"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.

"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat. "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.

"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."

- Lewis Carroll

A circle of light. A tunnel in great darkness and at its center, the resplendent blaze, radiant and pure, increasingly bright, brighter -- blinding.

The little form was drawn to it, bidden, fearful but eager, a small glowing dot against the vastness of lucent splendor, dodging this way, that, then -- decision made -- soaring for the heart of glory, whirling, rising--

Falling, a charred husk, wings folded, useless, scorched. It joined its dead and dying companions on the concrete below, their bodies still illuminated, bleach white, by the electric glow that had been their undoing. Other companions, those yet living, danced high above, awaiting their turn, vying for their entrance into the brilliance, too dazzled to heed the little mound of corpses below.

She'd watched the moths for hours as they danced before the security bulb across the parking garage. Silly little creatures. But then, aren't we all? She was no different, certainly, for here she sat, awaiting her turn with just as powerful a force.

No. A greater one.

She'd tried to convince herself that it was otherwise, that he was the moth to *her* light, bidden and seeking, eager. The truth, however, was quite the opposite; it did no good to pretend. *He* was the electric flame, deadly bright, the source which drew her forward, driving her, no other choice possible. She could no more avoid him than live without oxygen. He knew, and it comforted her that he took no pride in the knowledge, that he'd simply accepted it as a matter of course, as part of her nature. It remained unspoken between them, naturally. Even in the bar while she'd watched him eat his soup, while he'd watched her warily, appraising her with no hint of embarrassment as she sang to him. He'd been in far too much emotional pain to recognize her, too locked in grief, an ancient ache that had engulfed him long ago, long before she'd become aware of his existence.

She'd regretted that, and had come to him later, to his apartment, hoping to heal, hoping to end it for both of them. She hadn't been quite ready for death at that moment, however, and let the opportunity pass, content to simply watch him sleep, a painful, nerve-wracking activity for him, apparently. She'd availed herself of his spare car keys before she left, leaving him an earring: an exchange of personal effects as lovers are wont to do.

With her second visit he had abandoned her, called away to see to that fool in Georgetown. She'd noted her displeasure, certain he would not mistake her determination for a proper audience.

On the third visit -- although the lock was a simple affair -- she'd knocked, uncertain of the drug's effectiveness in caffeinated beverages. She hadn't been entirely disappointed when the door was answered. She'd dealt with the man quickly: a single shot, the muzzle against his chest, angling upward into the heart. He'd jerked even before she'd pulled the trigger, the result of muscles primed to flee, and the body had bounced, falling across the table.

There were two of them, though. She'd made note of the fact earlier in the evening, counting the figures through the windows as they'd crossed back and forth. So secure behind their walls, so smug, weapons ready, daring her to prove their prowess. Neither figure had been *his*, she was certain: the one too stocky, the other moving with such a total lack of grace--

With one down and one to go, she'd closed the door behind her, gliding silently into the apartment, into the living room, into *his* presence--

A blonde young man -- the stocky one -- had come barreling out at her from the bedroom. He was bleary with drugs and had the audacity to look surprised before fumbling for his gun. She'd shot him full in the face -- not as serious a wound as she would have imagined at that distance, not with a .22. Painful, yes. Oh, very. Almost completely incapacitating, in fact. Blondie dropped his weapon -- a nice semi-automatic cannon as far as she could determine -- and stumbled back the way he'd come, making small choking noises that might have been some attempt at speech. She followed calmly. No one here was going anywhere; she had all night. Blondie noted her presence behind him and panicked. He fell across the bed, misjudging distance in his agony, and tried clawing his way to the far side of the mattress. She ended the struggle with a single shot, muzzle of her Ruger against his back, a clean blast through the heart, just the way she liked it. He flopped to his back, eyes wide, glassed as a china doll's, mouth gulping fish-like for one final gurgle. She'd wiped blood from her pistol using the corner of the blanket, slipped it in her pocket and returned to the living room.

*He* was still on the couch, waiting patiently, his eyes scanning frantically beneath closed lids, locked in his accustomed harassed slumber, so still, so thin, so bruised. So beautiful she'd simply stood there, drinking him in. Only the blaring of a television commercial finally forced her to move -- a profane hawking in the death chamber. She'd located the remote, her gloved finger pressing the "mute" button. Then she'd knelt beside him. Removed her earrings. Prepared for her work. Knife poised--

And he'd breathed. One deep, lingering breath.

