Part 2        Part 3         Part 4         Part 5        Part 6

Part 1
 
 

That astonishing Chicago--a city where they are
always rubbing the lamp, and fetching up the genii,
and contriving and achieving new possibilities.
     ~Mark Twain, _Life on the Mississippi_
 
 

Opening Monologue (aka Philosophical Live Guy Speech, for all you X-Philes):

Truth can be a funny thing.  We've often heard that the truth can set us free, but for some people, the truth is an inescapable prison.  If we're not careful, the search for the truths that elude us can consume our lives.  It's a dangerous chase.  Looking for one version of the truth, we miss others.  In the end, maybe we can only be free if we choose to be, because the truth is, it *is* our choice.  We just need to be reminded of that once in a while.
 

* * * * *
Wednesday, February 19, 1997
Chicago, Illinois
Blackstone Hotel
 

6:30.

A.M.

Again.

Meow.

Thump.

Coffee.

Must have coffee.

Meow.

No.  Coffee first.

Meow.

"All right, dammit."  Gary Hobson rolled out of bed and stumbled to the door of his hotel room.  He opened it, let the cat in, picked up the paper.

Tomorrow's paper.  Today.

Again.

Coffee first, he reminded himself.  He poured water into the reservoir and flipped the switch.  Coffee soon.

Gary reflected that, for someone who never knew what adventures the day would bring, he certainly had his morning routine down--or, to be more accurate, it had him.  There was no variation, no choice.  Just a 6:30 wake-up cat and a paper full of demands.

He *could* stop, he told himself firmly.  Flip to the stock index, make a few carefully-placed buys, and walk off into the sunset.  Let the paper follow him.  He could ignore it.

He could.  Really.

"I *could*," he told the cat.  It looked up only briefly from its bowl, then went back to eating.

The last of the water gurgled through the filter and into the pot.  Coffee now.  Thank goodness.

Who was he kidding?  He had no choice.  There was no way he was going to skip out on, say...oh, here it was: "LOCAL TODDLER DRIVES FAMILY CAR ONTO FREEWAY; Accident Injures Five".  There was no way he was going to skip out on that to go walk on a beach somewhere.  What kind of person would?  More to the point, how would *he* be able to live with himself if he did?

Another day, another edition of the next day's paper, another set of events he had to change.  There were no choices to be made.  There were only leads to be followed.

The accident was going to occur in Oak Park at 7:10 AM.  There wasn't time to get out there; he'd have to do this one by phone.  He sipped his coffee, considered toast, rejected it, read the comics, checked the phone book, and waited twenty-four minutes.  Then he made the call.

"Mrs. Jackson?  Mrs. *Sheila* Jackson?...Great, look, I know this is gonna sound crazy, but you have a two-year-old daughter, right?  Is she okay?  I mean, right now, where is she?--NO!  I'm not--No, I don't want to hurt her....No, ma'am there's no need to call the police, I just--look, I'm just telling you, go find your kid, now!  You're warming up your car, right?  Well, check the garage....No, she's not in her crib....I just  *know*, okay? Just check....I, yeah, that probably *was* your car, GO CHECK!...Hello?...Are you--is she?...Okay, okay, great, that's great....So you got her out and safe?  Good.  Yeah--No, no I'm not a pervert!  I'm not a Peeping Tom....No,
ma'am, I don't have a telescope.  Or binoculars.  Look, lady, I don't even *live* in Oak Park, okay?  I'm not spying on you! I just..."

Click.

"Have a nice day."

More coffee.  Definitely.

At least the headline was gone, replaced by more articles about the weather and a new sewage treatment plant.  One disaster averted.  This wasn't going to be the end of it, though.  It never had been before.

He nearly missed the next item, which was hardly surprising, considering the fact it was buried on the third page of the Metro section.  Many people had died from the bitter cold three weeks ago, and that had been news.  Now that winter was losing its grip and the weather was starting to warm, it was old news that an unidentified body had been found in a cornfield just off a highway northwest of the city, with exposure listed as the cause of death.  Even the fact that it was a younger man, well-dressed but lacking identification, hadn't stirred much interest.  It was amazing how callous people could become when the news bored them.

The story caught Gary's eye, though.  After so many mornings, he'd developed a feel for making these choices.  He knew that this was the story he was meant to pursue; this was the event he was supposed to change.  As if reading his mind, the orange-striped cat pounced on the table and mewed loudly at him.

"All right, already, I get it, okay?  Sheesh, at least let me get some clothes on.  Maybe, you know, have a real breakfast, watch *today's* news--"

Meow.

Sigh.

"Guess not, huh?"  He picked up the phone again and dialed a number from memory.

"Chuck?  It's me.  Yeah.  Look, I need a favor...no, not that kind of favor.  I just need to borrow your car....You don't need to know why....Of course it's the paper....No, I just need the wheels, you don't need to come..."

Same old discussion.  Same old day.  Same old routine.

Saving the world, yadda, yadda, yadda.

* * * * *

Illinois Highway 62
9:15 AM

Mulder put the binoculars down.  It wasn't him.  Not yet.  But he would come.

He stretched his legs as best he could in the cramped confines of the rental car, a Hot Wheels-sized Plymouth Neon.  Thank you, Uncle Sam.

No, he reminded himself, the taxpayers weren't footing the bill for this little stake out.  This was his own personal debt he was repaying.

Another car pulled up to the entrance of the Samuel J. Andrews Medical Research and Technology Institute.  From the trees that bordered the neighboring fields of corn stubble where he had tried to camouflage the rental, Mulder watched the occupant pass the security check, park, and exit his car.

Correction.  *Her* car.

Definitely not the one he was after.  It was nearly ten.  Maybe his quarry wasn't going to show up for work today.

That didn't make sense, though; he trusted his sources. The Lone Gunmen were more careful about cross-checking than a bushel full of bureaucrats, and in this matter they would have been doubly thorough.  They'd all been there the last time Mulder had looked into this particular angle of the conspiracy.  They knew the dangers.  They knew the stakes.

They knew they were running out of time.

Scully's cancer wasn't going to go away.  Despite Mulder's seeking, despite the Gunmen's best efforts to help, despite Scully's extensive contacts in the medical field, a cure had not been forthcoming.

There was a cure.

There *had* to be a cure.

Mulder was sure that the key to finding that cure was the man he was watching for now:  Dr. Kevin Scanlon.  He'd disappeared from the hospital in the middle of a treatment that probably would have killed Scully, just as it had killed the women from the Mutual UFO Network who had contracted the same disease.  He'd vanished after Mulder and the Gunmen had found his name on the staff list at the Lombard Research Facility, along with Scully's ova and a bunch of clones who claimed that the MUFON women, abductees like Scully, were their biological mothers.

After nearly a month, the Gunmen had tracked Scanlon to this facility.  It was highly guarded, and for now Mulder preferred to watch and find the best way to get to Scanlon and to the truth--the truth about what had happened to Scully during the three months she'd been missing.  The truth about the treatments that had killed the MUFON women.  The truth, perhaps, about his own parents' involvement with secret government experiments like this one.  The truth, if it pleased the fates, about his sister's disappearance.

Who was he kidding?  It had never pleased the fates to offer him the truth before.  Why should they start now?

* * * * *

Chuck, in handing over the keys, had made Gary promise not to drive his car into the Chicago River or Lake Michigan.  He never said anything about a cornfield.

Gary tried to keep his perusal of the landscape inconspicuous, which was difficult to do, considering the fact that he was in a candy-apple red Lexus.  The paper hadn't been specific about where in the fields the man would be found; it just listed the intersection of Highway 62 and County Road 20.  There were three fields at the intersection, but beyond the first few hundred feet of corn stubble it was hard to see anything at all, let alone someone who might be lying on the ground.

Finally, Gary gave up trying to find anything from the road and pulled off, parking in the field at the northeast corner of the intersection and getting out to search on foot.

A hawk circled overhead, but otherwise everything was still.  The remnants of last year's crop had been shorn to about six inches high, the dry husks and stalks scattered randomly over the ground by winter winds.  They rustled against his boots as he made his way through the field.  The sky was so overcast that the greys and browns of late winter were all blending together into one drab panorama of earth and sky that rolled away to an indistinguishable horizon.

It had been a while since Gary had been out of the city.  Out here, encroaching industry mingled with both family and corporate farms. He had passed a plastics manufacturing plant and some kind of health or pharmaceutical company on his way out.  Maybe the guy came from one of those places.  But if that was the case, how would he end up dead in a cornfield?  For that matter, how was Gary supposed to figure out where, in this expanse of farmland, to find him?

He'd keep looking, he told himself, for thirty minutes.  Then he'd get back in the car and phone in an anonymous tip.

Thirty minutes, no more.

* * * * *

Another false alarm.  Mulder lowered the binoculars.  Still no sign of Scanlon.  Maybe he'd changed his hair color, or something about his face; altered himself since the last known photo of him, faxed courtesy of the Gunmen and confirmed by Scully's description, had been taken.

Not that Scully knew Mulder was here. Three days ago, he'd told her he was taking using some of his personal time to visit his mother.  That in and of itself had aroused her skepticism, but she hadn't challenged him beyond a silent, doubtful look.  By now, however, she was sure to have deduced that he wasn't spending all this time with dear old Mom.

