning dawned on Skinner, he was on his feet and moving, running full out to intercept the team about to knock the door down. As he got half way through the yard, the team swung the ram, the door fell inward, and the night erupted in a blaze of explosives and machine gun fire.

The team on the porch was dropped immediately, blood flowing freely. Mulder watched in horror as Skinner, too, was dropped in mid-step.

He pulled himself to his feet, hitting '1' on his cell as he began moving toward the AD. When Scully answered, he gasped out, “It went bad, Scully. I think Skinner is hit. Oh, God, Scully, it went so bad. I blew it big time.”

“I'm on my way Mulder, I'll be there in about 5 minutes. Hold it together, partner, I'm coming.”

He dropped the phone as he reached Skinner and was relieved to see he was not only alive, but aware, and beginning to sit up. Blood seeped through a hole in his pants, halfway down the calf. “Just stay still, Sir, please, lay down and stay still. Help will be here soon.”

“How bad is it, Mulder?”

Mulder looked at Skinner's leg and made as if to lift the trouser leg, but Skinner waved his hand away. “No, Mulder,” he gestured at the cabin, sitting part way up and turning to look, “how bad is it?”

Mulder stood and looked at the police swarming over the porch and yard by the door. He hadn't heard any indication that anyone had lived through the explosion or gunfire. He knelt by Skinner again, shaking his head.

Skinner hissed, in pain and remorse. “Aw shit.” He lay back on the ground, arm thrown over closed eyes. “Shit.”

Mulder sat on the ground next to Skinner, waiting for the medics to get to the AD. As they waited quietly together, the Lieutenant walked over. “The girl is alive, badly beaten, tied to a chair and surrounded by enough explosives to light up the county. It's a miracle it didn't go off when the door went.”

He paused and looked down at Skinner. “You hurt bad?”

Skinner shook his head.

“Good. All my people - they're dead. The whole damn team. Thought they could save Cathy, but she bled out right in front of the medic.” He rubbed his face. “She's got two little kids. And Jackson, his wife is pregnant - first kid.” He rubbed his face again. “Jesus. What a fuck up.”

Mulder just hung his head in shame and misery.

The Lieutenant again looked at Skinner. “You be ok for a few minutes?” When Skinner nodded, he continued, “I want your boy here, to see this girl - she's got a note nailed - yes, nailed - to her chest.”

He turned and headed off, calling back over his shoulder, “I'll send the medics - God knows they can't help my people. You coming, Mr. Profiler?”

Mulder started to rise, but Skinner reached out his hand and stopped him. “You couldn't prevent this, Mulder. This is not your fault. Emerson did this. Don't you forget that. Emerson is the bad guy here, not you. You got that? That girl is alive - one life saved - you did that. Emerson killed the rest.”

Mulder nodded miserably, and stumbled off after the Lieutenant. Skinner knew he hadn't gotten through, but maybe Scully could. She should be here any minute now.

As Mulder walked through the bodies strewn in the yard, he felt this must be what war was like. There were people crying all around him, men and women alike. Bodies everywhere. Blood all over the place.

He clamped down on his emotions, and his stomach, and followed the Lieutenant into the house.

The young woman sat tied in the chair, gagged, surrounded by a sea of unstable looking explosives, beyond the reach of any of the officers in the room. She was badly beaten, bruises standing out against her fair skin. Her horrified eyes flicked frantically back and forth between the people surrounding her, searching for someone to help her.

There was a crudely lettered paper nailed <Jesus, nailed!> into her left breast.

S H E I S W R Y C L U E

L

Mulder began to speak to the girl, reassuring her that help was forthcoming, they would get her out, she would be ok. He murmured it as a mantra as he played with the letters on the note in his mind.

Suddenly, he froze and went silent. “Oh, God, NO!” he cried. He turned and raced out the door. He flew across the yard skidding to a stop by Skinner, and fumbling on the ground for his cell, where he had dropped it.

Skinner was being treated by the medics, and was frantically calling, “What is it, Mulder? What's going on?”

Mulder found the phone, opened it, and hit '1' again. His face relaxed as he heard the familiar click of the answering phone being opened. But his features slid to horror as a male voice asked,

“W H E R E I S S C U L L Y?”

Chapter 12

“Let these describe the indescribable.”
Lord Byron

Skinner watched in horror as Mulder collapsed onto the ground, and into himself. He fell to his knees, rocking, a keening wail coming from his throat. He wrapped his arms around his chest, almost as if he were trying to hold himself together. Tears poured unchecked down his cheeks.

The medics had just finished stitching Skinner's leg. One was gathering their things, while the other put a final bandage over the wound. Both had stopped, and were staring at the sight in front of them. “What the fuck?” one of them breathed.

Skinner yanked his leg out of the medic's grasp and pulled himself over to Mulder. He gathered the younger man to himself, trying to still the desperate rocking that had to be painful to his still injured skull. He began to shush him, gripping him tightly.

“Mulder, what happened? You've got to talk to me.” Skinner was getting frantic, Mulder seemed to be totally slipping away from the here and now. He held him still more tightly, totally constricting his movements, and the rocking stopping. The younger man was still in his arms, but stiff as a board. The keening stopped.

“Mulder, talk to me - what did you see?”

Mulder began to rock again, despite Skinner's hold on him. “Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully, Sculleee . . .” With the last wail, Mulder collapsed into Skinner's arms, slipping into unconsciousness.

The medics had watched this amazing display in total disbelief. But upon witnessing the collapse and subsequent unconsciousness of one of the two men, they were back on familiar ground and raced over to assist.

Calling for a gurney, they lifted Mulder and strapped him down. He was already beginning to come around again. Skinner stayed by his side, dodging the medical personnel as they took vitals, and made the initial assessment.

“He's got a slight concussion from a fall earlier. And he's just started on antibiotics for a bladder infection.” Skinner offered what little he knew of his agent's medical history.

“Allergies, blood type?” he was asked.

He just shook his head. Scully would know, but she wasn't here yet. Skinner looked around, then hobbled over to Mulder's phone. He was afraid he was beginning to figure out what had happened. Resetting the phone, he, too, hit '1' and waited.

“The cellular customer you have called has turned off their phone or traveled outside the local calling area.”

Skinner slammed the phone shut. He stood in place, breathing hard, hands clenched into fists by his side, as he fought for control. Damn it to hell, that bastard had Scully!

