Part 13
 

This is not what I meant,
This is not what I planned,
This is not what I had in mind.
     ~Carrie Newcomer, "Something True"
 

Gary buried his face in the newspaper and turned toward the wall as Agent Scully walked past his booth.  Once he was sure she'd passed, he peeked over the top of the paper, watching her leave.

"How much of that did you hear?"

Jumping half out of his skin at the sound of Marissa's voice, Gary knocked over the now-empty water glass with his elbow.  Twisting around in his seat, he saw her leaning out from the opposite side of the booth behind his.

"Well, I--" he began automatically, then frowned at his friend.  "How do you DO that, anyway?"

"The cat and I have a psychic bond.  It saw you come in and sent me a flash message," Marissa teased, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"How'd that get here?" Gary asked in genuine surprise as he looked down at the floor and saw the cat curled between Spike's paws and Marissa's feet.

"C'mon Gary, I'd know the musical lilt of your fumbling way with tableware anyplace.  Stop gaping and come over here."

"I was fine until she mentioned Crumb," he grumbled as he unfolded himself from one booth and sat down across from Marissa in the other, still on the lookout for anyone or anything suspicious.  He half-expected Agent Scully to pop up out of nowhere at any second.

"You didn't answer my question," Marissa reminded him.

"I heard enough to know that she's suspicious."  With a frustrated sigh, Gary asked the question that had been plaguing him for the past hour.  "What have I gotten myself into this time?"

"I wouldn't worry about it, Gary.  The cat brought her here."  Marissa's voice was casual, as was her shrug.

"What?"  He'd obviously missed something important.

"You heard me.  She came in here looking for the owner of the cat that had been following her around the streets, but she said that in the end she was following the cat.  Your cat."

"It isn't mine," he said automatically, motioning the waitress over and ordering a beer.  Why did everyone insist on calling it his cat?  All he did was feed the damn thing.

"Sure, Gary.  At any rate, it's obvious the cat led her here for a reason."  She popped another forkful of salad into her mouth.

"I don't trust that cat's reasons, or the paper's."  Marissa frowned, but before she could respond he continued, "And I don't like someone shaking you down like--"

"She was hardly 'shaking me down', Gary," Marissa chuckled.  "We were just talking."

He kept right on fretting, punctuating each point by tapping the salt shaker on the table.  "I don't like these weird coincidences.  I don't like not knowing why things are happening.  I don't like this whole situation."

Marissa interlocked her fingers, elbows on the table, and rested her chin on her hands.  "Why not?  Chuck said you were looking for them in the paper this morning, so why does this surprise you?"

Fumbling to understand his own reasons in addition to the paper's, Gary came up short.  "Because...because this morning I thought I had to go find them," he finally explained.  "I thought something else might happen to them.  Just...running into her like that at the museum and then having her come in here--"

"Wait a minute, back up.  What happened at the museum?"

"She didn't tell you that?"  From what he'd heard, Agent Scully had told Marissa everything else.

Marissa shook her head, holding out her hands blankly.  "What?"

"I was at the Art Institute.  I stopped this nutso woman from destroying a painting and then I was leaving and there she was."

"Agent Scully?  What did you say to her?"

"Well, it's not as if I had time to go into a lot of details, Marissa, the guards were chasing me.  They thought I had something to do with it."

Her rueful smile spoke volumes.  "Oh, Gary, not again."

"Yeah, it took me an hour to wash the spray paint out of my hair," he groused.  "And don't you dare laugh."

"I...wouldn't dream of it."  Marissa twisted one dangling, beaded earring around a finger and ducked her head while he watched suspiciously for signs of amusement, but she took a drink of tea and got back on track.  "So, you saw her, and you just ran off?  No wonder she went to Crumb.  What was she doing at the museum?"

"Investigating a case, I guess.  What else would she be doing?  They're probably looking for a ring of art thieves, and now I'm their main suspect."

"I wouldn't worry about that, Gary.  If you were, they would have found you by now.  Besides, even if they do question you, you have nothing to be concerned about.  You haven't done anything wrong."

"That's not the point!"  Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Gary remembered the last time he'd been a suspect in a police case.  A murder investigation, a plot to kill the president...

"Of course it is, Gary--"

He leaned in close, voice low and intense.  "No, it's not.  I've never done anything wrong before, but when these kinds of people--these, these federal agents start showing up, bad things happen."  Marissa's eyebrows went up.  They both knew better than to broadcast this.  Crumb had warned them.

"No, you *stop* bad things from happening," Marissa told him, lowering her voice as well.

"Oh, so you're saying it's a *good* thing I had to spend a few hours handcuffed to a pole while Marley tried to kill the president and frame me for it?" he shot back.  There it was, laid out on the table in front of them, out in the open for the first time in the two weeks since it had occurred.

Marissa drew a deep breath.  "But it didn't happen, Gary.  It didn't happen because of you, and because we all worked together to stop it."

"Yes, but look at what *did* happen."  Gary's fists were clenched on the table.  "The real Secret Service agent ended up dead, Harry Hawks was murdered too--" he couldn't stop the shudder that came when he remembered walking into the Sun-Times editor's office and finding Hawks with that bullet in his head.  "Where was the reason in that, Marissa?  Why didn't the paper let me save them, too?"

The practicality in Marissa's tone was replaced by a softer note.  "I--I don't know, Gary.  But you did--you did more than anyone would have done.  If it weren't for you Marley would have gotten away with his plan."

"If it weren't for me, Marley wouldn't have had a pawn, a patsy, somebody to blame it all on."  Gary spat out the words, and Marissa jumped a little.  "That isn't going to happen again."

Her voice full of concern, Marissa reached out and laid her hand over his.  "Of course it isn't.  And you weren't anybody's pawn, Gary, you did what you had to, of your own volition."  She took a deep breath, straightening.  "Look, Gary, whatever's going on here, I don't think it's anything like what happened with Marley.  Agent Scully is tenacious, and curious about you, but I'm sure she doesn't mean you any harm."

"How can you be sure?"  Gary's defenses were still on full alert, but he was willing to listen.  Marissa had good instincts about people, and her first impressions were usually right.

Marissa cocked her head, trying to find the right words.  "She's--she's real, Gary.  She wasn't here on any false pretenses, and she wasn't lying about the cat."

"So if you knew I was here why didn't you say so?"

She shook her head slightly, as if it should have been obvious.  "Because I figured it was your choice."

"Yo!  What's up?"  Chuck appeared at the booth, bouncing on his toes as he doffed his fedora and slid into the booth next to Gary.

"You're in a good mood," Marissa observed dryly, while Gary picked up a straw and started twisting and untwisting it, barely hearing Chuck's response as he tried to decide what he thought--what he should feel--about the day's events.

"What's not to be in a good mood about?  The sun's been out, the Market's up, I made several well-placed trades this morning--life is good."  Chuck elbowed Gary, startling him out of his dark reverie.  "Isn't it?  Guys?  What's going on?"

"They showed up again," Marissa told him.  "Or, more specifically, *she* did., and she--"  She paused when their waitress showed up to take Chuck's order.

"Number eight platter and a Sam Adams," Chuck told the waitress, then turned back to the others.  "Who showed up?"  Gary shot him a look of pure impatience, and his eyes opened wide.   "Oh.  Them--the fibbies?  Her?  The redhead?"  He shook his head.  "Forget it, Gar, you're not her type.  She's way too intense.  Now I, on the other hand--"

"Chuck!" Marissa interrupted.  "That's not what this is about."

Gary stared at him with open disbelief.  "Chuck, don't you get it?  There's something really weird going on here.  There's no way this is coincidence, not three--no, make that four--times in two days."

Chuck frowned, perplexed.  "I thought this was what you wanted; this morning, you said--"

"I thought the paper needed *me* to go to *them*.  Not the other way around."

Chuck raised his eyebrows.  "There's a difference?"

"It's a control issue," Marissa told him.

"Ohhhhh...." Chuck nodded sagaciously.  "I get it."

"I do not have control issues," Gary muttered as their waitress brought Chuck's meal.

"Hey!" Chuck exclaimed, annoyed, as he glanced down at his feet.  "What's the furball doing here?"

"I just told you, Chuck, that damned cat brought Agent Scully--" the cat was rubbing against Gary's leg, then, standing on its hind legs, it pawed at his lap, or, more precisely, at the newspaper that rested on his lap.  "What now?" Gary sighed in exasperation.

He pulled the paper out into the open.  He'd folded it open to the same spot where he'd found the articles about the El-jacking and the museum, which had vanished and been replaced by an ad for bathroom cleanser--until now.  Gary skimmed the new article, checked his watch, and then announced, "I gotta go."

"What, now?" Chuck demanded.  "I just got here."  But even as he said it, he was sliding out of the booth to let Gary past him.

"What is it, Gary?"  Marissa asked.

"Fight at the library," Gary murmured, reading the article again as he stood.  "What is it with today?  All the inmates are out of the asylum or something."  He looked up from the paper long enough to avoid colliding with the waitress and acknowledge his friends.  "Look, I'll catch you guys later, okay?"

"Try not to get whacked on the head by _War and Peace_."  Chuck advised.

"I'll keep that in mind."  Gary snatched a handful of Chuck's fries and headed for the door.

* * * * *

"And...he's off," Chuck declared, mimicking a race track announcer.  Marissa followed the sound of Gary's footsteps with a thoughtful countenance.

"So what do you think?" Chuck asked her as he dumped ketchup over his fries.  "D'ya really think the feds are after Gary?"

"No, but *something* is definitely going on," Marissa mused.

"Since when are you a conspiracy theorist?  You were just acting like this was no big deal."

