Distribution:  Please ask first.

Date:     May 1997

Redemption I: The Favor 
Author: Meredith

Summary: Mulder and Scully unofficially investigate a case of 
human experimentation in the 1970s and clear up a few lingering 
issues between themselves. Set immediately before Leonard
Betts. Strong 4th season UST.

Category: S,X,UST
Rating: PG



Disclaimer: Not mine. Mulder, St. Scully, and the Lone Gunmen are 
borrowed without permission. They are the property of Twentieth 
Century Fox and Chris Carter. No copyright infringement is 
intended.

Author's short note: First, although this title has a "I," it is 
a stand-alone story. No cliffhanger lurks here. I intend to 
continue this "universe" as a series of stand-alone pieces that 
will build on each other. Hence, you can read this and no future 
pieces, or you can read future pieces without having read this. 

Feedback: Well, it's what keeps me going. Need I say anything but 
"please"?

Boundless thanks, as always, to MCA for marvelous editing and 
encouragement. You are the alpha and omega of beta.


XXXXX


Washington, D.C.
January 1997
Wednesday, 7:45 p.m.

"Mulder, I need a favor."


Langly sat across from Fox Mulder in a crowded Georgetown bar 
and fidgeted uncontrollably. 

Mulder eyed up the lone Lone Gunman, who distinctly looked like 
he had misplaced two-thirds of himself, and nearly laughed aloud 
at the incongruity of the tableau: Mulder in jeans and a flannel 
shirt, Langly in a somber black suit. Well, some might call it a 
suit. His appearance was a bizarre mix of Hippie Meets Rude Boy 
-- the cheap fabric hugged his gangly body in all the wrong 
places, and the pants, while not quite high-water, were 
definitely revealing too much sock. The skinny new wave tie 
almost worked. 

And he was asking *Mulder* for a favor. 

"Langly, I'm flattered. What can a humble FBI agent do for you?"

Langly bounced nervously in the booth, surveying the noisy crowd 
suspiciously. "I need some information. I don't know how to get 
it, or even if it exists. I've tried every way I can think of and
I've hit nothing but dead ends. I need your badge power, Mulder. 
Persuasion. I think... I think I need what I don't have -- 
legitimacy."

Mulder narrowed his eyes in confusion. "I don't get it. You can 
hack into anything."

"That's just it. Not everything is on computer, Mulder. I can't 
hack into paper that may or may not exist."

"OK, OK... calm down." Langly's nervous tension had passed the 
amusing stage and was starting to border on annoying. "Start at 
the beginning. And at least take a sip of your beer if you're 
worried about anyone noticing you. People in yuppie bars usually 
come to drink or get laid, not trade conspiracy secrets."

The comment seemed to stop Langly's fidgeting, and he took a 
deep pull at his longneck. "My cousin died."

Not knowing what to say, Mulder nodded for him to continue.

"I just got back from the funeral today." He stopped and took a 
deep breath. "Daniel was my first cousin. We're the same age. We 
were like brothers as kids."


"What happened?"

"He had a stroke. Actually, a series of strokes in the last year. 
And he'd been warned that he would."

"What do you mean?"

His eyes darted to the door and back. Mulder noted with disturbed 
interest that Langly had deliberately taken the seat facing the 
door. Never pegged him as listening to the advice of a dead 
cowboy, Mulder thought.

"Daniel had epilepsy. My aunt and uncle enrolled him in a medical 
study in St. Louis as a kid in the early '70s. He didn't remember 
much, just taking an experimental medicine... and, strangely 
enough, being evaluated for psychic behavior."

Mulder nodded, despite the oddness of the statement. "I think I 
know where you're headed... Sham telekinesis tests? Bending 
spoons? Moving furniture? Same old government-sponsored
wastes of money that were so big in the 1970s? Those bogus tests 
are common knowledge now."

"Yeah, pretty much. But there's no government or institute record 
of this study, at least based on Daniel's memories. He remembered 
it as no big deal -- just a monthly routine medical evaluation,
blood work, and standard ESP tests -- like guessing Zemer cards 
and image concentration exercises.  Basically, it allowed his 
parents to get his medication for free. He'd actually completely 
forgotten about it until he was contacted by another participant 
last year -- a Bridgette Fielding. She warned him that he would 
begin having mini-strokes as a result of the study -- much like
she had."

Mulder took a sip of his club soda. "You've got my attention."

