Title: Ancient Mariner 
Author: Blackwood 
email: entreamis@yahoo.com 
Category: X, A, MSR 
Rating: R 
Notes: Written especially for I Made This Productions 
Virtual Season 8 at http://www.i-made-this.com 
Summary: M&S investigate a series of kidnappings,  
with overtones of alien abduction.  They travel to Sag  
Harbor on the East End of Long Island and visit the  
latest abductee at the hospital.  Mulder believes there  
is a preternatural connection in spite of the fact that  
some of the facts don't jive with the typical alien  
abduction scenario, like the victims all being found 
at the water's edge, nearly drowned.  
 
 
 
Sunday, 9/24 
Montauk, Long Island 
11:30 p.m. 
 
"Cut it out, Ray!" 
 
"Aw, c'mon, Mal.  It's me." 
 
Mallory slaps the hand away from her knee and looks away 
from the boy beside her, down the strip of moonlit sand.  
The lighthouse at the jetty is a long way away; its single 
eye casting a steady beam over the waters around it.  The 
sky is inky black and a large, honeyed moon sits low on the 
liquid horizon, spilling creamy velvet that undulates on 
the surface.  Waves tumble headlong, coating the flat, wet 
sand with a wash of foam that teases the edge of the frayed 
Army blanket the two are sharing only a few yards from the 
water's edge. 
 
Ray's hand slides further up her thigh and under the edge 
of her cotton sun dress.  Mallory knows she shouldn't 
encourage him, but he's cute.  His brown eyes are gleaming 
and his buzz cut can't hide the fact that he's a hottie.  
And she does rather like the way his hand feels as it 
slides just a little higher up her leg.  It's not like 
she's a virgin.  She is 17 after all, and Ray did take her 
to a really nice restaurant.  Not just Wendy's or some 
crapola place like that.  Still, it isn't like he owns her 
or anything.  He isn't even officially her boyfriend. 
 
"Stop it!" she declares at last, deciding she isn't ready 
to do this. She pushes Ray's hand away and hears his 
disappointed groan. 
 
"Jesus, Mal. What's your problem, babe?" 
 
"I don't have a problem, *babe.*  Except you.  You're a 
horn dog." 
 
"You didn't seem to mind last weekend."  The lanky teen 
reaches out and fingers the silky, blonde strands that 
cascade around the girl's face.  Mallory pouts her 
prettiest. 
 
"That was then.  This is now.  And I don't want to fool 
around right now."  She leans over her legs and smoothes 
the short skirt's fabric down over tanned thighs with two 
hands.  Practicing the new stretch her gymnastics coach 
taught her, she reaches for the ocean. 
 
The beach is beautiful at night.  Day visitors never see 
it this way. They always leave by dusk.  That's when the 
locals emerge to reclaim their territory.  Locals and 
summer people.  God, Mallory hates the summer people, 
especially their kids -- bunch of stuck-up, citified, 
private school types who think the East End is designed 
just for them. 
 
 
"Earth to Mallory.  Whadya thinking about?"  Ray's hand 
slides up her back and Mallory shrugs it off. 
 
"Quit." 
 
"Are you PMSing or something?  My sister says girls get 
nuts when that's going on." 
 
"Your sister is a freak show who wears black 24 and 7 and 
dyes her hair pink, Ray." 
 
"Fuck you."  She feels Ray rise to his feet beside her. 
 
"Where ya goin'?" 
 
"I gotta pee." 
 
She watches him make his way down a hundred feet of sand 
before disappearing into the scrub pine edging the 
beach front.  She sighs with exaggeration and shakes her 
head to herself.  High school boys. Always thinking with 
their dicks. 
 
A sudden chill raises the hair on the backs of her arms 
and her neck. Mallory looks back to the ocean and gasps.  A 
tall, slim naked figure of a man is emerging from the waves 
in front of her.  Where'd he come from?  She tries to rise 
to her feet and discovers, much to her horror, that she's 
frozen in place.  Her heartbeat accelerates. The guy 
approaching could be innocent, but naked?  No, that isn't 
right.  Anxiety rises cold in the pit of her stomach as the 
figure makes a slow beeline for the blanket.  She calls 
towards the pines, "Ray?  Ray!  You better get out here.  
Fast!" 
 
The naked figure now stands at the edge of the olive drab 
wool, looking down at her.  Mallory breathes heavily, blood 
coursing through her veins, eyes wide.  Where's Ray?  Who 
is this guy?  Why is this happening to her?  Tears well up 
in her blue eyes and she starts to cry.  Then she gets 
angry.  Didn't Mrs. Dubin always tell them to be ready for 
anything?  Shit.  She didn't want to be raped.  Or worse. 
 
She finds a small bit of courage.  "Please, Mister.  Don't 
hurt me. My boyfriend has a gun.  Please, mister.  Leave me 
alone." 
 
The figure says nothing.  In the moonlight, Mallory can 
see his pale eyes blinking in a slow, rhythmic pattern that 
capture her attention. His eyes.  They are gray and -- old, 
somehow, although the man seems middle-aged.  But his eyes. 
Mallory finds herself relaxing as she watches them.  What 
is he doing to her?  Her mind battles to stay in touch with 
her surroundings, to find Ray, to remember to look for an 
escape route.  She can't.  Not with those eyes on her, 
calling to her... 
 
"Har'n tu olmed," the figure chants in a monotone.  "Har'n 
tu olmed." 
 
Incredible as it seems, she understands the words, 
although she knows it isn't anything she's ever heard 
before.  'Come to me.'  That's what he's saying.  That's 
when the light begins to peel open his chest, casting her 
in its brightness. 
 
"Har'n tu olmed," the figure intones again and again. 
 
And she cannot resist. 
 
 
ACT ONE 
 
Tuesday, 9/26  
J. Edgar Hoover Building  
2:15 p.m. 
 
Tuesday afternoon in the basement.  Peaceful.  Welcome. 
 
Meeting at 9, lunch at noon, paperwork 'til five, then 
home.  Most field agents complain about the slow pace of an 
office-bound day, the boring rhetoric and stats; but Dana 
Scully appreciates days like this.  They are normal, 
although she isn't sure she knows what the word means 
anymore. 
 
Seven years of tracking aliens, long lost siblings, global 
conspirators and assorted and sundry monsters have turned 
"normal" into a perverse caricature of itself.  There was a 
time when her life was simpler.  That ended the day she 
accepted an assignment to work with Fox Mulder.  Though her 
role has changed, she often wonders at her own willingness 
to continue on this path. 
 
She sighs, pushing an auburn lock behind her left ear 
while she sits down at his desk, form in hand.  Long ago, 
they agreed she would handle their expense reports.  Mulder 
simply has no patience for the mundane details of casework. 
It boggles the mind.  The man can profile a criminal on 
scant evidence, raise questions no one would think to ask, 
answer them himself, then write a monograph of such 
precision it's practically erotic to law enforcement types. 
Yet, he can't or won't maintain a balance sheet. 
 
At least she's gotten him to start organizing their 
fieldwork receipts.  Granted, his version of organized 
means that the top center drawer of his desk is crammed 
with varied evidence of their travels.  Scully's task is to 
make sense of the contents and prepare a credible request 
for reimbursement of funds.  
 
She looks at the blank form waiting to be filled with 
legible numbers and precise listings of the whys and 
wherefores of every out-of-pocket dime spent while in 
service to Uncle Sam.  Her eyes turn to Mulder's drawer and 
she pulls it open with a gingery touch, as if paper snakes 
might jump out at any moment. 
 
She gathers the charge slips that will show up on the 
reviewed agency account.  Further inspection reveals some 
scattered hulls and a few untouched sunflower seeds, a 
matchbook from 7-11, the paper cover of a straw overwritten 
with phone numbers, a half-used Post-it pad, two pencils -- 
she pauses and looks upwards at three Ticonderogas stuck 
into the ceiling tiles above her head before resuming her 
inventory -- a news clipping about tsunamis on the Eastern 
Seaboard, a program from Camden Yards, a rubber doll whose 
eyes bug out when you squeeze it, a computer disk marked 
 
 
"TRNSCR," a Waterman pen, a day-glo orange Magic Marker, 
colored paper clips and a cheap calculator. Great. 
 
Fifteen minutes of sorting the relevant from the 
ridiculous and she grabs the Waterman, filling the empty 
waiting boxes in a neat script that belies her medical 
training.  Calculations are reviewed twice for accuracy.  
This isn't what she imagined life in the FBI would be like 
when she signed up so long ago.  She's just about to sign 
her name when a covered Starbucks cup appears beneath her 
nose.  She pulls back and grabs it without a word, a wry 
smile crossing her lips. 
 
Lifting the brew to her mouth, she closes her eyes and 
takes in the first hot swirl of fluid through the small 
opening in the lid.  The tang of espresso laced with 
chocolate and whipped cream slides over her tongue and down 
her throat, warming her inside.  She drinks tea as a rule, 
and mocha lattes are on her list of delicious-but-dangerous 
foods.  Pure indulgence. Still, this is Mulder's usual 
recompense for shirking the report.  She sets the cup down 
on the desktop and laps the last trace of coffee from her 
upper lip with a dab of her tongue. 
 
"Am I forgiven?" a warm baritone purrs into her ear. 
 
"I'm not so sure, Mulder," she replies with affected 
coolness.   
 
She feels his breath beside her cheek and her own hormonal 
reaction to his closeness.  He's leaning behind her, his 
right forearm braced against the desk, his left somewhere 
in back of her, but not touching her.  He knows better than 
that, but he's pushing it.  She allows herself the luxury 
of this nearness for a few seconds then reaches into the 
drawer, grabbing the matchbook before pushing back in the 
desk chair. 
 
"Whoa!" he exclaims as she swings around.  She hesitates 
for only a moment before fixing her sights on him.  
Charcoal suit, white shirt, dark silk tie, new haircut and 
wire-frame glasses.  On anyone else, common.  On Mulder?  
She has to admit she savors the way his good looks register 
on her each day. 
 
He's watching her, a chagrined look in his eyes as he 
spots what's in her hand.  "I kept that so I'd remember the 
Slurpees," he explains as she tears off a match. 
 
"Slurpee, Mulder."  She closes the cover.  "One."  Strikes 
the match. "Yours."  She allows the flame to flare for a 
moment or two, then blows it out.  She watches the smoke 
curl and spiral in the air, then looks to her partner, lips 
still pursed.  She has his full attention now.  In an 
undertone she asks, "So, that's why there are matches in 
your desk?"   
 
"Whadya mean?" he replies, eyes lifting in a lazy line 
from her mouth to her eyes. 
 
"Sure you're not sneaking the occasional drag?"   
 
A look of mock pain graces his features.  "Scully, I'm 
hurt you'd think that.  Oh, I- I still get the urge once in 
a while, but my memory of life as a tobacco beetle hatchery 
is still quite intact. Anyway, you know how addictions 
work." 
 
"I know it's a daily choice." 
 
"Just for you." 
 
"Umm-hmm," she responds, tilting her head at him, a thin 
edge of sarcasm coloring the contralto of her voice. 
 
"I do plan on sticking around for a while, so you better 
get used to my bad habits." 
 
"Like I have a choice?" she gibes. 
 
"You do, you know," he says with more seriousness than she 
expects. 
 
Picking up the expense report, she stands and moves to 
where he leans against the file cabinet and hands it to 
him.  He takes it and she steps in closer, the pages in his 
hand curling between them.  She knows she's standing too 
close, the edge of her jacket brushing into his.  Close 
enough to smell the soap he used this morning mingled with 
the scent of laundered cotton, the afternoon's perspiration 
clinging.  Close enough to observe the widening of his 
pupils, black ringed with hazel-gold; the flare of his 
nostrils as he breathes her in; and his Adam's apple 
dipping as he swallows down his response to her proximity. 
 
"Next time, Mulder," she states with some intensity, "a 
mocha latte won't cut it." 
 
His brows knit together and his mouth drops open a notch.  
 
Then, he gives her a slow smile.  His right hand slips 
beneath her jacket to rest against her waist, branding her 
where his fingers circle.  He drops his voice and his head 
to her, murmuring, "Really?  And what *will* it take to 
satisfy you?" 
 
The heated memories in their shared gaze have no place 
here, yet they arise in vivid, unspoken detail.  That they 
should be standing here, flirting in the open while surely 
being surveilled, is arousing but risky and unprofessional. 
Then again, when had that ever stopped Mulder? 
 
She eases her desire to taste his mouth by inhaling, 
straightening her shoulders and replying after releasing 
her breath, "A yogurt muffin would be nice."  She steps 
past him and hears his soft chuckle at her back. 
 
Managing a professional and personal life with Mulder is 
as precarious as it is pleasurable.  They've had to learn 
to manage more than cases.  Time is always an issue, and 
propriety.  Emotional baggage also plays no small part in 
their emerging dynamic.  In the end, however, it's the work 
-- always the work -- that structures, defines and balances 
them. 
 
Mulder drops a stack of correspondence into the mesh 
basket at the corner of the desk and her reverie is 
curtailed, the tension in the room diffused.  Grabbing a 
letter opener, she begins screening correspondence.  Mulder 
logs onto his Bureau e-mail and scans the dozen or so posts 
that sit waiting. 
 
"Frohike wants us to stop by," he tells her.  "Says he's 
got a new device to show us." 
 
"Boys and their toys..." she mumbles without looking up. 
 
"And my Canadian contact says Sasquatch sightings in the 
Toronto outskirts are up 30 percent since last month." 
 
"Uh-huh." 
 
"Hey Scully, did you know that more people believe in Big 
Foot than in the Loch Ness Monster?  Oregon State and the 
University of Aberdeen hooked up and did a survey--" 
 
"That's nice." 
 
She's only half-listening, her brows furrowed as she takes 
in a letter written on expensive paper with fountain ink in 
an elegant hand. 
 
"Anything interesting?" he asks. 
 
Scully looks up to find Mulder removing his eyeglasses.  
"Maybe. This is a letter from someone out on Long Island 
asking for your help."  He nods, then sits back waiting for 
her to read: 
 
"Dear Mr. Mulder, 
 
Over the last two weeks, five women have disappeared and 
reappeared off the shores of the Island's East End.  In 
each case, the woman vanishes without a trace, only to wash 
ashore a day or so later, barely alive.  They have no 
memory of their lost time --" 
 
She looks up and spies the glow of anticipation in his eyes. 
 
"-- and all of them speak about a bright light before 
blacking out. Our local authorities have no leads, but I 
suspect foul play of a non-human nature." 
 
She pauses again and this time she finds Mulder's head 
dropped back onto his shoulders, his eyes closed. 
 
"I understand that you follow such things, so I am 
imploring your help. 
 
Cordially, Miss Olivia Van Helden Sag Harbor, New York" 
 
Without moving, he says, "Lost time and bright lights, 
Scully. Sounds like alien abductions to me." 
 
"More like one too many at a Martha Stuart soiree." 
 
His eyes open and without scoffing says, "So, you've 
*been* to the Hamptons."  She laughs softly. 
 
"Mulder, the victims have been recovered.  This isn't an 
FBI matter." 
 
"No, but it's an X-File." 
 
"*Might* be an X-File."  Her hesitancy bears the stamp of 
fatigue. September has been difficult and she's worried 
about him. 
 
He wags a brow at her.  "East End, Long Island, Scully.  
Playground of the rich and famous.  Who knows?  Maybe 
you'll see some hot celebrity strolling the sands." 
 
She chuffs at him. "With my luck, it'll be Rodney 
Dangerfield in a Speedo.  Thank you very much, but no." 
 
Her attempt at sarcasm fails to faze him.  Instead, he 
leans over the desk and catches her eyes. "Come with me," 
he says, his voice sliding over her like molasses.  "I'll 
take you for a walk on the beach." 
 
She regards him from under her lashes for five seconds.  
"You know, they have a name for what you're doing, Mulder." 
 
"What's that?" 
 
"Bribery."  Her tone is somber but her eyes are smiling. 
 
 
Thursday, 9/28  
Sag Harbor, New York  
10:00 a.m. 
 
Detective Nick Guarino leans his burly 6-foot 6-inch frame 
over the narrow ledge at the nurse's station and picks up 
the chart on Mallory Lowell.  He's no medical expert, but 
he knows how to read a chart after 19 years on the force.  
From the indicators regarding the girl's vital signs, it's 
a pretty sure bet she'll come through her ordeal intact.  
As for any psychological impact, there's no shortage of 
therapists in the area if she needs one, that's certain. 
 
"Hey, Nick." 
 
"Hey, Diane.  How's it going?"  His deep voice rumbles as 
his eyes lift to watch the full-figured brunette entering 
the nurses' station. 
 
"It's going just fine.  How's DeeDee?"  His eyes return to 
the chart. 
 
"Good, good.  Just happy school's back in session keeping 
Linda out of trouble."  Guarino sets the chart back in its 
place and looks back up. 
 
The nurse's face is full of concern and more than a little 
worry. "We got enough of that to go round," she says. 
 
