Текст книги "X Files: Fight the Future"

Автор книги: Chris Carter

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Michaud looked over his shoulder and yelled at an agent directing people through the doors. "Get Kesey with the torch! It's in the vending room."

He looked back at Scully. "Take me there," he commanded.

"This way—"

• • •

The windowless room felt like a cell to Mulder, as he crouched in front of the soda machine and stared glassy-eyed at the array of explosives there, the shifting pattern of red numerals on the LED

display.

7:00

He wiped a bead of sweat from his chin, hurriedly punched at his cell phone as it began to chime. He jumped, then switched the phone on with relief.

"Scully? You know that face I was mak-ing—I'm making it now."

"Mulder." Scully's voice was muffled by a keening sound in the hallway. "Move away from the door.

We're coming through it."

He backed away, even as the brilliant blue-white flame of a gas plasma torch began to roughly trace the outline of the metal door. Gray smoke sifted inside as the stench of scorched metal filled the room.

The hinges glowed, then turned black. The torch finished its circuit of the doorway, so that a somewhat smaller rectangle momentarily appeared within it. Mulder heard a series of thumps and a faint voice yelling " Go!" Then, with a muted crash, the door fell inward and crashed to the floor.

"Mulder…" Scully began, but was silenced as Michaud shoved past her, handing off the plasma torch to another agent and grabbing a hefty tool kit. She followed him inside, along with three other agents—bomb techs. They headed for where Mulder stood gazing at the soda machine's digital readout.

4:07

Mulder shook his head. "Tell me that's just soda pop in those canisters."

Michaud gingerly set the tool.kit on the floor and stooped in front of the machine. "No. It's what it looks like. A big I.E.D.—ten gallons of astrolite."

He pursed his lips, studying the bomb, and without looking up, commanded, "Okay. Get everybody out of here and clear the building."

Mulder frowned. "Somebody's got to stay here with you."

"I gave you an order," Michaud snapped, still not looking up. "Now get the hell out of here and evacuate the area."

Scully sidled up behind him. "Can you defuse it?"

"I think so." Michaud snapped the tool kit open and withdrew a pair of wire clippers. The other agents nodded at each other and quickly left the room.

Michaud pushed up the sleeves of his wind-breaker and flexed the wire clippers. Mulder watched him dubiously.

"You've got about four minutes to find out if you're wrong."

Without warning Michaud turned on him. "Did you hear what I said?" His voice shook slightly, and there was a febrile intensity to his gaze.

"Let's go, Mulder," Scully murmured. "Come on."

She started out the door. Mulder remained for a moment longer, staring at Michaud.

But the other man's attention was focused solely on the bomb. Seconds passed, until finally Mulder turned and followed Scully into the corridor. In the room behind him Michaud set the wire clippers carefully on his knee but did nothing else; only crouched staring at the bomb. Just staring.

Outside, the last of the building's occu-pants had been evacuated. The horde of schoolchildren raced up the steps of one of the city buses, while other buses pulled away from the curb in clouds of exhaust.

People ran pell-mell across the plaza, headed for the relative safety of the far side of the street, where police barricades had been hastily erected, and where uniformed men frantically directed the last stragglers to flee.

"Go, now!" bullhorns howled, and their echo rang out above the cries and shouting of the panicking mob.

The plaza in front of the building was all but empty now. As the last buses roared off, the fire engines did the same, and the police cars, until only a single police car and one anony-mous sedan remained, engines running, at curbside. The revolving doors whooshed as Scully and Mulder raced out, heading across the plaza to the waiting cars. Abruptly Mulder slowed, then stopped. He shaded his eyes and stared back at the building.

"What are you doing?" Scully had gone on ahead, but suddenly noticed his hesitation. "Mulder?"

A solitary figure in FBI windbreaker burst from the revolving door: the last man out.

"All clear!" he shouted, his footsteps echo-ing as he ran toward the idling cop car. Mulder ignored him and remained staring as though entranced by the building.

"Something's wrong…"

Scully hurried to his side. " Mulder?"

The cop car zoomed away. In the sole remaining vehicle, an FBI agent gazed in disbe-lief at Mulder, then yelled, "What's he doing?!"

"Something's not right," Mulder said, as though to himself. Scully shook her head and grabbed his arm.

"Mulder! Get in the car!" In the waiting vehicle the agent motioned at them furiously. "There's no time, Mulder!"

She pulled him after her, heading for the car. Mulder twisted to stare over his shoulder.

"Michaud…" he said.

