Mulder did not take the expected detour onto the Beltway. Instead, he continued west on I-66, averaging speeds of 75 and 80 miles per. He maneuvered carefully, making no attempts to shake his escort.

Purdue stubbornly remained the center vehicle of the chase, Virginia Highway Patrol and Fairfax County Sheriff's vehicles fanning out behind and before him, left and right as traffic allowed. No one wanted Cecile Fuche panicking, but the weather rendered helicopter tracking an impossibility, and dropping back to allow Mulder room to breathe was not an option Purdue was willing to take. The slick roads allowed few opportunities for forcing a safe stop. State troopers informed Purdue that they were preparing a roadblock just east of Centreville. Traffic, such as there was at this ungodly hour, was being diverted.

Purdue's responses to the updates were short but grateful. He would take what hope he could. He'd chosen the Embassy Suites himself, worked the routine to a fine science, yet this woman had taken the place by storm, killing four agents in the process, butchering one while Purdue sat in the next room--

He gripped the wheel, hands numb but holding desperately. Sauceda's presence was heavy in the car, real as his own breath. If he glanced over he would find blood on the floorboard, Lenny in the passenger seat, holding his guts together, slamming his hand against the dash. *Faster, dammit! Drive!*

Purdue didn't glance over. Didn't want to see the seat, empty or not. Grief was not someone he wanted in control of the wheel right now. Not in a high speed chase with rain relentless against his wiper blades.

He tried to imagine what was going on in the vehicle ahead. Water sheeted the rear window of the Monte Carlo, reflecting the emergency lights in a cycling kaleidoscope, and he could catch only the occasional glimpse of Mulder's dark head. He noted Sisyphus's position when the effect cleared sufficiently; she was a second head upon Mulder's shoulder, merging, her proximity a weapon as unnerving as any knife--

Then they were gone again in a wash of cold blue, red, and horrific yellow.

What was it like, he wondered? What was it like to be Mulder, to know what he knew and to find such a creature breathing in his ear? What was it like to recall that endless parade of snapshots, crime scenes, victims discarded, splayed in all their horror... And to know that, despite all hope, you were next. You were *now.*

Purdue's foot ached to accelerate. Suicide by cop, Mulder had warned him. She'd go out in a blaze of glory, taking as many as she could with her. And Purdue had no doubt: Mulder would be number one on the list.

Purdue had seen a great deal in his career. Some people, he'd learned, kill by wholesale slaughter. Some kill just a piece at a time, preferring the lingering afterburn of psychological butchery. This one had done both, destroying Mulder by degrees, whittling him away, bit by bit, with every victim, every cut of her blade. Murder on the installment plan. And now she would finish the job. Her persistence was a matter of record. Nothing would keep her from her appointed desire.

But Purdue would be damned if he'd just sit back and watched her.

The Monte Carlo changed lanes ahead, drifting slowly left. The trooper out Purdue's window and slightly ahead, drifted with him, maintaining as much of the distance as possible, a patient pace car. The deputy behind Purdue did not fill the space, allowing the ASAC to change lanes as well.

The play of light across Mulder's window cleared briefly and Purdue caught another glimpse into the Monte Carlo: Mulder's head visible above his headrest, Fuche's head and shoulders an indistinct lump beside him, arm wrapped around Mulder's bucket seat. The sight, although expected, made Purdue's heart shudder against his ribs. Mulder's head moved, a quick check of his side mirror, then forward again, returning his focus to the windshield.

Purdue recalled a similar movement suddenly: Mulder laying across the bed -- what? a half hour ago? -- under duress, under attack. And turning his head briefly. A refusal, not open to negotiation.

And what of that refusal? What was it he had refused, and to whom? A ghost? A phantom of his own mind?

No. A breakdown, he could understand, he'd seen the results, the razor cuts, the oozing wounds across Mulder's thighs, tokens of desperation. The hemorrhaging, too -- an extreme psychological manifestation of stress, right?

But what psychological aberration was capable of changing air pressure or...

Or forming knee prints in a mattress?

*Sweet Jeezus...*

What was he saying? That Mulder's behavior had simply been a sane response to insanely impossible phenomenon? Did Purdue dare believe...