As a matter of fact, she was probably calling the Lone Gunmen and reaming them up one side and down the other right now, trying to get information about Mulder's whereabouts.  He almost grinned at the thought, until he realized that she would be doing this *after* Skinner had given her the third degree about his unexplained absence.  The Assistant Director wasn't usually too thrilled about Mulder's side projects, and he expected partners to keep track of each other.  The last time Mulder had gone off without Scully, they'd had a long talk about how difficult her life became when he pulled stunts like this.

Well, she'd talked.  He'd listened.

But this was different.  This was a last chance.  And Scully had already been hurt enough by his actions.  He'd take the risks himself, and hopefully he'd have some good news to soften her glare when he got back.  "I forced Scanlon to give me the cure" would do nicely.

If there hadn't been a strong chance that Scanlon could tell him how to help Scully, Mulder would have seriously considered buying a high-powered rifle and wasting the son of a bitch.  He raised one hand to his face and stuck the other out in front of him, pantomiming the aim and fire.  He could make the shot from here.  It would be satisfying and just.

Who was he kidding?  There was no justice in the world.  All he had to do to see that was to take a good hard look at his partner.  No matter how many times she told him she was fine, she couldn't hide the nosebleeds from him; not all of them, anyway.  She couldn't hide the haunted, betrayed look that crept into her eyes whenever people started talking about the Redskins' chances next season, or summer vacations, or any of the myriad, innocent plans made by those who didn't understand--or chose to ignore--that disaster could be just around the corner.  He could see her holding herself back, unable to enjoy any talk about the rest of the year, let alone the rest of her life.

She might not have a future--a situation that was entirely his fault.

Another car turned off the highway and pulled up to the gate, repeating the check-in process.  Mulder watched through the binoculars, his eyes widening as the occupant exited the car.

Bingo.

The Gunmen had been right.  Scanlon was here.

Time for a few answers.  First, he had to find a way in.

He stepped out of the car, taking the binoculars with him.  If he scanned the perimeter, he might find a weak spot...

Or he might find trouble, he thought to himself as a huge, meaty hand grabbed his shoulder from behind.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?"  The voice was deep and menacing.  Two more guards were approaching, clad in the grey uniforms of the institute's security force.

Things were *not* going according to plan.
 
 

Part 2
 
 

I shall die, but that is all I shall do for Death; I am not
    on his pay-roll.
I will not tell him the whereabouts of my friends nor of my
    enemies either.
Though he promise me much, I will not map him the route to
    any man's door.
       ~Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Conscientious Objector"
 
 

After an hour and a half of searching, Gary was getting discouraged.  Maybe the paper had been wrong.  It hadn't ever happened before, but there was a first time for everything.  Of course, it was possible that the guy just wasn't there yet.  He'd have to end up in the field pretty soon, though, if he was going to die of exposure by early the next morning.  It was mid-February, but it wasn't brutally cold; not by Chicago standards, anyway.

He had tramped through all the fields at this intersection and was back in the first, which was bounded on the east and west by stands of cottonwood trees, on the south by the highway, and on the north by a deserted farmhouse.  It had been a frustrating morning, spent methodically covering row after row of mud and stubble, with no sign of anything out of the ordinary, or of another living soul.

Running a hand through his hair, Gary paused and scanned the horizon, trying to decide what to do next.  His feet were starting to go numb; he hadn't planned on walking this far and the ground was still half-frozen.  He tried to kick the mud and shreds of cornstalks off his boots, knowing they'd be covered all over again in another five steps.

Gary hated this--knowing that there was someone, somewhere, who needed his help, and not being able to find him.

"Must be pretty frustrating sometimes, being a mere mortal," Marissa had once teased.  She had a point; Marissa always had a point.

He was about to resume his sloshing path through the field, when from eastern border of trees he heard voices drifting towards him.  Angry voices.  Then gunshots.

Uh-oh.

Fearing that the paper, or the cat or whatever, had managed once again to turn a simple rescue into something way over his head, Gary searched frantically for cover.  Running in a perpendicular line to the path from which the voices and the shots seemed to be coming, he was looking back over his shoulder when he stumbled headlong into a drainage ditch. The paper or the cat or whatever had thoughtfully chosen to fill it with a foot of frigid, muddy water topped by a thin skin of ice that couldn't withstand the impact of Gary's fall.

Oh, good, he thought, once his brain got over the icy shock.  This is perfect.  Just great.

Okay, it was better than getting shot, he supposed, but not by much.

Gary rose into a half-crouch and, wiping water and mud out of his eyes, ventured a peek over the side of the ditch.  The gunshots had stopped.  Emerging from the cover of the trees, one man in a long, dark trench coat was being pursued by three much larger, bodyguard types.  It was definitely not a fair contest, especially since the lone pursuee seemed to be limping.  Gary wondered, though, if he himself would be able to do anything to even the odds against the thugs--thugs who apparenty had guns.

If, that is, they *were* thugs.  For all he knew, they were the good guys.  He hesitated.  This was way more than he'd bargained for.

The runner suddenly changed direction, veering closer to the ditch.  As he sprinted past, he pulled something out of his pocket and flung it away.  It landed with a plop in the muck at the bottom of the ditch about thirty feet from Gary, and he mentally marked the spot.  At this point, not knowing who was who--or who had guns--he wasn't willing to splash around and call attention to himself.

* * * * *

Fox Mulder was used up.  He had been running at top speed for what felt like several miles--except for that run-in with the prairie dog hole, which had dislodged his gun from his hand, sent it flying across the field, and left him with a twisted--probably sprained--ankle.  The guards, despite their size, had been keeping up with him.  Now they were gaining on him.  They hadn't fired since he had stopped shooting back, and for that, he supposed, he should be grateful.

It was difficult to muster much gratitude, though, knowing they'd have him before long.  He was running blindly now, veering this way and that in the hope that it would confuse his pursuers.  Desperation drove his legs and pushed his mind into high gear.  He knew that if this place was what he thought it was, and if it really was Scanlon he had seen, he couldn't be identified as--well, for as he was.  G-Man.  Dana Scully's partner.  It would be bad enough if they found out he was FBI, but if they knew his name, the jig was up.  Any hope for a cure would be completely gone.

It went without saying that he would most likely be gone for good as well.

Hoping that anonymity would buy him time to come up with an escape plan--for it was clear to him that they'd be on top of him any minute--he pulled out his wallet and flung it as far away as he could.  It landed in a drainage ditch with a faint "plop" and he ran in the other direction--right smack into Thug Number One.

Bluto, some detached part of his mind concluded, would be a good name for this one.  It was always good to be on a first-name basis with new people, right?

"Hey," he panted.  "What's--ugh!"  He tried and failed to break into a dead run in another direction but failed.  His ankle protested frantically and his knee didn't seem too happy, either.  Damn.

Bluto yanked him by the arm and pulled him in tight as the other two caught up.

Boris, Mulder decided, as the butt of the gun of another guard was smashed into the side of his head.  Boris, Bluto, and...Bob.  "Hey, guys, I was just looking for--ugh--birds," he gasped.  Bluto now had both of Mulder's arms pinned behind his back.

Shit, he thought, as Bob kneed him brutally in the stomach.  Where's a good government-issue Sig Sauer when you need it?

* * * * *

The runner's path had taken him away from Gary's position, much farther into the field, and one of the big guys had cut him off.  He was trapped.  Harsh words Gary couldn't make out were exchanged, and then they surrounded him and tried to subdue him.  It wasn't an easy task.  Gary watched in horror as one of them brought out a gun and used it to smack the guy in the head.  Another got him in the stomach with a knee.

Gary swallowed hard.  He had to make a decision.  The paper hadn't given him nearly enough information.

Who *was* this guy?  Under cover of the sickening sounds of the beating, he figured it was safe to retrieve the--well, what the heck had the man thrown away, anyway?  Plunging his hands into the icy water, Gary fished around until he hit something solid.  Leather.  He pulled out a slim, dripping wallet and opened it.  What he saw inside instantly changed his take on the situation.

Sprinting like a madman and praying the thugs wouldn't notice him just yet, he headed back toward the car.

* * * * *

<Backup, Mulder, you idiot.> the ScullyVoice inside his head was saying.  <Never go anywhere without backup. This is what happens when you ditch me.>

There were other voices saying other things.  Loud voices.  One of them, he realized, was his own. Interesting, his psych training explained, how the mind finds ways to shield itself from reality when reality is too much to bear.

It wasn't just a defense mechanism, this mental retreat.  His ears were starting to ring.  Again, his clinical self told him that it was no doubt due to the fact that Boris had cracked him another wicked knock to the head, and that he was now, in fact, face down on the ground with a mouthful of mud.  He might actually, the realist droned on, want to think about moving or getting up or at least rolling out of the way of those boots.

"--can't just leave him out here," one of the boots seemed to be saying.  "We need to know what the hell he's been up to."

"Nah, just a few more kicks to the head'll take care of him.  All they said is to make sure no one can tell any tales about this place.  This guy's not goin' nowhere.  We'll take care of him, then take care of the car, and that'll be that."

Mulder wondered, through the fog that was enveloping all his various personas, if the guards were going to let *him* cast a vote.

"--put one bullet to the brain just to be sure."

"Boss said not to leave anything that'll connect it to the institute.  Just make it look like a gang initiation or something."

"--ditch over there, we could just dump the body and--"

The voices were growing fainter.  The earth was spinning under him, quite a bit faster than it normally did.

Scully, he thought, I'm sorry.  Sam--

The last sounds to register on his consciousness were that of an engine roaring to life, a very long, loud horn, and shouts of consternation.

