Reimagined: IWTB
by ML

-x-

Chapter Six: Field Trip

A sharp jolt awakened Mulder from his uneasy sleep.  They were still
driving, must have been for some hours now.  His watch indicated it
was not long until sunrise, and he wondered where they were.

The excitement he'd felt at being involved in a case again had
dissipated somewhat with Scully's refusal to go along for the ride. 
It was strange, being in the back seat of a car with a bunch of
strangers.  He was still a little unsure about the whole enterprise. 
If the two agents in the front, and the ones following in the second
SUV, decided he was no longer necessary, they could just drop him out
of the car anywhere.  If this whole thing truly was nothing more than
a way to smoke him out, then he was more vulnerable now than he'd
ever been.  No gun, no cell phone, nothing but the coat on his back
and a wallet that probably still had his latest fake ID in it.  Worst
of all, no Scully to back him up.

Scully wouldn't have let him go if she'd felt there was any danger,
of that he was certain.  Still, he missed her.  Being on a case
without her just wasn't the same.

"Where are we?"  He heard the raspy voice of Father Joe ask from the
seat next to him.

Agent Whitney spoke.  "That's for you to tell us," she reminded him.

"I haven't a clue where we are," Father Joe admitted.

"That's okay," Mulder assured him.  "Everyone works differently. 
Just take your time."

Father Joe gave him a sideways look.  "So what are you, the good 
cop?"

"I'm a non-cop, actually," Mulder said with a small smile.  He took
Monica Bannan's official FBI photo out of the folder and handed it to
him.

Father Joe studied it for a few moments, and handed it back.  "I
haven't the faintest idea who this girl is," he said.  "I don't know
what the connection is, I'm sorry."

"There's always something," Mulder said, "a connection of some kind,
however small."

"So you believe in this sort of thing?"  Father Joe asked, rather as
if he didn't believe himself.

"Let's just say, I want to believe," Mulder replied.  "I used to
investigate paranormal cases for the FBI.  It was a long time ago." 
He turned to look out his window at the dim landscape.  

"And his sister was abducted by E.T." Agent Drummy's sarcastic voice
broke through his reverie.

"Is that true?" asked Father Joe.

"It was a long time ago," Mulder repeated.

"Something you don't care to discuss?" the priest asked.

Mulder said nothing.

"She's dead, isn't she?"  Father Joe persisted.  "Your sister?"

Mulder turned and saw the compassion in Father Joe's eyes.  This was
no psychic intuition; Mulder knew he wore his heart on his sleeve.

He caught Agent Whitney's look in the rear view mirror.  He shook
his head very slightly, willing her not to say anything.  He could
see she was familiar with at least one version of the story, and
wondered which one it was.

Suddenly Father Joe's voice changed.  "We're here!"  He exclaimed. 
"This is where she was taken!"

Mulder leaned between the seats and said, "I want him to see the
crime scene."  He caught a look between Agents Whitney and Drummy, as
Agent Drummy brought the car to a stop near a rustic house.

The house was one of half a dozen in a small enclave; far enough
apart to offer privacy but close enough for neighbors to feel
neighborly, if they were so inclined.  The sun was all the way up
now, but it had snowed in the night and all was fresh and pristine
around them.  No footsteps or tire tracks marred the snow, sparkling
in the sun.

Father Joe walked forward to the driveway of the house they'd
stopped near.  He looked around, puzzled.  "This isn't right," he
muttered to himself, and took another step or two forward.  Finally
he turned and said accusingly, "You brought me to the wrong house."

Mulder grinned at the disconcerted Agent Drummy and murmured,
"Pulled that one right out of his ass, didn't he?"

Father Joe was already on the move, and the others followed him,
though not too closely.  He walked without hesitating past another
house and headed for one not visible from the road, where the carport
was crisscrossed with crime scene tape.

Father Joe was already inside the carport by the time the others had
caught up to him.  With a nod, Dakota Whitney sent her partner after
him, while she stood outside with Mulder.  

He raised his eyebrows at her.

Dakota shrugged.  "There were news crews out here, covering the
scene, pictures of the neighborhood -- he could've seen it on TV."

"Sure," Mulder agreed, "but why?  Why fabricate such an elaborate
story?"

"Expiation," she said.  "Forgiveness of his sins."

"Father Joe thinks he can fool God?"

"Not God.  He's written dozens of letters to the Vatican, pleading
reengagement with the church."

"Seems like a pretty far-fetched way to impress the Holy See."

"God's voice talking through a man?  That's been a winner a few
times," Dakota said as they followed the priest and Agent Drummy
through the carport and to the back of the house.

Mulder stopped.  "You still think he's involved somehow, don't you?'

"We do have to consider him a suspect, yes."

"Even though you've found nothing, no connection."

Maybe another agent would have bridled at this, considered it a
criticism, but Dakota Whitney smiled.  "My guys are still looking,
believe me.  And they think they'll find something."

"But you're not so sure," Mulder persisted.  "Otherwise, why am I
here?"

She turned her wide blue eyes on him, and admitted, "Let's just say
I'm not the most popular girl at the FBI right now for calling you
in."

"Well, I wasn't exactly 'Miss Popularity' at the Bureau either. 
Really, what do you think you can gain by calling me in?"

She said earnestly, "You've dealt with psychics before: Luther Lee
Boggs, Clyde Bruckman, Gerald Schnauz...I've read those cases.  The
work done there was extremely impressive."

"Thanks, but," he said, "I'm only half of the team."

"But it's your expertise I need," she insisted, giving him that look
again.

Flattery will get you nowhere, he thought.  I've been down that road
before.  He turned toward the field beyond the house, where Mosley
Drummy was watching Father Joe wander about.

Drummy said nothing, but Mulder could feel the disapproval coming
off him in waves.  It didn't take a psychic to know how he felt.

"This is a waste of time," he said to Dakota, ignoring Mulder
completely.

Mulder was about to argue his point again, when Father Joe stopped
in his tracks and fell to his knees.  Mulder ran toward him.  "Father
Joe?"

"It was here!"  Father Joe shouted hoarsely.  "Right here!"

The others moved to his side as quickly as the soft snow allowed 
them.

"She ran," Father Joe said in a pained voice, "but she couldn't get
away.  There were two men...he pushed her down...it happened right
here...they put her...they put her..."

"Put her in *what*?" Agent Whitney interrupted.  "What did they do
to her?"

"They put her in a car...no, a truck, a truck with
something...something on it..."

"*Where* did they take her?  Who are they?"  The agent continued to
question Father Joe, and would have shaken his shoulder but for
Mulder putting his arm out to hold her back.

"I don't know...I hear dogs..."

"What can you see?  Can you tell where she is?"

"She's in pain, very great pain..."

"We need to find her!" she shouted at him.  "Where is she?"