Guarino nods, once.  "Got that right.  How's Mallory doing?" 
 
"Better today.  Breathing on her own and Dr. B thinks 
she'll be able to go home tomorrow." 
 
"That's good, real good." 
 
"Was Linda upset?" 
 
"She'll be okay." 
 
"Yeah.  She and Mal will be back at the outlet mall 
spending money before you know it." 
 
Guarino chuffs at her and in one fluid motion, smoothes 
down his dark moustache and rubs his chin.  "Has she said 
anything since she became conscious?" 
 
"Not much, but," Diane leans in and her voice dips in 
volume. "Do you really think it's a good idea having her 
talk to those FBI people?" 
 
"FBI?"  His eyes squint at her. 
 
"I thought you called them in on this." 
 
Guarino shakes his head.  "Where are they now?" he asks 
gruffly. 
 
"In her room--  Nick?" she calls after the figure moving 
down the hall with deliberate intent.  The telephone buzzes 
and she shrugs before answering, "Floor Two Nurses' 
Station." 
 
~~~~~ 
 
Guarino stands in the doorway of Room 248, his large frame 
filling the space.  Inside, next to the window, Mallory 
Lowell is sitting up in bed; her streaked, blonde hair 
piled up on her head with a large-toothed, purple clip.  
She looks pale, worn out.  But she's awake and speaking 
with two official-looking folks that stand near the bed.  
Guarino takes a quick read: FBI. 
 
The woman has her back to him and is speaking in soft 
tones.  She's petite in stature with a head of cropped, red 
hair.  Her tailored, black pant suit looks trendy and her 
suede high-heeled shoes, new.  A female fed.  Probably 
plays by the book.  Her counterpart is tall, lean, what 
most women would call good-looking even with that nose. His 
suit is pricy, but he slouches against the window frame 
watching the woman and Mallory as they chat.  College boy, 
too smart for his own good, though his age and his attitude 
suggest experience.  
 
Guarino shifts his weight with a shuffle of his feet and 
the man looks over at him.  "I'll be right back," he says.  
His left hand reaches into his jacket as he approaches and 
he pulls out what Guarino acknowledges as a legit FBI badge. 
 
"I'm Agent Mulder."  He extends his free hand and Guarino 
takes it, surprised at the strength in the slim-fingered 
grip that clasps his massive hand.  They release and Mulder 
gestures with his head to the woman, who now stands facing 
them.  "That's Agent Scully, my partner. We're 
investigating the kidnappings that have been going on here 
for the last few weeks." 
 
"Well, seems like everybody's been recovered, so I don't 
understand why the feds would involve themselves." 
 
Agent Scully joins them.  "We don't mean to interfere with 
local police business, Detective..." 
 
"Guarino.  Nick Guarino," he says shaking the woman's hand. 
 
"Of course.  We'd just like to ask Ms. Lowell a few more 
questions, if you don't mind.  Her story might help us 
prevent this from happening to someone else." 
 
Guarino scratches the back of his head.  "I suppose 
there's no harm as long as Mallory is up to it and I stay." 
They cross back to the bed with Guarino in the lead.  He 
stops at the foot of the bed.  The gruff face softens as he 
addresses the girl.  "Hey honey.  How are you today?" 
 
"Hi, Uncle Nick.  Okay, I guess." 
 
"You scared us." 
 
"You?  *I* was scared." 
 
"Well, you're safe now.  Your mom coming today?" 
 
"What else?  She's been a pain-in-the-ass." 
 
"Mind your mouth." 
 
"Sorry, but she's so annoying." 
 
"She loves you.  And she was sick with worry.  Don't give 
her a hard time." 
 
"Whatever." The girl rolls her eyes at him. 
 
"Mallory, these agents want to ask you some questions.  Do 
you mind?" 
 
Mallory's eyes brighten.  "No, I don't mind.  At least 
they don't look at me like I'm crazy or something.  Like 
that nurse." 
 
"Nurse Itzkowitz?" 
 
"Yeah, her." 
 
"What have you said?" 
 
 
"The truth." 
 
Mulder interrupts, approaching the other side of the bed.  
"Which is what I'd like to go over again, if you don't 
mind." 
 
"I don't mind.  It's like I told you before.  Ray and I 
were on the beach..." 
 
Mulder pulls a pad from his pocket.  "Raymond Weill." 
 
"Yup, that's Ray."  He nods at her reply.  "We were just 
chillin' and then we had a fight and he went into the woods 
to pee."  Mallory stops and looks at Scully. 
 
"It's okay," Scully says.  "Just tell the detective what 
happened next." 
 
"Well, I thought I heard something and when I looked back 
at the water, I saw this guy coming up at me.  I tried to 
get away, but I felt frozen.  I called for Ray, but he 
didn't answer and then..." 
 
"Then..." Mulder prompts. 
 
Mallory looks at him.  "Then it gets weird." 
 
Mulder takes a step closer.  "Weird, how?" 
 
"He was chanting or something.  And I-I just lost track of 
everything.  Next thing I know, I'm here." 
 
"Did you recognize what he was chanting?" 
 
"That's another thing.  It was some foreign language I 
never heard. But I understood what he was saying." 
 
"Which was what?"  Mulder's eyes have narrowed a bit. 
 
"I know it sounds crazy, but he kept saying 'Come to me, 
come to me' over and over."  The agents exchange a look. 
 
Mulder returns his attention to the teenager and asks, 
"Mallory, you said earlier that you remember a bright light 
and then losing track of time.  Do you remember if any 
tests were performed?" 
 
"What are you talking about?" Guarino growls. 
 
"It's okay Uncle Nick.  No, I don't remember anything like 
that. Honest.  But-- oh!" 
 
"What is it?" Scully asks. 
 
"I just remembered something."  Mallory's eyes grow wide 
with remembered terror and she begins to shake.  Scully 
moves to sit beside her on the bed and takes her hand in 
her own. 
 
"You're safe with us.  You can't be harmed here."  Mallory 
stares at Scully, then looks up at Guarino and last, to 
Mulder. 
 
"About the light..." she begins. 
 
Mulder leans forward.  "The light? From the sky?" he asks. 
 
"No," she replies with a slow shake of her head. "Not the 
sky." 
 
Guarino interrupts.  "Mallory, what you trying to say, 
honey?  Was it a car, a boat on the water?" 
 
Mallory continues to shake her head, her voice soft and 
distant, as if she sees the man before her again.  "Not a 
car.  Not a boat." 
 
Scully squeezes the girl's hand.  "Can you show me where 
the light was?"  Mallory pulls her hand from Scully's and 
closes her eyes.  She takes in a deep breath and gives a 
shuddered sigh.  Opening her eyes, she lifts a slow hand 
towards Scully and points... to the center of her chest. 
 
~~~~~ 
 
Guarino exits the tiny hospital at a good clip, keys, 
coins and apparatus jingling as he moves.  He feels Mulder 
and Scully trailing.  Damned feds.  Always thinking they're 
superior to cops. He turns when he reaches the squad car 
curbed at the brick sidewalk and confronts Mulder.   
 
"I was hoping Mallory would verify some of our facts this 
morning, but then you started in with your mumbo-jumbo and 
blew my chance." 
 
Mulder remains nonplused, but Scully bristles.  Hmmm.  
Mulder's voice refocuses his attention.  "All the women 
taken experienced time displacement and talked about a 
bright light before losing consciousness.  Those are 
classic elements of an alien abduction scenario." 
 
"Hold on, agent," Guarino says in a dead calm voice, his 
eyes squinting against the midday sun.  "What kind of dog- 
and-pony show do you think you're gonna run here?  Look, 
Mallory is my sister's little girl and I'm not about to 
have you adding to everyone's distress. I've got enough 
problems without you spreading alien abduction crap."  
"Actually, I'm not convinced it *is* alien abduction 
crap," Mulder rejoins, which garners an arched brow and a 
suppressed smile from Scully.  The lawman reaches in 
through the open, passenger-side window of the car to grab 
a manila folder off the front seat. 
 
"This is what we've got so far.  You'll see it's solid 
police work," he tells Scully as he hands the file to her, 
surprised the Bureau would keep a wacko like Mulder on the 
payroll.  Must be some VIP's kid. 
 
"Is it possible to talk with the other abductees?" Mulder 
asks. 
 
"I could arrange that, although we've done so already.  
What do *you* hope to find?" 
 
"A connection that may have been overlooked." 
 
Guarino is miffed at the agent's presumptive attitude, but 
cooperation is key.  "Just let me know what you need." 
 
"Appreciate that.  How'd you account for the bright light?" 
 
Guarino's thumbs hook into his belt loops.  "Searchlight 
from a boat is what we figure, given that all the 
kidnappings occurred offshore and at night.  Maybe a car." 
 
"But no witnesses," says Scully, her eyes on Mulder. 
 
"Except one," he responds, meeting her gaze. 
 
"Ray." 
 
Mulder nods. 
 
Guarino watches the exchange, knowing that more is being 
said than the simple words he's hearing.  Figures.  Most 
partners develop an unspoken code, but only after years of 
successful experience.  From the way these two watch one 
another, it's clear they've worked together for some time.  
What's more, they trust one another's assumptions.  Their 
dissimilarities may explain the subtle tension he feels 
between them, but it might be something else, too.  
Something more basic to human nature. 
 
Scully's brows furrow as she flips through several pages.  
"There may be someone else, Mulder." 
 
"Who?" 
 
"Oracoff." 
 
Guarino clears his throat and two sets of eyes converge on 
him, necessitating response.  He's chagrined he hadn't 
mentioned it sooner.  "Dr. Julian Oracoff.  He's the one 
who found Mallory." He pauses.  "And several of the others." 
 
"Three out of five," Scully states and looks back to her 
partner. 
 
The man swears he can feel unspoken dialogue.  He decides 
to trust his instincts on these two, at least until he's 
had a chance to check their backgrounds.  He reaches into 
the vehicle for the radio.  The static-charged voice of a 
dispatcher answers his call.  "Jerryl, this is Nick.  I 
want Raymond Weill brought in for requestioning," he barks 
into the unit.  "And get me the number for Dr. Julian 
Oracoff at Southampton." 
 
"10-4," the dispatcher crackles. 
 
He returns the device and looks back to the agents who 
stand waiting. "Okay?" 
 
"Fine," Scully replies.  "I suggest you be up front with 
us, Detective, or you may find yourself with another victim 
on your hands." 
 
Guarino shifts tactics to reclaim his authority. "Tell me 
something, just how *do* you know about the other stories?  
I just gave you the file." 
 
Mulder pulls the letter Scully read to him in D.C. from 
his outside pocket.  "One of your townspeople asked for our 
help." 
 
Guarino takes the proffered paper from Mulder's hand.  
With lips drawn tight he reads, head wagging from side to 
side.  He lifts his eyes and gives a definitive, "Figures," 
with an exasperated sough of air. 
 
"What does?" Scully asks, taking the letter back. 
 
"Olly." 
 
"Excuse me?" 
 
"Olly Van Helden wrote this letter."  Guarino plants his 
fists on his hips and lifts his face to the sky.  He 
returns his gaze back to Scully.  "Look, I owe you folks an 
apology for having come all the way out here from 
Washington on no account." 
 
Mulder's face scrunches up, "How's that?" 
 
"Olly.  That's Olivia Van Helden, by the way.  She's... 
well... let's just say she's different." 
 
"Sounds like my kind of person," Mulder interjects with a 
small smile. 
 
"What do you mean 'different?'" Scully says with a 
sidelong glance at Mulder. 
 
"She's is a bit of a local legend.  Comes from old Dutch 
money and even older East End family." 
 
"So?" Mulder tosses in. 
 
"She has a rather vivid imagination.  Believes in crystals 
and that sort of stuff.  Runs the "Mystic Bookshop" on 
Main.  Sure-fire recipe for breeding what I'll kindly call 
a kook." 
 
"You have a problem with that?" says Mulder, his surprise 
genuine. 
 
"I do when it drags a couple of feds all the way from 
Washington to Sag Harbor.  Say, why *did* you come from 
D.C.?  We have a local field office in Yaphank." 
 
Scully speaks up at that.  "Ms. Van Helden felt that my 
partner's expertise in paranormal phenomena might be useful 
in this matter." 
 
Guarino's presuppositions about Scully's stability are 
shaken. "Expertise in paranormal phenomena, huh?  As in 
aliens and voodoo and that sort of thing?" 
 
"That's right."  Her tone is serious, defensive of her 
partner who stands at her side in silence, although the 
line of his jaw relaxes at her words. 
 
"Look," Guarino begins, looking to his left and his right 
before replying.  "I'll grant you a lo-ong leash as long as 
you make progress.  But, I better not hear you've gone back 
to badger Mallory or--  Speak of the devil," he mutters, 
interrupting himself.  His gaze focuses across the street. 
 
Hurrying down the sidewalk is an older woman of stature.  
She's tall, reedy, wearing a flowery calf length skirt and 
a loose blouse, over which is thrown an unbuttoned artist's 
smock.  Thick, gray hair cascades around her shoulders and 
a large-brimmed rattan hat puts her face in speckled 
shadow.  Birkenstocks clap against the soles of her feet as 
she makes her way across the street headed towards them 
with obvious intent. 
 
"Van Helden?" Mulder queries in a low tone. 
 
"The same," Guarino answers. 
 
The woman's agitation is palpable as she strides towards 
the trio. Without acknowledging the detective, she walks up to 
Mulder and meets him at eye level. 
 
"You must be Agent Mulder," she says and he nods.  "Thank 
goodness you've come.  Now, maybe something will be done to 
stop this madness."  Her voice is mid-ranged, crisp and 
resonant, though tinged with age.  Her diction is 
impeccable and her manner bespeaks an authority that brooks 
no argument. 
 
"Now, Olly--" Guarino begins. 
 
"Don't 'now Olly' me, Nicky," she says, shifting her keen 
gaze to the lawman.  "You and I both know that something 
fishy is going on around here." 
 
"And I doubt you'll find it on the local diner's menu, 
either," Mulder quips, a smile tugging at his mouth. 
 
Olly's shoulders ease and she turns back to him, eyes 
softening at his open expression.  "What I mean is that 
more women are going to be taken if you don't stop him." 
 
"Him?" 
 
Her gaze intensifies as she murmurs, "The Marimorph." 
 
Guarino notes the sudden change in the agent's expression. 
His amusement downshifts with lightning speed into 
interest, signaling his belief in Olly's absurd suggestion. 
Mulder's lips form an unspoken "what," but she's already 
answering. 
 
"An ancient humanoid from the depths of the sea, Agent 
Mulder.  Come to find his literal soul mate on the surface 
before returning to his watery home.  You may have heard of 
his homeland."  She pauses for effect before whispering, 
"Atlantis." 
 
Mulder exhales and his head pulls back from where it has 
leaned towards Olly.  "Atlantis," he repeats before looking 
over her shoulder at Scully, who stands listening just 
beyond them.  He's about to say something, but is 
broadsided by Guarino's voice at his side. 
 
"Okay, that's enough.  These people have come a long way 
at your insistence, obviously *and* unnecessarily.  I've 
got an investigation to run and maybe we can get to the 
bottom of this with some federal muscle behind it.  I 
promise you, we'll find the guy.  Don't worry. Just you be 
careful and watch yourself." 
 
Olly turns to Guarino and draws herself straighter.  A 
look of disdain is in her eyes, but she maintains her 
temper.  "If I didn't know you from when I fed you cookies 
off my back porch, Nicky, I'd be insulted.  But, I thank 
Detective Guarino for his concern over a poor helpless old 
woman, such as myself.  I'll be fine, thank you."  She 
casts a meaningful glance at Mulder, then moves down the 
sidewalk with purposeful strides. 
 
Olly's commanding presence lingers in her wake.  Guarino's 
cheeks color at being chastised, his chagrin compounded 
when he spies Scully's eyes on him.  He clears his throat 
and looks down at his shoes before looking back at them.  
"I'm, uh, sorry about that.  I told you.  She's eccentric.  
I wouldn't set store by anything she says." 
 
"I'd still like to speak with her further, if you don't 
mind," Mulder states, his impatience clear as he takes two 
steps backwards in Olly's direction.  "I don't think my 
mumbo-jumbo can outdo hers, anyway.  Right?"  Mulder holds 
out his hands to them and flashes them a winsome and 
unexpected smile.  He turns on his heel, takes a few steps, 
then turns back.  He calls to Scully, "Why don't you speak 
with Dr. Oracoff and call me when you're done?" 
 
Guarino looks at Scully who nods, then watches her partner 
until he's out of sight.  The unflappable exterior may fool 
some, but she can't disguise the heat in her gaze, which 
he's certain could melt his sterling shield.  It's been 
some time since he's had a woman's eyes follow him the way 
Scully's do her partner, but he remembers how it felt.  Oh, 
yeah. 
 
