"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@yahoo.com
Part 15 of 27: All Messed Up and No Place to Go....

Tuesday, May 17, 1988, 8:47 AM. Apartment 42.

The phone woke him with a violent start. It was just as well. He'd had a bad night, jerking awake repeatedly from dreams of one subject: his murder and subsequent dismemberment. After all that, there was bound to be another body somewhere in Wheeling. Or maybe he really *was* just losing his mind. Mulder scrubbed his face wearily. Hell, who said one possibility was mutually exclusive to the other...

"Good Morning America" was droning away at hyper perky. Mulder slapped the off button on the remote and grabbed the phone, wincing as several scabs popped open on his hand. The voice in the receiver identified herself and Mulder mouthed several silent expletives to the room at large.

Personnel Services. Shit.

The slightly bored, slightly nasal voice was telling him he had an appointment this morning. Or this afternoon, if it was more convenient.

Mulder blinked slowly and the woman outlined the pros and cons of a 10:00 a.m. appointment as opposed to, say, a 3:30 time slot. He stared blearily at his reflection in the TV screen. The bitter taste in his mouth had little to do with morning breath.

The voice on the line paused for his response. He muttered vaguely about checking his calendar and would she please run down the list of available times, slowly this time. He tuned her out as she complied.

What the hell was wrong with him, he wondered? This wasn't even the counselor. This was some Psychology 101 dropout smacking her gum on the end of the receiver-- and his palms were sweating, his legs trembling so hard he was afraid to stand--

Mulder rubbed at the heavy stubble on his jaw, taking in one deep slow breath, releasing it with absolute control. "Under whose orders," he asked calmly, "was I assigned a mandatory counseling session?"

Another pause and the shuffling of papers. "Assignment was signed by ASAC Purdue, sir. But it's not mandatory. Just strongly suggested."

So. Purdue was not above resorting to Patterson's early tactics: the concerned-friend approach to assuming sovereignty over Mulder's life. So much for Purdue's grand words and posturing.

Mulder glanced over at the kitten sitting in the middle of the dining room door. The little thing was still half-terrorized after some of Mulder's more dramatic awakenings during the night. It had that wide-eyed "what's next" stare his dates had begun developing over the past year. Right before they hit the door. He waved an inviting set of fingers toward it, holding his hand near the floor, a peace offering to nibble on. The kitten retreated to the kitchen.

"Hell," Mulder sighed into the phone. "Look, ahm. I'm not sure I can make it today. How does tomorrow look for you?"

"No, sir. ASAC Purdue specifically stated today. I'll have to notify him--"

Mulder stopped listening abruptly, stopped breathing, his eye caught by the bright item lying on his coffee table. He reached a tentative hand, lifting the jewelry to the light filtering through the shade. A garish bit of plastic and metal. The long, swirling earring worn by the woman at the bar.

Mulder declined the appointment. As easy as declining a dinner invitation. Polite, firm. The receiver back in its cradle.

He didn't have time for this crap. He had a litter box to clean.

9:22 AM

The phone again: Purdue this time. The ASAC's voice was calm, matter-of-fact, if not exactly pleasant. No mention of Sauceda. He understood Mulder hadn't scheduled with Personnel Services, though.

"I'm fine," Mulder informed him helpfully.

"I'm not saying you aren't, Agent."

Silence on Mulder's end. The kitten had re-attached itself to his boot. The tiny pest seemed to be developing a major thing for leather. *Great,* Mulder mused, *even my cat's a pervert.* He would have to remember to take that into consideration whenever he got around to naming the imp.

Purdue's voice filtered through the line: the standard need-to-reach-out-and-touch-someone schmooze of the psychiatric profession. Wonderful, and just who did Dr. Reg here think he was talking to? The grinding sound echoing in the receiver was Mulder's teeth.

"Listen, son," there was a compassionate hesitation in the ASAC's voice. It grated down Mulder's spine like fingernails on a chalkboard. "I just want you to know," Purdue insisted, "that I understand what you're going through--"

Mulder felt something too tightly wound snap. His knuckles went white on the receiver and it was an effort to keep his voice level.

"You understand *this,* Purdue: I don't give a shit what you do and do not understand about my personal life. You dismissed me from a case without cause, without a fair hearing. Hell, you didn't even do me the courtesy of telling me I was being removed to begin with--"

"Mulder, this is not about your performance--" Purdue's sigh rattled through the receiver. "Look, I'm sorry. It's not my place to pry. I know that. But I also know that the death of a woman you... cared for is--"

"Don't--" Mulder was unexpectedly gulping air. His left hand lost all feeling and he scrambled to keep from dropping the phone. "Fuck you," he gasped. "I'm not having this conversation. Not with you. Not with anybody. And least of all those damned quacks at Personnel. Do you understand?" Purdue was silent again as Mulder panted, the receiver cradled on his shoulder as he rubbed the feeling back into his upper arm. "Look," he seethed, "all the Bureau needs to know is that I haven't swallowed my goddam gun and if that much isn't obvious then you must have dialed one hell of a long distance number."

