Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, I just borrow 'em. The characters of Scully, Mulder and Skinner belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Broadcasting. Kay Howard, Al Giardello, John Munch, Mike Kellerman, Meldrick Lewis, Tim Bayliss, Frank Pembelton, J.H. Brodie, and Julianna Cox belong to Paul Attanasio ,NBC, and Baltimore Productions. Robert McCall, Mickey Kostmayer, Control, Sterno, and Pete O'Phelan belong to Michael Sloan, Richard Lindheim, and Universal. I have used these wonderful and complex characters without permission and no infringement is intended. Nick Shaw, and the other characters with names you don't recognize belong to me. Subliminal reads: Please don't sue! I have no money, and all you'll get is a complimentary copy of this story. Title: Perfect Clarity Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: R or NC-17 (violence, language) Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer) Bonus: Mulderangst, Baylissangst AND Kostmayerangt! Summary: An old friend contacts Mulder while Scully is on vacation. They-and the man trying to protect them--are drawn into a dangerous conspiracy involving an experimental drug. Can Scully find Mulder before the drug is tested on him? Scully is assisted by Detective Tim Bayliss and Robert McCall. It helps to have read my previous XF story, Illaqueate, but is not necessary. You might want to read Twilight to find out how Scully and Mulder became involved with Bawlmer's favorite Homicide detectives. This story takes place after Max on the X-Files and after Kaddish on Homicide. Perfect Clarity is the result of Homicide's long hiatus. With no H:LotS, The Equalizer helped fill the void...until the A&E network decided to yank it from its schedule. Wanting to keep McCall and Kostmayer in business, I took matters into my own hands...uh, keyboard. I know this crossover might sound like a strange mix, but give it a try. :-D Please send feedback, praise, and (merciful) criticism to: sjbryan@athenet.net Flames will be promptly extinguished. ******************************* Part 1/10 Nick Shaw stands in the doorway. He can feel his world--his life--slowly imploding, sucking inward, until his vision narrows and he can focus on nothing but the figure on the couch. A trembling hand reaches blindly for the wall. A scream forms in the depths of his soul and spirals up and out until the room echoes with his voice. Angela. Dead. Her face is gone. Her beautiful blond hair matted and red, bits of skull and brain matter paint the wall behind the couch. Her body lies slack and empty. Seventeen years of happiness gone. She stares blankly through one glassy eye. He stumbles toward her, hoping, praying, that this is only a nightmare and in a moment he'll wake up and pull her warm body closer beneath the quilt. He tries, *tries*, but cannot wake up. This is real. A litany of horror reels through his mind. Her blouse is a bloody shred, he counts three bullet holes to her chest. He drops to his knees and buries his face in her lap, his cheek pressed to the soft fabric of her skirt, sobbing her name. He can't breathe. He can't see. He is dying. But another breath shudders through his body and there is no peace. A new terror hammers his heart and he stumbles to his feet. "Justin!" He screams the boy's name again and again, even when he sees the crumpled body on the kitchen floor. "NO!" Nick puts his hands to his head, desperate to block out the vision of his murdered wife and child. But their broken images are burned into his brain, etched beneath his eyelids. He sits by his son for a long time, not moving. Gradually, he becomes aware that the telephone is ringing. Slowly, Nick unfolds himself from the floor and shuffles to answer it. He feels thick and numb. He holds the receiver to his ear, too tired to speak. "Nick." His brain, working through shock and grief, takes several seconds to identify the voice. "Why did you kill them? Did you really think we wouldn't find out?" Nick shakes his head, tears squeezing from his eyes. "No." The voice is calm, soothing. "Listen, Nick. You've been under a lot of stress. A man can snap. I understand that. I'll help you. Just tell me where the research is." Nick blinks. He swallows thickly, the taste of horror and betrayal bitter in his mouth. He rubs his eyes with the palm of a hand. His breathing slows. Everything is clear. He can see the truth for the first time. He's barely aware of the words as he says them. "This isn't over. You can kill my family. You can kill me. But you'll never get the vial. You'll never get the journals." His voice rises with rage. "I'LL ROT IN HELL BEFORE I HAND ONE PAGE OVER TO YOU!" The man's voice is very quiet. "That can be arranged." Nick slams the phone down and runs upstairs. He digs the key out of his wallet. He scribbles a brief message on a sheet of paper, wraps the key tightly inside and stuffs it into an envelope. He addresses it and finds a stamp in the den. There's a noise downstairs. The front door. Nick takes the steps two at a time and pulls open the door to see Kevin, their paperboy. It takes the last of his strength to appear sane and rational. "Hi Kevin. Could you do me a really big favor and drop this in the mailbox around the corner for me?" He fishes a five dollar bill out of his pocket and smiles. "This, you don't have to mail. I just don't feel very well, but I need to get that in the mail. Think you could do that for me?" Kevin grins, reaching for the money and envelope. "No problem, Mr. Shaw. I'll do it right now." "Thank you," Nick says, and watches the boy run down the street. When he is out of sight the first faint cry of sirens reach his ears. Within minutes two squad cars, flashing blue and red, screech to a halt in front of his house. He is barely aware of the uniformed men who burst through the front door. He does not see the looks on their faces or hear their repeated questions. Minutes later two more men appear wearing long coats. One is very tall with dark brown hair, the other man is shorter, black, and wears a hat. Hat pulls a gun out from beneath the couch. He holds it in Nicks's face, barking questions, but Nick is somewhere safe now, beyond their accusations. He barely feels the handcuffs circle his wrists. "You have the absolute right to remain silent," Tall tells him. "Anything you say or write may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer at any time--" Nick lets them guide him into one of the cars. Their words roll off him, harmless. *** "Five days, Mulder. That's all." Mulder nods. "I know." He manages a smile. "You deserve it. In fact, lets see, doesn't four years with me qualify you for some kind of bronze plaque? You deserve *more* than five days, Scully." She chuckles. "I don't trust you alone for more than five days, Mulder." "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Scully." "My pleasure." He watches her slide a few files into her brief case. She spends the next ten minutes tidying her desk. She senses Mulder watching her. Looking up, she asks: "What?" "Nothing." She lifts an eyebrow. He shrugs, sheepish. "I'll just..." he sighs. "It'll be...quiet here without you." Scully hides a smile. In Mulderspeak, his statement is akin to a declaration of love. She stares down at the top of her desk. She knows, on some level, he does love her. Respect, trust, friendship...isn't love just another word for those same qualities? She sees the two of them, standing in the hallway at Beth-Israel Hospital. His arms around her, comforting, protective, supportive. It was then that Scully understood how fragile life was. And just how unfinished hers was. How necessary Mulder's support was. And how significant their search for the truth had become. But she also understood the need to step away for a few days to be with her mother. It's been a long time since they've shared any quality time. When Charles extended an invitation to visit the family in Shreveport, mother and daughter accepted his offer. She is looking forward to a very long weekend of jazz, Cajun food, and her little nephew. "What are you going to do while I'm gone?" she asks. She smiles wickedly. "Go over the new budget proposal figures?" "Ha ha." Mulder makes a disgusted face. He sighs. "I'll finish my report on the Stacy Lamott case. Skinner's been breathing down my neck for the past two days." She frowns. "But that case was a fraud. She was lying about the visions, the stigmata, everything." Scully gives her colleague a warning look. "We proved that, Mulder." He holds a hand up. "I know, Scully. I know. There won't be any extra credit pages. Don't worry. I've just been busy with...other things." "What other things? Cases?" He motions to the chaos piled across his desk. "A few requests have come in. And Skinner's been pressing me to take some more time off." He shrugs. "There's just too much to do..." Neither of them mentions his recent failed vacation attempt. The memory of their strained relationship, his callous words, and her silence still lingers. Most of his drive to Memphis had been spent on the phone trying to reach his partner. Scully had spent most of his absence trying not to think about him. It would have been so much easier just to confront him, to point out how often he took her for granted. But none of that really matters now. She knows he needs her. She knows he values her work. Put two people in the same room who would rather face mutant creatures than their own feelings, and you were bound to have problems. "You have Charles's number, right?" Not looking up: "Yeah." She glances at her watch. Clears her throat. "Well, Mulder. I better get going. I'll see you Tuesday." Scully stands and walks over to her partner. She puts a hand on his shoulder. "Riley's not giving you grief again, is he?" He smiles up at her, points to his forehead. "Can't you see the gold star?" The smile doesn't quite reach his eyes and something about the tone of his voice troubles her. "Mulder..." "Scully. Go. Get out of here. Have a good time." This time the smile is real. "The FBI's most unwanted will still be here on Tuesday." Scully nods and steps back. "Have a good weekend, Mulder." He waves his hand, shooing her to the door. When she is gone he watches the doorway for several seconds. The room seems suddenly smaller, darker. Almost suffocating. He sighs, stretches mightily, and turns back to his computer. He opens the report document Skinner is waiting for and stares at the screen, not seeing the words. Strange...he never would have predicted he would grow so dependent on a partner. Five days. Not a big deal. She deserves the vacation. He starts typing. *** "Your arm still hurt?" Detective Tim Bayliss looks up at the sound of Frank Pembleton's voice. He stops massaging his arm and shrugs. "Sometimes." The good news is that he has full range of motion back. He passed the fire-arms test on the first try. The bad news is he still sees Katie Deveroux's face each night in the dark corners of his nightmares. Frank stares at him a moment, trying to gauge Tim's expression. After a few seconds he decides it's not worth the trouble and nods toward the Box. "You ready?" Tim offers a crooked smile. "Let's go." He follows Frank. A faint excitement curls in his belly. Back in the Box with Frank. No longer his partner, but not quite ex-partner, either. After all, they're working the Shaw case together, right? So what does that make them? Pseudo partners? Frank opens the door of the small interrogation room. Nick Shaw is handcuffed to an abused-looking wooden table. His arms are folded and he is resting head down, like a third grader being punished for talking in class. Pembleton smiles broadly at the top of Nick's head. "Mr. Shaw. Feel up to answering a few questions for Detective Bayliss and myself?" Tim walks past the table and leans against the wall, directly behind Shaw. Shaw doesn't raise his head. He speaks to the table top. "I didn't kill them." Frank's eyes bulge, aghast. "You didn't kill your wife and son?" He frowns at Tim. "Did you hear that? He didn't kill them." Tim nods, thoughtful. "What do you know." He shrugs. "Well. I guess that's that, Frank. If he says he didn't kill them, then I guess he didn't. We might as well go home." Frank crosses his arms and moves next to Shaw. He bends down and speaks softly into Nick's hair. "Before I take out a full-page apology in the New York Times, I have one question for you." His voice is steel. "Whose gun was beneath the sofa in your living room?" Nick looks up slowly, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. He wears a slightly confused expression, as if struggling to solve some complicated equation. He looks into Pembleton's eyes. "The gun...is mine." "The gun is yours." Tim smiles. "And it's even registered, good citizen that you are." "But he didn't kill his wife," Frank points out. "Of course." Nick closes his eyes. "You don't have to play with me. I'm not some damn baseball you can hit back and forth. I'm not a murderer." His voice wavers. "I loved my wife more than either of you stupid, mislead detectives will ever know." Frank's mouth opens at the word 'stupid' but Nick continues. "You don't understand what I do for a living. What the risks are. Angela and Justin's deaths were a warning. The fact that they used my gun is my punishment. "Let me guess, Detective Pembleton, my fingerprints were the only ones found on the gun. The bullets some cold-fingered ME pulled out of my wife's chest came from my gun." He glares. "What a surprise." Frank claps his hands, an appreciative audience. "That's a very good speech, Mr. Shaw." His smiles a wolf's smile. "Maybe we'll see him at the Oscars this year," Tim says. Nick pounds his fist against the table. "I did not kill my wife!" "Just your son?" Nick's face flushes red. Spittle flies from his mouth. "I did not kill my wife and I did *not* kill my son!" Tim strokes his chin. "Is he trying to tell us he was framed?" "Do you watch a lot of movies, Mr. Shaw?" Nick shakes his head slowly, staring at Pembleton. "You're really something, you know that?" "What I am," Frank says flatly, "is the best." "If you're the best then why don't you find out who killed my wife." "I'm looking at him right now." "You mean Detective Bayliss killed my family?" Frank chuckles. "Hey, that's funny! That's pretty good..." His eyes narrow. "Unless...is there anything you're not telling me Detective Bayliss? Where were *you* this afternoon around three-thirty?" Tim rubs his forehead. "Let's see...let's see. Oh yeah! I was with you. Eating doughnuts." "That's right, he was with me. Had one of those powdered jobs with jelly filling. That's what homicide detectives really do. Eat doughnuts all day long. Just like on television." Nick puts his head back on the table. He speaks quietly now, his anger deflated. Their constant games wear what little energy he has down. "I didn't kill them." Frank leans against the door, hands behind his head. "I talked to your employer, Mr. Shaw. A very helpful man named Roy Jacardi. He says you've been acting jumpy lately. Says you and the missus were having a few problems. Says you've been making a lot of mistakes at work." Pause. "He says you were fired last Monday." "That's a lot of stress," Tim observes. "That kind of stress could make any man crack, right Frank?" He whistles. "In light of that information, I can hardly even blame you, Nick." "I didn't kill them. And I wasn't fired. I quit." "Ah. He quit." "So I hear." Nick raises his head, glowering. "SHUT UP!" Tim steps forward and puts a hand on Nick's shoulder. His voice is friendly. "We're the homicide detectives here, Nick. We have the guns. We don't have to shut up. Understand?" Nick's voice is bitter. "Oh yeah. I understand. I understand you don't give a damn about justice. Do they teach you guys about that word anymore? You care about your clearance rate. That's all." "Now that hurts," Tim says, putting a hand to his chest. Frank scowls. "He gives me a pain all right, but it's in my ass." "Excuse us for a minute, Mr. Shaw. You've been stinking up this room for quite some time now. My part-" Frank catches himself. Some habits are hard to break. "Detective Bayliss and I are going to get a little fresh air. The lies are getting a little too thick in here." Nick closes his eyes. "You don't have a clue what's really going on, detectives." Frank clenches his jaw. "We have a number of clues, Mr. Shaw. And so far, they all point to you." *** They don't understand. They live in a different world. It's a place Nick lived himself, a long time ago. But no longer. His world is built on secrets and more secrets, so intricate and dangerous he could live a hundred lifetimes and never be free of their web. But he doesn't have a hundred lifetimes. Only one. And it's nearing the end. He understands that now. Accepts it, even. This is his punishment, not for leaving New World Labs, but for joining in the first place. This is his punishment for not having peripheral vision. It was his shortsighted, naive belief they would let him go that got Angela killed. Angie. Gone. And Justin. A sob bubbles in his throat, but he chokes it down. He can't give in to the pain. Not yet. Before he dies there is something he has to do. Tell Fox Mulder the truth. *** They're back. Bayliss and Pembleton, buzzing around his head like a pair of insects. Bayliss, with his short hair and weary face, takes his post behind him like a solitary guard. And Pembleton. There's a controlled anger in his Shakespearean voice that would have made Nick's stomach tremble just two days ago. But Pembleton-and certainly not Bayliss-doesn't scare him. Their theatrics, their threats are only so much air. There are worse threats than prison. In fact, if he wasn't so sure they would find him, he would gladly confess and waste what was left of his life inside the confines of Jessup. But they will find him. Because their men are everywhere, placed in the highest echelons of society and in the lowest gutters. Somehow, he's become embroiled in something he doesn't understand, something he can't escape. If he killed himself right here, right now, in front of these two ineffectual cops, they would find some way to bring him back to life long enough to get his research. He smiles grimly. Never. They'll never get what they're looking for now. They've changed him, irrevocably. They've taken his identity. No longer is he husband, lover, friend, father. He is a man with nothing left to lose. He is dangerous. Something sparks deep within Nick Shaw. Not hope. Revenge. "I want to talk to her," he finally says, cocking his head toward the small window. Pembleton's face contorts, half annoyed, half curious. "Who?" Nick points. "The red head. She reminds me of...of Angie." His voice breaks. Bayliss moves swiftly and pulls the blinds shut. "Why do you want to talk to Sergeant Howard?" "I just told you." The two men eyeball some kind of cop code to each other for a few seconds. Before they can answer him Pembleton grimaces and fumbles something out of his pocket. A small beeper, set to vibrate, rests in the palm of his hand. He holds it up triumphantly. "Well, well, well. The ME calleth. We'll see what your wife and son have to tell us, Mr. Shaw." Frank turns to Bayliss. "Coming?" Bayliss frowns. "Nah. I'm not done talking with our good friend, Nick. I'll keep him company while you're gone, Frank." He smiles apologetically. "I know I'm not as good looking as Sergeant Howard...guess you'll just have to use your imagination." Nick stares at the wall, tight-lipped and silent. *** "How's it going in there?" Frank breezes past Kay's desk. "Fine." "He confess yet?" "No." "Frank." Pembleton stops reluctantly. "What?" Kay sighs. "Do you think he's guilty?" "He's definitely guilty of being a squirrel. Paranoid. Conspiracies. Blah, blah, blah." "But is he guilty of killing his wife and kid?" Frank purses his lips, considering. He exhales loudly. "I think that he is playing a game." He grins suddenly, teeth showing. "And I'm going to win." Kay leans back in her chair. "You want me to talk to him?" Frank snorts. Annoyance brings out his stutter. "And w-why would I want you to talk to him?" She spreads her hands, palms up. "Just trying to help." "Tell you what, Kay. When I need your help, I-I'll ask for it. Okay?" Kay waves him off. "Whatever you say Frank." Pembleton leaves the room. After a few seconds she stands and moves over to the observation window. Arms folded, she watches. End of part 1/10 ****************************** Part 2/10 Tim pulls a chair over to Nick and sits down. "You know, it's really for the better that Frank had to go. He can be a little...demanding sometimes, if you know what I mean." Tim smiles, relaxed. Friendly. He leans one elbow on the table, casual. "You don't mind if we have a little chat, do you? A little heart to heart? You're a reasonable guy, right?" Nick says nothing. He wanted the woman cop. Maybe he could have overpowered her. Got her gun. Escaped. But now... Now he was stuck with another lecture from Detective NYPD Blue. Tim speaks softly, a co-conspirator. "I can understand why you killed your wife, Nick. But why Justin? Why did you have to kill your son?" Nick's fists clench. "I didn't kill Justin." Tim's voice is still low, but the openness, the sense of camaraderie is gone. "You're telling me you didn't take your gun and shoot your son twice in the head at point blank range?" "No!" "Nick, Nick, come on! I know you did it! You can tell me the truth--was he crying? Did he beg you to let him live? You didn't want to kill him, but you had to because he knew what you did. He *saw* you kill his mother. And the last thing that fourteen year old boy saw was the barrel of your gun. Am I right, Nick?" "NO!" Tim bolts to his feet, sending the chair skittering across the floor. "No? I don't know what cop shows you watch on television, Nick, but this is real life. I'm not stupid. Your gun is the murder weapon. Your fingerprints are on the gun. You have zilch for an alibi. If you want me to believe you, you're going to have to try a lot harder." The look in Tim's eyes unnerves Nick. There's something...a madness buried deep within. Hidden. Nick repeats the mantra. "I didn't kill my son." "The hell you didn't!" Tim's voice is thunder. "He was just a kid. A KID! How could you kill your own kid? How could you shoot him IN THE HEAD? TWICE?" Tim grabs Nick by the shirt collar and yanks him to his feet. "Did it make you feel GOOD? You didn't get enough out of killing your wife?" Nick jerks in the bigger detective's grasp. His words are a terrified babble. "No! No! I didn't-I didn't kill him! I'd never hurt them! Never!" Tim roars in Nick's face. "SHUT UP! You had no right, you son of a bitch! You had no right to take your son's life." Bayliss shoves Nick into the wall, the table dragging, still attached to Shaw. "How'd you like it if your father made you look death in the face, huh? How did it feel to pull the trigger? Did you like it? Even while he begged and begged, the tears falling-" "BAYLISS!" Kay stands in the doorway. Her voice holds an unmistakable warning. Tim swallows, eyes wide, adrenaline still pumping. With great effort he relaxes his grip on Nick. The man slides down the wall into a heap, one arm raised, handcuffed to the table leg. "I didn't kill my wife," he sobs, "and I didn't kill Justin! I didn't! I didn't-" he looks up, fresh tears tracking his face. "I didn't-" The words catch in his throat. He makes a choking sound. He tries to speak, but barks out a tight cough instead. His eyes unfocus and he slips sideways, arms and legs jerking in some kind of seizure. He continues to choke, and his chest pumps frantically for air. "What the hell did you do to him?" Kay yells. "Get out of here. Call 911." Tim stands frozen, his jaw working. For one moment he sees Frank lying on the floor, helpless, instead of Nick Shaw. A thousand memories flood over him. Helplessness. Guilt. Another boy begging his father to listen, crying so hard he could barely breath and- "Bayliss! Now!" Her voice is rife with disgust and Tim moves. He rubs his face, dazed. What has he done? He stumbles back into the squad room, running for the phone at Kellerman's empty desk. Kay removes her corduroy jacket and wads it under Shaw's head. She speaks softly to him, soothing, and unlocks the handcuff. His hand jerks out and touches her hair. Pulls it. His eyes are huge and terrified, she tries to calm him. "Can you hear me, sir? Help is on the way." He gags again and his back arches off the floor. His hands flail against her, useless, knocking against her holster. No. Not useless. Kay kneels next to him, one hand still holding his head, and stares down at her own gun. "I need some air," Nick hisses. "Get me outside right now or I'll paint this room with the inside of your head." The terror is still in his eyes, but heightened by a fierce desperation. This man is not afraid to die. Staring down at her gun, Kay realizes she is. Not afraid of death, but of the bullet. She remembers the hospital. And her father's face. The slow recovery. Being so weak and dependent. If he shoots her in the head and doesn't kill her, what then? She'll be a vegetable. A worthless body. She takes a deep breath, stalling. He taps her forehead with the gun. "Help me up. Now." His eyes burn her. "If you so much as breathe wrong I'll kill you." Maybe he's bluffing, but Kay can't take the chance. She pulls him up, and puts an arm around him, as if supporting him. "Pull out your shirt. Hurry up." Kay untucks her shirt. He snakes an arm around her waist, just beneath her blouse and presses the gun tight against her side. The gun is cool against her bare skin. Her heart beats faster, but she struggles to stay calm. She'll get through this. Just walk out of the building. He won't kill her. Just walk. "An ambo's on the way," Tim says softly. He stands in the doorway, hovering. Kay inches forward with Nick, praying Bayliss doesn't do something that will get her killed. Nick sags against her, playing the part, and Kay drags him out of the Box. Bayliss watches her struggle. "What are you doing?" "Getting him some fresh air. He's having trouble breathing." Kay says a silent prayer and takes a chance. "Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help me?" Tim moves quickly. "Sorry." Nick groans and moves his face into her neck. He whispers against her skin: "He touches me and you're dead." Kay drags Nick another step forward. Sweat rolls off her in sheets. She backpedals, struggling for an excuse. "Forget it, Tim. You caused enough trouble. It's your fault he had a seizure." "No it's not!" Tim snaps, defensive. "I didn't do anything." Kay ignores him. They move down the corridor and out the side door. Tim still hovers, preparing to follow them outside. The gun is pressed so tight against her ribs she can barely take a breath. Or maybe it's just the fear. She stops him. "Wait for the ambulance. Tell them where we are." Tim shakes his head, plaintive. "I didn't *do* anything, Sarge." Nick pushes the gun further and pain blossoms through Kay's ribs. She backs out the door, pulling Nick with her. Munch appears at the end of the corrider, Styrofoam cup of coffee in hand. "What's going on?" Bayliss runs both hands through his cropped hair. "Shaw had some kind of seizure. Kay took him outside. EMT's are on the way." Munch blows at the hot liquid and takes a sip. "Kay need help?" "Probably." Tim studies the scuffed floor. "But I don't think she wants any from me." Munch raises an eyebrow. "Oh?" Bayliss jabs his thumb at the door and walks back toward the squad room. A second later Munch calls his name. The wiry detective stands in the open doorway. "I thought you said they were outside." Tim stares at Munch, white-faced. He runs past Munch, making the older detective spill his coffee. "Thanks a lot, klutz. Kellerman's right. You are snarky." "Shut up, John! Find Gee and alert the station. I think we've got a possible