Uroborus III: MacGuffin

Uroborus III:MacGuffin by BasBleu

STORIES ON THIS SITE ARE INTENDED FOR ADULTS ONLY

This is part 3 of a 5 part series titled Uroborus, written by Bobbi and Basbleu. The stories are in the following order:

Sins | Killing the Demon | MacGuffin | Fear | Dana Scores

It is highly recommended that the previous two stories be read before this one, in order for this to make any sense at all.

Rated: R for language and sexual situations. Category: XR (Skinner/Other)

Summary: With the advice of fellow agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, FBI Special Agent Cait McHale (first and last seen in �Sins�) attempts to solve a series of mysterious homicides-suicides committed by Vietnam Veterans�Vets with a connection to FBI A.D. Walter S. Skinner.

The characters of Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner, Sharon Skinner, Alex Krycek, the black-lunged-son-of-a-bitch-Cancerman, Agent Pendrell, Mr. X and the X-Files in general are all the property of Chris Carter and Ten Thirteen productions. Special Agent Cait McHale and the work as a whole Copyright Basbleu (but I�d be honored if Mr. Carter would ever like to use her/it. All I ask is that he maintain the integrity of Cait�s character and thus cast in the part an Asian-American Feminist Southern Belle--we are few and far between but worth the trouble.)

Penultimate note : This is my planet where STD�s are non-existent, Mr. X is not dead, and time is a relative concept--nothing takes as long as it does in the real world, especially VICAP searches and lab tests.

Final note: Thanks to Bobbi for her advice, medical expertise, fudge, Jamaican brew, company on Company time, and hours on the phone/email hashing out story lines--I am nothing without you.

Click for Content Warning:

References to rape.

MacGuffin by BasBleu

Lover by night
Fighter by day
Killer by choice
Marine by mistake
- emblazoned on Zippo lighter belonging to a U.S. Marine, killed during the Vietnam War

LATE SUNDAY NIGHT

Murder compounded by rape had the most disturbing stench. Both organic and metallic, it pervaded everything around it as easily as the blood oozing from the gaping hole in the woman's neck soaked into the thin carpet beneath her. A coroner carefully examined the body sprawled at her feet, careful not to disturb the half-naked form, the blue cotton housedress pulled up above her waist, a pair of white cotton underwear dangling from the ankle of the left leg, spread at an unnatural angle from the right.

At first glance, it was painfully obvious that Lily Truong had been raped then murdered, her jugular cleanly slit before the murderer disappeared into the starless North Carolina night, pursued now by police and trusty German Shepherds tracking the scent of blood and semen.

Once again, the voice in FBI Special Agent Cait McHale's head told her she didn't have to be there. She should continue on her way back to Raleigh and forget the bad luck that had placed her at the diner, talking to the Sheriff of the small mountain town, when the call had come in. Back at regional office, she could (and should) wait until the official call came in, wait for the official request for help.

Instead, she'd asked to accompany Sheriff Briggs to the crime scene.

She was still affected by the look of agony and terror frozen on a corpse's face, courtesy of rigor mortis. As the North Carolina regional agent called in on violent crime cases, one would think she�d seen enough to become immune to it.

It was small comfort to know she hadn't.

She turned away from the body as the photographer's bulb began to flash, capturing Lily's obscene sprawl for eternity on celluloid.

"Seen enough?"

She looked down at the man who spoke, the sheriff who'd grudgingly allowed her to follow him. Even though they'd had their differences in the past, most notably on a case the previous fall involving a religious cult of snake worshippers, he knew deep down that having her around was a lucky break for him. An elected official had to look out for �number one��himself.

"I'd like a copy of the coroner's report and to have updates faxed to my office in Raleigh. There's something familiar about all of this." She muttered the latter more to herself.

"All rape/homicides are the same." Briggs intoned.

Cait shook her head. "No, Beaufort. The victims are always different."

Before he could respond, a deputy came running up.

"The dogs have someone."

The half burned shack was once home to an old moonshiner who'd eventually died and--as a final insult--willed his still to the state. Uniformed deputies held barking dogs at bay as the rest of the search party converged. A voice could be heard above the screaming sirens of approaching squad cars, a voice which Briggs recognized.

"God damn, that's Alvin Meeks." Briggs brought the rusty bullhorn to his lips.

"Alvin Meeks, that you in there?"

"Sheriff! They got you too? Fuckin' gooks!" The man's voice rang out as deputies calmed their dogs.

"Who is he?" Cait crouched by the Sheriff.

"He's a Vet. Harmless loner, nicest guy you ever could meet. Granted, the wheel�s turning �though the hamster�s dead, if you know what I mean." Briggs shrugged.

"Harmless?" Cait repeated incredulously, thinking of the trail of the Vietnamese woman's blood that had led them to the shack. "Keep him talking."

The bullhorn squawked as Cait pulled her weapon from its holster and crept around the 4-wheel drive vehicles to the shack.

"They're all around us, man. There's no way out�I gotta get outta here." The voice launched into shaky rendition of the chorus of a song popular during the war. "We gotta get outta this place.".

"Alvin, you're not in 'Nam anymore. We're all just peaceful redneck mountain folk out here, just wanting to help you." Cait deciphered Briggs' garbled admonition to Meeks as she kept advancing.

"You're lyin'! Just like them fuckin' g-men, all lyin' sons of bitches!" The sound of the man's hysterical sobbing was probably only audible to Cait from her close position.

"Goddamn Corps. Goddamn pills. Vitamins'll make you stronger, man." he muttered then yelled. "It's all bullshit! You're all bullshit!"

The click of a safety catch made her hit the dirt, not knowing whether it was going on or off but suspecting the latter.

"Semper Fi." Meek's voice whispered before a single shot rang out.

Cait picked herself up amidst the barking and the sound of running deputies. Stepping into the shack, she saw the man in the coroner with half of his head blown away.

�Shit." She muttered and turned away.

EARLY MONDAY MORNING

The coroner's examination verified what she'd suspected. Lily Truong had been beaten and raped before a bayonet had severed her jugular and ended her life. The knife, found on the person of the deceased Alvin Meeks, bore Meeks' fingerprints and what was soon to be confirmed as Lily's blood. Ejaculate and pubic hair were sent to be tested, as a formality.

It was a neatly wrapped-up case except for one thing--Meeks had never been a troublemaker; a loner, yes, but not a troublemaker. He lived alone and bothered no one. He had volunteered to assist in the construction of houses in Lily Truong�s community, a community created by the Grace Baptist Church for Lily's Montagnard Tribe, to ease their immigration and assimilation into the United States. The effort was billed as recognition to the Montagnards' assistance to the U.S. military during the Vietnam War. Meeks had recounted tales of Montagnard assistance during the war and spoke of them with gratitude and admiration.

These were not the words or actions of a man who harbored homicidal urges, so the age-old question of motive still stood.

Briggs had no answers. The Pastor of Grace Baptist Church had no answers. Sam Truong--husband of the slain woman --would not have an answer either, once he stopped sobbing long enough to answer their questions.

The only one most likely to have answers was lying next to Lily Truong in a morgue, half of his head and brains neatly scraped together in a large sandwich bag.

Cait left the Sheriff's office at 3 a.m. with borrowed cup �proclaiming �I�ll give up my gun when they pry it from my cold, dead hands��filled with black coffee in one hand and a manila folder with the coroner's report and hastily developed photos in the other, resolving to find answers.

Four and a half hours later, she pulled into her parking space at the Raleigh field office. The scent of fresh brewing coffee greeted her as she entered her office and put her bags in a corner. The Krups was programmed to happily gurgle out an imported Jamaican brew every morning, to be ready when Cait arrived.

She sat down at her PC, turned it on, waited while tapping her fingers impatiently on an indolent mouse, then started typing. After several beeps that indicated the commencement of her VICAP search, she stood and reached behind the door of her office, extracting a neatly pressed suit. One night's sleep on the leather sofa in the agent's lounge followed by a morning press conference had taught her the wisdom of keeping a change of clothes around. Clutching the suit and an overnight bag, she headed for the gym showers, mentally reminding herself to stop and leave a note at her sparring partner's desk to cancel their ten o'clock session.

Forty minutes later, she returned, tsking lightly at the blood stain on the linen blouse slung over her arm. Her cleaners were going to start wondering what she did for a living at the rate she was going. This would make the third stain in as many months.

