Letters of Transit (8/14) By Loch Ness   

 

DO NOT ARCHIVE. ***Not to be entered in or nominated

for any competition or award.***   

 

Classification: T, RA Crossover references to the film

*Casablanca* International readers: US4 spoilers. Rating:

NC-17, for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are

under-age, please do not read this. See Part 0 for

disclaimer, summary and introductory notes.   

 

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

 

Letters of Transit (8/14) By Loch Ness   

 

July 21, 1999

Galveston   

 

The kitchen smelled of egg rolls--Langly cooked them in

bulk when he could get the ingredients and froze them to

eat later. When Mulder walked in, the Gunmen were sitting

on tall stools around a prep table, the food spread out

alongside a six-pack of Tecate beer and some limes, all of

it ready to be slurped down. They stopped as if in

mid-breath at Mulder's entrance, Frohike short and dumpy in

a black T-shirt and jeans, Langly taking his hair out of

the pony-tail, Byers dapper as always in his maitre d's

tux.   

 

They looked at him expectantly.   

 

Mulder shrugged.   

 

"Something you want to tell us, man?" Langly asked.   

 

Mulder went to the table, pulled up a stool of his own and

fished an egg roll off the platter. "The less you know, the

safer you are," he said. "But it might be a good idea for

you boys to be ready to move on short notice. Just in

case."   

 

Frohike popped a chunk of egg roll into his mouth. Around

it, he said, "Hey, we're always ready to move. We're just

waiting for you."   

 

Mulder squeezed the juice out of a lime wedge into the

opening in the top of a can of Tecate and took a drink.

They fell silent again, eating, drinking, keeping their

thoughts to themselves.   

 

After a while, Frohike said quietly, "She's looking fine,

isn't she?"   

 

Mulder lifted his beer toward his mouth and said coolly,

"Who?"   

 

Frohike took his cue and shut up.   

 

                                  ****   

 

July 22   

 

*How the mighty have fallen,* Scully thought, thinking of

Skinner's wood-paneled office in D.C. with its elegant

brass accents, its soccer-field-sized conference table.   

 

The office here on the island was an abandoned storefront

still bearing a sign that read "Lula-belle's Shells" over a

hand-painted pink clamshell. Taped to the inside of the

glass door was a sheet of white paper on which the words

"Federal Bureau of Investigation" had been written.   

 

Skinner's handwriting, Scully noted. She and Pendrell went

in. Beyond the door, an elderly woman chewing placidly on a

wad of gum sat at a small desk that looked as if it had

been rescued out of an estate sale. No computer, not even a

typewriter--just an old telephone and answering machine.

Behind the receptionist stood a rickety, hastily erected

wall of masonite, the nails showing up bright silver

against the dark brown.   

 

Scully wondered if Skinner had put up that wall himself and

concluded he probably had. She felt a stab of sympathy--it

couldn't have been easy for the A.D. to cope out here all

by himself, to adjust to this sort of bare-bones, no-budget

operation. At least in Miami he'd had some support. Here,

clearly, there was none.   

 

She wondered what this meeting was about. Surely Skinner

didn't really mean to hit them with a fine for having

violated the order not to leave Jefferson parish? She had a

more frightening thought suddenly--what if Pendrell had

actually shot somebody in the melee in the bayou?   

 

The elderly woman waved them toward an unfinished wooden

door marked "Private." The moment Pendrell pulled the door

open, Scully got a wave of cigarette smoke. She ground her

teeth and went in.   

 

Skinner had opened a window behind his desk, but there

wasn't much breeze, and the smoke wafted heavily in the

air. The A.D.'s expression was tense, his face held hard in

annoyance. The smoking man sat on a couch shoved up against

the side of the office, holding his cigarette like a

conductor's baton. Scully tried to ignore him.   

 

"Pendrell, Scully," Skinner said. "Have a seat."   

 

They sat in two folding chairs placed before the A.D.'s

desk. There was an awkward silence while Skinner shuffled

some paperwork and closed a file, put it aside.   

 

"Sir, if this is about New Orleans--" Pendrell started.   

 

"Oh, nevermind New Orleans," the smoking man said

pleasantly.   

 

Scully shot a look at Skinner, whose return gaze was

calculated to tell her nothing--which told her everything.

It revealed that he wasn't calling the shots, and that

while he didn't like it, there was nothing he could do

about it. They'd have to deal with Bloodworth, not with

Skinner.   

 

She turned to face the smoking man. "Then may I assume

we're free to go?"   

 

Bloodworth smiled. A lizard's smile, cold-blooded, that

didn't touch his eyes. "You're hardly prisoners in

Galveston, Mrs. Pendrell."   

 

"That doesn't answer my question. If we're not here to

discuss what happened in New Orleans, then why *are* we

here?"   

 

"I'd heard you might be seeking passage to California,"

Bloodworth said. "I thought we might discuss your options."

  

Scully made a mental note not to ask any more questions of

the clerk in the hotel lobby. Either the clerk himself was

snitching, or someone had overheard them asking discreetly

about transport off the island.   

 

"California's certainly a possibility," she said. "It's one

of the places we might consider for continuing our work. On

the other hand, in the daylight--Galveston doesn't seem all

that bad."   

 

"Perhaps something could be arranged," Bloodworth said. "It

strikes me that the facilities at the headquarters of the

SEB in Colorado could considerably speed your progress."   

 

"You're offering us a job with the SEB?" Pendrell asked.   

 

"In effect."   

 

"Wait," Scully said. "You don't already have people working

on trying to develop an antivenin for the bee stings?"   

 

"At first glance it wouldn't seem to come under the SEB's

charter."   

 

"You're telling me *no one* has been trying to develop an

anti-toxin?" Pendrell asked, his eyes wide.   

 

Bloodworth shrugged. "The truth is, we don't know whether

anyone is or not. We're hoping to locate scientists such as

yourselves and collect them as a team."   

 

In the back of her mind, Scully heard an alarm going off.

*Why now? Why not two years ago?* She didn't trust the

smoking man on general principles, and there was much about

the situation that didn't ring true. If the SEB wanted to

talk to them about setting up a lab, why shoot at them as

they were leaving New Orleans? Why not just, well, sit down

and talk about it? Why sink the boat, trapping them here?

None of it made sense.   

 

Slowly, she said, "Well, that certainly opens up

possibilities. But I actually think we're making good

progress on our own. I'm not sure it would benefit us, at

this point, to have input from other scientists. Other

opinions might prove distracting."   

 

"Are you afraid working with a team might expose your

mistakes?"    

 

"We haven't made any mistakes," Pendrell said coldly.   

 

"Really," Bloodworth said. "But then, you haven't cured

anybody, have you? That suggests to me that you *have* made

mistakes, and that, in fact, whatever you have come up with

may actually be dangerous--it could lead those to whom you

administer it into a false sense of security."   

 

Pendrell had flushed with anger. "That's a completely

unfounded accusation. You don't know what we've tried and

what we haven't."   

 

Bloodworth lit another cigarette. "Are you so sure?"   

 

"How..." Pendrell faltered. "How could you?"   

 

"His spies are everywhere," Scully murmured.   

 

"Not very genteelly put, but essentially correct."   

 

"Why don't you just come out with it?" she asked. "What the

hell is it you want, exactly?"   

 

"Just as I said--I want you to come back to Denver with me

and resume your work."   

 

She nodded. "Do you mind if we think about it for a couple

of days?"   

 

"Not at all. But I will point out that every day you delay

an average of 832 people are killed by bee stings."   

 

"We're aware of that," Pendrell said. His tone was neutral,

but Scully knew how much it troubled him that they had not

been able to proceed faster. She knew the weight of those

deaths that they couldn't stop.   

 

"We'll consider your offer and get back to you," she said,

rising to her feet.   

 

"I'll look forward to your answer." Bloodworth stood, too.

"One word of caution--the SEB would not take it kindly if

you were to attempt another unauthorized departure. I'm

sure you agree that the work you've undertaken is of vital

importance. You can understand our wish to know where you

are at all times?"    

 

"Naturally," Scully said, between her teeth. "In other

words, 'don't leave town.'" She pulled the door open, and

Pendrell followed her out.   

 

She wasn't surprised when Skinner caught up with them a few

minutes later, on a street corner as they walked back to

their hotel.   

 

"What the hell's going on?" Scully asked the A.D. "We're

not really supposed to believe that nonsense about

'collecting a team of scientists,' are we? Do we just look

stupid?"   

 

Skinner shook his head. "I don't know what he's after. The

only thing I'm sure of is you two had better get off this

island before you get buried here."   

 

"How do we do that?" Pendrell demanded. "Our boat's gone."

 

Skinner looked at Scully. "That's a question you'd better

ask of your old friend Fox Mulder." He told them about the

couriers on the causeway.   

 

"Why would Krycek trust Mulder with those letters?" Scully

asked. "Mulder'd rather cut Krycek's throat than look at

him."   

 

"Because Mulder's the only man alive who hates the smoking

man even more than Krycek does. Look, believe me--Mulder

either has the letters or he knows where they are. And they

may end up being your only chance of getting away."   

 

Scully looked away and let go a heavy sigh. "The only

problem is, I'm not so sure Mulder is a friend anymore."   

 

                                  ****   

 

The smoking man's minions had not been kind, but then,

Krycek hadn't expected they would be. He'd had the shit

kicked out of him before and figured he could survive it

again. Besides, that they were only beating him indicated

that Mulder had kept his word--the smoking man still didn't

know where the letters of transit were.   

 

Otherwise they would've just killed him.    

 

Of course, they were likely to get around to that anyway,

eventually. At some point, they'd conclude that the letters

were irretrievable, and then they'd have no further use for

him. And that would be the end of that. But like Mulder,

Krycek figured denying the smoking man what he wanted was

worth a little grief.    

 

At mid-afternoon, he heard the two minions coming back down

the long concrete hall of the county jail, and Krycek

curled up into himself, expecting another savage pounding.

But then he peeked around the arms he had wrapped over his

head to protect it and noticed the minions were all rigged

out in nuclear-bacteriological-chemical protective suits. 

 

Ready to go where the bees were.   

 

Krycek stifled a grin. The smoking man was making a

mistake. A *big* mistake.   

 

They lifted him by the arms, and he made a show of

whimpering a little in terror and going limp, as if too

weak to resist.   

 

"Where are you taking me?" he asked, his voice low,

trying--and succeeding, he thought--to sound pitiful.   

 

"Shut up," one of them growled from inside the suit.

"You'll find out where you're going."   

 

They shoved him into the back of a panel truck, then

climbed in the front and drove off. Krycek couldn't see out

of the truck, but then, he didn't have to. He knew where

they going.   

 

To Houston.   

 

It would take almost an hour. He lay down on the floor of

the truck and let himself doze off--resting would

strengthen him for what was coming next.   

 

He woke when the suited minions lifted him again, and now

he started to squall like a baby.   

 

"Noooo! No, please! Don't hurt me any more!"   

 

"Talk," one of the minions said. He kicked Krycek in the

thigh, but not very hard. Krycek screamed as if it had

really hurt. "Where did you hide the documents?" the minion

shouted.   

 

"I swear I don't know what you're talking about! I don't

have any documents!" He ducked his head and squeezed out a

tear for effect. "Please--you've got to believe me!"   

 

"You lying dirtbag. I'm going to count to five, then I'm

shoving your worthless ass out with the bees."   

 

"NOO!"   

 

"One."   

 

"Oh, God, no, *please*!"   

 

"Two."   

 

"You can't do this!"   

 

"Three."   

 

"Oh, God--it's inhuman!"   

 

"Four."   

 

"Please, I'm begging you--"   

 

"Five."   

 

They lifted him again. Krycek kept right on screaming,

knowing perfectly well the noise would attract the bees.

Hell, the bees were probably all around them now, between

the sound of the truck's engine and his yowling. But that

suited him just fine. He'd been exposed to the toxin in

Russia; he'd even been stung before. He had the immunity.

Not enough that he could just walk away--what was coming

next wouldn't be pleasant. But he'd survive it, just as

he'd survived the beating.   

 

Seconds later, he hit the ground behind the truck.

Instantly the bees were all over him, and the minions,

protected by their suits, stood over him, watching as he

doubled over with the spasms. He had no way of knowing

whether they meant to leave him here or not. There was only

one way to be sure.   

 

He lunged at one of them, and with all the strength he had,

ripped loose the man's hood so that his head was bared to

the bees. The minion shouted in surprise and terror as the

bees hit him. He staggered, waving his arms--as if that

would help anything.   

 

"Jesus fucking Christ!" the other one yelled, and he ran

for the truck. Some bees flew into the cab with him, and

Krycek heard the faint hiss of insecticide canisters

discharging inside the vehicle. In the enclosed space,

Malathion spray would kill any bees that got in the truck.

 

 

The minion who'd been stung toppled over onto the ground,

writhing and retching. His face was already gray, his eyes

swimming with the black toxin. He'd be dead in another five

minutes.   

 

Krycek was on the ground, too, in terrible pain, stomach

heaving, his muscles spasming uncontrollably. But he was

laughing through it.   

 

As the truck drove off, he used the last of his strength to

yell, "You fucking suckers!"   

 

Some more bees hit him then, because he'd made a noise, but

he didn't care.   

 

Continued in Part 9.

lochness@texas.net   

 

Letters of Transit (9/14) By Loch Ness   

 

DO NOT ARCHIVE. ***Not to be entered in or nominated

for any competition or award.***   

 

Classification: T, RA Crossover references to the film

*Casablanca* International readers: US4 spoilers. Rating:

NC-17, for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are

under-age, please do not read this. See Part 0 for

disclaimer, summary and introductory notes.   