In the strobic glow of the television light, her blade had flashed red, green, a thousand shades of blue, and she'd stared, fascinated, as his chest rose with the process of breathing: up, up, filling with oxygen, rising steadily toward the point of the knife-- Then, even though they were surely sated, his lungs refused to fall for one long moment, tender skin waiting only millimeters from the blade, taunting death even in his drugged stupor. The exhale, an eternity later, had been just as slow, a lingering sigh, a regret. Then the chest had risen again, but it was too late: he had frozen her where she knelt. The muscles of her arm were suddenly fixed: elbow out and bent, knife clutched tightly, its tip hovering bare inches from the soft well of flesh that nestled between his ribs and sternum.

She'd sat there for over an hour. Just watching him breathe, again completely unable to touch him. She'd left him a note, more discreetly placed this time. Just something between the two of them, not meant for unworthy eyes.

This could not go on, though. This wasn't life for either of them, this dance, this waiting for Fate. He knew it as well as she did. All things being equal, he would have been out looking for her now, tracking her until she found him, but *they* wouldn't allow it. What did they know? To them, she was an evil to be captured, punished, studied perhaps. To *him,* however, she was no monster, no specimen to be bottled. To him -- she could not speak his name, would not even in her mind, it was magic, her particular magic, and called forth too much of the terrible future -- To him, she was not something to be catalogued and inventoried, filed away in his list of accomplishments, a freak. To him, she wasn't fascinating, no, not even particularly rare. To this man, she simply *was,* a separate entity quite beyond him, autonomous, sovereign. The realization thrilled her. Since childhood, she had gauged her right to live by her usefulness to another, had solidly believed that every breath had to be earned, or it was stolen. And thieves went to Hell. Her mother, haggard and exhausted, had been her proof. Her father had reminded her of the fact daily. Nightly. Her husband, too. Thus all her life, she'd breathed shallowly.

Until that night with the knife, the TV light, and the regal form upon the couch. He'd breathed deeply, hypnotically, had done it again, again, and yet again -- and finally, she'd inhaled, too. Hesitant, chest muscles jerking, abdomen tensed for impact, she'd breathed a lungful. It had choked her, left her dizzy. And she'd done it again, over and over, inhaling as he exhaled, exhaling has he inhaled, a transference of mutual need, drawing in his life as he received the last of her humanity. Then she'd risen quietly, off to leave her calling card upon the body on the bed. She saved the one on the table for last, taking special care with him since he was closest to the door. First impressions, you know. She wanted them to understand, you see, wanted them to realize that she needed no pity, no defense, no rehabilitation. This was who she was. This was what made her happy: the jerking of the knife through sinew and flesh. The give of raw tissue, the occasional grating shudder through her arm as the blade scraped bone. It was something solid and real, something beyond the various shades of numbness which defined her routine state of existence. The sensation of the blood, its warm, forbidden fragrance, the color of rubies mesmerizing with its gloss, catching light, dragging it down into itself and swallowing it whole. She had made a mark in someone's life. There was someone now who would attest to her presence in the world. Someone who could not fail to make mention of her reality.

And *this,* tonight, would be her final kill. What pleasure would there be after him? What joy could she hope for without him in the world? She would end it then, with the same gun that would take his life. The next bullet in the chamber. There was a kind of fitting tribute in it. *He* would understand. Of course, he would be dead by then, beyond understanding, but that couldn't be helped, could it? She nodded, comforted. He knew she was here, didn't he? Waiting for him. He couldn't help but know.

And she was not alone.

There were two agents in the garage, waiting with her. They were in plainclothes: jeans, t-shirts, tennis shoes. She knew they were agents, however, and prided herself with her knowledge. They'd been here most of the evening, stepping from their car occasionally to sweep the area with their flashlights, not being too obtrusive, switching their lights off quickly, their pace becoming an ambling stroll whenever a car passed through. She would watch one approach her vehicle, wait, wait, then ease herself down across the car seat, no sudden movements to reveal her presence behind the dark glass -- and he would pass, rejoin his partner with a shrug or a jerk of his head. They would then return to their own vehicle, awaiting their next sweep of the garage, awaiting the arrival of one already there.