In the vending room, Michaud had replaced the wire clippers and shut his tool chest. Now he was sitting on it, his eyes fixed on the LED display.

¦30

He watched as the seconds disappeared, yet still did nothing. Finally he let his head drop forward against his chest, not so much in despair as resignation, a devoted Bureau man to the last.

Outside the sun beat heedlessly upon the nearly empty plaza.

"Mulder!" Scully shouted, and at last he relented, hurrying alongside her to the car.

"For chrissakes, get in," urged the agent standing in the open door of the driver's side. "It's going to go at any second—"

Mulder slid into the backseat, Scully into the front, and the car peeled off. They turned to gaze out the rear window, watching as the building receded—ten yards, twenty, not quickly enough.

And suddenly it exploded, the entire edi-fice consumed by a immense ball of flame that ripped up from the bottom floor, expanding until it seemed to devour everything in sight. Smoke surged outward along with buckling steel girders and rippling waves of broken glass, and the air thundered deafeningly.

Scully cried out but her voice was swallowed by that terri-ble roar, her arm bashed against the car door as the bomb's impact traveled through the air and sent the car caroming across the plaza, slam-ming against the back of a car parked on the street. It lifted up in the back and then slammed back down; all around them other cars did the same. There was a sharp crack, and the rear window collapsed into granular parti-cles of safety glass, showering the two of them.

"You okay?" bellowed the agent from the front seat.

"I-I think so," Scully gasped.

Outside shards of glass were everywhere. The air seethed with blackened debris, ash and metal and burning plastic. As Mulder and Scully watched, horrified, the entire side of the building emerged from the smoke, so that they could see inside to where flames raced along abandoned corridors and through the ravaged remains of cubicles and offices. From ground floor to rooftop fires raged, and in the distance the first sirens began to wail.

In the backseat Mulder shook his head, dis-persing glittering bits of safety glass. Slowly he leaned out the broken side window to open the door. He got out while Scully exited the front, the two of them shaken and breathless as they looked up at the burning building, broken glass, and fluttering bits of flaming paper cas-cading everywhere.

"Next time, you're buying," he said darkly.

CHAPTER 3

FBI HEADQUARTERS

J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING

WASHINGTON. D.C.

ONE DAY LATER

The sign on the door read OFFICE OF PROFES-SIONAL REVIEW. Inside Scully shifted ner-vously in her chair, far too conscious that the one beside her was empty, and tried to focus on what was being said.

"In light of Waco, and Ruby Ridge…" Scully bit her lip. This review was impor-tant, far too important for Mulder to be late; but Scully herself had barely made it here on time, exhausted as she was by the night-owl from Dallas back to D.C. In front of her, six assistant directors were arranged at a long table, shuffling papers and clearing their throats self-importantly. At the center of the conference table Assistant Director Jana Cassidy was declaiming, with the air of someone who held the fate of the world in her strong, impeccably manicured hands.

"… for the catastrophic destruction of pub-lic property and the loss of life due to terrorist activities…"

Next to Cassidy, Assistant Director Walter Skinner cast Scully a level look, letting his gaze linger for just a moment upon Mulder's conspicu-ously empty chair. Over the years Skinner had spent a lot of time in this room. Scully and Mulder reported directly to him, and had since they'd been working together.

When he could get away with it, he'd acted as something of a champion for Mulder and Scully. That would be difficult this morning, though, with Mulder absent. Scully crossed and uncrossed her legs, and tried not to glance over her shoulder again at the door.

"Many details are still unclear," said Cassidy. Her cool blue eyes regarded Scully from above a sheaf of papers as she went on point-edly. "Some agents' reports have not been filed, or have come in sketchy, without a satisfactory accounting of the events that led to the destruc-tion in Dallas. But we're under some pressure to give an accurate picture of what happened to the Attorney General, so she can issue a public statement."

And then Scully heard what she'd been waiting for: the muted creak of the door finally opening and a familiar footstep. She turned to see Mulder, his freshly pressed suit jacket doing a poor job of hiding the fact that he wore the same shirt he'd had on yesterday, his face creased with the slightly chagrined expression of a man who knows he's late for his own funeral. Scully didn't dare smile, but she felt her heart lift as Mulder pulled out the chair beside her. He said nothing, acknowledging her with a glance before turning his attention to Cassidy. The keen-eyed lawyer turned and glared sternly at the two of them, and continued before Mulder could sit.

