**************************
ON THE WINGS OF DESTINY
by Thalia D'Muse
<thalia@goodnet.com>
Completed: February 1999
**************************

Archive: Yes to Gossamer; everyone else, please ask me
first.
Summary: Don't let the title fool you. This is an
action/adventure, not character musings. ;-)
Classification: TA, with a hint of an X-File
Rating: strong R (violence, language)
Keywords: Mulder/Scully UST
Spoilers: Small references to Duane Barry, The Blessing Way,
Grotesque and Demons.
Timeline: Could go anywhere between Demons and The End.
Warning #1: This story deals with disturbing subject matter.
To tell you what kind now would give away the plot. Just
consider this a general 'disturbing violence' warning.
Warning #2: Religious references are made in this story.
These references in no way reflect my views on religion.
Disclaimer: Chris Carter has the distinct pleasure of owning
Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and a few others you
will recognize. All other characters you do not recognize
from the XF universe herein are mine.
Author's Notes: At the end.


**************************
ON THE WINGS OF DESTINY
Part I: Prologue
by Thalia D'Muse
**************************


Ping. Ping. Ping.

Wait ten seconds.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

Wait ten seconds.

The water pipes sing their rusty serenade for twenty
minutes. Or maybe fifteen.

Or maybe forever.

But only at night. A night coated with a thick, cold
darkness. Midnight flowing like a black river.

Light. Thin, streaking across the floor like yellowish-white
wires extending from the tiny window near the ceiling. Soon
the moonlight will cover the far wall in a patchwork quilt
of light and shadow. Just as it did last night.

It is so little but just enough.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

The sliding pop of the lock. A sleepy creaking as the old
metal door creeps open. A thick cylinder of light, a halogen
beacon in the darkness, sweeping the room.

Footsteps. Slow, even. Echoing clicks.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven....

The cracking of joints, knees snapping like twigs. The
nauseating smell of cheap cologne and sweat, like rotting
corpses sprinkled with cloves.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

"Have you changed your mind yet?"

Voice echoing like the inside of a seashell. Cold, distant.

Won't speak. Can't speak.

Cool sharpness.

A knife.

Slicing through human skin like the skin of a tomato, red
liquid bubbling from the puckered gash. Sticky wetness
trickling down weary, bruised flesh.

Blood weeping from the wound, seeping into the scratchy
excuse for a blanket on the sagging excuse for a cot.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

Pain. Liquid fire.

Burning.

Won't cry out. Can't cry out.

"It doesn't matter anyway," the voice smoothes. "It has been
decided."

We are leaving. Changing locations. Changing prisons. And I
know where we are going.

His secret paradise; my own private Hell.

Little does he know I have a secret of my own. My only
salvation rests not with him, not with this madman, but in
the words of my secret. He does not know of the treasure I
found.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

I wish I had found it sooner.  The light allowed me so
little time to work. It is not done but it should be enough.
It has to be enough. We will be leaving soon but it will
stay behind.

A map, tracing the route to Hell.

You must find it. He must not. It is hidden now, safe in the
shadows. Safe from the light that would reveal it. Safe from
the hands that would destroy it.

Destiny. He speaks of destiny. He says my destiny is in his
hands. He is wrong. My destiny lies with you. The truths we
have discovered are the ties that will forever bind us
together. These ties are too strong for you or I or any
madman to break.

You will find me. With destiny as your guide, you will find
me. On the wings of destiny will be my freedom.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

Freedom.

A light prick in my hip, a river of pressure. More drugs.

More blessed ignorance.

Please.

"Are you ready for our final journey, Mr. Mulder?"


* * * * *
END PROLOGUE




**************************
ON THE WINGS OF DESTINY
Part II
by Thalia D'Muse
<thalia@goodnet.com>
**************************
~ See Part I for disclaimer, rating, etc. ~


Consciousness slapped Dana Scully like an open hand,
stinging her skin. The lingering threads of a dream wound
around her mind, breaking free as she became aware of her
surroundings. She was on the couch in her darkened living
room, moonlight painting shadowed stripes across the walls
and floor.

How long had she been asleep? She spied the clock on her
VCR. 6pm. Exhaustion had allowed her a two-hour nap. That
made a grand total of ten hours of sleep.

In seven days.

Seven days since she last saw Fox Mulder. He'd disappeared
without a trace. Clues to his whereabouts eluded her like
cockroaches scurrying into the shadows. Sleep had become a
nuisance, something that took too much time, time that
should be spent looking for Mulder. She had spent every
waking hour scouring every building, every computer file,
every case file, looking for something to lead her to him.

The first thirty-six hours was easy. She convinced herself
it was much like one of her residency rotations: thirty-six
hours on, thirty-six off. She made it for forty-four hours
straight before having to take a three-hour 'power nap.'
After that, she caught little cat-naps; ten minutes here,
twenty minutes there.

Her daily diet of too little sleep, too little nourishment
and too many antacids would eventually catch up with her.
This realization did nothing to change her habits, though.
She would keep up the destruction of her body until he was
found.

She yawned and eyed the VCR clock again, making sure she had
read the time correctly. It was now 6:05pm; she really had
slept for two hours. She was surprised her mind had allowed
her that much peace.

Skinner had demanded she leave the office and get some rest.
She spent her days doing lab work, helping the short-handed
forensics department, which helped her by giving her an
excuse to remain in the building. She wasn't permitted to be
a part of the team investigating Mulder's disappearance, but
she still received updates on their progress. What Skinner
wouldn't offer she would get from Philip Thomason, a fellow
classmate of hers at Quantico and the lead forensics person
on the team. Her last conversation with Thomason, a few
hours before she left work, confirmed her worst fear.

They had nothing. No leads, no clues. Nothing.

The atmosphere around the team suggested Mulder's
disappearance was of his own devise. Most of the team
members -- Skinner and Thomason being the only hold-outs --
felt Mulder was off chasing another one of his UFOs and
ditched his partner in the process. They claimed that would
explain the absence of any communication from an alleged
kidnapper.

Scully wanted to tell them the kind of men they dealt with
had no desire for ransom money or media fame. Power was
their only motivation, and their enemies' surrender was the
only acceptable outcome. Instead, she ignored them. She
ignored their 'Spooky' stories and speculations. A few of
them felt it necessary to perform for the others every time
she entered the room. They put on their little show for the
other agents, then feigned innocence -- "Gee, Scully, I had
no idea you were standing there." -- as their encore.

Earlier, she had been in the VCS bullpen and was subjected
to another round of 'Mulder is a freak' by one of the agents
assigned to the investigation. It took every ounce of
control she had to keep from landing a kung-fu kick to his
balls. Scully had bit down on her tongue so hard, she drew
blood, but she stood there, chin raised and eyes cold. None
of the agents would know that she wanted nothing more than
to punch every one of them into the middle of next week.

With each passing hour, she found it more difficult to keep
up her defenses. Sleeplessness and concern chipped away at
her emotional barriers like a jackhammer to concrete. She
had no idea how long she could keep up the cool, calculated
facade of Special Agent Dana Scully. She hoped it was long
enough to hear Mulder's honey-gravel voice ask her what took
her so long to find him.

After contorting herself in a long stretch, Scully rose from
the couch and clicked on a light. She looked around her
living room, her eyes seeking nothing in particular. Her
gaze settled on her coffee table, seven days' worth of mail
piled in the center like a paper mountain.

For the past seven days, her entire life revolved around
finding her partner. Just as her apartment showed neglect,
the office was in worse shape. Paperwork had gone untouched.
E-mail remained unretrieved. Two airline tickets for Idaho
sat on Mulder's desk, the travel date having passed four
days ago.

Neglect wasn't the only thing plaguing the dim basement
room. Scully had hit their office like a hurricane,
searching every nook and cranny in the tiny room, looking
for something that would lead her to Mulder's whereabouts.
No file folder or paper clip was spared inspection. She went
through everything three times, and by the time she
finished, she didn't have the energy nor the desire to clean
up the mess she had made. Instead, she turned to Mulder's
apartment and inflicted the same destruction there.

Unfortunately, her tirades turned up nothing. Hours and
hours of searching had resulted in absolutely nothing. She
could feel her chest tightening, something akin to a panic
attack. Her breathing became labored and she had to sit on
the couch, forcing herself to take long, controlled breaths.

"Come on, Dana. Get it together."

Is this what Mulder felt during her disappearance? Did he
feel the walls closing in around him? Did he feel the
bindings of desperation and hopelessness tightening around
his neck, threatening to choke the life out of him?

"God," she breathed. It had only been a week. How had Mulder
survived this hell for three months?

Scully shook her head violently. She didn't like the trips
her mind was taking. She needed to do something. Work.
Busywork. Something that didn't require her full attention
but something that could take her mind off the fact that she
had no idea what had happened to her partner.

Filing, maybe cleaning up the office. Yes, she would clean
the office. Considering the mess she had made, and
considering how often she chided Mulder about that rat's
nest he called a desk, she decided cleaning the office was
just what she needed. It was something to make her feel
useful.

It was something to make her feel closer to Mulder.


**************************


Scully arrived at the Hoover Building, seeing a stray agent
here and there. It was late, but not so late that the halls
were completely empty. She didn't greet any of them but felt
comfort in the fact that she wasn't the only person there.

After making a quick stop to pick up their mail, Scully made
her descent into the basement. She knew the basement would
be deserted, and wasn't disappointed. The place was eerily
quiet; even the copy machine was turned off and didn't greet
her with its usual squeaking hums. She approached the office
door and her hand reached out to skim over the nameplate.
Her fingers traced the grooved letters of Mulder's name.
Gingerly, she opened the door and flipped on the light.

The place was a disaster area.

"How did I manage to do all of this," she said quietly as
she surveyed the damage. Mulder's desk was in worse shape
than normal, and all of the file cabinet drawers were ajar.
Paper dusted the floor like snow, and some of the crumpled
pieces crunched under her feet.

The only bare surface she could find was a small corner of
Mulder's desk that had been saved from her assault. She
placed the mail on the tiny triangle of space, and she
turned to survey the room.

"Where to start...." Scully looked at the floor, the filing
cabinets, the desk and the light table. And then she fell
into Mulder's chair with a sigh.

The sleep she had been depriving herself of for days was
starting to catch up with her. She wasn't up to diving into
the heavy task of cleaning, so she settled for opening their
mail. Most of the pile consisted of obscure paranormal and
conspiracy magazines, none of them likely to show up on a
subscription list peddled by youngsters going door-to-door.
She put those aside and concentrated on the various
envelopes. Some were handwritten, some were computer-
generated; all were addressed to Agent Fox Mulder.

Except one.

Scully studied the envelope, curiosity flaring in her eyes.
Her address, placed perfectly in the middle of the envelope,
was applied with a typewriter, not a computer printer, she
determined. The letter 'a', whenever it appeared, was
dropped a few millimeters below the rest of the letters.

There was no return address.

The postmark was from Hyattsville, Maryland. She didn't know
anyone in Hyattsville, Maryland. The envelope was a standard
letter size, most likely a security envelope, since she
couldn't see the contents peeking through the white paper.

Cautiously, she opened the envelope with a letter opener.
Inside was a three-by-five index card. The lined side was
blank. On the other side, typed with the same typewriter as
the envelope, were two sentences:

1845 Bickel Street, the old handyman's quarters.
Our journey started here....

Scully flipped the index card over again, then took another
look in the envelope. She found two Polaroid photos, which
she pulled from the envelope. The first was of a dilapidated
building, four crooked cast-iron numbers announcing the
building was '1845.' The facade had been white at one time
but had mutated into a dirty almond shade from years of
neglect. The redwood porch looked as if it had been a
Thanksgiving feast for a termite family and a few million of
their friends.

The second photo pulled a gasp from her. In the center of
the photo, curled in the fetal position on a sunken cot, was
Fox Mulder.

His eyes were closed, and she noticed what she could only
assume was blood, two macabre teardrops directly under his
eye. His face was dotted with bruises, and she could make
out the faint outline of bruises around his neck. He was
clothed in his favorite pair of gray sweats and a worn gray
Georgetown t-shirt. His jogging outfit, she realized.

From the photo, she could see a beam of light was shining
directly on Mulder, so it was most likely a flashlight. The
only discernible items in the photo were the cot and a light-
colored blanket that covered his legs to mid-thigh. The
light didn't reach far enough to give her any details of the
place he was being held.

Scully jumped from the chair, sending the remaining mail
careening off the desk and to the already cluttered floor.
She ran from the office and up the stairs, five flights,
until she reached Skinner's office.

She knocked, four rough raps that send jolts of pain through
her knuckles. When she received no immediate answer, she
knocked again. A quick glance at her watch told her it was
almost 8pm. Skinner was probably home by now.