Scully came to slowly. It was dark, which was probably good, because her head hurt. She lay on the floor, her left arm under her. She lay quietly trying to assess her situation. She hurt all over, but some places stood out more. Her head, her left wrist, her right side. She rolled onto her back and struggled to sit up.

She was in a basement, with thin windows high on the wall. It seemed to be morning, the sky had that glow that signaled the sun was coming, but it hadn't arrived yet. She felt the back of her head, finding dried blood matting her hair and covering a large swollen lump.

Her left wrist was broken. She looked around for something to immobilize it with, finding several wood strips in a corner. She secured them to her wrist, using the belt from her pants.

No food, no water, no phone, no weapon, no way out. She walked her prison, surveying it. No way to reach the windows, and they were barred anyway. She designated a corner as the bathroom facilities, relieved herself, and returned to her 'bed,' the area where she had awakened. She sat again, thinking of Mulder.

“Please stay strong, Mulder. I need you to come get me,” she thought. “Please come get me.” She sat there quietly, cradling her broken wrist in her lap, and thinking of being clean, being well, and being free.

She heard the approaching footsteps, before the door began to move. She got to her feet, ready to face Emerson.

He was tall, surprisingly slender, and not unattractive. His brown eyes glittered with excitement. He rocked on the balls of his feet as he stood, staring at her. He seemed unconcerned with the closed, but not locked door behind him, and Scully felt the first glimmer of hope.

He advanced toward her, and she stood her ground. He stopped, looking quizzically at her. “I am a federal agent, Emerson. Every cop, trooper, and agent in four states is looking for me - and you. If you don't want more trouble than you've already got, you better get away from me - get far away from me.”

She was pleased that her voice had been forceful, and the tremors she felt inside hadn't come out. She had spent hours this evening, no, last night, looking at what had happened to a woman whom Emerson had gotten close to. It wasn't pretty.

He laughed at her, then lunged, and she instinctively backed away. He smiled as if to say, 'Now you're getting into the game.'

She realized then, that she had to stand up to him. Any show of weakness excited him more. She took a step forward, inwardly pleased as she saw hesitation cross his face. It flickered briefly and was gone, and he reached out, grabbing her broken wrist, twisting the makeshift splint off, and slamming his fist into her face. He then threw her to the ground.

Pain exploded in her head and her arm. She fell heavily, and he kicked her in the side. She gasped as the breath was knocked from her, and she struggled for oxygen. He grabbed her hair, and pulled her to her feet, slapping her face as he held her. He aimed one last punch, striking her full force in her left breast, and then watched curiously as she bent double in pain.

His hand still held her by her hair, and he watched with interest as she struggled to breathe. Tears streamed down her face, and she knew she was bleeding in several places. He watched her for a few moments more, then, as a child loses interest in a toy, he dropped her, turned and walked quickly to the door, and exited. She heard the heavy locks slide into place and then, at last, his footsteps receded up the stairs.

She slumped back to the floor, still crying, and sank blissfully into unawareness, her last thoughts, 'Come quickly, Mulder. Please come get me.'

Mulder emerged to full consciousness as they were loading the gurney into the ambulance. Skinner was there, and immediately reached out to calm him as he began to fight against the straps.

“Let me go, damn it,” he cried. “Sir, get me out of this. Emerson has Scully!”

“I know, Mulder, I know.” Skinner studied him closely. “Calm down. You must calm down. How are you feeling now?”

“My head hurts - and I'm sick when I think of that bastard with Scully.” Mulder did indeed look sick. “Get me out of here. I've got to get to the office. I need resources. I have to find her.”

His voice rose as he spoke, growing louder and increasingly agitated. “Mulder, I want nothing more than to get you out of here, and out finding Scully.” Skinner gave a pointed look at the medics who were watching, then said, “Are you in control enough to allow that to happen?”

Mulder took a deep breath, then said, “Yes sir. I understand.” He paused, then said, “Just give me something for my head, Sir, and then I'm ready to go.”

Skinner patted Mulder's arm approvingly, then nodded to the medics. “You heard him, let him go.”

“No way,” the medic stated. “He's clearly injured and out of control. The doc at the hospital wants us to sedate him and get him on in.”

“No!” Mulder cried.

“Absolutely not!” Skinner echoed at the same time.

“But, sir,” the medic began.

“There is no but,” Skinner interrupted. “This man's partner has been abducted by the mad man that had the young woman in the house, the same man that orchestrated this little event for us. Now, let him go!”

The two medics looked at each other, visions of lawsuits and joblessness clearly in their thoughts.

Mulder started to speak, but Skinner laid his hand on his arm, quieting him. He watched the two medics in silent debate, and decided to try one more time for Mulder's release. “Look, do you guys work with the cops here a lot? Do you - did you - know the people who were killed?”

Both medics focused on Skinner, nodding their heads slowly. The older one spoke, “Yes, to both questions. I went to school with Cathy, the only one still alive when we got here. We couldn't save her.” His voice broke.

Skinner gripped Mulder's arm tighter, willing him to be quiet and look sane. “This man,” he gestured to Mulder, “is the best, hell, maybe the only, chance we have of catching the bastard that did this. You have to get him up, and get him functional. It is not an option.”

The medics exchanged one last look, then the older one walked over to the gurney. Mulder was unstrapped, and sat up rather unsteadily. Skinner limped over to him, placing an arm on his shoulder. “Mulder, you have to tell me if it gets to be too much. I don't - I can't - read you as well as Scully. She knows what to look for and I just don't. I'm sorry. But she needs you, and you have to help me make sure you can do what you have to do.”

Mulder looked at the older man, and saw his concern for Scully, but also, a deep concern for him. “I understand, Sir. I'll try.” He paused, leaning into Skinner for a moment, then lifted his head and added, “She needs you too, Sir. She needs us both.”

Skinner nodded grimly, then helped the younger man off the gurney. He stood for a moment, getting his balance, then he and Skinner turned and went to find a ride to the station.

The police had taken them to the local FBI office. Skinner had briefed the local SAIC, while Mulder made a list of what he needed.

An agent had been dispatched to the hotel to pick up all the case materials. He also brought a change of clothes for Skinner and Mulder's meds.

Skinner checked on Mulder, saw he was busy with the materials he had requested. “You ok? You need to take some pills.”

Mulder nodded. He slipped his glasses off and went to the cooler for water. He obediently swallowed the pills Skinner placed in his hand then went back to his lists.

Skinner called the agent that had been semi-designated as their gopher. All the other agents were working in teams either following leads Mulder had given them, or assembling information he required Skinner beckoned their gopher over.

