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Title: All Dreams of the Soul: Numbers 3/4

Author: Tiger Lilly

E-Mail address: Tigerlillyme@yahoo.com

Rating: R

Category: XA

Keyword: Mulder Angst. X-file. UST

Spoilers: 5th season

Summary: So, what does Mulder think? 
Continuation of All Dreams of the Soul: Exodus. 

          

Disclaimer: Okay, I am stealing! I admit it! I have 
taken your wonderful characters and used them 
for my whim and fancy. (Well, I did make up a 
couple of my own. And the plot line is sort of 
original.) But, I'm not charging for this little story. 
Nosiree. Everyone can read it for free. And I'm 
not making any money from advertisers, etc., etc. 
In fact, I'm quite poor. Really poor. So, suing me 
would merely be a futile attempt. Right?

          

Warning: This story is rated R for language and 
adult situations. 

          

Author's note: This is the third of four installments. 
If you haven't read All Dreams of the Soul: 
Genesis or Exodus, then Numbers is not going to 
make much sense to you. My suggestion—go 
back and read them.

          

Please send me your feedback at 
Tigerlillyme@yahoo.com. Be gentle on me. It my 
first time out. Okay to archive anywhere. Just 
please send me an e-mail so I'll know.

          

     

Numbers

     

     Mulder slumped in the motel chair with his 
long legs stretched out before him to their full 
extent. He was watching Scully pack, her 
suitcase lying open on his bed. He tried once 
more to get her to acknowledge him. 

     "Scully, I said I was sorry."

     Her only response was to raise her chin a little 
higher. She strode between her room and his in 
icy silence. With each trip she would bring a 
single item with her—a blouse, a t-shirt, a 
bra—then fold and pack it with a fastidiousness 
that was only betrayed by an occasional quiver of 
her lower lip and chin. 

     "Scully, talk to me."

     For the first time, she turned and faced him. 
"Why can't you see this?"  Her tone was sheer 
frustration, but her eyes held a look of absolute 
terror.

     

     "Agent Mulder, would you please tell me just 
what in the hell is going on down there?"

     Mulder looked around the room for Scully. 
There was no sign of her or her suitcase. It took 
him a few seconds to orient himself. Oh, Jesus, 
he thought, another one of those dreams. He 
vaguely wondered how long he had been 
asleep. The light around the edge of the drapes 
indicated morning. He suddenly realized he was 
holding his cell phone, and Skinner's angry voice 
was on the other end.

     "Sir?"

     "Why am I sitting here looking at an e-mail 
from Agent Scully requesting a leave of absence 
for an indeterminant amount of time with no 
explanation as to why, other than undisclosed 
personal reasons?"

     The words were slowly sinking in....Leave of 
absence...Scully....But Scully was right next door. 
He looked at the adjoining door. The closed 
adjoining door. The fuzz cleared from his mind 
instantly as he bolted from the bed to the door 
between their rooms and knocked. At some point 
last night she must have shut it...again. He 
muffled his cell phone against his chest and 
called out "Scully!" in an angry, slightly frantic, 
whisper. No answer. 

     Not that he was really expecting one because 
he somehow knew that at that moment she was 
sitting on a flight back to D.C. She must have 
changed to an earlier flight as well, after she shut 
the door. He knew it with a certainty that he 
couldn't explain but had been experiencing for 
several weeks. He felt that he could stand 
blindfolded in a dark room and point her out like 
some twisted game of pin the tail on the donkey. 
It was if she had crawled under his skin and was 
currently residing at the base of his skull, and it 
was driving him nuts. They were obviously 
spending way too much time together.

     "Mulder!"

     Mulder stopped knocking and uncovered the 
phone at the sound of Skinner's voice. He 
assumed his best agent-on-the-job persona. 

     "Sir, it is my belief that Agent Scully returned to 
a full schedule too soon after her recent ordeal. 
Her work has been suffering as a result, and last 
night I suggested she return to Washington and 
take some more time to recuperate." 

     "Agent Mulder, are you telling me that one of 
my best agents has all but resigned because of a 
suggestion that she take some time off?" 

     Mulder ran his hand over his face and through 
his hair. He could tell Skinner wasn't buying it. "I 
actually removed her from the case." 

     "You what? On who's authority did you remove 
her?"

     "We had an argument last night, and I may 
have overreacted."  He could almost hear 
Skinner's jaw muscle tensing.  "But I still believe 
she needs some more time to recover."  Mulder 
cringed in preparation for the reaction he knew 
was coming.

     Skinner's voice was controlled rage. "Agent 
Mulder, I strongly suggest that you return to Agent 
Scully the gun and badge that she relinquished 
to you, start acting like adults, and work out these 
petty differences. If Agent Scully needs some 
more time off, fine. And I will consider any 
recommendations you may be inclined to 
provide. But any action will be at her discretion or 
mine, not yours. Do you understand, Agent?" 

     Mulder took a breath. "Yes, sir".  

     He pushed end on his cell phone and threw it 
on the bed, then flopped down beside it in a sort 
of depressed Nestea plunge. 

     "Fuck." 

     Skinner wanted to know what the hell was 
going on, and he had no idea himself. Things 
had been happening to him over the past couple 
of months that he couldn't explain. That he wasn't 
really consciously aware of unless he 
concentrated on them, like a bug buzzing just on 
the edge of his peripheral vision. 

     First, there had been the dreams. Strange, 
hazy dreams that had started out with no form. He 
had to be somewhere, but he didn't know where, 
and he had to save someone, but he didn't know 
who. He knew this person needed help, but he 
didn't know why. He would wake from them 
exhausted and confused. 

     Lately, they had become more distinct, 
extremely life-like, yet all the more disorienting. 
Waking dreams was the best way to describe 
them. He would swear he was awake, watching 
events unfold, even speaking to the cohabitants 
of the dream. Like the one he had been having 
when Skinner called. When he woke from these 
dreams, he was always startled to find he had 
been asleep. 

     Scully had been a major player in these latest 
dreams and always exhibited an unsettling 
combination of impatience and fright. It was as if 
he were failing her, again. He wasn't sure which 
were worse—the dark, amorphous dreams that 
left him with a feeling of dread or the life-like 
accusatory ones that left him with a feeling of 
guilt. 

     It seemed he lived his life in a constant state of 
guilt. It had started with his sister, worked its way 
through his father's death, Scully's abduction, her 
cancer, and most recently, her rape. Her rape, 
God, that was still a raw wound. Even though 
there had been no warning, he couldn't shake 
the feeling that he had known she was in danger 
and not responded.

     The night of her attack, he had just awakened 
from the first of the distinct dreams and his skin 
was prickling all over. In the dream, Scully had 
been yelling at him for not paying attention to the 
evidence before him, but all he was looking at 
was an empty table. It was then that his cell 
phone rang. In his disorientation, it had taken him 
several rings to find it. He finally found it in the 
inside pocket of his suit jacket. He answered it, 
and he heard her agonizing scream. 