His last conscious feeling was a splash of frozen mud right between the eyes.

"Children of the Corn", muttered his last conscious thought.  Not a very auspicious ending.

Just before the world went black for good, he had the sensation of moving.  But that was impossible.  His legs didn't work anymore.

* * * * *

Bullets.  Shit, they were firing actual bullets.

Once the thugs had figured out that Gary was not the full-fledged cavalry, just one guy in a loud car, they'd started firing.  Luckily, their hesitation had bought him enough time to put the car between them and the fallen FBI agent, whom he hauled into the passenger seat, nearly impaling himself on the gear shift as he did so.  Then he hit the accelerator and headed toward the highway.

At least, he tried to.  Turning the wheels hard to avoid the ditch, he managed to hit a particularly deep patch of mud.  The tires spun futilely and through the rear windshield Gary could see that their pursuers were gaining ground.  He threw the car in reverse and then back into first gear, trying to rock the Lexus free.

One bullet glanced off the rear windshield, leaving a spider web of cracks.  Chuck was not gonna be happy with him, not in the least little bit.

Back into reverse.  Mud sprayed out from underneath the tires, forcing the gunmen back and coating them from head to toe.  Finally, as he tried first gear one more time, the car gained enough momentum to make it over the edge of the puddle--heck, it felt more like a crater--to where the corn stubble provided some traction.  The car lurched and propelled itself forward like a living thing.  Okay, so it wasn't four wheel drive, but there was still some serious power in this car.

He could barely see out the rear window, which, like the rest of the car, was splattered with thick prairie mud, but from the way the gunshots faded quickly behind them and then stopped altogether, he knew that they weren't following.  He had no idea how long it would take them to get to a vehicle of their own and come after him, and he wasn't going to wait around to find out.  It wouldn't be hard to pick out this car, in this condition, especially in the city.

Once the windshield was clear enough to at least let him see what was coming, he chanced taking his concentration off the road for a second to take a good look at his passenger--Agent Mulder, if the identification he'd found was accurate.

Agent Mulder had several bruises on his face and a cut across his temple, and was clutching his torso protectively.  He was splattered with mud from head to toe, but, looking down at his own legs, Gary realized that seemed to be a common phenomenon.  The agent was slipping in and out of consciousness, but at least he was breathing.

Gary wondered why the paper hadn't mentioned the fact that foul play would obviously have been involved in this guy's death, had the thugs managed to kill him; nor that the victim was an FBI agent.  The paper didn't often leave out details like that.

First things first, however.  He needed a hospital for Agent Mulder and dry clothes for himself.  His mind raced through possibilities--he'd become familiar with a number of different Chicago hospitals in the past few months--before deciding on St. Joseph.  It was on the way back into the city and on the Metro line, and it was too busy for the staff to spend a lot of time asking questions.  It also had a parking garage rather than an outdoor lot--Chuck's car would be a lot less obvious there.

What else?  He definitely needed to contact authorities of some kind or another about this.  Shivering, Gary realized his fingernails were turning blue, and cranked up the heat.

His passenger stirred. "Scully," he muttered.

"What?" Gary asked.  No response.  He was still checking the rearview mirror every couple of seconds, but so far as he could tell through the mud, there wasn't anyone behind them.  Just in case, he turned at the next paved intersection and started tracing a less obvious path back to the city.

"Backup...always call...backup...Scully..."

Assess the situation, Gary told himself.  One thing at a time.  Whom should he contact?  He definitely did not want to explain this to Detective Crumb, or to anyone else in the Chicago PD.  There would be too many questions:  How did you know about this?  What's your connection to the FBI?  Do you often go around beating up agents?  Have another stale donut and give us some answers.

There was also the fact that Agent Mulder had thrown his wallet away.  If he was on the run or working undercover, he might not want his identity known.  Maybe he'd gone bad.  Maybe someone in his department had.  Too many choices, not enough information.  Story of Gary's life, lately.

"Saman--where is she?"  Mulder moved his head a little.  It was hard to make out his words.  "Where is she? They're hurting--"

Gary blanched and gripped the steering wheel harder, raising his foot from the accelerator.  Had they left someone behind?  The paper hadn't mentioned--well, there were a lot of things the paper hadn't mentioned, he thought grimly.

"Where is she?"

Get control, Gar, he told himself.  The guy's ranting.  He doesn't even know what he's saying.  If you were meant to save somebody else, the paper would have told you.

Shouldn't that have been his decision to make?  His choice?  Damn.  He hated leaving things unfinished.  He hated the thought of failure.  At this point, though, there wasn't much he could do.  He had no idea who "she" was, where "she" was, who "they" were, or why the guy was muttering about the Voice of the Dodgers.

He decided he would call the local FBI and ask for Mulder, see what they said.  Sure, why not?  People called them everyday to say, "Hey, I picked up one of your agents in a cornfield.  You want him back?"

"I'm sorry, Scully...sorry...my fault..."

Keeping one hand on the wheel and one eye on the road, Gary found Chuck's car phone and dialed his friend's work number.
 
 

Part 3
 
 

I say I hear a doubt, with the voice of True Believing,
And the promises to stay, and the footsteps that are leaving.
And she says, Oh;  I say, What?
She says, Exactly.
I say, What, you think I'm angry,
Does that mean you think I'm angry?
     ~Dar Williams, "What Do You Hear In These Sounds"
 
 

Washington, DC
12:30 PM

Dana Scully was not a happy woman.  In fact, she was downright cranky.  Being ditched tended to have that effect on her.

Being ditched twice in the same month made her furious.  This had to be some kind of record.

She had a sick feeling that she knew what Mulder was up to.  The fact that AD Skinner wasn't up in arms about Mulder's latest disappearance--that he had, in fact, suggested she take the rest of the day off after her early appointment at the dentist--was strange enough.  Repeated calls to Mrs. Mulder's home in Connecticut had produced only an answering machine, and Mulder had not responded to Scully's messages, no doubt because he was not there.

If he wasn't, whether it was a sin of omission or commission, he'd lied to her.  The reasons why he'd lied didn't matter; the fact that he'd crossed that line and *lied* to her did.

She might have cancer, Scully fumed, but she was not an invalid.  At the moment, she was ready to kick some ass--literally, figuratively, whatever.  Anyone's ass would do, but she would prefer her partner's--if she could find him.  Maybe Frohike, Langly, and Byers would know--no, of *course* they would know.

She was pacing her apartment, trying to decide which of the Lone Gunmen she would break first so that she could conserve most of her energy for Mulder, when the phone rang.  She automatically reached for her cellular unit before she realized it was her home phone that was ringing.

"Is this Special Agent Dana Scully?" a professional voice on the other end asked.  Uh-oh.

"Yes."

"This is Agent Greg Donner, from the Chicago Field Office.  We just got a rather strange call.  Some guy says he found an Agent Mulder lying in a ditch west of the city and--"

Oh God.  "Agent Mulder is my partner.  Is he--"

"He's in St. Joseph's Hospital.  They think he'll be all right, but there was some head trauma, he was a little beat up, and the doctors want to keep him there for observation.  That's all the guy told us.  Said maybe it was a mugging, but that doesn't sound right, out in the middle of nowhere.  He gave us Mulder's name and badge number and when we pulled it up in the database, it said you were his partner.  Seems like an odd situation--you want us to go ahead and look into it?  Put a guard at the hospital?"

Look into what?  Whatever was going on, she didn't want this particular "odd situation" broadcast through every corner of the Bureau.  Surprise, relief, and anger were vying for dominance in Scully's mind.  Relief meekly took a back seat as anger pushed its way forward.

"No, no, that's all right," she said through clenched teeth.  "Just tell me how to get there, and I'll deal with hi--the situation."  She thanked her lucky stars that whoever had taken the call at the field office hadn't pushed the panic button and called in the big guns--or, God forbid, Skinner--right away.

"Okay, thanks," she said as Agent Donner finished giving her the location.  "I'll be there in a few hours.  If there's any way to make sure Agent Mulder stays put--"

"From what the guy said, I think the docs will take care of that.  You sure there's nothing we can do?"

Scully paused, then asked, "Who did you say brought him in?"

"It's just a civilian."  She could hear paper being shuffled.  "Um...Hobson.  Gary Hobson."

In Mulder's world of shifting truths and lies, Scully thought, hardly anyone was "just" anything.  "Why don't you see if you can find out anything about the guy who brought him in?" she asked Agent Donner.  "Be discreet.  Don't scare him away, just--see if you can find out who he is, how he came to find Agent Mulder, that sort of thing."

"Sure thing, Agent Scully.  We're on it."

Well, it was good to be in charge of *something*.  Hopefully the Chicago office could get her some information about Mulder's rescuer, if, indeed, that's what this man was.  She frowned at the handset.  Maybe she would call the Lone Gunmen after all.

Ten minutes later, as she grabbed her pre-packed garment bag, Scully reflected that it was too bad Mulder wasn't closer than Chicago.  Driving fast and hard for a couple of hours would just about suit her current mood.  As it was, she'd have to be careful not to take it out on the flight attendants.

She wanted to save it for Mulder.

* * * * *

Two hours had gone by since Gary had brought Agent Mulder to the hospital.  The doctors were finished tending to the agent's injuries; he was bandaged and medicated and should be coming around to full-fledged consciousness soon.  Gary had notified the FBI and been told that Agent Mulder's partner--the "Scully" he had called for in the car--was on the way from DC.  After his first call to the Bureau, they had actually come by and taken his name and a few details, but otherwise no one seemed very worried about the guy who had nearly died just a short while ago.  Strange.

