Reimagined: IWTB
by ML

-x-

Chapter Eleven - Good Luck

Dana Scully was beyond tired.  She sat in the empty surgeon's locker
room, still in her scrubs, writing up her surgical notes.  She had no
idea what time it was, but her exhaustion told her it had been a long
day, and it wasn't over yet.

She didn't hear the outer door open, and she started a little when a
familiar voice said, "And people say *I* went underground..."

She looked up to see Mulder's half-smile.  He looked pretty tired,
too, but he seemed elated.  

"I'm sorry, Mulder," she said, glancing down at her notes.  "I'm
trying to keep my focus here."

He sat down beside her.  "It's the boy, isn't it?"  He'd almost
forgotten Scully's patient in the events of the day, and he felt a
twinge of guilt for it.  

She nodded, not meeting his eyes.

"I thought there was nothing to be done for him," he prodded gently.

"I'm taking a big chance on something," she said.  "A radical new
procedure."

"The one you said last night wasn't an option?"

She nodded, still looking down at her notes.

"What made you change your mind?"

Scully rose and turned away, unwilling to answer his direct question.

Mulder waited for her reply, chewing his lip thoughtfully.  He had a
sense that there was something she wasn't telling him, wasn't ready
to tell him.  This was familiar, but it had been a long time since
he'd felt her withholding something from him.  He changed tack.

"When will you know if it's a success?"

"This is the first of a series of procedures," Scully said, "and we
won't really know the outcome until they're done."  She looked at him
as he nodded.  "But that's not what you came to talk to me about, is
it?"

Mulder knew she was changing the subject deliberately, but he was
willing to go along for now.  This was too urgent not to talk about,
and there was nothing he could do to help her with her patient.  But
she might be able to help him.

"Another young woman has gone missing," he said, "but this time we
have something to go on.  She and Monica Bannan swam at the same
pool.  And get this: they have the same blood type, and it's a rare
type: AB negative."

"Organ donors," Scully breathed.  It seemed so obvious to her.  "A
donor's and a recipient's type has to match."  

Mulder nodded excitedly, all thoughts of anything but the case now
out of his mind.  "Black market -- someone filling orders?"

"That's how they were targeted -- they must be on a donor registry,
and someone else using that pool had access to that knowledge."

"That's your world, Scully.  Your knowledge of that world will save
us time, and time's our enemy."

"You can start with transporters, get the District Attorney's
help..." Scully said.

Mulder shook his head.  "I need you on this, Scully.  You asked me
to get involved, now I'm asking you to stay involved."

She shook her head, and some of Mulder's enthusiasm dimmed.  "You
don't need me, Mulder.  They don't even really need you any longer. 
You broke the case, now let them handle it.  You've done everything
you can do."

"But we're so close now," Mulder insisted.

"And I'm asking you to let it go," she said gently.

He couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.  Scully had sometimes
been resistant to his enthusiasm for a case in the past, but she'd
never asked him to just drop one.  Why now?

"It's not that simple," he began.

"No, it's not," she agreed.  "It's complicated."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mulder demanded.

She sighed.  "It's something I knew might happen, but I've been
afraid to face it.  Something that I haven't had to face before now,
before this case."

"Just say it, Scully."  He was trying to be patient, but she was
killing him.

She wasn't sure how to say what she was feeling.  There were so many
thoughts, so many fears.  How could she make him understand?  "I'm a
doctor now, Mulder.  Psychics, severed heads, abducted women: they
aren't my life any more."

"I know that," Mulder started to say, but Scully gave him a look,
and he held his peace.  For now.

"When I was with the FBI, the FBI was my focus.  I used my medical
training, yes, but not in the way I'd originally intended.  I don't
regret that time, but things are different now.  My work is here 
now."

"I'm not asking you to give it up, Scully," Mulder said.

"You're not hearing what I'm saying, Mulder.  I can't do it any
more.  I can't look into the darkness with you.  I can't stand what
it does to you...or me."

"But I'm okay with it, Scully," Mulder said, a little bewildered. 
"I'm fine with it, really."

"That's what scares me," she whispered.

"Where else would you have me look?" he asked, frustrated.

"I'm asking you to look inside yourself, Mulder."

"Why?  I'm not the one who's changed," he insisted.  This was
beginning to sound like the kind of argument his parents had, and
that scared *him*.  He struggled to keep his anger in check.

Scully still spoke in gentle, measured tones.  "We're not FBI
anymore, Mulder.  We are two people who have made a home together. 
And I don't want that darkness in my home."

"But it's what I do," Mulder said.  "It's what I did before I ever
met you.  It's all I know."

"Then write it down.  Put it in a book.  You can tell the world
now," she said.  "You've paid your debt, whatever you owed, over and
over."

"Are you asking me to quit?" he asked incredulously.

"No, I could never ask you to do that," she said sadly.  She made
herself look at him.  "But what I can tell you is that I won't be
coming home.  I have my own battles to fight right now."

"Scully --"

"Please don't argue with me," she pleaded.

"Please don't do this," he replied.  "Not now."

"I don't know what else to do," she said.

Mulder reeled with those simple words, and the fight was knocked
right out of him.  Scully could be as immovable as a mountain once
she'd made up her mind, and all the pushing in the world would get
him nowhere.

Except maybe an even more final declaration.

Scully was silent as she watched Mulder process what she said.  She
hadn't meant it as a threat, but she knew that nothing short of this
would keep him from trying to lure her in again.  He couldn't help
himself.  He would use all of his considerable persuasive powers on
her, and she knew it would be impossible to resist him.  Unless she
just stayed away.  She couldn't afford to lose her focus on her
patient.

Mulder rubbed his eyes, finding himself dangerously close to crying.
His throat almost closing, he said, "Well.  Good luck, then."

He got up, and without looking at her again, left the room.

"You too," Scully whispered, the sighing of the shutting door nearly
drowning her words out.

x-x-x

Manners General Hospital
Fairfax, Virginia

The two surgeons worked over the open abdominal cavity, snipping and
stitching with efficiency but without the sort of delicate care for
the patient usually seen in an operating room.  No anesthesiologist
oversaw the procedure, and only two nurses.

The patient before them was past saving; they were removing the
organs specified for donation.  They needed to work quickly; the
transplant agency's courier waited outside the operating room to be
summoned for his role in the process.  It was a miraculous thing, to
be able to prolong the life of someone by gifting them with an organ
that was no longer of use to its original owner.  