 

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

 

Letters of Transit (9/14) By Loch Ness   

 

July 22

Galveston   

 

Scully had no reason to doubt what Bloodworth had said

about the boat--though she knew it had sunk because *he*

had put a hole in it. Nevertheless, after the meeting with

Skinner, she went to check on it, to see if there might be

a way to repair it.   

 

Mistakenly, she hadn't landed the boat on Galveston Island,

but on the smaller, deserted Pelican Island adjacent to it.

Then they had followed a narrow road toward lights they

could see in the distance and walked over a bridge to the

big island, only then discovering the error. At the time,

Scully had thought it might actually be a blessing

anyway--it could make it more difficult for someone to find

where they had hidden the power boat because there were

fewer people around who might've seen them ground. Now

*there* was an irony.   

 

She walked north on Broadway, retracing her steps. They

hadn't seen much of the city when they'd arrived, in the

dark, after the curfew. Now she could see the antique,

Victorian charm of Galveston. The Catholic cathedral,

gigantic and ornate, with its seemingly incongruous

minarets. An enormous mansion's iron fence held a bronze

plaque proclaiming the house Ashton Villa and explained

that the lower row of windows were half underground because

the storm surge from the savage 1900 hurricane had washed

so much mud up onto the island. Six thousand had died. As

she turned away from the plaque, she caught a motion out

the corner of her eye and suddenly had a prickly sensation

at the back of her neck.   

 

Someone was following her. But when she turned, she

couldn't see anyone.   

 

*Great. One of Bloodworth's minions--just what I need.*   

 

She wound through the Strand, a Victorian historical

district, pausing at a few denuded shop windows in hopes of

luring the follower out. But whoever he was, he was good.

She still hadn't seen him.   

 

She debated walking down that lonely road across Pelican

Island. A good three-mile hike with no one near to hear her

scream and enough brush on either side of the pavement to

hide any mayhem from view. She had her gun, but still, why

buy trouble? But if the boat was salvageable, delay might

just worsen the damage. She'd have to go. There was no way

around it. Maybe she could get a look at her shadower as

she crossed the bridge, where the terrain was open for some

distance, maybe even come up behind him and get the drop on

him.   

 

She clamped her jaw and set herself to the task, walking up

Avenue A past the Port of Galveston, up to the bridge. She

crossed, and when she could do it nonchalantly, she glanced

back. Nobody. She walked around a bend in the road, then

slipped into the brush and waited, holding her breath.

Nothing. Nobody came down the road behind her. Either he

had given up, or she had lost him.   

 

Scully let go a long breath, stepped back onto the asphalt

and headed off down the road again.   

 

She had tied the boat underneath a dilapidated fishing pier

at the end of a rocky point facing out into Galveston Bay.

As she neared the water, she could see bottlenose dolphins

playing in the channel between the islands. And in between

the flocks of wheeling gulls, brown pelicans diving

gracefully for fish--the island was aptly named.   

 

They had arrived at night, and though Scully had made out

the nearby superstructure of ships, she had not been able

to see what kind they were. She was surprised, in the light

of day, to see they were old warships--a World War

II-vintage submarine and destroyer escort. They'd been

hauled up onto the shore and their hulls set into the

ground. Curious, she went off the path to have a closer

look. A faded wooden sign on a little hut at the gate read

"Seawolf Park - Parking $2."   

 

Scully pushed on a chain-link gate, and it swung open,

creaking loudly. More plaques, heavily coated with

verdigris, told her the submarine was the U.S.S. *Cavalla*

and the destroyer, the U.S.S. *Stewart.* She wandered

around the end of the destroyer, painted light blue,

liberally speckled with patches of rust showing out from

underneath the paint. Behind her, she heard something on

the wind--it might've been the squawk of a gull.   

 

Or the creak of that gate.   

 

Slowly, quietly, she drew her gun, keeping it where someone

behind her couldn't see it. Yet. She went up the ladder

onto the destroyer, listening acutely for footsteps. She

heard something, but couldn't sift anything coherent out of

the wind noise, the cries of birds, the roar of the surf.

*Damn, damn, damn.* She ducked into a hatch, into the

galley, with its stark metal cabinets and its

industrial-size stove-tops and ovens. She took her shoes

off and set them on a counter so that her steps wouldn't

make any sound. Then she went forward, along the starboard

rail toward the bridge.   

 

Whoever it was, he moved like a cat--silently. She stopped

up on the bridge, where there were steel walls on three

sides of her, and slipped between the ship's wheel and an

abandoned chart table, gun poised. He'd have to come in to

follow her. She waited him out. Finally she heard something

nearby, just outside.   

 

"Federal agent!" she yelled. "Put your hands up and step

out where I can see you!"   

 

"Okay," a soft voice said behind her. She whirled, leading

with the gun.   

 

It was Mulder, leaning up against the port-side bulkhead,

hands lifted lazily. He was wearing khaki slacks and a

denim shirt open at the throat so a couple of stray dark

hairs peeked out, with a dark blue windbreaker tied around

his waist--probably to cover his own gun, Scully

figured--and deck shoes with no socks. He looked like the

cover of a Land's End catalog--the casual, windblown New

Englander.   

 

He was devastatingly beautiful, tall and straight, his eyes

glowing bright green in the sunlight. She'd been trying not

to think of him that way, of the smooth lines of bone, the

flat, hard planes of muscle. She lowered the gun, shaking

with adrenaline rush, hoping adrenaline rush was the only

reason for it. "Goddammit, Mulder," she said, between her

teeth. "I could've killed you."   

 

He crooked an eyebrow. "And after I went to the trouble of

chasing the smoking man's bloodhound off your trail? That's

gratitude."   

 

"Did you kill him?"   

 

"Nah. I just told him you ducked into the cotton warehouse.

He had lost you at that point, so he didn't have any reason

not to believe me. What are you doing out here, Scully?"   

 

"My name's not Scully any more," she said. "And I was about

to ask you the same thing." She holstered her gun.   

 

"Me? I was following you."   

 

She pursed her lips, tamping down the anger that had flared

up as her fear drained away. "A bit late, aren't you?"   

 

A muscle flexed along his jawline. She knew he was debating

something with himself, but he said nothing. She looked

away and then stepped off the bridge, headed back toward

where she had left her shoes.   

 

"I was just curious about this old ship," she lied. "Maybe

it's in the blood."   

 

"Pretty long walk, just to satisfy your curiosity," he

said, following her. His tone told her he hadn't bought

that story. "It's hotter than hell out here."   

 

"I've been informed I'm not a prisoner here. I'm free to do

whatever I want."   

 

"Except leave," he said softly.   

 

She stepped into the galley and picked up her shoes. "What

do you care?"   

 

He glanced at the ring on her left hand. "Some reason I

should care?"   

 

"Not one," she said coldly, yanking on one shoe.   

 

"Are you happy with him?"   

 

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Not that it's any of your

goddamned business."   

 

He shrugged. "Okay," he said. There was a short silence

while she got the other shoe on. "Well," he said, squinting

out to sea, "if you came out to check on your boat, don't

bother. Bloodworth's friends ripped it open the whole

length of the hull."   

 

"How do you know that?"   

 

"I have my sources."   

 

"Those three freaks you hang out with? I saw them at the

bar last night. I don't know what you see in them, Mulder."

  

"They're loyal friends," he said.   

 

"Are you taking lessons?"   

 

He crooked an eyebrow in surprise, and again, she saw some

quick flash of emotion, snuffed out so quickly she couldn't

be sure what it was.   

 

She sighed and looked away. What was the point in fighting

over that now? So much had changed. When she glanced back

at him, she saw that he was gazing out at the ocean again.

There was no sign of it in his face or his pose, but she

sensed that she had hit a nerve. She doubted it served any

purpose to beat him up over the past--she knew all too well

he was perfectly capable of doing that himself.   

 

"I'm sure you had your reasons," she said.   

 

"Yes."   

 

She leaned on the rail and looked down at the water lapping

along a rock wall a few yards away from where the destroyer

stood rooted in the ground. "Is it true what you said last

night--about it being possible to run the blockade?"   

 

"Not without a boat, and I don't just happen to have one."

 

Suddenly it occurred to her how he knew it was possible.

"Oh, my God," she said. "That was you? The 'Malathion

Raider?'"   

 

Expressionless, Mulder inclined his head toward the big

island. "Me and those three 'freaks' back at the bar."   

 

"I just assumed that because the insecticide came in from

seaward..." she trailed off.   

 

"I found that I don't get seasick when I'm really

terrified."   

 

She didn't know what to say. When she had read about the

"Malathion Raider," she had thought the reckless fool who

could do such a thing was simply the bravest son of a bitch

on Earth. He had gone straight through the blockade, under

fire, and then right into the thickest part of the swarm,

time after time. In retrospect, she supposed she might've

guessed who it was. The plan was so...well, so *Mulder*.   

 

"Anyway," he said, "if there's a seaworthy hull left on

Galveston, I don't know about it. And I'd know." He paused,

then crooked an eyebrow. "'Malathion Raider?'"   

 

She stared at him.   

 

He shrugged. "I don't know, Scully--it's not bad, but

somehow it just doesn't have quite the ring of, say, 'Conan

the Barbarian.'"   

 

How like Mulder at his most annoying to make a joke of such

a thing--and not even a good joke. She headed down the

steel stairs that led off the destroyer. "No offense, but I

think I'll check the boat myself."   

 

It was a moment before she heard his footsteps behind her.

Still debating something with himself, she thought.   

 

But God only knew what.   

 

                                 ****   

 

Frohike didn't mind going to Houston now and then. It was a

hot, dirty, generally unpleasant job. Right up his alley,

in other words. He went once or twice a month, as suited

his fancy, if he had a jones for something. It particularly

amused him to go into town and get a couple of videos. He'd

go into Blockbuster and pick something out--even write

himself out a receipt--and then return them on his next

trip.   

 

Seeing Special Agent Dana Scully again had put him in the

mood for *Terminator 2.* Linda Hamilton wielding an M-16.

Oh, baby.   

 

So he dressed in a vinyl rain suit, carefully taping over

the tops of his boots and around his wrists where the suit

met the gloves. He took with him a welding hood he had

specially modified and the roll of tape, too. Then he

pilfered a bottle of Scotch from behind the bar, fired up

his Jeep Cherokee and headed across the causeway.   

 

Early on he had learned how to negotiate with the guards at

the end of the bridge. It wasn't hard to get off the

island, but he'd be subject to inspection on the way back.

The guards were only supposed to inspect for bees, but

Frohike had found that they generally helped themselves to

a few things. He could save himself time and effort by

finding out what goodies they'd like to have brought back

from the big city, then keeping the Scotch in reserve in

case they got sticky with him later.   

 

Today he'd lucked out. He knew the guys on duty, Frank and

Hector, and they were all right, although they were reputed

to be some of Skinner's most loyal snitches. They just

waved him through, and he headed on up Interstate 45.   

 

He stopped for gas in Texas City, helping himself at an

abandoned Texaco station he knew about. Farther north, the

road turned bad, cluttered with the dead hulks of cars and

trucks that hadn't made it. Occasionally he passed a

decaying body or two, crumpled on or beside the pavement.

The wreckage slowed his progress. He popped a tape in the

player--Sheryl Crow. He started to pick up bees just north

of the Johnson Space Center. He knew they couldn't get into

the Jeep, so he just ignored them and kept going, picking

his way between the vehicles.   

 

Frohike could've used a Malathion spray inside the Jeep,

but he didn't trust the stuff. He had a system he liked

better. He turned east onto Loop 610, where the road was

clear enough that he could go fast--too fast for the bees

to keep up with him. The insects were nasty, but they were

slow. At sixty miles an hour, he could just outrun the

mothers. And by the time he headed out of town, it'd be

dark. The bees didn't move at night.   

 

He turned the engine off and waited. The bees usually lost

interest after about half an hour. He dozed for a bit in

the heat, then woke and pulled a cold bottle of water out

of his cooler and sipped on it. Then, when the bees finally

got tired of buzzing angrily around the Jeep, he pulled his

helmet on, taped it and quietly climbed out.   

 

His favorite Blockbuster Video was a couple of miles east

from the bottom of the bridge, in a suburb called Galena

Park. Because the little town wasn't right in the thick of

the city, it hadn't been quite as heavily looted as other

areas--so far, Frohike'd had it pretty much to himself. And

it wasn't as bad as some parts of town. Most people had

gotten out. Not too many bodies.   

 

He went through his usual ritual when he reached the video

store. Then he headed off down the street toward a nearby

drug store. He knew what Frank and Hector wanted in

exchange for letting him back onto the island--Advil for

Hector, whose wife had arthritis, and toys and picture

books for Frank's little girl, aged eight.   

 

The bees buzzed irritably around him each time he moved,

but they slid off the rain suit when they tried to land,

and even if they had landed, their stings couldn't

penetrate the vinyl. The whole trip had become a sort of

rote, and he finished quickly. Still hours before sundown.

Because he was curious and had the time, he strolled

farther down the deserted street than usual. The intense

sun seemed to give the whole area a bleached-bones pallor,

grass and weeds climbing between cracks in the concrete and

wilting as soon as they sprang up, signs fading rapidly

under the heat's assault. Around a corner, he saw movement

and stopped sharply.   

 

*What the hell.* Nothing moved in this city any more, and

there was no wind to account for it. He cocked his head and

listened. No tell-tale angry buzzing. But when he looked

again, he definitely saw a figure moving.    