The man bending over her terminal looked up as she entered. Short, compact, with a thick crown of fiery red hair and a smooth Cajun accent, her partnerTrey Boudreaux frowned at her. "VICAP? This early?"

"Top of the mornin' to you too, Trey." She poured herself a cup of coffee. "I stumbled across a case in the mountains that seemed familiar." She picked up the folder and handed it to her partner.

"Rape, homicide, suicide." Trey muttered as he leafed through the pictures and report, moving back to his desk. He looked back up at her, "You were in the mountains all weekend. This happened last night. How long has it been since you slept?"

�Sleep is overrated.� She grumbled, but looked at the Rolex on her wrist, calculating quickly, "26 hours, 3 minutes and 6 seconds."

"Bon dieu avoir pitié." Trey muttered, as aware of Cait's tendency to sacrifice sleep for a case as he was wary of Cait's temperament when she did it. He tossed the file back on his desk and gestured to her PC. "What are you looking for?"

"Rape and murder of female Vietnamese immigrants by Vietnam veterans who subsequently committed suicide."

Trey's auburn eyebrows disappeared into his equally red hair. "Let me rephrase the question�what aren't you looking for? That's a really specific search, non?"

She sat back in her chair, holding her mug in two hands, sipping the strong brew. "I have a feeling about this."

That was another thing he was familiar with, her "feelings." Familiar, if not comfortable. They were eerily correct more often than not. If the infamous agent at the Washington bureau had not already laid claim to the nickname "Spooky," Cait was Trey's nominee for it. Trey always regretted being on leave and thus missing his chance to meet the enigmatic agent and his partner when they had assisted Cait in a case in the mountains. It was evident they'd made a favorable impression on her.

"Did the Vet ... "He consulted the report, "Meeks�did he have a history of trouble with the law?"

She shook her head. "The only time Beaufort ever had to deal with Meeks was when he discovered that Alvin had a personal marijuana plant. He overlooked it, figuring it could only help to live out the rest of his existence in peace. Meeks kept to himself."

"Maybe his offer to help the church was a way of cultivating trust with the immigrants while he looked for a victim." Trey suggested, knowing his partner had a tendency to get a little single-minded.

"Then why..." Before she could continue, the printer behind her started whirring and she leaned back in her chair, reaching for the VICAP print-out.

"That was fast." Trey wheeled his chair over and stopped behind her, reading the report over her shoulder.

"Ask the right question...." She left the maxim unfinished and began pulling the pages from the printer. A frown gradually creasing her forehead as she skimmed quickly through them.

"Something good?"

"Mais yeah, mon ami." She answered, using one of his favorite Cajun expressions as she handed the pages to him. "Seven murders in seven months, all of them the same m.o. And all Vets of the U.S. Marine Corps."

"I wonder if they were all in at the same time, the same company, maybe?" Trey suggested. "A mass suicide pact?"

"Whatever is it, it�s a case." She rolled her chair back up to her desk and called up her email. "I have a friend at USMC archives."

"That figures.' Trey was constantly befuddled with Cait's array of unofficial resources. "I'll call Nadine and see if Carter can see us now so we can start working on this case officially." He stressed the last word as a reminder to Cait.

She nodded, half-listening, already typing.

It did not take long to convince Unit Chief Bill Carter that the serial murder-suicides required investigation. It took longer, though, to convince Trey that he had to finish the paperwork on their recently completed case (as was decided in their coin toss) before he started on this one.

"I'm probably not going to get very far on this before you're done anyway." Cat tried to placate him.

She was wrong.

She had email when she returned to the office, a message which consisted of two words, "Call me."

Cait dialed out on a secured line, waited a moment before saying, "Hey, Sarge, It's Cait."

Trey saw her write on one of her omnipresent legal pads in the ensuing silence. Reading upside down he identified the name of a USMC battalion and the year "1971."

"Can you fax me the list of names right away? Does it include current status? Can you break it down into platoon divisions at the time?" Apparently she received an affirmative answer to each of her rapid fire questions. She smiled, saying �Next time, the chitlins are on me" and hung up.

"All of the men on my list were enlisted with the same Corps company and maybe even platoon in 1971." Behind her, the fax machine rang then started receiving. "Sarge is faxing me a complete list, and something more." She reached for the papers spitting out of the fax machine. "Apparently, there was an investigation back then into members of the company. A series of rape-homicides of Vietnamese prostitutes occurred in Saigon. They coincided with locations and times that members of one platoon were present in the area. The murders stopped a few months later, as quickly as they started. The investigation was dropped."

"Let me take a stab at the m.o.�severed jugular?"

Cait nodded, looking at the papers in her hands and comparing the first sheet to the list of suspects on her desk.

"What do you see?" Trey asked.

"All seven of our suspects-- same platoon, same time. Of the remaining twenty-nine in that platoon�since it appears to be the common denominator�twelve died in an ambush, ten are considered M.I.A., four returned and died of natural causes, leaving three that are still alive" She looked down at the list. "Christopher Sparks, Stephen Hunter and Walter Skin ... oh my god." Cait's eyes widened. "Skinner."

Trey immediately recognized the name. "Skinner. As in Walter Sergei Skinner, an Assistant Director of the F.B.I.�one of our bosses?"

Cait nodded.

"And a personal friend of yours, non?"

Again Cait nodded. "My father's protégé, and friend." She stood up quickly, began packing her things.

"Where are you going?"

"D.C."

It was easy to find Assistant Director Skinner�s office, kind of like connect-the-dots. Only, in this case, it was connecting the faces of the people who looked like they�d just faced a chess match with the devil for their souls and lost. Cait smiled at the gold-lettering on the glass door before opening it and stepping into the carpeted waiting room. As it was past five in the afternoon, she wasn�t surprised to see that his assistant--Kimberly to Walter, Kim to everyone else--had left for the day, desk arranged neatly but obviously ready for action at any given moment. It always helped to be prepared for a man like Skinner.

The door to the inner sanctum stood ajar and hushed voices inside let her know that Skinner was in fact still at his desk. Not wishing to intrude on a late meeting, she was about to take a seat in the waiting area until the meeting was over when the scent of cigarette smoke emanating from the inner room reached her and she froze. Dazed, she walked towards the door, and pushed it open.

The man standing before Skinner�s desk, surrounded in haze, turned to her with a look of fury on his face. He was replaced with a man she�d seen many times in her dreams, a dark man surrounded in fog, a man who meant danger and fear and death.

Cait calmly reached for the gun tucked in the holster in the back of her trousers and aimed it at him, index finger automatically wrapping around the trigger.

�Cait!�

Skinner�s voice echoed in her mind and out of the corner of her eye she saw him move towards her. Her eyes met his for a brief second before she turned her attention back to the smoking man and applied pressure to the trigger.

The gun was knocked out of her hand before she could fire and pain exploded in her wrist. The older man ran quickly from the room, freed from his temporary paralysis, and Cait moved to follow him, ready to tackle him if necessary, but her arm was wrenched back.

�Cait! Cait! Stop!�

Skinner, it was Skinner who had the vice-like hold on her wrist, Skinner who was holding her back. She turned and her other hand came up, fisted, ready to strike but he managed to anticipate that too and grabbed it They were locked in a painful embrace for a moment before Skinner�s voice broke through Cait�s resistance and she yelped as the pain registered.

�Let go of me!� She commanded calmly, turning her head, desperately looking back at the open door through which the man had escaped.

�Not until you tell me what you thought you were doing!� Skinner�s grip slackened but was still immobilizing.

She turned back to him, only her eyes betraying the rage boiling inside of her.

�That bastard murdered my father.�

Skinner released her, stunned by her pronouncement. Off balance, she staggered back, then stood, watching him warily.

�You know him. Tell me where I can find him.� She asked, watching as he strode across the room and closed the outer door. Turning back to her, he said, �Sit down, Cait.�

�Walter ...�

�Sit down, Cait.� Here was the A.D. everyone else knew with the serrated voice and the hard edge of kevlar in his eyes.

She reached for her gun and holstered it, slowly, watching him watch her. Back at his desk, he waited for her to sit before he did too.

�Explain.�

She looked at her hands, trembling now as the adrenaline rush receded. The control on which she prided herself slowly crept through her and she was silent, waiting for its return.

�There were no witnesses to your father�s murder.� Skinner said, watching the woman as she attempted to rein in her emotions.