The liver was removed and prepared for transport.  The courier
entered, wearing a precautionary mask, gown and gloves to oversee the
placement of the organ in his insulated carrier.

Janke Dacyshyn's mind was not entirely on his work, however.  His
lover lay on a table not unlike this one, waiting for his own
miracle.  Unfortunately, the kind of miracle he needed called for
even more extraordinary measures than an organ transplant.

The most recent procedure hadn't been an unqualified success, and
they didn't have much time.  He couldn't be as careful or as choosy
as he'd been in the past and that worried him.  Josef needed him, and
he was failing.

He discarded gown and mask at the operating room door, hurrying to
the elevator.  He'd noted the uniformed police officer with a couple
of plain-clothed law enforcement types at the other end of the
corridor before he'd entered the OR; he always paid attention to his
surroundings while doing his best to be anonymous.  

He debated taking the stairs; the elevators in this hospital were
notoriously slow.  But before he could make that decision, someone
called to him.

"Excuse me," said one of the suited men, showing a badge.  "Can we
have a moment of your time?"  The uniformed cop was right at his
shoulder.

He had never gotten over his fear of the police.  It was a rational
fear where he came from, as they were often corrupt and were
especially brutal toward boys and men like him.

He had reason to be afraid of these men too, but not the same
reasons as he had in his home country.  He did his best to hide his
fear, trying to sound merely impatient, but coming off as angry,
which put the men on alert.

"I am transplanting vital organ," Janke said.  "I have little time."
As always when he was under stress or feeling emotional, his speech
patterns became more heavily accented.

"I understand," he said.  I'm Richard Koell, with the District
Attorney's Office in Richmond.  May I see your paperwork and li-
cense?"

Reluctantly, Janke put down the ice chest and reached for his
wallet.  "I have green card," he said.

Koell nodded.  What are you transporting and where?"

"Liver for transplantation.  I am due at Bowman Clinic.  There is
patient waiting."

"I understand," Koell said.  Paperwork and license, please?"

Janke handed over the clipboard he carried and pulled his license
out of his wallet.

Koell examined the papers and asked, "Have you ever procured or
transported an organ outside or normal or lawful channels?"

"No!" Janke said emphatically.

"Ever been asked to?"

"No!" he said again.

Koell handed back the clipboard and license.  "You're an employee of
this company.  How would your employer answer these questions?"

"My employer, he is sick.  He has cancer."  He said the last word
with a snarl, showing uneven and yellowed teeth.

"That's not what I asked you, Mr...Dacyshyn?"

Janke didn't bother to correct his pronunciation.  "Am I under
suspicion?  It is important I get this organ to hospital.  I am doing
good work."

"Have a seat, Mr. Dacyshyn.  We'll let you go as soon as possible." 
Koell got out his cell phone and moved a few feet away to talk
privately, but the uniformed officer kept his eye on Janke.

Janke had no choice but to sit and wait.   

x-x-x

Scully walked down the steps to the lobby level, dressed in street
clothes.  She'd finished her notes and managed to avoid Father
Ybarra.  Normally she wouldn't avoid such a confrontation, but she'd
had her quota for that day.

She wanted to go home, but she'd already made her choice, and the
reasons for making it still remained.  And, even if she went home,
the chance that Mulder would be there was slim.  He was determined to
see this case through, whatever the cost.  She just hadn't thought
that she'd be part of that cost.  She stood at the bottom of the
steps, irresolute.

Dr. Mike passed by.  "Dana, is everything okay?  Is Christian okay? 
You look like you lost your best friend."

How apt, she thought.  It's exactly how I feel.

"No, he's fine.  I checked on him and he's back in his room,
sleeping.  Thank you again for your help today."

"No trouble," he said with a smile.  "Seriously, though, has Father
Y been at you already?  I've heard he's not best pleased about this."

"I can imagine," she said dryly, but frankly Father Ybarra was the
least of her worries now.

"Well, go home, get some rest, and it'll look better in the morning,
no doubt," he said.  "That's my plan."

"I'm staying here tonight," she said.  "I'll sleep in the on-call
room."

"Suit yourself," he said, "but if I had a guy like your bearded
friend waiting for me at home, I'd be making tracks."

Scully stared at him in shock.

"Yes, I saw you with him yesterday, and I can read you like a book,"
he said, "but your secret's safe with me.  Honor among thieves and
all that."

She managed to muster a small smile.  "Thanks, Michael."

"No worries," he said.  "See you in the morning."

Scully turned away and saw Margaret and Blair Fearon, not two steps
away.

"Doctor Scully, can we speak with you a moment?"  The couple had
perpetually worried expressions, understandably; however, this time
they looked not only worried, but fearful.

Her heart sank.  Putting a brave face on, she said, "Certainly. 
Have you seen Christian?"

"Yes, he's still asleep," Margaret said.

"That's what we want to talk to you about," Blair said, "our son."

"We think..." Margaret trailed off, and looked up at her husband.

"We've changed our minds about this treatment," Blair said.  "We
think Christian's been through enough."

"But we've only done the first step," Scully said.  "It's too early
to tell if it's working or not."

"We want to put our faith in God now," Margaret said softly, and in
her words Scully heard the echo of someone else's.

"It's nothing against you," Margaret added quickly.  "We know you've
done your best.  But science can only do so much, Dr. Scully.  If you
were a mother, you'd understand."

"I take it," Scully said stiffly, "that you've spoken with Father
Ybarra?"

"Yes," Margaret admitted, glancing quickly at her husband, "but the
decision is ours."

Blair nodded emphatically.

Scully was certain that the good Father made them believe it was
their decision, but in their words she could hear his influence.

She took a deep breath, keeping herself calm.  "I understand your
fears," she said gently.  "But what if it did work, and we find out
later that we've made the wrong choice by stopping?"

The hope in Margaret's eyes was almost painful to see.  "You mean
you can save our son?"

"I'm saying that it's too early to tell.  That if we quit now..."
she stopped.  "I can't promise you.  But I don't want to give up now.
Please give it time to work."

Margaret and Blair Fearon nodded, but she could see that they
weren't entirely convinced.

And now, she wasn't so sure either.  Had she put her faith in the
wrong thing?  Had the words she'd heard meant something entirely
different?

There was only one way to find out.

-x-

Chapter Twelve - Separate Ways

FBI Field Office
Richmond, Virginia

Mulder stared glumly at the files scattered over the table, awaiting
information from the DA's office.

