Part 02/06

Airplane
7:30 a.m.

Mulder's ears had plugged up the minute the plane had taken off, and between that and his headache, he wasn't a very happy camper. He managed to grab some sleep on the six hour flight, but his headache had only worsened when they landed.

Squinted against the bright lights and neon signs of the city, Mulder hailed a taxi, amazed at how easy it was in LA (if only it was this simple in D.C....) and went directly to the twenty-second street jail.

Unfortunately, it was only 8 a.m. California time, and stores were _just_ opening on the Saturday. The jail opened at 8:30, so Mulder sat outside on a bench, with his head tilted back and his eyes closed, enjoying the sunlight. With his eyes closed, the sun didn’t hurt his head, it just made him feel nicely warm and relaxed.

The guard led Mulder to Bryan Kennedy's cell. "Good luck," the guard said.

Bryan was handcuffed, and sat on a narrow bed in one corner.

"Hello," he greeted Mulder coldly.

Mulder took a deep breath, wishing he felt more ready to face Kennedy. His head was really hurting him, and his other injuries seemed to want to make themselves known at that particular moment: his ribs, shoulder, even the gash under his eye which was just a scar now, seemed to hurt.

"Hey Bryan," he said. Mulder reached into his duffel bag and pulled out the folder with the signatures on it.

"That's mine, asshole," Bryan told him, his voice low and almost threatening.

"I know. And I'd like it if you could tell me a little more about the papers in here. Like who these people are. And where you found this piece of paper." Mulder kept his voice even and held the paper bearing the date, November 27, 1973 in his hand. When Kennedy made no attempt to respond, Mulder went over and kicked him in the shin. "Now, shall we?"


J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, D.C.
7:30 a.m.

Scully nearly collided with Skinner on her way to the basement.

"Agent Scully. I was worried--"

"What's wrong, sir?" Scully asked. She had been having a relaxing morning so far, and was alarmed by her boss's stress.

"I called you at home. Nobody answered. I was afraid that..."

Scully smiled assuringly. "Mulder and I are fine, sir. Well, actually, Mulder is in big trouble right now. Or, rather, will be when I find him. I'm off to the basement, sir, I need to tell off Mulder for working when I told him not to."

"Scully," Skinner said slowly. "I was just down there. Mulder's not in the basement."

Airport
Washington, D.C
8:30 p.m.

Mulder's head hurt. His shoulder ached. The little bit of rest he managed to get on the plane had done nothing for his throbbing head. And when he thought back to what happened in that jail cell his head hurt even more.

It was like talking to a brick wall. A very _angry_ brick wall. Mulder had tried to get something out of him for 2 hours, but all he got were many angry stares. Mulder remembered how he banged (his now throbbing) wrist into the wall in frustration. But something must have paid off, for as soon as he began to exit the cell, Kennedy spoke.

"Marcus Berkowitz. Not him personally. His kid. Wanted a lot of cash for the papers. Was very nervous. Seems his old man doesn’t know he stole the papers from him." Then Kennedy was silent again.

That little piece of information was barely anything to go on, but it was better than nothing. Marcus Berkowitz’s kid. Berkowitz was one of the names on the paper, Mulder noted. The person who was not yet retired, too, his photographic memory told him. , Mulder had thought as he left the jail.

But now as he walked through a crowed airport, he was beginning to think how he would be able to prove it. He’d have to locate this Berkowitz kid, but then what? He raised a tired hand to rub his head; it was pounding too fiercely now for him to concentrate now anyway.

He glanced down at his rumpled clothes and decided a change at his apartment was probably a good idea before he headed back to Scully’s. Then maybe he could stand her yelling. He sighed as his head seemed to throb in protest.

Apartment 42
Alexandria, Virginia
9:13 p.m.

Scully checked her watch again. And again. And again. She tore her glance from his watch and stared around Mulder’s empty apartment for the thousandth time. She had been sitting her for over two hours, after she had scoured the FBI and every place she could think of in D.C. Even Skinner helped her check the FBI. She had been worried, and hoped that Mulder had just decided to take another drive. But still……

She got up from her place on Mulder’s couch and began pacing. She could tell he hadn’t been back to the apartment. The piles of clothes he always left on his bed were still there. She always thought he thought of his bed as another dresser, instead of a place to sleep. "That’s what my couch is for, Scully," he had once told her. She looked back at the couch and saw the neatly folded ( she thought) blankets at the bottom of the couch, and knew he hadn’t used them since before they left for California. She laughed at the fact that only two things folded and neat in this apartment were the two things he rarely used: blankets and his bed.

