Date: Wed, 03 Dec 1997

TITLE: Absalom IV: Sow the Wind (1/2)
AUTHOR: Joyce McKibben (griffin100@juno.com)
DATE: December 1997

DISTRIBUTION: Please post to ATXC and the archives. Thank you.

RATING: PG-13 (some profanity)
CLASSIFICATION: A,S

SUMMARY: I would suggest that you read the preceding parts of
this series before reading this part. This is part 4 of a
developing series. Jason and CSM cope with rumblings within
the Consortium.

DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Skinner, Scully and CSM belong to CC and Fox
Broadcasting and I am only borrowing them for a moment and
will return them. Jason belongs to me. No infringement is
intended. Lord knows, I'm not making any money off of this
and have no intentions of making any money from it.

FEEDBACK: Always welcome. Send to: mckibben@msuvx1.memphis.edu

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: I would like to thank my editors: Miki and Carrie
who always keep me on the right track.

**************

Absalom IV: Sow the Wind

"For they sow the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind."
Hosea 8:7

11 days after the attack
Jason's Office

"You're late," Jason greeted his friend without looking up from the
computer screen. His fingers were dancing across the keyboard in a
rapid staccato beat that underscored the loud New Orleans jazz music
pouring out of the hidden CD player.

The smoker closed the door behind him and allowed himself to be
enveloped by the music. A bit raucous for his taste, but it did
provide an excellent distraction for anyone trying to listen in.
Jason must be feeling mellow. Usually when he was playing with the
men who monitored the listening devices he gravitated towards
Stockhausen or some of the more disharmonious electronic music.

The summons from Jason had been insistent and secret; a code signal
known only to the two of them, meaningless to anyone else. Curious,
but cautious as ever, the smoker had kept to his usual schedule,
maintaining the dull ordinariness of his daily routine. Patience
was not only a virtue, but essential for staying alive in the
shadowy world he called home.

"I'm being watched. It seemed prudent to maintain the illusion that
I am busy with routine matters," the smoker replied in a calm voice.
He detested being followed, especially by the amateurs who infested
the conspiracy these days. Fox Mulder, on his worst days, could do
better than some of these puppies, he thought with irritated pride
in his wayward protege.

"It has begun," Jason announced in a matter-of-fact tone.

The smoker sighed heavily, prompting a feral grin from Jason.
"What's the matter, old friend, gotten too used to the quiet life?"

A cloud of smoke billowed in Jason's direction and he paused in his
typing long enough to wave it away from the screen. The smoker,
content with his unspoken comment on Jason's sense of humor, walked
over to a chair by the computer and sat down. The music was too
loud to carry on a conversation more than three feet apart.

"Unlike you, Jason, I do not find chaos to be exhilarating," he
commented with acid humor. Pawn responds to pawn's move, he
thought with a silent chuckle. He and Jason were like two old
masters, trading humor and information like opening moves in an
intricate chess game. There was never a winner, simply an interest
in who would reach the point of checkmate first.

"Pity, it really is the only time to be alive," Jason replied as he
punched the return key and sent a dozen messages flying out to his
scattered agents.

"How many do you think will choose this opportunity to try to
negotiate their way up the ladder?" the smoker asked with mild
curiosity. Such times always brought out the ambition in lesser
men. Betrayals and insurrections among the lower ranks were
expected, even planned for in his strategies. The smoker pitied
those fools who believed they could betray Jason and survive. There
would be many openings in the ranks of middle management by the time
this storm passed.

"It's one way of winnowing out the fools with more ambition than
brains, old friend. Saves us the trouble later," Jason commented
dryly.

"What are those idiots thinking?" The smoker stabbed out his
cigarette in a single vicious thrust. The elder statesmen in the
conspiracy must have taken leave of their senses. Why now? "This
is not the time for this sort of foolishness."

"Power corrupts more than morals, old friend. This idiocy is
evidence that it also corrupts intelligence," Jason retorted.
"Still, it will shake up the status quo, which could work to our
advantage."

"Perhaps," the smoker conceded grudgingly. "Have you taken
precautions?" he asked with sudden alarm. In chaos, accidents could
happen and no one would have to accept the blame.

