Capital Offense
By Keleka 
Email: keleka@keleka.net
Distribution: Gossamer ok. 
Rating: PG 
Spoiler Warning: Through season 7
Classification: TRA
Content Statement: This one's got it all: MSR, SSR, UST,
RST, angst for everyone, Krycek, Mulder torture, Samantha
torture, legal jargon, politics, and blasphemy.  No
explicit sex for anybody though.  Darn.

Summary:  Samantha Mulder is found alive and well, but
facing imminent death.  Meant to replace SUZ/Closure in the
timeline and give us an *understandable* explanation for
what happened to Samantha.

Archive: No to Xemplary.  Yes to others. Please tell me
where so I can visit.
Disclaimer: If I owned this cash cow, do you really think
I'd be living in Nebraska?
Feedback:  It's welcome in my house! 
Author's Note: Huge steaming piles of thanks to Fabulous
Monster for her usual All-Star beta job; also to betas
Bethann and Rachel Vagts; to Loren Q for her thoughts on
the character of Alex Krycek; and to Ophelia for some
serious mentoring just when I needed it.  
The rest of my fanfic can be found at:
http://www.keleka.net/keleka/
Some more notes at the end.




Capital Offense
by Keleka


Over the years, I became inured to death.  I killed
dozens, if not hundreds, as a Marine in Vietnam, sometimes
at extremely close range.  I'd killed at least a dozen more
during my career in law enforcement.  I lost count long ago.

Sixty-six percent of Americans favor the death penalty, a
remarkable figure considering the diversity of thought in
this country.  I never really examined my own thoughts on
the subject.  The people and the politicians put it in my
arsenal of weapons to use against crime, but I never
personalized it.  I never had to decide whether I was for
or against it.

That was about to change.

Every month the Department of Justice sent me a list of 
executions scheduled to take place that month in the United
States.  Texas usually led the pack.  From what I'd heard,
the Governor was a heartless SOB, just like his old man,
the one-term President.  Mother Teresa herself wouldn't be
able to get a reprieve out of him.

The DOJ report included basic information about each convict
scheduled to die.  The usual stuff: simple biography,
criminal record, description of the crime sentenced to die
for, and any mitigating factors there might have been. I'd
looked at these reports every month since I became
Assistant Director, but this was the first time an entry
made me pause, the first time I ever had to stop and
consider my course of action.

I spent the morning deciding what to do.  I wanted to
pretend I hadn't seen the report, but I knew that my
conscience would eat away at me if I didn't look into the
case.  I made some phone calls to get more information.  
Finally, I picked up the phone one more time and dialed
the familiar number.

"Scully."

"I need to see you in my office right away, Agent Scully." 

"Yes, sir.  We'll--"

"No," I interrupted quickly.  "Just you.  Not Agent Mulder."

"Oh."  She was strangely quiet.  I knew she wanted to say
something, but Mulder was probably looking right at her,
wondering what was afoot.  "I'll be right there, sir."

As soon as I hung up, I called Kimberly in and told her to
get me two tickets on the next flight to Houston and to
reserve a rental car.  By the time I finished, Scully was
standing in the doorway to my office.  I waved her in and
she took her usual chair opposite my desk.

"I want you to accompany me to Texas on a fact-finding
mission."  I buzzed Kimberly and asked her about our
flight.  "Our flight leaves in two hours.  Is your
overnight bag in your car?"

"Yes, of course, sir."  She hesitated for a moment, then
continued.  "Why are we going to Texas?"

"I don't want you to discuss this with Agent Mulder."

Scully opened her mouth to say something but changed her
mind.  She knew I wouldn't ask this without good reason. 
Reluctantly, she nodded her agreement. I could tell from
her eyes that she was unsure.  Keeping our personal
relationship secret from Mulder was one thing; keeping
professional secrets from him was another thing altogether.

"Can you get your hands on a picture of Agent Mulder when
he was young, say about ten or twelve?"

She raised an eyebrow at that, questioning me or my
sanity.  Finally she said, "Yes, I think so.  He has a
picture of himself with Samantha on his desk.  I
could...borrow...it."

"Good.  I also need you to get a copy of Mulder's
DNA 'fingerprint.'"

"Walter," she said, twisting uncomfortably in her seat,
her voice filled with exasperation.  "What is this about?"

I picked up the DOJ death penalty report and handed it to
Scully.  I had circled the entry I was interested in.  
"There's a woman scheduled to be executed in Texas next
week."  I gave her a moment to read some of the details. 
"I hope I'm wrong, but...."

She looked up at me with wide eyes, surprise siphoning the
blood from her face.  "It's Samantha!"


				* * *


During the flight, Scully and I scoured the files for any
clues that might prove us wrong.  We were torn between
wanting to be right and wanting to be wrong.  If this
woman was Samantha....  I didn't even want to think about
what it would mean for Mulder.

Scully closed the file containing the police record and a
summary of the trial testimony.  When she handed it to me
her hand trembled.  I knew how she felt.  I took her hand
in mine and squeezed it gently.

"Walter, if this is true...."  Her voice trailed off.

"There's no doubt," I said.  "I talked to the Assistant
D.A. who prosecuted the case.  There's a video tape of the
murder."

According to the records, Samantha 'Brown' had beaten to
death with a metal baseball bat the seventy-year-old
proprietor of a liquor store while her accomplice cleaned
out the store's register.  She destroyed what she thought
was the security camera, but it had been a decoy.  The real
camera, artfully hidden behind a wine display, had recorded
everything, including the shoot-out with Sheriff's deputies
who responded to the silent alarm.  One deputy and Brown's
accomplice were killed in the shoot-out.  The jury took
less than an hour to return a verdict of guilty, and only
twenty minutes more to come back with a recommendation of
death.

Dana seemed lost in her thoughts, though her thumb
continued making lazy circles against the back of my hand. 
I knew her well enough to know what she was thinking: how
would it affect Mulder if this woman was his sister?  How
would she tell him?  And it would be her responsibility to
tell him. I knew my place, after all.  She may have shared
her bed with me for the last year, but her heart belonged
to Mulder.


				* * *

The small central Texas town of Gatesville was dying a
slow death until the 1980s when the State of Texas began
building prison units outside town.  The city of 11,000
plays host to nearly as many inmates in the six units
surrounding it.  One of them, the Mountain View Unit,
includes the state's death row for women.  

I'd been inside Texas prisons before but never to the
women's death row.  Every visit I made to a Texas prison
left me repulsed by the conditions and thankful that I
chose a different path for my life than the one followed
by the prisoners.  I was born and raised in Texas, and
was it not for the G.I. Bill, who knows what path my life
might have taken.  There but for the grace of God, as they
say.

It was late by the time we drove the 140 miles to
Gatesville.  Texas prisons are harsh and punishing places
in broad daylight and I saw no reason to subject us to one
at night.  Instead, I took us to the only decent motel in
town, an artifically cheery Holiday Inn Express.  

At the front desk, I asked for two rooms, out of respect
for Scully's need for privacy.  We engaged in awkward small
talk over dinner, and then retired to our separate rooms. 
I waited, hoping that she might knock on my door.  I
considered going to her, but something held me back.  If I
went to her, she would accuse me of 'smothering' her. 
Just my luck to love someone who won't accept comfort when
she's hurting.  Now I know how Sharon felt.

Scully was not as reticent in the morning, and apologized
for the previous night with a kiss when we met at the diner
for breakfast.  Over her pink grapefruit she asked, "What
made you realize Samantha Brown might be Mulder's sister?"

"Stratego," I said.  

Scully nodded.  "Me, too," she said.

According to her file, Samantha Brown hadn't existed until
January, 1978, when she was found wandering the streets of
Williamson, West Virginia. The Sheriff's Deputy who found
the pale, painfully thin girl took her to a diner. 
Between mouthfuls of hot biscuits and gravy, she managed to
tell him that her name was Samantha.  It was weeks before
she opened up anymore, finally telling a hospital social
worker that she had been kidnapped and held captive for two
years by men who ran painful tests on her.  That was all
she could remember at first.  Later, she recalled that she
had been playing Stratego with her brother over the
Thanksgiving holiday when she was taken from her home.

"You don't suppose...." Scully started.  Her voice trailed
off uncertainly and I waited for her to finish her thought. 
"You don't suppose this is a decoy...by C.G.B. Spender. 
Another red herring set up to screw with Mulder's mind."

Truth be told, I was concerned about that possibility. 
Everything seemed to check out, but if the Consortium was
behind this, of course it would look legitimate.  Those
bastards were very good at what they did.  "That's why I
want you to do the DNA test.   Don't let it out of your
sight."  I reached for her hand and could feel her turn her
eyes on me.  

"What if she's a clone of Samantha?" Scully said in a
whisper.  "Even if the test is positive, we still won't
know for sure that it's really Samantha.  Our technology
can't differentiate."

For over six years, I listened to Scully refute Mulder's
theories about aliens and their insidious agenda.   But as I
listened to her, I knew that deep down she believed he
was right.  If not, the scientist in her could never have
admitted that there might be human clones already walking
the earth.  Shit.  As if the decision to tell
Mulder wasn't going to be difficult enough.

The Mountain View Unit was a few miles north of town, down
a long stretch of two-lane farm-to-market road.  Most death
row inmates come down this dusty road in a prison van and
don't leave until years later when it's time to go to the
death chamber in Huntsville for their execution.

When we arrived at the Mountain View Unit, we were faced
with the bureaucratic red tape that goes along with gaining
access to any prison.  We passed the guard's scrutiny at
the first fence but got stalled at the second as another
guard insisted on re-verifying our appointment.  The
flat-roofed, red brick buildings ahead of us were
surrounded by long stretches of bare, well-lit grounds. 

Finally, the guard was satisfied that our credentials
checked out and waved us through.  It was a short drive to
the parking lot beside the small, barren recreation yard
that was covered and surrounded by chain-link fencing. 

A tall, thin man with a comb-over met us in the lobby of
the administrative building.  "Mr. Skinner," he said in a
whiny, high-pitched voice.  "I'm Deputy Warden Dennison. 
I spoke to you on the phone."  After we finished the
introductions, he led us back outside.

"The prisoner was moved to the Administrative Segregation
Wing two weeks ago when Governor Bush signed her death
warrant," he told us breathlessly as we walked.  "We'll be
moving her to the death watch cell at the Walls Unit in
Huntsville tonight."  He said this as though it was
nothing out of the ordinary.  I supposed to him it wasn't.

Tonight, Samantha Brown would be taken to Huntsville and
put on death watch.  Forty-eight hours later, she'd be
taken to the death chamber where she'd be strapped to a
padded gurney.  A cardiac monitor would be attached, and an
intravenous line set.  A catheter and anal plug would be
inserted in her body, and she'd be covered from the neck
down with a sterile, white sheet.  When the appointed time
came, the blinds to the execution chamber would be raised
and the witnesses to the deadly ritual would see her for
the first time.  She'd raise her head and look wide-eyed at
the witnesses on the other side of the glass windows.  Most
would be there for the state, or for the victims.  Maybe
someone would be there for her.  Maybe Mulder, Scully, and
I would be the only ones there for her; three strangers who
would come into her life at the last minute, just in time
to watch her die.

The sound of metal against metal jolted me from my morbid
thoughts.  Dennison pushed back a heavy metal gate and
stepped aside to let us pass before he pulled the gate
shut behind us.  We followed him into the building and down
a narrow hallway.  At the end of the hall were two doors,
one marked 'visitors,' the other marked 'inmates.' 
Dennison asked us for our weapons then nodded to the first
door and told us to go in and wait.

The small, windowless room was empty except for three
straight-backed wooden chairs, two on our side of a floor-
to-ceiling plexiglass divider, and one on the other side. 
A dozen small holes were punched into the plexiglas to
allow for conversations between prisoners and visitors.

Scully walked to the center of the room and stood behind
one of the chairs, her hands resting on its rounded top. 
She looked first at the chair, then at the emptiness on
the other side of the plexiglas, then at me.  

"Why don't you sit down?" I said softly.  "It might be a
few minutes."

She nodded and seemed, finally, to relax a little as we
waited.  I, on the other hand, was an icy knot of anxiety.  

"We're doing the right thing, Walter," she said, sensing
my unease.  "You made the right call."  

We heard the sound of shuffling feet accompanied by
clanging metal and I knew the prisoner was about to join
us.  Scully dropped my hand and stood up.  We both watched
the door on the other side of the plexiglas wall. 
Suddenly the door was jerked open and a tall, muscular
prison guard strode into the room.  He hesitated for
a moment before nodding at us and signaling someone at the
door to enter.

Samantha Brown was a small woman, only a little taller
than Scully.  Her short brown hair was naturally curly and
simply cut.  Her hands and ankles were cuffed and attached
to a waist belt by chains that were too short to permit her
to stand up straight.  By necessity, her head was down and
she watched each step she took as she shuffled toward the
chair.  A guard held her by each elbow and steered her in
the right direction.

Scully's body stiffened as we watched the prisoner make
her slow progress toward the chair.  Good God, if this was
Mulder's sister, how could we ever let him see her like
this?

When she reached the chair, Samantha fell into it with a
sigh.  She raised her head and her eyes latched on mine. 
I'd seen pain and emptiness like that before.  I saw it
when Scully was on her deathbed after being returned from
her abduction.  I saw it again when Scully was dying from
cancer.  I saw it both times in the eyes of Fox Mulder.

We waited while the guards connected her chains to the
iron grommet on the floor in front of her chair.  The
guards were merely following protocol.  Death row inmates
were given virtually no leeway.  But all the chains
and locks and barriers seemed laughable in the face of such
a frail, powerless woman.

When they were finished, both guards stood by the back
wall, their arms crossed in front of their broad chests,
their eyes glued to the prisoner.  We weren't permitted any
privacy.

"Who are you?" Samantha asked, bluntly, looking first at
Scully, then me, then at Scully again.  "I don't know you."

I reached for my ID and held it up for her to see.  "My
name is Walter Skinner, Miss Brown," I said.  I waited for
Scully to hold up her ID.  "This is Dana Scully.  We're
with the FBI."

"What do you guys want?" she asked, nonplussed.  "You
wanna pin something on me, too?"  Her voice, her posture,
even her insolent attitude reminded me of Mulder.  Scully
glanced quickly at me and I could see she was thinking the
same thing.

"No, Miss Brown, we don't want to pin anything on you,"
Scully said in her precise way.  She pulled her chair up
closer to the plexiglas divider and sat.  I followed her
lead.  "We were hoping you might be able to help us with a
case we're investigating."

Samantha snorted derisively and rolled her eyes.  "I can't
even help myself, Agent...Scully, was it?"  Scully nodded. 
"I been in this hell hole over eight years.  I can't help
nobody."