�There was one.� Her reply was barely audible, as she spoke between clenched teeth. Mental images raced through her mind and she had to close her eyes again to make some sense of them. Her memories of her father�s murder up to now had been just scrambled, blurred images that haunted her at night Until she�d walked into the room and smelled the smoke, she�d given up ever being able to remember what her internal defenses had tried to make her forget. Everything had come back then, rushing at her and she�d reacted. The face that had been a black void in her dreams now had distinct features: rheumy eyes sunk in a cadaverous face, thin lips set in a permanent sneer. She�d seen him and remembered everything.

And who was he ? She�d known all along he was part of the government, maybe even part of the agency. But Skinner knew him, Skinner who had been her father�s friend, Skinner whom she had always trusted, who was now looking at her as if she�d lost her mind but was hoping for a good explanation. Could she still trust him ?

A moment later, she opened her eyes and met those of the man across from her.

�Not here.�

The headstone was simple, decreeing this the final resting place of Graham McHale. All around them, the other silent sentries of Arlington National Cemetery stood guard over their charges whose final service to their country was a constant reminder of the fallacy of war. Cait squatted by the headstone, a hand balanced on it, trying to feel more than the cold stone, trying to find some sense of the burly Scotsman who had given her life.

Skinner stood behind her, waiting.

�Why are you protecting him, Walter?� She still had her back to him but he could hear the accusation in her voice.

�I�m not protecting him.�

�I saw it. When I had my gun trained on him, you hesitated and I could see you weighing the consequences in your mind. You wanted me to kill him. Why would you stop me, other than to protect him?�

He looked away from her, pausing before answering, �That man has the answers to a lot of questions that demand answers. Killing him won�t help us.�

�What questions ? What answers? Why the riddles?� Now she turned to him.

�I can�t ...�

�Won�t.� She interrupted, �You won�t tell me.�

He glared at her.

�If he dies, the people he works for could prove far more lethal than he ever was. People could die.�

�People have died.� She argued.

�Mulder could die. That man is one of the reasons why Mulder�s probings into certain unsavory dealings of our government haven�t put him into the ground next to your father.�

Cait looked at him incredulously, �Mulder?� Her eyes narrowed.

�Don�t misconstrue the extent of the relationship between them. It�s far from friendly. That man will do anything short of killing Mulder to stop him from finding out the truth.� Skinner explained, then continued, �And telling you could jeopardize your life, too.�

Understanding dawned, but did not assuage her ire. �So, he�s got you protecting him in order to protect Mulder. And you�re protecting me. How much power does he have?�

�All of it.�

Shaking her head, Cait turned away from him. � All that power and he doesn�t even have a name.�

�Mulder calls him that �black-lunged son of a bitch.�� Skinner noticed the tension easing out of her shoulders.

Cait let out a short, harsh, bark of laughter. �How apropos.�

Staring down at her father�s headstone, she thought hard. She did trust Skinner, believed that what he was saying was true. If she hadn�t seen that hesitation in his eyes when she�d first aimed her weapon at the man, she probably wouldn�t trust him. As always, Walter had chosen not the easiest option but the right one. Her father had always said how the agent had an uncanny knack for making the most utilitarian decision.

�I was there in the park when he murdered my father, standing about ten feet away, hidden behind a tree.� Cait�s voice was quiet and strangely detached as she started relating the memory. �I�d passed the park on my way home from a friend�s house and noticed my father�s car in the lot. It was late, I figured he and mother had a fight and he�d left to let her cool down, like he always did. I thought I�d try to cheer him up. So, I parked and went looking for him.�

She began to walk slowly away from the headstone, towards Skinner, then past him and he followed. �I saw them from a distance and they seemed to be arguing. It was clear that my presence would not have been appreciated but I was curious so I approached as quietly as I could and hid behind a tree. I watched as he turned away from my father then turned back, gun in hand, and calmly shot him. Twice. My father crumpled to the ground, dropping a file he had in his hand. The bastard picked it up. His face fell into a shaft of moonlight and I saw him. After he walked away, I ran to my father�s body and I smelled him.� She smiled ruefully. � I always wondered why the smell of cigarette smoke always made me sick.� She continued, �No pulse. I started running, tried to find a phone, ...�

The anonymous call that had alerted the police and then the Bureau to the park. �Cait, why didn�t you tell anyone?�

�Because as I hung up, I realized I couldn't remember his face. I could remember everything else but his face. What could I have told anyone? I saw a man smoking a cigarette calmly shoot my father at point blank range without flinching before he walked away and faded into the mist? Because that�s exactly what he did.� She paused. Continued. �I�ve dreamed about that night every night for the past fourteen years. Each time, I�ve held back from screaming, hoping that if I can just wait a few more minutes, the smoke will clear and I�ll see his face. Then I�d have something substantial to tell someone. And each time, I�ve failed. As I failed then.�

�It wasn�t your fault, Cait.� Walter�s voice was gentle.

The grim set of her jaw told him she didn�t believe that.

�Promise me something, Walter.� She asked, her eyes boring into his. �Promise me that when you finally are able to ask that man those questions, you�ll also ask him why he killed my father.�

Skinner nodded. �I promise."

"Good, then sit." Cait motioned to a nearby bench. "This is why I really came to see you." She extracted a piece of paper from her pocket.

They sat together and she handed it to Skinner, watched him unfold the list.

"What do you remember about the men on that list?"

She watched his often inexpressive face cloud over as he read the list. He refolded the list , handed it back to her and removed his glasses. "Why?"

Succinctly, she recounted the cases as well as the information that her source at the archives had provided. Skinner was silent as she talked, eyes focused on a far-off spot. When she finished, he shook his head. "I don't know what more I can tell you. Halfway through my tour I was caught in that ambush. I was discharged soon after, with a Purple Heart to add to my medal bar. I tried to keep in touch with some of the men on that list but ... " He trailed off. "It was difficult enough to assimilate back into this society without being constantly reminded of all that had happened by others who had been there. I had enough of my own memories. I didn�t want anybody else�s.�

"You're one of the three surviving members of the original platoon."

He nodded and looked at her. "When are you going to see Sparks and Hunter?"

"My plane leaves for Indianapolis at six tomorrow morning. I'll fly to Seattle the next day."

He stood up. "I'll have Kimberly get me on the same flights."

"Now wait a second." Cait matched strides with him as they walked back to the car.

"You don't have to come. I know you were planning to spend the weekend away with Sharon. There's no reason why my investigation should interfere with your reconciliation."

"I'll be back in time to leave with Sharon. Besides, my presence may make it easier for you to talk to them." Skinner reasoned.

Cait hesitated a moment before smiling wryly. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were just looking for an excuse to get back in the field."

Skinner managed a smile. "Sometimes you think too much, Cait."

TUESDAY

Pulling into the sidestreet where Chris Sparks lived, they were immediately waved away by a uniformed officer. Skinner flashed his badge and, after a panicked explanation, they were waved through to the other end of the street where they were greeted by the flashing red and blue lights of squad cars, ambulances and a fire truck.

"Damn it, we're too late." Cait cursed as she and Skinner crabbed their way over to the harried-looking detective in charge. The screamed expletives of the man in the surrounded house reached her ears and Cait experienced a feeling of deja vu.

As Cait had suspected, Sparks had raped and murdered a Vietnamese woman in broad daylight. He was seen fleeing the scene of the crime and headed in the direction of his home. Unlike Alvin Meeks, Sparks had a reputation as a troublemaker with several run-ins with the authorities and a short period of incarceration.

"We need him alive, Lieutenant Wallace." Cait insisted.

"I'll try to oblige, Agent McHale ... once you tell me how the hell I'm supposed to do that? His neighbors have told us that he has a pretty well stocked arsenal in there."

"He hasn't fired on anyone out here yet, though, has he?" Cait argued. "Get a psychiatrist out here to talk to him. The man is suicidal. He'll kill himself before he lets anyone near him."

Wallace looked at her incredulously. Before he could respond, a single shot rang out from the house. Everybody ducked behind the cars, looking at the person beside them to see if anybody had been hit. Wallace was about to correct Cait's earlier statement when he realized that the screaming had stopped.

Cait realized it too and stood up, starting to move towards the house.

"Cover!" She heard someone yell behind her, then she sensed Skinner's presence at her side. Several S.W.A.T. team members fell in behind them and they advanced on the house.

Their entry was textbook perfect and everybody watched tensely as they disappeared into the house. Moments later, Cait and Skinner exited. Wallace and his men converged on them.

"He's dead." Cait said dispassionately. "One shot to the right temple."

