"For no one ever came to his help, to help him avoid the thorns and snares that attend the steps of innocence." --Samuel Beckett, "Malone Dies"; New York: Grove Press, Inc. 1956.

"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@yahoo.com

Part 1 of 27: Prologue: Maintenance Agreement

Friday, April 1, 1988, 9:46 PM. Seattle, Washington.

Something was in the air. Jake Beckett could feel it. Hell, no private eye, on or off the job, could miss it. Something was brewing at The Red Dust Bar 'N Grill and it didn't come from behind the bar.

Jake took a deep breath and blew it out slow, watching from his quiet corner booth. At the table near the door Bennie the Crutch sat rubbing elbows with Rags Richmond and Big Eddie Manahan. Outside the door, Big Eddie's muscle boys were keeping their eyes peeled for trouble while trying to make out like they were just getting some air. They weren't selling anybody on the routine, though: this time of year Chicago smog was so thick a man could develop lung cancer just taking out the dog.

At the table Rags laughed and Beckett felt himself start to sweat. Jake had seen Rags laugh twice in two years. Both times someone very much alive wound up very much dead. Something was definitely going down in Detroit and it wasn't the price of Buicks.

Beckett edged his way to the pay phone and tried to keep his bulky frame in the shadows. He popped a coin in the slot and dialed headquarters-------

"Hell's bells!" Purdue barked as his pen went flying from his hand. "Damned potholes--"

Reggie Purdue grimaced in his effort to retrieve the Bic from the floorboard of the cab. The streetlights in this area of town were few and far between and he searched blindly, probing hand encountering gum and candy wrappers, a bit of orange peel. An empty bottle of Schlitz Malt Liqueur rolled against his foot and he kicked at it in his aggravation. It wobbled obediently under the front seat as the cab jerked to a halt-- betraying the prodigal ballpoint in its flight.

Purdue retrieved the Bic with a rumbling sigh and scrambled for a more dignified position in his seat. He held his legal pad up to the ruby glow of the traffic light and tried to assess the damage the street had wrought upon his hasty scribble. Aside from a long shaky line tearing through the bottom of the page, every word seemed present and accounted for, relatively legible despite the darkness. Still, he shook his head mournfully.

*Reggie, you're a damn fool.*

And the dull yellow tablet was mute testament to the fact, glowing its accusations in the passing lights of Seattle street life: page upon page of scribbled notes and doodles-- mostly doodles-- the work of months of stolen moments, here a paragraph penned in a taxi in Grand Rapids, there a page crafted on the red-eye from Syracuse to DC.

On his better days, Purdue could convince himself that this was the next great American mystery novel in its infancy. Except that he could never seem to come up with a viable plot. Or even a halfway decent gumshoe.

Today, however, was not one of his better days. Purdue swallowed at the bitterness in his mouth, recognizing the flavor all too well: the acrid taste of disgust. After all, he kept telling himself, hadn't he finally achieved everything he'd ever wanted? Sure he had. Twenty-four years with the FBI and he'd finally made ASAC for one of the Bureau's toughest units: Violent Crime. Purdue's reputation was solid, his solution rate high and he had all the commendations that went with it. Behind his back, agents had labeled him Mr. Cut-the-Crap-- but they pronounced the words with a certain level of pride, and a heavy emphasis on the *Mister.*

Yeah. So, where did that and a buck eighty get him now? Well, specifically, Mr. Cut-the-Crap was in the back of a cab writing juvenile drivel Dashiell Hammett wouldn't wipe his shoes with.

It didn't get much more pathetic.

Purdue shook his head as the cab rolled through the shadow of an overpass. He should give it up, he knew; he had given it up any number of times through the years. But somehow his wife had always managed to scavenge the bits of paper he'd wadded into the trash. She'd gather the pages back out and press them-- press the damn things with a steam iron, for crying out loud-- and he'd come home to find them laying on his desk with a fresh pad of paper and a new pen for encouragement. And he didn't have the heart to do anything but try again.

But there was no one to press the pages anymore. Hadn't been for eleven months now. Eleven months and twelve days. If Purdue looked at his watch, he could calculate the hours pretty quick, too. He didn't look; it didn't matter. Cancer, unreasoning and unyielding, had finally beaten Olivia Purdue. And it'd taken most of Reginald Purdue with it when she'd left. The pages before him were his last defense, his one source of comfort. The one activity that allowed him to step outside his own intolerable life and pretend all was well once more.