I had read the record of appeals and stays in her case,
but somehow my mind hadn't processed the idea of eight
years on death row until she said it.  I tried to imagine
what it was like to live in a place like this for eight
years while your lawyers fought for your life in front of
judges you'd never see.  The waiting would drive me insane.

Scully reached for her briefcase and pulled out the
picture of Mulder and his sister as children.  She held the
picture up so the prisoner could see it.   "Do you
recognize either of these children, Miss Brown?" she asked,
her voice remarkably steady.

Samantha Brown opened her mouth and started to say
something, but then her eyes seemed to be caught by the
picture and she stared at it.  Slowly, a glint of
recognition and surprise filled her eyes.  

"That's me!" she said suddenly.  "I...I don't...I've never
seen that picture before, but I know it's me."  She looked
at Scully, her eyes brimming with tears as her tough-girl
facade began to crumble.  "Where did you get it?"

"Do you recognize the boy in the picture?" Scully asked,
her voice filled with a subtle poignancy I rarely heard her
use.

Samantha turned her eyes back to the picture and an
eternity passed as she searched her long-repressed
memories.  

"It's my brother."

Samantha's eyes held all the wonder of a child seeing its
first butterfly as she looked first to me, then Scully, and
then at Mulder's picture again.  As I struggled for the
right words, tears escaped from Samantha's eyes and ran in
streaks down her cheeks.  She was no longer the jail-
hardened murderer who had entered the room.  She was the
lost, frightened little girl of Mulder's quest.

"Do you remember his name, Samantha?" Scully asked.  I
could tell from the timbre of her voice that she was near
tears herself.  I leaned closer to her, wishing I could
put my arm around her to comfort us both, but I knew the
guards in the room were closely watching this drama unfold.

After a moment, Samantha shook her head.  "No," she said
finally.  "I just remember it was unusual.  It wasn't 'Jim'
or 'Joe' or "Bob.'  It was strange. I remember...I would
tease him about it."

A heavy silence filled the room as Scully and I regrouped.
Here we were, in all probability, talking with Mulder's Holy
Grail.  What should we do now?  Should we tell Mulder? 
Could I, in good conscience, let Mulder continue searching
for someone we had already found?  More importantly, could
Scully?  Samantha's little-girl voice sliced through my
internal dialogue.

"Do you know who I am?"

"We might, Samantha," Scully said.  "We want to
investigate further before we reveal anymore."

Samantha sighed, impatiently.  "You don't have much time.
They're gonna kill me on Friday."

"I'm going to ask the Governor for a stay," I said,
finally finding my voice.  "If you're who we think you are,
we need time to investigate so we can bring your abductors
to justice."  The words rang hollow even to me.  What kind
of hope were we giving this woman?  All I could offer her
was a chance to live long enough to know her true identity.

"He wouldn't spare Karla Faye," Samantha said, her voice
fading in volume but rising noticeably in bitterness.  She
lifted her eyes and they were filled with genuine sadness.
"He didn't give a damn about Karla Faye.  He won't give a
damn about me."

Karla Faye Tucker. Convicted of a double murder, Tucker
became a born-again Christian in jail and, as the date
of her execution approached, became a media star.  A
reporter asked Governor Bush whether he had met any of those
pressing Karla Faye Tucker's case for clemency. Bush said
he hadn't, but claimed to have seen the Larry King Show
when King asked Tucker what she would say if she could
speak directly with the Governor.  'What was her answer?'
the reporter asked Bush.  Bush puckered his lips and, in a
mocking, simpering tone said: 'Please don't kill me.'  

"We're going to try, Samantha," Scully said.  

Six years with Mulder had made Scully a champion of lost
causes, but I was sure she, too, knew the futility of our
efforts.  At best, we had less than three days to solve
the mystery of Samantha's abduction and reunite her with
her brother and mother. Then we'd have to deal with the
aftermath of her execution. 

"I need to take a sample of your blood," Scully said,
pulling a small pouch from her briefcase.  "A DNA test will
determine whether there's a match with the man we think is
your brother."

The guards wouldn't let Scully enter Samantha's half of
the room to take the blood sample.  It would violate the
'no contact visits' rule, they said.  After a heated
discussion with Deputy Warden Dennison, we reached a
compromise of sorts.  Scully said she didn't need much
blood, just a few drops would be enough.  Samantha was
permitted to slip her finger through one of the holes in
the plexiglas room divider for Scully to poke at with a
lancet and collect the blood in a pipette.

We promised Samantha we would see her again in Huntsville
and left immediately.  During the short ride back to town,
we planned our strategy.  I dropped Scully off at the local
hospital, where she could get access to a lab to run the
DNA tests.  I went back to the motel to work the telephone.
I needed to get an appointment with Governor Bush, and talk
to Samantha's lawyers.  If the test came back positive--
both Scully and I were certain it would--her lawyers would
work the judicial angle while I pursued the political. 
Meanwhile, Scully would try to learn more about Samantha
Brown.

It took me the rest of the morning to finish the phone
calls.  Samantha's lawyers were excited by the prospect of
another collateral issue to raise on appeal, but not
optimistic that the court would reopen the case.  But, in
the world of post-conviction capital appeals, any delay
was considered a victory.  If a court would consider the
question, the execution would be delayed for weeks or
months.  During that time, anything could happen.  

I picked up a take-out order at a nearby restaurant.  When
I arrived at the hospital lab, Scully breathed a sigh of
relief and dashed for the bathroom, leaving me to guard the
test.  While she was gone, I laid out our meal.  As we ate
in companionable silence, I wished--not for the first time--
that I could read Scully's mind.

"She has Mulder's eyes," Scully said when she finished her
sandwich.  

"His cynicism too," I said.  Scully smiled slightly and
nodded her agreement.  I waited, sensing she had something
she wanted to say.  She cleared her throat and looked at me
uncomfortably.

"I've always been opposed to the death penalty," she said,
her eyes never leaving mine.  

I nodded, taking her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. 
I suspected as much.  I read her testimony in the
Donnie Pfaster trial.  She asked the Judge not to
sentence Pfaster to death for his crimes.  I suddenly
wondered how she was resolving her beliefs with Pfaster's
recent death.  My heart sank as I realized we hadn't spoken
about it.  Mulder's report had raised some questions in my
mind, but I ignored them, afraid of the answers.  I gripped
her hand tighter, conveying my support.

"I..." she began, hesitantly, appearing torn by
conflicting emotions.  She looked away.  "I killed him, you
know," she said after a moment, locking eyes with me
again.  I could see a glint of determination, as though
this was something she'd wanted to tell me for a long time.

As if she had read my throughts, I realized that she was
talking about Pfaster.  "I know--" I said, but she cut me
off quickly.

"No, Walter.  I mean, I *murdered* him...in cold blood."

I felt as though she had slapped me.  What was she telling
me and why was she telling me now?  Her eyes were suddenly
dark and unfathomable.  I let out a long, audible breath
and shifted in my seat.  "That's not what Mulder said." I
could feel myself bristling and willed myself to relax.

"Mulder lied," she said, without inflection.  "We both
lied."

"It was self-defense," I said, setting my jaw.  I
desperately wanted to believe Mulder's report. She crossed
her arms in front of her and watched me with a lethal
calmness.  I mimicked her, trying to match her icy gaze. 
It was no use--I knew she was telling me the truth and I
felt chilled to the bone.

Scully began to clean up from our meal as I watched
wordlessly. I grabbed her wrist abruptly and pulled her
closer.  "Why didn't you tell me?"  I  was surprised at
how angry my voice sounded when anger wasn't what I felt.

"And if I had told you, Assistant Director?"  She tried to
pull away, but my grip was too strong.  "What would you have
done?"  Her voice was knife-edged and cut me deeply.

I couldn't blame her for her distrust.  Mulder had
conditioned her not to trust anyone but him when it came to
their work.  They both knew I had been compromised by
Krycek and his damned nanocytes.  They both knew I once
danced to the Smoking Man's tune.  

I loosened my grip on her wrist and she pulled her arm
away angrily.  "I would have done what I always do," I
said.  "I would have kept your secret.  I would have
risked my career to protect you.  And Mulder."  I slumped
back in my chair, remembering those days after Pfaster
died.  Scully hid out at Mulder's apartment, preferring
his comfort to mine.  I had felt helpless, useless,
impotent.  And extremely jealous.  Now it all made sense. 
In much of her life, she still thought of me as the enemy.

It was time for me to go, before either of us said
something we couldn't take back.  I turned and found myself
moving to the door, navigating my way around the unfamiliar
lab without thinking.  

"Walter, wait," she called out, just as I reached the
door.  My hand lingered on the doorknob for a long moment
before I released it and turned.  "I'm sorry," she said,
looking apologetic.  "I didn't mean to make you angry.  I
just...," she shrugged her shoulders and broke eye
contact.  "I wanted to tell you, but I knew you would risk
your career to protect me.  I couldn't put you in that
position."

I looked at her for a long moment, remembering the first
difficult weeks of our currently-undefinable relationship.  
The first step back from that door took all the energy I
could muster at the moment.  Slowly, I moved back through
the lab until I was standing just in front of her again.  

"I'm not angry," I said.

"That wasn't anger?" she asked, gently mocking.  I shook
my head.  "Then what was it?"

"Confusion," I said, without hesitating.  She slipped her
arms around my waist and tipped her head up to look at me,
her mesmerizing blue eyes pulling me in and making my
head spin.  

"What are you confused about?" she asked, tentatively.

I lifted one hand to her face and stroked her cheek,
smiling inwardly as she leaned almost imperceptibly into my
hand.  "I'm confused about why you and I are lovers when
you're in love with Mulder."

There--I said it.

She stiffened.  A tense silence enveloped us as she
stepped back and out of my arms.

"Have I ever said I was in love with Mulder?" she
demanded.  Her slender hands unconsciously twisted together
in front of her.  I grasped them between my hands and
steadied her.

My smile was bittersweet.  "You didn't have to," I said. 
Before she could respond, I placed my finger on her lips. 
I didn't care what Mulder said--sometimes, the truth was
too much.  Especially now.

It was time to shift gears and bring us back to the here
and now.  "I think we need to keep our focus.  Samantha
Brown.  Mulder's sister.  Remember?"

Her silence was short, brittle, but finally she nodded. 
"Yes.  I remember," she said, turning, withdrawing, both
physically and emotionally.  It's what she always does
when I've said or done something that touched a raw nerve. 
"What time's your appointment with the Governor?" she
asked, trying to get back on firm ground.

"Eight.  I'll leave in the morning."

"I think you should drive down today and stay in Austin
tonight." 

I studied her face as a multitude of emotions ran through
me.  She closed her eyes and shook her head.  "I didn't
mean that the way you think," she said.  She took a deep
breath and let it out slowly before opening her eyes once
again.  "It's a two hour drive, Walter.  It's a more
effective use of your time."

She was right, of course.  There was nothing else I could
accomplish for Samantha in Gatesville tonight.  But, I knew
this was just a convenient excuse to avoid a conversation
she didn't want to have.  What she didn't understand was
that I didn't want to have that conversation either.  It
could only end badly for me.

"When will you know the test results?" I asked after a
half-minute of stilted silence.  

"If nothing goes wrong, about 3:00 a.m."

I glanced at my watch.  It was a little after 4:00 p.m. 
"Why don't you go back to the motel and take a nap," I
said.  "I can baby-sit the test for awhile."

She rubbed her fingers at her temples.  "I wish it were
that simple.  There're several more steps to the test that
I need to be here to handle."

Eventually, we agreed that I would return at six so she
could take a short break and then I would leave for Austin. 
I left for the motel to pack my travel bag.  I planned to
use the rest of the time to read through the hefty file we
had picked up at the prison.  It contained a social
worker's pre-sentence report on Samantha, a transcript of
her trial, and a copy of the video tape of her crime.

By the time I finished reading everything, and watched
the tape, I no longer had any delusions that Samantha was
an innocent victim of Texas blood lust.  She was a
cold-blooded killer who had earned her death sentence by
her actions.  But she was still a victim of the Consortium,
and I owed it to Mulder to do what I could do to buy her
some time.  She should die knowing how much her brother
loved her, and that he had spent his adult life looking for
her.



				* * *


When I was a young man, I never knew failure.  I was a
dyed-in-the-wool baby boomer.  I grew up knowing that
America and Americans would always win if they just tried
hard enough, if they just wanted it enough.  Every step I
took toward manhood served to confirm this belief.  I made
Eagle Scout, I was the star linebacker of my high school
football team, I bore the Guidon of my recruit platoon at
Parris Island.  

Then came Vietnam.

In the hot, steamy jungles of Vietnam, I died in an ambush
and returned to the living thanks to what can only be called
Divine Intervention.  For the first time, I realized I
wasn't invincible.  America wasn't invincible.  Having
tasted failure, I worked twice as hard to avoid it.  First
in my class in college, then law school.  I married well
and quickly forgot what failure felt like.

Then came the FBI.

I was the golden boy of my generation of agents.  First in
my class at the Academy, I got the most plum assignments,
and everything I did went right.  With Sharon at my side, I
joined all the right social circles and made all the right
connections.  I was on the fast track, the youngest
Assistant Director in Bureau history.

Then came the Smoking Man.

Once the old bastard had his hooks in me, failure and I
became good friends.  I did things that bordered on
treason.  When Mulder opened the X-Files and I began to
comprehend the lies I'd been told about the Consortium's
purpose, I tried to get out.  The Consortium sent Luis
Cardinale to kill me, and when he failed, they tried three
times to frame me for murder.  My career stalled, my
marriage failed, and my self-confidence plummeted.  Jack
Daniels became my best friend.  When the Consortium killed
Sharon, I drank myself to sleep night after night.  

And then came Scully.

Not right away, of course.  Not until much later, in fact.
Not until Krycek put these damned nanocytes in my
bloodstream and nearly killed me.  

I had feelings for Scully for a long time, feelings that I
left unspoken, mostly because she was my subordinate, but
also because I assumed she and Mulder were involved.  I
knew how territorial Mulder was, and I'd seen what he could
do when he felt threatened, so I kept my feelings to myself.

It was three weeks after I 'died' in the hospital from the
nanocytes.  That afternoon, I had ordered Mulder and
Scully not to investigate the case any further.  It was
obvious neither of them was happy about it, but they
didn't have much choice.  That night, Scully came to my
apartment.  I'd had a couple drinks and was sitting in the
dark savoring my misery when she knocked on the door. The
first things I noticed were the slacks and sweater she had
changed into, and I had to tamp down the wave of liquor-
enhanced lust that coursed through me.  The second thing I
noticed was the anger in her eyes.  It radiated toward me
like heat from a blast furnace.