She walked away, followed by the stone-faced A.D.

In the car, she closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands, muttering a copulative expletive under her breath as Skinner started the car and drove away.

"Feel better?" Skinner asked as she raised her head and leaned it against the headrest.

She shook her head. "Did I just forget the part in the my job description that said I'd be too late nine times out of ten?"

Not knowing how to respond�and remembering asking the same question of Graham McHale once�Skinner glanced at his watch. "I think there's a five o'clock flight to Seattle. Let's see if we can get on it."

Cait nodded. "Fine. But I seriously doubt Hunter is going anywhere�he's in the psych ward at a VA hospital."

Not only was Stephen Hunter in the psych ward, he was also strait-jacketed and in solitary for attacking a newly assigned nurse the previous day with the sharpened handle of a dinner fork. The nurse was of Asian descent.

"Has Hunter exhibited violent behavior prior to this incident?" Cait inquired, walking down the hall between a tall psychiatrist and Skinner.

"Several times.� Dr. Bergman consulted the chart in her hands. "He came to us a year and a half ago with severe depression, plagued with nightmares. Since then he's had several episodes where his flashbacks resulted in attacks on orderlies."

"Had he indicated experiencing flashbacks prior to coming here?" Skinner asked.

"No." Dr. Bergman answered. "Mr. Hunter was an affluent businessman in this area. A series of nightmares and blackouts sent him to a psychiatrist. Those symptoms have escalated since he arrived."

"Did his family commit him?" Cait asked as the doctor unlocked a door marked "Restricted Entry."

"They objected to committing him. Mr. Hunter committed himself. At the time, he insisted that he was a danger to himself and his family. We really didn't understand what he meant until now."

They stopped before a locked door, a small mesh-covered window at eye level. Glancing inside, Skinner was stunned by what he saw. Hunter was certainly no longer a tow-headed farm boy but Skinner wasn't prepared for the gaunt, wasted figure wrapped in a strait-jacket and pacing the room. But the face was one he remembered, and fondly. He turned to Cait who was vehemently disagreeing with the psychiatrist.

"Dr. Bergman doesn't think it's a good idea for me to conduct the interrogation." Cait told him.

"Agent McHale's obvious Asian features may affect Mr. Hunter negatively. We'd like to avoid a repeat performance." Dr. Bergman cautioned.

"I seriously doubt..." Cait began, but Skinner interrupted.

"You're not going in."

Those almond-shaped eyes that were the moment's point of contention narrowed at him, but she didn't argue. He was still her superior.

"There's an observation room here," Dr. Bergman gestured to an adjacent door, "If you'd care to watch."

"I'd care to very much." Cait responded and moved towards the door. Skinner called her back.

"Could you hold onto these for me, please?" he asked, handing her his glasses and his weapon.

Cait took them, turned and disappeared behind the second door. Settling into a chair by the window, she took a notepad from her briefcase and prepared to transcribe interview.

Hunter stopped his pacing momentarily to stare at Skinner as he walked in. Recognition dawned almost instantly and the man took a cautious step forward before remembering his arms were inaccessible. Dr. Bergman left the room, reassured that no harm would come to the visitor, but positioning herself outside the door in case something did.

As the interview ensued, it became increasingly evident that Skinner had lost neither his skills as an interrogator nor his sense of camaraderie with his subject. Cait listened intently as they talked of fighting an unpopular war.

"We thought everyone was killed in that ambush. They didn't bring the bodies back in, just shipped them out immediately. A couple of weeks later, we heard you'd survived the attack, Then we heard you'd been sent home. Confirmed some rumors."

Skinner asked what rumors. Hunter ignored his question.

"When you fully recovered, you were discharged instead of sent back in to complete your tour--You didn�t think that was unusual?"

"The war had started to end for us." Skinner said, the nagging in the back of his mind telling him that what he was saying seemed hollow, as if programmed into him.

Hunter interrupted. "There were those who couldn't accept that. There were people who still wanted us to win."

His ominous words sent a cold chill down Skinner's spine. "How? How could we win?"

Hunter sat on his bunk, leaned back against the wall, contemplating Skinner. He looked for a moment to be reconsidering trusting him. Then, something seemed to change his mind, and he said "Remember those vitamins? The ones that they gave us to take three times a day? They were tucked into our M.R.E�s."

Skinner remembered.

"They weren't vitamins, friend. They were turning us into killers. Not soldiers, killers."

In the warm observation room, Cait shivered.

"We were infantry. Grunts, Hunter, not PsyOps." Skinner tried to shrug away an uneasy feeling.

"No." Hunter agreed. "We were worse. We were the best damn platoon in the company. We never let the enemy get the drop on us, no matter how tired we were. We just seemed to be blessed with luck."

"Until my squad was ambushed."

"Funny thing about that." Hunter's chuckle was more ironic than humorous. "When we heard about the attack, some of us took off, went to where they were bagging and tagging the bodies. We found tracks leading away from the site, tracks of the enemy that had attacked you. Only they were boot prints, prints that matched ours."

It took half a second for Skinner to realize what he was implying.

Hunter continued. "They were testing your squad, testing their younger lab rats against the older ones. They were testing all of us."

"Who's �They?� How do you know all of this?" Skinner demanded.

Hunter barked a little laugh. "They were Us." Silent for a moment to gauge Skinner's reaction, he then continued. "My incentive for making my fortune�I bought the knowledge." He uttered a short, bitter laugh. "You know why money can't buy happiness? Because it buys the truth." Again a pause. "Is it just a coincidence that a CIA Director during the Vietnam war recently turned up dead? Or that a four-star general shot himself over a tiny dispute about medals? All this after information gets out about the CIA's less than respectable practices during the war. There's a reason for those deaths. It's the same reason why I'm here, the same reason why you're here.� He paused, leaned forward. �The killings have started, haven't they?"

Skinner stopped pacing, looked at Hunter.

Hunter shrugged. "I could claim clairvoyance but I'd be lying. The only luxury I arranged for myself in here was that." he nodded to the television high in the right corner of the room, surrounded by a mesh cage. "CNN." He grinned mirthlessly at Skinner.

"The murders are a side effect of a drug developed specifically to turn us into murderers. The drug, taken orally, caused hyper-sensory perception and increased aggressiveness, making us damn near invincible. Oh yes, and as an added bonus it also intensified the sex drive. They weren't flawless though. They were constantly experimenting to improve them. And every time a new and improved version was created, they'd try them out on the loyal and ignorant volunteer lab rats of the U.S. Marine Corps. The effects were immediate while we were taking the drug and stopped within a week after we stopped taking the drug. Only they'd failed to acknowledge the long term affect of the drug, say the twenty-five year long term affect: nightmares, flashbacks, blackouts, ... and uncontrollable violent, homicidal urges."

"And the rapes?"

Hunter shrugged. "Unaccounted. But then, it's difficult to determine �rape� with lab rats. Not so with men." Hunter heaved a huge sigh, perhaps of relief. "That's it, I'm done. Do with it what you will. Do with it more than I ever could."

"I need proof, Hunter, solid proof. Letters, reports, memos. The knowledge is worthless without the proof."

Hunter eyed him carefully then lay down on his bed. "The proof is a dead man." He turned his back to Skinner, signifying the end of the interview.

"Are you alright?" Cait asked from across the Formica table top of the small booth at the motel diner.

Skinner raised his head from his cupped hands. "Fine ... for just having discovered that I may have been a guinea pig during a time in my life that I was already having trouble being proud of."

"So, you believed him?" Cait picked up her fork and began turning it from end to end, tapping it on the table.

"You didn't?"

Cait shrugged. "A part of me does ... and another part of me is thinking that Hunter is a loonier version of Mulder." She shook her head, hoping the physical action would clear her mind of its fog. "But if he's right ..."

"Go on." Skinner urged.

"If he's right, "she repeated, turning desperate green eyes up to him, "Then I don't even know what the next step is in this investigation. We don't know who these drugs were tested on�practically all of the Marines who returned from the war are suspect. Even if we had proof, what do we do with it�commit them all? It's not like they haven't been persecuted enough already. So we wait, wait and let more women be killed." The fork clanged on the table as she slammed her first down. "God damn," she muttered closing her eyes so Skinner wouldn't see the tears of frustration welling behind them. He saw them anyway.