hostage situation on our hands." The coffee cup drops to the ground, a brown puddle pooling on the pavement. "What!" Panic quickens John's movements. "You find Gee. *I'll* find Kay." Tim glares. "Come on, John." "No. *You* come on. You want to stand here and argue? Go." John draws his gun and sprints into the parking lot. "John! Wait for back up!" "Then you better hurry the hell up!" Munch retorts. He turns in a slow circle. No sign of Kay or anyone else. Tim runs back down the hallway and almost collides with Frank. "Where's the fire?" "Where's Gee?" Frank notes the edge of panic in Tim's voice. "I don't know. In a meeting, I think. What's wrong?" He sees that the Box is empty. "Where's Shaw?" "He might have Kay." "What do you mean he *might* have Kay?" Tim reaches for the phone, dread heavy in his stomach. "It's pretty self-explanatory, Frank." Frank steps close to Tim and leans into his personal space, face to face. "What did you do while I was gone, Bayliss?" "I didn't do anything! Why-" he waves Frank off and puts a hand to his ear. "Yeah. This is Detective Tim Bayliss from Homicide. We may have a situation here. I need to talk to-what? Yeah. Okay." He puts a hand over the earpiece. "Why do you think *I* did something, Frank? Why is this my fault?" "Because I know you, Bayliss. You're famous for your rational thinking." "Meaning what?" Frank leans even closer, eyes flashing. "Whatever you want it to mean." *** He's not going to stand there like some fence post this time. No way. John Munch is a man of action. Walking up and down the rows of cars, his gun steady, he calls Kay's name. He has plenty of help. Lewis, a few detectives from Vice, a couple of uniforms, even a few schmoes from Burglary have come out to play recess and lend a hand. So far, there's no sign of Kay or Shaw. He refuses to panic. Kay is smart. She's tough. She's no pushover. She'll be fine. They've spread out to the parking ramp as well as the administrative lot. How far can Shaw get in ten minutes? "John!" It's Meldrick's voice. "Over here." There's something about the way Lewis says his name that he doesn't like. Kay lies next to an empty parking space, her red hair fanned out over her face and dirty concrete. Her hair is too red. John drops to his knees, brushing at her hair. "Is she hit?" He looks up at Lewis, his resolve slipping away. "Is she hit?" His heart rockets in his chest. Kay turns her head and raises a hand, slapping at John's inquisitive fingers. She opens her eyes. "It's okay, John. I'm fine." John takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes. "God, Kay. God." He finds it hard to manage anything beyond those two words. Kay gives him a lopsided smile and holds out a hand. "Help me up." He and Lewis comply. "I'm touched, John." She puts a hand to her bloodied forehead and grimaces. "I didn't know you cared." Munch hears the slight tremor beneath the thin layer of sarcasm. He squeezes her arm briefly, understanding. "Nice lump ya got, there, Sarge." "You're gonna have an even bigger one, Meldrick, if you don't find me some aspirin right now." John turns away, hiding a smile. *** "Agent Mulder." Mulder looks up to see Assistant Director Skinner standing in the doorway. "Let me guess. You want me to resubmit the Lamott report." Skinner holds out an envelope. "The report is fine. I came to deliver this." Mulder takes the envelope and looks up at Skinner. "It's marked personal." Skinner nods. "You're right, but it set off the metal detector." He shrugs. "Would you feel better if I taped the envelope back up?" Mulder chuckles. "I'll pass." Skinner walks toward the door, smiling faintly. "Seems a bit quiet in here, Agent Mulder." Mulder searches for an appropriate response, but the Assistant Director is long gone by the time he can think of something suitable. He turns the envelope over and inspects the handwriting. Sloppy. All caps. No return address. He shakes the contents out and something shiny clatters to the floor. Stooping, he picks it up. A key. Small enough to open expensive luggage or maybe a storage locker. He unfolds the letter. I NEED YOUR HELP. IF YOU DON'T HEAR FROM ME WITHIN A FEW DAYS, I'M PROBABLY DEAD. PLEASE INVESTIGATE. THEY ALREADY KILLED ANGIE AND JUSTIN. PLEASE HELP ME, FOX! NICK SHAW Mulder rereads the letter several times. Nick Shaw? Good God! It's been at least ten years. And who are "they"? Who killed his wife and son? Tapping the letter against his thigh, Mulder realizes he doesn't even know where Shaw lives anymore. He checks the envelope again. The postmark tells him the letter came through Baltimore. Throughout their years of friendship and gradual separation, there is always one memory that comes to mind. The fire. He'd been sleeping over at Nick's house when the fire started. In the basement. Bad wiring or something. Ten year old Fox had smelled smoke first. He woke Nick and his parents in time to find the kitchen and half the living room engulfed in flames. They jumped out a second story window and Nick's mother broke her leg. Neighbors on both sides of the house were gone so Mr. Shaw went to get help. Nick and Fox were left with Karen Shaw for ten minutes. In Fox Mulder's mind it was an eternity. He watched while the fire ate more and more of the house, devouring furniture, pictures, memories. The next day Fox had returned to help pick through the rubble. There wasn't much left to salvage beyond ashes and blackened beams. A sandal. A few dishes. Melted jewelry. A few burnt photos. The wreckage still smoldered and the smell made Fox ill. It was one of the longest afternoons of his life. That weekend was Fox Mulder's first real exposure to fire. It terrified him. It still did. Mulder studies the key and wonders if his friend is dead. *** He drives Kay's car with extreme caution. Now is not the time to be pulled over. He'll go home, get some clothes, pack a few things, and find Fox. Nick parks the car three blocks away and walks to the house. He gets the spare key from the garage and unlocks the back door. Nick steps into the living room. The blood is still there, but Angie's body is long gone. He was almost afraid she would still be here. Or that someone else would be waiting for him. He runs through the house, pushing the memories of anniversaries, birthdays, lazy weekends away. He has no time for the past. He doesn't deserve the past. He strips out of his clothes and pulls on a clean pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Another set of clothes goes into the worn duffel bag. He takes the money from the bottom of the sock drawer and stuffs it into his pocket. The Sergeant's gun goes into the other pocket, and he pins her badge to the neck of his shirt. He's almost ready. Almost free. He hurries downstairs and back through the kitchen. He grabs the keys to Angie's Mercury Tracer off the refrigerator. That's when he hears the soft footstep behind him. He reaches for the gun. "Don't even try it, Nick. If I wanted you dead, you'd have never made it through the door. Now turn around slowly, hands up." Nick closes his eyes. So close. He'd been so close to freedom. He raises his hands and turns. "That's good. Now put the gun on the table. Along with that shield." Nick opens his eyes. A man in a camouflage jacket stands with an extremely lethal looking weapon trained on his head. "Gun" is too kind a word. He fights an intense urge to laugh. "Slow," the man warns. He nods toward the table. Nick obeys. He places the gun and gold shield on the tablecloth. He feels little fear now that death is so close. He just wants the nightmare to end. He wants to see Angie. "Have you got any identification?" Nick stares at the man. He has sandy brown hair and dark eyes. His voice is low, a mixture of gravel and honey. Nick struggles to understand the question. "What for? Just kill me." His hands drop to his sides. "Get it over with." The man laughs, a surprisingly mirthful sound. "I'm not going to kill you, Nick. I need some ID to plant on a body. Somebody that's going to be *you*. Understand?" Nick blinks. He doesn't move. The man mutters under his breath and grabs Nick by the arm. He shoves him into the dining room. "Move it. Find something. Anything. Go get a ring, some kind of jewelry. A credit card." Nick shakes his head. "My wallet is still at the police station." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Who are you?" "I'm a friend." He lifts the gun. "But I'm running short on patience, so hurry it up. Find something. Now." Nick puts a hand to his head, trying to think. "I have an onyx ring that Angie gave me for our tenth wedding anniversary...?" Camouflage nods. "Wonderful. Go get it. You have ten seconds." Nick swallows. "And then?" The man smiles. "And then I come get you. And you'll wish I hadn't. Okay?" Nick goes upstairs again. His mouth is dry. Who is the man? Why hasn't he killed him yet? Is he really a friend? Nick's hands shake as he searches the jewelry box. Dammit! Where is it-there! He grabs the ring and slips it over his knuckle. The ring brings more memories, but he fights them back. If he gives in, he'll collapse right here, right now. He runs down the steps, almost tripping. Camouflage is waiting in a chair, hands crossed behind his head, the gun in his lap. He holds one hand out. "What?" Camouflage makes a face. "The ring." "Oh." Flustered, Nick pulls it back off and hands it over. "Much obliged." He lifts himself out of the chair and crosses back into the kitchen. He pockets the gun, shield, and ring. "Come on, Nick." "Where...where are we going?" "*We* aren't going anywhere. But I believe you're on your way to see a friend. Am I right?" Nick licks his lips. "I...yes." Camouflage motions to the door with his gun. "You better hurry up. A lot of people are looking for you. And they aren't all your friends." "I don't understand," Nick says, clutching the car keys. "You don't have to." "Who are you?" "I already told you. You better go." Nick nods slowly. "Okay." He puts a hand on the doorknob and turns. He waits for the sound of gunfire. It doesn't come. He opens the door. He walks outside. Still no gunfire. He runs to the garage, not looking back. It takes him three tries to unlock the car door. He crawls inside the car, amazed to be alive. He almost laughs. The garage door opens with assorted creaks and groans and he backs the Tracer out of the driveway. Camouflage stands in the front window watching. And then the figure is gone. Nick drives. *** He parks the car and walks to a pay phone. He unscrews the phone's receiver and removes the device from the pocket of his camouflage jacket. He screws it in place. He drops the correct change into the slot and dials. A man with a British accent answers on the fourth ring. "Mission accomplished," Camouflage says, leaning his head against the dirty metal structure. Fatigue pulls at the edges of his mind. "No problems?" "Not so far. I wish you could have seen the look on his face." "Surprised, was he, Mickey?" "You could say that. Better check the Baltimore Sun tomorrow morning." Mickey's gloved hand grips the phone chord. "I wish you were with me on this, McCall." "I am, Mickey." "You know what I mean." "You'll be fine. You don't need an old man tagging along after you." Mickey laughs. "Yeah, right." Silence stretches across the phone line for a moment, a friendly, familiar space. He says quietly: "I don't know what I'm doing here, Robert. I'm in the dark on this one." "Be careful," his friend warns. "No unnecessary risks." Mickey watches a school bus go by. A group of children from a different world. A different planet. "Right." McCall's voice is urgent. "I mean it, Mickey. I'm not in a position where I can help you. You must be very careful." "Aren't I always careful, McCall?" Before his friend can answer, Mickey hangs up. He pats a pocket deep inside the coat. The shield, gun, and ring are still there. Time to get to work. *** "He jeopardized a homicide investigation and endangered a fellow detective's life!" Frank's voice ricochets around the small office like a bullet. Tim glares at the black detective. "Really, Frank? Explain to me how I did that. Give me a little of *your* rational thinking." Frank takes a step forward, his fist itching to smash Tim's nose. Kay moves between them. "Hey!" A white square of bandage covers her forehead. "Tim did not cause what happened to me. Nick Shaw gave me this headache." She offers Pembleton a tight smile. "But you're not doing much to make it go away, Frank." Frank stares at her, eyes narrowed. "You said-" "I *said* that I didn't appreciate Tim's technique with Shaw." Tim crosses his arms. "And why not?" Kay shakes her head. "You were too heavy-handed, Tim." Tim throws his hands up, frustrated. "Frank goes ballistic all the time and no one bats an eye. Why is it different with me?" Frank and Kay look at each other. Tim catches their glance. "What? WHAT?" Lieutenant Giardello sighs. "Frank can step back when he has to." Tim feels the room grow smaller. "Meaning?" "Meaning you have a problem with certain cases, Detective Bayliss." Bayliss doesn't speak. He's not sure he can. He feels a tightening in his gut. It feels suspiciously like panic. Gee continues. "You have a problem with child murders, Tim. You take them too personally." Tim stares, incredulous. "How can I not take them personally?" Kay's voice is quiet. "It takes a lot of practice, Tim, but you can do it. You *have* to do it." Tim stares at Kay, for a moment. He feels as if he's been sucker-punched. Emotions flicker across his face. Anger. Despair. He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Tightens his lips into a thin line. "Fine. You think whatever you want." His gaze turns to Frank, daring him to tell the others about...his past. Frank meets his gaze. Silent. Tim turns and storms out of Gee's office, slamming the door behind him. Giardello watches the troubled detective stalk out of the squad room. The Lieutenant's anger is already spent, he feels only a dull, lingering sadness. "Did Shaw murder his wife and child?" he asks. "You think he'd go to all the trouble to take Kay hostage if he didn't?" Frank demands. "Do you think he'd go to all that trouble if he was guilty?" "What, Kay? What? Did he tell you the secret password? How do you know he didn't do it?" Kay shrugs. "I don't know that he's innocent, Frank. I just don't know if he's guilty." "I suggest you find him, Frank. And then find out if he's guilty." "And how am I supposed to do that, Gee? Click my heels together three times and wish him back here?" Gee rests his hands on top of his desk. "Whatever works, Frank. You do whatever works." *** Mickey Kostmayer sits in the hotel room. The room is rented under the name David Johnson. The driver's license in his wallet reads David Johnson as well. The driver's license and passport in his bag reads Thomas Kitt. The door is locked and chained. He sits on the bed, whistling softly, while he cleans his 9mm Uzi. Those Israelis sure make some damn fine firearms. He's got a .45 Colt nestled in his bag, and an M16 safety tucked in the trunk of the car. He finishes with the gun and removes a thick padded envelope from his bag. He empties the contents onto the purple bedspread. Mickey pops open a can of soda and takes a long drink. He studies the face of Special Agent Fox William Mulder for a long time. He flips through the other photographs. After a few moments he reaches for the dossier and begins reading. Tomorrow his team will rendezvous at eleven hundred hours. He leans back against the headboard and waits. Waiting is the easy part. End part 2/10 ****************************** From sjbryan@athenet.net Tue Apr 15 14:08:08 1997 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: Perfect Clarity, XF/H:LotS/EQ crossover, Part 2/5 From: "Stephen Bryan" -------- Disclaimer: I just borrowed 'em, I don't own 'em. See the beginning of Part 1 for the whole enchilada. Title: Perfect Clarity Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: R or NC-17 (violence, language) Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer) Part 3/10 Gee hands him the yellow sheet silently. Tim takes the paper, glances at it, and looks up at the Lieutenant. A tiny line creases his forehead. "What is this?" "Your vacation request form. I approved it." "I didn't request any vacation." Gee smiles. "Sure you did, Bayliss. Go ahead and take it." Tim clenches the form in his hand, wrinkling it. "Gee. Please..." "Take your vacation, Bayliss." Tim stares at the top of his desk. He takes a deep breath, fighting for control. "Don't do this to me." "I'm not doing anything, Bayliss. You deserve some vacation. You've had a rough couple of months. You just came back a few weeks ago. Take it easy. Give your arm some rest, huh?" "I've had enough rest." Gee stares hard at Bayliss. He lowers his voice. "No, Tim. You haven't." He taps the vacation request form with a finger. "You have one week off. Starting now." Tim grins suddenly, shaking his head. "I get it. This is a joke, right?" But Gee's expression tells him it isn't. He wipes a hand across his forehead. "What...you're suspending me?" Gee sighs. "No. I'm giving you a vacation." Tim laughs bitterly. "A mandatory vacation." Gee shrugs. "Have it your way." He leans against the corner of Tim's desk. He cocks his head toward the hall. Tim leans back in his chair, eyes wide with disbelief. "I have to leave *now*?" "Have a nice time." Tim stands slowly. He pushes the report he was reading to a corner of his desk. He grabs for his coat blindly, his face compressed with anger. He glances around the room. The other detectives busy themselves, trying hard not to notice Bayliss and his humiliation. Except for Frank. Frank watches him calmly. Impassive. Tim passes Frank's desk on the way out. "Thanks a lot," he says, furious. Frank's lips curve. "Anytime." Tim stalks out of the squad room, betrayed. *** Lewis swivels in his chair. "Yo, Frank! We got us a floater!" There are days when he sees Crosetti in every doorway, hears his voice just across the room. And there are days he never thinks of the rotund detective once. Thankfully, today is one of the latter. Frank takes another bite of his sandwich. "Suicide?" "I don't know. Guy's head is all bashed in. No ID, but Vance says he's wearing a shield." Frank drops the sandwich. "A cop?" Lewis grins. "Nope." He lays the ace on the table. "Shaw. It's Kay's shield." Frank reaches for his hat. He flashes a shark's grin at Meldrick. "Don't just sit there, man. Let's go." *** He doesn't look up from the autopsy report to answer the phone. He fumbles for the receiver. "Mulder." "Agent Mulder, there's a man in the lobby who says he knows you. His name is Nick Shaw. Do you want me send him down?" The case is forgotten. "No, that's all right Lisa. I'll be right up." Mulder folds Nick's letter in half and in half again. He slides the square into his pocket. He feels a brief spark of excitement at seeing his old friend again. The spark fades quickly. Nick brings too many memories of the Vineyard with him. Too much of the past. Mulder walks out of the office, wishing-not for the first time-that Scully were with him. Nick sits in a corner of the lobby, immersed in a year old copy of Time. Mulder smiles. "Nick!" Shaw doesn't look up. Mulder draws closer, suddenly wondering if that familiar profile is so familiar after all. He tries again. "Nick?" Shaw looks up from the magazine, eyes wary. He glances furtively around the busy lobby, then back to Mulder. "Can we go somewhere and talk?" Mulder studies his friend's sallow face, the haunted eyes, the stooped set of his shoulders. A passage from the letter flashes in his mind: They already killed Angie and Justin. Subdued, Mulder nods. "We can go to my office." Then: "What's going on?" Nick balks. "Not here. Can we go to your apartment?" Mulder's well-developed sense of paranoia responds to Nick's fear. Mulder guides Nick to the parking ramp. The two men walk quickly, heads down, talking softly. "What's going on? You said Angie and Justin-" Nick's face contorts, but he regains his composure almost immediately. "Yes. They killed them." "Who's they?" Nick looks over his shoulder. "Wait until we're in the car." Mulder unlocks the passenger door and Nick slides into the front seat. Mulder unlocks his own door and climbs behind the wheel. He turns the ignition and the engine idles. He turns to Nick. "Well?" Nick puts a hand to his face. "I'm sorry, Fox. I didn't plan to drag you into this...but I don't know anyone else who could help me. Who would help me. I know that you have a certain...appreciation for things that are...unusual. You're willing to believe when others aren't." Nick stares through the windshield. "There's something I have to tell you. Something I want you to tell the world." Mulder licks his lips, grips the steering wheel tighter. "What?" "The truth." *** "I had my doubts," Shaw tells him. "I should have known at the time, but God help me, I didn't." He glances out the window for perhaps the tenth time. "I don't think we're being followed." Mulder checks the rearview mirror. "Why would we be followed?" "The police think I killed Angie and Justin." He slams a fist against the dashboard. "They think I shot my wife four times and my son twice." He squeezes his eyes closed, shutting out the memory of his bloody living room. "I can already read the headlines. 'Mild-mannered scientist kills family in a fit of rage.'" His voice is acidic. "What caused the fit of rage?" Nick sighs. "He was fired." "So what." "A jury doesn't need a screenplay, Mulder. If they don't like your haircut they'll convict." "You've got nice hair, Nick." Nick strikes out at the dashboard again. "Is this a joke to you? I thought you'd help. Mr. FBI, with his big quest for the truth. You'd rather make fun of me?" Mulder checks the traffic and pulls over. "I'm not making fun of you, Nick. I'm sorry." He stares into Shaw's face, sincere. "I'm sorry about Angie and Justin. I want to help you." He smiles awkwardly, self-consciously. "I have a habit of cracking jokes when I don't know what else to say." "Then maybe you shouldn't say anything," Nick snaps. "This is my life, you know? This is what's left of it." Mulder nods, placating. "Okay, okay. I won't say anything." A car passes them. "*You* talk, Nick. Tell me what really happened. Who killed Angie? And why?" Nick begins slowly, searching for the right words. "I started at New World about three years ago. They read a few of my papers and decided I'd be perfect to finish a big project they were working on. At the time, I wasn't very happy at the CDC, so I listened. They promised a bigger paycheck. Moving expenses. The whole nine yards. "Angie was excited. She was tired of Atlanta and thought Baltimore sounded exciting. She wanted a change." "What's New World?" Mulder asks. "Another disease center?" "Not exactly. It's a subsidiary of a large Japanese firm. New World Labs is basically a free lance research facility. A hired gun. They were about three years old when I came on board." "What were you brought in to finish?" Nick worries at his lower lip. He looks out the window before answering. "I signed three different releases when New World hired me. Everything is classified. Especially my project." He laughs softly, a hollow sound. "Guess it doesn't really matter now. "The code name was Perfect Clarity. Dr. Jesse Stevens began the preliminary research in 1993. He died the following year in a car accident. At least that's what they told me. Until recently, I never had any reason to doubt them." "What's Perfect Clarity?" Mulder asks. Excitement tightens his belly. Images reel through his mind: A glass bottle labeled Purity Control, bodies submerged in tanks, a child with Samantha's face on a mysterious farm in Canada. Max Fenig's backpack. Each time, proof was within his reach. And each time it slipped through his fingers, lost, leaving him with darker nightmares and the knowledge he was always two steps behind. Nick is silent. "Who sanctioned the project? Who was your client?" Nick answers weakly: "I don't know." Mulder presses him. "The government? The military?" "I told you-I don't know. All I can tell you is they're powerful. They own New World. They own me." Mulder glances at his friend. "They don't own you." "The hell they don't! They took everything!" Nick bows his head, fighting tears. Despair whispers in his ear. "I just wanted to get out...to get out of the project. I resigned. But they wouldn't let me go..." his voice dissolves. "Why did you want to get out?" "Perfect Clarity is a mistake. A terrible mistake." Nick turns to stare out the window. He watches the other cars drive past, wishing he were someone else. Anyone else. "And no one at New World agreed with you?" "Apparently not." "Can't they get someone to replace you? Like you replaced Stevens?" Nick releases a long sigh. "Not exactly." "Why not?" Mulder asks. He blinks and casts a quick look at his friend. Realization dawns. "You sent me a key. You took the research, didn't you? They *can't* continue." He looks at his friend with a combination of admiration and amazement. "Yes. I took the research. And I got my family killed." "It wasn't your fault, Nick." "Right. You certainly don't know anything about blame, do you?" Mulder's jaw clenches. Nick's statement is salt on old wounds. He fingers the thin chain around his neck. A small silver ring shaped like a dolphin hangs beneath his shirt. He can still see the look of joy on Samantha's face when she opens the box and sees the ring, so long ago. Yes, he knows a lot about blame. And guilt. "Why was Perfect Clarity a mistake?" "The *concept* of Perfect Clarity isn't wrong, it's the application." Mulder checks the side mirror and changes lanes. "But what *is* Perfect Clarity? Some kind of wonder drug?" "Are you familiar with Lysergic Acid Diethylamide? LSD?" Mulder laughs, taken aback. "Personally?" "It's a hallucinogen, meant to alter perception. To supposedly *enhance* perception. Similar to Phencyclidine-" "PCP. I can't say I've used it, but I know about it. I have copies of some of the MKULTRA documents. Our government's been making us proud for a long, long time." "The MKULTRA experiments were terrible, but the concept, that hallucinogenic drugs could be useful, has merit. Not in the manner the CIA intended, to disorient or manipulate foreign leaders, but to help the military. "Think about it: originally, what were hallucinogens like LSD used for?" "To heighten physical senses. Achieve supposed insights into the universe. They were supposed to be the answer, with a capital A." Pause. "You were working on some kind of LSD derivative?" "Sort of. Do you know what ergot is?" Mulder sees Scully's face, bruised and silent after the incident with Ed Jerse. "I've, ah, heard of it." "My composition-and Stevens's-was originally based on an ergot alkaloid. I was working on my own synthetic alkaloid by linking lysergic acid and amino alcohol dexaldramine instead of butanolamine--" "Whoa, Nick. Try it in English this time." "Suffice it to say the test subjects didn't respond. We hadn't found the password yet. Everything we came up with didn't match the necessary criteria. Instead of a higher awareness, all we got was a high. Until about five months ago." "What changed?" "We changed the whole chemical base of the formula. Ergot out. Orange Juice in." "Excuse me?" Nick offers Mulder a brief smile. "You heard right. I don't mean orange juice, as in breakfast drink. It's something I've never seen before. Something remarkable. We gave it the code name Orange Juice." Nick's fear recedes, replaced by the excitement of his discovery. "At first I thought it was Secale cornutum-that's still ergot of rye--but then I realized it had too many unknown properties. We spent weeks analyzing it, cross-checking, cross-referencing, and came up with nothing. Do you realize the significance?" He continues talking, not giving Mulder time to answer. "We discovered an unknown alkaloid! The powder