There was no exchange of pleasantries.  I'd barely opened
the door when she pushed her way in and began railing at me
for not permitting them to continue the investigation into
who had poisoned me.  I didn't say anything.  I just let
her go until her rant ended.  By the time she finished, I
could see tears in her eyes but they didn't fall.

That's when I realized that hidden behind her anger was a
stark fear for my well-being.  It was a fear far out of
proportion for my role as her immediate supervisor, or even
as her friend.  This was deeply personal, and for the
first time I wondered whether she wanted me as badly as I
wanted her.

A tense silence filled the room.  She refused to look
directly at me.  I suspected she was embarrassed at her
burst of anger and by some of the sailor's language she
used.  I wanted to touch her and the liquor I consumed
gave me the courage. I moved closer, my heart thundering,
my skin prickling pleasurably.  Slowly, I reached for her
chin and gently coaxed her face toward me and then up.

"Look at me," I said and waited until she reluctantly
lifted her eyes.  "I'm sorry."

That's when she kissed me.  The rest of the evening
was a blur; a mad, kaleidoscope flash of memories of
discarded clothes, tangled limbs, and skin against skin. 
Our anger and fear fueled our lovemaking until we were
sated.  By the time we were finished, she purred
contentedly in my arms.

Oddly, before that night, I fantasized that a
relationship with Scully would be a cerebral experience,
that sex would be secondary to a meeting of our minds. 
Instead, our relationship is physical, as we feed our
emotional needs--fear, anger, pain, and joy--through sex.
Talking about our feelings is difficult for both of us;
acting on them is easy.

We'd been through much since that night, just over one
year ago.  We were driven closer together by some events
and wrenched apart by others.  I think in some ways, her
jealousy of Diana Fowley and anger at Mulder were the
driving factors in those first months of our relationship. 
Mulder's mental breakdown and disappearance from the
hospital raised issues of trust between us that we nearly
didn't survive.  We loved and fought and loved some more,
and at the center of it all--much as it pains me, kills me,
destroys me to admit it--had been Mulder.

Thoughts of Mulder brought my mind back to my present
circumstances.  It promised to be a long, frustrating day.
At 8:00 a.m., I was to meet with Governor Bush at the
Governor's Mansion, not far from the Capital Building.  The
meeting was scheduled for the Mansion, rather than the
Governor's office at the Capital, because Bush was leaving
at 8:30 to play in a charity golf game.

When I arrived, I was met by the Governor's Chief of
Staff, Joe Allbaugh, and his Press Secretary, Karen Hughes.
They oozed charm as they assured me that the Governor was
always happy to meet with an Assistant Director of the
FBI, while at the same time, making it clear that I would
have to make it fast because the Governor was a very busy
man.  I wondered why he was playing golf on a weekday if he
was so busy.  

Despite the smarminess of my greeting, I expected the
Governor to be receptive to my request.  Afterall, I wasn't
asking him to pardon Samantha Brown, or to commute her
sentence to life.  I wasn't even asking for a new trial. 
All I was asking for was a three-month stay to give the
Bureau time to investigate her abduction as a child.  What
difference could it make to him if the State of Texas
killed her three months later than scheduled?

Bush appeared attentive while I made my pitch, though he
let Allbaugh and Hughes do the talking.  They asked pointed
questions about Samantha and the investigations into her
disappearance in 1973, first by the Department of State,
and then the FBI.  They were especially interested in the
documents Scully had faxed me that morning, lab reports
proving that Samantha Brown was really Samantha Mulder.  I
didn't mention the possibility that she was a clone.  I
also didn't mention aliens or conspiracies.  I stressed 
Bill Mulder's position in the State Department, hoping to
appeal to the Governor's elitist family background. 

When I finished, Allbaugh asked me to wait in the parlor
while they discussed my request.  I stressed the urgency of
the situation, pointing out that Samantha would be moved
to the death cell in Huntsville that morning.  There wasn't
time for my request to be caught up in bureaucratic red
tape.  The Governor assured me I would have an answer
before I left.

Waiting in the foyer brought back long-forgotten memories.
I had visited the Governor's Mansion several times with my
Scout troop.  Later, when I was a law student at the
University of Texas, my moot court team won the regional
competition and then Governor Briscoe held a reception in
our honor at the Mansion.  Once again I realized the irony
of my situation.  My moot court team's winning argument had
been on behalf of a fictitious death row prisoner.  We had
successfully argued that death by electrocution constituted
cruel and unusual punishment.

It wasn't long before Joe Allbaugh interrupted my trip
down memory lane.  He informed me in a somber tone that the
Governor had decided not to grant my request.  I was
stunned because I couldn't see any good reason for the
Governor to care when Samantha Brown died, so long as the
sentence was carried out eventually.  Allbaugh sensed my
dismay and explained that the administration had
established a 'no unnecessary delay' policy toward
executions, and that Samantha's abduction was so long ago,
they doubted it would ever be solved, whether Samantha was
available to us or not.

I was a bit dazed as I walked out the Mansion's driveway
to my rental car.  One thing I had been sure of was a stay.
Maybe not three months, but at least something, anything. 
I wanted to give Samantha some hope, and I wanted to buy
some time for Mulder.  I knew that if anyone could pull off
a miracle, it was Mulder, but even he would need some time,
and I wanted to be the one to give it to him.  If nothing
else, he could make peace with what was going to happen to
his sister.  

The cold, sweaty feeling of failure crept over me as I
slipped behind the wheel.  I ran on autopilot, putting on
my seatbelt, turning the key in the ignition, and steering
the car out on the busy Austin streets, all the while
wondering what I would do next.  Scully would be in
Huntsville with Samantha by now.

Without realizing it, I had driven to the campus of the
University of Texas.  It had changed since I graduated. 
Fraternity row, where I lived three of my four
undergraduate years, had been cleaned up and the lawns
manicured.  I drove past my old fraternity, Kappa Zeta, its
membership back then limited to veterans.  We were older
than the other frat boys, we worked harder, and we could
buy beer, which made us very popular at parties.  I pulled
into an empty parking spot across the street from the Kappa
Zeta house.

I was in no hurry to tell Scully the Governor's decision. 
I was in no hurry to leave Austin.  I slumped back into
the plush seat of my car and watched the college students
hurrying to their classes.  How easy they have it, I
thought.  How nice it would be to have nothing more
serious to worry about than studying and partying.  I met
my wife here.  I was recruited by the FBI here.  Other
happy memories flooded my mind and it was easy to forget
what waited for me in Huntsville.

Then my cell phone rang.

"Yeah," I said, expecting it to be Scully on the other end.

"Assistant Director Skinner?" a man's voice said.  He
sounded familiar, but I couldn't place the voice.

"This is Tom Haas, Samantha Brown's lawyer."

"Oh, right," I said, sitting up and shaking the cobwebs
out of my brain.  "I just left the Governor," I said.

"Let me guess.  He turned you down."

"Yeah.  I really don't understand why it would matter to
him one way or the other."

"He has no sympathy for death row inmates, Mr. Skinner,"
Haas said, bitterly.  "They didn't contribute any money to
his election campaign."

I didn't say anything.  One never knew who was listening
in on a cell phone, and I didn't want to see 'FBI Assistant
Director Insults Texas Governor' on the front page of the
newspapers tomorrow morning.

"The reason I called," Haas said after an awkward moment
of silence, "is because we need you at the Supreme Court
Building as soon as possible.  Where are you?"

"I'm on the UT campus."

"Great!  You're not far then.  One of the Judges on the
Court of Criminal Appeals has agreed to give us an
emergency hearing on a stay pending a decision on our
motion for a second habeas corpus.  We need you there to
explain who Samantha really is and the FBI's investigation
into her abduction."

I had the car in gear before he stopped talking.  "I'll be
right there," I said. 

By the time I arrived at the Supreme Court Building, my
spirit was rejuvenated.  Maybe things would go Mulder's way
for once in his life and this court would grant a stay. 
I knew it came down to whether there was a substantial
likelihood that the court would grant the motion for habeas
corpus at a hearing on the merits.

The Court of Criminal Appeals is located on the first
floor of the Supreme Court Building.  By the time I cleared
security and reached the clerk of court's office, Tom Haas
was waiting for me.

"This way, Mr. Skinner," he said as we shook hands.  He
led me at a trot down the hall toward a large double door
where two Texas Rangers stood guard.  "Judge Hernandez
couldn't wait any longer to get started.  She has to be in
El Paso this afternoon.  Tony is giving her the background
on the case."

'Tony,' I knew, was Tony Albanese, Tom's associate.  Tom was
a partner at a large Dallas law firm.  He handled several
death penalty appeals each year pro bono. 

"What're our chances?" I asked as we walked briskly down
the long hall.

Haas slowed and turned to look at me.  "Not a snowball's
chance in hell, Mr. Skinner."

I stopped dead in my tracks.  "Then why...?"

Haas sighed heavily.  "The odds of getting a second habeas
in Texas are a million to one.  The cards are stacked
against the inmate right out of the gate.  But we have to
exhaust our state remedies before we can file in federal
court."  He tried to smile but I could tell it was just a
facade for my sake.  "I'm hoping the FBI's interest in the
case will work for us."

"The FBI's interest wasn't enough to convince the
Governor," I said.

"The Governor's a lost cause, Mr. Skinner."  He hesitated,
but I could tell there was something on his mind.  Finally,
he locked his eyes on mine and asked, "What's your interest
in this, Mr. Skinner?  Who is Samantha Brown to you?"

I nodded, acknowledging his suspicion.  "Samantha's
biological brother is a friend of mine.  I owe him this."

"The executioner's curse.  It's not easy to put someone to
death once she becomes a real person in your mind, is it?" 
It was a rhetorical question I didn't answer.  He was
right, though.  

We continued down the hall until we reached a heavy oak
door.  When we entered the room, I was surprised to find a
conference room, not a formal courtroom.  A woman I
presumed to be Judge Hernandez sat at the head of a large
conference table.  To the Judge's left sat a young man,
Tony Albanese.  Across from Tony, to the Judge's right,
sat an older man in a rumpled suit taking notes on a yellow
legal pad.  I guessed him to be an attorney for the state. 
To his right sat a court reporter.

We entered the room just as Tony began summarizing the
facts of Samantha's identification and childhood abduction.
We sat on either side of him, Tom closer to the Judge, and
me on the end.  

Finally, Tony ended his introduction and Tom took over.
"I'd like to call Walter Skinner to testify, Your Honor,"
he said.

The court reporter stood and raised her right hand. I
followed her example.  "Do you swear or affirm that the
testimony you are about to give will be the truth,
the whole truth, and only the truth?" she said

"Yes, I do," I lied without hesitating. I was riddled
with doubt, but I knew that one mention of alien clones
would destroy any chance for Samantha. 

We returned to our seats and Haas turned in his chair to
face me.

"Would you identify yourself for the record, please," he
said.

"I'm Walter Skinner, Assistant Director of the FBI,
responsible for the Criminal Investigations Division."

"Mr. Skinner," Haas said, "Please tell the court what
you've learned about Samantha Brown's true identity."

I cleared my thoughts and decided how to start. 
"Yesterday morning I first learned about Samantha Brown. 
Details about her life brought to mind a twenty-eight-year-
old open investigation into the abduction of a state
department official's daughter in 1973.  There were enough
similarities that I came to Texas immediately to
investigate."

"Is this the young girl who was abducted in 1973?" Haas
asked, handing me a the picture of Mulder and his
sister Sam as children I had given to him earlier.  

I glanced quickly at the photo.  "Yes, that is Samantha
Mulder and her brother, Fox.  Their father, now deceased,
was William Mulder, a high-level official at the Department
of State in the 1960s and 70s."

Haas handed the photo to Judge Hernandez.  "How certain are
you that Samantha Brown is the missing girl..." Judge
Hernandez asked immediately, shuffling briefly through her
papers, "the missing girl, Samantha Mulder, Mr. Skinner?"

"Absolutely positive, Your Honor," I said, hoping any
thoughts I had that Samantha might be an alien clone weren't
revealed by the timbre of my voice.  "Special Agent Dana
Scully, an agent under my supervision, is a medical
doctor, board certified in forensic pathology.  Yesterday
she conducted a mitochondrial DNA test on a blood sample we
took from Samantha Brown.  She compared it to a blood
sample from Samantha Mulder's brother, the boy in that
picture," I nodded toward the photograph now lying in the
center of the table, "and concluded that they're closely
related."  I passed the DNA test documents and the
affidavit Scully had faxed to me at my motel this morning
to Tom who handed them to the Judge.  She studied them for
a moment before handling them to the state's attorney.

"And the FBI's been looking for this girl since 1973?"
Haas prodded.

"Not exactly," I said, twisting a little uncomfortably in
my chair.  Too many questions could make this difficult.  I
needed to keep it short.  "The FBI didn't officially begin
looking for this Samantha until the late 1980s, when a
special unit under my supervision was created to
investigate...dead files."  Unsolved and damned weird dead
files, I thought.

After a few more questions about Samantha's family, Haas
said he was finished.  The Judge asked the state's attorney
whether he had any questions for me.  I was relieved that
he didn't.  

"Then I'll hear arguments, gentlemen," Judge Hernandez said.

For the next thirty minutes I struggled to follow the
complicated legal arguments made by Haas and the state's
attorney.  Samantha's ultimate argument was that unless
her sentence was vacated and she received a new sentencing
hearing, Texas would have unconstitutionally precluded jury
consideration of mitigating evidence.  But before he could
even get to that argument, Haas first had to convince the
judge to grant an emergency stay of her execution--and that
would require overcoming procedural roadblocks designed to
favor the state.  

Finally, the lawyers finished and Judge Hernandez
adjourned the hearing, promising a decision within an hour.
The room was quiet except for the sound of the lawyers
gathering their papers and packing their briefcases.  Haas
looked at me and jerked his head toward the door.  When we
got to the hallway, Haas told Tony to get back to the
office and get the writ ready for federal court.

"I'll call you as soon as I know," he said as Tony nodded
and turned to leave us.  "How about some lunch, Mr.
Skinner?  I'd prefer not to get the bad news on an empty
stomach."

"You really don't think she'll grant the stay?" I asked as
we made our way through the courthouse.  "I thought you
made a good argument in there."

"You don't know much about post-conviction remedies, do
you?" 

"Absolutely nothing."

"Most cops don't.  Their interest ends once they've got the
conviction."

I wasn't sure whether he meant that derisively or was just
stating a fact.  And I knew it was a fact.  The last time I
gave a second thought to what happened to a convict after
the trial was when Duane Berry escaped from custody and
abducted Scully.

We rode together to the restaurant.  In the car, Haas sat
quietly, looking out the side window.  The silence was
unnerving.  I wanted to know what he was thinking, but I
also didn't want to intrude.  