With his clothes in one hand, he nodded at Mulder. “You stay here, with him. If he needs something, send someone else. You don't leave him, you understand?”

“Yes sir,” the young man replied, looking at the disheveled profiler and wondering what he was supposed to watch for. For a 'wunderkind,' this guy seemed to leave a lot to be desired. But the AD certainly seemed impressed.

“If there's a problem, send someone for me. I won't be gone long anyway.” He fixed the young man in his steely gaze. “Just don't leave him, got it?”

Again, the young agent nodded. What the hell was going on here? What was going to happen? And why did he have to draw the short stick, stuck here fetching and carrying for these two outsiders, one half crippled even if he was an AD, the other just half crazy.

He watched as the AD maneuvered his way out, on the crutches that had been requisitioned earlier. Then he turned and left the room, leaving the man he wasn't supposed to leave, alone.

Mulder sat staring at an empty piece of paper. His head pounded, feeling like the top was going to blow right off. He still had to go to the bathroom almost constantly, and still wasn't producing when he did so.

But all of that paled in light of the empty paper in front of him. He had read everything on Emerson at least twice now. He had gone through lists of properties, jobs, activities, schools, residences, friends and acquaintances. And he still came up with the same thing - nothing.

Scully was depending on him, and he was doing nothing. He was so tired, and his head hurt so badly, he could hardly think anymore. He looked up, expecting to find Skinner, but instead saw only an empty room. <That's strange - where is everyone?>

He bent back to the empty paper, then suddenly, pushed his seat back and rose to his feet furiously. He ripped page from pad, tearing it into little bits and flinging them into the air.

He stood for a minute, then turned and raced into the far wall. He began pounding the wall, in time to the pounding in his head. As he beat his fists into the concrete wall, the agent who was assigned to him, rushed in.

“Hey, Mulder, stop that!” he cried, hurrying over to him. When Mulder didn't respond, and didn't stop, he reached out and tried to grab his arm. Mulder whirled and placed the next blow against his face.

The young man sat down, hard. “Fuck this, you asshole. You're nuts.” He stood, but kept his distance. “Your keeper can deal with you.”

He went to the door and hollered, “Somebody get the AD. His pet profiler's gone nuts.”

Skinner had heard the commotion and was already on his way back to the room. He heard the young agent's comments as he rounded the corner, and was pleased to the see the young man colored when he realized Skinner had heard him.

Skinner stopped by him and said, “Agent, you are dismissed. Tell the SAIC I require someone else for assistance. Now, go!”

Skinner entered the room to find Mulder still beating furiously against the wall. His hands were bleeding, and the wall was slick with his blood. Skinner hurried over to him.

“Mulder, Mulder, come on. You've got to stop.”

“I can't let him win!” Mulder howled. “I won't let him win!” He stopped, freezing as he realized what he had just said. “NO WIN,” he whispered. “NO WIN.”

He stood there, mind working furiously through the fog of pain, struggling to chase the train of thought that was trying to pull away from him. He began to mumble.

“NO WIN. He knows he won't win. He's 'playing,' but he knows he won't win. He's not a winner, never has been. He only knows how to lose. He'll - structure - this so he loses in the end. But how many more will die before he's ready to lose?”

Skinner listened in chilling silence as Mulder journeyed through a madman's mind. When Mulder stopped speaking, Skinner said gently, “Mulder.”

When there was no response, he reached out and took the agent's bloody hands. “Come with me, Mulder. Come sit down for a minute.” The younger man was freezing cold. His heart was racing, his eyes unfocused and cloudy. Skinner seated him, then went to the door and called for a medic and a blanket.

As he returned, he offered a silent prayer that he would be able to see his agent, his friend, through whatever was happening in his brilliant, complex mind.

Mulder sat quietly now, totally immersed in what he knew of Emerson's mind. Time stopped and the bits and pieces he had read, had studied, began to coalesce in his head, and Emerson began to emerge. He began to see where he would go. He followed, determined to go to hell itself if it would bring Scully back to him.

How long he sat, he didn't know. But he slowly became aware of sound outside himself. His face was wet. <Have I been crying?>

He looked up, scared he would still be alone, and was relieved to see Skinner standing by him. His hands were bandaged, and he was covered in a blanket. He blinked twice, and looked down again. Skinner was rubbing his arm and talking in a low voice.

“Mulder,” Skinner said, relief evident in his voice. “Welcome back, my friend. I thought I'd lost you and Scully would not be pleased if that happened.” Skinner grinned. “I think you just saved my ass by coming back to me.”

Mulder gave a half smile in response. “Uh, sir, he knows he won't win. NO WIN, remember. Everything he does is part of the larger picture. His MAD LIFE, he still has enough vestiges of humanity to see his own madness and know he won't win. He's been treated in a mental hospital, somewhere. We need to find it.”

Skinner rose, “I'll get someone on it right now. But you are going to lay down and try to sleep.” He helped Mulder up and walked with him to the couch on the left wall. That Mulder didn't protest was testimony to his exhaustion and the pain he was in.

Skinner stepped out and got the team researching mental hospitals. When he came back, Mulder was sleeping.

Scully didn't want to wake up. It was nice here, wherever this was. She knew that whatever lay on the other side of this place, was no place she wanted to be. But there was a steady pounding against her side, and she was forcefully pulled back to wakefulness.

Emerson stood there, looking down at her, and kicking her steadily in the ribs. She went to move back from him, and felt excruciating pain. At least one was broken.

He saw her movement and said, “Oh good, you're awake.” He looked at her as a entomologist studies a an interesting specimen. “You can go now.”

She just lay there, unable to comprehend what he was saying.

“Did you hear me? We're done now.” He leaned forward, and smiled when she flinched. “YOU CAN GO.”

She struggled to her knees, still watching him, expecting him to strike out at any moment. The door was open and beckoned her. She lurched to her feet, and began to stagger towards freedom.

It took all her concentration to stay on her feet. She focused on moving one foot in front of the other. She was almost there when she heard it. A giggle. Emerson. She redoubled her efforts to reach the door. Once outside she could lock him in and go for help.

A foot tripped her and she fell heavily. Emerson leered down at her. “Oops. Sorry.” Another giggle. “I changed my mind. You have to stay.” And a fist connected with her chin. Her nose exploded and blood flowed freely. She tried backing away, but could no longer move.