 

Major weirdness. He shuffled closer, warily. There were two

bodies, the one weakly crawling toward a patch of shade,

and another one in an environment suit with the hood

removed. Frohike doubted the live one would hang on for

long, but the environment suit was a real find--worth

taking a risk for.   

 

He went over to the dead one and began methodically

stripping the suit off. Newly stung, this guy--he was still

stiff. Frohike stuffed the pieces of the suit into his kit

bag and shouldered the respirator that went with the suit.

Then he looked again at the live one, his face swollen

beyond all recognition from the stings, his eyes swimming

with black.    

 

Really strange that he should still be alive. Usually

people stung like that died in a matter of minutes. If the

two of them had been stung at the same time, this guy

should've croaked a long time ago. Cautiously Frohike

approached him, staying just outside arm's reach. The guy

was clearly in misery; he didn't appear to realize anyone

was there. Frohike hunkered down beside him.   

 

"Hey," he said softly. "Hey, can you hear me?"   

 

The other man stopped crawling. He made a pitiful,

ineffectual try at turning himself to look. Frohike took

him by the shoulder and gently flipped him over. He

couldn't have seen anything if he had tried--his eyes were

swollen shut. Frohike retrieved his half-empty bottle of

water and dribbled a few drops on the man's lips. The mouth

moved a little, parting just enough to let some of the

water slip between them.   

 

*Shit.* He couldn't just leave him here, much as he

would've liked to--getting him back to the island was going

to be a pain in the ass.   

 

He gave the man some more water, then went to bring the

Jeep down.   

 

                                 ****   

 

Standing behind Scully and gazing under the fishing pier,

Mulder could just barely see the sunken power boat. Through

the gently rolling water its white hull looked ghostly.   

 

Scully put her fists on her hips and gave a sigh that

sounded like steam escaping. "Son of a bitch," she

muttered.   

 

Mulder sympathized. The Cancer Man had that effect.   

 

"What about that freighter?" she asked, still staring out

at the boat.   

 

"Sure. The freighter's good. But you need the paperwork."

He thought a moment, then asked, "What did Skinner say?"   

 

"Skinner said Krycek gave you paperwork we could use."   

 

"Skinner's been wrong about me before," Mulder said coldly.

  

She faced him. At least, he thought, she had the decency

not to look pitiful. Her expression was cool, neutral. "You

don't have the letters of transit?" she asked.   

 

He decided to return her courtesy and answer her bluntly.

He didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to do anything

that would permit someone else to hurt her. But he didn't

have the strength to take the fall for her, either. He was

*not* planning to get himself embroiled in some quixotic

absurdity that probably wouldn't save her anyway. Been

there, done that, had the scars. If she knew that right

up-front, maybe she would find her own solution.    

 

He said, "I might have some idea where they might be, but

if I were to come across them I wouldn't give them up."   

 

She stared at him. "You mean to use them yourself?"   

 

"No."   

 

Her perplexed frown deepened. "What are you saying?"    

 

"I'm saying I've got a pretty comfortable situation here,

and I'm not planning to screw it up."   

 

She glanced away and then back. "What the hell happened to

you after you left Washington?" she asked. Her tone was

bitter.   

 

"I had a close encounter with reality."   

 

She shook her head. "So what? So you woke up one morning

and suddenly realized that life sucks? Why didn't you just

ask me--I could've told you that. Jesus Christ, Mulder,

that's the most pathetic excuse for amorality I ever

heard."    

 

"Look, Scully, I'm still alive. It's about all I've got

left. If you want me to give that up, too, get your gun

back out and get it over with."   

 

Her look was penetrating suddenly. "What happened to your

mother?"   

 

"What you think." *The same thing that happens to everybody

who gets close to me sooner or later.*   

 

She looked at the ground. "I'm sorry," she said.   

 

A heavy silence hung between them, broken only by the cries

of gulls and the lazy thrashing of the surf.    

 

Finally, she said, "Why won't you give me the letters? No

one has to know. I don't know if you care about such things

any more, but Agent Pendrell's work has the potential to

save thousands of lives. He discovered a link between the

venom in the bee stings and the substance in that Mars rock

Krycek led us to in Washington. He discovered that an

immunity can be built up if..."   

 

Mulder felt as if his head might simply explode. Pendrell

had not discovered that. Mulder had handed it to him, both

in the files he had e-mailed to the FBI office and in the

blood he had given up in North Carolina. The bastard hadn't

just taken Scully away from him--he had also taken credit

for work that actually had been Mulder's.   

 

He shoved his anger down into the cold, dark place where he

kept all his other pointless, bothersome emotions. The

truth was, although he had known there was a link between

the bees and the black cancer, he hadn't had the biomedical

expertise to do anything about it. Pendrell did, and right

now, that was the important thing. Not who had figured out

what the stuff was, but who could render it harmless.

Mulder focused on a seagull side-slipping on the breeze and

forced himself calm.   

 

"It's very important work," Scully was saying.   

 

"Crucial," Mulder agreed.   

 

"We could save thousands of lives," she repeated.   

 

"Millions."   

 

"We need to get to California to continue it, to finish

it."   

 

"But it would be better yet to get to Hawaii, where you can

be undisturbed for a period of time."   

 

"Yes." She seemed relieved that he had understood that.   

 

"Then why come to me? Why not go to the SEB?"   

 

She glanced away. "They have been...uncooperative. They

tried to stop us from leaving New Orleans."   

 

"Really," Mulder said, though he was not the least bit

surprised. "And just why do you suppose that is? Has it

occurred to you, has it ever crossed your mind, that maybe

they don't *want* to see an antivenin developed? That maybe

they have plans of their own for what's left of the

continent after all of us are gone?"   

 

Her lips compressed in that prim little grimace that he

knew meant she thought he was so full of bullshit his eyes

had turned brown.   

 

"I see your paranoia's undimmed," she said.   

 

"I've seen what they have in mind for the future," he said.

"And it doesn't leave much room for independent science

projects."   

 

She sighed heavily. "Is that what this is about, Mulder?

You've become so consumed with hopeless cynicism that you

just don't even care enough to try any more? You couldn't

stop the bees, so you don't want anybody else to either?" 

 

He held her look and said nothing.   

 

"Simple cowardice at least would've made sense," she said

bitterly. "But you're no coward."   

 

"If you really want to know, ask your husband," Mulder

said, between his teeth. "He can explain it far better than

I can."   

 

"What would Pendrell know about it?"   

 

"Everything," Mulder grated, and he turned sharply and

walked away.   

 

Continued in Part 10.

lochness@texas.net   

 

Letters of Transit (10/14) By Loch Ness   

 

DO NOT ARCHIVE. ***Not to be entered in or nominated

for any competition or award.***   

 

Classification: T, RA Crossover references to the film

*Casablanca* International readers: US4 spoilers. Rating:

NC-17, for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are

under-age, please do not read this. See Part 0 for

disclaimer, summary and introductory notes.   

 

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

 

Letters of Transit (10/14) By Loch Ness   

 

July 22

Galveston   

 

Good help was *so* hard to find.   

 

The smoking man sighed out a plume of blue-gray vapor as if

to release his anger along with the smoke. "You miserable

bungler," he said to his aide.   

 

The aide stood there, half-in and half-out of his

environment suit, still trembling visibly from his

experience with Krycek in Houston. "He...he killed Vern,"

the aide said helplessly.   

 

They had met at the Galveston hospital as had been planned

all along. Only the arrangement had been for Krycek to be

here, too, as the first step in an elaborate plan to make

Dana Scully and Ted Pendrell think they had found the right

antivenin, in hopes they would distribute it only to find

it a failure--just before the bees arrived in Galveston and

killed them. Krycek had the immunity, of course--he would

recover no matter what drugs Scully and Pendrell gave him.

But without Krycek's bee-stung, writhing body lying on a

gurney, the plan was likely to come apart at the seams.   

 

"Grow up," the smoking man said. "This is dangerous

work--if you planned to live forever, you should've gone

into accounting. All you had to do was haul Krycek into the

truck and bring him back here. Were my orders not specific

enough for your tiny little mind to grasp?"   

 

"No, sir. But I thought--"   

 

"No, you didn't *think*. If you had, you'd have done as you

were told. And when you need to *think*, I'll tell you

*what* to think. Is that clear?"   

 

"Yes, sir."   

 

"It'd better be," the smoking man snarled. He stalked out

into the hot afternoon sun. *Stupid son of a bitch,* he

thought. He wondered how he could accomplish what he wanted

without Krycek.   

 

He'd have to find another way to discredit and trap Mr. and

Mrs. Pendrell.   

 

                                 ****   

 

Scully spent the rest of the afternoon searching for a

boat. Not that she hadn't believed what Mulder had told her

about there not being any available, but hell--even Mulder

could overlook something now and then, especially when he

wasn't particularly motivated to look. Besides, what else

did she have to do except sit around the hotel?   

 

She had no intention of asking her husband any questions,

as Mulder had suggested. It made no sense whatever that

Pendrell would know anything about Mulder's

motivations--Ted had never really known Mulder that well.

Nobody knew Mulder well unless he wanted them to, and he

didn't often make the effort. There was some evidence he'd

had a more-or-less normal social life before he had

launched on his quest after his sister--he did have a few

friends from that time before--but since then the term

"lone wolf" pretty much had defined Mulder's leisure time.

 

In fact, given the depressing nature of what Mulder had

told her, Scully was thinking she might not even mention to

Pendrell that she had spoken to her former partner, at

least not until Pendrell brought it up himself. He had been

acting a little squirrelly ever since they had encountered

Mulder at the bar. Maybe a little jealous. She'd always

thought she might like to make a man jealous, for once, but

she'd found when it happened that she actually didn't care

for it at all. Seemed like he ought to have learned to

trust her more than that.   

 

Walking by one deserted, ramshackle marina after another on

the north side of the island, she grew more and more

annoyed about it all.   

 

Damn Mulder. Damn Pendrell. Damn them both, and for that

matter, all men. Petulant, willful creatures, ruled by

their hormones, acting on those chemical impulses with

social impunity.   

 

She gave up searching for a boat at around seven o'clock,

as the sun finally began to sink slowly toward the horizon.

Either they'd have to find a way onto that freighter, or

they'd have to try to go overland.   

 

Or maybe take Bloodworth up on his offer and hope they

could get away once they reached Denver.   

 

She hated the thought of it, but their options were being

whittled down, one by one.   

 

                                 ****   

 

Mulder didn't start to get worried about Frohike until 10

o'clock. The little man functioned on his own terms, on his

own schedule. He was the eyes and ears for the whole

operation at the club, and he needed freedom of movement to

make that work. He came and went as he pleased. But the

Jeep was gone, and it looked like he wasn't going to make

it back by curfew at midnight.   

 

"He say where he was going?" Mulder asked Langly at about

ten-thirty.   

 

Langly shrugged, flipping his long blond hair off one

shoulder. "Haven't talked to him all day," he said.   

 

Mulder sighed, looking around the club, trying to sniff out

any ferrets Skinner or the Cancer Man might have sent in.

He didn't see any.   

 

"Don't sweat it," Langly said. "He's probably lying low

somewhere. You know Frohike--he's a very cautious man."   

 

"Yeah," Mulder said, unconvinced. After the club closed at

eleven-thirty he went upstairs to the apartment over the

bar, pacing the floor. He was tired. He hadn't slept well

the night before, and this night didn't seem to hold much

promise for rest, either.   

 

Times like this, he missed the numbing diversion of cable

television. He loaded up the CD player, grabbing discs at

random, paying no attention to which ones he put in,

intending to let them function as white noise in the

background. Then he opened the sliding glass door and sat

on the balcony in the dark, staring out at the ocean and

the moonlight.   

 

Suddenly something in the music penetrated. He frowned, his

attention sharpening. "...In the end what you don't

surrender/Well the world just strips away..."   

 

*Shit.* Springsteen, "Human Touch"--it was Scully's disc.

He had no idea how it had gotten mixed up in his stuff.

Scooped up in a rush while they were on the road, likely.

He jerked up, intending to turn it off. But when he got

within reach of the stereo, he found he couldn't do it.   

 

"...You can't shut off the risk and the pain/Without losin'

the love that remains/We're all riders on this train..."   

 

He let the song play through. The sound of it in his ears

was like having her arms around him. He knew he was playing

with fire, but somehow he just couldn't pull himself away

from the flames.   

 

                                 ****   

 

Finally, about two in the morning, Mulder heard something

downstairs. Hand on his gun, he peered around the edge of

the door and saw Frohike gallumphing breathlessly up the

stairs.   

 

Mulder stepped around the door. "Where the hell have you

been?" he demanded.   

 

Frohike ignored the question. "Where's Scully?"   

 

Mulder frowned in confusion. Even Frohike wasn't usually

this direct or this crude. "Down the boulevard in the Best

Western, why?"   

 

The burly little man went galloping down the stairs toward

the back door and out. What the hell, Mulder thought. Then

Byers, from the kitchen, called to him.   

 

"You'd better come have a look," Byers said, and

disappeared through the double doors again.   

 

Mulder sighed and went down. On the prep table in the

center of the kitchen, a grimy, sweaty figure writhed

weakly and emitted a series of short, low moans. Mulder

couldn't recognize the swollen face any more than Frohike

had.   

 

But he didn't have to. The guy was alive.   

 

It had to be Krycek.   

 

*Shit,* Mulder thought. *Here we go.*   

 

                                 ****   

 

Frohike brought Pendrell and Skinner back with Scully.

Mulder glared at the A.D., then at Frohike. The little man

returned the scathing glance with an apologetic shrug.