"Of course," Jason answered with just the tiniest trace of
exasperation in his voice. "I'm no novice. From the opening
gambits, I would say this whole mess is nothing more than an
incident provoked out of casual malice that has gotten out of hand.
No one is in control at this point. Our 'friends' are too busy
jockeying for power amongst themselves. It is not unreasonable to
suppose that disgruntled parties might seek to take advantage of the
chaos to strike."

The smoker sighed. "Good. I am not yet ready to move and would not
like to have my hand forced by their intemperate actions."

"My men have their orders, as do the men watching them. Nothing is
being left to chance . . . or to trust," Jason added with soft
menace.

"Well then, perhaps while our friends are amusing themselves with
their petty games of power, we can tend to our own game. The King
is stalemated and the retreat of our most threatening pawn should be
sufficient to keep the White Queen occupied. I think it is time I
paid our rogue Bishop a call . . . to remind him that he answers to
me. I would hate for him to get the wrong impression should this
dissension among our ranks reach his ears." The smoker's face
twisted into a death's-head grin as he drew a final long drag from
the dying cigarette and slowly released the smoke in a perfect
circle.

"Enjoy yourself, but remember, we want a wolf, not some drooling
lapdog," Jason admonished gently. The smoker's eyes grew brittle.

"Perhaps you would prefer to handle this yourself?" he asked coldly,
angry that Jason could read him so well.

"No, I prefer the shadows. He knows you. There is no need for him
to know me. Why confuse him? Go, let him grow used to hearing his
master's voice," Jason added smoothly.

"Later, then?" the smoker asked quietly as he departed.

"Of course. I believe it was your turn, my friend," Jason smiled as
he glanced over at the chess board in the corner of his office. Not
as ornate as the one occupying his friend's office, but far more
ancient; French knights with white banners flying faced off against
the English forces fighting under the red flag. The smoker stared
at his beleaguered white king and let his mind relax into the
possible moves to remove the threatened check.

Jason watched his friend leave. He was glad to be able to give his
friend the gift of shortening Mr. Skinner's leash. The humiliation
of having to acquiesce to Skinner's bluff over the DAT still burned
in his friend's soul. There would be time enough for him to make
his own call on the Assistant Director. Perhaps when the lessons of
obedience and damnation were more firmly imbedded in his soul.

It was time, past time, to move Mr. Skinner into the forefront of
the battle, he thought with savage contentment. Skinner's soul
would make a magnificent addition to his collection. Skinner's rage
at the fate closing in on him should be quite useful. A soul as
strong as this one should be savored over time, like an excellent
brandy. Jason felt a warm glow of contented anticipation as he
returned to his shadowy machinations.

**************

It was past 7 p.m. On a hunch the smoker returned to the FBI
Building. A single light, blazing out from an upstairs office
rewarded his gambit. He moved swiftly through the silent halls,
marveling once again at the ease with which a dedicated team could
penetrate and eliminate potential threats within these hallowed
halls of justice. His tools would do well to remember his power
and maintain their usefulness to him. Perhaps this rising storm
would afford him an opportunity to make an example of someone. A
pity Mr. Skinner had proved to be a necessary piece, he thought as
he unceremoniously entered the Assistant Director's office without
bothering to knock.

"Working late, Mr. Skinner?" the smoker asked in a voice reminiscent
of the walrus suggesting a stroll down the beach to an unwitting
oyster.

Assistant Director Walter Skinner closed his eyes momentarily
against the sight of his nemesis.

"What do you want?" clipped words breaking out of a jaw clenched
tight against the bitter anger that burned in his eyes.

"Is that any way to greet someone who is prepared to give you what
you want the most?" A puff of smoke billowing out of lips spread
thin in a sardonic smile. "I expected more enthusiasm, Mr.
Skinner."

"Agent Scully is still dying. I've kept my side of the bargain, you
bastard. I have yet to see you keep yours." Skinner spoke with low
intensity.