She'd shared dinner with them. Well, not *with* them, actually, but she'd eaten when they had, enjoying her cheese sandwich, careful to keep the crumbs off the upholstery, watching as his defenders sorted through their bag of snacks. She was close enough to see the glint of light off their soda cans, too close, really, only a few parking spaces behind them. The proximity didn't overly concern her. The garage was fairly dim, dimmer still in her particular space, and the windows of the Monte Carlo were heavily tinted: she was a shadow within a shadow -- unsuspected within the shadow of these, her enemies. And in *his* car. She'd driven it from his apartment at nightfall, right out from under their noses, and parked it here, in the very belly of the beast. There was a luxurious thrill to it all that was somehow excruciatingly satisfying.

The shift change had come a few minutes after nine. She'd watched the activity across the expanse of the garage: the arrival of a dark green Impala. Her two companions crawled from the depths of their nondescript Buick and converged on the new arrivals, comparing notes, giving reassuring nods. One man had laughed deeply, the sound resonating in the concrete cave of cars. His partner had yawned, stretching kinks from his back, and she'd caught a glimpse of the weapon on his belt, the holster a deep shadow against khaki slacks.

The changing of the guard. The prince, then, was still within, held hostage in his small kingdom just three floors above. A world away. Another forbidden thrill shuddered through her, and she closed her eyes to revel in it, breathing deeply, filling her head with the fragrance of new car leather and the lingering scent of aftershave, both equally dark and masculine. Her right hand snaked out to stroke the leather of the seat beside her, her left hand raising to caress her headrest. His head had rested here, and now hers shared the same pillow. The very seat that had received his body -- how many times? -- now cradled hers and the thought made her blood pound. The vehicle was more than simply his. It was him. Or at least as much of him as she'd allowed herself to enjoy. Until now. Outside, the conference continued. Only the sound of an engine starting brought her eyes open, her focus reluctantly returning to the task at hand.

The Buick pulled away with one hand waving from a window. There was no answering hand from the Impala. It took the Buick's place, backing in deftly, engine cutting after a brief moment, lights off immediately after. Her two new companions wasted no time: the garage echoed with the click of a car door, the dome light bathing both men as they crawled free of the vehicle, dimming again as the doors shut simultaneously.

The driver was the older of the pair, the short-lived light had revealed some gray in his sideburns. The face he had turned briefly toward her was calm, long in the chin but handsome. He was dressed better, too, long dark trench coat, a turtleneck and dark slacks. Very distinguished. She liked him instantly. She would kill him first, she decided, coming up on his side of the vehicle and shooting him in the back of the head, or at least as far back as his headrest would allow. She'd take the other one out with a shot to the face before he could get his gun free. She didn't have anything against him personally, of course: he was shorter, huskier, the sweater type, apparently. He reminded her of her husband. Shooting him would be easy. She imagined the series of expressions he would regard her with -- surprise, dismay, horror -- just before she pulled the trigger. One clean shot would do it, she was certain. And she knew, even as excited as she was, she wouldn't miss.

Practice makes perfect.

Mutt and Jeff fanned out through the garage, flashlights at the ready, Mutt heading to her right, Jeff to her left. Her eyes followed Jeff and his long, confident strides, coat flowing regally. She lost sight of him as he took a turn into the darkness. She waited patiently, noting his progress by the bobbing halo of his light as it swept along the walls, the beam narrowing, widening, winking this way and that.

The flash of another beam caught suddenly in her rearview mirror, so intense she saw stars temporarily. Mutt was approaching from the rear, his own beam twisting, looming larger, closer -- much too close. She waited until the light had swept right before collapsing abruptly down onto the passenger seat, silently cursing the gearshift as she slammed a rib against it. The light swung again, closer now, mirrors reflecting its progress in stereo, right to center to left, the beam reflecting and illuminating the interior of the car, her face and hands glowing hot white -- she just knew it, hot white -- against the soft black leather of the Monte Carlo. She cringed, willing herself smaller, smaller, smaller still, hands clenched against her dark sweater, face buried into the upholstery, heedless of oxygen, heedless of all but that damned searching, omniscient, omnivorous bulb. Footsteps echoed. Nearer -- pausing suddenly, leaving the blood pounding against her forehead, slamming against her ears.