Mulder went out to the bar to make a fresh pot of

coffee--before this was over, they'd all need it. Frohike

followed.   

 

"I couldn't help it," he whispered. "He was with them at

the hotel."   

 

"Who saw you bring the victim back from Houston?"   

 

"Nobody," Frohike said. Then he thought about it for a

moment. "Well, Frank and Hector on the causeway."    

 

*Wonderful,* Mulder thought. Those two would've been on the

phone to Skinner in two seconds flat. The A.D. had known

about it--and probably relayed the information to the

Cancer Man--before Frohike had had time to drive across the

causeway. And that, naturally, would explain why Skinner

was at the hotel with Pendrell and Scully.   

 

Frohike caught Mulder's long-suffering look and said, "I

know--they're Skinner's moles, but there was nothing I

could do about it. What was I supposed to do? Leave him

there to die?"   

 

"He's not going to die," Mulder said, disgusted.

"Nevermind--it's done. We'll deal with it."   

 

"There was another one with him. A dead one, wearing most

of an environment suit. Fresh dead, like they were hit at

the same time. And I found this on the body." Frohike

handed over an ID wallet, nearly identical to the one

Mulder had carried. Only this guy's badge had been issued

by the Special Emigration Bureau.   

 

Mulder frowned at Frohike. "That doesn't make any sense,"

he said.   

 

Frohike shrugged. "I know."   

 

When Mulder took the coffee back into the kitchen, Scully

was giving Krycek a shot. Whatever it was, he began to

quiet, almost immediately.   

 

"He must have been exposed before," she said.    

 

"The question is how," Pendrell said.   

 

"And why he didn't die the first time," Skinner put in.   

 

Mulder sipped his coffee in silence. Pendrell shot a look

at him--but Mulder didn't react. *Hell, you know more about

it than I do,* he thought. *You want to be a hero? Cool.

Earn it.*   

 

"Do we know who he is?" Scully asked.    

 

Frohike shook his head.   

 

She sighed. "Well, he's stable enough," she said. "At this

point we can treat him symptomatically--just provide

support and see what happens."   

 

"Can he be moved?" Mulder asked.   

 

Her look would've vaporized diamond.    

 

"Look," Mulder said, "this is a bar, not a hospital."   

 

"Sure, fine. Whatever," she said, between her teeth. "God

knows we wouldn't want to inconvenience you. I just thought

it might be better not to have it get around the rumor

mill. I'd love to take credit for curing him, but I think

that's a bit premature and maybe completely unwarranted." 

 

Mulder shrugged and went back out for more coffee. This

time it was Skinner who followed him. "Mulder," he said,

"you know something you're not telling."    

 

"Sure," Mulder said. "I know, for example, that Ioannina is

a city in northwestern Greece and that pavid is a synonym

for fearful. But I can't imagine what use it would be to

say so in the present situation."   

 

"You know what I meant. It's Krycek, isn't it?"   

 

"Huh. You know, he *does* kind of look like Krycek, doesn't

he?"   

 

"Why would the smoking man let him go?"   

 

"Who said he did? How do you know Krycek didn't escape on

his own? And why ask me? Why don't you ask your pal,

Bloodworth?"    

 

"Goddammit, Mulder--"   

 

"You know, this is fascinating. I don't think you've ever

really wanted to know what I thought before--I don't

believe you've ever asked me what was my theory."   

 

"That's crap, and you know it."   

 

Mulder put both hands flat on the bar. "All right, you want

to know what I think--I think the Cancer Man is setting us

all up for a fall."   

 

From the kitchen door, Scully said, "A third-grader

could've figured that one out."   

 

*Goddammit,* Mulder thought. He should've known. Two years

ago he would've known--that Scully wouldn't let go of it,

that she'd follow him out, dog him to say what he thought,

what theories were forming in his head. *Stupid.*   

 

"Well, then, maybe you ought to get yourself a third-grader

to figure out what comes next," he grated.   

 

"How was Krycek exposed? When?" Scully pressed.   

 

They'd been in Siberia together, but if Krycek had been in

the same room, had the same black worms crawl up his nose,

suffered the same convulsions and nausea while restrained

in one of those chicken-wire cages, Mulder hadn't actually

witnessed it. He hadn't been in any condition to witness

it. "How the hell should I know?" he asked.   

 

"Then tell me what you *think* happened!" Scully yelled.   

 

He stopped himself from recoiling away from her, but he

didn't manage not to flinch. Scully enraged was

fearsome--he had forgotten that about her, too. She had

that drill-parade voice--must have learned from it her

father--and there was something about somebody that small

coming at him like doom on wheels that suggested she had a

sledgehammer held behind her back. Scully could kick ass

and take names with the best. Mulder had seen her do it.

He'd been the victim of it.   

 

He drew a long breath to settle ragged nerves. He was

angry, she was angry; time to cool things off.   

 

"Look," he said, his voice low, "he was working with the

Cancer Man when I first met him--I'm sure of that much. For

all I know, he was one of their experiments."    

 

Skinner said, "They could've exposed their own people to

give them an immunity, so they wouldn't be killed if there

was an accident."   

 

Mulder pulled the SEB badge Frohike had given him out of

his pocket and tossed it on the bar. "Yeah, except there

was a corpse with him. Frohike found that on the body. Like

they were trying to kill Krycek and it went bad somehow. Or

he was trying to get away from them and it went bad. I

don't know."   

 

"They were together?" Scully asked.   

 

"It looks that way."   

 

"But if Krycek was on Bloodworth's payroll, wouldn't

Bloodworth know that Krycek had been exposed?"   

 

"I don't know, Scully--I'm trying to work this out just

like you are."   

 

Langly strolled in then, reading the morning newspaper,

fresh from the curb in front of the bar.   

 

"All right," Skinner said, "for the hell of it, let's

assume that Bloodworth did know he'd been exposed before.

What would he gain by taking Krycek to Houston and letting

him get stung?"   

 

"Maybe this," Langly said, and he handed over the paper.   

 

Mulder took it from him. The headline, in type sized

appropriately for the second coming, read: "Medical

breakthrough: Doctors save man stung by bees." The story

quoted Bloodworth, in his capacity as deputy director of

the SEB, as saying that government scientists Ted and Dana

Pendrell were "very hopeful" that they had found a cure for

the stings.   

 

"Oh, my God," Scully said, reading around his shoulder.   

 

"Yeah," Mulder said. "He's setting you up. You try to leave

the island now, and the mob'll lynch you."    

 

Continued in Part 11.

lochness@texas.net   

 

Letters of Transit (11/14) By Loch Ness   

 

DO NOT ARCHIVE. ***Not to be entered in or nominated

for any competition or award.***   

 

Classification: T, RA Crossover references to the film

*Casablanca* International readers: US4 spoilers. Rating:

NC-17, for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are

under-age, please do not read this. See Part 0 for

disclaimer, summary and introductory notes.   

 

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

 

Letters of Transit (11/14) By Loch Ness   

 

July 23

Galveston   

 

With the news about Krycek now all over the island, Scully

saw no point in trying to keep him out of sight, so they

took him to the hospital in Frohike's Jeep and left him

there with specific instructions about how he should be

treated.   

 

Then she and Pendrell went back to the hotel, both of them

exhausted and discouraged. Pendrell flopped on the bed. "Do

you think he's right about what Bloodworth wants?"   

 

"I don't know," Scully said. "In effect, that would mean

Bloodworth's trying to dupe us into thinking we actually

have effected a cure--but I don't understand why. Mulder

said he doesn't think the SEB wants us to find a cure. But

that doesn't make any sense. I don't understand what they'd

gain from it."   

 

"Did you ask Mulder about the letters of transit?" Pendrell

asked.   

 

She sighed heavily. How much to tell him? "Yes. But it was

useless," Scully said, pacing across the hotel room. "He

was..." She shrugged. "He was in one of his moods. He was

bitter and hateful, and nothing he said made any sense. But

the bottom line is, he's not giving up the letters."   

 

"Did he say why?" Pendrell asked quietly.   

 

Scully gave a bitter chuckle, but it died when she looked

at her husband. He was pale, his face tight with anxiety.

"Ted, are you all right? You look like you're not feeling

well."   

 

"Did he say why?" he repeated, in a hoarse whisper.   

 

Slowly, she said, "He said I should ask you." God, what new

horror was coming now? "He said you could explain it better

than he could."   

 

Pendrell closed his eyes and let his head incline forward

so that she couldn't see his face. Softly he said, "Well,

that was chivalrous of him."   

 

Chivalrous? She went over to sit on the bed beside him.

"What are you talking about? Ted, what is it?"   

 

He kept his head down and rubbed his hands along his

thighs, his pose abject misery. She waited him out.   

 

Finally he said, "You remember when I went to North

Carolina? When I brought back the samples from the

'unidentified survivor'?"   

 

"Sure, but what has that got to do with--" She snapped.

"That was Mulder?"   

 

He nodded. "He'd been exposed to the active toxin in the

venom when he was in Russia, in Tunguska. I don't know how;

he never said. So he had some immunity already. But he

wasn't doing very well--I didn't think he was going to make

it."   

 

Scully sat very still. Nothing in the universe would've

kept her from Mulder if she had known he was alive.

Pendrell had known that. And yet he hadn't told her.   

 

"I think..." Pendrell hesitated. "Dana, I told him you were

dead. And after that, it was like he just gave up. Then one

night he left the hospital. Disappeared."   

 

She got up. Suddenly her skin crawled at the mere thought

of being in the same room with him.   

 

"The truth is, I think I came as close to killing him as

the bees did, just by telling him you were gone," he said.

"But I loved you, too, and it was clear to me at the time

he wasn't going to live. I didn't think it would matter." 

 

"So you were going to let him die thinking he was all alone

in the universe? That there was nothing left for him?"   

 

"I know you'll hate me for it. And I don't blame you." He

looked up suddenly, his eyes brimming with tears. "If you

decide to stay with him, I won't make any trouble."   

 

She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. She was trembling,

feverish. She fled, out the door, across the deserted

boulevard and down the seawall to the beach. She ran and

ran, heedless of direction, until the soft brown sand under

her feet finally exhausted her and she had to slow to a

dispirited walk.   

 

She felt suddenly as if she were trapped between them.

Pendrell, who could save the world, if only the world would

let him. Mulder, for whom she would happily give the world

up, if only he would let her.   

 

She'd have to choose between them; there was no other way.

But she had never been good at determining what she wanted

for herself and herself alone. She'd never had any trouble

readily identifying what others wanted or needed from her,

but her own needs and desires had always seemed unfocused,

indefinable. Only occasionally had she found the will to

pursue things simply because *she* wanted them.   

 

Did she want Mulder? God, yes. So much that the thought of

him, the sight of him, took her breath away. Yes, he was

cynical and neurotic as hell. He was an emotional quicksand

of insatiable need and incurable pain, so wounded he could

hardly bear even the gentlest touch. Here on the island his

scars had hardened, but they were no less tender

underneath. Scully knew it would take more than a kiss to

heal those wounds--she did not delude herself that her love

would cure him--and that until they were healed, there

would always be times when he just had nothing for her. He

had never been entirely insensitive to her needs. There was

in him a boundless, bottomless tenderness, a generosity he

did not easily yield up and which was, for its rarity, all

the more precious. But his needs would always predominate,

and most times, he wouldn't even realize he was doing that

to her. If she opted to stay on the island and pillow her

head on Fox Mulder's chest, *that* was the life she

realistically could look forward to.   

 

And yet, somehow, it was the life she wanted, more than she

wanted her next heartbeat. So which of them really was the

neurotic?   

 

Pendrell, on the other hand, was an endlessly giving sort.

He had always been sensitive to her every whim, sometimes

giving her what she had not even realized she needed until

he had presented it to her. He had done all the right

things. There had been roses and candlelit evenings, and in

the midst of the hell the world had become, she had needed

those things much more than she ever would have conceded.

And he had never asked anything of her but that she let him

love her. And so she had. She had drifted along with her

congenial partner, pleased to share a vital professional

effort with someone who approached it with the same

no-nonsense attitude she held. He had made that easy for

her, and in such a difficult environment, she had been

relieved to find that something could be easy. It had even

been easy to make love to him, to close her eyes and

pretend that his hands belonged to someone else.   

 

The only thing that had not been easy had been convincing

herself that there couldn't have been something more.   

 

Yes, Pendrell had given her everything she needed. Except

that when he'd had the opportunity to take *Mulder* away

from her, he had snapped at the chance. And all he had to

offer her now, in compensation, was to suggest that he

wouldn't make trouble if she left him? He'd been wrong when

he'd said she would hate him--she couldn't do that. But she

couldn't forgive him, either. Between she and Pendrell,

things would never be easy again.   

 

Still, she couldn't simply walk out on him, either. The

antivenin still had to be perfected--she couldn't escape

that.   

 

Scully saw lights above her and to her left, and she looked

up. She had drawn even with the Casablanca Club, almost as

if she had been pulled there by some unfathomable magnet.

She closed her eyes, her throat constricting suddenly, a

sharp ache welling up in her chest.   

 

God. How would she ever figure out what to do?   

 

                                 ****   

 

The sun was coming up, and Mulder still hadn't slept. Then

again, he figured sleeping probably wasn't all that safe an

idea just now. Lots of things could happen in the dark,

when one's eyes were closed, and most of them, in his

experience, were bad things.   

 

He drifted downstairs into the kitchen for a snack, and

when he headed back to the apartment with a plate of toast

and jam, he heard footsteps on the dock outside.   

