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Almost Midnight

by Brandon D. Ray (publius@avalon.net)
 

Fox Mulder's Apartment, Alexandria, VA
December 25, 11:58 p.m.

It was dark and the phone was ringing.

Fox Mulder struggled groggily to wakefulness, trying to sort out what was real from the dream he'd been having.  The phone ringing for the third time helped orient him, and he clumsily reached out and grabbed the receiver before the answering machine could pick it up.

"Mulder," he mumbled.

There was silence on the other end; then he thought he heard someone breathing.

"Hello?" he said, more sharply.  "Is someone there?"

"Fox."  It was a woman's voice, very faint.

Who the hell?  There were only a handful of people who might call him at this time of night, and only one or two of them would call him by his first name.  His eyes flicked over to the Caller I.D. box, and his photographic memory identified the number instantly.

"Tara?" he said.

"Oh, Fox," she said, and this time he detected a tremor in her voice.

"Tara, what's wrong?"

There was another silence, and he thought he heard a choked sob.  "Fox, I need your help.  I don't know who else to turn to.  The police say they can't do anything, and the Shore Patrol --"

"Tara!" he repeated sharply.  "What's wrong?  What's going on?"

There was another silence, longer than the others, and when she finally spoke again, he could barely hear her.  "Bill is missing.  And so is Dana."

#          #          #

Ten minutes later Mulder hung up the phone.  He'd spent five of those minutes calming her down, and another five gleaning from her what little information she had.  Scully had been visiting her brother and his family for Christmas -- that much Mulder already knew.  On the evening of the 23rd she and Bill had gone out in search of eggnog.  They had not returned.

Tara had, of course, notified the appropriate authorities:  The San Diego Police and the Shore Patrol.  Neither agency had been able to find Dana or her brother.  Not a clue, not a lead, nothing.  To all appearances brother and sister had climbed into his car, pulled out of the driveway, and vanished without a trace.

But Fox Mulder had been living in the shadows for a long time, and one thing he knew with certainty:  Nothing vanishes without a trace.

Now he started dialing airline ticket reservation offices.  Twenty weary minutes later his initial suspicion was confirmed:  There was not a single seat available on any flight from Washington to California until after the first of the year.  Which was, of course, totally unacceptable.

Next he called Skinner.  The phone was answered on the sixth ring.

"Hello?"  His former supervisor's voice was foggy with sleep.

"This is Mulder.  I need your help."

"Wha --?  Mulder?"  A pause.  "I'm not supposed to be talking to you."  Another pause.  "Do you know what time it is?"

"Scully's missing."  He didn't say "again".  He didn't have to.  "So's her brother Bill."

Another pause, very brief.  Then:  "What can I do?"

"I need a civilian air transport priority for Delta Flight 1109, departing from Dulles at 5:30 this morning, with a connection in Atlanta with Delta 423, non-stop to San Diego."

A faint rustling sound.  "Okay, got it.  Anything else?"

"I also need to assert federal jurisdiction, with myself as SAC."

"Jurisdiction shouldn't be a problem," Skinner replied.  "Scully is a federal agent, and her brother's in the Navy, right?"

"That's right."

Skinner continued, "But the San Diego SAC may have some problems with an outsider --"

"Fuck the San Diego office," Mulder said flatly.  "If they were doing their jobs, instead of sitting around with their thumbs up their collective asses, maybe this kind of thing wouldn't happen."  He was being irrational, and he knew it, but there was no one else to take his anger out on.

There was another moment of silence.  Finally, Skinner said, "I'll see what I can do, Mulder."  He hesitated.  "Have you spoken to Kersh?"

Kersh.  The new A.D.  Mulder hadn't even considered calling the man; he didn't really know him, and he certainly didn't trust him.  "No."

He could almost hear Skinner nodding to himself.  "All right.  All right, I guess I understand.  I'll do my best to expedite things for you; with luck your authority should be waiting for you by the time you arrive in San Diego.  Anything else?"

"Not for now."

"Keep in touch, Mulder.  I'll do anything I can to help; you know that."

"I know."  And he punched the disconnect button savagely.

One more call to make.  This time the phone was answered promptly, and the voice at the other end sounded as alert as it ever did.

"Frohike," Mulder said.  "Turn off the tape."

After the briefest of hesitations:  "Done."

"I need some research done, and I need it fast.  I need you to get me everything you can find on a missing persons case.  The information will be in the files of the San Diego Police Department and wherever the hell the local headquarters of the Navy Shore Patrol is located in that area.  The subjects are Bill and Dana Scully."

A shocked silence.  "Jesus.  I'll get right on it."

"Whatever you find, send it to me on the net.  My private account; not the FBI one.  I'm flying out of Dulles at 5:30, and expect to be in San Diego by 12:30 or so Washington time.  If you can start feeding me information before then, I can study the files on the plane and hit the ground running as soon as I arrive."  He hit disconnect without waiting for a response.

Mulder rose from the sofa and moved rapidly to his bedroom.  Owing to the nature of his job, he always kept a suitcase packed and ready to go.  All he had to do was add a few toilet items, and his Sig Sauer.  The entire process took less than ten minutes, leaving him with far too much time to kill before he had to leave for the airport.  He considered finding something to eat, but his stomach rebelled at the very idea.  He considered pouring himself a drink to calm his nerves, but he was afraid that once he started drinking he wouldn't be able to stop.  Finally, he sat down on the sofa again to wait.

#          #          #

Dulles International Airport
December 26, 5:14 a.m.

The airport was crowded, even at five in the morning.  Mulder knew he should have expected that, given the impossibility of making a reservation without using government muscle, but he hadn't really thought about it, and the reality of the bright lights, the incessant Christmas music on the overhead speakers, and the jostling, happy crowds of travelers came as something of a shock.  For the past five hours he'd been living in a world even darker than the one he usually inhabited, and finding himself suddenly in a bubble of holiday cheer was hard to cope with.

At first he had dealt with it by ignoring it, and concentrating on the mundane tasks of procuring his boarding pass, getting his gun past airport security, and making a belated phone call to Tara to let her know he was on his way and when to expect him.  But that had taken only so long, and now he was sitting in the waiting area of his assigned gate, trying not to think too much.

God, he was tired; he was exhausted.  He knew he should have slept; he'd only been asleep for a couple of hours when Tara's phone call came, and the only thing he was certain of was that the day ahead was going to be a long one.  But just as his stomach had refused to entertain the idea of food, so his mind had refused to embrace the concept of sleep.  He'd alternated sitting on the sofa not watching the television, and pacing restlessly through his apartment.  He'd thought about going running as a means of diversion, but shied away from it, not wanting to leave the shelter of his apartment until he absolutely had to.  Not wanting to acknowledge that there was a world out there, and that he had to deal with it somehow.

<<God, Scully, what have they done to you this time?>>

He had finally gotten past the guilt he used to feel when something happened to her.  After Antarctica, it had at last seeped down into his soul that she was there with him because she wanted to be, because she had as much invested in this quest as he did.  He had known that with the top of his mind for a long time, but it had really only been lip service; his heart had not been in it.  She had known that, and deep down he had known it, and hated himself for not giving her the respect she needed and deserved, but they had seldom spoken of it, because those conversations always ended so badly.

But somehow, out there on the ice fields, holding each other as they waited to die and watched an indisputably alien spaceship rising into the sky, the knowledge had finally trickled down to the small, dark place where Fox Mulder really lived.  At that moment, as he finally acknowledged in his heart that she was a free and independent adult, he had also realized that the one who had really been imprisoned by his obtuseness had been not his partner, but himself, and that now, finally, he was setting himself free.

Somehow they had struggled out of that experience alive, and they had both emerged the stronger for it, as well as infinitely closer.  But still they hadn't spoken of it.  Both of them had recognized the change, but by its very nature it hadn't seemed necessary to say anything.

He had thought for awhile that they might become lovers, but that hadn't happened either, and after awhile that seemed right, too.  They were closer than lovers, and Mulder had come to realize that adding sex to the equation would be...wrong, somehow.  Not morally wrong, but wrong in the only way that mattered:  It would be wrong for them.  As he had remarked to her just last month, at the height of another case which neither of them had expected to survive, "We don't need that, Scully.  That's not us.  That's not real.  If we did that, we would not be who we are."  And she had agreed.

None of this, of course, made it hurt any less, now that she was missing again.  But unlike so many occasions in the past, this time it was a clean hurt.

Finally they called his flight, and he was able to stop thinking again for awhile.

#          #          #

Somewhere over Arizona
December 26, 8:59 a.m., Pacific Standard Time

The trip from Washington to San Diego was the longest seven hours of Fox Mulder's life.

First had been the comparatively short hop to Atlanta; then an excruciating 55 minute wait for the connecting flight.  Finally they were in the air, headed west, but still time seemed to drag, and the fact that he was seated next to a young couple bubbling over with love hadn't helped matters at all.

As soon as they were airborne he'd opened his laptop and logged onto his ISP, but there was nothing there from Frohike, which meant that there was nothing there of importance.  He'd spent the next three hours disciplining himself to only check his email once every quarter hour, which required almost all the self-control he had, and also left him with more then fourteen and a half minutes out of every fifteen with nothing to occupy his mind.

Now, finally, there was the message icon blinking in the upper left hand corner.  With a sigh of relief Mulder clicked on the icon and waited for the message to appear.

Two minutes later he slammed the laptop shut in disgust.  Nothing.  Nothing nothing nothing.  Frohike had been apologetic almost to the point of obsequiousness, but the fact remained that he'd found nothing that Tara hadn't already told Mulder over the phone the night before.  The San Diego Police Department's records showed only a routine missing persons investigation:  No clues, no evidence, no leads.  Dead end.  And the Shore Patrol didn't even have that much; from the information available on their intranet, they were barely interested.

Thank god he was almost to San Diego, so he could start a real investigation.

#          #          #

San Diego International Airport
December 26, 9:48 a.m.

The San Diego airport was just as crowded and just as overflowing with holiday cheer as Dulles and Atlanta had been.  Grimly, Mulder pushed his way through the crowds, his eyes searching for Tara.

In the back of his mind he wondered how she would receive him.  The last time he'd come to San Diego he had not been at all welcome in Bill Scully's home, and he had left as soon as possible.  True, things had thawed a bit between himself and Bill in the last few months, but he had no way of knowing how much of that Bill had shared with Tara.

<<She called me,>> he reminded himself.  <<This wasn't my idea.>>  But at the very least that indicated a willingness to work with him on their mutual problem, and that was good enough.  It wasn't necessary that they like each other, as long as they had a common interest.

Not that it really mattered very much one way or the other; Mulder was here to find Scully, and nothing, but nothing, was going to prevent that from happening.  Tara's cooperation would make things a little easier, by giving him a base of operations and perhaps an entre to officials at the Shore Patrol, but he didn't imagine she would make much real difference.

He found Tara waiting just outside the security checkpoint, hands in her coat pockets, staring off into space.  Elbowing his way past an overweight businessman, Mulder walked up and stood in front of her, but she didn't stir.

"Tara?"  Still nothing.  More sharply:  "Tara!"

She shook her head, and then she was seeing him.  "Fox," she said, very faintly.

"Tara...are you okay?"

Her features firmed up and she shook her head again.  "That was a damned stupid question, Fox."

He sucked in his breath, then nodded slightly.  "Sorry."

"That's okay.  I guess I was kind of out of it for a minute.  Do you have any luggage?"

"No," he replied, hefting his carry-on.  "I try to travel light."

"Then let's get going."

A few moments later Tara was popping the trunk on a late model Saturn and stepping aside to watch in silence as Mulder dropped his carry-on into the compartment.  Leaning over so that his body would conceal his actions from casual passersby, he removed his Sig Sauer and holster from the bag, withdrew an ammunition clip from the outside zippered pocked, and finally clipped the whole assemblage to the right side of his belt.

"Was that supposed to impress me?"

He turned to look at Tara, and raised his eyebrows.  She was standing a few feet back with her arms folded across her chest and a cold look on her face.  "Was what supposed to impress you?"

She waved a hand at him.  "The whole routine with the gun."