Purdue swore as he ripped the pages loose, balled them up and flung them at the floorboard. Peace, compassion, comprehension: what right did he have to seek such trivial comforts? It meant nothing now--

The ball of crumpled yellow wobbled forlornly amongst the candy wrappers and soda stains. Headlights of a passing car washed across the cab's deep blue upholstery and his mind's eye caught a glimpse of Olivia's favorite summer dress: a little navy number with spaghetti straps and a bow that highlighted her waist and hips and never failed to set his heart to racing. He heard her laugh; God help him but he did.

The papers were snatched up off the floor in an instant. Purdue swore himself a fool again, but dutifully pressed the pages open against his pants leg. A simple enough action, odd that it should assuage so much pain. He swore a few more times, just for reassurance; the driver never even glanced at the rearview. Purdue had paper, legal pad and trusty Bic pen tucked tidily into his bag when the cab slowed and turned into a parking lot.

Motel 6. Well, what do you know? They really did leave the light on.

It looked like someone was having a keg party at the far end of the parking lot. The Mariners must have won a championship. Hell, he couldn't keep track anymore. Purdue paid the fare, shouldered his bag, and stared up at the building. What was that room number Mulder had given dispatch when he'd checked in? Purdue found the slip of paper in his jacket pocket: "Room 212."

Halfway up the stairs, the ASAC paused. Odd, he could have sworn he'd heard a muffled scream--

*Too long on the job, Reg, give it up, just the kids goofing off in the parking lot.*

But by the time he reached room 204 Purdue had stopped again. There it was: a distinct wail, low and muffled. And abruptly silenced.

He reached instinctively for his weapon but didn't pull it. Hand on the familiar grip, Purdue twisted, back to the wall, crab-walking up the hall, seeking the source of that inhuman moan.

There were few occupied rooms in this area but a light snapped on as he passed a window. Apparently he wasn't the only one alerted by the cry of pain. Through the thin walls, Purdue heard the distinct click of an ordnance, the slide of a semi-automatic slipping a bullet into the firing chamber. The ASAC noted the door number. Room 212.

What the hell--?

A bump on the door from the inside and Purdue danced back on reflex. Behind the door were more muffled sounds: breaking glass, a man swearing frantically, more stumbling. Purdue frowned. He prided his team on efficiency; if this was the agent he'd flown out to see, they'd be having a serious discussion about lapses in Bureau procedure. Hell, if the man couldn't even navigate his own motel room--

The dull click of the room lock and the turn of the knob and Purdue stepped forward, gun level, safety off, as the door slammed open.

"Federal agent. Freeze!"

Special Agent Leonardo Sauceda complied with the request instantly. His eyes went wide and he was stuttering but he had the presence of mind to handle his weapon surrender fashion, finger well off the trigger.

"Shit. Sir. Ah, I--" Sauceda's vision flickered up the hall, back to Purdue in such a total panic Reggie almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

Purdue lowered his weapon and the pathologist did the same, if a bit nonplused. Sauceda even got enough on the ball to cover his potbelly and his boxers, belting the worn out terrycloth robe. His graying hair, still enviously dark for a man of sixty-three, stuck out at odd angles; his slippers were on the wrong feet.

"What the hell's going on, Lenny?" Purdue demanded.

"Ah. I heard a noise. Ahm. Yeah. That's all."

The ASAC frowned. Despite his valiant attempt at nonchalance, Sauceda was twitching anxiously, shooting furtive glances further up the hall.

"You hear what room it was coming from?"

"Uh, nope," the pathologist tried a hollow grin on for size and shrugged. "Hell, it was probably nothing."

Purdue glowered and Sauceda swallowed hard.

"Oh, I see," the ASAC sneered, "you always pack your Smith and Wesson to check out 'nothing'? Or maybe you just need it to fight the women off when you go for a stroll in your skivvies?"

Sauceda didn't do sarcasm very well this late in the day. He glared, looking away vaguely to avoid a charge of insubordination, and slipped his weapon into the pocket of his robe.

"Where's your partner?" Purdue growled.

"In his room," Sauceda nodded encouragingly. "Sleeping," he insisted.

Purdue shook his head. The man could lose a fortune playing poker. "I thought *this* was Mulder's room. It's the number he gave dispatch."

Sauceda rolled his eyes peevishly. "Yeah, well. Why should he give dispatch his number and have the brass calling *him* at all hours when he can just as easily give them mine? Thoughtful, he ain't, the little prick."