"You are an impatient man, Mr. Skinner. Like Agent Mulder, you want
everything at once," the smoker rebuked softly. "I believe you will
find the latest medical reports on Agent Scully's condition to be
. . . quite encouraging." The smoker walked over to Skinner's desk
and slowly, deliberately crushed the smoldering cigarette into the
stand holding the small American flag on the edge of the desk.

Apparently satisfied that the Assistant Director understood his
place in the game, the smoker drew out another cigarette and lit it,
taking a long deep breath of fiery smoke. The smoker noticed that
Skinner was bracing himself to endure a face full of smoke. The
game-piece recognizes the hand of the master, he thought with cool
satisfaction. He caught Skinner's glaring eyes for a moment, before
turning aside and blowing the smoke across the room.

"You will see, I am quite prepared to deliver on my promises. You
need more faith, Mr. Skinner. That is what miracles are made of,
isn't it?" The smoking man smiled benevolently. As he turned to
leave, he paused in the act of opening the door to turn back towards
Skinner.

"I believe this time, it is your turn to pucker up, Mr. Skinner," he
commented in a dry voice that betrayed no sense of victory, only the
inevitability of his dominance. Without waiting for a response, he
left the office. "King's bishop is now in play," he whispered to
his shadow as it trailed along the wall behind him.

**************

Skinner glared at the closing door. The lingering smell of
cigarette smoke made his eyes burn and turned his soul to lead. It
had taken all of his self-control not to rise up and physically
assault the conductor of his personal train to damnation. Only the
knowledge that retribution would not fall on his head alone stayed
his hand.

If the smoking man was telling the truth, then the last hope he had
of salvaging his soul was gone. A contract with hell was binding
only when the devil held up his end. If Agent Scully's cancer was
in remission, then he owed hell the rest of his soul, payment to be
made in installments, no doubt, he thought savagely. A piece here,
a piece there, until nothing was left but the shadow of a soul where
honor and duty had once reigned.

Skinner stared sightlessly at his own reflection in the portraits on
the wall. There should be some change, some mark to brand him as
one of the devil's minions, he thought bitterly. Thirty years ago
he had seen the devil walk out of the jungle clothed in the body of
a ten-year-old boy. Only a fool trusted in appearances. Now he
belonged to the devil. He heard the words inside his head, mocking
him.

The reports on his desk dwindled into unimportant mementos of a time
when he could delude himself that he was captain of his fate.
Suddenly the stark revealing light pouring down from the overhead
panels was unbearable. Slowly, like a man bidding a reluctant
farewell to a lover, Skinner got up and turned off the lights. Only
the defused light from his desk lamp remained to illuminate his
darkness. The shadows blurred his reflection that had stared back
at him so harshly a moment ago.

Maybe the real Walter Skinner is trapped in that lost reflection and
I'm only the ghost left behind to haunt his body, Skinner thought
with bitter resignation. "I've been a ghost for nearly thirty
years," he muttered. The darkness matched his mood. He felt the
jungle closing in and knew that for him, the war would not end;
there would be no reprieve and only hell waited for him at the end
of his journey.

Staring out at the lights of the city, he wondered when he would
cease feeling the agony of each step into hell and whether the end
of the pain would also mark the death of his soul. A Marine to the
last, he accepted this defeat in the sure and certain knowledge that
he had stepped into harm's way to protect a comrade. His sacrifice
had guaranteed that Mulder would be free to carry on the war.
Better his soul writhing in the smoking man's grasp than Mulder's.
Scully was Mulder's bright angel. Without her, Mulder would be lost
to the rage he kept caged; lost to the greater battle that lay
ahead. Silent allies, he and Mulder had conspired to protect her,
to buy her life at any cost. Now he had to live with the
consequences of his bargain.

As he stood in the darkness, Skinner vowed that before he corrupted
justice again, he would first see proof that the smoker had met his
terms. Perhaps the smoker was content to give Skinner time to
accept that he had no room to maneuver. The idea that the devil
was a master tactician was no comfort. "I have sacrificed my honor,
but I still stubbornly cling to its shadow," he muttered against the
window. If the devil held up his end of the deal, then Skinner knew
without a shadow of a doubt, that he would hold to his word.