At the restaurant, we filled the time with small talk
while we waited for our meals.  Haas told me about his
wife, who was also a lawyer, and showed me pictures of his
kids.  He gave me a look of sympathy when I said I had no
one.  At least no one I could admit to, I thought, feeling
a flush of annoyance at my situation.  

My cell phone rang just as our food arrived.  "Skinner," I
said, hoping it was Scully.  She had kept her phone turned
off in case Mulder called, so I had to wait for her to call
me.

"I missed you last night."

"Me, too," I said, smiling inwardly.  Scully didn't say
things like that very often.

"Where are you?"

"In Austin.  The Governor turned me down."

She paused for a moment, and then said, "I'm in
Huntsville.  Samantha's on death watch."  I could hear the
tension in her voice and wished I could put my arms around
her.

"I went to state court with Samantha's lawyers.  We're
waiting for a decision from the judge on a stay."

"You don't sound too optimistic."

"I'm not."

There were so many things I wanted to say, but couldn't,
partly because Tom Haas was sitting across from me.  But
also because the things I wanted to say weren't the sorts
of things Scully and I said to each other.  My first
marriage failed because I wouldn't talk about my feelings
with my wife.  Now I wanted to talk about them, and
couldn't, because Scully didn't want to hear them.

"The Department of Criminal Justice is going to let us
hypnotize Samantha tomorrow morning."

That was surprising news.  "You're kidding," I said.  She
assured me she wasn't, and that she had arranged for a
respected hypnotist to be at the Huntsville prison in the
morning.  

I put my hand over the phone and said to Haas, "Did you
know Samantha's being hypnotized in the morning?" 

He shook his head.  "No!  I don't think I want her doing
that, either."

I relayed his protest to Scully.

"We tried to reach her lawyers," she said, "but they were
in court.  Samantha wants to do it, no matter what her
lawyers say.  At this point, what does it matter?"

"I'll discuss it with him," I said, signaling Haas to calm
down.  I had to agree with Scully on this one.  Samantha
was going to die tomorrow night, unless we could pull off
a miracle.  What difference could it make if she
was hypnotized first?

"When will you get here?"

"I don't know.  Have you checked into a hotel?" 

"Yes.  The Sheraton downtown.  It's three blocks from the
Walls Unit."

"I'll meet you there."  I hung up reluctantly.

While we ate, Haas told me about the Anti-Terrorist and
Effective Death Penalty Act of 1996, which severely limited
the ability of state inmates to petition the federal courts
for habeas corpus.  Samantha already had her shot at
federal habeas corpus, years earlier.  In order to get a
second chance at a federal writ, Haas would have to ask
the U.S. Court of Appeals for the 5th Circuit for permission
to file a petition in the U.S. District Court for the
Western District of Texas.   If he couldn't convince the
circuit court to grant that request, they would never even
get to the question of whether she was constitutionally
entitled to a new sentencing hearing.

I picked up the tab for our lunches, figuring it was the
least I could do for this man who had spent so much of his
time and his own money trying to help Samantha.  While I
was at the counter paying, Haas received a call on his
cell phone.  I watched him answer and saw his posture
slump.  He said only a few words before hanging up.  I
returned to our table and tossed a couple bills down for a
tip.  

"Was that the court?" I asked.

He nodded.  "Judge Hernandez denied the motion."


				* * *


By the time I drove from the Houston airport to
Huntsville, it was nearly 11:00 p.m.  When I registered,
the front desk clerk told me Scully had asked to be
informed when I arrived.  I nodded my acquiescence and
trudged wearily toward the elevator.

I barely removed my suit jacket and loosened my tie when
there was a soft knock at the door.  It was Scully, her
hair still damp from a shower, wearing a pale blue terry
cloth robe and fuzzy slippers.  She was a sight for sore
eyes.  She yawned as she handed me my suitcase.

"Where have you been?  I've been trying to call you all
evening."  There was a hint of disappointment in her voice,
or perhaps it was annoyance.  Sometimes it's hard to tell
with Scully.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry.  I had to turn my cell phone off
while I was in court.  I forgot to turn it back on."

She sat on the foot of the bed, tucking her hands under
her thighs and looking very young.  "What have you been
doing in Austin all this time?  I thought you'd be here
hours ago."

I got two plastic cups from the bathroom and studiously
removed their paper wrapping, conscious of her watching
me.  "I...uh...I left Austin.  I went to New Orleans." 
I avoided her eyes, reaching for the paper bag sitting on
the sofa next to my briefcase.  I pulled out the bottle of
Jack Daniels I had picked up on my way to the hotel,
broke the seal, and opened the cap.  "Want a drink?" I
asked, finally looking up to meet her eyes.

She nodded and I poured two fingers of the dark whiskey
into each of the cups and handed her one.  I sat on the
edge of the bed next to her and drank the whiskey in one
shot.  She twirled hers around in the cup for a moment,
watching it intently as though trying to divine the meaning
of life from its swirls.  Finally, she threw it back in
one shot.  It stung her throat and she coughed, raising her
hand to cover her mouth and glancing at me a little
sheepishly.  

I patted her back gently and she leaned into me.  I pulled
her into my lap, pleased that she didn't push me away.  I
tossed our cups toward a nearby trash can and wrapped my
arms around her.  She rested her head
against my shoulder and we sat quietly for several minutes.

"Why did you go to New Orleans?" Scully asked finally.

"I went with Samantha's lawyers to the Court of Appeals. 
They had to file some papers...to try to continue the
appeal in federal court."

"Did they need you to testify again?"

"No.  I...They had our affidavits."

"Then why'd you go?"

"I don't know.  I thought maybe my presence might
influence the court."  I laughed, mocking my inflated
opinion of my importance.  "It was stupid of me.  I'm sure
the judges never even knew I was there."

"What happened?"

"They turned us down."

I heard her sigh and felt her warm breath against my neck.
"That's it, then."

"Maybe not.  The lawyers left for D.C. to ask Justice
Scalia for a stay."  Each Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court
is assigned to one of the federal circuit courts to hear
such emergency appeals.  It was Samantha's misfortune that
the arch-conservative Scalia was assigned to the Fifth
Circuit.

"Not much chance of that happening," Scully said.  "Why
didn't you go with them?"  

I smiled against her damp hair.  "I didn't think it would
help, and I wanted to be with you."  I felt a slight tingle
of approval race through her and knew that I had given the
answer she wanted to hear.  

She pulled away and stood up.  "Get ready for bed,
Walter," she said, removing her bathrobe and tossing it on
the sofa on the other side of the room.  She pulled back
the covers and climbed into the bed.  "We have a long day
tomorrow."

I pushed myself onto my feet and headed for the bathroom
where I stripped and jumped in the shower.  When I
returned to the bedroom, I could tell by Scully's breathing
that she was rapidly falling asleep.  I rummaged around in
my suitcase for my grey sweat pants, pulled them on, and
then climbed into bed next to her.  Scully moved closer and
I put my arm around her.

"Hmmm," she murmured.  "I'm sorry.  I'm too tired to...."

"Me, too," I said.  "What did you do today?" 

"I spent most of the day with Samantha."

"How's she holding up?"

"She's scared.  She's falling apart.  She needs...she
needs more than I can give her."

"We have a decision to make," I said.  "Are we going to
tell Mulder?"

"No."

She surprised me.  I expected this to be a tortuous
decision, one that might irreparably damage our
relationship.  Instead, it seemed that she had reached the
same conclusion I had, that telling Mulder what we had
learned would only bring him more pain.  I expected
Scully to want to tell him, knowing how difficult it would
be for her to keep the truth from him.

"You're willing to let him continue searching for his
sister, when you already know she's dead?"

She nodded, her hair brushing against my cheek.  "Mulder
can handle not knowing what happened to Samantha.  I'm not
sure he can handle knowing this."

"What about you?" I asked.  "Can you continue working with
him, chasing after Samantha at his side, risking your life
and his, knowing what you know now?"

She was silent for a long time.  I held up saying
anything.  She had to decide this herself, and I couldn't
help.

"No," she said, finally.  "I don't think I can."

I stayed silent.  I knew what I wanted her to say, but I
also knew not to push.  She had to come to the conclusion
on her own.

"You'll have to reassign me," she said finally.  "Maybe
back to Quantico.  Or maybe I'll leave the Bureau.  I just
know that I won't be able to keep this from Mulder and
still be part of his quest.  I would feel like a traitor."

"And then what?"  My imagination leapt into hyper drive,
thinking about what this could mean for her, for me, for
Mulder.  Scully out of the Bureau, or at Quantico, would
mean she was out of my chain of command.  No more sneaking
around.  No more secrets.  But no matter how hard I tried,
I couldn't imagine Mulder lasting very long without Scully.
She lifted her head to look at me and I could see my
question had confused her.

"What about us?" I added, slipping my arm up to her bare
shoulder possessively.  I wasn't tired anymore.  I wanted
to make love to her, to claim her as mine now that we had
reached this crossroad.  I knew she could sense my desire;
she had always been attuned to my needs.  But in all the
months of our relationship, I had always let Scully take
the initiative, and I wasn't about to change that pattern
now.  

Her hand inched its way up my chest, coming to rest on my
shoulder.   "What is it you want me to say, Walter?  What
do you want from me?"  Her voice was pained and full of
confusion.

This was going to be that talk, the one I'd feared for so
many months, the one that would either bring us closer
together, or bring us to the end of the road.  I felt a
tightness in my chest that made it difficult to speak.  I
couldn't believe, after everything I'd been through in my
life, that the thing that scared me the most was telling
Scully that I loved her, or hearing that she loved me.

Before I could answer, we were startled by the sound of
knocking on the door.  I glanced at the clock.  Nearly
midnight.  

"This had better be important," I grumbled as I climbed
out of bed and stalked to the door.  I opened it slowly,
and only a few inches, to shield Scully from the view of our
intruder.

Mulder!

"Christ, Mulder," I barked, trying not to reveal my surprise
and nervousness.  Just what I needed right now was for
Mulder to find me in bed with Scully.  "What the
hell are you doing here?"  I glanced quickly toward the bed
just in time to see Scully, naked, jump out of bed and slip
quietly into the bathroom.  I turned back to face Mulder. 
He was bristling with anger.  I could see the muscles in
his shoulders tense under his black t-shirt.

He shouldered the door and seemed surprised when I didn't
let him in.

"When were you going to tell me, you bastard?"  

I lowered my head and tried to stay calm.  I wasn't sure
what he was accusing me of, not telling him about his
sister, or not telling him about Scully.  I wasn't about to
admit to anything until he played his cards.

"How did you find out?" I asked, cautiously.

"The Gunmen scan the news constantly.  They found out
about your appointment with the Governor this morning.  And
that you testified at the Court of Criminal Appeals."  In a
sudden burst he slammed his shoulder into the door, pushing
me back, and entering the room.   He closed the door behind
him.

"Mulder, look--" I started, keeping myself between him and
the bathroom door.

"No, you look, you son-of-a-bitch," he said. 

He shoved me backwards, and I knew I had to do something
fast or this was going to turn ugly.  I planted my feet and
when he reached for me again, I knocked his arm away.

"Calm down, Mulder.  Look, go down to the bar.  I'll get
dressed and come down and we can talk about this."

"Fuck you," he shouted.  "And where the hell is Scully?  I
know she came down here with you.  She's checked in but
she's not in her room, and her cell phone's been turned off
for two days."

He was highly agitated, and it was only a matter of
time before hotel security would show up.  I had to calm
him down and get him out of here.  "Mulder," I said,
sternly, "I'm ordering you to go to the bar and wait for
me.  We'll talk about it down there."

He drew back his arm to take a swing at me.  Before he
could, I grabbed him, twisting him around, and pulling
his arm up behind his back.  I pushed him toward the door. 
"I'm not going to talk to you until you calm down," I
growled.  He shouted a stream of obscenities as I pushed
him toward the door.

"Stop it!"

We both froze at the sound of Scully's voice.  We 
turned together and saw her standing in the door to
the bathroom.  She was wearing my shirt.  It hung down to
her knees, making her look even smaller than she was.  Her
face was flushed, her eyes filled with tears.  

"Stop it, both of you," she said.  "Let him go, Walter."

I did as she said and took two steps in her direction,
again keeping myself between her and Mulder.  Mulder
slouched, grabbing his arm and rubbing it, staring at
Scully, then at me, and then at Scully again.  There was no
doubt he had made the connections.

"When were you going to tell me?" Mulder said in a voice
that reminded me eerily of Samantha's plaintive plea, 'do
you know who I am?'  At that moment, the similarities in
their temperment and features struck me so profoundly that
all thoughts of Samantha as a clone were swept from my
mind.  

In many ways, Mulder had been like a younger brother to me,
annoying, pestering, needing guidance, and yet respectful
and caring.  Sometimes we fought, as brothers did, and
sometimes we didn't trust each other, but in the end we'd
always worked things out.  But in all this time, I was sure
he never thought of me as competition for Scully's
affections.  Tonight changed everything.  This wasn't
something the Bureau taught us how to manage at its annual
leadership seminar.  I would defer to Scully on how to
handle the situation.

Scully stepped forward, standing at my side briefly before
moving closer to Mulder.  She held out her hand as though
to calm him.  He shrunk back from her, avoiding her touch.
She continued to advance, however, until she was able to
rest her palm on his cheek.  I was amazed that he allowed
the contact, given the emotions sparkling between the two
of them.

"Go down to the bar, Mulder," she said, gently.  "We'll be
down in ten minutes.  I promise."

He didn't look at her, couldn't look at her.  But then he
raised his head and looked straight at me with empty, blank
eyes.  Finally, he nodded and let Scully usher him out the
door.

Scully closed the door and leaned forward until her
forehead rested against it.  "What else can go wrong?"
she said, sighing despondently.

Plenty, I thought.  Mulder was like the 'Peanuts'
character, 'Pigpen.'  A cloud of misfortune clung to him
wherever he went.  Only Scully ever seemed capable of
pushing it aside and bringing him any happiness.  Maybe
that's why she shared my bed and not Mulder's.  Maybe she
was tired of being the strong one, of keeping Mulder from
crossing the line into madness.  Maybe she was afraid that
if they became intimate, she would be pulled into his dark
psyche.

It was time I took charge of the situation.  I pulled a
black t-shirt out of my suitcase, slipped it on, and
shoved my feet into my Nikes.  Scully was still standing
by the door, but she had turned and was watching me with an
expression I couldn't read.

"Get dressed," I said, before I opened the door.  "Come
down when you're ready, but give me a few minutes alone
with him first."  She nodded.  I opened the door, but
something kept me from leaving.  Something felt wrong,
unfinished.  I took a deep breath and turned back to face
her.  "I love you, Scully," I said, no longer afraid of
what saying those words might bring.  


