"Jeezus, Marty--"

Mulder didn't bother to answer. He just stood there, his arms loose at his sides. He was still in his T-shirt and jeans but had slipped on a pair of work boots, the laces apparently tucked somewhere in the trunk of Sauceda's car. The apartment behind him was an abyss, the glow of the computer monitor encircling his body with a deep blue halo. The light of the hall, however, made Mulder's eyes glow like unmitigated hell.

Sauceda heard himself swallow in the silence, and Mulder turned and walked back into the apartment's murky gloom. Sauceda followed cautiously, the grip of his revolver slick with sweat. The movement of his own shadow startled him, and he froze as the light behind him divulged the contents of Mulder's dining table. Mitch's head hung limp, upside down over the table's edge. The face was simply too calm, too utterly still to have ever known life. The rest of the body was a pulpy mess with arms and legs, and Sauceda turned away.

"Marty?"

Over the wail of sirens, he heard the rattling of keys. Mulder re-emerged from the shadows, shrugging into a leather jacket. Sauceda recognized the car keys dangling from his hand and swore, making a wild grab for them. Mulder blocked the move, shoulder lifting in an easy shrug, his forearm firm across Sauceda's chest. Sauceda continued his struggle, however, and Mulder shook his head, slamming the pathologist backward into the doorframe as the older man cursed him. Sauceda lashed out, too busy trying to keep his gun hand out of reach to be very effective. Mulder grunted as Sauceda's fist grazed his chin but made no move to strike back.

"Lenny."

Mulder's voice, remarkably reasonable, made Sauceda stop struggling. He searched the young man's face, not bothering to hide his surprise, his hope. Mulder endured the scrutiny calmly. He was haggard, his skin fine as porcelain beneath the stubble of a two-day-old beard. His pupils were tightly constricted, the light from the hall making his eyes too pale, clear as glass, almost completely devoid of color. Sauceda searched them, seeking some reassurance of sudden sanity. The man he sensed looking back at him was Marty, all right. Just not a Marty who seemed at home in his own skin quite yet.

Mulder dropped his arm and took a step back, wavering slightly. "Look, Len. I'm just going downstairs to sit in my car. I'm not gonna go anywhere. I promise."

The voice was weary, but Mulder's tone bespoke complete comprehension. Sauceda's jaw worked, trying to absorb what his senses were telling him. He couldn't force his mind to make that kind of mental leap, though. After days of madness, Mulder was suddenly far too rational. It just wasn't possible. Sauceda shook his head, holstering his weapon. "Gimme the keys, Marty."

Mulder grimaced. He slapped Sauceda's hand back. "No! Dammit, you can come with me if you have to. But I'm going. Understand?"

"Marty-- I don't get this at all. You're just gonna *sit* in your car? That's crazy--" Sauceda winced at his own declaration, damning himself for so little tact. "Christ, Marty, I didn't mean--"

Mulder turned away, his face clouding with bitterness. Regret battled with the sudden moisture in his eyes and he ducked his head abruptly. "I've just got no place else to go--" he choked on the words, fled through the door.

Sauceda grabbed for him, managing to get a good handful of wrist and jacket sleeve as Mulder tried to shrug him off. The profiler swung around in Sauceda's grip but Lenny's hold was resolute, the grasp of a drowning man, clawing his way to a too-distant surface. To his surprise, Mulder didn't lash out. Instead, he seemed suddenly intent on dragging Sauceda with him across the hall. Lenny struggled with the wrist and the leather jacket, clawing like a man possessed, but couldn't slow the young man's momentum, couldn't slip free of Mulder's grip. In the blur of their motions, Sauceda's mind was whirling, trying to envision Mulder's strategy. If he were Marty, he'd use the wall, sling him into it like a sledge. Sauceda imagined the bone-jarring blow and moaned in anticipation. He refused to release his grip however, tightening his hold on Mulder's sleeve, preparing for the impact.

Sauceda almost lost his grip from shock when Mulder himself slammed into the wall, knocking the air from his lungs with an agonized cough.

"Jeezus Christ, Marty--"

Mulder gasped, gulping oxygen, eyes tightly closed, unperturbed by Sauceda's cussing and frantic pleas. He'd taken the force of the blow in his back and he maintained the position, spine set firmly against the wall, pressed tight like he planned to disappear into the paint. He planted his feet resolutely, an immovable force and pocketed his keys defiantly. The older man shook his head.

Up the hall, the elevator "pinged," resolving into a low rumble as the doors opened. Purdue and the backup team thundered out into the hall. The ASAC caught sight of the two men immediately and paused, waving the team of agents past him. They spilled into Mulder's apartment, brandishing weapons and snapping on lights. Sauceda composed his features, but Purdue's focus was on Mulder, the young man's unyielding stance. The profiler was fragile and trembling, but he held his ground with the tenacity of a bull elephant, his head resolutely down. He didn't even bother to struggle against Sauceda's fierce grip on his wrist.

Purdue approached slowly. "What's going on, Hot Sauce?"

Mulder didn't raise his head, but his jaw tightened. Sauceda took a deep breath. Bewilderment lent his voice a measure of calm he didn't possess.

"He wants to sit in his car."

Purdue considered the words, scanning Mulder critically, assessing the situation. Sauceda knew he'd be calculating the tension of Mulder's muscles, the weakened trembling of his hands, the fact that Sauceda was apparently unharmed.

"Mulder."

The profiler understood the unspoken command and pulled his head up, leaned it back against the wall. It seemed to take a supreme effort, but he looked the ASAC in the eye, refusing to blink as Purdue studied him, an unlicensed doctor of the soul weighing the intent of his heart. The muscle in Mulder's jaw twitched once, but even his breathing seemed to be tightly controlled.

Purdue himself remained stoic. He nodded finally. "So take him to his car, Lenny. Just make sure it stays parked."

Mulder swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his head again before he found the energy to push himself away from the wall. He surrendered the keys to Sauceda's outstretched hand and glanced up at Purdue once more, just the briefest glimpse, fathomless eyes under damp lashes. Sauceda thought that he might have noted a hint of gratitude before Mulder brushed past the ASAC and tugged Sauceda to the elevator.

The investigative unit worked efficiently, solemnly, checking every detail with the thoroughness born of anger and the desire for justice-- or at least for vengeance. It was one of their own gutted on the table, after all. One of their own ripped open on the bed. And one of their own, almost as lifeless, curled up in the red Monte Carlo in the parking lot.