Mulder shook his head.  "No.  I always carry a weapon when I'm on an assignment."

She looked at him for just a moment, then some of the tension seemed to go out of her and she nodded and sighed.  "Sorry, Fox.  It's been a tough couple of days."  She smiled briefly, but only with her mouth, and then moved towards the driver's side of the car.  "I guess we're even now."

"Sure."

The drive to her home passed in silence.  Mulder sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, trying not to think about Scully, and the most obvious distraction was the woman sitting next to him.

He really didn't know Tara Scully at all well.  He'd met her only once, when he had come to San Diego the previous Christmas.  She hadn't made much of an impression on him then; he'd been focusing all of his attention on his partner, and Bill had seemed to be just as happy to have Mulder keep his distance from Tara in any case.  A few days after he'd arrived, she'd gone into labor and had her baby, and that had ended what little contact he'd had with her.

The bottom line was that Tara was an enigma to him.  He'd tried not to tar her with his negative emotions towards her husband, but past a certain point he couldn't help himself.  The fact that he'd finally gotten to know Bill a little better in the last few months had helped, but he still had more than a little residual unease towards her.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't even notice that he'd drifted off to sleep.

#          #          #

Residence of Bill and Tara Scully
Miramar Naval Air Station, San Diego, CA
December 26, 4:02 p.m.
 

Someone was shaking his shoulder.

"Fox, wake up."

He stirred groggily, and pulled the blanket up a little higher.

"Fox!  Wake up!"

A momentary pause, then a rustling noise, and suddenly the room was flooded with light.  With a groan, Mulder rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, and tried to remember where he was.  He didn't recognize the room, so he must be in the field, working on a case.  There'd been a dream...a nightmare.  Scully had been taken again --

Scully.  He sat bolt upright and squinted at the figure silhouetted against the window.  As he watched, the figure moved closer, and then he recognized her.  Tara Scully.

Shit.  It wasn't a dream.  But it was a nightmare.

He shook his head and ran the fingers of one hand through his hair.  "How -- how long have I been asleep?"

Now she was standing next to the bed.  "About six hours.  You fell asleep in the car on the way from the airport."

He nodded slowly.  The last thing he remembered was staring out the car window at the light Saturday morning traffic.  He'd been thinking about something....something....  He shook his head in frustration; he just couldn't remember.  "I was really out of it," he admitted.

"I'd say so.  I had a hell of a time getting you into the house.  One of the neighbors, Tom Christopher, finally came over and helped me."  Her lips quirked in annoyance.  "He seemed to think it was a little odd for me to be bringing a strange man into the house when Bill wasn't around.  But I told him you're with Dana, and I think he believed me."

Mulder stared at her for a moment, then shook his head again.  "Great," he muttered.  "That's all I need."

Tara raised her eyebrows.  "Aren't you?  I thought --"

"No," he replied, cutting her off.  "No, we're not."  He threw back the blankets and swung his feet out of bed.  He was still wearing his slacks and undershirt from the morning, and after a quick glance around the room he spotted his bag sitting on top of the bureau.  His weapon, still in its holster, was laying next to it.  He padded over and picked up the bag.

"Fox?"  He turned to look at her.  She was still standing by the bed, but now she wore a look of acute embarrassment.  "Fox, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean --"

"It's all right, Tara," he said, more sharply than he'd intended.  "People make that mistake all the time."

They stood looking at each other for just a moment longer, then she seemed to notice that he was half-dressed and holding his overnight bag.  "I'll leave you be, then," she said awkwardly.  "Go ahead and change, or whatever, and I'll try to put together some sandwiches or something.  I'm sure you must be hungry.  I'm starving; I haven't eaten since last night."

He nodded.  "Okay."

She walked over to the door and pulled it open, then paused for just a moment, and turned to look at him over her shoulder.

"It's okay, Tara," he said softly.  "Really."

She nodded once, and turned and left the room.

#          #          #

Mulder came downstairs a few minutes later to find Tara in the kitchen, mixing something in a bowl.  He felt a little more human, having changed to jeans and a polo shirt after taking a minute to splash some water on his face in the bathroom.

"Tuna salad," Tara said in answer to his inquiring gaze.  "I hope that's okay.  Normally I'd have leftovers coming out of my ears today, but I...I didn't feel much like cooking yesterday."

"Sure," he answered.  "Tuna salad is fine.  Can I do anything to help?"

She shook her head.  "No.  I'm just about done.  Why don't you grab a couple of beers, or whatever you'd like, and go on out and sit down.  I'll be out in just a moment."

Mulder nodded and crossed to the refrigerator, pulling the door open and bending down slightly to examine its contents.  A half gallon of milk, still mostly full; orange juice; miscellaneous jars of jelly, salsa and so forth.  A couple of jars of partly eaten baby food.

And a six pack of Rolling Rock, with one bottle missing.

He stood very still, trying to control his breathing, while at the same time cursing himself for his weakness.  Dammit, if every single little thing that reminded him of Scully was going to set him off like this, he was going to be no good to anyone.  He had to get better control of himself.  He had to.  For her sake, as well as Bill's.

"Fox?  Are you okay?"

Somehow Tara's question broke the tension he was feeling, and he was able to chuckle.  Grabbing two bottles of beer, he shut the refrigerator door and turned to face her, a slight smile on his face.  "That was a damned stupid question, Tara," he said, hoping she'd pick up on his amusement.

She flushed and looked away.  "I -- I'm sorry, Fox.  That was thoughtless."  She took a breath and looked back at him.  "I'm sorry."

Mulder shook his head, and took a step towards her.  "No, Tara.  It's okay.  It was funny."

She stared at him for just a moment, then looked down into her bowl and resumed mixing.  "No it wasn't."

Mulder stood looking at her for just a moment, waiting to see if she would add anything.  Finally, he shrugged and walked out of the room.

#          #          #

5:14 p.m.

The meal passed quickly and in silence, with Mulder and Tara sitting across from each other at a dining room table that seemed far too large.  Mulder tried to concentrate on his beer and sandwich, doing his best to ignore the ghosts in the apparently empty chairs.

After they'd finished eating they continued to sit quietly for a few minutes, looking at everything except each other.  Finally, Mulder broke the silence.

"Tara, we have to talk.  I have to know what happened.  All the details."

She nodded reluctantly.  "I know.  I don't want to, but I know it has to be done."  She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them.  "Just let me clear the dishes.  I'll be right back."

A few moments later she was seated across from him again, her expression wary, and perhaps just a little angry.  As gently as he could:  "Tara, I really am sorry.  I know how hard this is, and I know you probably already went over this with the police."

"You got that one right," she said flatly.  Her voice deepened in an exaggerated mimicry of Joe Friday.    "'When was the last time you saw your husband Mrs. Scully?  What was he wearing Mrs. Scully?  What sort of car was he driving?  What color?'"  She drew in a deep breath and continued, and now the anger was in her voice as well as on her face.  "'Was he having problems at work Mrs. Scully?  Was he having problems at home Mrs. Scully?  Are you sure it was his sister he left with Mrs. Scully?  Can we see his address book Mrs.  Scully?  Who is this woman listed under the R's Mrs. Scully?'"  She slammed her hand down on the table.  "Fucking cops!  Fucking sons of bitches!  Whose side are they on, anyway?  They don't know anything about him!!"  She blinked angrily, and wiped her forearm across her eyes.

Mulder flinched slightly at hearing that sort of language coming from her.  He opened his mouth to respond, but she must have seen the expression on his face, because now she turned her anger on him.

"What's the matter, Fox?  Didn't think I had it in me?  You thought I was just some sweet little housewife, and never let a bad word cross my lips?  Well you can fucking well think again!"  And she folded her arms across her chest and glared at him defiantly.

Mulder felt his own anger flare, and he looked down at his hands, clenched tightly together on the table in front of him.  He took a deep breath and tried to control his breathing.  Scully.  Focus on Scully.  This was for her, and he had to stay focused; he couldn't afford to lose his temper, as tempting as that might be.  Besides, Tara wasn't really angry at him; he was just the most convenient target at the moment.  Suddenly he could almost hear Scully's voice in his ear:  "Not everything's about you, Mulder."

He shuddered.  That had been one of the bad times.  But that was a long time ago, and it was over.  Now Scully was missing, and he had to find her.

He had to find her.  Failure was not an option.

He looked back up at Tara, his features calm and composed.  He locked eyes with her, and in measured, deliberate tones he said,  "Okay, Tara.  Let's take those questions one at a time."

She continued to glare at him for just a moment longer; finally her shoulders sagged in acceptance.  "Sorry, Fox," she said, very softly.  Then she straightened up and looked him in the eye again, and this time he saw determination rather than anger.  "Let's get it over with."

They were about three quarters of the way through the interview when Mulder realized she was holding something back.  He wasn't sure what it was, but from the set of her shoulders and the tone of her voice, he knew that she was hiding something.  The very idea that she would try to conceal something infuriated him, but he had conducted too many investigations for it to come as a complete surprise.  People often shaded the truth in these situations, at the very least.  Unfortunately, this time he was personally involved, and that was making it difficult for him to maintain his own objectivity.

"What is it, Tara?" he asked abruptly, a little more roughly than he had intended.

She blinked, and shook her head.  "What is what?"

"What is it that you aren't telling me?"

She stared at him for just a moment.  Then:  "Nothing.  There's nothing...."  Her voice trailed off, and if Mulder hadn't been sure before, he was now.

Again he felt the anger rise in his chest.  He needed this information; he needed everything.  He knew it was hard on her, but he'd thought she had understood the importance of this.  Now it was his turn to slam his hand down on the table, and he glared at her as he did so.  "Dammit, Tara, don't lie to me!"

The words hung between them in the air for a timeless interval.  Finally, she looked back up at him, and once again fury flashed in her eyes.  "You son of a bitch!"  Her voice was cold.  "You bastard!  You think you have to know everything?  Fine; I'll tell you."  She stood up and leaned across the table at him, her hands pressed flat on its hardwood surface.  "Bill and I had a fight, okay?  A nice little lovers' quarrel.  Is that what you wanted to know?"

As quickly as it had come, Mulder's own anger was gone, and he nodded slowly.  It felt right.  He even thought he knew why she hadn't wanted to tell him, and why she hadn't told the police.  When he spoke again his voice was very soft.  He knew he was taking her on an emotional rollercoaster ride, but he couldn't help himself.  He was responding in the only way he knew how.  "It was because of the questions about other women, wasn't it?"

Again she stared at him, her face an expressionless mask.  Finally, she nodded.

Mulder continued, "The police asked you those questions, and insinuated that Bill was seeing someone else, and that made you angry, and you didn't want to give them anything that would reinforce that idea.  And you were afraid I thought the same thing, because I was asking a lot of the same questions."

He stopped and waited.  Again she nodded.

"Tara, I'm very sorry.  I know -- believe me, I KNOW -- how much this is hurting you.  Most people think that in this sort of situation the fear and worry over the missing loved one is what causes all the pain, and that is important.  But that's only part of it."

He stopped and took a breath before continuing.  "And the other part of it, in some ways the worst part, is the sense of violation you get from the people who are supposedly trying to help you.  They pry into your life, they ask embarrassing questions, they go through your personal papers and other belongings, they draw unpleasant inferences.  And you know they have to do those things, you know they have to do a thorough job, but that doesn't make it any less of a violation."

He reached across the table and lightly laid one his hands on  top of each of hers.  "Tara, tell me about the fight.  I need to know.  It's the only way I know how to do this.  I'm sorry."

For a moment he thought she was going to lash out at him again, and he braced himself for the onslaught.  But then she took a long, shaky breath and sank back down in her chair.  And after another moment, she started talking.

"It was...it was that same afternoon.  Wednesday afternoon, the 23rd.  Dana had been here since the previous Saturday, and everything had seemed to be fine."  She smiled at the memory.  "Dana and Matthew really hit it off.  It was so sweet."  The smile died as quickly as it had come.  "Then on Wednesday afternoon, I walked in on them in Bill's study.  They were talking about something, and they both looked pretty grim."  She shook her head.  "I haven't seen Bill look that way since...since the Gulf War...."