Scully stopped pacing and sat back down on the couch. She checked her watch again. 9:15 p.m. She was beginning to grow _very_ worried. she told herself. She started to play with her hands, and tried very hard to stop thinking of the bad situations Mulder could get himself into. Scully dropped her hands to her lap and sighed.

The sound of a key turning interrupted her thoughts. She watched the door and was soon met by Mulder, smiling at her with a sheepish grin.

Apartment 42
Alexandria, Virginia
9:13 p.m.

Mulder approached his door thinking of the excuses he could tell Scully. ‘I went for another drive, Scully’, ‘I just needed some time to myself’, or ‘I was abducted by aliens and they made me write that letter to you’ were some of the excuses he had come up with thus far. He smiled at the last one. The things he could think of when facing an angry Scully and a migraine the size of Texas.

He reached into his pocket and clumsily retrieved his keys. He found the right one and slipped it into the keyhole and turned it quickly. He opened the door and was surprised, though he knew he shouldn’t be, to see Scully staring at him, her eyebrow raised.

He grinned at her sheepishly. "Ah Scully….," he began, but had to stop when a large pain hit his head. He closed his eyes, and swayed.

Scully’s expression changed completely. She soon rushed to his side.

"Mulder," she said, and reached out to steady him.

Mulder vaguely heard her calling his voice, but it sounded far away. His headache decided then to hit him full force and tried to steady himself, but found the task difficult. He felt Scully’s hands trying to do the same, but they were both failing. Scully called his name again and he barely heard it. The next thing he knew he didn’t hear anything and everything was black.

9:15 p.m.
Mulder's apartment

Scully tried to slapping Mulder lightly to get him to come around, but he wasn't responding. She considered calling 911, but wasn't sure that was the right thing. After all, she was a doctor, she could handle it.



She finally decided to call Skinner.

"Yes, sir, I, um, need your advice on something."

"Concerning your partner?" Skinner asked.

"Yes," Scully said. She suddenly felt very stupid.

Scully heard his sigh. "What's the problem? Did you find him?"

"Yes, I did."

"Well, where was he?"

"Actually, sir, I don't know. He's not really up to speaking right now."

There was a pause. "Do you want to elaborate on that, Agent Scully?"

"He came home, I was waiting for him in his apartment, and just passed out cold on the floor."

Skinner's voice remained even. "Well, does he look beat up? Do you think anyone hurt him?"

"No, that's just the thing. He doesn't look any worse than the last time I saw him. Except that he's unconscious now."

"Maybe you should call 911," Skinner said.

"I don't know... I think I should too, but something tells me they're not going to know what to do either..."

"Dana," Skinner said gently, and Scully jumped, hearing her first name uttered from her boss's mouth. "With Mulder, things aren't always as they appear. You know him best, what do you think you should do?"

Scully sat on the floor, staring down at her unconscious partner, her mouth slightly open in thought. In response, he suddenly gasped and his body lurched off the floor. As quickly as he had awakened, he fell back to the floor, his eyes squeezed shut in pain, but he was awake now.

"Hold on, sir," Scully said. "I think he just came to."

"Scully?"

"Yeah," she said. She put two fingers on Mulder's neck and found his pulse fast, but strong. "Sir, I need to go. Take care of him. I'll call you back when things are under control."

"All right, bye."

Scully turned her full attention to Mulder who was groaning.

"Mulder," she said. "What's the matter?" He didn't answer her. "What hurts? Who hurt you? You need to tell me."

He struggled to sit up but Scully put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him horizontal.

"Not yet. Who do this to you, Mulder?" she said.

"No one," he gasped out. "Scully. Exedrin."

"What the hell are you talking about? Exedrin?" Scully took his arm and slowly
pulled him upright. He kept his eyes shut but even so continued to wince occasionally.