The kids in the parking lot whooped a bit louder and Sauceda was back to the nervous shifting routine.

"You wanna come in, sir?" Sauceda offered a little too eagerly. "No sense waking the kid, I mean, anything you need to tell Marty, you can tell me and--"

"You know, Hot Sauce, if I didn't know better, I'd say you just didn't want me talking to him."

Sauceda managed to look scandalized. "Oh, no sir. That's not--"

"You know how I know you're lying, Lenny?"

Sauceda blanched again and shook his head reluctantly.

"Your lips are moving."

It was more sarcasm and the pathologist winced.

Purdue sighed. "Look, if the kid's got a woman in his room, fine. Shit, it's not the Bureau's business what he does on his own time, but I've flown clear across the country for this little chat. Now, where the hell is he?

"He's sick," Sauceda offered, confusing the situation even further. "I'm his doctor and I don't want you bothering him. Sir."

Purdue swore and decided it was time to cut the crap. He noted the line of Sauceda's anxious glance, and stepped for room 214.

Sauceda bit his lip and followed.

Purdue knocked and identified himself. Waited. Repeated the procedure.

"Your partner a sound sleeper, Hot Sauce?"

"Oh, yeah. Very sound."

"Uh huh. His partner *ever* tell the truth?"

Sauceda took a minute to digest that, time enough for Purdue to get the door kicked open.

Room 214 was dark, lit only by the flickering glow of the television, volume muted. The bed was empty. A gun gleamed darkly on the dresser: Sig-Saur, Bureau issue. Next to the badge.

Retching noises were immediately all too audible through the open bathroom door. Purdue flipped on the light and crossed the room.

Special Agent Mulder was kneeling over the john, pulling at his hair in the violence of his vomiting. He was bathed in sweat and shaking convulsively even between the spasms from his gut.

Sauceda gave Purdue a pleading look as he brushed past and the ASAC stood a moment, watching Sauceda wet a cloth and blot it at the profiler's forehead. Mulder slapped him away, trying to be sick in peace.

Purdue grimaced. Olivia had made that noise a lot those last few months. He'd hated it then and had developed no fondness for it since. But he certainly hadn't found much he could do about it. He sat down in the chair near the door, just out of view of the goings-on the bathroom and concentrated on not thinking, not remembering. Beside him was a table, beyond that another chair. Polaroid prints littered both and Purdue collected several up for closer inspection: corpses in various stages of decomposition. None of the victims appeared older than eight years of age. None of them looked like they'd died easily.

Sauceda peered around the doorjamb presently, frowning to find Purdue so comfortable. The noises continued behind him.

Purdue dropped the snapshots back on the table and nodded at the bathroom. "What's this about, Hot Sauce?"

The pathologist shrugged but didn't make eye contact. "Something he ate?"

Purdue closed his eyes and tried to push the tension from his shoulders. The little Hispanic was starting to get on that last nerve...

"Sauceda, I've talked with you. I've talked with Lamana. God knows I've had long and too-long discussions with Patterson. Hell, I instigated Mulder's last psych evaluation, myself."

He looked up; Sauceda was watching him hollowly.

"I know about the dreams, Lenny. I know about the mood swings. I know *all* about the so-called psychotic behavior. And I know he's the best damn profiler the Bureau's ever likely to see. A ninety-eight point-nine case solve rate covers a multitude of sins. So what the hell is this?"

Sauceda dragged fingers through his graying curls. "Well, some of his dreams get pretty vivid."

Purdue frowned. He'd been in Shreveport when Mulder had closed the Baby Killer case. Watched him cracking jokes with the locals while standing in a morgue he'd shipped twenty-seven small bodies to. Watched him eat Chinese while examining photos of three-week-old corpses--

And the man puked on his dreams?

Purdue rubbed at the ache at the base of his skull. "Jeezus-- Hell, isn't there anything you can give him? He can't be passing anything but bile by now."

"Nothing he can keep down," Sauceda grimaced. "And you don't mention the word suppository to Marty if you want to retire with the use of both arms. Besides, the man hallucinates on Dramamine for Chrissake." He glanced to the bathroom. "Anyway, he's past the bile stage. Nothing but dry heaves now. He'll stop soon."

Purdue chewed his cheek. "So what you boys chasing out here? Another serial killer?"

Sauceda grunted. "Since Patterson got Marty in his harem, I figured serials were the only thing BSU covered anymore."