Father Joe bowed his head again.  "I don't know.  I can't see!  I
CAN'T SEE!"  His shoulders shook as if with weeping.  Sobs escaped
him, an agonized sound.

Impassive as always, Agent Drummy said, "He's pulling it out of his
ass, just like you said."

Head bowed, supported by his hands, Father Joe continued to weep. 
It could be an act, but Mulder wasn't so sure.  Then he noticed the
drops of blood in the snow.

"Father Joe?"  He put a hand on the priest's shoulder.

Father Joe raised his head, and Mulder could see genuine tears,
mixed with genuine blood, coursing down his face.

x-x-x

The sun streamed brightly through the windows of the pediatric ward
as Scully approached Christian Fearon's room.  She'd had a restless
night, what had been left of it when she got home, missing Mulder's
presence in their little house.  But now she put on what she hoped
was a cheerful face to greet her small patient.

"Hi Christian," she said.  "You're looking very chipper this
morning. What's up?"

"Hello, Dr. Scully," Christian replied.  "I was thinking."  He
pleated the edge of his blanket with his fingers as he looked at her,
bright eyes framed by impossibly curly lashes.

"What were you thinking about?"  As always, his trusting little face
squeezed her heart.  She ducked her head, noting that his chart was
missing from its place at the foot of the bed.

"About how I could get out of here," he admitted.  "Dr. Scully, can
I get out of here *soon*?"

Scully looked up at that.  "Why, Christian?  Has something
frightened you?"  She looked around the room, but there was nothing
and no one to be seen.

"The way that man is looking at me," Christian said, and pointed at
the open door of the ward.

Scully turned and saw Father Ybarra standing down the hall, studying
someone's charts.  She had a good idea whose they were.  "Don't you
worry, Christian," she said.  "There's nothing to be afraid of, from
him, or from anyone."

She strode quickly down the hall to Father Ybarra.

"Doctor Scully," he greeted her.  "I've been looking for you.  You
haven't been avoiding me, have you?"

"Of course not," she said, "but I have been looking for Christian's
charts."

"I have them right here.  I was looking at the results of the latest
round of tests you ordered."

"That's not really your purview, is it Father?  It's his primary
physician's, which is me."  She held out her hand for the charts.

"What is in my purview, Doctor Scully, is to ensure that my
physicians are making the best choices -- both for their patients,
and for the hospital."

She was in no mood to argue with Father Ybarra.  Not until she had a
chance to review the results herself, to think about what could be
done.  "The charts, please?"

Father Ybarra handed them over with the sigh of a man who'd been
more than reasonable, and was giving in against his better judgment. 
"We're here to heal the sick, Doctor Scully, not to prolong the
ordeal of the dying.  At this point there are other facilities better
able to handle the care of this child."

Fortunately at that moment a crash coming from the end of the
hallway startled them both and Scully retreated to her office to
review the charts, and to think.

x-x-x

The atmosphere in the SUV was thick with unasked and unanswered
questions on the way back from Agent Bannan's house.  Mulder could
tell that there was going to be quite a discussion between Agents
Whitney and Drummy, out of earshot of the civilians.

"Where can we drop you?"  Dakota asked him brightly.

"Richmond is fine," Mulder said.  "I have some business to take care
of."  

He'd suggested that Father Joe be taken to the hospital to be
checked out, but Father Joe protested.  He just wanted to go home, he
said.  He'd spent most of the trip back slumped against the window,
snoring softly.

There was no mention of Mulder's further involvement with the case. 
Agent Whitney thanked him, and said she'd "be in touch."

It was already afternoon; if he played his cards right, he could
catch a ride home with Scully later.  In the meantime, he went about
getting his life back.

x-x-x

Scully rubbed her tired eyes.  Any time she'd had between patients
over the past few weeks, she'd spent researching alternative
treatments for Christian Fearon.  She'd reviewed every professional
medical database she had access to, and any other source she could
think of.  As the consultant suggested, there were no proven
treatments for Sandhoff disease.  Scully had already read of at least
one experimental procedure, though the highly-paid consultant had not
seen fit to mention it.  She understood why, at least intellectually.
After all, what were the chances of being able to perform such a
procedure?  And would she just be putting Christian through too much
misery for an uncertain outcome?

Her cell phone rang.  It was an unfamiliar number so she answered it
with some puzzlement.  "Scully," she said.

"Hey Scully, it's me," came a familiar voice.

Hearing Mulder's voice on her cell phone filled her with unexpected
joy.  "Mulder, where are you?"

"I'm not far from the hospital.  Can I get a ride home with you?"

"Okay.  You want me to come pick you up?"

"No, I'll come there, if that's okay.  See you in about an hour?"

"I'll meet you in front."

In her concern over Christian, she'd forgotten about her promise to
review the file on the severed arm.  She opened the file.  If she
couldn't do anything for Christian, at least she might be able to
help Mulder a little bit with his case.

She knew, however, that there was no "little bit" with Mulder.  He'd
jumped back into the fray, and it was obvious that his expectation
was that she would be right beside him.  But how could she do both? 
She was happy that Mulder was now free to do whatever he wanted, and
she didn't regret urging him to take this case on, as a way to help
him get his life back.

But was it the life she wanted too?  She was beginning to see how
easy it would be to be pulled back into that world.  And if she went,
what would happen to this one?

x-x-x

The sight of Dr. Scully talking to a mysterious bearded man outside
of Our Lady of Sorrows that evening was a source of curiosity to
those who thought they knew her.  Even more interesting was the fact
that she seemed to know him pretty well, and in fact drove away with
him in her car.

"I think you just put me on the top of today's gossip news," Scully
observed as they drove home.

"Glad to know I'm good for something," he said, only half-kidding.

-x-

Chapter Seven: Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

Somerset Natatorium 
Somerset, Virginia

Cheryl Cunningham plunged into the pool, enjoying the feel of the
silken water against her skin.  This was her favorite time to come
swimming, late in the afternoon before the commute crowds came in,
and after the morning fitness classes.  She especially liked it this
time of year, when regular attendance dropped off significantly.  She
liked the idea of swimming when it was snowing outside.  The pool
felt cozy and safe, protected from the weather.  Swimming in winter
was so different than swimming in summer, and she liked different.

She picked up a kickboard to do her laps.  She noted that there were
a few other people in the pool, but both seemed done with their swims
and were just cooling down, treading water or floating for a few
minutes before getting out.

The man in the lane next to hers was watching her intently, though. 
He'd been there before, made note of this particular swimmer, as he
had one or two others in the past.

It was a risk, coming back here again so soon, but a risk he had to
take.  Time and options were running out.  He watched her for a few
minutes, then left the pool and went to the men's locker room to
change.

Forty-five minutes later, Cheryl was dressed and ready to go.  Her
hair was still wet, but she was running late and the snow seemed to
be getting worse.  She had promised to be back online for work by six
p.m. and would now be lucky to get home in time to boot up.