was faintly magnetic. It was like the Second Coming! One of the lab technicians brought it in, said it came from Level Three. That's where the really big stuff went on, chemical and biological weapons, infectious diseases." Mulder's mouth drops open. To hear Nick speak so openly, so blatantly about the goings-on at New World Labs makes him wonder if there is a God after all. Finally, after years of denial and stone-walling, here is a whiff of truth! He considers her reaction. Would this information hit too close to home? Her cancer still casts an uncertain shadow on their future. "No one would tell me what the compound was, where it came from. In fact, Level Three denied ever seeing it before. They took their own sample." "What about the technician who brought it in?" "He conveniently disappeared. When I asked about him, they said he transferred to one of the other Labs in California. I requested a fellow colleague from the Center for Disease Control to assist me. Together we spent another three months documenting, experimenting. We worked, literally, days at a time. And then I struck gold." The light goes out of Nick's eyes. "Or so I thought." "The mysterious appearance of the Orange Juice, do you think they were using you?" "Probably. I served a purpose. I was a glorified lackey. I had the biggest credentials, the most bits of framed parchment on the wall." Mulder watches the car in front of them pull into the exit lane. "You still haven't told me exactly what Perfect Clarity is. Why it's worth killing for." "Take a bunch of mice and put them in a maze. What happens?" "They wander around until they find their way out." "Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes they go in circles or go back to the beginning. Now, what happens what I inject them with Perfect Clarity? "I'll tell you: They find the exit every time. Straight for it, not one wrong turn. We upped the ante, increased the size of the maze. Still no problem. The mice showed marked signs of improvement in all skill areas. "The monkeys were even better. They could tell when someone was coming seconds-maybe minutes-before the technician. Every sense was sharpened tenfold." Nick shuts his eyes, remembering. "It was like a miracle. It was Christmas morning. "The project supervisor, Roy Jacardi, was ecstatic. Our client was already promising another long-term job." Nick pauses. "And that's when the animals began to die. "I'm telling you, Fox, Leon and I tried everything. But we didn't know what we were dealing with, not for sure! What could I do? Every day, another mouse, another monkey went into convulsions and died." His voice drops. "I couldn't save one. It was...like a bomb dropped. My greatest achievement was unraveling before my eyes. "But the worst part-the unbelievable thing-was no one else considered Perfect Clarity a failure. Not even Leon. He was caught up in the possibilities. One night, after I went home, Leon injected himself." Nick swallows dryly, remembering. "He was...astounding. He was the same man, but improved. His hearing, his vision were off the charts! He showed signs of telepathic abilities. It was as if he had unlocked some hidden part of his brain. "The dosage began to wear off after about six hours. He was fine. But everything went to hell after the second dose. He began seizing. His blood pressure soared. It was almost as if his body were rejecting the drug like a bad organ. "And the most horrific thing was: Jacardi wouldn't let me call an ambulance. They locked us in, demanding I figure out what had gone wrong. They demanded that I save Leon." Nick's voice sinks lower. "But I couldn't. When he died, I told them to shelve the project. I told them it was a failure. They didn't care. Leon was just a part of the 'greater process' they said. I wanted to vomit, Fox. I can't tell you what I felt when Jacardi looked me in the face that day. "They wanted to bring in more human test subjects! They rounded up a group of homeless people from below the I-95 overpass. They led them in like a group of half-clothed guinea pigs. Those men and women sat there, completely oblivious to what I was going to do!" Mulder's heart beats faster. "What did you do?" "Reading about MKULTRA is one thing, participating in it something all together different. I wanted to be able to sleep at night. I gave them a placebo and filled my preliminary findings with twelve different flavors of b.s." Nick shakes his head. "I couldn't do what they wanted, Fox. I still can't. Not until I figure out how to stop the side-effects." Mulder says nothing. There are no words to describe the horror and disgust that he feels. "Fox, I came to you for help for two reasons. One, because you're my friend. You're an FBI agent, and I trust you." "What's the second reason?" "The mystery alkaloid-Orange Juice. I know I'll sound crazy, but I think...I think it's an unnatural substance. I mean, it doesn't come from nature. Our nature." Mulder's heart pounds in his ears. He's afraid to believe. "What are you saying?" "What I'm saying Fox, is that it's not found on this planet. I think it's some kind of alien compound." Mulder can barely concentrate on the road. A manic excitement pulses through him. "Do you have proof?" "I heard about experiments going on in Level Three. Clandestine experiments. I only caught a few pieces here and there. I think they're working on cloning and hybridization." Nick studies Mulder's profile. "You don't seem surprised." "I'm not. What else do you have? What about your notes?" Nick fidgets with the strap of the safety belt. "Take Exit 37. We'll stop and get them. And then go someplace safe." Evening paints the horizon soft shades of pink and purple. "I know where we can go," Mulder says. End of part 3/10 **************************** Part 4/10 "It's on the house, Kay." Munch pushes the glass of amber liquid across the bar with a practiced hand. "Congratulations." Kay grins. "For what? Getting smashed upside the head?" "For not getting killed," Lewis says, raising his beer bottle in a toast. "I didn't have much to do with that," she says. Munch changes the subject. "Shaw's the one who's dead. That's fine by me." "Don't you find that just a little strange, John? It seems a little too convenient to me." "In this line of work, I'll take all the convenient I can get." Frank takes a long drink of Club Soda. "You don't think we fished Shaw's body out of the Harbor? Maybe he traded your shield and gun to somebody else?" "I don't know, Frank. All I'm saying is...it's a little weird." "This whole week's been weird," Munch complains. "That bagel shop on Seventh and State? They closed." He shakes his head in disbelief. "How am I supposed to start my day without a garlic bagel? They made the perfect bagel, still warm, just a hint of crunch, the aroma..." His long fingers tap the bar. "What was the name of that place?" "Bagel Heaven," Brodie answers. "Yeah. Now what do I have? A big stinking void, that's what." Lewis laughs. "It's just a bagel, Johnny. You'll pull through." Munch glares. "Don't give me lip, Lewis. I'm hanging on by a thread." Meldrick grins. "So what's new?" The detectives sit in relative silence for a few minutes, lost in their own thoughts. "His sister identified the body," Frank finally says. Kay turns her head. "What?" "Shaw's sister identified the body. He was wearing a ring from his wife. An anniversary present. Meyers did the autopsy." Meyers is still a new face among the ME's, but competent. Meyers was one of the first people Cox had brought in. "You think Meyers would make a mistake? Would lie so that we'd sleep better tonight?" Kay stares into the bottom of her empty glass. "No. I can't explain it. It just doesn't sit right with me. If Shaw killed his wife and kid, who killed Shaw?" Munch pours a refill. "Maybe he was overcome with remorse. You know, 'so what that I killed my wife and son, I just made that Sergeant Howard mad. Better end it all right now.'" Kay rolls her eyes. "I'm sure that's what happened." "Let me remind you, Kay. I've been on the receiving end of your anger. It's not pleasant. Makes me want to inspect a few bridge railings, every time." Kay raises an eyebrow. "Keep talking, John, and I'll push you off the Pier myself." Frank finishes his soda and rubs his eyes. What a day. Two hours after Shaw was fished out of the water a seventeen-year-old girl decided to strangle her baby. The girl put the infant in a garbage can on Washington Avenue. A twelve-year old boy looking for aluminum cans discovered the body. Frank crunches on an ice cube. Munch removes his glasses and wipes them clean with the sleeve of his shirt. "So. How many of you believe Tim Bayliss took a voluntary vacation? Let's see a show of hands, please." Frank crunches another piece of ice. "You never know," Kellerman says. "He could be on his way to Miami Beach right now." "That's right, Mr. Vacation Expert," Lewis laughs. "Ain't you the man who sat around Fells Point on his vacation?" Kay checks her watch. "I have an early court appearance for the Silvio case tomorrow. I'm going to head out, guys." Munch nods at her. "See you tomorrow, Kay." Brodie smiles, suddenly shy. "Have a good night, Sergeant Howard." She returns his smile, amused. "You too, Brodie." Munch curls his lip at the young man. "Stop it. You're making me feel all soft and mushy inside." He adjusts his glasses. "I *hate* soft and mushy." Lewis rests his beer bottle on one knee. "Tough words, John. Guess you don't care too much for, what do they call it...? You aren't a Hallmark moment kind of guy, huh?" Munch deadpans: "Maalox moment is more my style." *** Mickey reaches for the cold comfort of his Uzi and slips into the black uniform. He sits on the edge of the bed and laces up the heavy combat boots. He is now Tom Kitt, ex-Navy Seal, and leader of the covert Black Eagle Reconnaissance Team. Their mission: to deliver Nick Shaw and his research back to New World Labs. Mickey and two other members of the Eagles have a private agenda: ensure that Nick Shaw passes his information to an FBI Agent named Fox Mulder. From what Mickey's read, Mulder appears to be a wild card, not your average G-man. But this mission is no longer average, either. There's a leak. He had dropped the dealer's body in the Harbor yesterday. Sure enough, the papers ate it up. Reporters read the news that Nick Shaw was dead with practiced sincerity on both nightly newscasts. Mickey kicked back in his hotel room and waited for the phone call. Black Eagle would be a no-go and he'd get to go home. The call had come five minutes ago, but with a twist. Rendezvous in ten minutes to pick up the package. The "package" was Nick Shaw. He runs both hands through his hair, trying to think. Somehow, they've learned about Shaw's meeting with Mulder. Someone on his team? Mickey considers. Impossible. He's got two good men with him. Neither of them are McCall, but they're professional. Disciplined. Then who? Someone at the FBI? Five minutes later he's in the car, black beret pulled low over his forehead. The M16 rests next to him, hidden beneath a blanket. A faint thread of worry winds though his belly. The situation is suddenly messy, and he doesn't like it. He takes a deep breath, staying calm, centered. It's time to get creative. Creativity is one of Mickey Kostmayer's specialties. *** "Dana? Are you coming?" "Be right there, Mom!" Charles, his wife, and Margaret Scully are sitting on the back patio. They're drinking honey-lemon iced tea, cradled in the warmth of each other's company and the evening humidity. Scully wraps the phone cord around her wrist once, twice, waiting for Mulder to pick up. She checks her watch against the Ethan Allen clock on the wall. Mulder should be home by now. She dials his office number and is rewarded with his terse voice mail message. As usual, no answer from his cell phone. She sighs and puts her own cell phone away. It's not like she has anything important to tell him. Just that her vacation is going fine , her nephew is adorable and that the relaxation is doing her good. Oh yeah. Dana Scully is having a wonderful time. *** Mulder leafs through the notes. The cramped pages of computations and technical jargon mean little to him, but the knowledge that he has something tangible-real proof-is enough. A small glass bottle rests on the coffee table. There is no label. Next to the bottle is a small vial of powder that looks suspiciously like cocaine. Mulder pulls himself off the floor and goes to Scully's desk. He turns on her computer and inserts one of Nick's disks. He scrolls through the document, barely reading. He copies the disk onto her hard drive. As soon as the document is saved, he begins scanning key pages of Shaw's notes. In all, he saves ten pages, each one named after one of Scully's relatives. He saves the documents in a new directory called XMASCARD.LST. Mulder stares at the computer screen for several seconds. Biting at his lip, he changes his mind. He rummages through her desk drawers until he finds a box of blank disks. He inserts an empty disk and zips the files he just saved to the hard drive and transfers them to the disk. He prints the words 'from George Hale' on the identification sticker and leans the disk against her answering machine. The entire process takes about twenty minutes. When he's finished, he turns the equipment back off. "What are you doing?" Nick asks. He is surrounded by papers, revising notes. "Trying to make sure we're safe instead of sorry." Digging through Scully's bathroom cabinet, he finds an empty perfume bottle. Rinsing the pear shaped container out, he pours in a few drops of Perfect Clarity. Next, he pours a sampling of the pure alkaloid into a ziploc bag and puts it in her refrigerator. Finally he sits down on Scully's couch. He returns Shaw's research to the table. Shaw watches him. "Now what do we do?" Mulder runs a hand over his stubbled face. "I know someone at the Washington Post. I'll call him tomorrow morning." He stands back up, unable to sit still. "And I should call Skinner. We'll have to get you into some kind of safe house. Get you a new identity." Nick leans back and rests his head on a pillow. He stares at the ceiling. "I still can't believe this is really happening." Mulder doesn't have a chance to respond. The door bursts open and six uniformed men stream into Dana Scully's living room. The first man raises his gun and fires several silenced shots before Mulder's weapon is even drawn. Nick slumps sideways against the armrest and Mulder drops to the floor, still. The man who fired the gun moves silently to Nick and checks his pulse. It's strong. He watches Eagle Two check Mulder. Eagle Two nods. "He's out." Eagle Three begins organizing the papers on the coffee table and places them inside a black bag. He stares at the bottle and vial. "This is it?" Eagle Three asks. Mickey nods. "Put them in the bag." He motions to the computer. "Erase the hard drive." He bends down and pulls the unconscious FBI agent to his feet. He glimpses a silver chain around Mulder's neck and deftly pulls it off in one quick move. He clenches it in the palm of his leather glove. He nods to Eagles Three and Four. "Get Shaw. We've got five more minutes, max. Go. "Eagle Six, take Mulder. Two and I are going to make a quick sweep of the premises, make sure there's nothing left. Hurry." He motions Eagle Two into the kitchen/dining room area, and Mickey moves into the bedroom. He glances around the room, heart pounding. He drops the necklace onto the bed and moves back out into the hallway. "Is the package ready?" he asks. Eagle Three nods. "Affirmative. The computer is clean. Let's go." "What's this?" Eagle Two holds up a plastic bag. "Found it on the top shelf of the refrigerator." Eagle Three looks closely. "Looks like the stuff in the vial. Bring it." Mickey stifles a curse. The necklace will have to do. He nods to the men. "Now." They back out of the apartment. The complex is quiet. If anyone heard the noise coming from Apartment 731, they've decided to keep it to themselves. Mickey turns the lights out and shuts the door. The latch is broken, but the door stays closed. *** Sunday morning. The neighborhood is quiet. Most houses are silent, families sleeping in. Tim Bayliss stands in front of Nick Shaw's empty house. He stares at the blank windows, waiting for the sick feeling in his stomach to go away. Shaw is dead. He tells himself again that the man was a useless murderer, the world is a better place without him. Tim is lost. Adrift. He is a detective without an investigation. A man without a job. He has spent years convincing himself that his fellow detectives are his friends. The reality is they are little more than vague acquaintances. Share a few beers, a few stories, and that's that. Even Frank. Frank, who doesn't understand him. Who will never understand him. Who doesn't *want* to understand him. Tim accepts this. But Frank's oh-so-righteous anger at Tim's behavior in the Box is unforgivable. How often has Frank reduced a suspect to a blubbering mass of nerve endings? How often has he verbally flayed a confession out of some sweaty, pimple-faced kid? But that's okay. Because Frank Pembleton is a step above the rest. He is, apparently, above reproach. But not Tim Bayliss. Good ol' fly-off-the-handle Tim. Snarky Tim. They see nothing more than an obsessive, insecure cop. Maybe he does obsess over certain cases, but with good reason. Asleep in the cold ground, Adena still waits for him to find her killer. Maybe he is insecure, but when his Lieutenant forces him into an unwanted vacation, how can he not be? But Tim Bayliss has other qualities. He is stubborn. No matter what they think-Frank in particular-he is a good detective. He has an eye for detail. He is patient. He is honest. And he is tired. Again, the thought creeps up on him, a familiar shadow. Maybe. But it's too late. Now there is something to prove. He stands outside Nick Shaw's house, unsure why he has come. The neighborhood was canvassed days ago. The trail to Shaw's killer-if he was killed-is stone cold. Hands in his pockets, Tim watches the house and wonders what really went on in Nick Shaw's living room. "No one's home." A young boy, maybe eleven or twelve, stands next to him. A heavy sack of newspapers rests on one shoulder. The boy nods at the Shaw house. He speaks with faint reverence. "They're all dead." Tim smiles at the boy. A nice, friendly kid. A glimpse of who Tim might have been. "What happened?" The boy stares at Tim's detective shield. "Are you a cop?" Tim nods. "I'm trying to find out what happened to Mrs. Shaw and her son, Justin." The boy looks at the house. "A lot of people think Mr. Shaw killed them. But I don't. He was a nice guy. He used to give me money to do little errands now and then." The boy slides the bag to the ground. "As a matter of fact, the day of the...uh...murders," the boy is uncomfortable with the word, "he gave me five bucks to mail a letter." "Really?" "Yeah. I try not to be nosy...but it was kind of cool. The letter was addressed to the FBI." Tim looks at the kid sharply. "You're sure." The boy nods, eyes wide. "Yes, sir." The detective grins. "My name is Tim. What's yours?" "Kevin Kryder." He points down the block. "I live in the blue split-level. With the fence." "About the letter. Was it addressed to the FBI in general, or to someone specific?" Kevin's forehead creases. "To an FBI agent, because it was a funny name. An animal's name." He frowns. "I'm sorry, I can't remember." "Did you talk to Detective Munch or Officer Vanzin earlier this week? They came around to a lot of the houses in your neighborhood, asking questions. Nobody mentioned anything about a letter." A scared look crosses Kevin's face. "I was staying overnight at a friend's house. I'm not in trouble am I?" "Oh, no." Tim shakes his head. "You've been a really big help. You might help me solve this case." The boy's expression tells Tim he doesn't quite believe him, but he nods and reaches for the bag of papers. "Wait a minute, Kevin. Let me give you my card. If you remember anything else, just give me a call, anytime. Okay?" The boy takes the card, stares at it a moment, and slips it into his pocket. "Okay." The boy continues with his paper route and Tim walks slowly back to his car. "Hey!" Tim turns to see Kevin Kryder running toward him. Tim holds a hand up, shielding his face from the morning sun. He squints at the boy. "I remember the name on the envelope!" The kid says, excited. "I don't remember the last name, but I'm almost sure the first name was Fox. Agent Fox Something, it said." Tim ruffles the boy's hair. "That's terrific, Kevin." Kevin grins and runs back down the street. "Thanks!" Tim calls to the boy's back. He gets into the car. He sits behind the wheel for a moment, considering the boy's statement. According to Gee's mandate, he should not have come here this morning. But since he *did* continue an investigation he is no longer part of, he should inform Pembleton or Lewis of Kevin's information. 'Should', being the operative word. Tim taps the steering wheel thoughtfully. Maybe Washington D.C. would be a nice place to start his vacation. Inside Agent Fox Mulder's office. *** Bright light. He can't see. Fox Mulder stiffens involuntarily, panic jerking his body forward. He brushes against something. Make that *someone*. The shape next to him slides into focus. Nick. They're in some kind of cell. The blinding light comes from the rows of fixtures, high above. Mulder releases his breath slowly, staring up at the steel cables and beams. Where are they? A warehouse? "Nick." Shaw doesn't answer. Mulder feels for his friend's pulse. It's steady. He recalls the moment of terror at Scully's apartment, followed by...nothing. Darkness. The men must have been armed with tranquilizer guns. He shakes Nick's shoulder. "Nick," he whispers again, urgent. "Shut up." Mulder peers through the metal bars. Two guards stand outside the door. "What do you want?" Mulder demands. Both men wear black military dress. They carry what look like small Uzis. Their dark berets are marked with the emblem of an eagle clutching a small globe in its claws. "Nice outfits," Mulder says. "Which covert branch of the military do you represent?" One of the guards walks close to the bars and glares in. "I told you to shut up." Mulder speaks with a courage he doesn't feel. He musters a cocky smile. "I guess you'll just have to shoot me with another tranq." Nick moans and stirs on the floor. The man's lip curls. "Don't tempt me. I might use real bullets this time." He turns to Eagle Five. "Go get Jacardi. Tell him they're awake." Eagle Five nods once and walks out. Mickey Kostmayer pulls a key ring out of his pocket. "Okay. Listen, and listen good." He speaks low and fast. "I'm going to unlock this door. Get Shaw to his feet and follow me. This is your one chance to escape. Don't blow it." Mulder stares into the guard's hard eyes, shocked. He stands frozen, unsure what to believe. Mickey turns the key and the steel door slides open. He raises his Uzi. "Come on. *Now*. If you blow this, you'll get us all killed." Mulder hauls Nick to his feet. He slings an arm around Nick's shoulders. He hesitates. Why should he trust the guard? This is just another trap. Mulder swears, frustrated. There is no choice. He's dead if he stays and dead if he goes. Mickey prods Mulder with the gun. "Move it!" Glaring, Mulder takes a step forward. Nick opens his eyes. He blinks, still groggy. "What's happening?" "I'm trying to keep you alive," Mickey growls. "I'm on your side, all right? Follow me." Mickey sprints to the door. He looks over his shoulder, realizing he's alone. Mulder and Shaw wait in the doorway of the cell. Shaw stares. "You're the man who was-" Mickey grits his death. "NOW!" he hisses. The look on the guard's face breaks Mulder's paralysis. The two men follow Mickey. Mickey punches in the door's code and the heavy lock snaps free. He pushes the door open, shoulder first, Uzi ready. He glances down the hallway. Clear both ways. The video camera at the east elevator has been turned to record the ceiling. Perspiring heavily, Mickey guides the two men down the hallway and into the stairwell. "We've got three flights, gentleman. If you value your lives, I suggest you run like you never have before." Mickey quickly outdistances them. Mulder, still suffering the effects of the sedation, struggles for balance. Nick lags behind, one hand trailing the wall for support. They clear the first flight. Mickey hardly dares to breathe. Looks like McCall had the right idea after all. His heavy boots pound the steps with unbearable noise. They clear the second flight. Mulder's lungs scream with strain. Nick breathes raggedly, desperate to keep up. Footsteps. Directly below. Coming *toward* them. Mickey's gut goes into free-fall. Fight or retreat? Two lives depend on him. He grabs the railing and swings himself around. Mulder nearly collides with him. "Go back," he hisses. "GO BACK!" Mickey runs. Footsteps and muted shouts follow. He grabs hold of Shaw's arm and pulls the scientist along faster. They reach the second flight door. Two men in white lab coats stare at the trio, open-mouthed. He doesn't want to risk the elevator, but can they make it to the west fire escape in time? The decision is made for him. Three of his Black Eagle team members wait around the corner, faces blank, guns raised. Mickey squeezes off a round before leaping back to safety. He's rewarded with a sharp, agonized cry. Eagle Five, the second guard from the holding cell, falls to the floor, dead. Blood pools beneath him. Mulder and Nick press themselves to the wall. "What the hell are you doing, Kitt?" Petri's voice. Eagle Three. Karl Jansen spits out an order: "Drop. Your. Gun." Eagle Four. Mickey closes his eyes, leans his head against the wall. This is it. Game over. Damn! He hates failure. The footsteps are loud behind them now. The door slams open and Eagle Two and Eagle Six stand ready. Jansen repeats the order: "Drop the gun. Hands up, Kitt. Last warning." Mickey lays the gun on the floor, very gently. He raises his hands. There are regrets, but he always knew there would be. A lot of men have been sacrificed over the years. His turn has finally come. The fire door opens a second time and Roy Jacardi appears, flanked by two men in dark suits. Jacardi nods at Shaw, a smile splitting his tanned face. "Nick. It's good to see you again." His attention shifts to Mulder. "And Agent Mulder. It's a pleasure. I've heard quite a lot about you." Jacardi's eyes flick to Kostmayer. "Well done, Kitt. You had me fooled." He bows slightly. "Not an easy trick, I assure you." He face takes on a pained expression. "Raise your guns!" His voice is steel. Four weapons rise in unison, trained on Mickey. Jacardi nods and two of his entourage pull Nick and Mulder to safety. Mulder struggles briefly, but a sharp cuff to the head stills him. He closes his eyes, unable to watch. "Aim!" Three safety mechanisms click off. A split second later, a fourth. Jacardi glances from Karl Jansen to Mickey. "Are you alone in your adventures, Mr. Kitt, or do you have help?" Mickey's face is stone. "I'm alone." Jacardi nods. "Now." Eagles Three, Five and Six turn as one. They fire on Jansen. His body drops like a stone. Mickey stares at his fallen comrade, shocked. He struggles to keep control his expression. Jacardi smiles, satisfied. "You're alone now." Eagle Five, Will Tompkin, steps forward. His eyes bore into Mickey's. He raises the butt of his 9mm and cracks it against the former Team Leader's temple. Mickey falls against the wall, but he doesn't cry out. He raises his head, defiant. "Your aim always was a little off, Tompkin." A dark line of blood snakes down his face. Tompkin's aim improves the second time. *** She sits on the porch swing, head back, eyes closed, enjoying a moment of quiet. A dog-eared Margaret Atwood novel rests in her lap. "Hey Shorty." Dana opens her eyes to see