"We know now that five people died in the explosion. Special Agent-in-Charge Darius Mich-aud, who was trying to defuse the bomb that had been hidden inside a vending machine. Three firemen from Dallas, and a young boy."

Mulder's hand froze on the chair in front of him. He looked quickly at Scully, who's raised eyebrow confirmed that this was news to her, too.

"Excuse me—" Mulder shook his head, try-ing to keep his voice even as he questioned Cassidy. "The firemen and the boy—they were in the building?"

Cassidy's cool gaze grew icy. "Agent Mulder, since you weren't able to be on time for this meeting, I'm going to ask you to step back out-side, so that we can get Agent Scully's version of the facts. So that she won't have to be paid the same disrespect that you're showing the rest of us."

Mulder stared her down unflinchingly. "We were told the building was clear."

"You'll get your turn, Agent Mulder." Cassidy's frigid tone held a warning as she ges-tured at the door. "Please step out."

Mulder swallowed, and for first time looked over at the other ADs at the table. The only sympathetic face he found was Skinner's, but Skinner's sympathy was tempered with a warn-ing. The assistant director had been here with Mulder on many occasions, and watched as the younger man inevitably ran up against the Bureau and its stiff conventions. There wasn't much that Skinner could do for Mulder, stuck as he was in the middle of it all; and right now it seemed unlikely that he'd be able to do any-thing at all.

But it was always worth a try. Mulder fought to keep his voice even, and motioned at the binder in front of Jana Cassidy.

"It does say there in your paperwork that Agent Scully and I were the ones who found the bomb…"

Cassidy sternly waved him off. "Thank you, Agent Mulder. We'll call you back in shortly."

Defeated, Mulder slid his chair back and left the room. Scully watched him go. A moment later, Walter Skinner quietly excused himself and followed Mulder into the hallway.

He found the younger agent standing in front of a display case, staring broodingly at the marksmanship trophies inside.

"Sit down," said Skinner, indicating a beige couch beside the case. "It'll be a few minutes. They're still talking to Agent Scully."

Mulder plopped onto the couch, and Skinner joined him. "About what?"

"They're asking her for a narrative. They want to know why she was in the wrong build' ing."

"She was with me."

Skinner studied Mulder, shaking his head. "You don't see what's going on, do you?" he said softly.

"There's forty million dollars in damage to the city of Dallas. Lives have been lost. No sus-pects have been named. So the story being shaped is that this could have been prevented. That the FBI didn't do its job."

Mulder's eyes narrowed. "And they want to blame us?"

"Agent Mulder, we both know that if you and Agent Scully hadn't taken the initiative to search the adjacent building, we could have multiplied those fatalities by a hundred—"

"But it's not the lives we saved." Mulder paused, savoring the irony. "It's the lives we didn't."

Skinner shot him a mirthless smile, and recited the dictum, "If it looks bad, it's bad for the FBI."

Mulder's hand clenched. "If they want someone to blame, they can blame me. Agent Scully doesn't deserve this."

"She's in there right now saying the same thing about you."

Mulder shook his head. "I breached proto-col. I broke contact with the SAC…"

He paused, remembering Michaud's drawn face as he stared at the explosive-rigged vending machine, and blinked painfully at the image. "1—I ignored a primary tactical rule and left him alone with the device…"

"Agent Scully says it was she who ordered you out of the building. That you wanted to go back—"

"Look, she was—"

Before he could on, the door opened. The two men looked up to see Scully exiting. The look she gave Mulder told him that, whatever had happened inside the Professional Review Office, it hadn't gone well. She took a deep breath, then stepped briskly to where the men sat.

"They've asked for you, sir," she said, indi-cating Skinner.

Skinner gave one last look at Mulder. Then he stood and, thanking Scully, returned to the review.

Scully watched the door close behind him, her expression pained. Mulder stared at her and after a moment said, "Whatever you told them in there, you don't have to protect me."

Scully shook her head. "All I told them was the truth." Her deep blue eyes looked wounded, but she avoided his gaze.

"They're trying to divide us on this, Scully." Mulder's voice rose defensively. "We can't let them."

For the first time Scully gazed directly at her partner. "They have divided us, Mulder. They're splitting us up."

On the couch Mulder stared back at her, uncomprehendingly. Finally he said, "What? What are you talking about?"

"I meet with OPR day after tomorrow for remediation and reassignment."

Mulder looked stricken. "Why?"

Sighing, Scully sank onto the couch. "I think you must have an idea. They cited a his-tory of problems relating back to 1993."

"But they were the ones who put us together—" Mulder protested heatedly.