     All-encompassing panic had set in at that point 
as memories of the pleading "Mulder, I need your 
help!" on his answering machine the night of her 
abduction crashed into his dream-befuddled 
brain. The drive to her house had been a 
nightmarish deja vu, right down to the sinking 
feeling in his stomach that he was too late. This 
time when he arrived, it was eerily silent.

     He remembered how normal her living room 
had seemed when he entered her apartment, 
gun drawn, alert for an intruder that might still be 
there. The streetlight cast shadowy stripes 
through the venetian blinds and across the floor. 
He didn't even have to call her name, although 
he did out of habit, because he knew she was in 
her bedroom. He had entered her dark room and 
softly called her name. The only answer had 
been a muffled sob from the direction of the bed. 
He had slid his hand along the wall next to the 
doorjamb until he found the light switch. The click 
of the switch echoed through his entire body as 
he scanned the scene before him. Scully lay 
curled into a ball, sobbing into a pillow, her 
shoulder blade sticking out in a sickening angle. 
The sheets were soaked in blood— mainly from 
her legs and hands that looked like someone had 
taken a cheese grater to them—and her face was 
already bloody, swollen and bruised from the 
beating. But what may have been the worst was 
when he saw that her panties were down around 
her knees, and the absolute realization of what 
had happened caught in his throat, so that for a 
moment he couldn't breath, couldn't speak, 
couldn't scream.

     She had fought him when he tried to touch her 
and began ranting incoherently about not being 
able to wake up and the time of 3:15. By the time 
the paramedics arrived and sedated her so they 
could transport her, he was covered in as much 
blood as she was. He had thrown out his favorite 
Georgetown t-shirt because the stains wouldn't 
come out. 

     The investigation had been an act of 
frustration. No sign of forced entry. Her door had 
been locked from the inside; he had broken the 
chain himself when he came in. All the windows 
were also shut and locked. 

     The physical evidence was just as fruitless. No 
fingerprints had been found, no hair and fibers, 
no witnesses except Scully and her account was 
suspect at best—an attack outside by Krycek. 
Although her wounds were consistent with her 
story—asphalt and dirt in her knees, backs, and 
nails—there was no blood anywhere else in the 
apartment. A sure indication that the attack had 
taken place in her bedroom.

     The only other evidence was the semen 
samples—one fresh from the attack, which had 
no matches, the other found dried on the sheets 
from a previous encounter. That sample had 
turned up a match. Him. He couldn't quite figure 
out how he had contaminated that sample with 
his DNA, especially since Skinner wouldn't let 
him work the crime scene. It must have been 
when he was on the bed trying to help her or 
some laboratory error. Given the evidence before 
him, he was beginning to rethink his stand on the 
O.J. Simpson verdict.

     It was just as well that Skinner banned him 
from the apartment. He felt he had to be at the 
hospital with her. In fact, he hadn't been able to 
concentrate on half the questions he had been 
asked by the investigating officers because of his 
absolute need to go to the hospital. 

     She was still in the ER when he arrived at the 
hospital, and he offered what little comfort he 
could to her mother as they sat in the waiting 
room. Well, she sat while he paced the floor and 
interrogated almost every passing nurse and a 
few orderlies as to Scully's condition. Skinner 
had arranged for some jeans and an t-shirt to 
replace the scrubs he had begged off an intern— 
Mrs. Scully had turned ashen after one look at his 
blood-soaked clothing.

     It was after dawn when she was finally moved 
to her hospital room. While Scully had spent 
almost the entire first day of her hospital stay 
drifting in and out of a morhpine-induced sleep, 
he had answered more questions for 
investigators and sat in the hallway. He was 
almost fearful to enter her room, the images of 
her after the return from her abduction had kept 
playing though his mind. Yet, he could not bring 
himself to leave site of the door to her room.

     Finally, at dusk, her mother had asked him to 
watch over her while she went to call Scully's 
brothers. Reluctantly, he had agreed and entered 
the darkening room to the quite mechanical whirl 
of the medical monitors. He noticed that the 
swelling and bruising on her face was even more 
pronounced once the blood had been cleaned 
away. But just seeing that she was no longer 
bleeding, that she was breathing softly in sleep, 
that she was alive, had relieved his looming 
anxieties to such an extent that he had collapsed 
into the chair next to her bed. He had stayed in 
that chair, even after her mother had returned, 
until she awoke the next morning.

     Since then, he had rarely spent an evening at 
home. He was either camped outside her 
hospital room or parked outside her apartment. 
He had gone through so many bags of sunflower 
seeds, he was thinking of buying them in bulk 
from a feed store. He would have sworn he 
hadn't slept either, except that he awoke each 
morning from one of the dreams.

     He had tried to stay away one night and was 
so fidgety and restless that he had gone to rent a 
porn film just to have something to do. But he 
ended up outside her apartment, the unwatched 
video on the seat beside him. He had felt 
protective of Scully before. After her return from 
her abduction, he had staked out her apartment 
for about a week, then things returned to normal. 
But now, over a month later, he was still 
uncomfortable with the thought that she was 
alone. 

     And during all that time, he had never seen Mr. 
Dry-Sperm-Sample. During those nights outside 
her building, he found himself thinking about who 
this guy was. He hadn't even shown up at the 
hospital with flowers or anything. He could have 
been a one night stand, but that wasn't like 
Scully. Although there had been the tattoo 
incident. An old lover come back into town? 
Maybe. A new lover that hadn't worked out? 
Probably. That would explain why she had been 
so secretive those few weeks before the attack, 
why she couldn't look him in the eye, and why 
she kept leaving early because she wasn't 
sleeping. 

     What really ticked him off was how great he 
had felt those two weeks before her attack. 
Despite his dreams, he had actually slept well for 
the first time since his childhood. He would wake 
up feeling refreshed—satisfied was the word that 
popped to mind. When he came in the office, 
there was Scully—eyes averted, head down, 
responding in monosyllables. 

     Couldn't sleep! She wasn't sleeping well 
because she was screwing some asshole that 
didn't even come see her in the hospital. He 
probably sucked in bed, too. He was probably 
such a crappy lover that she dumped him. 
Although, he really couldn't imagine Scully 
sleeping in sheets with the spooge of an ex-
boyfriend smeared all over them. So maybe they 
didn't breakup, and she's on her way back to 
D.C. to see him again. 

     The thought of that just irritated him. It seemed 
that a lot of things she did lately irritated him. Like 
last night. She kept 
closing—correction—slamming the door between 
their rooms every time he accidentally left it open. 
It wasn't like anything improper was going to 
happen. 