Even when he was officially with the FBI, he hadn't had much
patience with the intricacies of dealing with local law enforcement. 
It made him even more restless now.  He sat trying to concentrate on
the files, drinking bad coffee and refusing to engage in conversation
with either Mosley Drummy or Dakota Whitney.

Mosley was working the phones, talking to hospitals about their
transplant policies and inquiring about what transport agencies they
used.  Dakota Whitney was talking the Richmond SAC.  Mulder supposed
that it meant he wasn't really ignoring them, they were ignoring him.

He missed Scully.  If she were there, they'd be discussing the case,
trying theories out on each other, arguing, and probably solving it
before the locals got back to them, confirming what they'd already
figured out.

Really, what was he still doing there?  Agent Whitney occasionally
threw him a look that seemed to say that she still needed him to
stick around.  Agent Mosley gave him nothing, but that was to be
expected.  But if Father Joe's usefulness had reached its limits,
hadn't his as well?

"We should be getting a warrant any time now," Dakota said as she
entered the room.  "But we have a name at least.  Janke Dacyshyn. 
Assuming the permits he had were legitimate, we should be able to
track down the owner of the business as well."

"We should show Father Joe the picture we have, see if it means
anything to him," Mulder said.  "It might be faster."

Agent Drummy rolled his eyes but Dakota Whitney said, "That's a good
idea.  Let's do that, while we're waiting."

x-x-x

Sex Offender's Dormitories
Richmond, Virginia

Scully shivered in her wool coat.  She'd willed herself up the
stairs, but hesitated to knock.  She raised her hand, faltered,
raised it again.  Finally, she watched her knuckles rap on the door,
as if she had no control over her hand.

A few seconds passed and she backed away from the door, ready to
hurry away.  As she started to turn, she heard the click of the latch
on the door.

An eddy of warm, stale air escaped as Father Joe stepped out and
peered at her, braced against the railing at the far end of the
walkway.

"A vision if ever I had one," he said.

Scully swallowed, her dry mouth not wanting to form words.  At last
she said, "May I speak with you?"

"Of course," he said, and gestured to his door.  "Won't you come in?"

Reluctantly, Scully approached the door.  The last thing she wanted
was to enter that apartment, but she'd come this far now.  

Father Joe stood to one side to let her enter.  "Have you come on
your own?" he asked, looking past her.

She nodded, biting her lip.  This was not a good idea, not at all. 
Maybe she should tell him to leave the front door open.  

"Please, sit down," he invited.  The couch had certainly seen better
days, and tonight it appeared that Father Joe, or someone, had been
using it for a bed.  Father Joe pushed the sheets and blankets aside.

"I won't be staying long," she said.

"Please, I insist," he said, and she reluctantly sat.

Father Joe sat uncomfortably close to her.  "You've come to ask me
something," he prompted.

She nodded, and licked her lips.  She just couldn't ask him.  She
looked around, trying to think of something else to say.

He smiled gently, "My roommate's out.  We're quite alone here, free
to speak in confidence."

Scully gathered her courage.  "You said something to me.  Out in the
field, last night."

Father Joe nodded.  "Yes.  I said, 'don't give up.'"

She hadn't realized how much she'd expected him to deny it until he
spoke.  "I need to know why you said that."

"I haven't the faintest idea," he said.

Her shoulders slumped.  

"You were hoping for another answer?"  Father Joe asked.

Scully couldn't sit still anymore.  She rose and faced Father Joe. 
"Do you know anything about me?"

"Other than the fact you loathe me, no," he replied.  

"You don't know what I do?  What I used to do, or what I do now?" 
She would not let herself fall into the trap that Luther Lee Boggs
had set for her, back when she was a green agent.  "Did you look me
up on the internet?"

"I know nothing at all about you.  Though I can see you're a woman
of *faith*."

The way he said it rankled her.

"Though not the same faith as your husband, it appears."

"He's not my husband," she blurted, and immediately wished she
hadn't.  What Mulder was or wasn't to her was none of this man's
business.

"Would you care to tell me about yourself?" the ex-priest asked.

"No!"

"Perhaps you'd like me to take your confession?"

She almost laughed.  "I don't think you're in any position to --"

"To what?" he interrupted.  "To judge?  Perhaps not.  But *you've*
judged *me*."

"Don't you deserve to be judged?"

"Certainly not by *you*," he said.  "Am I not God's creature, same
as you?"

"I don't think God would claim you, after what you did to those
young boys," she countered.  She headed for the door.  Father Joe
followed her.  

"Do you know why we live here, we men who call this vile box of
monsters our home?"

Scully shrugged, unwilling to engage in further debate with him.

"We hate each other, as much as we hate ourselves for our sickening
appetites."

"That doesn't make them any less sickening," she said.

"So where do these appetites come from, then?  These uncontrollable
impulses of ours?"

"Not from God," Scully said firmly.

"Not from me," Father Joe countered.  "I castrated myself when I was
twenty-seven."

His declaration shocked her.  There was nothing further to say to
him; it was a foolish idea to come in the first place.

"And," he added as she walked to the door, "I didn't ask for these
visions, either."

She didn't even acknowledge him; she reached for the door.

"Proverbs 25:2," he said.

"What?" Scully asked in spite of herself.

"'God's glory to conceal a thing, but the honor of kings to search
out a matter.'"

"Don't you dare quote Scripture to me!" she shouted.

"Why did you come here?" he asked.

"You said, 'Don't give up'.  Why?  What was it for?"

Father Joe shrugged and started to light another cigarette.  He
couldn't seem to hold his hand still and the match went out.

"'Don't give up,'" she repeated.  "Why did you say it?"

Father Joe peered up at her.  "I don't know," he whispered.

"I don't *believe* you!"

"I'm telling the truth," he insisted.

"You stood there, and said it to me, right to my face!"  As small as
she was, she towered over him.  

Unaccountably, his eyes filled with tears.  "All I wanted was to
serve Him...all I ever wanted..."  He bowed his head.

"You can ask God's forgiveness," Scully said, "but don't expect 
mine."

Head still bowed, Father Joe began to shake.  Was he sobbing?  This
was just too much.

He raised his head to hers, jaw set tightly, eyes rolling back in
his head.

"You can stop the act any time," she told him.  As if she'd be
fooled by this charlatan's bid for pity.

