Title: Faith
 Author: Daydreamer
Posted: 12 March 2003

Summary: A plea for help from an old friend drags Skinner into the
heart of a modern day conspiracy.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Teaser 

July, 1985
Research Laboratory 

Tap, tap, tap. 

The sound echoed off the sterile walls. 

Tap, tap, tap. 

Long legs strode purposefully forward - to business, to business, to
business.

Tap, tap, tap. 

The stride was smooth, the steps curiously graceful, even as the man
moved ever forward, single-mindedly pursuing his objective. Hard tile
repeated and amplified the sound each shod foot made as it connected
with the corridor floor.

Light, bright and unyielding, glared down on the man as he moved
through the halls, unblinking and unforgiving.

Tap, tap, tap. 

White was usually the color of innocence, of purity. But this white
stared unseeing as the man marched swiftly on. This white was hard,
and cold, and had a cruel glint to it. Light so white, so sharp, it
hurt the eyes to look and the mind to think.

And yet the man moved on, untouched by the cold, cruel glare. 

Tap, tap, tap. 

The air itself seemed braced for the man - cold and sterile. It
smelled of disinfectant and cleanser, but nothing would erase the
smell of fear that lurked beneath it all. Refrigerated air,
mechanical air, it oozed slowly through the air ducts, trickling out
almost stingily into the bright, white hall.

Tap, tap, tap. 

Dr. Nicholas Braden. 

The Dr. Nicholas Braden. 

The renowned Dr. Nicholas Braden. 

He tasted the name soundlessly on his lips, savoring its feel, its
flavor.

He'd walked this plane many times, borne many names. 

Judas. 

Ghengis Khan. 

Alexander the Great. 

And most recently, Dr. Joseph Mengele. 

Oddly enough, it was as a doctor, a supposed healer, that he had
realized the power in chemistry, in physics, in biology.

The power in cold, cruel steel. 

The way it glinted in the light, the way it reflected a subject's
fears, mirroring and multiplying them until the emotion itself was a
palpable blanket, warm and wet and festering as he wrapped it round
himself.

The man walked on, his shoes against the tile the only sound to be
heard. Others walked on soft-shod feet, scurrying quickly by, head
down, eyes averted, inaudible sighs of relief as they escaped his
notice. As he moved relentlessly forward, the others braced
themselves, one straightening a blouse, another nervously polishing a
stethoscope, each keeping still or scuttling back to avoid the man's
attention.

But he had no time for any of them. It had come to him in the night,
calling him in from the warmth of his lair, pulling him down to the
lab. It was ever-hungry, ever-needy, and now - it needed him. He
smiled grimly - such was the price for the comfort and prestige of
his life. He chanced a look around, almost tittering at the looks of
horror and fear and disgust that flitted across the faces that dared
to meet his gaze.

This was what it was all about. This was what he craved. The ability
to control, to manipulate, to condemn all the weak and frightened
little people that walked this plane.

This was power. 

To walk blindly forward - tap, tap, tap - to feel the cold light
glare at him, the people fear him, the walls echo his presence. This
was power.

He pressed a hand against a plate, watched as a reading was taken,
then slid into the room as the door rolled back. He walked quickly
between two rows of cabinets, a cruel smile on his lips as animals
screeched or howled in fear. He passed several experiments, each
holding some*thing* that lived, and breathed, but had no being beyond
soundless cries of pain and terror.

This was power. 

He moved past the animals, past the unnamed creations, into the back
of the room where the cold light shifted into dark heat. He glanced
around, then quickly prepared himself to wait.

He had the power. 

And soon, very soon, his power would grow. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Act I 

An Ho, Vietnam
August 1972 

It was the poverty that got to him. 

There were other things that bothered him -- the untreated diseases,
the unsanitary practices, the stealing and lying and cheating. There
were the things that sickened him, too. The handicapped babies left
to die in the elements, the fathers who abused their daughters and
then sold them into a life of slavery - some as young as eight or
ten.

But still, it was the poverty that struck him most. 

All the other sins seemed to come from that one root cause. 

Would babies be left to die if there were enough for all? 

Would fathers sell their daughters if they could feed and care for
all the children they had?