 

It was Pendrell, peering through the window with his hands

cupped around his eyes so he could see past the reflection

of the morning sun on the glass. *Shit--that's what I need.

The red-headed lab geek come to ask forgiveness. Fucker.* 

 

He sighed and went to open the door. "Something I can help

you with?"   

 

"I need to talk to you," Pendrell said. He had his

shoulders hunched up a little, as if to steel himself

against a blow.   

 

Mulder would've liked to hit him, but it would've felt like

child abuse. He settled for verbal needling instead.   

 

"And the reason why I would want to talk to you is...?"   

 

"It's not for me. It's for Dana."   

 

"I think she's your responsibility these days."   

 

"Look, it's not her fault," Pendrell said, all in a rush.

"She didn't know--I didn't tell her I saw you alive in--"

He stopped short and drew a breath, as if he were trying to

get his nerves under control. "Can I come in?"   

 

Mulder didn't want to let him in. He wanted to kick his

scrawny butt to the Moon. But then, who knew who might be

listening? He held the door open and backed away so

Pendrell could follow him in. He let the door swing shut,

then pulled out a chair and sat down.   

 

"Mulder," Pendrell said, "I know what you must think of

me."   

 

"Yeah? What exactly would that be?"   

 

He pulled out a chair and sat down across from Mulder.

"That I'm...a pathetic weasel."   

 

Mulder took a bite of toast and nodded encouragingly. *Not

bad for a start.*   

 

The younger man swallowed hard. "And I guess you're right.

But I was in love with her."   

 

Mulder hooked a thumb toward the street. "Take a number,"

he growled.   

 

"I shouldn't have done it, and I'm sorry."   

 

Mulder nodded again. "Yeah, I'm sorry, too. So what? What

do you want, Pendrell? My forgiveness? Why should I give it

to you?"   

 

Pendrell drew a heavy breath and pinned him with a hard

look. "Do you have the letters of transit or not?"   

 

Well, that was blunt enough. Mulder returned his stare. "If

I did, what would you suggest I do with them?"   

 

"I know you've got no reason to want to help me. But I

don't want Dana to get ground up in whatever Bloodworth's

planning. Use the letters to take her to Hawaii. Just go,

the two of you. I'll be all right here. That's what you

want, isn't it? To be with her?"   

 

Mulder blinked in surprise. Now here was a twist. "You're

asking me to use the letters of transit to run off with

your wife?"   

 

"I want her to be safe," Pendrell said. "I know you want

that, too. If Bloodworth's really trying to trap us here, I

don't want her to get caught."   

 

Mulder felt something in his chest tighten, like a big

snake coiling itself close around a tree's limb. He thought

of black-sand beaches, of food that didn't come out of a

can, of going to sleep with Scully's hair spread across his

chest like dawn. "You're serious?"   

 

"God, yes. Just take her and go. I know she still cares for

you."   

 

Mulder realized he was breathing too fast. *Cares for me?*

If so, she'd given little sign of it. Of course, he'd been

acting like an asshole, mostly--quite on purpose. It was

possible, he supposed...   

 

No. No, no, no. He shoved his feelings back down into the

pit of his stomach. Why should he believe Pendrell? Why

should he trust him? But for some reason, his heartbeat

would not slow down.   

 

"It's an interesting offer," Mulder said carefully. "But

I'm not sure it would work--you and your wife and I are

under surveillance, you know."   

 

"We are?" Pendrell's eyes had gone wide. "Are you sure?"   

 

God, the lab geek was a naive little bunny. Now Mulder

understood what Scully had seen in him--she was something

of a rescuer personality. It was part of what had bound her

to Mulder for so long.   

 

"Yeah," he said dryly, "I'm pretty sure." *Or if we're not,

Skinner's not doing his job, and he's usually very

competent.* "So if I were to try to find the letters, the

odds are good that Bloodworth and his hounds would snatch

them right away from me the minute I had them."   

 

"Damn," Pendrell said, crestfallen.   

 

Mulder got up, leaving his toast uneaten. "So you see," he

said, "I really can't help you."   

 

"Can't?" Pendrell asked harshly. "Or won't?"   

 

Mulder shrugged. "Take your pick. Either way, the answer's

no."   

 

"You really want to see her die here?"   

 

"Everybody's got to die somewhere," Mulder said. "If you'll

excuse me, I've had a long night."   

 

He returned to the apartment and shut the door. Then he

stood there for a long time, leaning back against the door,

his pulse thudding heavily. A savage mix of anger and fear

and longing had suddenly boiled up inside him, and he

couldn't push it away despite his desperate wish for the

cool, soothing hardness of apathy. God, why had they had

come here? He had worked so hard to dull himself, to strip

away his sentimentality. He had thought pain had finally

burned all that mawkish crap out of him, yet here it was,

to torment him again.   

 

Pendrell, trying to repair the past by offering Mulder a

future he had thought could never exist. And it was

working, goddammit--he really was tempted. *Just take her

and go.* God, how sweet that sounded. He and Scully

together, fighting the bad guys, working, loving. The

thought of it was enough to make his heart burst open with

joy and terror. He let his head fall against the door and

closed his eyes, fighting with all his strength to get the

images out of his mind.   

 

He had already lost it all once. He knew he couldn't stand

it again. His only defense had been not to have anything

that he cared to lose, and up until the moment Scully had

walked back into his life, it had been working.    

 

Not again. God, it hurt so. He did not ever want to care

about someone so much. And yet--to have the chance once

more, and turn away from it...   

 

God, it hurt.   

 

Something touched his face then, and he jerked hard away,

eyes opening wide, reaching for his gun.     

 

It was Scully, her hand up where her fingers had grazed his

cheek. "Are you all right?" she asked, frowning in concern.

  

"How the hell did you get in here?" he demanded. His heart

was galloping, his hands shaking.   

 

"I knocked on the side door, and Byers showed me to the

back stairs from the kitchen. I told him I wanted to talk

to you."   

 

*I'll kill the son of a bitch.* He turned away, rubbing the

back of his neck to try to release tension in the muscles.

"Yeah, well, I'm not really up for an extended dialogue,

Scul--" He sighed. "Mrs. Pendrell."   

 

For a moment, she said nothing. Then, "I did what you said.

I asked him why. He told me what happened in North

Carolina."   

 

Mulder drew a long breath, hoping it would steady him. He

faced her. "Look, you have the letters. I sneaked them into

the front pocket of your handbag out on Pelican Island. You

never use that pocket for anything, but you always check it

when you're getting ready to leave somewhere. I figured

you'd plan to make a dash for the freighter and right

before you did, you'd find them." He breathed again. "So

you can go now."   

 

He saw her move toward him, saw her move to wrap her arms

around him, and he stepped backward out of reach so fast he

knocked something off the bookshelf behind him. "Don't," he

said sharply. It came out at a higher pitch than his normal

range--almost like a yelp.   

 

Her frown had deepened. "Mulder--"   

 

"No. It's too late, Scully. It's over. I'll be fine. You

just go."   

 

"I'm not going anywhere."   

 

"I want you to. You and Pendrell--I'm telling you to go." 

 

"Stop it," she whispered. She took a step toward him.   

 

"No!" he yelled. "Don't do this to me! Oh, God--leave me

alone!"   

 

That had the desired effect--it stopped her, her eyes dusky

blue with confusion. "I don't understand," she murmured.   

 

He was shaking so hard he thought his knees would go out

from under him, but he locked his jaw and hung on grimly.

"Go," he said again.   

 

"Mulder, I know how it must've hurt you--"   

 

"No, you don't. You had him, and you could go on like that.

You don't have any idea what it was like. You want to know

what happened to me? You did, Scully. I lost you, and I

couldn't stand it, and it's too fucking late."   

 

Softly she said, "I cried for you, too, Mulder."   

 

"What is it you think, Scully? You think we can rent a

bungalow right here on the island and live out our lives

behind a little white picket fence? Just you and me and

baby makes three? Play out the American dream by the

seashore? Yeah, we can do that, for a few months--until the

bees come and kill you, and I have to watch you die while

I'm helplessly retching my guts up. And then I go on alone

again." He gasped in a shuddering breath. "You don't get to

do that to me again, Scully. Tell me the truth,

goddammit--you waited for me, didn't you?"   

 

"Not so long that I couldn't get away. I knew, Mulder--I

knew why you asked me that. I didn't want to do that to

you, and I didn't." She stepped toward him again. He was up

against the bookshelf and couldn't back away.   

 

"Mulder," she said, "I love you. I always have, and I

always will." She reached toward his face.   

 

"Please don't touch me," he whispered.    

 

She let her hand drop. "All right," she said. "I don't want

to hurt you any more. If you want me to go, I will."   

 

"Please."   

 

She went a couple of steps toward the door, then stopped.

"I'm still alive, Fox--I'm still here. I didn't wait for

you."   

 

He closed his eyes tight and held his breath until she was

gone. It was the only way he could hold the sobs inside

long enough for her to go.   

 

He hadn't wanted her to hear them. He knew she couldn't

stand them any more than he could.   

 

Continued in Part 12.

lochness@texas.net   

 

Letters of Transit (12/14) By Loch Ness   

 

DO NOT ARCHIVE. ***Not to be entered in or nominated

for any competition or award.***   

 

Classification: T, RA Crossover references to the film

*Casablanca* International readers: US4 spoilers. Rating:

NC-17, for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are

under-age, please do not read this. See Part 0 for

disclaimer, summary and introductory notes.   

 

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

 

Letters of Transit (12/14) By Loch Ness   

 

July 23

Galveston   

 

Scully returned to the beach with her thoughts in a whirl,

walking aimlessly along just at the water's edge, not

caring that the surf occasionally splashed over her shoes.

Where else did she have to go?   

 

In a way, seeing Mulder in such anguish had been almost a

relief. She was so much more accustomed to the Mulder whose

feelings were bruised as easily as a four-year-old's. The

one who was in some ways as delicate as a butterfly's wing.

Looking back now, she realized she'd known he was aching

underneath the icy facade he had presented to her. More in

what he hadn't said, hadn't revealed, he had given it away

to her in ways so subtle she had recognized them only

viscerally. Along her spine, not in her brain.   

 

She was stunned at how much his rejection of her hurt.

Scully had always thought of herself as the one who

supplied others' needs--as the one who fulfilled *his*

needs. It had never been clear to her before how much she

needed him.   

 

Part of her wanted to do as he had asked her. Get on the

freighter with Ted and leave. Pretend they had not met

again and settle back into the comfortable blank space

somewhere between happiness and misery that she had been

occupying in New Orleans. That would save both of them the

pain of re-opening the sores, re-learning to trust, to

believe, to have faith in each other. Another part yearned

to stay--to rush back to him and wrap herself around him

like a bandage. To reclaim what he had given her two years

ago.   

 

Except that she wasn't sure either of them could stand even

a healing touch.   

 

God, how would she decide what to do?   

 

                                  ****   

 

Skinner went by the hospital at mid-morning to see how

Krycek was doing. He had tried to call the smoking man but

got no answer--whatever the bastard was up to, he was being

damned quiet about it.   

 

Skinner had spent much of the night thinking about Mulder,

about the way he was behaving, about what he had said and

not said. The son of a bitch was right--Mulder had learned

well from example and he now was acting  like Skinner

always had. Maintaining distance, maintaining plausible

denial, withholding information, holding himself aloof from

the issues and the action. It wasn't a very attractive

picture, and Skinner didn't like seeing either of them in

that light.   

 

*You were the kind of commanding officer to him that you

always hated in 'Nam--the kind who'd send troops into a

mine field and then sit back waiting to see if anybody got

his head blown off.*   

 

Not an appealing image at all. He ground his teeth, shoved

the thoughts out of his mind and headed for Krycek's room.

 

Krycek was asleep when he arrived. The guard Skinner had

assigned said he'd slept through the night, his condition

apparently improving slowly but steadily. Skinner had hoped

to talk to Krycek, to see if he knew anything about what

the smoking man might be trying to accomplish, but he

decided not to wake him until he knew more details about

his condition. Instead he went to find Pendrell in the

hospital's lab.   

 

He found him with one sleeve rolled up and a hypodermic

needle in his other hand, a sheepish look on his face at

being discovered.   

 

"What are you doing?" Skinner asked, forcing his tone

neutral.   

 

Pendrell glanced away and then back. "I think I've isolated

what it is in Krycek's blood that provided him with an

immunity."   

 

That didn't exactly answer the question, but Skinner

decided not to push the issue. "What is it, then?"   

 

"It's a micro-organism that generates an antitoxin when

stimulated by the active ingredient in the bee stings. The

ones I got from Krycek last night were quite active." He

gestured toward the microscope, and Skinner took a look.   

 

He couldn't see a damned thing and said so.   

 

"They look like tiny gnats," Pendrell said. "Little black

dots, mostly sticking to the blood cells."   

 

Skinner looked again, and then he saw them, clinging to a

round, pillowy  red corpuscle like sprinkles on a doughnut.

"So those little things are what made Krycek immune to the

bee stings?"   

 

"I think so, yes."    

 

He straightened up from the eyepieces. "And you figured

that out overnight?"   

 

Pendrell pursed his lips in annoyance and shook his head.

"I've been working on this for two years, and I suspected

for some time now it was something like that. But we never

could isolate it--they don't show up until they've been

inflamed by the toxin, and the only samples I had to work

with came from someone who'd been stung more than a day

before I was able to draw blood. The results were

inconclusive."    

 

"You had a sample from someone else who had an immunity?"

Skinner was surprised--he had thought he knew more-or-less

how Scully and Pendrell had been proceeding.   