her brother standing in the doorway. "There's a Walter Skinner on the phone for you." Scully frowns. Why would Skinner be calling her? Unless something was wrong--? She leaves the paperback on the swing and follows her brother inside, worry niggling at the back of her mind. Charles points to the kitchen extension. She picks it up. "Hello?" The Assistant Director's deep voice booms into her ear. "Agent Scully? I apologize for interrupting your much deserved vacation. But some news has come to my attention that you should be aware of." Scully stretches the cord and moves into her brother's pantry in an attempt at privacy. "What is it, sir?" "I got a call this morning from your landlord, a Ms. Deanna Todd. A neighbor of yours noticed your apartment door ajar early this morning. She went in, realized you weren't home and contacted Ms. Todd. Ms. Todd called the police. And myself." Scully puts a hand to her temple. The beginning of a headache throbs behind her eyes. "Was anything taken?" "I don't know. The television, VCR, your computer, they're all still there. Beyond that, I'm not sure." Scully sighs. "Okay. I'll give Deanna a call or see if I can book an earlier flight home." "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Agent Scully. If you want to extend your vacation time, that's fine. I'm sure Agent Mulder can muddle through in your absence." The smile in Skinner's voice cheers Scully. She pictures Mulder at his desk, lost in an ocean of papers, memos, and files. "Thank you, sir, but I plan to be back Tuesday." "I'll see you then, Scully." "Goodbye, sir." Dana hangs up and calculates. Her mother is still at church with her sister-in-law. If she calls the airline now and packs in less than fifteen minutes, maybe she can be on a plane in...say, a little more than an hour. *** "Easy or hard, Mr. Kitt?" Mickey hangs his head, silent. Petri and Tompkin stand on either side of him, holding him upright. Jacardi stands outside the cell. "Who do you work for?" Jacardi demands for the second time. Mickey grimaces. He raises two blackened eyes to the slender, well-dressed man. "You." Jacarda sighs. "Hard, then." He gives Petri and Tompkin a warning look. "No permanent damage, gentleman. I have a use for him." Jacardi turns and leaves the large sparsely furnished room. It resembles a laboratory. Beyond the workstation and computer area are a series of cots, a small bathroom, and Mickey's cell. The cell is a duplicate of the one he released Nick and Mulder from approximately two hours earlier. A twelve by twelve space with a low cement platform and a small toilet half-obscured by a white plastic curtain. Petri's voice is low in his ear. "Why did you do it?" Kostmayer smirks. "Just wanted to make sure you boys were paying attention." Petri shakes his head in wonder. "You're some kind of idiot, Kitt." His foot lashes out and connects with Mickey's knee. Mickey collapses against the cold cement. "Hey," he reminds them, "no permanent damage." Tompkin's eyes register disgust. "Shut up." He does. End of part 4/10 ******************************* From sjbryan@athenet.net Tue Apr 15 14:09:00 1997 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: Perfect Clarity, XF/H:LotS/EQ crossover, Part 3/5 From: "Stephen Bryan" -------- Disclaimer: I just borrowed 'em, I don't own 'em. See the beginning of Part 1 for the whole enchilada. Title: Perfect Clarity Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: R or NC-17 (violence, language) Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer) Part 5/10 "What do you mean you're leaving?" Margaret Scully stares at her daughter's suitcase in alarm. "I'm sorry, Mom. Skinner called and said someone might have broken into my apartment. I'd just feel better if I went home and checked things out myself." She smiles gently. "I've had a great time with you." Margaret sighs. "And I've had a wonderful time with you, honey. I was just hoping it didn't have to end yet." She opens her arm helplessly. "This is the first time we've been together like this in so long. It almost makes me forget...forget that..." her eyes cloud and she turns away from her daughter. Scully moves to her mother and wraps the older woman in a hug. "Shh. It's okay, Mom. *I'm* okay." She smiles. "You know me, I'm a fighter. I've got a good dose of Ahab in me, Mom." Margaret holds her daughter tightly. She blinks back tears. "I never did stand much chance against you or your father." She steps back and looks into Dana's face. "Then I'll come home with you." Scully refutes her mother's offer. "No, Mom. There's no reason you have to leave early. I don't want to spoil your vacation. I've had my rest and relaxation. If I have too much, poor Mulder won't recognize me when I get back." This brings a smile to Margaret's face. "Dana..." "I'm serious, Mom. It's okay. I'm going to go home, make sure everything's all right. I'm sure it will be. But if I don't go, I'll just make myself and everyone else miserable worrying. I'll call you tonight, I promise." Margaret nods. "You better." The two women embrace once more. Scully turns to Charles and gives him a kiss on the cheek. He pulls her close in a bear hug. "You take care, junior G-Woman," he whispers in her ear. Scully smiles. "I will." Five minutes later she is in a taxi, on her way to the airport. The niggle of worry has blossomed into something larger, something close to fear. Something is wrong. She's not sure what, but she can feel it. For the umpteenth time, she pulls out her cell phone and dials Mulder. There's no answer. She leans against the window, watching the rainbow blur of traffic. Where is her partner? *** He dreams. He and McCall are eating dinner at O'Phelans. But when he looks closely at Robert, he sees that it's not Robert after all, but Control. Control is telling him something, something important, but he can't quite figure it out. Mickey shakes his head, frustrated. His face grave, Control points. Mickey turns and gasps. Serena stands behind him, crying. Mickey looks from Control to Serena. "What's going on?" He turns back to Serena, disbelief and joy pulling his heart in two different directions. Roy Jacardi holds a gun to the woman's head, his eyes dark and flat. "Who do you work for?" he demands. Panic propels Mickey forward. He runs to Serena. She pulls away. "No! No! I won't do it! I won't do it!" Her voice changes. A man's voice. Mickey turns his head and opens his eyes. The last fragments of his dream dissipate. Nick Shaw is screaming at someone. "I won't do it!" he cries. Jacardi sits on a small stool, smiling through the bars. "You have no choice, Mr. Shaw. It's already done." He nods to Tompkin. "Let Mr. Shaw out, please. He has work to do." Jacardi gestures around him. "This is your lab, Nick. Everything you might need is here. Your notes are on the table. The computer is set up. Will Tompkin is your new lab assistant." Jacardi's smile fades. "Concentrate on the work at hand, Nick." He gestures to Petri. "Petri doesn't like short attention spans. Don't let yours wander." Tompkin pushes Nick out of the cell and into the laboratory. He relocks the door. Mulder sits at the far end of the cell, glaring. Jacardi continues. "Mickey Kostmayer, alias Thomas Kitt, is your test subject. We'll see how Mr. Kostmayer benefits from Perfect Clarity. If you don't have much luck the first time, don't worry, Nick." He smiles at Mulder. "You have a second test subject." Jacardi stands and approaches the cell. He smoothes his rumpled suit jacket carefully. "Mr. Kostmayer. I find a great sense of irony in this situation. To think we can test Perfect Clarity on a member of the CIA." He chuckles. "It's quite amusing, actually." Mickey pushes himself into a sitting position. "I'm laughing already." Jacardi's expression shifts. "Don't be flippant with me. I don't like liars, Mr. Kostmayer." "You must not look in the mirror very often." Mulder chuckles at Kostmayer's response. Jacardi turns his anger on the FBI agent. "Go ahead and laugh, Mr. Mulder. Your time will come." Mulder holds Jacardi's gaze. "So will yours." Jacardi smiles thinly. "We'll see about that." He exits the room. The door clangs shut behind him, locking Nick inside with Petri and Tompkin. Nick rushes to the cell. "I'm sorry, Fox." He aims a futile kick at the bars. "I'm so sorry..." Mulder summons a tired smile for his friend. "If we're going to be spending this much time together, call me Mulder. I don't go by the name Fox." Nick nods dumbly. Petri's strong arm grips his shoulder. "It's time to get to work, Doctor Shaw," he says quietly. "The rest of your equipment is on its way. I suggest you get things started." Nick stares at the dark skinned soldier. Petri gives Nick a helpful push. "Now." Nick closes his eyes. He boots up the computer, feeling violently ill. They have him. They have his research. He's trapped. And there's no escape. As much as it hurts to admit, maybe it's better that Angie is gone. That she can't see what he's become. *** The two men sit at opposite ends of the cell. Mulder glances at the other man. "You're with the CIA?" Mickey shrugs. "What's Perfect Clarity?" He rolls his shirtsleeve up, inspecting the small red needle prick in the crook of his elbow. He feels vaguely sick. His head is killing him. And the knowledge that he's been injected with an unknown drug doesn't do much to improve his mood. His mind tries to go back to the last time he was kidnapped and tortured with drugs, but he refuses. That door is closed. "Why does The Company want me alive?" Mulder persists. "Why not?" Mulder rests his head against the bars. "Most secret factions of the government want me dead. It's a pleasant surprise knowing there's one that doesn't." He taps his head against the metal. "Not that it does me any good now..." Mickey pulls himself to his feet. He sways for a moment before gaining his balance. "Shaw!" he bellows. "What the hell did they stick me with?" Shaw glances from Petri to Tompkin nervously. "It's an experimental drug..." Mickey closes his eyes. "It enhances your senses. You'll hear and see better. More accurately. It induces telepathic capabilities." Mickey almost laughs. "So I'll know they're on their way to kill me before they actually get here?" Nick blinks rapidly. "Something like that." "Who hired you to protect us?" Mulder wants to know. Mickey shoots the agent a harsh look. "You know, between your questions and Jacardi's, I have one hell of a headache. Do me a favor and shut up for a while." Mulder glares back, irritated. "You were supposed to get us out of here, right? Well, it looks like you screwed up big time, pal. The least you can do is answer a few questions." His eyes smolder. "You owe me." Mickey ignores the agent's tirade. "I don't owe you a thing," he says coldly. "I was doing my job." He turns his back on Mulder. End of discussion. Mulder glares at Mickey's back, but he remains quiet. He sinks to the floor, his back pressed against the bars. He buries his head in his hands. *** The man takes a long drag on his cigarette. What a mess. What a Goddamn mess. He stares at the top of his worn desk, disgusted. What were they thinking? What could they *possibly* have been thinking? He takes another drag before dialing. A smooth voice answers. She sounds like a recording. "New World Laboratories. We make the world a better place. How may I direct-" He interrupts her prepared speech. "Extension 1121." The cool voice hesitates. "May I tell Mr. Jacardi who's calling?" He comes close to hanging up in her ear. He blows a ring of smoke into a dim interior of his office. "No, you may not." The voice lacks its previous confidence. "One moment, please." She puts him on hold. He stares at the wall while insipid music plays in his ear. The seconds tick by and his anger grows. Finally Jacardi comes on the line. He plays the part of annoyed businessman. "Roy Jacardi here. I'm sorry but-" "But nothing!" he snarls into the receiver. "What do you think you're doing? You're making one hell of a mess and I'm not about to clean up after you." Jacardi is silent for a moment. "What are you talking about?" he asks cautiously, testing the water. "Why did you involve Agent Mulder?" the man asks through clenched teeth. He fumbles for the silver lighter and lights another Morley. "You know better than that!" On firmer ground, Jacardi chuckles. "Ah, yes, the golden child. Isn't the sacred cow bit a little old by now? Bill Mulder is dead. There are no more debts. You know that." Jacardi's voice is ingratiating. "I have little interest in the Mulder boy. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. "He knows too much. It's better we keep him safe." "Did you give him the drug?" Jacardi hesitates. "No." He tamps the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray and lights another. "You've given all of us a very big headache, Roy. We won't soon forget this." "Empty threats, old boy, and you know it. You're part of the Old Guard. How much longer do you think they'll keep you around? You're all doddering towards social security. Pretty soon your inner sanctum sanctorum will be the television room at Golden Hills Retirement Home." Jacardi laughs brightly, amused by his own wit. "You should thank me for taking Mulder off your hands. "I'm a very busy man...unlike you." The unctuous tone of Jacardi's voice makes the older man's fist clench. "I have to go now." He pauses. "Some friendly advice: Try learning some knew tricks. Before it's too late." The connection breaks and the man is left listening to dial tone. He stares at the phone for several seconds before hanging up. He brings the Morley to his lips, inhales. He exhales slowly, watching the smoke spiral up and away. Insubstantial. Meaningless. Just like Roy Jacardi's veiled threats. He rubs a hand over his lined face. Jacardi is an impudent fool. Projecting the importance of his project onto himself. Concentrating on his petty desires instead of the greater good. He stubs out his cigarette and stands. He may be an old dog. But he still knows a lot of tricks. *** "I told you to be quiet!" Mickey lifts his head and glares at Mulder from beneath bruised, swollen lids. Mulder returns the glare, petulant. "I didn't say anything." Shaw pulls his gaze away from the columns of information on his computer screen. "What's going on?" Neither man answers. Shaw rolls his chair back from the workstation. He feels a mixture of triumph and despair. "Mr. Kostmayer? Are you...are you picking up on Mulder's thoughts?" Mickey gives the scientist a withering look. "Yeah, right. As if..." his words trail off. He blinks and slowly turns to Mulder. He opens his mouth. Closes it. He swallows. "Who's Scully?" Mulder's eyes widen. "How do you-" He runs to the door of their cell and grips the bars. He calls to Nick. "You were right! It's working!" Excitement makes him forget the momentary feeling of invasion. Mickey stands, wincing at the pain in his knee. "What's working?" He has a good idea, but thinking it and saying it out loud are two different things. Nick looks haggard. Dark circles ring his eyes. He puts both hands to his face. He speaks through the self-made barrier. "You're showing signs of extra sensory perception, Mr. Kostmayer. Perfect Clarity is working." Mickey struggles to digest the information. A flash of fear jolts him. He's a laboratory rat again. More experiments. What are they going to turn him into this time? He shudders, trying to block out the memories, only half succeeding. The scientist lowers his hands and walks toward their cell. Concern is etched into his face. "How are you feeling, Mr. Kostmayer? Are you all right?" No, he's not all right. Mickey bows his head, searching for some Way Out. McCall can't save him this time. He glances up, feeling Petri's eyes on him. Petri looks away. He calls to the guard. "Get me out of here." Petri lifts his gun, a warning. "Be quiet." Mickey motions to Shaw. "Hey doc, why don't you give Petri a little shot of your wonder drug." Petri's eyes narrow. He turns a glare on Shaw. Any glimmer of hope Shaw had of overpowering Petri and injecting him evaporates. Tompkin punches in the exit code and hurries from the room. Mickey puts his face close to the bars. "Come over here, Petri. I want to talk to you." Petri ignores him. "Petri!" Mickey continues the game, baiting the guard for the next five minutes. Eventually, Petri's patience ends. He stands slowly, a thick hatred coiling inside him. Kitt is a coward. A liar. And a traitor. He walks quickly toward the cell, his face flushed. And it's time to teach the traitor a lesson. He rams the gun through the bars, narrowly missing Mickey's head. "Traitor!" The words have a powerful effect on Mickey. He reaches out for Petri, eyes wild. "I'm not a traitor!" Petri lunges with the gun again, smashing Mickey in the shoulder. Kostmayer reels back, still screaming. Swallowing his fear, Nick takes a stand. "Step back, Mr. Petri. I would thank you not to harm Mr. Kostmayer. Physical damage could jeopardize the outcome of my study. Would you like me to tell Mr. Jacardi that you're interfering with my experiment?" It takes all his will power to meet Petri's furious gaze. Seconds pass like days. Sweat rolls down Nick's back. Petri backs away grudgingly. He pulls a chair over to the door and studies the floor, sullen. Mickey puts his hands to his head, squeezing. He's desperate to shut out the memories that war with his current overflow of emotions. He can't keep up. He feels Petri's rage, Nick's fear, and Mulder's apprehension. Which emotions are his, which belong to the men around him? An image of a red-haired woman with crystal blue eyes invades his thoughts. "Are you all right?" Mulder takes a tentative step toward Kostmayer. Mickey sinks into a corner of the cell, as far from Mulder as possible. "I'm fine." He looks up at his cellmate, eyes hard. "I'm *not* a traitor." Mulder nods, accepting this. "I didn't say you were." With effort, Mickey slows his breathing. He concentrates on sorting his feelings. Breathe. Control. Stay calm. Think. Think. He rubs his bruised shoulder absently. It's hard to formulate a plan when he keeps picking up this much...interference. "Have you been here before?" Mulder asks. The psychologist in him recognizes the look on Mickey's face. He noticed the man's stiff, panicked movements during the exchange with Petri. He clarifies. "In a situation like this?" Kostmayer shrugs. "Maybe." A sudden image of Mulder in a small stone cell invades his thoughts. Russian guards hold him down and inject him with something. They drag him out of the room, screaming, to someplace worse. Kostmayer cocks his head, studying Mulder. "*You* were held captive. There was some kind of experiment...?" Mulder's face closes off. He struggles for composure. He doesn't think about the labor camp. Or the test. Or Krychek. "Yes." He offers no further explanation. Mickey sits quietly, trying to separate his thoughts from Mulder's. "You miss your partner," Mickey says after a few minutes. He weaves his fingers together, resting his hands on his knees. He focuses on the curve of his knuckles instead of Mulder. He doesn't see Mulder and Nick exchange glances. Mulder, apprehensive: Nick looks away, guilty, one finger tracing an invisible line across a fresh page of notes. "She has red hair, right?" Mickey continues, still watching his hands. Fatigue seeps into his bones, a cold, gray poison. "I keep seeing an image of a woman..." Mulder smiles faintly. "That's Scully. She's amazing." He struggles to find the right words to describe her. "She's-" "Sick." Mulder's throat closes. He struggles past the panic. Defiantly: "She's getting better." He doesn't care if Kostmayer believes him or not. It's what he believes. He *must* believe... Mickey runs a hand through his hair, an unconscious gesture. "You're an FBI agent?" He knows more about Fox Mulder than Mulder will ever know about him, but it's something to say. Something to keep his mouth moving, to keep him from feeling-absorbing-the thoughts around him. "Yeah." Charcoal sketches. Hundreds of them taped to walls. Each page bears the face of evil. A man digging deep into the mind of madness. Mickey glances at Mulder, then away. "You're a...what do you call it? A profiler?" Mulder laughs. It starts slowly, but builds momentum until he can't stop. He laughs for a long time, riding out the hysteria, until tears stream down his face. Mickey waits for the outburst to end. "Fox?" Nick corrects himself. "Mulder? Are you all right?" He slides off his stool, not sure what to do. Mulder wipes his eyes roughly. "I'm great, Nick," he says, his voice unsteady. "Just great. I've dedicated the last six years of my life to investigating paranormal phenomena. I've spent years searching for the truth, and now I find it, locked inside a laboratory where I'll probably die." His laughter turns harsh. "That's the story of my life." "Searching for what truth?" Mickey asks. Mulder sighs and stretches himself out on the floor of the cell. He stares up at the ceiling, counting beams. He doesn't answer. Why bother? Mickey doesn't need an answer. He knows. He can sense that Mulder lost someone important. Someone he loved. A daughter...? No. A sister. She disappeared in a bright light. A mystery, never solved. The young boy left alone with his sister still carries the guilt of not saving her. Mickey closes his eyes, looking deeper. Save her from what? "What happened to your sister?" Mulder rolls onto his stomach. He rests his chin on his arms. "You can't tell?" "It's not clear. I can't tell what happened." Mulder snorts. "Neither can I, and I was there." "What do you think happened?" Mulder inspects a thin crack in the floor. "I think she was abducted." He lifts his head slightly, gauging the response. "By aliens." The look of disbelief on Mickey's face is fleeting, but noticeable. Petri guffaws from across the room. "Little green men, huh?" Mulder winks at the guard. "You'd know, wouldn't you?" He shifts his attention back to Mickey. "Come on. You work for the government. You're telling me you don't know what's really going on?" Mickey shrugs. "There's a lot I don't know. They don't pay me to know, they pay me to be a soldier. I don't want to know. It makes things a hell of lot easier." Mulder pushes himself into a sitting position. "Maybe not knowing helps you sleep better at night, but it doesn't work for me. I ask questions. I *want* to know. I need to know the truth about what happened to my sister. I need to know what role the government's playing in all of this." Mickey leans forward. "What if there is no truth?" "Of course there's truth! You're part of it! We both are! What do you think this Perfect Clarity is? It's not even a man-made drug! It's-" The tortured look on Kostmayer's face stops him cold. Mickey holds a hand out, pushing Mulder's words away. He shakes his head. "No." His eyes seek out Nick, frantic. "What did you do?" Nick bows his head, mute. Mickey's voice rises. "What did you do?" Tentative: "They made me..." Mickey smiles, a deadly show of teeth. "I'm sure." "Don't play holier than thou, Kostmayer. Are you proud of every job you've done? Just how easy do you sleep?" Mulder asks the soldier. Kostmayer's eyes follow Nick across the room. "When does it start?" Nick's voice is weak. "What?" "You know what!" Mickey screams, rattling the bars. "How much longer until I die?" Nick takes a faltering step. "I don't know. I'm trying...trying to find out what the problem is. You might not...you might not die." Kostmayer laughs bitterly. He looks up at the ceiling. "That's reassuring." He limps back and forth across the cell. "A bullet I understand. A bullet makes sense. I *expect* it, even. But this..." he shakes his head, lost. "This I don't understand." He continues pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. Mulder crawls back to his side of the cell. All three men lapse into silence. He stares at his watch. Somewhere between Scully's apartment and this cell, it was broken. The watch face is cracked, the time set eternally at nine-forty two. he thinks. Giddily: He touches the cracked glass, traces the stilled minute hand. "What's that noise?" Mulder pulls his gaze away from his watch. Listening: "What noise?" Petri moves in the chair, restless. His grip tightens on the gun. Nick pauses over the microscope, ears straining. Mickey moves to the front of the cell. "It sounds like...wheels. Someone's coming." An odd look crosses his face. A mixture of awe and regret. The knowledge he possesses a gift he cannot keep. A gift that will inevitably kill him. Gradually the others hear what Mickey does. The outer door opens and Tompkin, Jacardi, and two of Jacardi's associates enter the room. One of the associates pushes a metal cart. The cart is stacked with medical equipment: electrodes, lead wires, heart rate monitor, portable electroencephalogram monitor, blood pressure cuff. A hospital on wheels. Jacardi looks pleased. "I understand things are progressing well." The two associates approach the cell with the cart. Mickey watches them, wary. They're going to hook him up. Study him like a caged rat. "Get away from me." Jacardi signals Tompkin. "Some help, please." Tompkin unlocks the door and slides it open, his face impassive. The two technicians step inside. Mulder circles the perimeter of the cell, edging closer to Mickey. "What are you doing?" Tompkin shoves the FBI agent to the back of the cell. "This isn't your concern." Jacardi smiles. "Easy or hard, Mr. Kostmayer?" *** "I'm really sorry, Dana. I don't know what happened. No one reported anything. I hope nothing is missing." Scully smiles weakly. "I hope so too." Deanna Todd pulls the padlock from Scully's broken door. She pushes the door open and steps aside. "There you go." Her apartment looks the same. Nothing out of place. She checks the jewelry box in the bedroom. Nothing missing. Her emergency cash is still hidden beneath the silverware tray in the kitchen. She scans each room, searching for something missing or moved. And then she sees it-the disk next to her answering machine. When reads the inscription, she snatches it up, turning it over. 