He realized he�d never seen Cait cry, not even after her father had died. He�d been at the funeral, and at the wake when Nori, Cait�s mother, had approached him. Despite her grief and the houseful of mourners and consolers, she�d noticed immediately that sixteen year old Cait was missing and had asked him to find her. He�d known where to look.

Graham had built the treehouse for Cait when she was six years old. She�d abandoned it at twelve, but it still stood firmly attached to the huge oak tree in the backyard, ladder rungs nailed into the tree, allowing access. Standing below the tree, he couldn�t see into the treehouse, but he knew she was up there.

�Cait, I�m coming up.� He�d said before he started climbing.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw her, lying flat on her back , staring through the leafy roof of the treehouse.

�Mind if I join you?� He asked and she�d turned her head to look at him. He�d noticed then that her eyes were dry.

�If I did, would you go away?� She�d responded.

�Probably not.� He answered, hefting himself onto the floor of the house. There had been barely enough room for six-year-old Cait and a best friend in the house, much less the now taller Cait and a linebacker sized Walter. Sitting cross-legged beside her, he looked up.

�Stargazing?� He asked.

She nodded. �Dad was the first one who ever named the constellations for me so I don�t think he�d mind if I major in astronomy.�

Cait had recently graduated from high school, having skipped two grades to become the youngest member of her graduating class. She was scheduled to start at the state university in the Fall.

Walter simply nodded, looked up at the sky along with her. She was silent for a while.

�I�m really going to miss him, Walter.� She stated simply, her voice laced with pain, but not with tears.

�Me too.� He�d said, realizing how much for the first time.

He�d been surprised when she�d reached across the tiny distance between them for his hand and held it in hers. It was as if she was giving him the comfort that he�d been sent to give her.

Skinner realized it was time he returned the favor.

She sensed him reach across the table between them, felt his hand close over hers, squeezing tightly. Her own hand turned up, tightened around his, and for a few minutes they strengthened each other with the simple hand clasp.

A thought ran in Cait's head, "Why is it that the only time you touch me it's to comfort me?' and she immediately berated herself for thinking it. "Because he's married, Cait." She told herself, "And has been for all the time you've known him and loved him."

The arc of metal on his finger, pressing into her palm, reminded her who he was, ... whose he was. She extricated her hand from his as gracefully as she could, dropped it in her lap and opened her eyes.

"So, do you want to tell me about this ambush you miraculously survived?' She said, focused on the case again.

He told her all of it: the quiet of the Southeast Asian night, the first premonition of danger, the panicked cries of "lock and load" that were abruptly cut off by gunfire, the screams of men dying around him, the peace, the rising, ... and the old woman.

She listened intently to the fantastic story, her mind analyzing every detail. When he finished, she commented, "It makes a lot of sense, in light of what Hunter said. And Hunter's information certainly explains some events of the past year�the nightmares, the ... um ..." She hesitated, searching, but Skinner provided the word.

"Prostitute."

Cait nodded.

"That incident, however, does not fit the m.o. of the other murders." Skinner reminded her.

"No," Cait agreed, "But you were only exposed to the drug for half the time those other men were. It was probably also a weaker form of the drug too. And, anyway, your nightmares have stopped, right?"

They had not. They had visited him with less frequency but they had not stopped. Still, he didn't admit it.

Cait unsuccessfullly tried to stifle a yawn, and glanced down into her empty coffee cup. �Damn�I think someone slipped me decaf.�

Skinner frowned at her, "How long has it been since you slept?"

"Why is everyone concerned about my sleeping habits?" She complained, then squinted at the clock behind Skinner�s head, "Except for the hour on Monday night, seventy-two hours and counting."

He left Cait at her door with a "Get some sleep. That's an order from a superior." and walked across the hall to his room. The phone�s red light blinked in the darkness of the room, indicating that he had a message.

Cait entered her room, saw her own message light and picked up the phone. She was directed to call a Dana Scully in Washington, D.C.

"Scully."

"Scully, it's Cait. What's wrong?"

"Is Skinner with you?"

"He's in his room. Scully, what is it?"

"I have some bad news. There's been another murder like the ones you're investigating. It's Sharon Skinner, Cait; it's Skinner's wife."

Cait heard the door across the hall open and close then the thundering of a fist on her door.

"We're on our way back." Cait told Scully.

"Call me from the airport and tell me what flight you're on. I'll meet you at the airport."

Cait hung up and went to her door.

WEDNESDAY

He barely spoke on the way to the airport and, once they boarded the plane, he stared out the window the whole way. Cait left him to his thoughts, familiar with the need for silence. Her own mind was in turmoil; she didn't want to imagine the state of her friend's.

They were the first off the plane, both of them matching strides down the walkway to the terminal where Scully's red hair helped them locate her immediately in the crowd. There was no exchange of pleasantries but Scully did manage a sincere apology to Skinner. He in turn required after the status of the investigation.

"Your wife's body was discovered by a friend, a Catherine Cooper." Scully began as they made their way through the airport to the car. "She and you wife were supposed to have dinner tonight. When she didn't show, Ms. Cooper was worried and went to the house. She noticed the car in the driveway and let herself in with her own key."

Catherine always watered the indoor plants when they were away, Skinner remembered.

"She found your wife and called the police who, in turn, called your office. A team of agents was sent in immediately. �

"Where is my wife now?"

"At the morgue, Sir. She'd already been identified by Ms. Cooper. It was felt that she should be autopsied right away, considering the crime, and ... "

"Who performed the autopsy?" Skinner demanded to know.

Scully swallowed nervously, "I did, Sir."

Skinner responded with a quick nod. "Go on."

Scully paused, allowing the mundane task of unlocking the car doors and getting into the driver's seat to allow her the time to phrase her answer. She wished for the millionth time that Mulder was with her, but he was--conveniently--home with the flu.

"Sir, I don't think ..." She started, but he glared at her as he slammed his door shut. Cait, in the back seat, resisted the urge to tell Skinner to go easy on Scully.

"Go on, Agent Scully." he repeated. It was the stern I'm-the-Assistant-Director-of-the FBI-and-not-the-grieving-husband tone that made Scully realize that it would be prudent to do as he said.

"Mrs. Skinner had been raped, then her jugular vein had been severed by a knife." Scully started the car and began to drive. "Her attacker didn't seem to be too concerned with not getting caught. We have semen and hair samples as well as blood�B negative. Rare. She apparently fought him, scratched him�we found skin under her fingernails. Agent Pendrell is running the blood type against all known sex offenders right now. Also, we may have a fingerprint, lifted from the face of Mrs. Skinner's watch."

He held her wrists, Cait thought, to stop her from fighting him. She didn't like the images in her head.

"Who's heading the investigation?" Skinner asked.

"Agents Mitchell and Deluca, but only temporarily. I was informed that Cait ... Agent McHale would take over as soon as I brought her back.� Scully glanced in her rearview mirror at Cait. "I'll take you by the crime scene."

"We're going the wrong way to do that." Skinner observed.

"Yes, Sir. I was told to take you back to the Hoover building."

Skinner bristled. "By who?"

"The Director, Sir. He wants to see you right away."

Cait requested an office with a computer to work out of and Scully offered her rarely used one. They stored Cait's travel bags and Cait made a phone call to her partner, bringing him up to date.

"How's Skinner taking it?" Scully asked as Cait hung up.

"The same way he takes everything�stoically.' Cait answered as she checked her reflection in a small hand mirror and realized she'd spent another night without sleep. She was sure the bags under her eyes were going to become permanent. She snapped the mirror shut and put it back in her briefcase. "He'll grieve later, when no one's looking."

"I guess you will too." Scully remarked.

Before Cait could answer, the door opened and Skinner walked in.

"I'm coming with you." He announced.

"Like hell." Cait glared at him.

"I'll wait outside." Scully exited quickly, closing the door firmly behind her.

A nerve jumped in Skinner's right cheek. "Agent McHale, despite our friendship, I am still your superior and I don't ..."

Cait rounded on him. "Stop getting all twitchy on me, Walter. You and I both know that the Director doesn't want you anywhere near this."

"She was my wife." Skinner stated, unaware of how dispassionate he sounded.

"She was my friend and I'm going to find out who killed her�that's my job. This is my investigation and you will have no active part in it." Cait insisted.

"I can't sit by and not do anything." Skinner argued.

"You can do your job, A.D. Skinner ... and you can let me do mine." Cait hated herself for being harsh. She reached for the door handle and left the office, walking straight into Scully.