     Except that she seemed to think that it already 
had. In a dream! She may have been dreaming 
of him while she was boffing that jerk she was 
dating, but it sure wasn't his sperm on those 
sheet. 

     Although, when she had mentioned the 
dreams, for a split second, he had the most 
bizarre sensation of water and her fingers 
running down his back. The sensation had been 
so overpowering that he had actually gotten a 
hard-on standing right there in front of her and 
had to turn away. It didn't help that she was only 
wearing a t-shirt that was clinging in all the right 
places and her nipples were as erect as his 
penis. And now she thought she was pregnant, 
by him as a dream lover. Granted she hadn't 
come right out and said that's what she believed. 
But she had certainly implied it. Telling him that 
they had sex in her dreams, then her next 
statement.

     "Mulder, I'm pregnant."

     It didn't take a giant leap to put two and two 
together and have a paternity suit. After the 
interrogation he had gone through when the FBI 
realized the sperm sample matched his DNA, the 
last thing he wanted was for Scully to be 
insinuating their relationship was anything but 
strictly platonic. He had sat through two grueling 
hours of questions about his relationship with his 
partner. Through the entire ordeal, he had 
adamantly denied any sort of relationship 
between the two of them other than professional. 

     What he had really wanted to say was, you 
spend as much time with Special Agent Dana 
Scully as I have and then tell me that the thought 
of dressing her in leather and whipped cream 
doesn't cross your mind a time or two. It was only 
natural to think something like that. Scully was 
smart, attractive, sexy, and the closest friend he 
had. The majority of the agents in the Bureau 
were closer to their partner than their own family. 
It was part of the job. You couldn't truly trust 
someone to watch your back if that sort of bond 
wasn't there. Granted most agents were men, 
leaving relatively few coed partnerships and the 
potential problems that could arise. Those few 
partners that did become lovers were almost 
instantly reassigned. 

     And that was the reason he had never crossed 
the line with Scully. If they had been on any 
standard tap, trace, and tail assignment, he 
wouldn't have wasted any time making his move. 
Before the X-files, he had done it on numerous 
occasions. But his work on the X-files held its 
own passion, and Scully was an integral part of 
his search for the truth. He wouldn't dare risk 
loosing her as a partner because of some raging 
hormones. Now, Scully was jeopardizing 
everything because of her ridiculous dream-
induced pregnancy.

     These dreams she had involving him were 
obviously the ones she had told him about in her 
statement at the hospital. Although, obviously not 
in the detail she should have. After she had 
broken down and named Krycek as her attacker, 
she had told him a little more about her dreams. 
She had had a total of 14 of them on consecutive 
nights. All of them being extremely realistic, and 
all ending at precisely 3:15 a.m. The only one 
that had been violent was the last one—her rape. 
She sidestepped all of his questions about the 
other dreams, telling him only that they were 
pleasant in a disturbing sort of way. Now he knew 
why she wouldn't tell him any more about them. 
He was actually kind of flattered that she had 
been dreaming of him in that way, even if she did 
describe it as disturbing. And to make the leap 
from dreams to reality was not like Scully.

     Granted, he had reports in his files of women 
being impregnated by spectral visitors or during 
dream-like alien abductions. But these 
manifestations were typically related to 
psychokinetic sending, and most abductees 
never thought they were pregnant until they 
underwent regressional hypnosis or regained 
some latent memories of the abduction. Scully 
was convinced she was pregnant, even though 
they both knew that was impossible. Like some 
Non-Virginal Mary. 

     He knew where she got that crap; her return to 
the fold of the Catholic Church. Another thing that 
annoyed the hell out of him. She was so closed-
minded when it came to anything remotely 
extraordinary unless it was something she 
learned in Catechism. She had believed she was 
the appointed holy guardian of the kid with 
supposed stigmata. And, although she wouldn't 
talk about it with him, she had hinted at the 
possibility that she had seen angels while 
investigating a case as a favor for her priest. 

     As far as he was concerned, the Catholic 
Church was the biggest bunch of charlatans on 
the planet and had been since the beginning. 
Convincing people they were celebrating 
Catholic holidays by sneaking them in the same 
time as the pagan holidays. Non-Christian 
religions tended to celebrate natural phenomena 
and celestial events, Catholics celebrated dead 
guys.

     So now Scully had convinced herself that God 
had blessed her for her devotion by giving her 
what she could never have, a child. It was 
obvious she was suffering from post-traumatic 
stress disorder brought about by the rape and 
was seeking some sort of mental sanctuary in the 
teaching of the Church. To the point that she was 
puking up perfectly good meals as a result of 
delusional morning sickness. 

     Well, no matter what Skinner might say, he 
was glad he had taken her off this case. The 
down time would do her good, and he might 
actually be able to get some work done without 
her throwing up and distracting him all the time. It 
would be nice not knowing exactly where she 
was for a change.

     A knock at his door brought him out of his 
thoughts. Agent Beaubrun stood outside holding 
a large manila envelope. 

     "Agent Scully asked that I give this to you. She 
left so suddenly, is everything all right?"

     Mulder took the package and hefted it in his 
hand. Her gun and badge, no doubt.  "Agent 
Scully had some personal business to attend to 
and won't be returning to the case."

     Beaubrun gave Mulder a sympathetic look. 
"I'm sorry to hear that. Is she returning to 
Washington?" 

     Mulder tossed the package on the bed. "Yeah, 
she's claiming her bags right now." 

     

     

     The next woman and child were found later 
that morning. Only, instead of Miami, they were 
found in Provo, Utah. Mulder had to check his 
reflexes and stop dialing Scully's number on his 
cell phone. He would have to decipher this 
autopsy report on his own. He waited impatiently 
at the Miami field office for the case file and 
autopsy report to be sent from the Salt Lake 
office. He had bided his time questioning 
Beaubrun about some of the more intricate 
details of Vodun religion, particularly the 
superstitions regarding death and the nine night 
ritual. 

     Beaubrun had been patient at first. However, 
after more than an hour, the agent had found an 
excuse to extricate himself from the inquisition. 
And Mulder was left with nothing to do other than 
reread the file on the woman found in Miami, 
identified as Genevieve Baptiste. He had studied 
the file so many times that now he was only 
halfheartedly reading as he flipped the pages. He 
stopped when he came to the autopsy report. 
Although written in a standard format, he could 
almost hear Scully's voice reciting the weight and 
size of all the major organs as she hefted them 
into the hanging scale. 

     The report on the child was next in the file. To 
anyone reading the report, it would appear to be 
written with an emotional detachment, but Mulder 
knew the opposite was true. He knew how much 
she hated autopsying children, and this was the 
first child she had examined since Emily's death. 
And because of that, he refused to leave her 
alone in the examining room. Although she 
hadn't said anything, he felt certain she 
appreciated his moral support. 