'From George Hale'. What is Mulder trying to tell her? There's only one way to find out. She turns the computer on. "Maybe it was just a prank," Scully suggests. "There doesn't seem to be anything missing." She smiles. "No damage done." Deanna is visibly relieved. "I'm so glad! The door will be replaced in the morning. They're supposed to come around eight, but you know what that means..." she rolls her eyes. Scully smiles, no longer listening. She offers a mechanical "Thank you." "Call me if you need anything," Deanna says. "Or if you do discover something's missing. Okay?" Scully nods. "I will." Deanna leaves, pulling Scully's door closed behind her. Scully inserts the disk and scrolls through the document names. She smiles thinly. Only Mulder would think of saving documents as a Christmas Card list. She opens the document named MARGRET. It looks to be a scanned document, some kind of notes. She squints at the screen, trying to decipher the handwriting. She clicks the mouse, ready to open the next document, but she clicks too many times. She's out of the A: drive and back at the main directory. She blinks at the screen. Her C: drive is empty. There isn't one document. The original copies of her field reports, her journal, all gone. Scully jerks to her feet. She scrutinizes the room with new eyes. Still nothing out of place. She reaches for the phone and dials Mulder's number. No answer. She slams the receiver back down. If this is his idea of a joke... Agitated, she returns to the bedroom. The empty Blue Morning bottle stands in the middle of the dresser. She approaches the bottle. How had she missed that before? She notices the bottle is no longer empty. Pulling out the glass stopper, she sniffs the contents cautiously. No odor. She holds the tinted bottle to the light. She recalls the open document on the computer screen. Notes for some kind of drug research. A hallucinogenic derivative, according to the little she had read. Did Mulder leave this for her? Had she just exposed herself to something dangerous? She hastily recaps the bottle and returns it to the dresser. Now what? If only Pendrell could help her analyze the mysterious formula. A familiar sadness fills her. Agent Pendrell. Another casualty in a pointless war. One of the few people she had trusted besides Mulder. Who could help her now? She sinks down on the bed. Why hasn't Mulder called? Surely something is wrong. A glint of metal catches her eye. She leans forward and picks up the silver chain. Scully stares at the small ring for several seconds while her heart compresses inside her chest. Mulder needs her. This is a sure sign. She clutches the necklace in her fist. There is only one thing to do. End of part 5/10 ********************************************************** Part 6/10 The telephone wakes him. He glances at the digital clock: a few minutes before midnight. Sighing, he reaches for the receiver. "Hello?" "Where is he?" Control sits up in bed, fully awake. He recognizes the tone of McCall's voice. "Where is who, Old-Son?" "You bloody well know who. I haven't heard from him since Friday. Where is he?" Control yawns, stalling. "Do you know what time it is, Robert?" "I know exactly what time it is, thank you very much. Now tell me where Mickey is. What kind of a job was he on?" Control releases a long sigh. He swings his legs to the side of the bed. "It's not your concern, Robert. Even in my sleep-deprived state, I seem to recall you're no longer part of The Company." "Are you going to tell me or not?" Control runs a hand through his graying hair. He speaks with great reluctance. "Mickey's team hasn't checked in with me in more than thirty-six hours. I'm sorry, Robert. It doesn't look promising." "Promising! Promising? That's a fine word. Your compassion is truly inspiring." Control closes his eyes. "Robert..." "What was the job?" "Dammit, you know I can't tell you that!" "Can't or won't?" Control taps one bare foot against the floor. He debates what to tell McCall. "Meet me in Central Park in twenty minutes. You know the place." He hangs up without waiting for a response. He knows Robert will come. *** Monday morning in Skinner's office, long before the eight o'clock staff will arrive. She has already been to Mulder's apartment. It was empty, just as she expected. "I haven't spoken with him since Thursday afternoon," Scully tells Skinner, struggling for composure. "He seems to be...missing, sir." Mulder, gone missing? Unthinkable. Skinner removes his glasses and tosses them gently onto his desk. He leans back in his chair. "Why do you think he's missing, Agent Scully? Because he left you a disk?" He shrugs. "So what." Scully won't be deterred. "He left me the disk and some kind of experimental drug code-named Perfect Clarity. He's obviously trying to tell me something." "Wouldn't it be easier to call you on the phone, Scully?" Scully folds her arms. "Of course it would." Pause. "I just don't think he's able to." How it scares her to admit that! "Where's this disk? And the drug? What's it used for?" Scully stonewalls. "I have it in a safe place. I don't know what the drug is used for yet. The information is encrypted, and I can't break the code." A flat out lie, but if something happened to Mulder...she can't risk the same thing happening to her. "Maybe you should leave the disk with me for safe keeping." "I don't think so, sir. I'm not that worried." Another lie. Skinner nods, accepting her answer. "I appreciate your concern, Scully, but I don't think Agent Mulder is in danger. I believe he may have left to investigate an unofficial case in Music Box, Montana. A plane ticket was charged to the travel account early Friday morning." Scully stares at the Assistant Director, stunned. "What case?" He waves a hand, dismissive. "I don't know. But he's outside the boundaries on this, Agent Scully. Again. He's going to face another hearing." Skinner avoids her eyes. "I won't be able to save him this time." Scully steps forward, her hand outstretched. Skinner sees the necklace. "He left this in my apartment for a reason, sir. And that disk. He may be on a case, but it isn't in Montana." Skinner rubs the bridge of his nose with one large hand. "You know Agent Mulder has a habit of going off on his own, Scully. What do you want me to do? Assign you the job of babysitter?" Skinner leans forward and steeples his fingers. "We both know the last time I tried that, it didn't work out very well." Scully's face flushes. "You can tell me that Agent Mulder is in Montana, sir. You're welcome to believe it. I, however, do not." She refuses to believe. After everything they've been through the past few months, he would go off on his own without so much as a word? No, the clues in her apartment are a clear message. Mulder needs her. He has left her the pieces; she must solve his puzzle. Skinner places his hands on the desk, palms down. "Agent Scully, this matter is finished. Agent Mulder is in Montanta. Period. I'm sure he'll return shortly." The look on her face is almost too much. He cannot quite hide the trembling of his hands when he reaches for his glasses. Lying to Dana Scully, an agent he respects and admires, is an abomination. "If you are intent on coming back to work, I won't stop you. But this wild story about Mulder's-" he stumbles over the word "--abduction will not leave this office. Do you understand?" Scully's clear eyes regard him with contempt. "I understand, sir. I understand that you don't want to get involved." She winds the chain between her fingers. "You told me once that you were disappointed in me. I think we're even now, sir." She turns and walks out of the office, her heels clicking down the hallway. Scully's words echo in Skinner's head. He stares at the top of his desk. He listens to the other door open and close. He smells the familiar stink of smoke. "An admirable performance, Mr. Skinner." Cancer Man's voice holds a note of disapproval. "But you didn't get the disk." Skinner pulls himself to his full height, rigid with anger. "You can get the damn disk yourself." He points a finger in the older man's face, livid. "I'm done with you." Cancer Man smiles without humor. "We had a deal, Mr. Skinner. Scully's treatments were stopped." Skinner's jaw clenches. "Those treatments were stopped because Mulder found out about Scanlon!" Cancer Man shrugs, disinterested. "If that helps to assuage your guilt, so be it." He takes a drag on his cigarette. "We both know the truth." Skinner's fist cracks against the desk. "I dirtied my hands and played your little game. We're even. Get out of my office." Cancer Man drops the Morley to the carpet and crushes it beneath his shoe. "We'll never be even, Mr. Skinner." He reaches for the doorknob but Skinner's voice stops him. "What have you done with Agent Mulder?" Cancer Man chuckles. "Maybe we can make a deal." Skinner pounds the desk a second time. *** She sits at her desk, half expecting Mulder to bound through the door any minute. He'll offer a handful of far-fetched excuses and try to buy her forgiveness with lunch. He'll crack jokes and tell her about their next case, waiting for her to refute all of his theories. She sits at her desk, listening for his footstep, but it doesn't come. She thinks of him, feet propped up on his desk only four days ago. She understands the feeling. Mulder's chain rests on her desk. She studies the silver ring, tracing the dolphin design with one fingertip. Is this how he felt during her long absence? Did he feel this same cold lump of fear in his belly? The phone rings. She reaches for it anxiously, hoping for his familiar voice. "I'm looking for Agent Mulder." "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder isn't available right now. Can I help you?" Hesitant: "Agent Scully?" Dana's brow furrows. There *is* something familiar about the voice, but she can't place it. "Yes?" "Dana! This is Detective Tim Bayliss." Detective Bayliss. They had worked on the Poet case together. The last time she had seen him he was still in the hospital. Dana smiles. "How's your arm?" "A little sore now and then. Not too bad." Scully looks down at Mulder's chain and her smile fades. "What can I do for you, Detective Bayliss?" "I was hoping to talk to Agent Mulder, but maybe you can help me. Is it possible I could meet with you this morning?" "Um...that would be fine. Where do you want to meet?" "I'm already in Washington. Is half an hour enough time for you?" "Sure. That's fine." "Okay then. I'll see you." He hangs up. Scully pours herself a cup of coffee. The office is too quiet. There is no wrinkle of papers as Mulder rummages through three different files. There is no click of his keyboard, no rhythmic bounce of the superball he keeps in the bottom drawer of his desk. Funny, she never realized how deafening silence could be. *** He looks the same. Same boyish face, same warm eyes, same easy grin. Maybe his hair is a little longer. She indicates the empty chair next to her desk. "Okay, Detective Bayliss. What can I do for you?" He pulls a picture cut from a newspaper article out of his pocket. "Do you recognize this man? Is he a friend of Mulder's? His name is Nick Shaw." Scully studies the grainy photograph. Dark, thinning hair. Narrow face. Sharp nose. She shrugs. "I'm sorry, I don't recognize him. I don't recall Mulder mentioning someone by that name." Tim refolds the picture. "He was a scientist working at New World Labs in Baltimore. He was arrested for killing his wife and son last Thursday. He escaped from the BP Homicide unit Friday." He pauses. "His body was pulled out of the Harbor Friday night." "What does he have to do with Mulder?" "There's a good possibility that he sent Mulder a letter before he died. Do you know anything about that?" Scully moves to Mulder's desk and performs a cursory search. It's almost impossible to find anything in the mess of papers and manila folders. "I don't see anything here. I've been out of town for several days," she explains, "I don't know if Mulder received any letter." Tim's words loop through her mind. Nick Shaw, a scientist? Maybe the information on the disk is his, as well as the liquid in the bottle. But how does Shaw explain Mulder's disappearance? As usual, more questions than answers. Tim gives her a lopsided grin. "It was worth a try. When will Mulder be back?" Scully picks up a file from Mulder's cluttered desk, reads the title, and tosses it back into the mix. "I can't really answer that, Detective Bayliss-" "Tim," he interrupts. "Call me Tim." "-because I don't know where Mulder is. He's...missing." Her answer is a surprise. "Missing," he repeats. She nods. "You have no idea where your partner is?" "None." She feels Tim's dark eyes on her face. "I think Mulder might have stumbled onto something." Tim waits for Scully to elaborate. She doesn't. He shifts in the chair, wondering if Mulder's disappearance is tied to Nick Shaw. "Stumbled onto what?" Scully frowns, trying to give voice to her suspicions. "I don't know yet. Maybe something regarding Dr. Shaw's research. Who did you say Shaw worked for?" "New World Laboratories. A subsidiary of Pinck Pharmaceuticals." "Oh God," Scully gasps, one piece of the puzzle clicking into place. "What?" "Nothing. I've...just heard that name before. What kind of work did Shaw do? What was he working on?" Tim holds his hands out, palms up. "You got me. When we talked to Roy Jacardi-his boss-he wasn't exactly forthcoming. He showed us a bunch of documents that basically said he wasn't allowed to tell us squat." Scully slumps back in her chair, trying to connect the dots. Tim watches her. After a few minutes of prolonged silence, he looks around the dimly lit office. He studies the conglomeration of alien/UFO photos on the walls. He's seen more realistic pictures on Saturday morning cartoons. Maybe he was wrong to come here. Maybe he read too much into Kevin Kryder's admission. Mulder and Scully operate on a different level of reality than he does. He's not sure he wants a closer view of their world. Scully looks up. "What did this letter say? Do you know?" Tim shakes his head. "I have no idea. I was just hoping it might shed some light on our investigation." "I thought you said Shaw was dead." "Yes, but..." Scully's eyes probe Tim's face. "But you don't think he is?" Downplaying his surprise: "I didn't say that." "You didn't have to." She folds her hands. "Why did you really come here?" "I told you." He fidgets, straightening his tie. He doesn't meet her eyes, embarrassed. "I was wondering if you might consider checking Shaw's autopsy results. I'd like your opinion." Scully considers the request. "I'll see what I can do." He smiles at her. "Thank you, Dana. I appreciate this." He scrawls Meyers' number on a slip of paper. Beneath the medical examiner's number, he writes his own. "Call me here, not at the station." Scully takes the slip of paper, a spark of curiosity in her eyes. "Not at the station...?" Tim flushes. He clears his throat. "I'm investigating this in an unofficial capacity." Scully nods, not questioning him. "All right. I'll be in touch." He stands, aware that he is being dismissed. He moves to the door reluctantly. "Okay. I'll, uh, talk to you soon." He extends his hand and Scully takes it. "It was good to see you again." She nods and withdraws her hand. "You too." She locks the door after Tim leaves. Who, exactly, was Nick Shaw? How did he know Mulder? She walks to the filing cabinet and digs through the files until she finds the X-File she's looking for. She takes it to her desk and reads. Pinck Pharmaceuticals. Spring of 1995. An infected package is sent to Robert Torrence, convict, in Cumberland Prison, Virginia. The package carries the parasite Faciphaga Emasculata. A dozen men die, including Doctor Osborne, while Scully searches for answers. She recalls one of the medical workers, eyes cold, warning her: "No one will corroborate your story." Pinck Pharmaceuticals, the company responsible for the disease outbreak and subsequent cover up. All in the name of research. Scully closes the folder, stomach churning. What kind of research is Pinck doing now? *** Another question. He turns his head, away from their prying eyes and minds. He knows their hunger. Their greed. The electric shock rocks him back in the chair and he grits his teeth. The smell of burning flesh gags him. *His* flesh. "Answer the question, Mr. Kostmayer!" Jacardi's voice. Time no longer exists. His life has been whittled down, carved into one long battery of tests. How well can he navigate through the dark? How well can he hear? How far can he see? What is the extent of his telepathy? What language is this? What color that? Decipher the password. The questions are endless. He is shackled to the chair, blindfolded. A half dozen men hang on his every word, they scan the monitor readouts, muttering amazement. He is still on Level Three, but in another wing, away from Mulder and Shaw. Another shock. He bites down on a scream, back arching. GOD! It's so hard to keep control! Even his teeth hurt. His fillings hurt. His hair hurts. His head lolls back against the wood. "Stop it," he says weakly. Mickey can't see him, but he knows Jacardi is sitting next to him. Tompkin is here also, some scientists, and one of Jacardi's bodyguards. He knows each man's weakness, his fears, his dreams. Their lives converge with his, he is a weak satellite picking up overlapping signals. He knows that Jacardi is growing impatient. He plans to kill Shaw when the project is complete. He plans to kill them all. Tompkin is getting nervous. He plays the part well, but Mickey can smell the man's fear. If they don't act soon, Tompkin will break. Mickey's hands strain against the metal. He hears the motion. He feels the faint ripple of air. Instinctively his hands rise, chains clinking, and he catches the baseball. He turns it over his hands, feeling the rough leather. "Very good," Jarcardi says, a man addressing a favored pet. Mickey turns his head slowly, focusing on Jacardi's exact location. He concentrates, relying on an inner sense of vision. He throws the ball. Mickey's speed and strength are too much for Jacardi to sidestep, the ball clips his chin and he staggers. The satisfaction that he actually hit the bastard almost justifies the pain that follows. Almost. *** "I'm telling you the truth! It stopped working! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Mickey's words tumble against each other, a garbled plea for mercy. Petri and Tompkin drag him through the door. Petri shoves Mickey into one of the tables and Kostmayer slumps to the floor. "Ask Shaw! The first dose wears off after six hours! I'm telling you the truth!" The blindfold is gone and his eyes flick from one face to another, wild. Jacardi turns to Shaw. "It hasn't been six hours." Nick steps back from the microscope. He keeps his voice steady. "It's been five. But Mickey Kostmayer is a bigger man than Leon was. It's bound to leave his system earlier." Jarcardi purses his lips. "Fine. Then give him a second injection. We have more tests to run." Nick stands frozen. No. Not another dose. He sees Leon's face, slick with sweat, sightless eyes bulging. The word is little more than a whisper. "No." Jacardi laughs. "No? That word is no longer part of your vocabulary." He calls to one of the technicians. "Szarabajka. You gave him the first injection. Seeing how you didn't kill him, why don't you try it again." Fear twists Nick's bowels. Nervous cramps shoot through his belly. If Szarabajka gives him the wrong dosage...He hangs his head, defeated. He pulls a fresh syringe out of a supply drawer and fills it with .6 cubic centimeters of Perfect Clarity. He kneels next to Kostmayer, but Jacardi puts a restraining hand on Nick's shoulder. "Just a moment." He waves Szarabajka over. "Since you were kind enough to fill the syringe, I think we better let Doctor Szarabajka inject Mickey after all." His smile is feral. "We wouldn't want anything...unfortunate to happen." Szarabajka stabs the needle into Mickey's arm and depresses the plunger. Mickey grimaces, but makes no effort to escape. Mulder watches from the cell, sick. Mickey's bare chest reveals a pattern of angry wheels and welts, almost like burn marks. The wound on his head has reopened. Fresh blood smears the side of his face. "He needs stitches," Mulder calls out. They ignore him. Mulder grips the bars, white-knuckled. What if Nick can't save him? What if Kostmayer dies just like Leon and the animals? And after he's gone, then what? Where will it end? He is not a religious man, but Mulder bows his head and prays. He prays to the one thing he still believes in: his partner. Petri opens the cell door and Tompkin pulls Kostmayer inside. Szarabajka leaves the cart of monitoring equipment next to the cell. "I have an appointment, Nick. I'll be back in an hour." Jacardi massages his jaw. "Let's hope your friend is more cooperative by then." Jacardi and Szarabajka exit. Mulder needs an outlet for his anger. He waves at Petri and Tompkin, stationed at the back of the lab. "I missed you guys." Tompkin ignores Mulder but Petri favors him with a glare. "Shut up." Tompkin wanders over to Nick. "What are you doing?" Nick adjusts the magnification of the microscope and studies a smear of Mickey's blood. Next he inserts a slide of Leon's blood. He compares the two and makes a notation. Tompkin interrupts Nick's silence. "Guess that means you don't need any help." Nick glares. "I guess." Tompkin hops up onto one of the tables and watches Shaw work. His legs swing over the side. His gun rests in his lap. He looks over his shoulder at Petri. "I'm hungry. Go get us something to eat." Petri makes a face. "Forget it." Then: "You go." Tompkin turns himself around. "I think you should go, Petri." His expression hardens. "After all, Kitt was *your* buddy, wasn't he? What's the matter? You gonna miss him?" Petri's lips pull into an angry line. "You watch what you say." "I like my pizza with extra mushrooms," Mulder calls, helpful. A brief smile flickers over Tompkin's features. "You heard the man." Petri removes his beret and stuffs it into a pocket. "You're just lucky this detail sucks." He stands and stretches, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Wasting time in an attempt to annoy Tompkin. He walks to the door and punches in the code. He nods once at Tompkin and opens the door. "Later." When Petri is gone, Will Tompkin slides off the table and walks past Nick. He makes his way along the length of the room, slow and easy, all the way to the cell. Kostmayer raises his head at Tompkin's approach. Their eyes meet. Mickey moves to his feet in one catlike motion, all fatigue, hysteria, and weakness gone. He laughs at Mulder's expression and flashes an insolent grin. "I've been through worse than this," he says. Tompkin pulls out his keys and unlocks the door. Mulder watches the two men, amazed. "I'll be damned." "You will if you stay here. Let's go." He limps out of the cell, Mulder right behind him. Mickey hesitates and touches Tompkin's sleeve. "Wait. Someone's coming." His face contorts. "It's Petri. Dammit! Back inside, Will-shut the door." Mulder grinds his teeth against the disappointment. They resume their places and Tompkin slides the cell door shut. He doesn't lock it. Nick leans against the bars, whispering. "How can you be sure? You said Perfect Clarity wore off, the second injection takes time to-" Mickey waves the doctor away. "I lied." Nick blanches. "But that's too high a dosage!" Tompkin pushes Shaw toward the workstation. "Shut up. Get back to work." The door opens. Petri walks in, unassuming. "You didn't tell me what you-" Tompkin swings the gun up, fires once. Petri goes down. Shaw stares in horror. He sees his wife's dead face. The blood. So much blood. "Did you have to kill him?" Tompkin hooks Petri under the arms and drags the man toward the cell. Mickey already has the door open. They place Petri on the floor. Kostmayer grabs Petri's gun. He shouts at Nick: "Get your notes, whatever you want, now. We're out of here." Mickey goes first, followed by Tompkin, Mulder, and Shaw. He stops at the door, motioning to Tompkin. "The code." Between the drug and adrenaline rush, he is ready to smash the lock with his bare hands. Tompkin punches in the first two numbers. Jacardi. In the elevator. Walking down the hall. Mickey can see him, can hear the soles of his Bruno Maglis slap the marbled floor. People with him. More soldiers. Guns. He can *smell* the retribution. "Dammit! Jacardi's coming. He's got a goddamn task force with him." Mickey puts a hand to his head, agonizing. "We've been set up." Tompkin's hand pauses over the number pad. "What now?" Mulder wants to scream. Not *again*! Freedom taunts them, three floors down. Mickey thrusts his gun at Mulder. "Take this. Follow my lead." He takes Tompkin's gun and puts it to the man's head. "You're my hostage, got it?" Tompkin looks up, their eyes meet. "Got it." Mickey drags Tompkin away from the door. Mulder holds the gun tightly, surprised at how little it weighs. Shaw stays close to Mulder, heart pounding. The door opens and four men rush inside the lab. Their military clothes are almost identical to the Black Eagle Team, except their berets bear the mark of a hawk. All guns are trained on Mickey. Jacardi hangs back. "Don't move," Mickey screams, "or Tompkin dies." Jacardi speaks loudly. "Save him the trouble." A soldier fires and Tompkin jerks against Mickey. Will falls to the floor, dead. "NO!" Mickey returns the gunfire, dodging behind a table. One of the soldiers drops. Jacardi rushes into the hallway, out of the line of fire. Panicking, Mulder pulls the trigger of his Uzi. Another soldier goes down. Two against two. But not for long. Five more soldiers charge into the room. Mulder falls. He feels no pain, only a faint slipping away, a growing darkness. He blinks up at the ceiling, stunned, his gun three feet away. Mickey is hit next. He stumbles and drops to his knees. He shakes his head, desperate to clear the fog, but can't. His hands rebel, no longer obeying his commands and he falls onto his side. He recognizes the symptoms. He fights against the sedatives, struggling to stay conscious. *** "Bayliss." "Hi." Tim smiles at the sound of Dana Scully's voice. "Any luck?" She sighs. "I'm afraid not. Meyers wouldn't return any of my calls. I finally bypassed her and went straight to the CME." Tim is thankful she can't see his face. "Julianna?" "Yes." Brief pause. "Don't worry, I told her I thought Shaw might have some bearing on a John Doe we're investigating." Tim grins, impressed. "I owe you. What did she say?" "She was very cooperative, but it was still an exercise in futility. Shaw's records are missing." Tim taps his fingers against the table. "That's convenient." "Very." "Still no word from Mulder?" Softly: "No." "Have you filed a missing persons report?" Scully sighs. "I don't think that's the right direction." "What is the right direction?" "I'm not sure..." Scully nibbles at her lower lip. She leans forward suddenly. "I can't believe I didn't think of it before!" "What?" "First off, I'll check with the security office. What if Nick Shaw came to see Mulder here? We'd have it on tape." "Proving he's still alive *and* that he had something to do with Mulder's disappearance." "Exactly." An awkward silence follows. "Do you...need any help?" Scully can almost see the hopeful look on Tim's face. She nearly agrees. Tim is a nice guy, friendly, not bad to look at, either. But he's not her partner. There is only one Mulder. "Tell you what. I don't need help with the videotapes, but if something comes up, I'll let you know. Okay?" "Sure. Sounds good." He's careful to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He hangs up and slumps back against the couch, eyes closed. So far, not one phone call from the station. No 'how's it going', no 'whatcha up to, Bayliss?' He hasn't been to the Waterfront in three days. Lewis hasn't even called to chew him out. After five years he's still an outsider. End part 6/10 ****************************** From sjbryan@athenet.net Tue Apr 15 14:10:13 1997 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: Perfect Clarity, XF/H:LotS/EQ crossover, Part 4/5 (by Shannon) From: "Stephen Bryan" -------- Disclaimer: I just borrowed 'em, I don't own 'em. Please see the beginning of Part 1 for the whole enchilada. Title: Perfect Clarity Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: R or NC-17 (violence, language) Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer) Part 7/10 "There." Reece Davies points to the screen. "Is that the guy you're looking for?" Scully squints at the monitor, wishing she had kept a copy of Tim's newspaper clipping. "I think so." "Keep watching. He comes in, asks to see Mulder, and takes a seat in the lobby." Scully watches the black and white footage of a balding man, thin, mid-forties, move from the reception desk to the far end of the lobby. "When is this?" Reece checks the log. "Late Friday afternoon, around four o'clock." "Do you have Friday's sign-in sheets?" Reece frowns, rummaging through a tower of stacked trays on his desk. "I don't think Maria brought Friday down yet--Wait a minute! Here we go." He lifts an interoffice envelope from his chair. "Speak of the devil." He opens the envelope, withdraws a small sheaf of papers and hands them to Scully. She leans against his desk, scanning the rainbow of signatures from Friday's visitors. There. At four-fifteen. George Bernard Shaw. Clever. That must be him. She hands the packet back to the guard. "Thanks Reece. I appreciate it." Reece tips his hat. "Anytime." *** Frohike ushers her inside. Langly is bent over a computer and Byers' back is turned to them. He's on the telephone. Frohike clears his throat and Byers turns. "I'll