Chuck was coming by with clean clothes for Gary.  He was also planning to pick up his car, but Gary didn't want to think about that.  He'd told him what had happened, but when Chuck actually saw it...well, it was going to be painful.

Gary had hung around the agent's room, figuring that it wouldn't hurt to be there if the bad guys caught up with them.  He had to wait for Chuck anyway, and if he was honest with himself, he was also downright curious.  What was this guy mixed up with?  Gary just hoped that he'd ended up on the right side this time, and that the guys on the wrong side wouldn't come looking for him, or for Agent Mulder, later.

Nah, it would be all right.

Probably.

It wouldn't hurt to make sure.

Gary checked the paper, which he had set on window sill on the far side of the room to dry.  The article that had sent him out to find Mulder was gone.  In its place was--Hmm.

There was a groan from the bed, and Mulder stirred and opened his eyes.  After a few blinks, he pinned Gary with a cold stare.  "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm--that is, I brought you--" Gary moved closer to the bed.

Mulder was struggling to sit, reaching for and finding the button that raised the bed without ever taking his eyes off Gary.  "You aren't one of the guards.  What are you, some kind of junior medic?  Planning to fix me up before you inject me with the black cancer?"

Gary froze.  Black cancer?  "I'm not--"

"I thought they said they were just going to kill me.  Why'd they bring me back?"

"Back?  Agent Mulder, I--"

Hazel eyes narrowed, mouth set in a grim line, Mulder scanned the room as if he expected to find--well, actually, Gary wasn't sure just what it was the guy was looking for, but he had a feeling it wasn't the TV remote.  "How do you know my name?  What kind of an institute is this, anyway?  Where's Scanlon?"

Gary remembered the building he had passed on the way to the cornfield.  Somebody-Or-Others' Medical Research..."Institute?  Look, buddy, you're in St. Joseph's Hospital.  Chicago."  He indicated the room with a sweep of his hand.  "It's okay.  The doctor said you're gonna be all right.  I got you away from the thugs who were beating you up.  They aren't here.  It's all right.  You just need to rest, okay?"  He was hoping Mulder would calm down once he woke up a little and saw the real situation, but it didn't seem to be happening.  Should he notify the nurses?

Mulder considered him for a minute, as if he could read Gary's intentions on his face but wanted more information.  "Prove it."

"Prove it?"  Gary supposed he should have been used to being challenged by now, but, squirming in his muddy clothes that were sticking to his skin as they dried, he couldn't help but be offended.  He *had* saved the guy's life.

"Yes, prove that you're telling the truth," Mulder challenged with an air of righteous authority.

"Well, uh, look out the window," Gary told him.  "See?  Skyline.  Projects.  High rises.  You aren't out in the cornfields anymore, we're back in the city."  He pulled Mulder's chart off the foot of the bed and handed it over.  "Property of St. Joseph's Hospital," he said, pointing to the cover.  "Look for yourself, there's no--cancer--or anything.  And you're right, those thugs that were beating on you would have left you in the field.  Actually, they would have thrown you in a ditch and left you to die."  He paused for breath.  The cold light in Mulder's eyes was starting to thaw, but only a little.  "And, and--" Gary stumbled over his words in a sudden burst of brilliance "--and don't you think that if you were some kind of prisoner here, you'd be tied up or handcuffed or something?"

"That's the usual procedure," Mulder acquiesced coolly.

Gary gulped.

"I could, of course, have been left like this so I would believe your set-up."

Good grief, how paranoid could one man be?  "There is no set-up.  This is a real hospital.  With real doctors and nurses who want to help you.  I'm just...I'm the one who found you, so I'm making sure you're all right.  Look,"  he held up a pitifully small Styrofoam cup.  "Would a private institute have such lousy coffee?  Or Jell-O?  You missed out on the Jell-O at lunch.  It was green.  I would have saved you some if I'd known it was needed for evidence."

Mulder made a guttural sound that might have been a laugh--or not.  But he did seem to relax a little.  "All right.  Fine.  So you found me and brought me here.  So you're a good guy."  He leaned forward and swung his legs over the side of the bed.  "In any case, I have work to do, so if you don't mind handing me my clothes, I'm leaving."

"Uh, I don't think you should be getting up..."  Gary started for the call button, but Mulder intercepted him with a glare that would have stopped traffic on the Stevenson Expressway.

"Back off.  I have to get out of here.  Or were you lying just now when you said you weren't one of them?"

"No, no really, you were in pretty bad shape and I just think--" Gary glanced back at the paper, lying open on the window sill. "Look, I just think you should at least have a doctor look at you before you go."

"My partner is a doctor.  She can take care of me." Mulder reached for his pants, which were draped over a chair next to the bed.

"Agent Scully is a doctor?" Gary asked.  Agent Scully was a *she*?

Mulder didn't waste an instant.  Dropping the pants, he lunged at Gary, and had him pinned to the wall, one arm across his throat, in the blink of an eye.  "Where is she?  What do you know about her?"

"N-nothing, I--I just--you called out for her while you were--you know--and I knew you were an FBI agent and so I called the Bureau here and they looked you up and they said you had a partner named Agent Scully and that--she--would be out here to see you in a few hours or so.  Is that okay?"  The last word squeaked out as the pressure on his windpipe increased.  Gary figured he could take Mulder if he had to, but he didn't want to hurt him even more.  For now, he chose the path of least resistance.

Mulder blinked, as if trying to work all this out.  "You know I'm FBI, do you? Well, how the hell did you happen to find me in the first place, smart guy?  You *are* one of them, aren't you?"

"Who?"  Gary choked out.  Mulder nearly lifted him off the ground and Gary's throat was starting to constrict as Mulder applied more force. They were roughly the same size, but Mulder was running on pure adrenaline and had better leverage.

"Tell.  Me.  Who. You.  Are."  Mulder growled, increasing the pressure on Gary's throat with every word.

"HEY!"  A short, wiry man took one look at the scene from the doorway and pushed himself between Gary and Mulder.  "What the heck is goin' on here?"  The sheer force of his indignant protest caused Mulder to release his grip.  "What is this, the guy saves your life and then you attack him?  Sheesh!" he exclaimed at a slightly befuddled Mulder.  He turned to his friend.  "Gar, you okay?"

Gary rubbed his throat, trying to loosen a collar that wasn't there.  "Yeah, yeah, 'm okay," he muttered.

Mulder was scowling at them.  "Who the hell is THIS?  I want to know what the fuck is going on!"

"He's a friend of mine," Gary began faintly.

"Geez, d'ya *eat* with that mouth?"  Chuck exclaimed simultaneously.

"This is, uh, Chuck Fishman," Gary told Mulder.  "I'm Gary Hobson."  He stuck out his hand, hoping to re-boot the situation.  Mulder looked at it blankly.

"You know, the guy who saved your *life*," Chuck filled in helpfully.  "The one who nearly froze to death trying to find you and got *shot* at in *my* car, which, by the way, now needs a new rear window and major detailing because he parked it in a cornfield and stuffed a mud-encrusted and totally ungrateful FBI agent in the front seat--"

"That's enough, Chuck," Gary warned, but he noticed Mulder had pulled back, assessing the two of them warily.

"That true?"

"Yeah."  Gary swallowed hard.  His throat didn't hurt *too* much.

Mulder blinked, and his eyes took on a distant cast, as if he was trying to remember.  Meanwhile, Chuck, arms akimbo, was shaking his head at Gary behind the agent's back, giving him a look that asked, "What the hell did you get yourself involved with *this* time?" as clearly as if he'd spoken the words aloud.

"Then what am I doing here now?" Mulder finally demanded.  "Why didn't you call the cops?  And how did you know I was there in the first place?"

"You're here because you were hurt and I thought it would be good if someone looked you over," Gary explained patiently.  "I know this hospital, it's a good place.  I knew you would be there because--I just--well, I didn't *know*, I got lucky, okay?  I was driving by and I--" he had the explanation prepared, but under the force of Mulder's intense stare, it was hard to glaze over the truth, even a little.

"I saw three big guys pounding on you in the middle of the field, so I doubled back to check it out.  I saw you needed help, and so I helped.  I didn't call the cops or anything because...because I didn't want them to think I was involved; that I was a-a thug or something."

Chuck tried and failed to choke back a laugh.  Mulder stared at him for a moment, then turned back to Gary.

"So you know...what...about the situation?"

"Nothing, really," Gary told him for what seemed like the hundredth time.  "All I know is what I just told you, and what you told me in the car--"

"In the car?  I thought I was unconscious."

"Well, you kept coming in and out of it.  Muttering and stuff.  And--and you kept saying something about backup, and your partner...and at first I thought that you'd left someone behind..."

"No, no there was no one with--I said that?  What else did I say?"

Mulder looked truly concerned, and Gary considered him a moment, finally feeling as though they were on even footing.  "Nothing.  You didn't say anything else.  You were mostly unconscious."  He left the rest out .  If it wasn't classified FBI information, it was probably personal.  It was probably none of his business.  It was probably nothing he needed to worry about.

Probably.

"Then how did you know I was FBI?  Or my partner's name?  I thought I--" he checked himself.  "How did you know?"  He looked the younger man up and down.  "How did you get covered in mud if you were just driving by?"