Believe... what, exactly?

The view into the Monte Carlo vanished, lost in mists of red and gold. Purdue concentrated on his breathing, alternately tensing and relaxing his hands on the wheel, trying to restore feeling. *You don't have time for this right now, dammit. Right now you've got a psychopath with a gun. A one-woman plague that functions without restraint of conscience.*

The weapon pinching against his spine was an accusation: *Mulder has no weapon. You made certain he had no weapon--*

Purdue grit his teeth, willing the voice into silence.

"I'm sorry, Lenny. I didn't know...."

He spoke the words and they were sincere, but too hollow to persuade even himself. No redemption here. No such gifts deserved.

They passed an aging Pontiac, the driver's rheumy eyes staring wildly as the convoy swirled by, a vast beast of lights and riotous sound. Mulder resumed the middle lane after a respectful distance and the escort followed suit, everyone nice and cordial.

Purdue's calf muscles clenched, spasming with the effort to keep his foot steady on the accelerator. A sign loomed out of the bombarding rain: "Centreville 6 Miles."

"Play to it, Mulder," Purdue whispered. "Play to her fantasies. Make her let you live long enough for us to reach you."

Her fingers brushed the edge of his collar, his neck, slid languidly across his collarbone, down a few inches, rubbing lightly at the soft hairs curling above the V-neck of his sweater.

Her hands were cold as death. And why had that surprised him? Typically, psychopaths had inordinately low blood pressure; if he ran an EEG on her, the results of that would not be normal, either. At least that much of ViCap's research was not open to speculation.

Such trivia should serve to keep him calm, he supposed. But it didn't. Sisyphus was too excited. It radiated off her like body heat, suffocating him. He pried his right hand from the wheel, leaden fingers seeking the air vent controls. He felt her watching him, her breathing, carefully controlled, growing increasingly rapid.

Her hand slid down under his sweater, probing. She found his left nipple and he forced himself not to flinch as she lingered there, teasing. Her breath was too warm against the right side of his neck. Oxygen, heavy with rain, blasted at him from the dash but he was unable to inhale. He could do little more than whisper.

"We need to be looking for a sign."

"A what?" More hot breath against his neck, another languid kiss that made his skin crawl.

He spoke louder, needing to be heard over the barrage of rain on steel, the wipers, and the hum of the engine. His voice was harsh, too highly pitched, alien in his own ear.

"I said, we need to be looking for a sign. An exit sign."

He felt her frown but steadfastly refused to glance at her in the rearview. The physical assault was enough; he didn't need to see, didn't need to watch this macabre seduction.

Another kiss, wet this time, the barest tip of her tongue on the crease of flesh behind his earlobe. He bit his lip as she giggled. Coppery taste of blood in his mouth. She'd want to share that, too--

*Stop the car. Just stop the goddam car. Right here and let them finish it. Finish her. Four open lanes and -- what was it now -- five cars following? No way she walks away from this, no way she escapes--*

But he'd be dead before she crawled out of the car. She'd be certain of that shot. And she had the patience and presence of mind to be certain of a couple of more before she died, too.

Funny how precious life turned out to be when death is breathing down your neck. And giggling.

A rise in the road. The Monte Carlo climbed the slight incline with no noticeable change in the engine; they might just as well been airborne.

Mulder's eyes narrowed as the vehicle hit the crest of the rise. A flash -- a row of lights in the far distance -- gone as quickly as it was glimpsed.

Something wrong about the lights. Something odd. It hit him as soon as the words formed in his head. Red and white lights. Blue lights above, but red and white below. Police cars, trooper's cars, red rear lights, white *headlights,* scattered, a staggering pattern across the road. Mulder checked his rearview: the vehicles behind were falling back, not much, but noticeable.

"Roadblock."

That brought the lovemaking to a distinct halt. Sisyphus jerked her head up and pushed back, gun still tight against the back of his head -- he had a throbbing headache centralized just there -- and surveyed the view out the back window. The muzzle shifted a few millimeters and she was back at his shoulder again, peering out at the road ahead, wipers slinging water furiously.

"Where, dammit! Where is it?"