"That's my job, Chuck, I'm the reasonable one, remember?"  She sighed.  "I really don't think they're out to get him or anything, it's just...well, it *is* strange that she was there at the museum and then here...Maybe if we can get some information we can get a better handle on what's going on.  Maybe Gary was right.  The last thing we need is another Marley situation, right?"

Chuck gulped his beer and stared at her.  "That's what he's thinking about?  Geez, no wonder he's spooked."

Nodding, Marissa folded her napkin and set it on the table.  "That's just it.  If he could just put his mind at ease...get a little control...he might feel better about the whole thing.  He just *stopped* brooding over Marley, now this?"  She paused, trying to remember.  "What was the division Gary said those two worked for?  Something strange...files or something..."

"X-Files," Chuck filled in around a mouthful of burger.

"X-Files," Marissa repeated, "There ought to be a way...Chuck?" she asked, suddenly standing and gathering her coat and hat.

"Hmmm?"  Chuck stuffed a bigger bite into his mouth; he strongly suspected he wasn't going to have an opportunity to finish his dinner.

"I'll see you later, okay?  I gotta go."

"Whoa, whoa, what do you think you're doing?"  Chuck stopped her with a hand on her arm.

"Well, whatever *is* going on, it wouldn't hurt to have more information about Agents Mulder and Scully, would it?  I mean, turnabout is fair play."

"What exactly do you have in mind?" Chuck asked suspiciously.

"My computer," she told him.  "I want to see if I can find out anything via the web, or those databases Morris showed me how to use, or something."

"I'd better come with you," Chuck said, following her out of the booth.  He threw enough bills to cover his tab onto the table and wrapped the hamburger in a napkin, trying to salvage something of his dinner.  "Make sure you don't get in trouble."

"Chuck, I'm going to be at home in front of my computer.  What could possibly happen?"

"The way things have been going lately?"

"Hmm..." she said, picking up Spike's harness and starting for the door.  "I see your point."

Part 14
 
 

Chance is always powerful.  Let your hook be always cast.  In the pool where you least expect it, will be a fish.
    ~Ovid
 

Chicago Public Library
7:45 PM

Mulder stole another impatient glance at his watch as he waited outside the meeting room.  Scully should have been here by now.  Hell, she should have been at the office an hour ago; he'd waited as long as he could and then come here, to the library and the MUFON meeting, without her.

Pacing again, he noted that there were meetings going on in all the reading rooms in this hallway, according to the signs outside each door; writers' groups, book discussion sessions, support groups, and, in the Hawthorne Room, the MUFON meeting.

The hallways were lit with subtle, incandescent overheads, rather than fluorescents, which made it easier to see into the brightly-lit rooms.  Shifting from one foot to the other, Mulder peered through the glass panel on the door, saw backs of heads and a male speaker.  About twenty people sat in the first four rows, and of those three-fourths were women.   Several of those appeared to be in their twenties and thirties; child-bearing age, Mulder noted ruefully.  Scully's age.

He knew what had been done to them.  He had a good idea of who was behind the whole thing, too.  What he needed were details, and proof.

And, of course, a cure.

All the cross-checking he'd done during the day led to one woman, Elizabeth Barnett, who had an abduction and medical record remarkably similar to Scully's.  Scanlon would have probably tracked her down as well.  This was the best chance they'd had so far to find out what Scanlon and the rest of the modern-day Melenges were up to in Chicago.

Mulder had left Scully a note at the office, expecting her to have shown up by now, but still there was no sign of her.  How much could she have to talk about with the Chicago PD, anyway?  The fact she'd run into Hobson earlier in the day was, perhaps, more than mere coincidence, but it wasn't grounds for missing *this* interview.

Where was she?

Something might have come up back at the field office, but in that case she would have called him.  Should have called him...no, would have.  Definitely would have.  Scully wouldn't have let anything, even annoyance at the way he'd left her behind a few days ago, get in the way of an investigation--especially not this one.

Unless...

Unless she'd decided not to face yet another group of abductees, afraid to see her own fears and shadows and haunted imaginings mirrored in their eyes.  Even Scully had her limits, and he had seen her come up against this particular brick wall time and again.

Time.  Missing time.  Three months' worth.  She'd told him she could remember flashes, a face or two, sounds, lying on a table--but not what was important.  Not what had been done to her, who she had cried out for, how she had spent the time between the tests, how it had felt to not see the sky or the earth for all that time--if she had been aware at all.  That was the hell of it, the not knowing.  Scully was strong, and she didn't give in to fear readily, but knowledge, control, her intellect--those were the things she prized, relied upon as the foundation of her world view.  Whoever had tried to take those things away hadn't known the half of what they were doing.

He fingered the cell phone in his pocket, but didn't want to call just yet.  She wasn't in a mood to be hovered over, that much he had realized when she'd left the office earlier in the afternoon, wound tighter than a rubber band on a toy airplane.

The problem was, Dana Scully had a marked propensity for avoidance when it came to the subject of her abduction, even now.  Even with the cancer, even knowing that it was planted in her by the men who had taken her, she couldn't, or wouldn't, remember what had happened during those three months.  He understood her reluctance--her fear, though he would never call it that to her face; understood more than Scully probably realized.  Back in Arecibo, Mulder himself had been so overwhelmed by the very truth he'd coveted that he'd fainted dead away when the aliens had arrived, waking only after the visitors and any irrefutable evidence of their existence had disappeared.  He knew what it was to have trouble with to truth; to yearn for it and to be repelled by it at the same time; to have proof that what others might dismiss as imagination was fact so close to hand that it loomed, impossibly large and threatening, and darkened all light but its own.

Closing his eyes, Mulder shook away the memory of his failure.  This was one instance in which the truth might be more horrible than any dark imaginings.  What Mulder couldn't accept was that Scully, the scientist, would ignore the truths locked inside her mind at the expense of others' lives.  He knew she was fighting her fear, but he also believed that she would win, for the sake of others like her if not for herself.

As if on cue, a sharp trill interrupted Mulder's thoughts.   He glanced through the glass insert again as he pulled the cell phone out of his pocket.  "Mulder."  People seemed to be standing up, moving around.

"It's me."

"Where are you, Scully?  I was beginning to think you'd fallen in the lake."

"I'm in a cab, on my way to the library.  I must have just missed you at the office."  Her voice sounded different, muffled somehow.

"Must have been a heck of a conversation with Detective Crumb, Scully."

She hesitated, then her voice came through, clearly this time.  "Well, there were...something else came up on the way back."

He frowned.  "Scully?  What's going on?"  It wasn't like her to dissemble. She'd never been very good at it, anyway.

"It's not--I'd rather talk about it later, Mulder."

"What's wrong with your voice?"

"My voice?"  There it was again, as if she were talking around something.

"What's in your mouth?"

This time he definitely heard her swallow, then smack her lips.  "I'm trying to eat some dinner here."

Mulder's stomach rumbled.  "Save some for me."

"Too late.  Donner snagged your burger.  It was cold anyway."

"What's your ETA?"  The meeting was clearly over, as the attendees were clustering in smaller groups around the room.

"No, left on Wabash," he heard Scully say.  "Look, Mulder, this guy is trying to take the long way there, so I need to get off the phone and pay attention.  I'll be there soon.  And Mulder?  We need another car.  It's your turn to call the rental company."

"But how am I going to explain--"

"That's your problem--no, do *not* go around the block again--Be there in a few."  The line went dead.

As Mulder entered the room, he noted people milling about, visiting, some of them laughing, some engaged in more serious, private conversations now that the meeting's business had been concluded.  Two women in their late twenties or early thirties, were having an intense discussion in the corner of the room nearest the door; Mulder the smaller of the pair as Elizabeth Barnett, based on the descriptions and photographs in the missing persons files.  He ignored the stares of the other members and strode over to the women.  They broke off their conversation when they saw him approach.

"Excuse me," he began.  "I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI."  He flashed his credentials and both women's eyes widened.  "I'm looking for information; I'm wondering if you can help me."

"I--I don't think--" the blonde began, scanning the crowd, for some kind of back-up, Mulder surmised.   He ignored her and focused his attention on the woman to her left; a face he recognized from one of the files he'd seen earlier that day.

"You're Elizabeth Barnett, aren't you?"

"Yes..." she admitted cautiously.  Her nod was slow, and caused a lock of frizzy brown hair that had been tucked behind her ear to fall forward.  She brushed it off of her face with long, thin fingers and looked up at Mulder with grey-green eyes that were both curious and wary.

Never one to beat around the bush, Mulder got right to the point.  "Last year, you were reported missing.  You disappeared for seven weeks.  You believe that what happened to you was a result of an abduction by extraterrestrial entities, is that right?" he pressed.

She shook her head, not a denial, but an act of incredulity.  "Who...why are you asking me these questions?  What are you doing here?"  Shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her blue pea coat, she took a step backward, toward her friend, who put one hand on Elizabeth's shoulder and glowered at Mulder.

Mulder ignored the friend.  This was too important.  "Ms. Barnett."  He stepped closer, speaking softly.  "I know this is unexpected.  But I need to talk with you, and with anyone who's had experiences like yours.  It's a matter of national security, but more important, I'm trying to find the people who did this to you, and to a lot of other women.  Do you want to stop them?"

After a moment of hesitation, she nodded, mutely, meeting Mulder's gaze with rapt attention.  He guessed Elizabeth was five and a half feet tall, but her defensive posture and the way her protective friend hovered over her made her seem smaller than that.

"I believe you can help me."  Mulder hesitated, then asked, "Have you been to a doctor lately?"

"I--I don't understand why you're asking me this."