Diana Fowley scanned Mulder's cluttered desk. The computer screen was blank: the word processor displayed an empty page, no new file saved and nothing recovered. They'd found no note elsewhere, either. If this Sisyphus person had left another love letter, Mulder was keeping it to himself. A framed photo sat beside the monitor: a young boy, smug and confident, leaning against a tree. Beside him in the frame was a little girl with long dark pigtails and a wistful smile. Well. An interesting photo to find displayed in a bachelor's apartment.

Fowley had always heard that you could determine a man's character by looking at his home. Personally, she had her doubts. While still a rookie, she'd helped investigate a prostitute in Oceanside: a woman living in an abandoned church who collected icons and figurines of the Virgin Mary. Each item had had the appearance of being lovingly placed and adorned, but, in fact, they served as objects of ridicule, spectators to the woman's murderous fascination for preadolescent boys. Fowley'd since learned not to take too much at face value.

Still, Mulder's rooms were darkly masculine, filled with books and files and mismatched collectibles. There was a definite design, the organized chaos of one accustomed to discerning order in random facts. This was the domain of a man who lived in his head, who tracked the regions of the soul and viewed shelter simply as a place to lay his head when it was too full to reason any longer. The haven had offered too little shelter last night, however, and in the cold light of day, everything she touched smelled of remorse.

A solitary plant claimed a perch in the window, stubbornly competing with the drapes for the sunlight. Fowley decided it might have been a rubber tree once, before someone watered it with Agent Orange. Still, considering the status of the apartment's other occupants, the little rubber tree didn't look half-bad. If plants served as reminders of the impermanence of life, Fowley decided, then Mulder had obviously learned the lesson well.

She heard Purdue swearing behind her and turned. The ASAC stood at the entrance to the living room, deeply absorbed in a losing argument with his cell phone. He shook the unit, jabbed a few more buttons before placing it to his ear again. The results only drove him to another round of profanity. Fowley had worked only briefly with Purdue-- AD Kersh didn't loan her out from Domestic Terrorism very often-- and that had been years ago when she was still just an overly nervous rookie. She didn't recall Purdue being easily agitated, however. The stress of this particular investigation must be hitting a critical juncture. Two dead agents could do that to you, she supposed.

"I don't give a shit if he's on freaking Mars--" Purdue informed the phone, "You find Skinner and you tell him to call me. Now. I'm sick of him dodging my goddam phone calls." He paused, growled, "*Yes,* you can quote me," and jammed his finger at the number pad, dialing yet another set of digits. This effort failed to yield the desired results as well, apparently, and he swore again, this time at some unreachable individual named Baez. His tantrum halted abruptly as he glanced up, catching sight of Fowley.

She feigned chronic hearing loss as he disconnected the call. "Quite a case you have here, sir," she offered sociably. "How is Agent Mulder holding up?"

Purdue glowered at his phone. "That's what I'd like to know. Shit." He shoved the instrument into his coat pocket and tried to rotate the tension from his shoulders. "Sauceda packed him a bag a couple of hours ago. Took him down to the YMCA for a shower. They should be back by now."

Fowley raised a solitary brow. "Couldn't that wait until we got him to the hotel?"

"Mulder said he needed a shower." Purdue answered evenly, like such things should be obvious. He glanced away, scanning the walls for answers. "At least there are no private stalls and Sauceda could keep an eye on him." He seemed to have said more than he'd intended and looked over at her sharply. Fowley was careful, however, not to react, and his sigh was a low rumble. "You got any *useful* theories on this one, Agent?"

She shrugged, ignoring the barb. "Seems fairly obvious on the surface. There's a tap on the phone. If Sisyphus had access, maybe she heard the boys ordering pizza, ran a drug-laced bottle of soda up and set it by the door. The delivery boy found the soda sitting there when he got here. He says he thought someone had put it down to unlock the door and just forgot it. He handed it over when Gregg paid for the pizza. I figure the guys thought they'd lucked in on some kind of weekly special." She leaned against the desk, long legs crossed at the ankles. "What's your take on it, sir? You think she's one of us? Someone in the Bureau? Or at least someone with access to wiretapping equipment and personnel files?" Purdue regarded her coldly, chewing his cheek, and she paused, suddenly wondering if she'd wound up on the wrong page.

"Maybe she just set the soda outside and hoped they'd pick it up. Ever consider *that* option, Agent?"

Fowley's mouth opened but she closed it again. There was something in the ASAC's eyes, something she couldn't read clearly. "Well, certainly that's possible but--"

Purdue turned abruptly. The investigative unit was still processing the bedroom, but the coroner's office had returned, ready to collect their second grisly project of the morning. Mitchell had been carted out in his body bag a good twenty minutes ago. The event had been marked by a solemn assembly of the entire on-site unit. The body passed, venerated by absolute silence, and after a moment, the teams had dispersed again, soundlessly, back to their duties, collecting lint samples and fingerprints. The soft whir of a hand-held vacuum in the kitchen had sounded like sacrilege.

Purdue didn't seem to relish the idea of a second memorial, however. He waited for the techs to enter, then vacated the apartment like a man fleeing a fire. Fowley jerked to life, skittering after him.

The ASAC tossed a notebook of orders to the officer in charge, but didn't wait for a response, plowing his way to the elevator. Fowley trotted to catch up, silently cursing his long stride. She felt ridiculous chasing after the man, but she'd be damned before she'd let this kind of opportunity pass her by. She had lobbied for admission into Violent Crimes for seven years. Patterson, ViCap's mystical guru, had taken an interest in her, but aside from a brief-- and best-forgotten-- reassignment, Fowley had been snubbed repeatedly. She'd continued a tenuous association with Patterson and the man had no qualms about using her research skills. He'd never reciprocated, however, never offered a recommendation, and side-stepped the issue deftly whenever she'd worked up the nerve to ask point blank. She'd screwed up for him once, and with Patterson that was all it took. Still, if Fowley could make a difference in this case, Bureau brass might reconsider. This, after all, was not just any assignment. This case had put the Bureau's brightest and hottest-burning star on the line. This was Fox Fucking Mulder and she'd make good if she had to screw Blevins himself to stay here.