The retching had finally ground down to an angry moan and Sauceda returned to the little room. Purdue kept to his chair, listening to Sauceda's soft cooing and Mulder's harsh profanity in response.

"Aw, Marty--" Sauceda whined.

"Damn you." Despite his frustration, Mulder's graveled tenor was little more than a hiss. "I don't need to talk about it. He didn't touch me. It didn't happen to me."

"Marty, listen. I keep telling you, you can't just shove this stuff down into some kind of subconscious hole and expect it to stay there, kid. One of these days it's all going to start coming back up--"

Purdue could hear Mulder gasping for breath. "Not today," the profiler rasped. "It's not coming back up today."

"But Marty--"

The pathologist was ejected abruptly backwards into the bedroom, the door slamming in his face and locking. Water began running in the shower.

Sauceda re-belted his robe indignantly, and gave Purdue a shrug as he sat on the end of the bed. "He'll be a while," he assured pleasantly. "Sexual molestation cases keep him in the shower for hours. Say, you want some coffee?"

Purdue nodded slowly, still trying to digest all this. "Yeah, sure. This place got a coffee shop downstairs?"

Sauceda frowned. "Nah. Let's just, like, order some up. Okay?"

"Order some up? Since when does Motel 6 have room service?"

Sauceda grinned. "It's okay. I got an inside with the kid working the desk." He called down and placed his order.

Purdue could smell a situation at seven yards and this room wasn't that wide. "Look, Sauceda, unless there's some medical reason for us hanging out in Mulder's room, I'd prefer to give the man a little time to get himself together--"

"You don't leave Marty alone when he gets like this." Sauceda's voice was sullen. "Not unless you want to play serious catch-up later. Hell, he's usually already far enough ahead as it is." He jerked his head in the general direction of the bathroom. "This is part of the spook, sir."

Purdue felt like he needed to spit. "Spook, my ass. Don't start that crap, Sauceda--"

Sauceda shrugged. "You said you talked to Patterson. I know you talked to the shrink. It's Marty's gift. It's who he is."

Purdue was still frowning. Mr. Cut-the-Crap was a long way from buying all this "spooky" nonsense, but the psych work-up had managed to open his mind to some extreme possibilities.

"Is that what this is about then? Mulder getting into the killer's head and poking around? Gaining insight--"

"God Almighty," Sauceda almost spat on him. "Spook or no spook, I think you need to get this much straight, sir: when Marty walks into this monster's world, he goes in as the victim. Not the killer." He jerked his head at the photos on the table. "You seen what this bastard does to those kids before he kills them? Well, the son of a bitch does it to Marty, too. In his dreams."

Sauceda let that one soak. Purdue knew Sauceda's reputation, of course. The man's sadistic streak was a good mile wide and his role as resident mole in Mulder's life was common knowledge. Sauceda was beyond a snitch as far as Purdue was concerned-- the man had walked into this partnership as a damned spy, Patterson's edge to keep the maverick profiler in hand. Somehow, Purdue couldn't imagine Fox Mulder, one paper shy of an Oxford psychiatric doctorate, sharing his dreams with anyone--least of all Sauceda. And he told him so.

Sauceda grimaced. "No, indeed. Eight months with this kid, dragging through half the backwater morgues in America and I have to get information like that from that three-hundred dollar-an-hour shrink you had them send out to Shreveport. Thank you, *sir*."

Coffee arrived, accompanied by honey buns as fresh as any vending machine can belch. Purdue settled on the coffee, cream, no sugar. He checked his watch. The shower was still roaring away.

Sauceda piled up against Mulder's headboard, plowing through the honey buns, vision roaming wistfully from Purdue to the TV.

But Purdue would be damned before he'd play second fiddle to reruns of "Alf." He grinned maliciously and Sauceda sat up a little straighter, dropping the remote control without turning up the sound. You didn't get to be an ASAC without developing a sadistic streak of your own.

Purdue sat back in the chair and crossed his legs. "So, Patterson let you read Baez's psychiatric evaluation?"

Sauceda nodded, "The kid's my partner. I'm entitled, doncha think?"

"Baez listed symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress. He was careful to note the ones that Mulder *didn't* exhibit. At least he didn't then. Compulsive disorders, eating disorders, drug and alcohol abuse, fascination with suicide, self-mutilation. How about you, Hot Sauce? You seen evidence of that kind of thing with Mulder?"