Her voice trailed off.  Mulder waited a moment to see if she would continue on her own.  Then, in the same soft, accepting tone of voice, he said, "Go on, Tara.  Tell me.  Tell me what happened next."

She shrugged restlessly, and her eyes dropped to look at their hands, now twined together on the table top.  "It was really nothing.  I guess I interrupted something, but I didn't mean to.  I just wanted to ask what they wanted for dinner.  But then they both looked so tense and worried, and I couldn't help myself, I just blurted it out, and asked Bill what was wrong."

"What did he say?"

"Not much of anything."  She looked back up at him, and now her eyes were large, wounded circles.  "He said it was none of my concern.  Those were his exact words.  And then...and then he pushed me.  He actually pushed me out of the study and shut the door."

Mulder hesitated, trying to decide how to ask the question which had to be asked.  At last he said, "Tara?  Remember, I'm trying to help, so don't get mad at me.  I have to ask this.  Is Bill...abusive?"

She shook her head violently.  "No.  No.  Absolutely not.  He's never laid a hand on either me or Matthew."  She looked Mulder square in the eye.  "You have to believe me; I would never stand for that.  My...my first boyfriend was like that, and I put up with it for far too long, until the day he actually put me in the hospital.  After that I swore that I would never allow a man to do that to me again.  And Bill never has."

Mulder nodded.  "Okay, I believe you.  Let's move on.  Was there anything more to the fight?"

Tara shook her head again.  "No, not really.  I was waiting until we went to bed, so we could have some privacy when I confronted him about it.  So I suppose the fight, as such, hadn't actually happened yet.  But I had planned it, and Bill had to know it was coming."

"All right.  Do you have any idea, any idea at all, what Bill and Scully were talking about?"

"No.  They were talking about something, and I think it was important, but they both shut up as soon as I came into the room."

"And this was in the study?"  She nodded.  "I presume the police went through the study?  Bill's files, papers, that sort of thing?"

"Actually, he doesn't have much in the way of files.  He keeps everything on the PC; he's a very modern sort of guy."  She smiled slightly.

"Did the police look at what was on the computer?"

She shrugged.  "I suppose so.  I wasn't there while they were searching.  I couldn't bear it."

"Did they take anything with them?"

She shook her head.  "No.  No, I'm sure they didn't."

Mulder nodded sharply, and stood up.  "All right then.  Let's go see what we can find."

#          #          #

8:22 p.m.

Mulder leaned back in the swivel chair and stared at the computer screen.  Nothing there.  Nearly three hours of searching, and there was nothing there.

Everything was neatly organized, each item labeled and sorted and tucked away in the appropriate directory on Bill Scully's hard drive.  And there was nothing there.  Nothing there to interest him.

Dammit.

Tara sat in a straight backed chair that she'd brought from the dining room, but Mulder was barely aware of her presence.  Neither of them had spoken a word since leaving the dinner table.  There hadn't seemed to be anything to say.

Mulder sighed.  Time to start on the floppies.  Not that there'd be anything on them, either.  He opened one of the desk drawers and started rooting around.

"What are you looking for, Fox?"

He paused for a moment, and turned and looked at her, slightly startled.  "Uh, his backups.  His floppies.  At least, I'm pretty sure they'll be on floppies.  He doesn't seem to have a zip drive.  Do you know where he keeps them?"

"Oh, sure.  Bottom left hand drawer."

Mulder pulled the drawer open, and saw that it contained a storage case full of floppy disks.  He lifted the case out and set it on the desk.

Like the files on the hard drive, the storage case was carefully organized, with each disk assigned a slot in one of several categories, and each one labeled and dated in Bill's neat, meticulous handwriting.  Correspondence, personal finances, downloads from various newsgroups and mailing lists, freeware, shareware....and then he found it.

Maybe.

It was a blank disk.  No label.  Sitting all by itself in the back of the storage case.  Mulder glanced quickly down at the still-open drawer where he'd found the case, and noted that it also held two boxes of unused floppies.  One of the boxes had been opened, and looked as if it was about half full.  So Bill didn't keep his unused disks in the storage case.

Mulder tapped the disk against the edge of the desk thoughtfully.  This could be innocuous.  It could be just another blank disk which for some reason had been put in the storage case instead of being left in the box.  It could also be another backup which Bill hadn't gotten around to labeling yet, set aside as a reminder that this still needed doing.  It could be any of a number of innocent things, unrelated to Scully and her brother's disappearance.

But Mulder didn't believe it for a minute.  All of his professional instincts were screaming that this was the key.

One way to find out.

He slipped the disk into the floppy drive and waited for the machine to read it.  His eyes lit up, and he smiled for the first time in hours.  Bingo.

It was password protected.

"Fox?  What is it?"

Mulder blinked.  Once again, he had forgotten about Tara's presence in the room.  He turned to look at her.  "I'm not sure yet," he replied.  "I found it in with the rest of his floppies, but it hasn't got a label, and it seems to be password protected.  The hard drive isn't protected, and neither are any of the directories or files on it, so I'm guessing this is something important.  With luck, it may be a clue."  He paused for a moment, and drummed his fingers on the desktop.  "Do you have any idea what the password might be?"

She shook her head, and dragged her chair a little closer.  "No.  I didn't know Bill had started using passwords."

Mulder nodded absently, and stroked his chin.  Then he went on, talking mostly to himself.  "Passwords are supposed to be random character strings, for security reasons, but almost nobody actually does that.  Most people use something they can remember -- a word, or a phrase.  Something that means something to them.  That's how most computer hacks get done -- by guessing what the original user would have chosen as a password."

He drummed his fingers on the desktop again, then moved his hands to the keyboard.  "What's Bill's date of birth?"

"March 1, 1962."

Mulder tried typing the date in, using several different formats.  None of them worked.

"Your birthday?"

"August 20, 1965."

Still no luck.

"Your anniversary?"

That one didn't work either.  Mulder worked his way through the significant dates he could think of:  Matthew's birthday; Maggie Scully's birthday; Charlie's and Dana's and Melissa's birthdays.  Graduation dates.  Engagement dates.  The date of Bill's first command.

So maybe he wasn't using a date.  First names of family and close friends.  Middle names.  Last names.  The names of favorite pets.  Current and former duty stations.  Favorite movies and CD's.  And on and on and on.  Finally, Mulder ran out of ideas, and just sat staring at the screen in frustration.  He was so close; so very close.  He could feel it.  Whatever was on this disk was important.  If only he could come up with the right password.  It was driving him nuts, knowing that the information he needed might be sitting right in front of him.  If only he could find some way to read it!

"Lucasta."

He swiveled his head and looked at Tara.  "What?"

"Lucasta," she repeated, an odd look on her face.  "It's one of our...our favorite poems.  It means something to us.  Try it."

Mulder turned back to the keyboard, and typed in the word.

Paydirt.

His eyes rapidly scanned the filenames appearing on the screen.  There were an even dozen of them, most of them labeled simply with a date.  Towards the bottom of the list, three files caught his eye.  One was labeled "Dana".  One was labeled "Jiggs".  And one was labeled "Mulder".  All three had been created on the 21st.  Five days ago.  Two days before Scully and Bill had disappeared.

He double-clicked on the one with his name on it.  And then he swore.

It was encrypted.  And a moment later he discovered that the others were, as well.

This time, Tara touched him lightly on the shoulder, and when he turned there were question marks in her eyes.

"I don't know, Tara," he said, responding to the question she hadn't asked.  "I don't know what's going on, and I can't find out.  Not directly, anyway."  He waved at the computer screen.  "He's encrypted these files, and I'm no computer whiz.  Figuring out a password is one thing; breaking any serious encryption is something very different."

"Couldn't you just find the software he was using?"

Mulder shook his head.  "I don't remember seeing anything like that on the hard drive, but even if I found it, it wouldn't do any good, because I have no way of knowing what he was using as a key.  And I just don't have the skills to work it out the hard way."  He thought about that for a moment.  "But I know some people who do."

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched the third speed dial, glancing at his watch as he did so.  It would be almost midnight on the east coast, but they wouldn't have gone to bed yet.

The phone was answered on the third ring.  "This is Mulder," he said, and waited.

After a brief pause, Frohike said, "I've turned off the tape; hang on while I put you on the speaker.  Langly and Byers are here, too."  Another pause.  "Okay, go ahead."

Mulder briefly explained the situation, concluding, "So I guess I'm up the river without a paddle.  I need these files decrypted, and I need it done fast.  I'm going to email copies to you, okay?"

"Wait a minute, Mulder."  It was Langly's voice.  "I wouldn't try that, if I were you."

"Why not?"

"Captain Scully struck me as a thorough sort of guy when he was in Washington last month.  If he's taken the trouble to use passwords AND encryption, there's also a chance that he's set some booby traps that would erase the files if anyone tried to copy them.  It'd probably be safer if you just sent us the disk through snailmail."

"Damn.  I hadn't thought of that."  Mulder drummed his fingers on the desktop.  "Snailmail would take too long.  Even by FedEx, there's no way it'd get to you before Monday, at this point.  Is there any way you guys could come out here?  There may be more than just the one disk, in any case."

Again there was silence on the other end, and Mulder could almost see the three men exchanging glances and shrugs.  He and Scully weren't the only ones who specialized in non-verbal communication.  Finally, Byers spoke.  "Sure Mulder.  Whatever you need, we're there for you.  And for Scully.  You know that.  We'll catch the first flight out of Dulles in the morning."

"You need any help with travel priorities?" Mulder asked, and then realized he was being an idiot.

Langly again, laughing:  "Don't worry about it.  I think I can manage three plane tickets.  You want me to charge them to your Amex, or to Captain Scully's?"  He laughed again.  "Or maybe I'll charge them to that new A.D. of yours, Kersh."

Mulder chuckled.  "That would be fitting.  He owes Scully a couple of grand.  Just cover your tracks, guys.  See you in the morning."  And he hit the disconnect.

#          #          #

11:43 p.m.

Mulder sat on the sofa, staring at the unlit Christmas tree.  A fire was laid in the hearth, but he hadn't bothered to light it.

He'd spent the rest of the evening going through the other floppy disks in the storage container, and for the sake of thoroughness had even checked the blanks in the opened box he had found.  As he'd expected, there had been nothing of any interest.  Nothing except that one, unmarked disk, now resting in his  pants pocket.  In his mind's eye, he could still see the filenames, floating in front of him:

981130.

981203.

981204.

And on and on.  And finally:

Dana.

Jiggs.

Mulder.

They floated there, tantalizing him, just barely out of his reach.  If only he could move a little bit closer, just a little bit --

"Fox?"

Mulder jumped at the sound of Tara's voice, and turned his head to see her standing at the foot of the stairs.  "Tara," he said.  "I thought you'd gone to bed."

"I had."  She stood silently for a moment, then walked slowly over to the sofa and stood in front of him.  She was dressed for bed, the hem of a sensible flannel nightgown peeking out from beneath a blue quilted floor-length robe.  "But I couldn't sleep."

He nodded slightly, and waited for her to continue.

"Fox, I wanted to...to apologize."  He opened his mouth to speak, but she rushed on, cutting him off.  "I've been a perfect bitch today, and I'm sorry.  You don't deserve it.  I know you're doing the best you can, and I really appreciate it."  She paused for a moment.  "May I sit down?"

Mulder smiled.  "Sure.  But only because it's your sofa."

She smiled back, and for the first time in his memory there was real warmth in it.  She sat on the sofa, a foot or so away from him, then turned to face him again.  "I really am sorry, Fox," she said.  "And I really, truly appreciate what you're doing."

"I'm not doing it for you, Tara," he reminded her.  "Or at least, not JUST for you."

She nodded.  "I know.  I really do know.  I know it's not about me, and I know it's not even about Bill.  It's about Dana."  She reached out and gently touched the place over his heart, then drew her hand back and folded it with the other one in her lap.  "I understand."

"Tara, I told you," he said gently.  "It's not like that."

Again she nodded.  "I know it's not.  That's not what I meant.  Two people can love each other very much, even if it isn't...physical."  She blushed slightly.  "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be stupid, or embarrassing.  I'm just trying to tell you that I understand."