"Sir, you seem so certain the wiretap has no link to Sisyphus--," her voice bounced with her footfalls as she hurried but she had to offer the observation to Purdue's back. The ASAC didn't answer, jabbing the elevator control impatiently. She followed him in as the doors slipped open. "Sir? May I ask why?"

Purdue still refused to respond, poking at the desired button then cramming his hands in his pockets. He rocked on his heels, eyes on the ceiling. Fowley couldn't decide if he hated confined places, or if he was just simply that eager to be free of her.

"Sir. Have you assigned anyone to that angle yet? If not--"

"Yeah. Sure. Like it's going to do me some freaking good." Purdue didn't volunteer anything further, slamming his fist against the doors as if he could make them open any faster. They shuddered obediently after several long seconds, freeing them, and Purdue bolted out of the building. Fowley double-stepped after him as they fled across the parking lot.

Mulder's Monte Carlo was back, parked in a far corner of the lot, radio playing softly. Sauceda was in the driver's seat, his window down as he chewed on the side of his thumb, eyes vacant. He looked about eighty. A smile of relief flooded his face as he noted Purdue's approach. He opened the door and stepped out, pausing to squint at Fowley. He didn't speak.

Purdue bent at the waist, peering in the door at the figure slumped in the back seat. Fowley stood behind him, flustered from her haste and her inability to control her rising anger. Sauceda moved aside and Purdue pushed the driver's seat forward, prepared to crawl into the back seat of the two-door.

"*Sir.*" Fowley had had enough and didn't bother concealing the fact in her tone. Her temper would be her undoing some day, but enough, dammit, was enough. The man wasn't *her* ASAC, after all. Not yet, anyway.

Purdue turned and did her the courtesy of looking her in the eye.

"If I may respectfully point out, sir, you called *me* in on this case."

Purdue looked her over, shoulder-length hair disarrayed by the wind, cheeks flushed with anger and some measure of embarrassment. "So I did, Agent. So get in the damned car."

He slipped behind the driver's seat quietly, and motioned for Sauceda to pull the door to without shutting it. Sauceda obeyed, resuming his place behind the wheel and turning to watch the two men in the back seat. Fowley was left on the blacktop, her hands on her hips. Well, hell-- She circled the car and availed herself of the front passenger seat.

Sauceda's eyes narrowed at the intrusion, and he looked like a man at a tennis match, glancing from Fowley, to Purdue and back again, looking for some kind of clue. The ASAC paid no heed, busy assessing the man slumped in the seat beside him. Fowley turned to do the same and her breath caught in her throat.

Fowley had never met Mulder. She'd *seen* him, of course; there wasn't an agent in the Bureau that hadn't offered his right arm for a peek into Patterson's bullpen, just to get a glimpse of the golden boy that had set ViCap all abuzz. Fowley had made the pilgrimage herself several times, casting hungry eyes after the GQ suit, that confident I-don't-give-a-shit stride as she'd tracked the man through the halls of Quantico. Mulder turned heads both professionally and personally. She'd glanced back herself more than once, when she thought no one would notice. But this--

"Jesus H. Christ," she hissed, swallowing back the words as Purdue glanced at her sharply. "I'm sorry, sir. I know you said he'd been ill, but-- I'm sorry." She turned away, looking out the windshield, waiting for the flush to leave her cheeks. She couldn't shake the image of the man seated behind her however: the thin body curled in restless sleep, the face in profile, unshaven, the dark stubble a stark contrast to the pallor of the skin. Long black lashes shadowed deep circles beneath the eyes. His hands, palms up on his thighs, trembled spasmodically, his breathing a series of weary sighs.

There was the whisper of leather as Purdue shifted uncomfortably. "You give him another dose, Sauceda?"

The pathologist shook his head stubbornly. "I offered but he said he didn't want anything. He said he needed to get his head clear." He glanced over at Fowley, then away again, lowering his voice like he was divulging some guilty secret. "I think the shower tired him out." He glanced over at her again, looking her up and down closely enough to make her check the length of her skirt. She curled her legs up daintily, turning to get a better view of the back seat.

Sauceda nodded at her, reluctant but respectful. "He's not been eating," he explained. "Just hasn't been able to keep anything down." He glanced back at Purdue. "If he doesn't make a turn around pretty quick, I'm going to start him on Compazine. It'll knock him flat on his butt, though." He grimaced. "And it makes him dream more vividly."

"Hell," Purdue sighed the word, letting his own head slump against the window.

"So," Fowley whispered, "do you think that's what he's doing now? Dreaming up more facts on the killer?"

Both men looked at her like she'd turned into some ranting hydra. "I'm sorry, sir. I thought you'd said that he--"

"He's asleep," Purdue growled. "Just asleep. Period. Until he tells us otherwise. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Mulder stirred, pausing mid-breath. His leg jerked involuntarily and he moaned. ASAC and agents alike held their collective breaths as Mulder slipped back into fitful sleep with the barest flutter of his lashes.

Purdue slapped Sauceda on the arm. "How about it?" he hissed. "Is he dreaming? Can you tell?"

Sauceda squinted. "Hell, I don't know. I don't see any REM activity, do you?"

Purdue leaned in closely, then shook his head. He collapsed back in the seat like he was his own heaviest burden. "Well. We get an analysis on the drug she put in the soda, maybe we can trace it--"

"I don't get it." Fowley kept her voice down but didn't bother hiding her exasperation. "Why am I the only person that seems to be surprised that there's a tap on Agent Mulder's phone? And a very *professionally* installed tap by the look of it. This is clearly a matter for investigation. OPR has been notified, correct?"

Sauceda ducked his head, laying his forehead on his arm, leaving Purdue to answer. The ASAC's whisper was cool, a dispassionate tone not reflected in his enraged glance.

"Mulder's been surveilled since his admission into Quantico. Maybe even before. No one knows for sure. No one has taken responsibility for it and no one has been investigated. OPR has been notified repeatedly with the same results. Nothing. They deny all knowledge of the situation. Every request for an official investigation has been ignored. Patterson filed four times on it himself and I co-signed three of them. There's no record the requests were even made."

Fowley's brows crawled up to her hairline. Her mouth worked silently for a moment before she thought to close it. Purdue's expression was absolutely impassive.

"Just to let you see," he hissed, "what you're getting yourself into."

That statement brought Sauceda's head up. He stared at Purdue, open mouthed, then turned the same attention to Fowley, his eyes narrowing to hard slits. He looked her up and down again and she tugged her skirt down self-consciously.