Gary had this part of the story planned, too.  Not a real lie, just not...well, not the complete truth.

"I got out of the car at first, thinking I could--thinking I could help that way.  I found your identification in the ditch."

"The identification that I threw away.  You found it."  Mulder's voice was flat, dubious.  "Wasn't that ditch full of water?"

Gary shifted from one foot to the other.  "I just sorta, you know, stumbled onto it.  After I fell into the ditch.  Pure dumb luck."

"That's Gary for ya.  Stuff like that happens to him all the time," Chuck told the agent with an emphatic nod.

Stepping back, Mulder eyed them both doubtfully. He was obviously not buying the whole story and was about to ask more questions, but at that moment the duty nurse bustled in.

"What are you doing out of bed?" she demanded, hands planted on her generous hips.  "Get back in there this moment, and you two, out!"

"But--" the chastised patient began.

"It's time for your blood work, Agent Mulder," she informed him firmly.

"We'll just wait outside."  Sidestepping Mulder's glare, Gary picked up his paper and pushed Chuck out the door ahead of him.

"We're not through yet, Hobson," Mulder called after them.

"Well, that's gratitude," Chuck huffed in the hallway, arms crossed in front of him as he cast what he probably thought was a menacing glare at the closed door.

Gary shook off the fog of doubt Mulder had cast over him and turned his attention to his friend.  "Yeah, uh, Chuck, I--uh--I'm sorry about your car.  Have--have you seen it yet?"

Chuck sighed and absently fingered his tie.  "Yeah.  It's a complete mess, but, hey, it's insured.  I was gonna get mad at you and then I figured, you didn't plan it, right?"  He paused, looking up at his friend.  "You were just doin' what you do, and besides, you nearly--is that really a bullet hole?"

"Yeah, it is."  Gary rubbed the back of his neck, looking away from Chuck's intense stare.

Dropping his hand back to his side, Chuck clenched his jaw and looked as if he was about to say something else, then shook his head.  "You gotta be more careful, buddy.  My insurance rates are gonna go through the roof.  C'mon, let's blow this place and get something to eat."  He started down the hallway, but turned back when Gary didn't follow.

"You go ahead.  Did you bring my clothes?"

"Yeah."  Chuck indicated a bag on the lobby chair.  "But Gar, why would you want to stick around here? Aren't there other people you gotta help?  Maybe someone who won't try to choke the life out of you for doing it?"

"Look, Chuck, it--"

"Lucky I was there to save the day," Chuck recalled, satisfied with himself to a degree that had absolutely no relationship to the situation.

"Chuck--"

"I mean, Gar, he was cutting off all the oxygen to that thick head of yours, and then I *burst* in and--" Chuck was waving his arms around for dramatic effect.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'll buy you a medal, okay?"

"Well, you don't have to be sarcastic about it.  I just want to know why you prefer to stick around here when you could be hanging out with a swell guy like me and buying me lunch for saving your life twice in one day."

"Twice?"

"I let you use my car, didn't I?"

"Look, Chuck, I'm grateful, okay?"  Gary tried to brush some of the dried mud off the front of his sweatshirt.  "Really.  But I can't leave now.  I don't think this thing is over yet."

Chuck's jaw dropped.  "What do you mean, it isn't over?  You got him here, didn't you?  You got a message to his partner and you didn't call the cops and get hauled in for questioning like you usually do, and now everything's just hunky-dory for that whacked-out fibbie and you can come with me and--Oh, don't tell me--"  His eyes narrowed.  "The paper again?"

"Well, yeah."

"Let me see it."

"You don't need to--"

"My best friend's gonna risk his life for some hothead G-Man, I wanna know why, okay?  Show me."  He held out a hand and waited.

Gary sighed and flipped the paper to the new story, turning it so Chuck could see, but not handing it over.

"'TWO DIE IN CAR CRASH'?  That's it?"  Chuck scanned the article, then looked up in disbelief.  "Two people who aren't even identified in the newspaper because 'authorities are contacting relatives', die in a hit and run, and you assume it has something to do with this guy?"  He jabbed a finger at the door to Agent Mulder's room, blue eyes wide in disbelief.

"Well, it says a man and a woman, and he said his partner is a woman, and it's right out there where I found the guy in the first place, and --"  Gary stopped.  It should have been obvious to Chuck by now.

"And?"  Chuck raised both eyebrows.

"And I just got a feeling, you know?"

"No, as a matter of fact, I don't," Chuck answered peevishly.

"Chuck, I've been doing this long enough, I have a--a sense for how this stuff goes."

"A feeling?  You think that guy in there is gonna buy 'a feeling'?"

"Well, I don't know," Gary answered honestly, "but whether or not people believe me doesn't really seem to matter. I can still help him and--"

A nurse walked by with a tray of medicines and Chuck lowered his voice, nearly whispering through gritted teeth.  "Gary, the guy is an FBI agent!  He should be able to take care of himself."

"It says here he ends up dead."  Didn't Chuck know better than to question the paper?

"You don't know it's him.  You don't even know what's going on here.  It could be anything--drugs, gunrunners, militia, serial killers, bootleggers--Look, what about his partner?  Why don't you just let her take care of it?"

"Bootleggers?  I think Elliot Ness took care of them."  For the first time all day, Gary actually smiled.  "Chuck, it's okay.  Go ahead, I just want to talk to this guy when he's a little calmer.  Or maybe I can talk to his partner and convince her not to drive anywhere tonight."  Chuck still hesitated, so Gary added, "Don't worry, I'm just gonna talk to them.  I'll catch up with you at McGinty's, okay?"

They stared each other down for a moment.  Chuck broke first.  "All right," he reluctantly agreed.  "I guess I should go check out what's left of my car and get back to the office before Prichard gives away my job.  But Gar?"

"Yeah?"

Chuck took a step closer and stuck a finger in Gary's face.  Gary batted it away, but Chuck persisted.  "No shootouts.  No car chases.  No thugs.  Got it?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever."

"Because I'm not gonna be the one to tell Marissa or your parents if you get shot following up some stupid--"

Chuck and his overblown fantasies.  "I'm not gonna get shot.  Go.  Work.  Invest.  Make yourself a rich man."

Chuck relaxed, a familiar gleam creeping back into his eyes.  "Well, geez Gar, that'd be a lot easier if you just let me--"

Gary snatched the paper out of his reach.  "Go.  Now."

Chuck gave one final wave behind his back as he strode down the hall. Gary picked up the bag and headed to the bathroom to change.  The world's problems, he decided, were much more easily faced with dry clothing--and coffee.  There had to be a decent cup of the stuff around here somewhere.
 
 

Part 4
 

Chicago--a facade of skyscrapers facing a lake and behind the facade every type of dubiousness.
     ~E. M. Forster
 
 

After the nurse left, telling him they'd be doing a CAT scan in about fifteen minutes, Mulder sat up again and reached for the envelope containing his personal effects.  He pulled out his cell phone.  The buttons were crusted over with dried mud, but thankfully the thing still worked.  Unfortunately, Nurse Cherry Ames, or whatever her name was, had warned him not to use it because of equipment interference.  She'd even put on her Frowny Face for emphasis.

Mulder sighed and returned the unit to the bedside table.  He supposed he'd better not get on anyone's bad side, not until Scully arrived, anyway.  He'd half-expected to see her there when he woke up, as she often was when his escapades took a turn for the worse.  It had become a constant--or maybe it was a cliché, he thought ruefully.  Perhaps he'd come to rely on it more than he should.

Still and all, he wasn't thrilled that she'd been notified this time.  He'd been close to getting more information about her abduction, her illness, and the people involved, and he wasn't sure he wanted Scully to know that.  The more she knew, the more reason they'd have to eliminate her.  The longer he could keep her in the dark, the less they--the less *he*--could hurt her.

Watch it, Mulder, he told himself.  Next thing you know, you'll be wading through the mire of rationalization all ova again.

Ouch.  At least he could blame the bad pun on the blows he'd taken to his head.  If Scully ever did find out all he knew, and that he'd known but hadn't told her, he'd have to come up with something a lot better than that.  No matter how good his reasons, no matter how conflicted and deep in denial she was about her abduction and its link to her illness, she would see his silence as a betrayal.

There were times, such as this one, when he was inclined to agree with that assessment.  The fact that he had those thoughts, but still hadn't told her what he'd found at Lombard, was due to his conviction--not just rationalization but a firm belief--that she wasn't ready to hear it yet, that he didn't have enough to tell her, that it wouldn't be right to give her such a shock without any morsel of hope.

So, yes, he had expected to see Scully, and yet he hadn't been as relieved as he should have been when she wasn't there.  He had, however, been taken off guard by the person who *was* there.

Mulder tried, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember more than the sound of a car and a vague sensation of being pulled out of the mud between the time the institute guards had caught up with him and his awakening in the hospital.  He rubbed the side of his head.  Must have been whacked harder than usual.

At any rate, even if this guy Hobson was on the level, there were some definite holes in his story.  If he wasn't on the level, Mulder wanted to know, preferably before Scully showed up.  He decided it was worth risking the use of the hospital phone--traceable or not--to find out, and lifted the unit onto his lap while he dialed.

Three different rings and a series of clicks later, Frohike picked up the phone.