Mulder paused. *Well, hell, Fox, that's an awful lot of violence to shove down a phone line considering you keep telling yourself you're so damn numb otherwise.*   He closed his eyes, cursing himself, silently this time, and collapsed on the couch, receiver resolutely at his ear.

Now the silence reflected back to him on Purdue's end. Mulder bit his lip and waited it out, one of his many talents. He finally heard a sigh.

"I'm in DC, Agent Mulder. Got in last night. You know Georgetown, right?"

Mulder ran a hand through his hair, pushing the kitten away gently with his boot heel.

"Why?"

"Meet me at the Greystone Condominium on Potomac. I'll be out front."

"Look, Purdue--"

"Are you on the job or not, Agent?"

"Ah. I'm on my way--" The line was dead before he could add the "sir."

Purdue was waiting as promised, standing at the front gate, hands buried in his coat pockets, half-chewed cigarette gripped resolutely between his lips.

Mulder parked up the block and took his time getting down the sidewalk, strolling with his usual careless leisure through the inevitable crowd of spectators huddled at the police barrier. His delay was deliberate, designed to give the ASAC a chance to look him over. Mulder had made certain that he could afford the extra attention: he'd dressed hurriedly but well, Armani suit and after shave adequate armor against all detractors. The suit was tan and rarely worn simply because Mulder didn't like it much. Today, however, it was a godsend: very possibly the only thing in his closet that wouldn't highlight the fact that he was far too pale. A breakfast of another half-dozen aspirin had subdued his headache to relatively tolerable but Mulder kept his hands in his pockets as much as possible: they seemed to have developed a tendency to twitch at the oddest times.

He shouldn't be here. He knew it half-way out the door of his apartment. He had to pause too often to remember directions, and streets he should have known like the back of his hand were suddenly unfamiliar. Mulder told himself it was just a transitory displacement, a reaction to chronic stress and it would pass. He *had* to do this, after all. He had to do it, or admit he wasn't fit for the job. When that excuse wasn't enough to keep his foot on the gas, he told himself he had to do it at least long enough to pay for the impending vet bills. Yeah. That was it. He could hang on for that much longer.

Purdue nodded once as he approached, then waited him out, body perfectly still, face ominously calm. It was difficult, but Mulder maintained the man's eye contact, looking away only once or twice and quickly back, managing, he hoped, to appear confident and serene and eager to be back at work. Without being overly eager, of course. Purdue tossed his cigarette, brows raised warily as Mulder presented him with a small volume of poetry. The ASAC accepted the book with the same deliberately orchestrated courtesy with which it was presented, frowning at the evidence bag poking up from between the pages. He pocketed the volume without perusal, however, and Mulder followed him dutifully into the building. Not a word had passed between them.

Crime technicians and DC police spilled down the stairs and up the hall, converging on apartment 307. Mulder followed Purdue inside, meek as an asp. It was another nice, neat unit: cozy fireplace, ceiling fans and one seriously mutilated corpse.

"I'm sure you'll recognize the work." Purdue, re-pocketing his hands, remained at the door. He allowed Mulder just enough room to squeeze past.

Sauceda was busy with the body on the sofa: have meat thermometer, will travel, apparently. The pathologist waved the instrument at his partner in uncertain greeting; Mulder tossed him the stoic nod Purdue had given him earlier. Sauceda frowned, but returned to his work.

Mulder took in the room at a glance and backed away to the window. It was one large piece of plate glass stretching from ceiling to floor, the drapes open. The view alone must have pushed the rent well out of Mulder's price range: Francis Scott Key Memorial Bridge spanning the Potomac. Pretty as a postcard in the morning light.

It was much too beautiful a day for all this crap. The thought startled him: Mulder couldn't recall ever considering such a fact, couldn't remember ever giving himself that kind of option. And while he was being so blatantly honest, that long, quick drop down to the street looked pretty inviting, too. He was dizzy suddenly but concealed it well; his only concession to weakness was to remove his hands from his pockets, steadying his balance with his fingertips pressed to the window.

The sensation passed within seconds and he found Purdue's reflection in the glass next to his own. The ASAC, still at the door, was watching him intently. Mulder checked the vision of himself, trying to determine if he was as flushed as he felt under this man's unblinking gaze. His image, however, floated serenely pale against the blue of sky and water and sun-washed expanse of bridge. He considered the dark eyes swimming in the glass next to his own. *I'm tired,* he confessed to that dispassionate vision. *I'm just tired.*

Purdue's image blinked solemnly, impossible to translate.

*Ah, the lies,* Mulder mused, then spoke the words aloud, heart pounding as Purdue's frown reflected back at him. "The lies to feed the lies. Until they feed us to the truth."

Purdue bit his lip. Even in the distortion of the glass, Mulder could tell the ASAC was struggling with words and whether to speak them. The indecision never reached those too-confident eyes, however, and Mulder turned away abruptly, his hands trembling again. He shoved them deep into his pockets and crossed the room, the nonchalance of his stride a mask for prying eyes.