call you back," Byers mutters abruptly, and hangs up. He steps forward, smiling. "Scully. You're looking very well." "Thank you." She skips to the point of their meeting. "What did you find?" "For starters, you won't find a bottle of this at the local pharmacy." He hands her the Blue Morning bottle. "This bottle contains a very powerful, mind-altering drug." Scully frowns. "Like LSD?" Langly speaks. "Not exactly. It's not a true hallucinogenic. LSD is based on ergot, a kind of mold from-" Scully waves him on. "I've heard of it." "Anyway, this compound is based on something else. Something we've never seen before." "We've done an extensive search and no one has been able to identify this substance," Frohike says. "Except for..." he trails off. "Except for?" Scully prods. Byers' lip curls. "An acquaintance of ours, who goes by the name Dr. Bob. He seems to think the contents of this bottle come from a secret experiment that originated in Area 51. During the early fifties." Langly laughs. "Then again, Dr. Bob thinks every modern day invention is a by-product of Area 51." Scully taps the bottle gently. "Did...Dr. Bob have any idea what this is used for?" Byers folds his hands, the image of a perfect Wall Street executive. "He made an educated guess. He felt that a drug like this...might be used in either academic or military circles." He rubs a hand over his beard. "I'd have to agree with him." He shrugs. "But without actually *using* it--which I'm somewhat loathe to do--I can't be one hundred percent certain." The Lone Gunmen's information more or less matches the files on her computer. She smiles. One more piece of the puzzle snaps in place. "Thanks guys. I owe you." "You don't owe us," Frohike tells her. "Just find Mulder." *** He has the same thing for breakfast every day: Half a pack of Morleys and a large coffee, black. Today is no exception. He unlocks his office. A voice greets him, very polite. "You are a very, very hard man to find, James." He turns slowly and places the Styrofoam cup on his desk. He keeps the expression on his face neutral. "My name isn't James. You must have me mistaken for someone else." "Come, come, James. Don't tell me you don't recognize me. Has time changed us both so much?" James regards his visitor coolly. A silver-haired man with a faint British lilt. Intense eyes behind a pair of nondescript glasses. The man sits behind his desk, relaxed. "Shut the door, please." James does, curious. There is something familiar about that voice. Recognition brings a faint smile to his lips. "Robert McCall." "It's been a long time, James." James lights another Morley. "Not long enough." "Now, now, be civil. It took considerable effort to locate you." "You're in my chair." "So I am. It's very comfortable." Robert leans back, demonstrating. "What are you doing here?" Robert folds his hands. "I'm looking for someone." James inhales deeply. Exhales a long stream of smoke. "Who?" "An FBI Agent named Fox Mulder." James laughs, incredulous. "You? What's your interest in Agent Mulder?" "My interest in Agent Mulder is secondary. I believe an associate of mine is with him. Mickey Kostmayer." James shrugs, the name means nothing to him. "Why do you think I can help you?" "If memory serves, your brand of currency always was information." Robert offers a bland smile. "I'm sure you're a very wealthy man." James stubs out the cigarette and lights another. "I don't deal with The Company." "Oh, but I'm not with The Company, James. I retired more than ten years ago." James eyes McCall with considerable skepticism. "Is that so?" McCall shrugs. "I'm a just a regular citizen now, I'm afraid." James reaches for his coffee. "Even if I did know where the Mulder boy was, why would I tell you?" Robert considers the question. "Well...perhaps that proud feeling of helping a fellow human being?" James laughs again, louder this time. "I forgot how amusing you were, Robert." Robert stands, his good humor eclipsed by cool professionalism. "I didn't intend to amuse you. I want the information." James gestures at McCall with his Morley. "It doesn't work that way." "Then I suggest you tell me how it does work." James doesn't answer. "We worked together once, a long time ago. Thirty years is a very long time. Two gung-ho lads freshly recruited to The Company. Do you remember New Guinea?" James listens, still silent. "Have you forgotten that I saved your life?" James glares darkly. "I didn't ask you to." "Oh? You regret my choice?" "I regret nothing," James says, contemptuous. "What I do, I do for a reason. You chose a different path, Robert. A dead end. I hold the real power now, like you said, I'm a wealthy man. I trade in secrets. I make decisions that change the course of history. I know the truth. My hands shape reality. "You won't find it inside a split level house with the two car garage. With its three televisions tuned to Must-See TV and a swing set in the yard. Those things aren't reality. They're an excuse for mediocrity. They're *fabricated*." A pained look crosses Robert's face. "Every man makes his own reality," he says softly. James snorts. "And I suppose you believe the world is flat, too?" Robert smiles coldly. "Oh yes. It's quite flat. And I'm going to push you off the edge in about two seconds if you don't tell me where I can find Fox Mulder." James moves a step closer to his desk. McCall taps his pocket. "By the way, I took the liberty of removing a certain item from your lower right desk drawer. I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself." James smiles dryly. "Very thoughtful." McCall nods, pleased. "Yes, I am, aren't I?" James lights a third cigarette, weary of McCalls' game. "Understand this, McCall. I hold a certain amount of power. I am a player and you are not. You aren't even a spectator. You don't even know where the damn playing field is! I can arrange it so that you won't leave this building alive." He taps the Morley over the ash tray, once, twice. "But I won't. I respect you for coming here." He speaks with finality. "You can go, and then we'll be even." McCall's voice registers disgust. "My, my, aren't you generous." "Don't patronize me, Robert. It would be very..." he searches for the correct word, "damaging...for me if someone saw you here. I can't tell you what you want to know." Robert moves toward the door, hands buried in the pockets of his long coat. "You mean you won't." James leans forward, his lips inches away from McCall's ear. "If you're so desperate to find Agent Mulder, why don't you talk to his partner?" He pulls the door open and motions to the hallway. "Goodbye, Robert. It's been a pleasure." Robert removes the small gun from his pocket and hands it to James. "Indeed." He walks through the door. The man with the cigarette watches McCall walk down the hall. He shakes his head, vaguely troubled. What a waste. Robert McCall could have been a great man. *** The pounding wakes her. Scully rolls out of bed and reaches for her gun. She pads to the door, heart thumping. A hoarse voice whispers urgently: "Agent Scully! It's Walter Skinner." Scully gapes at the door. Standing on tiptoe, she peeks through the eyehole. The Assistant Director stands in the hallway, shoulders hunched, head down. She turns the lock and pulls the door open. Walter steps inside. Scully wraps her arms around body, all too aware of her flimsy nightshirt. "What do you want?" Hadn't he said enough this morning? Skinner keeps his eyes on her face. "Agent Scully...Dana." He pauses. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior this morning. I can't justify my actions, but I want you to understand it wasn't my intention to purposely...misdirect you. I have always respected your and Agent Mulder's work. I will do everything in my power to see that you continue that work." Skinner's face is creased with worry and fatigue. "I honestly don't know where Mulder is. But I know where he's not. He is not in Montana." Scully looks down at the tiled floor. "Why did you lie?" Skinner lifts his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. "I have my reasons." "I see." Scully pulls her arms tighter around herself, angry. "How can you expect us to trust you if-" Skinner takes a step forward, red-faced. "I do not *expect* your trust, Agent Scully. I like to think I've earned it. Just as you and Mulder have earned my trust. I've put my life-and my career-on the line for the X-Files." His voice softens. "You know that. What more do you want? Accept that I did what I did for a good reason and go past it, Agent Scully. If I didn't give a damn about you or your partner, I certainly wouldn't be standing in your kitchen at this time of night." Scully stares at him, locked in a silent battle of trust versus doubt. Finally, she sighs. "I'll make some coffee." Skinner shakes his head. "No. I can't stay. I just wanted you to know that...you aren't alone in this." Adamant: "We'll find him." There is a sudden tightness in Scully's throat. She blinks, determined not to let Skinner see the affect of his words. She musters a brief smile. "Thank you." Skinner nods, stone-faced, and turns to leave. "Sir?" Scully stops him. "Do you have any idea if Mulder received a letter from someone named Nick Shaw last week? Did he mention anything to you?" Skinner's brow furrows. "I don't..." He looks up, eyes focused somewhere else. "Actually...Vic brought a letter up to me. It set off one of the detectors because there was a metallic key in it. It was marked personal and Mulder made a crack about my reading it." Scully's hand reaches out for the counter. "And did you? Read it?" Skinner shakes his head. "No. I just delivered it. Why? What's the significance of the letter?" "I believe the letter was from Nick Shaw. He's a scientist working for Pinck Pharmaceuticals." Skinner's face tightens at her mention of the name. "I think the disk Mulder left me described a project Shaw was working on." "And you think this man-Shaw-kidnapped Mulder?" "I don't know, sir. Maybe Mulder was trying to protect Shaw from someone...and got in the way." A muscle in Skinner's neck twitches. "I warned Mulder about Pinck. I told him to watch his back." He looks at Scully, eyes hard. "I warned both of you." No wonder Cancer Man wants the disk. No wonder they're covering their tracks. What in the name of God had Mulder stumbled onto? *** He gags. Mulder sits up slowly. A bitter dryness permeates his mouth. His limbs feel heavy and loose. Damn. Drugged again. He is back in the cell. Nick sits at his computer, keying in data. A brand new video camera is perched above the laboratory door, recording his movement. Great. Mickey is gone. Mulder rubs his forehead, afraid to ask where. After relieving himself he drifts to the cell door. A stale looking sandwich sits on a paper plate. His first impulse is to throw the sandwich into next week, but he resists. His stomach emits a long rumble. Sighing, he bends down and picks it up. Sniffs it. Peeks between the bread. Egg salad. He has a choice: rebel and starve, thereby growing weaker, or eat the food and save his strength. Not much of a choice. He lowers himself to the floor and sits cross-legged. He takes a bite of the sandwich. Too late, he wonders if it is drugged. He chews cautiously. Takes another bite. It tastes okay. Mouth full, he asks: "How did they know about Tompkin?" He glances around the lab. "This place bugged?" Nick looks up from the computer, his face strained. He points to one of the lights. "Up there." He returns to the safety of his numbers. "Roy showed me." Mulder takes another bite. "Where's Mickey?" Shaw doesn't answer. Nick's silence unnerves Mulder. Fear turns the egg salad sour in his belly and he struggles to keep it down. "Is he...dead?" Nick can't bear to meet his friend's eyes. All of this is his fault. He wants nothing more than to break one of the glass beakers and slit his wrists. He wants to be with Angie. But with the video camera, they'd probably come in time to save him. Besides, if he died, who would save Mickey Kostmayer? Or Mulder? "No. They took him for more tests." Mulder leans back against the bars. Tests. Always tests. Tests on Scully. Tests on him. Tests on Kostmayer. Would it ever end? Would they ever be satisfied? He swallows thickly. "Is there anything to drink?" Nick points. "On the platform." Mulder follows his friend's gaze and sees the plastic cup. He sniffs at it. Smells like cola. It's warm. And flat. But at this moment, it tastes better than anything he's ever drank. He drinks greedily and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "How is he doing? Compared to Leon?" Nick shrugs, unable to answer with any certainty. "He's not showing any signs of deterioration." Relief washes over Mulder, but the feeling is short-lived. The look on Nick's face punctures his newfound optimism. "That's good...right?" "I don't know what it is. There's no reason Perfect Clarity should react differently with Mickey. I'm trying my best..." Nick's voice cracks. He stares at Mulder, helpless. He tries to smile and fails. "These aren't the best working conditions, you know? I don't know what will happen. I don't know if I can save Mickey." He looks away, close to tears. "Or you." Mulder crumples the cup and throws it through the bars. It bounces on the floor a few feet away. His stomach growls for more food, but he ignores it. He lets Nick's statement sink in. He chooses to ignore that too. He looks for a new topic. "Where are we? Inside New World?" "We're on the third floor." Level Three. Cloning. Experiments. God. "There's no way out, is there?" Nick glances from the video camera to Mulder. "Outside of dying, you mean?" Mulder slides one hand behind his head, the other shields his eyes. *** "Excuse me, sir. Detective Bayliss is here to see you." Roy Jacardi eyes his assistant. "Again? What for?" "He says he has a few questions about Nick Shaw." "Tell him I'm busy." "I did, sir. He said he'll wait." Jarcardi scowls. His time is too precious to be wasted on this kind of stupidity. "Send him in." Roy straightens his desk. The gold-plated clock reads eleven-thirty. He folds his hands on top of the polished mahogany and arranges a pleasant smile on his face. When Brenda escorts Detective Tim Bayliss into his office, he rises and extends a hand. He exudes cooperation. "What can I do for you Detective Bayliss? I thought I answered all of your questions last week." Bayliss shakes his hand and nods. "You did, Mr. Jacardi. I'll only take a few moments of your time." Jacardi indicates a chair near his desk and Tim sits. "I heard that Shaw was found dead. A suicide." He shakes his head sadly. "What a shame." "Well that's the problem, Mr. Jacardi. We aren't a hundred percent certain that the body found *was* Nick Shaw. There's a slim possibility that he may be alive, and on the run with a hostage. Do you have any idea where he might go? Did he ever mention any vacation spots to you, any hobbies? Anything...?" Jacardi frowns, pondering the question. "I believe Nick has a sister. Did you talk to her?" "I'm afraid she couldn't provide much information." Jacardi spreads his hands. "Neither can I. Sorry. Nick was a fine employee, a hard worker, but I didn't know him very well." Jacardi sits in his leather chair like a well-oiled shark. Tim's inner radar screams. This guy is a practiced liar. Every word is weighed and polished before he even opens his mouth. Maybe he's used to fooling the morons he works with, but not Tim Bayliss. "If he was such a good employee, why exactly was he fired?" Jacardi smiles thinly. "I explained that during your last visit." "That's okay, Mr. Jacardi. Humor me. Tell me again." Jacardi clears his throat. "He was a good employee until his project began to go poorly. He went over budget and our client was extremely unhappy. They pulled the plug, essentially wiping out a year and a half of Nick's life. He was very...emotional. He began showing up late, leaving early." He shrugs. "The man was unreliable. We don't tolerate that kind of behavior here." Tim nods, tapping his small notebook against his leg. "Right. Dependability is important." He opens the notebook. "What kind of project was Nick working on?" Roy's smile is cool. "I'm sorry, detective. That information is classified. I can't give that kind of information out." "Would you prefer a subpoena?" "Go ahead, but you still won't get your information. It's classified, a matter of national security. Your subpoena will be worthless." Roy maintains his friendly appearance, but Tim detects a hint of anger in the man's voice. Tim tries another route. "Is it possible I could take a look around Nick's office? I might be able to get a feel for where he went." Jacardi stands. He smoothes his expensive silk tie. Tim guesses it's either a Bank Vault or Brooks Brothers. His own ties are Wal-Mart originals. "I'm sorry, detective, but that won't be possible. Nick's office has been turned into a conference room. We're in the middle of some internal restructuring..." he shrugs and smiles faintly. His body language is clear. So sorry, better luck next time. "Okay. Well. I had to try." Tim stands also. "Thanks for your time. You have my card. If anything comes to mind, please give me a call." Jacardi nods. "Certainly. Good luck." "Thanks." Tim walks across the black expanse of parking lot. Behind him is the chrome and glass monstrosity called New World Laboratories. Five stories of new age architecture squatting on what used to be open field. New roads and businesses orbit the building like a private solar system. Inside his car, Tim watches the building. Every window is mirrored. The building looks back calmly, five floors of secrets. One thing is certain. Roy Jacardi is lying through his bonded teeth. End part 7/10 ************************** Part 8/10 "Flowers, Agent Scully." Carrie Hannover stands in the doorway, one of the administrative assistants from the first level. She winks. "So who's the lucky man?" Scully smiles and accepts the bouquet of yellow roses. What in the world? "Secret admirer, I guess." Carrie wiggles her fingers in a quick goodbye and ducks back out. Scully stares at the bouquet. Six roses arranged in a white basket. A little note card wishes her a Happy Springtime! She flips the card over and reads the unfamiliar handwriting: Perhaps we can help each other. Meet me near the reflecting pool. Robert McCall. Scully inhales the flower's sweet aroma. Who is Robert McCall? And how will she recognize him? A small voice warns her that this could be a trap. She shrugs it off, thinking of Mulder. If he were in her place, he would go, no questions asked. She feels for the reassurance of her gun. Mulder has been gone more than three days. There is no time to waste. *** She walks through the crowd of tourists, surreptitiously studying each face. A family of four eat ice cream to her right. A young couple take snapshots of each other to her left. She walks further, and sees him on one of the benches. He holds a single yellow rose in his hand. An older gentleman. He wears glasses. His thinning silver hair blows gently in the afternoon breeze. He feels her scrutiny and looks up at her. And smiles. Scully is struck by how open and kind his face is. There is something in his look, something safe, that tempts her to trust him. For that exact reason she is on her guard. Things are not always as they seem, people are not always who they are. Deep Throat's dying command echoes in her mind: Trust no one. She draws close. "Is this seat taken?" He holds out a hand. "Agent Scully? My name is Robert McCall. I apologize for the manner in which I arranged our meeting...but I thought it best that we meet out in the open." He hands her the rose. "This is for you." Robert's voice carries a rich British accent. Absurdly, she finds herself attracted to him. He is at least thirty years her senior, old enough to be her father. She clears her throat, still cautious. "How do you know me, Mr. McCall?" "Shall we walk?" They stand and begin to walk slowly around the pool, lost amidst the myriad of faces. "I don't know you Agent Scully, nor do I know your partner. But I am very interested in finding Fox Mulder. A very good friend of mine may be with him." Scully stares at Robert. "Nick Shaw?" McCall removes his glasses and puts them into an interior coat pocket. "No. Mickey Kostmayer." Now Scully is confused. "Who is Mickey Kostmayer?" "The man sent to ensure that Nick Shaw and Agent Mulder meet. He was supposed to protect Mulder and make sure that Shaw's information was safely exchanged." He frowns. "I fear that things did not go as planned." Scully cannot believe what she is hearing. "Protect Mulder?" she repeats, astounded. She walks in silence for a few steps. Then: "Who do you work for, Mr. McCall? Why should I believe anything you're telling me?" Kind face or not, he could still be part of the Syndicate. "I work for no one, Agent Scully. Mr. Kostmayer, however, is in a line of work similar to your own." "He's in the FBI?" "Central Intelligence." Someone in the CIA is trying to protect Mulder? Scully would laugh if she weren't so scared. With each passing second she feels herself growing smaller, her power to help Mulder dwindling. She is caught up in something with no boundaries. She thinks aloud. "Why would the CIA help Mulder?" McCall looks at her pointedly. "Perhaps he has a friend." Scully nibbles at her lip. A...friend? Her stomach does a slow roll at the possibility. Senator Mattheson? "Why do you think this-this Mickey Kostmayer is with Mulder?" "He was on assignment when he disappeared. He had infiltrated an elite military team sent to find Nick Shaw. I think Mickey, Agent Mulder, and Nick Shaw are together." One eye twitches. "Against their will." Scully twirls the rose in her hand. Mulder's training is thorough. "You still haven't answered me, Mr. McCall. Why should I believe you?" McCall sighs. "I have no reason to lie to you, Agent Scully. I want to find my friend as much as you want to find Agent Mulder." He stops walking and looks into her eyes. "I thought we might be able to help each other." Scully looks away from his penetrating gaze. "I don't know..." Robert takes hold of her shoulder. "Do you want to find Agent Mulder?" His eyes search Scully's. "Do you?" Scully looks into his face, praying she has made the right decision. "Yes." *** "What the hell were you doing?" Gee stands in his living room, livid. Beyond livid. Tim stares at his Lieutenant, debating exactly how to answer. "Where you there or not?" Gee demands. Subdued: "I was." Gee's finger jabs the air mere inches from Tim's nose. "He said you were harassing him. His assistant was a witness." Gee's voice is deadly. "I'll ask you only once. Did you strike him?" "No!" Tim is shocked. "I never even raised my voice! I asked him four questions and left! That's all!" His stomach spirals downward, unbelieving. Jacardi is setting him up! Gee stares at Bayliss, dark eyes crackling. "What the hell were you doing within a hundred feet of New World Labs? You're on vacation, Detective Bayliss. Do you understand that word? Vacation! That means *no* work!" Tim glares at Gee, nostrils flaring. "Well maybe I had to go near New World Labs. No one else seems interested in solving the murders of Angie and Justin Shaw!" Giardello lowers himself into a chair. "That's an interesting statement coming from the man who nearly gave Nick Shaw a heart attack." Tim's laugh is ugly. "Don't even go there." He stalks back and forth across the living room, agitated. "You're telling me you have no qualms about Meyers' autopsy? You firmly believe that Nick Shaw drowned himself?" Gee exhales loudly. "Stay away from Jacardi." "Or what? I get a permanent vacation?" Gee glowers. "This is not a joke, Bayliss! I spent a half-hour getting my butt chewed by the Mayor, Barnfather and Gaffney! I'm going to have teeth marks on my ass for a week thanks to you! I don't need this kind of hassle, dammit!" Tim waves his hand. "Uh-uh, Gee. I didn't ask for this vacation. If you had kept me on duty, this wouldn't have happened. "It just so happens I have a lot of free time on my hands at the moment. So I dug a little. Only it turns out, my little must be a lot to somebody. "What happened? Jacardi get nervous and complain? Did he tattle to the Mayor? The Governor? Put the squeeze on Barnfather?" Gee's shoulders slump. "I'm the one getting the squeeze, Bayliss. If you don't back down, they want you out. They'll use the mess with Shaw as backup. You're already on Gaffney's black list, you know that. The only one sticking up for you will be me, and we both know how much weight I carry." Tim sinks onto the couch. Both hands rake his hair. "So, what you're saying is, the investigation is over because they said so." Gee's nod is barely perceptible. Tim bows his head. He counts to ten, waiting for his anger to abate. It doesn't. He counts to ten again. And again. This is unbelievable. "So that's how it works, huh? We're a bunch of puppets?" "Bayliss..." Gee flounders. "This kind of thing doesn't happen often." Tim looks up, eyes bright. "Oh, well, in that case, hey! What the hell!" Gee sighs. His anger has been replaced by a deep, bone-numbing weariness. "We do the best we can, Tim. That's all we can do." "And when that's not enough?" Gee can't answer. *** Her cell phone rings. "Scully." For the briefest second she can hear Mulder's voice: amused, impatient, worried. Mulder asking for help, wanting her to do something, warning her. She knows it won't be him, but a part of her can't help hoping. Praying. "This is Tim. I have some news for you." She puts a hand to her ear to block out the extraneous noise. "What?" "I went to see Jacardi again this morning. He played nice, but I could tell he was lying himself blue. Gee just stopped by and bawled me out, big time. Apparently, the decree from on high is that Jacardi is off limits. Shaw is dead, end of story. If I so much as drive past New World Labs I'll be handing out parking tickets for the rest of my life-and that's only if I'm lucky." "In other words, you got too close." "Correct." "Are you still in D.C.?" "No, I'm at home." "How soon can you get here?" *** "Can you hear me?" Mickey cracks one eye. He regrets the decision immediately. Pain lances through his head. He grunts. Mulder lifts his head gently. "Drink this." Mickey chokes down a few sips of water. "How are you doing?" Mulder asks. Mickey grimaces. "I'm just great." He blinks against the bright light. Every noise reverberates inside his head. He wraps his arms around himself, cold. His tattered shirt does little to provide warmth. He tries not think about the past three hours of his life. Kostmayer touches the cut on his head gingerly. He lost Tompkin. Damn! Damn! Why hadn't he known about the bug before? "I guess we might as well get comfortable," he says. "Looks like this place is going to be home for a while." Mulder resumes pacing. An endless cycle, the length of the cell and back, again and back. As if the bars will magically part the next time he passes and he'll be able to keep walking. "What kind of tests are they doing?" Mulder asks quietly, wondering if he'll eventually be subjected to the same slow torture. Mickey laughs, but the sound unhinges into a choked sob. "Don't feel much like talking about that right now, Mulder. Living through it is enough, thanks." Mulder wipes his face, queasy. Kostmayer puts his hands to his head. He's slipping away, he can feel it. He's becoming a non-person. Each individual memory and experience that identifies him as Mickey Kostmayer is being subverted by a thousand images that aren't his own. He's being buried alive. Pain twists his gut as he thinks about his wife. God, he loved her, still does. Her beautiful, sweet face gone because of him. His sister, gone close to forever. She's only a memory now, a bright smile and braids. She fills him with a lingering sense of hope and despair. She is his reason to go on looking. Sam-where are you? And Scully. The voice of