As for the case, it won't hurt to use Uncle Sam's money to 
fund his investigation, at least until they grow weary of 
Olly's game, whatever it is.  The feds might be useful 
after all 
 
~~~~~ 
 
Sheriff's Office  
2:00 p.m. 
 
Mulder strides through the doorway of the sheriff's 
station.  The blast of air conditioning that hits his face 
is welcome.  The Mystic was closed when he'd gotten there 
and he realized, irritated with himself, that he didn't 
know Van Helden's home address. 
 
He shows his badge to the dispatcher.  "Guarino?" 
 
She points to a corridor.  "Downstairs." 
 
The odor of urinals, dried sweat and institutional food 
greets him at the bottom of the stairwell.  He's been in 
jails of varying types and this one, at least, is clean and 
bright.  It's still a jailhouse. Why anyone would ever risk 
losing their liberty is not a mystery to him.  He knows the 
threat of incarceration is not a deterrent in the mind of 
the hardened criminal. 
 
The narrow, fluorescent-lit hallway diverges at the base.  
The left wing houses three holding cells.  He turns right 
and walks through an open arch into a narrow corridor along 
whose length runs a plate of one-way glass.  Inside, he 
sees Guarino sitting at a table with a scared-looking 
teenager.  He thumbs "Open" on the intercom beside the 
closed door.  The kid is talking. 
 
"I told you.  I don't know what happened to her.  I went 
into the woods and then Mallory was ... just ... gone."  
So, this is Raymond Weill.  Mulder taps on the door and 
watches Guarino cross to open. He disengages the intercom 
and waits until he's admitted without a word.  He 
approaches the boy and sits down opposite.  Ray takes a 
swig from the soda can on the narrow wooden table and sets 
it down, his eyes on Mulder. 
 
"Raymond?  I'm Agent Mulder with the FBI. I'm hoping you 
can help us figure out what *did* happen to Mallory." 
 
Mulder meets the boy's eyes dead on.  He doesn't detect 
malice there, only false bravado and a trace of fear.  He 
shifts into observatory mode, senses realigning to pick up 
all the subtle nuances.  He notes the clothing: khaki- 
trousers and golf polo, scuffed topsiders.  Work clothes, 
most likely.  His buzzed hair is typical of his generation 
and he sports a gold stud in his right ear.  Peer-driven. 
Heterosexual.  Just your average kid.  Ray's right foot is 
tapping toe-to-heel-and-back in an endless rhythm beneath 
the table. 
 
"Listen, I didn't do anything wrong," the boy says.  "We 
were just talking and fooling around a little bit." 
 
Mulder's certain 'foolin' around' these days is very 
different from his own adolescent experiences, but he's 
listening not just to Ray's text, but to the emotion 
lurking below.  In this case, he hears nothing more than 
male hormones speaking. 
 
"And Mallory wasn't being especially friendly, was she?"  
Mulder gives the boy a conspiratorial look, which seems to 
settle him. 
 
"No.  She wasn't.  But I figure, what the heck?  Girls 
expect you to try something." 
 
"Did you?" 
 
"Yeah," he admits grudgingly.  "Look, I was ticked when 
she said no, but I wouldn't hurt her.  Ever.  You gotta 
believe me."  Mulder does, but he's certain something else 
isn't being said. 
 
"Tell me, Ray.  What happened next?  After Mallory said no." 
 
The boy's eyes shift away, then back.  "Nothin'.  I went 
into the woods.  To take a leak." 
 
"And you didn't see or hear anything unusual?"  Mulder 
hears a stifled sigh behind him.  Guarino's patience is 
limited. 
 
"I- I don't know what you mean." 
 
The metal slides on the bottom of Mulder's chair scrape 
hard against the linoleum as he pushes back and stands.  
Hands on hips, he turns from the table and walks towards 
the mirrored glass.  He observes Ray's reflection shift in 
his seat.  For a moment, it seems as if the boy is about to 
say something, then reconsiders before taking another swig 
of soda.   
 
Mulder casts a sidelong glance at Guarino, leaning against 
the closed door beside him.  The man's eyes meet his and 
his cheek muscle gives a twitch.  Mulder suspects what the 
boy is hiding, but needs Ray to say it for Guarino's sake.  
He watches the image of the detective as he steps forward and 
in a quiet voice says, "Ray, Mallory has already told us 
what happened.  We just want to hear *your* version of 
things." 
 
"She told you--" he stops mid-sentence. 
 
"Son, if there's something you're not saying, I suggest 
you tell us now."  He tilts his head towards Mulder, who 
turns in place and walks back towards the table, his face a 
cool mask.  "The federal government doesn't take kindly to 
aiding and abetting criminals." 
 
"I told you, I don't know--" 
 
The boy recoils and gasps as Mulder's hand slams the 
aluminum can against the wall, where it clatters into a 
corner, foam spraying gray cinderblock as brown liquid 
puddles on the floor.  The agent's hands press flat against 
the table and he leans across its width, staring down at 
the adolescent. "Cut the crap, Ray," he snarls.  "You know 
exactly what happened to Mallory, don't you?"  His voice 
rises with each statement.  "Maybe you were part of it.  
Maybe you helped set it up, huh?"  
 
"No, I- I swear," Ray sputters.  "I'm telling you the 
truth.  I didn't hurt her." 
 
"I figure you for 17 or 18, right?"  Mulder focuses on the 
boy's eyes as he bites off his words. "You'll be charged as 
an adult.  Trust me, Ossining is *not* a nice place, 
although a pretty boy like you shouldn't have any trouble 
finding a 'protector.' Should he?"  He pushes off the table 
and walks towards the door, as if to leave. 
 
"Wait a minute," Ray calls, his voice laced with panic.  
Mulder halts.  "I did see something."  Mulder turns, and he 
and Guarino move closer.  Sitting back down opposite the 
boy, Mulder smoothes his tie and gives Ray his best 
official G-man glower. 
 
The boy sighs then says, "There was a guy.  He came outta 
nowhere, I swear.  I heard Mallory calling me.  She sounded 
scared, so I went back to the beach and he was just 
standin' there, next to the blanket." 
 
Guarino pipes up.  "Why didn't you say something about 
this before, Raymond?" 
 
"I dunno.  I was scared." 
 
"You were scared," Guarino parrots, voice rising in 
disgust.  "We've been going crazy trying to nail this guy 
and you know what he looks like?  Jesus." 
 
"I don't remember, exactly."  Ray's eyes plead with the 
detective's. Mulder watches agitation override timidity as 
the real story gets told.  "The guy was naked and I thought 
he was going to attack her. I wanted to help, but I 
couldn't move.  I couldn't."  Ray drops his eyes and looks 
away from both men.  "I messed up.  Mallory could've died." 
 
Mulder's tone softens, "Help us now, Ray.  What did he 
look like?" 
 
The boy looks back to the agent and leans in.  "Tall, thin 
white guy. It was dark but he must've been carrying a 
flashlight or something cause I could see Mallory's face.  
She was really scared." 
 
"Then what happened?" 
 
Ray waits a few seconds, then says, "He was strange.  I 
mean he looked normal, you know, but then..." he pauses. 
 
Guarino presses, "What then, Raymond?" 
 
"There was this light.  A mad weird light.  I thought it 
was a flashlight or something like that," he repeats. 
 
"But it wasn't," Mulder adds. 
 
"I couldn't tell for sure, but it looked like it was 
spillin' right out from this guy's chest.  I don't remember 
anything after that, I swear.  I woke up right there in the 
woods the next morning and went straight to school.  My mom 
thinks I stayed at a friend's house. Then I heard Mallory 
was missing and Detective Guarino came to find me and I got 
nervous.  I was just happy when they found her.  I figured 
everybody would forget the whole thing." 
 
Mulder sits back in the chair and sighs, running a hand 
over his mouth.  He stands abruptly and turns to Guarino.  
"You can verify his whereabouts for the other abductions?" 
 
"Yeah." 
 
"Send him home." 
 
Mulder exits the room, with Guarino on his heels.  In the 
outer corridor, Guarino says low, "You believe him, don't 
you?  That crap about the light?" 
 
"Yeah, I do.  I also believe, as Ms. Van Helden said 
earlier, that something fishy is going on around here.  I 
need her home address." 
 
Guarino cocks his head at Mulder, eyes narrowing.  "I'm 
yanking you in, Agent Mulder.  You're on a short leash now. 
A *real* short leash," he says. 
 
~~~~~ 
 
Darden Hall Southampton University 4:15 p.m. 
 
In the warmth of a late summer afternoon, Scully wanders 
academic corridors, searching for Room 401.  Labs peek out 
from open doors beckoning to her with the lure of a siren's 
call.  She pauses at the doorway to the small office 
labeled "Julian Oracoff, Ph.D.," then enters.  Muted 
strains of Debussy filter from hidden speakers. Travel 
posters touting the names of exotic locales and extreme 
sports cover one wall.  Photographs dot another, images 
reflecting a tall, slim man with blond hair and an 
enigmatic smile posing with different official-looking 
types. One photo shows him in a tuxedo holding a plaque.  
He's handsome. Another wall displays credentials, real and 
honorary, from European and American universities. 
 
His bookshelves, however, are what attract her most. The 
first is filled with volumes of scientific texts from many 
specialties, along with a sampling of philosophy, ancient 
art, anthropology and music. The other holds a dazzlement 
of shells, brilliant in color, amazing in diversity.  
Scully picks up a gigantic hinged oyster, its mottled cover 
covered with spikes, reminding her of the San Diego beaches 
of her childhood.  Another looks like a miniature conch, 
striated with brown and cream and gold, its interior awash 
in palest blue.  She turns it around and around in her 
fingers. 
 
"Lovely, isn't it?" a voice sounds far behind her. 
 
She spins around, shell in hand, startled at having been 
caught touching someone's personal belongings.  She's even 
more startled to find the man attached to the voice 
standing just behind her.  Her perceptions must be off.  "I 
apo- apologize," she sputters, taking a step back. 
 
"No, I'm glad you like them.  She recognizes Oracoff from 
the photos, but his physical presence impacts with greater 
force.  Her composure slips for only a moment before her 
professional demeanor snaps back into place and she pulls 
her ID from her jacket. 
 
"I'm Dana Scully from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, 
Dr. Oracoff.  We have an appointment." 
 
"Yes, my G.A. told me about it."  He picks up a fan-like 
shell, bands of amber, purple and gold spanning the 
delicate carapace.  "This is *my* favorite," he says, his 
voice wistful as he holds the translucent piece up to the 
window, setting it aglow with inner fire. "Its commonly 
known as the Northern scallop, but its true name is 
'Sirrimantu,' the ancient symbol of nobility.  When the 
Atlanteans set sail in their ships of gold, these adorned 
their hulls."  His voice is raw silk, soothing yet 
provocative, with a quality she can't define.  Without 
warning, the hairs on the back of Scully's neck tingle and 
she gives a slight shiver. 
 
"Are you cold?" Oracoff asks, moving to the window with 
casual grace.  "Blasted a/c.  I hate it.  He unlocks and 
angles out a window, letting in fresher, warmer air.  He 
gestures with his hand, "Please, have a seat, Agent 
Scully."  
 
He sits behind his desk and all at once, he is all- 
business, his eyes assessing her even as she does the same. 
"This is about the women I found, isn't it?" 
 
"Yes, it is.  You discovered three of the five abductees.  
That's a rather significant coincidence." 
 
"I know.  It's awfully suspicious, isn't it?"  He chortles 
and drops his head for a moment before reclaiming her gaze. 
His eyes are intense, grey shot through with darker flecks 
and long lashes that curl at the edges. "But, I'm a 
naturalist, after all.  My research is conducted on these 
shores and that's where the women were found. I've taken 
lie detector tests that prove my innocence.  I hope I don't 
have to prove it again.  Not to you."  The way he says the 
last sentence is warmer than required and Scully finds 
herself distracted by his focused attention, even as she 
relegates him to the category of Suspect and Not-Mulder. 
 
"How long have you been teaching at Southampton?" she 
queries. 
 
"Only since the beginning of the Millennium," he says.  
His response is odd, but no more so than any number of 
things she's heard her partner say.  "I came to the campus 
on a research grant for the year." 
 
"And your research topic?" 
 
"The effects of global warming on the preservation of 
antediluvian artifacts on the Atlantic Barrier Shelf." 
 
Scully cocks her head.  "Thesis work can be a challenge." 
 
"What was your dissertation on, Dr. Scully?" 
 
So, he'd done some digging prior to her arrival.  
Suspicion mounts, but the questions in her mind dissipate 
as quickly as they rise, a disconcerting fact she cannot 
explain.  "My degree is in medicine, but my senior thesis 
covered some of Einstein's ideas." 
 
"Albert was one of our finest minds." 
 
"Albert?" 
 
"I met him once.  He was beyond brilliant.  He offered the 
world the secrets of time -- immortality revealed -- but 
they still don't understand." 
 
"Immortality?" 
 
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Dana Scully, 
than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'" 
 
"I believe that." 
 
"You sound surprised about it." 
 
"Yes, well," and she pauses, recalling her experience at 
the Buddhist temple and how it has expanded her vision of 
the world.  "I've always thought of myself as a scientist 
first.  I set stock in its hard factual approach to any 
problem.  But, I've had certain... experiences... that have 
challenged my adherence to its principles." 
 
"It is only when we realize what we do not know, Doctor, 
that we begin to gain wisdom." 
 
Their eyes meet and once again, the strange tingling at 
the back of her neck reaches cool tendrils down her back. 
 
"Dr. Oracoff, I was wondering..." she starts. 
 
"I'd love to join you for dinner," he finishes. 
 
She arches a brow at him.  That wasn't what she was going 
to ask, but she finds her mind becoming clouded, unable to 
remember the pointed questions she had planned.  Instead, 
she says, "Isn't that a bit presumptuous?" 
 
"Only if you don't like the idea.  Please." 
 
She considers him, then adds,  "Fine.  I'll call my 
partner and have him join us." 
 
His disappointment is obvious.  Scully keeps her 
expression neutral, but she's flattered by his response.  
"You'll like Mulder, I think. He's interesting.  Like you." 
 
Julian leans forward over his crossed arms resting on the 
desktop. "My dear Doctor, Agent, Dana Scully, if Mulder is 
anything like me, he'll hate me on sight." 
 
 
 
ACT TWO 
 
Van Helden Residence 6:00 p.m. 
 
Mulder's walk from the lockup takes him past quaint shops 
and a long, wide thoroughfare that leads to the wharf.  
Turning right onto a winding street, he scans the numbers 
of the large vintage houses until he finds it: 212 
Waterbury Lane. 
 
He stands at the picket gate, eyeing the three-story, 
white clapboard colonial tucked behind an English garden 
lush with roses, foxglove, dahlias and other flowers.  His 
mom had been a gardener.  Odd, how she crept into his 
thoughts.  He's caught unawares by a sudden flash of 
planting seeds and pulling weeds, Samantha tugging at the 
hem of his mother's dress.  They are images consoling and 
chilling. 
 
Swinging open the gate, he passes under an ivied trellis, 
over flagstones leading to a street-level entry.  He pulls 
the cord on the door-side ship's bell that announces his 
arrival and the tone lofts in the air, along with the drone 
of insects, the scree of gulls and the muffled sounds of a 
harbor town doing business. 
 
The heavy door opens to reveal a young woman with dark 
hair and large, darker eyes.  Mulder asks for Ms. Van 
Helden and is ushered inside.  He follows the girl through 
silent rooms until they reach the back of the house.  
Stepping through what looks to be a rear exterior door, 
Mulder finds himself in a sizeable conservatory, sunlight 
seeping through algae-filmed glass.  Copious plant life 
overflows the space and he's surprised to see butterflies 
fluttering among the greenery. The room is humid and he 
loosens his tie, attempting to ease the stiffness in his 
back by shifting his head from side to side. 
 
Olly arrives and when their eyes meet, she smiles at him.  
"I'm glad you came."  She gestures to one of a pair of deep- 
cushioned rattan club chairs that grace the small slate 
patio at the center of the greenhouse.  "You must be tired. 
Please, sit down.  I'll have Mariana bring something cool 
to drink." 
 
Mulder sighs.  He *is* tired.  And curious.  "Thank you," 
he replies and sinks into the deep cushions.  Olly gives 
instructions to the serving girl, then comes to stand 
beside the empty, matching chair opposite Mulder's. "This 
is an interesting house," he tells her. 
 
"Yes.  It is.  Built in 1862, just before the War of the 
States.  Sag Harbor was abolitionist in nature, but it was 
also a Tory stronghold during the Revolution.  It's a 
colorful history." 
 
"And you know a lot about it." 
 
"I know a good deal about a great many things, Agent 
Mulder." 
 
Mulder sits forward, leaning his forearms on his thighs.  
"Like who's abducting these women?" 
 
Olly looks away and closes her eyes.  She sighs to herself 
then opens them, returning her gaze to Mulder.  "What do 
you know about the Lost Continent of Atlantis?"  Her 
question is serious, disarming him with tolerance. 
 