Sauceda stepped back, smiling wearily as he approached. Mulder noted the traces of razor burn on his partner's jaw, but didn't comment. For some reason, he just didn't know what to say to Sauceda  this morning. Mulder stared down at the corpse instead; somehow, the bloodied form seemed the least threatening person in the room.

The victim was male, with dark hair, about Mulder's height and weight-- judging from what was left intact, anyway. Sisyphus had left the eyes again. They were Academy textbook doll's eyes: open, fixed, unfocused. He was nude, splayed disdainfully to the flash of forensic photographers, organ deep gray against the yellowed thigh. Purdue was right about the handiwork being familiar. So, Mulder mused, Sisyphus had followed him home. If her latest creation was anything to go by, she'd been pretty well hacked about the move-- she'd certainly hacked this one up enough. Understandable, given the circumstances, Mulder supposed.

"The guy's an American Lit Professor at Georgetown," Sauceda offered. "Make that *was.*" The pathologist shuffled his feet nervously then froze with a guilty look. Fifth rule of forensics: walk lightly in a crime scene and never, *never* shuffle your feet. Mulder gave him a merciful shrug.

"I need my gun back, Len."

Sauceda dropped his head.

"Shit, Lenny--"

"I, ah. I forgot it at home, Marty. I meant to bring it, though. Really. I'll get it to you later, okay?"

Mulder wanted to tell him it wasn't okay. That he'd surrendered the weapon in faith. That-- Hell. What did it matter?

"Marty?"

"Yeah, Len."

"You okay?"

"Oh yeah."

"What'd you do to your face, kid? You been fighting again?"

Mulder patted the Band-Aid on his check and gave his partner a cryptic shrug. "I cut myself taking out the trash."

Sauceda screwed his face up, studying the response. His jaw worked silently for a minute. "Yeah. Well. Listen, kid--" His voice dropped to a conspiratorial hiss. "You watch yourself, okay? Purdue's kinda pissed."

"About my gun?"

"Hell no!" Sauceda squeaked. "Christ, Marty-- 'Member in Wheeling, I tried to tell you? He thinks you know shit you're not telling. Maybe names and... and stuff like in Shreveport--"

"Now just who," Mulder demanded, "would have given him that idea?"

Sauceda backed away from that penetrating glare. "Marty, you know I wouldn't-- " Sauceda locked his jaw down hastily and Mulder sensed Purdue's approach over his shoulder.

"No, Lenny. Not much you wouldn't." Mulder said the words but there was no anger in them, no animosity. There wasn't much of anything in them, in fact. *So,* he mused, *we're back to that again.*

Purdue positioned himself to Mulder's right, well within both agents' lines of sight. Sauceda practically squirmed beneath Purdue's teeth-grinding silence.

Mulder wasn't about to give Purdue that kind of satisfaction, himself. He blinked benignly, staring down into the open cavity of the man on the sofa. He could identify some of the organs if he was called upon to do so, not that anyone was asking. Human hands, he marveled, had performed this deed. No ravaging carnivore, killing what was necessary for survival. No hellish specter, no Late Show extraterrestrial. What need had humanity of such monsters when we have ourselves? The hands of a murderess had created this evil. The same hands that had touched his Kay only hours before--

Mulder tried to close his eyes, his mind, against the thought but it refused honorable retreat. The image of a woman's hands presented themselves before his mind's eye: small tender hands like Kay's. Hands that had reached out in love to a man, seeking comfort, seeking to give a measure of herself to another. Gentle hands that had held the children of other women and longed for their own. Strong capable hands that had prepared meals, made beds, creating and caring for the minute necessities that composed a life. But these hands had taken life. Again. These hands had washed themselves in blood, had held a heart as it beat once, again, and then stilled. They had slashed Mulder's life away, too, ripped his heart out of his chest and dropped it, still struggling, on the floor of a diner while he lay sleeping a few short yards-- and entire world-- away. Mulder wrenched back from the image, unable to completely muffle his cry of pain.

"Mulder?"

Purdue's hand on his arm was sudden and startling and he recoiled with a gasp. The ASAC stepped back, Sauceda's tug at his sleeve an unnecessary warning. Mulder swore, cradling his arm where Purdue had touched him, the flesh burning beneath his jacket. For all his earlier bravado, he was suddenly wishing he hadn't forgotten his shades. He turned away from Purdue's scrutiny, his mouth swallowing acid.

"She still on the poetry or has she moved on to prose yet?" he demanded. There was too long a pause and Mulder glanced back up into Purdue's dark eyes.

"You little bastard," the ASAC hissed.

Sauceda was pulling frantically at the ASAC's sleeve again; Purdue pushed him away. "Like you don't know," Purdue spat. "'Has she moved onto prose'--" He whirled on the pathologist. "Show him. You were so damned handy handing crap over in Wheeling--"

Purdue shoved his hands back in his pockets, his face a grotesque mixture of rage and concern. Sauceda tried to catch Mulder's eye as he handed over the baggied slip of paper; Mulder snatched it from him, pushing Sauceda back to arm's length. His heart was pounding much too hard.

"They don't make rocks like us anymore.