"Ahead a few miles, I think. It's hard to judge--"

"I'll kill you before you get this damned thing stopped. You understand? I'll--"

"I get it, Cecile--"

"You get it," she mimicked, mouth twisting as he glanced at her in the mirror. She had a face that was more interesting than pretty, petite enough to be deceptively fragile, but her strength was belied by the way she moved. Her face, suddenly twisted with anger, was inhuman, washed with cycling reflections of blue and red and the occasional yellow.

Jeezus. He'd wound up in someone's acid dream...

"You *get* it," she hissed. "I don't *care* if you *get* it. Just *get* us out of here! I won't stand for any more of your tricks!"

"Tricks? Shit!" Mulder exploded with too much pent-up energy, too much fear. He slammed his open palm against the steering wheel and she jerked reflexively. "Tricks? I'm the one telling you we need to find a fucking exit, bitch. This is not a goddam trick." He couldn't resist. "*Get* it?"

She stared at him, and he risked another glance at her face. She was livid, mouth forming words that would not come, bottom lip trembling with rage.

"I have the gun," she managed finally.

"You've got the gun," Mulder nodded. His explosion had quieted him, energized him into a calm certainty. He had a plan. Somewhere under all this mess, he had a plan. The problem was staying alive long enough to figure out what it was. "Yeah, you've got the gun," he acknowledged, cut his eyes at her sharply. "And I've got the wheel."

She stopped breathing for the space of three heartbeats. There was a sharp intake of breath as realization dawned.

"I'll kill you."

"And I'll take you with me. Use that gun and we both die. Your choice."

"Stop the car!"

Did he detect a hint of panic? "No."

His seat shuddered as she slammed her body against it, the muzzle of the .22 shoving him sideways. The wheel shuddered in his hands. The slick pavement and their speed magnified the shift in steering and she tumbled back, weapon finally falling away from his skull as she lost her balance at the edge of the seat. Mulder tapped the brakes, righting the car, and the muzzle was back against his neck in the next heartbeat. He regained speed, restoring the rhythmic *pa-pump... pa-pump... pa-pump* of the tires rolling across the concrete spacers of the road.

"Don't do that again." She was panting. Mulder considered: self-preservation was a powerful force. Quite possibly the only true emotion she understood.

A sign. At last, a sign: "US 50," and a smaller sign attached above it: "Airport." Mulder changed lanes abruptly, sending the trooper's car at his right taillight scrambling to compensate. The trooper dove for the paved shoulder and then overcorrected, hydroplaning back across the highway, into the headlights of the remaining escort. Tires squealed behind him as vehicles scattered, trying to avoid the inevitable collision.

Mulder cursed beneath his breath, tapping his brakes once more. One trooper's car passed him, overshooting him, a second close behind. Mulder jerked his wheel hard to the right, taking the exit, and suddenly it was all behind him, cycling lights abruptly gone. Even the direction of the rain had shifted, pounding his side of the vehicle harder now. His headlights sought the route: US 50, another four-lane, widening to six, heading northwest. The little town of Pender flew past, a blur. The spacers raced away under them now, *pa-pump, pa-pump, pa--*.

Headlights in his rearview. The familiar cycling of red and blue. The rising scream of a siren.

Sisyphus dropped all pretense of holding the gun to his head. Perhaps she was just too busy trying to stay upright. Mulder didn't know what she was doing. Didn't care. He was doing eighty-five and finding it difficult to hold the wheel steady on the slick asphalt.

The road dipped slightly, rose again. Two sets of headlights followed them now, washing the rear window with their combined glare: a trooper's car, and another vehicle without emergency lights. Both holding steady.

*Shit.*

Sisyphus' head popped back up at his shoulder, blocking his view. "This isn't the plan!" she hissed, teeth clenched defiantly. "This isn't how it's supposed to go!"

"So adapt."

His growl, only half-considered, was followed by a long, intense silence. He chanced a glimpse at the mirror. Sisyphus' face reflected back at him, staring through him, her eyes cold as glass. Without a word, she slid deliberately back against the seat behind her, and over, out of sight.

So, Mulder marveled, this was how it ended. After all the struggling, all the dying, this was it. Finally.