     He could use some moral support himself 
about now. He hated waiting. Scully was much 
better at handling downtime, patiently 
rereviewing case files when he wanted to 
question, investigate, discover the hidden truths 
of a case. He really wished she were in Miami 
instead of sitting in the waiting room of her 
doctor's office. 

     Good, he thought, maybe she will get over this 
pregnancy fantasy once and for all.

     By the time the report arrived from Utah, it was 
late afternoon. A medical examiner from the 
coroner's office in Provo performed the autopsy 
and provided a report almost identical to the one 
Scully had on the first pair. The mother killed by 
blunt trauma to the head soon after delivery, and 
the child dead for no apparent reason. Although 
neither of the new victims were covered in salt, 
the woman had been found carefully wrapped in 
a white bed sheet that was so new it still had fold 
creases in it, and the child had been found less 
than a mile away in the matching pillow case. 
The Utah woman, an active member of the 
Mormon church, had been reported missing 
exactly four weeks after Genevieve Baptiste.

     Mulder sat at a desk in the Miami field office 
looking over the case files of the two women that 
had been found. Apparently both of them had 
been pregnant before they had gone missing, but 
there was no mention of their condition in either 
report. Both were single, no interview with even a 
boyfriend, both active in their respective religions, 
both reported missing by their families. With no 
signs of forced entry or struggle, it was originally 
assumed that they had left on their own accord. 
However, both had left jobs without any notice, 
and they had given no indication to friends or 
families that they were leaving. The same was 
true of the other six women missing in Miami, 
except that none of them had turned up dead with 
a crushed skull and an apparently still-borne 
child. At least not yet. 

     Two unrelated cases, two women killed and 
found in disturbingly similar manners, thousands 
of miles apart. The only differences were the time 
frame they were taken, four week apart, and the 
additional six women taken in Miami. Were there 
more Mormon women missing as well?

     Agent Beaubrun came in and stood over 
Mulder with a cup of coffee. Mulder didn't look up 
from the files. "I need a data search of all the 
single women between the ages of 25 and 45 
that went missing within a week of the woman in 
Utah."

     Agent Beaubrun nodded his head. "Do you 
think we're dealing with a serial killer?" 

     "I'm not sure what we're dealing with, but I'd 
like some more information about the victims. 
Who identified Genevieve Baptiste's body?" 

     "Her mother, Marrigot Baptiste." 

     Mulder looked up from his file. "Do you think I 
could speak with her?" 

     Beaubrun looked at his watch. "We can try 
tomorrow. Its awfully late now, and the ritual has 
already begun for the evening. But we'll go to her 
house in the morning." 

     Great, Mulder thought, more downtime.

     

     

     "Thank God for remotes."  

     Mulder lay sprawled across his bed flipping 
through the channels on the motel television. 
There was nothing on. He had been intrigued a 
few channels back by a Hispanic talk show on 
Telemundo that featured three women in tight 
spandex dresses. Although he couldn't 
understand what they were saying, he got the gist 
of it. It had something to do with one of the 
women's boyfriend and the other's dog. The third 
woman just seemed to smile alot. When it 
became obvious that they weren't going to end 
up wrestling on the floor in a Jerry Springer-like 
event, he began flipping channels again. Late 
night television in Miami sucked.  

     The motel phone on the night stand rang, and 
he reached out and answered it.

     "Mulder?" Scully's questioning voice asked on 
the other end.

     Well, he thought smugly, she finally decided to 
call. "Yeah, Scully, it's me. Who did you think 
would be answering my phone?" 

     "Mulder, what the hell are you still doing in 
Miami?" 

     He hadn't expected such an angry response. 
"I'm working on the case..."

     Scully cut him off sharply. "Are you ready to 
admit you were wrong?" 

     "Wrong?!?"  She had gone too far this time. 
"I'm not the one who's wrong." 

     Scully didn't respond. He waited a few 
seconds but nothing. "Scully?" His only answer 
was silence. "Scully, are you there?" 

     Her answer was soft, almost loving. "Mulder, 
please come home." 

     

     Mulder sat up in bed. The television was off, 
and the phone was on the hook. The clock read 
6:20 am. Evidently distance didn't lessen the 
effect of the dreams. He realized then that the 
ringing of his cell phone had awakened him. He 
answered it in a groggy voice.

     "Agent Mulder." It was Beaubrun. "They're 
back!" 

     "Who?" What was he talking about?

     "The missing women. Three of them were 
found last night, two more this morning, and 
Miami P.D. has an unidentified woman in custody 
that they think is the sixth." 

     "They're alive?" He had never expected to find 
these women alive, not after the death of 
Genevieve Baptiste.

     "Yes, and they seem to be pretty much 
unharmed, except that they can't remember 
anything. Where they've been, what happened, 
even who they are. From what I understand, the 
only one who is saying anything about the 
disappearance is the last one, and she seems to 
be delusional." 

     "Where were they found?" 

     "All over the place. None of them were within 
twenty miles of each other. One was almost run 
over by a semi while she was walking down the 
middle of the freeway. Another wandered into a 
bar on the outskirts of Homestead. Another into 
an all night dinner. The police picked the last one 
up at a bus stop after someone reported her 
acting strangely." 

     Mulder couldn't believe what he was hearing. 
He needed to speak to these women, as soon as 
possible. "Where are they now?" 

     He could hear Beaubrun shuffling through 
some papers. "Uh, it looks like most of them are 
in various hospitals around the area. The last one 
is still in custody." 

     Mulder jumped out of bed and began grabbing 
his clothes. "I'll leave here in ten minutes and 
meet you at your office."  

     He clicked off the phone and pulled on his 
slacks. Finally, the waiting was over.

     

     

     The woman being held by the police had been 
identified as Hellene Bonnelle, although she 
refused to answer to that name. The officers had 
placed her in an interrogation room to await 
transport to a regional psychiatric hospital. 
Mulder and Beaubrun found her sitting at the 
table, her hand folded in front of her. Mulder was 
surprised at how calm she seemed, a serene 
smile upon her face. It was as if she were sitting 
on a park bench instead of in a police station.

     Mulder pulled out his badge. "Hellene 
Bonnelle? I'm Special Agent..." 

     The woman shook her head and cut him off 
with her soft, almost soothing voice. "I am not 
known by that name anymore."

     Mulder pulled out a chair and sat down. "What 
is your name then?" 

     Her face radiated devotion as she said, "I am 
called by his name." 

     "Who is he?" Beaubrun asked from behind 
Mulder.

     Hellene turned her loving gaze upon the 
Miami agent. "He is the one who has cleansed 
me, has cleansed us all." 

     "The other six women?" Mulder prompted.

     Her smile broadened, and she nodded her 
head. "They are my sisters, and we are all his, 
together." 

     "What about Genevieve Baptiste?" 

     "He came to her last. She was the chosen 
amongst us because she carried the child." 