A rattletrap truck next to her in the parking lot started up and
backed out noisily, lurching out of the parking lot as a couple of
dogs who had been sniffing around it ran after it, barking.  What a
jerk.  She shrugged and backed out a little more carefully than he
had, hoping that the road wasn't too bad on the way home.

Fortunately the snow hadn't yet made the road impassable, and her
tires were good.  Just ahead of her, she saw the same truck from the
parking lot.  She caught up with it easily.  Should she pass it?  She
could certainly try.  She needed to get home.

But as she tried to pass, the truck nearly lurched into her.  She
laid her hand on the horn, shouting, "Hey!  Hey!" as if he could hear
her.  Maybe he did, because he swerved back over.  She pressed her
foot down on the accelerator, only to have the truck swerve back and
this time, actually hit her, causing her to lose control and sail off
the road, finally coming to an abrupt stop against a hay bale.

The airbag had deployed, and though she was shaken up, Cheryl felt
okay, if a little hazy.  She sat still for a moment, noting that the
driver of the truck was approaching, carrying something.

He walked over the hood of her car, boots making dents.  Not that it
mattered, she thought crazily.  What's another dent or two?

She smiled at him as he came up to her window.  "I'm okay," she
called through the window, leaning down to unfasten her seat belt.

With a crash of glass, the man's fist came through the window of her
car and gripped her shoulder.  His other hand pressed something
against her neck, and Cheryl slipped into blackness.

There was no one else around to see the man open the car door and
carefully lay the unconscious young woman in a body bag, dragging it
with him to the truck idling by the side of the road.  There was
nothing but the falling snow, and the howling of dogs in the 
distance.

x-x-x

Over dinner at home, Mulder told Scully a little bit about the
morning's activities.  Scully seemed preoccupied.  She did ask some
questions, but her mind was obviously elsewhere.  He knew the signs;
she was puzzling something out, and she would talk to him about it
when she was ready.  He'd learned not to push her too hard when she
was like this.

The sudden change in their lives was also a topic that begged for
discussion, but he was pretty sure that wasn't what Scully was
worrying over.

They followed their usual evening routine, finishing up the kitchen
chores together.  Mulder did his nightly check of doors and windows
and by the time he came into the bedroom, Scully was already in bed,
burrowed under the comforter, apparently asleep.  He got ready for
bed himself and crawled in next to her.  He lay still for a while,
listening to Scully's even breathing.  

Finally unable to stand it any longer, he said, "I can feel you
thinking."

He heard her sigh.  "I'm sorry," she said softly.  "I can't sleep."

He rolled over to spoon up behind her, hand on her hip.  "I may have
a little something for that."

She turned her head to look him in the eye.  "Only a 'little'
something?"

He grinned.  "Thank you."  He kissed her cheek.  "But really, what's
the problem?" 

She sighed.  "I have a patient, a young boy, with a brain disease. 
He's very ill."

Aha, Mulder thought.  "You've been carrying this around for a while,
haven't you?  Why haven't you said anything before?"

"I thought there was something I could do."

"And there isn't?"

"Well, there's some radical treatments, but no one wants to talk
about them.  Even the experts say that there's nothing to be done."

"Nothing?"  Mulder echoed.  He put his arm around her, holding her
close.

"Nothing, but...let him die.  That just isn't acceptable."

Mulder murmured his assent.

"So, I've been lying here cursing God for all his cruelty."

"And do you think God is losing any sleep over this?"

She turned toward him.  "Why bring a kid into this world just to
make him suffer?  I don't know, Mulder, I just feel such a connection
to this boy."

"How old is he?"  Mulder asked.

Scully didn't say anything for a few moments.  "You think it's
because of William, don't you?"

Now it was Mulder's turn to be thoughtful.  "I think...losing our
son left us with an emptiness that can't be filled."

They were both silent for a while, considering the past.  He knew
Scully still blamed herself, just as he blamed himself, despite the
reassurances they gave each other.

"Tell you what," he said at length.  "You go to sleep, and let me
take over.  I'll curse God for a while."

She smiled sadly.  "Thank you."

He leaned in to kiss her, landing a peck at the side of her mouth. 
She turned toward him so she could kiss him back, full on the lips. 
She giggled a little.  "Scratchy beard..."

He'd have to do something about that one of these days.  It wouldn't
do for Dr. Scully to show up with beard burn.  But for the moment he
rubbed his whiskered cheek along the back of her neck, making her
giggle again, then giving her one last long kiss before he turned
back to contemplate the ceiling.

His promise must have done the trick because Scully settled, and
this time it did appear that she was falling asleep.

He was glad to have helped her, but a little disappointed that she
didn't take up his offer for that "little something".  Oh well, she
needed to talk and he needed to listen to her, more than she needed a
physical demonstration of how much he cared for her, he guessed.

What an evolved man he was.  He smirked to himself in the darkness.

"Oh," Scully said suddenly.  

Ever hopeful, Mulder was instantly fully awake, though all he did
was say "Hm?" to acknowledge he'd heard her. 

"I looked at the file again, the one for the severed arm.  There was
something weird in the toxicology report."

"Weird how?" he asked.

"Well, there were traces of a drug commonly given to people
undergoing radiation treatment.  And also traces of a drug called
acepromazine."

"Why's that weird?"

"Because acepromazine's an animal tranquilizer."

Mulder sat up suddenly.  "Now I can't sleep."  He vaulted out of bed.

Scully sat up too.  "Mulder?  Mulder, what is it?"  The air in the
bedroom was cold after being huddled under the comforter next to
Mulder.  She put her robe on and followed him to the bathroom.

Mulder never seemed to notice the cold; he'd been wearing only
pajama bottoms to bed, and here he was in the chilly bathroom, still
bare-chested, splashing cold water on his face.  

"Why is there an animal tranquilizer in a man's severed arm?" he
asked his reflection, and Scully standing behind him.

"Maybe the doctor involved isn't licensed to practice, but could
obtain the acepromazine through a veterinarian."

"Father Joe said he heard barking dogs.  He said it more than once."

As she watched, he got out the shaving cream and lathered up.

"Mulder, what are you doing?"  What did what she said have to do
with him getting up to shave in the middle of the night?

"Is it a tranquilizer you'd give a dog?"  He pulled the razor over
his cheek, wincing a little at the unaccustomed feel.  He met
Scully's eyes in the mirror, waiting for her reply, willing her to
work with him on this idea.

"Mulder, this Father Joe -- he's a phony.  He's pulling these so-
called visions out of thin air, and now he's got you straining to
connect them.  It's the oldest trick in the book.  We've both seen it
a time or two."

"Well, when I see someone crying tears of blood at a crime scene he
recognizes, without ever having been there before, I've got to go out
on a limb and say that maybe he's got something."

"Tears of blood?"  Scully repeated.

"Yeah," Mulder said.  "Tell me how you fake *that*."