"I've heard the myths, the legends.  Atlantis was an 
island kingdom destroyed by a cataclysm that submerged it 
beneath the Atlantic.  Its existence has been debated since 
Plato, who described it as a utopian civilization.  The 
Nazis laid claim to the legend during World War Two, 
claiming it as the source of its genetic superiority.  
Other researchers have attempted to prove its existence 
without success, the most notable being Edgar Cayce, who 
gave psychic readings while in a trance state.  He produced 
hundreds of pages of information regarding Atlantean 
culture." 
 
Olly nods.  "And what do you know about its people?" 
 
"What should I know?" 
 
She moves to the entry, taking an ornate tray from the 
girl he saw earlier.  "Thank you, Mariana," Olly says 
gently.  "You may go for the day."  Mariana disappears.  
Olly is quiet as she sets the tray down on a small wrought- 
iron table and pours mint tea into a frosted glass.  She 
hands it to Mulder, then straightens.  He is again struck 
by her demeanor, her grace, and the intelligence that 
surrounds her. She is a beautiful woman, still.  She 
reminds him of another woman he admires--his partner. 
 
"The Atlanteans *were* a noble race," says Olly.  "They 
lived and worked at all manner of trade, just as we do.  
Their technology was as sophisticated as ours.  Some say 
more so.  They traded with the ancient Egyptians, providing 
blueprints for the pyramids in exchange for the secrets of 
immortality.  They were thinkers, artisans, engineers, 
scientists.  They were also hermaphroditic." 
 
Mulder's eyes widen, his curiosity bumping up a notch. 
 
"Yes," Olly continues, noting his interest.  "All life as 
we know it, in its earliest stages of formation, are.  Some 
say they were also extraterrestrial in origin.  I don't 
know about that." 
 
Mulder swallows down a mouthful of tea, assessing the 
woman standing before him.  Well-read and well educated, 
comfortable with money and its privilege, nurturing, 
imaginative.  Her likelihood as a suspect is minimal.  
"You're saying the Marimorph is hermaphroditic?" 
 
"No."  Olly sits, holding one hand within the other on her 
lap.  "The Marimorph is only the masculine entity of the 
creature.  In their original incarnation, the Atlanteans 
possessed specific masculine and feminine entities co- 
existing within a single humanoid morphology. When the 
Great Cataclysm sundered the continent, it submerged, as 
you say.  Those unable to reach the sheltering protection 
of its self-contained cities were, themselves, torn asunder 
by a force that split them apart physically, mentally and 
spiritually.  The surviving creatures, confounded and 
helpless, dispersed throughout the landforms of the earth." 
 
"That means the entities..."  He tilts his head at her. 
 
"Disjoined, becoming separate male and female creatures, 
yet each only half of the whole." 
 
"Can they recognize one another?" 
 
"In part. The feminine entity is called a Perimorph, a 
woman of subtle beauty and creativity, with no memory of 
her origin. Possessing humanoid anatomy, she lives out 
lifetime after lifetime coupling with human males to 
produce rare, hybrid progeny of great intellect.  History 
books are rife with their names." 
 
"Such as?" 
 
"Some suggest Tutankhamun, Confucius and Edison as just a 
few Atlantean-human hybrids.  The masculine entity is the 
Marimorph.  He is also humanoid in anatomy, brilliant, 
cunning and seductive.  He, unlike his counterpart, 
remembers every lifetime as well his origins. He is driven 
by nature to seek his literal soul mate." 
 
"Dates a lot, does he?  I'm sorry, I don't mean to be glib." 
 
"You're an interesting man, Agent Mulder.  You listen as 
if you believe me, yet I sense hesitation." 
 
He quirks his head to one side.  "I'm just thinking about 
what my partner would say of all this." 
 
"A skeptic?" 
 
"You could say that." 
 
"The auburn-haired woman with the piercing blue eyes?  The 
one I saw with you?" 
 
"Yeah, that's Scully." 
 
"A woman who keeps her counsel.  She's of help to you." 
 
"Yes.  Yes, she is."  He pauses before adding, "though I 
don't always see it that way."  He gives Olly a self- 
effacing smile. 
 
"It can be difficult to recognize what's best for 
ourselves, what links us to one another, how lines of fate 
and time cross paths in their mobius-like movements." 
 
Mulder nods, contemplating her words.  His cell phone 
chirps, interrupting his internal discourse.  "Excuse 
me," he says, reaching inside his jacket for the unit.  
"Mulder." 
 
"It's me," Scully says.  "Where are you?" 
 
"Olly's house.  Where are you?" 
 
"On a one-lane road, stuck behind a truck full of ducks." 
 
"Ducks?" 
 
"Quack-quack, Mulder.  I'm turning onto Preston now." 
 
He smiles at the vexation and tease in her voice.  He 
stands, holding up a finger to Olly and walking a short 
distance away.  "Did you speak with Oracoff?" 
 
"Yes, I did.  We're meeting him in town for dinner." 
 
"When?" 
 
"Eight o'clock.  Some place called The American Hotel." 
 
"The American Hotel," he repeats.  "Should I check us in?" 
 
"Can we afford it?" 
 
"Let me find out.  Only the best for you, you know." 
 
"Right.  Where are you?  I've got a map." 
 
"212 Waterbury Lane.  Meet me here." 
 
"I'm there."  He hears the phone line go dead.  He returns 
to Olly who stands, an odd expression on her face.  "My 
partner's meeting me here.  I have to go." 
 
"You'll do no such thing," she tells him.  "I'm sorry to 
have eavesdropped, but I couldn't help but overhear.  You 
need accommodations and The American is booked.  I have six 
bedrooms. Please, allow me to offer you a place to stay." 
 
Mulder shakes his head.  "No, thank you.  I...  We 
couldn't... impose." 
 
"Nonsense.  It's no trouble and I like having guests.  
Besides, it will mean less paperwork when you get back to 
Washington, won't it?" 
 
Mulder remembers Scully's attitude earlier in the week.  
He also harbors a nagging suspicion that Olly isn't telling 
him everything she knows.  "All right," he agrees. 
 
"Good." 
 
The clang of the ship's bell announces a visitor. 
 
Olly excuses herself and Mulder hears Scully's muffled 
voice. Unintelligible dialogue ensues.  At last, the two 
women emerge. 
 
"It's arranged," states Olly.  "You'll both stay here.  
Care to see the rest of the house?"  Scully looks at him, a 
mixture of question and amusement in her eyes.  He gives a 
small shrug in return. 
 
"Certainly," Scully replies. 
 
~~~~~ 
 
Olly takes them on the short tour, pointing out items of 
historical and architectural value.  The women fall into 
easy conversation and Mulder hangs back, enjoying his view 
of Scully relaxing under the kind attentions of the older 
woman.  The house is fascinating, filled with history and 
items reflecting the nautical nature of the town. An 
antique sextant, an impressive collection of scrimshaw that 
reminds him of his dad's collection, dozens of sand dollars 
heaped into a heavy basket, and pieces of driftwood are 
scattered amidst the eclectic furnishings.  And everywhere, 
there are crystals of varied sizes, shapes and colors.  
It's a queer, but cozy environment. 
 
Olly leads them up a wide staircase at the entry.  Midway 
between the second and third floors, Scully says, "This is 
amazing."   Mulder has preceded them, but she and Olly 
pause to look at an enormous window at whose center sits a 
stained-glass image of a bay surrounded by trees.  "Is 
this...?"  She looks at Olly in question. 
 
"Yes. Louis Comfort Tiffany made that.  It's a replica of 
his piece, 'Oyster Bay.'  He crafted it for the previous 
owners of this house with the stipulation that it always 
remain intact and in place.  Do you appreciate art, Agent 
Scully?" 
 
"I do.  You have some interesting pieces." 
 
"I do, indeed.  And guests," she adds.   
 
The women join Mulder, who waits on the landing.  Olly 
stands facing the agents and says, "I have two singles and 
a double on this floor. Will you be sharing?" 
 
Her assumption causes Mulder to look away and to stifle a 
smile. Scully keeps her composure and replies, "The singles 
are fine, thank you." 
 
"I hope I haven't offended.  I pick up on vibes.  It's the 
crystals, you know.  A shared room seemed right for you, 
but--" 
 
"The singles will be fine," Mulder repeats, his eyes on 
Scully, who refuses to meet his gaze. 
 
"Fine."  Olly face grows anxious.  "You have an 
appointment at The American, yes?" 
 
"Yeah," Mulder says, noting the change of expression. 
 
"I overheard that, too, I'm afraid.  I also heard the name 
'Oracoff.'" 
 
"Do you know him?" Scully asks. 
 
"Julian Oracoff?"  Scully nods.  "Yes.  I know Julian.  Is 
he in trouble?" 
 
"Not if he's telling the truth," Scully replies. 
 
~~~~~ 
 
The American Hotel 8:15 p.m. 
 
Julian Oracoff glances at his wristwatch and sits back in 
his chair. The agents he's meeting are late and he's miffed 
at being kept waiting.  He picks up the crystal goblet 
resting beside his hand and holds it aloft.  The jewel- 
toned liquid captures the candlelight, its rubied glow 
refracting in the wine.  He brings the glass to his lips 
and sips the vintage with reverence before replacing it on 
the table. 
 
He looks forward to seeing the woman who visited him 
earlier today. Her choice of occupation makes no sense, in 
his mind.  Law enforcement types are a notoriously 
practical lot.  But Dr. Scully seems discerning.  She's 
intelligent and perceptive, and with her vivid coloring, 
quite attractive. 
 
He casts his gaze around the room, observing the few 
occupants dining in the post-season quiet.  The room's 
appointments are tasteful and he likes the service: 
attentive, but discreet.  He's accustomed to urban living 
and prefers the academic climate of the Ivies, but location 
is everything and his research demands his presence in this 
locale, far from city lights. 
 
He notices Scully as soon as she enters the room.  She's 
changed her clothing.  The somber pant suit has given way to 
a sleeveless, dark blue sheath with a scooped neckline and 
a fitted bodice that enhances her petite form.  She sees 
him and follows the maitre'd to the table. Julian rises at 
her approach. 
 
"Hello again, Dr. Scully.  You look lovely." 
 
"Thank you," she replies before taking the chair beside his. 
 
"I thought your partner was joining us." 
 
"He's making a phone call.  He'll be here shortly." 
 
"Too soon, I'm afraid," Julian states. 
 
She smiles, a bit self-conscious, and he realizes she's 
unaccustomed to being flattered.  It's refreshing.  He 
imagines she must keep her femininity under close wraps 
working as a federal agent.  Pity. Women are such 
interesting creatures. 
 
"I've taken the liberty of ordering wine for us.  May I 
pour you a glass?" 
 
"I'm sorry, no," she replies.  "Agent Mulder and I are 
still, technically, on duty.  But, please don't hesitate on 
our account, Dr. Oracoff." 
 
"Please call me Julian and I'm hoping I may call you 
Dana."  She nods once and he tops off the glass he's been 
nursing.  "This is a Pinot Noir from Pindar.  It's a local 
label, but quite good.  The North Fork is fast becoming the 
Bordeaux of New York." 
 
"Do you know this area well?" 
 
"Well enough for my purposes." 
 
A voice intercepts asking, "Which would be what, exactly?" 
 
Julian hears the suspicion in the voice and turns to look 
up into a pair of intelligent hazel eyes.  He already knows 
that this is Fox Mulder, Dr. Scully's partner.  As 
suspected, he hates the man on sight.  He'd been hoping for 
someone much older, paunchier and cruder than the slender, 
handsome agent that stands beside the table.  He stands to 
meet the man's eyes, level with his own and extends his 
hand. 
 
"You must be Agent Mulder.  I'm Julian Oracoff." 
 
Mulder shakes his hand and he sits across from Scully, 
Julian between them.  "My work, agent, is to teach marine 
biology and do research into the life forms found in the 
shoals off the Atlantic barrier reef." 
 
"How do you do that while on land?" 
 
"I have use of a small submersible the university provides." 
 
Mulder glances across the table at Scully. 
 
"Does anyone ever go with you on these underwater junkets?" 
 
"They're called research expeditions and yes, occasionally 
students go with me." 
 
"Where is it now?" 
 
"At the University's launch, near the public dock." 
 
"And its usage is always tracked?" 
 
Julian smiles, unperturbed by the subtle grilling.  
"Always.  There's a ship's log, as well.  You will find all 
in order, Mr. Mulder." 
 
The two men watch each other, their reactive chemistry 
palpable. Just then, the waiter approaches with menus in 
hand.  They peruse the placards for a minute.  Julian notes 
Mulder's well-concealed discomfiture with the four-star 
prices and French descriptions.  Their expense allowance is 
probably a pittance, Julian thinks, but he wants to impress 
the lady and isn't afraid of Uncle Sam's wrath.  He holds 
up a hand and says, "Do you like seafood?  If I may 
suggest..." 
 
"By all means," Mulder says, his tone polite, but his 
mouth set. 
 
Julian orders oysters and foie gras, endive salad and 
grilled salmon; all in impeccable French.  Mulder meets 
Scully's eyes over the vivid African daisies that adorn the 
centerpiece.  Their shared expression suggests a well-honed 
routine.  Julian's guard goes up as Mulder turns his 
attention to him.  Scully maintains a serene expression. 
 
"Scully tells me you're only here until January," Mulder 
states. 
 
"Yes, although my research could call me away from 
teaching at any time." 
 
"Your research." 
 
"Yes. My thesis on antediluvian artifacts." 
 
"I meant to ask you earlier," Scully says.  "Antediluvian, 
as in Noah's Ark?" 
 
"Actually, I'm interested in a much earlier catastrophe.  
One that redefined the face of the Western Hemisphere and 
took from us a golden civilization." 
 
"Sounds like something I heard earlier today," Mulder 
mumbles. 
 
"Sounds like a story I heard once in a lullaby," Scully 
quips in a dry tone. 
 
Mulder smiles at her.  Julian chuckles, "Did I say over 
the rainbow?" 
 
"Then where?" she asks. 
 
"Under the sea." 
 
Mulder adds, "Yeah, Scully, with the Little Mermaid." 
 
Julian stiffens.  "The ignorant often ridicule that which 
they do not understand." 
 
"So, enlighten me."  Mulder's tone is edged with sarcasm. 
 
The waiter interrupts with appetizers.  Conversation 
ceases for a brief time as delicacies are consumed.  Julian 
leans towards Scully and says sotto voce, "Did you know 
oysters are an aphrodisiac, Dana?" 
 
"Many foods are considered to be conducive to the 
production of hormones and endorphins within the body, yes." 
 
Julian's eyes twinkle as they meet hers, "Such as?" 
 
"Such as...asparagus, walnuts, pine nuts, grapes."  Her 
eyes flick to the glass of wine before him and back to his 
attentive gaze. 
 
"Really?" he says, leaning his chin on his hand as he 
listens, enjoying the spark in her eyes and the shape of 
her mouth as she speaks. 
 
"Yes.  And spices like ginger, nutmeg, vanilla and of 
course," she pauses and smiles, "chocolate." 
 
"Ahh.  So that's why gentleman bring chocolates to 
beautiful women?" 
 
"Well, the scientific explanation is that it releases 
endorphins that create the same sensation as being in love." 
 
"Imagine that." 
 
"Don't forget green M&Ms." That was Mulder.  Scully looks 
across the small table to her partner with raised brows and 
a look of incomprehension.  He's sitting back in his chair 
with only his right hand resting at the table's edge, 
fingers drumming the white linen. 
 
"Excuse me?" 
 
"Green M&Ms, Scully.  The latest substance to induce a 
frenzy of wild passion."  His tone is light, but his 
fingers betray his insecurity. 
 
"Green M&Ms." 
 
"An ad hoc university study in Texas verifies that people 
are using green M&Ms as sexual stimulants.  Every one knows 
you have to eat those first when you open the package." 
 
"Mulder..." 
 
"But," he says leaning forward into the table with both 
hands pressed flat against the surface.  "Getting back to 
our *original* discussion..." he says with soft, but 
deliberate intent. 
 
Julian is pleased he's disturbed the agent with his 
attentions to the woman.  He's quite certain that 
testosterone is goading Mulder to this petty sniping and 
equally certain that what Mulder really wants to do is 
exhibit typical human male territoriality by shoving him 
against the wall and saying, "Back off, pal."  Still, 
Mulder refrains and Julian admires his restraint. 
 
The agents eye one another for a few, silent moments and 
then Scully asks of her partner, "You said you heard 
something earlier today. From whom?" 
 
"Olivia Van Helden."  Julian's chin and interest lift 
despite himself, a fact not unnoticed. 
 
"Do you know her?"  Scully asks the professor. 
 
"She owns a bookstore.  I buy books."  She nods and drops 
the topic, much to Mulder's surprise. 
 
"So then," Mulder begins while casting a pointed look at 
his partner and back to Julian, "You don't really know each 
other." 
 
"No.  What did she tell you?" 
 
"She has a theory that sounds a lot like yours about an 
island that was submerged in the ocean after a great 
cataclysm." 
 
"Atlantis," Julian offers. 
 