And holding on to the thread, fine as a cobweb,

but incredibly strong,

Each of us advances into his own labyrinth.

The gift of invisibility

Has been granted to all but the gods,

so we say such things,

Filling the road up with colors, faces,

Tender speeches, until they feed us to the truth."

He glanced back up again and into Purdue's twisted face.

"Now, Mr. Mulder," the ASAC's voice was far from tender, "you tell me how you managed to stand there at that window and quote this before you even saw it. And I don't want to hear any of that goddam spook shit."

Mulder stood speechless. For the life of him, he had no answer for the man. The quote had simply come to him, or at least, he thought it had. He searched the paper again, staring through it, reasoning frantically. Had he heard the poem in his dreams? Or had he so tuned into this woman's inner workings that he could anticipate her now and not even distinguish the presence of her personality from his own? For that matter, had there ever been any true line of demarcation from himself and *any* of his profiles--

Spook? Shit.

Meanwhile, the pressure of Purdue's presence was overwhelming. This was a mistake, Mulder realized. Since his return to DC, he had discovered an unexpected comfort, something intensely reassuring, in the mundane activities of housework, of quiet routine. It was new to him, had lulled him into believing that he was almost whole again, that everything would be all right.

But nothing was all right. Nothing ever would be again. He understood that now. He should have gone in for the counseling, or-- the unthinkable-- sworn off the case. It was pointless, after all. He couldn't bring Kay back. He should have refused to come here--

Should have. Didn't. And there was no backing out now.

Mulder chewed his lip and handed the paper back abruptly. Sauceda reached out to accept it but Purdue slapped him away, watching Mulder's hand, extended before him, shaking so hard the paper rustled within its bag. The profiler's eyes narrowed viciously and he tossed the bit of evidence at Purdue's chest.

The ASAC made no effort to catch it, didn't even look down as the bag fluttered to the floor.

Mulder choked on his anger; the trembling moved up his arms and shuddered into his chest. His damned teeth were chattering for Chrissake--

"Page fifty-six," he gasped. His hands clenched involuntarily and against all rational thought he envisioned himself flattening Purdue clean out, regulations and assembled personnel be damned.

Purdue frowned, hands out of his pockets, alerted. His vision wavered from Mulder to Sauceda. Hot Sauce, however, was meeting no one's gaze, deliberately re-stuffing his medical kit with the air of a man who knew better than to go shoving his hand in a snake pit.

Mulder had his shivering under control by the time Purdue turned back to him and he pointed imperiously at the book peeking from the ASAC's pocket. Purdue retrieved the volume, watching Mulder closely as he fumbled for the page. He read and stared at him again.

"I don't follow. She's quoting this book? And you recognized the poem--"

Mulder shook his head. "Now. Page sixteen." His voice was remarkably steady now.

Purdue obeyed: the page marked by the evidence bag.

Sauceda was playing with something in his medical kit, out of view of his partner. Mulder leveled him with a look and he dropped what he was doing in the confines of the bag, taking a quick two-step to the far side of Purdue. Mulder grit his teeth, watching him: the little ass even had the gall to feign innocence, developing a sudden interest in the book as Purdue shuffled through the pages.

Mulder snatched up Sauceda's case: a syringe, partially filled, remained imbedded in a fresh vial of Thorazine. Sauceda resolutely refused to glance up from the pages before him. Purdue was watching though. Mulder dropped the bag back to its place on the couch.

Sauceda chose that moment to frown, leaning sideways to get a look at the book's cover. "Hey, Marty," he blinked benignly, "isn't this the same book you've been hauling around since Baytown?"

"Since Baytown?" Purdue slapped the volume shut. "Then you had this with you in Wheeling?"

Mulder didn't bother answering; Sauceda was already nodding anyway. Purdue was jerking Sauceda's coat sleeve now. He waved the book at him. "He had this SOB in Wheeling?"

Sauceda stuttered, suddenly comprehending the importance of the question. For the first time, he looked old to Mulder, old and confused and vulnerable. The sight made Mulder's chest tighten for some reason.

"Leave him alone, Purdue." He jerked his head away from Sauceda's gratitude. "*I'm* the one screwing up left and right here. Not Lenny. You know it."

"What I know," Purdue growled, "is that Nilson didn't say jack about poetry in that article." Things were falling into place rapidly for the ASAC. "This bitch was in your motel room."

Mulder would have killed for a decent pair of shades. He managed a shrug. "Either that or she's a regular on the Psychic Hotline."

The ASAC's breathing got harder. Sauceda looked like he was anticipating having a fist fight on his hands. Purdue's voice was even enough, though.

"She was in your motel room," he repeated the observation with the determination of a ransom demand.

"I don't know." Mulder's sigh dissolved into an exhausted moan. "I assume she had to be to see the poems. Maybe she found out where we were staying and came in while I was out. I don't know."

"'Out' as in 'out of the room,'" the ASAC demanded, "Or 'out' as in drugged unconscious?"