Scully drew breath to continue arguing, but at that moment she heard
her cell phone ringing.  Not many people had that number; it could be
the hospital --

Praying that it wasn't bad news about Christian or another of her
patients, Scully answered.  "Scully."

"Please hold for Dakota Whitney," Agent Drummy said without preamble.

"I'm sorry for calling so late, Dr. Scully," Dakota said.  "I'm
trying to get hold of Fox Mulder."

Mulder appeared in the doorway as if he'd heard his name, face half-
shaved and a dollop of shaving cream on his bare chest.  "Who is it?"
He asked.

"Is there a break in the case?"  Scully asked, and Mulder asked
almost simultaneously, "Did they find her?"

"We've got another lead," Agent Whitney said.

Scully suppressed a sigh.  "A new source?"  She asked.

"No, but he's got a new lead.  Can you ask Fox if he can get to the
same scene as this morning?"

"I'll ask him," she said, making a face at the agent's familiarity.

Mulder watched her from the doorway.  It was plain to her that he
wanted to go.  He wanted to see this thing through, wherever it took
him.

"But you'd better give me the directions," she said.

x-x-x

Location Unknown

Cheryl Cunningham had no idea where she was.  She could hear muffled
sounds, and as she came to full consciousness, she realized she was
in a box of some kind.  Not so small that she couldn't move around a
little, but only if she crawled. Someone had taken her clothes away
and put her in a cotton shift of some kind, and there was a pile of
blankets in one corner, a bedpan in the other.  She felt like a
trapped animal.

She explored her surroundings as best she could.  Her prison
appeared to be heavy plywood, its surface unfinished.  There were
small holes at regular intervals, like air holes.  She put her eye to
one of them, but could see nothing.  Some light seeped through an
oblong slot cut at about her present eye level, and she peered out of
it, trying to glean more information about her location.  Even
through this larger opening she couldn't see much, but she could
smell and hear plenty.  There were dogs barking nearby, and the stink
of wet fur.  She tried to reach her hand out of the slot, but it was
too narrow to get more than part of her forearm through it.  The raw
edge scratched her skin.

The dogs set up a louder chorus of barks and howls, and she realized
that someone was coming.  Instinctively she tried to stand up,
banging her head.

A face appeared at the slot, wearing a white cotton cap.  She reared
back, fearing it was the man who'd driven her off the road, but this
man was a stranger to her.  His face was older and not unkind
looking.  She spoke to him.  "Please," she said, "help me get out of
here.  I didn't mean to hit his truck.  I won't tell anyone.  Please,
help me!"

The man said something she didn't understand and stood up, speaking
to others out of her sight.  The box began to move, as if it were
being pushed on casters.

Cheryl kept up her begging and shouting as the box juddered along. 
It swung around and now she could see a brightly-lit room.  At first
it appeared as a confused jumble of bright lights and metal tables. 
When the box came to a stop, it came to her:  it was a makeshift
operating room.

By now her shouts had diminished to a whimper as the import of what
she was seeing struck her.  One of the tables contained a body, and
she feared the worst, but its head turned toward her.  His face was
streaked with healing cuts and he looked as though he was in great
pain.  His body was draped with a blanket, though somehow it looked
too small for his head.

"Help me," she whispered, seeing his attention on her.  "Help me,
and I'll help you.  I'll help you get out of here."

The man opened his mouth but made no sound.  His face contorted with
pain, and tears ran down his face.  Not just regular tears; tears of
blood.  

Cheryl Cunningham howled, her voice blending with the cacophony of
the dogs.

-x-

Chapter Eight - Ice Field

Rural Virginia

Even if Mulder hadn't known where to go, there was no mistaking the
place, with all the activity there in the wee hours of the morning. 
Several flashlights illuminated a snowy field, like out of season
fireflies in the wintry night.  A phalanx of FBI agents, in their
regulation jackets, searched the field in an organized chaos.

Mulder and Scully approached the clearing where Agents Whitney and
Drummy were in the middle of a heated discussion.  "Another ten
minutes," she was saying to him, and Agent Drummy turned away, his
face tight with disapproval.

"Did you find her?"  Scully asked as they approached.  

Agent Whitney started to greet Scully, but her eyes were immediately
drawn to the tall man behind her.  She stared a little longer than
was polite, and then seemed to realize what she was doing.  "What did
you do?" she asked.

Mulder looked puzzled.  Agent Whitney reached out to his face, where
a bit of tissue was stick to a small nick on his cheek.  He batted
her hand away, and Scully repeated her question:  "Did you find her?"

"No," Agent Whitney said.  "Father Joe has led us back to the first
place we searched.  I'm afraid it's looking like a false alarm.  I'm
sorry I dragged you both out here."  She signaled her partner and
after a brief discussion, Agent Drummy whistled shrilly, calling the
agents in.

Mulder stalked past Whitney, toward Father Joe.  Whitney's eyes
followed him.  What was he up to?

Scully looked at the female agent, sizing her up yet again.  This
had better not be just an excuse to bring Mulder back into it, she
thought darkly.  I'll have a thing or two to say about that.  She
followed Mulder.  

"She's out there," Father Joe was saying.  "I *feel* her."

"What do you see?"  Mulder asked him. 

"I see -- a face.  I see eyes.  Staring out."

"Is it Monica Bannan's face?"  

"Can't tell," Father Joe said between puffs of cigarette.  "It's
like I'm seeing it through dirty glass."

Mulder turned to Scully.  "Scully, what do you suppose he means,
'through dirty glass'?"

"Mulder," Scully said warningly.

Mulder turned to face her.  "What?"

"Stop," she said.

He considered her for a moment, then said, "Okay, sure, feel free to
give up, just like everyone else."

"This is not my job any more, Mulder," Scully said.

"So you keep reminding me," Mulder said.  "What does that make you,
my booking agent?"

That one struck home, he could tell.  He was immediately sorry he'd
said it.

"You're right, this is all my fault," Scully replied. 

"What?" asked Mulder.  "What do you mean, your fault?"  

"I should never have talked you into this," she explained.

Mulder shook his head.  "It was the right thing to do, Scully."  He
began to follow Father Joe.

"Mulder, please stop.  This isn't getting you -- or Agent Bannan --
anywhere.  Father Joe is leading you down the path, same as he's
leading everyone else."

"Except that I do expect him to lead me to an answer.  I get that
you disapprove of the man, that you think he's a fraud.  But I don't,
Scully.  I think there's a connection here, something outside of the
crime."

"I know you want to believe, Mulder.  But I think this has become
about more than a missing FBI agent for you.  I think it's about
finding your sister."

That stopped him in his tracks.  And he'd been worried about hurting
Scully's feelings.  "My sister is dead," he said very deliberately.

"Yes, she is.  But that hasn't stopped you from looking for her,"
Scully said.  "Mulder, I've been down this road with you too many
times to stand by and say nothing.  Every case, you're there again. 
Believing you can save her.  But you can't, Mulder.  Not now, and not
ever."