"As I was saying," Purdue's tone brooked no further interruption. "We get an analysis on the drug, maybe we can trace it to a pharmacy somewhere--"

"It's Thorazine."

Three sets of eyes jerked around at the sound of Mulder's voice. The profiler sat up slowly, rotating his chin to ease the tension in his neck. His efforts seemed to tire him, however, and he rested his head against the window, scanning the faces around him but meeting no one's glance. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, but his focus seemed clear enough. He swallowed convulsively a moment before he spoke and Fowley wondered if he were thirsty.

"I drank some of the soda last night," he explained, pronouncing his words carefully like he was unsure of them. His voice was raspy and raw but calm. "I didn't taste the drug for the fizz. Drank some more when I came to."

"You sure, Marty? You sure it's Thorazine?"

Mulder tried unsuccessfully to work his face into smile. "I'm a connoisseur. Remember?" He wiped sweat from his neck, peering at Sauceda, his vision still bleary. "You do what I told you?"

Sauceda frowned. "You mean all that mess about getting Imelda to a safe house? Well, hell, no."

"Christ, Len--" Mulder stared at his partner, struggling to get upright in his seat. Purdue laid a steadying hand on the profiler's arm and he ignored it. "You didn't even listen--"

"Listen, hell. You weren't making any kind of sense, Marty. Starting a sentence. Never finishing it. Jumping though ideas like I could read your mind or something--"

"She got into my room for the poems. You don't you think she could get into yours for the drugs? Dammit, Len, what else do you cart around with you in your suitcase? Pictures of your family? A phone book with addresses, maybe?"

Sauceda's mouth worked a minute before the words would come. "You little shit!" He lurched to life, digging out his cell phone. "You could have told me this three days ago--" He jerked the door open and tumbled out, frantically punching buttons on the cell.

Mulder bit his lip and noted Purdue beside him. "I-- I didn't put it all together straight off. I should have and I didn't--"

"Don't go there, Mulder. You're not the only one working this case. It should have been the first thing on my list. It's my responsibility."

"No! I should've--"

"No. *We* should've. *We* didn't. And you've had a hell of a lot on your mind, in case you haven't noticed." Purdue lowered his voice and ran a hand through his hair. "Let it go, Mulder. We don't have time for regrets just now." Purdue's gaze was as calm and professional as his tone, but he held it too intently, like Mulder's slightest action could reveal the secrets of life.

Mulder turned away, glancing down, and noted his hands trembling on his lap. He shoved them to either side of his chest, crossing his arms, fingers tucked out of sight. "So," he quipped hollowly, "if I confess to all this you think they'll lock me away some place safe?"

"She sashays into your apartment and kills two men and a damned kitten," the ASAC's voice was an accusation. Outside the window, Sauceda was tapping more buttons, his face not so frantic now, but determined. Purdue laid his hand on driver's seat's headrest, knuckles white as his grip tightened. "She's killed five people since she discovered you, Mulder. Everyone but her primary target. Why didn't she just kill you?"

Mulder looked away out the window, his face hard. His eyes had too much water in them suddenly. "'Cause she's cruel." His answer was bitter but he seemed to find the control he'd been looking for and turned back to Purdue. "She and I understand the same things." Purdue waited. Mulder closed his eyes against that unrelenting stare. "Death is the easy part," he explained simply. "It's living that's so damned hard."

"Is that why I'm having to treat you like a walking suicide?"

There was an uncomfortable silence and Purdue turned away from the man beside him, from the trembling shoulders and the tightly set jaw. He found nothing out the window to ease his mind, however and he turned back, his gaze rock hard as he leveled it on the young agent. "Why would she want to make you suffer, Mulder? What the *hell* is her point?" His voice was so hard Fowley flinched with the words.

Mulder considered for a long moment. He loosened his arms, allowing his hands to fall to his sides. They shook when he relaxed them, which wasn't often, but he seemed actually to draw strength from Purdue's rage; Fowley's eyes widened as she considered the fact, wondered if that was the rationale behind Purdue's hostility.

Mulder answered at last, keeping his tone neutral; his voice was steadier now. "She's suffered. She wants to share the experience with someone who comprehends it." He shifted away from Purdue's scrutiny, his fists clenched beside him. "Maybe, she's screwing me over for the psychological advantage." His own sigh shook him. "It's what I should be doing to her. Where the hell was my poem, anyway? Or did she leave two of them? One for each--" He couldn't seem to complete the sentence and slumped down into the seat, letting his head fall back against the upholstery.

The position brought his eyes up and Mulder finally seemed to realize that he had a brunette curled up in his front seat. She returned his regard with her own open appraisal. A relatively attractive woman, Fowley was accustomed to a certain level of reaction from a man, even when the male in question was merely a colleague. Mulder, however, froze beneath her gaze, the startled reflex of a deer caught in the headlights of a semi. For a moment, she thought he was seeking something in her face, recognizing someone he couldn't quite place. The intensity of his examination made her blush. His response was to pale, becoming suddenly so ashen she thought he would faint. He gasped instead, fumbling his arms across his chest once more, shuffling back away from her, pushing into the upholstery, fleeing with nowhere to go. He never broke his gaze, however.

Fowley was reminded of one of those tragic cats in the zoo, the ones that paced their cages. Sitting stock still, Mulder was roaming yet, side to side to side to side seeking that one point of weakness, that one weak link he could worry until it released him. The eyes were too bright and artificially calm-- surely, Sauceda had lied about the drugs. Fowley was, however, certain of one thing: this wasn't Mulder. This was something from "Zombies of the Stratosphere," a leftover Patterson had tossed Purdue.

Purdue needed to get his money back.

She nodded by way of salute. Mulder's response was to look away, staring out the window without really focusing, blinking rapidly.

Purdue's focus was dancing between the two of them, Mulder to Fowley, Fowley to Mulder, back. She could sense some mammoth gears turning behind those intelligent eyes.

"We get anything on Mulder's personnel records, Fowley?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head, licking her lips to recover herself. "The only record of access is from Personnel Services."

Purdue frowned. "I had Personnel call--," he glanced at Mulder, glanced away as Mulder turned and raised eyebrows at him. "Oh, this is just great," the profiler quipped, "so now you think we got a serial in Personnel Services. Shit." Fowley snorted. "You think we got someone that inventive over there?"