				* * *


The bar was virtually empty.  A couple of locals, cowboy
types with mud-encrusted boots and flannel shirts, occupied
stools at the bar.  Brenda Lee's 'Break it to me gently'
played on the jukebox.  Very appropriate, I thought and
wondered whether Mulder chose it.  I walked down the
row of high-backed, dark wooden booths, looking for
Mulder.  I found him, finally, in the last booth, sitting
with his back toward the front of the bar.  I turned to
signal to the bartender to bring two beers, and then
slipped into the bench opposite Mulder.

His head was down, his forehead resting on his arms.  He
didn't look up or speak.  Mulder in self-pity mode was not
one of my favorite people.

"Sit up, Mulder," I barked, hoping my voice of authority
would shock him out of his malaise.  It seemed to work.  He
pulled himself upright.  His eyes were red-rimmed and
watery.  He swallowed hard and struggled to regain his
composure.

"Where's Scully?" he asked.  His voice was thin but tinged
with anger.

"She'll be here in a few minutes," I said just as the
bartender arrived with two long necks and glasses.  "I
think we need to have a talk," I said when he left. 

He rubbed angrily at his eyes, and watched me sullenly as
I uncapped my beer and poured it.  I pushed the other
bottle toward him, but he ignored it.

"How long?" he said, finally.  We both knew what he meant.

"About a year," I said.  I lifted the glass to my lips but
then set it back down.  I really didn't want it.  "Shortly
after my episode in the hospital.  The nanocytes."

"Bastard," he growled.

The hell with him.  "Is this going to be a problem for us,
Agent Mulder?"

His head snapped back and his eyes darkened dangerously. 
"Do you love her?" he asked me.

For some reason, I didn't want to answer him.  After
everything I'd been through today--and on Mulder's behalf--I
didn't feel the need to justify my relationship with Scully.

I tried a different tact.  "Look, Mulder...I'm sorry you
had to find out this way.  We should have told you.  I know
we could have trusted you to keep it to yourself."  I
didn't reveal the real reason we had kept our relationship
from him.  We were afraid it would destroy him.  I reached
across the table and touched his arm.  "Right now, let's
just concentrate on your sister.  We can deal with this
later, okay?"

He nodded and his Adam's apple worked overtime as he tried
to find his voice.  I saw Scully enter the bar and I
signaled her to come back.  She slipped onto the bench
next to Mulder.

"Tell Mulder about his sister," I said.  She nodded and
began talking to Mulder in soft tones.  I drank my beer and
listened as she told him everything.  For the first time
since we came to Texas, I felt in control of things.  I
might not be able to save Samantha, but I could sure as
hell save Mulder.

Mulder didn't ask any questions.  Scully was thorough, and
she didn't sugarcoat Samantha's story.  She told him
everything we knew, and everything we had done.  She also
told him about the therapist who would be at the prison in
the morning to hypnotize Samantha.  To Mulder's credit,
hearing about his sister seemed to pull him together.  I
could still see the anguish in his eyes, but it seemed
tempered by the knowledge that his sister--no matter her
circumstances--was alive.

When Scully finished, she asked Mulder whether he wanted
to go to the prison with us in the morning.  He nodded. 
Clearly, he was exhausted.

"Come on, Mulder," I said, getting up from the booth. 
"You can stay in Scully's room.  Did you bring any
luggage?"  He handed me his keys and told me where his
rental car was parked.  I told Scully to see him to the
room while I got his luggage.  By the time I got there,
Mulder was passed out on the bed.

"I think I should stay with him, Walter," Scully said,
taking the suitcase from me and setting it on the porter at
the foot of the bed.

"No," I said, firmly, taking her hand and pulling her to
me.  "You're exhausted and need your sleep. Mulder will be
fine."

The look in her eyes told me everything I needed to know. 
She went from rebellion to acceptance in the bat of eye. 
Scully was independent, but sometimes needed someone
else to take control, to make the decisions she should make
but couldn't.  We returned to my room and within minutes she
was sound asleep in my arms.

In the morning, we made love.  In a low, breathless voice,
just before her body convulsed in pleasure beneath mine,
Scully said she loved me.  I felt, finally, like a man in
control of my own destiny.

				* * *


When the founding fathers of Texas chose Austin as their
capital, Huntsville was made the capital of the state
prison system as a consolation prize.  The Walls Unit, the
foreboding red brick prison on 11th Street in downtown
Huntsville had served continuously as a state penitentiary
since the system's founding in 1848.  Today, it houses over
1600 inmates.  Death row outgrew its facilities at Walls
years ago.  Death row inmates are housed at other units--
men at the Ellis Unit just outside Huntsville, and women at
the Mountain View Unit in Gatesville-- until forty-eight
hours before their executions.  Then they are brought to
Walls, still home of the Texas death chamber.

The Walls Unit is surrounded by the friendly clapboard
homes of some of Huntsville's  most charming residential
neighborhoods, their white picket fences starkly
juxtaposed with the aging red brick walls of the prison. 
The death chamber is maintained in a small cellblock
separate from the rest of the prison but within its
compound.  

As I knew he would, Mulder survived the night and met us
for breakfast in the morning.  This time, Scully sat on my
side of the booth, and Mulder was obviously uncomfortable
with the arrangement.  He had difficulty making eye contact
with either of us.  None of us had the energy to deal with
it, and by unspoken agreement, we all pretended not to
notice the tension between us.  We would talk later, but
knowing I wouldn't come out on the short end made all the
difference in the world.

We walked the three blocks to the prison together.  The
mild February weather in Texas did nothing to warm the
chill I felt as we approached the gates.  I knew that the
Gatesville Unit, where I had seen Samantha two days ago,
was a country club compared to this 19th century structure.

We made quick business of the paperwork.  By now, the
prison system was aware of the unique situation and was
giving us a wide berth.  Mulder, and Scully, and I would be
allowed to be with Samantha right to the end, if it was
what she wanted.  Governor Bush might have no sympathy for
Samantha, but it was obvious the prison officials did.  As
Tom Haas had said, it wasn't easy killing someone once
you knew her as a person.

The therapist, Dr. Creamer, was waiting for us when we
arrived.  He came highly recommended by the Chief of
Psychiatry at the University of Texas Medical School,
according to Scully.  His easy-going manner and east Texas
accent reminded me of my father, and I took an instant
liking to him.  

After introductions were finished, Scully, Mulder, Dr.
Creamer, the Warden, and I all went into the visitation
room.  The set-up differed from Gatesville.  Instead of a
plexiglas wall, there was only a two-foot-wide yellow line
running down the center of the room.  No contact was
permitted between the prisoner and her visitors.  We were
to stay on our side of the line and she was to stay on
hers.  The staff had brought in a recliner from the
Warden's office for Samantha and there was a sofa and
several comfortable chairs on our side.

Mulder and Scully sat next to each other on the sofa.  The
warden took one of the chairs in the back corner of the
room.  Dr. Creamer pulled a chair as close to the yellow
line as he could.  I stood by the door where I could
watch everyone surreptitiously.

Before Samantha arrived, Dr. Creamer asked to have the
overhead lights turned off so that the windowless room was
illuminated only by a table lamp near the recliner.  After a
few minutes, we heard the sound of chains scraping across
the floor and we knew Samantha was on her way.  The
deathwatch cell was only a few feet down the hall, between
this room and the execution chamber.

Scully took Mulder's hand.  It would be hard on him seeing
Samantha this way.  I hoped he could take it.  Fox Mulder
could take more physical pain than anyone I knew, but his
emotional stamina was always suspect.  He had suffered so
many emotional blows over the years, that sometimes I
wondered how he got out of bed in the morning.

The door opened and a female guard entered.  She turned
and stepped aside.  "This way, Samantha," she said, smiling
gently.  She took Samantha's elbow and guided her toward
the recliner.

Samantha wore an orange jumpsuit.  Her hands were cuffed
in front of her, and her ankles were shackled, but there
was no waist chain forcing her to bend forward.  She
looked around the darkened room as she moved toward the
recliner.  I thought I saw her make eye contact with
Scully and for a fleeting instant she looked happy.  After
eight years on death row with no friends or family on the
outside, I supposed Scully was the closest thing she had to
a friend.  She seemed not to notice Mulder or me.

The female guard removed one of Samantha's ankle cuffs and
attached it to a grommet in the floor by the recliner. 
Then, surprisingly, she removed Samantha's handcuffs.  It
was this small act of civility that clued me in on just how
much different the staff at this prison was from those at
the Gatesville Unit.  They were doing their best to keep
Samantha calm and help her relax.  

After everyone was settled, Dr. Creamer introduced himself
to Samantha and tried to put her at ease.  His voice was
soothing and in just a few minutes he induced a general
state of relaxation in Samantha.  Though her eyes were
open, her face became expressionless, her respiration
slowed, and she made no spontaneous movement or speech. 
Though psychology wasn't my forte, I knew enough to
recognize the therapist's tactic.  Gradually he moved her
from a very light, hypnoidal state to a deeper,
somnambulistic one.  The deeper the hypnotic trance, the
greater the access to repressed memories.  Then he took
Samantha back to her childhood, and the night of November
27, 1973 when she disappeared.  

"Where are you, Samantha?" Dr. Creamer asked.

"At home." 

"Where are your parents?"

"Next door."

"Are you alone?"

"My big brother is here."

I was watching Scully and Mulder when Samantha said this. 
Her movement was subtle, but Scully leaned closer to him. 
His eyes were locked on Samantha, and Scully's were on him.

For the next several minutes, Creamer had Samantha
describe her home and family.  She said they'd been
playing Stratego and arguing over what to watch on TV when,
suddenly, the house was surrounded by bright light.  Men
entered the house, her brother ran to get their father's
gun, the men picked her up and carried her outside to a
waiting car.  I could see Samantha becoming agitated even
in her hypnotic state.  She suddenly screamed for help.

"Mommy!"

"Daddy!"

"Fox!  Help me, Fox!"

Mulder's eyes were closed, but his hand still tightly
gripped Scully's.  She watched him closely, not even
attempting to hide her concern.  She looked at him with such
tenderness that I felt a stab of jealousy and had to look
away.  The room was quiet for several moments as Dr.
Creamer considered how he would next probe Samantha's
memories.  

Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain in my left shoulder.  I drew
in an audible gasp and reached for my shoulder with my
right hand.  I saw Scully pull her eyes away from Mulder
and look at me.  I took several deep breaths and then was
almost overcome with a wave of nausea.  I slumped back
against the door, struggling to stay upright as my vision
blurred.  I clutched at the door until I found the door
knob and could get the door open.  I stumbled into the hall
and put my back against the wall waiting for the pain in my
chest and shoulder to subside.  I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Sir?"

It was Scully.  Her voice sounded distant and hollow.  I
felt her hands on my waist.  Was she holding me up?  I
wasn't sure.  I opened my eyes to see her studying me
intently, assessing my symptoms.

"Walter, you're having a heart attack.  We've got to get
you to an emergency room."

"No," I blurted.  I pulled my tie loose and tore open my
collar.  I saw her eyes widen as she saw the bulging
red/blue veins in my neck.  I took several more deep
breaths and pulled myself up straight.  

"Oh my God," she said in a terrified whisper.  "The
nanocytes."

I nodded, struggling to get my breathing under control.  I
tolerated her hands as they explored my arms and neck,
searching out my pulse, wiping the perspiration from my
forehead.  "I'm okay," I said when she finished.

"The hell you are.  We're going to the emergency room."

"No, I'm okay."

With one hand on my arm to steady me, she labored to get
her phone from her jacket pocket with the other.  "I'm
calling 9-1-1," she said.

"No, don't," I said, finally feeling the pain and nausea
subsiding.  "It's happened before.  It's Krycek's way of
paging me."  My attempt at humor fell flat.  She stopped
fishing for her phone and leveled a look of surprise and
anger at me.

"This has happened before," she said, slowly,
deliberately, "and you never told me?"

"Yes," I said, reluctantly.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't want to
worry you."  Her eyes darkened as her anger grew.  "Look,
Krycek isn't going to kill me.  He just wants to talk to
me.  He must be here, somewhere."  I looked about the empty
hallway, half hoping he'd show himself and Scully would aim
her anger at him instead.

"Krycek.  Here.  In the prison."

"Jesus, Dana, he comes and goes from the Hoover Building
with less hassle than we do, and every damned guard has
orders to arrest him on sight.  He can sure as hell get
into a state prison if he wants to."  I sighed and shook
my head.  "I'm sorry.  Look, just go back in with Mulder
while I go see what Krycek wants."

"I'm going with you."

"No, dammit.  You have to stay with Mulder.  He's a loose
cannon.  We don't know what he's thinking or what he might
do."  She opened her mouth to protest, but I didn't give
her the chance.  "Stay with Mulder,"  I said.  "I'll find
Krycek."

Her eyes softened.  She reached for my collar and pulled
it aside.  The evidence of the nanocyte activity was
already fading.  Her hand moved to my cheek and she brushed
my lips with her thumb.  "Be careful, Walter."  I nodded
and she slipped quietly back into the visitation room.

I considered going to the Warden's office to retrieve my
weapon, but decided against it.  It wouldn't do any good
with Krycek.  I knew what I told Scully was true. 
Krycek's biggest threat was the pain he could cause me, but
he wouldn't kill me.  Not as long as there was something he
wanted from me.  I left the building and walked out into
the warm Texas sunshine.  I surveyed the prison yard,
knowing Krycek couldn't be too far away to use the Palm
Pilot to activate the nanocytes. I didn't see him, but I
could feel his eyes on me.  He would reveal himself when he
was ready.

I walked slowly across to the other side of the main
building until I reached a single strand of barbed wire
about a foot off the ground.  Ten feet beyond this wire
was the fifteen-foot-tall electrified fence, topped with
ten strands of vicious-looking barbed wire.  A few beyond
that was the original nineteenth-century red brick wall
that surrounded the institution.

The last time Krycek summoned me this way was during
Mulder's illness from the alien artifact.  He wanted to
know Scully's whereabouts.  I thought he'd kill me with
these damned nanocytes, but eventually I convinced him
that I didn't know where she was.  Even if I had known, I
would have let him kill me before I told him.  

I turned east and walked slowly along the warning line. 
Krycek stepped out of the shadows of a narrow alley
between two buildings, his artificial hand tucked into his
pocket; his other hand conspicuously grasping the Palm
Pilot.

"Very good, Walter," he said.  "You're developing a sixth
sense for finding me."

"What do you want, Krycek?"  I knew there was no use
letting my impatience show.  Krycek moved at his own speed,
which was either dizzyingly fast or tortuously slow.  

His lips twisted into a sneer.  "Tell me, Walter...those
little noises Scully makes when you fuck her...you think
she's faking it?  You think you really turn her on that
much?"