Mulder stared at her.  Maybe he wasn't used to this anymore, but the
words stung.  Scully stared up at him earnestly, her eyes pleading
for him to understand what she was saying.

He turned and walked away from her before he said something truly
unforgivable.

"Mulder, where are you going?"

"I'm trying to ignore you," his voice floated back.

She could, in fact, leave right now if she wanted to.  It was her
car, and she had the keys.  But that was not a line that she could
cross.  Not now, and certainly not in front of all these people. 
What passed between them was meant to be private, and it would stay
that way.  She hadn't said it to hurt Mulder, though his words to her
had hurt.  That was the thing with knowing someone so intimately, she
reflected.  You knew everything about them -- including what would
hurt them the most.

She followed in Mulder's footsteps as he followed Father Joe.

Dakota Whitney watched Mulder and Scully from a distance.  Her mind
was running a hundred miles a minute, and not all of it was on the
case.

What was it about those two?  Yes, they'd been partners for a number
of years, and on the one hand she'd have sworn that they were a
couple in private life as well.  The phone call tonight seemed to
confirm that, and the looks Dr. Scully threw her would have melted
snow at ten paces.

And yet the way these two treated each other...it didn't make sense.
Maybe what she was seeing was the remains of a personal relationship.
She, Dakota Whitney, had forced a reluctant reunion between the two
of them, and they were not going to show any real rift in public.

She'd bet that in private they'd gone their separate ways, no matter
what had been between them at one time.  She could see the signs. 
The kind of life Fox Mulder had been forced to live the past six
years -- obviously Dr. Scully was ambitious and had gotten restless
and gone off on her own.  How they both ended up in the same vicinity
was something she'd have to work out later.

Or maybe she'd ask Fox Mulder.  When this case was over, she'd take
some time to get to know him better.

Past the edge of the snowy field, the ex-priest stopped at what
looked like the base of a waterfall, frozen solid.

"It's here!"  He cried, dropping to his knees and starting to dig
with his hands.  Mulder turned and gave out an even more piercing
whistle than Agent Drummy had, minutes ago.

"I need those men back!  Bring shovels!"  Mulder shouted, and Agent
Whitney rallied her reluctant troops to trudge across the snow.

Mulder had dropped to his knees near Father Joe and helped him to
clear the accumulated snow from the frozen ground. 

"Feel free to join in," Mulder suggested to the agents standing with
their shovels at the ready.  Agent Drummy handed him one.  He
shrugged and kept scraping away at the snow.  After a minute or so, a
dull metallic clang indicated that they'd gotten down to ice.

Mulder kept scraping away at the snow, throwing shovels of it behind
him.

"It's solid ice," Drummy observed.

"Hand me your flashlight," Mulder said in reply.  He shone it along
the surface, and in the added light, something encased in the ice
caught the beam.

"Not ice," Mulder confirmed. "'Dirty glass.'"  He angled the
flashlight so that all could see what he saw:  a female severed head,
staring out at the group.

Tossing Agent Drummy his flashlight, Mulder addressed Agent Whitney.
"You're gonna need resources."

She nodded and got on her phone, ordering the heavy equipment they'd
need.

Shoulders slumped, Mulder walked right past Scully, following the
agents who were hurrying back to their vehicles.  She turned to
follow him and realized that Father Joe had been standing right
behind her.

Startled, she just looked at him.  His gaze was intense, his eyes
narrowed behind his glasses.

Staring directly into her eyes, he said simply, "Don't give up."

She waited a moment, but he said nothing else.  For less than a
second, she had a fleeting glimpse of something else besides the
monster that she saw whenever she looked at him.  She stared at him,
and he continued to stare back.  Then she turned away, following
Mulder to the car.

x-x-x

Unknown location

The pain was nearly unbearable.  And yet he would endure it.  For
Janke.

For Janke.  Janke who had endured so many things in his life;
couldn't *he* hold on just a while longer?  

He floated in and out of consciousness, not always aware of where he
was or what was happening.  He remembered a few things.  He'd gone on
a collecting job with Janke, and it had not gone well.  He generally
had left that side of the business to Janke.  Although he'd
reluctantly agreed to Janke's pleadings, he hadn't really wanted to
be a part of this.

But it was wonderful, the persistence of life.  When given a chance
to prolong it, he'd grasped at it, just as anyone would have.  He
could tell himself it was for Janke, but it wasn't.  Not entirely. 
He wanted to breathe freely again.  To stand, reveling in a strong,
healthy body: it was his dream, too, not just Janke's.

Yet he could sense that he was in trouble.  He felt things that
didn't seem to be a part of him.  He thought things that didn't seem
to be his thoughts.  The doctor said they'd have to operate again. 
Janke told him not to give up.  So he lay in his semi-dreaming state,
waiting.

-x- 

Chapter Nine - Allies

Our Lady of Sorrows Hospital
8:15 a.m.

"We can resolve then, in good conscience and without objection, to
relocate this patient to a facility better suited for and humane to
his condition?"  Father Ybarra was saying as Scully entered the daily
patient status meeting.

She had rushed to get here on time, but the continuing snowy weather
and the long drive from the crime scene meant she'd barely had time
to change her clothes.  Mulder had elected to stay and watch the
excavation at the ice field.

But she couldn't think about that right now.  "I'm sorry?"  She
asked, with the sinking feeling that she knew whose patient Father
Ybarra was referring to.

Father Ybarra said smoothly, "As we discussed, Dr. Scully, I was
informing the staff and doctors of the hospital's decision on
Christian Fearon."

"Decision?"

"To remove him to a hospice that can better manage his palliative
care," Father Ybarra said.

"That was a discussion, not a decision," Scully corrected him.

"Well," Father Ybarra said with a great show of patience, "it has
been discussed here at length, and with no objection from your
colleagues."  He looked around the room, and indeed no one said a
word.  In fact, few even looked up to meet either Father Ybarra's or
Scully's eyes.

"*I* have an objection," she insisted.

In the same patient tone, Father Ybarra said, "What you have, Dr.
Scully, is a patient with an untreatable condition.  You requested,
and received, an outside opinion, which is that there is no course of
treatment.  Now that's all very sad, and very unfortunate -- no one
disagrees with that --"

"But he's my patient," she said a little desperately.

"Yes, he is, but unless you've come here today with a cure for
Sandhoff disease, we all respectfully request that you let the boy go
in peace."

She wasn't sure what she'd expected from the other doctors in the
room, but no one spoke up.  The silence pressed on her; she couldn't
think.  Why this morning, of all mornings?  She felt blindsided by
Father Ybarra.  She hadn't been prepared for this conversation to
take place yet.

Father Ybarra took her silence for acquiescence and said, "Thank
you.  Now, let's get this meeting wrapped up so we can get on with
today's good work.  We have one more case to discuss --"

The eyes of her colleagues swiveled to Father Ybarra.