Sauceda swore. "I told you, Reg, I checked on Marty every hour on the hour after I gave that pill--"

"Yeah," the ASAC mused, "and maybe she decided to check on him on the half-hours." He turned to Mulder, resolute. "I've had enough. From here on out you're under constant guard. You don't so much as step out for the paper without one of our people wearing blisters on your heels." He didn't allow Mulder to interrupt. "You've got damned near half this book highlighted, Mulder. When did you do that? Before the note showed or after?" Purdue took two steps forward and the profiler stepped back involuntarily. "Before, wasn't it?" the ASAC demanded. "She's writing you the parts you've highlighted, isn't she? She's done it this time, too." Purdue's voice had a habit of getting low and deep when he was angry. He was angry now. "You knew in Wheeling, you son of a bitch, and you said nothing. You stood there in that diner and read that goddam poem and said not one word about this book."

"Damn you," Sauceda sputtered. "He was hurting and you wanted a freaking criminal analysis?"

Mulder swore and was ignored. Purdue shook the older man away. "Sauceda, this is his *job*--"

"Not anymore it's not," Sauceda seethed. "It's his goddam life now."

The air was suddenly too thick to breathe-- for anybody, apparently. There was sudden, total silence. Even the crime unit had stepped out to the safer sidelines of the hall.

Mulder couldn't meet Sauceda's eyes. He couldn't seem to focus any higher up than Purdue's tie pin for that matter. The ASAC was staring at him hard; Mulder hoped that his jacket was able to hide most of the uncontrollable trembling.

Purdue's voice was ominously quiet. "You're right, Len. It *is* his life now." They were the same words but in Purdue's mouth they assumed an all-too sinister meaning. Mulder looked up from under dark lashes and finally met the ASAC's stare. Purdue kept his voice calm. "That's why you didn't tell me, isn't it, Mulder? Not in Wheeling. Not at the airport--"

Sauceda moaned. "He was *drugged,* Reg--"

The ASAC waved him back, never looking away from the profiler. "--Not last night when you should have called me," he insisted. "And not this morning."

Mulder looked away, accused of a clarity he no longer possessed and completely unable to admit the truth. He had failed to report pertinent evidence and had no explanation to adequately account for such a lapse. Temporary insanity could get you clear of a murder conviction but it wasn't much good for anything else--

Mulder shook his head. Christ. His world wasn't just crumbling, it was imploding, and here he stood popping lame jokes. Physically he was falling apart where he stood: the trembling was getting worse and he would need to sit down before he collapsed. Mentally, he was screaming when he wasn't laughing and it was becoming difficult to tell the difference. Emotionally, however, he was cold as stone and he was clinging to that fact for dear life. *One sign of weakness,* his father had warned him since childhood, *one sign of weakness, son, and they'll be on you like wolves.* Mulder jaw clenched spasmodically as Purdue sighed.

"Look, agent, I can understand your not wanting a bodyguard dogging your every move. But you knew she had already gotten this close once and you wouldn't even let Sauceda watch your back. This," Purdue waved an arm at the mess drying on the couch, "this could have been you, dammit."

*It was me-- in Wheeling-- in the diner when it was Kay--* Mulder's mind screamed the words but Purdue couldn't hear.

"Answer me, Mulder," the ASAC demanded. "Do you want to die? Is that it? You've got a death wish?"

Mulder choked down the grief trying to strangle him. He shrugged a levity he couldn't feel. "This," he heard himself query politely, "is one of those rhetorical questions, right?"

The pathologist and the ASAC were a study in contrasts: Sauceda squeezed both eyes shut while Purdue's couldn't have possibly gotten any wider.

The ASAC's voice was just above a whisper. "You don't know, do you? You really just don't know what's going on in your own head. God Almighty, Mulder--"

Mulder bit his lip and tried not to focus on very much. He didn't dare shake his head, uncertain of how it would be interpreted at this point, but just how to answer was beyond him. It seemed, suddenly that he only knew two facts. One: he was reasonably certain that he didn't want to die. Two: he was even more positive that he didn't much want to live. His vocabulary held no words to explain such a paradox, however. Not to Purdue. Not to Sauceda. Not even to himself.

So Mulder did the only thing he knew to do at that moment. He smiled serenely and asked Purdue to repeat the question.

The ASAC rubbed his eyes wearily. "I submit, Mr. Mulder that you make a serious effort to get your head together here." He pointed an accusatory finger at the body. "You take a good long look at this, and then let me explain something to you--"

Mulder's knees finally gave and he sat down abruptly on the arm of the couch. "Please," he insisted in the sudden silence. "Please explain it to me, Reg. Because right now I'm having a real hard time understanding how the FBI runs this set up."

Mulder's mind-numbing emotional vacuum was back with a vengeance and he was grateful: at least it helped him keep his voice steady. "Here's how I see it," he began counting off points on trembling fingers, too angry to care whether anyone noticed now or not. "This bunch of bureaucrats train me, tell me how damned brilliant I am, toss me out here and then try to run me into the ground with it. Meanwhile, they're busy promising 'every available means of support.' Translation: we'll provide you with a partner we can rely on to report any suspect activity and supply all the psychopharmaceuticals you can possibly ingest, shoot up or have forced on you at any and all available opportunity. 'Just try to remain vertical around the locals, kid. And if and when you *can't* pull it off anymore, we'll tag you for psychotic breakdown, sic the goddam shrinks on you and *commit* your ass.' And I'm just stupid enough to let them do it to me. So much for my highly lauded brilliance."