"What do you understand, Tara?"

"I understand that this is just as hard for you as it is for me.  Maybe it's even harder for you, in some ways.  At least with me, I'm allowed to be upset and demonstrative, both because I'm a woman, and because my relationship with Bill fits into what people expect.  But you're a man, and your relationship with Dana..."  She trailed off for a minute, and shrugged.  "It's different, that's all.  Most people just don't understand it."

He considered her words for a moment.  Maybe she really did understand, at least a little.  It would be such a relief to find someone who did.  Sometimes he felt very alone, as if no one would ever really understand the way he felt about Scully, what she meant to him.  Hesitantly, he said, "Have you read the Symposium?"

Tara raised her eyebrows slightly.  "You mean Plato?"  He nodded, and she smiled.  "Yes.  And I was thinking about it just tonight, while I was lying in bed.  It's why I finally came back downstairs."  She closed her eyes and quoted.  "'For you may say generally that all desire of good and happiness is only the great and subtle power of love; but they who are drawn towards him by any other path, whether the path of money-making or gymnastics or philosophy, are not called lovers -- the name of the whole is appropriated to those whose affection takes one form only -- they alone are said to love, or to be lovers.'"

Mulder smiled again.  "I've always liked that passage."

She nodded, a serious expression on her face.  "I thought you might."  She held his eyes for just a moment, then stood up from the sofa and stretched.  "Well, it's been a long day, and I haven't really had much sleep, and tomorrow Matthew comes home from my mother's house.  I've got to get some rest."  She hesitated just a moment, then bent down and kissed Mulder gently on the cheek.  "Good night, Fox."

Mulder watched as she walked away, turning his head to follow her progress towards the stairs.  As she put her foot on the first riser, he said, "Tara?"

She stopped and looked at him over her shoulder.  "Yes, Fox?"

"I've never liked my first name.  My friends all call me Mulder.  Do you mind?"

The smile he got back this time was radiant.  "Of course not.  Good night, Mulder."  And then she went on upstairs to bed.

#          #          #

....Fox sits cross-legged on the floor, focusing all of his attention on the Stratego board.  There has to be an answer, and he knows that if just thinks about it long enough, he will find it.  He absolutely, positively isn't going to let her win this one.  He just has to concentrate...the answer is here....

....And then he has it.  With a smile of triumph, he reaches out and moves one of his pieces, tapping it against one of hers so that it falls over, face down....

....And she laughs, and claps her hands together.  Fox looks up in astonishment as his opponent rocks back and forth in delight, her red hair swirling around her head and mischief dancing in her bright blue eyes.  As she sees the look of puzzlement on his face, her laughter only increases, and she says, "It's a bomb, Mulder!  You hit a bomb!"  She throws her arms in the air and shouts, "Boom!"....

....And he looks down at the board in confusion, and feels his stomach sinking.  A bomb?  It can't be a bomb!  He has it all worked out; he knows where her bombs are, and that can't be a bomb.  But if it IS a bomb, if he HAS made a mistake, then he has lost.  Again....

....And then she flips her piece over to reveal that it is only a scout after all, and she leans across the board and puts her arms around his neck and she whispers in his ear, "I had you big time!"....

....And then the room is flooded with an intense, white light.  Fox is paralyzed; he can't move, he can barely breathe.  She seems unable to move, as well, and as he watches in horror her body lifts off the floor and floats towards the window.  He tries desperately to break free of whatever force is holding him.  He has to get loose, he has to save her!  But even as he struggles, he knows that he will fail, and inside his head he is screaming her name, over and over and over....

....And then all he can hear is her voice on the answering machine:  "Mulder!  I need your help!  Mulder!  I need your help!  MulderIneedyourhelpMulderIneedyourhelpMulderMulderMulder --"

"Mulder, wake up.  Mulder, please wake up -- you're having a nightmare.  Mulder?"

Slowly his eyes opened, and he found himself staring up at Tara Scully's face.  He blinked and shook his head; already the details of the dream were fading from his consciousness.  There had been something about Samantha, except that she was also Scully...he couldn't quite grasp it...

It was gone.

"Mulder?  Are you awake now?"

He nodded slightly.  "I think so."  He realized that he was lying on the sofa, had apparently fallen asleep there, and Tara was kneeling in front of him, bent over him, peering down at his face, concern etched on her features.  "What...what happened?"

"You had a nightmare," she said.  "You were calling to Dana."  She smiled slightly.  "Actually, you were calling to 'Scully', but that means Dana, right?"

He nodded again.  Very softly:  "Sorry if I woke you."

"That's okay," she replied.  "It happens."  After the briefest of hesitations, she said,  "Do you remember what you were dreaming about?"

He shook his head.  "No.  No, it's completely gone."  He struggled into a sitting position, and stretched to get the kinks out of his joints.  "Sorry," he repeated.

Tara stood up and offered him her hand, pulling him from the sofa.  "We should get you tucked into a proper bed; you'll sleep better."

"I'm not sure I can sleep," Mulder admitted.  He felt embarrassed at having to admit to weakness in front of her, but he also felt he owed her an explanation for having disturbed her sleep.  "I, uh, I get these nightmares, you see.  Most of the time I can't remember what they were about, but they always wake me up."  Hesitantly, he looked at her face, and was relieved to see nothing but understanding and compassion there.  "I haven't had one in awhile."  Not since Antarctica.

Tara nodded in sympathy.  "I'm so sorry, Mulder.  Would you like some herbal tea?  Maybe that would help settle you down."

He shook his head.  "No.  That doesn't work for me; I've tried it."  He smiled weakly.  "Believe me, I've tried most remedies at one time or another."  And there was only one thing that really worked for him, only one thing that would allow him to get back to sleep -- but she was missing.

Tara seemed to read his thoughts.  "I understand."  She took his hand again and squeezed it briefly.  "We'll find them, Mulder.  We'll find them.  I promise."

#          #          #

Miramar Naval Air Station, San Diego, CA
December 27, 12:01 p.m.

"We'll find them, Mulder.  We'll find them.  I promise."

The words seemed to echo in Mulder's mind as he moved wearily to the next house.  The next front door, identical to all the others on this block.  The next Navy wife, with 2.3 children, a dog and half a dozen tropical fish.  The next bland, colorless woman who had no information that would be of any use to him.  No information at all.

"We'll find them, Mulder.  We'll find them.  I promise."

He paused for a moment in front of the next house and considered the matter.  How could Tara possibly know a thing like that?  How could she say such a thing?  How could she even think it?  Scully would have known better; Scully would never say that to him.  Of all the things Scully had done for him over the years, perhaps the most important was that she had never promised him that they would find Samantha.  Not once; not even after he'd killed John Roche, when it would have seemed so easy and natural -- almost necessary -- to try to offer him some form of reassurance.

Scully had never lied to him.  Not about that.

"We'll find them, Mulder.  We'll find them.  I promise."

Tara hadn't meant to be lying; in his heart he knew that.  She had been trying to help, trying to calm him in the only way she knew how.  And he had allowed her to think that she had succeeded; he had allowed her to lead him upstairs to the guest room and tuck him into bed, and he had obediently closed his eyes and lay quietly until she finally slipped out of the room and returned to her own bed.  But he had not slept.

"We'll find them, Mulder.  We'll find them.  I promise."

Mulder shook his head.  Words.  Only words.

He sighed, and was about to start up the front walk to the house in front of him when he heard a vehicle pulling up behind him.  Turning, he saw without surprise that it was the Shore Patrol.  He'd been wondering how long it would take them to show up.

A moment later he was facing a short, stocky brown-haired woman in her early 30s, wearing the insignia of a lieutenant commander.  Her hair was either cut short or done up in a bun under her uniform hat; Mulder couldn't tell for sure.  In one hand she held a clipboard; the other hand rested lightly on the baton strapped to her belt, and her body language radiated confidence and authority.

"May I please see some identification, sir?"

Mulder flipped his badge at her, and replied, "I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI.  I'm a guest this weekend of Bill and Tara Scully."

The woman briefly consulted her clipboard and nodded.  "All right; I have you on my list."  She looked back up at him.  "Agent Mulder, as you might guess we've had some phone calls about you this morning.  I understand that you've been asking questions about Captain Scully and his sister.  May I ask what your interest is in this matter?"

"Dana Scully is my partner."

The lieutenant commander nodded again, as if she already knew that, and stood looking at him for a moment seeming to study his face.  Finally, she sighed.  "Agent Mulder, I don't wish to be difficult, and I appreciate the situation you're in.  But you don't look like you've just fallen off the turnip truck, and I'm sure you know that you cannot conduct an investigation on this base without permission from our office."

Mulder nodded in resignation.  "I know.  I should have checked in with you yesterday.  I'm sorry."  He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice.  "God forbid I should offend the gods of the bureaucracy."

She actually smiled at that.  "Hey, we both know how the game is played."  The smile vanished.  "But for the moment I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to cease and desist.  Tomorrow morning you can come in and talk to Captain Talbot; I'm sure he'll find a way to work things out for you.  But until then...."  Her voice trailed off.

Mulder nodded again, and for just a moment he looked back at the house he'd been about to approach.  He knew in his heart that there was nothing there for him.  Finally he turned back to face her.  "That's okay, Commander.  I was done here anyway."  And he turned and walked away, back towards Tara's house.

#          #          #
.
Residence of Bill and Tara Scully
12:32 p.m.

The Lone Gunmen were waiting for him when he got back.

"Frohike," Mulder said, amused in spite of himself.  "You look...charming."  The little computer geek was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing a frilly, feminine looking apron with "Navy Mom" embroidered on it in hot pink.  "Why haven't I ever seen this side of you before?"

Frohike snorted.  "Laugh it up, G-man," he replied, humor glinting in his eyes.  "SOMEBODY has to cook lunch, and Mrs. Scully had to go pick up her kid.  Come on and keep me company while I finish up."

Mulder hesitated.  "Are Langly and Byers..."  He let his voice trail off.

"They're in the study, working," Frohike replied.  "There's not much I can contribute right now, so I've been relegated to K.P."  He stood looking at Mulder for a moment; when the agent didn't move, he added, very softly, "Come on, Mulder.  There's nothing you can do right now, either."

A short while later Mulder was leaning against the kitchen counter, watching as Frohike poured a little more beer into the bubbling cheese mixture on the stove.

"Welsh rarebit, Frohike?" Mulder asked.  "I had no idea.  I thought frozen pizzas and carryout were the extent of your culinary talents."

The little man smirked slightly.  "How often do I get access to a real kitchen?" he asked.  "Certainly not at YOUR place.  But I'll have you know that I was the pride and joy of Mrs. Johnson's eighth grade home ec class at Chester Arthur Junior High."

"You took home ec?"

Frohike looked at him briefly and grinned.  "Sure.  It was the only way to get out of taking shop, and Mr. Gonshorowski certainly had nothing he could teach ME.  Besides, I was the only guy in a class with 20 girls."  He looked back down at the pan.  "Be nice to me, Mulder, and sometime I'll make you my famous crepes suzette."

The two men fell silent for a moment.  There was an awkwardness between them, an uneasiness which wasn't normally there, and after a minute Mulder realized what was causing it.  "It's okay, Frohike," he said softly.

The little man didn't look up, but kept stirring the cheese sauce.  After another short silence, he shook his head.  "No it's not," he said flatly, and finally turned to look Mulder in the eye.  "I let you down.  You were counting on me to get you the information you needed, and I let you down.  I let HER down."

Mulder took a step forward, and laid a hand on Frohike's shoulder.  "You didn't let her down, Frohike.  You got me exactly what I asked for.  It's not your fault if there wasn't anything there to find."

Frohike stared at him for another pair of minutes, and Mulder was shocked to see unshed tears glistening in the little man's eyes.  Finally, Frohike said, "You know, don't you, that I love her as much as you do."  It wasn't really a question.

Mulder nodded.  Very softly:  "Yeah.  Yeah, I know that.  And so does she."

"Are we gonna find her?"

Mulder hesitated, remembering how he himself had reacted to Tara's assurances after his nightmare.  Finally he just said, "We're going to do the very best we can."