Then suddenly she knew he wasn't acting.  Spittle and flecks of foam
appeared at the corners of his mouth, and his body went rigid.

x-x-x

The barking of the dogs close by woke Cheryl from her half-slumber. 
She thought vaguely that there must have been something put into her
food to keep her so lethargic, but it never quite seemed to put her
entirely out.

She heard the rattle of kennel doors and the clank of metal dishes,
then the barking quieted as the dogs got their dinner.

A face appeared at the slot in her prison door.  It was Hat Man. 
She had no idea of anyone's names, so she'd given them nicknames. 
Hat Man wore a white stocking cap and seemed kindly; he always said
something soothing sounding in his incomprehensible language.  White
Legs must be a nurse; she wore white stockings and Cheryl could see
the edge of a uniform and sometimes white shoes.  There was another
man, whom she called Grey Pants, since that's all she saw of him;
Mean Man, the one who apparently was the reason she was here, was
never in her range of vision, though she was sure she'd heard a third
male voice from time to time.  

Otherwise, there was Scarface on the table.  He mostly lay quietly,
and sometimes the others hovered around him, tucking in blankets or
checking the IV that hung by his head.  She caught a glimpse once of
a distinctly feminine looking hand by his side, but maybe it was
whatever drugs they gave her that made her think so.  It couldn't be
possible.

Hat Man was talking to her again, showing her a tray with a battered
enamel bowl on it.  Steam rose from it; she must be on the same
feeding schedule as the dogs.  She hoped it wasn't dog food.

The man said his soothing nonsense and made lip-smacking sounds that
needed no interpretation.  Her door rattled as he unlocked it. 
Evidently the soup bowl wouldn't fit through the slot.

But as he removed the lock, a commotion started behind him.  Beeping
from various machines, and a metallic rattling sound distracted him.

Through the slot, Cheryl could see people gathered around Scarface
on the table, who appeared to be having some kind of seizure.

But of more interest to her was the fact that her prison door had
swung open.  In his haste, Hat Man had left her door unlocked.

Without a second thought, Cheryl quietly crawled out of the box and
headed to the only exit that she knew she couldn't be seen from: the
dog door at the end of the kennels.

The dogs were already baying frantically; the commotion in the lab
had disturbed them.  She hoped that they were all locked up.

Only a few feet more...her mind was focused only on the door, not on
what lay on the other side, or how she would survive in a hospital
gown in the bitter cold which was seeping around the edges of the
door flap.  She tumbled down a small incline, mere feet from freedom.

She burst through the door onto a snowy, moonlit yard, and breathed
in the fresh air.

Something was coming toward her, though.  She could hear barking and
snarling but couldn't tell where it was coming from.  It sounded like
two dogs.  She looked frantically around.

It was coming straight at her.  Was it a trick of the moonlight? 
She saw one dog's body...but with two heads.

Instinctively she threw her hands in front of her face, trying to
protect herself from attack.

Meanwhile, inside the makeshift lab, the doctor and his assistants
were trying to help their patient in the throes of a mysterious
seizure.  Two attendants held the body down while the doctor
administered a shot.  The blanket covering the patient's body fell
away, revealing a slight female form, its flesh looking pale and
clammy in the harsh overhead light.

Even through all the activity, Hat Man heard a high, thin scream. 
He spat out an order to Grey Pants, who ran out of the room to rescue
their escapee.  Without her, there would be no reason to save the
person thrashing on the table before them.

x-x-x

Mulder could see the flashing red and blue lights from the back seat
as their vehicle negotiated the icy streets and pulled into the sex
offenders' dorm parking lot.

"This can't be good," Dakota said.  She opened her door and got out
even as the driver put the vehicle into park.  Mulder followed suit
from his back seat.

The paramedics had just made it down the stairs and were approaching
the ambulance as Mulder and the others got there.  One look at the
stretcher confirmed their worst fears: it was Father Joe, oxygen mask
over his features but his wild grey hair identifying him.

Another familiar figure stood nearby, talking to one of the
paramedics and on her cell phone at the same time.  She was the last
person Mulder expected to see anywhere near Father Joe:  Dana Scully.

Mulder got to her side first.  "What happened?" he asked without
preamble.

"He had a seizure and collapsed," Scully said.  "That's all we know
right now."  She said something further into her phone and ended the
call.

"Who called you?"  Mulder asked.

"No one," Scully said.

"Then what are *you* doing here?" Mulder asked more pointedly.

Scully looked past him, ignoring the question.  She turned back to
the paramedics.

Dakota Whitney said from behind Mulder, "What's going on?"

Mulder replied, "Let me ask.  Civilians don't always take to you
guys asking questions."

If Dakota recognized the dig from earlier that day, she made no
sign.  She did, however, back away.

Mulder approached Scully again, supervising the loading of Father
Joe onto the ambulance.

"We need to talk to Father Joe," he told her.

"That may not be possible for a while," Scully said.

Only a step behind Mulder, Dakota Whitney said, "It's important.  We
have a suspect."

"In custody?"  Scully asked.

"No," Dakota said.  "We're working on getting a warrant to search
his employer's office.  Here's the suspect."

Scully found it easier to talk to Dakota than Mulder at the moment. 
She took the picture of Janke Dacyshyn from her and examined it.

"We've got a fairly credible witness who says she's seen this man at
the same pool as Monica Bannan and Cheryl Cunningham," Dakota told
her.   "He was identified as being there the last day Cheryl swam
there."

"Credible enough to make an arrest?"  Scully asked her.

Mulder fumed in the background as Dakota answered, "We think so. 
We're moving in on him."

"Then why do you need Father Joe?" she asked.

"To show him that picture," Mulder said, loudly.  Scully still
wouldn't look directly at him.

Damn it, they'd been through too much together to let work get
between them.

Another black SUV entered the parking lot with a squeal of tires. 
After speaking with the new arrivals briefly, Agent Drummy came up
and spoke to Dakota, who excused herself and walked over to the 
newly-arrived agents.

"I'm convinced that's the man in Father Joe's visions," Mulder said
to Scully, tapping the picture in her hands.

Scully looked at the picture again, then up at Mulder.  "I think now
you're wasting *their* time, Mulder," she said, and turned back to
the ambulance.

"Tell me why you're here again?"  Mulder called after her.

"Here's a vision for you," Agent Drummy approached with Agent
Whitney.  "Couple of my guys just brought it over."  He held out a
second photocopied image.