     Mulder leaned in toward her. "Then why was 
she murdered?" 

     For the first time, Hellene's face took on a 
sadness. "You don't understand. Death is 
sometimes necessary for life. The number will be 
completed in the proper order at the proper 
times."

     Mulder ignored her answer. "Who killed her, 
Hellene?" 

     "A soul cannot be stolen if it has been set free." 

     Mulder stood up and motioned for Beaubrun to 
follow him out the door. He then began walking 
down the hallway, leaving Beaubrun to catch up 
with his long strides. 

     "Aren't you going to question her some more 
about where she's been?" 

     Mulder kept walking. "She won't tell us 
anything else. She believes she's part of a 
biblical prophecy." Beaubrun gave him a 
quizzical look, and Mulder stopped walking.  "The 
seven sisters married to one man and cleansed 
of their sins, that's a reference to the book of 
Isaiah and the daughters of Zion. The women of 
Zion were egotistical and held themselves above 
others, so God punished them by taking away 
their finery and cursing them to a life of hardship 
and poverty. To remove the shame attached to 
the people of Zion, seven women married one 
man and took his name so that they wouldn't be 
associated with the sins of their ancestors. It's a 
prophecy related to the coming of the Messiah 
and is often used by religious cults, particularly 
doomsday cults, to justify the leader's polygamy. 
It's a self-fulfilling prophecy of the cult's belief in 
the pending judgment day."

     "So, she was a member of a cult?" 

     Mulder shook his head. "No, I don't think so. 
These women were all active practitioners of 
voodoo up until the time of their disappearance." 
Mulder thought for a moment. He needed more 
information about how the other victim fit into this. 
"Did we get the data search results on the women 
reported missing at the same time as the Utah 
victim?" 

     Beaubrun looked at his watch. "It should be at 
the office now. It was supposed to be ready by 
9:00 am." 

     

     

     Mulder poured over the list of missing women 
that had been faxed to him. Thirty-three women 
had been reported missing within a week of the 
Utah victim. Of these, fourteen had been located, 
alive or dead, including the victim. It left nineteen 
women unaccounted for. The women in Miami 
had all gone missing within a three-day span, so 
he narrowed his search down to two days before 
or after the victim's disappearance. That 
narrowed it down to nine women. Three had 
gone missing from various parts of Utah, one in 
New York, two in Nevada, one in Arizona, one in 
Michigan, and one in Oregon.

     Utah and Nevada were both large Mormon 
population centers, so he pulled up the case file 
summaries for those five women on the 
computer. Scanning them quickly, he found them 
all to be members of the Mormon church. He then 
pulled up the file on the woman in Arizona. She 
worked as a bartender. And the woman in 
Oregon was a lesbian, probably not Mormon. The 
woman in Michigan was a school teacher and 
had no religious affiliation listed in her case file. 
The woman in New York, however, was a 
graduate student at SUNY studying English 
Literature. She had obtained her undergraduate 
degree at Brigham Young University. Mormon 
number seven had been discovered.

     Two groups of seven women, each group a 
specific religion. Six women returned from one 
group, and hopefully six would be returned from 
the other. Each group taken within a three-day 
span exactly four weeks apart. 

     What was the relevance of the timing? He 
pulled the calendar off the wall and flipped to the 
dates the women went missing. A little black 
circle in the date square indicated the new moon. 

     Something Hellene Bonnelle had said was 
tugging at his memory. Something about the 
numbers being completed at the proper time. But 
she said they will be completed. Did she mean 
that there were more to come? More women 
going missing or already missing but destined to 
turn up dead? He flipped through the calendar 
and began jotting down the dates of the new 
moons for the year on a post-it note.

     Beaubrun stepped into the cubical Mulder was 
using. "Are you ready to go see Marrigot 
Baptiste?" 

     Mulder continued flipping and writing. "Yeah, 
but before we go, I need another data search." 
He pulled the post-it off the pad.

     Beaubrun looked at the dates. "What are these 
for?" 

     Mulder pulled his jacket off the back of his 
chair and headed toward the door. "We'll know 
when I get the results." 

     

     

     Marrigot Baptiste lived in a small house in a 
Haitian neighborhood outside of Miami. Mulder 
and Beaubrun entered the front door into a 
houseful of people. Beaubrun asked a question 
in French of a woman standing nearby. 

     Beaubrun turned to Mulder. "I'll ask if she will 
see us." The agent followed the woman he had 
just spoken to towards the back of the house.

     Mulder looked around the room. Tables had 
been set up for food on one side of the room 
which the people milled around. He was struck 
by how uniform they looked, all in their white 
clothing. They spoke with one another, and 
watched, but did not speak to him. On the other 
side of the room sat two smaller tables. A plate 
overflowing with food, an open bottle of rum, and 
a poured glass of rum sat untouched on a table 
draped in purple and black cloth. Burning 
candles surrounded the libations, which Mulder 
recognized as an offering to Baron Samedi, the 
death loa. It was an offering for the loa's 
protection of Genevieve's soul from forces that 
may try to use it for evil. The second table was 
covered in white. A photograph of Genevieve 
stood in the center next to a clay jar, both 
surrounded by candles. Fresh flowers had been 
strewn around the items on the table. According 
to Beaubrun's explanation, this was the shrine for 
Genevieve, and the jar containing her soul. Upon 
death, she had joined the loa and basically 
become a goddess. This worship would keep her 
from tormenting her family from beyond the 
grave.

     Mulder tried to look as inconspicuous as 
possible, although he knew he was failing 
miserably. A few moments later, Beaubrun came 
back and led him into a back bedroom were 
Marrigot, dressed in white, sat staring out a 
window into her backyard. A small child swung 
on a tire hanging from a rope tied to a tree 
branch. She seemed almost hypnotized by the 
smooth back and forth flow of the swing. 

     Mulder stood for a moment, waiting for her to 
notice him, then cleared his throat. "Mrs. 
Baptiste...." 

     Marrigot Baptiste never looked from the 
window. "You came to ask about my daughter."  
Her voice was thick with sorrow and the lilting 
French-Caribbean accent of her homeland. 
Mulder opened his mouth to ask his questions, 
but she continued. "She had a baby before she 
died?" 

     She had hit on the very subject Mulder wanted 
to question her about. He dropped to a squat 
before her chair. "Yes, she was evidently 
pregnant before she went missing. Were you 
aware of her condition?" 

     Marrigot Baptiste smiled ever so slightly. "My 
Genevieve was a good girl. She did not even 
have a boyfriend. That is why the angels chose 
her. She was blessed. She was the luckiest of all 
women. They chose her, chose her companions 
to protect her." 

     Mulder leaned in a little closer to her. "Chose 
her for what? Why did she need protection?" 