The affluent suburb was quiet in the early morning light and the stately Georgian house showed no exterior signs of the violence it had witnessed the previous night, save for the neon yellow tape slung around the oak trees in the front and back yards, proclaiming it a crime scene.

Cait and Scully ducked under the tape and walked up the driveway to the house, flashing their badges at the police cruiser parked in front. They let themselves in and Cait led the way to the master bedroom, trying her best not to be affected by the flood of memories in the house.

They stepped into the master bedroom, around the massive, antique four poster to the outline of the body on the other side with its crowning dark stain. Cait mentally calmed the knotting in her stomach, her mind recalling the crime scene photos she'd seen on the way there. Distance, she kept reminding herself, stay objective.

Looking around the room, she replayed the events in her head. A half-filled suitcase lay open on the bed, women's clothes folded neatly inside�Sharon had been packing for the weekend trip.

"There's no sign of forced entry?" Cait asked Scully.

"No." Scully verified.

"She must have let him in the front door. But that's out of character for Sharon. It had to be someone she knew, or she felt she could trust." Cait mused.

"That doesn't exactly narrow it down." Scully walked to a nearby window and peered out. The leaves and old branches of an oak obscured the view of an potential witnesses who happened to look out their windows at the time of the attack.

"Actually, it does." Cait responded. "Sharon was wary of people, strangers especially, because of Walter's position in the Bureau ... " Cait trailed off, then reached for her cell phone and dialed.

"Cait ? " Scully walked back over to her, eyebrows raised in a question.

"Scully, what's the name of the forensics tech who's running the match?" Cait asked.

"Pendrell."

When someone asked, Cait asked to be connected to him. When he answered, she said, "Stop running the data against known offenders. Run it against law enforcement agencies, starting with the Bureau, all agents, active or inactive."

Pendrell apparently didn't argue because Cait hung up moments later. She looked at Scully, "Only an FBI badge could have opened that door to a stranger."

"I hope you're wrong.' Scully responded, starting to walk out of the room. She stopped when she noticed Cait didn't follow.

"I need a moment, Dana." Cait's eyes were fixed on the spot on the floor.

Understanding, Scully left.

Taking a deep breath, Cait finally allowed the tears to roll down her face. Her hand pressed up against her mouth, she allowed herself to crumple into a squatting position, her head against a bedpost as the sobs wracked her body. She cried convulsively for a few minutes and, tears spent, stayed in her position while her breathing returned to normal.

Feeling numb enough to continue, she was about to rise when her attention was caught y the glint of gold by the foot of the bedpost, half-hidden by the bed�s dust ruffle. She reached down and felt the smooth arc of a ring�Sharon's wedding band. It must have come off in the struggle.

Cait pocketed the ring and left to find Scully.

"Is he in?" Cait asked, inclining her head towards the door to Skinner's office.

Kim nodded, "He's been in all day, hasn't moved since he got here."

Cait hesitated before the door, remembering what happened the last time she'd barged in on him. She raised a fist and knocked twice before turning the knob.

"Hi." She walked in and shut the door behind her.

He stood next to his window, looking out, arms folded across his chest. He glanced over at Cait as she entered.

"What did you find out, Agent McHale?" His tone was brusque.

So, that's the way it is, she thought, then remembered that it was her doing�she had been the one to remind him to do his job.

"Sir, I had an idea at the crime scene. There was no sign of forced entry and every indication that Sharon…the victim… let her attacker into the house. In light of my personal relationship with the victim, I think it would have had to be someone she trusted. I have Agent Pendrell running the evidence against that of FBI personnel, regardless of their status. He'll call me when there's a match." Cait summarized, watching Skinner's eyebrows raise at her use of "when."

"You're positive it was someone at the Bureau?" Skinner moved to sit in his chair.

"As sure as I can be." Cait confirmed, knowing that in Skinner's mind, it indicated that it was his fault. "Don't do this to yourself, Walter. Sir." Cait stepped forward, her voice softening.

"I can't ignore the possibility that her murder had something to do with me."

"You don't know that." Cait insisted. "Her murder had more to do with my investigation than you. But I can't let myself think about that now�it would only be distracting." She walked over and laid a cautious hand on his shoulder, "I was wrong� you shouldn't be here. Go get some rest, go requalify on your pistol, go get drunk, go do something."

He looked up at her. "I have to make the funeral arrangements for Sharon. I have to call her mother and tell her she's dead. I have a lot of things to do, Cait, ... and I can't do any of them."

"Walter, I ... "

Before she could continue, her phone rang. It was Agent Pendrell

Pendrell took a breath. "We found a match to the blood type and the fingerprint."

"That's enough for a warrant." Cait surmised. "Who's the lucky guy?"

"Alex Krycek." Pendrell told her.

"Alex Krycek.' Cait repeated and noticed Skinner look at her quickly when she did.

"He's an inactive agent, missing for several months. There's a thick file on him but I honestly think you'll get better information if you talk to Agent Mulder."

"Mulder?" Cait was surprised.

"Yeah, they were partnered for a time when Agent Scully went to teach at Quantico." Pendrell explained.

Cait hung up and dialed another number. To the agent who answered, she said,

"Send out an APB for a suspect in the Skinner case, name of Alex Krycek-- all law enforcement agencies, airports, train stations, and on-line " She gave them Pendrell's number for a picture of the suspect and told them to call her on her cell phone if they heard anything. Hanging up, she turned to Skinner.

"So. Who's Krycek?' She asked.

"I don't know.' He answered,

"The hell you don't. He was one of your agents."

Skinner was quiet.

"Fine, I'll go ask Mulder." Cait left the office.

Skinner reached for the phone, realizing what he was about to do would make Cait more mad at him.

For the next hour and a half, Cait was treated to the long strange tale of Alex Krycek, FBI agent turned murderer turned traitor and allegedly turned alien. Scully and a congested Mulder alternately related the story, Mulder having to pause several times when it came to his father's murder and Scully barely containing her anger at her sister's. When she was told of Krycek's attack on Skinner in the hospital to steal a tape of information, any doubts as to whether they had the right man were erased�it was obvious he had it out for Skinner.

It was also obvious that Skinner might want Krycek all to himself, once he was apprehended.

"Have you found any evidence to link Sharon's murder to those of the other women?" Scully asked.

Cait said no. "While in Seattle, we thought we had everything figured out Now, with Alex Krycek, it's as if we completed the puzzle, turned over the box and found another piece."

"That black-lunged son of a bitch probably figures into it if Krycek's involved." Mulder muttered.

Cait's ears perked up. "You wouldn't happen to speaking of a walking corpse who has a nicotine habit and some sort of hold over your boss, would you?"

Mulder sat forward in his chair. "You know who he is?"

"No, but I know what he does, what he did." She took a deep breath, "He killed my father."

She quickly related the events that had transpired in their boss's office two days ago.

"Maybe Krycek's attack was precipitated by that incident." Mulder offered.

"Or maybe by what you found out in Seattle?" Scully added, curious as to what that was.

"Maybe." Cait groaned, "God�all I need is a little proof."

Mulder was about to ask more questions about what she and Skinner had discovered when she pulled out her phone. "Do you mind? I need to check on whether anyone responded to the A.P.B."

When the agent to whom she'd spoken earlier answered, she identified herself and inquired after any progress made.

The agent's stunned silence immediately raised her suspicions.

"Didn't A.D. Skinner call you?

"When?"

"We called him about five minutes ago, like he requested."

He went over my head, Cait thought.

"The suspect has been located at an abandoned warehouse. Some kid saw the picture on the Web and called it in. A.D. Skinner said he'd tell you and call for back-up."

The agent gave her the address of the warehouse and Cait hung up.

"We're coming with you.' Mulder insisted, shrugging into his jacket.

"Good," Cait ran to the door, Scully on her heels. "We'll call for back-up on the way there."

Mulder drove, knowing a short-cut, while Cait prayed that Skinner wouldn't do anything stupid. She hoped she'd bought them some time in waiting to call for back-up. She, Mulder and Scully may have to figure out a way to clean up a mess and protect their boss, if all of a sudden his usually immaculate judgement lapsed.

Pulling up in front of the warehouse, they recognized Skinner's blue Taurus, the driver's door still open. They entered the warehouse and were immediately alerted to the second floor by the sound of a crash.

They found their quarry and their boss in hand-to-hand combat, Skinner seeming to have a distinct advantage. It took a minute for Mulder and Scully to recognize the long-haired, disheveled figure making feral noises as he fought Skinner, as Alex Krycek.