Son of a bitch!  Without thinking, I punched him so hard he
fell to the ground with a thud. Before he could scramble
to his feet, I grabbed him by his jacket, pulled him to his
feet and flung him face first toward the brick wall of the
building.  The thought that this bastard--and whoever else--
had been listening to us in bed enraged me.

Krycek turned slowly.  Blood flowed from his nose and his
lower lip was split.  He used the back of his good hand to
wipe the blood from his face, looked at it, and let out a
strangled laugh.  "Do you think Mulder's had her, Walter? 
Does she squeal like that when he touches her too?"  

I figured out long ago that Krycek was a sick fuck, a
certifiable sado-masochistic sociopath.  He sought pain
because it was the only feeling of which he was capable. 
Without pain, he wouldn't feel alive.  Shit, it probably
took a good beating before he could get it up.  Well, I
was happy to oblige.

I took a long stride toward him, ready to give him the
beating he deserved.  Krycek grinned wickedly,
then raised the Palm Pilot and slid the control up.  The
pain was so intense and sudden that I fell to my knees and
nearly rolled over.  It took all my strength to remain
upright.  Somewhere, somehow, I could hear Krycek cackling.
Then, without warning, I felt the point of his boot connect
with my jaw, sending me sprawling backwards.  My vision
began to blacken at the edges when I saw Krycek standing
over me.  He kicked me several times in the side before
stepping back.  Gradually, I could feel the nanocytes going
dormant in my bloodstream, and the excruciating pain faded.

"This has been fun, Walter," I heard Krycek say from some
distance away.  "Get up.  The pleasantries are over."

I struggled to my knees, my eyes darting from left to
right, trying to locate him.  Finally, I saw him standing
near a dumpster at the rear of the alleyway.  I pulled
myself to my feet and staggered to the wall for support.
 
"Just tell me what you want, Krycek."  I regretted not
picking up my weapon afterall.  No jury on earth would
convict me of killing this bastard, not after Scully
finished testifying about the nanocytes.  I could put a
bullet in his brain right now and finally be rid of him.

"Who says I want anything, old man," Krycek said, mocking
me.  "Maybe I just enjoy playing with my nanocytes."

"Throw that Palm Pilot in the dumpster, God dammit, and
I'll show you who's an old man," I said.  Jesus, every
breath I drew felt like I was being stabbed.  The son-of-a-
bitch might have broken my ribs.

Krycek laughed and flipped up the cover of the Palm Pilot
again.

"No, don't!"  Oh God, I couldn't believe I was begging
Krycek to stop.  "Not again, Krycek.  Just tell me what you
want."

Krycek smiled, victorious.  "You're not good enough for her,
Walter," he said.  His tone became ice cold.  "What
does she see in you?  Bald, near-sighted, middle-aged. 
Not the greatest genetic material, wouldn't you say?  She
needs someone young, attractive.  Someone like Mulder, or
me."

What the hell was he talking about?  Krycek knew Scully
was barren.  My genetics were irrelevant.  Son-of-a-bitch
was just trying to get under my skin.  "I didn't think you
swung that way, Alex."

His mouth spread into a thin-lipped smile.  A warning
cloud settled over his features.  He took a few steps toward
me, his thumb still playing with the lid to the Palm Pilot
before slipping it into his jacket pocket.

"What the hell do you want, Krycek?" I demanded.  "Just
tell me and get it over with."

"I don't want anything.  I came here to help Mulder.  You
know I could get Samantha a new sentencing hearing just by
making a phone call.  What do you think that'd be worth to
Mulder?  What's it worth to you?"

"You're full of shit, Krycek."  I watched warily as he
circled around me until he was between me and the prison
yard.  I struggled to pull myself up straight, still using
the wall for support. 

Krycek moved closer until he was standing just a few
inches from me.  I tried not to show my disgust.  He leaned
in close and said, "I'll prove it to you, Walter."  Before
I knew what was happening, he'd grabbed me by the neck and
pressed his lips against mine.  I struggled to push him
away despite the stabbing pain in my chest, nearly blacking
out in the process.  

He stepped back, leering at me, amused by my efforts to
stay on my feet.  I couldn't stand his dark eyes boring
into me and I looked away.  When I glanced back, he was
gone.

Despite the pain in my ribs, I was sure I looked worse
than I actually felt.  I really didn't want Scully & Mulder
to see me like this, but I knew I couldn't make it all the
way back to the hotel without help.  I brushed off some of
the dirt and mud and headed back, arriving just in time to
see the guards leading Samantha back to her cell.  I could
tell by her reddened eyes that she'd been crying.  She
didn't seem to recognize me as she went past. I slid onto a
bench outside the visitation room just as Scully and Mulder
emerged.

"Walter!"

Scully sat beside me and immediately shifted into doctor
mode, checking the injuries to my face, lifting my shirt
to look at the angry red and black bruise that was forming
on my ribcage.

"Is this--?"

"No," I said.  "It's not nanocytes.  Krycek gave me a
couple of good kicks."  Mulder was watching wordlessly and
I could tell from the far-off look in his eyes that he
wasn't really with us.  He had other things on his mind.

"How's he doing?" I asked, nodding toward Mulder.

"It wasn't easy for him," she answered quietly, "but he's
okay."  She rested her hand against my bruised chin and I
winced.  "We should take you to a emergency room, Walter. 
We need to get your ribs x-rayed."

"It can wait," I said, using all the strength I had to
pull myself shakily to my feet.  She looked disappointed in
me, but she helped me stand. 

"What did Krycek want?"

"I don't know," I said, honestly.  "Let's go back to the
hotel."  I glanced at my watch.  It was nearly 10:00 a.m. 
Just eight more hours until the execution.

At the hotel, Scully tended to my injuries while I told
her about my encounter with Krycek, withholding what
wasn't meant for Mulder's ears.  When Mulder went into
the bathroom and shut the door, I told her about Krycek's
boast that he could get Samantha a new sentencing hearing.

"Do you believe him?"

"I don't know what to believe when it comes to Krycek," I
answered.  I let out a frustrated breath.  "I wouldn't be
surprised.  He wondered what it would be worth to Mulder
to get Samantha off death row."

Her eyes widened and she turned to look at the bathroom
door, then back at me.  "We can't let him out of our sight.
There's no telling what he might agree to if Krycek gets to
him."

"My thoughts exactly."  I flinched when she dabbed at the
blood caking my lips.  I grabbed her wrist to stop her and
waited for her eyes to meet mine.  "There's something
else," I said.  "He knows...about us."  Her expression
didn't change.  I guessed that she already expected as
much.  Although we took pains to keep our relationship
secret from Mulder and the Bureau, we hadn't exactly hidden
ourselves away.  We did go out, to dinner, the movies, and
so on.  A careful observer could have figured it out. 
"He's been listening to us," I said softly.

"Listening to us?  Listening to us when?"  Her eyes
widened suddenly as she understood my meaning.  "I'll kill
him," she said, her fury almost choking her, and I believed
she would, if I didn't get him first.  I knew Mulder's
three crazy friends, the Gunmen, swept her apartment
regularly for bugs, and I had an old Naval Intelligence
buddy sweep mine, and neither ever found anything. 
Obviously, nothing we could do would keep Krycek out of our
lives as long as he was alive.

I waited for her to calm down.  "The question is: did Krycek
follow us here, or did he already know about Samantha?"

"Did you ask him?"

"Hell, Scully, I was too busy getting my ass kicked to
conduct an interrogation."

She smiled sympathetically and squeezed my hand gently. 
"Krycek's appearance could mean this has all been a set up."

I nodded.  "But Samantha's crime was nearly ten years ago.
She's been on death row for eight years.  How could they
have known back then that Mulder would open the X-Files and
become a threat?"

She looked down at her hands then back at me.  She leaned
in and kissed me gently on the side of my mouth that wasn't
throbbing like a son-of-a-bitch.  "We'll worry about it
tomorrow," she said.  She laughed.  "Why do I feel like
I'm Scarlet O'Hara?"

I understood the reference.  It seemed we were putting all
sorts of things on the backburner while we tended to Mulder
and his sister.  It was the story of my life.  Of both our
lives.  Somehow, Fox Mulder had become the center around
which both our lives orbited.

"Did you have a chance to talk to Samantha?  Did she meet
Mulder?" I asked.

"No.  She was in no condition to talk after the session. 
Dr. Creamer let her retain her memories of the abduction,
of her family.  It wasn't easy for her."

"We'll need to ask her if she wants to meet him.  If she
doesn't want to see him..."

"She will.  I'm sure of it."  She looked toward the
bathroom.  "Mulder's been in there a long time."  She stood
and moved toward the door.  I was right behind her.  When
she opened the door, we were both struck dumb by what we
saw: Mulder, sitting doubled-over on the side of the
bathtub, his face buried in a thick, white hotel towel,
crying.


				* * *


I left Scully at the hotel to tend to Mulder and went back
to the prison to talk to Samantha.  Rather than bring her
down to the visitation room, the Warden permitted me to sit
outside the deathwatch cell.

"What happened to you?" she asked when she saw my bruised
and battered face.

"I got my ass kicked," I said, pulling a chair up as close
to the bars of her cell as the guard would let me.

"No shit, Sherlock," she said, laughing.  Even though I
was the brunt of the joke, I was pleased to hear her laugh.
I knew if our places were reversed, I wouldn't be able to
laugh.  "I hope it wasn't on my account," she said.

"An old enemy.  Nothing to do with you."

"That's good."  She looked away.  "Heard anything from my
lawyers?" she asked.

"No, not yet."  

She stood, stretched, and began pacing the short distance
across the front of her cell.  "What about the hypnotism? 
Learn anything useful?"

"Nothing we didn't already know," I said.  After a few
moments of silence, I decided it was time to get to the
point of my visit.  "Samantha, did you notice the man
sitting on the sofa with Agent Scully this morning?"

She nodded.

"That was your brother, Fox Mulder."

She stopped pacing and turned to look at me.  Her eyes
were bright, as though holding raw emotion in check.  "My
brother?"  It was her little-girl voice again.  The one she
used when under emotional stress.

I nodded.  "He's an FBI agent under my supervision,
Samantha.  He's been looking for you for a very long time."

She blinked back tears and resumed her pacing.  "Will
he...I mean, if he's ashamed of me, ashamed of having a
sister on death row, I'll understand."

"He's not ashamed of you," I said.  "He wants to meet you.
Would you like that?"

Her lower lip quivered and she bit down on it.  Finally
she nodded, then walked quickly to the back of her cell. 
It was only a few feet, but putting the distance between us
seemed to give her strength.  "I'd like to put you and Agent
Scully and...my brother...on my list of visitors for
the...uh...for tonight."

The execution.  She wanted us to be here when she died. 
My throat clenched and I couldn't say anything, so I nodded.
We'd be there.  At least Scully and I would be.  Mulder
would have to decide for himself, and, frankly, I wasn't
sure he could take it.

I signaled for the guard and showed him some pictures I
wanted to give Samantha.  He looked them over carefully and
then handed them through the bars to Samantha.

"Samantha, could you look at these pictures and tell me
whether anyone looks familiar to you?"

She nodded and began shuffling through the pictures.  I
wanted to see whether she would recognize Cancer Man.  The
rest of the pictures were just what I had handy before I
left D.C., mostly other FBI agents.  When she finished, she
handed one back to the guard, who handed it to me.

"This one.  He was one of the men at the facility where I
was taken."

I looked at the picture.  It was the late Jeffrey Spender.
I looked at her, confused, then realized why she had picked
him out of the pack.  Jeffrey Spender was Cancer Man's--
C.G.B. Spender's--son.  Samantha's memory was of CGB in the
1970s, when he was much younger.  He probably looked more
like Jeffrey then.

"Can you tell me anything about him?" I asked.

"He smoked all the time," she began, confirming my
thoughts.  "I didn't like him.  He was nice to me though,
nice like a bedbug."  

I recognized the term.  It was street slang for a drug
addict.  A bedbug would be nice to you as long as he
thought he could get something from you.  

"I'm sorry these things happened to you, Samantha."

She sat on her bunk and lowered her head.  "I always
wondered if my life coulda been different."  She looked at
me, and I could see that she was seething with anger and
humiliation.  "Now I know.  My father was a State
Department official.  My brother became an FBI Agent.  I
would've gone to college.  I would've had a career.  Maybe
a family.  I didn't have to end up like this."

She was right and we both knew it.  I wondered whether we
caused her more pain by giving her this knowledge so
soon before she was to die.

"There's something I want to tell you," she said,
suddenly.  "Something I don't want you to tell anyone."

I looked at the guard.  It would be difficult for her to
tell me anything in confidence as long as he was standing
there.  He caught my eye and nodded his understanding.  He
moved further down the hall, out of ear shot if we
whispered.

"You can tell me whatever you want, Samantha.  I won't
tell anyone."

"Not even my brother?" she asked.  "I don't want him to
know either."

"Not even your brother.  I give you my word."

She took a deep breath.  I could see her hands shaking and
I had a feeling she was about to tell me something earth-
shattering, at least to her.  I leaned as close as I could.

Her expression stilled and grew serious.  "I had a baby
almost twelve years ago," she whispered.  Her voice became
choked with emotion.  "She was born June 12, 1988.  I gave
her up for adoption right away."

I was caught off guard by this admission.

"I know who adopted her," she continued, her voice
wavering.  "It was a private adoption through a lawyer."  
She told me the adoptive parents' and the lawyer's names,
and that they were all in Harlingen, Texas, a southern
town very near the Mexican border.  "I'd just like to know
she's okay.  Can you find out for me?"

I swallowed hard.  I wondered why she chose me to do this.
Whatever her reason, it was a wise choice. 
Scully would have difficulty not telling Mulder about
this, but I would take it to my grave.  "I'll try,
Samantha.  There's not much time left."

She nodded.  "I know.  And I don't want her to know
anything about me.  I just want to know that her life is
going to be better than mine."

We talked for another half hour.  She told me how she had
turned to drugs, and then to crime and prostitution to
support her habit.  She told me about the man who fathered
her daughter, the same man with whom she committed the
crime that led to her death sentence.  She told me about
the nightmares she had at night, when deeply buried
memories of her captivity came back to haunt her. 

I listened quietly, occasionally asking a question.  I knew
that she hadn't told any of this to Scully, and I wondered
why she was telling me.  I suspected Samantha had warmed to
me as a father figure, someone who had cared enough to try
to save her life.  I felt bad that I had failed.

Eventually the guard interrupted us.  It was lunchtime
and I had to leave.  I told Samantha that I would be
back, with Scully and her brother, in a couple hours.

On the way back to the hotel, I stopped at a pay phone and
called an agent in the Houston field office who I knew
well and trusted.  I asked her to find out what she could
about Samantha's baby girl.  I told her she wasn't to speak
to anyone else about it and not to write anything down.  I
would call her back in a couple hours.