A gaunt face stared back from the page.  His face was thin and
angular, with almond-shaped eyes, and a head either bald or shaved. 
Franz Tomczeszyn, it said below the picture.

"This man is Janke Dacyshyn's employer," Drummy continued.  "And an
old friend of Father Joe's, we've just learned."

Scully turned around at that news.  "Are you saying Father Joe is
connected to a man who is trafficking in black market body parts?"

"*Allegedly* trafficking," Drummy said.  "It's an old association. 
The Father knew him some twenty-odd years ago."

"Knew him how?" Mulder asked, in spite of himself.  As if he didn't
know.

"Turns out Franz was one of Father Joe's special altar boys," Drummy
said, enjoying his moment of vindication.  "And three guesses who
Franz is married to in the state of Massachusetts?  Our friend 
Janke."

Dakota Whitney had been on her cell phone and now said, "We've got
it covered.  We have the warrant for the offices."  She took the
pictures from Mulder and Scully, and turned with Drummy to the SUV.

Mulder turned to go with them.

"Mulder," he heard Scully say softly.

When he turned to look at her, there was nothing but compassion in
her eyes.  She knew how he felt; they'd been partners for too long
for her not to.  How many times in the past had they been right here?

"It's over," she said.  "Let them take it from here."

It wasn't over for him.  He wasn't going to quit now, no matter
what.  Without a word, he turned from Scully and flagged down the
second SUV.

-x-

Chapter Thirteen - Cornered

The SUVs pulled up in front of a building in an older part of town,
not many blocks away from Our Lady of Sorrows.  Mulder spilled out of
the second vehicle with everyone else and started toward the entrance
to the building, but Dakota Whitney stopped him.

"Why don't you hold up," she said with a slight smile.  "Let these
men do their job."

He didn't argue with her, but it stung all the same.  He didn't need
to be reminded again that this wasn't really his job anymore; he had
Scully to do that.

Yeah, even thinking that was unfair to Scully, but right now he
didn't much care.  

"Look," Dakota was saying, "we were all fooled on this one.  I
wanted to believe this as bad as anyone."

Mulder grunted an acknowledgment, his eyes on the door the agents
had disappeared into.  Any moment now, they'd see some light on the
floor above.

"It didn't break the way we expected," she continued, "but still,
give yourself some credit.  *You* broke the case."

Damn straight I did, he thought, and glanced at her.  She had on a
very sincere expression, her blue eyes shining in the darkness.  Her
eyes were almost the same color as Scully's, but not quite.

"I don't need the sweet talk," he said, turning away.  "I'm a big
boy."

"But it's true, you led us here," she insisted.

"Father Joe led us here," Mulder corrected her. 

"I called you in because I thought you could help with this case. 
Because I valued your beliefs."

He wasn't sure how sincere she was; this was certainly a line he'd
heard before, and the person who'd uttered it had turned out to be
the biggest betrayer in his life.

"Yeah?" he said.  "And what do you think now?"

"I think," she said, her eyes wide, "that this is a longer
conversation."

He wasn't wrong; that line was definitely a come-on.  He didn't need
psychic powers to tell that much.

The adrenaline Dakota Whitney had felt when they were finally on
their way to search the building was still zinging through her
system.  She should be up there, searching with the others, but she
couldn't leave Mulder on his own, and she valued her job too much to
let him in on this search.

She was playing with fire, and she knew it.  She hadn't overstepped
the bounds of professionalism yet, but she was teetering.  The longer
they stood out here, the more likely she'd say something, take the
gamble that she could interest Mulder in sticking around, getting to
know her better.

Neither of them noticed the white van pulling into the alley half a
block away, driven by their suspect.

Janke Dacyshyn knew immediately that there was something wrong. 
After being detained earlier that day, he knew he had to act. 
Fortunately the DA hadn't been able to get a warrant that afternoon
to search his van.  He decided he'd better stop by the offices, just
to be sure that nothing incriminating had been left there by mistake.
He could hear the voices and see the lights in the office as he
stepped off the elevator.  As quietly as he could, he took the stairs
down to the lobby and exited.  He'd almost forgotten the transport
container he carried in his hands that he'd been too afraid to leave
in the van.

He managed to slip out of the front entrance without the agents at
the elevator seeing him.  They weren't familiar with the building and
were watching the wrong set of stairs.

Once out on the street, he tried to look as normal as a man coming
out of a dark building late at night could look.  He didn't see the
two figures standing by the SUV about ten feet back from the
entrance; their voices startled him and he turned.

Mulder got a good look at Janke's face, immediately recognizing it
from the photocopy.

Janke dropped what he was carrying and ran.

"Hey!" Mulder yelled, and took off after him.

After a second's shocked realization, Dakota Whitney ran too, gun at
the ready.  "FBI!" she yelled.  "STOP!"

Mulder heard her, but judged that she was too far back to actually
draw down on the suspect.  He put on speed, keeping the fugitive in
sight.

It wasn't easy.  He was out of shape, and the suspect obviously was
not.  Mulder's lungs were burning already as he took gulps of cold
air.

Janke headed up a side street and out into a more heavily trafficked
road.  Mulder still had him in sight, but now had to be more mindful
of his surroundings -- even at this late hour, there were buses and
taxis to dodge.  He turned back to see if Agent Whitney was catching
up, and was almost hit head-on by a bus.  He swerved just in time,
and bounced off the hood of a taxi which screeched to a stop next to
the bus.  He landed on his feet and lurched forward.

There were several buildings in the area under construction, and it
appeared that at some of them, work was going on, even at this late
hour.  Afraid he'd soon lose Janke in the welter of half-built
structures, Mulder pushed himself harder.  

Janke ran through an open cyclone fence, dodging around an earth-
mover.  Mulder was gaining ground now that they were no longer in the
open.  It was almost as dangerous as the road, though.  The crews
here were working overtime, and there was movement of heavy
machinery, building materials, and people to watch out for.  

"Stop that man!" he shouted to a couple of hardhats he saw in the
distance.  They looked up, startled, but Janke had already run past
them and up some temporary access stairs.

Mulder heard him clamber up the stairs and was close enough behind
him to catch a plastic bucket filled with metal pieces right at the
knees.

No damage done, fortunately, though even if there had been, he
wouldn't have stopped.  Failure was not an option; this man
represented their best hope of finding Monica Bannan and possibly,
Cheryl Cunningham as well.   