"Have you received any news, a diagnosis..."  He let the words trail off, not sure how far he could press the issue.  Abductees tended to be less than thrilled about strangers asking pointed questions.

The sharp intake of breath came from Elizabeth Barnett.  Her friend was staring at him with her mouth agape.

"Ms. Barnett, I want you to know you're not alone," Mulder continued, frowning sympathetically.  "There are others like you, others with this illness, who have had abduction experiences similar to yours."

"They--they weren't people," she stammered, finally finding her voice.

"What do you mean?"

"The things that took me away to the bright place.  You said, 'the people who did this to you,' but they weren't people."  She looked to her friend, who was nodding confirmation.  "They were--they were small, and, and grey, or white or something, they had big eyes and they...well they didn't--they weren't people, and they left an implant in the back of my neck," she finished breathlessly.  Then, as if thinking she might have said too much, she clamped her mouth shut, wrapping her arms protectively around her torso.

After so many years of talking to people with experiences like Elizabeth Barnett's, Mulder thought he might have grown a thicker skin.   He knew enough to know that just talking about it was painful; had seen that much in his partner's eyes.  It was for his partner's sake, for the sake of all the women who'd been hurt the way she had, that he had to ask the next question.

"You had the implant removed, didn't you?"  Elizabeth didn't look up as she nodded.  "Ms. Barnett, do you have cancer?"

She looked to the floor for a moment, then looked at her friend, who put an encouraging hand on her arm.  "Yes," she said in a low voice.

"I'm sorry," he told her, and meant it.  "How long have you known?"

She sucked in a breath, a deep intake of air meant to fill a well of courage.  "They found it two months ago, right before Christmas.  I started getting nosebleeds and I felt tired all the time and--" she looked up at Mulder, meeting his eyes again.  "But I'm okay right now.  The prognosis--it isn't good, but there's a doctor who came to me and he said he could help.  He has a new treatment, an experimental treatment that he thinks...well, it might put it into remission, at least."

Mulder nodded.  He'd expected this.  "What's his name?"

She blinked, as if this was the last thing she'd been expecting him to ask.  "The doctor?  It's Dr. Keith Nelson.  Why?"

Mulder pulled the folded-up Xerox of Scanlon out of his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Ms. Barnett.  "Is this the man?" he asked.

She smoothed it out as she took it from him, and nodded.  "Yes, it is.  Why, is there some kind of--"

Her question was cut short by the sound of a distant crash and shouts of alarm.  A piercing soprano voice called, "Help!  Somebody help!  Where the hell is security?"

Damn.  "Wait right here."  Mulder didn't want to take a chance of losing this witness, but he couldn't ignore a plea for help, either.  Stepping into the hallway, he saw a small, agitated group outside the open door of one of the rooms to his left.  An older woman,  whose wire-rimmed glasses, neat bun, and sensible shoes served as a kind of librarian's uniform, stood near the door, still calling for help.

Mulder hurried through the little crowd that was growing larger as other doors opened and people emerged.  Taking the librarian by the arm, he said, "Excuse me, I'm with the FBI.  What's going on?"

"Those two are at it again, but this time they've gone too far.  They managed to knock over a bookcase and they're *still* fighting!  The other one came out of nowhere, he tried to stop them, but they just got nastier--" she sighed, and concluded her confusing tirade with:  "Writers--they're *all* lunatics!"

Mulder looked over her shoulder through the doorway, trying to make sense of what he saw.  Chairs, and the contents of an overturned, small wooden bookcase lay scattered all over the floor, and in the midst of the havoc stood three men.  One, facing Mulder, held a crumpled sheaf of papers in his hand, which he shook at another, dwarfed by the larger man who was struggling to restrain him.  That pair stood facing away from Mulder, their backs to the door.

"You *stole* him!" insisted the man with the papers.  His face was red all the way up to the receding roots of his thinning brown hair.  "You sat here and listened to every word I wrote and then you *stole* them from me!  Hank is MY character and--"

"Since when do you have a monopoly on the name Hank?"  The second man tried to break free and attack his accuser, but the bigger man was still holding him back.  Mulder frowned and took a step into the room. The guy who was trying to stop it all looked familiar from the back, but surely it couldn't be--

"It's not just the name, it's the fact that your Hank lives in Iowa, drives a pick-up, and cheats on his wife with her sister--just like mine!  How could you--"

"Now, now, just hold on a minute."  The big guy in the brown leather jacket tried to placate the first man even as he held the second one back, one arm around his shoulders and the other around his torso.  Mulder's eyebrows shot up.  It *was* Hobson; he recognized the voice.

"It isn't just like yours, my Hank has an affair with his wife's *brother*!" the man squirming in Hobson's arms was shouting.  "That's hardly the same thing!"

"Adultery's adultery, you plagiarist!"

"Hey, at least *mine* wasn't autobiographical!"

With a growl of pure frustration, the accuser grabbed the volume at his feet and hurled it toward the other two men.  He missed his intended target, but he nailed Hobson right between the eyes.

"OW!"  Releasing his hold on the second author, the ineffective peacemaker toppled backward and landed on his ass, both hands cradling his forehead.

"That's an autographed Isak Dinesen!" wailed the librarian, who had followed Mulder and stood at his elbow.  "We should have known better than to put a bunch of writers in the rare books room!"

The two combatants were now rolling around on the floor, each trying unsuccessfully to land blows on the other.  Mulder strode toward Hobson, intending to give him a hand up, but before he could cover the length of the room the younger man was on his feet again, launching himself back into the fray.

The guy never gave up, but maybe this time he could use some assistance.  Dismissing for the moment the nagging question of why Hobson had popped up in his life this time, Mulder went to help.

Hobson was trying to pull one man off the other, but caught an elbow in the gut and staggered backward as Mulder approached.  The combatants rolled away--right into a wood and glass curio cabinet displaying small, leather-bound volumes.  It tottered, swayed, and then gave up its fight with gravity as it crashed to the floor, sending shards of glass flying.

Mulder ducked instinctively, protecting his face in the crook of his elbow.  When he pulled the arm away, he saw the men who'd been fighting, each sitting dazed in the midst of the glass and books and splintered remnants of the cabinet's frame.  One of them had blood trickling from a cut in his cheek, but he didn't seem to know it yet.

Two security guards finally showed up, pushing past Mulder and pulling the two men out of the debris.  Mulder's glance followed them, until he heard a soft, confused, "Oh my God," to his right.  Gary Hobson was struggling to his feet, the heel of one hand pressed against his forehead as he winced.  He stared at the mess before him for a moment, but jumped and turned at Mulder's next words.

"Fancy meeting you here," the agent muttered dryly.  Hobson gaped at him in perplexed stupefaction, dropping the hand from his forehead to reveal a small gash that was just beginning to clot.  If this guy had been a cartoon character, Mulder decided, his eyes would have been spinning in opposite directions and steam would have been coming out of his ears.

"Care to explain this?" Mulder began, as the librarian stepped up to survey the damage.  She looked from Mulder to the mess on the floor to the two writers being led away by the security officers, her jaw hanging just as slack as Hobson's, on whom she finally fixed her ire.

"You better not have bled on my books!" she screeched, and stomped over to rescue her treasures from the rubble.

This struck Mulder as amusing, but Hobson was clearly offended.  "Bled--bled--your books?  Lady, I--" realizing she was ignoring him, he looked back at Mulder.  "How--what the hell are you doing here?"

"I should be asking you the same question.  Tell me, Mr. Hobson, who's paying you to get in our way today?"

Hobson gulped and stared at Mulder, anger slowly finding its way into his eyes, but he gave no answer.

"What's the matter, cat got your tongue?" Mulder asked coolly.  The effect on Hobson was instantaneous.  His mouth snapped shut, his eyes narrowed, and he pulled his shoulders back.

"I--I'm not--why are *you* following me?"

"Mulder?"  Scully's question carried over the crowd, though when he spun toward the doorway to look for her he couldn't see her.  "Mulder, are you here?"

Stepping toward the crowd, he answered, "Yeah, Scully, right--"

"Excuse me," he heard Hobson say.  Mulder whirled to see the younger man pushing his way through the other side of the crowd.  He briefly considered going after him, but decided it wasn't worth it, not at the moment, anyway.

"Mulder, what in the world is going on?"  Scully had slipped through the group as more security personnel started to clear the hallway, and Mulder hurried to meet her.  Over the tops of heads he could see Hobson's back as he hurried out the rear exit door.

"There was a fight here," he told his partner.

"Obviously," Scully muttered, looking past him to survey the damage to the Rare Books Room.  "What did you do this time?"

"It wasn't me, Scully, it was--well no, it wasn't Hobson either--"  After all, he had been trying to *stop* the fight.

Scully blinked at him, looking almost as astonished as Hobson himself had just a few minutes earlier.  "Gary Hobson?"

"Four times in two days, kinda plays havoc with the odds, doesn't it?" Mulder asked.

"He--that wasn't--" she stopped, drew a deep breath.  "Make that five times," she told him,  "if you count his cat."

Mulder's eyebrows shot up.  "His cat?"

"Yeah," Scully let out the breath in a deep sigh.  "This is more than just improbable odds.  What was he doing at a MUFON meeting?"

"This wasn't the MUFON meeting, this was--" Mulder broke off with a shrug.  It was too much to explain when they had a witness waiting.  "Come down the hall," he told his partner, guiding her through the few remaining spectators with a hand on the small of her back.  "There's someone I want you to meet."