"Because they wanted me to invalidate your work," Scully interrupted, "your investigations into the paranormal. But I think this goes deeper than that…"

"This isn't about you, Scully." Mulder stared at her intensely, almost pleadingly. "They're doing this to me."

" They're not doing this, Mulder." Scully looked away, avoiding his gaze. "I left behind a career in medicine because I thought I might make a difference at the FBI. When they recruited me, they told me that women made up nine percent of the Bureau. I felt that was not an impediment, but an opportunity to distin-guish myself.

"But it hasn't turned out that way. And now, even if I were to be transferred to Omaha, or Wichita, or some other field office where I'm sure I could rise—it just doesn't hold the inter-est for me it once did.

Not after what I've seen and done."

She fell silent, and stared at her hands. Beside her Mulder sat in disbelief.

"You're… quitting?"

For a moment Scully said nothing. Finally she shrugged. "There's really no reason left for me to stay anymore…"

She turned" then, gazing at Mulder with frank blue eyes. "Maybe you should ask yourself if your heart's still in it, too."

Behind them the door to the hearing room creaked open. Mulder looked up, his expression still stunned as he saw Walter Skinner standing in the corridor, gesturing to him.

"Agent Mulder. You're up."

Scully looked at him sadly. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "Good luck."

He turned to her, waiting to see if there would be more, giving her the chance to change her mind, to offer a better explanation, any-thing. But Scully said nothing else. At last Mulder stood, his stunned expression giving way to something like despair, and followed Skinner into the office. Scully watched him go. Before he reached the door, she called his name. When Mulder turned, she picked up the jacket he'd forgotten on the chair. He walked over, and she handed it to him.

Only after the door shut behind him did she let her resolve fade, and gave voice to a sigh that was almost like a sob.

CHAPTER 4

CASEY'S BAR

SOUTHEAST WASHINGTON, D.C.

Casey's never got much of a crowd on a week-night. A few regulars, government employ-ees who wandered over from the Mall to knock back a few before catching the last Metro back to Falls Church or Silver Spring or Bethesda. Mulder had been here since late afternoon, and the bartender was wondering if he was ever going to leave.

"I'd say this just about exceeds your mini-mum daily requirement," she said, pouring a jolt of tequila into a shot glass in front of him. She smiled, brushing back a strand of faded blonde hair, and replaced the bottle.

In front of her, Fox Mulder sat by himself on a stool. He stared at the sticky rings on the bar's dark wood surface, the dull light gilding the edges of four empty shot glasses. When the bartender placed the full glass in front of him he spun it thoughtfully, licking his finger where a drop of tequila had spilled, before tossing back the shot. When he put it back down, he drunkenly knocked over the other glasses.

"Gotta train for this kind of heavy lifting," she went on, eyeing him with some concern– this guy definitely did not seem like he'd been practicing much before tonight.

Mulder tilted his head as though consider-ing her advice, then motioned for another shot. She retrieved the empty glasses, intrigued by his brooding silence.

"Poopy day?" she ventured.

"Yup." Mulder's voice sounded thick and out of practice.

"A woman?" He shook his head. "Work?"

Mulder nodded and the barmaid looked sympathetic, but that changed when he pointed to the tequila bottle again.

"You sure?" she asked. He stared fixedly at the bottle, and she reluctantly poured another shot.

Mulder drank it, shuddering a little as the liquor scored his throat. Then he banged the glass on the bar, half-turned on his stool, and closed his eyes as a wave of dizziness swept over him. When he opened them an instant later he saw another man staring at him from the end of the bar. An older man, early sixties perhaps, with a broad, weathered face and wearing an old Brooks Brothers summer suit, crumpled linen and the same color as the few gray hairs at the man's temples. Mulder stared at him blearily and incuriously, then turned back to the bar.

"Another."

She poured it, then began gathering the empty shots and placing them in a plastic basin. "What do you do?"

"What do I do?" Mulder looked up at her and nodded. "I'm a key figure in an ongoing government charade. An annoyance to my superiors. A joke among my peers. They call me 'Spooky.' Spooky Mulder…"

Whose sister was abducted by aliens when he was a kid. Who now chases little green men with a badge and a gun, shouting to the heav-ens and anyone else who'll listen that the fix is in…

The bartender's sympathetic expression was fading. What a freak, her restrained silence implied.

"That our government's hip to the truth and a part of the conspiracy. That the sky is falling, and when it hits it's gonna be the shit storm of all time."