Sauceda shoved a wad of pastry into his cheek, washed some coffee past it. "Nah. Marty just doesn't sleep so hot. He eats sporadically, but he's a good eater when everything's quiet. He likes to run. Keeps to himself but he's not a recluse or anything. Just doesn't like to be crowded, you know? Baez knew his stuff, all right. Not like those yahoos in Personnel Services." Sauceda grinned proudly, "Hell, Marty could eat two of them for breakfast and not even work up a sweat."

The shower died in the next room and Sauceda lowered his voice, balancing the styrofoam cup precariously as he leaned forward. He reminded Purdue of some old shrew gossiping over a fence. "That's why the Bureau brought Baez in for that evaluation, isn't it, Reg? Somebody high enough up the psychological food chain that Marty couldn't fool too long if he tried. Right?"

Purdue was careful not to answer. Sauceda nodded anyway.

"Yeah. I hear the bill was somewhere on the order of eight grand. And approved at the highest level." Sauceda grinned. "Ever thought about investigating who signed what for that little invoice? And why?"

"Anybody ever tell you you're a sadistic little cuss, Lenny?"

Again the grin. "Why do you think Patterson sicced me on Marty?"

The bathroom door clicked open and Sauceda jerked up guiltily, a light splatter of coffee unnoticed on the thigh of his robe. The pathologist kept his lips locked down tight, offering a nervous smile to his partner as Mulder emerged from his little refuge. The silence was abrupt and contagious. Purdue found himself unaccountably speechless, mute in the presence of Patterson's hellacious protege: New Hampshire's Mind Hunter, the assassin of Baytown's Butcher. Shreveport's Death Angel.

Right now, aforementioned Angel was clutching a bathrobe for warmth, dark hair plastered to his forehead from the shower. He stood, framed in the door as if planted there, staring soundlessly at his partner, body tensed like he expected to be tackled.

Purdue saw a young man about six-foot, slender, with a choir boy face too young even for twenty-six. The face was all planes and angles, the nose too large, bottom lip too large, chin too short, but combined the features had a distinct beauty. The thought surprised him; Purdue was unaccustomed to such aesthetic speculations. He supposed it was Mulder's eyes that intrigued him though. The Bureau paid this man to look into hell, after all, and not blink until he'd found what he'd come for. And Mulder'd never failed to do just that. The eyes were intelligent, deep set, hazel, much too human and vulnerable. For all the youth and passion of the face that framed them, Mulder's eyes were somehow tired, old, beyond old, ancient, present at the discovery of fire and the wheel--

Purdue shook his head; he must be suffering from jetlag or something. Still, it had not escaped his notice that Mulder's eyes were dilated right now, his face a pasty white. And Purdue didn't think the room was cold enough to warrant that kind of shivering.

The profiler swung briefly from Sauceda to Purdue then away, scarcely acknowledging the ASAC's presence. He gave no response to Sauceda's nervous "Hey, Marty!" before disappearing into the closet.

The ASAC kept his mouth shut, watching the scene play out, gauging the two men involved in this little drama. Sauceda seemed to be in familiar territory, nervous but expectant, resigned to what would come. The pathologist kept his attention glued to the television but it was obvious he wasn't watching it. Instead, he sat like a man caught in an electric current: rigid, panicked, and ready to flee at the first opportunity. He was chewing on his lip, too, knuckles whitening in their grip on the coffee cup. He jerked as a pair of sneakers erupted from the closet, followed closely by Mulder in sweat pants, yanking a T-shirt over his head.

The profiler scooped the shoes from their respective landing zones and sat in the chair at the little table across from Purdue. Purdue watched him work the shoelaces viciously, fighting the trembling in his fingers with a concentration that should have been comical. Purdue grimaced in pain.

Sauceda was watching the young man, too. Sauceda's eyes were big, about the size they'd gotten when he'd run into Purdue's gun up the hall. The pathologist glanced up at Purdue's quizzical stare and turned abruptly back to the silently mouthing muppet on the television screen.

*Well, Reg, that's why you get paid the big bucks...*

Purdue pulled his cigarettes from his pocket, fished one out of the box. "Going somewhere, Agent Mulder?"

"I'm going for a run." The dark head bobbed up. "Sir." The profiler stood.

"Sit down." Purdue ordered.

Mulder stood there, like he had options or something. Purdue blinked slowly, waiting.

And finally, Mulder sat. He looked like it took every nerve in his body to remain there, but he made no protest.

Downstairs, the kids in the parking lot were briefly louder; a car peeled away down the frontage road. Purdue leaned over and rasped his match on the underside of the table. He froze when Mulder flinched at the motion.