"I hope to god it's enough," the little man replied.

"So do I, Frohike.  So do I."

#          #          #

12:51 p.m.

"Is that really a Mercedes you guys have parked in the driveway?" Mulder asked as he slid into his seat at the dining room table.  The three Gunmen were already seated and working on their portions of the welsh rarebit.  "I suppose I knew it was possible to rent a Mercedes, but I never thought I'd see it done."  He cut off a piece of toast smothered in cheese sauce and popped it into his mouth.  Raising his eyebrows in surprise as he chewed and swallowed, he looked over at Frohike.  "You know, this is actually pretty good."

Frohike smirked.  "It'd be better if Captain Scully had anything other than Rolling Rock in his fridge.  I assume that's YOUR influence."  And he rolled his eyes.

Langly picked up the conversation.  "Yeah, it's a Mercedes.  I like to travel in style."  There was a gleam of malice in his eye.  "Besides, Kersh's Amex isn't even close to its credit limit.  Yet."  And he took another bite of rarebit.

Mulder snickered.  "I don't think I even want to know about this."  He took another bite and shook his head.  "This really is good."  He wiggled his eyebrows at Frohike.  "Sure you don't want to settle down and raise a passle of kids?"  Frohike snorted, and Mulder turned his attention back to Langly and Byers.  "So have you got anything yet?"

Byers shook his head.  "Not much.  And what little we do know is bad."  He glanced at Langly, then back at Mulder.  "It looks like Captain Scully was using DES encryption, which is no big surprise, since he works for the Navy.  And while DES is far from being as secure as the NSA claims it is, it's still going to take awhile to crack."

"How long?" Mulder asked.

Byers shrugged.  "It's hard to say for sure.  With the right specialized equipment, we could probably do it in a few hours, but with what we were able to bring with us it's probably going to take a couple of days."

"Two days," Mulder repeated.  He put down his fork and stared down at his plate.  Somehow he'd been sure that his friends would be able to wave a magic wand and solve all his problems.  Idiot.  That only happened in the movies.  He took a deep breath and raised his eyes to look at Byers again.  "Well, do the best you can."

Langly cleared his throat.  "Uh, Mulder, I know you've probably already done all the easy stuff, but --"

"Yeah," Mulder replied.  "Tara and I spent a good part of yesterday evening going through birthdays, nicknames, and all that crap.  Came up empty, except for the filenames."

Langly glanced at Byers and Frohike, then looked back at Mulder.  "Actually, it was the filenames I was thinking about.  Has it occurred to you to call Colonel Casey and ask him if he knows anything about this?  After all, his name is on one of those files."

Mulder stared at the blond man in stunned disbelief.  Call Jiggs Casey?  Why in the hell hadn't that occurred to him sooner?  It was so blindingly obvious.  Was he really so far gone in rage and self-pity that he could overlook something that elementary?

His thoughts flashed back briefly to the month before.  He'd met Casey briefly at the climax of the last investigation he and Bill had worked on together.  The colonel was an old friend of Bill Scully's, and an aide to  the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.  Casey's personal intervention at a crucial moment had helped to break the back of a military conspiracy to overthrow the government, and it made perfect sense that Bill might turn to the tough-minded Marine in a crisis.

Just as he had turned to Dana.

And just as he had apparently considered, at least, turning to Mulder.

"Dammit!"  Mulder jumped from his chair and strode rapidly to Bill Scully's study and started going through desk drawers.  He found the address book on the third try, and in another moment he was lifting the phone and preparing to dial.

"Wait a minute, Mulder!"

He looked up in surprise to see Langly moving rapidly forward.  The blond man took the phone from Mulder's hand and replaced it on the cradle.  "The other thing I didn't get a chance to tell you is that the phones in this house are tapped.  I discovered it during a routine sweep while you were out, earlier."

Mulder nodded, and reached in his pocket for his cell phone.  "At this point," he said, "nothing can surprise me."

In another moment, he found out he was wrong.

#          #          #

Shore Patrol HQ, Miramar Naval Air Station
December 28, 9:21 a.m.

Jiggs Casey was dead.

The shock still reverberated through Mulder's system, nearly 24 hours later.  To have had his first real lead dangled in front of him, only to be snatched away moments later...it had been unbearable.  Mulder had felt himself slipping into a deep depression, into a darker place than any he had inhabited since Antarctica, and for the rest of Sunday he had been barely able to function, let alone think coherently.

*God, don't let Scully be dead.  Please God, let her be alive.  Let me find her.*

But Jiggs Casey was dead, along with his wife.  Dead in a house fire, apparently caused by faulty wiring in their Christmas lights.  Dead in a house fire that started on the afternoon of December 23rd.  Dead in a fire that started almost to the minute as Scully and her brother had pulled out of the driveway and vanished.  It was a horrible, ghastly coincidence.

Mulder didn't believe it for a minute.

*God, don't let Scully be dead.  Please God, let her be alive.  Let me find her.*

That had been his mantra the rest of the day, it had been all he could think of.  The darkness had settled around him, enveloping him and cuddling him like the old friend that it was.  He had sat on Tara's sofa, staring at nothing at all, not even allowing himself the comfort of curling up into a ball.  He had been vaguely aware of the Gunmen moving about the house, talking quietly to each other, and later he had noticed a woman's voice, and Mulder had been forced to rouse himself just enough to confirm that it was not Scully before slipping back into his fugue.

*God, don't let Scully be dead.  Please God, let her be alive.  Let me find her.*

Eventually the house had grown quiet, and Mulder had known that he was alone at last, and finally it was safe to cry.  But he had not been able to.

"Agent Mulder?"

Mulder blinked and emerged from his reverie.  That had been dangerous, he realized.  He was very fragile emotionally, and it wouldn't take much to send him right back into the fugue of the night before.  He had to concentrate on the outside world; he had to concentrate on doing his job.

He had to find Scully.

He rose from the bench he'd been sitting on and stepped forward to meet the tall, grey-haired man in the uniform of a Navy captain who had called his name.

"I'm Robert Talbot," the man said.  "I understand you wanted to see me?"

"That's correct, Captain Talbot."  He flipped his badge at the man, then reached out and shook his hand.

A moment later the two men were seated in Talbot's office.  Talbot sat looking at Mulder for a moment, his fingers steepled under this chin, and Mulder had a sudden premonition that the interview was not going to go well.

Finally:  "Agent Mulder, I'll come straight to the point.  While I am not happy that you launched into this investigation without getting clearance from my office, I do understand your situation.  I'm willing to let that go by; water under the bridge, and so forth."  And he stopped and waited.  Mulder nodded.

"However," the officer continued, "I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to permit you to resume your investigation.  At least, not at this time."

"Why not?" Mulder spoke sharply, rapidly.  He felt his emotions boiling up in his chest.  He had to make Talbot understand; he had to get his cooperation.  "I have a legitimate interest; this is my partner and her brother we're talking about.  And I've been granted full authority by the Bureau to pursue the matter. Naturally, I'll be happy to cooperate with your office in any way that's necessary --"

"Agent Mulder."  The other man was holding up his hand, forestalling the flood of words.  He compressed his lips, and his face took on the expression of a man about to deliver bad news which was not of his devising.  "I'm afraid your authority to investigate this case has been terminated."

Mulder felt his eyes widen in shock.  "Terminated?  By who?"

"By your headquarters in Washington.  I received a call this morning from an Assistant Director Kersh informing me of this decision.  It was confirmed by fax just before you arrived."  Pause.  "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder."

Mulder sat in stunned silence and tried to comprehend what Talbot had just said, but it just refused to sink in.  He could not conceive that anyone would deny him what he needed to find Scully.  This wasn't happening; it couldn't be happening.  It was a dream, all a dream.  A nightmare.

"Agent Mulder?"

He snapped back to a semblance of attentiveness and found himself rising to his feet.  "Thank you for seeing me, Captain.  I'm sorry for taking so much of your time."

"Agent Mulder --"

The door swung shut behind him, shutting off the other man's words.

#          #          #

Fred's HandiMart, San Diego, CA
December 29, 4:23 p.m.

"I'm sorry," the clerk said, shaking her head.  "I haven't seen either one of them."

"You're sure?" Mulder replied, still holding the two photographs out for her inspection.  "It would have been the evening of the 23rd, around seven or perhaps a little later.  They were looking for eggnog."

The clerk continued shaking her head.  "No.  No I definitely didn't see them.  And I was the only one working that night.   Sorry."  And she turned to the next customer.

Mulder turned and walked out of the store.  In the past 36 hours he had canvassed every grocery and convenience store in a two mile radius of the Scully residence, and found nothing.  Not that this was surprising; the San Diego Police had already covered the same territory, and also came up empty.  But Mulder had no other leads, nothing to go on, and he couldn't stand just sitting in Tara's living room waiting for something to break.  He had to stay active, or the fugue he'd experience on Sunday night would return.

Kersh had called three times in the past day and a half, each call more abusive than the one before.  On the last occasion, two hours before, the Assistant Director had threatened to send someone out from the San Diego field office to claim Mulder's badge and gun.  Mulder had turned his cell phone off after that call, and then switched it back on thirty second later.  Scully might call that number; she might call to tell him she was okay, and on her way home.  Or she might call to ask for his help.  She might.

She might.

He wouldn't let himself think about the third possible call he might receive about Scully -- the one that some stranger would have to place.

He slid into his rental car and picked up the list of stores he'd left laying on the passenger seat.  Fred's HandiMart had been the last place on the list; now he had nowhere else to go.  No one else to interview.  No more leads to follow up on.

Nothing to do but wait.

He sat in the car for several minutes, staring out through the windshield and off into the distance.  She was out there somewhere.  He could feel it.  Somewhere.... somewhere... somewhere in this city.  He almost felt he could hear her heartbeat.  It was calling to him, beseeching him, asking him to come to her.  If only he could listen just a little more carefully....

He shook his head in exasperation.  This wasn't getting him anywhere, anymore than interviewing Bill and Tara's neighbors had, anymore than canvassing grocery stores had.  He had to keep himself focused on the task; he had to follow the careful, methodical steps he'd been taught to use so many years ago in Quantico.  He had to suppress his natural tendency to go haring off on a hunch, and take the cool, rational scientific approach.

He had to be Scully.  Not Mulder; Scully.  Mulder alone was only half a person.  Only Scully was whole; only Scully could find the truth.  Only Scully.

He started the car and threw it into gear, and headed back to Tara's house.

#          #          #

Residence of Bill and Tara Scully
December 29, 5:15 p.m.

Mulder pulled into the driveway next to the Gunmen's Mercedes and switched off the engine.  He sat for just a moment, his hands still resting on the steering wheel.  He hadn't slept much in the past 48 hours, and he was tired; bone tired.  The need to cover the grocery stores was all that had been keeping him going, and now that the interviews were over, with nothing to show for them, he really starting to feel the exhaustion.  He knew he would have to sleep soon, or he would be no good to anyone.

Like he was any good to anyone now.

He pulled the key from the ignition and climbed wearily from the car, and a moment later he was standing in Tara's living room, staring at the sofa.  What little sleep he had got had been on that sofa, and now it seemed to be reaching out to him, calling his name and inviting him to stretch out and let his cares disappear.  It was so tempting just to let it all go for a few hours.  Just stretch out, let the tired muscles relax, and....

"Mulder?"

He looked around and saw Tara standing in the door to the kitchen, holding Matthew in her arms.  He nodded slightly in acknowledgement of their presence; he was suddenly too tired for any but the most necessary speech.

"How'd it go?  Did you find anything?"

He could tell from her tone of voice that she already knew the answer, but still he shook his head.  "No."

She nodded slightly, and just stood looking at him for a minute.  Then:  "You got a letter this afternoon."

Mulder felt his eyebrows raise slightly.  "A letter?"

"Yeah."  She nodded towards the sofa.  "I put it on the coffee table."  Again she feel silent, and the two stood looking at each other for a moment.  Finally she simply turned and walked back out of the room.