A battle lost does not mean the war is lost. Mulder would know the
cost of Scully's reprieve. For the first time he was glad that
Mulder knew of his deal. Mulder would be wary now of trusting him
too far. That hurt more than Skinner would have thought possible.
He had come to value Mulder's trust as well as his passion for the
truth. But better to lose the trust than keep it and chance that
a betrayal would be the ultimate price for Scully's life.

Skinner stared out into the darkness and tried to pray. "God, don't
make me betray him as well. If you're there and you listen to the
prayers of damned souls like me, don't make me face the choice
between saving Scully and betraying Mulder."

Only silence and the soft humming of a janitor cleaning the hall
answered him. "A Marine doesn't pray, boy - he acts." The words of
a sergeant whipping him into a firefight with scornful words and a
solid kick to his ass came back to him. He had been muttering half-
forgotten snatches of prayers as the world exploded around him in
his first taste of war. "Good advice, Nichols," Skinner muttered
back to the ghost of a man dead nearly thirty years. "But who in
hell is the enemy now?"

"If you wait long enough, boy, the enemy will come to you. Fight on
your terms, not on his. A Marine is brave; he ain't stupid."
Nichols's voice faded away along with the memory of that gut-
wrenching fight. "Yes sir!" Skinner responded and stiffened to
attention, sending a silent salute out into the darkness. My terms
indeed and in my own time, Skinner promised his old mentor as he
prepared to dig in and make the bastard pay for every piece of his
soul.

[end part 1 / continued in part 2]

Absalom IV: Sow the Wind (2/2)

"For they sow the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind."
Hosea 8:7

George Washington University Hospital
Same night

Dana Scully stared out across the garishly lit city from the large
bay window in the upper floor of the hospital. The darkness no
longer threatened her with vague hints of the final night
encroaching on the dwindling day of her life. She could look out
into the night now and see its beauty. By some grace, of science or
of God's, life was awakening from its nap and reclaiming her.

No angel descended to announce the miracle, merely a plain ordinary
X-ray that clearly showed a marked reduction in the cancerous mass
lodged in her nasal cavity. Her doctor did not indulge in more
intensive tests. His attitude puzzled her, but she was relieved he
had not insisted on admitting her to the hospital for further tests.
She wanted to let Mulder know the good news. There would be time
enough for tests and questions and probes into the elusive mysteries
of medical miracles. Her rebirth into hope needed to be shared with
the one person who had sustained her hope with his fierce faith in
miracles.

She had arrived, face gleaming with life, to find that Mulder was
enduring another session with his surgeon. The nurse hastened to
assure her that this was just a routine checkup to insure that his
recovery was back on schedule. Scully relaxed. For the past week,
Mulder had shown signs of steady improvement. The damage from his
unexplained seizure had been minimal, but had been enough to delay
his weaning from the respirator. Mulder's eyes had expressed his
disgust at the delay, but he seemed to accept that cooperating would
get him off the machines faster.

Scully returned to an overstuffed chair in the waiting room and
tried to be patient. She wanted to tell Mulder that she would be
there at his side as he fought his way back to health. She wanted
to give him back some of the hope he had selflessly given her over
the past few months. Waiting, mulling over the whys and wherefores
of her remission, was not what she had in mind.

Impatient to share her miracle, she was soon up and pacing the small
waiting area weaving in and out among the other people holding vigil
here as if participating in some intricate dance. She felt
distanced from them - they were enduring anxiety, grief or else
clinging to a tremulous hope. They reminded her that Mulder had
been in their place not so long ago, waiting in fearful rage for the
verdict he was powerless to avert. Her vigil was one of joy, to
communicate life rather than to wait fearfully for an outcome she
was helpless to affect.

"Come on, Mulder. How long does it take to check your stitches? If
you're playing on the sympathies of some cute young intern. . ."
Scully smiled as she envisioned her partner exerting his
considerable charms on some poor unsuspecting intern to spring him
loose from the respirator.