He finished and flashed her a bitter smile. She stared back at him, then quickly pulled back the shot she'd just poured.

"I think that just about does it, Spooky." She dumped the tequila in the sink and began writing up a check.

"Does what?"

"Looks like eighty-six is your lucky num-ber."

Mulder looked at her sadly. Nobody believed him. "One is the loneliest number."

She shook her head and decisively placed the check in front of him. "Too bad. Closing time for you."

Mulder shrugged impassively and slid off the stool. He tottered a little, and instinctively glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. But the bartender had already turned away, and the older man at the other end of the rail was gone. Mulder took a step toward the front door, remembered the check, and turned. He dropped a small wad of bills on the bar counter and walked unsteadily toward the back of the room, where a dim, narrow hallway led to the bathrooms. A piece of paper was thumbtacked to the men's room door.

OUT OF ORDER.

"Shit," muttered Mulder.

He rattled the door to the adjoining women's room—an irritated voice responded.

"Sorry," Mulder said hastily. Gathering what was left of his wits, he turned and stum-bled back down the corridor, to where a fire door opened out onto the alley, and went out-side.

A row of Dumpsters reared up against a crumbling brick wall. Mulder found a space between two of them and unzipped his fly. Moments later he started as a voice came from behind him.

"That official FBI business?"

"What?"

"Bet the Bureau's accusing you of doing the same thing in Dallas."

Mulder stiffened drunkenly as a figure emerged from the shadows: the same older man in the rumpled linen suit who'd been observing him inside the bar. The stranger gave him a crooked smile and eased himself unthreateningly into a space a few yards from where Mulder stood.

"How's that?" asked Mulder cautiously.

"Standing around holding your yank while bombs are exploding."

The stranger laughed as Mulder turned and eyed him. "Do I know you?"

"No. But I've been watching your career for a good while. Back when you were just a promising young agent. Before that…"

"You follow me out here for a reason?"

"Yeah. I did." The man turned so that his back was to Mulder and unzipped his own pants. "My name's Kurtzweil. Dr. Alvin Kurtzweil."

Mulder frowned, trying to ignore the intru-sion. He zipped himself up and turned around, ready to leave.

"Old friend of your father's." Kurtzweil looked over his shoulder and smiled at Mulder's bewil-dered expression. "Back at the Department of State. We were what you might call fellow travel-ers, but his disenchantment outlasted mine." Kurtzweil waited, as though giving Mulder the chance to let this all sink in.

Mulder's expression grew stony. Quickly he took the last few steps to the door and jerked it open.

Kurtzweil finished heeding nature's call, zipped up, and followed Mulder inside. He caught up with him at the coat rack by the door, where the younger man was fumbling with his jacket.

"How'd you find me?" Mulder asked. He sounded more weary than angry.

Kurtzweil shrugged. "Heard you come here now and again. Figured you'd be needing a lit-tle drinky tonight…"

"You a reporter?"

Kurtzweil shook his head and took his own raincoat from the rack. "I'm a doctor, but I think I mentioned that. OB-GYN."

"Who sent you?"

"I came on my own. After reading about the bombing in Dallas."

Mulder stared at him measuringly, taking in Kurtzweil's rheumy, intelligent eyes and wry mouth. "Well, if you've got something to tell me, you've got as long as it takes for me to hail a cab," he said, and started out the door.

Before he could hit the sidewalk, Kurtzweil grabbed his arm. "They're going to pin Dallas on you, Agent Mulder." His tone was not accusatory. If anything, he sounded apologetic, even sorrowful—the trusted family retainer bringing news of a death. "But there was nothing you could've done. Nothing any-one could've done to prevent that bomb from going off—

"Because the truth is something you'd never have guessed. Never even have pre-dicted."

Mulder stared at him, his face twisting into rage. He pulled away and stormed down the sidewalk as Kurtzweil followed him doggedly. "And what's that?" Mulder snapped.

Kurtzweil hurried until he was alongside him. "S.A.C. Darius Michaud never tried or intended to defuse the bomb."

Mulder paused, teetering on the edge of the curb. Around them L'Enfant Plaza was a wasteland of rain-slicked streets and empty newspaper machines. In the near-distance ugly government buildings loomed, and a few Yellow Cabs hopefully trolled Constitution Avenue for customers. Mulder looked around in disgust, turned to Kurtzweil, and said in rhetorical disbelief, "He just let it explode."

Kurtzweil tugged at the collar of his rain-coat. "What's the question nobody's asking? Why that building? Why not the federal build-ing?"