Part 15
 
 

Shadows, shapes, mixed together at dawn
But by time you catch them simplicity's gone
So we sort through the pieces
My friends and I
Searching through the darkness to find
The breaks in the sky.
     ~"Hero",  David Crosby & Phil Collins
 

Adrenaline and astonishment pushing him forward, Gary moved faster with every step that took him away from the library.  Within two blocks, he was running, constantly checking over his shoulder to make sure no one was pursuing him.  No one was there--no one and nothing but the strangeness of the past two days.

Well, that, and the memories of the last time he'd been on the run.  Too much like the incredible string of coincidences that had plagued him this week.

No, he reminded himself, not coincidences.  The paper's ... logistics.

Shivering, Gary decided that he hated, really *hated*, that word.  Marley's word for the plans that had nearly caught up with Gary, nearly trapped him.  He'd be damned if he would let that happen again.

He arrived at the Blackstone exhausted and sweating despite the cold wind whipping off the lake, some of his nervous energy dissipated by the run.  On the elevator ride up to his floor, he discovered that the paper was clear for the rest of the evening, and he wasn't going to question it.  A long, hot shower to lull him into oblivion--then he'd crash for a while in front of the television before he went to bed.

An hour later, Gary was halfway into his third cycle through the channels before he realized that he had no idea what he was looking at.  He shut the television off, tossed the remote on top of a pile of magazines on the coffee table, and rose with a sigh, unable to sit still.  So much for relaxing.

Wondering where the cat had got to, he wandered restlessly to his bookshelves.  There was nothing there that would take his mind off all this.  Damn the cat, anyway.  Damn the paper and the way it forged its own patterns without giving him a clue as to what was going on.  Damn all of it.

He paced the length of the hotel suite, from the front door to the refrigerator and back; once, twice, three times.  It wasn't enough.  Opening the living room window, Gary stepped over the ledge and onto the balcony, not even caring that he didn't have a coat in the chilly winter night.  The space here wasn't much bigger than that in the room, but at least it wasn't stifling.

Gazing out over the cityscape, he rubbed his wrists, then swung his arms back and forth.  He'd been doing that a lot lately, especially when he came out here on sleepless nights; swinging his arms wildly just to prove to himself that he could. His body seemed to crave that reminder that he wasn't shackled to a post in a deserted building, that Marley wasn't toying with him, that there were no more plots, no more conspiracies, no more bogeymen who knew exactly who Gary Hobson was and what he received.  No one trying to exploit the paper for his own ends.

No one that he knew of, anyway.  The last few days, he'd started to wonder all over again.

Two days of this, and none of it made sense.  Two days of stories that weren't quite right, of coincidences he didn't understand, of a path laid out for him that he wasn't sure he should trust, let alone follow.

Gary stared off at the Chicago skyline, the lights from thousands of offices illuminating the night, and acknowledged that Marissa was right.  He didn't like having things out of his control.  What was wrong with that?  A man had a right to know where his life was going, and what was coming after him.  That didn't make him a control freak.

He didn't realize that he'd stopped pacing until the thudding on his door finally penetrated his consciousness.

"Gary?  Gar, open up!  Your doorman said you were here."

Pound, pound, pound.

"C'mon Gar, it's me!"  Chuck called.

"I'm coming," he muttered as he climbed back through the window.  Checking his watch, Gary was surprised to see that it was after ten, and he suppressed a violent shudder as his body readjusted to the warmer temperature.  He'd been outside for longer than he'd realized.

"Gar!  What's--Oh, there you are."  Chuck's voice dropped a few decibels when Gary threw the door open.  Marissa was there, too, and they both looked inordinately relieved to find him home.  Apparently he wasn't the only one who'd been running troubling scenarios in his head, but for the life of him, he couldn't think why the two of them would be so concerned.  "What the hell happened to you?" Chuck added with a frown.

"What?" Gary asked.

Marissa froze.  "What's wrong?"

"That goose egg on your forehead."  Chuck pointed at the lump that had formed where the book had made contact.

"It's a long story."

Chuck accepted that with a shrug, but Marissa took a step closer.  "Gary, are you all right?"

"I'm fine--what do you guys want, anyway?" Gary asked, as if they didn't show up at his hotel room nearly every day of the week.  Well, they did, but usually he was the one who was agitated, he thought as he watched Chuck throw the dead bolt, secure the chain lock, and press his nose to the door, checking the hallway through the peephole.  Gary helped Marissa out of her coat and tossed it onto the bed, assuring her that, yes, he *was* all right, really.  All the while, he kept a wary eye on Chuck, finally demanding, "What are you looking for?"

"Never know," Chuck said cryptically as he turned from the door, apparently satisfied that no one was in the hallway.  He tossed his hat and coat onto the bed as well, and the three stood for a moment in uneasy silence, each waiting for one of the others to begin.

"So?  What's up?"  Eyebrows raised, Gary watched Chuck hem and haw a bit, while Marissa bent down to detach Spike's harness.  The big dog padded to his customary spot by the door and lay down, keeping an eye on the humans.

"Well, uh, Gar, we, uh--gee, it's cold in here," Chuck hedged, crossing the room to close the window that led out to the balcony.  Turning to face the others, he leaned back against the windowsill, arms folded across his chest.

Gary spread one hand out in an expressive, "fill-in-the-blank-for-me-here" gesture that didn't escape Chuck's notice.  "We...well, we did a little checking," he finally got out, his eyes not quite meeting Gary's.

Giving up on vagaries and hints, Gary turned to his other friend.  "Marissa?" he asked, pointing to Chuck as if she could see it.  "What the heck is he talking about?  What did you two do?"  He narrowed his eyes, hoping they hadn't gone to Crumb or the FBI. "What were you 'checking' on?"

Rubbing her palms on her jeans, Marissa blurted, "Gary, you seemed awfully suspicious of those FBI agents."

Oh, great...

"It's perfectly understandable given what you've been through lately," she added hastily, while Chuck nodded.  "So, we thought we'd see what we could find out."

"No, no, no...you didn't--how could you--"

"No big deal, Gar, we just jumped online, hit a few government sites, got in a little deeper than your average surfer, and voila--" Chuck waved his arms as though that would clear everything up.

Gary put a hand on the back of the couch to steady himself.  "What are you talking about, Chuck?  You're no hacker."

"No, but apparently Marissa here is," Chuck said, a twinge of admiration in his voice.  He moved to the couch and flopped down, one leg on the floor and one stretched out along the seat.

"It wasn't really hacking," Marissa explained a little sheepishly.  "Just...going in the back door a bit.  Morris showed me a few tricks, and my cousin Chris is a real tech-head, so he always makes sure I have up-to-date equipment."  She shrugged, sweeping Chuck's leg off the couch and curling up on the opposite end.

Gary looked from one to the other, shaking his head in disbelief.  "You 'went in the back door' of the *FBI*?  Do you have any idea--" he broke off, at a loss for words.

"Relax, Gary.  What we found on the FBI was all under the Freedom of Information Act, and tax and social security records are amazingly easy to access."  Marissa's tone was matter-of-fact.  "We didn't get into anything top secret, just checked into where all those taxes we pay end up."  Before Gary could point out that social security data probably wasn't supposed to fall under the FOIA, she continued, "The point is, we found some information about the X-Files Unit of the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

Gary walked around the couch and sat down slowly on the coffee table in front of his friends.  "Okay," he sighed, "what did you find out?"  And why, he wondered, did whatever they had found unsettle them so badly that they had come over here this late at night?

"You're not gonna believe this, Gar," Chuck whispered conspiratorially.  "Tell him, Marissa."

"Well, for starters, the X-Files unit is part of the Violent Crimes division," Marissa began, but Chuck, ignoring his own command, eschewed the begin-at-the-beginning approach and went straight to the sensational.

"You have no idea what those two are into.  Mutants, ghosts, witchcraft, UFOs--*alien abductions*, Gar.  J. Edgar himself wasn't this far off the beam."  Chuck's eyes were wide as he leaned forward.

"You make it sound as though they're reporters for the National Enquirer," Marissa chided with a sigh.

"But is it true?" Gary asked.

"Well, according to the information on the website, their charter--"

"Prime Directive is more like it," Chuck muttered.  Gary stared at him.

"--is to investigate cases other agents have classified as unsolvable or paranormal.  It looks like they clean up the leftovers, actually."

"Yeah, but in the process--" Chuck shook his head, "--major-level weirdness."

"Did you find out what they're doing in Chicago?" Gary asked, not really sure if he wanted to know.

"No, the only information we could get was about some past cases," said Marissa.  "From what little we read, though, they have a good history of closing out those 'unsolvable' cases.  It sounds like a legitimate operation.  They have real social security records and addresses that check out--as far as we can tell, they're on the level."

Rubbing the bruise on his forehead, Gary asked, "They may be on the level, but what do they want with me?"

Chuck shrugged elaborately while Marissa shook her head.  "Gary, I don't think they want anything with you.  You were the one who went to them yesterday and today at the museum was just a coincidence."

"But the--the cat, Marissa--"

"Well, that bothered us too; that's why I wanted to check...you know, maybe the cat was just trying to put Agent Scully's mind to rest about your motives, letting her know she could trust you, and leave you alone."

"No, you guys don't get it," Gary said, his voice rising.  He jumped up, walked around the coffee table, and stopped.  "It happened *again* tonight."

"What?"  Chuck sat up perfectly straight, his feet landing on the floor with a thump.

"At the library," Gary told them, and proceeded to explain his brief encounter with Agent Mulder, and the circumstances that precipitated it.

"I told you to watch out for flying books, didn't I?" Chuck asked with a snort.  "Gar, when are you ever gonna learn to duck?"

"That's not the point!  The point is that they were there, again, and I have no idea what's going on."

"So you just ran away?" Marissa asked, not unsympathetically.

"You say that as if it's not a good thing."  Chuck watched as Gary retraced the route he'd paced earlier.