An overwhelming wave of terror enveloping a helpless frantic plea
struck her like a cannonball, sending her staggering against the
wall. With an effort of will she stayed on her feet, on knees that
were suddenly as sturdy as soggy pieces of bread. She was drowning
in fear; she was the fear. It soured her mouth and set her lungs to
fighting furiously for every breath as she choked on the cloying
fog.

As suddenly as it hit, the terror receded, leaving behind an oily
trace to mark the high water mark on her psyche. The silence left
behind was, in its own way, as terrifying as the reeking cloud of
fear. In its wake, she felt her soul crack with the knowledge that
Mulder was being torn from her.

Brushing aside helpful concerned hands, she fled this place of
silent waiting and hurled herself through the doors, past the
watchful nurses. She glanced in the window of Mulder's empty room
as she ran towards the examining rooms.

"Ma'am, you can't go in there. Ma'am . . ." The nurse's voice,
stern, tight with a touch of irritated impatience, tried to halt her
headlong flight.

Scully burst through the doors prepared to do battle and found an
empty room. Stunned, she rocked to a halt and tried to silence the
frantic fear that was sweeping her soul away. Her mind inventoried
the room with scientific calm while her heart and soul howled at the
delay. No sign of a struggle, yet something was missing - besides
her partner, her heart commented in sarcastic irritation. Once
again her eyes swept the room, hunting for the elusive clue that
would explain where her partner had been taken.

She felt the cord binding them together stretch to the breaking
point, strangling her soul as it thinned out to a single thread of
spider-silk glistening in the darkness between them.

"Hang on, Mulder," she pleaded with his receding presence. She knew
he was not leaving of his own accord, but he was leaving none-the-
less. "Ditch me, again, mister, and I'll follow you to the gates of
heaven and kick your ass," she added with ferocious certainty. For
just a second, she felt a flicker of a smile along their bond before
it vanished in the breathless fear that was drowning him.

She spun around to confront the harried nurse who had finally caught
up with her.

"Where is he?" she demanded harshly as she pushed the nurse through
the door into the empty room. There was a time and place for
etiquette and this was definitely neither the time nor place. The
nurse's expression went from affronted authority to stark
bewilderment.

"The orderly came to take him back to his room. I can't imagine
where he has gone." Confusion was being replaced by dismay. "I'll
page Dr. Faber. Maybe he decided to take Mr. Mulder up to surgery,"
the nurse retreated from this blue-eyed fury who seemed prepared to
tear an answer out of the bare walls. She and Mr. Mulder were both
mad, she decided as she retreated back into the comforting realm of
regulations and procedures.

Alone again, Scully tried to quell the rising panic in her heart and
concentrate on applying her investigative skills to solving this
mystery. If not here, then where would someone wanting to kill
Mulder take him? A quiet place where he wouldn't be disturbed, yet
someplace where Mulder's death wouldn't seem out of the ordinary,
she concluded. Her soul raged at her calm assessment of the
cataclysm taking place, but she knew Mulder's best chance lay in her
using her mind, not her heart to find him.

The nurse's words came back to her with a terrible new meaning.
Surgery - what better place to kill a patient in relative safety.
An unfortunate accident or better yet, the favorite word of surgeons
trying to explain how they allowed a patient to die - complications.
With something akin to a snarl, Scully ran for the stairs. Waiting
patiently for an elevator to arrive then make its slow ascent was
beyond her powers of restraint at this point. Mulder was fading,
despite a desperate grip on the cliff's edge; his fingers were
being pried open and the abyss waited for him with an avid hunger.

"I'm coming, Mulder," she growled as she charged up the stairs.

**************

Mulder was tired. His body ached with the effort to breathe through
his shattered throat. The tube that had been his lifeline was now
choking him, blocking the air he managed to draw down the inferno
in his throat. Back arched with the effort to free himself from the
restraints, he felt one wrist snap under the pressure, but barely
registered the stab of pain as he continued to strain the broken
bones against the padded straps.

He was weakening. His struggles were slacking off despite his
mind's frenzied effort to cling to life. His body was just too
tired, too exhausted to fight any longer. The darkness promised
rest and an end to pain. His body pleaded with his mind to
surrender, but the rest held no peace for him. Scully was coming.
His faith narrowed down to that one indisputable tenet and refused
to abandon life no matter what inducement death offered.