"Yes. Then you *have* chatted." 
 
"We've discussed that topic, among others." 
 
"You know about the Marimorph." 
 
Julian's posture doesn't shift, but he takes in a deep, 
quiet breath and releases it.  "Yes, I know about 
Marimorphs and Perimorphs and the Great Cataclysm.  Are you 
suggesting such creatures actually exist?  Or that such a 
creature is responsible for the women that have been taken?" 
 
Mulder prepares to say something, but is cut off by Scully 
saying, "I think what my partner is suggesting is that 
someone may *believe* he is such a creature and is 
perpetrating these crimes in a delusional state." 
 
Mulder's eyes narrow. "Tell me something, Dr. Oracoff.  
Ms. Van Helden tells me that the creature is *driven* to 
abduct these women, hoping to discover his soul mate and 
return to the sea with her." 
 
"That would fit the mythology.  Atlantis is believed to 
still exist deep beneath the surface of the sea, it's 
portals opening but once a year for a brief span of days 
during the passage of the autumnal equinox.  Only then can 
its long-lost nomads re-enter and rejoin with their 
kindred. Some even suggest that the storms that plague the 
Atlantic at this time of year are a direct result of those 
portals opening." 
 
"So the portals are closed again?" 
 
"By the end-turn of the Romans' seventh month." 
 
"And you believe that the creature seeks its soul mate?" 
 
"The idea of a soul mate has long existed." 
 
"As a fanciful notion," Scully enjoins. "Physical 
scientists attribute it to biochemistry, anthropologists to 
mating rituals and psychologists to deep-seated mother 
separation issues." 
 
"Ahh, but for the Marimorph, dear Dana, the soul mate is 
its sundered self seeking reunion." 
 
Mulder grumbles, "I'd say his version of a one-night stand 
is a bit severe." 
 
Julian eyes the man with an icy stare.  "I believe--" he 
begins, but never finishes because Detective Guarino is 
striding towards their table. 
 
"We got us another victim," he tells them. 
 
Mulder looks at Julian, whose face remains impassive and 
unaffected by the news.  He meets Scully's eyes and they 
rise in tandem. 
 
"I'm afraid we have to go," Scully tells Julian. 
 
"I'll take care of the bill," Julian says. 
 
"Thanks," Mulder says with some satisfaction before he 
follows Guarino and Scully from the dining room, his hand 
at the small of her back. 
 
Julian notes the possessiveness of the gesture.  There's 
subtext here.  Mulder's jealousy is transparent.  He 
believes the woman belongs to him. 
 
Foolish human. 
 
~~~~~ 
 
Onboard Police Cutter 678 9:00 p.m. 
 
Spray off the dark water kicks up into Mulder's face as 
the police cutter makes its way across Peconic Bay.  The 
moon is concealed by clouds, incongruous in the night sky, 
backlit by silvered light. Mulder leans into the prow, 
breathing in the tang of salt air.  The feel of moving 
water beneath his feet triggers memories of days long gone. 
No one who grows up on a sea island ever takes the ocean 
for granted or leaves it behind.  You are always, 
essentially, separate from the mainland, shaped by the 
brine that surrounds you. 
 
They are heading towards Southold, on the opposite side of 
the immense bay that spans the distance between eastern 
Long Island's fish tails.  Scully comes from behind to 
stand beside him.   
 
"Allison Jorge," she begins, her voice raised a notch to 
be heard over the hum of the engine and the steady, 
rhythmic splash of the cutter as it rebounds off the water. 
"Age 34, teacher and mother of three.  Husband called the 
police after she didn't come home last night and failed to 
show up at school this morning.  No known issues of marital 
discord or enemies.  She was found by a woman walking her 
dog on the beach.  Southold P.D. says she's barely hanging 
on, so they've choppered her to Stony Brook Medical Center." 
 
Mulder purses his lips and nods without looking at her.  
"He's stepping up the pace, Scully."  He turns towards her. 
Her trench is buttoned tight, collar turned up against the 
mist.  Gusts off the water whip her hair across her face.  
He finds himself wanting to brush the stray strands off her 
cheek, but pushes the thought aside. "And I think I know 
why," he says. 
 
She waits.  He knows she's prepared for either a 
legitimate profile of a kidnapper or the esoteric 
meanderings of his mind.  Her willingness to hear him is 
something he never fully understands, but needs as much as 
the air that dampens his skin. 
 
"He's on a time-limited schedule," Mulder begins. 
 
"What do you mean?" 
 
"Oracoff said the equinox is a critical date for the 
creature," he says. 
 
"The Marimorph?"  He gives her a half-smile and nods. 
 
"You said it yourself.  Whether this creature is real or 
imagined, we're likely to see another abduction before the 
weekend." 
 
"The end-turn of the Romans' seventh month." 
 
"That's just double-talk for September."  She nods. "I 
suggest we keep an eye on Dr. Oracoff's movements." 
 
"You suspect Julian?" 
 
"Scully, that guy was shoveling so much shit he could have 
fertilized Kansas." 
 
"Mulder..." she chides, her annoyance surfacing. 
 
"College professors don't make the kind of salary Julian 
seems accustomed to spending." 
 
"People have other sources of income besides their jobs.  
And the man has taste.  That doesn't make him a criminal." 
 
"No, just fascinating.  Or so it would seem."  Mulder 
leans closer to her ear.  "What's with you?  You seemed a 
million miles away tonight." 
 
"That's unfair." 
 
"But accurate." 
 
The boat shifts as it curves towards the lights that wink 
from shore. Scully loses her footing and pitches forward, 
clutching at the lapels of Mulder's trenchcoat.  He places 
one foot forward to maintain their balance and a steadying 
hand under her elbow.  She looks up at him.  "What do you 
expect from me?  I'm here, aren't I? I'm doing my share of 
the work." 
 
"How?  By exchanging precocious remarks with the good 
professor?  I know what he wants."  She glares at him.  He 
knows he's being peevish, but he can't help himself. 
 
"Mulder, I'll agree that he's seductive, but I'm not a 
schoolgirl. I'll buy that his non-reaction to Guarino's 
announcement was odd, but that doesn't prove anything.  
I'll even accept that he seems to have more information 
that the average person about the habits of mythological 
sea creatures, present company excepted.  But, don't stand 
there and tell me that Julian Oracoff is a merman looking 
for love." 
 
"In all the wrong places, Scully." 
 
"You think he's searching for his soul mate, whatever that 
means?" 
 
The hand that grasps her arm tightens in increments.  
"Don't you believe people can be meant for one another?"  
His attempt at depersonalization can't disguise his true 
question.  She drops her head, then lifts her face to his 
again. 
 
"Maybe I thought so, once.  Real life has proven me wrong 
time and again."  He sees the pain of past mistakes in her 
eyes, hears the regret in her voice. 
 
"No, I... I don't suppose either of us has made the best 
choices in that regard." 
 
She cocks her head at him, eyes narrowing.  "Whatever it 
is that brings people together, Mulder, it's hard work that 
keeps them together, not some mystical force." 
 
"That's all I'm expecting, Scully."  Scully drops her 
hands and shrugging off his, she turns on her heel and 
heads to the enclosed bridge where Guarino navigates the 
boat.  He knows he's said the wrong thing at the wrong 
time, exactly the wrong way. 
 
~~~~~ 
 
Southhold Police Precinct 
 
A Suffolk cop meets them at the police launch and drives 
them to the station house.  Guarino leads the way through 
the bullpen to a desk where a young black detective sits 
typing a form. 
 
"Niebler?" 
 
The cop looks up, pinch-faced in the fluorescent lighting. 
"Guarino! What brings you to visit us 'simple folk' on 
the North Fork?  I thought you preferred the paparazzi  
crowd." 
 
"You're handling the Jorge case." 
 
"Yeah.  These the feds?" he asks, standing. 
 
Guarino points to them in succession.  "Agents Mulder and 
Scully are up from Washington." 
 
Niebler shakes their hands, then sits on the corner of his 
desk. 
 
"D.C. feds.  This must be bigger than I thought.  Of 
course, considering everything that passes through this end 
of the island, anything is possible." 
 
"What do you mean?" Mulder inquires. 
 
Niebler crosses his arms over his chest.  "Most people 
think Long Island is homogenized white bread. Truth is, 
it's a hodgepodge.  And crime doesn't know city from 
sticks.  Sure, we got petty stuff like any other town, but 
the DEA sits on our doorstep on a regular basis looking for 
offshore shit trying to enter the 495 crack line to the 
Apple.  All right under the noses of quiet suburbia." 
 
"You going somewhere with this?" Guarino interrupts. 
 
"Shop talk, Nick.  What's your problem?  Besides, we got a 
possible ID on the kidnapper and an APB on the wire." 
 
"Who gave the ID?" Scully asks. 
 
"Hispanic girl.  Lives in Bungtown.  Says she saw a guy 
drag Allison Jorge out of the water."  He leans in and 
drops his voice, causing them all to step closer.  "Funny 
thing, though.  She says she didn't see a boat and the guy 
had no suit and no gear." 
 
"We'll want to speak with both women," Mulder states. 
 
"The victim is in critical care at Stony Brook.  I don't 
know how much you'll be able to get from her.  As for the 
witness, she was pretty upset and it was late, so I took a 
statement and told her to come back in the morning.  My 
sketcher will be here, too." 
 
"Sure," Mulder concedes. 
 
"You could have told us this over the phone," Guarino 
complains. 
 
"Bite me, Guarino." 
 
~~~~~ 
 
Friday, 9/29 
Van Helden Residence  
1:00 a.m. 
 
The hallway is shrouded in shadow, muted light filtering 
through the stained glass panel between floors, casting 
luminous shades of blue-green, crimson and dark gold onto 
the burnished oak floor. Scully leans against the open door 
frame and allows the colors to infiltrate her mind.  Blue 
is cool, calming.  Red is warm, seductive. And gold?  Gold 
is the divine calling to her.  She closes her eyes. 
 
Fieldwork leaves her weary now.  What once was stimulating 
and worthwhile, now feels rote and unappreciated.  Long 
days and longer nights are spent on the road, living out of 
a suitcase, prying into the private lives of others, 
peeking under the rocks of humanity to shed light on the 
dregs.  Her well-worn role as skeptic and scientist is 
becoming more difficult to fill as she embraces extreme 
possibilities for herself.  She has seen too much, heard 
too much, done too much to deny it.  The accumulated weight 
of loss, deception and impending doom grinds into her 
bones.  Science still provides parameters that keep her 
sane, but it cannot fill the spaces that grow emptier 
inside her with each case they pursue. 
 
The double bind is stifling.  She no longer wants a 
"normal" life. She'd be content, for a time, then bored.  
She knows this.  Besides, the only man she can see herself 
with is still as likely as ever to run off on a moment's 
notice to chase God-knows-what because he's afraid he'll 
"miss something."  Mulder.  Yes, she loves him.  And his 
devotion has been obvious to her for a long time. 
 
Time and the extreme events since her trip to Africa have 
altered their partnership in ways she could not have 
predicted.  And while she has always been attracted to her 
partner, she has never allowed herself to acknowledge the 
depth of that wanting.  Until now. Perhaps, it is Spender's 
observation about her willingness to die for Mulder, but 
not to love him that pushes her towards a consummation she 
craves and fears. 
 
"Planning to sleepwalk tonight?"  She keeps her eyes 
closed, allowing Mulder's voice to slip around her 
shoulders like softest pashmina. She feels him move past 
her and when she opens her eyes, he's there, leaning 
against the opposite side of the doorjamb.  Like bookends, 
they flank and fill the wider-than-normal doorway. 
 
He's bare-chested and the legs of his flannel pajamas drag 
around his bare feet just a tad, brushing her foot.  The 
fabric is a dark, subtle plaid.  Why she notes this makes 
no sense to her, except that it distracts her from the 
elastic waist that dips around his narrow hips.  She 
wonders about the anatomy beneath the cloth.  Wonders and 
wants.  She reminds herself to not react, just breathe, 
breathe, breathe. 
 
His big toe comes to rest beside hers as he crosses his 
legs and his arms, getting comfortable against the frame.  
He rubs his back against the wood, like a cat. 
 
When she speaks again, her voice is calm, much to her own 
surprise. "Is there something you needed to talk to me 
about?" 
 
"Not really.  I was going to get a glass of water.  Am I 
interrupting something?  A meditation, a prayer?" 
 
She sighs.  "No, I was just watching the colors in the 
glass."  She gestures to the windowpane with her chin and 
he twists his upper body to see it.  "It's beautiful, isn't 
it?"  She watches the shadows that flicker and dance 
through the multi-hued panes, spilling onto the floor. 
 
"To risk sounding cliché, you are."  The words may be 
cliché, but the attitude behind them is genuine. 
 
Her eyes dart to his and she discovers he's turned back 
and is watching her.  "Is this your apology?"  She knows 
she's being difficult, but his words on the cutter still 
sting. 
 
"Can't a guy just appreciate a beautiful woman when he 
sees one?" 
 
"What do you want, Mulder?" 
 
"You."  The word is simple, straightforward, without any 
trace of innuendo, as if he had said "a sandwich" or "new 
running shoes." That stops her, cold.  She takes a breath 
and tries to find a witty response to his simple 
confession.  Words fail in the rush of blood into her veins 
and the flush that overtakes her.  
 
Her silence must make him uncomfortable because he's 
talking again. "I promised you I'd be more up front with 
you, so I'm trying, Scully. I know I behaved badly tonight 
and yeah, I do apologize.  I suppose I can't blame you for 
enjoying a little flattery.  It's just that, ummm, I want 
to be the one distracting you." 
 
His unexpected honesty robs her of reason.  His toe slips 
over the instep of her foot, sliding up and around her 
ankle as it blazes a slow trail up and under the satiny 
cuff of her pajamas. 
 
"Mulder..." she says, gentle rebuke in her voice.  The 
foot stops at once, replanting itself beside hers.  She 
thinks she can breathe again, until he moves, pushing 
himself away from the frame and leans in, towards her. 
 
She doesn't look at him.  She can't.  She wets her lips 
and concentrates on the expanse of his chest -- muscle and 
hair and skin filling her direct range of sight as he 
stands so close.  He's showered and his clean scent invades 
her olfactory senses.  She pushes backwards against the 
jamb, her hands at her sides, but he moves closer. 
 
"Look at me," he says, his voice soft against her hair.  
She shakes her head.  She doesn't know where his hands are. 
 
"No."  Her pulse is racing and she battles her need to be 
touched and to touch him. 
 
"Look at me, Scully," he pleads.  "Please." 
 
She lifts her face, the back of her head bumping against 
the jamb. She steels herself against the hunger in his 
eyes.  She's aroused, but still angry.  Focus.  Yes, that's 
it.  She's always focused on the work.  That's what counts. 
They should talk about it.  Later. 
 
His head dips down, down.  His mouth nears hers at a slow, 
slow, slow rate.  Then stops, his lips bare millimeters 
away from hers.  "Seems we have a choice here," he says, 
the movement of his mouth as he speaks casting puffs of air 
against her mouth. 
 
"What's that?" she manages to say.  Meanwhile, the ache 
between her thighs grows impatient, insistent. 
 
"I could go back to my room, alone.  You can go back to 
your room, alone.  Or..." 
 
"Or?" 
 
"We can share a bed in your room.  Or vice versa.  I'm 
easy that way."  He's sniffing her, now; breathing her in.  
Sniffing her!  And damned if she doesn't find it erotic as 
hell. 
 
"Mulder..." 
 
"Scully." 
 
"We're working."  It's a feeble excuse, but it's the only 
one she can think of at the moment. 
 
"No.  This is more what I'd call playing.  You remember 
how to play, don't you?  Share toys, make nice." 
 
"I think I remember that," she murmurs. 
 
"Never doubted you for a minute," he says, the tip of his 
nose rubbing against hers. 
 
She wants to kiss him.  But this.  This is... nice, too. 
 
"Very nice," he whispers back.  She's said that aloud. 
 
"Mulder," she barely manages to say. 
 
"What?" 
 
"I need you--" she begins. 
 
"I need you, too, Scully."  His lips press dry and warm 
against her temple and every nerve ending in her body goes 
on alert. 
 
"No," she hears herself say.  "I need you to listen." 
 
"Mmm-hmm," he murmurs, his kisses moving across her 
eyelids and the bridge of her nose.  Resistance becomes 
more difficult with each contact and if he puts his hands 
on her, she'll be undone. 
 
"Mulder, please stop."  His face pulls back from hers, 
desire and hurt confusion in his eyes.  Her head lolls to 
one side and she drops her eyes.  "You can't say things 
like you did tonight and then do this to me." 
 
Without a word, he steps away.  She drops her head and 
looks at her feet, which never moved the entire time.  She 
hears the snick of his bedroom door.  She looks back up at 
the stained glass panel. 
 
"Damn you," she whispers in the dark. 
 
~~~~~ 
 
Van Helden Residence 6:00 a.m. 
 