"What else was I supposed to do?" Gary asked defensively.  "He gave me this--this *look*, like he expected me to pull out a gun or something.  Like he thought I was the one causing all the trouble.  Probably suspected me of being one of his X-files."

"Well, actually, Gary, you kind of are," Marissa pointed out gently.  "I mean, what's more paranormal than a guy with tomorrow's newspaper?"

"Hey, maybe that's it!" Chuck exclaimed.  "They're here to help you discover where that thing comes from!  Gar, this is it, this is your chance to figure out what's been goin' on all these months!"

Gary and Marissa both shook their heads at him.  "I don't think so, Chuck," Marissa told him.  "They don't even know about the paper--I mean, how could they?"

Gary didn't want to say it, didn't want to open up this can of worms, but the words came out of his mouth unbidden.  "Marley did."

Small words that stilled the room.  For a moment no one said anything--just for a moment.

"No," Marissa said firmly.  "No, Gary, it's not the same.  They aren't out to get you."

"How do you know?"

"Because of what we found out.  Because I trust Agent Scully.  Because I think that if anything other than coincidence *is* going on, it isn't their doing."

"Well, it certainly isn't mine," Gary growled.  He picked the paper off the top of the television where he had tossed it when he'd walked in.  "It's this thing," he reminded them, shaking it for emphasis.  "It's...it's...I swear, Chuck, I'm starting to think you're right.  Maybe it *is* out to get me."

He flung it down on the coffee table, where it flopped open.  Chuck's eyes strayed to the headlines, and Gary, exasperated, turned away.  He resumed pacing until a sharp intake of breath from Chuck's end of the couch stopped him in his tracks.

"Oh, boy."

"What?"

"Are you sure you checked this thing when you got home?" Chuck sat frozen, staring at an article on the bottom of the open page.

"Sure, I'm sure, whaddya think, I'd--what is it?" Gary asked suspiciously, as Chuck slowly lifted his head to look at his friend.

"You're not gonna like this, Gar."

"What?"

"It must have changed--oh, Gar, you're *really* not gonna like this."

"WHAT?" Gary and Marissa demanded in chorus.

Chuck placed his hand, fingers splayed, on the offending newsprint and turned it so that Gary could read it.  After staring  at Chuck for another second, Gary turned his attention to the article that his was tapping with an index finger.

"Gary, what is it?" Marissa asked.

He sank to a sitting position on the floor.  Not again.  Oh God, not again.  "I don't believe it," he whispered, burying his head in his hands.

Part 16
 

Sometimes you just close your eyes and jump.
     ~Carrie Newcomer, "A Whole Lot of Hope"
 

Samantha.  She was so young, younger than he remembered her being when she was taken, but the voice was the one he still heard, always heard, echoing in his head.  She was in a train car and he was pounding on the roof and the train wouldn't stop and the roof must have been glass because he could see inside and they were hurting her, testing her, hurting hurting hurting her and they wouldn't stop and she was calling him but she wasn't calling him Fox she was calling him Mulder and it wasn't Samantha it was Scully and they weren't just hurting her they were killing her and he couldn't get to her because it was his choices that had put her there and he couldn't save her and it was hisfaulthisfaulthisfaut...

Mulder awoke with a start to the sounds of sirens down on Michigan avenue and an El train rattling somewhere in the distance.  Shaking his head to clear the nightmare away, he fumbled with the lamp on the night stand until he found the switch; looked at his watch, tried to reassimilate himself.

A hotel room.  Chicago.  12:15 AM.  Deep breaths, Mulder, he told himself.  Just relax.

The nightmares didn't come every night.  They weren't always triggered by events during the day, or by a particular case.  Sometimes, no matter how horrific the case, no matter how close it brought him to his demons, his Truth, he slept like a baby; not often, but sometimes.  Sometimes they came without triggers, pouncing upon his defenseless subconscious when he least expected them.

That wasn't exactly the case this time, was it?  After all, he was on the trail of the people who had done exactly what he'd been dreaming about.

Untangling himself from the sheet, Mulder padded to the bathroom sink, unwrapped a plastic cup, and downed two glasses of water.  He splashed some on his face for good measure, and then went back to the bed and lay down wearily, wishing for nothing more than oblivion for the next five hours or so.  The throbbing in his ankle was a chiding reminder of the pain killer he hadn't taken.  Half-dozing, he was debating the merits of getting back out of bed to find it when the cell phone on the night stand shrilled.

"Scully?"  What could have happened in the hour or so since he'd gone to sleep?

The laugh on the other end was too low-pitched to be his partner.  "Hey, Mulder, I know I'm cute, but I'm not nearly as good-looking as Agent Scully."
"Oh, hi, Langly, yeah, sorry.  I didn't think anyone else would be calling me tonight.  What's up?"  Mulder ran a hand through his hair and settled back against the headboard, propping his foot on an extra pillow.

"We thought you ought to know--we've been watching your backs, and something came up tonight."

"Watching our backs?  What are you talking about?"

"We have a program that automatically alerts us when anyone accesses any records connected to us; we put it on you guys two years ago, just in case."

"Records?"

"You know, taxes, vaccinations, employment, social security...all that stuff the government uses to track us for their own devious purposes."

"You guys have records?"

"Well, not as many as you.  I mean, Mulder, we gotta talk about your electronic trail one of these days.  Anyway, someone hit on them today.  Two someones, actually.  The first one was a deep hit.  They knew all kinds of passwords, got in past firewalls and shit.  One guess where that one came from."

"The Andrews Institute?"

"You got it."

They must have traced the rental car.  Things might start to get a bit more difficult, if someone who knew exactly who Mulder and Scully were was aware of their presence.  They'd start covering their tracks before too long.  He made a mental note to check on Elizabeth Barnett first thing in the morning.

"Mulder?" Langly broke in, interrupting his train of thought.  "You still there?  You at all curious about the other hit?"

"Yeah, sure."

"This one is stranger.  Didn't go nearly as deep; nothing high security or top secret.  Surface level, but broad; covered anything they could get their hands on.  Didn't stay long, though."

"Who?"

"Well, this is the strange part, Mulder.  It's a Chicago address, too, but a residential ISP account."

Mulder frowned.  "Someone who works for the center from home?  Maybe one of the MUFON people?"  He'd emailed an account of his conversation with Elizabeth Barnett to the guys.

"No, actually--it's a receptionist."

"A what?"

"Receptionist."

"You mean, someone from the hospital or the research facility?"

"Brokerage."

"Cut to the chase, Langly."

"This isn't a professional.  Didn't clean up her traces, didn't use a false identity.  We were able to get everything--name, phone number, Chicago address--and all the same records she checked on you, incidentally."  Langly paused.  "Our best guess is that this is someone's idea of a clever trick; stealing an account at random to do their dirty work.  Otherwise, it doesn't make sense.  Why would a receptionist at a Chicago brokerage want to check up on you?  You haven't been accused of insider trading, have you?"

Mulder's eyes narrowed as he recalled a conversation from the night before.  An out-of-work-ex-stockbroker...

"What's the name?"

"Of the brokerage?"

"Of the receptionist--name, address, phone number..."

"Um...oh, here it is.  Marissa Clark, 3211 West Chestnut..."

Mulder was tired, but not that tired.  "I don't think you guys need to worry about this being a front.  I'll handle it from here."

"What?  You know this person?"

"Sort of.  We seem to have a mutual acquaintance.  Thanks for the heads-up."

"Hey man, it's what we do.  You want the rest of the details?"

Mulder jotted them down as Langly recited them, then said his good-byes and disconnected the call.  He stared at the phone for a few minutes, then his watch, considering.

This wasn't a good idea.  For one thing, he had no warrant, no legal grounds to go barging in on Marissa Clark and asking what she'd been up to, especially not at this time of night.  For another, he was having a difficult time picturing her as a consortium flunky, especially after what Scully had told him of their conversation that afternoon.

Of course, that could be exactly what someone wanted him to think.

Mulder tapped one long finger on his cell phone.  This whole situation was getting more tangled by the minute.  Langly's first bit of information had been even more unsettling.  There was no way he was getting back to sleep any time soon.  Coming to a quick decision, he lifted piles of paper from the night stand until he found what he wanted--the little notebook in which he'd scribbled Elizabeth Barnett's phone number.  After all, if she was in danger, she had a right to know as soon as possible.

There was no answer, not even an answering machine.  Mulder's one healthy foot jittered back and forth, but the hotel mattress was so firm it hardly bounced at all.

So, what next, genius?  Maybe just a quick check, a drive by, make sure there wasn't something wrong at the Barnett house.  Not having a car made it a little more complicated, but everyone in Chicago took cabs anyway, right?

Of course, there was one other item to consider.

If he woke Scully up, she'd be grumpy, to say the least.

If he went out on his own, she'd be worse.

If she never found out, he could save himself a lot of explanations and grief.

He'd better take the drugs before he left.

* * * * *

"You have to stop it, Gary."  Marissa sat forward on the couch, intensity radiating from her tense posture and furrowed brows.

Gary shook his head, looking up at her from where he sat on the floor.  "If I go anywhere near those two again, they're gonna have me in a jail cell before I can even explain!"

"You don't know that.  You *do* know that he's going to get hurt.  Do you want to undo all the good you've already accomplished?"

Chuck, who was reading the article over Gary's shoulder, had other ideas.  "So it's the same guy.  Yeah it's weird, but it's not as if this is your responsibility, Gar.  You just said he made it clear tonight that he didn't want to see your ugly mug again."

Gary opened his mouth, but decided to let it pass.

"So, say you do nothing.  It's only a broken leg.  What's the big deal?"