The unfinished building had nothing more than plywood floors and
great empty gaps where there was no footing at all.  Tattered yellow
tape marked some of the areas, but in the dark Mulder did not want to
take the chance that some were not, and he picked his way carefully. 
The higher he went, the more gaps there were.  Further obscuring his
vision were tattered sheets of translucent plastic, meant to provide
a makeshift windbreak.  Following Janke was a combination of maze,
obstacle course, and booby trap.  What light there was came from the
floodlights being used on the floors below, and the occasional shop
light marking the paths up and down.  Mulder could hear Dakota
calling from a floor below.  "Do you have him?" she called up to him.
He heard her clanking up the stairs he'd run up a few minutes before.

"No," he said briefly.  He was sweating and gasping for air, but he
tried to control his breathing and stood still to listen for sounds
of movement around him.  This was reminiscent of too many chases in
dark places.  He wished he had his gun.

A rustle of plastic and the flash of a shadow alerted him to Janke's
position, heading for a ladder to another floor.  Mulder ran for the
ladder, seeing the soles of his quarry's shoes several rungs above
him.

Once up at the top of the building, he could see more clearly, but
Janke was nowhere to be found.  Another ladder led back to the lower
floor, so Mulder went down again.

"Fox!" Dakota called.  "Do you see him?"

Her use of his first name reminded him uncomfortably that he had no
idea what Dakota Whitney might do, or how she might think.  Where
he'd have known instinctively what Scully would do, here they were
both at a disadvantage, even beyond the fact that he was unarmed. 
And of course, Dacyshyn could hear every exchange between them. 
Their only advantage was that Dacyshyn might assume that they were
both armed.

"I lost him," Mulder answered her.  He heard footsteps, and twisted
around just in time to see Dacyshyn taking another ladder down. 
"He's coming toward you!" he shouted, and ran for the ladder.  He
looked around for a weapon, any weapon, but there was nothing loose
that he could use.

On the floor below Mulder, Dakota turned slowly in a circle, her gun
at the ready.  She was certain that Janke Dacyshyn didn't have a gun,
or he would have used it by now.  Mulder was unarmed, too.  He
shouldn't even be in on this chase, but he'd gotten the jump on her,
recognizing their suspect seconds before she did.  And she wasn't
likely to turn down his experience at a time like this.  

"Where is he?" she shouted up to Mulder, and scanned around again,
and looked out the side of the open floor to see Mulder's head poking
over the edge of the upper floor.

"Do you see him?" Mulder called.

"No," said Dakota.  How on earth did Mulder get up there so fast?
she wondered.  "He must have got past me.  I'm going down."  

As she turned to go, she came face to face with their quarry.  He
was too close for her to raise her gun; as she started to, he knocked
it out of her hand.  She didn't hear it land, but had no time to
wonder why because Dacyshyn was lunging toward her.  He gave her a
powerful shove and she fell back -- into nothing.  Her arms
windmilled frantically as she fell down, down, down.

Mulder ran down as fast as he could, but Dacyshyn was long gone. 
Hoping against hope, he got to street level, calling for assistance
from the workers he could find.  "Call 9-1-1!" he yelled frantically.
"Tell them there's an agent down at this address!"

He found where Dakota Whitney lay at the bottom of an unfinished
elevator shaft.  Her gun lay beside her and she'd missed being
impaled by rebar by mere inches.  Nonetheless, he didn't need
Scully's trained medical eye to tell him that Agent Whitney was dead,
even though her eyes were still open.

He rocked back on his heels but stayed there, keeping watch over the
agent's body until help arrived.

x-x-x

Back at the Medical Arts Building, the agents in the lobby heard the
shouts from outside and went out to investigate, finding that Mulder
and Agent Whitney had disappeared, and a thermal carrier sat
abandoned on the sidewalk just down from the entrance.

"Agent Drummy," one of them said on the radio.  "You'd better come
down here."

Summoned from his so far fruitless search of the office, Agent
Drummy approached the thermal carrier with caution.  He put on his
gloves and carefully unzipped first one side, then the other.  Two or
three agents stood behind him, stepping back slightly as he prepared
to open the lid.  He extended his arm as far as he could, looking out
of the corner of his eye as he opened the carrier.  His observers
stepped back as well -- already there was a horrible smell emanating
from the it.  Drummy recoiled as the contents were revealed to be the
severed head of Agent Monica Bannan, her sightless eyes still open,
unknowingly mirroring the expression of the other murdered agent a
few blocks away.

-x-

Chapter Fourteen - Crossroads  

Our Lady of Sorrows Hospital

Scully wasn't surprised to see Mulder standing at the foot of the
stairs as she hurried down the corridor to her office.  She'd already
seen Agent Drummy, inarticulate with rage and sadness, down in the
ER.  The nurse on duty had told her that "the tall man" had been
ordered out of the ER by Drummy, and she knew he'd instinctively seek
her out.

She couldn't deny him solace at a time like this.  She didn't
hesitate to walk right up to him and take his hand in the middle of
the busy hospital, let people say what they would, and despite their
hard words the day before.  Mulder needed her.

"Monica Bannan is dead," he said, "and Dakota Whitney."

"I know, I heard.  I'm so sorry, Mulder," she said, squeezing his
hand.  

"We were so close," he said dejectedly.  "I thought we were 
winning." 

"I know you did," she said sympathetically.  She wasn't sure who
moved first, but suddenly they weren't holding hands any more, and
Mulder was reaching into his coat pocket.

"I'd still like to see Father Joe," he said.  "I need to ask him
about these men."

Scully looked away, shaking her head slightly.  When she turned back
to Mulder, she said, "You should know that he's been diagnosed with a
terminal illness.  End-stage lung cancer."

Mulder nodded.  "I still need to talk to him, just to be sure."

Scully bit back her opinion of Father Joe.  Mulder had already heard
it and he didn't need to hear it again.  She would be as supportive
of him as she could.  

"Let me ask him, then," she said, and Mulder nodded.  He followed
her down the corridor to the oncology ward.

The ward had only a few patients at the moment so there was some
privacy.  Father Joe was dozing, his face slack.  His eyes opened
slowly as Mulder and Scully approached, and he smiled slightly as he
recognized Mulder.

"Would you believe I was thinking of you?"  Father Joe said,
fumbling for his glasses.  "I had a vision.  Of a man, speaking a
foreign language."