Would mothers leave diseases untreated and uncared for if there were
money for the doctor?

It opened his eyes in ways nothing else ever had. 

Twelve years of Catholic school, moral theology and social justice,
liberation theology and ethics, he'd heard it all, taken notes in all
the classes, even led the debates at times.

But this, this made it all real. 

Here he was, eighteen years old and away from home for the first time
for any length of time. Here in this awful hell of a war, brother
killing brother, women and children dying daily as collateral damage,
and it was still the poverty that got to him.

He glanced around the churchyard, watched the children play, even as
he cradled his rifle in his arms. How did Father Madden function in
the middle of a war like this?

He shook his head and brushed his dark hair back from his face. His
cheeks were wet again, and he stared unseeingly at his damp palm.
He'd cried a lot when he'd first arrived, surprising himself with the
depth of his homesickness and the sudden, gut-wrenching desires he'd
have for Mom to "make it all better."

But the sin and sickness he saw here was nothing his mother, or any
mother, could cure with a kiss and a cuddle and a kind word.

He shuddered as a baby wailed, then went back to munching his single
lunchtime sandwich in the dilapidated entryway to the old church.

It was the poverty. It all came back to that. 

In America, people had no understanding of poverty. Even the poor
kids in his school -- the ones who were there on grants and
scholarships and other programs -- even they didn't really understand
poverty. They all had clothes to wear and shoes on their feet, food
in their belly and a roof over their heads. Almost all of them had
televisions and radios and telephones and a lot even had cars.

And those were the poor kids in America. 

There was a tug at his pant leg and he looked down, smiling gently at
the dirty face and wide eyes that looked up at him. A pat on the
ground and a small form was soon seated next to him in expectation.
He sighed, staring greedily at the sandwich. He hadn't eaten
breakfast this morning, and he was due to be out when supper was
served so this would be his only meal of the day.

Still ... 

He glanced down again, then broke a small piece of the bread and
cheese off, popped it in his mouth, and passed the rest to the little
girl. She grinned happily, then began to stuff the food into her
mouth. It stretched her cheeks and distorted her features and she
took on the look of a chipmunk -- a very dirty chipmunk.

"Water?" he asked. 

"Mmmm -- yeah," she mumbled around the food. Her eyes came up and
something close to fear flittered through as she hastily added, "Sir.
Tank you."

He laughed sadly as he rose, filling a tin cup and wetting a rag at
the same time. There were two uses for water, after all.

He passed the cup, watched as the child gulped, then waited for her
to finish. It was not a long wait -- the food seemed to have been
inhaled -- but a closer look told him that she had tucked the
remainder of the sandwich away, probably to take to a small sibling
or to someone sick.

"Tank you, mis'er," she murmured again, her voice soft, with the
slightest hint of a baby lisp remaining on the sibilants.

He nodded, then reached out with the rag, washing her hands, and then
her face. He sighed as the dirt came away; there were bruises on her
cheek and chin. A heavy hand had struck there. He sighed again, then
wiped once more, tenderly, and smiled.

"Okay, little one. You are beautiful!" he said in mock exclamation,
laughing softly as she giggled and her skin darkened in a blush.
"Very pretty."

She giggled again, then rose and smiled at him, dancing away before
he could find out who she was or try to entice her to tell him about
the bruises.

That was the way it was. They came in unending droves, the children
of the war. Battered, abused, dirty, unfed, and often diseased, yet
beneath the grime and the tattered clothing, the serious demeanor,
the beseeching eyes, their hearts were those of children. They would
laugh in an instant, turn work into play, give hugs and hold hands,
and offer their trust to people as if they had never been betrayed.

This was what he would do with his life. It had come to him, first as
a whisper, then as a command, and finally as a shout that would not
be denied. He was destined to spend his life in service to those in
need. How, he wasn't sure, but he would serve. That, he knew.

Twelve years of Catholic school, moral theology and social justice,
liberation theology and ethics. A lifetime of privilege and comfort.
A life full of blessings he had no right to, yet had been given
freely.

It was past time to give back. 

He wiped his eyes again, offered a quick prayer of thanks for his own
loving home, and then rose to face the hike back to his squad.