Mulder turned back to her, surprised. A slow smile spread across his face but it didn't reach his eyes. "Not likely." The smile disappeared as he watched her and she was blushing again, unaccountably. "Who are you?" he demanded slowly.

Purdue moved to make introductions. Fowley beat him to it, offering her hand to the profiler. Mulder didn't accept it, keeping his arms across his chest, holding himself together.

"Diana Fowley?" He seemed to be absorbing the name. "I wrote a couple of profiles once based on some of your field work. That spree killing in Westchester." He blinked, benign as a cobra. "The one the DA sent you packing on after you came up with that asinine astral projection theory."

"I've heard of your work, too," she answered neutrally. "They say you catch serials from visions. That true?"

Purdue was watching them closely. Mulder's eyes turned a deeper shade of green, the soul roaming, roaming-- "I've been told," his tone was that of a challenge, "that I can catch them because I'm as twisted as they are. You think that's true?"

She answered gravely, "I wouldn't know, Mr. Mulder."

"Do yourself a favor," his glance at Purdue was volatile and brought the ASAC to attention. "Keep it that way."

Fowley wasn't to be outdone, however, not with Purdue near at hand and paying attention. "I've also heard you don't like being called Fox, Fox."

Mulder looked like he was already losing interest in the game. He growled, embitter and tired, "You may have also heard I tend to get people killed."

She shrugged. "That's one of the charms of working Violent Crimes, Mr. Mulder. You get to meet so many violent criminals." She let her gaze flick him up and down. "Look, *I'm* no rookie, sir. I've been in this outfit seven years now. I've had my share of bad calls but I've been advanced and commended with the best of them. I'm reliable and I make damned certain that I pull my own weight. Any time you don't think so, you're free to report me."

Mulder's eyes were suddenly all wisdom. Fowley could see the wheels turning in that formidable brain, Mulder putting two and three together and finding the square root of six. She tried to mask the surge of adrenaline, biting her lip to keep the triumph off her face. She *could* do this. She could pull this off. Spooky Mulder-- Patterson's Second Coming-- was now dawning on *her* career horizon. She didn't let it bother her that he seemed less than impressed with the realization. He'd get used to the idea once he realized how valuable she could be, how much she could bring to his work. Purdue might have warned her, however. Might have warned *him.* It was suddenly glaringly obvious-- unthinkable, but obvious-- that no one had bothered to tell Mulder that his partner was bailing on him. Now he was expected to deal with betrayal on top of everything else. The sons of bitches. No one had even bothered to tell him--

Sauceda slipped back into the front seat beside her, sighing gratefully.

"How we doing, Lenny?" Purdue asked. "Everyone accounted for?"

"Yeah. Everything's okay. I'm rounding up Imelda, my daughter and her family. Dispatch is sending out a couple of agents. They should be in Memphis tonight." He licked his lips, regarding Mulder regretfully. "I'm sorry, Marty. It dawned on me-- hell, I had *your* number in that book, too. You know? *Your* address." Mulder didn't respond, studying the floorboard, scarcely breathing. Sauceda shook his head, making his confession to Purdue, now. "She never had to access Mulder's files. I handed him to her all by myself. I told you, didn't I? I told you I was too damned old, too damned stupid for this shit--"

"Lenny." The ASAC shifted in his seat carefully, a casual gesture, or an overly tired one. "Agent Mulder, Sauceda had asked me to begin making some arrangements--"

"No." Mulder's voice was low and vicious. Sauceda squeezed his eyes shut, blinking them open again as he took a shuddering breath.

"Marty--"

Mulder ignored him, intent on the ASAC. "You're not doing this."

Purdue didn't bother to look confused. He didn't bother to answer, either, waiting for Mulder to make his case.

"Damn you," the profiler growled. "I'm not doing this--" Mulder leaned forward over Fowley's shoulder, jerking the door handle. Purdue grabbed for him but Mulder shook him off, slender body slipping free of the back seat and stepping out into the sun. He'd stumbled several feet across the parking lot before Purdue managed to get Sauceda out of his way and climb out his side of the two-door.

"Agent Mulder!"

But Mulder wasn't fleeing, just seeking room to maneuver. He spun to meet Purdue's approach, body trembling with rage and fatigue. Sauceda was just a few paces behind Purdue's back and Fowley hovered near the car, waiting for some indication that she was needed.

"I'm not doing this," Mulder repeated. "Goddammit, you *know* what she does to women. What she did to Kay." He waved an arm at Fowley. "You're just giving her another target!"

Purdue's brows gathered. "How the hell do you know what she did to Kay? If Sauceda showed you that goddam file--"

Mulder's eyes were cold and feral. "Maybe," he hissed, "you boys shouldn't go jumping to conclusions about what it is I hemorrhage for."

Sauceda looked like he might faint. Even Purdue gasped, a landed fish gulping air. Fowley had heard about the so-called monkey blood and her heart was pounding.

Mulder stepped sideways toward her, keeping his focus leveled on Purdue. "How about it, Fowley?" he demanded. "You've seen the file, haven't you? Sure you have. Everyone gets a copy but me. Right?"

Fowley desperately wanted to glance over at Purdue, find some clue for the situation in the ASAC's face. Mulder was close enough to backhand her, however. Close enough that she could feel the rage pouring off him with his sweat. Even in his weakened condition, she knew Mulder's reputation well enough to understand the damage he could do. Besides, to look away would be an admission of fear, of uncertainty. Something in her told him he deserved better.

"Yes," she said calmly. "I've seen the file."

"And?"

"I've seen worse," she lied.

"What'd Purdue tell you about me?"

*Jeezus but his eyes were vicious--* Her voice was smaller than she cared for. "He told me that half of what I've heard about you isn't true."

"He lied," Mulder hissed, nodding his chin at the two men waiting him out. "He tell you I've already run one partner off and run another into the ground?"

Sauceda shifted where he stood but didn't speak. Fowley didn't answer either. Mulder took a step back, away from her, still tightly focused on the ASAC.

"What's she supposed to do that someone else can't, Purdue? You think a woman's going to settle me down?"

Purdue bit his lip and refused an answer.

"You son of a bitch."

Mulder's tone was savage. Fowley shivered but she was the closest one to him, the only one he wasn't directly angry at. If she could diffuse the situation--

"Maybe," she quipped, "he just thinks you won't take a swing at me, Fox. Like you did Lamana."