The foot resumed kicking her, on the small of her back this time, over her kidney. He dragged her over to the wall, and grabbing her by the hair beat her head against it until blood flowed again. She felt the darkness calling her, and longed to drift to it. But something, someone was holding her here.

She looked up, struggling to focus, and saw Emerson staring at her. In his hand he held a hammer and a nail. He took a step toward her and she was powerless to move.

“Oh Mulder, where are you?” she thought, as merciful darkness carried her away.

Emerson had been a mental patient, at a hospital now closed. Skinner came back into the room. Mulder had been asleep a little less than two hours but Skinner knew he would never forgive him if he didn't wake him for this.

As he moved to the couch, the still figure began to twitch and moan. He hurried forward just as Mulder surged up, screaming, “Let her go!”

Skinner dropped his crutches and grabbed Mulder's wildly flailing arms. He spoke calmly and soothingly, “Mulder, it's Skinner. Wake up.”

Mulder slowly focused on his boss's voice, speaking gently into his ear. He turned and looked at him. “Is there any word on Scully, Sir?”

“Not yet,” Skinner answered. “But your idea that Emerson was a mental patient panned out. The hospital is closed but it's not too far from here.”

Mulder was already rising. He looked around and saw the crutches Skinner had dropped. As he retrieved them, he said, “We have to go there. I have to see it.”

Arrangements were quickly made and they traveled in anticipatory silence to the old hospital. When they entered, Mulder immediately went to the second floor, the ward Emerson had been kept in. He walked quickly to the common room, as if he knew where to go. Skinner and the locals trailed him, Skinner moving as quickly as his injury would allow.

Mulder pulled open the door and froze. From behind him, he heard the sound of retching. Someone said, “Oh Jesus!” There, in the center of the room, split from neck to navel, was the body of yet another young woman. A brightly lettered sign taunted them:

N O T H E R E

Mulder ignored them all and immediately set to work on the anagram. “Somebody who knows this area, is there a place called THE RENO, or THE REON, or THE NERO?”

“The Nero,” a voice answered. It's an old movie theater from the forties, been closed for years.”

“Let's go,” Mulder turned. “Scully's there.”

When they got to the theater, a large sign met them on the outside door.

R U S H T H I S

E

They lost valuable time as the bomb squad and QRT tried to determine if the building was rigged. Mulder once again played with the letters, a ragged sob being wrenched from his throat as he realized the message.

S H E I S H U R T

Once the team cleared the building for entry, Mulder went straight to the basement, following an invisible cord that pulled him. But was Scully or Emerson on the other end? At the bottom of the stairs, a heavy wooden door was locked with numerous slide locks.

“Scully,” he called, frantically pulling the bolts to get through the door. He slid the last one and pulled the door open, only to be met with blood, blood and more blood. Blood everywhere. He scanned the room in panic, slowly realizing he was too late.

She was gone. But on a makeshift pallet on the floor, her shirt lay, torn and bloodied. Nailed to the shirt, over where her left breast would have been was she wearing it, and on top of a huge blood stain, was another note:

P A I N S H I N E S

Skinner had come in late behind Mulder. Navigating stairs on crutches was neither easy nor quick. He walked up as Mulder collapsed, clasping Scully's shirt to his chest. His haunted eyes looked up, finding Skinner, and he croaked,

“SHE'S IN PAIN.”

Chapter 13

“There was never a genius without a tincture of madness.”
Aristotle

Mulder had collapsed completely. Skinner didn't know how he was going to keep him out of the hospital this time. He knelt on the blood stained pallet, holding - clutching - Scully's shirt to his heart. Tears streamed down his face and a continual moan escaped his throat. He rocked back and forth on his knees. He ignored every attempt Skinner made to get his attention.

The local agents milled around behind Skinner, unsure of what to make of this. Mulder had been right on in every instance so far. They hadn't come up with anything new or helpful that hadn't been suggested by Mulder. They knew he was the only way they would ever catch this monster. And he was a weeping, trembling basket case.

Skinner rose and turned. Using his best AD voice, he ordered, “Clear this room! Right now! This is a crime scene. Where the hell is forensics?”

All movement ceased for a moment, then agents began sheepishly backing toward the door. It grew quiet, and Mulder's moans seemed louder in the absence of other sound.

When everyone had left except Skinner and the SAIC, he said, “I need to be alone with him. He'll come around, but it may take a few minutes. Get the forensics detail over here. We need to confirm this is Scully's blood, and get an idea on whether or not she's . . .” he paused, swallowing hard, “Whether she's lost too much blood. God forbid, but we need to know - are we looking for a live agent or a body?”

He shuddered as Mulder's moan turned into a wail at the thought he had just voiced. But, curiously, that gave him hope. Mulder was in there, he was listening, he could be reached. The SAIC left, posting an agent outside to insure privacy, and went to arrange for the next team to come in.

Skinner stood looking at Mulder as he tried to figure out how to approach him. He went and touched his forehead briefly. Just as he suspected, cold. He called to the guard requesting blankets. And Mulder's pain medication. He was going to need it after this. Concussion was a bitch.

Mulder's moans had quieted some, and he now sobbed quietly into Scully's shirt. Skinner took the blanket and walked over to him. Approaching him cautiously, aware of what he had done to the agent back at the station, he spoke. “Mulder, you're cold. I'm going to put this blanket around you now.”

No response. Skinner wrapped the blanket around him, being careful not to go near Scully's shirt. As he tucked the blanket tightly around, he began to rub the younger man's shoulders. Mulder tensed even more, but he stilled his frantic rocking somewhat. Ignoring the pain in his own leg, Skinner knelt behind the tortured man, still steadily rubbing Mulder's shoulders.

Skinner thought back to how Scully had reached Mulder in the past. It involved talking soothingly, being tactile, and lots of patience. He knew Mulder could hear him; his response to the thought of Scully's body had proven that.

He began to speak in a low, soft voice, assuring Mulder that Scully would be ok, telling him he was needed, praising him for the work he had done thus far. He stroked the younger man's back and shoulders, trying to connect him to the present, as if he could physically pull him back from wherever his mind had taken him.

Slowly, so slowly that Skinner didn't realize it was happening at first, Mulder began to still. He relaxed in tiny increments, leaning back into Skinner's bulk, allowing himself to be supported. The tears began to dry, and no new ones fell to take their place. The pause between sobs grew longer, and the sounds themselves grew quieter.