"Ah, Walter, there you are. I was looking for you." 

It was Father Madden, the man who ran this church. The priest was in
his early forties, tall and vigorous, with a startling shock of
prematurely white hair that always seemed in need of a good trim. The
children loved him, the adults respected him, and he had taken an
immediate liking to the peaceful, prayerful man.

"Yes, Father? How may I help you?" 

The courtesy that was so much a part of the culture of this country
seemed to come to him naturally now, even when he spoke in his native
tongue.

"I am going out to the grave." Father Madden nodded at the rake and
shovel in his hands. "Would you like to help me care for the resting
place of the holy one?"

The holy one. 

Andrew Nam Thuong. 

It was a common enough expression here in the Mekong Delta. There was
no need to use the name of Andrew Nam Thuong -- everyone knew who
*the holy one* was.

Born into a wealthy family, he had eventually become the mayor of his
village. A lifelong Catholic, he served as a catechist to others and
was taken in the persecutions of the early 1800s. After months of
confinement and torture, including being put on display in a small
bamboo cage, he was forced into exile. On the forced march to My-Tho,
he had died from exhaustion and dehydration. His body had been left
on the roadside for insects and animals, but a group of the faithful
had slipped in under cover of darkness and retrieved it, honored to
be able to offer their martyr a place in consecrated ground.

Beatified in 1909 by Pope Leo, there were rumors that Blessed Andrew
had interceded for people in peril, actually appearing in physical
form to guide and assist those in need. There was a cause before the
Church for his full canonization, along with many others who had died
for the faith in the persecutions of Minh-Mang.

Walter nodded to the older priest, then reached out and took the
tools, rifle slung behind his back. He fell briskly into step as they
headed out to the cemetery behind the low-roofed building. The graves
were old, many unmarked, and it was only through oral history and the
few records that had survived that there was any idea of which grave
belonged to *the holy one.* Since there was no definitive record, and
since it was only proper, all the graves were tended with the same
care and respect, but through the centuries legend had arisen and one
site was looked upon as the final earthly resting place of the holy
one.

Walter handed the rake to the older man, then dropped wordlessly to
his knees to begin to pull the few weeds that had dared to show their
heads since the last time the graves had been cared for. From the
courtyard of the church he could hear the sound of children laughing,
shrieks of merriment as they chased one another, safe in the church's
embrace.

It was rumored that Blessed Andrew had been a truly devout servant of
God, devoted to the Eucharist. Despite his wealth and political
advantages, he had lived austerely, fasted continuously, and spent
much time in prayer and meditation.

Walter sighed. Prayer and meditation. It had become more important to
him since he'd arrived in Viet Nam some six months ago. Searching for
comfort, blindly seeking relief in something other than the
ever-present sex and drugs favored by so many over here, he had
finally found this small church. Depending on where his unit was at
any given time, and what they were called upon to do, Walter made the
two to four hour trek to the church as often as he could -- depending
on the goodness of his CO for permission to get away from the death
and destruction of the war.

It tore at him -- this twin pull in his life. Patriot. Soldier --
following the orders his country had given him. Bringing wreckage and
ruin to this already severely damaged land and its people.

Catholic. Servant. A young man who only wanted to know what God was
calling him to do with his life. He glanced down in awe as he
realized he was at the grave, his hands resting on the soil that
covered a martyr -- a man who could someday be a saint.

Maybe the holy one could work a small miracle -- help poor Walter
Skinner figure out what to do with his life once he got back to the
World. That would be a small miracle indeed, from a man who was
rumored to have been able to be in two places at one time.

"Give me guidance," Walter murmured. Maybe that was how the holy one
found time for prayer and meditation. One self could be out working
for the poor, teaching and guiding them, while the other self was
locked away in prayer, restoring the soul, seeking the strength to
deal with the atrocities that arose daily.

"I could use a little of that ability," he said under his breath. "A
little strength, please, Lord."

"Pardon?" Father Madden paused in his raking, elbow resting on the
handle as a trickle of sweat made its way down his face. "Did you say
something?"

Walter smiled. "I was just saying, Father, that I needed ..." 

He broke off as the air was rent with a woman's terrible screech. He
looked around in confusion, then as children's wails joined in, he
leapt to his feet and raced after the priest, back to the church.