"Frohike, turn off the tape, it's me," Mulder told him. "Look, I ran into some trouble out here and....Oh.  No, nothing permanent.  How did you...Scully?  She called you?  What did you say to her?...No, Frohike, as a matter of fact I *don't* know what I'm going to tell her.  Look, I need a favor....So I owe you one or two....Who got you the Knicks tickets, behind the bench at center court?...How was I supposed to know Langly would get beaned by a stray ball?  It's not as if I planned it....No, actually Frohike, not everything is a conspiracy."

Mulder sighed.  "Look, Frohike, I really need this favor....I'll see what I can do.  I need a background check on...actually, that *is* his name--Gary Hobson; how the hell--?...Scully again?... I can see why you wanted to get back in her good graces, sure...What did you learn?"

Mulder frowned as he listened to what Frohike had to say.  None of this made any sense.

* * * * *

Gary knew who Agent Scully was the moment she stepped off the elevator.  Her open trench coat--were those things some kind of uniform?--billowed around her as she strode down the corridor.  At the nurse's station, she flipped open her wallet, which was, again, a duplicate of the one he'd found in the ditch, and held it out like a battle shield.  She consulted briefly with the duty nurse, who pointed at Gary.  He watched from a few feet away in the waiting area, standing as Agent Scully approached.  He felt uncomfortably like a kid sent to the principal's office, but she didn't look angry, just determined.

"You're the one who found Agent Mulder?"  She gestured toward the closed door across the hall.

He nodded, then found his voice, switching the Sun-Times to his left hand to offer her his right.  She shook it, one eyebrow raised.  Gary wondered briefly why these people seemed so baffled by common courtesy.

"Gary Hobson."

"I'm Agent Scully.  Agent Mulder is my partner.  You've been here all this time?"

Gary nodded.  "Yeah.  He's, uh..." Gary rubbed his throat, wincing slightly, while Agent Scully watched closely.  "He's still pretty healthy, considering."

"Considering what?"  There was a sharp edge to her voice, and Gary couldn't tell if it was directed at him or at the world in general.  He shifted from one foot to the other.

"Well, you know, when I first found him, he was in a lot of pain, and he was kind of, uh, disoriented.  He got knocked around pretty bad."

"Hmmm..."  Agent Scully spared a glance in the direction of Mulder's door.  She didn't seem surprised--which surprised Gary.  How often did her partner land in the hospital, anyway?

"So how is it you came to find him?"  Arms folded across her chest, she looked up at him with clear blue eyes that would brook no subterfuge.

Gary had rehearsed the story a little more while he waited, careful to make sure he kept the details consistent with what he'd told Mulder.  "I was driving by--it was a nice day, and I like to just explore the countryside, you know?"  She didn't respond one way or another.  "Uh, yeah.  Anyway, I was driving by, and I saw these guys doing something that looked...well, it looked strange, and they were out in the middle of a field.  I slowed down and saw they were beating someone up--that would be Agent Mulder--and I stopped and tried to help because I figured, well, it wasn't a fair fight," he finished, glad that he had stopped himself from rambling on too much.

It wasn't that Gary wanted to lie.  It wasn't that he didn't want to tell anyone about the paper.  It was just that things got complicated when he tried to explain what was really going on.  FBI agents, like the other law enforcement types he'd run into, were trained not to believe without evidence.  He was sure they wouldn't believe the truth.

"I see," said Agent Scully noncommittally, and waited for him to continue.

Gary told the rest of the story pretty much as it had happened.  She watched him steadily, and even as his narrative veered back to the God's honest truth, he felt more and more like an errant schoolboy.  With a hawk's gaze that probably played havoc with suspects during interrogations, Agent Scully watched him without reaction.  She was short, at least a head shorter than Gary, but he sensed an inner core of titanium.  People probably underestimated her because of her stature, as they underestimated Marissa because of her blindness.

Gary was willing to bet that there weren't many people who'd made that mistake more than once.

"All right," she told him when he'd finished.  "Thank you."  She turned to enter Mulder's room.

"Wait, wait--that's it?" Gary was baffled.  He had half-expected that he'd wind up in jail again.

"For now.  Just stick around town in case we need to talk with you again."

Gary frowned and re-rolled the paper in his left hand, wondering how he was going to tell this woman not to get into a car tonight, or to do anything, for that matter.  Agent Scully misinterpreted his hesitation.

"Here," she said, pulling a business card out of the pocket of her neatly-tailored grey suit.  It reminded him of the outfits his ex-wife had worn for court arguments--"lion taming gear" she'd called them.  "You can call me if you think of anything else."

"Well, actually..." his mind raced.  Most of the time, he would just offer to stick around and help out.  This woman definitely did not think she needed his help.  "It's just, uh, can I give you some advice?"

Instantly wary, Agent Scully stood even straighter.  "All right..."

Gary waved his hand a little as he tried to get the explanation out.  "There are a lot of, you know, dangerous roads around here.  And at night, some of the--the ice, it re-freezes, so you have to be careful because you can't see it, and that place out there where I found Agent Mulder, it's like that, so if you go out there, maybe you should wait 'til the morning and, uh..." he trailed off, dropping his hand back to his side.  Her eyes had narrowed.

"Just what are you saying, Mr. Hobson?"  She seemed to think he was threatening her.

"I'm just--I was kind of slipping and sliding out there today, you know, and I figured you'd probably want to go check out the spot, and so...well, I mean, I saved his life," he waved his hand towards Mulder's door, "and I feel responsible, you know?  Just be careful, is all I'm saying."

"Uh-huh."  Both hands on her hips, she stared up at him with that same keen intelligence, but there was annoyance in her voice.  "Any other advice you care to give me?  I generally do wear a seat belt, brush after meals, and wait an hour after eating before I go swimming."

Gary swallowed and started walking backward down the hall.  "Just, uh, just have a nice day, and uh...let's be careful out there, okay?"

"Right.  Sure," she muttered as she watched him walk away.

Once the elevator doors had shut, Gary checked the paper again.  The hit-and-run article was still there. He looked at the card she'd handed him. "Special Agent Dana Scully.  Federal Bureau of Investigation.  X-Files Division."  Sounded pretty top secret.  This thing was even farther over his head than he'd thought.

 * * * * *

Scully shook her head as she turned back to Mulder's room.  For the past four hours she had just barely managed to contain her frustration, and now she was ready to blow.  She'd nearly done it a minute ago.  It wasn't like her to get sarcastic with witnesses, no matter how outlandish their stories might be.

Well, whatever Hobson was up to, she had a feeling--backed up by corroborating information she'd received from Agent Donner and the Gunmen--that he was the least of their problems.  In about five seconds, Hobson was definitely going to go back down a few notches on Mulder's top ten list of troubles.  She steeled herself for the confrontation.  Mulder was NOT going to get out of this without facing a few facts.  The sad-puppy eyes weren't going to work this time.

Besides, she reflected as she grabbed the door handle, Gary Hobson could out-puppy-face Mulder any day, and he hadn't even been trying.
 

Part 5
 

Tell me something I don't know,
Instead of everything I do.
     ~Mary Chapin Carpenter, "The Hard Way"
 
 

Mulder woke from a light doze when he heard his partner's voice in the hallway.  He rubbed his face, ran a hand through his hair, and sighed as he sat up.

"...alone, without back-up, in the middle of nowhere--Mulder, for God's sake, why?  Why *again*  Why now?"  Scully wasn't even all the way through the door before she began

Though he knew he was about to get his ass chewed, Mulder was glad to see Scully's spirit intact after the battering it had taken lately.  He sat back against the pillow, put on his most contrite expression, and prepared to defend himself.

"Scully, I was following up a lead," he began.

She shook her head slowly, looking him up and down with a disgusted expression that made him feel as if he were a child who had just spilt grape juice on white carpeting.  "What lead?  Were you trying to figure out how they dye the Chicago River green for St. Patrick's Day?"

"No, Scully, I was trying to get more information about the MUFON women and what happened to them.  And maybe what their abductors did to--"  Mulder hesitated.  If Scully was being sarcastic, then she was more angry than he'd anticipated.  Maybe now wasn't the best time to bring up Scully's own connection to this investigation.

"I didn't ask what it was *about*, Mulder, I asked what it *was*."  She crossed her arms and waited.

"Okay."  He took a deep breath.  "We tracked Scanlon here.  Well, not *here* here; Chicago here, at a private research facility."  Her eyes widened a bit, but she didn't relax her stance.  "I was checking out the lay of the land, and I wanted to have a little chat with Scanlon.  Some of the guards...got in the way.  And I'm going to be fine, incidentally, thanks for asking."

She uncrossed her arms, took off her coat, and walked over to stand behind the bedside chair, neatly draping the coat over its back.  Her eyes never left his face.  "I know you're going to be fine.  I talked to the nurse.  Your doctor is going to fill me in on the results of that CAT scan, once I find him.  In the meantime, tell me what you mean by 'got in the way'.  I thought Hobson found you in a cornfield, not a research facility.  Did you talk to Scanlon or not?"

"No, I just saw him from a distance, and then the guards started chasing me before I could get close..."

Scully's eyes narrowed and she cocked her head.  "What kind of research does this place do?  Why is Scanlon there?  What makes you think the answers are there?"  She took a deep breath, then asked the 64,000 dollar question.  "Mulder are you trying to keep something from me?"

Mulder shifted under the thin sheet.  If he told Scully everything, he'd have to tell her more about his visit to the  fertility clinic in Allentown, and the "souvenir" he'd picked up. This was hitting a little too close to home.  She was moving from slow boil to full eruption.  Deflection, he decided, would be his best tactic.  Hobson would do nicely.