"Come on you son of a bitch, die already." The words of his
executioner, impatient of his victim's stubborn grip on life, stung
him. Mulder remembered how the man had smiled when he came to fetch
him from the examining room. As steeped in sedatives as he was,
Mulder felt the presence of death in the guise of this very
ordinary-looking man. He was the orderly who had attended him
before, but suddenly Mulder sensed that this time was different.

When his gurney headed towards the elevators, not his room, he
exploded in a futile struggle against the restraining straps. The
man had actually laughed at his frantic attempts to escape once the
steel doors of the elevator had shut him off from all hope of
rescue.

Fear had taken him then, plunging him into a black pit of despair
and anger. His mind screamed Scully's name as he plummeted into the
darkness. An inestimable time later, a desperate need for air drew
him up from the dark sea, plunging up into the light. He felt the
stitches tear apart as he tried to pull air down his battered throat
only to encounter the tube blocking his airway, the tube that was
supposed to feed him air. As he thrashed he saw the orderly open
his fist for a second, felt the rush of air and blood into his
starved lungs, then sucked vacuum as the orderly's fist closed
again.

SCULLY, his mind cried as he began to slip down into the abyss. An
image of Scully, surrounded by a aurora of fire, striding into the
darkness after him flickered for a moment. With a last burst of
strength he tried to send her all his unspoken love, all their hopes
and fears for the years to come. Defying the siren song of the
abyss, he clung to the edge of life, but felt the gradual slackening
of his body as it defied his will and began the slow journey back
into the depths of the dark sea.

I tried, Scully. I really did, but I'm just so tired, he apologized
as he felt the waves take him.

A sudden rush of air startled him back to consciousness. Processed
air never tasted so good. He was giving serious consideration to
selling his soul for another one like it when a second burst
followed the first and then another as his outraged lungs tried to
suck the respirator dry. Vaguely, in a distant place where other
men dwelt who did not appreciate the stunning beauty of a single
breath of air, he heard the drumming of feet on tile and an echo of
his own strangled gasps for air. Perhaps, soon, he could be
bothered to be curious about the miracle that returned the air, but
right now, he was very busy breathing.

**************

Scully hit the door of the small minor surgery room running. The
slam of the swinging door against the wall sounded like the crack of
a rifle. In the dim light, she saw Mulder's gurney and rushed
towards it. Her feet hit something soft and went out from under her
and she nearly flew across the final few feet onto Mulder's chest.
A startled rumble and the blessed thrum of Mulder's heart beating
were the sweetest sounds she ever hoped to hear in her life. She
noted the torn stitches, but was relieved to see that the bleeding
was more of a steady ooze than a torrent.

Then, abruptly recalling the thing she had stumbled across, she
stood up and turned around, weapon ready. The dim light made
identifying the object difficult, but the rising stench of urine and
feces told her that someone had died a violent death in this room.

Moving cautiously, in case whoever killed the person on the floor
was still in the room, Scully found the light switch and turned it
on. A man, dressed in an orderly's uniform, lay on the floor in a
pool of urine. His face was a ghastly shade of blue-black and his
tongue protruded from a rictus grin. Stooping carefully beside the
body, Scully noted the presence of a thin wire buried in the flesh
of the man's neck. Scuff marks on the floor indicated that the man
had struggled with his assailant before he died.

She had seen this man during her visits with Mulder. A simple
orderly, a bit more attentive than most, but nothing out of the
ordinary. Why would he bring Mulder here? Was he the assassin, no
attempted assassin, her skittish mind corrected or had he died
protecting Mulder from the real assassin?

The body was still warm. That meant someone had come in, murdered
this man silently and efficiently and then left, apparently unseen,
as she was running up the stairs and down the hallway. If the
unknown killer had taken the time to murder the orderly, then he
must have had time enough to kill Mulder. The receding bluish tinge
in Mulder's face suggested that he had been without air for a
significant amount of time, suggesting an attempt to attribute the
death to mechanical failure. The man who killed the orderly made no
attempt to hide his crime, so it was reasonable, she thought, that
he would have harbored no reluctance in garroting her helpless
partner.