He watched her go, and continued looking at the empty doorway for another moment, before finally turning and walking over to the sofa, sitting down heavily.  The letter was just where Tara had said it was, lying on the coffee table next to the copy of the Symposium which he had found in Bill and Tara's library the night before.

He reached out and picked up the envelope.  His name was typed on the front, and it was addressed in care of Tara Scully, Miramar Naval Air Station, San Diego.  It was postmarked the previous day.

For a minute he pondered the significance -- if any -- of the fact that it was addressed to him in care of Tara rather than in care of Bill, but the meaning of that eluded him.  He was tired; so tired.  He really needed to sleep before his brain stopped functioning entirely.  But first he had to see what was in the envelope.  He slit the flap open with his thumbnail, and gently shook it until the contents slid out onto his lap.

Mulder froze.

It was  picture; a Polaroid snapshot, of Scully and her brother.  They were sitting on a sofa, side by side, and Scully was holding a copy of yesterday's newspaper, angled so that the headline was visible.  Something about Iraq, but that wasn't important; what mattered was that she was alive -- or had been 24 hours or so ago.

Or at least, someone wanted him to think that, he reminded himself.  It would be no big trick to fake such a picture; hell, he himself might even be able to manage it, and it would be no feat at all for the Lone Gunmen.  So the photo itself proved nothing, and he knew that whoever had sent it to him also knew that.  They were playing with his uncertainty; they wanted him to have hope, but then to doubt his own hope.  They wanted him to doubt himself.

And it was working.

With a groan of despair, Mulder closed his eyes.

#          #          #

....Fox bursts from the house, his father's gun in his hand.  The El Camino is idling in the driveway, and against the glare of the headlights Fox can see the shadowy form of the man struggling to force her into the car.  Fox races forward, brandishing the gun, but even as he crosses the few remaining feet the car door slams shut and the El Camino is pulling away....

....And then Fox is running through the woods, gun in one hand and flashlight in the other.  The El Camino is somewhere up ahead, he knows it is, and if he can just run fast enough he can catch them, he can still save her....

....And a shadowy form looms up in the darkness, it is a man, and Fox grabs his shoulder and spins him around, then falls back in shocked disbelief:  It is his father....

....And his father shakes his head sadly, and says, "I'm sorry, Fox; I'm truly sorry.  But a choice had to be made, and it's all for the greater good.  Someday, you'll understand."  A shot rings out, and Fox's father crumples to the ground without another word, and Fox looks down in horror at the curl of smoke rising from the barrel of the gun he still holds tightly in his hand....

....And Fox is running through the woods again, but his flashlight is gone, his gun is gone, and now he isn't trying to catch the El Camino, he's running away.  Something is chasing him, something dark and powerful and dangerous, and his arms and legs are pumping and he's drawing his breath in short, sharp gasps....

....And he trips over a tree root and falls to the ground.  For a moment he lies there, stunned, unable to move, barely able to breathe.  The thing which has been chasing him is coming closer, closer; he can hear it moving through the brush.  He struggles to a sitting position and leans back against a tree, still trying to catch his breath, and he stares through the darkness, trying to make out what it is that is pursuing him....

....And she is crouching before him, her form barely discernible behind the glare of her flashlight, and she's taking him gently by the shoulders and forcing him to lie down, while speaking quietly to him and telling him he needs to rest.  "Come on, Mulder; work with me here.  You haven't slept in two days."  Her voice is soft and lilting, music to his ears, and he allows her to lie him down on the sofa, and her hands briefly and gently caress his forehead....

Mulder instinctively reached out and embraced her, drawing her down into his arms, holding her tightly against him, and for a moment he just held her there, gently rocking her back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.  It was dark in the room, the only light coming from the partially open door to Bill's study.  Mulder wanted to speak to her, he wanted to say something, but if he did so it would break the spell, and so he just continued to hold her and rock her.

Finally he heard her voice, muffled against his shirt.  "Mulder?  Mulder, I can barely breathe....let me go."

He hastily released her and scooted away from her and into a sitting position as she straightened up and climbed back to her feet.

"S-sorry, Tara," he mumbled, not able to meet her eye.

He heard her chuckle in the darkness.  "It's okay.  When you're a woman in a man's world you get used to being grabbed from time to time."  Her voice changed, becoming softer, more serious.  "I'm sorry I woke you; I was just trying to help you get more comfortable."

He shook his head, still not looking at her.  "It's okay.  I think I was having another nightmare."  But even as he thought about it, the fragments of the dream were evaporating, drifting away, and in another few seconds they were gone.

"I'm sorry."  Pause.  "I saw that picture you were holding.  Of Bill and Dana."

Automatically, he looked down into his lap, but the picture was gone.  He turned his eyes to the coffee table, then bent over to look down on the floor, but it wasn't there, either.

Tara's voice again.  "I showed it to your friends.  The blond one -- Langly.  He seemed to think they might be able to learn something from it.  They're working with it now."

Mulder nodded, and finally he was able to look up at her.  "Have they made any progress with those encrypted files?"

She shrugged.  "I don't know.  They didn't say anything about it, so I suppose not."

At that moment he heard Byers' voice from the direction of the study.  "Mulder?  I think we've got something for you."

Thirty seconds later Mulder, Tara and the three Lone Gunmen were clustered around Bill's PC, looking at a blowup of the photograph Mulder had received.  Langly was speaking.

"We scanned the picture into this sorry excuse for a computer," he was saying, "and went to work on analyzing the image.  I ran the usual tests -- checked for odd shadows, looked for reflections, and for pixels that didn't belong...all the regular stuff.  The short version is that I am 95 percent certain that this is a natural scene; the photograph has NOT been tampered with."

Mulder let out his breath.  "Thank god.  Then they're alive.  Or they were."  He glanced at Tara, standing next to him, but her expression was giving nothing away.

"That's the way I've got it figured, " Langly said.  "Someone must be trying to send you a message, and the most obvious message is 'back off'."

Mulder nodded.  He'd already worked that out.

"However," Langly continued, "it turns out that the bad guys aren't the only ones sending a message in this picture."

"What do you mean?" Mulder asked.

Frohike picked up the story.  "What he means," the little man said, "is that Agent Scully and her brother are two cool cookies.  They can't have had much warning that this picture was going to be taken, but they still worked out a way to send you a message."

Mulder shook his head.  "What message?  I don't see anything."  He leaned closer to the computer screen, trying to discern...something.  But there just wasn't anything there.

"That's because you were never in the Navy," Frohike said.  "And hard as it may be to believe, I was."  His short, stubby little finger reached out and touched the image on the computer screen.  "Look at the position their arms are in."

Mulder frowned and looked.  The positioning did seem a little odd:  Bill's chin was balanced on the fingertips of his right hand, the elbow resting casually in his lap, while his left hand hung straight down at his side, fingers reaching towards the floor.  Scully, sitting next to him, had her left hand stretched out along the back of the sofa they were sitting on, while her right hand, the one holding the newspaper, hung down at her side, next to Bill's left.

"Okay," Mulder said finally.  "Okay, so it does look a little odd."  He paused, trying to figure out what he was supposed to be seeing, but it just wasn't coming to him.  Finally he shook his head again.  "But I just don't get it.  What am I missing?"

"It's semaphore," Tara said suddenly.  Mulder turned to look at her in surprise, and saw her glancing at Frohike.  "Isn't it?"

The little computer geek nodded smugly.  "Give the lady a cigar," he said.  Again he pointed at the screen.  "No possible doubt once you know what to look for.  It has to be deliberate; no one would sit that way by accident."  His finger touched the image of Bill Scully.  "'D'.  Or possibly '4'."  His finger moved to Scully.  "And this one is 'F', or '6'."

#          #          #

December 29, 11:42 p.m.

Mulder sat on the sofa in Tara's living room once again, trying to think.  He hadn't bothered to turn on the lights; his mind worked better in the dark, anyway.  He kept his body still and calm, his breathing slow and even, and tried the various permutations in his head, trying to make sense of the message.

DF.  D4.  D6.  F4.  F6.   46.

He and Tara and the Gunmen had spent forty minutes kicking it around, brainstorming and trying to make sense of it, but they'd gotten nowhere.  Finally Matthew had cried, and Tara had gone to take care of him, and somehow Mulder had wound up by himself on the sofa again.

Whatever the message was, Scully and her brother had expected him, or possibly Tara, to be able to work it out.  There was something there; something significant.  Something they were trying to tell him.  But what?  What?  They'd tried map coordinates, and they'd tried the assumption that the figures were in hexadecimal notation and converted them to digital and then to binary, but still they'd found nothing familiar.  Nothing.  Nothing.

He shook his head in frustration.  This was getting him nowhere.  His mind was running in circles, plowing over the same ground, over and over, and it was making him crazy.  He was still pretty tired; he'd only slept for about five hours, and while that had taken the edge off his exhaustion, he was still way behind in that department.  Maybe if he could just stretch out and shut his eyes for a few minutes, and try to blank his mind, something would come to him.

Mulder was jolted from his thoughts by a knock on the front door.  It was soft and hesitant, as if the caller wanted to avoid waking anyone who might be sleeping.  But who the hell could it be at this time of night?  Even as the question ran through Mulder's mind, the knock was repeated, somewhat more insistently.

He climbed to his feet and crossed over to the door, switching on the lights as he went.  He paused for just a moment, unsure of what he might face when he pulled the door open, then shrugged.  How much worse could things really get?  He unfastened the safety chain, then turned the knob and opened the door, and he felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.  What was SHE doing here?

After a moment of silence, she said, "Aren't you going to invite me in, Fox?"

Mulder blinked, and stepped back out of the way to allow her to pass.  He pushed the door shut and reset the chain before turning to face her.  "Diana," he said.  "It would be an understatement to say that this is a surprise."

She nodded.  "I know.  And I wish it could be a pleasant surprise, but unfortunately it's not."

"Mulder?"

Mulder glanced away from Diana and saw Tara standing at the foot of the stairs, a puzzled look on her face.  "Tara," he said.  "We seem to have a surprise visitor.  This is Special Agent Diana Fowley; she's an old...friend of mine.  Diana, this is Tara Scully, Dana's sister-in-law."

For a moment the two women regarded each other from across the room in silence, neither making a move towards the other.  Finally, Diana took the initiative.  "Mrs. Scully," she said.  "I'm so sorry about...about what's happened.  I want you to know that the Bureau is doing everything it can to find your husband.  And Agent Scully, of course, as well," she added, turning back to face Mulder again.

Tara nodded, remaining silent, and still she made no move towards the other woman.  Mulder could see that she was thinking about something, something complex and not entirely pleasant, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out what it was.  He shrugged and turned back to Diana.

"Okay, Diana," he said.  "What are you here for?  And make it march; I've got a case I'm working on, and I don't have a lot of time to waste on idle chit-chat."

Diana walked over to stand in front of him, her features calm and professional.  "Actually, Fox, that's why I'm here.  Kersh sent me."

Mulder simply stood there, staring at her.  She couldn't possibly mean what she had just implied.  He shook his head.  "I'm not getting it, Diana; it's been a long day.  Better spell it out for me."

She sighed, and the professional mask melted away, leaving an expression of sorrow.  "I'm sorry, Fox.  I really am.  But I'm doing you a favor, and eventually I think you'll understand that.  Kersh was going to send the local ASAC, but I persuaded him that it would be better coming from a friend."   She held out her hand.  "I have to have your badge and your gun.  I'm sorry, Fox."

For a timeless interval Mulder stood completely still, just looking at her and trying to comprehend what was going on.  He knew Kersh had threatened to do just exactly this, but he hadn't taken it seriously.  Truth be told, he hadn't really been paying close attention to anything Kersh had said; the man just didn't enter into the equation, and Mulder had ignored him.  And in retrospect that had clearly been a serious error.  With a sigh of resignation, he put his hand on the butt of his service pistol.

And then Tara said, "D.F."

Mulder froze.  D.F.  Diana Fowley.  And then he drew the pistol and pointed it directly at Diana's heart.

#          #          #

"Fox?  What they hell are you --"

"Shut up, Diana," Mulder snapped.  He looked at her warily, and automatically took two steps to the left so that Tara would no longer be in the line of fire.