Father Ybarra's words became a drone in the background as Scully
gathered her wits.  She couldn't allow this.  She couldn't give up.

*Don't give up*  

She turned back to the room.

"There is a treatment," she said, interrupting Father Ybarra.  Now
all eyes were upon her.

"The matter is closed, Dr. Scully," Father Ybarra said, his tone
gentle but his eyes cold.

"No it's not," she said.  "The boy can be treated with intercostal
stem cell therapy."

There was a gasp in the room, though some doctors looked in-
terested.  

Only one doctor spoke up, however, one of her lunchroom
acquaintances.  "You'd put that boy through hell for an uncertain
treatment?"

"Would you do it if it was your son?"  Scully countered.

Before the other woman could reply, Father Ybarra said, "It's not
her son, nor is he yours, Dr. Scully.  The decision has been made to
send the patient to hospice."

"I don't believe," Scully said in a tone she'd perfected at
countless OPR hearings, "that it's a decision for hospital
administration.  It's his doctor's decision.  If you want to
challenge that, I suggest you take the matter to a higher authority."

"I *have* taken it up with the *highest* authority, Dr. Scully,"
replied Father Ybarra, casting his eyes up to the crucifix on the
wall.  "As should you."

She did not answer, leaving the room in stunned silence behind her. 
Once in the hallway, she faltered a bit in her iron control, her
shoulders slumping for a second as she gathered her forces again.

*What have I gotten myself into?* she thought.  She knew that Father
Ybarra would do everything he could to prevent this procedure, and if
he did take it up with the governing board, she wouldn't stand a
chance.  She went to her office and gathered all the research she'd
done on the treatment, preparing to do battle.  She would not give up
on this boy, even if everyone else had.  

There was a tap on her door.  It opened slightly, and Dr. Michael
Fitzpatrick peered around it.  "Am I disturbing you?"

Scully gestured for him to take a seat.  Dr. Fitzpatrick had
befriended Scully when she first started at Our Lady, and though he
was probably ten years younger, there had been plenty of match-makers
who thought that the petite red-haired doctor looked good with the
tall, blonde, and handsome doctor. 

There were several reasons why it would never happen, though neither
bothered to correct anyone's misapprehension on that score.  They
both had a healthy respect for privacy and personal space, and left
it at that.

Dr. Mike was generally well-liked, open and friendly where Scully
was reserved.  They had been allies a few times on difficult cases,
and she had in fact been a little surprised that he'd said nothing in
the conference room.

"Are you trying to steal my thunder?" he asked.  "Usually I'm the
one to question Father Y's authority.  You're always such a good
girl."

Scully smiled wanly.  "Maybe I just finally found a case -- um,
cause, I wanted to fight for."

"He'll stop you if he can, you know," Dr. Mike said.

"I know," she said.  "I've got a fight on my hands."

"There might be another way," he said.  "What are you prepared 
to do?"

"Whatever I have to do," Scully said.  "I've got to convince
Christian's parents that this is the right course."  She looked down
at the folders where she'd put all of her research and notes.  *And
be sure myself,* she thought. 

"How soon can you be ready to operate?"  Dr. Mike asked.

"It needs to be pretty soon, or Father Ybarra will find a way to
send Christian away," she said.

"Are you prepared to operate this afternoon?" he asked.

"Me?" Scully said.

"Who else will do it?  I think the sooner the better," her colleague
said.  "I've done some work with this type of treatment myself.  I'd
be happy to scrub in and assist."

Scully stared at him.  "But --"

"You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

"No.  But I can't --"

"Can't what?  Perform the surgery?  You're not an amateur, and you
won't be on your own.  Or are you reluctant to accept help when it's
offered?  You don't have to go this alone, Dana.  You have more
allies than you realize, but you have to have faith."

*Don't give up*

She looked at the man standing before her.  That's what it came down
to, she thought.  Trust not just in myself, but in another.  Trust
and belief.

Maybe, just maybe, this was one of those signs along the way.

"Yes, I can," she answered.

"Good," he said decisively.  "Can you get the parents' consent?  You
do that, and I'll take care of the logistics."

"But how can I get an operating room at such short notice?  And what
about --"

"Sometimes it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission," he said.
"Remember who you're talking to."

It was true that Michael Fitzpatrick somehow was able to charm
anyone out of anything.  Fortunately, he used his powers for good,
not evil.  Scully smiled for the first time in what seemed like days.

"Thank you," she said.

x-x-x

New rumors had begun to circulate at the FBI -- no one knew from
where.   Former Agent Mulder's reputation was undergoing a
transformation.  Though the most persistent rumor had been that he'd
left the FBI in disgrace, it was now whispered that he had gone
underground -- so deep no one could find him, and it had been doubted
for a while that he would ever come back.  Suddenly there were so
many stories it was hard to tell what to believe:  His firing had
been part of a disinformation campaign.  He had infiltrated a
terrorist cell.  He had been on a joint task force with the CIA.   A
couple of wags suggested he'd been abducted by aliens, not once but
twice -- but these were soon dismissed as old jokes.

Intertwined with the rumors about Fox Mulder were those about Dana
Scully -- she had a child, she didn't have a child, she'd pretended
to have a child -- that she was part of the disinformation campaign
against Fox Mulder, that she was his champion.  That he had gone so
deep undercover, she was the only one who could find him and bring
him back.

This last rumor seemed to be validated when it was reported that Fox
Mulder had been seen stalking the upper corridors of the Hoover
Building, with Dana Scully by his side.  He looked like he'd barely
come back from his deep undercover, still in his guise as a
survivalist, or a member of a terrorist cell, someone who'd had to
forget everything about his real life and live a lie. 

In his office, Kersh heard the rumors and grinned to himself,
patting the folder that contained his retirement papers.

One floor down, Skinner listened to, and denied some of the more
outrageous rumors with an abruptness that made others think that
there must be something to them after all.

Skinner rarely allowed himself to smile, but sometimes, as he drove
home, he felt a grim satisfaction that his two best -- albeit most
high-maintenance -- former agents were well on the way to coming in
from the cold.

x-x-x

Quantico, Virginia
FBI Forensics Lab

The boulder of ice stood in the middle of the lab, slowly melting
away, revealing its horrifying contents.  Forensics techs swarmed
around it, using blow dryers and small drills and saws to hasten the
process, carefully extracting more and more grisly specimens from its
grip.

Mulder paced around the perimeter, unable to settle.  Scully should
be here, he thought.  He understood that she couldn't just walk away
from her work, but he thought she would at least try to stay in touch
with him.  She had promised to stay involved, after all.

He tried calling her again, still getting her voice mail. 
Frustrated, he hung up without leaving a message.