"Do you think you could turn those lights off?" Mulder said. His voice sounded weird to his own ears, pounding in his head.

"Uh, sure," Scully said. She got up and turned the lights off. "Better?"

Mulder groaned. "Yeah." He pushed himself to his feet and went over to the couch, stumbling a little. Kicking off his shoes, he collapsed onto the couch.

"Uh uh uh, Mulder, you're not getting away that easy." Scully sat down on the edge of the couch. She turned Mulder's body so he was facing her. "Now c'mon, tell me what hurts."

"My head. It's okay. Probably just the aftermath of the concussion. I oughta know about that." He gave a half-hearted laugh.

"You don't look so okay," Scully said. She studied his face for a minute; it was tight with pain lines. "Do you want what the hospital gave you, or the usual Tylenol?"

"Um... hospital's stuff."

Scully frowned. Mulder had never taken anything stronger than extra-strength Tylenol unless it was dripping into him via IV. He hated the way it fogged up his brain. But now he was asking for it. Scully stood and got the medicine and a cup of water.

"Drink," she said and he opened his eyes and took the glass. Downing the pills and half the water, he murmured thanks, handed her the glass and let his eyes drift shut.

"Mulder," Scully said.

"Later. I need to sleep. Okay," Mulder said, and was asleep.


Mulder's apartment
4:17 a.m.

His head still hurt, but he felt considerably better than he had last night. He did want to sleep, but his brain wouldn't let him rest. So here he was, up at the crack of dawn, logged on to the FBI net on his laptop. On his screen was an in depth profile of Marcus F. Berkowitz.

According to this, Marcus F. Berkowitz had two children, a girl and a boy. Susan, age twenty-three, was a successful banker, living in upstate New York, married to a Mr. Ralph Bryant. Caleb Berkowitz, twenty-six, lived in D.C. with some government job, the profile was unspecified.

The unspecificness caused Mulder suspicion. Caleb Berkowitz, in the same exact position as Mulder was. Son of a conspirator. Quite a position to hold.

Mulder took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He glanced down at his watch. 4:24 and his head was already throbbing. Some vacation.


Mulder's apartment
7:14 a.m.

Mulder grabbed the ringing phone.

"Mulder."

"Mulder? This is Skinner."

"Sir?"

"Yes," Skinner said. "I was just checking up on you. You had Scully pretty worried last night. Are you all right?"

Mulder rubbed his forehead. "Yes sir. Thank you sir."

Skinner felt awkward for a moment. "Can I speak to Agent Scully?"

"Actually, I don't know where she is," Mulder said. He hadn't even considered that Scully might have stayed the night. Peering into his bedroom and the office, and finding them vacant, Mulder said, "She's not here, sir. I don't know where she is. Maybe home."

"She didn't stay over? I would have thought..."

"I don't know," Mulder said. "Sorry to do this, sir, but I have to go. Get ready for work."

"Mulder, you're on vacation. Do I need to remind you of this?"

"Actually, I thought I might come into the office today. I need to do some looking-up and the Net's database doesn't have everything. I'll see you later."

"No, Mulder, wait. I don't want to see you in work today." Skinner sighed. "Agent Scully is very worried about you and, frankly Mulder, so am I. You gave us both quite a scare last night."

Mulder blinked, confused. "Sir?"

"Agent Scully called me when you passed out and she couldn't wake you up. She was scared and so was I."

"I'm sorry. I really need to go now, sir."

"Mulder, don't come into the office. I swear, if I see you, I will call up Agent Scully and we will drag you home together. Do I make myself clear?"

Mulder dropped down on the couch. "Yessir."

Skinner said, "And Mulder. I don't know what you're getting yourself into, but don't. I know I can't stop you from your private investigations, as long as you don't make them FBI business, but, be careful."

Mulder hung up the phone, still wondering why his boss was so interested in his well being. Truth was when Mulder woke up he half expected to find himself in another hospital. He was surprised when he didn’t. He rubbed his head again and his eyes wandered toward his kitchen.

He got up and entered it; he hoped he had something in his fridge. he thought as he approached the refrigerator. He stopped when he saw a note stuck to it by his lone magnet.