Turning away from the door, Scully pulled her cell phone
from her pocket and started to dial. She flinched and turned
when she heard the door behind her open.

"Agent Scully, I thought I sent you home." Skinner's
annoyance filtered in to his voice.

"Sir, this was in our mail bundle today." She held out her
hand, her fingers tightly clutching the envelope.

Skinner looked at her, then the envelope. He took it from
her hand and opened it. The only indication of his surprise
was a slight movement in his jaw. He replaced the paper and
photos in the envelope and pinned Scully with a harsh gaze.

"Was this your first contact with the kidnapper?"

She looked at her boss with grim determination. "Yes."

His wary look caused her to repeat her answer, her voice
thickened with anger.

Skinner nodded tersely and went to his desk. He grabbed the
phone and barked orders to the poor agent on the other end.
When he hung up, he fingered the envelope, then turned his
attention to a file folder sitting in front of him. The case
file he had started on Mulder's disappearance.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Agent Scully.
We'll handle it from here."

Scully stepped into his office and approached the desk.
"Sir, request permission to join the forensics team..."

"Request denied. If we find anything, I'll let you know."

"Sir, please..."

"I said 'request denied.'"

"I'm going," she said under her breath.

Skinner looked up from the file folder. "Excuse me?"

"I'm going. Sir."

"Perhaps you didn't hear me correctly," Skinner said through
clenched teeth. "You will not enter that building, even if I
have to stop you myself."

She raised her chin defiantly. "With all due respect,
sir...you and what army?"

Scully fought the urge to gasp. Did she just say that? To
her =boss=? Sleep, frustration and worry made a deadly
mixture in her head, the concoction muddying her thoughts
and loosening her tongue. The walls of her defenses were
officially crumbling, eroded away by the rain of her
emotions.

Before she would let those emotions fully assert themselves,
she squared her shoulders and turned her back on a stunned
Skinner. She almost made it out the door when she felt a
strong hand wrapping around her upper arm, insistently
tugging until she turned around.

"I understand your concern for your partner," Skinner said
calmly, too calmly for Scully's liking, "but there is
protocol to be followed."

"I have to be there," she replied, the smallest hint of
desperation coloring her voice.

"I can't let you do that."

"I =need= to be there," Scully reiterated, her desperation
giving way to anger as her eyes met his.

"You're not going. That is an order, Agent Scully."

"I can't obey that order, sir."

Skinner almost laughed at her admission. She was planning on
disobeying him, but she was being nice enough to let him
know ahead of time. She has balls, he thought as he narrowed
his eyes and stared down at her. He was nearly a foot taller
than her, and double her weight, but she stood there,
piercing him with those tired yet determined blue eyes, eyes
that told him she had every intention of carrying out her
act of rebellion.

"And you are willing to accept the consequences for
disobeying a direct order?" Skinner challenged.

"Yes, sir." She smiled tightly. "I learned from the best."

Skinner ground his jaw from side to side, trying to suppress
a knowing smile of his own as he let go of his agent's arm.
Apparently one of Mulder's bad habits had rubbed off on his
partner: the total disregard for Bureau rules when they
didn't suit the purpose. He expected, and frequently
witnessed, this type of behavior from Mulder, but he hadn't
expected it from Dana Scully. He had seen this woman pushed
to the brink of emotional destruction many times, but she
never broke, never let her emotions surface.

Never, that is, until now.

He wasn't sure if it was a good sign or bad. The only thing
he did know was that no amount of authority or muscle was
going to stop her from going to that building.

"You will be there in an observation capacity only," Skinner
asserted, gathering the file and envelope off his desk. "You
will not get in the way of the forensics team. No
investigating, no evidence gathering. If you so much as
touch a piece of lint, I will personally see to it that you
are suspended without pay pending a disciplinary review. Is
that clear, Agent Scully?"

"Yes, sir," she said, letting the emotion in her voice
convey her thanks.

"Then let's go," Skinner replied, motioning to the door. "We
have an investigation to observe."


* * * * *
END PART II



**************************
ON THE WINGS OF DESTINY
Part III
by Thalia D'Muse
<thalia@goodnet.com>
**************************
~ See Part I for disclaimer, rating, etc. ~



A thick, aging wood door sealed the alleged dungeon, the key
provided by an elderly woman who claimed to be the manager.
Her wrinkled face showed her annoyance; it seemed
interrupting her while she was watching 'Jeopardy' should be
an offense punishable by death.

"I don't know why you wanna look down 'ere." The woman's
shaky Southern drawl was barely audible over the raucous
singing of the furnace down the hall. "This ol' room ain't
been occupied in years. I know 'cuz I know ever'thing that
happens 'round here."

Scully didn't doubt it. Gossip Central was probably located
in the Manager's Office.

"Ma'am," Thomason began, his deep voice the consistency of
butter, "as I said before, we have reason to believe someone
is being, or has been, held in this room against their
will."

"P'shaw! That's a load o' dirty wash!" The old woman handed
the key over to Thomason, who promptly put it to use.

An ear-piercing screech, in the fashion of every door in
every old horror movie, filled the hallway as Thomason
pushed open the door and took a few steps inside.

When Scully crossed the threshold of the room, an acrid
bouquet of smells accosted her nostrils: mildew, animal
feces, sweat, dust -- and the unmistakable metallic scent of
blood.

His hand already gloved in latex, Thomason felt the inside
wall for a light switch, and clicked it on. Nothing
happened. Skinner told one of the agents, Gerald Davies, to
get flashlights, but the old woman shook her head.

"Don't need 'em," she rasped. "Had to take the fuse for this
room to use for another apartment a few years back. Never
got around to replacing it. Like I said, no one's been down
'ere in ages."

The agents watched as the woman shuffled a few steps down
the hall. She turned back to them and placed a frail hand on
her hip. "If ya want that fuse to be workin' in the next
hour, one of ya better follow me. My hands ain't as steady
as they used ta be."

She continued her shuffling, and Davies followed behind her
to a control box down the hall, on the other side of the
furnace room. She unlocked the box and Davies went to work.
Within a minute, they heard a muffled yell from Davies,
telling them to try the light switch. Skinner did, and the
room was flooded in fluorescent light.

A low whistle came from Thomason, who was standing behind
Scully. She agreed with his assessment. The room gave the
word 'neglect' a new meaning. She looked at the dust bunnies
littering the floor and clinging to the walls. No, she
thought, not dust bunnies. More like dust St. Bernard's.

The only furniture in the claustrophobic room was a cot and
a small bookcase. The dust seemed to part like the Red Sea
on the aging hardwood floor, the path between the door and
the cot looking well-used.

Scully recognized the cot. She was drawn to it like steel to
a magnet, her legs moving before her brain realized it. She
had taken three steps when she felt a hand on her shoulder,
freezing her in place.

"=Observe,= Agent Scully," Skinner said, his mouth an inch
from her ear.

Observing sucks, Scully thought. She bit her lower lip to
keep from saying the comment aloud.

Thomason stepped into the room. Dust swirled like tiny
tornadoes around his shoes and pant legs. By the time he
reached what looked like a closet door, his navy suit pants
were covered with clinging dust from his calves down.
Thomason pushed open the door and gave an audible "hmmmm" at
his discovery. Davies crossed the room and reached the door
just as Thomason pulled the chain on an overhead light,
flooding the closet with light.

Only it wasn't a closet; it was a bathroom, housing a filthy
toilet and a rust-stained sink.

"I think we'll save this little treasure chest for later,"
Thomason said, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

Davies stuck his head around the door frame. "Tell you what,
partner. =You= save that little treasure chest for later.
I'll take the opposite side of the room."

Thomason shot Davies a scathing look, but headed for the
cot, which was on the side of the room closest to the
bathroom. Scully breathed a small sigh of relief. At least
she'd know that part of the room would be done efficiently.
She was dying to get her hands on something. The blanket.
The fabric of the cot. Anything that would lead them to
Mulder.

Scully turned, hearing a commotion behind her in the
hallway. Kipper, one of the agents who was left to interview
the residents of the building, was running toward Skinner.

"Sir, we have a possible witness." Kipper stopped, his
breathing labored from his haste. "One of the residents says
he saw some guy helping another guy out of the building last
night."

"Did you get a description?"

"No sir." Kipper lowered his eyes. "Once he figured out we
were FBI and not local police, he clammed up. He doesn't
like 'the Feds.'"

Skinner's jaw twitched. "Where is he?"

"In his apartment. He says he won't answer the door to us
again."

"We'll see about that." Skinner turned to Scully. "I suggest
you stay right where you are."

Scully waited until her boss was halfway down the hall
before muttering, "Not a chance, sir."

She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her jacket and
slipped them on while moving to the cot. Thomason was busy
examining the blanket. Instinctively, Scully's hand went to
the blanket. She could feel the scratchiness through the
gloves. Mulder probably had a rash from the blanket; his
skin was sensitive to abrasive materials. She would have to
tend to that when she found him.

Scully closed her eyes as she fought a shuddering breath.
Keep telling yourself that, Dana. =When= you find him. You
will find him.

"Dana, you heard what Skinner said."

Scully's eyes snapped open at the sound of Thomason's voice.
She noticed he was trying to pull the blanket from her hands
so he could place it in a large paper bag. Scully
strengthened her grip, then met Thomason's gaze, one of her
eyebrows raised in defiance.

Thomason sighed. "Fine. It's your ass." He let go of the
blanket and turned his attention to the cot.

Scully took the blanket in both hands. She brought it close
to her face, under the pretense of closely examining one of
the blood stains. She inhaled deeply. Beneath the smell of
dust, she could smell the sharp tang of his sweat.

Mulder, I =will= find you.

"Hey, Thomason."

Scully put the blanket on the cot at the sound of Gerald
Davies' voice. She could hear him approaching but she did
her best to ignore him. She had found that if she ignored
Davies, the urge to shoot him wouldn't be so overwhelming.

"Got a few partials off the bookcase," Davies said,
intentionally side-stepping Scully and moving to stand next
to Thomason. "Other than that, it's clean. Oh yeah, and
despite what Spooky would think, the prints look very
human." He turned to Scully. "Sorry, no aliens here."

Scully's expression didn't fluctuate; it remained cold, hard
and unimpressed.

"Knock it off, Gerry," Thomason sighed. "Why don't you go
dust out in the hall, especially by the stairwell."

"Aye aye, Captain," he replied with a mock salute. He gave
Scully a leering once-over, then left the room whistling the
theme from Star Trek.

"I figure if he keeps talking," Thomason said softly, "he'll
eventually hang himself with one of the higher-ups. I hope
to God I'm there to see it."

Scully nodded politely, wanting to drop the subject as
quickly as possible. She saw that Thomason got the hint, as
he smiled apologetically at her, then went back to work on
the cot.

Without thinking, Scully found herself moving to the
bookcase. She knew Davies hadn't done a thorough job on it.
She doubted he did even a half-assed job. The bookcase, its
wood worn and warped from age, was solid and heavy when she
pushed against it. She inched it away from the wall and
began feeling along the back, then felt under each shelf.
She then knelt before the bookcase, squeezing her hand in
the two-inch clearance between the bottom of the bookcase
and the floor. Starting from the left, she ran her hand
along its length. She made it a little more than halfway
when her hand hit something. She pulled the bookcase out
from the wall several feet, but found nothing.

Taking the bookcase by the sides, she pushed the top back so
that it leaned against the wall. Holding it in place with
both hands, she reached under with her foot and nudged the
object out into the open. She uprighted the bookcase before
her eyes registered what she had found.

A paperback book.

'On The Wings of Destiny.'

Why did that sound so familiar?

"What?" Thomason asked as he approached her. "What did you
find?"

She picked up the book and showed it to him, though she
refused to relinquish control of it. "It was under the
bookcase. The cover was caught underneath somehow. There's
hardly any dust on it. It should be covered in dust, at
least on the sides. Unless..."

"Unless it had been handled recently," Thomason finished for
her. "I'll put this at the top of our list."

"Phil, I'd like to do the analysis myself, if you don't
mind."

"If he doesn't mind, =I= certainly do."

Scully spun around at the sound of Skinner's gruff voice.
She opened her mouth to respond, but Skinner's hand shot up
in front of his face.

"A word with you outside, please." He turned on his heel,
not waiting for her response.

Though it took every bit of energy she had left, Scully
handed the book to Thomason, then straightened her shoulders
and walked calmly out of the room. She found her boss
several feet down the hall, in the opposite direction of the
stairwell and Davies' curiosity. When Skinner's eyes found
hers, she did her best to keep her gaze steady and strong.
She knew she would have a headache the size of Cleveland
from the strain on her eyes.