Could it really be Diana?  He'd drawn the pistol on instinct, as soon as Tara's words had sunk in, but now he couldn't help but wonder.  It seemed so fantastic -- not to mention the convenience of having her turn up at just this moment.

Of course, that very coincidence was also evidence against her.  Why in the hell would she have flown all the way across the country just to claim his gun and his badge?  Her stated reason didn't really hold water.  It's not like the two of them were that close any longer.  Scully might possibly do that for him.  But Diana?

"Fox?"  Diana's voice drew him back out of his reverie, and for a moment he studied her face.  He wasn't sure what he was looking for; what he did see was an uneasy mix of confusion and anger.  But no hurt; no sign of any sense of betrayal.  And that was another point against her.

"Fox!"  This time she spoke more sharply.  "Fox, this isn't helping matters."  Her hand was still extended, frozen in place from the moment he'd draw his weapon.  "Just give me the gun, and we'll forget about it, okay?"

Mulder shook his head.  "I don't think so, Diana," he said.  He looked at her for just another moment, and then made his decision.  He had no evidence; none at all.  But his professional instincts had kicked in, and he was sure that he was right.  "Down on your knees, and put your hands on top of your head."  She didn't move, and he barked, "Do it!"

Diana's eyes widened, and then she did as instructed.  Without taking his eyes off of her, Mulder said, "Tara?  Are you going to be able to help me out, or am I on my own?"

After just the briefest of hesitations, Tara replied, "I can help.  What do you want me to do?"

"We need to get her gun away from her," he said.  "She carries it on her right hip.  And unless she's changed her habits, she's got a holdout strapped to her left ankle."  He addressed his captive again.  "And Diana, if you so much as twitch I'll blow your fucking head off."

"Fox, this is insane!  You don't know what --"

"Shut up, Diana!  Not another word!  Last warning."  He was aware of motion in his peripheral vision, and realized that the Gunmen had been attracted by the activity in the living room.  His eyes still fixed on Diana, he said, "Frohike?  You there?"

"Yeah, Mulder."  The little computer geek's voice was tentative, uncertain.

"I need deep background on Diana, and I need it now.  I think she's been flipped, and I need to know how and I need to know when.  Check all the usual stuff:  Credit card records, Bureau personnel files, whatever you can find.  It may be blackmail.  I doubt if it's personal gain or ideology, but don't leave anything out."

After a short pause:  "I'm on it."

Tara had stepped forward and was now kneeling next to Diana and looking at Mulder questioningly.  "Go ahead," he said.  "I'm covering her."  Hesitantly, Tara reached under Diana's jacket, and in another moment the agent had been disarmed.  Tara stood up and backed away carefully, holding Diana's service pistol in one hand and her holdout, a short-barreled small caliber weapon, in the other.

"Anything else, Diana?  Or do I need to strip search you?"  The woman hesitated, then shook her head.  "Okay.  Stay on your knees and keep your hands on your head."  He stood looking at her speculatively again.  The longer this confrontation went on, the surer he was becoming that he was doing the right thing.  Diana's reactions didn't seem quite right; there was not enough outrage, and her reason for being here was seeming less plausible with each passing minute.

"What's going on, Diana?" he asked abruptly.

She shook her head.  "I don't know what you're talking about."  Pause.  "Fox?  This is crazy!"

"At least we agree on something."  He regarded her for another moment, and then he noticed her purse lying on the floor a few feet to her left.  "Tara," he said.  "Get her purse.  Dump it out on the sofa."

He waited while she complied, then sidled over to the couch, out of Diana's line of sight, and glanced down at the small pile of this and that.  Wallet; lipstick; comb...all the usual woman stuff.  He picked up the wallet and riffled through it hastily, keeping one eye on Diana as he did so.  Money, credit cards, a prescription for eyeglasses...nothing significant as far as he could tell, but maybe Frohike would be able to make something of it.  He glanced down at the remaining items laying on the sofa.

Her cell phone.  On an impulse, he picked it up and flipped it open, scanning the list of speed dials, and he felt his eyebrows raise.

"Well, well, what have we here?" he said, walking back around in front of her and holding the phone out in front of him where she could see it.  "Ten speed dial slots, and only nine of them in use.  Why is that, Diana?"

She shrugged.  "I guess I only have nine friends," she said, sarcasm dripping from her voice.  "Eight, now."

"Yes, but Diana, why is number six the slot you left vacant?  Most people would have left the last one vacant."  She shrugged again, but didn't say anything.  Mulder continued, "Could be an old boyfriend, I suppose...but it doesn't look like it's been whited out."  He studied her face for a moment, but she was giving nothing away.  "Why don't I just push the button and find out?"  And before she could respond he jabbed the button with his thumb, and then raised the phone to his ear.

"It's dialing through," he commented, still watching Diana's face.  But still she maintained an expressionless mask.  "And now it's ringing.  That's one....that's two...."

The phone was answered on the sixth ring, and a sleepy male voice said, "Yes?"

Mulder hesitated briefly, not sure what to do next, then shrugged.  In for a penny, in for a pound.  "This is Fox Mulder," he said.  "I wonder if you might be able to help me locate a couple of friends who've gone missing."

The was a long minute of silence, and Mulder was just beginning to doubt his strategy when the response came.  "Agent Mulder.  What an unexpected pleasure."  A chill went down Mulder's spine; he could almost smell the tobacco smoke.  "To what do I owe the honor of this call?"

His eyes boring into Diana's, Mulder said, "I was just having a chat with a mutual friend, and she suggested that I call you, just for old time's sake."

"Really."  The other man fell silent for a moment, and Mulder realized with a thrill that for once he actually had the bastard off balance.  He decided to press his advantage.

"Yes, really," he said.  "You know, you really need to find better help.  Diana didn't last five minutes once I started putting the screws on."  He saw Diana's eyes widen as the shot went home.  "Of course, she doesn't really seem to have anything I didn't already know.  We already have all of the emails between Captain Scully and Colonel Casey."

Another silence, longer than the one before.  "I think you're bluffing, Agent Mulder."

Mulder forced a derisive laugh.  "You thought Skinner was bluffing, too," he replied.  "Remember Albert Hosteen?"  Another inspiration struck him.  "You know, I should give Albert a jingle.  As I recall, you were supposed to keep Agent Scully and me safe, and you seem to have dropped the ball, at least with respect to her."

"Oh, she's safe, Agent Mulder," the other man said.  "Perfectly safe.  She'll even remain that way, as long as you don't interfere with things which are none of your business."

Standoff.  Mulder considered the matter for a moment.  This was the first real lead he'd had, and he had to find some way to exploit it.  But the seconds were racing by, and he could feel his advantage slipping away.  Finally, the other man laughed softly.  "I think we understand each other, Agent Mulder."  And the line went dead.

Mulder stood staring at the phone thoughtfully, and for a moment he shut out the rest of the room, trying to put the pieces together.  He had to concentrate; he had to work this out.  He'd made a definite connection between Diana and the Consortium, but that didn't really give him --

"Mulder!"  His head whipped around at Tara's cry, just as Diana crashed into him, sending him sprawling back into the Christmas tree.  For a moment the tree teetered, and then the entire assemblage went toppling over with a crash and a tinkle of broken glass.

Mulder fought against the entangling branches for a moment, struggling free just in time to see Diana streaking out the front door, and by the time he had clambered to his feet and reached the doorway she was in her car and revving the engine, and in another instant she was gone.

#          #          #

Residence of Bill and Tara Scully
December 30, 11:29 p.m.

Once again Mulder found himself sitting on the sofa in Tara Scully's living room.  Another day had passed.  Another wasted day.  Another 24 hours gone, and he was no closer to finding Scully and her brother.

After the encounter with Diana Fowley, Mulder had had high hopes that perhaps things were finally starting to break.  Frohike's researches had revealed the probable reason for Diana's betrayal:  Rising credit card debt coupled with bad investment decisions in her personal finances through 1996 and 1997, culminating with several defaults in early 1998.  Bankruptcy papers had been drawn up and filed in her home state, the Bureau had become involved due to regulations prohibiting federal employees from welshing on their debts...and then, rather suddenly, she was in the clear financially, and even had a respectable nest egg.

The pattern should have set alarms ringing at the OPR, but Mulder had no doubt of the means by which attention had been diverted.  No doubt at all.

None of which was really relevant, except as confirmation of his suspicions.  Not that much confirmation had been needed after he found the incriminating speed dial, and especially after she fled the scene at the first opportunity.  Any lingering doubts he might have had had been laid to rest by the fact that he'd had no further contact from the Bureau in the ensuing 24 hours -- a sure sign that she had not felt it safe to return to her job, or even to check in with Kersh.

He couldn't help but feel sorry for her.  He had been in love with her once, and he was pretty sure she had been in love with him.  The pressure brought to bear on her by the Consortium in their efforts to flip her must have been unbearable.  He remembered she'd always been very proud of her independence, especially in dealing with things which women stereotypically weren't good at, such as personal finances and investments.  Yeah, those bastards had known just where to hit her.

Unfortunately, the break Mulder had been hoping for had failed to materialize.  In retrospect he didn't know why he'd expected things to change; by allowing Diana to escape he'd been letting his only real lead slip between his fingers.  And so another day had passed with nothing to show for it.  Even the Gunmen had failed to produce anything, beyond Frohike's report on Diana's financial history.  The encryption scheme was taking longer to crack than Langly had hoped or expected.

"Mulder?"

He roused himself from his reverie and turned to see Tara standing at the foot of the stairs, a book in her hand.  He checked his watch, and saw that it was almost midnight.  Looking back at Tara, he said, "I thought you'd gone to bed."

"I had," she said, shrugging slightly.  "I couldn't sleep.  Do you mind if I sit up with you awhile?"

"Not at all," he replied, and waited while she crossed the room and sat down on the sofa next to him.  She was wearing the same robe she'd worn the night of the 25th, and the same sensible flannel nightgown peeked out beneath the hem.  "Anything special keeping you up?"

She gnawed her lip for a moment, then nodded slowly and showed him the book she'd been holding.  He examined it briefly, and felt his eyebrows raise slightly as he looked back up at her.  "Catullus?"

She nodded again, her face very serious.  "Catullus.  I've always liked him."

Mulder smiled slightly.  "Catullus is pretty much the antithesis of what we were talking about the other night, though.  He was the king of Roman erotic love poetry."

Her lips quirked.  "Which is exactly the point.  In any fair debate, both sides of the argument deserve to be examined."

"What makes you think they haven't been in this case?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light.  He really didn't need to be delving into this right now.  The farther they got into this case, the more confused and conflicted he was getting over how he felt about Scully.  Still, Tara had provided him considerable support, both emotional and otherwise, and he didn't feel he could just shut her out.

"I'm a woman," she replied, still smiling.  "Women know these things."  Mulder snorted, and she reached out and rested her hand on his.  "Truly, Mulder, I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable, and I'm not trying to push you anyplace you don't want to go.  Mostly, I just had a feeling that our discussion the other night was a bit unbalanced, intellectually.  Do you mind?"

He shrugged.  "Have at it.  Which of Catullus' poems is your favorite?"

"I've always been partial to number five," she replied, and opened the book.  "But I don't have these committed to memory."  And she commenced to read to him:

"Let's live, my Lesbia, and let's make love
And let us value all the gossip of
Prudent old men as pennies. When the sun
Sets he can rise again; when we have done
For good and all with our one little light
We sleep forever in one dawnless night.
Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,
Another thousand, then a second hundred,
Then still another thousand, then a hundred,
Then, when our number's countless, then, my dear,
Scramble the abacus! So we won't fear
The evil eye of hate, for no one bad
must know how many kisses we have had."

She looked back up to him as she delivered the last line, and added, "I've always thought that kissing was undervalued as an art form.  Most men -- and a lot of women -- seem to use it only as a means to an end.  But I feel kissing is an end in itself."

Despite himself, Mulder felt himself getting caught up in the conversation, and he nodded.  "I know what you mean.  We all get so absorbed by the expectations of others that it becomes almost impossible, sometimes, to be who we really are."  He raised an eyebrow at her.  "Of course, Catullus himself was conflicted on the subject.  I've always been rather partial to number sixty."