Mulder wakes in pre-dawn darkness, his arms thrown around 
the pillow beside him.  In his dreams, the pillow has 
warmth, soft skin and auburn hair.  In reality, it's only a 
pillow.  He pushes it away in disappointment and sitting 
up, throws his legs over the side of the bed.  His hand 
slips beneath the waist band of his pajamas, trying to 
remember her dream image.  It's pathetic.  He's nearly 39 
years old and fantasizing about a woman who desires him, 
but won't let him make love to her.  Nature wins over logic 
and brings relief of sorts. 
 
He rises, body stiff with sleep that has provided little 
rest.  He stretches, appreciating the sweet ache in his 
muscles.  The air is chilled but welcome. Crossing to one 
of the large, mullioned windows, he extends an arm against 
the window molding, the other hand pushing aside heavy 
Irish lace to look out over the rooftop of the conservatory 
and the neighboring houses.  He spies ocean front only a few 
blocks away. 
 
Throwing on a pair of sweats and running shoes, he jogs 
down to the beach.  Narrow-slat redwood fences are already 
in place, erected to protect the salt marsh habitats and 
sand dunes that lay in wait for the annual storms that 
pummel the area in autumn.  Green surf pounds a flat silver 
shoreline, its foam-crested waves flecked with emerald 
kale, broken bits of shell and the desiccated husks of 
horseshoe crabs. 
 
Pink sky and weak sun peek through cloud layer for a brief 
time before the drab day lightens the taupe sand and gray- 
blue ocean. He's seen the Pacific, San Diego style--deep 
blue stretching to eternity, sun-bleached beaches dotted 
with starfish and conch and the hulks of black rock jutting 
from the sea like ancient teeth.  Not so the Atlantic, 
especially as cool weather approaches.  It pleases him, his 
preference determined by youthful memory and a penchant for 
the melancholy. 
 
He runs.  Thoughts rise as the steady pumping of his legs 
forces oxygen into his sleep-muddled brain to make sense of 
things.  Make sense of last night.  He knows he's pissed 
Scully off with his behavior at dinner and his comments 
about Julian.  But, more to the point, it was probably his 
comments about the work that upset her most.  He isn't 
exactly sure how he hurt her, but he regrets his hasty 
words nonetheless. 
 
He is certain of only one thing.  She wanted him.  He 
knows it from the very way she denied him.  Yet, she still 
keeps distance in her mind, even when their bodies are so 
close.  He wants her body, of course.  But even more so, he 
wants her mind, her soul, her heart. He wants it all.  When 
hasn't he? 
 
~~~~~ 
 
Southold Precinct 
 
The Taurus snakes through morning traffic heading into 
Southold. Scully told him at breakfast that Guarino was 
accompanying her to Stony Brook to see what Allison Jorge 
might tell them.  Their conversation had been terse, 
limited to the case, with no mention of their 'almost' 
assignation.  He dislikes the brooding silence between them. 
 
The car radio sputters and Mulder scans through several 
stations before stopping at the voice of a newscaster, 
"...weather advisory from the National Weather Service is 
being issued for Eastern Long Island and Southern 
Connecticut."  A cutaway sound byte tells him about 
Tropical Storm Giselle scouring up the Jersey shore. 
 
Mulder peers up at the sky through the windshield at 
increasing cloud cover.  A single raindrop slaps the glass 
and he grimaces.  He hates rain.  He especially hates 
working in the rain.  But, what he hates most of all is 
working in the rain without Scully. 
 
At the Southold precinct, he finds Detective Niebler 
enjoying his morning bagel and coffee.  Mulder catches his 
eye over the folder he's reading.  Niebler looks up.  "How 
ya doin'?" the man asks with a good-natured smile. "Coffee?" 
 
Mulder holds up a hand and remains standing.  "I'm good. 
Where's the sketcher?" 
 
"Upstairs.  Where's your partner?" 
 
"On her way to see Allison Jorge with Nick Guarino." 
 
"Ha."  Niebler shakes his head.  "Man, that guy needs a 
vacation." He chuckles to himself. 
 
Mulder likes the easy-going cop.  "Maybe I'll join him," 
he commiserates, flopping into the hard chair opposite 
Niebler's desk. 
 
"Rough week?" 
 
"Rough night." 
 
"Ahh," Niebler replies with a knowing smile.  "She's 
pissed at you." 
 
"Who?" 
 
"Your partner." 
 
"Scully?" 
 
"Look, it's none of my business, but I've been there.  
Hey, I married my partner and now she works out of 
Mattituck.  I miss working together." 
 
"It's not what you think." 
 
"The hell it ain't." 
 
Mulder likes Niebler, but his personal life is just that.  
He keeps his face neutral and leans forward to grabs the 
manila folder on the desk marked "Jorge, Allison - 92800."  
Mulder scans a page or two, then lifts his eyes.  "So, what 
do *you* think is going on here?" 
 
Niebler runs a hand over his mouth and walks to a wall map 
of the East End.  The twin forks jut their fin tails far 
from the main island.  Long Island Sound lies north, the 
Atlantic Ocean south and east.  Peconic Bay fills the space 
between the forks with Southold and Sag Harbor watching 
each other across the water, while Shelter Island and its 
ferries span the gap. 
 
"Looking at the history, the victims *do* all live on the 
bay."   His finger blazes a trail around the inner 
perimeter as he rattles off, "Sag Harbor, Noyack, North 
Sea, Jamesport, New Suffolk, Southold." 
 
Mulder's eyes narrow as he follows.  "And the abductions 
began on..." He checks the folder.  "September 15th, after 
Labor Day and a week before the equinox." 
 
"So?  What's the equinox got to do with it?" 
 
"It's a significant date to the UNSUB.  I'm thinking he's 
given himself a two-week time frame to carry out his plan.  
I'm just wondering if there isn't some shared event that 
triggered the series." 
 
"It's possible.  Labor Day around these parts is a big 
deal.  Lots of end o'season barbecues and parties." 
 
Mulder puts down the folder and approaches the map.  He 
taps at a spot.  "Sag Harbor a popular place?" 
 
"Sure. It's touristy, especially on a holiday." 
 
Mulder nods.  "I think it's time we see how our witness is 
faring." 
 
"Let's go," Niebler replies. 
 
They climb to the third floor and walk to a small room 
where a woman sits with a sketchpad shading in the face of 
the suspected kidnapper. The girl that sits beside her is 
small, dark-skinned, with a single heavy braid down her 
back.  Mulder recognizes her from the day before.  It's 
Mariana. 
 
He rounds the table and his eyes widen when he takes a 
look at the emerging sketch.  He's about to speak, when the 
girl sees him.  "I see him," she says in a hushed tone.  
"Is dark, but he look familiar." 
 
"This man?"  Niebler points to the sketch.  "You've seen 
him before?" Mariana nods and looks back at Mulder. 
 
"With Miss Olly," she says.  "He come to the house a few 
times.  She very worried.  I very worried for *her.*  Then 
last night, I am walking Cuco on the beach and I see him 
again." 
 
Niebler asks Mulder, "You know her?" 
 
They exchange glances and Mulder nods.  "You could say 
that," he replies before turning back to the girl.  
"Mariana," he says in a soft tone.  "Tell me what you saw." 
 
She points to the sketch, her voice more confident.  "I 
see *this* man coming from the ocean, carrying a woman.  I 
think she is dead.  I think he will see me, pero, he don't. 
He put the woman on the beach and goes back to the ocean.  
Then he is gone." 
 
Niebler interjects, "You said that last night, too.  What 
do you mean, gone?  He swam away?" 
 
She looks at Niebler.  "No.  I tell you, pero, you don't 
listen.  He is gone.  *He disappear.*  I don't see him 
again.  E vero.  He must be dead, too." 
 
"Whadya think?" Niebler asks. 
 
The agent holds up the portrait and says, "I think I'm 
finally getting lucky." 
 
"Huh?  You recognize him?"  Mulder nods.  "Who is it?" 
 
"A Southampton college professor." 
 
"Not my jurisdiction, but Southampton is cool with us." 
 
"Don't bother.  This one's mine."  Mulder hands back the 
sketch and turns, heading towards the door. 
 
"Where ya going?" Niebler calls after him. 
 
Mulder doesn't turn when he rejoins, "Fishin'." 
 
~~~~~ 
 
Conservatory, Van Helden Residence 9:30 a.m. 
 
"There now, that's better, isn't it?"  Olivia Van Helden 
lifts the clay pot from the planter's bench and places it 
on the shelf sitting at eye level.  She grabs a second pot 
and proceeds to examine the small, bright orange blooms for 
signs of parasite or blight. Satisfied with the visual 
inspection, she pours cool rice water over the semi-exposed 
roots.  Barber's "Adagio for Strings" drifts through the 
moisture-laden space and Olly stops for a moment as a 
poignant passage tugs at her.  She closes her eyes and 
listens, the music's emotional character affecting her. 
 
"I thought you preferred the Romantics." 
 
Olly starts and spins in place to find Julian Oracoff 
standing not three feet away, an inscrutable look on his 
face.  She sighs. 
 
"You startled me." 
 
"I apologize.  Where's your housegirl?  I'd like some tea." 
 
"She called in sick today."  Julian nods and steps forward 
to scrutinize the orchids in Olly's hands. 
 
"Laelia cinnabarina.  A lovely specimen, Olivia, although 
I prefer the softer coloration of the Ghillanyi." 
 
"Julian..." 
 
"Of course, the Cinnabarina has a vivid character that 
appeals to some." 
 
"Julian, stop."  He looks her in the eye. 
 
"Do we have a problem?" 
 
"Yes, *we* have a problem." 
 
He sighs and moves away from her, pushing through the 
overgrown ferns that flank the walkway to the seating area. 
He lowers himself into the cushions of the club chair and 
extends his legs, allowing his head to drop back onto his 
shoulders. 
 
Olly follows, uncertain how to begin.  Julian's eyes are 
closed and he looks elegant, reclined in the chair.  His 
pale linen blazer offsets darker gabardine trousers and 
hand-sewn calfskin loafers. Olly recognizes the attitude of 
wealth.  The Van Heldens date back to the earliest Dutch 
settlements in the area, but she's never allowed either 
lineage or good fortune to distance her from those around 
her who were less fortunate.  
 
She stands over him and says with some authority, "We need 
to talk." Julian's eyes are slits as they regard her.  He 
waits a few moments, then pulls himself upright. 
 
She pulls the matching chair over to his and sits 
opposite, nearly knee-to-knee.  "Julian, you must stop 
now."  He's silent.  "Someone is going to die and I won't 
be party to that." 
 
He studies his manicured nails.  "Olivia, you worry too 
much." 
 
"Do I?  And what should I say to the FBI who are staying 
in this very house?  I'm not a deceitful person." 
 
Julian looks at her, gray eyes made lighter by the soft 
illumination that infuses the space.  "What have you told 
them?" 
 
"Nothing that implicates you.  But I cannot, I will not, 
protect you forever." 
 
He leans forward and takes her hands into his.  Looking 
into her worried eyes, he says, "Olivia, you know you're 
the only one who understands.  I can't help myself." 
 
"You *must* try," she tells him in a plaintive tone.  
"When will it end?" 
 
"When I find her," he states.  He pushes back his chair 
and, dropping Olly's hands, rises.  He walks across the 
patio and turns.  His words are deliberate.  "There is... a 
presence in this area.  I can't pinpoint it, but *she* is 
here.  I feel it.  I will find her, Olivia, and we will 
reunite in the sacred waters as we must." 
 
Olly stands and approaches him.  "I'm sorry, Julian.  I 
simply can't be a part of this any longer."  She moves past 
him, heading towards the entry to the house. 
 
"Who will believe you?" he calls after her, causing her to 
stop and face him again.  He takes a few steps towards her. 
"Yes, who?  That fool Guarino?  The government's watchdogs? 
No one will listen." 
 
"I wouldn't be so sure about that." 
 
His eyes narrow.  "Besides, you'd be considered an 
accomplice for not coming forward sooner." 
 
"I've thought about that, but I don't care." 
 
"But you *should* care, Olivia."  Julian's voice drops in 
timbre and pitch.  "You *should* care because you must 
realize that I cannot allow anything or anyone to interfere 
with my quest."  His hand moves slowly to the unbuttoned 
collar of his shirt.  Olly tries to discern his purpose, 
but finds her eyes locked on his. 
 
"Your quest is becoming a dangerous mission," she tells 
him.  "When I first found you, dazed and shivering in here 
after that first time, I helped you because I felt sorry 
for you.  And then, later, because I believed you.  You 
*are* driven to these acts, but I never expected it to go 
this far or affect so many.  I will tell, Julian.  I will 
tell Nick Guarino and agents Mulder and Scully what I know 
about you." 
 
His voice is soft, hypnotic, slow when he whispers, 
"You'll tell no one."  Her eyes drop from his to where his 
shirt lay unbuttoned, bright whiteness filling her range of 
sight.  Then darkness. 
 
 
 
ACT THREE 
 
En Route 11:45 a.m. 
 
The ground is sodden with rain when Mulder leaves the 
precinct, cloud cover thick overhead.  It's nearly noon, 
but the darkening sky fails to reflect it.  Yesterday's 
warmth is gone.  A cold, sudden gust presses his leather 
jacket against his back.  He watches the wind whip through 
a birch, twisting perfect yellow leaves from their moorings 
into a mini-vortex on the sidewalk.  He pulls the door of 
the car closed with a solid thud and points the Taurus east 
towards the Shelter Island ferries. 
 
His cell phone rings.  "Mulder." 
 
"I have good news and bad news, Mulder," Scully says 
without any trace of humor.  "Which do you want first?" 
 
"To quote a nice, Long Island girl, Scully: 'hit me with 
your best shot.'"  He keeps his tone light, hoping to ease 
the tension that hums through the unit. 
 
"Allison Jorge is still unconscious and her doctors don't 
know when that will change." 
 
"What's the good news?" 
 
"That is the good news.  The bad news is there's a major 
storm moving into the area." 
 
"I heard that on the radio.  How is Allison Jorge being 
unconscious good news?" 
 
"Because we got back to town early and I had a chance to 
do a little more digging.  Allison Jorge is married to 
Wilson Jorge, a free-lance journalist for the Sag Harbor 
Times.  I spoke to Mr. Jorge and he wanted to know if I 
thought it was coincidental that all the women abducted had 
been in Sag Harbor on Labor Day."   
 
Mulder perks up.  "Were they?" 
 
"Yes, they were.  All in attendance at a lecture hosted at 
the Mystic Bookshop, Mulder.  Guess who the speaker was." 
 
"The Naughty Professor?"  He swears he can feel her 
grudging smile. 
 
"I'm reading you the promo advertisement.  'Science and 
myth merge at our next Mystic roundtable when Dr. Julian 
Oracoff, professor of marine biology and environmental 
science at Southampton University reveals the mysteries of 
Atlantis.'" 
 
"That puts him in direct contact with every victim prior 
to the abductions, Scully.  And I just saw what looks like 
a portrait of Julian from our eyewitness on Jorge." 
 
"I'm heading to the campus right now to arrest him." 
 
"I have his address.  I'm going there for further evidence." 
 
"We don't have a search warrant." 
 
"But we have probable cause.  Put Oracoff in the tank and 
meet me there with the papers."  Silence ensues for 
several, long seconds. Then come Scully's words. 
 
"You were right, Mulder." 
 
"Hey, it was your catch that tied it together." 
 
"Guess that means you're not working alone." 
 