"This woman remembered Daniel's name and tracked him down hoping 
he'd remember some of the other kids and so on, and that together 
they could get enough people together as proof of what the tests 
had done -- that is, assuming they were having similar medical 
problems. But, well, Daniel wasn't much help. He was kind of an 
airhead."

Mulder restrained a smirk. "So where do you come in?"


"Daniel contacted me a few weeks before his last stroke and asked 
me for help." Langly paused, his gaze drifting out of focus 
behind his oversized glasses. "We hadn't talked in 15 years. I 
owe him." His eyes snapped back to Mulder's, and he slowly 
resumed his compulsive bounce. "So me and the guys started poking 
around. Frohike found the only lead so far -- a peculiar memo 
mixed in with a dozen recently declassified cloudy CIA satellite 
photos of Siberia."

He unfolded a wrinkled piece of paper with several lines of text 
blacked out and passed it across the booth to Mulder. Mulder 
scanned it and quickly waved away an approaching waitress who
seemed to cause a pickup in the pace of Langly's nervous 
twitching.

"This is pretty innocuous to be classified material. At least 
what you can read."

"Yeah, I know. That's why I think it's important."

"Can you verify this was your cousin's study?"

"No. But it's the only lead I've found. And what hasn't been 
inked out for posterity fits the few facts I do have."

Mulder sighed. "I assume you've checked out this Dr. Berland 
mentioned."

"Yeah, died a few years back. His son still lives in St. Louis." 
His face suddenly turned sheepish. "I, um... I tried to contact 
him. I didn't tell him any details, but I think I scared him a 
bit... he seems to think I'm a little extreme."

Mulder smiled. "So... what do you want from me?"

"I need a list, Mulder, of the participants -- and I have a hunch 
the son knows how to get one. I need to know who was in this 
study. Just get me names, and we'll expose anything from there.
You'll be out of the picture. I just need you to find where the 
paper trail begins."

The determination in Langly's tone struck him. Mulder leaned 
back into the vinyl and thoughtfully chewed his lip. Despite 
Langly's limited information, Mulder knew what his decision 
would be. How many times had the Lone Gunmen risked exposure for 

his wild theories? Too many to not return the favor. "I'll need 
to let Scully in."

"Sure thing, Mulder. You know we like her better than you 
anyway."

Mulder let out a short laugh. "We'll need to contact this 
Bridgette Fielding first to see if this is all just a figment of 
her imagination."

"You can't. She died 2 months ago."


XXXXX


Thursday
8:30 p.m.
Dana Scully's apartment


"So when do you want to go?"

Mulder glanced up in surprise at his partner at the other end of 
the couch. She certainly *looked* serious.

"Scully, are you feeling all right? You're agreeing with me on 
something without even attempting to play devil's advocate," he 
teased.

"You've got to be kidding, Mulder." she tossed back. "This is an 
unofficial case without mutants, alien spacecraft or abductees." 
Scully stretched her legs out from under her and motioned toward
the papers on the coffee table. "I'm more than willing to 
sacrifice a weekend to find out what's going on here."

 Momentarily distracted, Mulder made a mental 
note to drop in on Scully unannounced more often.

"...and it gives us a chance to help out your paranoid friends 
for once," she continued.

"*My* friends? They only put up with me in the hopes of getting 
an eyeful of you once in a while."


Scully snorted. "One pervert does not a 'they' make. Besides, 
these medical records are too similar to ignore: two young people 
experienced a series of mild transient ischemic attacks, 
culminating in massive, fatal strokes. All within a year. Both 
epileptic. It's too strong a coincidence to not follow up on if 
they were both participants in the same study.

"And this memo..." she trailed off, studying the wrinkled 
document again. "You can place both Bridgette Fielding and Daniel 
Switzer in St. Louis in the time frame mentioned here?"

"Fielding lived in St. Louis through 1973. Daniel remembered 
making monthly trips there from Chicago at least through 1975."

"Well, Mulder, I can't turn down a situation that I can leverage 
against you in the future. Consider yourself owing me a favor."

"Scully, even my accountant can't keep count of how many favors I 
owe you," he grinned. 

XXXXX


     
     Friday, 4:30 p.m.
     Dulles International Airport
     
     
     Mulder surveyed the crowd milling about the boarding area with only 
     mild panic. They had less than 10 minutes left to board. Where the 
     hell was she? He checked his cel phone for the third time. On. Battery 
     charged. He resisted the urge to hit speed dial #1 again; she hadn't 

     picked up the last five times, so why...
     