Krycek fell back into a pile of boxes and tried to extricate himself. Skinner pulled his gun and aimed it straight at the flailing man.

"Federal Agents�freeze!" Cait yelled, training her own gun on Skinner as Mulder and Scully took aim at Krycek.

Skinner's baleful glare lit on Cait. "Stay out of this Cait."

"I can't, Walter.�

�He killed Sharon.� His finger slipped around the trigger.

�I won't let you kill him." Cait moved in closer. "Put the gun down."

Skinner hesitated.

"Please, Walter." She pleaded, "He's not worth it.�

Both Scully and Mulder watched their interchange tensely as Skinner considered Cait's words.

Krycek chose the moment to pull the gun he had hidden in the back under his shirt and aim it in Skinner's direction.

A shot rang out and Krycek fell.

It was a few seconds before Cait realized that none of their weapons had discharged. She heard a footstep behind her and whirled around, as did Skinner, Mulder and Scully.

"You!" Skinner said to the tall, bearded dark man walking to them, the smoking gun still in his hand.

Mulder seemed to recognize the man too.

Scully ran forward, her fingers searching for Krycek�s pulse. She looked at Cait and shook her head.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

"I suggest you and your agents get out of this building before those sirens get within a block's radius." The man's tone was steady but laced with threat.

Skinner didn't budge.

The sirens came closer.

The man advanced forward. "This building will cease to exist in about 90 seconds. Do you want to be responsible for the death of four more people?"

Skinner looked at Cait and said, "Go" as he started backing out quickly, his weapon still trained on the man.

Cait, Scully, and Mulder started running and Skinner followed.

The man holstered his gun and threw Krycek's body over his shoulder before he started running as well.

By Cait's count, seventy seconds had passed by the time they exited the building, another twenty by the time they were a block away, running into the approaching squad cars and FBI vehicles, waving at them to stop. They took cover and waited.

She turned to Skinner, outraged, "It's been two minutes. The son of a bitch was ly..."

The warehouse erupted and the ground shook with the force of the explosion. They were pelted with debris as the building shimmered then crumbled.

THURSDAY

Having bid a quick good-bye to Mulder and Scully, Cait walked slowly through the halls of the Hoover building, contemplating her early morning meeting with the head of the Violent Crimes division. There'd been a tentative offer, after the commendation of her work on the rape-homicides, of a position heading a task force targeting violent crimes against women. Cait had left his office with a promise to "get back to him." The job would mean moving back to D.C., something she thought she�d never do.

She walked by Skinner's office, stopped and turned back. Kim smiled at her and told her to go on in. Knocking twice, she entered to see Skinner in his customary position at his desk. He looked up at her as she closed the door behind her, his pen stilling it's course across the report before him. Cait saw the tension in her shoulders, the muscle twitch in his cheek.

"I ...uh... came to say goodbye." She stammered, moving to the chair in front of his desk. "At least my exit isn't as dramatic as my entrance." She smiled.

He didn't smile back.

"Thank you for your help on the investigation." He said stiffly.

She shook her head. "It's not really over, we both know that."

"Those in authority have decided the case is closed, so it's closed." Skinner answered.

Cait didn't respond.

"Goodbye, Cait." He said and turned his attention back to his report.

She hesitated before turning to walk out, hand reaching into her pocket for her car keys. At the door she stopped, her fingers closed over a smooth, round object . She walked back to his desk.

"Here.� She held out her fist, the object nestled in it. "You should have it."

She dropped it on the report on his desk, turned and left his office.

Skinner looked down at Sharon's wedding band, shining against the black and white of the sheet before him.

It wasn't until the words started blurring before his eyes and ink began spreading in a huge, wet puddle that he realized he was crying.

He raised both hands and buried his face in them as the anguish of guilt overwhelmed him and sobs shook his powerful body.

EPILOGUE

Months later.

The phone shrilled as she unlocked the door of the apartment. Depositing her keys and walkman on the B�sendorfer that filled what should have been the dining room of the apartment, she reached for the cell phone and anchored it between her chin and shoulder.

�McHale.� She said, slightly out of breath from her run.

�Cait? It�s Dana.�

Surprised, Cait said, �Hi--what�s up?� Then a thought hit her. �Is Skinner alright?�

�I don�t know. He�s definitely not his usual self.� Scully got right to the point.

�What--he�s not grumpy, stubborn and formidable?� Cait sat on the piano bench and began unlacing her running shoes. Relief made her flippant.

Scully managed a laugh. �No, he�s definitely living up to that part of his reputation.� She sighed. �I think he�s trying to grieve ... but he doesn�t know how. I think he needs help and I think you�re the only person that he�ll let help him� There, she�d said it.

�Oh no, not me.� Cait protested, �I think I�m the last person he wants to see.�

�Is that why you weren�t at the funeral?� Scully asked, a little frustration lacing her voice.

�I don�t do funerals, Scully.� Cait noted the defensiveness in her voice, took a breath, and explained. �Not since my father�s.�

Scully was silent a moment, hesitating to bring out the heavy artillery, but Cait left her no choice, �He needs you.�

Damn, Cait thought, how did she know that would work? With a sigh, she asked,�Is that you�re professional opinion, Dr. Scully?�

The triumph was clearly evident in her voice. �It most definitely is.�

�Then I�ll be there tomorrow.� Cait promised.

Even Friday nights at Chadwick�s were quiet. It was a place for serious drinkers, those who came to forget their problems, not discuss them with indulgent bartenders. It was the perfect place for Walter S. Skinner. He was well into his third neat Scotch when he heard the door open. Something moved in his peripheral vision, caught his attention, and he turned, curious. Immediately, he regretted it. He should have known--only Cait moved that way.

She stopped by his side, slid onto the chair beside him, and leaned an elbow on the bar.

�How did you find me?� Skinner asked, not looking at her. He senses the smile that curved her lips.

�You�re a creature of habit, Walter. Lucky for me, they�re my father�s habits.� She took a moment to look around the bar. �This place hasn�t changed much.�

�Why are you here?�

�Scully called, told me you needed to be rescued from pickling your liver in bad Scotch.� Cait leaned in closer. �So I came prepared--there�s a bottle of Glenlivett in my car with our names engraved in gold on it. Let�s go completely bacchic and go skinny-dipping in Louis� pool.�

The thought of thumbing his noise at the director in such a way almost made him smile.

�He suggested that I take some time off. Get some ... counseling.� His mouth twisted as he said the word.

�I�m sure he made it impossible to refuse.�

He nodded, staring into the amber-gold liquid in his glass.

�I can�t honestly say I disagree with him.� Cait confessed.

�I didn�t think you would.�

She really did not want to broach the subject of Sharon here, but she felt there was no way to move him from his seat. �Walter, you have to talk to someone. This guilt over what happened to her, it�s going to destroy you.�

�Get out of my head, Cait.� Now he looked at her.

Cait refused. �I can�t. I won�t. If caring for Sharon makes you responsible for what happens to her, then caring for you makes me responsible for what�s going to happen to you if you don�t grieve properly. I�d like to avoid that. Honestly, I don�t think I can bear to see you fall apart.� She reached over, covering her hand with her own. �Let me in, Walter. Please, let me help you.�

How many times had Sharon asked that of him, only to have him refuse? His stomach clenched as he remembered the last time, her vivid blue eyes imploring as Cait�s green ones were now. He�d disappointed her then, as he always had during their seventeen year marriage. After the accident, he thought they would be able to make it work; he thought he�d change.

There hadn�t been enough time to see if he could.

But even if there had been time, he suspected it still would not have mattered--he had not loved her, not the way she should have been loved.

And that�s why he felt guilty.

Sharon should have had a life without him; Sharon would have had a life if it hadn�t been for him.

�I didn�t love her , Cait--not enough, anyway.� His voice broke and he stopped. He felt Cait�s hand squeeze his, urging him on. He looked at her, expecting to see condemnation and pity. He saw neither. And he continued. �And what�s even more pathetic is that for a moment, one small moment, when I heard she was dead, I was relieved ... I didn�t have to go back, to face the failure of trying to make something out of nothing. It was finally over.�

Cait�s expression did not change. There was no shock, no sign that what he�d said repulsed her.