His throat aches and his eyes soften.  "Don't even suggest 
it," he murmurs.  He thumbs the phone off and opens the map 
of Eastern Suffolk on the seat beside him.  The mist on the 
windshield consolidates into droplets and he switches on 
the headlights and the wipers just as the skies open again. 
 
~~~~~ 
 
The required ferry crossings and drive through Shelter 
Island and its southern companion would be pretty if the 
sun were shining or if he cared.  One or the other.  As it 
is, he's restless as he always is just before a bust.  The 
roads are slick, traffic reduced to a crawl through the 
small towns that flank Route 114.  The swi-ka-slap, ski-ka- 
slap of the wipers keeps time in his head, a slow 
counterpoint to the fireflash of neurons sparking in his 
cerebrum. 
 
Julian's cryptic remark about the Roman's seventh month 
still nags at him.  The creature has abducted one woman 
every three days since the fifteenth.  September is the 
seventh month in the early Roman calendar and 'end-turn' 
suggests the thirtieth as the final day the Atlantean 
portal will be open.  Mulder hypothesizes that Oracoff will 
abduct another woman on that day in a last ditch attempt at 
communion.  But calendars have changed over the centuries. 
 
He finds himself on autopilot while he drives, his inner 
eye searching personal databanks of information remarkably 
accessible to his eidetic memory.  Images of ancient 
calendars: Mayan, Chinese, Egyptian and Gregorian rise in 
Technicolor glory, each fading into the next until the 
Roman calendar appears.  He holds the image of that 
particular calendar while snippets of text play like 
subliminal audio tapes: kalendae, lunar, 10/355 and an 
obscure mnemonic phrase, "Fifty Mules May Jostle the 
Ostler," which reminds him that except for February, March, 
May, July and October, all the remaining months have twenty- 
nine days.  Twenty-nine. 
 
Today is the 29th of September. 
 
Apprehension tingles like spray over his skin as Mulder 
realizes another abduction will occur before midnight.  
Scully is on her way to arrest him.  Good.  Or maybe not.  
The professor's undue attention to her may be nothing more 
than fascination, but Mulder isn't convinced it's not more 
devious than that.  He reflects on his partner's safety and 
nearly turns west towards Southampton when he hits Route 
27, then cans the idea.  He's just escaped the doghouse for 
not granting her credence.  Besides, she's with Guarino and 
will have plenty of backup.  She can take care of herself. 
 
He turns eastward toward Montauk with Scully on his mind.  
The houses thin and the rain eases.  Sand dunes mark his 
left and the vast stretch of the sea, his right.  Mulder 
switches on the radio, searching for something besides 
weather updates.  Giselle  promises to be noteworthy based 
on the damage being reported from southern latitudes.  The 
gloom of the day and the news depresses him and he pauses 
as the dark acoustics of a guitar capture his ear... 
 
...shouldn't be so complicated... 
 
But it always is.  Mothmen, mermen, madmen.  What 
difference does it make?  In a world of universal 
invariants, they are just random elements, with Scully as 
the ultimate, unstable isotope.  She withholds and gives 
herself with equanimity, a tantalizing paradox of belief 
and denial, virtue and sin.  
 
...started out clean but I'm jaded... 
 
With no hope of a reprieve and no desire for one, either.  
Fucking Sir Galahad he's not.  He's just a man trying to be 
strong but sensitive, close but unstifling, carnal but 
pure.  Jesus, Scully. He's not *him* either. 
 
...can you help me, I'm bent...I'm so scared...this is how 
we will end... 
 
He snaps off the sound and takes the appropriate turnoff 
onto a private road.  Topography changes and he's riding 
atop a rising crest that drops off to his right.  He finds 
the mailbox for No. 4416 standing as sentinel at the top of 
weathered wood steps that disappear down the side of the 
cliff.  Pulling the Taurus into dense overgrowth on the 
opposite side of the road, he leaves the car and heads down 
the stairs. 
 
The bungalow is small, nondescript and in need of a fresh 
coat of paint.  Considering Julian's expensive taste and 
fancy manners, Mulder is surprised, but only for a moment.  
The house is shielded from view by the rising cliff and 
dunes surrounding it, making it a perfect refuge for 
someone with something to hide. 
 
Mulder's sneakers sink into the sand as he rounds the back 
of the cottage.  He sidles along one wall until he stands 
poised by the corner at the front of the house.  He checks 
for evidence of an occupant, then steps out onto a small 
deck. 
 
The front door is flung wide, open to the sea and the 
sand.  What draws his attention, however, is a figure at 
the water's edge some 30 yards beyond.  Julian Oracoff 
stands naked, his back to Mulder, his feet in the surf.  He 
spreads his arms wide, palms turned upward.  A few, still 
moments pass and they return to his side.  He wades into 
the surf grown rough with the impending storm.  All at 
once, he dives without warning.  Mulder watches for a head 
to emerge just beyond the foamy waves that pelt the shore.  
He waits... and waits... and waits. Finally, a small splash 
alerts him to a spot far beyond the breakers, beyond any 
place where a human being should be. 
 
Mulder is a strong swimmer but as he assesses the odds of 
anyone being capable of swimming that far, that fast, a 
small thrill ripples through him.  He pulls himself away 
from watching the distant figure to enter the house.  A 
single large room with a small kitchen and bath set to one 
side comprise the entire living space. 
 
He searches for evidence, coming up empty until he reaches 
a heavy pine table nestled into a rear corner, beneath 
plate glass windows overlooking the side and back of the 
house.  The surface is covered with books, papers, rolls of 
what look to be sea maps, a spyglass and other assorted 
items indicating research and study into maritime pursuits. 
 
Mulder pulls latex gloves from his jeans pocket and dons 
them before shuffling through the pages.  He unrolls a map 
and discovers one marked with odd handwritten runes beside 
what appear to be longitude and latitude indicators and 
sextant markings.  A glint of gold catches his eye and he 
pulls a gold nameplate from between the sheets, holding it 
up before his eyes.  It reads "Mallory." 
 
He bags the necklace and continues to explore, his 
interest diverted by the unusual assortment.  He thumbs 
through several books, pausing here and there to take in a 
passage about Egyptian hieroglyphics or a few words from an 
Aramaic-English dictionary.  His cursory perusal stops upon 
finding a slim sheaf of paper hand-bound on one side with 
grassy twine, strange runes embossed on the fragile cover.  
He recognizes the material as papyrus.  Between the 
bindings are sheets filled with strange marks and drawings 
of machines that seem familiar somehow, despite their alien 
appearance. 
 
So engrossed is he that he fails to notice the figure that 
enters the house on silent footsteps.  The creature 
approaches and at last, a sixth sense tells Mulder he is 
not alone.  He turns to meet the eyes of Julian Oracoff, 
hair slicked back, body beaded with seawater, a faraway 
look in his eyes. 
 
Mulder moves to grab his weapon, then takes a step 
backwards in mute silence, stunned as his eyes drop along 
the man's form to find in the center of Julian's chest a 
third eye, open and blinking. 
 
"Gar'n far vinesh.  Sindu orrishma v'tosh," Julian intones. 
 
"Oracoff, listen to me," Mulder says, his gaze returning 
to look into the creature's human eyes.  "You don't have to 
do this.  I can help you." 
 
"V'tosh," is the creature's response, shaking his head.  
"V'tosh." He advances towards Mulder, central eye blazing. 
 
~~~~~ 
 
Sag Harbor, Sheriff's Office 5:50 p.m. 
 
News of Giselle fills the radio waves.  The rain and wind 
that precede her grand passage across the East End swell 
and abate at uneven intervals.  The streets are filled with 
residents scurrying to prepare for power outages often 
triggered by such weather. 
 
Cover breaks for a few minutes and a tangerine sky peeks 
through smoke-blue clouds, their undersides stained with 
sunset's glory. Scully pulls into a vacant spot in front of 
the neo-Georgian façade of the station house and exits the 
car.  Her mouth is set in a tight line, her focus and 
concern evident.  She climbs the stone steps with purpose 
in search of Detective Guarino. 
 
"Agent Scully?" a familiar voice calls from behind.  
Scully turns at the top of the stairs to see Olly climbing 
to meet her.  The older woman approaches and stops several 
steps below the petite agent, to better meet her eyes.  
"Have you heard from Agent Mulder?" 
 
"No, not for hours." 
 
"I'm very worried for him.  Do you know where he's gone?" 
 
"Julian's."  She heads off Olly's reply.  "We know about 
his connection to the book shop and the abductees, Olly.  
I'm not sure what your part in this is, but I think it's 
time you told me." 
 
Olly's gray eyes grow troubled and she places a hand on 
Scully's arm. "He can't help himself.  He doesn't mean 
harm, but the Marimorph is driven by a biological 
imperative and I'm afraid he'll stop at nothing." 
 
"You're saying Julian is the Marimorph."  Scully's 
skepticism colors her words. 
 
"Yes." 
 
Scully's eyes narrow as she takes in the fact that Olly 
believes this story.  "Do you know where he is?" 
 
"Not at the moment, no."  Scully can see the conflicted 
emotions in the woman's eyes and while she doesn't 
understand her reasons for protecting him, she understands 
the feeling behind the action.  "He... came to see me this 
morning.  I told him I'd tell you about his complicity in 
the abductions.  He overpowered me." 
 
Concern for the older woman flashes across Scully's face.  
"Did he hurt you?" 
 
"Not physically.  I'm not sure what happened, to tell you 
the truth. I can't seem to remember." 
 
The truth resonates deep within Scully.  Of course.  How 
could she not have seen it before?  All at once, the 
concept of lost time begins to make sense, as do her own 
befuddled thinking and uncharacteristic passivity in 
Julian's presence. 
 
"He wasn't at the university," she tells the older woman.  
"I was there today and they told me he didn't have classes." 
 
"No, he wouldn't be there today.  It's the 29th -- the 
last day." 
 
Julian's words about the time frame for the portals spring 
to mind. Scully leads Olly up the remaining steps, guiding 
them towards the illuminated entry.  "I need your help." 
 
"I'll do whatever I can." 
 
"Find Nick Guarino.  Tell him we have evidence tying 
Julian to at least one abduction.  Tell him I have a search 
warrant for his house and I'm heading there now." 
 
"The Marimorph is a clever creature, Agent Scully.  He'll 
escape you any way he can.  Probably by water." 
 
"Tell Guarino that."  Olly hesitates for only a moment, 
then grabs Scully by the shoulders. 
 
"I will.  You find Mulder.  He's in danger." 
 
Scully remains calm, her inner anxiety contained only 
through years of practiced experience. 
 
"I know," she says. 
 
~~~~~ 
 
Hampton Beachfront 
 
Several unsuccessful attempts at reaching Mulder's cell 
have Scully's radar on full-sweep.  She's accustomed to 
being out of touch for long stretches of time, but Olly's 
words disturb her. Headlights flash on the 4416 carved into 
the wooden mailbox post 20 feet ahead, and she pulls the 
rental off to the shoulder. 
 
She kills the engine and checks her weapon before leaving 
the vehicle.  The private road is nothing more than a 
narrow strip of asphalt cut into the side of a high cliff.  
Without street lights, the crescent moon that peeps from 
behind swift-moving clouds provides scant lighting.  It's 
colder than when she started out and the thin jacket and 
linen trousers she's wearing do little to warm her in the 
wind that blusters around her small form. 
 
Descending the steep stairs, she knuckles the side entry 
with a heavy hand.  Through the window beside the door, she 
observes Julian's approach.  She's nervous, concerned for 
Mulder's safety.  She must ascertain his whereabouts before 
slapping the cuffs on Julian. 
 
Julian's expression upon seeing her is one of surprised 
pleasure. "My dear Dana," he begins.  "How wonderful of you 
to visit me, although I suspect from your expression that 
you're not here on a social call." 
 
"Where's Mulder?" she asks in a low, steady voice. 
 
"Your partner?  I really don't know."  His words seem 
genuine, but she doesn't trust them.  He steps aside and 
gestures for Scully to enter.  She does so in silence, 
turning when she reaches the center of the room. 
 
"Have you been unable to reach him?" Julian inquires.  
Scully doesn't answer, but steps towards the kitchen and 
looks there and through the open bathroom doorway.  Julian 
doesn't object, which heightens her mistrust. 
 
"You know, Dana, I'm very glad you're here tonight.  I 
couldn't have planned it better.  The weather is 
regrettable, but not unexpected. Storms often accompany the 
aperture's closing.  It's a warning of sorts."  He goes on, 
his voice a soothing riff in her head, its mesmerizing 
quality distracting her. 
 
Why is she here?  Mulder, she reminds herself and pushes 
herself to speak.  "Mulder was meeting me here." 
 
"Really?  Well, I'm sorry to inform you that he won't be 
able to make that appointment."  Julian smiles.  And from 
that, Scully understands that Mulder's life is in jeopardy. 
 
If he's even alive. 
 
~~~~~ 
 
Mulder wakes with a pounding headache and a stiff back.  
He's gagged and bound, his wrists and ankles secured by 
thick rope.  He's sitting on a damp cement floor, his cheek 
resting against a rough wooden wall.  Pulling himself into 
an upright position, he looks around. The scent of wet sand 
and ocean and metal assails his nostrils.  He's in a shed 
of some kind. 
 
Grimy moonlight filters through a small, four-paned window 
above his head.  He looks at the assortment of tools that 
fills the small space, looking for something that can slice 
his bindings.  Then he spies it: a scythe poised on a rusty 
nail. 
 
With controlled exertion, he inches his body to where the 
tool hangs. It's in a precarious position, just above him.  
He has to maneuver himself into a kneeling position to gain 
leverage and the effort is exhausting.  His mind keeps 
fighting him, telling him to sleep, to sleep, v'tosh. 
 
That's what Oracoff kept saying, Mulder realizes, although 
he has no idea how he recognizes the word.  Sleep, however, 
is not an option. Raising his wrists above his head, 
against the serrated edge, he rocks them with tentative 
strokes against the blade. The cutter teeters on its iron 
perch, threatening to drop its curved, honed edge atop the 
fettered agent.  He must have patience but all he can think 
is, "Scully will be here soon."  The soft buzz of the blade 
and the faint odor of burnt fiber waft in the dark. 
 
~~~~~ 
 
Oracoff Residence 
 
"Stop right there."  Scully fixes her weapon on Julian, 
who remains in place.  His eyes betray not fear, but 
amusement. 
 
"Really, Dana.  Is this necessary?" 
 
"Just be quiet."  Her external demeanor is calm, even as 
she feels her mind growing clouded.  What is wrong with 
her?  Julian is speaking again and she focuses on his voice. 
 
"I realize you have tender feelings towards your partner 
out of loyalty or camaraderie or even sexual attraction.  
But we're beyond that at this point.  You have a greater 
purpose and tonight you will fulfill your destiny." 
 
"What do you mean, destiny?"  She must stay alert. 
 
"Your rightful place in Atlantis." 
 
His continued serenity in the face of her authority and 
her weapon are congruent with grandiose delusional 
thinking, making him a dangerous wild card.  Yet, even as 
her mind grapples with Julian's insanity and her need to 
find Mulder, she's lulled by the timbre and cadence of his 
words. 
 
"My place," she repeats with a shake of her head, hoping 
to clear the fogginess that escalates without reason. 
 
"Yes.  United with me in the sacred waters, we will 
transfigure, our separate identities coalescing into a 
single form -- our true form --that will enable us to 
travel to the depths of the ocean where we will find haven 
 
 
again."  Julian steps forward, but Scully reasserts her 
grip on her SIG, which had dipped as she listened to his 
fantastic theory. 
 
"Stop right there," she warns, a frantic edge in her voice. 
 
Julian sighs and looks at her as if she were a stubborn 
child. "There's no point in this." 
 
His superior attitude and the growing helplessness she 
feels irks her.  Anger cuts a fiery swath through the 
miasma in her brain and she battles for clarity.  "Is this 
what you told the others?" she challenges.  "This fairy 
tale?" 
 
"You mean the women I honored? They've all been returned, 
alive, relatively unharmed." 
 
"Allison Jorge is in critical care.  If she doesn't make 
it, you'll be facing murder charges as well as kidnapping, 
to say nothing of threatening a federal agent." 
 
"Federal--  you're referring to Mulder?"  She cocks her 
brows at him. "He isn't dead, you know, just disabled." 
 
"What do you mean?" 
 
"He's unharmed, if that's your concern, but he won't be 
interfering." 
 
Her anxiety edges down only a notch.  Her thoughts shift 
from Mulder to Olly.  Has she reached Guarino?  Her 
thoughts shift again to Julian and his motives.  She feels 
distracted and cannot focus.  She slips her hand into her 
pocket, reaching for her cuffs. 
 
"Why these women?" she asks. 
 
"I sensed something in the book shop, the day I met them." 
 
"I wasn't there.  Explain *that.*" 
 
"My intuition isn't foolproof.  But you are connected to 
them somehow, and the sea.  It's a part of you." 
 
"The human body is 95 percent water.  It's a part of all 
of us." 
 
"No," he says, eyes squinting.  "It's more than that.  You 
resonate, much like someone else I know..." His attention 
lapses and Scully seizes the chance to step forward. 
 
Focus returns with a vengeance and he grabs the cuffs from 
her fingers and tosses them aside.  She gasps and backs off 
only inches, but it's enough distraction for Julian to 
snatch her weapon as well. He points the gun at her and 
backs her towards the table until her hips press the edge. 
 
She curses herself for carelessness.  Agents are taught 
early on to watch hands.  She tries to remember basic 
defensive arts but cannot, and her lack of focus alarms and 
dismays her.  She watches Julian's hands now for signs of 
intent. 
 
"It's time to go," he informs her, gun still in his right 
hand while his left unbuttons the denim shirt he wears and 
the light envelops them. 
 
~~~~~ 
 
Once the first cord is severed, Mulder loosens the 
remaining bindings.  He undoes his gag, taking in a deep 
breath, then spits out the taste of cotton and copper.  The 
rope burns on his wrists sting, his knees ache and his head 
hurts.  "Gettin' too old for this shit," he mutters to 
himself.  He glances at his watch -- 8 p.m. 
 
He stands, groaning from the stiffness, sensation restored 
to his limbs in a painful blood rush.  He pulls at the 
door's rusting iron handle.  It doesn't budge.  A second, 
fruitless attempt and he slams his left hand against the 
weathered door frame.  The splintered surface stings his 
palm as he peers out the window to see the back of 
Oracoff's house twenty feet away.  The lights are on and 
questions swirl in his mind.  Is Scully there?  Is she 
safe?  Does she have back-up?  Is Oracoff in custody?  Or, 
knowing the creature's intentions and his tranquilizing 
effect on his victims, is *she* the one in danger? 
 