When Mulder had not moved or made a sound for almost five minutes, Skinner reached his arms around, and pulled him to him in a fierce hug. Holding him tightly, he whispered, “You're ok, now, I've got you. Mulder, you must come back now. I can't find Scully without you. We'll find her together, Mulder. I'm here, I won't let you go.”

Skinner continued to hold the younger man, waiting to see if he had gotten through. Skinner felt, rather than saw, as a bandaged hand came up and tightly gripped his arm for a long moment, before falling back to it's owner's lap.

They remained that way a bit longer, Mulder tightly wrapped in Skinner's embrace, leaning heavily against the AD, but still, calm, quiet. At length, Mulder stirred. His voice was husky, whispery, and cracked as he said, “You must be getting sore by now. How's your leg?”

Skinner tightened his hold for a minute, then let go, pulling back slightly to give Mulder some space. “It hurts. How's your head?”

“It hurts.”

“You functional?”

“For now.”

“I'll get your pills. What else do you need?”

<Scully> “The lists. Where he's taken her is on the lists. I just need to find it.”

Skinner struggled to his feet, then reached down and pulled Mulder up as well. Scully's shirt was still tightly clasped in his bandaged hands. But he rose without complaint, and waited patiently while Skinner got his crutches.

Without looking up, Mulder said, “Thank you, Sir.”

Skinner went to him, and gripped his shoulder tightly. He nodded, then said, “Come on, then. We've got work to do.”

It was raining. The cool water felt wonderful to Scully. She opened her mouth to drink it in, and it tasted wonderful too. She could feel the individual drops as they fell on her eyelids, her nose, her hair, in her lips. It was wonderful. She lay there quietly, letting the wonderful rain bathe her wounds, soothe her cuts, erase her thirst. But all too soon, the rain ceased.

With difficulty, she pried her swollen eyes open enough the peer out. Different room, she noted. Bedroom? When did he move me? How? She tried to turn to get a better look and Emerson appeared in her field of vision. He stood over her, a dripping rag held loosely in one hand.

“Ah, you're awake,” he said.

Don't let him see your fear, Scully reminded herself. She thought her jaw might be dislocated, it hurt to try to talk. She croaked, “Get the hell away from me Emerson.”

She thought she saw that flashing of surprise again as he shifted his gaze to meet her eyes. “You're very - interesting - you know. You don't beg - you just give orders. It's really rather refreshing.” He looked away for a minute, then returned his gaze to her. “Rather stimulating, actually.” His eyes dropped to her bloodstained bra, all that covered her from the waist up.

She closed her eyes as his hand moved toward her, and her stomach heaved as he stroked the skin along the bra strap. She released a breath she didn't realize she had been holding when she felt his hand withdraw without touching her further.

He reached down roughly, and pulled her to her feet. “Stay up,” he threatened, and she did her best to comply. If she could just stay on her feet, maybe she'd be able to do something to get out of here.

He held her loosely by her arm. She cradled her broken wrist in her right hand, and was bent over, protecting her broken ribs from further assault. Her left breast ached terribly and was bleeding. The sudden movement up had broken open half a dozen smaller wounds, so she bled from several other places as well. She breathed shallowly through her mouth, and thought her nose might be broken as well.

“I require my women to beg,” Emerson's voice rang out, interrupting her catalogue of injuries. “Since you obviously will not, you must go.”

Scully didn't move. 'Uh unh, you bastard,' she thought, 'we've played this game before.'

He began to walk her slowly toward the door. She came, not willingly, but without much resistance either. He walked her into a living room of sorts, and seated her on the couch. She noted that the door was not locked.

Emerson looked at her, like a bug on a microscope, and said, “You can't go out like that. You need to clean up first. I'll be right back. “ He stood and left the room.

Scully sat for a minute, trying to decide what to do. Could she make it to the door and out before he came back? And what was outside? If nothing was nearby, she didn't have a chance. No way could she move fast enough to stay ahead of Emerson.

She struggled up and hobbled over to the window. There was a car right outside. She looked around. And keys on the table by the door. She looked around again, then made her decision. Sweeping the keys off the table, she made her way to the door as quickly as she could.

It opened silently and she slipped outside, not bothering to shut it behind her. She half hopped, half fell down the three steps to the ground, and went straight for the car. As she reached for the handle, a voice spoke, “I told you you couldn't go out like that, now didn't I?”

Scully froze, a sob strangled in her throat. She felt his hand on her arm, and as she was roughly turned to face him, the back of his hand caught her across the face. She staggered from the blow, but he held her upright. He hit her again, then a third time, holding her tightly as she tried to avoid the blows.

He reached out, and taking her broken wrist in his hand, yanked her forward. As she collapsed in the dirt, she felt him kicking her - her back, her legs. She curled into as small a ball as she could trying to protect as much of herself as she could.

She refused to give him the satisfaction of making her beg, but in her mind she begged, she pleaded, she cried out, 'Mulder, please come get me!'

His foot moved up and down her body, kicking her repeatedly. At last, he connected sharply with her exposed temple, and she slid away into the blackness that beckoned her.

Mulder sat staring at a table full of lists. Scully's shirt lay across his lap and one hand fingered it while the other rested across the papers. His eyes were unfocused, but this time it was exhaustion that was the cause. Skinner watched as he slowly leaned forward, his head lowering onto his arm. Skinner let him sleep undisturbed for a few minutes, then he eased his glasses off, and pulled the blanket back around him.

He stepped to the door and spoke to the new agent assigned to them. “He's asleep. No one goes in or out without my say-so.” When the young woman nodded her agreement, Skinner told her to have sandwiches sent up in a couple of hours, and knock gently when they arrived.

He reentered the room, saw that Mulder was still sleeping and began his own tour through the many lists that covered the conference table. He felt very out of his league here. Shit, Mulder wasn't even sure what he was looking for, how the hell was he supposed to find something or make a connection? But he felt he had to try.

He'd done all he could as an AD. A full team was on alert, ready to move at a moment's notice. Skinner had mobilized everyone he could lay his hands on, and every lead Mulder produced, no matter how slim, was being investigated, researched, followed up on.

Emerson's former neighbors, teachers, co-workers were all being interviewed. Former dwellings were being searched. Distant relatives were being sought out. They'd turned up enough evidence to link Emerson to the previous murders, that the 'difficulties' the court had with the case, were no longer even a distant concern.

Skinner sorted through the lists, looking desperately for something, anything, to jump out at him and give him a reason to wake Mulder. But the harder he looked, the less he saw. He took his responsibilities very seriously, always had, and right now, one of his agents was in the hands of a sadistic madman, and there was nothing he could do.