The two men regarded one another across the table. Mulder's eyes were large in the sudden quiet, his breathing ragged, the shivering just barely masked. His face went from ghost white to soft pink but he didn't break that breathless gaze. Over his shoulder, Sauceda was sweating, fuzzy television aliens forgotten.

Purdue gauged his own breathing, kept it calm as he lit his cigarette and shook the flame out of the match. Mulder watched him, a cold glint in his eye. Mulder was notorious for using attitude like a switchblade: show him a soft underbelly and he was libel to cut first and ask questions later. Word was there was only one type of person he seemed to have any regard for: the man who just didn't give a damn. It seemed to be something the young man could relate to.

Thankfully, that type of man described Purdue perfectly this evening.

The ASAC tossed the spent match at the ashtray on Mulder's side of the table. The action was willful and deliberately orchestrated, suspiciously resembling the tossing of a gauntlet. It was an illusion he was certain Mulder would not fail to interpret correctly. Mulder didn't disappoint him and didn't flinch at the action. His focus never wavered.

Purdue dragged blissfully at his cigarette. "Tell me," he commanded.

Great green eyes flickered from the ASAC to Sauceda, frowned, flicked back to Purdue.

"I'm tired. I want to go for a run."

Purdue raised a sardonic brow. "Most people want to go back to bed when they're tired, Agent."

Mulder spared another glance at Sauceda. A nerve in his jaw twitched. There was a studied lightness in his voice that didn't reach his eyes.

"But Papa Bear, someone's in my bed already." He turned back to the ASAC. "And he's not quite my type, thank you."

Purdue leaned to tap his ashes at the already half-filled ashtray. So many games, so little time...

"I can understand *why* you're tired, Mulder," he answered reasonably. "Patterson's slapping you on this case set a record. Even for you. Just four hours between investigations involving multiple homicides. That's a severe breach of Bureau policy. Besides the fact that you're already averaging less than twelve hours between major cases."

The eyes watching him remained unyielding. "Skinner send you?"

"Did you report this to Skinner?"

"I report to Patterson. Sir." He didn't add the word "exclusively" but it hung there in the air with the smoke anyway.

Purdue sighed. "Look. Let's just drop the crap, Mulder. I'm here to help you, not to get on your case again. Okay?"

"Help me?" Mulder's face was incredulous. "You ordered a psychological work up on me that could have landed my butt in an institution. Baez followed me through three of our toughest cases. One right after the other. No break. You wanted me to fail, you son of a bitch."

"Marty--" Sauceda's fearful hiss was ignored. Purdue didn't bother to acknowledge the eyes pleading for mercy across the room.

Mulder had remained seated but adrenaline was pouring off the man like sweat. He held his hands on either side of the chair awkwardly, apparently believing them hidden from the ASAC's view: they were trembling violently. The sight made Purdue's gut knot up and grieve. It took all of his training to keep himself smoking calmly in the chair.

"It was not a question of fail or succeed, Agent Mulder. There were serious concerns for your health. Baez was there to evaluate and assist if necessary. If you were going to have problems, you'd have done it then, and in the presence of a sufficiently trained doctor who could give you the help you needed--"

Mulder bolted to his feet, swearing as he paced to the bed and back to Purdue again. Sauceda made a dive for the opposite side of the mattress just in case Mulder decided to make the trip a second time.

Purdue continued, raising his voice to be heard but keeping the tone neutral. "I've read Baez' evaluation, Mulder. He says that as long as you're telling the rest of us to go jerk ourselves, you're sane. And he has the credentials to make sure I believe him."

The profiler paused mid-step and Purdue shrugged. "You have unusual methods. I don't pretend to understand them but they don't interfere too frequently with Bureau procedure. And they work. I just intend to make sure the Bureau leaves enough of you intact to let you retire someday. And not get your butt locked up in some wet-brain ward your second year out of the Academy." "Why?" Mulder demanded. "Excuse me?" "Why? What the hell do you care?"

Purdue exhaled smoke in an impatient huff. "Why shouldn't I?"

Mulder put his hands on his hips to keep them from shaking, dropped his head and shook it instead. "Don't bullshit me, Purdue. I'm so goddam tired of the crap--"

"I'm not bullshitting you, Mulder." Purdue was tired and he allowed the fact creep into his voice. He'd done nothing but sit in this chair since he'd gotten here and he felt like he'd gone two rounds with Holyfield. "Point of fact, Agent, I'm here to call a truce. You think I'm trying to keep you from doing your job. I think Patterson's been trying to run you in the ground. I think you think that too but don't bother saying one way or the other--"

Mulder looked like he was anything but convinced. He watched Purdue smother his cigarette with brutal efficiency.