 

A fleeting look of distaste crossed Pendrell's face, lip

slightly curled. "Yeah. Mulder."   

 

"You boys have a falling out?" Skinner asked, and then,

before Pendrell could answer, he knew.   

 

Scully.   

 

"Oh," he said. "Yeah. I get it."   

 

"It was my fault," Pendrell said.   

 

"I don't need to know."   

 

"Anyway, I thought he must have had some kind of

micro-organism, something that was producing an antibody or

an anti-toxin in his system, but I never could prove it.

The organisms were just about gone by the time I got hold

of the first sample--he'd been floating around on that

ferry out by Martha's Vineyard for more than thirty hours.

I only saw them once, in the microscope, and then they were

gone. And the second blood sample I drew didn't show them

at all."   

 

Skinner nodded. "So now you think that if we can introduce

the same organisms into other people before they get stung,

that will protect them from the stings?"   

 

"I don't know if 'protect' is quite the right word. You saw

what Krycek was like when they brought him in--he's not

going to die, but he's damned sick, just like Mulder was."

 

"But people won't *die,*" Skinner pointed out.   

 

"Right. I mean, it's not the answer, but it's all we've

got, and if it really works, it's a helluva lot better than

nothing."   

 

"Uh, huh," Skinner said. "So your plan was to stick

yourself with these things and see if it works?"   

 

"Yes." He shrugged. "Somebody's got to test it. I don't

know how much time there is before the bees get here--not

much, if they're as close as Houston."   

 

"And if it doesn't work? Pendrell, if you try it on

yourself, then who finishes up the work?"   

 

He colored slightly. "Dana can do it," he said softly. He

inclined his head toward the computer. "I left her all my

notes."   

 

Skinner nodded. Time to get out into the mine field. "I've

got a better idea," he said.   

 

                                 ****   

 

Mulder had slept finally, after his emotional outburst, and

had awakened balled up around his pillow, feeling drained

but calm, as if the release had greatly relieved some

pressure that had been building. The bar had been pretty

quiet all evening, giving him a chance to drift for a few

hours.   

 

But he figured it wouldn't last, and when he saw Scully

coming up the dock, he wasn't really surprised. She was

walking swiftly, bearing straight for him, her

I'm-in-a-hurry manner telling him it wasn't a social call.

 

That was all right; he preferred it that way.   

 

"Can I talk to you privately?" she said quietly, and headed

toward the kitchen without waiting for his answer.   

 

Son of a bitch, Mulder thought. She just treated me like a

witness she wants to interview. He shook his head in wonder

and followed her.   

 

"What's up?" he asked, once he went through the double

doors.   

 

"I need some ice," she said. "The hospital's run out of

it."   

 

"Okay." He stuck his head back out the doors and made a

"come-here" motion at Frohike. "What's happened? Krycek

take a turn for the worse?"   

 

Scully sighed. "No. It's Skinner."   

 

Mulder frowned. "What happened to Skinner?"   

 

"He volunteered to be exposed to the micro-organisms that

create the immunity to the bee stings." She didn't look or

sound happy about this. She was holding her mouth in that

I-think-this-is-bullshit grimace again.   

 

"You know what causes the immunity?"   

 

"Ted thinks he does. And all I can do now is hope to hell

he's right."   

 

Frohike came in.   

 

Mulder said, "Go up to Seward's place, remind him how big a

favor he owes us, and tell him to send--" He looked at

Scully. "A hundred pounds enough?"   

 

Scully nodded. "That should be plenty."   

 

"A hundred pounds of ice over to Galveston General."   

 

Frohike glanced at Scully, murmured, "On my way," and took

off.   

 

When he had gone, Scully said, "Tell me about Tunguska."   

 

"I went, I got captured, had some black shit stuffed up my

nose by some people I did not regard as gentlemen. I got

away."   

 

She inclined her head. "You know what I mean."   

 

"Yeah, but I can't tell you what you really want to know. I

don't know what the stuff was--I mean, not *exactly* what

it was. I just know it came from the meteorite that crashed

there. I can only vaguely estimate how much of it they gave

me. A tablespoon, maybe two. All I know is, the symptoms I

had were pretty much the same as when I got stung. I

thought so even before I got stung, just from watching the

victims on the news. And from seeing people get hit in Ohio

when I went to get the bee I brought back to D.C."   

 

"That's why you went to Ohio, wasn't it? Because you

thought there was a connection."   

 

"Yes."   

 

"You went to Ohio to get yourself stung," she guessed.   

 

"No. Well, yes. I mean, yeah, that was the plan. But the

bee I saw in Canada died after it stung. I wasn't really

sure they were the same bees--maybe they're not, exactly.

So..." He shrugged. "I chickened. I didn't actually get

stung until I was on the ferry, headed for Nantucket."   

 

She sighed heavily. "How many times did you get stung?"   

 

"I'm not sure. I remember two--but things got rather

confused after that. It could as easily have been five or a

hundred." He thought a moment, then said, "Skinner's really

bad?"   

 

"He was comatose for the first five hours. Now he's got a

fever of a hundred and four, and he's delirious.

Convulsions, nausea."   

 

"The usual, in other words," Mulder said.   

 

"Yes." She ducked her head and rubbed the back of her neck.

"I've seen too many people die from this toxin." She

sounded exhausted, and Mulder supposed she probably was.

Doubtful she'd had any more sleep than he had. Maybe less.

 

"Well, for what it's worth, if he's made it this far, I

doubt he'll die. The remaining question is, will it really

work if he gets stung? And there's only one way to find

out."   

 

She looked up, and her startlingly blue eyes were haunted.

"I know," she said.   

 

Suddenly there was a loud boom, like distant thunder or

artillery fire. They went silent, listening. Another boom,

and then another.   

 

"What the hell?" Scully said.   

 

"Shit," Mulder said. "They're blowing the causeway."   

 

                                 ****   

 

July 24   

 

Scully woke to a distantly familiar clicking sound. Before

she even opened her eyes, she knew what it was--Mulder

playing Solitaire on his laptop computer.   

 

She'd always found watching him do that slightly annoying.

He was practically addicted to the thing--he'd play on and

on for hours, and sometimes had whiled away entire

intercontinental flights with it, seeming irritated when it

came time to turn the computer off for landing.   

 

But what was really irritating was that he was so damnably

methodical about it. Mulder--Mr. Quantum Leap of

Intuition--had a system for Solitaire and never varied from

it. Turn up every card you can right at the outset. Always

leave a space to pull down a king. Never pull down low

cards unless you needed them to move something else.   

 

It didn't even work. He lost most of the time. And he knew

it didn't work, and yet he persisted, as if he were

following some script from which he simply could not bring

himself to deviate. She wondered if he had learned that

lousy card system from his father.   

 

She sat up and stretched. They were at the hospital, in the

same room with Skinner and Krycek, who were still sleeping.

Scully had made Pendrell go and get some rest, protesting

that she would watch over the patients. And then, despite

her best efforts, she had fallen asleep. She wasn't sure

what time Mulder had showed up to shoulder the rest of her

watch for her, but from the look of his wilted white tuxedo

jacket, it couldn't have been long after she'd dropped off.

  

He glanced up when she moved and wordlessly passed her a

thermos.   

 

"How long have you been here?" she asked, opening it.   

 

"I came over after the bar closed up."   

 

Scully breathed the warm, bitter scent in the bottle.

"God," she said. "This is *real* coffee, isn't it?"   

 

"Costa Rican. Ought to be called Costa Bundle, but it's

worth it."   

 

"We couldn't get the real stuff in New Orleans. It was all

burnt barley and chicory."   

 

"Shades of the Civil War." He moved a card with one hand

and reached into a pocket of his jacket with the other,

withdrew a couple of brown paper packets labeled "creamer."

  

"That stuff probably dates back to at least the Korean

War," he said, handing it to her. "It's Army surplus. But

it's what we've got here on our island paradise."   

 

She opened one of the packets, sniffed, and decided to

forgo it. The coffee smelled so good, she didn't want to

taint it with old, musty creamer. "Not that I want to seem

ungrateful, but..."   

 

"I completely understand."   

 

"Is there enough for me?" Skinner asked hoarsely.   

 

Scully put the cup down and went to him. "I really don't

think you should, just yet," she said. "How are you

feeling?"   

 

"Like somebody scoured my guts with steel wool. I'm all

right. Where are my glasses?"   

 

Scully handed them over. He was getting up. "Sir, I think

you really ought to rest for a while," she said.   

 

"No time," Skinner said.   

 

"Relax, Walter," Mulder said, closing up the laptop.

"Nobody's going to Houston today. They blew out the

causeway last night."   

 

Skinner frowned. "What the hell for?"   

 

"Because the smoking man, speaking as deputy director of

the SEB, told them to."   

 

"Son of a bitch," Skinner muttered.   

 

"Are the bees getting closer?" Scully asked.   

 

"No. According to the city's official reports the bees seem

to have found the old rice fields west of Houston very

appealing, and the bulk of the swarm is still out there

eating like mad and...roosting, or whatever bees do at

night. And making little baby bees, I presume."   

 

Mulder shrugged. "And on top of that, there's a tropical

storm coming in that's likely to blow the little bastards

all the way back to San Antonio."   

 

"Then why destroy the bridge?" Scully asked.   

 

From behind her came a bitter, rough-throated laugh. "Man,"

Krycek said, "you people just don't get it, do you?"   

 

"So why don't you tell us?" Skinner demanded.   

 

The younger man propped himself up on his elbows in the

hospital bed. "They don't want anybody to get away. They

don't want any of us to survive--especially not anybody who

could make it possible for a lot of people to survive."   

 

Krycek laughed again.   

 

"They just want to sweep the planet clean," he said.   

 

Continued in Part 13.

lochness@texas.net   

 

Letters of Transit (13/14) ***NC-17*** By Loch Ness   

 

DO NOT ARCHIVE. ***Not to be entered in or nominated

for any competition or award.***   

 

Classification: T, RA Crossover references to the film

*Casablanca* International readers: US4 spoilers. Rating:

NC-17, for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are

under-age, please do not read this. See Part 0 for

disclaimer, summary and introductory notes.   

 

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

 

Letters of Transit (13/14) By Loch Ness   

 

July 24

Galveston   

 

Krycek was grinning like a dog. Mulder would've liked to

slap the smile right off his face, but they all wanted to

find out what the little ratfucker knew about the Cancer

Man's plans.   

 

"You're wrong, Krycek," he said. "We're all painfully aware

that the smoking man wants to wipe out every living soul on

the continent. The question is why, and if you don't start

talking, I'm going to use you to troll for sharks."   

 

The smile segued into a smirk. "Yeah, you'd like that,

wouldn't you, Mulder?"   

 

Mulder took two long strides and got his hands around

Krycek's throat. "You just don't *know,*" he snarled.   

 

Reflexively, Krycek tried to jerk away, but Mulder had him.

 

"I'm going to hold you down while he threads the hook, you

cocksucker," Skinner growled. "Talk--and you'd goddamned

well better tell it straight and tell it all."   

 

"All right," Krycek said.   

 

Mulder released his hold, and Krycek wrenched free.   

 

"They want to start over," he said. "They've developed some

kind of super-humans, and they're making space for them, so

these new people can take over and rule the world, and make

it a better place. They think regular folks like you and I

are too contentious to co-exist with their super-race.

Assholes like us would just screw up the dynamics of the

new order."   

 

"What kind of super-humans?" Scully asked.   

 

"They've got some of the genetic characteristics of the

aliens that crashed at Roswell, back in '47. I mean,

they're mostly human still, but they're stronger, and they

have resistances to diseases and chemicals and radiation.

And they have some kind of healing powers."   

 

"Like Jeremiah Smith?" Scully asked.   

 

"The Jeremiah Smith series was one of the later

experiments," Krycek said.   

 

"Those mute clones I saw in Canada," Mulder said, his voice

low.   

 

"Some of the original prototypes. Now they think they've

got it perfected--the ones they're producing now are even

better than the Smiths."   

 

"Who's 'they?'" Skinner demanded.   

 

"The smoking man, Bloodworth. I don't know their names, but

some of them have been in it since the Truman

administration."   

 

"The Majestic Twelve?" Mulder asked. UFO lore had it that

President Harry Truman had appointed a commission of twelve

men to research and use technology recovered from Roswell.

Mulder had never been absolutely sure it was true.   

 

"Yeah. There's not many of the original twelve left now,

but they put the whole thing in motion, way back in the

'50s." He looked at Mulder. "Your dad was pretty high up on

the staff there, at one point. Until he backed out."   

 

Mulder nodded. Not a surprise.   

 

"What's in it for them?" Skinner asked. "They're going to

be replaced, too."   

 

"They're *patriots.*" Krycek spat the word out. "Fanatics.

They don't care whether they come out of it or not. And

hell, they're all, what? Seventy years old? They won't be

around long enough for it to matter much, and half of the

damned hybrids are their kids, in effect. Their offspring

are going to take over the world."   

 

"One would assume," Scully said, "that if these

'super-humans' were all that super, it wouldn't be

necessary to get rid of the *unter-menschen* so that they

could take over. Why not just turn them loose among us, and

let natural selection take its course?"    

 

"They were trying that," Krycek said. "There were a

lot--maybe a hundred-thousand--like Smith out there before

the bees were let loose. But now they're in a hurry."   

 

"Why?" Mulder demanded. "What happened?"   

 

"I don't know."   