"We've gotten some preliminary lab tests back," Dakota Whitney said
at his shoulder.  She handed him a folder.  "I'll save you having to
interpret the data.  Of the body parts extracted so far, most appear
to be from distinctly different bodies.  There are obvious visible
differences, apart from any chemical tests."

"Anything to connect them with the arm?"  Mulder asked.

"Not so far.  We expect some preliminary lab tests within the hour. 
Why don't you take a break, go get a cup of coffee or something?  You
look beat."

He made a non-committal noise and gestured to the conference room
next door.  "What's happening with Father Joe?"

"Nothing right now," she said.  "He insists he doesn't know what the
connection is."

"And your guys?  Have they found anything else?"

Dakota sighed.  "No, nothing.  But they're still looking."

Mulder rubbed his eyes.  He'd not gotten any real sleep for more
than forty-eight hours and it was beginning to tell on him.  *I'm
getting too old for this shit*, he thought.

"Maybe I will go get that coffee," he said, and walked out of the
lab.  

As he headed for the cafe, a familiar voice called him from the end
of the hall.  "Mulder!"

John Doggett was advancing on him, holding out his hand.  Right
behind him was Monica Reyes.

"I don't believe it!"  Doggett pumped his hand, grinning like a jack
o'lantern.  "You son of a --"

Monica caught up and swooped down on Mulder, giving him a hug and
kissing his cheek.  "It's so good to see you!  Where's Dana?  Is she
here too?"

"Scully's at a hospital in Richmond," Mulder said.

Monica was instantly concerned.  "Is she okay?"

"Yeah, she works there.  She's a doctor."

"Wow," Monica said.  "Good for her."

"I never thought I'd see you in these halls again," John Doggett was
saying.  "Doesn't that just beat everything."

"Yeah.  I never expected to see you guys again, either.  I only
heard recently that you guys were -- I thought -- New Mexico...it was
a big explosion," Mulder stammered, uncharacteristically at a loss
for words.

"Yeah," Doggett agreed.  "It was the damnedest thing.  Once they'd
destroyed the pueblo, they didn't even try for us.  They flew off in
another direction.  I though maybe they were after you."

Mulder shook his head.  "No, we didn't see them again."

"Weird."  Monica said.  "I'm surprised you didn't know, though. 
Didn't Skinner tell you?"

"We haven't been in touch, though I have an idea he's why I'm here,"
Mulder said.  "I got called in for this case --"

"Yeah, I know, Monica Bannan.  Hell of a thing," Doggett shook his
head.  "I'm surprised not to see Scully here with you, though."

"I take it you're not on the X Files anymore?"  Mulder asked, to
change the subject.

"Long story.  We've been on a long-term field assignment.  We've
just been called back to DC, something about a new assignment for us
both."

"Huh." said Mulder, his mind was not entirely on the subject at
hand.  

"What about you?" Monica asked.  "Are you really coming back to the
FBI?"

"The jury's still out on that," Mulder said, deadpan.  "There's a
little too much history there."

"I dunno, Mulder," Doggett said.  "We've only been here a day, and
already we're hearing about the return of the prodigal.  You do good
here, you can write your own ticket."

"Seriously, you should talk to Skinner," Monica chimed in.  

"Yeah, well, I've got a lot of catching up to do," Mulder said, "and
a lot of questions to ask."

"Once you get this case wrapped up, we'll talk," Monica said, "and
Dana, too.  Please tell her I said hello."

"Me too," Doggett said, and with one more shake of Mulder's hand and
another hug, the two agents strode away.

Mulder couldn't help but grin to himself and shake his head. 
Wait'll I tell Scully, he thought.

"Fox," he heard from behind him.  He turned, wondering who the next
mystery guest was going to be.  But it was Dakota Whitney, holding a
file folder in her hand.  "We've got some more results."

What he read pushed everything else out of his mind.

-x-

Chapter Ten - Cracks in the Ice 

The phone vibrated insistently just out of her line of sight. 
Scully continued to ignore it as she gathered her research and made
her final notes.  She even wouldn't look at it to see who it was. 
Whether it was Mulder, or Father Ybarra, she couldn't break her
concentration.  She'd have this one chance to get everything right,
and she couldn't risk the life of this little boy, no matter what.
  
"Come on, come on, answer," Mulder muttered under his breath for the
hundredth time.  Why wasn't she picking up?  He'd only requested that
she call him back before, but this time he really needed to tell her
what he'd learned.

Mulder took a deep breath as the call rolled over into voice mail
again.  "Scully, it's me.  I keep leaving you messages, but you're
apparently not picking them up.  Here's what I've been trying to call
you about.  Of the thirteen body parts pulled out of the ice so far,
they're all from different people, men and women.  All cut cleanly,
just as the arm was.  And none of them are Monica Bannan's.  But
here's the thing, what I need you to know, Scully.  In each body part
that's been tested, they've found traces of the same animal
tranquilizer -- acepromazine -- that you identified before.  I don't
know what the hell it means.  I'm hoping you can make some sense of
it."

He hung up without saying goodbye, as always, just as Dakota Whitney
walked up to him.  "Anything new?" she asked.

Mulder shook his head.  "I can't reach her, but she'll get back to
us.  This is a big break.  I'm feeling it."

Dakota shook her head.  "You're feeling it, Father Joe's feeling it,
but all I'm feeling is my head spinning."

"No, this is a big break," Mulder repeated.  "You're going to solve
over a dozen murders here.  This is a serial case you're about to
break wide open.  You should be feeling good right now."

"But it's not bringing us any closer to finding Monica Bannan," she
said.

"We're going to find her," he insisted.  "I know it."

"Well, she might have to wait in line," Dakota said.  "I came to get
you to hear Father Joe's latest vision."

They entered the conference room next door where Father Joe sat with
a half dozen agents.  Everyone but Father Joe turned to them as they
entered; Father Joe remained seated with his head slightly bowed, his
eyes squeezed shut.

"Father Joe, can you please repeat what you just told us to Mr.
Mulder?"  Agent Whitney asked.

"I see another woman's face," Father Joe said, as Mulder seated
himself beside him.  "It's not your agent's face, though."

"Another woman?"  Mulder asked.  "Is she with Monica Bannan?"

"Can't tell," the ex-priest said.  "She's being held...in a box, I
think.  Yes."

"Where is she being held?"  Mulder asked.

"I can't tell," Father Joe said again.

"Did the same men take her as took Monica Bannan?"

"I *think* so...yes, the same men."

Mulder looked around the room at the others.  They'd already heard
most of this.  Now they waited to hear Mulder's verdict on Father
Joe's veracity.

"Can you see them?  Or are you just saying what you think these
people want to hear?"  Mulder asked him.

"No."

"No, you can't see them, or no, they aren't the same men?"  Mulder
persisted.

Father Joe opened his eyes at last.  "They are the same men.  I'm
sure of it."

Without taking his eyes off Father Joe, Mulder said, "I'm going to
need a car."

Predictably, Agent Drummy chimed in.  "To go where?"