     She continued to look out the window. The 
child had stopped swinging and was skipping 
around the tree. "There is evil in the world.  It is in 
all of us, and when we die, the evil cannot be 
controlled. It threatens us all, and only the child 
can stand against it. But the child must be 
protected as well." 

     Mulder licked his lips with an apprehension 
that he somehow knew the answer to his next 
question. "Mrs. Baptiste, how did they choose 
your daughter?" 

     For the first time, Marrigot turned from the 
window and looked him straight in the eyes. Hers 
were dark and red rimmed from tears, yet they 
were hard and filled with conviction. "In her 
dreams. Just as they chose you." 

     

     "Agent Mulder, are you okay?" 

     Mulder suddenly became aware of Beaubrun 
standing next to him. They were standing in the 
Baptiste living room, the people were staring at 
them from small groups and mumbling in French. 
The room seemed to be tilted slightly and 
rotating.

     "She doesn't want to talk to anyone right now," 
Beaubrun continued. "Besides, she's so upset, I 
don't think she would give us any information we 
could use." 

     "What?"  Mulder asked. He felt off balance, 
disoriented, like when he awoke from his anxiety 
nightmares.

     "Marrigot Baptiste. I asked if she would talk to 
us, but she refused..." 

     Mulder mumbled a quick apology and spun on 
his heels. The air was suddenly incredibly thick, 
and he was having trouble breathing. He pushed 
his way through the crowded room and out onto 
the front porch. He placed his hands on his hips 
and drew in a couple of heavy breaths. It had 
been a dream?!? These were happening way to 
often to be ignored.

     Mulder felt as if he wanted to jump out of his 
skin. Dreams, pregnancy, and chosen by God. 
These were all becoming reoccurring themes. 
Somehow the Utah and Miami cases were 
related, and he had a sickening suspicion those 
cases also involved Scully, but he didn't know 
how. 

     He and Scully had worked on cases in the 
past that had somehow drawn them into the 
complexities of event they were investigating. But 
never had he had a case that paralleled event in 
his and Scully's life so completely. Events that 
had been happening before their involvement 
with the case. Both of them with unexplainable 
dreams and now this. 

     He tried to think about anything else he knew 
that tied these events together. What else had 
Scully said? Something she said about her 
dreams. 3:15. The dreams took place at 3:15, just 
like the night of her attack. What was the 
significance of 3:15? His mind seemed to be 
spinning, searching, trying to place the memory 
or reference that would answer his question. He 
pulled a note pad and pen from his breast pocket 
and wrote the numbers on the pad. Sometimes 
seeing it written down triggered something. He 
studied the numbers, retracing them with his pen. 
Then suddenly it came. 

     "It's not a time," he mumbled, "it's a verse." 

     Beaubrun came out the front door and gave 
him a puzzled look. "Agent Mulder?" 

     Mulder grabbed Beaubrun by the arm and 
almost dragged him off the porch. "I need to get 
back to my motel room, now." 

     

     

     Mulder went straight for the night table and 
opened the drawer to pull out the Gideon's Bible. 
The manila envelope with Scully's handwriting 
rested on top of the Bible. He had definitely 
screwed things up the night of their fight. He 
couldn't believe some of the things he had said, 
especially that crack about the drug use. But he 
had never expected her to leave like she had or 
take a leave of absence. That night, he had been 
convinced she was delusional, driven over the 
edge by trauma and desperation for what she 
couldn't have, what even her faith in science 
couldn't give. Instead of considering the 
possibility of a fantastic explanation, he had cast 
it aside as wishful thinking and believed she had 
turned to her faith in God. And now? Now, he 
wasn't sure what he believed. 

     He picked up the folder. Maybe Scully had 
written him a note that might give him some more 
insight into what was going on. He ripped the top 
off the envelope and dumped the contents onto 
the bed. The holstered gun and her badge 
bounced once and landed in a small pile on the 
multicolored motel bedspread, but no paper 
came out. He looked inside the envelope to make 
sure it hadn't stuck in the bottom. Still no note. He 
let out a frustrated sigh. This was extremely un-
Scully. Normally, she couldn't have resisted 
leaving some biting commentary about their fight. 
That was one of the reasons he hadn't opened 
the package earlier. And now, nothing. 

     Frustrated, he picked up the Bible and turned 
to Genesis 3:15.

     "I will put enmity between you and the woman, 
and between your seed and her seed; he shall 
bruise your head, and you shall bruise his heel." 

     The verse concerned Adam's and Eve's 
dismissal from Eden, the first Biblical hint that evil 
existed in the world. God pitting woman against 
Satan. No, it was the offspring of woman against 
the offspring of Satan. The classic good versus 
evil standoff many thought would happen at the 
Armageddon, and others believed had happened 
multiple times throughout history. Maybe these 
women were being taken and killed because 
someone thought they carried one of these 
children. 

     Had Scully come to the same conclusion he 
had about the meaning of 3:15, read this 
passage, and convinced herself she was 
pregnant? But that still didn't explain why Scully, 
a woman made barren by a government 
conspiracy, had been dreaming at 3:15 every 
night for two weeks. Why her dreams changed 
from erotic to violent manifestations of rape. Or 
why he was having the dreams he was. 
Genevieve Baptiste had been chosen by the 
angels in her dreams, and Hellene Bonnelle 
believed she and Genevieve and the others were 
fulfilling prophecy. Was this some sort of sign, a 
divine insight that he and Scully had been 
chosen to partake in a manifest destiny of Biblical 
proportions? What Scully was claiming would 
definitely qualify as miraculous; but miracles, he 
was convinced were a matter of believing is 
seeing.

     This was beginning to piss him off. He was 
recognizing patterns but couldn't get them fit 
correctly. Usually by now, he had pieced together 
enough to have at least some wild ass theory. 
Now he didn't even have that, or even a partner 
to bounce them off of if he did. 

     He picked up Scully's gun and shoved it back 
in the envelope. There, under the nylon holster, 
shining pink against the brown and gold stripes 
of the bedspread, was a little stick. Hesitantly, he 
reached out and picked it up. He turned it over 
and found a little pink plus-sign glaring him in the 
face. 

     "Holy shit."  

     Scully had left her little commentary after all, 
and the subject was miracles. 

     

     

     He had called Scully twice, and both times 
there was no answer. He knew she was home, 
but she evidently wasn't taking calls and had 
turned off her answering machine and cell. 

     After each attempt at calling Scully, he had 
actually called and booked a flight back to D.C., 
then half an hour later called and canceled it. His 
urge to go home was instinctive, almost primal, 
but his belief that the answers were in Miami was 
enough to cull any feral outburst that he had. 

     He tried her number again. Still no answer. 

     He really wasn't sure what he was going to 
say if she answered. Apologize, grovel, beg for 
forgiveness? Not until he got desperate. Joke 
and pretend nothing happened? No, the fight had 
been too serious for that. Maybe he should just 
let her fume for a few days, then call. By then she 
would probably have come to her senses a little, 
and he could finish up this case. 