What the hell was going on? 

Walter followed Father Madden around a corner, then slammed to a
sudden halt as a wall suddenly seemed to materialize in front of him.
Through blurry eyes and ringing ears, he could vaguely see it wasn't
a wall, but a fist -- a really huge fist -- that had stopped him. He
began to fold up, like a mangled board book, with one limb going in
one direction, another going the opposite and the most frustrating
feeling that none of them were under his control.

He fell sideways, into a door, then somehow twisted and slipped to
his knees on the tiled floor of the church vestibule. The world was
growing dark. He tried to lift his head to see what was wrong with
the sun, but his neck would not cooperate. An eclipse, maybe. It was
the only thing that would explain the sudden darkness.

He felt wetness on his face and managed to make a hand obey him,
dragging it upward to wipe his cheek. Wet, yes, but sticky, too. That
was odd. He tried to look down at his hand, but his eyes had grown
heavy and were shut now, refusing to open again.

Something was very wrong and the thought of his mother's face crashed
across his remaining consciousness. He felt very bad and it occurred
to him he'd been hurt and she would not like that at all. This was a
church, a place of safety. If he was going to be hurt, it shouldn't
be here, in the church.

The rest of his body folded up on the ground and his head dropped
back to lie on the cool tiles. He lay quietly now, still confused,
still not well, but no longer fighting his recalcitrant limbs.

What the hell had happened? 

It was the last question that crossed his mind and there seemed to be
an answer this time. It was a sound, as if someone were trying to
tell him something. He strained to listen.

Tap, tap, tap. 

It made him shudder. 

Tap, tap, tap. 

It grew closer and he willed himself to lay still as the sound
stopped near him.

There was an immeasurable time of silence, and then it began again. 

Tap, tap, tap. 

Moving away, receding into the distance. 

Tap, tap, tap. 

It filled him with dread and overwhelmed the pain in his head. 

Tap, tap, tap. 

Walter groaned softly, exhausted, and let the sound and the pain and
the confusion and fear fade away as he finally gave in to the
darkness.

And in the courtyard, one last sound echoed. 

Tap. 

Tap. 

Tap. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Crystal City, Virginia
November 5, 2002 11:17 p.m. 

He'd gone to the gym and worked out this evening. It put him behind
on the never-ending flow of documents that required his perusal,
notes, and signature, but it was a necessity. He couldn't function if
he didn't work out on a regular basis. The shower at the gym had been
low on hot water, so he'd cut it short there, and come home to
luxuriate in his own flow of steamy water. He was dressed again,
albeit only in a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, but he was
comfortable. He'd warmed up a single lasagna, fixed a couple of
pieces of garlic bread, and opened a lovely cabernet from a local
Virginia winery. It hadn't been a bad meal. He'd been busy with the
work he'd brought home ever since. It always amazed him how petty so
many of the memos were that crossed his desk.

He had looked at his empty wine glass and risen, intent on a refill,
when the phone rang. He answered without thinking. "Skinner." He
glanced at the clock as he spoke. It was late -- past 11:00 -- and he
still had paperwork to do before he went to bed. Who the hell was
calling at this hour?

"Walter Skinner?" the voice asked. "Walter Skinner who was in country
in '72?"

"Yes ..." he answered cautiously. 

"I need your help, Walter." 

"Who the hell is this?" 

"Father Madden, from the church. You remember me, don't you?" The man
spoke in a hushed, yet intense tone, and sounded out of breath.

"Father Madden?" Skinner shook his head. He hadn't thought about
Father Madden in -- Good Lord! -- at least 30 years. "I, uh, don't
know what to say." He paused, swallowing hard. "Your call comes as a
big surprise to say the least."

"Walter," the priest lowered his voice again, urgency creeping in. "I
know it's an imposition, but I must see you. Immediately."

Skinner's senses were on alert -- the hair on the back of his neck
was erect. "You do know I'm in Washington, right, Father?"

"So am I," the man hissed. "Please meet me at the Basilica. How soon
can you be here?"

"What's going on, Father?" 