     A flash of red hair suddenly caught his eye. "Scully!" He waved her 
     over.
     
     "Mulder," she hurried toward him. "Sorry I'm late. That idiot Chambers 
     in VCS rear-ended me in the Bureau garage and then had the gall to 
     call the police to make out a report for his insurance," she growled. 
     "And to top it off, my phone is on the fritz."
     
     He nodded in sympathy as they quickly boarded the plane. After stowing 
     their carry-ons with the ease of long habit, they settled in their 
     seats, Mulder taking the window as usual.
     
     "So how was the Eppsfield autopsy?"
     
     Scully groaned. "Long. Useless. Completely unremarkable. I have no 
     idea why they even called me in to advise." She rubbed the back of her 
     neck in irritation.
     
     Mulder took her shoulders, faced her toward the aisle, and began to 
     rub her neck. "Bad day, huh?" he questioned sympathetically.
     
     "Mmm... but getting better," she mumbled. "So what did you find out 
     about Dr. Berland and his son?"
     
     "Well, to tell you I'd have to stop doing what I'm doing and grab my 
     notes," he replied mischievously.
     
     "Liar. You have a photographic memory. Spill it... and move a little 
     to the left... there."
     
     Mulder grinned. If she only had a clue.
     
     "OK. Curriculum vitae for Dr. Douglas Berland. Graduated an MD from 
     Penn State in 1957 with an undistinguished record. Practiced medicine 
     in the Army from 1958 through 1962. One son Arthur, born 1965. Wife 
     Estelle died from a heart attack in 1980.
     
     "After leaving the Army, Berland established a private practice in his 
     home town of Pittsburgh until 1970..."
     
     "Ouch!"
     
     "Sorry, you've got a knot right there. Anyway, he left his general 

     practice that year to accept a research position at Washington 
     University's medical school in St. Louis."
     
     "Now *that's* odd," Scully mused, turning to face her partner. "A GP 
     with apparently no experience in research being offered a position at 
     a fairly prestigious university."
     
     "And he was only there through 1976, when he went back to private 
     practice, but this time in St. Louis."
     
     "Well. Odd, but not necessarily suspicious."
     
     "I think you just summed up all we know about Dr. Berland." The pair 
     stopped talking momentarily as a perky steward offered them drinks and 
     peanuts. Mulder ordered for both of them, and Scully passed him her 
     packet of nuts in their accustomed routine.
     
     Scully continued after the cart had advanced down the aisle. "Did you 
     get anything from the University?"
     
     "Sort of. Records indicate he ran a lab there studying the comparative 
     efficacy of ethosuximide and methsuximide in patients with epilepsy or 
     a history of seizures."
     
     "Both common, approved anti-seizure drugs of the time."
     
     "Yeah. Pretty mundane, and no mention of any experimental drug 
     cohort."
     
     "Hmm. Did this lab produce any publications based on their study 
     results?"
     
     "Nope."
     
     Scully leaned back and pondered the garish orange fabric on the seat 
     in front of her. "Either this is a giant waste of time, Mulder, or 
     there's something buried under all this... this *lack* of anything."
     
     Mulder loudly crunched his honey-roasted peanuts. "Yep. I get the same 
     feeling."
     
     She let out a deep sigh. "So what do we know about the son?"
     
     "Even less. Divorced, one son five years old. Sells electrical 
     equipment."

     
     He turned to back to his partner, a tiny glint evident in his eye. 
     "What do you say we try to get ahold of him tonight? If we get really 
     lucky, we'll have the rest of the weekend to kick back -- our flight 
     home isn't until Sunday night."
     
     Scully eyed him suspiciously. "Kick back. Are you hinting at playing 
     tourist, Mulder? Or do you have a more devious idea in mind?"
     
     "Scully, although that question deserves a wonderfully suggestive 
     comeback, I'll be the bigger man here. The Redskins are in town 
     Sunday, and a little bird told me there's still tickets left to the 
     game," he said, with a slightly pleading note to his voice. 
     
     "Well, you can probably thank the Rams for being such a bad team for 
     that stroke of luck," she snorted. "Your treat, right?"
     
     His face erupted in a huge smile. "Of course. Consider it payback for 
     taking this little jaunt."
     