     He opened his cell phone and punched in the 
now familiar number. "Yes, I would like to book a 
ticket on your next flight from Miami to 
Washington National." 

     

     

     It seemed he had been driving down the once 
dirt, now mud, road forever. The rain hadn't let up 
and had actually intensified since Beaubrun had 
arrived at his motel. 

     Beaubrun had been standing in the rain 
outside Mulder's door holding a hot pink 
umbrella. Mulder had winced at the color. He was 
never going to be able to look at pink quite the 
same way. The sun had set a several hours 
before, and Mulder had just finished canceling 
his fifth flight of the day. He was afraid the airlines 
were going to issue a restraining order soon, and 
Scully still wouldn't answer her phone. 

     "Who wants to see me?" Mulder had asked 
over the pounding rain. 

     Beaubrun's visit had been two-fold. First, to 
deliver the results of Mulder's latest data request; 
and second, to deliver a summons.

     "Danjou, the hougan, the Vodun priest from 
the ceremony," Beaubrun replied. "The one with 
the sheep and the blood. You remember?" 

     How could he forget. Beaubrun had to take his 
gun away from him when Mulder had seen the 
zealots closing in on Scully. He had felt that she 
was behind him from the beginning, and he had 
been trying to block out that sensation in order to 
watch the ceremony, a macabre celebration 
complete with animal sacrifice and ingestion of 
blood. Without turning around he had sensed her 
slump to the ground and was actually kind of 
annoyed that she was getting weak stomached 
yet again. 

     He had then become aware that the attention 
in the peristyle, the ceremonial building, had 
shifted from the sheep to Scully, and the hougan 
was focusing his energy on her. He had been 
ready to start shooting his way through the crowd 
to get to her when Beaubrun grabbed his arm. 

     "No! They will not harm her, but you must 
remain calm, both of you. Get to her, walk her out 
slowly, and I will be waiting in the car. Whatever 
you do, don't panic. Just keep her moving toward 
the door."  

     Mulder had followed his instructions, walking 
pressed against her so that he could feel her 
shaking vibrate through his entire chest cavity, 
fighting every impulse in his body to bolt for the 
door. 

     Then just when he thought everything was 
under control, discovering that they believed she 
was the living embodiment of Erzulie. That was 
something you don't easily forget. 

     "Why does he want to see me?" 

     Beaubrun shrugged. "He didn't say. He saw 
you at the Baptiste house and recognized you. 
He said only that you should come at the magic 
hour between 11:30 and 12:30 tonight. His place 
is quite a ways away. If you leave now, you will 
make it." 

     "Aren't you coming?" Mulder was taken aback 
by the use of you and not we. 

     Beaubrun shook his head. "Agent Mulder, 
Danjou is not like the hougans and mambos you 
have been interviewing. He is a very powerful 
man in Miami's Haitian community, perhaps the 
most powerful hougan here. He does not give 
interviews unless he request them, and even 
then, you may be the one interviewed. He asked 
to see you, not me." 

     So, here he was traveling through a flood to 
visit a hougan at the magic hour. Normally, he 
would have been thrilled. Instead, a feeling of 
dread had settled in the pit of his stomach, and 
he was itching to book yet another flight back to 
D.C. 

     He slowed the car to a halt, flipped on the 
dome light, and read over Beaubrun's directions. 
He should be coming up on the meeting place 
soon. Scully was a much better navigator than he 
was. But instead of helping him find the place, 
she was sleeping in her bed while he traveled 
the back road to hell. 

     He rounded a corner and saw a small wooden 
shack sitting back amongst a throng of moss-
covered trees. A kerosene lantern hung on a peg 
on the porch, and a young woman, a girl really, 
stood beside it with her arms crossed. He parked 
the car a respectable distance away and turned 
off the lights.

     Mulder stepped out of the car into the muddy 
yard and pulled the jacket of his suit up in a futile 
attempt to cover his head. Scully was right, he 
needed an umbrella. He trotted across the yard 
until he was in front of the girl. She simply stared 
at him for a moment, looked up into the sky, then 
back at him. Water was beginning to run down 
his back in a most uncomfortable way. 

     "Come," she finally said, "it is time." 

     She removed the lantern and lead him into the 
shack. The building was dark except against the 
back wall where a small table sat with a single 
candle on it. Seated at the table was the hougan, 
Danjou. He was dressed simply in a white shirt 
and trousers. Mulder was somewhat surprised 
and rather disappointed by his mundane 
appearance. 

     Behind Danjou were a series of shelves 
intermixed with jars and lit candles. Mulder was 
almost fearful to know what was in the containers. 
Hesitantly, he looked directly at one. Peaches, 
canned peaches. He grinned slightly, but his 
snicker caught in his throat when he saw the jar 
of animal eyes sitting next to it. 

     The girl brought another straight back, wooden 
chair, and he sat down, the legs screeking as 
they rubbed against the wooden floor when he 
inched it closer to the table.

     Danjou looked across the table at him, 
studying him, but did not speak. Mulder looked 
over at the girl for some guidance, but she only 
stood staring, holding the lantern. Danjou 
nodded, and the girl went back to her sentinel on 
the porch. 

     "You are strong of spirit, as is she," Danjou 
finally said. "That is good. It will be necessary in 
the time to come." His accent was similar to 
Marrigot Baptiste, only stronger, more 
authoritative. 

     Mulder stared back at the hougan. He tried to 
maintain a composure that wouldn't be betrayed 
by the sweat that was threatening to soak through 
his jacket. "Why did you want to see me?" 

     Danjou looked upward, as if he could read the 
pattern of the moon and stars through the roof 
and storm-clouded sky. "Now is the time of good 
in the magic hour. The time for evil comes after." 
He returned his gaze to Mulder. "It is time for you 
to follow yourself. To trust your heart." 

     Mulder gave him a puzzled look. Danjou 
continued. "She is gone from here, and yet you 
stay even though your heart wants to follow. The 
new moon is upon us. You cannot delay, or all 
will be lost." 

     Mulder tried to keep the shock from his voice. 
Every nerve in his body was tingling as he asked, 
"Is this another dream?"  

     Danjou spoke to him in a tone usually 
reserved for children. "Do you see my 
granddaughter through the doorway?" Mulder 
twisted in his chair. The lantern illuminated her 
face in a warm glow, and the girl leaned against 
the post tapping her bare feet in the puddles 
forming on the porch. "Is she really there?" 

     "Yes, of course," Mulder answered.

     "How do you know?" 

     "Because I can see her. She spoke to me."  
Mulder was beginning to think the old man was 
crazy.