Mulder let Scully do the speaking.  She unrolled the photocopies and
showed Father Joe Janke Dacyshyn's picture.  "Was the vision of this
man?" she asked.

"Yes!" Father Joe said excitedly.  "How did you know?  That's the
man!"

Scully said, "We think that he may have been the one who abducted
Monica Bannan and the other woman you say you saw, maybe more.  And
he was helped by this man."

She showed him the other photocopy, but Father Joe shook his head. 
"I don't know this man."

"Are you *sure*?  Not just from your visions, but from your past?"
Scully persisted.

"I'm fairly certain I don't know him," Father Joe said, throwing a
look at Mulder that seemed to say, can't you get her to leave me
alone?

"I'm fairly certain that you do," Scully said.  "Take a look at the
name.  You knew him as a little boy.  An altar boy?"

If possible, Father Joe's face went paler as he read the name and
realized she was right.  "Oh, no..." he moaned.  "Oh dear God, no...I
don't believe it..."

"Neither does anybody else," she said coldly.

"He must be my connection to those women -- the reason I had those
visions was to save them.  This is God's work.  It's *God's work*!" 
He turned to look at Mulder, appealing to him.

Mulder remained silent, trying to see what the truth was in the
words.  He still wanted to believe, to know that all that had
happened had happened for a reason.

"Just one last question," Scully said relentlessly.  "The young
woman of your visions, Monica Bannan.  Is she still alive?"

Father Joe closed his tear-filled eyes.  "Yes..." he said after a
few moments.  "Yes -- I can still feel her.  I feel that she is
alive."

Without a word Scully turned to Mulder.  Mulder nodded at Father Joe
and left the room.

Scully wasn't sure what she expected, but she was still surprised to
see Mulder already heading down the corridor.  

"Mulder, where are you going?"

He turned at the head of the stairs.  "There's still another woman
out there, Scully.  I need to find her, if she's still alive.  Even
if everyone else has given up."

Once again, they were at a standstill.  Whatever outcome Scully had
hoped for, this was not it.

"Mulder," she tried again.  "You think I don't understand, but I do.
You don't give up.  You can't give up.  It's one of the reasons I
fell in love with you."

That hit home; she could see it.

"Maybe," he said slowly, "that's why we can't be together."  He
looked at her for a long moment, and then turned to go.

"Mulder," she said one last time.

He turned, to see her holding out her car keys.  "You'll need these.
I don't imagine Agent Drummy will help you."

He took the keys, his fingers brushing hers.  He couldn't speak but
he nodded in acknowledgment before he turned away again.

"Be careful," she whispered to his retreating back.

Mulder clutched the keys, imagining that they were still warm from
Scully's hand.  It wasn't much of a lifeline, but he would take what
he could get, especially after what he'd said to her.

How many times had they been here, right here, totally unable to see
eye to eye?  Always, eventually, they'd made peace with each other. 
At least before there had always been the work that tied them
together.

He wondered if what they had together now was enough without the
work, or if the very thing that brought them together originally
would be the thing that finally, inexorably, tore them apart.

x-x-x

This time, instead of barking dogs, loud voices woke Cheryl from her
uneasy sleep.  She'd been rescued from the nightmare dog or dogs that
she'd seen, or hallucinated, by Grey Pants.  They'd treated her
superficial wounds and had given her a shot, which only now was
wearing off.  She had no idea what time it was, or how long she'd
been asleep.

Mean Man was spitting something at Hat Man, who was speaking in his
usual measured tones.  Mean Man waved him away and knelt down by the
gurney.

For the first time since the accident, she could see his face.  He
had an unaccountably gentle expression, and he was speaking to
Scarface.  His tone was so low she couldn't make out the words he
said, but he looked like an entirely different man than the one who'd
run her off the road.  His hand stroked down Scarface's cheek,
avoiding the healing cuts.

Hat Man approached the gurney, waving a piece of paper.  Mean Man
stood up and took it from him, his usual harsh expression returning
as he turned away from Scarface.

x-x-x

Somerset County, Virginia

Under the leaden sky, Mulder paced the field where the ice-encased
body parts had been exhumed.  He paced around the pit, still ringed
with yellow caution tape.  Initial forensic evidence indicated that
the parts had accumulated over time.  He suspected that they hadn't
actually been buried there originally, but somehow had ended up here.
Where did they come from, and how long had they been accumulating? 
Why had the initial severed arm been found elsewhere?

Turning away from the pit, he scanned the mountains around him. 
This was rugged country, not far from the border of West Virginia. 
There had to be something somewhere that they'd overlooked. 
Someplace fairly isolated, or at least without close neighbors.  That
seemed like basic investigation, but the agents had been putting all
their faith in Father Joe, and ignoring what seemed to him to be
obvious clues.  

He trudged back to the car and headed back down the road, back to
the natatorium.  He'd use that as the center of his search, and
search each road from there.  He looked up at the sky, sucking on his
lower lip.  It was getting late, and soon it would no doubt be
snowing again.  Time was indeed his enemy.

x-x-x

Scully made her afternoon rounds, ending as she usually did at
Christian's room.  By all appearances, he'd come through the surgery
just fine, but as she'd told Mulder, it would take time, and more
procedures, before she knew the outcome.  When she looked in,
Margaret Fearon was sitting by him, holding his hand as he slept.  

She held her finger to her lips as she came into the room.  Margaret
smiled tremulously.  Scully noted that she held a rosary in the hand
that held Christian's.  She checked Christian's chart and smiled once
more at Margaret, mouthed, "I'll talk with you later," and went on
her way.

Restless, she found herself in the oncology ward, telling herself
that she was just checking on a patient in whom she had an interest,
nothing more.  What more could she have to say to him, or he to her? 
He had been proved pretty conclusively to be a liar, since it seemed
to be proven without a doubt that Monica Bannan was dead, despite his
"feelings."

And, of course, she hadn't operated on Christian because the ex-
priest had urged her not to give up.  She'd made the decision because
it was the best course of action for the boy.

The ex-priest was asleep when she entered.  She looked briefly at
his chart, though she had nothing to do with his treatment, and stood
at the foot of his bed.  What was it about this man that made Mulder
want to believe in him?  How did he manage to keep on hoping, in the
face of so much evidence to the contrary?

She wished she had his conviction.  After seeing so much over the
years, she still had doubts.  Maybe it came from putting so much of
her faith in science, that her initial reaction would always be
skepticism.  Maybe that's what kept her from confiding in Mulder what
the ex-priest had said to her.