"I warned you, Agent Scully."

"Sir..."

"I brought you along on this with the understanding you
could keep up your end of the deal. You didn't."

"Sir, if I may speak."

Skinner turned his head for a moment, seemingly to calm his
anger, then looked back at her, giving her a terse nod to
continue.

"That book was hidden under the bookcase."

"Davies just told me he only found a few prints on the
bookcase. He didn't say anything about a book."

"Because he didn't find it."

"How is that possible?"

"He pulled the bookcase away from the wall, but the book was
caught underneath and moved with it."

The A.D. ran a hand over his mouth. "So you're saying that
if you hadn't looked underneath the bookcase, this book,
which you believe to be a piece of evidence, would have gone
unnoticed."

"Yes, sir. That is exactly what I'm saying."

Skinner couldn't decide whether to suspend her or give her a
commendation. She was, by far, the best investigator of the
five agents that had accompanied him to 1845 Bickel Street.
Davies was a slacker, but he was the only other forensics
person available besides Thomason. He knew Scully was right
to second-guess Davies' work; Skinner would have done it
himself once the other agents had left the room.  But he
couldn't let her know that.

"That still doesn't excuse your behavior."

"I'm sorry, sir. I am more than willing to accept whatever
reprimands you feel necessary, =after= we find Agent
Mulder."

Her emphasis on 'after' did not fall on deaf ears. Why
should he be surprised? He expected nothing less from her at
this point. She was going to do anything to find her
partner, no matter the consequences. Another one of Mulder's
habits. Skinner had know for years that Mulder was a bad
influence on Scully, but he hadn't seen the full effects of
that influence until today.

"Sir, what did the witness have to say?"

Skinner thought about calling her on the abrupt subject
change, but decided against it. "He saw a man matching
Mulder's description being led out of the building by
another man. The only description he could give was that the
man was of stocky build, had thinning red hair, and was
wearing green medical scrubs."

Scully clenched her teeth. "And he didn't question someone
forcibly leading another person out of the building?"

"The witness said he saw the medical scrubs and assumed the
man was helping an ailing individual get to a hospital. They
left in a light-colored sedan."

"No license plate?"

Skinner shook his head. "Not even a make or model of the
car."

"Damnit!" Scully's eyes welled with tears but she forced
them to remain unshed.

Skinner started to reach out, to place a consoling hand on
her shoulder, but he stopped himself. This was an
investigation, and Scully was one of his agents. This was
not the time for consolation and emotion. Instead, he filled
his agent in on the remainder of the disappointing testimony
from their uncooperative witness.

As Skinner continued, neither he nor Scully noticed Davies
leave the stairwell area and sneak back into the room, and
neither heard Thomason fill him in on what he had missed,
literally.

So both the A.D. and Scully were surprised when Davies
started talking the second they re-entered the room.

"Sir, that book was =not= there when I looked. I went over
every inch of that bookcase. It wasn't there."

"Then how do you suggest it got there?" Skinner challenged.

Davies pointed to Scully. "She put it there."

"What?!" Scully's anger reached a boiling point. "That's
ridiculous!"

"Yeah, you put it there. You're trying to make evidence for
a kidnapping that never happened."

Scully wanted to respond, but Skinner's look told her to
keep quiet. The few shreds of control she had remaining
clamped her mouth shut.

"Agent Davies, I suggest you watch what you say," Skinner
warned.

"Why? Because I don't believe Spooky was abducted?" Davies
laughed sourly. "He took off. Everyone here thinks that.
Everyone. And everyone knows she would do anything to cover
Mulder's ass because they're sleeping..."

"You are out of line, Agent!" Skinner's booming declaration
caused all three agents to flinch.

"Sir, I'm only saying what everyone..."

"That's enough!" Skinner took two steps forward, his face
mere inches from Davies' pug nose and narrow deep-set eyes.
"Agent Davies, you are officially off this case. I want to
see you in my office, nine a.m. tomorrow. Now get out of
this building."

"But I... "

Skinner gritted his teeth. "Go. Home."

"But sir, I rode with Agent Thomason."

"Then take a cab," the A.D. replied, a hint of a growl
rattling his voice.

Scully watched out of the corner of her eye as Davies slowly
crept out of the room, looking like a puppy who had just
gotten his behind smacked with a newspaper. She turned to
Thomason just in time to see him raise his eyes heavenward
and issue a silent "thank you" for allowing him to be
present for Davies' inevitable foot-in-mouth performance.

Skinner turned to Thomason and after donning another pair of
latex gloves, he held out his hand for the book. He flipped
through a few pages near the back, then handed it back to
Thomason.

"Have you covered the bathroom yet?"

Thomason shook his head. "No, sir. I thought I would finish
with the cot first."

"I'll handle the cot and the floor," Skinner replied. "You
take the bathroom."

As Thomason walked to the bathroom, Scully saw her chance.
"Sir, I would be happy to help collect the remainder of the
evidence."

Skinner fought a smile. "I appreciate the offer, Agent
Scully, but that will not be necessary. I haven't been out
of the field long enough to forget how to collect evidence."

"I didn't mean to imply that, sir."

"I know you didn't. I know exactly why you offered to help,
and it was a nice try." His expression softened. "You're too
close to this, and you know it. You will =not= do the
forensics on this book, or any other evidence. Do you
understand?"

"But sir..."

"That is an order, and I'm enforcing this one. Agent
Thomason and I will finish up here, and I will see to it
that Thomason does all analyses of the evidence found here.
I trust him to do a thorough job, and I know you do, too."

She nodded weakly, defeat and exhaustion making the effort
difficult. She tried to respond but Skinner beat her to it.

"Go home, Scully." His voice was both calm and serious.

"Yes, sir," she replied softly, her emotions fighting to
take control of her as she left the room without another
word.

Scully snapped off the gloves, using them to open the door
at the stairwell and at the top of the stairs. She pushed
through the door and walked to her car. Out of the corner of
her eye, she could see Davies standing on the street corner,
presumably waiting for a cab. He must have seen her because
she heard him shout her name along with a few choice
obscenities, but she kept walking. He wasn't worth the
aggravation. None of them were. The only thing that mattered
was finding Mulder.

She didn't remember driving away. She remembered getting
into her car and starting it just in time to toss a puff of
exhaust in Davies' face as he approached. She allowed
herself an evil smile as she looked in her rear-view mirror
to see him coughing and waving a hand in front of his face.

The next thing she remembered was pulling up in front of
Mulder's apartment building. She couldn't remember which
roads she took, nor could she tell when she had made the
conscious decision to go there instead of home.

"I should know better," she mumbled as she turned off the
car, chastising herself for letting her body get so run-down
that it was affecting her judgment. She was a Scully;
Scullys didn't let their control wash away like a sandcastle
under attack by an ocean wave. She was a fortress, not a
sandcastle.

Except when it came to Mulder.

She considered going home, but the lure of his apartment was
too much. She took one calming breath, then exited the car.
Once she made it up to his apartment, she didn't pretend to
entertain the thought of cleaning up the mess she had made
there. She didn't even bother switching on any of the
lights. All she wanted to do was curl up on his couch and
wait.

Waiting sucks as much as observing does, she thought as her
eyelids closed under the insurmountable weight of the past
seven days. She shifted on the couch, stretching out across
its length, then opened her eyes one last time. She stared
at the ceiling, as if its shadowy, textured expanse would
give the answer she breathed out:

"Mulder, where are you?"


* * * * *
END PART III




**************************
ON THE WINGS OF DESTINY
Part IV
by Thalia D'Muse
<thalia@goodnet.com>
**************************
~ See Part I for disclaimer, rating, etc. ~



Scully, where are you?

You should have been here by now. Whenever 'now' is. I think
it's been a few days. Or maybe a few weeks. Shit. It could
be the year 2000 for all I know.

I feel like I'm in Hell, and Fellini is the Devil's Minister
of Entertainment. The hallucinations would be pretty cool if
they weren't so fucking =real.= I knew I had an overactive
imagination, but you wouldn't believe the shit my brain is
coming up with!

That's not fair. I can't blame it all on my brain. It has
help. If I remember correctly, he fancies the psychedelics:
your PCP, your LSD, your Ketamine.

Ketamine. My old friend, we meet again...

I wonder which one he chose for me. Maybe all three. I
probably have more drugs in my body than a Dead Head
following Jerry and the boys around on a cross-country tour.
The weird thing is, I have moments where I feel like I'm not
drugged. Like now.

Nestled between the euphoria and the paranoia are small
periods of absolute clarity. Well, as much clarity as one
can have with a million milligrams of Happy Juice joy-riding
around in their veins.

This clarity was when I found the book. He hadn't given me
anything in hours, and I think I was at that point between
psychedelic Heaven and Hell. I was so sure the book was a
hallucination, but it wasn't. It was real. It is real.

On The Wings of Destiny, Scully. Find it and you'll find me.
You're the only one who can figure this out. No one else
knows how I think. No one else has wanted to take the time
to know. Only you. Open your eyes and your mind, and you'll
find me. You have to; you're my only hope now.

I've tried escaping twice. The first time earned me a few
swift kicks to the gut. Nothing I haven't experienced
before, with my propensity to get the shit beat out of me.
The second time was the clincher. Scully, did you know that
a two-by-four could splinter when you use it as a baseball
bat against a man's ankle? It does, and I'm pretty sure my
ankle splintered along with it.

Uh oh. I think the clarity is starting to fizzle. Either
that or Winnie the Pooh was right: Heffalumps =are= real. Or
is that a Woozle? I can't tell; Samantha was the Pooh expert
in our family. Either way, it's sitting by the fireplace,
looking at me like I was a big, juicy pot of honey.

Your destiny is mine, it says to me. Do we make our
destinies, or do our destinies make us? Destiny, destiny,
who makes my destiny. Is it choice or is it chance? Is it
live or is it Memorex?

Shit! It's coming closer. Oh God! The closer it gets, the
more it looks like a gargoyle than a Disney character.
Patterson. It looks like Patterson. No, it =is= Patterson.
Oh no... no...

Scully, get me out of here!!


**************************


"Mulder!"

Scully flung herself into a seated position, holding onto
the back of the couch for support. He was there, in her
dream. She could see him, feel him, smell him. The dream was
floating away like a kite, its string just inches out of her
reach. She remembered a jumble of images and sensations, but
none of them made sense.

Except one.

"The book."

Still dazed from the dream, Scully shook her head. She had
to get a hold of that book. The book was the key. Somehow,
'On The Wings of Destiny' was the way to find Mulder.

She glanced at her watch and found she had slept for nearly
three hours. Good. She had work to do, and the heavy fog
that clouded her judgment earlier had lifted, leaving her
refreshed and energized.

She rose from the couch and as she was putting on her shoes,
she heard a shrill ringing coming from the vicinity of the
front door. Her cell phone. Where had she put her jacket
when she came in? She found it, a wrinkled heap on the floor
next to his coat rack. Grabbing the jacket, she dug out her
phone.

"Scully."

"Dana, it's Phil. I'm sorry to call so late but I figured
you would want to know when I found something."

Scully's heart skipped a beat. She didn't like the tone of
Thomason's voice.

"I was able to dust the front and back jackets of the book,
because of the glossy finish," he said, his exhaustion
making his already baritone voice half an octave deeper.
"Got quite a few smears but I also got a couple of solid
prints."

"And?" Scully steeled herself for the bad news.

"They were Agent Mulder's prints. Just his. I couldn't find
any other distinct prints."

Scully closed her eyes and leaned into the front door.
"You're sure?"

"Dana, I spent over an hour, covering every inch of both
covers."

"Did you do any inside pages?"

Thomason let out a sigh. "We'll have to do a chemical on
those. That'll take another thirty-six hours, you know
that."

"We don't have thirty-six hours," Scully hissed. Resisting
the temptation to slam her fist against the door, she took a
deep breath and exhaled slowly. "What about the other
evidence?"

"Same thing. Mulder's prints were the bookcase and on the
lid of the toilet."

Scully shook her head. "But only his prints, right?"

"I'm sorry, Dana."

For the second time that evening, Scully felt tears stinging
her eyes. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. Her
free hand formed a fist, her fingernails digging into her
skin. This was not the time for tears. This was the time for
action.

"Look," Thomason continued, "the blood work won't be done
for hours, and the fabric analysis on the cot and blanket
won't be done until tomorrow. I'm going to head home to
catch a few hours' sleep. Do you want me to start the
chemical on the book?"

"No," Scully said, an idea of her own already forming in her
head. "If Mulder's prints were the only ones on the cover, I
doubt you'll find any different prints inside." She didn't
mention the fact that doing a chemical analysis would likely
destroy the book. "Get some rest, Phil. I'll see you later."