Her eardrums would burst. They would burst and the blood would run to the seat, filling the little hollows stitched into the leather. Surely, they had burst already, she imagined--

The shoes outside scuffed concrete, shuffling uncertainly.

And then suddenly, she was in the dark again.

It took her an eternity to realize he'd switched his flashlight off. Of course he had: the better to draw his weapon -- he made no sound, however, no demands, there was no sudden slamming into the vehicle, no shout for compliance. The shoes rasped, pacing to the hood of the car, pausing again.

Even expecting it, she jerked as a voice rang out:

"Got anything?"

The voice came from the area of the front right fender. Mutt, but--

Jeff, nearer than before, but still approaching: "Nah. You?"

"Nada."

She had to force herself to breathe, to render enough oxygen to her brain to process her rare and marvelous good fortune.

Mutt was blind as a bat.

She blinked, uncertain whether to believe her luck, wondering at some trick, some SWAT procedure that might be playing out at her expense. The shoes at the fender, however, scuffled again, away, further, distancing. An answering pair of soles -- Jeff -- approached calmly, and she waited. A car door snapped open, closing a moment after, the sound echoing like a shot within the concrete cavern, another door closing immediately after it, softer, but no less final. In the silence: the far-off wail of a siren, it, too, growing increasingly distant.

She lifted her head. Her shoulders. Eyes just high enough for her vision to clear the dash. Mutt was digging in the back seat. She licked her lips, stopped breathing temporarily as he righted himself, a flash of metal in his fist. A soda can. Jeff laid his seat back slightly, his head bobbing as he sought a more comfortable position.

She wasted no time clambering for the back seat.

Horn blaring, Purdue jerked hard to the right, engaging his brakes. The Mercedes continued its illegal left-hand turn in front of him, never slowing, headlights hazy as they swept his rain-drenched windshield. The ASAC blinked against the glare, peering after the vehicle as it passed.

*Damned diplomatic plates --*

High-beams flashed in his rearview mirror, reminding him that he was now stopped in an intersection with his side of the traffic light still green. He nudged his Chrysler forward, grateful that the hotel was already in sight. He really should have gotten some sleep before deciding to take over this shift.

*Sleep. Yeah. I knew there was something I was forgetting this week.* His cell phone buzzed to life and he pulled to the curb in front of the Embassy Suites.

*God, please--* Please let it be Jack Heller, reporting that his boys at Dulles had Fuche in custody. Or maybe a similar report from Mills whose team was blanketing the Metro system.... Purdue had units at Union Station and National Airport as well -- some of the most highly-skilled investigators on the planet at his disposal, yet every hour on the hour they'd managed to call in with the same pertinent detail: nothing. Their primary suspect had vanished from the face of the earth.

Purdue slammed the Chrysler into park and pounced on the phone, fumbling for the button, the lights of a delivery truck temporarily blinding him as it passed. As days go, this one had been forty-one flavors of hell and it wasn't over yet.

It wasn't Heller. Nathan Harris' voice, too tinny through the electronics of the phone, greeted him instead.

Purdue slumped against his car seat. He had resorted to pestering Harris for long-distance updates, trying to assuage his increasing despair. So far, Harris hadn't bothered to rub his nose in his misfortunes; in fact, the detective had endured Purdue's harassment with unusual grace. Personally, Purdue would have preferred a good cussing, anything to distract from the fact that he had failed to locate their assiduous Sisyphus.

Harris, of course, could afford to be magnanimous: the Columbus PD had extended him every courtesy, even inviting Harris to be guest of honor as their forensic unit processed Fuche's home. Purdue's gut had ached to join them on-site, but he'd endured the ulcer stoically.

"What you got?" Purdue barked the question, instantly regretting it. Harris was working his butt off. He at least deserved a "Hey."