He pushes aside the trepidation licking his heels and 
grabs a shovel that leans in a corner.  Turning his face 
away, he bashes through the glass with the flat spade.  
Climbing out is awkward and he tumbles to the ground head 
first.  He rises and stumbles as he makes his way towards 
the house.  The side door is unlocked and he enters an 
empty room, the front door still flung wide.  His breathing 
is quick and his brow furrowed with worry.  A quick perusal 
confirms his darker suspicions.  On the table lie Scully's 
cell phone and her gun.  He picks up the weapon and shoves 
it into the waist band of his jeans. He turns and steps 
towards the front door, stopping when he spies her jacket 
and shoes in a small heap beside the entry.   
 
Dread flows like a river as he steps onto the tiny porch.  
That's when he feels a warm wetness on his outer left 
thigh.  He looks down and sees the dark stain of blood 
seeping through the ripped denim. He slips his thumb 
through the jagged tear to assess the wound and presses 
into a gash of some depth.  He winces as he gauges its 
length at five inches.  Damn. 
 
There's no time to dwell on it.  Giselle is beginning her 
pass over the Forks.  The wind whistles in his ears and the 
heavens are nearly opaque with flat clouds, except for a 
sliver of sky at the horizon where a pale sickle moon 
hovers above black water.  An impending, early moonset adds 
to his distress. 
 
Peering out over the water, he notices something else.  
Two figures are knee-deep in the surf, heading out to sea 
on foot.  He recognizes the tall, slender form as Oracoff.  
The smaller, feminine form being tugged along is his 
partner.  Anxiety transforms to anger. 
 
He races towards the ocean, stripping off jacket and tee 
shirt as he goes.  At the water's edge, he yanks off his 
sneakers and socks and strides into the wild surf. 
"Scully!" he calls to the pair that is at least fifty yards 
beyond him, but the wind swallows his cry.  Cold bites 
through the heavy denim and his feet sink into the sandy 
floor. He strides through the breakers that tumble and 
pitch around him, a fierce undertow sucking at his legs. 
 
Low tide.  The ocean floor descends in a slow-gradient as 
he trails the receding figures that have, somehow, 
increased their lead on him. They must be nearing the 
barrier shelf, where the land drops off into the abyss.  
Once past the raucous waves, Mulder dives into waist-high 
water and begins to stroke towards the pair.  His body 
temperature adjusts to the chill Atlantic waters and he 
pours his energy into reaching Julian and Scully.  After 
several minutes of steady pulling, he stops, his feet just 
able to touch bottom as the water surges above his 
shoulders. 
 
"Scully!" he calls again to the man and woman now within 
earshot. His voice carries and they pause.  Oracoff turns, 
holding Scully against him as he keeps her head above 
water.  She is listless in his grasp, face turned downward. 
Mulder navigates until he is only a few yards from them.  
"Scully," he calls again and her head lifts towards the 
sound of his voice.  Oracoff turns back towards open water, 
dragging Scully with him. 
 
"Oracoff! Stop, you bastard, or I will shoot you." 
 
He complies and turns to reface Mulder, who stands with 
the water at his chin, weapon held above the surface.  
Julian holds Scully before him like a shield, her face 
level with his as they both watch Mulder.  
 
"Scully?" Mulder queries, watching her eyes and taking 
hope from the spark of lucidity he sees emerging there.  
Darkness falls as the moon sets and the rain begins to fall. 
 
"Do you really think you can stop me?" Oracoff inquires in 
an affected manner.  "Aside from your useless weapon, 
you're human --with inadequate biology, an inferior mind 
and a complete lack of appreciation for this woman and her 
potential." 
 
Mulder's fear for Scully's safety is magnified tenfold as 
the water swirls around them and the rain escalates.  He'd 
attempt a shot if he could get a clear line of sight.  
Meanwhile, his soul wrestles with the creature's words. 
 
"Getting a little personal, aren't we?" he tosses off with 
as much glibness as he can muster. 
 
"Mulder!" Scully calls, her voice faint but assured.  
Mulder still maintains his bead on Oracoff in spite of the 
night, the weather and the prospect that the weapon may not 
fire after submersion. 
 
"Are you okay?" he asks her. 
 
"Yes." 
 
"She's perfectly fine, Mr. Mulder.  Just like the others.  
Only she isn't going to be returned." 
 
"What are you talking about?" 
 
"Dana is going home tonight.  To her rightful home." 
 
"To Atlantis.  Is that what you're telling me?"  Mulder's 
sarcasm is tinged with curiosity.  "You think she's your 
soul mate?" 
 
 
"Mulder, he's insane," Scully says in a quiet voice. 
 
"I know what he is, Scully, and he isn't going anywhere." 
 
Oracoff interjects, "I suggest you head back now, before 
the storm worsens.  The undertow is shifting.  I wouldn't 
want to be held responsible--" 
 
At that moment, Scully pushes against him, hard, 
attempting to escape his clutches.  Her timing and 
unexpected behavior gains her freedom, except for the 
vise-like grip Oracoff keeps on her wrist. The sound of an 
approaching boat can be heard above the wind and rain. 
 
"Guarino," Scully calls to Mulder. 
 
"What?" Oracoff snarls and pulls her back towards him. She 
thrashes against him and he wails in anguish, "You would 
betray me?"  His hands grasp her shoulders and he plunges 
her beneath the surface. 
 
Mulder ditches the gun and dives forward.  Coming up from 
underneath, he forces himself between the two.  Oracoff 
releases Scully as they break the surface and she pushes 
free, choking and gasping for breath.  Mulder tries to pin 
the creature's arms behind him, but his hands slip along 
slick skin.  He feels a sharp tug on his legs and has but a 
moment to grab a lungful of air before being yanked beneath 
the dark water. 
 
He struggles with Oracoff who holds his torso, face down, 
in the vise-like grip of his legs below the surface, his 
hands pinned behind his back.  Mulder twists and turns, but 
cannot gain leverage.  His lungs ache, his eyes burn and 
his head pounds.  The first trickle of cold seawater fills 
his mouth and the faces of Scully, Samantha and his mother 
flash through his mind as the dark edge of unconsciousness 
slips forward. 
 
All at once, the pressure around his waist is gone, as is 
Julian. Instinct kicks him to the surface and he's gasping 
for air, surrounded by a circle of white light.  A 
motorboat chutters close by and he squints into the 
brightness. 
 
"Mulder?" Guarino shouts from deck. "Scully!" 
 
Mulder scans the choppy surface around him, panting and 
coughing. Rain pelts the water, sending spray back up into 
his face even as the rain batters him from above.  He spies 
a flash of movement and the sound of moving water to his 
left.  He gulps and pivots in place, his footing gone.  He 
expects Oracoff.  Instead, Scully swims past.  She stops 
and turns back to him.  "Come on," she says in a breathless 
rush and he follows. 
 
They are still ten yards out from the side of the boat, 
when he feels the current shift.  It isn't natural.  And 
it's very strong. "Scully!" Mulder cries and she stops 
again, treading water.  He feels the upsurge of cold 
current wrapping around his legs, pulling him away from the 
boat, away from the light, away from Scully. 
 
"Mulder!" Scully yells, but her voice is distant in his 
ears as he is sucked into a slow-turning liquid vortex.  
"Mulder!" he hears again, closer.  And then she's there 
with him, holding on to him, keeping his head above water. 
 
They battle the current, their strength ebbing in a steady 
stream as they keep one another surfaced.  He feels 
Scully's grasp on him weakening and his left leg is 
throbbing.  He's lost all sense of direction, knowing only 
that he must keep awake, keep kicking to the surface.  They 
must stay alive. 
 
The life preserver that splashes to his right is a welcome 
sight. Mulder reaches out and seizes it, holding onto 
Scully with his left arm.  He draws her forward and she 
grabs onto the large orange ring. The water still drags at 
them, but inch by inch, they feel the tug of the rescue 
line bringing them closer to the vessel, until they are 
alongside the drop ladder with Guarino and Olly helping 
them up and onto the foredeck. 
 
The rain stops and streaks of starlit indigo emerge 
between the thinning clouds.  They collapse, side by side, 
onto a hard-molded bench that juts from the inside wall of 
the boat.  Guarino approaches, blankets in hand.  His grave 
expression reveals how awful they look.  Mulder wraps one 
around Scully's trembling frame.  He drops to one knee to 
tuck the second around her legs.  He looks up into her eyes 
and says, "We gotta get you dry." 
 
"Y-you," she stammers back in a whisper, tremors wracking 
her body. 
 
He'd been warm in the water, adrenaline pumping, but the 
cooler air following the storm front nips at his clammy 
skin and the wound in his leg burns.  A tight shiver 
overtakes him.  
"Here," Guarino says, removing his squall jacket and 
handing it to Mulder, who doffs and zippers it with a 
grateful nod.  "Oracoff?" 
 
"I dunno," Mulder replies, looking up at the detective.  "I 
lost him." 
 
From the opposite end of the boat, Mulder hears Olly 
calling for Oracoff, over and over.  He peers through the 
gloom to see her clutching the sides of the skiff, leaning 
forward, over the water. She's removed her storm jacket and 
the dark turtleneck and jeans she's wearing cling to her 
narrow figure.  Her dark gray tresses curl black around her 
shoulders and in the half-lit space, she seems much younger 
than the seventy-odd years she's spent on terra firma. 
 
Guarino turns towards her with a shake of his head.  "I 
don't see how he could have survived." 
 
"I wouldn't be so sure." 
 
Guarino turns to question Mulder's cryptic response, when 
a sudden splash causes both men to turn portside with a 
start. 
 
"Olivia," says Guarino meeting Mulder's eyes.  They rush 
to the side. The detective casts the spotlight in a wide 
sweep across the ever-moving surface.  They spot Olly, 
making steady headway towards the vortex that continues to 
spiral in a slow turn just beyond the reach of the boat. 
 
"Olly!" Mulder yells.  "Come back!  You'll never find 
him," he shouts.  He looks back at Guarino, who is removing 
his gun holster.  
 
"I'm going after her," Guarino says, heading back to the 
drop ladder. Mulder grabs the spotlight, focusing its beam 
on the elderly woman who strokes away from them with 
unusual agility and vigor.  He grapples for balance as the 
boat is captured in the outermost edge of the maelstrom and 
he's pitched against the side of the boat. 
 
Regaining his balance, he looks at Guarino who stands 
poised to dive, but seems frozen in place.  His expression 
is one of disbelief as he stares at the water.  Mulder 
shifts his gaze to where he remembers Olly being and 
exhales his breath in a rush. 
 
The sea is growing lighter. 
In an ever-widening circle around the boat, dark water is  
shifting tone. Black turns greenish-gray, then deep emerald.  
Mulder grips the side of the boat and calls out, "Scully,  
you gotta see this."  He glances back at her, but she is  
huddled beneath her cocoon of blankets.  He turns back,  
unable to resist the lure of the spectacle unfolding before  
him. 
 
The verdant waters continue to transmute, green morphing 
suddenly into aquamarine and turquoise combined.  And  
then he sees it -- a glowing form rising from beneath. Olly 
sees it too, he surmises, because she stops swimming and 
simply waits. 
 
The luminous being rises, refracting light through the 
water in arcing ripples of gold that scatter as they 
disperse into the surrounding brine.  It breaks the surface 
without sound or effort close to where Olly treads water.  
She reaches a tentative hand out to it and a luminescent 
limb mirrors her action.  Fingers, or what Mulder assumes 
are fingers, touch her hand.  He is mesmerized, unable to 
look away. 
 
The image turns vaporous and he squints, then blinks 
several times before he realizes he's staring through a 
thick haze that rises and settles all around them with 
eerie swiftness.  He strains to see the watery pair, but 
they are cloaked in a mantle of mist.  The lights off the 
boat reflect back only impenetrable whiteness as fog 
billows over the deck. 
 
Mulder closes his eyes and drops his head onto his arms in 
weariness. He knows they will never see Julian or Olivia 
again. 
 
~~~~~ 
 
EPILOGUE 
 
Saturday, 9/30  
Sag Harbor Marina  
11:00 a.m. 
 
The azure sky is cloudless and sunlight skitters on the 
surface of the bay, fracturing into brilliant shards 
wherever it alights. Sailboats point their canvas wings 
into the wind like so much oragami on the harbor, enjoying 
the brisk winds that trail in Giselle's wake. The 
occasional motorboat putters out from the marina. 
 
Scully stands at the edge of the dock, taking in the 
tranquil scene that belies the prior evening's chaos.  She 
remembers confronting Julian, then losing consciousness 
until she heard Mulder's voice calling her name.  Then she 
was in the sea, being held against her will and battling 
for her life, and his.  Their rescue is a blur. She was 
diagnosed with minor hypothermia and held for observation 
overnight.  Her blood chemistry was unaffected and her 
heart betrayed no irregularities.  Even so, it will be some 
time before she feels truly warm again. 
 
She wraps her arms around herself, fingers plying the 
softness of the alpaca ruana that drapes around her in fawn- 
colored folds.  Mulder's extravagant and unexpected gift 
gives her pause.  He can irritate her to insensibility with 
his arrogance, his propensity to embrace myth over fact and 
his subtle manipulations.  He can also dazzle her with 
random acts of kindness, leaps of intuition, and the more 
overt expressions of his feelings for her.  He'd needed 
sutures for a nasty gash on his thigh, but she'd yet to 
hear him complain about it.  She senses his presence behind 
her without seeing him. 
 
"Coast Guard still hasn't found any trace of them," he 
says in a straightforward manner. 
 
"They're gone, Mulder.  And we're done here." 
 
"I gave Guarino my report, our report."  She nods as she 
follows the swoop and cry of terns and gulls that beset an 
incoming trawler.  "At least they're together." 
 
"In death?" she says, considering how easily they might 
have ended up like Olivia, like Julian, like the cargo 
heading into harbor.  Her tone must betray her cynicism. 
 
"In life, Scully," he refutes.  "I know what I saw and 
yeah, I think they realized their destiny together.  I know 
you don't believe in the idea of a soul mate, but there 
*are* animals that mate for life, you know.  The wolf, the 
gorilla, even swans and geese." 
 
"That's instinct, not choice."  Deepening intimacy with 
Mulder is proving as difficult a task as she always 
imagined it would be, wounded psyches held captive behind 
protective walls.  The glimpses into what might be, 
however, keep her on course towards a future she cannot 
imagine without him.  "Still," she adds, her voice 
softening, "I *do* think we're where we're supposed to be, 
to learn what we're supposed to learn." 
 
"That's pretty Zen for a scientist."  She can see his 
amused smile in her mind's eye. 
 
"Did you know the word science comes from the Latin word 
'scire,' to know?  That's all science is.  A way to know 
something--a method." 
 
"And what does science say about the possibility of 
soulmates?" 
 
"It says nothing, Mulder, because there's no way to prove 
it.  
 
But..." she adds as an afterthought, then pauses. 
 
"But?"  His tone is laced with curiosity. 
 
"I suppose that assuming everything can even be explained 
by science is a presupposition that begs further inquiry." 
 
"Are you saying the idea of soulmates is a possibility?" 
 
She hesitates a moment, then says, "As a choice, Mulder.  
Not instinct." 
 
She feels him step closer behind her, the weight of his 
hands on either side of her shoulders.  They stand just so 
for several seconds and then she turns to face him.  He 
drops his hands and she looks up. His eyes are serious, 
greener than usual with the refracted blue of the water and 
sky around them. 
 
"You promised me a walk on the beach," she reminds him in 
a soft voice. 
 
"So I did.  Still interested?" 
 
She grabs his hand.  "Always.  I just need another minute." 
 
"I'll be waiting," he says, then turns towards the car. 
 
She allows the loss of his presence to impact and watches 
him retreat.  She considers their words.  The idea of a 
soul mate is romantic, but highly unlikely, in her mind.  
Whatever it is that draws two people together has more to 
do with common interests, shared goals and plain old 
chemistry than some mindless karma.  She thinks of Mulder.  
Soulmate?  She shakes her head and chuffs at the thought.  
Then she turns and looks seaward once more. 
 
She's in love with him.  He knows this.  Has known for 
some time. Still, he doesn't press her for more than she is 
ready to give and she's grateful for his abiding patience.  
Whether destiny has fated them to be together, she cannot 
say.  What she does know is that this case is over and 
there's a seven-hour drive back to D.C. ahead of them.  
Maybe she'll offer to make him dinner when they get home 
and maybe he'll say yes.  After that, is anyone's guess. 
 
She looks back over the water and wonders if Atlanteans 
are happy. 
 
END 
 
by Blackwood 
 
 
 
=====  
 
"Writing is a socially acceptable form of 
schizophrenia."    -- E.L. Doctorow            
Visit me: 
http://members.tripod.com/black.wood/index.html  OR         
visit Musea at: http://www.geocities.com/museans/