"I don't know anything more, Scully."  He crossed his toes because his fingers were in plain sight.  "I'm sorry if you thought I was out of line, going in there alone."  She pursed her lips, and he could read her thoughts--was he sorry that he'd done it, or just sorry she'd found out?  Better steer the conversation away from rough waters.  "You know, I think we ought to check out that guy in the hallway.  Hobson.  Did the Gunmen tell you what they found on him?"

"Don't change the subject Mulder, I'm warning you--"

"I'm not changing the subject Scully.  I think he's in on it."

"In on *what*?"  Scully's hands flew up in a gesture of complete exasperation.  "Mulder, you must be joking.  The guy is clean, Byers told me, and so did the Chicago field office."

Mulder was not going to be dissuaded by surface facts.  "A little *too* clean, don't you think?  Did they tell you everything?"

"He's not 'in on it', Mulder.  Tell me more about Scanlon," Scully demanded beginning to pace up and down by his bedside.

"Well, then how did he manage to be in just the right place at just the right time?"  Mulder persisted.  "He may not have an actual arrest record, but did Byers tell you how many times he'd been brought in for questioning?"

"And did Byers tell *you* that he's never been charged with a single crime, not one?  In fact, the Chicago PD has a file full of citations, commendations for bravery and helping people and saving their lives.  Which brings us back to your escapade--"

"But doesn't that, in and of itself, strike you as odd?  I mean, what are the chances that the same guy is going to be around so many disasters or near-disasters, if he's not somehow responsible?"

She stopped pacing, shooting Mulder an expression that cut right through all his dissuasion.  "I don't know, maybe he just likes to help.  Maybe he keeps his eyes open more than others do.  Some people are like that, Mulder.  They notice details.  They're sensitive to the world around them.  They think about how other people are affected before they make stupid decisions."

Well and truly chastised, Mulder dropped his gaze for moment, hoping the right words would come when he looked back up.  "Scully, I--"

"We have had this conversation before.  I am sick and tired of being left behind.  Of wondering where you are.  Of not knowing how much I can tell Skinner.  Of--of waiting around and of not knowing and of not being given any choice in the matter at all.  If you don't trust me, Mulder--"

"Scully, you know I trust you."  How could she possibly think--

"No, I don't.  Not when you go running off like this.  I know you think you're protecting me, but I don't need you to draw lines for me, Mulder, not anymore, and certainly not when what you're doing directly concerns me."

Oh.

They stared each other down for a moment.  Mulder blinked first.  "All right, if I had told you, what would you have done?"

"I would have come with you to find Scanlon," she said, as though it were patently obvious.

"And now we'd both be in the hospital."  He sat back with a brusque nod, arms crossed against his chest.

Scully stood even stiffer than before.  "What makes you say that?  What makes you think that I would have been caught--or that *you* would have if I'd been with you?"

Mulder's jaw dropped.  "Are you saying I'm incompetent?"

"I'm saying that you get a little *too* focused sometimes, that you let your desire for answers get in the way of your training and judgment.  Isn't that why cops and agents work in pairs?  Two heads are better than one, and there won't always be some good Samaritan passing by to help you out."

"Rather convenient, wasn't that?  You know, Scully," Mulder lowered his voice, his tone suddenly conspiratorial, "if he's *not* one of them, there could be some kind of paranormal force at work here."

"Mulder--" for a moment her exasperation could find no words--but only for a moment.   "What kind of a-a paranormal entity, or a co-conspirator, for that matter, would let you--" she considered for a minute.  "--Let's say, oh--grab him by the throat and slam him up against the wall?"

Mulder lifted his chin, daring her to prove her conjecture.  "What makes you think that I would do something like that?"

She shrugged.  "Good guess?  Pure dumb luck?  Or maybe I just noticed a few things and put two and two together.  That's my point.  Maybe that's all Hobson does.  He notices things, keeps his eyes open, and he isn't afraid to get involved.  He's recently divorced and unemployed--he's probably trying to assuage feelings of inadequacy."

"But Scully, even you have to admit the odds of so many 'coincidences' happening to the same person are astronomical."

"We've seen stranger things.  Even if there is something paranormal going on with him, do you want to *stop* him from doing good deeds--all but one of which are totally unconnected to anything we've ever done?  Mulder, what's the point in pursuing this, when we have Scanlon right here in our hands--though for who knows how much longer, given your little stunt today?"

"How do we know this isn't a setup?  This could all be part of their plan.  Hobson might be able to give us more information."  He wasn't just trying to put her off, now.  The possibility that Hobson was involved, somehow, with the men who ran the Andrews Research Institute was a very real one.

"Not today," Scully said brusquely.  "I sent him home."

"You what?"

"I sent him home.  Despite your wild conjectures, I think he's an innocent civilian who doesn't need to be dragged into all this."

In the half-second of silence that followed, he heard what she didn't say.

We've already lost enough of those.

"But Scully--"

"If we do find out he's connected, he won't be hard to track down.  A guy like that is going to stand out in a crowd, and we know where he lives.  If we're here to do something this important, we need to keep a low profile.  Nosing around Gary Hobson's life will only take us off course."

"On the other hand, Scully, it could give us an excuse to be here, a cover so that certain parties won't know our real purpose.  It's got potential as an X-File."

Scully paused, and then sighed, pushing a strand of hair back from her face.  "Hobson," she decided, "is not our problem right now.  Your treatment of me--of our partnership--might be.  Scanlon *definitely* is.  So for now, let's focus on what we know, and what we need to do next."

Mulder wondered what would happen to their partnership if she knew he was keeping information from her, whatever the reason.  She *did* have a point about going in without backup.  It wasn't the smartest move he'd ever made.  Perhaps if he was careful, they could investigate this without her being hurt, physically or emotionally.

He'd just have to tap dance a little--on one foot, he reminded himself as his ankle started to throb again.

"I'm going to check with your doctor.  If he says it's okay, we'll take this investigation--well, wherever it needs to go.  If not, provided Skinner doesn't yank us back to DC, you can work from here."

Mulder pushed the thought of Skinner away, at least for now.  There would be plenty of time to deal with that flack once it started flying.  He couldn't, however, resist pointing out the obvious flaw in Scully's plan.  "And you'll go off on your own?"

"Maybe...or maybe Gary Hobson's available," she teased with a wicked grin.

Mulder snorted and threw up his hands in defeat.  In her current mood, she'd make mincemeat out of the poor guy the first time he tried to tell her what to do.  "Just look out for his sidekick, Chuck the Fish."

"What?"

"A friend of his who showed up earlier.  Look, Scully, there's no permanent damage here.  They'll let me out."

Scully regarded him thoughtfully.  "You know, Mulder, you're not the Six Million Dollar Man.  We can't just send out for parts every time you get into these situations."

"Scully, you really *do* care!" he chortled, affecting mock gratitude.  "Just say that you'll always be my Bionic Woman."

"I don't think so," she said without looking directly at him as she headed out the door, her voice suddenly serious again.  "I had my implant *removed*, remember?"

Open mouth, insert foot.  Mulder winced at the still-swinging door and wondered if she wouldn't have shoved that foot in his mouth *for* him if it hadn't been for the sprained ankle.

* * * * *

Mulder's doctor told Scully there was nothing to worry about, no reason to keep him in the hospital.  His head was fine, just a mild concussion and some bruises that would turn interesting colors in the next few days.  He was to take ibuprofen for the ankle and knee and rest until they had a chance to heal.

Not bloody likely, she figured; not unless she replaced his other meds with Valium.

The next thing she had to do was call Skinner.

That, in a nutshell, illustrated one important difference between Scully and her partner:  though they both had issues with authority at times, she was only willing to overstep the bounds of procedure when the situation warranted it.

Not exactly fair, she reminded herself.  Mulder does nothing without justification.  It's just that his idea of what's justified is a little bit looser than your own.

The call wasn't as awful as she'd feared.  Since she'd informed Skinner of what little she'd known before she left for Chicago, he already knew that Mulder was not, in fact, at his mother's; that he had taken off on another quixotic tangent and landed in the hospital because of it.  The Assistant Director had done most of his blowing up then--or at least she hoped he had.

In her dealings with Skinner, Scully had found that honesty and solid preparation were the best defense against the A.D.'s pointed questions and grim outlook on any actions that held even a faint whiff of insubordination.

She didn't have much information to prepare, but at least she could be honest about that.  She outlined the facts as Mulder had told them to her, focusing on the connection between Scanlon and the deaths, possibly even the abductions, of the women she'd met in Allentown.  She was prepared to remind him that he had agreed to let her pursue the connection between her abduction and cancer through the Justice Department, but there was no need.  Apparently he not only remembered, he respected her assessment of the current situation:  no matter how out of line Mulder had been in keeping his information and whereabouts a secret, now that both agents were in Chicago there was every reason to continue the investigation.

"Best of luck, Agent Scully," Skinner told her tersely.  "I hope you find what you're looking for."

She blinked at her cell phone for a moment.  He had sounded as if he really meant it, but the real surprise was that there had been no harsh words for Mulder, no second-hand reprimand and no indication that one was forthcoming.  Skinner must have had more pressing business on which to focus; it was the only explanation that made sense to her.
 
 

Part 6
 
 

I have glimpsed our future, and all I can say is:
Go back.
     ~Diane Court, _Say Anything_
 
 

"Chuck's here."