Harris allowed the oversight to pass, however, brimming over with information and eager to deliver. He'd spent the evening at their suspect's home: a meticulously ordered little nest in one of Columbus' quieter south side suburban neighborhoods. Now, they not only had receipts placing Fuche in Wheeling at the time of each murder, they had mementos: Mr. Businessman's cigarette lighter, Officer Kress's missing class ring. There were other items, too, each one lovingly displayed in a china cabinet in the living room: a tie pin, coins, a bottle cap, a spoon matching the pattern of silverware from apartment 304 --

"We've got more mementos than we have bodies, though, Reg. And I don't think it's just because she took more than one item from some of her victims. Tell Mr. G-man his theory was dead on: she's well-practiced. So far, we've got another five unsolved murders we might be able to close with this one. Columbus is checking their books--"

Purdue let him ramble unhindered, suddenly consumed with the image of more recent victims, those Sisyphus hadn't had time to commemorate on her brag shelf. Purdue chewed his lip with the thought: Mr. American Lit -- as Mulder insisted on calling him -- Seilman... What mementos had Fuche treasured from them? Or-- sweet Jeezus, what had she taken from Mitch, from Gregg? A key? A lapel pin? Purdue tried to picture the young agents. What had they worn that evening that the ERT wouldn't know to account for? Had Mitch been wearing his class ring? What might Gregg have had in his pockets--?

Even Purdue's deepest concentration, however, rendered the two men as little more than a blur of nondescript jeans and pullovers. The realization hurt. Mitch had been with Purdue's team for the better part of a year, Gregg transferring into VC only a month later. Yet Purdue saw clearly only one image from that night: Mitch's earnest face in profile, head bowed as he took dictation from Sauceda, Gregg behind him -- Gregg forever standing behind, last, like it was his rightful place in life -- Gregg standing behind him, calmly blinking. Had their faces been any clearer to Sisyphus? Had she taken note before she planted her bullets? Had she even looked at their faces, even if only to relish the terror in their eyes as their lives had flashed before them, fleeting, fleeing, gone?

Purdue repressed his grief, compelled by the extended silence on Harris' end of the connection. He rubbed at the tension behind his eyes.

"What is it, Nat? What else?"

The detective hesitated. Purdue hadn't bothered to conceal the anguish in his voice. Harris had other concerns, however.

"Reg, she... she had Mulder's badge. And a pack of cigarettes with his prints. She'd scarfed a page of a report he was working on, too, framed it, probably to preserve his handwriting." There was another pause on the line; Purdue waited it out, concentrating on keeping his breathing even. "Mulder was the central focus on the shelf," Harris said the words with some amazement. "The items from the other victims were laid out around his stuff like offerings at some kind of religious shrine."

"It fits, Nat. She rearranged her focus when she found Mulder." Purdue's explanation was quiet, the result of fatigue more than patience, his grief firmly checked. "She read that damned article in the 'Sun' and reordered her entire history. Now she's got someone to share with." Purdue wasn't trying to pin blame, just stating facts, and Harris didn't burden him with another apology about his choice in media hounds.

The detective cleared his throat, a quick, quiet rasp through the line. "Kay's heart was in the freezer. In a Tupperware bowl."

Purdue leaned his head against the window, rain and the thump of his wipers drowning out the static of the cell phone. Kay's missing heart had been one reason he'd refused to let Mulder see the report. *One* reason.

A van passed, driving too fast and in serious need of a dimmer switch. Purdue closed his eyes against the onslaught of headlights. His lids lit red, translucent, then quickly black as the vehicle sped on. He kept his eyes shut, wrapping himself in the darkness, bright dots of remembered light dancing hypnotically across his blindness. Water splashed the window; with his head resting against the glass, Purdue could feel the impact of each droplet, small explosions, microscopic worlds destroyed with every passing second.

"How's the kid holding up, Reg?" Harris' voice tickled in his ear. Purdue could feel the echo of the words invading his brain, living beings, savage electric marauders he had no defenses for.

"Reg? You there?"