Mulder,
Had to meet my mom for breakfast. I’ll be back to check on you. If you even _think_ of leaving your apartment, I will personally shoot you.
-Scully

PS – I’ll bring some groceries as well. I noticed your cupboards were bare.

was the first thought that came to Mulder’s mind as he read the letter. As he thought of Scully bringing food, he suddenly realized how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten since the Chinese he had with Scully the night before last.

His eyes strayed to his keys, which were sitting on the kitchen table. He didn’t know how they gotten there, but they were sitting in the middle of the table along with his wallet and badge. he thought dismissively as his hands reached for the keys. For a minute he stood there, thinking. He held the keys in his hand, his fingers grasping them, toying with the idea of leaving.

He shook his head. his brain told him. He shook his head against his thoughts, but knew they were true. How many times had he "ditched" Scully? More than he could count, he realized. He dropped the keys back to the table, but continued to stare at them.

Caleb Berkowitz. The name came back to him, like a bad dream. The one who gave Kennedy his "information." Mulder’s mind ran through the info he had from Kennedy and came up with, at least in his mind, a situation.

A rich kid. Probably ignored as a child. Needed to fit in, so he went for the heavy "stuff." Drugs maybe, booze more likely. Addiction followed. He needed some serious cash to keep up with his addiction and he probably didn’t have a problem getting the money, for a while. Through high school, he had to hide his secret. Asked dear old Dad for cash, and made excuses. New shoes. Have to take the girlfriend out to dinner. All was well until Dad found out about his addiction. Cut him off. Stealing followed, that Mulder knew from some light charges that "Daddy" most likely used to his power to get cut in half. And now Caleb probably resorted to selling his Daddy’s secrets to keep feeding his addiction.

Mulder mused and sat down at his kitchen table. He pushed some papers out of way and ignored how much his apartment needed to be cleaned. He began to go through papers until he found a blank sheet and grabbed a pencil from the stack he had placed on his table when he first arrived home.

He tapped it lightly, thinking. Caleb. He wrote the name on the paper and stared at it. Marcus Berkowitz’s kid. Berkowitz. He wrote that name down and stared at it. Had his father ever known anyone by that name? He knew his father had many "friends", but could this Berkowitz be one of them? He father didn’t leave a paper trail. At least not one he could find.

But that didn’t that one didn’t exist. Maybe he wasn’t looking hard enough. He recalled his father did keep books, but he always dismissed them as work, though when he asked to see them, he was greeted with an angry word, and if no one was around, perhaps a slap or two. He learned at a young age that his father’s work was not his business, and to stop while he was ahead. His mind remembered how much "work" his father toted around Samantha’s abduction. Some big folders, blue mostly. They were off limits, Mulder had learned quickly. Not to be touched. Even Bill Mulder would get angry if Samantha touched them, though he was never as harsh with her as he was with Mulder.

He remembered how his father had brought a lot of work to the summer house, in
Quonochontaug, the summer before Samantha was taken. A summer he had blocked out, though a few memories still peaked through. He even remember one particular instance, when he touched his father’s papers.

It was a rainy day, with no where but inside for young Fox and Samantha to go. Board games were boring, videos had lost their appeal, and rough housing was now the choice of activity.

Samantha’s happy shrieks filled the hallways as they ran about. Their mother was out, a lunch date or something, she never told them much of where she went that summer.

He caught her, by the stairs and she screamed for him to let her go.

"Fox! Let me go!" But there were giggles in her voice, and he smiled. At that time, there was nothing like tackling your little sister to pass a rainy day.

Bill Mulder sat in the dinning room, papers spread on the table, instructions carefully given that they were not to disturb him.

Samantha twisted from his grip, laughing. She smiled, her brown braids swinging as she turned to run from him again. He ran to catch her, but paused as she ran toward the dining room.

"Fox? You give up?" Her blue eyes teased him, and he resumed his chase.

It happened fast. He didn’t even remember how. But somehow a load of his father’s paperwork ended up on the floor. All he could hear was his father’s voice booming and echoing off the walls. The rain pounded on the roof and he and Samantha were silent.

"I’ll—I’ll pick it up," he had stammered, and bent down to pick up the paper.

He will still remember the beating he got that day for years to come, but as Mulder remembered the day now, he only remembered one thing.