     "Gee thanks, Mulder," she answered sarcastically, the barest of smiles 
     betraying her. Sarcasm is safest, her head reminded her wisely. Oh, 
     but if he only had a clue.
     
     
     
     XXXXX
     
     
     Friday, 7:30 p.m.
     St. Louis -- Central West End
     
     
     The weather was awful. Freezing rain, sleet, snow, take your pick -- 
     it all seemed to be falling at once, noted Catie. She cheered herself 
     with the fact that she wouldn't have been allowed to go out with her 
     friends tonight anyway, so she might as well be babysitting Mark. As 
     if on cue, Mark started yelling from the living room.
     
     "Catie! There's people at the door! Can I get it? Can I?"
     
     "No!" she yelled back, slamming shut the refrigerator door, ruing the 
     fact Mr. Berland never had any good snacks. "I'll get it." Who would 
     be out on a night like this?
     

     The man and the woman huddled under one umbrella on the doorstep 
     looked a little worse for wear. "Can I help you?" Catie asked 
     suspiciously, opening the door only a crack and ready to put her 
     self-taught defense training to the test.
     
     "Is Mr. Berland home?" asked the red-haired woman.
     
     "Why do you want to know?"
     
     "We're with the FBI, miss," the man responded, showing her his badge. 
     "You don't have to be alarmed."
     
     The door opened just a bit more. "Is Mr. Berland in trouble?" Catie 
     asked conspiratorially, her eyes growing wide.
     
     "No, not at all. We just wanted to ask him a few questions."
     
     "Well, he's in Kansas City until noon tomorrow. I'm babysitting Mark. 
     Maybe you aughta come back later," she said in a disappointed voice.
     
     Mulder almost handed her his card, but then thought better of it. 
     "Thanks, miss. We'll try back another time."
     
     Catie reluctantly shut the door on the shivering agents.
     
     "Well, it was worth a try," said Mulder sadly. "Now what?"
     
     "You buy me dinner, Mulder. It's late, It's miserable out, and I'm 
     starving."
     
     
     XXXXX
     

     
     The agents returned to their hotel to thaw and dry out for a few 
     minutes before trying to find some dinner. They secured the name of a 
     locally respected pub, John D. McGurk's, from the desk clerk. 
     Fortunately it was just around the corner.
     
     Mulder and Scully instantly found the restaurant comfortable. The 
     lights were warm and low, the booths were large and private, and due 
     to the inclement weather, they had the place nearly to themselves. 
     Comforting strains of Irish fiddle music played in the background.
     
     In unspoken mutual agreement, they headed for a dark booth in the 
     back.
     
     "Your hair's frozen," Scully grimaced as they shed their icy coats and 
     sat down.
     
     Mulder felt the rapidly melting ice crystals in his hair and shook his 
     head like a wet dog, splattering Scully with cold water.
     
     "Thanks," she mock-snarled.
     
     He merely grinned evilly.
     
     The waitress brought out their dinners quickly and the partners dug in 
     -- Mulder had ordered a thick cheeseburger and Scully a bowl of Irish 
     stew and soda bread. They ate in companionable silence save for the 
     tiny, fragile sounds of ice pelting the window and the melodic 
     background music.
     
     After dinner they were loathe to leave the cozy wood-paneled booth to 
     head back out into the freezing night. When their waitress posed the 
     obligatory "Anything else I can get you?" Scully raised an eyebrow at 
     Mulder.
     
     "Coffee, please."
     
     "Make it two."
     

     "Oh, make mine Irish," Scully unexpectedly added.
     
     Mulder glanced at his partner in surprise. <>
     
     Her eyebrow twitched. <>
     
     "Same for me," Mulder said.
     
     When their coffees arrived Mulder scooped off his whipped cream and 
     plopped it on top of Scully's glass mug. She carefully stirred the 
     towering white blob into the hot coffee.
     
     "Mulder, how did you first meet the Lone Gunmen?"
     
     Mulder looked up, slightly surprised. "Actually, they found me. Even 
     as paranoid as they are, they contacted me shortly after I started 
     working with the X-Files and offered me a heap of UFO photos. They had 
     tracked me for a few months to see what sort of Fed would *volunteer* 
     to work on the X-Files. After they made the easy connection between 
     M.F. Luder and F.W. Mulder, they decided I was renegade enough to 
     approach. The rest, as they say, is history."
     