Purdue didn't answer immediately, busy replaying life as he currently knew it. Earlier in the evening, cell phone in hand, he'd reached his limit. Without thought, without plan, Purdue had driven the thirty-five miles to Quantico and cornered Bill Patterson in his lair, a cluttered basement office wallpapered with photos of some of VICAP's most notorious cases -- solved and unsolved. Patterson had been as insufferable as ever, of course. Feet on his desk, he'd cleaned his nails with a letter opener, making the ASAC wait while he completed a call to Frank Black. Black was in the field, apparently, profiling a case somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. Purdue was quick to note that Bill had called Black; he noted, too, that Patterson's call didn't appear to be much welcomed.

Patterson didn't seem to discern the fact, however, and Purdue marveled, not for the first time, that a man so well-versed in abnormal human behavior could perceive so little in his less criminal associates. Or maybe he just didn't care. Purdue opted for the latter, especially as Patterson's steely gaze swept over him, intent as an entomologist with a new species of bug to pin on his display. Unfortunately for Patterson, disaster had Purdue fairly well numbed now; the ASAC's feigned nonchalance had come easy. Patterson, realizing he was irritating no one but Black, cut the conversation short.

With the master profiler off the phone, Purdue didn't bother with all the niceties. He told him about Mulder: the mood swings, the dreams, the case. Kay. To his credit, Patterson had listened -- truly listened. Deep beneath the bluster and the bullshit, Patterson seemed to have a genuine, if grudging, concern for his former protégé. It surprised the hell out of Purdue. And frightened him a little.

Not that the man wasn't cagey. Patterson was holding out, all right; his answers were cautious, his body language betraying nothing. Purdue, watching him, edited his list of symptoms carefully. Patterson's eyes slit almost shut -- he smelled the rat -- but Purdue didn't relent.

*You show me yours, Bill, I'll show you mine.*

Patterson licked his lips, hungry for what Purdue had not revealed. Purdue'd be damned before he'd speak the words, though. The monkey blood. Patterson knew about it, surely, Purdue had no doubt of it. Patterson, like God Almighty, knew everything, except perhaps the current addresses of the FBI's Most Wanted -- and he was working on those. Patterson wouldn't give Purdue the pleasure of admitting to the knowledge, however, which spoke volumes. Purdue was willing to wager that the man knew what Mulder had for breakfast this morning.

Patterson did ask, however, if Mulder had been looking through other cases, if he'd been exposed to any files that might be preoccupying him. He glowered as Purdue denied it.

"*Specifically*," he growled, "anything that would have excited a strong *visual* connection: photographs, physical evidence, as opposed to something he'd merely heard. *Maybe,*" his voice had a way of raising its eyebrows, "Mulder's actual *presence* at a crime scene?"

Purdue felt himself flush hot under that all-knowing glare, and recalled Fredricksburg: a grave in an empty lot, Mulder's hand, long, sensitive fingers laid across the chest of skeletal remains-- and Patterson nodded sagely. Damn the son of a bitch, he'd known about that little incident, too. And why not? The entire Bureau was buzzing with it: Spooky Mulder had gone for a Sunday drive and delivered thirteen bodies... Thirteen corpses, the work of one serial killer. Yet somehow, Purdue had failed to consider the incident even remotely relevant. It was past history, wasn't it? Over and done with, the Fredricksburg PD refusing the Bureau's offers of assistance.

He should have known better. *You screwed up, Reg. Just when you thought you were paying attention...*

Admitting nothing, Patterson purred. "They haven't caught their killer yet. You realize that, don't you?" And he'd picked up his pen, shifting papers on his desk. The audience, apparently, was terminated.

The pen hesitated as Purdue stood, however. Patterson spoke without lifting his head.

"Mulder hasn't let it go." The words were spoken with resolute indifference but the tip of the pen wavered. "He doesn't know how."

Purdue had shown himself out of the office, his steps pursued by the furious scratching of that pen.

"He knows more than he's saying, Reg." Harris' voice had finally eaten its way through to Purdue's spine. "I'm not implying he's irresponsible or anything, whatever it is he's not telling probably won't help the investigation. But five'll get you ten, that young man has more going on in his head than he's got words for. You -- you keep an eye on him, my friend."

Purdue offered some lie about being called away and disconnected the line abruptly. He didn't need Patterson, or Harris, three hundred miles away, reminding of what his own gut kept screaming.