Scully clicked off her phone and reached for her keys. "You
get some rest, because I need some time alone with that
book."


**************************


"Damnit!"

Scully pulled into her parking space in the Bureau's
underground parking. From her space, she had a perfect view
of Skinner's parking space, which was to the left of hers
and closer to the elevators.

It was also occupied by Skinner's car.

"Doesn't he ever leave?"

Scully left her car and approached the elevator. This was
going to be trickier than she thought. Skinner was being
more than patient with her, but as she'd seen before, his
patience had a limit. If he saw her in the lab, handling the
exact evidence he told her to stay away from, she could
count on a Mulder-sized disciplinary hearing and a hefty
suspension to match.

When the elevator door opened, she half-expected Skinner to
be standing there, boring through her with that practiced
Assistant Director Death Stare, but the elevator car was
empty. She found the floor of the forensics lab to be empty
as well. Her luck seemed to be improving.

Scully extracted her key ring from her pocket and flipped
through the various keys. Thomason had given her a key to
the lab just days before, thankful she had offered to do
some early-morning analyses that he was trying to avoid. She
forgot to return the key, and Thomason failed to ask for it.

Oh darn, she thought with a wry smile. After opening the
door, she turned on the overhead lights. It was a big risk,
especially if Skinner was wandering the halls, but she
needed more than the beam of a flashlight to find where
Thomason had stored the book. Not to mention, using a
flashlight would be an admission of guilt, that she was
sneaking around and was afraid of being caught. She felt no
guilt whatsoever as she rummaged through in the evidence
cabinets.

There was something about that book that everyone else was
missing. She could feel it.

The fourth cabinet produced the mother lode. Shrouded in a
plastic bag and covered with dark fingerprinting powder was
'On The Wings of Destiny.'

Scully grabbed a pair of gloves from a nearby box and lifted
the book out of the drawer, then carefully took it from the
plastic. With a puff of breath, she blew off some of the
powder, and she could see the outline of full and partial
fingerprints. All Mulder's, according to Thomason. She moved
across the room to a notebook she knew was Thomason's
scratch pad, what he used to scribble down his findings
before inputting them into the computer.

She trusted Thomason, and in reading his notes, she knew he
had come to the correct conclusions: all of the fingerprints
belonged to Mulder. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she
had known it all along. The rest of the room had been wiped
clean of any fingerprints. Why would the book be any
different? It didn't matter to the kidnapper that she found
Mulder's fingerprints; indeed, he or she =wanted= Scully to
find evidence that Mulder had been there.

There had to be a reason why Thomason found so many of
Mulder's fingerprints on the book, and why the book had been
hidden under the bookcase.

Scully tucked the paperback in its plastic hideaway. The non-
existent guilt from before was slowly seeping into her like
water into a sponge. She needed some quality time with the
book, but the lab wasn't the ideal setting. She quickly
turned off the lights and left through the back entrance to
the lab. She held the book close to her chest, as if its
knowledge would somehow find its way into her heart.

Taking the stairs, Scully made her way to the basement
without encountering another soul. She had never realized
how eerie the Hoover building was when it was unoccupied.
Her only companions were the whining of the heating system
and her own footsteps.

She slipped into the office and clicked on a light, the book
clutched to her breast until she sat in Mulder's chair.
After sliding the book out of the plastic, she took a closer
look at the front of the book. Though his face was obscured
by the fingerprinting powder, she could see the physique of
the shirtless man on the cover. Heavily-muscled chest, small
waist, strong arms in which to hold the fair damsel-in-
distress.

Another Fabio look-alike, Scully thought. Nice to look at,
but she preferred her men to exercise their brain more than
their body.

Except for the bottom part of her dress, the woman on the
cover was obscured by the powder and fingerprint smears. She
assumed the woman was the heroine of the story. Scully
flipped the book over and scanned as much of the summary as
she could see. From what she could gather, the heroine was
Destiny LaRue, a Creole girl from the swamps of Louisiana.
In a trip to New Orleans for her eighteenth birthday,
Destiny finds true love, along with mystery and intrigue in
the Big Easy.

Interesting, but not useful, Scully thought as she flipped
the book over and opened it. The first two pages listed the
author's other novels, and comments from reviewers lauding
her talents. Scully smiled; she'd been so enthralled with
the picture on the front cover that she failed to realize
the author's name was Dana Lovelace. The next page was the
title page, and the following contained a dedication to the
author's husband.

She turned to Chapter One and read the first few sentences,
then turned the page. The tops of the pages were set up like
many novels: the top of the left page listed the author's
name, and the top of the right listed the title.

Scully looked at the author's name again. She blinked twice,
then looked again, determining her eyes were not playing
tricks on her.

Under the name Dana was an indentation.

The mark was so subtle she almost missed it. She turned the
page and looked at the back, seeing the infinitesimal bubble
caused by the indentation. She flipped back to the page and
ran her finger over the depression in the paper. It looked
as if it was made by a dull object, possibly a key.

Or a fingernail.

Her eyes scanned the page, and in the fourth paragraph, she
found another word underlined: 'help.' Two paragraphs later,
she found an indentation under the word 'me.'

     Dana
     help
     me

"Oh my God."

Mulder. This was his evidence.

Scully's eyes filled with tears. This time, she let them
fall. She flipped through the book, turning the pages and
slowly reading through the contents. Most of the pages were
unmarked, but on a few were indentations beneath certain
words, pointing out those words to whomever would take the
time to notice.

Why hadn't Thomason noticed?

Scully swept her arm across the surface of the desk, sending
the cluttered mess to the floor. On the now clear space, she
set the book down and grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil
from the top drawer of the desk.

Over the next eight pages, she found six words, and
scribbled them on the paper:

     said
     move
     me
     west
     virgin
     a

"Virgin a?" she whispered, confused. "Virgin a, virgin a..."
She slammed her hand on the desk as the meaning clicked in
place. "West Virginia!"

She continued perusing the pages, writing the next word she
found underlined -- 'how' -- on the paper. She found another
word two pages later, but it wasn't underlined completely,
just the 'ard' in 'forward.' The remainder of the word
looked as if Mulder tried to scratch it out, telling her to
disregard it.

"Ard? What's an ard? What..." She gasped as she looked at
the previous word. "Howard."

Over the next five pages, using bits and pieces of words,
Mulder gave her the name of his captor: Howard Vincent
Crandall.

Scully booted up the computer and logged into the FBI
mainframe. She typed in the name Howard Vincent Crandall and
was treated to the sight of a file that would take an hour
to print. Crandall was a serial killer, his prey being both
men and women. According to the transcript of his taped
confession, Crandall kept his victims drugged and hidden for
seven days. He tortured them with knife cuts, placed in
various areas of the body that would cause the most pain,
but would keep blood loss from being substantial.

None of Crandall's twelve victims lived through the ordeal.
On the eighth day, he would make two cuts. First, a cut to
the victim's forearm, supposedly to test their 'worthiness'
for admission to Heaven. Then Crandall made his last cut,
the one that would put his victims out of their misery: he
slit their throats.

Scully covered her mouth with her hand, suppressing a
strangled cry.

Today was the eighth day of Mulder's disappearance.

With a shaky hand, Scully clicked to the next screen and
found a series of mug shots of Crandall. She studied the
man's face, determining the only word to describe him was
'smarmy.' Small, close-set eyes and wispy-thin lips; the red
bulbous nose of a life-long alcoholic; thinning reddish-
brown hair that was most likely slicked back because of lack
of washing, not hair gel.

His smile was what brought the word 'smarmy' to mind. He had
a smile of cockiness, of absolute confidence, as if he knew
something no one else in the world knew, and he was better
than anyone else because of it.

A shudder wracked her body as she clicked to the next
screen. She forced herself to continue reading Crandall's
file, focusing on the transcripts of his confession, the
words painting the portrait of a true madman:

     They fought and fought, but I told them
     it was no use to fight. God chose me to do
     this, he told me so Himself. He told me
     this was my destiny. It is written. Just
     as their destiny is written.

     I can feel their sin, the sins of their
     fathers. I can feel it. He, the Lord, has
     given me the ability to sense the guilt,
     the sin. They must pay for these sins. It
     is written: 'The Lord is slow to anger, and
     abounding in steadfast love, forgiving
     iniquity and transgression, but he will by
     no means clear the guilty, visiting the
     iniquity of fathers upon children, upon the
     third and upon the fourth generation.'

     They must confess to those sins. If they
     refuse, if they continue to bleed the
     blood of a sinner, then on the eighth day
     shall be a solemn rest, an eternal rest
     that can be with Our Lord or with The Devil.
     I have been chosen to show them the path to
     Heaven and the path to Hell. Whichever path
     is chosen, we make the journey together.

'The journey.' That was how Crandall referred to the
kidnapping in the note he sent to her. Further into the
file, Scully found that Crandall sent similar notes and
photos to loved ones of the victims, announcing the
beginning of 'the journey.'

Scully refused to allow her mind to make the connection that
Mulder supposedly had with the other victims: the sins of
their fathers. She refused to believe Crandall had the
ability to sense another person's sins. Crandall was a
delusional killer, not a disciple of God.

Instead, Scully allowed her mind to find a reason why
Crandall would kidnap her partner and why it was not one of
his typical kidnappings: a young, green agent named Fox
Mulder had written the profile that lead to the arrest and
incarceration of Howard Vincent Crandall nearly ten years
ago.

This was revenge, pure and simple.

Turning her focus back to the book, she continued perusing
the pages for more underlined words. The indentations
stopped about thirty pages into the book, stopping mid-
thought, it seemed. He must have run out of time. She hoped
she didn't run into the same situation.

She went back and double checked her work, making sure she
didn't miss a single word. When she was satisfied she had
caught them all, she grabbed the book and left the office,
heading to the stairwell.

Scully ran up to Skinner's office, but the outer and inner
offices both appeared to be dark. Cursing under her breath,
she ran to the stairwell again and didn't stop until she was
in the parking garage. She looked toward Skinner's parking
space. His car was still there, but Skinner was in the
driver's seat. As she approached, he started to back out of
the space.

"Sir!" She ran toward the car. It stopped, and the driver's
window slowly descended.

"Agent Scully, what did I tell..."

"Sir, please." She took a deep breath. "I know where he is."


* * * * *
END PART IV




**************************
ON THE WINGS OF DESTINY
Part V
by Thalia D'Muse
<thalia@goodnet.com>
**************************
~ See Part I for disclaimer, rating, etc. ~



From her vantage point in the helicopter, Scully could see
the sun peeking through a valley created by two mountains.
It looked as if the mountains were giving birth to the sun,
giving them the light they would need to execute their
search.

One hour after her first discovery of the underlinings,
Scully had determined that Crandall was headed for his
hometown in West Virginia. She had scanned his file and
found the town to be Tygartston, a small community located
on the banks of the Tygart Valley River in the central part
of the state. Crandall had used a fishing cabin on the
outskirts of Tygartston during two of the kidnappings,
claiming it belonged to his uncle. Matching the directions
given in the ten-year-old report to the vague ones in the
indentations, she made a leap of faith and determined
Crandall was taking Mulder to the same cabin.

Scully looked over at Skinner, who was sitting across from
her in the helicopter. She was amazed at how fast he was
able to requisition the copter for the four-person team,
which included her, Skinner, Thomason and Kipper.

The A.D. had been reluctant to use the questionable clues
she found, but relented after news of Crandall's accidental
release from prison. Through what could only be called a
tragedy of paperwork errors, Howard Vincent Crandall was
given parole, despite his 285-year sentence and despite his
not being eligible for parole until age 143.

Parole was granted two days before Mulder's disappearance.

Skinner leaned toward Scully and pointed to the headset
surrounding his ears. She nodded, realizing he wanted to say
something to her. She pushed her headset closer to her ears.

"How do we know these descriptions are accurate?" Skinner's
voice crackled in her ears. "If Crandall has been drugging
Mulder, how do we know it's not the drugs talking?"

Scully responded with the only answer she had: "It's all we
have, sir."

Skinner dipped his head in a terse nod, acknowledging that
their only lead was based on some indentations underneath
words in a romance novel, made by a man who had been in a
drug-induced haze for nearly a week.

Over a sea of plush trees, Scully could make out what
appeared to be a clearing. As they got closer, she saw it
was a campground. The helicopter touched down in a dirt area
behind a brick building housing the restroom and shower
facilities.

Scully spotted two Jeep Wranglers, both with WEST VIRGINIA
STATE POLICE emblazoned on the driver's door, approaching as
the four agents exited the helicopter. Skinner had arranged
for the state troopers to meet them at the landing site,
then to drive them through the rugged terrain separating the
cabin from the town of Tygartston.