She supposed the second assassin was still somewhere in the hospital
and, according to regulations, she really should attempt to
apprehend him, but she was beginning to suspect the second man, for
whatever reason, had prevented Mulder's death. The sight of the
unfolding crimp in tube leading from the respirator to the
tracheotomy in Mulder's throat did not inspire her to seek out her
partner's deliverer. She would cooperate fully with the
investigation, but she wasn't going to budge from Mulder's side
until she was personally satisfied that he was safe from further
attacks.

"Whoever you are, thank you, and please don't let me find out who
you are," she whispered to the empty room. Trust Mulder to have a
deadly efficient guardian angel.

She compromised between two duties and phoned the murder in to
hospital security at the same time she asked that Dr. Faber be
paged, then called Skinner and informed him of the attack.
Skinner's curt assurance that he would send an agent to guard Mulder
vibrated with fury. Scully welcomed his anger, it matched her own.
Someone would pay for this, Scully vowed, content to know that when
the time came, Skinner would not stand in her way.

Turning back to her partner, she kept her gun ready in case the
assassin had backup. She didn't know why Mulder was the sudden
object of murderous intent. Their adversaries in the Consortium
must know that he had lost the evidence. This attack made no sense,
unless it was committed out of sheer spite.

Mulder's eyes shot open, wild and dark from his journey into the
fringes of the abyss and he did not seem to be entirely back with
her yet. He was struggling to focus, to rejoin her, but he had
journeyed far into the shadows and the return trip would take
awhile. She felt his hand squeeze hers and squeezed back as hard as
she could.

"Welcome back, Mulder," she smiled in relief and gratitude. "Guess
I just can't trust you on your own anymore, can I?"

Mulder said nothing, but his eyes closed and his heart began to slow
down and his breathing evened out. Her hand was imprisoned in his
grip. She suspected she would have to pry his fingers loose if she
wanted to use that hand any time soon. Scully carefully brushed his
hair off of his forehead with her other hand. "Sleep now, Mulder.
I'll be here."

The sound of feet rushing down the hallway told her that her moment
alone with him was at an end. Between the police and the surgeons,
she would be lucky to have him to herself again for hours, but of
one thing she was certain, she wasn't going to let him out of her
sight until Skinner sent somebody she knew and trusted to watch over
him for her.

**************

"You did well. Such loyalty will be rewarded," Jason promised as he
escorted his agent to the door. As they reached the door, his voice
turned cold and the friendly hand resting on the man's shoulder
closed like a vise. Seeing the agent pale and buckle under the
pressure, Jason smiled and released him.

"Still, it would have been better if you had interfered before the
attempt on Mr. Mulder's life. Had Mr. Mulder been a little less
tenacious, I would be promising a reward of an entirely different
sort," Jason said smoothly. The man swallowed nervously and nodded,
grateful to be allowed the luxury of leaving this room under his own
power.

Jason closed the door behind the man and smiled a cold deadly smile.
The agent he had assigned to protect Mulder had betrayed him. Well,
the man was dead and beyond his reach, for now. This time the fools
who ran the Consortium had gone too far. This little game they were
playing was getting out of hand. Time to remind them of the
unpleasant side-effects of chaos.

He wondered again at Mulder's tenacity. A lesser man would have
died in the street from the wound Jason inflicted, much less this
latest attack.

Who are you, Fox Mulder? Did Jonathan ever penetrate that mystery?
Was that why he died? Jason wondered as he stared down at his chess
board. Soon his friend would arrive and they would resume their
many-layered game. The events of the evening would be analyzed and
absorbed into the overall strategy of the Game. Still, Jason
pondered the mystery that surrounded Mulder and catapulted him into
the center of the Game he and his friend had played now for over
forty years.

"Who are you?" he whispered to the silent chessmen arrayed in their
endless battle lines.

THE END

Feedback, comments, complaints will be given a warm bowl of milk
at: mckibben@msuvx1.memphis.edu