The certainty brought a surprising level of calm, even gratitude. He was sick of fighting the wheel, of anticipating, of holding so many other lives in his hands.

He eased off the gas without realizing it, leveling the speedometer out at seventy-six. His shoulders ached, his eyes burned, and his right calf was cramping like a sonofabitch. He wondered if he could drive with his left foot just as well, but it was no longer something he'd need to worry about, was it?

He had a sudden ridiculous craving for a cigarette--

"She was a long time dying."

Sisyphus, very quiet. He'd expected an explosion, the impact of a bullet slamming through his skull. Her voice, by contrast, was far too still, but its aim was every bit as accurate. The throbbing behind his left eye escalated abruptly and he slid his hand from the wheel to hold the eye within its socket. The pain was excruciating, throbbing violently against the heel of his hand, vital as he tried to avoid her voice.

"She begged me to kill her."

"Don't--"

"I held her heart in my hand while it was still beating. Then I chopped it out of her. She was in too much pain to scream. It's astounding what the human body can endure when the desire to live is strong enough." Another hiss: "And my, but she must have wanted to live."

Mulder was silent, the air in his lungs a fist that threatened to crush his heart. There were no words to speak. How do you hurt a creature who has no capacity for compassion? No concept of human dignity or shame? Thoughts echoed, unheard, memory focusing a single image before his vision: Kay's arm on his empty pillow as she slept, white skin in the darkness. The bend of her elbow. The taste of her flesh as he kissed her just there in the hollow of her forearm. Her sigh....

A pickup truck approached in the center left lane, headlights too high, horn blaring as it passed. It swerved to the far lane, giving the trooper's car ample room, then disappeared into the darkness behind them, miles away in moments.

Mulder dropped his hand back to the wheel, still blinking from the onslaught of lights. He found himself still on the road, driving through the rain, the darkness. Sisyphus was back at his side, leaning forward to gauge the accuracy of her assault. She seemed to enjoy the results.

Mulder no longer cared. His body was numb, the weight of his hands the only thing holding them to the wheel. He noted that he was blind in one eye, his left eye no longer willing to participate in the proceedings. Sisyphus' frozen fingers sought his shoulder, his collar. He didn't even flinch this time, his mind shutting down to bare essentials as she stroked his chest.

"You think I don't deserve to live." She whispered against his neck, so far away....

"No one does." He heard the words, heavy with fatalistic bravado, uncertain if he actually spoke aloud. "It just happens."

She nuzzled his ear, tongue leaving a slick track in the crevice behind his earlobe.

He blinked slowly, listening to something stirring in his chest.

*Pa-pumpa-pumpa-pumb--*

The rain was easing; it wasn't light by any means, but at least it wasn't the deluge it had been. Mulder had dropped his speed slightly and Purdue settled in to simply keeping pace, grateful he'd taken the time to refuel on his trip back from Quantico. The trooper at Purdue's left flank matched him mile for mile.

Good man, Purdue acknowledged. Pursuing another good man.

Purdue could still see Mulder occasionally when the lights hit just right. Sisyphus was little more than a growth on Mulder's shoulder now: a shark on a feeding frenzy. She'd be looking for weak spots, detecting vulnerabilities and pushing all the right buttons. If Mulder survived this, it would only be because his buttons were intact. Purdue's heart was beating furiously.

There's a conversation there, surely, Purdue decided. Mulder's using his name, using it repetitively because names identified people, made them less easy to perceive as "things," as "targets." He would be telling her his personal history, inviting her to take the stroll down memory lane with him: childhood events, remembered joys, his favorite color, *anything* to make this personal. To make pulling the trigger harder for her.

Or would he? Would that only feed her delusions that she was Mulder's intimate companion? That he belonged to her, his body, his every thought, even the ring upon his hand. Was she capable of hearing anything outside her own fantasies? Did Mulder know better than to waste his breath?

Probably.

Purdue's radio snapped to life and he recognized the voice of the trooper beside him. It shamed him to realize he didn't even know the man's name.