Walking alongside Thomason, Scully noticed he was carrying a
two-way radio and she pointed to it in question. Over the
roar of the copter blades, she could barely hear him say
"safety precaution" as he pointed to the helicopter. She
determined the radio was their communications link to the
copter pilot. She nodded in approval; it never hurt to be
overly prepared.

Two men dressed in tan uniforms exited one of the Jeeps, and
a third man, similarly dressed, exited the second. The
tallest of the three men walked a few steps ahead of the
others and immediately went to Skinner. The man, who was
several inches taller than Skinner and had a thick head of
jet black curly hair, held out his hand to the A.D.

"Sergeant Rob Greenfield," the man said as he vigorously
shook Skinner's hand. "It's good to see you again, sir."

Skinner's eyes narrowed as he tried to remember the man
standing before him.

Greenfield smiled slightly. "I was in Violent Crimes for
about two years, back when you were Section Chief."

Recognition flooded Skinner's face. "Yes... you were the
profiler on the Millings investigation in '82."

"Yes, sir." Greenfield's smile widened, and he waited for
Skinner to say more, but his smile faded when he realized
the A.D. was in no mood for reminiscing. "Sir, this is
Trooper Jack Kent, and Trooper Mike Sutton."

Both men shook hands with Skinner, and Skinner then
introduced Scully, Thomason and Kipper to the others. After
dispensing with handshakes and nods of 'hello,' Greenfield
pointed to the two Jeep Wranglers.

"Sir, if you'll follow us, I'll let Sutton explain the plans
we have devised."

The group of seven walked to the hood of one of the Jeeps.
Sutton stood to one side, and the others placed themselves
around the front of the vehicle. Sutton's skin, the color of
iced mocha, had a thin sheen of sweat. He used his shirt
sleeve to wipe the beads from his forehead, then withdrew a
piece of paper from his pocket.

Moving closer, Scully could see the paper was the fax
Skinner had sent giving the direction to the cabin, and a
rough map. Green and blue lines were scattered around the
paper, and the cabin was circled in red.

"We could do this one of two ways," Sutton began. His finger
lightly traced the green line. "We could cross at the bridge
that is right up the road here, then head west about seven
miles, where the cabin is situated. This is the fastest and
most straightforward way." Sutton mopped his forehead with
this shirt sleeve again. "This is also the most predictable
way, and the one that leaves us out in the open the most."

"How do you mean?" Thomason asked as he eyeballed the
makeshift map.

"This is the easiest way in, the flattest terrain and all.
From reading the report on Crandall, this guy is paranoid as
all get-out, and chances are he's waiting for us." Sutton's
finger moved across the map. "Over here, for about fifty
feet or so to the east of the cabin, it's clear. No trees or
any covering at all. He'd see us and take off toward the
west woods before we'd see him."

Scully's eyebrow arched. "Have you been to this cabin?"

Sutton smiled shyly. "I was still in high school when the
Crandall case went down, but my dad was on the force, and he
was one of the troopers who accompanied the FBI to the
cabin. He showed me where it was about a year later, and
being an adventurous teenager, I showed my friends. I've
been there probably a half-dozen times, the last time being
about five years ago."

"What's the alternate plan?" Skinner prompted, nodding to
the map.

Turning the paper to the side, Sutton's index finger
followed along the blue line. "We split up. Jack can take a
team and cross up the road here, and set up about half a
mile east of the cabin. I'll take the other four of us west
on this side of the river and cross at the next bridge,
about ten miles from here. Then we follow along the
riverbank and backtrack to the cabin. The terrain is rough,
so we'd have to hoof it the last quarter-mile or so."

"Wouldn't that take extra time?" Scully challenged.

Sutton nodded. "It'll take about an extra half-hour, but in
the long run, I think it would save us time. If Crandall
gets into those woods west of the cabin, we'll have a
helluva time finding him. Crandall grew up around here, so
he's probably woods-savvy and could survive days or even a
few weeks in there." Sutton hunched over the map, his index
fingers placed to the left and right of the red-circled
cabin. "See, if we can storm the cabin from the west and
flush him out to the east, we can get him, no problem. If we
let him go west into those woods, we may never get him."

"=If= he runs," Skinner interjected. "We need to remember,
he has a hostage."

"About that," Greenfield said. "You mentioned Agent Mulder
could be drugged?

Scully spoke up before Skinner had a chance to respond.
"It's Crandall's M.O., how he is able to abduct his victims
and keep them relatively quiet."

"Any idea what he's giving him?" Kent tossed out.

"Given Crandall's limited time and resources," she reasoned,
"my guess is ketamine, or possibly phencyclidine."

"PCP?" Sutton blurted. "As in angel dust? Why would he give
him that and not a sedative?"

Scully straightened her back and relaxed her shoulders. She
was in familiar scientific territory now. "In the fifties,
phencyclidine was used as an anesthetic, but the severe
psychological side effects caused its use in humans to be
discontinued in the sixties. It was continued to be used as
a veterinary anesthetic until the late seventies."

Taking a deep breath, Scully forged on. "According to
Crandall's file, he worked as a veterinarian's assistant,
and that was how he obtained the drugs he used in his
victims. It is possible that there are 'old-fashioned'
veterinarians who are still using phencyclidine in this
area. I'm sure many do still use ketamine, and I would be
willing to bet most of the vets out here don't have much
security around their offices."

"Most don't even lock their doors," Greenfield said, nodding
in agreement as he turned to Skinner. "Sir, I leave the
decision up to you. Plan A or Plan B?"

Everyone's eyes turned to Skinner, and they watched his jaw
churn in thought.

"We split up," Skinner said firmly. "Kipper, you and I will
go Trooper Kent, and take the east route. Scully and
Thomason will go with Trooper Sutton and Sergeant Greenfield
on west route."

Greenfield reached inside the Jeep and retrieved a two-way
radio from the dashboard. "We can keep in touch with these,"
he said as he placed the radio in Skinner's outstretched
hand. "Once we start that last quarter-mile hike to the
cabin, we'll give you a heads-up so you can move in."

Skinner nodded, and the two teams went to their respective
Wranglers. Greenfield sat in the front with Sutton, while
Scully and Thomason took the back seats, with Scully sitting
directly behind Sutton.

Hang on, Mulder, Scully thought as the Jeep lurched forward.
Just hang on.


**************************


The first six miles of the ride were bumpy but brisk. The
Jeep was several feet back from the river, but the roar of
the water still surrounded them. She wished she had brought
something to tie her hair back; the wind had whipped it
every which way, and kept obscuring her view. Scully was
impressed with Sutton's driving, and assumed the officer had
much experience driving on non-paved roads. On the seventh
mile of the trip, the gravel-sized pebbled beneath the tires
became golfball-sized, then baseball-sized.

Sutton slowed the Jeep down to what Scully likened to a slow
crawl. She couldn't see the speedometer but knew it had to
be under twenty miles-per-hour. She could barely hear Sutton
and Greenfield bantering back and forth, but she wasn't
listening anyway. Her mind was elsewhere, trying to sense
Mulder.

It was crazy, and he would endlessly tease her about it if
he knew, but she could feel Mulder. He was alive. She would
know if he was dead. Mulder was a part of her, his drive and
passion like a living flame, a flame that had found its way
inside her to warm her from the inside out. If he was dead,
that flame would have died, but she could still feel it,
burning strong. She knew Mulder wasn't dead after the ordeal
in New Mexico. Though everyone told her otherwise, she
wouldn't believe it because somewhere deep inside her body,
she could still feel him.

Every nerve, every cell in her body told her the same thing
as in New Mexico: Mulder was alive.

"The cabin is right around here, across the river," Sutton
said as he slowed the Jeep. "Can't see it from here because
of the trees, but it's there. I recognize that big boulder.
Spent a lot of time up there."

Shifting in her seat, Scully peered through the windshield
at the boulder as they approached it. It looked to be
several feet tall and flat on top, a perfect place for kids
to play 'King of the Mountain' or 'I Spy.' Scully's gaze
went to the river, and she noticed it didn't look as far
across as she thought.

"There's no way to cross here?" she asked, pulling herself
forward in the back seat of the Jeep so Sutton could hear.

"Not a chance," Sutton replied. "It's only a couple hundred
feet across but it's probably triple that in depth. Plus, it
moves at a pretty fast clip. It'd carry you downriver a few
miles before you reached...."

Sutton stopped talking just as a 'pop' Scully heard
registered: a gunshot. Before she had a chance to call out,
Sutton slumped forward over the steering wheel. Greenfield
turned to Sutton, his face scrunched in confusion.

"He's been shot," Scully blurted as she tucked herself in
the space between the front and back seats. "Sniper across
the river."

Greenfield threw the Jeep in neutral before jumping over the
side of the Jeep. Another shot rang out, embedding itself in
the padded guard rail -- mere inches from where Greenfield's
head had been seconds earlier.

Scully couldn't see the sergeant, but she heard the click of
his gun. Another shot from across the river made its way to
the Jeep, hitting the passenger side of the windshield and
creating a starburst of cracks in the glass.

Tentatively, Scully raised her right arm around the front
seat and felt for a pulse on Sutton. She found one, strong
but uneven. With one quick yank, she pulled Sutton's body so
that he lay across the passenger seat, getting him out of
the line of fire. She heard a groan from Sutton, and took
that as a good sign.

"On the count of three, get out of the Jeep," Greenfield
said briskly. "Agent Thomason first. One... two... three!"

Scully saw Greenfield appear near the front of the Jeep,
only his head, shoulders and arms in view. He fired four
rounds in succession across the river as Thomason leapt over
the side. She heard him land with a grunt, then heard the
scattering of rocks as he moved next to the sergeant.

"Agent Scully. One... two.. three!"

Both men fired in the direction of the boulder as Scully
vaulted over the Jeep's door. She landed on her feet, but
the smaller rocks slid out from under her and she hit a
sharp rock with her hip. A bolt of pain shot through her
side, but she ignored it, and unholstered her gun. She
scrambled across the loose rocks to Greenfield and Thomason.

"Where the hell did that come from?" Thomason exhaled.

Greenfield nodded to the boulder. "He's over there, hiding
behind it. I saw him for a second."

Scully knew the answer before she even asked. "Crandall?"

The sergeant nodded tersely. "A little older and thinner
from the photo you sent, but I'm pretty sure."

"We need to get Sutton out of here," Scully said as she
checked the rounds in her gun.

Scrambling on all fours, Greenfield made his way around the
two agents and to the passenger door. Still crouched, he
opened it and inched his hand inside the Jeep. Both Thomason
and Scully aimed their guns at the boulder as Greenfield
reached for the two-way radio from the dashboard. To their
surprise, no shots were fired from across the river.

Greenfield depressed the button on the side of the radio.
"Jack, this is Rob. The suspect has opened fire. We have an
officer down. Repeat. Officer down."

His voice was met with static. "These damn mountains," he
muttered as he tried sending out another message, which was
met by the same response.

As the sergeant tried to rally someone on the radio, Scully
opened the Jeep's door further and moved next to Greenfield
to get a better look at Sutton's injury.

"I'm OK," a raspy-voiced Sutton whispered, placing a weak
hand on Scully's arm to prove his point. "Bullet went
straight through, I think."

Scully nodded and smiled, then started her exam. She located
the entrance wound in his right shoulder. Delicately lifting
his shoulder, she found Sutton was right: a dime-sized hole
in his shirt showed her the exit wound near his right
shoulder blade. She noticed the wound was bleeding, but not
profusely, which told her the bullet had missed the arteries
in the area.

"Bullet went clean through," she said, reassuring both
Sutton and Greenfield. "We need to stop the bleeding right
away."

"There's a first-aid kit in the glove compartment,"
Greenfield replied.

Scully retrieved the first-aid kit, and used the small
scissors to cut away Sutton's shirt. She did her best to
sterilize and wrap the wound; it wasn't fancy, but it would
do the job until they could get Sutton in the hands of the
paramedics.

The radio in Greenfield's hand squawked sharply, but a tinny
response from Trooper Kent was interwoven in the static. The
sergeant moved the radio in different directions until the
static subsided.

"Jack, I'm getting interference from the mountain range
here," Greenfield said into the mouthpiece. "I need you to
get clear and radio for a medical helicopter and back-up.
Mike's been hit. He's conscious and alert, but I want to get
him out of here pronto."

"Ten-four," came as the muffled response from the radio.

"What now?" asked a shaken Thomason.

Scully realized this was most likely the forensic
scientist's first field case involving live gunfire. He was
used to analyzing bullets, not dodging them. She felt
compassion for her friend, but her concern for Mulder left
her no time for reassuring words.