"Personally, Mulder, I think it's time me, Skinner and Blevins stopped whining and got off the pot and let you do your job."

"I'm sure," Mulder growled, "Patterson will be thrilled to hear it."

"Patterson isn't being asked." Purdue flicked a stray bit of ash off his trouser leg. "Bureau policy, Mr. Mulder. You abuse, you lose. Patterson was warned to cut back on your cases, vary the types of cases you were assigned--" He looked up, saw realization already dawning, and nodded. "Welcome to ViCap, Agent Mulder. Good to have you aboard. Skinner signed the transfer this afternoon."

Mulder's voice was soft, thoughts escaping on a betraying breath. "Patterson said he'd die and rot in hell before he'd allow my transfer--"

"Then consider yourself kidnapped. Permanently. Trust me, Agent, Patterson can't afford the ransom. You have friends in the Bureau, Mulder. Friends you're apparently not aware of." Purdue frowned. "A few even I don't recognize."

"And just like that."

"Just like that."

"Just that easy."

Purdue laughed and allowed himself the luxury of enjoying it. "You're the highly lauded genius in this room, son, so you tell me how easy you think this was. I damned near sold my soul for the privilege."

Mulder sized him up there in the chair, his face poker flat. Purdue was an old hand at that game, too.

"Don't call me son," was Mulder's only response.

Purdue nodded reasonably, allowed Mulder time to digest reality while he extended the welcome aboard schpiel to the wide-eyed physician on the bed.

"Whoa, here," Sauceda sputtered, "Just hold the damned bus. How did I rate a transfer? 'Cause I make such a good Spookster-sitter?" He winced, glancing at this partner, "Sorry, Marty."

Mulder didn't hear him; he was busy staring at the ashtray.

Purdue squinted at the profiler. An uncertain alarm was ringing in his gut, but nothing he could put his finger on. He turned away reluctantly to address Sauceda.

"Relax, Lenny. Every one knows your record. Patterson lost two good agents in this transfer. I lost one of my field pathologists to maternity leave. You want to be reassigned within ViCap, fine. You want to remain with your current partner, I have no problem with that either. Consider it a feather in your cap when you retire."

Sauceda considered all of three seconds before shrugging and wiping honey bun off his chin. Purdue glanced quickly at Mulder, expecting some objection. The young agent had to know Sauceda was writing reports on him; now would be as good a time as any to end the relationship. Mulder's expression was distant, however, apparently unconcerned with the status of his partnership.

"ViCap," Mulder whispered, more thinking aloud. "Shit."

Purdue frowned. Well, hell, Mulder didn't sound exactly ecstatic about the idea. And there was something wrong with his eyes suddenly--

Something else hit the front of the young man's brain just then, too, and he jerked with the impact. "The case--"

"You're still on this case, Agent. The transfer isn't effective until May first. You've got a month of Patterson driving your butt into the ground then you're mine, all mine. And your first order of business at that point will be a week's vacation. For both of you."

Sauceda grinned gleefully.

Mulder's eyes dropped into dark slits, his attention back on the ashtray. Purdue glared.

"Hell's bells, Mulder," he growled. "You got a problem with a week off with pay, deal with it. It's not a damned punishment, you know?"

Mulder hadn't moved, sneakered feet flat on the floor, hands forgotten on his narrow hips, focus unwavering on the curl of smoke rising from Purdue's mutilated cigarette. His breathing was rapid.

Purdue softened his voice, careful to keep it out of the "coddle" range; he'd managed not to get swung at so far and intended to keep it that way.

"Listen, Fox, I want your head clear when you walk into ViCap--"

"Don't call me Fox." The voice was distant, the response a habit.

"Yeah. Whatever. I want your head clear and I don't want any repeat performances of what I just walked in on tonight. You listening?" Purdue sighed, gauging the profiler. Jeezus, but he was hard to read. He tried another tactic and grinned. "Hey. You got anything else I'm not supposed to call you? Never mind." Purdue held up his hands, surrender fashion. "I'll just keep everything longer than three letters and that should cover it."

But Mulder wasn't even listening. That wall-eyed stare had burned clean through the ashtray and still hadn't managed to focus. He was breathing through his mouth.