So, instead, they'd argued more fiercely than they'd done for some
time.  She knew she'd hurt him deeply when she told him she couldn't
help him.  He'd wounded her back this morning, with his parting 
words.

She couldn't lose Mulder over this, but she couldn't simply give in
to him, either.  And, of course, there were other, larger concerns
that neither of them had yet talked about.

The ex-priest's eyes fluttered open.  His breathing was somewhat
labored but he seemed otherwise calm.  His fingers moved restlessly,
and Scully noted the rosary in his hands.  His lips moved and she
nodded and began to turn away, not wishing to interrupt his prayers.

"You...gave...up," she heard him whisper as she turned away.

"What?" she said, more sharply than she meant to.

"You gave up," he said again.

"I don't know what you mean," she said coldly.  

His eyes were closed and his lips were stilled, though his restless
hands continued telling his beads.

Scully backed out the door.

x-x-x

One dead end after another, Mulder thought.  He'd tried all but a
few roads, stopped and talked to a few locals, but no one had been
able to tell him anything.

He was cold, and miserable, but he wasn't going to quit.  He came to
a very small town, no more than a wide spot in the road, really,
after the fruitless search of a secondary road led him to another
dead end.  He pulled in front of a small store.  Maybe they'd have
some coffee or something.

He glanced up at the sign: "Nutter's Feed and Fuel," it said, which
seemed a sort of cutesy name for a convenience store.  Then he noted
the smaller print on the sign: "Animal Supply."

The proprietor was at the door when Mulder approached.

"I'm closing," he told Mulder.

"I just need a minute of your time," Mulder said.

The man looked at the sky, sucking his teeth.  "You know, if you're
going somewhere, you'd better get to getting.  It's gonna come down
but good pretty quick."  He stood back to let Mulder come in.

The store seemed to be a combination of many things: a rural one-
stop shop and impromptu community bulletin board, with flyers on the
bulletin board by the door touting casino bus tours and local tag
sales.

"Well," the man said with a great show of patience, "what can I do
you for?"

"Do you sell an animal tranquilizer called acepromazine?"  Mulder
asked.

"Sure, if you got a 'scrip for it," the man said.

Mulder shook his head.  "I don't," he said, and reached into his
pocket for the pictures of Janke Dacyshyn and Franz Tomczeszyn.  He
held out Dacyshyn's picture first.  "Have you seen this man?"

Just as he leaned forward to look at it, the phone rang in his
office.  He rolled his eyes good-humoredly.  "I am *never* gonna get
out of here!"

Mulder waited at the counter while the man answered the phone.  His
eyes roamed idly around the store, waiting for the man to finish his
call.  As he looked out the big front window of the store, another
vehicle pulled up, a large, dirty, rattletrap-sounding truck.  It was
still light enough to see the driver's face as he got out of the
truck: Janke Dacyshyn.

Now Mulder really, really wished he had a gun.  He slipped out the
side door as Dacyshyn stomped the snow off his boots and entered the
store.

The store's proprietor looked at him with puzzlement.  "Where'd the
other guy go?"

"What other guy?" Janke asked.

"There was another guy standing right there!" the man insisted.

Janke shrugged and handed the man a paper.  "I need these things."

If the proprietor thought that it was unusual for two people to come
in asking for acepromazine in such a short space of time, he didn't
comment on it, which was probably fortunate for him.  Janke Dacyshyn
had become a desperate man.

A few moments later, Janke loaded his supplies into the truck and
juddered off down the road, followed by a couple of local dogs who
were very interested in something that was, or had been, in his 
truck.

A short way down the road, a white Taurus pulled quietly behind him,
its lights off in the gathering dusk, gliding like a ghost in the
wake of the truck's diesel exhaust.

The truck rattled along at a pretty good pace.  It swerved into a
side road, thankfully a paved one, since it seemed to consist of
hairpin turns.  Mulder hung back as far as he could.  Dacyshyn
wouldn't know the car, but it would be pretty obvious that someone
was following him if he got too close...and Dacyshyn might recognize
his face from the night before.

The truck took another turn and Mulder fished out his cell phone. 
He didn't want to pester Scully, but he needed to let her know he was
on the trail.  Maybe she'd agree to at least get hold of Agent
Drummy.  He had a card somewhere, but he didn't want to stop and dig
it out, and risk losing his quarry.

He flipped open his phone, keeping an eye on the road ahead as he
looked for the right button on the unfamiliar keypad.  The truck had
momentarily disappeared around a corner and Mulder slowed to
negotiate the tight turn.

He nearly rear-ended the truck, stopped in the middle of the road. 
He managed to swerve around it, but caught a patch of black ice which
caused the car to spin around and fetch up against the snow piled up
along the edge of the road.  The airbag deployed and the car stalled
out, hung up on the icy ridge of snow.

Disoriented, Mulder shook his head.  He tried the door handle, but
it wasn't budging.  He looked out his driver's side window, facing
the road, and was greeted by a startling sight:  the white truck was
now perpendicular to him, and revving its engine.

He didn't think that the guy was going to help pull him out of the
snowbank.  Mulder braced himself for the impact.  There was some kind
of a snow scoop or plow attached to the front, and it loomed larger
and larger as the truck approached.  It didn't have to gather much
speed; it was so much larger than the Taurus and it had the advantage
of the clear pavement. 

The first impact shattered the driver's side window, showering
Mulder with glass and a blast of cold air.  The truck backed up a
little, and lurched forward again.  

The car was now almost sideways over the steep edge of the road,
kept in place only by the amount of snow pilled up around it.  In the
flash of a second, Mulder thought of trying to climb out of the
passenger side or through the broken driver's window, but realized
he'd be crushed by the truck or by his own car.  

In the time it took him to think these thoughts, the truck hit him
again, and the car scraped over the snow bank, hanging for what
seemed like an eternity before gravity pulled it down, tumbling over
and over into the ravine where it finally stopped upside down against
a sturdy tree.  The tree's branches released their accumulation of
snow onto the undercarriage of the car, half-burying it in melting
snow that rapidly turned to ice.  

Janke Dacyshyn watched from his vantage point for several minutes,
but there was no movement from the car.  If he wasn't dead now, the
cold would finish him off that night.  He'd come back later to make
sure.

After he'd made sure that his Franz had what he needed.

-x-

Concluded in Part Five -