reason in his tortured ear. Her pale face and vibrant blue eyes push him on. He must search for her as well. To heal her. To help her. Scully...what would he do without her? Mickey grinds his teeth. Mickey tries to focus on his own life, but each thought is a handful of sand in the wind. He can't hold on. The guard's paranoia makes him nervous. The lights are too bright-the wattage is wrong. Don't they know they're wasting electricity? And the colors! Mickey rubs at his eyes. The colors are too bright. The black of his pants is darker than midnight, the red of Mulder's shirt is electric, Nick's white lab coat is radiant. The gray of the cold cement is the perfect mix of shadow, the color between truth and lies. He speaks through the dissonance raging in his head, struggling to hear his own voice. "Shaw-I think something's happening here." He squints, struggling against the neon assault. "I can't see very well. Everything is-it's too much." Nick rubs his own eyes, so that Kostmayer won't see the fear on his face. It's starting. Mulder keeps pacing. "What do you mean? The colors look different? How?" Mickey flounders for some way to explain it. "It's too bright. Too *much*," he repeats. "The colors are...sharp. They hurt my eyes." He glances up at Mulder, about to say more, the words die on his lips. He stares at Mulder, eyes glassy. Mickey falls backwards, unconscious, his entire body rigid. His breathes through his mouth, a high, whistling sound. He lies on the cement, stiff, until his arms and legs gradually begin to jerk helplessly against the hard floor. His skin has a new, bluish cast that scares the hell out of Mulder. Mulder drops beside him and holds his hand beneath Mickey's head. He's rewarded with a sharp blow that nearly breaks bones. He screams and slides Mickey's head onto his lap instead. "Nick! He's seizing! Help me!" Mickey's convulsions are stiffer than Max Fennig's loose motions had been, it's hard to hold him. Gradually the seizure slows and Mulder turns Mickey's head to prevent choking. Nick watches, horrified, as Kostmayer flails in Mulder's arms. He recalls his amateur performance for Kay Howard and guilt puts another toehold in his soul. All he had wanted was revenge. His freedom. Standing in the middle of the laboratory, Nick knows he will never be free again. He has been bought without the slightest knowledge he was for sale. There is no revenge. There is only a dark despair that grows deeper and longer until it is all he sees. Mickey's world has become a kaleidoscope and Nick's is a void. He can't save Mickey. He can't save Mulder. And most damning of all, he can't save himself. *** Thin fingers of light filter through the heavy blinds and into the darkened room. A large room, richly furnished, a cross between a library and a conference room. A group of men sit around the oak table, their voices blending in muted discussion. One of the men shakes a Morley loose from his pack of cigarettes. "You know my feelings on the situation," he says to the thin man next to him. The thin man sighs, splaying his fingers on the tabletop. "Yes. What about the others?" He glances around the table, expectant. Each man gives an opinion: "You've given him too much freedom. He must be stopped." "Stop him, but not the project." "Yes, Perfect Clarity has potential." The thin man nods in agreement. "Abort the project and continue at a later time. When we know more. When conditions are more...amenable." "I know you've invested a lot of time and energy in him, but look at how he's repaid us! He thinks only of himself, not of us. He is a failure. He's handled this whole situation with Shaw poorly. Too much publicity." The speaker makes a disgusted noise. "Trying to frame him for killing his family. What a farce!" Someone else speaks. "But he has the FBI Agent. Mulder." Near the head of the table, the cigarette lighter sparks and another Morley is lit. He inhales. "What of it?" "Maybe Mulder is finally out of the way." "No. His partner will continue without him. He has too many friends, too many followers for us to remove him." He inhales again and the cigarette glows, a single eye watching them. "His time will come, but not yet. He'll be returned." He smiles grimly. "He must be taught the full lesson." Another voice: "He's seen too much!" The man with the cigarette shrugs, unconcerned. "Without proof, he has nothing." The thin man's lips pull together in a tight line, impatient for a final answer. "So the consensus is...?" "Abort Perfect Clarity." *** The three of them sit at the Garden Café, across from the Mall. They sit outside, at one of the wicker tables, away from the mad crush of tourists and professionals pausing for a quick dinner. Tim finishes recounting his meeting with Jacardi and McCall puts a finger to his lips, thoughtful. "We'll assume Jacardi was the one commanding Mickey's team. And knowing Mickey, he wouldn't have had an inkling Mickey wasn't who he thought he was." "Unless something went wrong," Tim says. McCall nods. "Yes, yes, that's true. Something has obviously gone wrong." "Maybe he was trying to help Mulder and Shaw escape-" Tim interrupts Scully. "Maybe Shaw was holding Mulder, not Jacardi." He frowns. "I don't know. Jacardi just seems so damned oily. He's *got* got be up to something." He glances at Dana. "Sorry. You were saying?" "Maybe your friend was in the process of helping Mulder--and possibly Shaw--escape and got caught." "If Mickey was to make sure that Nick met with Mulder, I highly doubt Shaw is the problem. He was probably just framed." Tim dislikes McCall's use of the word "just", as if framing someone for a murder was a normal occurrence. If he accepts that line of logic, what good is he as a detective? What purpose does the Homicide Squad serve? Scully obviously likes Robert McCall, but Tim is leery. A retired Company man? A missing CIA officer? This thing just keeps unfolding like the ugliest flower he's ever seen. Two teenagers stroll by and the trio falls quiet. One of them carries a boom box and an old Gina Rox song blares at of the poor quality speakers. Scully puts a hand to her head, fighting a headache. All of this talk is just running them in circles. None of their theories brings them closer to finding Mulder. Understanding what happened, yes. But finding him? No. McCall pushes his chair back and sips his coffee thoughtfully. "I think Detective Bayliss had the right idea." Tim stares at the older man, surprised. Robert returns the stare. "You went to New World Labs. If you want to hide someone, isn't the best place always right out in the open?" Scully opens her mouth, shuts it. She has been thinking along the lines of warehouses, basements, sanitariums that hide monsters with human shapes like Eve 6 or John Mostow. She imagined a narrow dirt cellar, similar to where Lucy Householder had been shut away. Pinck Pharmaceuticals is a huge conglomerate, with countless branches and subsidiaries. To believe that Mulder could be so close...? The look on her face doesn't go unnoticed. "I know, Agent Scully. I hope I'm right as well. But we can't just walk in there and ask for him." Robert raises one white eyebrow. "Can we?" *** "What is that?" The blond man ignores Mickey's question. He injects Mickey silently and backs out of the cell. Nick answers instead. "Carbamazepine. It should control the seizures." Mickey licks his lips and grimaces. "Wonderful. This day just keeps getting better and better." "This one will help you," Shaw promises. "It helped Leon..." he trails off, self-conscious. It controlled the seizures for almost 12 hours before they returned with a vengeance. His body couldn't bear the strain. One seizure after another; in spite of the carbamazepine, in spite of Dilantin, in spite of Luminal. The seizures developed into status epilepticus-one long continuous seizure. He never regained consciousness. Nick's shirt sticks to his body. Sweat runs down his back, under his arms, he is soaked. Time is running out. He can hear the clock ticking in his head. It sounds suspiciously like gunfire. "He needs a real doctor," Mulder calls to the blond man. "I am a doctor." "I said a *real* doctor, not one of your freaks!" Mulder spits at the video camera. He helps Mickey to sit up, but Kostmayer waves him away. "I'm fine." Mulder says nothing. Why argue? What he wouldn't give for Scully's medical knowledge-even better, for Scully herself. She would know what to do. "What makes you think so?" Mulder glances at Mickey? "What?" "You were thinking Scully would know what to do." Mulder smiles through the ache in his throat. "Scully always knows what to do." Mickey closes his eyes. "I would have liked to meet her." Too quickly: "You will." Kostmayer doesn't answer. The lab door opens and Jacardi and an Asian man enter. "How much longer?" he asks Nick. Nick refuses to look at Jacardi. "Until what?" Jacardi glares, exasperated. "Until Kostmayer dies. Maybe we should start with Mulder now..." "No! Mickey Kostmayer is doing much better than Leon. Besides, what's the point in injecting Fox with Perfect Clarity until I can isolate what's causing the seizures?" Jacardi's mouth twists into a frown. "It seems to be taking you an awfully long time to find your answer, Doctor." Shaw loses his patience. He is beyond fear, beyond hate. He can feel his sanity slipping away. His life is a rope, and with each passing hour, another fragile thread breaks. "What do you expect, Roy? Working by myself, under these conditions? These are hardly ideal working conditions!" He dabs at his face with a tissue. "Did you forget that you killed my *assistant*?" Jacardi chuckles. "Ah, yes. Mr. Tompkin." He shakes his head. "No, I think you can blame Mr. Kostmayer for Tompkin's death. At any rate, I've brought someone to help you. Nick, this is Doctor Scott Lin. He's a brilliant neurologist." He gives Lin an encouraging smile. Lin does not look encouraged. Jacardi lingers by the door. "You have two hours." "And then?" "And then my patience runs out. And so does Mr. Kostmayer." He closes the door firmly behind him. Lin clears his throat, clearly terrified. "W-What do you have so far?" Nick stares at Lin for some moments, silent. Panic eats at him. Now, the last indignity! He must share his research with a stranger? He must depend on one of Jacardi's flunkies to help him? Mulder puts his face to the bars. "For God's sake, work with him, Nick! Do you want Mickey to die?" Nick closes his eyes. He finds it very difficult to care right now. It doesn't really matter. He has no control. Nothing matters anymore. He finds this knowledge somehow comforting. He glances at Lin. He's hardly more than a boy, late twenties, early thirties. He sports a black buzz cut and wire rimmed glasses. If they want him to share his research, fine. Lin can have it all. Nick is ready to wash his hands of everything. He is ready to join Angie. He waves Dr. Lin over. "I'll show you what I have so far." They confer quietly, out of Mulder's earshot, but Mickey hears their conversation clearly. Mickey relays the information to Mulder. "No sign of tumor...no brain injury...no infection." "But how can Nick be sure?" Mickey makes a face. "Didn't I tell you? That cart full of crap came from the fourth floor. They've got themselves an entire hospital up there: CAT scans, X-rays, you name it." He glances back to Nick and snorts. "That's a new one." "What?" "He said something about thickening of the cortex." Mickey's casual tone makes Mulder cringe. How would he react in Kostmayer's position? Would he hate Shaw? If Nick and Lin don't work some kind of miracle, he'll find out soon enough. End of part 8/10 *************************** From sjbryan@athenet.net Tue Apr 15 14:11:16 1997 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: Perfect Clarity, XF/H:LotS/EQ crossover, Part 5/5 (by Shannon) From: "Stephen Bryan" -------- Disclaimer: I just borrowed 'em, I don't own 'em. Please see the beginning of Part 1 for the whole enchilada. Title: Perfect Clarity Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: R or NC-17 (violence, language) Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer) Part 9/10 Mulder paces. Fear pricks his belly. Fear for Mickey, for Nick, and for himself. If only there were some way he could get to Scully. What Mickey told him, the thickening of the cortex, could it have some relation to the retrovirus? Nick considers it nothing more exotic than swelling, but if Perfect Clarity contained some...alien ingredient, for lack of a better description, couldn't it wreak a similar havoc on the body? Instead of a thickening of the blood, a thickening of the...well, brain? Say that Orange Juice, or whatever the hell Nick wanted to call it, did something to the brain cells. The thickened cells, no longer able to function in an orderly manner, begin to overload. The over-activity results in a seizure. And he has no proof, but it's a good bet there's a thickening of the heart going on as well. The stress of the seizures coupled with a weakened heart...it's no wonder Leon died. "Mulder." He sits down next to Kostmayer, restless, trying not to dwell on the man's sickly complexion, his bloodshot eyes, or his labored breathing. His light brown hair, once parted on the side, is disheveled and matted. "I want to ask you something." "Sure." Mickey struggles to speak. Every word is an effort, it's getting impossible to differentiate his thoughts from the others'. Between Lin and Shaw's gobbledygook, and Mulder's retrovirus theory, he can barely remember his name. "If you get out of here, find a man named Robert McCall. Tell him I was shot trying to save you, whatever, make something up. But let him know. He's my friend, I don't want him...waiting for me to come back." His hand searches out Mulder's arm. "But don't tell him about this. I don't want him to know I died like a goddamn guinea pig. Okay?" Mulder bows his head, not wanting to hear. "Come on, Mickey." "Shut up, Mulder. I don't care if you don't want to. Just do it. Please. Robert McCall. He lives in New York." Mickey recites McCall's telephone number and address. "Can you remember that?" Mulder rubs at his face. He nods. Mickey relaxes his grip. "Good." Pause. More labored breathing. "Mulder?" Hoarsely: "Yeah?" "I'm gonna have another one." "Oh God!" Mulder screams for Nick and moves into what has become a familiar position. The two guards at the back of the room look up, evidently interested in the free show. Nick and Lin run forward, silent witnesses to Perfect Clarity's side effects. Mulder shrieks at the guards. "You bastards! Don't just stand there! Do something, dammit! Get a doctor! If you let this man die-" he can't finish, the magnitude of his rage robs him of words. The room swims red and he pulls himself back, focusing on Mickey. He rolls Mickey onto his left side and waits for the eternity that his seizure lasts to end. He stares at Kostmayer's chest, willing it to rise. A new panic clutches at him. "He's not breathing!" "Open the door!" Nick screams at the two soldiers. They don't budge from their post. Mulder puts an ear to Mickey's mouth. Nothing. He tilts Mickey's head back and pinches his nose shut. He gives two full breaths. Mickey's chest rises and falls. He begins counting in his head, one breath every five seconds. As he breathes, he sees Todd Palmer's face. And Amy Jacobs. Mulder prays again and again, a blind cry for help from a God he doesn't know. Maybe, somewhere, Scully is listening. *** Skinner's eyes bore into hers. "I'll send the S.W.A.T. team at eighteen hundred hours. You will tell them if the conditions are right for the training exercise to commence." Scully nods. Skinner leans closer, his voice a harsh whisper. "If they call the police or question you, your story is that you got a tip a rogue agent was seen on their premises. Agent Mulder has not reported for work in two days, he left early on Friday. He is wanted for questioning in the murder of Nick Shaw." Scully nods again. She takes a deep breath. "Thank you, sir." He walks away. "For what? You asked for a training drill and I agreed. You have a high case closure rate, Agent Scully, I can afford to humor you now and then." He stops in the doorway. "One last thing, Scully. You keep that detective out of the way." "I will sir." She has not mentioned Robert McCall's roll in the upcoming drama. Nausea ripples through her belly. What if Mulder isn't really at New World Labs? They'll have wasted another day running in circles. What if there's a leak and Jacardi knows they're on their way? What if McCall jeopardizes the whole thing? Walking out to the parking lot, she tries to stay calm. Her fists clench. This time it's her turn to play hero. Tim Bayliss is waiting at the car. He gives her a tentative smile. "How'd it go?" "Why do I feel like I'm trapped inside some grade B movie? The kind that Mulder loves?" Tim laughs. They begin the drive to New World Labs. It's the longest drive of her life. In exactly one hour they will meet Robert McCall and eight S.W.A.T. team members, handpicked by Skinner. The S.W.A.T. team members are about to undergo some very serious training. She worries out loud. "If this goes bad, Skinner's going to be fried." Tim casts her a sidelong glance. "Compared to Mulder, he'll be the lucky one." Scully has no response to that. He asks her: "Do you trust Robert McCall?" Scully smiles faintly at Tim's question. He almost sounds like Mulder. She can't explain why, but she does. "I know that he's determined to find his friend." She studies the road. "And that's what I'm determined to do." Tim leans his head against the headrest. "You know what Mulder told me once?" Her eyes stray to his face. "What?" "He said you were his best friend." Tim picks at an imaginary thread on his slacks. He works up the courage to finish what he started. "And I think Fox Mulder is a very lucky man to have someone like you on his side." Scully looks back at the road. She focuses on the traffic instead of Tim's compliment. The car ahead of them wears a bumper sticker that reads: The thing is the first mind to go. "I was paired with Mulder four years ago," Scully finally replies. "There's no way I'm going to take another four years breaking in someone new. Mulder is just the way I like him." She smiles. Mulder is Mulder, there's no doubt about that. She can't imagine another partner. They ride in silence for five or ten minutes. Tim suddenly leans forward and breaks it. "Dana-are you okay?" "Why?" Tim puts a hand to his face. "You have a nose bleed." Scully swears inwardly. She fishes a tissue out of her pocket and dabs at her nose. A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirms Tim's statement. Of all the times... Tim repeats his question. "Are you okay? You want me to drive?" "No, it's nothing. Stress-related, that's all." She forces a laugh. "I'd say this definitely counts as stress." Tim can't argue with her logic. *** Scully checks her watch. Exactly six o'clock. The parking lot is nearly empty now. From inside the battered, nondescript van, Scully speaks into her headset. "Commence exercise." Her heart pounds faster. Sitting behind her, Tim listens, toying with her cell phone. An ambulance from Sanai is on stand-by, one call from him and it will be on its way. Scully swallows her fear. Her face takes on a look of grim determination as she continues: "Keep me posted. Let me know when you're in." A brief crackle and Torrez replies. "Affirmative. We're at the loading dock now." She hears the faint *pffft* of gunfire and Torrez chuckles. "Manion just entered the security code. We have clearance. I repeat: we have clearance into the first level loading zone." Scully's fingers move to her throat. She wears two necklaces today: her silver cross, and Samantha's ring. Her hand closes over the ring. "Good luck, Agent Torrez." He chuckles. "This is one hell of a spooky drill you've got us on, Agent Scully." Eight agents, all sharpshooters. Torrez, Manion, LeWaverly, Johnson, Kotto, Xavier, Davisson, and Greer. They understand the mission. Sitting in the van, Scully wishes she were with them. she tells herself. Soon she'll be with Mulder again. The balding, mustached man next to her winks. He balances a cup of coffee on his considerable belly. "Showtime." He presses a button on the panel in front of him and McCall's voice filters out of a speaker. Sterno glances back at Tim. "You're sure you got me the right car?" Tim is sure. "I ran his name through twice. A black Caddy and a silver Porche. The Caddy's over there." He points ambiguously across the lot. Sterno nods. "Just checking." Tim sinks lower in the seat. A woman's voice: "I'm sorry sir, office hours are eight to five. You'll have to come back tomorrow." McCall: "What a pity. I was to see that Mr. Jacardi received these today." He holds an elegant arrangement of calalillies and roses. "It's his anniversary today, you know." Her voice is cold: "Mr. Jarcardi isn't married, sir. There must be a mistake." "I don't think so, mum," McCall's accent broadens, all wink-wink, nudge-nudge. "I didn't say they were from any missus, now did I?" She relents. "Fine. Give them here. I'll take them in." "No can do. I'm part of the package. Didn't spend half the day perfecting the ol' voice for nothing. This is a private little performance between him, his lovey, and me." A long, drawn out sigh. "You have five minutes. Hurry it up." Brief pause. "First door on the left." *** He knocks lightly on the door. He opens it without waiting for an answer. Roy Jacardi looks up. Annoyance turns to anger. "Who the hell are you?" "Special delivery." McCall smiles and drops the large bouquet on top of Jacardi's desk. "Looks like you have yourself a secret admirer." Jacardi stares at the flowers suspiciously. "Get those things off my desk." "I think they look nice right where they are." Jacardi studies McCall's face. He doesn't like what he sees. "Get out." His finger hovers near the intercom. McCall shakes his head. "I wouldn't touch that if I were you, Mr. Jacardi. Bad things might happen." Jacardi sneers at the old florist. "Such as?" "Step over to the window, please, and I'll demonstrate." Jacardi's face settles into a look of disbelief. "Are you threatening me?" Roberts laughs. "Goodness, no." The laughter fades. His face hardens. "That comes later. Now look out the window, please." Jacardi's lips purse in distaste. What is that fat old fool up to? Who is he working for? And why in God's name did Carol let him through? Humoring the old man, he moves to the window. McCall moves next to him. He lifts the hem of his powder blue work shirt. "Please note this wire. It leads to a pack of plastic explosives secured to my person." He holds a small plastic box in the palm of his hand. Three buttons are set into it: one white, one green, and one red. "These three buttons will set off a series of explosions. The first is your car. The second is the top three floors of this building. The third is myself and anyone within a rather large radius." He nods at Jacardi. "That would include you." Jacardi smiles. "You're bluffing." McCall presses the white button. Within seconds there is an explosion near the front of the building. Pieces of Jacardi's Cadillac rain down onto the blacktop. Part of the windshield dents a neighboring car. The Caddy's flaming skeleton rocks back and forth like some hellish cradle. Jacardi stares, aghast. "You're insane!" McCall shrugs. "That is yet to be determined. Come, come, we have business." He slips the detonator back into his pocket. "Don't be foolish, Mr. Jacardi. My finger will be on the red button at all times." Carol pokes her head into Jacardi's office, her face pale. "Mr. Jacardi! There's been some kind of-of explosion!" Panic sends her voice an octave higher. "I think your car's on fire." Jacardi smiles, calm. The lie comes easy. "No, no, it's part of an experiment from Level Two. Doctors Price and Norland are working on a new kind of flame accelerant. I was just on the phone with Price. They'll be down in a minute to take care of it." Carol stares at him, obviously wanting to believe her employer, but not quite able to. She's familiar with Doctor Price, and his field of study *is* pyrotechnics...but an explosion? In the parking lot? "It's late. Why don't you go home." She hovers in the doorway, uncertain. His voice loses its friendly undercurrent. "You may leave, Carol. Now." She does. As she leaves the building, she notices two men in protective gear putting out what's left of the fire. One of them sees her and waves. She doesn't wave back. When she's gone, Sterno smiles at Tim. "What did I tell you? Worked like a charm." *** "What do you want?" "Tell me where Mickey Kostmayer is." Jacardi shrugs. "I don't know anyone by that name." McCall's hand moves inside his pocket. "My, but you're brave, aren't you? I'll ask one more time. Where. Is. He." Jacardi looks amused. "What makes you think he's still alive?" His patience exhausted, McCall pulls out the Colt and pokes it into Jacardi's chest like an angry finger. "I'm not one of your little employees to be played from square to square like some lost pawn." He glares at Jacardi, willing the cool insolence off the younger man's smooth face. "Which is it? Are you going to shoot me or blow me up?" "Keep it up Mr. Jacardi, and I'll bloody well do both! Now move!" McCall grabs Jacardi's arm and propels him forward, the gun planted firmly in his back. "You'll be killed," Jacardi promises. "I have body guards-" "Well they're good aren't they? They're bloody invisible!" "-and a special security team. This place is wired with video cameras from one end to the other." McCall's smile is deadly. "No. This place is wired with explosives from one end to the other. I am not here on my own." He mocks Jacardi's superior tone. "I too, have a 'special security team.'" It is almost six-twenty. Agent Scully's team should be well inside by now. "Let's go for a walk." They leave his office and cross the reception area and lobby. They stop in front of a large reinforced door. The sign reads NO UNATHORIZED PERSONNEL. There is a fingerprint pad and a computerized screen set into the wall. McCall taps Jacardi with the gun. "I believe you're authorized." Jacardi presses his index finger into the pad. Several seconds pass until a computerized voice identifies him as: "Jacardi, Royce. Middle initial N." The generic voice asks: "What is this week's password?" Jacardi keys EGGROLL into the keypad and the door clangs open. The video camera above them whirs and they pass through the door into a long, well-lit corridor. The main elevators are immediately ahead. McCall aims and shoots out the video camera in front of the elevators. Jacardi doesn't flinch. The gun doesn't scare him. But the explosives do. McCall punches the red "up" arrow and the elevator dings. The doors slide open, the car is empty. They board the elevator. "What level is Mickey on?" Jacardi sighs. "Three. But you need a key to gain access." McCall glowers at Jacardi. "Then you had best provide the key." Jacardi pats his pockets half-heartedly. "I don't have it." McCall's voice is past the warning stage. "Then find it. Now." Glaring, Jacardi hands over the key. McCall inserts it in the proper slot. The elevator begins moving toward the third level. *** Bryant glances up from his magazine to the bank of monitors. According to the sudden burst of static on screen five, the main lobby monitor is out. His eyes flick from one screen to another. Nothing unusual. Maybe there's some kind of short. On screen eight he watches Roy Jacardi exit an elevator onto level three. An old guy walks with him. Bryant stares. Holy God! He's got a gun! He moves for the phone, but a knock on the door interrupts him. He turns to see one of Jacardi's own goons, but no, it's someone else. He notes the S.W.A.T. Team uniform, suddenly wishing he had left early like Poe had. The uniform flashes a badge at him. "My name is Agent Manion. I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We