He rammed the vehicle into drive and fled the rain for the relative quiet of the parking garage. The Chrysler's tires squealed and Purdue backed off the engine and pulled onto the first level. His fists tightened on the wheel reflexively, suspicious as a figure strode out of the darkness toward him. His headlights focused on Agent Chris Lamott, flashlight in hand, staring at him just as suspiciously. Purdue rolled down his window, allowing the agent to identify him and Lamott waved him on with an apologetic shrug. Purdue chose a spot close to the elevator and headed for the hotel lobby without bothering for a report.

How many versions of "nothing happening here" could he expect, anyway?

She saw the Chrysler but almost failed to recognize it. In the muted fluorescents of the garage it was an unexpected smoky silver. When she'd seen it earlier today, though, the paint had been powder blue. She'd thought then that it looked like the type of car a man would buy for his wife: powder blue exterior, deep blue interior. Certainly, it was the antithesis of Mulder's cherry-red-with-black-interior sports sedan. She liked the silver better, she decided. Not that anyone was asking.

Jeff had noted the vehicle, as well. He and Mutt had been engaged in one of their prowls, circling the garage with their perpetual flashlights. After that first sweep, they had stuck mostly to the periphery of the garage, not bothering to do much more than cast a beam of light down the rows of vehicles. Sisyphus had taken to simply sliding down lower in the seat rather than tucking and diving every time a blast of light hit her rearview mirror. She was slumped down now as Jeff's radio sputtered to life. From where she sat, Mutt's voice was little more than static, like one of those drive-through burger joint clowns. Mutt might have been saying: "It's Purdue and he's pissed." What she heard sounded more like, "extra pickles, hold the cheese." Whatever the message, it had Jeff on the alert and moving to intercept the ASAC's car.

Purdue wasn't interested, however, and waved Jeff back with a flick of his hand. He found a spot well across the garage and parked with a squeal of brakes, the car jerking as he slammed the gear home. Jeff needed no further motivation to head back for his Buick, and Mutt wasn't long in joining him. Purdue, his dark face closed, proceeded to the elevator, shaking the wrinkles from his coat as he paced. He disappeared into the elevator, heading safely upstairs, and only then did Mutt's shoulders slump in relief. She watched from her vantage point as the two men debated the significance of the arrival. Sisyphus chewed her lip, engaged in her own thoughts. She had the two of them, now. Purdue *and* that woman. It could be done, though, no question. She'd simply have to bide her time and think it through a bit more carefully --

A piercing squeal brought her upright. In the silence of the garage, there was no disguising the rasp of metal on metal. It echoed through the cavernous structure, and the agents in the car in front of her were on instant alert, heads bobbing and twisting. Sisyphus slid across the back seat, squinting into the darkness, waiting. The squeal had ceased almost the second it had begun, and now it resumed, softer this time, slower, furtive. By the time it had stopped again, she'd located its source: with her forehead pressed quite hard against the passenger side window she could just make out the corner of a metal grate lying on the concrete several rows over. It was near the wall, suspiciously close to a bulky array of metal shafts anchored to the concrete. As she stared, a shadow fell across the grate, a great lumbering form that seemed to unfold itself endlessly.

Her heart skipped several beats. He had escaped to her. He'd grown tired of waiting and had taken matters into his own hands, fleeing to her just as she'd known he would, as he surely knew he must.

She slipped the .22 from her sweater pocket, cursing herself. She should have killed the agents already, but she preferred working the hours just before dawn and had feared their being missed too soon.

Even now, she was too late. Mutt and Jeff were already on the move, slipping out of their vehicle soundlessly. With their guns at ready, she didn't have a prayer of intercepting them. She wasn't that good a shot at this range and knew it. She might hit one and be dead before he hit the ground, shot by his partner. Damn--

Perhaps *he* would provide the distraction necessary. She licked her lips, watching the shadow growing against the wall. It was a viable plan: she'd wait until Mutt and Jeff had subdued him for her, cuffed him, as surely they would: a violent man kept in control for his own safety and the safety of others. Suitably distracted, and at closer range, she could take them both out quickly while he watched. A final proof of her intentions, if he needed one. A further display of her competence and devotion.