Marissa turned on him indignantly.  "Aside from simple human compassion, Chuck?  What about the fact that he's an FBI agent who's here to investigate a case--a dangerous case, if the people who were pursuing him yesterday are any indication?  What about the fact that if he's incapacitated, criminals might go free and innocent people might get hurt?  What about the fact that all we know is what happens a day in advance, and having a broken leg might make it impossible for him to get away from someone who wants to kill him further down the line?"  She paused, regaining self-control, while Chuck rolled his eyes.  "You have to do something," she told Gary again.  "We're wasting time."

She was right, but sometimes he hated just how right she could be.  When he didn't answer, trying to decide just what would be the best course of action, she added, her voice softening, "I know you, Gary.  You won't be able to live with yourself if you ignore this."

"Where did she tell you they were staying?" he asked, a note of weary defeat in his voice.

"The Congress Hotel," Marissa informed him, "but she didn't say which room."

With a dramatic sigh, Chuck pulled the phone book out from under the coffee table.  He looked up the number and relayed it to Gary, who dialed from the wall phone in the kitchenette.

"Hello, yes, I, I need to speak to one of your guests. The name's Mulder, uh, Fox Mulder..."  He ignored Chuck's guffaw at the odd first name and waited while the desk clerk checked, then informed him that no one by that name was registered.  "What about a Dr. Dana Scully?"  Still nothing.  He shook his head at his friends.  "What now?" he whispered.

"Ooo," Chuck said in a stage whisper.  "They're using aliases!  Try James Bond!"

Gary closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think fast.  What did the spies in the movies do?  "Well, can you just tell me if there's anyone there with the initials FM?  Hello?  Hello?"  The only answer was the dial tone.

"Real smooth, Big Guy," Chuck observed, shaking his head as he stood.

"When does the accident happen?" Marissa asked.

Gary hung up the phone and went back into the living room.  "It just says around one in the morning."

"Why don't you go down there and stop the truck instead of trying to stop him?  You know, get a block ahead?" Chuck asked.  "That way you might not even have to deal with Elliot Ness's evil twin."

"No, I don't even know what direction the truck that hits him comes from."

"You could get hit yourself."  Marissa frowned pensively.

"And if these are the same people from last night, they're going to be pretty determined."  The thought surprised Gary even as he voiced it.  He was getting as paranoid as--well, as paranoid as Agent Mulder had seemed to be.  He wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

"Ya know, I didn't like the sound of this to begin with, and now I like it even less. If this has to do with the bad guys, if those two aren't the bad guys--"  Chuck stood with his arms crossed over his chest, scowling at Gary like a worried parent.

"They're not."

"Uh-huh.  Anyway, one way or another, if there are bad guys there, I don't like the thought of you getting in the way.  What are they going to think when you pop up again?"

"Why the hell do you think I'm hesitating?"

"Why don't you just go to their hotel and warn them now?" Marissa asked.

"What if I can't find them?  What if they're not there?" Gary asked, wondering, what if Chuck's right, or what if they want to lock me up, or--it was an endless loop.

"Does the article say anything about Agent Scully?" Marissa asked.  "Maybe he's alone when the truck hits him; maybe she's still at the hotel.  You could ask the bellhop to help you find her.  You have to at least try, Gary.  If they aren't there, then you can go to the intersection, but at least this way it might be safer for you."

Gary stared at her for a moment, then stood and went for his coat without a word.  Marissa's shoulders lowered a fraction of an inch and she let out a long breath.

"Want me to go with you?"  Chuck asked with a leer.  "Maybe I can, ya know, break the ice with Agent Scully.  She's kinda--"

"No, I think you guys have done enough for today, don't you?"  Gary cut him off before he could finish.  "You have to work tomorrow, anyway."  He pulled on his Bears cap and tucked the paper in his back pocket.  "Walk Marissa home.  I'll let you two know if I need you to pull spy duty again tomorrow," he added sarcastically.

Chuck didn't miss a beat.  "Don't forget our fee!  Two hundred bucks a day plus expenses!" he called as Gary pulled the door shut.

* * * * *

With or without dreams, sleep was a wonderful thing.  Scully had always thought so.

So why did she get stuck with a partner who insisted on interrupting hers at least once per case and sometimes on the nights in between?

She had just drifted off, letting her mind relax and her muscles go limp, just escaped consciousness and into sweet oblivion, when the incessant pounding pulled her right back.

He was supposed to be sleeping.  He wasn't even supposed to be up and around, especially at--she fumbled for her watch and hit the indiglo button--12:40 in the goddamn morning.

"Go back to bed, Mulder!" she shouted, pulling the covers over her head.  The pounding got louder, as if her words were just confirmation that she was available.  "This better be good," Scully muttered, swinging her feet to the floor.

"Agent Scully?  Are you there?  Please, open up."

She paused halfway to the door.  That was definitely not Mulder.  Aside from the fact that the voice wasn't his, he never said 'please' at times like this.

That voice--shit, that was...she paused and checked the peephole before she opened the door as far as the security chain would allow..."Mr. Hobson.  What a surprise.  Where's your cat?"  This was going to be one hell of an interesting conversation.

"It just took off down the hall, actually."  Stuffing a newspaper into the inner pocket of his leather coat, he pointed toward the stairs with the other hand.  The faint smile he aimed at her was almost a grimace, and it didn't reach his eyes.  From under the brim of a baseball cap, they were searching hers, gauging her reaction.  He stood poised for flight, as if he'd take off running at any second; as if he expected her to pull out her handcuffs and slap them on him if he breathed wrong.

Might not be a bad idea.

"Yes?" she prompted.

"Agent Scully, I'm sorry, I just...well, I wanted you to know."  He gulped.  Whatever he'd come to tell her, he obviously hadn't rehearsed.

She raised an eyebrow, a gesture that spoke volumes and usually saved her from having to ask questions.  Swallowing again, he started over.  "It's your partner.  Agent Mulder?  He, uh...I think he's in trouble."

So it was Mulder's fault her sleep had been interrupted after all.

"And you know this because...?" Scully asked, thinking that any idiot with eyes to see would know that Mulder got himself into trouble at the drop of the proverbial hat.

"I just know," Hobson said, with more conviction than she would have thought he could muster.  He stood up straighter, looked her right in the eyes, radiating sincerity.  "Agent Scully, you need to believe me.  In about twenty minutes, he's going to be hit by a truck at an intersection three blocks from here.  I don't know if it's the same guys who were after you last night or just an accident, but someone's gonna swipe him and break his leg and we need to get down there and stop it."

"We?"  This guy never quit.  "For your information, my partner is asleep in his room."

"Well, maybe he is, but that means in a couple of minutes he's gonna be sleepwalking--sleep *running*," Hobson corrected, after a glance at his watch, "down to the corner of State and Harrison.  Couldn't you just come with me and check?"

Scully sighed and opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.  "Look I know you think I'm some kinda kook.  I don't know why our paths keep crossing, unless you're following me, which I don't think you are because you don't have any reason to."  That last bit was delivered with a searching gaze.  "I didn't want to come here tonight, but I had to.  Your partner's going to get hurt unless we stop him.  Please, you have to trust me."

There were any number of questions fighting to be asked; Scully wasn't sure which was the most important.  Hobson's sincere concern for Mulder's welfare was enough to direct her curiosity toward the matter at hand.  Disengaging the chain, she opened the door all the way and pointed at the chair closest to it, stepping back into the room to let Hobson enter.  "Sit," she directed, moving to the night stand where the phone and, not incidentally, her gun resided.  She picked up the receiver with her left hand and, when she'd finished dialing Mulder's room, rested her right hand on the holster.  It didn't escape Hobson's notice; he stared at the gun and then turned his dark, worried eyes to her.  He hadn't relaxed one iota; he perched on the edge of the chair, every muscle taut.

5...6...7... Either Mulder had taken the light sedative the doctor had given him, or he actually was out of his room.  Scully picked up her gun and cell phone and stalked to the door.  "Stay there," she told Hobson when he started to get up.  Amazingly enough, he did.  Maybe it was the gun.

Mulder's room was across the hall; she covered the distance in two steps and proceeded to pound on the door.  "Mulder!  Mulder!  Are you there?"  There was nothing; no reply, no sound of movement.  This was strange.  Why would he have left without saying anything to her?  Maybe he'd gone for ice, or a drink--but the hotel bar was closed and she could see the ice machine at the end of the hall from here.  Even the elevators were quiet.

Punching the first speed dial button on her cell phone, Scully pressed her free ear to the door.  There was answering ring from inside the room, and Mulder didn't pick up at the other end.

The logical conclusion:  Mulder really had gone off on his own again.  That overprotective, egocentric, idiotic, rule-breaking son-of-a--if he had left her again, there was going to be hell to pay, and this time she was going to *collect*.

Seething, she turned back toward her room, and saw Hobson quickly pull his head back through the doorway.  As she strode back into the room, he flattened himself against the wall to let her pass.

"He wasn't there, was he?"

"How the hell did you know about this?  Did you see him out there?"  Scully pointed out the window with her phone.

"Uh..." he looked as if he was considering saying just that, but he didn't.  "No, no, look, can we get going?  Or can you at least let me go?  We've only got a few minutes here.  Actually, Agent Mulder's only got a few minutes."

Scully considered him for a moment, trying to work out his real motive.  It was beyond her.  Her frustration at not knowing what Hobson was up to and her simmering anger at Mulder were getting in the way of her ability to reason.  She had a sudden, blinding urge to run back across the hall and kick Mulder's damn door in.  It would feel soooo good.  This delayed gratification stuff was getting old.

"Fine.  Let him break his leg."