 

Mulder reached for him. "Krycek, if you're lying--"   

 

"I swear I don't know! Whatever it was, it happened after I

left for Hong Kong. I heard that one of the Smiths went

soft--he wanted to help out the poor mortals. Maybe that

was it; maybe they were afraid the *wunderkind* didn't have

the balls to wipe us out. That could be it."   

 

"That's enough," Skinner said. "Scully, where the hell are

my clothes? And don't give me any grief about how I ought

to rest, just tell me."   

 

"Closet," Scully said.   

 

While the A.D. collected his suit and went into the

bathroom to dress, Mulder kept one eye on Krycek and

motioned to Scully. "That freighter for Tampico leaves at

dusk," he murmured. "You'd better be ready."   

 

"If Krycek's telling the truth, Bloodworth's not going to

let us get on it," she whispered back.   

 

He nodded. "You leave that to me and Walter."   

 

                                 ****   

 

There was a lot to be done, but most of it fell on

Pendrell--denied the opportunity and the time to conduct a

full-scale human test on Skinner, he had to run some

additional bench tests to try to make sure the stuff was

working. And he was the one who had to figure out how to

synthesize the micro-organisms in bulk so that the hospital

staff could produce them after he and Scully left. He had

to test whether mixing them with a minute quantity of the

toxin would keep them active long enough to be used.   

 

It was a big job, and not really Scully's field--she

couldn't help him any more than the hospital's own lab

techs already were doing. And to her surprise, a whole

gaggle of young people who'd been studying at the

now-defunct University of Texas Medical Branch and had

gotten stuck on the island suddenly showed up to pitch in,

too.   

 

That left her with little to do but lecture the hospital's

staff and the students on how to take care of people who

were recovering from both the anti-toxin and the bee

stings. She felt silly doing it--these people all knew how

to treat a fever and nausea and convulsions

symptomatically. It took all of thirty minutes. But they

seemed relieved to hear it was something they could handle.

She told them over and over again that the whole thing was

highly experimental. She told them over and over again that

she and Pendrell couldn't guarantee anything. But on her

way out, she could hear renewed hope in their voices, see

it glowing in their eyes.   

 

She hoped it was all warranted.   

 

And so, afterward, what there was left for her to do was

think and wait aimlessly for dusk.   

 

Mulder had vanished after Skinner had dispatched Krycek

back to jail. She had no idea what Mulder was planning, but

it seemed clear he had something cooking. A frontal assault

on the SEB's compound in Denver wouldn't have surprised

her, though she hoped what he had mind was at least a

little less goofy than running headlong into a hail of

bullets. She wished she were helping him plan it. That was

what she *wanted* to be doing--to be with him, to be in on

whatever cock-eyed scheme he was working on. She would have

liked to have been with him on that boat in Georgia, to be

the "Malathion Raider's" gun moll, so to speak.   

 

Suddenly, she pictured herself in a flapper's fringed red

dress, a cigarette holder between her lips, a tommy gun

across her lap. Maybe one of those sequined cloche hats.

Mulder in a dark, pinstriped zoot suit. She and Mulder,

cast as Bonnie and Clyde for the new millennium. She

stifled a laugh.   

 

But then, really, maybe that was what it would take to stop

the smoking man and his colleagues from destroying the

world. Most of the time she'd spent on the run with Mulder

had been harrowing, but the truth was, she had felt alive.

She had felt she was doing the right things, the necessary

things. She had felt needed, had felt both she and her work

were valued, even if only by a certified kook carrying a

badge.   

 

Maybe now the real question was, what was stopping her from

donning that red dress?   

 

                                 ****   

 

She found him in his apartment over the bar, still dressed

in the same wilted tux he'd had on at the hospital, still

working on the laptop. But he wasn't playing Solitaire

now--he was typing something, sitting at the dining room

table with his back to her.   

 

"You're getting to be a real break-in artist," he said, as

she approached quietly from behind him. He turned, and she

saw he had his glasses on--one of the lenses had gotten

cracked at the bottom. The sight of him made her heart

pound. Even bedraggled and tired, he was beautiful. Legs

and arms that went on forever. Eyes like new spring grass.

 

 

"I could swear I locked that door," he said, turning back

to the computer.   

 

"You did."   

 

He turned off the computer, removed his glasses and twisted

in the chair to face her. "What's up?" he asked.   

 

"I'm not going," she said. She went toward him. Like the

last time, she had not planned this. She was flying on

autopilot.   

 

"Yes, you are," he said.   

 

She caught him just as he started to get up from the table,

caught him between the chair and her body, both of her

hands on either side of his jaw. "I love you," she said.

"You can't make me leave, and I won't."   

 

She leaned in to kiss him, but at the last second he turned

his head away from her. She kissed what she could

reach--his cheek, his left eye.   

 

"Stop it," he whispered.   

 

"I don't want to."   

 

He wrenched out of her grip, pushed the chair sideways and

got to his feet, size and sheer brute force overcoming her

feeble effort to hold him trapped. "Look, Scully, this

won't change anything." His eyes and his voice had gone

hard as granite. "This immunity is only a stopgap measure,

and you know it. We still need a real cure, and you and

Pendrell have the best shot at coming up with it. You know

now that you're on the right track."   

 

"He doesn't need me for--"   

 

"Maybe not, but he is still your husband. I don't know

about you, but I was raised to believe that meant

something." Into her stunned silence, he said, "I may be a

lonely guy, but I don't fuck other men's wives."   

 

She knew he'd calculated that to shock her, so she threw it

back at him. "Do you fuck women you're in love with?" She

advanced on him like a tiger stalking a zebra, knowing full

well that, like a zebra, he might bolt at any second. "Do

you fuck women who want you so bad they'll break into your

apartment?"   

 

His eyes had gone wide--she read fear and desire in about

equal measure. She sensed that he wanted to bolt, but he

held his ground. She stopped when she stood close enough

that she knew he could feel her breath against his throat,

and looked up at him. "Do you want me to beg, Mulder?"   

 

There was a long silence while she stared up at him, and he

stared back at her. Slowly, very deliberately, she raised

her hands toward his face. Just before she touched him, he

finally backed away a step. She could see his chest rising

and falling as breathed. "Shall I tell you exactly how much

I want you?" she asked, her voice low.   

 

He was beside her before she knew it--she'd forgotten he

could be so quick, so agile. His hands closed around her

waist, and he lifted her up onto the table and held her.

There was a dark challenge in his hazel eyes, in the pained

set of his mouth. *Do you want me? Are you *really* ready

for this?*   

 

He raised his hands and cupped her breasts, still holding

her with his gaze. She shivered hard with pleasure and let

him see it, in her eyes, her slightly parted lips. He ran

his thumbs across her nipples, and she drew a ragged gasp.

*Yes. I'm ready. Are you?*   

 

He leaned in to kiss her, and she knew what he was

planning--to crush her mouth with his own, to claim her.

She stopped him with a touch, her fingers feather-light

along his jaw. His look was savage, ravenous. But

ravishment was not what he needed to give or to receive.   

 

"Let me gentle you," she breathed. He froze, and now the

wildness in his eyes was partly fear. "I know it's hard. I

know you're afraid. Trust me. You used to trust me."   

 

His eyes closed, and it was his turn to shiver.    

 

*I know the tenderness in you, Mulder. You can't hide it

from me; you never could. Give it to me. Let me give it

back to you.*   

 

She pulled ever-so-gently, with the hand along his jaw, and

felt him hesitate, then slowly begin to yield, until he

took two small steps and placed himself in her grasp. She

wrapped her legs around his thighs, her arms around his

neck. He was trembling like a frightened puppy, but she

could feel his erection gently prod her belly as he

breathed. She stroked his hair to reassure him.   

 

*I won't hurt you. I won't let anything hurt you. Not

today. Let it go, all that hurt, all that terror.*   

 

He pulled his head away a little and brought his hands up

to her face, her hair. Now his eyes were wide, adoring,

startlingly green with excitement. "God," he whispered,

"you're so beautiful. I need you so much."   

 

"I'm yours."   

 

He kissed her, his sweet, full mouth soft and warm on hers,

his tongue exploring lightly. She drew him closer, pressed

her breasts against him, ran her own tongue across his

lower lip, and felt him shiver in anticipation. God, he

felt so good, the smooth, trim planes of him, the clean

lines of bone and muscle. She could feel herself melting

inside, and she knew neither of them could wait for long. 

 

Scully withdrew just far enough to reach up and undo the

knot of his tie. *No more sex with your tie on, Mulder.* He

was still trembling, but none of it was fear now. He leaned

back a little so she could slip his jacket off his

shoulders, still staying inside the circle of her legs. She

took the gun off his belt and laid it behind her on the

table, then started on his shirt. *I want all of you this

time. I want to see you, breathe in your scent, tickle my

nose in the hair on your belly. All of it.*   

 

With his shirt open, she saw that his nipples were erect,

hard as tiny buttons. She leaned forward, intending to kiss

them, but he jerked backward.    

 

"Wait," he whispered.   

 

*Ah. So those are sensitive, are they?* She would remember.

Instead, she placed her mouth in the shallow cleft between

his breasts and kissed him there, licked his skin, drank in

the warm, salty taste of it. He gasped. His arms closed

around her again, and he lifted her and carried her into

the bedroom. As he went, she tugged his shirt-tails out.   

 

He set her down on her feet in the bedroom, toed his shoes

off, then stood still while she unbuckled his belt and slid

his trousers to the floor. Gently she freed his erection,

straining at the fabric of his briefs. God, he was big. She

tried not to touch him there any more than absolutely

necessary. She could feel the effort he was exerting to

keep control--she knew she couldn't push him much.    

 

Naked, he was stunningly beautiful. Lean and perfect, slim

and muscled for speed. She let her gaze roam up the length

of him until she was looking into his eyes again and read

the message there: *Now you.*   

 

She took a step closer to him and let him remove her blouse

and skirt, only touching him to hold his shoulder for

balance as she stepped out of the skirt. He slid the straps

of her slip off her shoulders, unhooked her brassiere, then

stood looking at her bare breasts, as if transfixed.   

 

*Yes,* Scully thought, in the moment before his hands

cupped her again. *Yes, touch me.* She gave a little

whimper of delight at the contact. His hands were warm, the

skin a little rough to the touch. He leaned down and kissed

her, his thumbs again caressing her nipples. Every nerve in

her body was aflame with him. Just when she thought she

couldn't stand another moment, he released her. He pulled

the slip gently down off her hips, then removed her

panties. Again she caught his shoulder briefly for balance.

  

Then she was lying on his bed, waiting, anticipating. It

was his turn to look at her, and there was a kind of awe in

his manner as he ran one hand lightly from the hollow of

her throat, between her breasts, and down to the top of the

hair that lay between her legs. He bent his head and took

her right nipple in his mouth, suckling gently but

insistently like a hungry child, his tongue lapping at her

in steady swipes. Scully groaned out loud, full-throated,

her hips writhing involuntarily.   

 

*Oh, God, take me.* And he was there, entering her, in more

small, insistent movements, a centimeter at a time. She

wanted to shove up and take him straight into her center,

but he had her pinned with his weight so that she could

only match him, tiny thrust for tiny thrust. He was so

hard; she was so wet. The sensation of him moving inside

her was too much. She came like an explosion, the world

seeming to blow apart with the force of it along her spine.

And he was still moving, deeper and deeper, inexorably, and

she came again, and yet again when she knew she had all of

him.   

 

He let go of her breast. They were both panting like

overheated animals, and for a moment, they just stopped

there.   

 

Then he lay down across her chest and did something Scully

couldn't quite grasp in her dazed, exhausted state,

something that somehow turned them over so that she was on

top of him without breaking the fusion between them. She

tucked her legs, lifted her shoulders and smiled at him.

*You're lucky I still have the strength for this,* she

thought. She moved on him and felt him shudder, saw his

eyes shut and his mouth twist. She wouldn't need much

strength; he was very close.   

 

She leaned down and suckled at his breast and came again as

he did, his spasm inside her, the delicious sound of his

incoherent cries, igniting her own body again.   

 

*You're mine now,* she thought in elation. *And I'm yours.

No matter what comes between us, we'll never be separated.*

  

 

Continued in Part 14.

lochness@texas.net   

 

Letters of Transit (14/14) By Loch Ness   

 

DO NOT ARCHIVE. ***Not to be entered in or nominated

for any competition or award.***   

 

Classification: T, RA Crossover references to the film

*Casablanca* International readers: US4 spoilers. Rating:

NC-17, for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are

under-age, please do not read this. See Part 0 for

disclaimer, summary and introductory notes.   

 

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

 

Letters of Transit (14/14) By Loch Ness   

 

July 24

Galveston   

 

Mulder let Scully sleep, but he couldn't. He cuddled her on

his chest and wept a little, silently. He wanted to hold

her as long as he could, knowing it wouldn't be for long;

he knew he couldn't keep her with him, much as he

desperately wanted her beside him forever.   

 

The question was, how would he ever manage to let her go?

The thought made him feel as if his heart might simply

split open.   

 

*Don't think about it. Just hold her. This is all you

have.*   

 

Slowly, the warm, regular thud of her heart soothed him,

and he calmed. Pendrell had been right--they wanted the

same thing--for her to be safe. She wouldn't like it, he

knew, but it had to be done.   

 

About seven, he touched her face to wake her.   

 

"Mmm," she murmured. "I would've begged, you know."   

 

"I didn't want you to," he whispered back. "I love you."   

 

She lifted her head and looked at him. He let himself drink

in the sight of her--her eyes peacock blue in the afternoon

sunlight filtering in through the windows. Her hair like a

slick of molten copper.   

 

"I love you, too," she said. "I won't leave you."   