�Walter, that�s completely normal and understandable.� Cait tried to reassure him. �You may feel like shit now, admitting it, but you�re acknowledging those feelings. It�s a step, a very important step.�

His brain was too fogged to contemplate that completely. �You sound like a shrink.� Skinner looked down at their joined hands, thinking how unprofessional that was, but also thinking how good it felt. Acknowledging how good it felt, he corrected.

Cait shrugged. �Yeah, well, ... old habits and all that.� She squeezed his hand again. �Come on, I�ll take you home and put you to bed.�

It turned out he was quite capable of putting himself to bed. Cait promised she�d be downstairs on the couch if he needed her. As he lay down, he hoped he�d ingested enough alcohol to keep the dreams away.

He hadn�t.

A crash woke Cait from her own fitful dreams. She grabbed her gun and took the stairs of the townhouse two at a time. Entering his room she saw him thrashing on the bed. A toppled lamp obviously the source of the noise she�d heard. Placing the gun on the dresser, she crawled onto the bed and touched his shoulder, meaning to wake him gently from the nightmare. The moment she did, she realized her mistake.

He jerked away, looked at her, then lunged towards her, trapping her body under his. Before she could speak, she felt his fingers wrapping around her throat, cutting off the scream forming there. His face was close to hers, his breath gasping, his eyes open but not seeing.

He was caught off-guard by the simultaneous assault of her right fist crashing into his cheekbone, her right knee plunging into his groin. He yelped, loosened his hold on her neck. Taking a deep breath, she rolled her body and, thus, his to the side and off the bed, sending them crashing to the floor.

She landed on top. Shoving herself off, she gasped for breath, and lunged for the gun on the dresser. One hand grabbed the butt of the pistol while the other flipped the light switch.

�Cait?�

His face, turned up to hers, wore a disoriented expression. One minute he�d been running in a humid, Southeast Asian jungle, from someone following him but each time he turned around, he could see only pitch black night. Then, whatever followed him, grabbed him from behind and he realized that without his M16 and bayonet, he�d have to fight with his hands. And he did.

Then, there�d been the pain, the light, and half-dressed Cait with a gun pointed at him, terror crumpling her pretty face.

He remembered his hands at an enemy�s neck and looked at Cait�s throat, at the angry red marks, the size of his thumbs.

�Oh god.� He breathed, looking down at his hands, then back up at Cait. �Oh, god, Cait. I�m sorry.�

He looked so genuinely miserable that Cait�s fear dissipated. Realizing that he didn�t need more guilt, she chose to react as calmly as she could.

Old instincts kicked in.

�Letting this become a habit could really destroy our friendship.� She croaked as she slid the gun back on the dresser.

She took a step towards him, meaning to help him back up onto the bed.

�Maybe you�d better go.� He winced as he stood up slowly and slid onto the edge of the bed, sitting with his knees wide apart.

�Maybe.� Cait stood before him, arms folded. �Do you want to tell me what all that was about?�

He related his dream, all the while staring at the marks at her throat. When he finished, she raised an eyebrow at him.

�I thought you said those had stopped.�

He cleared his throat nervously, looked away, �I lied.�

She bent down so she could be eye level with him, willed him to look at her. �Don�t you ever do that again.� She said, her voice calm but menacing. �How am I supposed to help you if you lie to me?�

It wasn�t anger that made her hands tremble as they rested on her knees; it was fear. Fear that despite all her training, she�d almost failed him.

He reached up a hand to her throat, a thumb gently skimming over the violet already forming. �I�m sorry, Cait.�

She shook her head, straightened and grimaced. �Just wait until you see your own wounds.� She reached out her own hand, fingers gingerly testing the arch of his cheekbone where the edge of her onyx ring had sliced him. Now that she mentioned it, he could feel a dull throb of pain. �It shouldn�t scar.� He heard her say.

�Wouldn�t be my first.� He offered.

Her eyes dropped to his abdomen where a faint scar gleamed white against the bronzed skin. A bittersweet smile touched her lips and her hand trembled on his cheek as her eyes shone with unshed tears for him.

For the first time in his life, Skinner closed his eyes and turned into a hand that offered comfort.

Mirabile dictu, Cait thought, registering her initial shock. She stepped forward, between his thighs, slipping her arms around his shoulders and cradling him gently against her. After a moments hesitation, his own arms wrapped around her hips as he buried his face in her chest.

Her hands stroked the smooth skin of his back, soothing the bunched muscles. Her lips grazed the top of his head and she felt a tremor course through his body.

What am I doing? she asked herself, wondering if some depraved displacement of Freudian infatuation was making her take advantage of his misery.

Forget Freud, she told herself, you�ve always wanted him. Take some of your advice and admit it.

A little perturbed with herself, she realized the best way to stop was to simply remove the temptation.

Skinner felt her body tug away from his and tightened his arms around her hips, unwilling to release her warmth and softness, not just yet. His head battled the rest of his body, reminding it that he�d known her since she was a child, and thus this was a little perverse. His body reasoned back that Cait was not longer a child, that the person in his arms was most definitely a woman. And more importantly, she was Cait.

Still, he dropped his arms giving her the opportunity to decide, not trusting himself.

Cait knew the choice was hers. There was a heuristic comfort she was willing to give if he was willing to accept.

She took a step back, slid a finger under his chin and tilted his head up as she dropped her own. Her lips skimmed his jaw, seeking his lips. He turned his head and closed the distance. The first meeting of their lips was tentative, tender, before deepening and exploding with unfamiliar intensity. His lips devoured hers, his hands rose to fist in her hair, pulling her down to him, angling her head to allow his questing tongue entrance.

She acquiesced, her fingers gripping his shoulders as she lowered herself onto him.

Hands skimmed quickly under silk and cotton, tugging and sliding to divest bodies of clothing that was only in the way, then stroked over the sweat-slicked flesh that was revealed. His lips explored her cheeks, her jaw, her neck, traveling down to the soft slopes of her breasts. A thumb brushed the sensitive bud of a nipple, a hand slipped around her back and raised her to his mouth. His lips closed around it, suckled slowly, his teeth lightly scraping, and she moaned as pleasure spiraled throughout her body. Taking his time, he moved from one to the other, his other hand gently working its way down her stomach into the dark thatch of curls at the joining of her thighs, clever fingers slipping even further down, in, seeking, stroking. She bucked under him as she came, quickly, surprising both of them, stilling his attention to her breasts.

He raised his head, slid up her body and raised both hands to her face, stroking the soft skin of her cheekbones, placing tender kisses on the bruises on her neck then her closed eyelids as she breathed deeply.

Her own hand slipped between them, grasped his turgid length that lay throbbing against her thigh. Opening her eyes in time to see his own eyelids flutter shut, his mouth opening slightly in a tiny gasp of pleasure, she smiled at his reaction. She slid her thighs apart, allowing his hips to sink between them, her hand constantly moving around him before guiding him into her. His head dipped into her shoulder and she felt the soft bite of his teeth against her neck as he moaned, feeling her soft wetness envelop him. For a moment, they were still, his throbbing girth filling her as she cocooned him. Her hands clenched around his hips, urging them towards gentle movement.

His self-control ebbed, the slow pace giving way to desperation, his hands slipping beneath to raise her hips to him. Her legs wrapped around him, holding on as he plunged deep into her, and her own hips pistoned in counterpoint.

His body stiffened then shuddered as he exploded inside of her, a cry escaping his lips.

He collapsed on top of her, all two hundred plus pounds of muscle and flesh, and she wrapped her arms around him, holding him, frenetic heartbeat to frenetic heartbeat. Moments later, he tried to move off, aware he was crushing her, but she wouldn�t let go. Her hands stroked his back, down over tight buttocks and slick thighs, and she whispered, �No� in his ear. Compromising, he shifted his body down so his head lay on her breast.

There was so much he wanted to say to her, needed to say to her, but a need more urgent than the one before overwhelmed him.

For the first time in months, Walter Skinner slept peacefully.

He awoke in an empty bed bathed in noon sunlight. A moment of panic made him jerk up, look around the bed, afraid of seeing a dead woman with a broken neck.

�Cait?� He yelled, stepping out of bed and wrapping a sheet around his middle. He stumbled to the door, down the stairs, yelling her name as he went. He was alone in the apartment.

Panic abated as he saw the note tacked to the front door, Cait�s neat script flowing over it with the name of a doctor, a D.C. phone number, the time and date of an appointment as well as the phrase �Visiting from Mayo Clinic Sleep Disorders Center.�

Skinner knew it was the most important appointment he would ever keep.

Continue to Uroborus IV