have reason to believe there is a rogue FBI agent holding one of your scientists hostage in the building. We're trying to clean up this mess as quietly and professionally as possible. Understand?" Bryant gapes. "You have a choice. Interfere, and we'll arrest you for obstructing a federal investigation." Bryant licks his lips. "Or?" "Or sit here quietly, and find a nice cable station to watch." Bryant sits. Manion moves forward, his gun still pointing at the security guard. "Where's the power switch?" Bryant points. "But you can't turn these off. Mr. Jacardi will fire me!" "Mr. Jacardi is already cooperating with us, sir." Manion backs toward the door. "We have a good idea where Agent Mulder is. We'll be out of your hair shortly." Bryant stares after the figure. *** Scully's voice buzzes in his ear. "They're on Level Three." Torrez passes the news to the other team members. Manion and Xavier have gone to head off security. Davisson and LeWaverly are keeping watch at the loading dock. Johnson, Kotto, and Greer follow him up the flight of stairs. "Torrez!" Davisson's voice. "Two goons just ran through here. Military uniforms, black hawk emblem. Recognize it?" Torrez grimaces. "Yeah. Sounds like plausible deniability to me. Stay put. We'll handle 'em." "They're coming your way." The heavy tread of running feet sounds from behind them. And ahead of them. Torrez swears. "Here they come!" Two Black Hawks behind, two in front. Gunfire erupts in the stairwell. After five minutes of hell, all four Black Hawks are down. But so are Kotto and Johnson. Scully's voice is frantic. "Torrez! Torrez! What's going on! Can you hear me?" Torrez leans against the wall, breathing heavily. "Affirmative." Greer keeps watch while he checks Kotto and Johnson. Kotto is dead, Johnson's still breathing. Pulse is a little thready, but not bad. "Kotto's dead, and Johnson's wounded. I think she'll pull through, but she needs help ASAP." Torrez calls Manion over to stay with Johnson. He and Greer continue up the stairs. *** His eyes move rapidly beneath the lids. Fox Mulder watches Mickey sleep. He's afraid to look away. Afraid that if he does, whatever tenuous hold Mickey has on life will break. He got Kostmayer breathing again-no thanks to Jacardi's soldiers-but the experience scared the hell out of him. Spending upwards of seventy-two hours confined inside a small cell with Mickey Kostmayer has given Mulder respect for the man. He is not only physically strong, but mentally strong. His deep courage impresses Mulder. He doesn't want Kostmayer to die. He is the kind of man Mulder could enjoy antagonizing for years to come. Mulder wipes his stubbled face. He closes his eyes, tired of the blame. There's too much to shoulder alone. He opens his eyes and stares at Nick. A niggle of something dark twists his stomach. Disgust? Anger? The fire. That burning house. How many nightmares had Nick Shaw given him over the years? Thanks to Nick, Phoebe Green had been able to twist the knife one last time. Was Nick blind or just stupid to work for New World? What had he thought they were going to do with his research? Put it in a drawer? Nick feels the weight of his friend's stare. Their eyes lock, each searching for answers. There are none. *** Jacardi walks slowly. He's in no hurry to lose Kostmayer. He tries to rationalize. If he still has Shaw's research, he can relocate, get someone else to continue. Pinck's arm is long, they'll find someone else. It's obvious he wasted too much time on Shaw. He was a mistake. A mistake he won't repeat. Still, there's no denying they're close. Kostmayer's test results have been very pleasing. That annoying accent hisses in his ear. "Open the door." Jacardi enters the code into the keypad and McCall pulls the door open. He thrusts Roy through the door first, one arm around Jacardi's neck. The two Black Hawks raise their guns, tense, looking for an opening. Within seconds Torrez and Greer burst into the room. "Put your guns on the floor!" Torrez barks. Within minutes both Black Hawks are bound and gagged. Mulder grins. "Agent Torrez! Where's Scully?" "She's coming, Mulder. Somebody's got to clean up after you." He unlocks the cell door. Greer trains his gun on Jacardi while McCall moves to his friend's side. "Mickey! Mickey?" McCall's face is tight with worry. "What's wrong with him? What have they done?" Shaw's voice is quiet. "He's dying." End of part 9/10 *********************** Part 10/10 "They've got him!" Scully flashes a brilliant smile at Sterno and Tim. She squeezes the detective's arm, overjoyed. Relief pours through her. Tim feels a similar joy at her touch, but it has little to do with Mulder's whereabouts. Emotional display over, she reverts back to the no-nonsense professional. "Sterno, thank you so much. Tim-watch for the ambulance. Send them over to the loading docks. Davisson will let them in. I'm going to go see if I can help." Tim watches Dana run, her red hair shining. *** Torrez shouts a warning. "Get back-we've got company!" McCall ducks down, shielding Mickey. Mulder pushes Shaw and Lin beneath the table. Three more Hawks wait in the hallway, daring the group to escape. Nick listens to the gunfire. It sounds like a clock. Tick-tick-tick-tick. The sound of his life winding down. It's time. Angie's waiting. He crawls out from under the table. He tosses his notebooks into the air and gunfire shreds the pages into priceless confetti. He smashes the microscope, the test tubes, and what is left of Perfect Clarity. This is it. He's made his peace, done his penance. Perfect Clarity is over. He moves slowly for the door, hands raised, straight into the gunfire. There is no fear. His body feels cumbersome, unnecessary. Mulder watches, horrified. "No! Nick!" He reaches out, unthinking. "Don't!" He catches hold of Nick's coat and pulls, but he's too late. Nick is hit and he drops, pulling Mulder with him. "Nick! Nick!" He screams his friend's name, but he's already gone to a place where Mulder can't reach him. Pain lances into Mulder's leg and he grunts. This time the bullets are real. Mulder pulls himself under the table, reaching for a gun. He aims carefully. He aims for Nick. One of the Black Hawks screams and falls against the wall. Jacardi steps forward and smashes McCall's head into the bars. Robert falls sideways, groaning. Jacardi reaches into McCall's pocket and pulls out the detonator. "Drop your guns now! Or I'll blow all of you to hell!" McCall looks up, one hand pressed to the back of his head. "I wouldn't do that if I were you." Jacardi laughs. "You aren't me!" Damn Shaw, damn them all! He's not going to stand here and let them get away with destroying everything he's worked for. He presses the red button. Nothing happens. "What--?" McCall smiles faintly. "Come now, Mr. Jacardi. What kind of person would walk around wired with explosives? You'd have to crazy." Jacardi blinks at McCall. Before he can reply, Torrez's rifle butt connects with the side of his head. He collapses. Greer shoots the second Black Hawk and the third retreats. The agent risks a quick look down the hallway. He gives Torrez a thumbs-up. "All clear." Mulder presses his hand to his wounded leg. He feels pain, but it has more to do with Nick's still body than his wound. There is plenty of blood, but the bullet seems to have missed an artery this time around. He looks at the white haired man bending over Mickey. "Are you McCall?" "Are you Mulder?" "Nice to meet you. We better get your friend to the hospital now." "Mulder!" She stands in the doorway, that familiar look of concern on her face. He smiles stupidly at his partner. She solved the puzzle after all. She came. Her name is little more than a whisper. "Scully." And she's at his side, checking his leg, administering to him, giving him strength. He shuts his eyes against the throbbing in his calf and the ache in his heart. "Nick's dead." She makes a soothing noise. "I know. I'm sorry Mulder." He touches her arm, clinging to consciousness. "Don't let Mickey die." "I won't." Scully bites her lip, praying it's a promise she can keep. Lin steps gingerly around Nick's body, desperately trying to piece together bits of paper. "Leave that," Scully snaps at him. "Are you a doctor?" His glasses are bent at an odd angle. He manages a nod. "Help them carry Mickey down. Stay close by. You'll have to come to the hospital with me." Lin nods again and follows the EMT's into the corridor. The next few minutes pass in frenzied activity. Mulder is carried down next. "Get the disks," he whispers, before the medics take him away. Scully ejects the disk from the disk drive and slips it and three others from the workstation into her pocket. "I'm right behind you, Mulder," she calls. Robert has already left for Sanai. Torrez stands guard over Jacardi. "Another ambulance is on the way to pick them up," she gestures to the fallen soldiers. "Can you handle things if I go to the hospital?" Torrez rolls his eyes. "What's the big deal? This is just a drill, right?" *** "Where's Dr. Lin?" The medic looks at her blankly. "Who?" "The Asian doctor who accompanied Mr. Kostmayer here." The woman frowns. "No one rode with us, Agent Scully." Scully scowls. Great. "How's Kostmayer doing?" "Not good. He went into cardiac arrest on the way over, we had to shock him twice." "Where is he now?" She indicates one of the emergency rooms. "Thanks." Scully pulls a gown off the shelf and hurries through the swinging doors. Hostile looks greet her. "Get her out of here." According to what she has read of Shaw's research, and the little Mulder has told her, she has to assume Perfect Clarity is vaguely related to the retrovirus. "My name is Agent Dana Scully. I'm an FBI agent and I'm also this man's doctor. If you want him to live, do exactly what I say." Her voice cuts through the room like a steel cable. "We need cooling blankets, stat." *** He opens his eyes to see Torrez watching him. It doesn't take long to disarm both him and Greer. He sustains a bullet wound to the shoulder for his trouble, but it doesn't concern him much. Jacardi grasps Greer's gun and ducks through the doorway. The hallway is silent. The skin on the back of his neck prickles. Too silent. Panting, he runs down the corridor to the elevator. At the moment he cares very little for the project. His chief concern is getting out of the building alive. The elevator doors open. Doctor Lin is inside. Jacardi stands at the far end of the car, away from the doctor. He idly considers killing the smaller man. The doors slide closed. Doctor Lin watches him, silent. Gradually, his features change. His face elongates, his frame grows taller, bulkier. His forehead thickens and his skin lightens. The man who is no longer Dr. Scott Lin steps forward. He holds a long, silver stiletto in one hand. Panic floods through Jacardi. He raises the gun, too late. The Bounty Hunter observes Roy Jacardi with detachment. He pulls the weapon back and strikes. *** Mulder lies in a hospital bed, propped up against two pillows. Thanks to the medication, the pain in his leg has receded to a dull ache. Scully sits beside him. They talk quietly about the events of the past five days. "How's Mickey?" Mulder asks, for perhaps the tenth time. Scully leans back wearily into the chair. She tucks a loose strand of auburn hair behind one ear. "The same." Essentially, a non-answer. Scullyspeak for I don't want to discuss it. Mulder presses her. "Are the cooling blankets working? What about another blood transfusion?" She recites mechanically: "The swelling in the front lobe of his brain has decreased slightly. He hasn't had a seizure in almost five hours. That's promising. What's *not* promising, is the fact that the thickening in his heart has not gone down. His body is wearing down, Mulder." She sighs. "I don't know what to tell you. We're doing everything that we can." Mulder studies her profile. "I know." His words sound strained to his ears. They carry the sound of resignation. "If he makes it through the night his chances of pulling through increase by about twenty-five percent." Mulder nods. Minutes pass in silence. Not an uncomfortable silence, just the safe quiet of two friends who don't always need words to communicate. "I called my contact at the Washington Post," Mulder finally says. "He won't return my calls. I tried half a dozen other newspapers, and no one's interested. No one. They tell me my proof isn't *solid*. Please! Since when do they care?" He shakes his head. "Without Nick to substantiate..." he trails off. He has a hard keeping his voice steady. "I think the story's been blacklisted." He turns his head to the wall. "It never fails, Scully." Scully touches his hand briefly. "I'm sorry, Mulder. But at least we have the proof. I still have the bottle. I have the disks. They can't take that away. We've got the *knowledge*." Mulder doesn't answer. Quiet invades the room a second time. This time Scully speaks first. "I'm sorry about your friend." Mulder puts a hand over his eyes. "I think he died the same time Angie did, Scully. It just took him a while to...let go." A fragment of Dickinson drifts into his mind. He recites: "This is the hour of lead- Remembered, if outlived, As freezing persons, recollect the snow- First-chill-then stupor-then the letting go." Scully leans back in the chair, fighting the tight ache in her throat. Together, they wait for the night to end. *** In another part of the hospital, McCall sits beside another bed. There is no privacy in the ICU, nurses constantly move in and out of the room, monitoring, measuring. They walk around McCall as if he is one more piece of equipment. He speaks softly, intermittently, to let Mickey know he is there. He no longer sees his friend in the bed, but on the dock fishing. Building one of his infernal toothpick models. Standing on a rooftop above a burned out lot, ready to pull the trigger in a heartbeat. Mickey always there, helping him, never asking questions. Part of the Company, but loyal to McCall. This is worse than Parmelly. Even ravaged by KGB drugs, Mickey had been able to hear him. Can he hear McCall now? *** He is dead. Okay, not dead, but close. Turned inside out, maybe. His head screams like the end of the world. He is a hundred individual aches and pains tied together by a ventilator and a catheter tube. He tries to lick his dry lips but the tube gets in his way. Mickey turns his head and gags. He opens his eyes carefully, afraid of the light, but it's not bad. The colors don't hurt. He blinks at the face hovering above him. There's something familiar about those pale eyes and that fiery hair. Recognition clicks-Mulder's partner. He closes his eyes briefly. So he's out of the lab. Scully smiles and Mickey notes that there are certain parts of his body that aren't in pain after all. She leans over him. "I want you to take a very deep breath, and when I tell you to, blow. We're going to pull your breathing tube out." He does what she asks and spends the next minute trying not to puke his guts out. That's when the silence hits him. Not silence, exactly, but a sense of aloneness. His thoughts are his own again. He rubs at his face with trembling hands. Thank God. Peace. Mickey spots a familiar figure near the door and manages a weak grin. He tries to speak, but his voice rebels. "Hey, McCall." The words come out dry and rusty. "Looks like I really stuck my finger in the fan this time." Robert smiles. "More like your whole arm." Kostmayer laughs-clearly a bad idea. When he gets his breath back he glances at Scully. "So what's the story? How'd we get out of there?" His eyes flick to McCall. "You come in and drag me out by the hair?" McCall feigns amazement. "Me, Mickey? I'm just an old man. What could I possibly do?" *** With Mulder safe in the hospital, Scully spends the next few days wrapping up loose ends. She visits Jason Kotto's wife personally to offer condolences. Corrine Johnson is recovering nicely. Greer has a concussion and Torrez sports a dark line of stitches across his right temple. There is no trace of Roy Jacardi. His bank accounts have not been touched, and his Porche is still parked in the garage of his estate. He has simply vanished. Skinner's superiors demanded to know how an agent died during a simple exercise. The investigation will probably continue for another week. Scully tries not to dwell on the possible outcome. *** "Thanks for lunch." She smiles, dabbing her mouth with the napkin. "My pleasure." They sit at the Garden Café, indoors this time. Detective Bayliss brushes a stray crumb off the front of his shirt. "How's Mulder?" "He's probably climbing the walls of his apartment, even as we speak." "When's he coming back to work?" "Wednesday." It's been nearly two weeks since the rescue at New World Labs. It has taken Tim nearly that long to work up the courage to ask Dana to lunch. "What about the inquest?" "The official report lists friendly fire as cause of death. Not good for Torrez's file, but at least we know the truth." Scully shakes her head, disgusted. "It's pretty pathetic when we start lying to ourselves." "Still no sign of Jacardi?" Scully folds her hands under her chin. "None." "Hmm. Weird." Two fingers tap a mindless rhythm against the side of his water glass. He clears his throat. "Dana...I was wondering...if you might like to go out some time." Dana smiles. She meets Tim's gaze. "That would be nice." Tim grins, relieved. "That's great." Pause. "Are you busy Friday night?" Scully's smile fades like a balloon losing air. "Oh, Tim, I'm sorry. I already have plans for Friday." "That's fine. What about Saturday?" Scully studies her napkin a little too intently. "I'll be out of town the whole weekend." Tim raises his eyebrows. "Ah. I see." And he does. Scully is only being polite. She has *plans*. As in, another date. Make that dates, plural. Fine. No big deal. He is a first class fool for thinking FBI Agent Dana Scully would be interested in him. He should have realized a long time ago there was more between Fox Mulder and Dana than friendship. Scully reaches into her purse and pulls out a business card. She scrawls her home number on the back. "I'm sorry about this weekend, but maybe next weekend. Okay?" She slides the card across the table. "Here's my number." Tim takes the card. "Yeah. Sounds good." They make their good-byes and Scully leaves first, vaguely embarrassed and anxious to get back to the office. Tim watches her go. He stares at the business card a long time. Somewhere, a long time ago, he made a wrong turn. No matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to get back onto the main road. He keeps driving down one blind alley after another. He wonders how much longer before he hits a wall. He stands. He studies Dana's business card a moment longer. Sighing, he drops it into the water glass and walks away. *** O'Phelans Bar and Grill. More grill than bar, Scully and Mulder sit at a table near the back of the restaurant. Mulder chews idly on a toothpick, watching the handful of patrons through half-closed eyes. Robert McCall and Mickey Kostmayer share their table. Nearby, McCall's son and daughter-in-law whisper together, still holding hands like newlyweds. A heavy man sits at the bar, filling out a crossword puzzle. Scully recognizes him and smiles. Sterno. The door opens and another man walks in, older, graying, and wearing an awful bow tie. Scully is suddenly thankful for small favors. Mulder's ties may be ugly, but at least they're real ties. The slim brunette who owns the bar, Pete O'Phelan approaches the newcomer with a smile. Robert touches Scully's arm. "I'm so glad you could come." She smiles at him warmly. "I'm glad you asked." "How's Mulder?" Mulder overhears and lifts his hands, palms up. "Look Ma, no crutches!" Music plays softly in the background. Scully lifts her wineglass, engrossed in another of Robert's stories. Mulder watches the two of them, faintly amused. Kostmayer is next to him, feet propped up on an empty chair. A baseball cap rests over his eyes. "You clean up pretty good, Kostmayer." Kostmayer lifts the hat with one finger and squints. "That's what the ladies tell me." Mulder removes the toothpick and uses it to point at Scully. "I don't think she does." Mickey makes a face. "Don't remind me. She's a cruel woman, your Dana Scully. Does she stick those high heels through every guy's heart, or just mine?" Mulder almost chokes on his drink. He checks Scully for a reaction. There is none. The gods are smiling on him tonight; she didn't hear Kostmayer's statement. Mulder pokes the dark green tablecloth with the toothpick. "Believe me, she's not *my* Dana Scully. She's Scully's Scully." Mickey tips his chair forward, feet back on the ground. He catches McCall's eyes and winks. McCall at least has the decency to look disconcerted. Mulder reaches for a fresh toothpick. "You mean to tell me you don't have a woman waiting at home for you? Some woman who likes big-headed, small-brained testosterone types?" Mickey leans close. "Other parts of my anatomy compensate." He turns the question back on Mulder. "What about you? Where's your girlfriend? Or does that nose tend to scare them off?" Scully chooses this exact moment to listen in. She smiles wickedly. "His girlfriend is at home." She turns to Mulder. "Who is she this month? Miss April, known for her keen intellect, or Miss June, because she's partial to kittens?" Mulder stares at his partner, dumbstruck. He leans toward her, not quite embarrassed. A slow smile spreads across his face as he whispers: "Honestly, Scully. I can't take you anywhere." *** "You've been pretty quiet lately." Tim sits on top of the picnic table outside the station house. He shrugs, listening to the nearby traffic sounds. "Don't have much to say." Frank digs a ridge into the grass with the toe of his shoe. Tim holds out a folded piece of paper. "I'm handing in my resignation this afternoon." "What!" Frank snatches the paper out of Tim's hand. "You're nuts." He glares at Bayliss. "What is this? Are you still mad because I got on your case about Shaw?" Tim slides off the table, looming over Frank. "NO, Frank. Believe it or not, I am capable of making my own decisions." His words are heavy with sarcasm. "There are whole *minutes* that pass when I don't think of you." He shakes his head. "My life doesn't revolve around you, Frank!" Frank glares back at him. "Oh yeah, that's right. I forgot." He enunciates each word. "You made that clear when you decided you didn't want to be partners anymore." "You decided *for* me, Frank!" Frank waves his hands. "Make sense, Bayliss!" Tim closes his eyes. How is it that they can speak to each other, but never really communicate? How do Lewis and Kellerman do it? Tim's voice is soft. "It's not about you, Frank," he repeats. "It's...everything." "What, WHAT *everything*?" Pembleton folds his arms. "Define everything." Pause. "The Watson case?" Tim doesn't answer. "Shaw? You still don't think he's dead?" Tim looks sharply at Frank. "Oh he's dead. I believe he's dead, Frank." He saw Shaw's body carried out of New World. He'll remember the look on Mulder's face for the rest of his life. He'll remember the way Jacardi's car exploded, and the way they were pouring drugs down Mickey Kostmayer like he was a human straw. He's seen too much. In the past, the world was always black and white. But now there's gray. Too much gray. How is he supposed to deal with people who treat the law like a coloring book? Do your best to stay inside the lines, but if you stray a little here and there, oh well. Even Mulder and Scully, they color outside the lines. And this time, Tim helped them. He feels...not clean. Not quite dirty, but no longer clean. His life, the things he holds sacred, have become skewed. How can he stay a detective knowing that there are people out there who control the direction of an investigation with one phone call? When men like Roy Jarcardi disappear like so much smoke? He's not helping anyone. He's just spinning his wheels, kicking up dirt. His contributing to the lie. He says none of this to Frank. Even if he wanted to-and he doesn't-he doesn't have the words. He's no orator, like Frank. He has no witty comebacks like Mulder. He's just a detective. And that's no longer enough. "It's not enough," he says. "What's not enough?" Tim gestures to himself. "Being a detective. I used to think I made a difference. But I don't." He sees Frank's expression. "No, I'm not feeling sorry for myself, I'm just being honest. How many cases go unsolved every year? Adena Watson is nothing but a big box of files, Frank. That's all that's left of her. I tried to make more-but I couldn't. "But say we do catch the guy. He'll walk. How often do they walk, Frank? A slap on the wrist and they're *gone*!" "We're the Law, Tim. Not the Order." "But what's the point? What's the point if you can't keep them locked up?" Frank raises one arm skyward. "You wanna know the point, Tim? We speak for the dead. We're their voice." Tim walks away, tired of the drill. God's detective. We speak for those who can no longer speak for themselves. It sounds good. It just leaves him empty, that's all. Frank doesn't let him go. "I'm talking to you, Bayliss. Don't walk away from me." Tim waits, arms at his sides. "Do you think it doesn't bother me when they walk? What about Todd Palmer?" He points at Tim. "*I* had to tell Ed Danvers that his fiance's killer was never going to go to trial. It is a cold, hard fact that the justice system is unfair. You *know* that. It's cruel. It's biased. "But I have to push that aside. Because when I look down at a dead body, I hear a question, plain as day. Each and every one of them asks me the same thing: Find who did this. Every single one; man, woman, and child." His neck muscles twitch. "Find who did this. That's my calling, that's my-my creed. I don't hunt for murderers because the Law asks me to, or Gee, or that stupid lump, Gaffney. I do it because *they* ask me to. "Maybe the killer doesn't get life. Maybe he serves a quarter of his sentence before they ship him out. But at least the family *knows* who did it. There is some resolution. There is someone to blame, to *identify*. Someone they can point a finger at and say *that man* killed my wife. Or my daughter. Or my mother. "Sometimes, we even find out the *why*. Our job is to find answers, Tim." Frank stares at Bayliss. "You're good at finding answers. Don't leave." Tim looks up at the sky. This is it. The most Frank will ever give him. He can accept it and stay, or move on. He squints at the sun. Frank is saying, in his own way, that Tim is a good detective. Doesn't it mean something that Frank has even bothered, that he didn't just shake Tim's hand and rush him to the door? But does Frank want him to stay because he's a good detective, or because he considers Tim a friend? He glances at Frank. Maybe there's no difference. Tim sighs again and returns to the picnic table. Minutes pass in silence. He wonders if Frank will sit down with him. He doesn't wonder long. "Here." Frank throws the letter in his lap. "You do what you want, Bayliss." He stalks back toward the building. Tim stares after him. He picks up the letter and rereads it. The page flutters in the wind. Tim takes a deep breath and tears it in half. He lets the pieces drift away. They circle the lot once and fly away, smaller and smaller, paper birds taking flight. The End ****************************** Well...that's all folks! Give yourself a pat on the back for finishing it. IMPORTANT NOTE: If anyone reading this is a fan of The Equalizer, please e-mail A&E at the following address, http://www.aetv.com/feedback/index.html, asking them to return this excellent program to their schedule. It has recently (3/31/97) been removed to make room for a total of 4 Law & Order eps per day. Also, I'm a new fan to The Equalizer, and if anyone wants to e-mail me to discuss the show, go right ahead! ;-D Thanks for reading my story! I hope you enjoyed it!