"Don't know yet," Mulder said.

"I don't believe this," Agent Drummy muttered.

Now Mulder looked up.  "That's been your problem from the start,
hasn't it?"

"I can get you a car," Dakota Whitney said quickly.  She wasn't sure
why her partner had taken against Fox Mulder so strongly, but she
didn't want it to escalate.

"And I'll need a list of any missing persons in the greater area in
the past twenty-four to seventy-two hours," Mulder said.

x-x-x

The light tap on her office door startled Scully, even though she
was expecting it.

"Let's get this show on the road," Michael Fitzpatrick said.  "All
the eyes are dotted and the tees are crossed.  The Fearons con-
sented?"

"Yes," Scully said shortly.  She wasn't having second thoughts,
exactly.  This would be the first time she'd performed this
particular procedure, but she'd operated under much worse
circumstances, and at least here she had someone skilled to assist. 
"Do I want to know how you managed this?"

"Probably not," he said.  "I called in a few favors, and the Chief
Surgeon is not a bad guy, really.  You'll have some of the best staff
in the OR."

"I don't want anyone to jeopardize their jobs for this," she said,
worried. 

"They won't," Michael said with assurance.  Scully wished she had
that kind of confidence.  She wasn't afraid of Father Ybarra or what
the board might do to her; she just didn't want to take anyone down
with her.  For now, her sole concern had to be for Christian and what
was best for him.

She hoped that she was right, and that this was the best thing for
him.  She had to believe.  She took a deep breath and entered the 
OR. 

Christian lay on the gurney, already prepped for surgery, but still
awake.  Scully smiled at him.  "You have a lot of very good people
looking after you today, Christian," she said.  "Don't be scared."

"Okay, Doctor Scully," he said with a tiny smile.  "Don't you be
scared either."

She smiled back at him, and went into the other room to scrub up.

x-x-x

Somerset County, Virginia

The Somerset County Sheriff's Department was already on the scene
when Agents Whitney and Drummy drove up with Mulder.  They'd gotten a
call from another motorist who'd passed that morning and had seen the
car, already half-buried in accumulated snow.  The agents had already
been on their way to investigate another report when Mulder insisted
that they check this one out first.

The car was still mostly buried.  The locals had dug out around the
driver's side of the car and partly uncovered the back, revealing the
license plate that had enabled them to make the ID of the car's 
owner.

Agent Whitney turned to Mulder and said, "Let *us* talk to the
deputy first."  She smiled a little self-deprecatingly.  "These guys
don't always take to civilians asking questions."

Mulder rolled his eyes but complied, walking a few paces behind the
agents.  Agent Drummy showed his ID and started to look at the
interior of the car with one deputy while Agent Whitney conferred
with another.

"Cheryl Cunningham," she told Mulder as he approached.  "She didn't
check in with work last night.  Calls to her home went unanswered."

"Airbag was deployed, but there's no blood on it," Drummy chimed in.
"This was a survivable accident.  She could have gotten out, walked
away, got tired and fell asleep in the snow.  Happens all the time."

"Pretty hard right turn for such a straight stretch of road, don't
you think?" was Mulder's reply, as he stepped forward and examined
the area himself.  "But why settle for *my* opinion?" he added, as
Father Joe came forward.  The ex-priest looked miserably cold as he
plodded along the path cleared by the cops.

Mulder stepped aside and gestured for Father Joe to sit in the
driver's seat.  "Take her for a spin," he said.

Father Joe sat, touching the steering wheel and peering through the
partly-cleared windshield.  He sat for a long time.

Everyone waited, shifting from foot to foot in the cold, as Father
Joe stared straight ahead, then at his lap.

Finally, he said, "I'm sorry.  I'm not getting anything."

"What a surprise," Agent Drummy said.  "*What* a surprise."

Father Joe looked at him a little sheepishly and trudged back toward
the waiting SUVs.

"I think we're about done with Father Joe," Agent Whitney said to
Agent Drummy.  She walked around to the back of the car, resting her
hand on the trunk.

Mulder sat in the car for a moment, recreating what might have
happened in his mind.  There was no purse on the passenger seat or on
the floorboard of the car; could she have done what Mosley Drummy
suggested and struck out on foot?  It seemed too simple an
explanation.

"Has anyone looked in the trunk?" he asked.  He pulled the trunk
release lever.

The first thing Dakota pulled out was a bright orange automobile
emergency kit.  "Well, that didn't do her much good," she commented.

Mulder zeroed in on a gym bag, unzipping it and examining the
contents.  "Take a look at this," he said, pulling out a stiff wad of
fabric.

"It's a swimsuit," Whitney said, "frozen stiff."

"Smells like chlorine," Mulder said.  Then, realizing what that
meant, he turned to the closest deputy.  "Where's the nearest public
swimming pool?"

He'd found the connection that Father Joe couldn't, Whitney
reflected.  Mulder might not be psychic, but he was a damned good
investigator.

x-x-x

Somerset Natatorium

The old facility was shaped like a giant Quonset hut.  The curved
surface helped keep snow from piling up on the roof, and no doubt in
sunnier weather, allowed some outside light through the heavy
translucent fiberglass that made up some of the panels.  

The elderly man at the front desk seemed unsurprised at the sudden
crowd of people at his check in counter.  "Do y'all want lockers?" he
asked.

Dakota Whitney flashed her badge, as did Mosley Drummy.  Mulder
started to reach for his, stopping as he realized what he was doing. 
"We're with the FBI.  We'd like to show you a picture, if you don't
mind," said Dakota.

"Why would I mind?" the old man said.

Dakota pulled out Monica Bannan's photograph.  "Do you recognize
this woman?"

The man looked at the picture for a few seconds, then said, "These
young people all look the same to me."

Exhibiting amazing patience as her companions shifted restlessly
behind her, Dakota persisted.  "Can you tell us if you keep a sign-in
sheet for the pool?"

"Sure do," the man said.  "Every day."

"Do you suppose we could see it?"  Dakota prompted. 

"Don't see why not," he said, and handed over the clip board
containing a few sheets of paper.

Dakota flipped past the first page to a blank one below.  "How about
yesterday's?"

"I threw yesterday's away," he said.  "Why would I want to keep it?"

Mulder rolled his eyes and looked around the lobby.  Spying the
entrance to the women's dressing room, he headed toward it.

This caught the notice of the desk attendant.  "Where's he going? 
Doesn't he know that's the ladies' side?"

Before anyone could follow him, Mulder came back out.  "Do you
happen to have a set of bolt cutters?" he asked their unflappable
host.

"You found something," Dakota Whitney said.

"I found something," Mulder confirmed, looking at Agent Drummy, who
turned without a word and went out to get what was needed out of the
SUV.

"So none of you want to swim?" the elderly gent shook his head. 
"Young people these days.  So flighty."

-x-

Continued in Part Four -