 

He knew better, but he smiled up at her.   

 

"Still," she said, "we have to make sure Ted gets away."   

 

"Yes." Mulder shifted, and she caught his signal, moved so

that he could sit up. "He's not going to go without you,

Scully."   

 

"He'll have to." She sat up beside him.   

 

"Yeah. That's why you have to convince him that you *are*

going with him. Once we get him to the freighter, then

we'll tell him. Then he'll have to leave."   

 

"Okay," she said. She looked closely at him, her brows

knitting suddenly in concern. "Are you okay?"   

 

"Sure. Why?"   

 

"Your eyes are a little swollen."   

 

"I'm tired, that's all." He bumped her shoulder with his.

"Which is at least as much your fault as mine."   

 

She chuckled and bent to retrieve her clothes. "Believe me,

it's mutual. What time will the freighter leave?"   

 

"About 9:30. You and Pendrell be here at a quarter to.

We'll give you an escort to the ship."   

 

"Just in case we get in a firefight, do you have some ammo

that'll fit my Sig? I'm down to one magazine and three

rounds."   

 

"I doubt it, but I'll look." With her tiny hands, she

carried a smaller Sig than he did; it fired 9-mm parabellum

rather than the .40-caliber Smith & Wesson rounds he liked.

He searched but didn't find any. "Sorry. No good." He

thought a moment, still shuffling through a drawer. "You

want my PPK? I've got plenty of .380 auto you can have."

When he turned, he saw she was admiring the view--he was

still naked.   

 

"No, it's okay. I'll try to conserve."   

 

Despite himself he blushed as he went back to her.   

 

"Very nice," she said. He rolled his eyes.   

 

"You'd better hurry," he said. "There's not a lot of time."

  

She stood up, laid her hand along his cheek and gave him a

wide-eyed look of such tenderness it stopped his breath.

"Do you believe I love you?" she asked.   

 

"I believe," he whispered.   

 

He did.   

 

"I do," he said. Then he kissed her. He suspected it was

for the last time.   

 

                                  ****   

 

They were right on time. Frohike had already taken their

luggage and equipment to the ship in his Jeep--Bloodworth's

people weren't watching him. He had made a circuitous trip

around the island, then, carrying an order signed by

Skinner, had got the freighter's crew to load the bags in

advance.   

 

"Distract Scully for a minute, will you?" Mulder asked the

little man.   

 

"My pleasure," Frohike said.   

 

"You have the letters?" Mulder asked Pendrell.   

 

Pendrell nodded.   

 

"Put your name and hers in the blanks at the top. Do it

now, so you're legal before we leave."   

 

As he wrote the names in, Pendrell said softly, "What made

you change your mind?"   

 

"I didn't."   

 

Pendrell looked up, his eyes both fearful and hopeful.   

 

"I never told you I was going to take her to Hawaii."   

 

He finished writing the names and stuffed the letters in

his jacket pocket. "Why would you do this? Just let her go

with me?"   

 

Mulder shrugged. "Like you said--I want her to be safe. And

she wouldn't be safe here."   

 

Pendrell nodded. "But it doesn't matter. She hates me now,"

he said, his voice low.   

 

"No. She was so determined to see you get away she tried to

seduce me in return for the letters," Mulder lied coolly.

"I didn't take her up on it."   

 

Pendrell frowned at him in confusion.   

 

"She's a very forgiving sort, Pendrell. She's mad at you,

all right--but she always forgave me, and she will you,

too, if you earn it. You have a chance now to regain her

respect." He gave the younger man a hard look. "Don't blow

it."   

 

"I won't. What do you want us to do?"   

 

"Sit down and have a drink. I'll call you when we're

ready."   

 

About fifteen minutes later, he motioned at Scully over the

heads of the other patrons. She murmured something to

Pendrell, and they came into the kitchen. Just as they

entered, Byers and one of the waitresses headed out the

back and along the side of the dock to the street.   

 

"What's going on?" Scully asked.   

 

"Oh, you two are going back to the hotel," Mulder said. "Or

at least that's what we hope Bloodworth's crack

surveillance team will think."   

 

"How'd you manage that?" Pendrell asked.   

 

Mulder shrugged again. "The only hard part was getting

Byers to shave off his beard."   

 

Scully smiled. "Tell him we appreciate his sacrifice," she

said.   

 

What a beautiful smile she has, Mulder thought.   

 

Frohike stuck his head in through the back door. "They

bought it," he called softly. "They're gone."   

 

"Let's move," Mulder said.   

 

They made it to the ship without incident. But as they

pulled up to the pier, Mulder saw Skinner and another man

standing at the bottom of the ramp. It was tuxedo, the guy

he had thrown out of the casino just before Pendrell and

Scully had showed up. There was no mistaking the gun he had

stuck in Skinner's back.   

 

Warily, they got out of the Jeep, hands on their holstered

guns. And then, from back in the shadows, a figure stepped

forward, a man-shape darker than the dark.   

 

Bloodworth.   

 

"Good evening," he called pleasantly. "I was afraid you

were going to leave without saying goodbye. So I took the

liberty of asking Mr. Skinner to bring me down to see you

off."   

 

"You bastard," Scully said. She had her gun out now,

pointed at tuxedo. "You pull that trigger, and you'll be

dead before he hits the ground."   

 

Mulder slid out the left side, drew his own gun and braced

both hands on the Jeep's roof. The shot was a little long,

but there was no wind, nothing between he and the smoking

man. "Drop it, Bloodworth!" he yelled. "I've got a clean

shot, and nothing would make me happier!"   

 

"I'll trade him for Agent Scully," Bloodworth said.   

 

Clever, Mulder thought. Take Scully, and he'll have all

three of us by the balls--me, Skinner, Pendrell.   

 

"The fucking hell you will," Pendrell said. Mulder didn't

see the gun until the younger man fired. At once, Skinner

flung himself out of the way and tuxedo fell, shot through

the heart.   

 

Scully was holding aim on Bloodworth and moving slowly

toward him. "Get your hands up," she ordered.   

 

Something was wrong; Mulder could feel it in a tingle of

fear along the back of his neck. Scully was so close, and

she was moving between the Cancer Man and Skinner and

Pendrell. Bloodworth stood motionless and let her get

closer.   

 

And he wasn't smoking. It was all wrong.   

 

"Get your hands up!" Mulder yelled, echoing Scully. The son

of a bitch was up to something--he wouldn't just stand

there and be taken.   

 

She was so close. Too close.   

 

Mulder tightened his grip on the Sig and moved out around

the Jeep. He guessed it was thirty yards, in the gathering

dark, with Scully too close.   

 

Now, suddenly, the smoking man moved. His right hand still

in shadow, coming up in a lazy arc, a glint of steel off

something clutched in his fist.   

 

Scully had seen it first, and she moved left, squarely into

Mulder's line of fire. She shot, three times in quick

succession. Bloodworth staggered but didn't fall--Mulder

realized he was wearing a vest. He'd recover in a second,

and Scully was out of ammo, searching frantically in a

pocket for another magazine.   

 

"Down!" Skinner yelled at Scully, but she didn't seem to

hear him.   

 

Mulder danced left, to clear his aim. Bloodworth's hand was

still rising. Mulder stopped, let his knees unlock and took

his shot.   

 

And double-tapped the son of a bitch right between the

eyes.   

 

Bloodworth's spine arched impossibly as the impact flung

his head back, and for a moment Mulder thought he might

actually turn a flip as he fell, his feet coming up off the

ground. Then he dropped in a heap, slid almost a yard

across the pavement and finally lay still.   

 

Mulder went toward him, leading with his gun. Bloodworth

was dead. Jaw slack, eyes wide in an expression that looked

like astonishment. Mulder nudged the right hand, still

gripping something, with his foot. The fingers let go, and

a small object hit the ground with a metallic rattle.   

 

A Zippo lighter.   

 

Mulder leaned his head back, trying to relax, let the

adrenaline drain back out of his muscles. It was over. He

had thought he might have a moment of triumph over the

Cancer Man's demise. Instead, he just felt tired.   

 

Scully turned around, glanced at tuxedo's body on the

ground and gave her husband a look of amazement.   

 

Pendrell looked equally stunned. "I've been practicing..."

he got out. "A little."   

 

"Practice any more and you'll be a fucking Olympic

contender," Mulder murmured.   

 

"Well, I couldn't... I mean, I couldn't let him..."   

 

"I think it was meant as a compliment," Skinner said dryly.

"At any rate, I'm grateful for your newfound skill."   

 

"I never killed anybody before," Pendrell went on. "I never

even shot  anybody before."   

 

"You'll get over it," Mulder said sympathetically. "Just

remember he would've killed A.D. Skinner if you hadn't shot

him. Keep telling yourself that."   

 

Scully put one hand on his shoulder. "Ted," she said, "go

aboard. I'll take care of this."    

 

"Okay," Pendrell said numbly. "Here." He handed her the

letter of transit with her name on it.   

 

She took it, with a slantwise glance at Mulder. "I'll be

right up," she said.   

 

Pendrell went up the gangplank.   

 

When he had gone, Mulder said, "We'll get rid of the

bodies, Scully." He holstered his Sig. "There are sharks in

these waters. Nobody'll find them." He inclined his head

toward the freighter. "You go on."   

 

She stared at him. "Mulder, I told you--I'm not leaving

you."   

 

"You have to go, Scully, and you know it."   

 

"No!"   

 

He took her arms, just above the elbows, and held her.

"Listen to me. Pendrell didn't even know you were under

surveillance. Despite his stellar performance here, I don't

think he's going to make it out of Tampico without you. If

you really think he doesn't need you, I think you'd better

reconsider."   

 

"I want to stay with you," she whispered.   

 

"I know you do. And I wish like anything that you could.

But you know better, Scully. There's been too much pain,

too much blood spilled. I thought I could turn away from

it, but when I did, I lost myself. I didn't get it back

until I saw you again."    

 

She closed her eyes, as if doing that could stop her from

hearing what he was saying. But just before they closed he

could see in them that she knew he was right.   

 

"The faith to keep looking," she whispered.   

 

"Yes," he said. "I'd lost that. And I need it. You do,

too--you can't turn away, either. We may not ever bring the

bastards to justice, but we still have a chance to stop

them."   

 

He fell silent for a moment. Then he reached to lift her

chin gently. "I love you, Dana," he said. "But if we give

up fighting now, what will we have?"   

 

She opened her eyes, spilling over with tears. "Each

other," she breathed.   

 

"I don't think so. I don't think we'd ever stop wondering

if we'd done the right thing. Do you really think we could

be happy together while the rest of the world came

unraveled around us? What kind of life would that be for

either of us?"   

 

The freighter's whistle blew, thunderously loud, like the

crack of doom. Scully started hard, and Mulder tightened

his grip on her arms a little to steady her.   

 

"I want to be with you," she said.   

 

"You will be, no matter what happens." He let go of her.   

 

She reached up and stroked the lapels of his jacket with

both hands, as if remembering a time when she had been able

to hang on to him by taking hold of them. "You never forgot

Samantha," she said, as if reassuring herself that he

wouldn't forget her, either.   

 

"And I never will." The freighter's crew was casting off

lines. "You'd better go," he said.   

 

"I love you," she said.   

 

"Go," he said.   

 

She went quickly up the gangplank. For a moment he feared

she might stay on deck, watching until she couldn't see him

any more, but she spared him that--she disappeared.   

 

Mulder stood watching, though. Standing guard until the

freighter had gone, sailing slowly off around the end of

the island until its lights winked out one by one.    

 

He felt drained, a soft, miserable loneliness soaking down

into his bones.   

 

Then suddenly Skinner was beside him. Mulder drew a sharp

breath to compose himself. "Where's Bloodworth?"   

 

"Back of the Jeep," the A.D. said. "Wrapped in garbage

bags."   

 

"Nice touch," Mulder said.   

 

"I thought so. Here." He handed Mulder the lighter.

"Souvenir."   

 

*More like a scalp,* Mulder thought. He looked at the

lighter. Engraved on it were the words, "Trust no one."   

 

*That's what got you killed,* he thought. *You couldn't

trust anyone, and no one could trust you.* He put the

lighter in his pocket.   

 

They were silent for a long moment. Then Skinner asked,

"You really do know how to get off the island, don't you?"

 

Mulder looked over his shoulder at him.   

 

Skinner shrugged. "Somebody's going to have to start

distributing the micro-organisms to what's left of the

country. And I've got a certain curiosity all of a sudden

about what's going on back east--I left some stuff in D.C.

I'd like to reclaim, if I can wrest it away from the

members of the master race who have probably taken up

residence in my apartment."   

 

"Okay," Mulder said. "I'll take that ride. Just do me one

favor, will you, Walter?"   

 

"Name it."   

 

"Don't make any sappy remarks about 'a beautiful

friendship.'"   

 

"Wouldn't dream of it."   

 

                                 ****   

 

As she was settling herself in the tiny ship's cabin,

Scully noticed that her handbag seemed heavier than usual.

There was something in that front pocket that Mulder had

said she never used for anything.   

 

She looked. His Discman, complete with headphones. It was

on pause, the display showing "9." With the cover closed,

she couldn't see what disc it was, but she knew he had

meant it as a message.   

 

She slipped the headphones on and pushed play.   

 

She heard Sarah McLachlan and knew instantly what the

message was.   

 

"...so now you're sleeping peaceful/ and I lie awake and

pray/ that you'll be strong tomorrow/ and we'll see another

day..."   

 

She let the song play through. The sound of it in her ears

was like the warm strength of his arms around her.   

 

He believed.   

 

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

The End

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