She snickered.  "I knew you'd bring that one up; I've already got it marked."  She opened the book, and again she read:

"Were you raised by lions
On Libya's hostile cliffs,
Or were you born a bitch
From some dog's filthy cunt
To be so savage and so cruel
That you would scorn my pleading voice
When I need you most?"

She looked up at him again, and mischief danced in her eyes.  "I hope you didn't think you could shock me.  I thought we'd settled that already."

Mulder chuckled.  "I guess maybe we did."  He sat and looked at her thoughtfully for a moment.  "Are you sure you don't have an agenda here?"

"Of course I have an agenda.  But it's not to play matchmaker; I really and truly meant what I said.  And I've always hated people who try to push others together."  She made a face and shook her head.  "I very nearly didn't marry Bill because a couple of well-meaning friends kept trying to hurry things along.  I would never do that to you, or to Dana."

"So what's the purpose of this?" he asked, gesturing at the book.

"Just what I said:  I wanted to make sure that both sides of the argument had been examined."

"That's it?"

"That's it," she replied, nodding.

He thought about it for a moment.  He knew he was overly defensive when it came to his relationship with Scully.  So many people had jumped to the wrong conclusion over the years that it had become just a little too easy to assume the worst of even the most casual comment.  And of course his own defensiveness inevitably reinforced the very conclusions he wanted to dispel.

And at this particular moment, due to the circumstances they were facing, he was especially vulnerable, both to the assumptions of others and to his own second guessing.  The only thing he knew with certainty was that he missed Scully terribly; he just didn't function very well without her, and he knew it -- he had known it for a long time, long before Antarctica.  But that wasn't love -- not in the sense Catullus had meant.  Was it?

He shook his head.  Everything was all tangled up inside, and the stress of the last several days added to the lack of sleep was just making it worse.  One thing that had become abundantly clear since Scully had been taken was that his feelings towards her were not as resolved as he had believed them to be, and he knew it was going to be a bitch getting himself settled again when he finally got her back.  He felt a sudden irritation at Tara, but quickly suppressed it.  He knew she meant well, and she really didn't have any way of knowing what a hornets' next she was poking at.

"Mulder?"  Her voice was soft and gentle, and when he looked up he saw that she'd set the book aside.  "Mulder, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to upset you."

He looked at her levelly for a moment, then finally nodded.  "It's okay.  I was just...thinking about something."

They sat staring at each other for a pair of minutes.  Mulder couldn't really think of anything further to say, and was considering suggesting that she go on back to bed, when Frohike stepped into the room to announce that they'd finally cracked the encryption scheme.

#          #          #

"This is very, very bad," Byers said without preamble as Mulder and Tara stepped into the study at Frohike's heels a few minutes later.  He waited until everyone was situated around Bill's PC before continuing.

"As you are probably aware," the fussy little man continued, "for the last six months or so Captain Scully has been assigned to an interservice task force which has been examining downsizing and outsourcing strategies at military facilities in the San Diego area."  He paused and waited for Mulder and Tara to nod.  "The brief for this task force is quite broad:  Pretty much everything is on the table.  They've looked at everything from provision of commissary and PX services to operational readiness issues to name it."

Again he paused, and this time Tara smiled slightly and said, "I remember the commissary study.  For awhile I thought Bill was going to throttle the Donutland sales rep."

Byers nodded, then turned back to the computer.  "The first ominous tidbit we came across was a list of the permanent members of the task force."  He pointed to the screen, where a list of names and organizations was displayed.  "As you might expect, it's top-heavy with DoD personnel, both uniformed and civilian.  However, the task force also has several representatives from the private sector -- mostly contractors and consultants."  He dropped his hand into his lap, and looked directly at Mulder.  "Including an executive vice president from Roush Industries."

Mulder felt his eyes widen.  "Roush?  But they're a front for --"

"For the Consortium," Byers said flatly.

"THEY have a representative on this task force?"

"Actually," said Langly, "from a quick skim of the meeting synopses Captain Scully included, it looks more like the Roush man is running the task force.  From his notes, it's pretty clear that Captain Scully spotted it, too, although he thought it was a matter of simple graft and influence, at least at first."

Mulder's gaze flicked briefly to Tara, trying to gauge her reaction, but she was giving nothing away.  He'd spent a couple of hours the night before, after Diana had left, trying to explain to her about the Consortium and its activities.  He wasn't sure how much of it she'd believed, but at least she hadn't laughed in his face.

He turned his gaze back to Byers.  "Go on," he said.

The dapper little man nodded and stroked his van dyke.  "About six weeks ago, the task force took up the issue of handling and storage of weapons of mass destruction.  As it happens, one of the three main nuclear weapons storage facilities on the west coast is right here at Miramar -- although the Navy, per their longstanding policy, refuses either to confirm or deny that fact."

Again Byers paused, and Mulder felt a prickle of anticipation on the back of his neck.  He didn't like the way this conversation was going.  "Get on with it," he said, more harshly than he'd intended.

Byers nodded reluctantly.  "One of the first steps taken by the task force was to order an inventory of the existing nuclear weapon stockpile at Miramar."

"Oh shit," Tara said, her voice flat and emotionless.  For just an instant Mulder wondered what had evoked that reaction, and then suddenly it all fell into place and he knew.  He glanced at Byers, and the other man nodded slightly in confirmation.

"Broken arrow," the little man said softly.  Broken arrow.  Military jargon for a lost or stolen atomic weapon.

For a long moment nobody spoke.  At last, Mulder said, "How many?"

"Apparently just one," Frohike replied, his own voice as expressionless as Tara's had been.  "Only one Hiroshima out there looking for a place to happen."

"Maybe it's a bookkeeping error?"  Mulder didn't really believe it, but he had to try.

"No," said Frohike, shaking his head.  "They thought of that, and they checked the inventory thoroughly.  It's not a bookkeeping error."

"But why?"  This time it was Tara, desperately denying.

Langly shrugged.  "Logical progession," he said.  "Ruby Ridge.  Waco.  World Trade Center.  Oklahoma City.  Dallas.  All intended to create an atmosphere of terror, to justify further erosion of the Bill of Rights."  He shrugged again.  "And this is the next logical step."

Again there was a moment of silence, as each person in the room seemed to contemplate the consequences of that statement.  Then Byers picked up the story again.

"By sheer good fortune," he said, "Captain Scully was the chairman of the subcommittee responsible for the inventory.  What this means is that the matter was immediately reported to competent authority, per the DoD's protocol for such things.  Unfortunately, the report seems to have been suppressed."

"What do you mean?" asked Mulder.  "How could it have been suppressed?"

Byers shook his head.  "We don't know -- at least, not yet.  All we have to go on so far is the material provided by Captain Scully.  But it's very clear from reading his notes that while he reported the matter up the chain of command -- as he should have -- those reports were stopped somewhere along the way.  It's not clear whether the base commander at Miramar was ever informed, and it's certain that no one in Washington knows about it."

"Jesus."  Mulder tried to think of something more constructive to say, but that was all he could come up with.  "Jesus."  After another moment he looked back at Byers.  "So what did Bill do?"

The little man stroked his beard again and nodded slightly.  "At first, based on his own notes and as we would have expected, he seems to have pursued the matter through the chain of command.  This report should have gone right up the ladder on a priority basis, through the base commander directly to the Navy Department and the Joint Chiefs, and then to DoD, NSC and several other places.  Possibly even to NEST, since the missing weapon is within the United States proper."

"NEST?" Tara asked.

"Nuclear Emergency Search Team," Frohike explained.  "That's the government agency responsible for finding -- and if necessary disarming -- unauthorized nuclear weapons in the United States.  They were established in the early 70s in response to the threat of nuclear terrorism."

"When the captain didn't receive an immediate response to his initial report," Byers went on, "he continued to pursue the matter through channels."  He gestured at the computer screen.  "That's what those dated files contain:  Copies of his initial investigation and then of the reports he made to his superiors.  Six attempts in all, and each more urgently worded than the last.  Finally, when it became clear that nothing was going to be done, he took the next logical step."

"He tried a back channel," Mulder said.

Byers nodded.  "That's right.  He contacted Colonel Casey in hopes of breaking the logjam.  That's what the 'Jiggs' file is:  A formal report of the situation through Casey to the Chairman of the JCS.  It was prepared on the 21st and 22nd of this month, and we have to assume that he emailed it to Casey pretty much right away.  And less than 24 hours later Agent Scully and her brother disappeared, and Colonel Casey died in a convenient accident."

Mulder sat quietly for a moment, trying to digest everything he had just heard.  Finally he said, "So what you're telling me is that the Navy has misplaced an atom bomb."  Byers nodded, his lips quirking slightly at the word "misplaced".  "You're further telling me that Bill knew about it, but that when he tried to report the matter he was ignored."  Another nod, and Mulder took a deep breath.  "And to put the icing on the cake, Roush Industries, and by logical inference the Consortium, is involved in this somehow."

"That about sums it up," Frohike said.

Once again silence fell in the room.  This time it was Tara who broke it.  "So what do we do now?"

#          #          #

Residence of Bill and Tara Scully
December 31, 9:58 p.m.

"So what do we do now?"

The better part of 24 hours later Mulder still didn't have an answer to that question.  The five of them had sat up for another hour brainstorming the situation, but had come up empty.  There was no plan of action; there were no further leads to follow up.  All they knew was what Bill Scully had known more than a week earlier, and they didn't have even the resources or contacts he had possessed with which to follow through.

Going through he Navy hierarchy was out of the question.  Bill had tried that route, and failed.  If the Navy had not listened to one of their own -- or had allowed him to be short-circuited -- they were even less likely to listen to an outsider.

The Bureau was no more promising.  The only person Mulder was authorized to report to was Kersh, and that was clearly fruitless.  Kersh was at best an arrogant, hidebound bureaucrat, and at worst he was a Consortium mole.  In either case, he would not be receptive to wild reports of a stolen nuclear weapon -- reports which the Navy would no doubt deny uncategorically.

Senator Matheson might have been a possibility, had he not retired at the end of the previous election cycle.  Mulder had not had much contact with the man in the last few years, but there had been some residual goodwill between them.  Unfortunately, Mulder knew that the Senator's retirement "for reasons of health" had actually been prompted by his diagnosis the previous year of Alzheimer's, and the disease had now progressed to the point where he would not be taken seriously by anyone that mattered -- even assuming that he retained the intellect to understand the problem in the first place.

There was always Skinner, and Mulder had seriously considered calling his former boss.  But Skinner was now living under his own cloud as a direct consequence of his previous support of Mulder and Scully and the X-Files.  Mulder would not have hesitated to call Skinner if that were the only difficulty -- this obviously was a problem of greater moment than one man's career.  But Skinner's stock in the Bureau had fallen so precipitously in the past six months that there seemed to be little point.  The man was now held in nearly as low esteem as Mulder himself, and he would not be believed.

Which left them with no discernible options.

So once again Mulder lay on the sofa in Tara's living room and stared at the ceiling.  The Lone Gunmen continued to work the Internet, looking for some lead as to the whereabouts of the missing atomic weapon, although there was not much hope for that angle of attack, either.  But at least the Gunmen had something tangible to pursue.  All that Mulder had to occupy his time were his own doubts.

"Penny for your thoughts."

He dragged himself out of his reverie to see Tara standing in front of the sofa, a sleeping Matthew tucked against her hip.  "I'm not sure they're worth that," he commented, swinging himself into a sitting position to make room for her.  He nodded at Matthew as she took her seat.  "Shouldn't he be in bed?"

Tara smiled slightly.  "You sound like my father."  She stroked the boy's hair lightly.  "But you're right; he should be in bed.  I just wanted to hold him for awhile.  He's all I've got right now."

Mulder nodded, and the two of them sat silently on the sofa for a few moments as he studied her face.  What was it Scully had said about him, all those years ago?  "Mulder, you just keep unfolding like a flower."  She'd been razzing him about Phoebe at the time, but the remark had been appropriate then, and seemed appropriate now.  If someone had told him a week ago that he was about to enter into a warm friendship with Tara Scul