				* * *


I paced nervously outside the cellblock.  I looked at my
watch for the tenth time in ten minutes,  and willed myself
to relax.  It was nearly 4 p.m.  A little more than two
hours to go.  Samantha's lawyers were oddly quiet.  I knew
they had given their petition to Justice Scalia last night
and I was surprised there'd been no response.

Mulder had been in the visitation room with his sister for
over an hour.  Scully was with them, as were two prison
guards.  I didn't join them, not because I was
uncomfortable with Samantha, but because I couldn't deal
with Mulder's anguish.  I felt guilty putting the burden on
Scully, but it was a one she was accustomed to handling
when it came to Mulder.

Before they went in, though, I took Mulder aside.  Scully
started to follow, but I waved her off.  The Watch
Captain's office was vacant, so I pulled him in there and
shut the door.  Mulder sank into a wooden chair that looked
older than either of us.  I perched on the corner of the
desk and looked out the window at the bright, cloudless
day. Where should I begin?  What did Mulder need to hear?

Mulder sat slouched down in the chair, his legs splayed
out before him, his head down.  That was no way for
Samantha to see him.

"We need to talk before you go in there, Fox," I said,
hoping my voice would convey my affection for him in a way
that I was simply not capable of putting into words.  

Slowly, Mulder pulled himself up and finally lifted his
head to look at me.  His look was accusatory, as though
it was my fault we were all here.  I guessed in a way, he
was right.  If I hadn't found Samantha, he could have gone
on believing she had been abducted by little green men.  I
had shattered the belief around which his life was
organized.  If I hadn't found Samantha, he wouldn't know
about Scully and me.  His world had always contained
a tiny island of refuge called 'Scully' where he could
find safe harbor, and now I had destroyed that as well.

"Don't call me 'Fox,'" he said flatly.

Mulder had erected a wall between us last night, and he
was damned if he was going to let it down
now.  It annoyed me that he couldn't be more adult about
this, but I'd let him have his way, for now.  I pulled off
my glasses and pinched the bridge of my nose.  I wondered
whether he had any idea how much I had done in the last
thirty-six hours to try to save his sister.  I took in a
deep breath and let it out slowly before speaking.  "Have
you called your mother yet? Does she know?"

He shook his head.  "I called several times this morning,"
he said.  "There was no answer.  I called her landlord. 
He hasn't seen her in several days.  There's not enough
time for her to get here now."

I nodded.  "Will you tell her about this?  Afterwards?"

I knew that even in the best of times, Mulder and his
mother didn't communicate well.  I'd met Mrs. Mulder a few
times, mostly when her son was hospitalized or in serious
trouble.  She always seemed distant from him, almost
cold, but I didn't think it was from a lack of caring or
love.  I think they'd forgotten how to be mother and son. 
If what Scully told me was true, Mrs. Mulder may even have
played some role in her daughter's misfortune.  The guilt
shared by Mulder and his mother had put a chasm between
them wider than the Grand Canyon.

"I don't know."

"Look, Mulder," I said and then waited until finally he
raised his eyes to mine.  "I spent over an hour with
Samantha this afternoon.  She told me a lot about herself.
She hasn't had an easy life, and she's not going to have an
easy death."

Mulder stood suddenly and stormed to the far side
of the room.  With his back turned to me, he said, "Don't
you think I know that?"  His voice broke and for a moment
I thought he might be crying.   He turned and looked at me
coldly.  "What did you drag me in here for?"

"Just this, Mulder.  Samantha doesn't need to hear about
aliens and the Consortium, the black cancer, clones, and
all the other horrible things you've seen over the last
seven years."  I stood and took a few careful steps
in his direction.  "She needs to hear about her childhood,
and you're the only person who can tell her.  Use your time
with her to talk about the happy times."

He stared at me blankly for several moments, but then his
eyes softened and I could see that I had reached him on
some level.  Maybe he could put aside his grief and anger
now, and provide some measure of comfort to Samantha.

That was over an hour ago.  As I paced in front of the
prison hospital, I tried to pin down the source of my
anxiety.  I wasn't worried about Mulder.  I knew Scully
could handle anything that he might do or say.  I checked
my watch again, then berated myself for it.  

My thoughts were interrupted by the sharp twilling of my
cell phone.  

"Skinner."  I hoped it was Kimberly with some mundane
piece of Bureau business. Anything to get my mind off what
was going on inside the hospital, and what was going to
happen in just a couple hours.

"Mr. Skinner, this is Tom Haas.  We got a temporary stay."

"What?" I blurted out.  That was the last thing I expected.

"We don't know what's going on," Haas continued, his voice
shaking, but whether from nervousness or glee, I couldn't
tell.  "It isn't supposed to happen this way.  Justice
Scalia's office just informed us that he's granted a
temporary stay pending his decision on our motion."

"Temporary?  What the hell does that mean?"

I could hear Haas talking to someone on the other end
before he answered me.  "We don't know.  The Clerk of the
Supreme Court doesn't know either.  It isn't supposed to
happen this way," he repeated.

"What happens if the time for the execution passes before
the stay is lifted?"

"The death warrant expires at midnight.  If the stay is
lifted in time, they'll be able to go forward with the
execution.  Otherwise, they'll have to send her back to
Gatesville and get the Governor to sign another death
warrant.  It could mean a delay of months."

Jesus.  My mind froze as a blizzard of thoughts raced
through it.  Could this be Krycek keeping his promise to
'prove' that he could rescue Samantha?  Could even the
Supreme Court be corrupted?

"Keep me posted," I said before closing the phone.  I
needed to think.  I needed to figure out Krycek's angle. 
What did he want?  Could I save Samantha's life without
losing my soul in the process?  

I began walking across the prison yard.  When I reached
the warning line on the other side of the prison's main
building, I stopped.  Beyond the electric fence, the
century-old brick wall loomed over me, its dark red bricks
symbolic of all the blood that had been spilled in this
place.

Krycek said he didn't want anything.  But Krycek never
did anything without a reason.  I searched my memory of
our conversation for clues to his motivation.  Aside from
insulting me and revealing that he knew about my
relationship with Scully, he hadn't said much.  Could that
be it?  Was it something about my relationship with Scully?
He'd made such a point of bring it up.  'Poor genetic
material' he'd called me.  Dammit.  What did that have to
do with anything?

I turned east and returned to the alley and the dumpster
where I had confronted Krycek earlier.  I walked to the
back of the alley to the dumpster where Krycek had stood
laughing at me when I was in agony from the damned
nanocites he controlled.  I wanted him to be there, and I
didn't.  I wanted to know what he wanted, and I didn't.  I
was armed this time, and if given the chance, I would take
Krycek out before I'd permit a repeat performance of this
morning. 

The alley was deserted.  I was relieved and disappointed
at the same time.

"Krycek!" I yelled as loudly as I could, more to release my
frustration than with any expectation of a response.  I
gave the dumpster a good kick.  The dull throb in my ribs
turned into a sharp stabbing pain.  Shit.  

My cell phone rang again.

"Skinner."

"You called?"

"Krycek, you son-of-a-bitch, where are you?"

"Watching, Walter.  I'm always watching.  And listening."

Damn the man.  "Tell me what the hell you want, Krycek. 
I'm getting tired of your fucking games."

"Just wanted to prove my point, old man."

"Your point?"

"That I could save Samantha if I wanted to."

I'd had enough.  "What will it take to save Samantha, Alex?"

He laughed.  "Nothing.  Just remember, what Krycek giveth,
Krycek can taketh away.  Goodbye, Walter."

"What?  Krycek?  Krycek!"  Dammit.  He had disconnected,
leaving me even more confused than before.

I started the walk back to the prison hospital.  By now,
they probably knew the 'good news' about Scalia's stay.  But
I knew it wouldn't last.  Krycek was toying with us and
Samantha's life.  It was just a game to him.  He would have
the stay lifted in time for the execution to go forward.  I
knew it in my gut.

Before I even reached the alley entrance, my phone rang
again.  Maybe it was Krycek wanting to continue the game a
little longer.

"What?" I said angrily when I opened the phone.

"Uh...is this Assistant Director Walter Skinner," an
unfamiliar male voice asked me.

"Yes, yes," I said hurriedly.  "I'm sorry.  I was
expecting someone else.  Who is this?"

"Assistant Director, this is Lt. Stewart of the
Connecticut State Police."

"What can I do for you Lt. Stewart?"

"I've been trying to reach an Agent Mulder, Sir.  Your
secretary gave me your number.  She said you might know
how to contact him."

I sighed.  "This isn't a good time, Lieutenant.  Is there
another agent who could help you?"

"Well, uh...." he hesitated.  "Sir, we've been trying to
reach Agent Mulder to tell him...his mother is dead."


				* * *

By the time I made it back to the cellblock, my head was
pounding in rhythm with the throbbing pain in my chest. 
Scully had asked 'what else can go wrong?' and now I knew. 
Losing his sister to the Texas death machine, and Scully to
me, was a devastating one-two punch to Mulder's fragile
psyche.  Losing his mother on the same day would be the
knockout blow.  I was never been a religious man, though I
never considered myself an atheist either.  However, this
was too much.  If there was a God, he was one malevolent
son-of-a-bitch. 

I dropped onto a concrete bench outside the entrance to
the cellblock and leaned forward with my arms wrapped around
my rib cage.  Rocking back and forth seemed to bring me a
little relief from the ache in my ribs.  I wished I had
taken Scully up on her offer of painkillers.  The door
behind me opened and I could hear Scully's staccato steps
on the concrete.

"Walter!  Have you heard the good--"  She stopped
behind me and she drew in a sharp breath.  She sat next to
me on the bench and I felt her hand on my back.  "How bad's
the pain?" she asked me, more gently than I would have
expected

"Bad enough," I said.  

She coaxed me to sit up, then pushed back my jacket and
tugged at my shirt util she could lift it to see my rib
cage.  Her finger tips just barely brushed against the
dark purple bruise, but that was enough to make me see
stars.  I knocked her hand away a little more roughly than
I intended.

"Come on," she said, standing and offering me an arm to
help me up.  "I think they have x-ray facilities in the
prison hospital."

"I'm fine," I protested weakly, but I knew she wasn't
buying it.  Her look told me I was being childish. 
Reluctantly, I let her lead me to the hospital where they
took an x-ray and a urine sample.  

We were alone in an examination room while we waited for
the results.  There wouldn't be a better time for us to
talk.  "There're some things I need to tell you," I said.   

"Up there," she said, pointing at examination table.  I
sighed and did as told. There was no use arguing with Scully
when she was in doctor mode.  She left the room for a moment
and returned with a blue ice pack, scissors, and an ace
bandage.  She cut off my t-shirt and we both got a good
look at Krycek's artistry.  Jesus, was he wearing steel-
toed shoes?

While Scully wrapped a wide ace bandage around my chest to
hold the ice pack in place, I tried again.  "There are
some things I need to tell you, Scully."

"I'm listening."

"Krycek...the stay...."  I sighed deeply and reached for
her hand.  "The stay will be lifted in time for the
execution to go on tonight."

"He told you that?"

"More or less."

"What does he want?"

"He talks in riddles, Scully.  I tried...."  My voice
caught and I choked back the frustration that had been
building in me all day.  I bent my head, avoiding her gaze.
She didn't need to see me this way, weak and weary, not now
when Mulder was draining her strength.

She laid her hand on my shoulder.  "It's been a hard day,
Walter.  For all of us."  Her voice was as soothing as her
touch.  I leaned toward her and rested my head against her
shoulder.

For a few moments, all my aches and pains seemed to
disappear.  I knew it wouldn't last, not the way things had
been going.  Just then there was a knock on the door and a
medical technician entered.  He handed Scully a file and
put two x-rays on the viewer on the wall before leaving. 
She looked at the x-rays briefly and then at some papers in
the file.

"You've got two cracked ribs and your kidneys are bruised.
There was blood in your urine."  She put the file aside. 
"Krycek really did a number on you."  She gave me a pill
for the pain and helped me put my shirt on.  "Why don't
you lie down here for awhile?"

I shook my head, ruefully.  "There's something else."  She
looked at me, expectantly.  I shook my head in disbelief at
what I had to tell her.  "It's Mulder's mother.  She's
dead."

"What?!"

"The Connecticut State Police called me.  They've been
trying to reach Mulder."  I pulled on my suit coat and
stuffed my tie in the pocket.

"How?"

"She committed suicide."


				* * *


The call came from the Supreme Court at 8:00 p.m.

The stay was lifted.  No reason offered.  Tom Haas called
a few minutes later to tell me that Scalia had never even
asked for argument on the motion.  Haas and an attorney for
Texas waited all afternoon for the opportunity, and
then Justice Scalia's law clerk handed them the order
denying the motion and lifting the stay.  Haas immediately
filed a motion with the entire court, asking it to grant a
stay and a hearing.  The law clerks all hopped on the phones
to their individual Justices, summarizing the facts and
legal arguments, asking what they wanted to do.  We would
have a final decision shortly.

There are no guaranteed votes against the death penalty on
the Supreme Court anymore, not since Justices Marshall,
Brennan, and Blackmun retired.  At least four of the
Justices would have to want to hear the case.  I had
little hope they would.  It would truly take a miracle to
save Samantha now.

I asked the Warden to postpone telling Samantha or
rescheduling the execution until we got another call about
the motion to the full court.  When the call came nearly
an hour later, I asked for another favor: to let me tell
Samantha that her appeals were over.

Scully and I entered the visitation room together.  I felt
her hand on my arm, letting me know she was there if I
needed her.  The atmosphere inside was completely different
from yesterday.  Mulder was in the middle of a story,
something to do about a bicycle, a rabbi, and a woodpecker. 
Samantha was laughing like a little girl without a care in
the world.  It was a welcome change from the sharp, cynical
laugh I heard from her earlier. Mulder's face reflected
an inner peace that I hadn't seen in a long time.  I
regretted having to shatter it.

I waited for Mulder to finish his story and for Samantha's
laughter to die down.  They turned to look at me, and I'm
sure my discomfort was obvious.  It took only a few seconds
for the brightness to leave their faces.

"What is it, Sir?"  Mulder asked after a moment.

God, this reminded me of all the times I informed
someone that a loved one was dead.  Whether it was the
spouse of an agent fallen in the line of duty, or the
parent of a small child whose body we'd recovered, it was
always painful.  Scully stepped forward, as though to
rescue me from my own awkwardness.  I reached for her elbow
and when she turned to look at me, I shook my head.  No, I
would do this.  I wouldn't put this off on her.

"I...I'm afraid I have some bad news."  My throat
closed and I had to stop.  This was no time to lose my
composure.  I struggled to continue, but Samantha
understood immediately.