     "What do you know about them? I mean *really* know about them?"
     
     Mulder thought for a moment. "Nothing. Almost nothing. Until 
     Wednesday, that is. I still don't even know their first names."
     
     "But you trust them."
     
     Mulder met her eyes steadily. "To a point. They've never let me down. 
     They still tape my phone calls, although they don't admit it." He 
     paused, momentarily dwelling on bad memories: Scully's branched DNA on 
     Byers' computer screen. Their stunned looks when he received a call to 
     ID her body. Frohike holding flowers at Scully's bedside. He shook his 
     head. "But they've proven themselves to *both* of us."
     
     "You're right," Scully added softly, her mind reliving her own 
     nightmares. Suddenly she remembered something she had always meant to 
     ask Mulder. "Have you noticed that Byers wears a wedding ring?"
     
     He nodded. "Yeah, but I don't know the story behind that. It's kind of 
     surprising; I tend to compare their lives to ours in many ways. 
     Neither leave much room for ... outside pursuits." His smile was 
     slightly crooked, but his eyes were serious.

     
     Scully sighed. "Single-minded devotion to a cause, whether legitimate 
     or not, usually precludes personal relationships." She stirred her 
     drink thoughtfully, keeping the whiskey from settling at the bottom.
     
     "Or it forges intense ones." Their eyes met and locked.
     
     For such a chilly night, the air suddenly turned warmer.
     
     This is dangerous ground, Scully suddenly realized. She dared anyway.
     
     "Yes," she replied calmly. "But by choice or necessity?"
     
     "Depends," Mulder said softly, "on the relationship. Or one can lead 
     to the other." His face was stunningly serious.
     
     Scully felt a blush creep across her cheeks, but she made no attempt 
     to hide it. She held his intense gaze.
     
     "I imagine the Gunmen have a lot of the same habits as anyone who has 
     a, shall we say, *sensitive* career. Keeping one's personal life 
     protected, so to speak, is wise when you hold a dangerous job."
     
     Mulder smiled. "I'd love to hear you explain to them the similarities 
     between their lives and the life of a typical Justice Department law 
     enforcement officer. They'd get a bang out of that."
     
     She had to laugh. "OK, it's an odd comparison, but you brought it up. 
     You can't disagree."
     
     "No, no I can't. After talking to Langly, I think they have given up 
     a lot of contact with whatever families they have to remain 
     underground, to keep them separate from their 'cause.' In that area, I 
     don't see much difference between them and us. We try to protect our 
     families from the danger of our work as well." His face grew serious 
     and he took another sip of his coffee.
     
     They remained silent for a moment. "You hair is finally dry," Scully 
     said absently, reaching across the small table and running her fingers 
     quickly through the strands above his forehead.
     
     Her simple touch constricted something in his chest that heated and 
     spread to the palms of his hands. They burned as he clenched them 
     slowly. <> Her name had always held a thousand meanings.
     

     A dark shadow crossed his eyes. "But sometimes I wonder about the 
     necessity of keeping things hidden."
     
     She looked confused. "What do you mean?"
     
     Mulder hesitated, then reconsidered. It was about time.  "I haven't 
     exactly been a model agent these last few months, and well, I'm 
     surprised at the lack of backlash, really."
     
     Scully linked together her partner's vague references with 
     well-practiced, if not deadly accuracy. He had always relied on her to 
     drag out the painful elements of his psyche.
     
     "You mean you're surprised we still have the X-Files. That they 
     haven't been taken away -- even after Roche. Even after Apison."
     
     He winced at the second reference, although he'd known it was coming. 
     
     "Yes. I seriously doubt Skinner alone had the power to keep me from 
     suspension after I had Roche released. Something else... some*one* 
     else looked the other way."
     
     She had to agree. As much as she understood Mulder's motivations, he 
     had been completely reckless on that case -- and it had almost cost a 
     child's life. And Skinner had insinuated that it was her fault Mulder 
     got Roche out of jail; she still bristled at his implied accusation, 
     but he hadn't disciplined her either.
     
     "And the ATF agents swore they'd have your head after Apison." 
     
     He swallowed her comment  like a tonic. Bitter, but necessary. "I 
     always felt you were... *disappointed* in me on that case -- even more 
     than Roche." His tone was hesitant, almost shy. 
     
     Direct hit. Scully paled and looked away.
     
     "My behavior *was* less than professional in Apison."
     