"We need to get across that river," Scully said firmly. "He
hasn't shot at us in several minutes. He could be heading
back to the cabin for Mulder."

"We can't cross it," Greenfield replied with a shake of his
head. "The current's too fast."

Their conversation was interrupted by a static-laden message
from the radio: "Got through... Medivac on its way...
Clarksburg... ETA... minutes."

"Repeat ETA," Greenfield said.

"Fifteen minutes," Kent replied.

"Think you can hang on for fifteen?" Greenfield asked
lightly, looking to Scully, not Sutton, for the answer.

Scully nodded, confident that the trooper would make it
until paramedics arrived. He was still alert, and his pulse
had somewhat returned to normal.

Sutton laughed tightly. "He just winged me. I can make it.
Agent Scully did a good patch-up job."

Scully didn't hear the compliment; her mind was already
working on the solution to get them -- or at least, her --
across the river. Crandall knew they were onto him. Mulder
was in more danger than ever.

She scrambled over to Thomason. "Do you still have the two-
way to the helicopter?"

Thomason's brow furrowed in confusion. "The what?"

"The radio. The one to the Bureau helicopter."

"Oh." Thomason felt around in his jacket and found the
radio. "But the Medivac is already on its way."

"I know it is," she said as she grabbed the radio. She moved
away from the Jeep and out into the open, knowing Crandall
was on his way back to the cabin.

"This is Special Agent Dana Scully. Warner, do you copy?"

She released the radio's button, but static was the only
response.

"Warner, come in. This is Agent Scully. Are you there?"

"...here. Can barely... you out..."

"Warner, listen carefully. We need you here. We're on the
south side of the river, almost directly across from the
river."

"...going on?"

"I'll fill you in later. Just get over here. South side of
the river, across from the cabin. Do you copy?"

"South side, across... cabin," the pilot answered. "Ten-
four."

She went back to the Jeep, and Thomason gave her a concerned
look. "Why did you call him over here?"

"Because someone needs to go in and get Mulder," she said as
she moved next to Sutton. "How far back is the cabin?"

"From here?" Sutton rasped. "I think it's about another
fifty feet or so west, and about two or three hundred feet
back. Why?"

"Thanks," she said as she gave Sutton's arm a squeeze. The
radio in her hand squawked to life.

"ETA is thirty seconds," the pilot, Andy Warner, said in a
clearer voice. "Mind telling me what's going on?"

Greenfield shot her a look that told her he was wanting the
answer to the same question.

"I need you to get me over the river," she said into the
radio.

"No can do, Agent Scully," came the reply. "I couldn't land
this bird without taking an unwanted dip in the river."

"You don't need to land. Lower the ladder."

"You want me to fly you across the river on the ladder?"
Warner's voice rose half an octave with the last three word.

"We have a suspect who has shot one officer already, and
Agent Mulder is in danger of suffering the same fate. It's
the only way to get someone to him in time."

"Skinner will have my ass," Warner replied.

"I will take full responsibility for this, with Skinner and
with whomever else questions it."

"Damn straight you will," was the tinny response.

"That's crazy," Greenfield said. "If Crandall is around,
you're a sitting duck."

"Or a flying one," Thomason chimed in. "Dana, you can't do
this. It's too risky."

"That's a chance I'll have to take," she said as she
buttoned up her jacket. She grabbed some leftover gauze from
the roll and tied her hair back, getting as much away from
her face as possible.

"I can't let you do it," Greenfield stated firmly.

The helicopter came into view over the trees. Scully looked
up and saw the ladder being lowered. She turned back to
Greenfield.

"I'm afraid you can't stop me, Sergeant." She handed the
radio to Thomason.

Scully started to move away from the Jeep, but Greenfield's
large hand grasped her shoulder. She turned back, looking
intently at the sergeant.

"I'm in charge of this unit, Agent Scully. I can't let you
risk it."

"Agent Mulder's life is at stake," she said, her voice
taking on a stern but slightly pleading tone. "Crandall will
kill him as soon as he reaches him. Mulder has risked his
life for me too many times to count. He's my partner. I need
to find him before Crandall does. I =need= to take the
risk."

Greenfield looked down at her, engaging in a staring contest
that he knew he couldn't win. The mixture of determination
and desperation in her eyes made him realize Dana Scully
would be losing more than just a partner if Fox Mulder died.
Finally, as he nodded his assent to Scully, Greenfield
lowered his hand from her shoulder and watched her walk
away.

When Scully reached the helicopter, the bottom two rungs of
the ladder were on the gravel. She climbed up four rungs,
then wrapped a leg and arm around the opposite side,
securing herself as much as possible. She looked up and gave
Warner a thumbs-up, and the pilot returned the gesture.

Any fear she was repressing before exploded to the surface
as the helicopter lifted her into the air. She wasn't fond
of heights, and deplored flying, so this was a double
nightmare that seemed to last forever. Every foot they flew
felt like a hundred miles and a hundred minutes. She looked
ahead, not down, knowing she couldn't risk panicking. Panic
would lead to sloppiness; sloppiness would lead to a one-way
trip into the Tygart Valley River.

Her breath caught in her throat as Scully spotted the
chimney of the cabin. The helicopter inched forward, and she
was able to see the movement in one of the bushes near the
front of the cabin. She saw what she thought was a workman's
boot, sticking out from the greenery. Though she wanted to
reach for her gun, she knew better than to jeopardize her
already tentative hold on the ladder. Instead, she memorized
the area surrounding the bush and noted the quickest way to
get there.

The entire trip took less than thirty seconds, though Scully
was sure it was the longest thirty seconds of her life. She
felt the helicopter level out, then stop; they were
hovering. She looked up and saw Warner pointing to the
ground. She nodded, realizing he was ready to lower her. She
was less than one-hundred feet off the ground, but it was
still too high for her liking.

Warner lowered the helicopter like he was lowering a baby
into its crib. Scully could barely feel the copter moving,
but the ground kept getting closer and closer. When the
bottom rung hit the ground, she untangled herself from the
ladder and jumped, landing solidly on the sand-and-gravel
riverbank. She gave Warner another thumbs-up without taking
her eyes off the surrounding trees and shrubbery.

The fear of the flight flowed out of Scully, replaced by the
liquid energy of adrenaline. Her senses were on overdrive;
the roar of the river would cover even the loudest approach,
and the greenery in the area could hide just about anything.

She swept her gun in front of her, her finger poised on the
trigger as she ran to the boulder. The part of the boulder
facing the water was flat and smooth, as if it had been
filed down, but the surface facing the cabin was rounded and
jagged. Looking down, she saw a darkness at the base of the
boulder. She knelt, then ran her fingers over the midnight
drops in the gravel.

Blood, just a few droplets, colored the tiny stones. She
looked at the surface of the boulder, and near the bottom
she found more blood, small splatters darkening the
boulder's light steel color.

One of their shots had connected. The boot she saw in the
bushes could have been an injured, camouflaged Crandall
crawling his way back to the cabin. To Mulder.

She had to move fast.


* * * * *
END PART V




**************************
ON THE WINGS OF DESTINY
Part VI
by Thalia D'Muse
<thalia@goodnet.com>
**************************
~ See Part I for disclaimer, rating, etc. ~



Like a summer breeze, Scully moved quickly and quietly
through the greenery surrounding her. She ran in a half-
crouched position, her eyes and ears on alert, her gun ready
in her hand.

When she found the area she recognized from her aerial view,
she stopped and scanned the area. Blood droplets dotted the
gravel and plant leaves. Then she saw a dark mass nestled in
the green. She reached in and removed a pistol.

Why would Crandall leave it here, she thought as she
examined the gun. When she tried to remove the clip, she
found her answer: the clip was jammed so tightly, it
wouldn't budge, no matter how hard she tugged on it.

One small victory, Scully mused silently as she put the
safety on the gun and stuffed it in her jacket pocket. Still
crouched, she looked over the shrub, and could see the front
door of the cabin. It was open far enough for her to get a
glimpse of someone huddled on the floor.

Scully crouched lower and moved to the right of the front
door. She situated herself under the large bay window. She
could hear Crandall's thin, Southern-drawled voice reciting
Bible verses she couldn't remember ever reading. Slowly, she
raised herself so she could see in the window. She saw two
figures on the far side of the cabin.

The huddled mass on the floor was Mulder. He was curled in
the fetal position, like he had been in the Polaroid. She
could see his breathing was labored, and she thought she
could make out tears streaking his pale, pained face.

Bent over Mulder, with his back to the window, was Howard
Vincent Crandall. Scully saw a thin line of blood making a
stripe down the back of his pant leg; he'd been shot in the
back of the thigh. He straightened himself and backed away
from Mulder. Scully could hear a whimper from Crandall as he
put weight on his injured leg.

Scully bit back her own whimper when she saw Mulder's arm.
Blood oozed from a fresh wound on his forearm. She looked at
Crandall and saw the cause of Mulder's wound: clutched in
the madman's hand was a pocketknife, the tip covered in
blood. She did a quick visual sweep for other injuries to
her partner, and found his left ankle was swollen to double
its normal size.

Slowly, Scully crept from the window to the door frame.
Though the door was open, Crandall wasn't able to see her.
In turn, she wasn't able to see Crandall. He was probably
still within a few feet of Mulder, so she couldn't risk the
chance of announcing her presence with the usual "Freeze!
FBI!"

Scully soon found she didn't need to issue any greeting.

"I know you're there, Miss Scully."

Scully's heart went into her throat. She pulled back,
flattening herself against the outside wall.

"God told me you were here. He said you should bear witness
to this to see for yourself."

Though she knew she was walking into a trap, seeing Mulder
lying on that floor made her decision an unconscious one.

Her gun in both hands, she opened the door with her foot,
far enough that she could see Crandall, crouched behind
Mulder, the knife still in his hand. He had raised Mulder
into a sitting position, so that he shielded Crandall from
Scully. She couldn't get a clear shot.

Mulder's head was down. He didn't move; he simply slumped
against Crandall. A quick look to his chest reassured her
that he was still breathing.

Crandall looked at her and smiled. "Please. Come in. You
must see this, Miss Scully. You will see, and you will
believe."

"Step away from Agent Mulder," she said firmly.

At the sound of her command, Mulder's head snapped up. Her
eyes met his briefly before she trained her eyes on
Crandall.

"Come," he said to Scully. "Look at his arm. His blood, he
has the blood of a sinner."

"I said, step away from Agent Mulder. Now."

Crandall swiped at the wound on Mulder's arm. His finger
coated in blood, he held his hand up to Scully.

"See. The blood of a sinner." He brought the finger to his
face. "You can see the sins mixed in with the blood,
tainting its color and texture. You can see the victims'
faces, their mouths open in silent screams. I can see
everything about him and his father in his blood. So much
sin."

"This is your last warning, Crandall. If you do not step
away from Agent Mulder, I will fire."

"You can fire all you want," Crandall said casually as he
admired the blood on his finger. "I am doing God's work. He
will keep me safe."

"God does not protect murderers," she threw back at him,
anger boiling in her blood.

"I am not a murderer, Miss Scully," he said, turning his
attention to her. "I am a cleanser. I am cleansing us of the
filth of our world. Innocent people have died needlessly at
the hands of this man's father. I can sense this. God has
given me the gift to sense the guilt and the sin. It is so
strong in Fox Mulder. So strong. And this blood on my finger
is the proof. He bleeds the blood of a sinner. I must do
what God has instructed me to do."

Crandall danced the knife across the creases in Mulder's
neck, as if feeling out what area would be the best to
slice.

Scully felt a wave of defeat wash through her veins. She
wasn't getting through to Crandall, and her hope of getting
a clear shot of the killer remained out of reach. Crandall
was protected behind Mulder, and the chance of hitting her
partner was still too high for her to risk it.

With just a millisecond of hesitation, Scully decided to
change tactics. What she was about to do could be the best
or worst decision she had ever made.

She forced herself to feign interest in the wound on
Mulder's arm. She moved her head, as if trying to get a
better look. As she had hoped, Crandall caught her.

"Come closer, Miss Scully. Through me, He will allow you to
see the sin. You will see the truth."

She took several steps forward, but stopped when Crandall
pressed the knife closer to Mulder's neck.

"That's close enough," he said. "Look. Look and you shall
see."

Scully pretended to look intently at the blood trickling out
of Mulder's arm. What she saw was nothing more than blood,
but she needed to convey to Crandall that she saw the
inconceivable. As if on cue, she gasped, throwing herself
into the role of a believer. Her eyes darted between the
wound and Crandall, and she saw a wide smile bloom on his
face.

"Now you know. You see the sin. You see what I see."