A wave of pure rage poured across him, and he rose quickly, moving to the center of the room, away from things to pound that would make noise and wake Mulder. He stood rigid, ramrod straight, hands clenched into fists by his side, breathing ragged, as he struggled to control the fury that washed over him. His leg hurt, so he deliberately put more weight on it, using the pain to focus away from the rage, and back onto constructive avenues of exploration. He stood for long minutes, letting the pain consume him, chasing the anger back into a manageable corner of his soul.

Skinner started as a gentle knock sounded at the door. He limped over and pulled it open. The young woman stood before him with sandwiches, coffee, and soda. Skinner glanced disbelievingly at his watch. Had two hours really passed?

He took the food and drinks from her and turned to reenter the room. A slight clearing of the throat arrested his movement. “Yes?” he inquired. “Is there something else?”

“Yes, Sir, this just came up. One of the neighbors that knew Emerson as a child remembered he had a summer job at an old amusement park down on the gulf. It's closed now, but thought you should know.”

“Very good, thank you. I'm going to wake Mulder now. Let me know immediately if anything else comes in.”

Skinner cleared a spot on the table, and put the bags down. He stepped over beside Mulder and softly spoke his name. Mulder stirred, but didn't waken. Skinner reached out and shook the sleeping man gently.

“Shh, Scully, go back to sleep,” Mulder whispered.

Skinner smiled, then shook him again, harder, and called, “Come on, Mulder, time to get up.”

Mulder opened his eyes, blinking owlishly as he left the dream state and entered the state of reality. The slight smile that had graced his lips disappeared completely as he came to full awareness.

“Aw, shit, Sir, how long have I been out?”

“A couple hours, Mulder, and don't start with me. You were dead on your ass, and not getting anything done. At least now, maybe, we can all be a bit more alert.”

Mulder swallowed the retort on his lips, and nodded reluctantly. He reached up and rubbed his temple. <God, my head hurts> “I've got to go,” he mumbled and started to rise. As he got to his feet, a wave of dizziness washed over him and he began to fall.

Skinner reached out and grabbed him, holding him steady. “You need to eat, Mulder. With the head injury you'll be fighting dizziness anyway. Starving yourself won't help.”

“I bet Scully's not eating,” Mulder muttered under his breath.

“And even if she's not, Mulder, you starving yourself won't help get her back. Especially if you end up in the hospital or unconscious. Now, let's get you to the bathroom, and then you eat.”

Mulder nodded miserably, and let Skinner lead him to the bathroom. He finished <the pills must be working, this is getting easier and it doesn't hurt so much!>, washed, and exited the restroom. Skinner was leaning against the wall, waiting for him.

“Feel better?”

“Yeah, a little. My head still hurts.”

“Time for another magic pill. Come on, let's eat.”

They ate rapidly, Skinner filling Mulder in on Emerson's job at the amusement park as they ate. Suddenly, Skinner stopped in mid-bite. “Hey, Mulder, if this guy wants to play, like you've been saying, then what better place than an amusement park?”

Mulder froze, dumbstruck. He closed his eyes and tasted the idea. He rolled it around in his mind, fitting it in with all the other bits and pieces that were stored there. He pulled it out and looked at it under bright lights, then dragged the concept into shadowy recesses and squinted at it. He slowly opened his eyes. It fit!

“Where?”

“About 30 miles southwest.”

“How soon?”

“Now. The team's on standby.” Skinner studied Mulder. “Are you sure?”

Mulder stood and helped Skinner up. “I'm sure.”

Skinner and Mulder stood near the mobile command post, following the progress of the team as they swept the old amusement park. “Clear” “Clear” “All Clear” rang from the radios.

Mulder began to sweep the area looking for other possibilities. She had to be here, but where would he go? “Is there a caretaker's house on the grounds? Anything like that?”

He waited as Skinner consulted a printout, then replied, “Yeah, Mulder, around back in a wooded area that wasn't open to the general public. But employees would have known about it.”

Skinner radioed the SAIC and arranged for a team to meet them there. When they assembled, the team commander assigned positions and they prepared for entry. Skinner and Mulder hung back. Both being injured, they couldn't afford to be a hindrance. But as the team was moving into position, there was a resounding 'crack' and a scream shattered the air, “Mulder!”

Mulder broke and ran. He hit the front door full force and didn't stop, screaming, “I'm here Scully, I'm coming!” as he followed the sound of her cry. Skinner was behind him, following as quickly as he could. Mulder went down a hall, pausing outside a bedroom. He turned the knob, threw open the door, and there she was!

Scully was hanging, mercifully unconscious, from a hook driven into the ceiling of the small bedroom. Her face was a swollen mess of bruises and blood. Her left breast was covered in dark, dried blood. The bone in her broken wrist had pushed its way through the skin, pulled by the weight of her body hanging from it.

Mulder immediately moved toward her, but before he had taken two steps, his head exploded, and all went dark.

When he came to, he was shirtless, his right arm pulled out from his body along the wall, and tied to a desk. His legs were loosely tied down, obviously a rush job. Blood trickled from the wound at the back of his head. His vision was blurry, and he felt faint and nauseated.

Emerson stood beside the closed door, talking to someone on the other side. “I have all of them, and if you come in I will kill them.”

Skinner lay unconscious across the room. His stitches had pulled out and his leg was bleeding freely. A large purple knot decorated the brow above his left eye.

Emerson turned to Mulder and saw he was awake. “So glad you decided to join us.” His eyes glittered madly. “Though I prefer to play with women, you and your companion offer some interesting possibilities.”

“Emerson, let Scully and Skinner go,” Mulder croaked. “I'll stay and play with you.”

“That's very kind of you, Fox, but I think I prefer to keep all of my playmates for the time being.”

He advanced to Mulder, holding a note out. It read

I T S R E A L L O V E

“I made this one just for you and the formerly lovely Miss Scully.”

He cut the rope that held Scully and let her fall. He lifted her and brought her over and placed her next to Mulder, her head nestled against his chest under his raised right arm. She flopped bonelessly against him when Emerson let her go.

Emerson turned and checked on Skinner. Still out. He turned back to Mulder, lifted the note and held it to his right bicep. Mulder watched in horror, as Emerson pulled a hammer from his belt, took a nail and began to nail the note - and Mulder's arm - into the wall. Pain stormed through Mulder's body as he tried to recoil. He screamed once, and passed out.