Mulder looked pained. "The federal build-ing was too well guarded—"

" No." Kurtzweil's voice grew agitated as Mulder stepped into the street, raising his hand to hail a cab.

"They put the bomb in the build-ing across the street because it did have federal offices. The Federal Emergency Management Agency had a provisional medical quarantine office there. Which is where the bodies were found. But that's the thing—"

The taxi pulled over. Kurtzweil sidestepped a puddle as he followed Mulder to its side. "—the thing you didn't know. That you'd never think to check."

Mulder was already pulling the door open, lowering himself to slide inside. Kurtzweil gazed at him, his eyes no longer sad but fierce, almost challenging. "Those people were al-ready dead."

Mulder blinked. "Before the bomb went off?"

"That's what I'm saying."

Mulder stared at him for a moment. He shook his head. "Michaud was a twenty-two-year veteran of the Bureau—"

"Michaud was a patriot. The men he's loyal to know their way around Dallas. They blew away that building to hide something. Maybe something even they couldn't predict."

Kurtzweil leaned against the cab and looked at Mulder, waiting. The younger man shook his head, no longer quite disbelieving but as though slowly teasing out the answer to a puzzle. "You're saying they destroyed an entire building to hide the bodies of three fire-men?"

Kurtzweil banged the top of the cab tri-umphantly—the right answer at last! "And one little boy."

Without a word, Mulder got into the cab and slammed the door. He looked at the driver.

"Take me to Arlington." He rolled down the window and stared up at Kurtzweil.

"I think you're full of shit," he said.

"Do you?" Kurtzweil asked evenly. He rapped the taxi's roof and stepped away, watch-ing as it sped away. "Do you really, Agent Mulder?" he repeated to himself thoughtfully.

Inside the cab, Mulder leaned forward, frowning. "I changed my mind," he said to the driver. "I want to go to Georgetown."

Dana Scully lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Despite her exhaustion, she hadn't been able to sleep; hadn't been able to do anything, really, but lie there and endlessly replay the events of the last two days: the explosion in Dallas and its after-math, the interminable meeting that had led to the termination of her career with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Outside the rain beat at the windows, a noise that she normally found reassuring, but which tonight sounded only like another reprimand, another reminder that some-how she had come up short, in the Bureau's esti-mation and—what was even worse—her own.

And Mulder's. At the thought of her partner, Scully sighed and closed her eyes, fighting back a despair that went even deeper than tears. It didn't even bear thinking about, that this was the end of it—

Don't go there, a voice echoed inside her skull, trying to put a wry spin on it. But Scully only bit her lip.

I'm there, she thought.

The rain battered the walls of her apart-ment, the wind sent branches rattling against the roof; and then she heard something else. She sat up bolt upright, cocking her head.

Someone was pounding at the door. Scully glanced at her bedside clock. 3:17. She grabbed her bathrobe and hurried into the living room. At the door she hesitated, listening to whoever was on the other side pause, then begin to bang even harder. She peeked through the peephole, stepped back, and sighed, her relief tinged with annoyance. Then she removed the safety chain, unlocked the door, and pulled it open.

Mulder stood there, his clothes wet and hair disheveled. Despite his disarray, and the hour, he looked strangely, even disturbingly, alert.

"I wake you?"

Scully shook her head. "No."

"Why not?" Mulder breezed past her into the apartment. As he did she caught the sweet-sour reek of tequila and the fainter, stale smoky scent that all bars have at closing time. "It's three A.M.—"

She closed the door and stared at him in disbelief. "Are you drunk, Mulder?"

"I was until about twenty minutes ago."

Scully crossed her arms against her chest and stared at him coolly. "Is that before or after you got the idea to come here?"

Mulder looked puzzled. "What are you implying, Scully?"

"I thought you may have gotten drunk and decided to come here to talk me out of quit-ting."

"Is that what you'd like me to do?"

Scully shut her eyes and leaned against the wall. Recalling how fifteen minutes ago, an hour ago, she had been thinking exactly that. After a moment she opened her eyes and sighed. "Go home, Mulder. It's late."

He shook his head, with a resolute, slightly manic gleam in his eyes. A look Scully knew all too well and usually to her peril. He reached down to pick up her windbreaker, still lying on the couch where she'd dropped it last night, and held it out to her. "Get dressed, Scully."

"Mulder, what are you doingl"

"Just get dressed," he said. The manic gleam grew even more intense, but it couldn't hide the beginning of a grin, the slightest hint that something big was afoot. "I'll explain on the way."