"Shit," Purdue answered absently, licking his lips, studying Mulder. "I took a swing at Lamana once myself."

"So have I," Fowley took a tentative step toward the profiler, watching Mulder's eyes, making certain they were still on Purdue. "But that's beside the point, isn't it? I think Agent Mulder deserves an answer."

Purdue paused, taking in the sight of Fowley, thin boned and elegant, her head almost touching Mulder's shoulder, she was so close. Mulder was watching her too, scarcely breathing. The profiler stepped back warily and she swallowed hard.

"Why do you want me here?" she repeated, her voice light, trying to provide a gentling force on the young agent just three feet away.

Purdue set his jaw, playing along, biding his time. "You're strong," he conceded, "you're discreet. You've got a strong stomach." He glanced back at Mulder, still addressing her. "And you usually give as good as you get."

Mulder glared at him. It was a ravenous, haunted expression, like one of those big cats in a little cage--

The ASAC turned to Fowley. "He has visions--"

"Shit!" Mulder exploded behind her and Fowley recoiled in spite of herself. Mulder's arms were back across his chest again. He looked like he was in pain this time, though. He swayed and Fowley reached out, steadying him. He flinched from the contact.

"He has visions," Purdue repeated breathlessly. He'd taken several steps forward, closing a small bit of the distance between himself and the profiler. His focus was completely on Mulder. "He has visions, Fowley, and dreams that don't just come true, they're already true when he dreams them. And they're straight out of hell." Mulder finally looked up. "They're straight out of hell," Purdue insisted, "and that's just where he'll take you when he wakes up. He'll haul you fifty miles to find a body. And three days later," Purdue was almost spitting the words, "he'll sit there and tell you it was just something his friggin' subconscious was working on."

Mulder's motions in the next moment were little more than a blur. One arm grabbed Fowley from behind, cradling her waist roughly as he jerked her against him. She gasped as his free hand groped beneath her jacket. There was the hiss of metal sliding on leather, and as the pistol cleared her holster, Fowley felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Just as quickly has he'd claimed her, Mulder shoved her away, his hand on her back like flame, searing clean through her jacket, her blouse. Purdue caught her as she stumbled, pulling her behind him. Sauceda kept his own hands in plain sight, arms half-raised, a conductor who'd forgotten his baton and was suddenly uncertain of protocol.

"Goddam you--" Mulder hissed. He stepped forward, the weapon trained on Purdue, knuckles white around the pistol grip. He held it right-handed, his left arm cradled against his chest as though paralyzed or just too numb to trust anymore. He trembled convulsively but the gun was remarkably steady, aimed straight at the ASAC's chest. "I'm not doing this, Purdue. I'm not doing this with her. You get that much straight right now."

"Marty--"

"I'll do it alone," Mulder vowed. "But I'll be damned if I do it with her. Do you understand? I'll fucking end it. Right here, right now."

Purdue's voice was a haven of calm. "Put the weapon down, Mulder. We'll talk it out--"

"I *won't* put it down and we'll still talk it out," Mulder mimicked. "I can't take this, don't you understand? I don't need anyone else dying! It's over, Reg--"

"Mulder. Listen to me. This just temporary. Sauceda's request. I just need someone to assist you. Someone to help me understand all this." He swallowed, maintaining his poise before that murderous gaze. "Diana has some experience in psychology and the paranormal. She's studied the kinds of things you're experiencing, precognitive dreaming, spontaneous bleeding--" Mulder was staring at him. Not hearing, just staring. Purdue took one step forward, motions easy, non-threatening. "Everything's fine, son. Just put the gun down."

Mulder shook his head, hefting the weapon, flexing his hand for a better hold. "Mitch was just helping, too." His face pinched with misery. "And Gregg. They're dead, goddammit!"

Purdue was inching forward carefully, never taking more than half a step at a time, steadily holding Mulder's gaze. "What are you going to do, son? You said it yourself. You don't need anyone else dying. So what are you doing with the gun? Just think about it, Mulder. Think about what you're doing."

Mulder blinked rapidly, watching Purdue's creeping advance. He took a step back, but only one and even that motion seemed to require more strength than he possessed. His knees tried to buckle in mid-step and he faltered. Purdue stepped forward, ready to assume the advantage but Mulder brought the weapon's front sight higher, trained on Purdue's head, now.

Purdue didn't halt, simply nodded, still maintaining his slow steady pace. "Are you going to kill me, Mulder?" he asked quietly, "Is that what you want?"

Mulder shook his head again, all the grief in the world constrained into one man. "Ultimately," he confessed, "she has only one target."

Purdue stopped. The muzzle of the semi-automatic trembled just inches from his forehead. Purdue's voice, his face, the stance of his body-- nothing betrayed the ASAC's studied calm. "Is that the plan, then?" he asked softly. "You finish the job for her?" He watched the muscle in Mulder's jaw work. "And then what? You kill yourself, Mulder, she'll just find another target. You have to see that, son. You know this woman. Is that what you want? All these people dead for nothing?" He straightened, took a deep breath. "I would have thought that *Kay,* at least, deserved better."

It was a cruel, calculated blow and it hit its target full in the chest. Mulder staggered under the words, the briefest conflict in his concentration and Purdue was on him, quick as a heartbeat. The ASAC grabbed for the hand that held the pistol, aiming the weapon into the air as it discharged. Mulder refused surrender, however, fueled by desperation. He twisted, slamming into the ASAC's gut with his shoulder, driving it into Purdue's left rib cage with the force of a sledge. Purdue bent double from the blow, but used the momentum of Mulder's maneuver to pull the agent forward, Mulder's back against his chest. Mulder stumbled, falling against him, and Purdue aimed a sucker punch for the young man's kidney. Fowley's Sig hit asphalt as Mulder staggered. He didn't fall, however, his left hand reaching up and back, grabbing Purdue by the scruff of the neck and he twisted yet again, finally facing the man, shoving him backward.

Purdue only barely managed not to go down. He skittered back, trying to regain his balance. Mulder pursued him, the deliberated steps of a man with unfinished business. Sauceda circled around behind him, but the fight had moved the two men into the midst of several parked cars and the pathologist paced too wide an arc to be a threat. Fowley circled the opposite direction, seeking to retrieve her weapon. Mulder ignored them both. Purdue had no such luck, however, and no such fear. He regained his footing, steadying himself against an aging Buick, then bounded forward suddenly to take a punishing swing at his profiler's jaw.