When he came to, Emerson was tying the still unconscious Skinner.

“Emerson.” Mulder called out, barely above a whisper. Emerson turned from where he was trussing Skinner. He looked quizzically at Mulder.

Mulder's right arm was still nailed to the wall. Scully was tucked into his side, under the arm, unconscious. The bloody note still proclaimed

I T S R E A L L O V E

But Mulder had freed his right leg from the rope, and pulled it up, and his left hand was at his ankle. “Read the note again, you asshole,” he sneered at Emerson. “Play the game.”

Emerson looked at the letters on the note. His brow scrunched in concentration as he worked on rearranging them to form a new message. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he looked at Mulder.

The pistol from the ankle holster was in Mulder's left hand. He looked into Emerson's eyes, pulled the trigger, and said, “That's right, you bastard, ITS ALL OVER - E.”

Chapter 14

“The pain passes, but the beauty remains.”
Pierre Auguste Renoir

Skinner woke again and looked toward the window. It was dark now. His head still hurt, but it was a dull ache, just barely noticeable. His leg was bandaged and he could feel the stitches beneath the gauze. No IV, so he hadn't been out too long. He had awoken earlier and moved to sit next to Mulder's bed, but been chased back to his own by an officious sounding nurse. Once there, sleep had recaptured him all too quickly.

He turned the other way and saw Mulder in the next bed. Still sleeping. He looked at the bandages covering the young man, his head now sporting a turban, and his arm was tightly wrapped and immobilized. An IV ran into one hand and a catheter snaked out from under the bedclothes. As he watched, Mulder began to moan.

Skinner pulled back his own covers and slipped out of the bed. He walked carefully over to the chair he had placed next to Mulder's bed, and resumed his self-imposed vigil. Gently cradling Mulder's hand, careful of the IV, he began to speak soothingly to the sleeping man.

“Shhh, Mulder, it's ok. We made it. Scully's ok. When you feel better, we'll go see her. She's gonna be fine, Mulder. You did good, son. You did so good. I'm really proud of you.” Skinner kept up a running stream of commentary, hoping that his voice, and his sentiments, would reach Mulder where he tossed uneasily, crying out now and then.

Skinner reflected on how sensitive this young man was. Given the trials he had faced in his life, it would have made sense that Mulder would have cut himself off from his feelings, isolated himself for protection. That's how he had handled all the emotional issues from the war. It made him strong, but it also kept him alone. How much more Mulder had suffered, and yet, he faced those painful demons as needed when it would help another.

Though he never would have thought it of himself, he was envious of Mulder's ability to release his emotions, whether through tears and other emotional display, or by reaching out for comfort, and being willing to accept it. The only emotion he himself had ever been comfortable with, was anger, and that certainly created more problems than it solved. And his own unwillingness to accept those other emotions had led him to a lonely place, a place he lived alone.

His new - friendship - with Scully and Mulder had provided him opportunities to witness how Mulder's sensitivity and emotional availability was really an asset. And while he wasn't able to express himself that freely yet, or possibly ever, he had become much more willing and able to be supportive, and to offer comfort when it was needed. That was progress, wasn't it?

His quiet monologue seemed to be working as the younger man was more settled when Skinner talked to him. As Mulder stilled again, Skinner released his hand and tentatively reached out to brush the hair back from his eyes. His hand lingered on Mulder's brow as he thought of how much the young man had suffered, how close it had been for them, how incredibly, Mulder had saved them all.

As he stroked Mulder's forehead, his eyes slowly came open. Skinner pulled his hand back, touched him gently on the arm and said, “Well, hello. I wondered when you'd be joining us.” He smiled. “How are you feeling?”

Mulder ran a dry tongue over cracked lips and croaked, “Scully?”

“She's ok, Mulder.” Skinner poured water and held it to his agent's lips. “She's going to be fine.”

Mulder drank greedily, and Skinner pulled the cup away. “Slow down. There's more if you want it.” He held the cup out again and Mulder took several more sips, pausing between each.

“Thanks. Where is she?”

“She's next door. I've been over a couple times already.”

“I want to go.”

“I know, but you can't, not yet.” Skinner paused. “You're pretty sick Mulder. They had to put a catheter in - your infection was way out of control.”

Mulder looked down, then scrunched his face in distaste. “Scully wouldn't have let them. She knows I hate that.”

“Sorry Mulder, she and I were both out at the time. Your arm is pretty torn up, they had to do surgery to repair the damage from that nail. It's just muscle and ligament though, you should heal and be fine. And your head was not helped by all this.”

Skinner paused. “When I came to, you were strapped down. Apparently, you hadn't been the most cooperative patient, even unconscious.” He shook his head ruefully. “Why am I not surprised? Anyway, I made them unstrap you, but you have to stay in bed.”

“I want to go see her.”

“Mulder, she's still out.” He looked carefully at the young man, trying to gauge his reaction to his next words. “There was a lot of trauma, Mulder. They had to induce coma.” As Mulder's eyes filled, he rushed on, “But, they're going to bring her up tomorrow. If you rest and stay in bed like you're supposed to, your catheter comes out tomorrow, and you can be there when they wake her. Deal?”

“Can you go? I don't want her to be alone.”

“Yes, Mulder, I understand, but I've already been, several times. She's out, not in pain, letting her body heal. I know you don't want her to be alone, but right now, there is someone else who's sick, and hurt, and shouldn't be alone either.” Skinner reached out gently and took the young man's hand, holding it tightly.

As the meaning of Skinner's words reached Mulder, the tears in his eyes began to fall. Skinner stood and pulled the young man into a strong embrace. He held him as he cried, rubbing his back, and murmuring encouragingly. As Mulder gulped in a last shuddering sob, Skinner laid him back into the bed.

He gently brushed his hands over Mulder's eyes, saying, “Go to sleep, Mulder. Rest. Heal. Tomorrow will be here soon.”

Mulder woke as the curtain was pulled around his bed, separating him from Skinner. An overly cheerful voice said, “Good morning Mr. Mulder, and how are we this morning?”

“Is that the royal pronoun, or are you ill also?” Mulder asked snidely.

The nurse colored and a deep voice from behind the curtain threatened, “Behave, Mulder, or I'm coming over.”

Mulder rolled his eyes, then looked up sheepishly and said, “Sorry, I can be a real bastard when I don't feel good.”