"Yes. I have known about the sins that Mulder's father
committed but I've never truly seen their destruction." She
nodded, then panic filled her face. "What about me?"

Crandall looked at her, confused. "What do you mean?"

"My father was a Navy man. He fought in so many wars, I've
lost count. Most weren't classified as 'wars' by the US
Government, but they were." She lowered her gun and took
another step forward. "He went through the ranks very
quickly, and became a captain before he was thirty. In
carrying out his duties, lives were lost. Hundreds, maybe
thousands, of innocent lives. Does that mean I must pay for
those lives?"

"No, no," he said sympathetically. "It was his duty. Your
father was serving his country."

"But was he serving God?"

Crandall hesitated, as if what she said made sense in his
deranged mind. "No, I cannot sense the sin."

"Are you sure?"

Scully could see in Crandall's eyes that he was working
through the dilemma. It made her sick to use her father's
good name in such a foul way, reducing the years of service
to his country to nothing more than a body count. But she
had to fight Crandall with words he would understand. She
was getting through to him, making him doubt his so-called
powers.

"I need to know for sure," Scully continued, adding panic to
her voice. "I need to know for sure if I am one of them. I
loved my father with all my heart, but love for God is
without boundaries."

Her hand went to the tiny gold cross around her neck, and
she fingered the charm. "I need to know. Please."

Crandall's eyes had followed her hand to the necklace. He
watched as the gold cross moved around her finger, yellow
glints flashing around her skin. His expression changed,
softened into one of understanding.

"Put your gun on the floor and kick it over here," Crandall
finally said.

Scully did as instructed, and sent her gun sailing across
the wood floor toward Crandall. He grabbed it and pushed it
aside, toward the back wall of the cabin.

A weak "no" came from Mulder, the word barely given voice.
His eyes were open and he was looking at Scully, the
pleading repeated in his eyes. Even in his semi-lucid state,
he had an idea what she was doing: lowering the madman's
defenses by feeding his ego.

Her eyes went to Crandall to gauge his reaction, but he
seemed uninterested by Mulder's nearly inaudible outburst.
She couldn't believe Crandall was falling for her line. She
was not an actress, and an even worse liar, but Crandall
believed her. His single-mindedness, his belief that what he
was doing was right and that nothing else mattered, closed
his eyes to the charade being performed before him.

Scully swallowed, realizing she saw Mulder in that
description. What would Mulder be like had she not entered
his life when she did? She knew her influence on him was
good, though he might argue that point. She made him think,
made him question the illogical, even if just for a moment.
He was still passionate about his quest, and he still made
some decisions without thinking, but he had come a long way
in six years.

There was a fine line between passion and madness; Howard
Crandall had crossed that line years ago. As long as she was
alive, Scully would make sure Fox Mulder never got near that
line.

"Come closer," Crandall instructed.

Scully forced her mind to concentrate on carrying out the
charade. She moved to within a few feet of Mulder and
Crandall.

"Kneel next to me," Crandall said when she stopped. "Over
here, on my right."

She didn't fail to notice that he had her kneeling between
him and the door, instead of him and the far wall, where her
gun was located. He didn't completely believe her, but it
didn't matter. All she needed was a fracture in his defenses
to take him down.

With a nod, Scully knelt beside Crandall and held out her
arm. Mulder looked at her arm, then at her face. Trust me,
she said with an ice-blue silence, and she saw a nod of
hazel in response.

"Please," she said to Crandall. "Show me I have nothing to
worry about."

Crandall smiled as the knife descended. "May God bless you,
Miss Scully."

Mulder surprised them both as his hand closed around
Crandall's wrist like a vice, just before the knife met
Scully's skin.

Scully recovered from her shock first and grabbed the knife
from Crandall's now immobile hand. She threw it across the
room, and the blade imbedded itself in a piece of firewood
by the fireplace.

Crandall bit hard into Mulder's arm, and Mulder yelled as
his hand released the killer's wrist. Scully took the
opportunity to lunge for the gun, but Crandall was too
quick. With the gun just out of her reach, Crandall's hand
wrapped around her ankle. She kicked hard, and heard a
pained yelp as her shoe connected with Crandall's nose.

Scully grabbed the gun, flipped over onto her back and
trained the gun on Crandall. "Don't move!"

Crandall smiled but remained still as Scully stood and
Mulder crawled several feet away.

"I want you to move toward the wall," Scully said sharply.
"Keep your hands where I can see them."

With a smile dripping with confidence, Crandall stood and
took a step toward the wall. Then another. His hands were at
his side, but one came up slowly to swipe at the blood
streaming from his nose.

"He will protect me," Crandall hissed. "God protects those
who do His biding." He raised his blood-covered hand. "My
wounds will heal before your eyes because..."

Crandall's voice faded as he looked at the blood on his
fingers. The cocky expression on his face melted into one of
panic.

"No," he cried. "Oh God, merciful God. No!"

Scully watched as Crandall wiped more blood from his nose.
His eyes were wild with terror.

"It can't...no...I can't be one of them." He looked to
Scully, his eyes pleading. "My father was a good man, never
hurt anyone in his life. How can I pay for sins that were
never committed?"

"The only sins you are going to pay for are your own,"
Scully said as she removed a set of handcuffs from her
inside jacket pocket. "Put your hands behind your head and
turn around to face the wall."

Crandall remained like a statue, his eyes fixed on the blood
dripping down his hand and wrist. When a second command went
unanswered, Scully stepped to within arm's reach of
Crandall.

"Put your hands behind..."

Her voice trailed off as she took a closer look at the blood
coating Crandall's hand. Like a macabre slide show, faces
she didn't recognize flashed before her. Names she did
recognize reverberated in her head: Amber White, Jeffrey
Pond, Shane Nerini, Tony McConnell...

The names of Crandall's victims.

Crandall sobbed openly. "You see it this time. You really do
see it. I am one of them."

Scully's hand began to tremble as more faces and names
assaulted her senses. She saw each and every one of
Crandall's twelve victims, their faces but a ghostly
apparition of smoke and pain, their mouths twisted in
terror.

What she didn't see was that the jammed gun -- the one
Crandall had used to fire upon her and the rescue team --
had fallen from her pocket during the fight.

Crandall lunged at the gun that lay just inches behind
Scully. It took her only a second to respond. She turned and
fired at Crandall, hitting him solidly in the back of his
left shoulder. He still managed to grab the gun and he
scrambled to his feet, backing himself up against the wall
near Mulder.

Scully watched as he muttered a prayer she couldn't
understand, while he made the sign of the Father, Son and
Holy Ghost across his chest three times. He clicked off the
safety on the pistol, but kept the gun at his side, pointing
it at the floor.

"The clip is jammed, Crandall" she said, her gun trained on
his chest. "It won't work."

"It will now," he choked out as he raised the gun to his
head and squeezed the trigger.

The sound of the bullet leaving the chamber exploded like a
bomb in the small cabin. Crandall's head slammed against the
wall, and he wavered for a few seconds before his body fell
forward and crashed to the ground, landing within a foot
from Mulder.

Shocked, Scully didn't move until she realized the sound in
her ears wasn't a rushing of blood, but a scream. Mulder was
trying to back away from the body, blood-curdling screams
pouring from his mouth.

Seeing Crandall point the gun at his head and squeeze the
trigger was traumatic enough for her; for Mulder, it must
have been pure Hell. Hallucinogens were known to magnify
every vision and feeling, and she couldn't imagine what his
eyes were seeing.

She went to her partner and tried pulling him into an
embrace. He fought her, pushing her away, his gaze firmly
planted on Crandall as he continued to scream.

"Mulder, it's OK," she soothed. "It's OK. It's over."

Her verbal ministrations were ineffective, so she tried the
physical. She shook his shoulders lightly, then harder, then
harder still. He refused to look at her or stop screaming.

Desperation kicked in. Breathing an "I'm sorry" to Mulder,
she wrapped her hand around his injured ankle and squeezed.
Hard.

It gave her the desired result. The pain overtook the
hallucination's hold on his brain. Hysterical screams turned
to a string of obscenities. He reached to yank her hand from
his ankle, but she let go first and took his hand in hers.
He became quiet and his eyes closed as he collapsed, his
ragged breathing the only sound filling the silence.

"I'm sorry, Mulder," she said, rubbing her other hand along
his calf. "Help is on the way. Just hang on."

Mulder's eyes opened, and he looked lazily at her. His
pupils were dilated, but she could see recognition flare in
their unfocused depths.

"Knew you'd find me," he said weakly. "Destiny..."

"No, not Destiny. I'm Scully, your partner."

He opened his eyes wide at her and smiled. "I know.
Destiny."

She started to correct him, then realized what he was
saying.

"Yes, Mulder. I found the book. I found your clues."

"Knew you would."

Scully moved to sit by Mulder's head. She ran a hand through
his hair, and she could feel him pushing back into her hand.
Through much effort, she managed to lift his head so that it
lay in her lap.

His eyelids opened and he stared up at her, eyes wide. She
wondered what those eyes were seeing. Did he see his
partner, Special Agent Dana Scully? Or was his drugged mind
molding her into someone, or something, else?

"Scully," he finally said with a content smile.

"Yes, Mulder. I'm here."

He nodded, then moved his gaze from her eyes to look over
her shoulder. "Uh oh. Better watch out. Eeyore's standing
behind you and he looks pissed."

She turned her head and locked eyes with Walter Skinner. She
bit the inside of her lip to keep from laughing at Mulder's
drug-induced comparison between the A.D. and the brooding,
dark-clouded donkey.

"Sir." She stopped, unsure of what else to say. She could
see the storm brewing in Skinner's eyes, and she thought it
best to keep her mouth shut.

"Paramedics should be here any minute," Skinner said tightly
as he crouched next to her. "How is he?"

"He has a possible ankle fracture, and whatever drug is in
his system has a pretty good hold on his perceptions of
reality."

"Takin' the trip of my life, man," Mulder said to no one in
particular. He giggled at his own joke, then nestled his
head further in Scully's lap.

Skinner ignored Mulder's comment. "And the suspect?"

"I shot him in the shoulder," Scully said, trying to steady
her voice. "He managed to get a hold of his gun, which was
disabled. It... somehow it fired."

Skinner's response was interrupted by the arrival of the
paramedics. He moved back a few steps, allowing the men to
get to Mulder.

Scully started in immediately. "He's been given some kind of
psychedelic, possibly over a period of eight days. He is in
and out of lucidity. Pupils are dilated, speech is slurred.
Possible fracture to the lower left fibula. Small lesion to
his right forearm made by an unsterile knife."

The paramedics set their equipment next to Mulder.

"Ma'am," the youngest paramedic directed to Scully, "we need
you to step aside."

Her mouth opened, ready to deliver her 'I'm a medical
doctor' speech, but she caught herself. They were only doing
their jobs, and she had already helped them by giving them
the information they needed to treat him properly. She
nodded, then gently removed Mulder's head from her lap.

"WhereyagoingScully," he slurred.

"I'm right here, Mulder. Right next to you." She stood and
moved a few steps away. "Just let them help you. I'll be
right here."

Scully turned to Skinner. "Sir, I would like to accompany
Agent Mulder to the hospital."

Skinner's jaw twitched. "Agent Scully, I have a lot of
questions that need answers."

"Yes, sir, and I will provide them. I can start on my report
while I'm at the hospital."

"You're treading on thin ice," Skinner warned.

"Sir, please. Agent Mulder is in a vulnerable mental state
due to the psychedelic in his system. He didn't recognize
you when you came in. He recognized me, and seems to stay
lucid when he focuses on the fact that I'm here. I think a
familiar face will be helpful in the beginning phases of his
recovery."

Skinner's jaw moved as he digested her words. "In your
medical opinion, will Agent Mulder be able to travel back to
a DC hospital in the next twenty-four hours?"

"I believe so," she said warily. "They will probably treat
him with an intravenous benzodiazepine. That can be
continued if he is transported by medical helicopter."

"Arrange it," he replied tersely. "I want you back in DC and
in my office by eight a.m. tomorrow. You will have your
detailed written report ready for my review at that time. No
excuses."

The tone in Skinner's voice conveyed to her what his words
did not: she was in deep shit. The kind of shit Mulder was
famous for getting into.

She watched Skinner walk away, and out of the corner of her
eye, she saw Rob Greenfield entering the cabin.

"You found him," he said as he approached her. "How's he
doing?"

"A little worse for wear, but he's going to be fine..."

The younger paramedic cleared his throat, interrupting
Scully. "Ma'am, we're taking him to Clarksburg Regional
Hospital. It's about a half-hour drive once you get out on
the main road."

Greenfield spoke before Scully could protest. "Guys, I would
really appreciate it if you could find a way to get Agent
Scully on that bird with you."