Mulder dodged it with astonishing ease, instead catching the fist with both hands, twisting Purdue's arm so hard Fowley swore she heard bone snap. Mulder held back the coup de grace however, pushing Purdue's too stiff arm and the ASAC with it, driving Purdue back against the automobile.

Purdue laid himself hard against the hood, using the smooth surface to slide along the side of the vehicle, slowing Mulder's momentum even as the younger man freed one hand to take his next swing. Purdue rolled his upper body, suddenly, letting his knees buckle down. Mulder's left fist connected with the glass of the driver's door and it cracked with the explosion of a gunshot, spider-like veins splintering through the window. Fowley gasped at the sound, racing to the near side of the vehicle. Purdue, however, hadn't pulled his own weapon and she hesitated, pistol at her side, uncertain of the plan. Threatening to shoot a man who was already suicidal didn't seem too intelligent somehow. Meanwhile, Mulder hadn't even changed expression, too far gone to even register his own pain.

Purdue launched himself from his crouched position against the fender and lunged again, wrapping his arms around Mulder's hips. The profiler, already unbalanced, flailed wildly at Purdue's back as the ASAC propelled him into the side of a nearby van. Mulder's spine and the back of his head hit glass and metal in rapid succession. There were two equally sickening thuds and he dropped to the ground, stunned.

Purdue was taking no chances and made certain Mulder stayed down, dragging the profiler flat on his back down onto the asphalt. Mulder, dazed and bleeding, still struggled, swearing frantically. Purdue held him fast, straddling him, one hand holding his right wrist tight against the pavement, the other trying to capture the bloody fist Mulder was pounding him with. Sauceda managed to do what Purdue could not, catching Mulder's left arm as he swung and pinning it down as well.

ASAC and pathologist considered one another a moment, both of them gasping. Mulder swore at them, ranting-- "You can't do this to me. You can't make me do this--" Sauceda shook his head. Mulder howled his frustration, kicking against the pavement and managing to drag himself and Purdue several inches in his effort to break free. Purdue held tight, but refused to fight any longer. He looked like he wanted to grieve, just taking it all in.

"Goddam it, Hot Sauce, give him the Thorazine--"

"But--"

"Do it!" Sauceda obeyed, waiting only for Purdue to shift his grip and take control of Mulder's right hand as Sauceda released it. The pathologist ran for the car and Fowley moved in to help Purdue but the ASAC shook his head at her. She stared down into hellishly green eyes and found no hint of recognition in Mulder's face, no whisper of human reasoning. No breath of surrender.

"Oh, Mulder," the ASAC rasped, his breathing as labored as the agent's beneath him. "God forgive us for what we've done to you."

Sauceda was back, brushing Fowley aside as he found a spot for his bag and rummaged through it. He spent another few precious seconds trying to find a suitable location for his needle.

Purdue growled, "Jeezus, Sauceda, do I have to do it myself? Move it!"

Sauceda jerked into motion, settling on Mulder's right arm, and shoved the needle through the shirt sleeve. Mulder's too tense muscles fought the syringe and Sauceda gasped at the effort it took to drive the needle in. He winced at the pain he was inflicting, and Fowley found herself doing the same, knowing Mulder was unable to do it for himself.

"NO!" Mulder gasped. "Nonononono! I'll be good, God-- I'll be good, don't do it, don'tdoitdon'tdoitdon't--"

"Sauceda," Purdue gasped as Sauceda tried to push in the plunger. "Stop."

"What the--"

The ASAC shook his head. "Don't do it. It's okay. Just-- leave him be a minute."

Sauceda's jaw worked but Mulder was quite still suddenly. The young man's eyes were wide, watching the ASAC, not even daring to breathe. There were too many emotions on his face and Fowley lost herself, trying to track them all.

Sauceda obeyed finally, pulling the syringe away without delivering the drug. He didn't bother to recap the needle immediately, settling back on his haunches as Purdue nodded down at the profiler.

"How about it, Agent?" Purdue asked levelly. "Can you hold it together now?"

Mulder seemed to take another minute to register the question. He nodded but offered no other explanation for himself.

"You okay?" Purdue asked reasonably, as dispassionate as if he were asking over the health of a distant aunt. Mulder found the strength to nod again, but Purdue waited another minute before releasing the profiler's left hand. Mulder didn't move, and Purdue released the other wrist, straightening. Another few seconds without a response and the ASAC struggled to his feet, grunting as he tugged on Mulder's limp weight.

Sauceda pitched in to help and between the two of them, they managed to get the profiler vertical. Mulder moaned several times during the process but they ignored him dutifully. Once his legs seemed steady enough, Mulder pushed them away. His actions were entirely without malice, however, and Fowley noted that the two men seemed to accept this as a kind of psychological defense rather than an overt act of aggression.

Mulder leaned against the van that had felled him, and then doubled over, his hands on his knees, gasping. Drops of sweat glistened in his hair, burning gold in the sunlight, and Fowley, standing three feet from him, caught her breath, unable to look away. Sick, half dead from grief, he was still the most beautiful man she'd ever laid eyes on. Prometheus in shirt sleeves, tormented by the gods for bearing gifts to Man. Just to look on him, wracked with pain and preferring death to life-- it was an intrusion, an act of intimacy. There was a sudden warmth in her lower abdomen and for once she was grateful not to be the object of attention.

Purdue wasn't looking too steady himself, in fact, and he backed away to lean against a car. Sauceda fished a handkerchief from his back pocket and began solemnly folding it into a longish rectangle. Mulder watched the motion of his hands, fascinated or just too tired to look away. Sauceda stepped toward him finally, the bandage ready, but Mulder moved back, matching the distance, sliding down the length of the van, still firmly focused on Sauceda's hands. He stopped when Sauceda did, slid just a bit more as Sauceda took another step. The pathologist halted, Mulder did the same. Sauceda sighed and simply offered up the bit of cloth. Mulder accepted it, still not looking up and Sauceda watched critically as Mulder wrapped the handkerchief around his hand. The bleeding was minimal, but there would be a hell of a bruise, Fowley imagined.