He paused, ignoring Sauceda's red face. Right now, he didn't much care about that either. Purdue was very still, with an expression of supreme comprehension. Mulder wasn't certain that was such a good thing.

"That's what this is, then?" Purdue asked solemnly. "Jesus Christ, Mulder, didn't we get this shit settled in Seattle?"

"Did we? I seem to recall an appointment with Personnel Services this morning."

Purdue looked around for help and found only the bewildered Sauceda. "Jesus Christ," the ASAC hissed again. "Look, I'm not out to institutionalize you, Mulder. You need help and you don't want it. Okay, fine. That's how you want to play it. But I'm trusting you to tell me what you *do* need and when. No mandatories. No involuntaries." He licked his lips, watching Mulder closely. "You've got to trust me, son."

Over Purdue's shoulder, Sauceda was nodding reassuringly. Which was, of course, far from reassuring.

"I'm not your goddam son," Mulder scarcely had energy for the words. They lisped of their own accord, a knee-jerk reaction. He drew back as Purdue approached, froze as the ASAC knelt beside the couch. Purdue squatted slowly onto one knee and waited for Mulder to restore eye contact. The profiler recognized the tactic. It was a trained negotiation technique, a deliberate maneuver meant to convey psychological advantage to an opponent. By kneeling, Purdue was literally giving Mulder the upper hand, seeking not to stand above him. The ASAC kept his voice calm, his expression neutral. God help him, Mulder mused, the man sounded sincere.

"I tried to tell you on the phone," Purdue insisted. "I've been where you are. When I lost my wife, I thought I'd lost my mind along with her. But no one pulled the rug out from under me. Even when I knew they needed to wrap me up in the damn thing and bury me in it." He lifted a hand from his knee, thought better of it and put it back carefully. "Here's the plan, then. I'll give you time if you think that's all you need. I don't agree, but you call the shots now. Until you become a danger to yourself or someone else, I'm not going to do anything drastic. But damn you, Mulder, don't you hold anything back from me. I need to know what's going on in your head. I need to know I can rely on you for that much."

Mulder forced himself to take in oxygen. He indicated the body beside him with a waver of his eyes. "You don't think this makes me a danger--"

"It's not your fault that people are dying here, Mulder. It's hers." Purdue set his jaw. "And I'm not confusing the two of you. I hope to *hell* you're not."

Purdue waited a long minute, apparently waiting for some sign of compromise in Mulder's unyielding stare.

"You made me another promise in Wheeling," Mulder reminded him quietly. The profiler wet his lips, carefully holding to the advantage Purdue had surrendered, but Mulder was shivering uncontrollably now, desperation the only thing keeping him vertical. "You think I'm withholding information. Fine. Not that I give a shit, but I'm giving you everything I can rationally comprehend. *When* I can adequately comprehend it. But you--" he choked, shook his head savagely to clear it. "I want Kay's file," he had to hiss the words, clenching his teeth as the shivering escalated momentarily.

Purdue looked defeated. He took a deep solemn breath, flexed his fists and stood. "Why?"

"Why?" Mulder jerked his head up. "Am I on this damned case or not?" he demanded. "Look, you want answers. Well, I need a few of my own--"

Sauceda stepped between the two men. "Marty, don't do this."

Mulder grabbed Sauceda's arm and pulled himself to his feet, eyes never wavering from Purdue's. "I can't profile off what I don't have--"

Purdue's brows crawled up several inches. "Really. You want to tell them that in Fredericksburg? You want to step over to the window and quote some more poetry?"

"Goddammit, you promised me a copy of Kay's file. Give it to me now or take me off this case."

Mulder had played his trump and Purdue didn't even blink. "I've already gotten your profile, Mulder," he answered quietly. "If those are my only options, I'll take the latter."

Mulder felt the world roll over much too fast. He forced himself to focus. Purdue was watching him like a man charmed by a spell.

Mulder nodded solemnly. "Then here's a final addendum to your highly regarded profile: she's escalating. Again. You might have a day before she goes for her next victim. I forced her hand by bailing on her and she doesn't appreciate being dumped." He grimaced ruefully. "Something she and I have in common, I suppose." He turned on his heel for the door.

"Marty--"

"Agent Mulder."

Mulder turned to the ASAC, his eyes cold, willing himself to stand still when every nerve in his body screamed *move!*

Purdue's voice was too level. "You're in no shape to drive. Get one of the officers to take you home or call a cab. And I'm serious about that guard detail. I'll make arrangements--"

"And the leave of absence?" Mulder dredged up a knowing smile from somewhere around the level of his knees.

"The leave of absence still stands," Purdue assured him.