The elder paramedic opened his mouth to argue but thought
better of it when he saw the stripes on Greenfield's uniform
indicating his rank. The paramedic nodded, then motioned for
Scully to follow.

"Of course," Greenfield added lightly, "all they'd have to
do is lower the ladder, and you could ride in that way."

Scully fought a smile as the paramedic looked at Greenfield
in confusion.

"Take care," Greenfield said as he extended his hand to
Scully.

"Thank you," she replied as she shook his hand. "For
everything."

"No problem." He walked with her to the cabin door. "And
good luck with Skinner. You're going to need it."

Scully lowered her head, a small smile creeping onto her
lips as she followed the paramedics to the helicopter. The
smile was completely inappropriate but she couldn't help it.
She was in for the reprimand of her life, along with some
unwanted time off while they decided her punishment. She
knew the ends didn't always justify the means, and
frequently pointed that fact out to her partner. Her actions
were reckless, and she had violated a dozen Bureau rules in
the process.

She also knew she was in for hours of paperwork that was
always connected with a fatal outcome on a case. Though she
didn't deliver the fatal shot, she was the only credible
witness and would have to account for her every move while
she was in the cabin.

Despite the maelstrom awaiting her, her smile widened as she
watched the paramedics slide Mulder into the helicopter. She
would face the paperwork and the questions and the
reprimands with her usual professionalism, as long as she
knew Mulder would soon be by her side.

Mulder was alive, and at this moment, that was the only fact
worth her attention.


* * * * *
END PART VI



**************************
ON THE WINGS OF DESTINY
Part VII: Epilogue
by Thalia D'Muse
<thalia@goodnet.com>
**************************
~ See Part I for disclaimer, rating, etc. ~


TWO WEEKS LATER


Scully turned on the radio in her car, letting the air fill
with the haunting beauty of Ravel's 'Bolero.' For the first
time in two weeks, she felt at ease.

She was on her way to pick up Mulder for his doctor's
appointment, and she expected good news. He had suffered a
hairline fracture to his ankle, and was less than happy when
they put a cast on his leg. Scully talked the doctor into
issuing a two-week medical leave to keep him off the leg so
it could heal properly, and as far as she knew, her partner
had behaved himself the whole two weeks. The appointment,
which was in an hour, was to review his progress and issue a
return-to-work form.

Though she had visited Mulder numerous times during his
leave, they never discussed what happened in that cabin. The
wounds, physical as well as emotional, were still too fresh.
Mulder had testified on her behalf before the review board,
but she was not permitted to attend. She didn't know what he
told them, and she didn't ask.

She had been given a week's suspension while they reviewed
the shooting. The suspension was common when an agent-
involved shooting was being investigated; however, Skinner
had made good on his threat and made the suspension without
pay. She used her forced vacation to check in on Mulder and
to finish the endless paperwork the Bureau tossed at her
concerning every aspect of the case.

Ultimately, Scully was cleared of any wrongdoing in the
shooting and subsequent suicide of Howard Vincent Crandall.
Her aerobatics with the helicopter, however, did not go
unpunished. A formal written reprimand was placed in her
permanent file, and she received a tongue-lashing from the
review board that would have made even Mulder cringe. She
sat and listened as they pointed out her 'insubordinate and
reckless actions.' She answered only when spoken to, and
faced their words with her usual stoic facade. She thanked
them as the meeting adjourned, then walked out before they
could see relief wash over her face.

The written reprimand was a slap on the wrist. Going into
the meeting, she expected suspension at the very least. She
had a feeling Skinner was responsible for her being able to
return to her job so soon.

The final strains of 'Bolero' flowed through the Explorer's
speakers as Scully pulled into a parallel space near the
entrance of Mulder's apartment building. The brisk morning
air whipped her hair around her face as she hurried up the
steps and inside the warmth of the brick building. Feeling
energetic, she took the stairs and considered it her
exercise for the day.

Three sharp raps on Mulder's door elicited a muffled, "Just
a minute."

Scully listened to the metallic 'ker-thunk' of Mulder
approaching the door. He was on crutches but was able to get
around well enough that she still had to take long strides
to keep up with him.

Locks unlatched and the door opened to a half-dressed
Mulder. He was wearing a pair of faded jeans. He'd allowed
her to sacrifice the old, worn jeans, and she cut and
filleted one leg at the knee to accommodate his cast. His
denim shirt lay unopened over his torso.

"Hey," he said lightly. "I'm almost ready. I had to dig
around for something clean."

Scully stepped inside and briefly admired the view as he
started buttoning his shirt. He'd been working out, adding
weight-training to his exercise regimen. His chest was
better defined and toned, and the love handles she'd seen
were tapered. He looked good, better than she could remember
seeing him.

Her conscience getting the better of her, she quickly
shifted her gaze to his face. If he'd caught her looking, he
didn't let on. He looked too involved in buttoning his shirt
and balancing on one leg at the same time, which was another
entertaining sight.

"Mulder, why don't you sit?"

"I like the challenge," he said with a smirk. Finished with
the shirt, he grabbed his crutches and followed her into the
living room. "I just have to put on a shoe."

"Don't hurry. We have some time." She sat on the couch and
let the stuffed cushions mold to her body.

"Good. I have something for you." Mulder ambled into the
kitchen, and when he returned, he had a small package tucked
under his arm.

"What's this?" she asked as she rose from the couch.

"Just a little something. It's no big deal." He handed
Scully the package and sat on the arm of the couch.

Scully looked at her partner, wondering what he could have
bought for her, and when he found the time and
transportation to buy it.

"I found it while I was on-line," he said, as if reading her
mind. "It's amazing what you can buy on the Internet these
days."

Scully eyed the package suspiciously. "Mulder, if this
requires batteries or a triple-X rating, I'm going to break
your other ankle."

Mulder's face lit up with mock-surprise. "Scully, I would
never."

Her answering expression was a mixture of staunch skepticism
and mild amusement.

"Just open it," he laughed, gesturing to the package.

She shook the box, gave Mulder one last wary glance, then
ripped into the paper like a child on Christmas morning. The
wrapping gave way to a plain cardboard box.

"Mulder, what..."

"Keep going," he said, enthusiasm lightening his voice.

She opened the box, and what lay inside pulled a gasp from
her. She sat hard on the couch, staring at the contents of
the box.

In her hands was a brand new copy of 'On The Wings Of
Destiny.'

She looked at the cover, now able to study the artwork
unobscured. Destiny and her hunky beau were posed in an
intense, intimate embrace, both chiseled faces drawn in
ecstasy. Because of the fingerprinting powder on the first
copy, Scully hadn't seen Destiny's face. Nor had she seen
Destiny's long, flowing auburn hair.

Was this what made Mulder think of her and to leave the
clues in the book? Was this why the book was there, for only
Mulder, and later, her to find?

<< "I knew you'd find me. Destiny..." >>

"Mulder..." Her voice failed briefly as she lifted the
paperback from the box. "Where did you get this?"

"Amazon-dot-com." He pointed to the cover. "Sorry, I bent
the side accidentally while I was reading it."

Scully's eyebrows jetted toward her hairline. "You read it?"
she asked incredulously.

He shrugged. "It wasn't bad, if you like that sort of
thing."

"What sort of thing?"

"You know, flowery romance, sex covered in metaphors. Me, I
tend to like the straightforward approach."

She tried to think of a snappy comeback, but shock still
ruled her system.

"You really read this?"

"I ran out of stuff to read around here, and since I'm not
much on sleeping lately..."

Scully's smile faded. "You're still having flashbacks?"

He shrugged again as he stood and crutched his way to his
caramel-colored chair.

"You need to tell the doctor today," she continued in her
Dr. Scully voice. "He should be able to alter your treatment
to make it more effective."

"Most of them aren't bad," Mulder said as sat in the chair
and inched his foot into the tennis shoe. "I'd be fine if I
could just get rid of one."

"What is it?"

"We're in the cabin, and Crandall is standing next to me,
against the wall. He has the gun in his hand, and he raises
it to his head, pulls the trigger, and then...then these
faces explode from his head."

Mulder took a deep breath. "I don't recognize the faces, but
the names come to me. Jeffrey Pond, Shane Nerini... all of
these names, Scully. I don't even know if the names match
the faces."

They do, Scully thought as she closed her eyes for a moment.
Though she told herself it was nonsense, an impossibility,
her curiosity got the better of her and she searched
Crandall's file for victims' names and pictures. She found a
match for every name and face she had seen.

"Those are his victims, Mulder. You probably remembered them
from the case."

"That case was ten years ago, Scully. I know I have a good
memory, but it's not that good. I couldn't possibly remember
every victim of every case I've been involved with. I think
what I'm seeing isn't a hallucination-filled flashback, but
an actual memory." He pulled on the shoe's laces. "You know
what else?"

Scully tilted her head to the side in answer.

"I think you saw what I saw."

Lowering her eyes, Scully opened her mouth to respond but
found lying to Mulder wasn't as easy as it used to be. They
had been through too much, had seen too much, for her to
deny that some experiences were unexplainable.

"Tell me you didn't, Scully." He tightened the knot on his
shoe, then turned his full attention to his partner's
lowered head. "Look me in the eye and tell me you didn't see
the faces."

"Mulder, we're gong to be late." Scully raised her eyes to
meet his, but let her gaze settle on the framed picture
beyond his head.

He pointed to his left eye. "Right here, Scully. Not at the
wall."

"I was exhausted," she said, trying to shove conviction into
her voice as she met his gaze. "I'd gone days without
adequate sleep. I'd also read Crandall's file and had
glanced through the list of victims."

"You didn't answer my question," he challenged.

"Sleep deprivation is known to dull the senses and can
make..."

"...the subject more susceptible to the power of
suggestion," he finished for her. "Yeah, I read that book,
too."

Scully sighed, exasperation flooding her face. "I was
exhausted beyond reason. I can't rely on what I saw because
my ability to think logically was impaired." She stood and
looked at her watch. "We need to leave now if we're going to
make your appointment."

She tucked the book in her pocket as she headed for the
door. When she reached the coat rack, she held out Mulder's
jacket for him, waiting for him to join her.

He let out a sarcastic laugh as he grabbed his crutches and
hobbled to her. "You've told me before that I am always
willing to believe, no matter what evidence I am presented
with. You're the exact opposite, Scully. No matter what you
see, you won't believe."

He slipped on his jacket and opened the door. With a shake
of his head, he said, "Whoever said 'opposites attract' was
right."

Scully couldn't resist. "Mulder, are you coming on to me?"

Though a slight blush tinted his face, he wasn't going to
let go that easily. "Tell me honestly, Scully. What did you
see?"

She hesitated, knowing science had little bearing on what
she had witnessed in the West Virginia cabin. It could have
been her mind playing tricks on her, exhaustion and
adrenaline mixing into a toxic potion that drowned all
rational thought.

But part of her wanted to believe there was a divine reason
for the faces and names she saw. She wanted to believe there
was a reason why she figured out where Mulder was, and why
only she arrived at the cabin to save her partner. She
wasn't ready to call it 'destiny.' Even the words 'divine
intervention' tasted strange on her tongue. But deep down,
she knew a message had been delivered to her by
unconventional means, the message telling her to open her
eyes and look closely.

To see with her faith, not her science.

She strode to the elevator and punched the 'down' button.
Several seconds later she heard Mulder come up behind her.
She turned and met his gaze.

"I saw what I was supposed to see."

The elevator door opened and she stepped inside. Turning to
face forward, she saw Mulder standing outside the elevator,
his eyes burning bright. He looked as if he was going to
respond, but he nodded once, accepting her answer as he
entered the elevator.

They both knew it was as close to the truth as she was going
to offer.

"Thank you for the book," she said as the elevator jerked
into motion.

Mulder nodded. "I figured you'd want to know what happened
to Destiny."

"I did think the summary was intriguing," she admitted. She
shot a quick glance at her partner and found a leer
lightening his features.

"Does Dana Scully like smutty romance novels?"

"No," she said with a genuine smile. "Dana Scully likes
happy endings."



* * * * *
THE END


**************************

Author's Notes: For those who live in or know the area in
West Virginia about which I wrote, I apologize if I got it
wrong. There is a Tygart Valley River, but to my knowledge,
there is no town called Tygartston.

My sincere thanks to Jill and Joyce for their continued
support and beta reading. If it weren't for them, this story
would still be a half-finished mess on my hard drive. Thanks
also go to KL for putting me on the right track, and to a
great group of ladies who kept up the butt-kicking
encouragement.

Since you made it this far, how about some feedback? Send
the good and the bad to thalia@goodnet.com. Thanks for
reading!