     She mustered a deep breath. "Look, I can't explain what you 
     experienced, but..."
     
     "I was tricked, Scully -- by Melissa, by myself." 
     
     Scully tried to hide her shock. "The chronology?" she hinted.
     

     "Yes." He drew a sharp breath. "There are parts of that experience I 
     can't let myself forget. My mind was influenced by outside elements, 
     but in my regression I did see some truths. It's just taken me time to 
     sort them out for myself."
     
     She couldn't bear to ask which ones.
     
     "She played a role," he continued in her silence, "and so did you. I 
     just had to figure out where the truth ended and the deception began."
     
     "Your life is yours, Mulder. That experience didn't dictate what your 
     future will be, or show you what your past necessarily was -- or who 
     played what role." She forced herself to stop.
     
     He silently willed her to pay close attention to what he was about to 
     say. "That's the one thing I am sure of. Regardless of what role 
     Melissa played in my life, I know she isn't and wasn't my 'soulmate.'" 
     He nearly choked on the last word, but he felt a strange calm in 
     finally being able to admit it aloud. <>
     
     She looked up from the intense contemplation of her spoon. His eyes 
     were pleading, almost afraid. 
     
     <>
     
     <>
     
     "I'm glad, Mulder." She smiled. <>
     
     She continued. "So, taking all that into consideration, I think you're 
     right about our mysterious *protection.* But as much as I'd like to 
     think we suddenly have a guardian angel, the thought makes me uneasy." 
     
     "Maybe we should test that theory. You could flirt shamelessly with 
     Skinner and see if you get brought up on sexual harassment charges," 
     he teased, grateful for her sudden topic change. <>
     
     "But Mulder, what if he accepts? You know the rules against personal 
     relationships between agents," she deadpanned. 
     
     "Like I said -- at this point, what *can't* we get away with?" he 
     retorted. "But Scully, *Skinner* would be your first choice?"
     
     Two can play this game, she thought as she beckoned the waitress over. 

     "Well, Mulder, you didn't volunteer *your* services. Check please."
     
     She barely contained a smile at the shocked look on his face. 
     <>
     
     
     
     XXXXX
     
     Note: St. Louis readers may note that (1) McGurk's is never *not* 
     crowded and (2) it is nowhere near a hotel. Too bad. I can live in a 
     dream world if I want to; my creative license doesn't expire until 
     1998. :-)

    XXXXX

     Saturday, 1:30 p.m.
     Arthur Berland's residence
     
     
     Mulder and Scully pulled up in front of the modest two-story home, 
     taking in details they couldn't see the night before. The day had 
     dawned crisp and clear, overdefining every object with a sharp, biting 
     edge. Arthur Berland was home today; he greeted the agents as if he 
     were expecting them.
     
     "Catie told me some FBI agents dropped by last night," he said, 
     obviously disturbed. "Please, have a seat. Has there been some kind of 
     trouble?"
     
     They took positions on the couch and quickly scanned their 
     surroundings. The house was older -- tidy and comfortable -- but it 
     lacked a certain cohesion. Scully instantly recognized it as a home

     without a woman's presence. It would have surprised her to know that 
     Mulder recognized it as well. 
     
     Mulder began. "No sir, there's no trouble. We're hoping that you could 
     give us some information about your father -- more specifically, about 
     a medical study at Washington University that he directed from 1970 
     through 1976."
     
     Berland was instantly wary. "I don't know what you're talking about. 
     Why would I know anything about my father's work? I was just a kid 
     then."
     
     "Mr. Berland," Mulder continued, "We're working on a case concerning 
     some government-sanctioned medical experiments involving children with 
     epilepsy. We're not here on a criminal basis. The study your father 
     ran could help shed some light on our investigation." Not quite a lie, 
     he rationalized.
     
     Instead of calming him down, Mulder's comment seemed to have the 
     opposite effect on the son.
     
     "My father would never be involved with any experiment that would need 
     *investigating.* He was a general family practice doctor. What the 
     hell are you implying?"
     
     Scully intervened. "Sir, I'm sorry if you mistook our intentions. What 
     Agent Mulder is trying to say is that the results of a study that your 
     father conducted have been extremely hard to locate. Your father's 
     integrity or career are in no way being questioned. We are merely 
     looking for any information we can find on the study itself."
     
     Mulder noted with an odd sense of pride that Scully's words had 
     soothed the man a bit.
     