Hobson looked as shocked as if she'd struck him.  "You can't mean that, he's your partner, he--"  He read the anger in her face and swallowed.  "Look, Agent Scully, he needs you."

"Why should I believe you?" she asked again.

Shoulders squared, he looked her straight in the eye.  "There's no reason in the world for you to believe me.  But there's no reason not to, either.  Trust me, if I could have done this any other way, I would have. You think I want to get messed up with the FBI?  You think I like being around people who wave guns and look at me like I'm some kinda criminal?  I'm not, but you already know that, don't you?  You're the ones checking up on me, and I have every reason to stay clear of you.  But I didn't, and that oughta tell you something."

He had a point, but Scully was sure there was more to the story than he was letting on.  Reaching for her coat, she shoved her sockless feet into sneakers and stuffed gun, badge, and cell phone into the trench coat's deep pockets.  "All right, let's go."  She held out an arm, ushering Hobson out the door and checking for her key before she pulled it shut behind her.  "But I'm warning you, Hobson, any funny stuff and your ass is mine."

He looked at her with wide eyes, and then, inexplicably, grinned as he pushed the call button for the elevator.  "Don't call me that.  That's what Crumb calls me.  If we're gonna keep meeting like this, you might as well call me Gary."

Scully raised an eyebrow.  "If we're going to keep meeting like this," she said wryly, "There are lot of things I might have to call you."  No sense letting him feel at ease.

The startled look he gave her as the elevator doors closed was assurance that he wasn't.

"Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are *you* doing?"
"Hunting," said Pooh.
"Hunting what?"
"Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously.
"Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer.
"That's just what I ask myself.  I ask myself, What?"
"What do you think you'll answer?"
"I shall have to wait until I catch up with it," said Winnie-the-Pooh.
      ~A. A. Milne, _Winnie-the-Pooh_
 

Mulder waited at the taxi stand outside the hotel for ten minutes before deciding he'd never find a cab this late on a weeknight in Chicago's deserted downtown.  He could see the El tracks from where he stood and decided public transportation would be just as quick, if a little more wearing on his ankle.

Keeping to the shadows, he walked near the buildings, keeping to the shadows, a habit born of long practice.  There were very few people downtown this time of night; just the odd vagrant and stray weeknight bar patrons.  It was a very different demographic from the mass of humanity that crowded the streets during the day.

Voices ahead caused him to pull up short.  A man and a woman strode into view on the cross street, walking briskly and having what appeared to be a lively discussion.  They were about half a block away and headed for the steps to the El platform.  When they turned, Mulder saw that the woman was holding a harness attached to a guide dog, and as they passed through the pool of light cast by a street lamp, his suspicion was confirmed.

Interesting.

Edging closer, Mulder kept himself out of their line of sight--especially the dog's--and stayed a few yards behind.  So engrossed were they in their conversation that they didn't realize anyone else was on the street.

"I agree, these things don't happen without a reason, at least not in Gary's life," Marissa Clark was saying.  "But that doesn't mean that there are evil forces conspiring against him, either, I mean--"

"Oh yeah?  Look at what happened last time he got involved with the feds.  That J. T. Marley guy nearly killed him; he would have, if we hadn't figured out who he was--"

Marley?  Mulder made a mental note to check on that one.

"But we did, Chuck, that's the point."

"And the time before that it was the Mafia and the time before that he nearly froze to death."  They started across the street, and Mulder pulled into a nearby doorway, straining to listen.

"What are you trying to say?"

"One of these times he's not gonna be so lucky.  What if it's *this* time?"  Fishman was agitated, bouncing on the balls of his feet for emphasis as he walked.  They paused at the bottom of the steps.

"It won't be.  Look, Chuck, it's okay, I can get home from here," said Marissa.

"Nah, I'll go with you.  It's not like I'm tired or anything."

Mulder saw her shrug.  "Suit yourself."

He was about to step out of the shadows and confront them, ask a couple questions of his own, when someone called out.

"Chuck?  Marissa?"  The new voice came from his right, across the street, and Mulder's gaze darted toward it as he pulled back into the darkened doorway.  He was sure he knew that voice, but before he could confirm his suspicion, a delivery truck rushed through the very yellow light at the intersection, oblivious to posted speed limits.

Hobson was approaching, with--no way.

What the hell was Scully doing here?

* * * * *

Gary cast a sideways glance at Agent Scully as they half-jogged, half walked down the street.  Her ponytail and sweats were a marked contrast to the long trench coat flapping around her legs, but her expression was all business and determination.

It was as if she was *used* to this kind of occurrence.

There was more than one contradiction to consider here, Gary decided, trying--and failing--to reconcile her no-nonsense attitude with what Chuck and Marissa had told him about the work she did.  What was someone with this kind of drive, a doctor no less, doing investigating witches and ghosts and UFOs?  If his behavior in the hospital yesterday was any indication, Mulder had enough paranoia to blend in with a whole roomful of crackpots.  Agent Scully, however, didn't seem to share that outlook, and Gary wondered how in the world they had ended up together.

They'd covered three blocks without a sign of Agent Mulder.  Agent Scully hadn't asked any more questions, except for "Here?" as they turned a corner on their way to the intersection.   Not many women would head out on the deserted downtown streets in the middle of the night, let alone with a complete stranger; but then, not many women were packing heat, either.  No doubt she'd be on top of the situation in an instant if he even looked at her funny .

Every once in a while, Agent Scully cast a surreptitious glance in Gary's direction.  He wondered how much Crumb had told her.

"There."  She pointed, but not at her partner.  Marissa and Spike were on the first steps to the El platform, and Chuck was right behind them.  Gary frowned.  Where was Agent Mulder?

He called out to his friends, who stopped and turned toward him just as a bread truck raced through a nearly-red light.  Gary watched it go, wondering, then trotted over to the pair.

"Was that it?" Scully asked quietly, following on his heels.  Gary shrugged.

"What are you guys doing here?" Gary demanded, continuing to search the streets.  "Have you seen him?"

"They know about this, too?" Scully looked from one to the other of the group.

"We're on our way home.  Hello, Agent Scully," Marissa said.  "I see Gary found you."

"Where's Mulder?  What is this, some kind of set-up?" Scully demanded.  She reached into the coat pocket where Gary had seen her put her gun.

"No!" he interjected quickly, stepping away from Scully and closer to his friends.  "No, it's just, uh...well, this is the nearest El stop to my hotel--and yours, I guess.  It's just a coincidence."

"Agent Scully, I don't believe we've been introduced."  Chuck pushed in front of Gary, extending his hand.  She ignored it, never letting her guard down.  "You're looking lovely tonight."

Gary winced.  He could have told Chuck that this wasn't the time or place, but the cold tone of Scully's voice was enough, and it wasn't directed at Chuck.  "Mr. Hobson, either you tell me what the hell is going on right now or I'll--"  she never got to tell them *what* she would have done, however, because at that moment a figure stepped out of the shadows to their left, hobbling across the street.

It must have been the bread truck, Gary decided as he checked the cross traffic.  Nothing was coming.  Releasing a sigh of relief, he reached toward his coat pocket for the paper, then pulled his hand back when he realized what he was doing.

"Scully?  What's going on?  Are you--"

"I'm fine, Mulder," she finished before he could even ask the question.  She sounded surprised, and she was looking at Gary instead of her partner, asking her own questions without a single word.  He looked down at his boots, not sure how much explaining he was going to have to do.

"So, Scully..." Mulder considered the group on the stairs, then his partner again.   "What are you doing here with Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys?"

"Actually, I was looking for you," Scully told him.  "What are you doing out here in the middle of the night, on that ankle?"

"Ask her," he answered, gesturing at Marissa.

Gary started and turned to stare at his friend.  Marissa?  What did Mulder want with her?

"Mulder, what in the world are you talking about?"

"Ask her," he repeated, "what she did today.  Been on line lately, Ms. Clark?  Doing a little surfing?"  He took a step closer, and Chuck, who was on the street in front of Marissa's step, side-stepped to get out of his way.

How had he found out?  Gary stiffened, and Chuck cast him a "do something" look, but he didn't say anything yet.  Marissa was pretty good at taking care of herself.

Head high, she locked on Mulder with that preternatural expression she got sometimes; Gary knew she couldn't actually see him but it felt as if she was looking right into his head--or soul.

"As far as I know, Agent Mulder, it isn't a crime to go to the FBI website and look at cases archived under the Freedom of Information Act, which, as far as I know, does not extend to monitoring the Internet activities of private citizens without a warrant."

She shoots, she scores, Gary thought.

"She's got you there, Mulder."  Scully stood with her arms folded, a slightly amused smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"But you did more than that, didn't you?  You checked our records.  You were in the IRS and Social Security databases.  Care to explain that?"  Mulder took another step towards Marissa, as did Gary, who was trying to watch everyone at once.  Agent Scully's eyebrow shot up at this news.  Uh-oh.  That couldn't be a good sign.

"Okay, you've got us," Chuck broke in.  "The jig's up, guys."  He turned to Mulder.  "We're actually undercover IRS agents.  Really, really, deep undercover.  And we're looking into the use of government funds by various branches of the military-industrial-investigative complex.  Your expense accounts were selected at random for review and we needed to verify some items."

The other four stared at him in open disbelief.

"What?" he asked, blinking innocently.

"Chuck," Gary said, "Stop.  Just stop."

"Look, maybe we were out of line, and I apologize," Marissa said before anyone else could propagate the tension, "but we didn't mean any harm.  Chuck and I were simply trying to make sure that you were who you said you were.  Gary had nothing to do with this."

"Why would you doubt that we were who we said we were?" Scully asked.