Mulder nodded. "When Sisyphus pops by for her next visit, I'll let her know." He fished a plastic baggie from his coat pocket and tossed it to the ASAC. Purdue shook it flat, staring at the earring it contained. "Send me a sketch artist. You'll need a picture to show around Drummond's on Fifth and Hegal Place."

The profiler turned on his heel. DC cops, Bureau personnel and two federal marshals dove quietly out of his way as he passed.

Mulder arrived at his apartment as enraged as he'd been when he'd left the one in Georgetown. *Call a freaking cab--*

And Mulder had done just that. From his cell phone. Sitting in his car while his hands shook so hard he couldn't get the key into the ignition even on the third try. He'd had the operator dial the number for him or he'd probably still been sitting there.

The chair in the living room caught the coat he flung from the door. Mulder scrubbed at his face roughly, so incensed he was fighting tears-- which only made him more furious.

*Christ, I've just got to get it all to stop. Just for a while, till I can think this crap through. There's something wrong, something you're not seeing, Fox. Something's wrong.*

Something *was* wrong. Mulder felt it with every nerve, every instinct prickling with the certainty. He bit his lip, forcing the anger down, deep into that bubbling hole Sauceda was so afraid of. As his head cleared, he set his eyes to roaming.

Mulder couldn't remember leaving the lights on. He also wasn't in the habit of leaving his computer running. In fact, he couldn't recall having used it since his return to Washington. Yet, there it was, blinking at him, screen saver glowing steadily against the sunlight streaming through the window.

He reached to his hip instinctively, recalling too late that he no longer had a firearm. Mulder bit back a few choice words as he knelt and pulled the switchblade from under his pants leg. It wasn't a weapon he felt particularly comfortable with, one of his father's more unusual Christmas gifts actually, but he'd felt naked this morning dressing for duty without a weapon of some kind. He flipped the blade open and assumed the open armed stance they'd taught him at the Academy. He seriously doubted the training would do him much good against a .22 but it was the best he had right now. God damn his stupidity for surrendering his weapon to Sauceda--

Mulder spared a glance for the kitchen door but entered the living room first, scanning corners rapidly, his heart racing, hand surprisingly steady under adrenaline rush. Nothing.

Mulder put his back to the window, pulling the monitor around awkwardly to view it while keeping watch on the dining room beyond. He hit the space bar to deactivate the screen saver and was greeted by his word processor: neatly typed lines. More Ashbery. The knife forgotten in his hand, he read:

Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you,

At incredible speed, traveling day and night,

Through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents,

Through narrow passes.

But will he know where to find you,

Recognize you when he sees you,

Give you the thing he has for you?

Is it enough

That the dish of milk is set out at night,

That we think of him sometimes,

Sometimes and always, with mixed feelings?

Mulder re-read it, then stared at it without seeing it. *Dish of milk...* Alarms set off with the realization he'd actually walked across the floor without that damned cat under his feet every step--

*No--*

The knife at ready, Mulder followed its jerking movements to the kitchen door-- and froze.

The slack little body, so full of energy when he'd left, was now on the floor, quite still, head in a saucer of watery milk. Random drops of cream drying on the tile were the only testament of struggle. A single eye, dull and dark, regarded Mulder from the depths of the bowl.

Mulder felt his heart slow, felt his panting ease to a single rasping breath. His mind iced over like winter in the harbor, ears deafened by the blast of snows blowing from a land beckoning beyond his vision. The earth rolled on beneath his feet and he did not care, standing rapt at the gates of Awe, his soul focused too far away, in the depths of that one unblinking eye.

The knife slipped from his hand, skittering across the floor, unseen, unheard, a discarded remnant of a world to which he no longer belonged. He slid to the floor into a place of great darkness.

It was enough, he decided on the way down. He'd had quite enough.

The problem with most ME offices, Purdue decided, was that they were designed for the bodily comforts of the dead-- not the living. Chairs were a scarce commodity, as were halls you could stand around in without finding yourself leaning against a panel of recessed cadaver drawers. And forget looking for a lobby: it wasn't exactly like there was a run of visitors at such facilities. Even when the public was invited, it was usually just to get a quick, identifying peek so the ME'd know who to bill once the autopsy was complete.

So when the Medical Examiner left for lunch, Purdue lost no time or pangs of conscience in commandeering his private office. The room was windowless and cramped but it beat the hell out of trying to conduct business with that damned clunky cellular the Bureau gave him to cart around. Sauceda was in his element up the hall, busy piecing together the various organs Sisyphus had left on Mr. American Lit's plush pile carpet. Purdue didn't have to hang out for the pathologist's report, but he wanted some kind of peace offering for Mulder when he showed up with the guard detail.

He had dispatch forwarding calls from agents in three states: just checking in, nothing pressing. Rich Kirkland had promised to get back with him on assigning some agents to protect Mulder. Rich was reliable; Purdue'd have a call back within the hour. Meanwhile, Purdue had put in two calls to Skinner-- yesterday and this morning-- advising the AD on Mulder's apparent mental state. Skinner had been singularly non-committal, suggesting Purdue handle the situation as he saw fit. Purdue could almost smell the cigarette smoke over the phone, though and hadn't pressed the issue.