Sauceda shook his head, his voice low. "Dammit, Reg, I'll rot in hell before I let anyone else see him like this. Do you understand me? It's bad enough *she's* here." Sauceda looked back at the profiler, expecting some kind of reaction. Mulder didn't give him one, however, busy tending his injuries. Sauceda scowled. "We're taking him to my house," he declared, "screw the damned hotel."

Purdue grunted. "Sure, Hot Sauce. You got neighbors giving you problems?"

Sauceda opened his mouth, closed it with a grimace. "Well, shit."

Fowley found her voice at last, a suitably penitent tone. "I'm sorry, sir. I take full responsibility for this situation--"

"Jeezus Christ," Purdue moaned. "What the hell is this? A meeting of Martyrs Anonymous? We're going to the damned hotel. We'll just let him get himself together first, all right?" He crossed his arms and regarded his profiler. Mulder had straightened, still leaning against the van, and was watching the proceedings now, unconcerned, apparently, that he was being discussed like he was no longer present. "Well, son," Purdue said evenly, "it looks like you're going to get another nice long shower."

Mulder blushed and looked away, cradling his left arm across his chest unconsciously. Purdue didn't move, just watching Mulder breathe. Sauceda, for all his fidgeting, was doing the same. Fowley decided that she'd probably need drugs to deal with these two herself.

"Mulder," Purdue's voice was quiet. "I need to know what you're thinking right now."

Mulder licked his lips, pulling the sweat and grit into his mouth and running the moisture across the inside of his cheeks. "I just wanted it all to stop," he whispered hoarsely. "You know? I don't want to die." He sighed. "Not really."

"You sure?"

Mulder didn't answer, didn't look up, his face renewing its flush but his resolve was evident. "I don't know anything else to do."

Purdue clamped his jaw. "You can make me a promise. Promise me that I can trust you to live. At least until this is over."

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut, his uninjured hand clawing fingers through his hair, trying to comb through the tangle of emotion clouding his mind. He shook his head. "I can't--"

The ASAC exploded forward, slamming the profiler back against the van. He held each of Mulder's wrists tight against his chest, pinning him in place. "I made you a promise in Seattle, you little bastard. Now I want you to promise me this one thing. You promise *me*!"

Sauceda watched wide-eyed and at a safe distance. Fowley felt as though she were spying on the souls in hell, locked in their respective torments, desperate, drowning within an overwhelming tide of flame.

There was nothing Purdue could threaten that would force Mulder to comply. Nothing he could do to force the words or enforce their sanctity. How do you threaten a man who has nothing left to forfeit, not even his own sanity? The ASAC had to realize the foolishness of the effort and, indeed, it was written on his face, the muscles twisted with horror and fear. His gaze was fierce, however, determined. He would have this much. He would have his promise or kill the man. Fowley realized she was trembling.

Mulder's face, just inches away, was rapt with surprise. He searched Purdue's eyes, blinking like a startled rabbit. Whatever he discovered there seemed to be enough, however and finally, he nodded.

"A promise for a promise," he said simply.

Purdue stepped back, releasing Mulder's wrists to lay a hand against his chest, still holding him in place.

"Don't lie to me, Mulder."

The profiler looked like he'd been slapped. "Fuck you."

Purdue grinned.

Mulder glowered at him, embarrassed again. "You give me back my goddam gun."

Purdue's smile dissipated abruptly. "You, sir, give me that goddam knife." He nodded at Mulder's left leg and the profiler flushed a deeper shade of red.

"I'm not insane," Mulder insisted. "Not now."

Purdue didn't answer. He seemed to be having difficulty just swallowing. Mulder gulped air for a few minutes himself, staring into the distance, coming to some kind of decision. He held his hand out to Sauceda but didn't bother to look over at him. "Give me the keys, Len." Sauceda didn't move and Mulder growled. "Gimme the *goddam* keys."

Purdue nodded consent, and the pathologist complied, slipping the car keys into Mulder's outstretched hand. His fingers brushed Mulder's wrist as he released the bits of metal. The profiler jerked away from him, stumbling the short distance across the parking lot.

"Jeezus, Marty--"

Fowley remained quite still as Mulder passed her. She might as well have not been there for all the notice he took of her. Purdue followed him closely, ready with a steadying hand, but Mulder only staggered twice, seeming to grow stronger with each step as he paced to the back of his vehicle.

Fowley followed Sauceda, taking her place at the rear fender as Mulder slipped the keys into the lock on the trunk, reached in to unzip a duffel bag. He slung a bottle of shampoo and some damp towels into the recesses of the trunk, items that Sauceda had apparently packed for Mulder's trip to the Y. He paused a moment, his hand motionless in the bag, biting his lip as though considering his options. Purdue was silent beside him, waiting for Mulder's decision.

The profiler shook his head, a gesture of remorse, eyes shielded beneath a wisp of dark hair. He pulled a white terry cloth robe from the bag, holding it like a cloth of gold, lifting it to his face and inhaling its scent, eyes distant suddenly, and pained. Sauceda shifted, fidgeting again, and Mulder seemed to come to himself. Back from his netherworld, the profiler pushed his fingers into one of the terry pockets and turned to Purdue. His eyes looked like his soul had been ripped out, but his hand was steady as he pulled out his fist. He turned the hand over and opened his fingers. The penknife lay in his palm, closed and benign.

Sauceda blanched but Purdue didn't glance at him, studying Mulder. The young man's eyes were still hazel, still sane. Purdue accepted the weapon like a man in a trance and Mulder tossed Sauceda the robe, scarcely looking at him. The pathologist caught the garment, holding it at bay like it might bite him.

"Now, you give me back my gun," Mulder demanded.

Purdue squared his shoulders. "I can't do that, son."

Mulder's jaw worked a minute. "No. You promised--"

"No, Mulder, I didn't promise." He swallowed. "I just asked for the knife."

Mulder searched his short-term memory, his face clouding ominously.

"I'm sorry." Purdue hefted the knife, truly regretful. "You haven't left me much of a choice. You know?"

Mulder's eyes narrowed, his face grim. "Son of a bitch." He stepped back, scanning the faces around him like a thing trapped. He flinched to find Fowley standing so near, licked his lips, glancing back to Purdue. "I'm going to end this thing, Reg. One way or the other." He grimaced. "You get in my way, I'll chop you in half. *That's* a promise."

The ASAC nodded, solemn but satisfied. "You just make sure you're still standing when it's over."