The paper.

The one he picked up and tried to hand back to his father, even as he blew up at him.

The paper that held a signature at the bottom.

One he never thought was important until today.

One he never even thought he would remember. Until today.

He remembered the huge sloppy letters that read Marcus Berkowitz.


Airplane
11:16 a.m.

Mulder closed his eyes and leaned his head back. "I really shouldn't be doing this," he muttered.

"Excuse me?" the lady next to him said.

"Nothing," Mulder said.

It was a fairly short flight and they made it without hitting any weather or technical difficulties. Mulder managed to get out of the airport extremely quickly, seeing as how he had no baggage, and hailed a taxi.

"Rudyard Street, Quonochontaug," he said.

The cabbie turned around to get a look at his passenger. "Hey guy, that's pretty far. You sure you got the money on you?"

Mulder laughed, realizing that without his suit and a badge in his hand, he looked like any old guy off the streets. Especially with the long scar across his cheekbone-- earned from their last case-- which made him look a little tough.

"Yeah, I've got it."

"Okay!"

Mulder paid the driver and stepped out in the yard of his old summer house. Pulling the key out from under the mat, he unlocked the door and stepped inside. The house, though a bit mustier than he remembered it, smelled and felt exactly the same. He dropped down on the couch and thought that being here was a bit comforting even, in a way.

What Mulder was afraid of, was if what he would _find_ here would be comforting.



Scully's mother's home
12:16 p.m.

"Just a minute mom," Dana said. She pulled her cell out of her pocket and pressed one. "Scully," she answered.

"Yeah, Agent Scully, it's me."

"Sir?"

"Uh, yeah," Skinner said. "Scully, do you know the current whereabouts of Agent Mulder?" He sounded uncertain.

Scully took a sip of her tea and looked across the kitchen table at her mom, who was eating her sandwich and looking at her daughter questioningly.

"I believe he's at home, sir."

"His cell is turned off."

"Did you try his home number?" Scully said.

"Yeah, no one answered. Look, Scully, it's not my job to keep track of where my agents are twenty-four/seven; especially not when they're on vacation. But someone has got to keep an eye on that partner of yours."

"Sir," Scully said slowly. "To the best of my knowledge, Mulder is still at his apartment. He might just not be picking up the phone, he does that a lot. I'm at my mother's right now, but I'll be going back to Agent Mulder's house within the hour. I'll be happy to call you when I find him, all right?"

"Yes, Agent Scully. Thank you. Sorry to disturb you."

Scully was a bit taken aback by her boss' concern and his recent dropping of his well-I'm-higher-than-you-on-the-food-chain-so-there attitude. "No trouble. Goodbye, sir."

"Bye," Skinner said.

"What was that all about?" Maggie Scully asked.

"Nothing much," Dana said. "Just my boss checking up on Mulder."

"Oh, what's the matter with Fox, now?" Maggie asked.

Dana laughed. "Nothing's the matter with him _now_. Gosh mom, you act like he's always causing trouble!"

"Well he is, isn't he, dear?"


Summer house at Quonochontaug
12:30 p.m.

Mulder was ripping out drawers, trying to find something.... something..... anything! Truth was, there wasn't much left to the place but dust and some moth eaten furniture.

PALM, Mulder remembered. The clue his mother had given him. But his father hadn't left him with any clues.

A crash from the other end of the house caused him to jump. His hand reached down for his gun, but remembered that he was on vacation, he didn't _have_ a gun. Moving slowly, pressed against the wall, Mulder made his way into the front room where the crash had come to. Standing in the front doorway was a man, about Mulder's height, looking as startled as he. Mulder recognized the man.

"Caleb Berkowitz," Mulder said, slowly. Caleb's eyes widened, then his hand reached out, grabbed the poker from the fireplace which was leaning against the wall next to him, and in one swift motion, brought the poker up and whacked Mulder over the head with it.

Mulder saw stars, and then black.


Mulder's apartment
1:01 p.m.

"Mulder?" Scully opened the door to his apartment with the spare key that she possessed and stepped inside. "Hey Mulder?"

No answer. Scully went into the back rooms but found the whole apartment vacant.

"HE DITCHED ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

End Part 02/06