"Well, you kept showing up all over the place today," Gary began.

"That's not the way I see it," Mulder told him.  "From where I'm standing, *you* 'just happened' to be behind us every time we turned around.  What are you, anyway?  Some kind of paranormal groupie?"

Gary didn't even know where to begin to explain his movements.  He certainly didn't want to become another one of their suspects, or case files.  "Look, I was just trying to help."  Sighing, he continued, "I don't know why all these coincidences keep happening, but as far as I can tell, they are just that.  I'm sorry if my friends went a little overboard here.  I think they were just...looking out for me.  I haven't exactly had the best of luck with people like you lately."

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"Gar..." Chuck warned.

He kept it general.  "I--I've been lied to by someone who claimed to be a representative of the, uh, of the Federal government."

Scully's eyes narrowed.  "What line of work are you in, that you would have occasion to be lied to by someone in the government?  What is it you do all day, Mr. Hobson, that allows you to go museum and library hopping and driving out in the country?"

"Well, I don't have a job, and I...uh..."

"More to the point," asked Scully, "how did you know that Mulder would be out here tonight--exactly here and exactly now?"

"Well, I just...I had a feeling and I..." the two FBI agents were waiting, their eyes boring holes in him.  "I guess I--I just--."

"You just knew," Mulder filled in with a sagacious nod.  "Look Hobson, it's nothing to be ashamed of."

"What?"

"Your powers.  Your insight.  ESP, telepathy, prophecy, whatever you choose to call it.  If your friends really did find out about the kinds of cases we investigate, then they should be able to tell you that this is nothing out of the ordinary for us.  We didn't come here to investigate you, of course, but we'll--" he looked at Scully, who was frowning at him, "well, *I'll* believe you.  There are hundreds, thousands of documented cases of psychic ability--"

"--most of them cluttering up our office," Scully interjected with a wry smile.

"--and what you experience, what you know, and the way you know it is a lot more common than you might imagine."

Chuck snorted, but Gary shot him a warning look before he could say anything.  He was glad that the paper was tucked out of sight.  At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to walk away from these two and never see them again, and playing along with Mulder's conjecture looked to be the only way out of the situation.

"I guess you're right, I mean, you're the expert," he acquiesced.  It wasn't a lie, not exactly.

"So, how does it happen?  Do you have visions?  Hear voices?"  Mulder's question was casual enough, but he had no idea how his choice of words affected Gary.  In memory, he heard another voice asking the same questions, but in a much more mocking, menacing tone.  It was only when he stumbled and nearly tripped over Spike that he realized he had backed away from Mulder, up the steps of the El platform.  Marissa's hand on his shoulder steadied him and kept him from tumbling backwards, causing Mulder to cock his head with a puzzled frown.

"It's--it's hard to explain," Gary told him.  He stole a glance at Agent Scully, who was regarding him with the same mixture of curiosity and thoughtfulness he'd noticed the night before.   "And...well, you know, unless it has something to do with your case, it's really none of your business, is it?"

"You're making it our business by sticking your nose in ours," Mulder challenged, and Gary's patience snapped.

"Excuse me for trying to help!  Look, I don't know what you're doing here in Chicago, and I don't care.  I'd rather stay out of  your way altogether, but you needed my help.  If I hadn't gotten your partner, here, if we hadn't come after you, you'd be lying in a hospital bed right now getting your leg plastered."

Mulder looked at Scully in surprise, but she just shrugged.

"Okay, look," Gary continued, knowing what he was about to say had about as much chance of being true as the Cubs had of winning the pennant, but hoping it would get him free and clear one more time, "You've checked me out.  I--we've checked you out.  Neither of us have found anything to worry about, right?"  He hoped that what Crumb had told him about sweeping Marley's assassination attempt way, way under the rug was true.  "Why don't we just...call it a night?  Looks like you're going to be all right, which is the only reason I was out here anyway, and, you know what, if I somehow learn that somebody's about to kill you tomorrow, I'll just keep it to myself, okay?"

"Serve ya right," Chuck whispered.  Gary winced.

Mulder opened his mouth, but before he could say anything Scully put a hand on his arm.  "Mulder, let's go."

"Scully, you must be kidding me, he--"

"I know.  But you need to get off your ankle, I need some rest, and we're straying from procedural limits.  We're going.  Now."  She turned to the trio on the stairs.  "Good night," she said.  "I'd advise you to stay away from now on.  It isn't exactly safe, and, as you pointed out, Mr. Hobson, it isn't any of your business."

"Yeah, and--" Mulder began, but she pulled him away, stepping off the curb and pulling him along.

"Say goodnight, Gracie," she told him, then turned around and said over her shoulder, "Thank you."

That surprised Gary more than anything that had happened all night.

* * * * *

"Thank you?" Mulder demanded incredulously once they were out of earshot.  "Thank you?"

"That's what I said," Scully snapped.  She quickened her step, and he had to take longer strides to keep up with her.  "How's your ankle?"

"It's fine, it's--what were you thanking him for?  What were you doing out here, anyway?"

"Funny, I was just going to ask you the same question."  Scully shot him a pointed look.  Never slowing her pace, she continued, "Why did I find out about your escapades from a complete stranger?   Why did I have to put my trust in him to find you when you wouldn't trust me enough to tell me where you were going and why?"

"This isn't a matter of trust, Scully, it's--"

"The hell it's not."  She stopped and turned to him, an expression more weary than angry on her face.  "Mulder, you could have at least told me what you were doing, even if you didn't want me to come along."

"It wasn't that at all.  You were asleep, or I thought you were, and I just wanted to...check things out."

"Ms. Clark, you mean?"  With an exasperated shake of her head, Scully resumed her determined stride, around the corner and back to the front entrance of the hotel.  "Mulder, you have no authority to--how did you know about that, anyway?"

"Langly called."

"Oh."

"And it wasn't just Clark I was going to check out...someone from the Andrews Institute was looking for information about us as well.  I thought maybe it would be a good idea to see if everything was okay at the Barnett house, you know, just--"

"You couldn't sleep, could you?"

"Well, no--"  Mulder really didn't want to get into the whys and wherefores of that one, so he added, "You still haven't answered my question.  How did you know where I was, and how did you end up with Hobson?"

She blew a stray lock of hair off her face as they entered the elevator, then slumped back against the wall and closed her eyes.  "He came to my hotel room.  He said you were down there and if we didn't stop you, you'd be hit by a truck.  I guess he meant that truck that went through the light just before we met up..." she trailed off, lost in thought as they exited on their floor.

Eyes narrowed, Mulder paused outside Scully's door as she pulled the key out of her pocket.  "What are you saying, Scully?  That you believe this guy and his predictions?"  For his partner to buy into a paranormal explanation, it would take one heck of a leap.

"I'm saying," Scully told him, unlocking her door and holding it open with her foot while leaning against the frame, "that he turned out to be right.  You *were* gone.  You *might* have been hit by that truck if you hadn't hesitated when you heard him call out to his friends."

"So, what's your theory?  How does he know what he knows?  Don't tell me you think this is another Clyde Bruckman, Scully, or I'll fall over right here with shock."

"No..."  Scully frowned.  "Although, unlike every other so-called clairvoyant we've encountered *except* for Bruckman, he's extremely reluctant to talk about how he gets his information."

"Yeah, but with that entourage of his, he could be the Stupendous Yappi."

She almost smiled.  That was progress.  He was about to pursue the topic, but thought better of it as Scully stifled a yawn.  He'd take it up with her in the morning.  "I guess you're right.  We'll worry about it tomorrow, if we need to."

"What time are we supposed to meet with Elizabeth Barnett?"

"Ten o'clock, over at her place."

"Right.  See you in the morning."

"'Night, Scully."  He turned to go.

"Stay put, Mulder," she cautioned as her door clicked shut.  He waited until he heard her latch the chain lock before going into his own room.

Removing his coat, Mulder replayed the conversation he'd overheard between Hobson's friends and the man's own reaction to Mulder's comments.  What was that name...J. T. Marley?  He walked stiffly over to the round table that served as a work area, unearthed his laptop from the mound of clothes piled on top of it by unceremoniously sweeping the offending garments to the floor, checked to make sure the phone line was still attached, and then set to work.

Fishman and Clark had mentioned that name in conjunction with 'the feds', so he started with the FBI, but nothing turned up.  The CIA, NSA, and the military were also dead ends.  It was only several hours after he'd started, after all kinds of dead ends, that he came across mention of a J. T. Marley in the files of the Secret Service; a man killed well over three decades ago in a plane crash in Peru.

//"That J. T. Marley guy nearly killed him; he would have, if we hadn't figured out who he was--"//

But J. T. Marley had died--Mulder closed his eyes briefly, did the math based on what he'd seen in Hobson's file earlier in the day--a year and a half before Gary Hobson was born.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Mulder read through Marley's service record; no blips, no hints of murderous tendencies or claims of reincarnative abilities, but then, those things didn't tend to make it into one's U. S. Government personnel file, did they?  Not that guarding the president was an unremarkable job, but nothing about Marley stood out until--

Dallas, November, 1963.

He'd been there.

Mulder checked the date of death again:  January, 1964.

Scully would tell him it was just a coincidence; that he had heard the name wrong and probably most of the rest of the conversation as well.  The thing was, Mulder had decided long ago, that if you stopped believing in coincidences, pieces of puzzles you hadn't known existed suddenly appeared in your hand.

How a man who had been dead since before the Beatles invaded America could have been a recent threat to the life of an apparently unassuming Chicagoan was exactly the kind of puzzle Mulder loved to solve.  He fired off an email to Frohike.  The guys were going to *love* this one.

Continued...

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