Harris had left two messages this morning. Purdue dialed Wheeling using the ME's old rotary phone. The sound of the dial spinning, leisurely and solid, was laughably comforting.

"So, how's your kid doing?" Three hundred miles distance didn't manage to filter the concern from Harris' voice.

Purdue shrugged, grimaced as he realized Harris couldn't very well see the motion through the phone. He sighed, instead. "Mulder's... Mulder," he said.

"That bad, huh?"

Purdue didn't bother to laugh, just too tired to try. "All right, smart ass, what've you got?"

"Latent found a partial oblique on the headboard in Kress' motel room. Your boys at NCIC found no match but that's no surprise given Mulder warned us she'd probably have no priors to compare prints with. It'll be handy at trial once we find her, though, if it *is* hers to begin with."

"Mulder'd also said she'd get bolder, maybe get sloppy. Good work, Nat. It's more than we got at apartment three oh four."

"Yeah. Oh, and I'm still following leads on the Enron thing. It doesn't look too promising, though. Doesn't she have some kind of *recent* history we can check out?"

"Yeah, actually. She does." Purdue flipped Mulder's book out of its evidence bag and spun it upright, avoiding the fingerprint dust coating its cover. "We've got a couple of prints out here, too--"

"Out *there*?"

"--I'll have them checked for a match on your partial and send you a file on our latest acquisition. Soon as I get a file, anyway. Meanwhile, check your local book stores for recent purchases of "A Wave" by John Ashbery."

"A what?"

Purdue scrubbed at his face and spelled it for him. "It's poetry, so maybe you won't need to plow through the New York Times bestseller list."

"Uh huh." Harris sounded less than thrilled. "How recent a purchase? Maybe something in this decade?"

"Try this week, Nat. Think you can handle that?" Purdue's voice was much too tired.

There was a silence born of wisdom on Harris' end of the line. When the detective spoke again, his voice was somber. "Things are really bad on your end, aren't they, Reg?"

Purdue didn't answer. He felt about seventy right now. He'd had Olivia on his mind for days. Not Olivia healthy and vibrant, but Olivia ill, and certain of death. Over and over, he'd wakened with the memory of her struggle for life, her weariness, the expression in her eyes when it was finally beyond hope--

Mulder had given him that same look, sitting there on that blood-splattered couch: inhumanly still, scarcely daring to breathe as Purdue had knelt. Fear had poured off the young man like sweat, a heady aroma, intoxicating as liqueur. Purdue had tasted the scent and felt his heart race, like a wild beast closing in on choice prey.

Then the profiler had looked up at him and all the life the man possessed seemed to have retreated to the depths of those too-green, too-liquid eyes. Purdue, on his knees, had gazed through doors best kept closed, a voyeur in a world God kept hidden for His own private viewing.

Mulder's words, cool, arrogant, and defiant, had no answering reflection in the young agent's eyes.

"Reg?"

"Yeah. Ahm. Mulder thinks he may have a description. I'll be faxing it over ASAP." His coat pocket began ringing. "Hey, hang on a minute, okay?" Purdue fished out his cell phone and got the boxy instrument activated. "Purdue." He waited through a few silent seconds of precious airtime but nothing seemed forthcoming. He jabbed the disconnect button. "Technology." He made the word sound like profanity and sat the phone on the desk to return to Harris' line. He scarcely got the detective's response when the cellular rang again.

"Well, hell's bells. Hang on Nat. This damned half-ass phone is at it again--" He jabbed the necessary button and barked. "Yeah. Purdue."

"She's been here."

The voice on the other end was alien to him. The tone was wrong, the timbre of the voice off, the speaker far too vulnerable to be anyone he knew-- . The ASAC's breath caught in his throat.

"Mulder? Mulder, where the hell are you? Are you all right?"

"No. Ah-- I mean--"

Purdue waited, listening to the man on the other end gasp air. A shaky rustling filtered through the line and Purdue got the sense Mulder was having difficulty holding the receiver.

"Agent Mulder, what--"

"I'm home," the profiler managed at last. "I'm--"

And again that voluminous silence. Purdue was a long way from worrying about line charges. He closed his eyes, silently willing Mulder to hold on, to get himself to make some rational sense, at least for a little while longer.

"Mulder. Mulder, can you hear me? Look, I want you to get out of that apartment. She may be hiding somewhere. She may still be there."

Silence.

"Mulder, dammit, listen to me. Have you secured the premises?" Purdue shook the phone gingerly. "Goddammit--" No, no, the phone had to be working; he could still hear the young man breathing. "Mulder! Get--"

"I'm going to lie down now," the profiler announced simply, finally.

"What the--? Mulder, Get out of that apartment, do you hear me?"

"I'm going to lie down, now." Mulder repeated the words patiently. "It'll be all right, Reg. You'll see."

Suddenly, all the pieces fell into place for Reginald Purdue. He finally recognized the crack in Mulder's voice: it wasn't fear. It was grief. And the soft click of the telephone was laughter, the delighted chuckle of Hell as it laid claim on a young profiler who'd finally taken just one too many trips in.