"I don't know who to trust, Walter. I need help. I'm in trouble ..."
The urgency in the priest's voice ratcheted up another few notches.
"Walter -- I've kept up with your career. I know what you do. You can
help me."

There was a shuffling sound in the background, as if someone were
moving around, shifting their weight, and the priest spoke to someone
else. "Andrew -- wait. Just give me a minute -- I told you he can
help us."

"Who's with you, Father? Tell me what's happening. Are you in
danger?" Skinner had a shirt on over his T-shirt now, and was
strapping on his holster.

"Just come, Walter," the priest said wearily. "We'll be here -- we
don't have anywhere else to go." He laughed shakily and the line went
dead.

He pulled on a hooded sweatshirt, zipping it far enough to keep his
gun out of sight. Cell phone in one pocket, badge and ID in another,
he grabbed his wallet and keys and was out the door.

It took him fifteen minutes to make the drive back into the heart of
the city. No problem with parking at this hour. He slipped the car
into the curb, clicked the remote to lock it as he got out and went
to stand before the Basilica.

It was huge -- an enormous stone edifice with a tower sweeping up
over 350 feet into the air. Composed of many different chapels as
well as the large central sanctuary, Skinner was unsure of where to
go. As he stood undecided, a side door opened and a figure beckoned
to him.

"Father?" he called softly as he stepped quietly to the door. The
priest was older now, his hair still a bright white, though it had
thinned some in the ensuing years. He was still tall, almost as tall
as Skinner's 6'2", and he carried himself well for a man who had to
be in his seventies.

"Walter, please, come in." The priest darted fearful eyes around the
barren sidewalk and reached out, taking hold of Skinner's arm and
leading him inside. "There's not much time."

Skinner stepped into the vestibule, blinking as his eyes adjusted to
the light. For some reason, the priest's distressed tone and sense of
urgency had him prepared to be meeting in shadows, instead of here,
in a brightly lit church vestibule.

"What's going on, Father?" The priest's hand was still pulling him
forward, but Skinner stopped, crossed his arms, and waited for an
answer.

"Please, Walter. Come sit with us in the chapel. Let me tell you what
I need."

Skinner moved slowly forward, following as Father Madden slid quietly
into a pew in the back of the Crypt Chapel, one of the smaller
chapels in the church. "Who's with you, Father? Why are you here? Are
you in danger? From whom? Why do you need my help?" He spoke quietly
as well, in deference to their surroundings, but his voice was hard,
and his tone insistent.

The old priest nodded. He was calmer now, less agitated than he had
been on the phone, and seemed more comfortable just being in the
church. He reached out with his left arm, beckoning toward the far
wall.

As Skinner watched, a shadow detached itself and moved forward, into
the light. As the figure moved forward, Skinner could see that it was
a boy, a young teen, with dark hair. His vision must have been
playing tricks on him because as the boy stepped toward them, it
appeared as if he were bathed in the light. Skinner reached up and
rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, then looked again.

Just a boy -- young, skinny, slightly hesitant. 

The boy kept his head down until he reached the priest, then looked
up and smiled tentatively, and Skinner added to his mental
description. It was a young Asian boy. And given that this meeting
was called by a priest he'd known in Vietnam, he was betting the boy
was Vietnamese.

"Andrew, this is Walter." The priest pushed the boy forward slightly,
nudging him until his hand reached out.

"Pleased to meet you," he said quietly, with a quick look back at
Father Madden. The boy's voice was soft but sure, and there was no
trace of an accent. Pure, corn-fed American.

Skinner shook the small hand, nodding, then looked at the priest
again. "Father, please -- would you just tell me what's going on?"

"I want you to take Andrew -- keep him safe." Something echoed
quietly in the church, and the priest grew agitated, his head darting
back and forth.

Skinner shook his head. "I'm not social services, Father, I'm FBI. If
you have a problem, you have to explain it to me ..."

"Walter, please." The priest laid his hand beseechingly on Skinner's
arm as he rose, looking nervously around again. "Come. Walk with me
now and I will tell you why you have to take Andrew, and why you need
to keep him safe."

They walked slowly toward the front of the church, passing various
altars and statues in alcoves along the way. Immaculate Heart of
Mary, Saint Anthony Mary Claret, Our Lady of Brezje. It had been a
while since Skinner worshipped here, but the names were still
familiar.