Purdue knew his own eyes were heading for saucer-size in the silence. Something was definitely wrong. Purdue backtracked his short-term memory, trying to determine at what point Mulder had stepped off into the Not-So-Wonderful Land of Oz.

"Sauceda?"

The pathologist was already padding over. He kept a respectful distance between himself and the profiler, making no sudden movements. Purdue followed his cue and remained in his chair, carefully uncrossing his legs.

Mulder's lips moved but no sound emitted.

Sauceda looked at Purdue. Mouthed the hated word "spook" but kept his face solemn as he baited his partner for the benefit of his new ASAC.

"In your dream, Marty, you see the killer's face?"

If he had seen any such horror, Mulder wasn't telling. And from the look on his face, Purdue imagined what he was seeing now was beyond telling.

"Marty--"

"Sauceda," Purdue warned, sotto voce, "leave him alone."

Sauceda shrugged. "Weirdest thing. He sees all this crap about the victim. Everything to the last detail. Zilch on the killer. And he still manages to catch the sons of bitches." He addressed Mulder again, voice level, droning, honeyed with counterfeit concern.

"Marty, I know it's hard, but you've got to talk about this. You gotta let it out--"

Mulder's silent dialogue continued and Purdue's mouth tasted like he'd choked down acid. "Sauceda, shut up."

Sauceda took a hesitant step forward. "Come on, Marty--"

Purdue exploded from the chair. "I said leave him the hell alone."

Sauceda retreated several steps, complied. "I just though you'd want to see--"

"I want a goddam show, I pay for the ticket just like everyone else. Patterson's head games stop here, understand?"

Sauceda swallowed hard as Mulder gasped suddenly. "Look, Marty gets manic when he's like this. Baez prescribed a few things. To keep him calm--"

"Calm? You bait him like he's in a freaking sideshow and now you want him calm--" Purdue bit back the rest. *Jeezus, Reg. And you asked for this--*

Mulder was watching him, reason not so far away now, the trembling subsiding. Deep green eyes swung carefully between the two men. Sauceda took a second step back from the gaze, like a man caught in the track of a cobra. Mulder focused on Purdue.

Purdue kept to his official Assistant Special Agent in Charge stance, kept his voice neutral. "Baez specifically stated the drugs were to be held until requested. By you, Mulder. And--"

The ASAC squinted at Mulder's eyes, stopped breathing momentarily with the realization that they were changing color: deep green bleeding off back to hazel. Purdue swallowed, kept talking.

"You know the score, Agent, as well or better than Baez. You sure as hell know it better than I do. You know when you're headed for trouble, right? Mulder?"

"Yes, sir." The voice was quiet but steady.

"Then I trust you have the maturity and good sense to say so. You let us know what you need and when. Once you're on a decent work schedule, Baez says you probably won't need them anyway. Meanwhile, don't over-reach yourself. You do, and I'll slap you clear back to Washington and save the taxpayers the airfare." He softened his gaze a little as the eyes finally picked a color and stuck with it. "You okay?"

Sauceda opened his mouth, thought better of it as Mulder glanced back over at him. The pathologist got his warning choked down with a hiccup.

Mulder turned back to Purdue. "I'm fine. Really." His jaw clenched.

"You need anything to keep you that way for the night?"

"No."

Purdue stood patiently, waiting as the profiler's mind churned just four feet away. Somehow, he sensed the importance of Mulder being allowed to get his bearings. Sauceda chewed his lip some more, watching the two men warily, waiting for a clue. It took a long while before Mulder's shoulders loosened. He was still breathing through his mouth.

"He's dumped the kid," he said finally. "The body's not far. I'll take you."

Purdue spared a glance at Sauceda's "told you so" face and turned back to Mulder. The profiler had thrown his own gauntlet now. And the field he'd chosen for the duel would be the bloody body of a child-- his serial's new victim. The cold-bloodedness of the gesture was not lost on the ASAC, but Mulder's son-of-a-bitch bravado didn't reach the young man's eyes; Purdue noted the pain there before Mulder could look away.

Purdue nodded solemnly. "Locals gullible enough to trust you two clowns with a car?"

Sauceda bobbed his head.

"Then get your gear, Hot Sauce."

Several minutes later the car's console clock blinked out the date in the dark. Purdue paused with his hand on the gearshift.

Good Friday. The night spent by Jesus in hell. Only tonight He'd had company.

Beside him, Mulder ordered a left turn. Again.

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