She waited her cue, watching Jeff stalk silently, trench coat billowing like a cape as he moved into position, ready to intercept from the left. Mutt did the same, taking a more loping direction to the right. She checked the chamber of her revolver and snapped off the Monte Carlo's dome light before sliding to the far door. Jeff and Mutt were keeping their eyes trained on the great hulking shadow struggling free of the ventilation shaft. She could do this. She could slip out of the car and stay low behind it, then simply skip from car to car, carefully, of course, until she was upon them --

She could see Jeff's shoulders relax. He shifted his weapon to only one hand, holding it low and unthreatening. If it had been Sisyphus emerging from the vent, he'd have shot her as soon as look at her -- the certainty of that fact sent a thrill of pleasure through her, a gathering warmth low in her hips that grew increasingly more distracting as she eyed her prize: the tall, slim figure surprised in the shadows.

She slipped out the door, and paused, crouched low, panting with exhilaration. Mutt was speaking, a deep and well-modulated baritone she hadn't expected somehow. She couldn't catch the words, there was still too much of an echo left from the thunder, but the intent of the tone was clear enough: firm, in control without being threatening. We're-all-just-family-here-and-we're-taking-you-back-home-now. She chanced a glimpse over the fender.

Mulder was a figure of darkness, shades of gray, and she only barely made out the shape of his head, his face turning as he sought out Jeff to his right. Finding him, he shrugged a greeting. The echoes had silenced but he spoke softly, a barely distinguishable tenor: "...musta taken a wrong turn over the kitchen..." The rest was a vague mumble.

Mutt laughed good-naturedly as the voice fell silent. He swung his gun hand lazily as he gestured, the muzzle pointed down and away. Jeff smiled, too, holstering his weapon as he stepped forward to take the profiler into custody, shaking his head --

And Mulder shot them.

Both.

A surprisingly quiet "pop-popping" noise left Sisyphus blinking, the blast of the bullet striking fire as it left the muzzle. The ignition of gunpowder lit the scene like a strobe light, shadows dancing in four dull flashes. Mutt jerked first, scrunching down slightly as the bullet hit his chest, then straightening up as the second bullet plowed a hole between his eyes. This was the instinctive, rapid-fire chest/head shot of a trained assassin. Sisyphus had read her share of Jack Higgins. She knew these things. Jeff took one to the chest before he could bring his weapon to bear; the second shot missed his chest, though, slamming into his shoulder. He spun as he fell, landing on his side, stunned, revolver skittering across the concrete.

Through it all, Sisyphus remained quite still. It *wasn't* him after all, not her Mulder-- a most disappointing realization. The muzzle blasts had illuminated a young face, and a handsome one, certainly, but the nose was wrong, the hair color, the jaw-line. By the second shot she was certain of it. Not *him.* Not the man she'd come to collect.

The stranger scanned the garage, seeking more takers, and she hunched low against the car. *Oh, my dear, you have no idea...*

A soft shuffle had her chancing another glimpse. He was examining the bodies, kneeling briefly, glancing this way, that way, as practiced fingers probed along the sides of each victim's jaw. She watched, fascinated, straining to distinguish the shadows more clearly. A car approached, exiting one level for the next, following the twisting roadway through the garage, headlights raking the wall, never slowing. In the temporary floodlight, the stranger moved to Jeff's body and took the agent's head in his hands. It was a loving gesture, palms against Jeff's cheeks, long fingers trailing back into the lush head of hair. The stranger took one final glance across the garage, then jerked, delivering a sharp twist to Jeff's neck as the light failed, the vehicle passing on to its destination, oblivious.

Sisyphus slipped back into the Monte Carlo as the young man stood. A final glance, this way, again, and then that way, as he zipped his leather jacket, and all was well once more. He was simply any young man, striding confidently, not too-hurriedly, across the garage, no doubt in search of his car. He approached the Monte Carlo, hands fisted in his pockets against the evening chill, but she didn't bother to hide this time. He strode within four feet of her, never seeing, and she allowed him to pass, unmolested, her weapon undisturbed on the seat beside her. She could recognize a kindred spirit when she saw one. That was why she was here, after all.

Besides, he'd done her a favor, hadn't he? He'd shown her the way in.

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Photo courtesy of Luvmulder

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