"We've got Loudoun County deputies waiting at the county line. We're going to try to force him off the road. Fishtail 'em. Then try to draw her fire. Maybe we can run her out of ammo before-- Well. Maybe we can run her out of ammo."

Purdue acknowledged the message and dropped the radio again.

Sometimes he wondered if there even was a God.

Pleasant Valley. Sounded like a funeral home. It was gone before he knew to miss it, Sisyphus' fingers clutching his neck as she peered into the darkness, ice clinging to searing heat, devouring it whole.

Forward and to their right was a dazzle of lights. A tower.

Dulles Airport.

Mulder blinked hard, clearing his vision. The little town of Chantilly spread away to his left. The road was deserted, cops parked at major intersections, their lights whirling, blurs of red, white and blue in the blowing rain. Not pursuing.

Similar lights drew his attention back to his right. Beyond a high chain-link fence, a runway ran parallel to the highway, slick tarmac defined by the reflected lights of emergency vehicles. The Monte Carlo's left tires thumped over lane markers. Mulder corrected his course and chanced a second glance at the runway: a graceless mass in the far darkness, the hulking tail of a cargo plane highlighted by halogens and fire. The arching path of chemical foam competed with the storm. Mulder and his little situation were blissfully insignificant here tonight.

There was a tremendous *whoomph,* a concussion that slapped at the Monte Carlo's right flank even at this distance. Flames burst from the rumpled aircraft, boiling into the sky.

Sisyphus scrambled for a clearer view, watching the steam billow and hiss. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she lisped. "Death."

"Yeah." His windpipe constricted, mangling the words on their way out. "There's nothing I like better than a good slaughter."

She laughed, a soft sound in the back of her throat as she slid back toward him, dropping to her knees in the floorboard. She resettled the .22, her cheek brushing the stubble on his jaw. She felt him flinch involuntarily and chuckled as he tried to cover it. "You'll have to tell me if I got it right, you know."

"Got what right?" Why did he bother playing to this, he wondered? Because anything was better than acknowledging the zeal of that mouth against his skin--

"Death." It seemed to be the catch word of the evening. "You've seen so much of it," she insisted, "you'll have to tell me if I got it right. Just-- I don't know, a little nod before you stop breathing. Maybe--"

The car erupted in static as he flipped the radio on.

"Turn that off," she demanded.

He twisted the dial savagely, fingers clumsy from lack of oxygen. She was off his neck, at least, the pistol shoved back into its familiar spot at the base of his skull. Between the two of them, he preferred the pistol.

The radio sought human contact: Mel Tillis. James Taylor. The rapid-fire edict of an insurance ad. The thunderous roar of Guns 'N Roses.

She shoved him aside, slapping the button impatiently.

"I said, turn it *off.*" Her voice was petulant, strident.

Careful, Mulder....

*Careful, hell. I'm dead already.*

Mulder slipped his free hand back to the wheel. "You don't want me falling asleep, do you, Cecile?" he complained. "You got a poem for me? No? How about a song? You know, some traveling music to set the mood." She didn't answer and he shrugged a levity that no longer existed in his world. "I've always been fond of the Stones, myself," he marveled where the words were coming from, who was speaking with his mouth. "How about 'Sympathy for the Devil?' You do the lyrics and I'll do the 'whoo hoo's' on the chorus."

"The others didn't fear me, either," she whispered huskily. "Not at first glance."

His jaw tightened. She felt the bone shift, the motion repositioning the muzzle of the gun by millimeters. It was his only concession to her voice.

She inhaled deeply, like she could absorb him whole. One tremendous gulp and he would be gone--

"After a while," she breathed the "while," a tremendous sigh across his ear, sensuous, hungry. She repeated the words, enjoying the affect, watching his face in the mirror, tense next to her own. "After a while, you learn to prolong the fear. Just... incapacitating them enough to keep them still, but not dead, yet. No," another extended syllable, a corresponding shiver through the veins of his neck as her free hand slid across his shoulder to encounter exposed skin. "No, the victim should be alive, don't you think? There should be *someone* there to appreciate the pains you take with them. And who better to appreciate, but the one experiencing the deed firsthand. Hum?"