Gary finished making his shot and straightened from the pool table as Marissa pointed across the room, where Chuck was joking loudly with the bartender.  This wasn't going to be simple.  Better ease into it.  He glanced at Marissa, who was perched on a stool next to one of the high tables; Spike sat on the floor nearby.  Marissa already knew what Gary was up to, and she had a faint smile on her face.  Sometimes he thought she enjoyed this stuff--meaning anything that put Chuck out--a little too much.

"Hey Gar, Marissa, what's up?" Chuck called from the bar.

"Oh...the usual," Gary answered as his friend sauntered over with a beer in hand.

"You have a 'usual'?  More feds needing rescuing?  They make you an honorary G-Man?"

"Not yet."  Gary frowned and stood the cue upright, folding his hands over it and resting his chin on top of them.

"They don't believe him," Marissa told Chuck.

"Huh?" Chuck asked over the blues that pounded out of the overhead speakers.

"The FBI agents," said Marissa more loudly, causing Gary to look around in consternation to see if anyone else was listening.  "They don't believe Gary."

"About the car accident?"  Chuck shook his head.  "Heck, *I* don't even know what to think about that.  It hasn't changed, has it?  Two unidentified motorists, a hit and run--did you tell Marissa that?  That you don't even know it's them?"

"But I do know, Chuck," Gary said, straightening.  "I have--"

"A feeling.  Yeah, I know.  It isn't bad enough you have that paper, now you have to go and get 'feelings'."  Chuck rolled his eyes and sat down on the stool next to Marissa's.  He took a quick swig of his beer before asking, "Did you try that one on that guy, whatshisname, Mulder?  I'm guessing not, since you're still breathing."

"I didn't actually talk to him again."  A wry smile crossed Gary's face.  "I didn't want to go in there without my backup."

Marissa snorted.  Chuck threw a withering glance in her direction which was, of course, completely wasted.

"Well, what about his partner?  What'd she have to say?"

Gary leaned back against the pool table, sighing in disgust.  "It was something along the lines of, 'Thank you very much and we'll handle it from here.' "

"Oof.  Not good.  Maybe I could talk some sense into her.  You know, give her a shot of the ol' Fishman charm."  Chuck flashed what he thought of as a winning smile.

"The Fishman *what*?" Marissa hooted, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

Gary tried to picture anyone, let alone Chuck, charming Agent Scully into doing something she didn't want to do.  It would be like sending a puppy to do battle with a cougar.  How was he supposed to stop--

"I'll have you know that the Fishman charm is responsible for more broken hearts in Chicago than the Cubs' record last season,"  Chuck was telling Marissa.

"Uh-huh.  And that same Fishman charm is why you're here hanging out with us instead of off on a date, right?" Marissa smirked.

"I happen to be here because I like the company.  Plus, I like to keep a low profile, play hard to get.  It's good for the image."

"Oh, so now you have an image?"

"Hey, guys, take a break, all right?"  His faint southern accent becoming more pronounced along with his consternation, Gary dropped the cue a little too forcefully on the pool table, and it bounced onto the floor.  Chuck looked up, startled, and Marissa jumped.  "As much as I'm enjoying your witty banter, I need to figure out how to stop this accident.  Even if it's not the FBI agents," he filled in quickly as Chuck opened his mouth to protest.  "Whoever it is out there is going to need some help."

"Well, just what is it you plan to do, Big Guy?" Chuck asked.  "I mean, first of all you have to get all the way out there and then--Oh no."

"What?"  Gary was trying hard to keep a poker face as he bent to retrieve the cue, but Chuck had already seen where this was going.

"Uh-uh.  No."

"Chuck--"

"No, Gar.  No."  Chuck jumped off the stool, pointing at his friend with the neck of the beer bottle and shaking his head for emphasis.  "I just got the Lexus back in drivable condition.  You are not going to--"

"I didn't ask you--wait a minute."  Gary frowned.  "You've already had the rear window repaired?"

"*And* the mud cleaned out of every nook and cranny of the thing, and the cornstalks shucked out of the wheel wells."

"How'd you get all of that done so quickly?" Marissa asked.

"I got a guy.  He makes house calls."  Chuck shrugged.

"You 'got a guy'," Gary repeated, deadpan.

"Yeah."

"Why does this not surprise me?" Marissa asked the ceiling.

"Look, it's okay, forget it, I'm just gonna take a cab, okay?" Gary had a feeling he'd need more control than a taxi would afford him if he was going to get involved in this, whatever 'this' was, but he didn't have time to stand around arguing.  He grabbed his coat off a nearby chair and shrugged it on.

"Wait, Gar--" Chuck held out his cell phone.  "Can't you just use this?  I mean, *why* do you have to go out there?  Why can't you just convince them not to go?"

Gary looked at the phone, fingered the card in his pocket, but in the end he shook his head.  "I told you, I tried that."

"I bet you didn't try very hard.  Did you tell them about the paper?"

Chuck's voice was far too loud for Gary's comfort.  At the rate they were going, the whole city would know about the paper before the night was over.  He moved closer to the table again.  "No!  They would never believe me," he whispered through gritted teeth.

"Maybe you could try something else," Marissa offered practically.  "Tell them you're a psychic.  Don't the police call them in on cases from time to time?  It wouldn't be so far off.  Maybe then they'd listen."

Gary shook his head.  "No, not these guys.  You didn't meet them, Marissa.  They're both hard noses.  Worse than Crumb.  They wouldn't buy anything like that.  Mulder already thinks I'm in on it, whatever 'it' is.  Besides, if it isn't them--"

"Ah-hah!" Chuck crowed.

"--Which it IS, but if it isn't, I'd be wasting my time.  It's better if I just go out there and do what I can to stop the accident."  He started to walk away again, but Chuck stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Okay, so let's say I turn out to be a total idiot and let you take my car out there.  Then what?  How are you going to stop this so-called accident?"

"I don't know.  I'll think of something."

"Chuck has a point," Marissa said.  They both turned to stare at her.

"*Chuck* has a point?" Chuck asked.

"That's what I said--what's wrong?"

"Well, it's just--I never have a point.  Sometimes Gary has a point.  You always have a point.  But me?  Usually I'm--I'm pointless."

Marissa sighed, shook her head, and continued:  "If the FBI agents really are the ones killed in the hit and run, then it's probably not an accident at all.  Which means that just you being there might not change anything for the better.  You might get hurt, too.  If someone deliberately runs them off the road, and makes sure the accident is bad enough to kill them--Gary, someone like that isn't going to want any witnesses.  And anyone who would murder two federal agents isn't likely to have any qualms about killing an innocent third party, either."

Gary felt a prickling at the back of his neck, but his jaw was clenched.  "I can't let them die, Marissa."

"I know that, Gary.  I just don't think you should go off without some kind of help.  Or at least a plan."

"I have a plan.  Stop the accident."

"HOW?" Marissa and Chuck asked together.

"I'll be there.  I'll wave them down before they get to the site of the accident or something.  But if I don't get going," he pulled back his sleeve, checked his watch, waved his wrist at Chuck, "there won't be any time to do that."

"I *don't* like this--" Chuck began.

"Fine.  I'll take a cab.  See you guys later."

"No, Gary--" Marissa began, her voice tightening.

"I *have* to do something--"

"All RIGHT.  Fine.  You can take my car.  But I'm going with you.  And I'm driving.  And I *don't* like this at *all*."  Chuck slammed the nearly full bottle of beer onto the nearest table and fished in his pockets for the keys.

Gary frowned.  He wanted the car, but he wasn't sure that he wanted Chuck in the bargain.

"I'm coming too."  Marissa stood and reached for Spike's harness.

"Wha--Marissa, you don't need to--" Gary began.

"You guys aren't going to ditch me and have all the fun again.  Besides, it's night, right?  It's dark out in the country.  Spike and I can out-maneuver both of you."  She patted the guide dog who now stood alertly at her side.

Gary stared in disbelief at Chuck, who was nodding.  They were ganging up on him.  Chuck and Marissa, who never agreed on anything, were actually ganging up on him.

"That's about it, Gar. It's all of us, and the car, or you don't go.  Take it or leave it."  Chuck was blocking the aisle.

Gary tried one more argument.  "You know the paper doesn't like it when other people interfere."

"Screw the paper," Chuck's vehemence surprised Gary.  He wasn't just trying to get in on the action.  "You're not Superman.  You need help once in a while.  We're going.  Right, Marissa?"

"Right," Marissa agreed, punctuating her answer with a terse nod as she reached for her coat and her cane.

Gary looked from one to the other, considering the unlikely alliance.  All the conjecture in which the three of them had just engaged was probably way off base.  This was probably nothing.  He didn't like putting his friends in danger, but if this was the only way to do what he needed to do, then there wasn't much choice left.

That, at least, was a familiar feeling.

"Okay, let's go," he sighed, extending an arm towards the door.  He followed Marissa, and as he walked he pulled the paper out of his back pocket and snuck a peek at the story.  It hadn't changed for the worse, which was some consolation.  Maybe it would all work out.

"You guys are really messing with this whole lone wolf thing I've got going here," Gary joked halfheartedly as they got into the car.  "Just promise you'll keep a low profile.  You don't need a police record or an FBI file."

"Yeah, Chuck has an image to protect," Marissa teased as they headed off to the expressway and into the night.
 

Continued in Part 2

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