     "Well," he growled, running fingers through his sparse brown hair, "I 
     still don't get it. Why haven't you tried the university?"
     
     "Their records are incomplete," Scully said noncommittally. "Did your 
     father keep any records at home? Any journals or files?"
     
     "No... nothing like that..." he stared at the floor for a moment and 
     then spoke again. "Any patient records from his practice would be at a 
     storage facility downtown. Maybe there's something in those files. 
     I'll get you the number."
     

     Berland stood and walked to the study. At that moment, a small, 
     dark-haired boy bounced into the room carrying a bright red Tonka fire 
     engine. "Who are you?" he asked suspiciously.
     
     "Mark, go upstairs for a minute and I'll be up as soon as I can," 
     Berland admonished as he returned to the room, his voice calm but 
     stern. The boy loped toward the stairs as Berland handed
     Scully a piece of paper with the warehouse address and phone. He 
     remained standing.
     
     "I really don't know what else to tell you," he said curtly. "I was 
     just a kid then."
     
     Taking the cue, the partners stood to leave. Almost as an 
     afterthought, Mulder pulled out a business card and handed it to the 
     man.
     
     "The study participants we are trying to locate may have been exposed 
     to an experimental drug -- one that may be responsible for the tragic 
     deaths of two of those participants, and possibly more, from massive 
     strokes. Mr. Berland, if you can think of *anything* else, we would 
     appreciate it if you would contact us. We'll be in town until tomorrow 
     night. Our hotel phone number is on the back."
     
     Arthur Berland visibly blanched as he took the card. His fingers 
     trembled almost imperceptibly. "If I do, I... I'll let you know." And 
     with that, he firmly closed the door.
     
     
     XXXXX
     
     
     Saturday, 5:20 p.m.
     Henderson's Data Storage
     
     Fox Mulder sighed as he dumped out the contents of the final box of 
     patient records. This is beyond boring, he thought. Mind-numbingly, 
     excruciatingly, stunningly....  His self-absorbed whining was cut 
     short by the tart trill of his cel phone.
     
     "Mulder."
     
     "It's me. Any luck?"
     
     "Not a damn thing," he muttered in exasperation, floundering in 

     immunization records and detailed descriptions of chicken pox cases. 
     "Unless you count paper cuts. I found plenty of those."
     
     "Me either. I've been shuffled around Washington University like a 
     freshman with transcript problems. After hours of bureaucracy, I've 
     come up with exactly three sentences in the research archives:  
     Epilepsy study terminated 1976; funding de-obligated. Data forwarded. 
     Dr. Douglas Berland resigned from Medical School staff.'" 
     
     "Damn. Forwarded where? I'm not surprised, though. I'm just about done 
     here as well. Let me get the clerk to clean up this mess and I'll be 
     by to pick you up."
     
     "OK."
     
                                       X
     
     
     Night had fallen by the time Mulder and Scully dejectedly entered 
     their hotel. 
     
     "What a waste," Mulder said. "I'm not sure why, I just had a feeling 
     things would turn out better than..." he was suddenly interrupted by 
     Scully pulling harshly on his arm. "Mulder," she whispered, inclining 
     her head to the side.
     
     Arthur Berland stood in a corner of the lobby holding a tattered 
     cardboard file box. His face looked impossibly old, impossibly 
     forlorn. They approached him quietly, not betraying their surprise. 
     "Why don't you come upstairs with us, Mr. Berland," Scully said 
     softly, laying a hand on his arm.
     
     When they entered Mulder's dark room, Berland collapsed in the closest 
     chair. 
     
     "He couldn't have known," Berland spat out sadly. "He couldn't. He 
     wasn't like that. You didn't know my father. Whatever happened to 
     those people, it *can't* be related to anything my father did. He was 
     a wonderful man who loved children... loved his patients." Berland 
     looked up at the agents pleadingly. 
     
     "I truly don't know what you are looking for. But... my father told me 
     before he died to keep this box safe -- that I shouldn't include it in 
     the records going to storage, that I shouldn't throw it away. I didn't 
     think anything of it -- he was slipping in his later years. But for 

     some reason, I saved it. And I never looked in here until today, until 
     after you left." He paused, and placed the box on the desk.  "I think 
     it's what you're looking for." 
     
     Mulder took the box silently.
     