"The stay has been lifted," she said, slumping back into
her chair.  I nodded.  "How long do I have?"   

"The Warden has rescheduled the...."  I couldn't bring
myself to say the word.  "It's been rescheduled for 10:00
p.m."

Mulder had the stunned look of a disaster survivor.  He
seemed frozen in place.  Speechless.   Out of the corner
of my eye, I noticed the guards behind Samantha stand up
straighter and become more alert.  Just then, Mulder stood
and bolted out of the room.  Scully glanced at me and then
followed Mulder.  The guards relaxed noticeably.  In his
book, Jose Chung called Mulder a 'ticking time bomb of
insanity.'  Maybe the guards could sense that in him
too.

"I'm sorry, Samantha," I said.  I crossed the room
and pulled Mulder's chair as close to the yellow warning
line as I could without raising concern in the guards.

"It's all right," she said, her voice carefully shaded in
neutral tones.   "I put myself here, you didn't.  I knew
this would come eventually."

I nodded.  I felt so ill-equipped for this, so inadequate
to the task.  But I did have something to tell her that
might help.  "What we talked about this morning,
Samantha...you remember, the person you asked me to check
on?"

She looked at me, uncertain for a moment.  Then I saw the
realization dawn across her face.  She glanced behind her
at the guards, then leaned forward as far as she could. 
"You found out something?"

"Yes.  Rebecca is happy, healthy, and popular at school,"
I said.   It was probably the first time she had ever heard
her daughter's name.

"Rebecca," she said, rolling it over her tongue as though
she were trying it out for taste and texture.  "Rebecca." 
When she looked at me, I could almost see a warm glow of
contentment in her eyes.  "Thank you," she said after she
had savored the news for a moment.

I wished I could show her the picture the Houston agent
had emailed me.  Rebecca was a bright-eyed little girl who
looked much like the picture of Samantha that Mulder kept
on his desk.  Unfortunately, I had no way to print it, and
the Warden wouldn't let me bring my notebook computer into
the visitation room.

"Do you think Fox will come back?" Samantha asked.

As if on cue, the door opened and Mulder and Scully
returned.  Mulder's face was pale.  A bitter, cold
despair dwelt in his eyes.  I knew Scully had a hypo of
Ativan in her jacket pocket, and I wondered whether she
convinced him to let her give it to him.

I rose to give Mulder the chair close to Samantha, but I
kept my eyes glued to him as he stalked across the room. 
He fell into the chair without looking directly at me or
Samantha.  Scully stepped behind him and laid her hands on
his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.  "I shouldn't have left,
Samantha.  I'm sorry.  I just can't...."  his voice
faltered and he didn't try to continue.

Samantha managed a small, tentative smile.  "It's okay,
Fox.  It's nice...it's nice, finally, to have someone who
cares enough about me to get that upset."

Mulder looked over his shoulder at Scully.  "I'm okay," he
said.  Scully nodded and stepped back, signaling me with a
nod of her head to join her by the door.  

The Warden had truly bent all the rules to accommodate us. 
He'd allowed me virtual free run of the cellblock.  He
allowed Mulder and Scully much more time with Samantha than
a condemned prisoner's visitors were usually permitted. 
He'd done everything he could to make this experience less
stressful for all of us.  But, it wouldn't be long before 
he'd come to take Samantha to the death chamber.  

When the time came, Mulder, Scully, and I would have to
move to the viewing booth. In the past, all witnesses--for
the inmates and the victim's family--had been thrown in
together.  An angry confrontation a few years ago led to
the partitioning of the small room into two soundproof
booths.  Now the two grieving groups never had to cross
paths. 

Scully leaned against me and I wanted very much to put my
arm around her.  Her anxiety had been building all day
though she'd hidden it well.  I couldn't begin to imagine
how difficult it must be for her to see Mulder in so much
pain and be so unable to help him.  

Samantha and Mulder leaned toward each other, talking in
soft whispers.  Mulder sat with his legs spread, his elbows
on his knees, and his hands clasped together.  His gaze
rotated nervously between the floor, Samantha, and the
clock on the wall behind her.

Time seemed to crawl as we waited.  Of all of us, Samantha
seemed to be taking it best, but then she'd had more time
to prepare for this night.  I closed out my thoughts until
all I was aware of was the dull ache in my chest and the
gentle pressure of Scully's shoulder against my arm.  I
thought I could hear the steady ticking of the clock,
although I suspected that it was my imagination.  I began
to feel the weight of the watch on my wrist, as though time
itself were weighing me down.

The door opened suddenly and the Warden strode
purposefully into the room.  He nodded at me, all business,
then moved to stand behind Samantha.  He placed his hand
gently on her shoulder.  

"It's time, Samantha," he said.  "You'll have to come with
me now."  The Warden's face was grim, but his voice was
gentle.  I wondered how many times he had done this.  How
could any man do this work for long without losing his
humanity?  

The Warden's words froze us in our places. The guards
stepped forward on either side of Samantha.  When one of
them knelt to unlock Samantha's ankle cuff from the
floor, Mulder stood and took several sudden steps forward,
crossing the yellow warning line.  The guards jumped into
action, grabbing Mulder by his arms and pushing him back.

"No...not yet.  Please, just a few more minutes,"  Mulder
pleaded.  He reached out for Samantha.    His eyes were
locked on her, as though he were afraid she'd disappear if
he took his eyes off her.

The Warden stepped in front of Samantha.  "No, absolutely
not," he said, all business now.  "We have a very strict
no-contact visits rule.  It's the one rule we'll not relax.
Not even for the FBI."

I felt a chill run up my spine as Mulder glared at the
Warden.  His face took on that defiant look that I'd come
to think of as the quiet before the Mulder-storm.  I
shifted to move toward the Warden, wanting to put myself
between him and Mulder, but before I could take a step,
Mulder's emotional dam burst.

"No!" he shouted, wrenching himself free from the guards,
and storming the few feet between him and the Warden. 
"You're not going to take my sister!"  His right hand
reached the Warden's shoulder and knocked him back, but I
jumped between them in time to catch the full force of
Mulder's accelerating body.  The jolt to my injured ribs
nearly knocked me out.  Instinctively, I wrapped my arms
around Mulder--at first more to keep myself from passing
out than to control him--and hung on for dear life.  My
momentum pushed us back until Mulder's back was against the
wall, his arms flailing at me as he tried to break free.

"Let me go, you son-of-a-bitch!"  The curses flowed from
Mulder's mouth as he struggled.  Normally I could restrain
Mulder easily, but the pain in my chest intensified as his
strength seemed to increase.  If he broke my injured ribs,
he could puncture my lungs.  I had to get him under
control fast, or I would end up in he hospital and he would
end up in jail.

Scully came up behind me.  "Turn him around, Sir," she
said.  "Mulder, I'm giving you some Ativan.  It won't
knock you out.  It'll help you stay calm."  

I spun Mulder away from the wall.  I turned just in time
to see the guards escorting Samantha from the room.  She
glanced back over her shoulder at us, her face bleak with
sorrow.

"Samantha!" Mulder cried out. 

"Hurry, Scully," I said, gasping for air.  "I can't--"

She grasped the waistband of Mulder's slacks and yanked
it down several inches with her left hand.  With her
right hand, she jabbed the hypo into his flesh and pushed
the Ativan into his muscle.  He continued to struggle for
several minutes, cursing me, cursing Scully, but he
couldn't pull away from my grip.

As his struggles weakened, his cursing turned to a
mournful wail straight from his tortured soul.  I shifted
my grasp until there was less pressure on my ribs, and
patted him gently on the back.

"Let it go, Mulder," I whispered.  "It's time to let it
go."  He lowered his head to my shoulder and gave in to my
embrace.  "Let it go." 

After a few moments, Mulder lifted his head and looked at
me with reddened eyes.  "How will I tell my mother?" he
asked in a choked voice.  "How can I...."  He stopped,
lowering his head to my shoulder once again.  Oh, God...his
mother.  Mulder would soon learn that he was the last
survivor of a tortured family--Could he handle it? 
Although I was glad we had decided to wait until after the
execution to tell him about his mother's death, I dreaded
the almost-certain emotional breakdown that was sure to
follow.  

"I'm going to let you go now, Mulder," I said.  "Will you
be okay here with Scully?"  I considered putting the
handcuffs on him, but I knew he would never hurt Scully.  

When he didn't answer, Scully put her hand on his
shoulder.  "I'm here, Mulder," she said in a voice so
tender it made my heart ache.  "Come sit with me."

Slowly, I released him.  Mulder seemed reluctant to let go
completely until Scully took his arm and led him to the
sofa.  I watched for a moment as he folded himself into her
arms.  She spoke to him in gentle tones, trying to bring
him back from the edge of his emotional meltdown.  I almost
felt guilty--and certainly jealous--watching something so
intimate.

I excused myself and walked down the hall to the execution
chamber.  It was a small room that once housed the state's
ancient electric chair.  One wall was faced with brick,
neatly painted in a quiet sky-blue color.  The gurney was
white and sat on a massive steel pedestal.  Yellow leather
straps crisscrossed its white sheets.  With its two arm
extensions, it looked disconcertingly like a cross.

Samantha stood quietly beside the gurney as a member of
the death squad attached a heart monitor to her chest.  She
looked up and saw me standing half in and half out of the
room.

"Is Fox all right?" she asked.

It amazed me that at a time like this, facing her own
imminent death, she was calm enough to think about the
welfare of another person.  I nodded.  "He'll be okay," I
said.  "I'm sorry you had to see that, Samantha.  He loves
you very much.  He's searched for you for so many years."

She smiled.  "I know," she said, her voice as cool and
clear as ice water.  "Tell him I love him too."

My voice failed me, so I nodded.  

The Warden removed Samantha's shackles and told her to
boost herself up on the gurney and lie on her back.  The
gurney, sized for large men, practically swallowed her,
making her look tiny and fragile.  A tie-down team of five
officers immediately fastened the straps on her arms, legs,
and torso.  Her head rested on the west end of the gurney,
beneath a directional microphone.  Her feet fit into a
circular hole at the other end. 

A technician stepped out from behind a one-way window.  He
inserted needles connected to intravenous tubes into each
of Samantha's arms, just below her elbows.  A neutral
saline solution began to flow into her veins.

"It's time, Mr. Skinner," the Warden said.  "The witnesses
for the victim and the state are already in their places."

I returned to the visitation room.  Mulder looked
remarkably calm considering his condition just a few
minutes ago.  Scully sat beside him on the sofa, his hand
grasped tightly in hers.

"It's time," I said.  When he and Scully rose, I said,
"You don't have to do this, Mulder.  No one will think any
less of you."

"I know," he said, "but it's something I have to do." 

They followed me to the observation booth where Mulder
stood between Scully and me.  We stood very close to the
glass window in the tiny booth.  Suddenly the beige
curtains that covered the window were pulled back and we
could see Samantha on the gurney.  Mulder drew in a sharp
breath and I feared for a moment that he was going to lose
control again.  I put my arm around his waist to steady
him.  To steady us both.

A Chaplain entered the execution chamber and stood
beside the gurney.  He placed his hand on Samantha's right
leg and I could see his lips moving in silent prayer.  At
precisely 10:00 p.m., the Warden entered the chamber and
addressed Samantha.  "Do you have any last statement that
you wish to make?"

Samantha raised her head and looked to our left, toward
the observation booth where the victim and state's
witnesses were watching.  She took a deep breath before she
spoke.  "I'm sorry for all the pain I caused you.  I wish I
could take it back, but I can't.  I hope my death will give
you some comfort."  Then she turned toward us.  

Mulder reached up and placed his fingertips on the glass.
"Samantha," he whispered.

"Don't feel bad, Fox," Samantha said after a moment.  "I
deserve this."  She returned her head to the gurney.

The Warden and Chaplain stepped back from the gurney.  "We
are ready," the Warden said.

That was the signal to the technician behind the one-way
glass.  He used a syringe to insert a massive dose of
sodium thiopental--a sedative--into a 'Y' that was just
below the saline bag attached to the IV tube.  Samantha was
unconscious in only a few seconds.  When her eyes closed, a
second chemical, pancuronium bromide, was introduced into
the IV.  This powerful muscle relaxant collapsed Samantha's
diaphragm and lungs, causing an odd sound as her breath
rushed out.  Finally, the third chemical, potassium
chloride, stopped her heart.  It was over in five minutes.

Samantha was dead.




Epilogue
Three Months Later


Samantha Mulder was executed February 4, 2000, at 10:00 p.m.

Witnesses for Samantha included her brother, Fox Mulder,
Dana Scully, and me.

We informed Agent Mulder that night that his mother had
committed suicide.  Mulder had to be sedated; he would
accept comfort only from Scully.

I lost Scully that night. Drawn to Mulder's pain and need,
Scully finally acknowledged what I had said to her several
days earlier: she may have loved me, but she was in love
with Mulder.

I returned to my job and my Jack Daniels, and told myself
it was for the best. When Scully asked me to accompany
Mulder to Bellefleur, my initial instinct was to tell her
to go to hell.  Then I saw the fear in her eyes, and I knew
I had no choice.  I swallowed my pride and went along. 
Bad, terrible, life-altering decision.

"I lost him," I said with a clenched jaw and tear-blurred
eyes, terrified that she would think it was deliberate on
my part.

"I'm pregnant," Scully said.

And suddenly it all made sense.

Finally, I understood what Krycek was trying to tell me in
Huntsville.  He was sent to warn me. The Consortium wanted
Mulder and Scully to make a baby, and I was in the way.
Somehow, in some incomprehensible way, the Consortium made
Scully fertile again.  She and Mulder did the rest.

Struggling to hide my fear as I realized the full
implications of Scully's pregnancy, I resolved that I would
protect Scully and her baby no matter the cost to me
professionally or personally.

I made the commitment to her in the hospital, and as the
days turned into months in our search for Mulder, I never
waivered in my resolve.

When we found Mulder, and Krycek told me he could be a
danger to Scully and the baby, I was prepared to carry my
role as protector to the ultimate level.

Mulder is okay now, and he and Scully are slowly inching
their way back to a sense of normalcy in their
relationship--whatever they define normalcy to be.

I have been relegated to the shadows of Scully's life
again.  She is happy--or appears to be.

Am I happy?  Happiness is relative.  But I suspect our
futures will be intertwined.         

Maybe that's enough for now.


*end*


Additional Notes:
Yes, I'm a lawyer.  No, I've never practiced criminal law.
No, I've never practiced in Texas.  I researched the post-
conviction appeals process and the execution protocol.  I
took some dramatic license with both, but the essence is
correct.  

Fabulous Monster hasn't posted anything in a long time. 
She's been very busy beta-ing for me.  :-)  I'd like to
announce, however, that she's working on something right
now that is gonna rock your shippy world!