The nurse smiled forgivingly, <he was cute!> and said “Well, I don't think you want to antagonize me. As soon as the doctor comes round, I'm going to be removing the Foley for you.”

Mulder groaned. “In that case, I'm really sorry.”

>From behind the curtain came a loud chuckle.

The young woman took his vitals. She unwrapped the bandage to look at the healing gash on his head, smiling approvingly. “Much better. Now just let me measure your output.” She leaned down, clamped the tube and removed a partially full bag. “Very good.” A new bag was attached, but the clamp stayed on. “That will help you recognize that full feeling.”

She pulled the curtain open and breezed out of the room.

“When are they waking Scully, Sir?”

“After you're mobile. I talked with her doctor and he agreed it would be best if you could be there. Your doctor agrees, but she wants you to pee on your own before she lets you up. Better start saving it up, Mulder.”

Mulder groaned again, and closed his eyes. <Noon. I am outta here at noon.>

Skinner looked over at the determined look on Mulder's face and said, “And don't be making plans to jump ship. I've got an agent outside this door, and outside Scully's. I know how you operate.” He smiled as Mulder's eyes popped open and he turned to look.

“I just - I need to see her, Sir.”

“I understand that, but she needs you whole, or as whole as you can be. She's got a lot of healing to do, and she's going to need a lot of support.”

“What ...” a strangled sound, “what did he do to her?”

“He beat her pretty badly. Her left wrist is broken, compound fracture, and two ribs. Her nose is broken. And the note that was nailed to her shirt - that was done while she was wearing it.”

Tears slid down Mulder's face as he took this in. <Oh Scully, I'm so sorry. Why didn't I see it sooner?>

“Why the coma?”

“He beat her, and kicked her, a lot. Her kidneys were slightly damaged, and her spleen ruptured. It was fortunate you found her when you did, she wouldn't have made it much longer with the amount of internal bleeding she was doing. And he kicked her repeatedly in the head. Brain swelling. The coma was to allow time for the swelling to recede.” Skinner sat up and fixed Mulder with a stare. “But, Mulder, she is going to be all right.”

Mulder returned Skinner's look appraisingly, looking for anything the indicated he was withholding or sugar coating the truth. Finally, he nodded, and said, “Just so you know, I am outta here at noon, so that doc better get here soon.

Just then the door opened and the doctor entered. “Good morning Mr. Mulder. Since you've been asleep every time I've been in, you don't know, but I am Dr. Albertson. Your cultures look good and your fluid intake and output are in the right range. Are you ready to get rid of the catheter?”

Mulder nodded vigorously. “Absolutely, the sooner, the better.”

“Ok, then, I'll send Allison back in to do the dirty deed. I've heard about you - don't give her a hard time, you hear?” She chuckled and started to leave.

“Excuse me, Doctor, when can I get up? When can I see Scully?”

“You can get up as soon as you urinate on your own. You produce like you should, and you can go see your partner right after, ok?”

Mulder nodded again, “All right, thanks.”

Allison came back in, slid the curtain shut again, and pulled back the blankets. Covered only by his short hospital gown, Mulder flushed slightly.

As she gripped the thin tube, Allison asked, “Are you ready? Good, then bear down and here we go.”

Mulder clenched his teeth and tried to swallow the groan that immediately came to his lips. <Damn! This hurt like hell coming out!>

“All done,” Allison chirped. “Now, be sure and let me know when you need to urinate. We have to measure your output if you want to be released.” She opened the curtain again, and swept out of the room.

Mulder nodded again, still breathing hard and thinking that Foley catheterization could easily be considered torture in some third world nations. He sighed, then leaned back closed his eyes, waiting for the urge to relieve himself, so he could get this over with and get over to Scully. It better happen soon; his patience was at it's breaking point!

Mulder had rested and then produced, as requested, right on schedule. He and Skinner now sat in Scully's room, waiting for her to wake. Her doctor had discontinued the meds keeping her under, and they were all waiting for her to awaken naturally.

The two men talked quietly, Skinner taking the opportunity to tell Mulder, again, that he had done a good job all through the case. He didn't think Mulder was buying it, but at least he wasn't arguing. And he seemed somehow pleased to be hearing any praise at all. Mental note to self - be sure and tell Mulder when he does good - he obviously hasn't heard it enough.

Mulder sat as close to Scully's bed as he could. He had taken a position on her right side, so that he could hold her hand. He couldn't help himself from touching her. Everywhere he could see, if it wasn't swollen, or cut, or bandaged, or bruised, he reached out and touched her. That left him limited to her ear, a small spot under her chin, just above her elbow, and, of course, holding her hand. But he repeatedly made the circuit, just to reassure himself that she really was here, she really was alive, and he really could touch her.

Skinner watched as Mulder went through his ritual - Scully's hand in his, and with his other hand, a gentle stroke of the ear, a finger's bare touch under her chin, a tender kiss to the elbow, then sit for all of 30 seconds and start again. As he watched, Mulder's kissed Scully's elbow and she stirred. Her eyes fluttered and Mulder immediately spoke, “Hey Scully, come on, wake up. How you doing sleeping beauty?”

Scully opened her eyes a bit more and focused on Mulder. “Oh Mulder, you came.” she whispered. “I knew you'd come and get me.” Her eyes slid shut and she drifted off again.

At Scully's expression of confidence, Mulder's eyes again filled with tears. He gently moved her arm aside and laid his head on the bed by her. “Oh, Scully, I'm so sorry - I was so late in coming.” He began to cry, telling her everything that had happened, everything he had seen and done and experienced and felt. Skinner listened quietly, again impressed by Mulder's sensitivity and the depth of concern he showed for everyone but himself.

They sat for some time more, before Scully began to stir again. Skinner saw the movement and rose quietly to allow some privacy for his two star agents. He went to the door, then paused, looking back, watching over these two people whom he had come to care about.

This time, as Scully opened her eyes, she looked straight at her partner. “Mulder,” she sighed, “You're here. I thought I dreamed it.”

“Where else would I be?” he replied. “How do you feel?”

“Foggy. I must be on some pretty good stuff, huh?”

“Only the best for my girl.” He tried to smile but it was more a grimace. He started to speak again, trying to maintain the lightheartedness, but the words caught in his throat. “Oh, Scully,” he cried, “Oh, Scully, I thought I lost you.” A sob escaped. “If I lost you, I would be lost forever.”

She reached out to him, pulling him in closer, and whispered, “Never, Mulder. Never. You can never lose me.”