His response, aside from a narrowing of the eyes, was cut short. There was a sudden *whump* as the Monte Carlo encountered a change in pavement: asphalt abruptly replaced by tar and gravel.

Mulder returned his focus to the road: the six-lane was rapidly dropping to two. "Loudoun County" was a small, unobtrusive sign to his right. Just past the sign, lights flooded the interior of the car: sheriff's cars to either side of the road, snapping on their headlights and joining in the chase, rubber squalling on gravel. Purdue and his escort dropped back, allowing room.

"Shit."

"What?" she demanded, squinting over her shoulder. "Lose them, dammit! Lose them now!"

The road here was remarkably slicker, oil from the tar mixing with rain. The Monte Carlo's tires squealed, finding traction with difficulty. The sheriff's car to his left was faring considerably better. His headlights filled Mulder's side mirror, blinding him.

Mulder shifted in his seat, fleeing the glare, reacting on instinct. Half-blind, he searched his rearview mirror: the second deputy had pulled back, forcing Purdue and the Fairfax trooper's vehicle to fall in behind him on the narrow stretch of road, clearing the shot for the lead deputy.

A fishtail maneuver. Mulder had been trained in the procedure at Quantico, a lifetime ago. It was designed to bring a high speed chase to a relatively quick halt, with as little injury to life and property as possible. The idea was simple: a pursuing unit delivered a quick, solid tap to one side of a vehicle's bumper. Executed properly, the concussion was enough to spin the suspect's vehicle around, causing the driver, startled and disoriented, to instinctively hit his brakes. Pursuing law enforcement could then move in for the arrest.

Mulder had barely enough time to brace himself for the impact. In a brief burst of speed, the deputy rendered the necessary blow: a tap on Mulder's left rear bumper-- just a tap.

It exploded like a concussion in the vehicle. Cecile squealed, disappearing into the back seat, kicking frantically.

Mulder didn't fight the wheel as expected. He tracked with the force of the blow, allowing the Monte Carlo to take its right angle swing, controlling it rather than fighting. The car slid to the shoulder and threatened to disappear into the dirt field beyond, the deputies pursuing. Mud and gravel rumbled beneath the passenger-side floorboards and Cecile slammed into the back of Mulder's seat. Her arm fumbled across his shoulder, grabbing sweater and skin with equal determination.

Mulder ignored her, wincing as her nails drew blood, but intent upon the wheel. He made his correction, finally, with the last of the gravel shoulder under his left rear tire.

He corrected carefully, but the shift and the resulting struggle for traction had Cecile screaming. Or had she always been screaming and he simply hadn't noticed? His head was throbbing, and for the life of him, he couldn't remember.

"I'll kill you! I'll kill all of you--!" she squealed, drowning out sirens and the whine of the engine.

Mulder's left front tire hit gravel again after an eternity. Behind him and to his right, lights swirled, growing distant: two deputy's units well into the plowed field, wheel-well deep in mud. Mulder regained the road and Purdue and his escort fought to resume the chase, their headlights approaching rapidly.

Traction be damned, Mulder floored the muddy two-door, shooting forward into the darkness. Sisyphus, breathing hot against his neck, was finally speechless.

XXXXXXX

Gilbert's Corner, Virginia, is simply that: a corner in the middle of nowhere in particular, the merest mark on a map. Aside from a smattering of blurred lights, he would have missed it. He did notice the deputy's vehicle, however, parked to the left, just at the opening curve of the road. Its lights were out, but tell-tale reflectors danced as Mulder's headlights grazed the rise of a small hill beyond, no more than a mound, farm house and barn forming a skyline in the near distance.

XXXXXXX

His voice was that of a man speaking from far below the surface of things, from a small, hidden room in his gut, a place so far down in the depths of the human soul that the mind could speak only the echo, unaccustomed to giving voice to intimate confessions, making up nonsense, since true words did not exist there.

XXXXXXX

Another kick and Mulder's body floated without his efforts. He couldn't tell which way was up, whether he fell or rose, didn't truly care. There was a roaring somewhere, metal screeching... Stone... Something else. The sounds rolled over, though him, reverberating through the water, shaking his ribs and gripping his spine.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Original photo courtesy of Luvmulder, slightly altered.

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