     "But you have to promise me something, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully. You 
     have to tell me what you find. I *have* to know. I must know 
     everything you find -- every last detail. Whether *all* the 
     participants are in danger."  
     
     He visibly struggled for words as the partners looked at him in mild 
     confusion.
     
     "You see, I have to know... for my son. To prepare for his future if I 
     have to...  I..." he swallowed painfully.  "I was a participant in 
     that study, too."
     
     
     XXXXX
     
     
     
     Tuesday, 9:15 p.m.
     Washington, D.C.
     Office of the Lone Gunmen
     
     
     Langly took the rubber-banded file folders from Mulder's outstretched 
     hands. "This is it?"
     
     "Yeah. And it's sketchy -- mostly Berland's notes, dosing schedules, 

     and experimental protocols. But, we do have the lists." 
     
     Byers motioned for the agents to sit. Langly slowly undid the folders 
     and began spreading papers across the work table.
     
     Scully launched into lecture mode. "From what I can gather from these 
     files, 200 children participated in the study and were broken down 
     into 4 subgroups. Only 100 had epilepsy, 50 of whom received doses of 
     a compound Berland called TSM -- I guess it to be a derivative of the 
     two approved drugs they were using, ethosuximide and methsuximide, but 
     there's no way to tell for sure. There's no information in here 
     regarding its chemical structure. I can't determine how, or even if, 
     TSM administration caused Bridgette Fielding's or Danny Switzer's 
     deaths."
     
     Langly's silent question hung in the air.
     
     "Yes. They both received the drug," Scully acknowledged. "We've 
     already located a dozen more participants from that cohort. Seven have 
     died within the past year. We need to find and contact the rest as 
     soon as possible."
     
     "What's strange, though," Mulder interjected, "is the fact that the 
     100 with epilepsy were all from the Midwest -- within easy driving 
     distance of St. Louis. The 100 controls all seemed to have lived on 
     the Eastern Seaboard -- a pretty far distance to volunteer for a 
     study. 50 of them also received the drug. And boys, we've been trying, 
     but we can't locate *any* of the control participants."
     
     Byers sifted through the papers. "Berland's son. Was he in the 
     control/no drug group?" 
     
     "Yes. He should be all right."
     
     "Insurance," snapped Frohike. "Wanna make a bet they used the boy 
     against him to guarantee Berland's cooperation?"
     
     The room was heavy with silent implications. Mulder's mind took a 
     sharp turn. <>
     
     Scully's voice broke the pained quiet. "There's one more thing. 
     There's someone mentioned throughout the notes -- she's just noted as 
     Margaret. You'll see the references. It's unclear who she is... 
     possibly a nurse, assistant, or a government contact. If you have any 
     ideas, we'd like to hear them." 

     
     "Also," Mulder added, "Ever heard of the  Beecher Factor'?"
     
     The Gunmen looked at each other and shook their heads simultaneously. 
     "Us either. That's the last unknown term mentioned in those files: 
     another puzzle to solve. And whatever you turn up, make sure you keep 
     us in the loop. There's probably going to be more deaths before we 
     uncover the truth. If we can prosecute someone or something for those 
     deaths, so much the better."
     
     Seemingly satisfied with the amount of information to work through, 
     Langly looked from one agent to the other. "Mulder, Scully, thank 
     you."
     
     "No problem," grinned Mulder. "We'll be sure to abuse your friendship 
     again in the near future."
     
     
                                   X
     
     
     An hour later, Mulder pulled up in front of Scully's apartment. They 
     had avoided discussing the files on the way home; Scully had sensed a 
     downturn in his mood after Frohike's comment. It was an accurate 
     observation -- the identical thought had occurred to her. But it was 
     obvious Mulder was making dangerous comparisons Dr. Berland and his 
     own father.
     
     "Gee, I finally got a spot in front of your building. Must be my lucky 
     night."
     
     She smiled gently and opened her door. "Thanks for the ride. See you 
     tomorrow."
     
     Mulder interrupted her exit with a sudden hand on her arm. "Scully. 
     Why don't you ever ask me for favors?" His eyes were curiously sad.
     
     She thought for a moment. "I don't need to, Mulder," she said 
     tenderly. "Because you always do things for me before I even have to 
     ask." She swung the car door shut, glad to see his face brightening. 
     "Good night."
     
     
     XXXXX
     

     
     Thanks for reading. I would love to get your comments -- good, bad or 
     ugly! Send what you can spare to meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com