     "You see in your dreams, speak in your 
dreams, and yet you still doubt them. It does not 
matter if this is a dream or wakefulness.  She is 
really there, and if I shut the door, she will still be 
there, still be real. Such is the way with dreams 
as it is with doorways. 

     So many people never open the door. Never 
see everything that is there to be seen, to be 
heard, to be felt, to be known. But the door has 
been opened for you and for her, and you must 
see everything, or you will fail." The hougan's 
eyes hardened, as did his tone, "You must not 
fail." 

     "Scully's dreams?" It was more of a verbalized 
thought than a question.

     Danjou nodded his head. "She has been 
chosen, as have you." 

     Chosen, just as Marrigot Baptiste had said 
about her daughter, Genevieve, but chosen for 
what? Death by blunt trauma to the head? 

     Mulder's heart was pounding so hard, he 
could feel the blood in his jugular. The hougan 
did not let his gaze wander from Mulder's eyes. 
"She carries the child." The hougan's lips curled 
at Mulder's indrawn breath. "Evil is at work. You 
have seen the work here and elsewhere, and 
more will be seen. The seven sevens will be 
revealed. The forces of evil have been searching, 
and they search still. But now is the time of good, 
and evil is not as powerful, so I can tell you this. 
There is magic in numbers—seven, twelve, but 
three is the strongest of all." 

     Mulder's mind was racing as fast as his heart. 
Seven sevens. Seven Vodun women missing 
then found. Seven Mormon women...

     "The women..." There were obviously more, 
like he thought. Five sets more. Thing were 
starting to become frightingly clear.

     Danjou nodded his head. "During the time of 
evil, I will cast against the power to gain time. I 
will use the spirits of the chosen women who are 
to come before, although their number is not yet 
complete, to protect the one who is to remain. 
They must not find her."  

     Mulder could feel himself shaking and didn't 
doubt that the hougan could see it. "She is 
strong." The hougan continued. "They have 
attacked her once, in spirit, but she survived. I 
could still feel the taint when I touched her with 
the blood of the lamb. They knew she had 
conceived, but the number was not complete. 
Seven sevens have now been taken, and the 
time is right. They will try again, this time in the 
flesh, and she may not be strong enough for that."  

     Mulder's mouth silently formed the name 
"Scully" as he let himself accept what the hougan 
was saying. 

     Danjou answered him by saying, "The others 
were one among seven, but she is unique, 
alone." 

     Mulder's body was screaming to run, but he 
was held tight by the hougans gaze. His skin was 
fire and ice all at the same time, and he felt that 
electricity was running through him. 

     Danjou leaned forward ever so slightly, "She 
needs your help" was all he said in little more 
than a whisper, but all Mulder heard was Scully's 
voice on his answering machine, her scream in 
his phone, her pleas in his dreams. 

     His body was finally able to respond, and he 
jumped back so that his chair slammed to the 
floor. He ran out the door into the storm without 
even acknowledging the hougan or girl. 

     

     

     "Damn it, Scully, answer your phone."  

     It was after 1:00 am, and she still wasn't 
picking up. He had been in constant redial mode 
since leaving the hougan's shack, stopping only 
to book a flight on the red-eye that was leaving in 
20 minutes for Baltimore. 

     He didn't even have time to return to the motel, 
having only his briefcase with him, and would 
have to leave his suitcase behind. He was 
completely unconcerned if he ever saw it again. 

     He was on autopilot now. That was the closest 
he could come to describing it. Danjou had said 
to trust himself, and that was what he was doing. 
He hit redial again and still no answer. 

     He was trying to simultaneously hold onto his 
cell phone, airline ticket, and briefcase and look 
for Gate E, while he half jogged through the 
Miami International Airport. This is the most 
fucked up airport in the world, he thought, then 
noticed the arrow pointing out the direction of his 
gate. He followed the arrow until it came to a line 
at the security checkpoint. Even at 1:00 in the 
morning, the airport was a madhouse. 

     All right, Mulder, time to think. Her mother. No, 
she would never believe him. Skinner? Best not 
to involve him. Then the answer came.  He said 
there was strength in three. 

     A deep, electronically altered voice answered 
the phone. "Frohike, it's Mulder, turn off the 
distorter." 

     A small click was followed by Frohike's 
irritated, yet clear voice. "Mulder? Do you know 
what time it is?" 

     "Yeah, it's 1:15 in the morning, and I'm about 
to get on a plane. I need your help." 

     "Geez, Mulder, can't it wait until morning?" 

     "No, it's Scully. She's in danger, and I can't get 
in touch with her." 

     At the mention of Scully, Frohike was all 
attention. "What sort of danger?"  

     "Hold on a second."  

     He had not realized he had reached the metal 
detector until it started beeping wildly. Still 
holding the cell phone, briefcase, and ticket, he 
managed to reach into this breast pocket and pull 
out his badge. The stone-faced security guard 
examined his credentials and motioned him 
through with an irritated wave.

     In the background of his cell phone, he heard 
Langly ask "Who's in danger?" Frohike answered 
"Scully" as the metallic echo of the speaker 
setting came on.  

     "What sort of danger?" Frohike asked again.

     Mulder scanned the gate numbers for E-7 and 
hoped his laugh didn't sound too deranged. "I 
honestly don't know, but you have to go to her 
apartment and make her come with you. Where 
the hell is E-7?" 

     "Mulder?" He thought it was Langly's voice 
trying to regain his attention.

     He was standing in the middle of the hall 
spinning around looking for his gate.  
"Nothing....Hog tie her if you have to, just get her 
out of her apartment." A sudden thought popped 
in his head, and he let autopilot take over again. 
"And find a priest. Have him come with you, too." 

     "A priest?" Byers let out a little laugh of his 
own, which said, Fox Mulder, you're insane. 
"Mulder, where are we going to find a priest at 
this hour?"

     "I'm sure you'll think of something." Finally, he 
thought, E-7. They were announcing the final 
boarding call.

     "Where should we take her?" Byers asked.

     "Anywhere you think is safe. I'll find you 
wherever it is."  

     He handed the gate agent his ticket who gave 
him a tired smile. "I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to 
turn that off now. Safety concerns."  Mulder held 
up his index finger in a request for more time.

     "Mulder," Frohike asked, "what's going on?" 

     Mulder cut him off. The gate agent was giving 
him and his cell phone a very disapproving glare. 
"I can't explain now. I have to catch my flight. I'll 
see you in about four hours." 

     He hung up and ran down the boarding 
tunnel. 

     Four hours. He didn't know if he could last that 
long without ripping his hair out. At least he had 
his list of missing women to review. 

     God, he thought, what if I don't make it? 

     That thought was so terrifying that he did 
something he hadn't done since he was a kid. He 
began praying. He prayed that the hougan had 
bought him some time. He prayed that the guys 
could convince Scully to leave with them. And he 
prayed that this time, he wasn't too late.

     

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