"Andrew is special, Walter. He's not like you or me." 

Skinner raised an eyebrow as he studied the priest. 

"Remember the attack on the church -- the desecration of the grave?"
The priest shuddered slightly and Skinner nodded.

"You never knew -- you had to get back to your unit. Remember? They
were moving out, and you wanted to stay and help with ..." The priest
fluttered his hands helplessly. "...help with everything -- the
rebuilding, burying the ones they killed, restoring the grave." He
shook his head, sighing wearily. "There was just so much to do."

They walked on in silence, past the Eastern Rite Chapel and Skinner
fought an unconscious urge to cross himself as he looked at the icons
on the walls. "There was always so much to do."

"I made you leave, Walter. You were so upset ..." 

Skinner shook his head angrily. "I didn't understand any of it. I was
18, I was killing people I didn't know, for reasons I didn't
understand. I was searching for a pocket of peace in an enormous
unpeacefulness, and instead, there was just more evil ..." Skinner
shook his head again. "God, Father, I haven't thought about this in
years."

"I know, Walter, and I'm sorry. Andrew comes from there." 

"From Viet Nam?" 

"From the church -- more specifically, from the holy one." 

Skinner stopped moving and turned to the priest, confusion on his
face. "From the church?" He looked behind him, studying the boy who
followed them. "He's too young, Father." He reached up and rubbed at
his forehead. "How old are you, Andrew?"

"Fifteen." 

The priest moved forward again, just as the lights went out and the
church grew dark. Two shots rang out. Skinner whirled, throwing the
boy to the ground, covering him with his body as he pulled his own
weapon. He rolled toward the pews, shoving the boy underneath one. He
rolled again, this time toward the priest, slithering under the pews
until he could reach out and drag the old man toward him.

He left a trail of blood, glistening in the candlelight of the many
votives that lit the racks before the altars. A pool where the priest
had fallen stretched into a line of bright red that followed the
priest toward Skinner.

"Stop," Father Madden commanded. "Take Andrew and run. Run as fast as
you can."

Another shot rang out and chips of marble flew from the walkway where
the bullet hit -- barely two inches from the priest's feet. Skinner
was crouched, gun pointed upward, but there was nothing to point at.
The first two shots had come from the side, the last one from the
front.

"The boy knows ..." the priest gasped. "You have to get him out." 

"I can't leave you," Skinner hissed, gun still at the ready. "Andrew,
grab my cell phone and call 911. Tell them you're with a Federal
Agent and I need help. Now!" he ordered, tensing only slightly when
he felt fingers fumbling at his pocket. He could hear the boy
whispering into the phone.

"Gone," the priest coughed. "You can't save me and you can't protect
him alone."

Skinner could finally see something. There were at least three
figures advancing on them, sliding between the chapels, the pews, and
the shadows. He fired twice, but missed both times and only elicited
an eruption of gunshots in their direction.

"Go!" The priest coughed again, blood flying from his lips. "Save the
b..." His chest rattled and he went limp.

Skinner laid two fingers over the man's throat, shook his head and
fired again. He reached back and grabbed the boy's wrist, pulling him
backwards. They scuttled crablike from the center aisle, huddling
against the far end of the pews.

"Father?" Andrew whispered. 

"Shhh. C'mon. We're gonna run." Holding the boy tightly, Skinner
leapt to his feet and raced forward. Past Our Mother of Africa. Past
Our Lady of Peace. Something whizzed by his head and he ducked
further, yanking Andrew along now as the boy struggled to keep up
with Skinner's longer legs. He skidded left at Our Lady of Hope and
found the exit he was looking for. With a wall between him and his
pursuers, he shoved the panic bar, and flew into the night. He could
hear sirens coming closer and he ran in their direction.

He never saw the child turn and stare at their pursuer. 

He never saw the man drop his gun and turn away. 

He never saw the light that seemed to bathe the boy and then, gently,
fade away.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Act II 

Hoover Bldg
Washington, DC 
November 6, 2002 3:34 a.m. 

Skinner looked over at the boy. He was sleeping on the couch in his
office, on his side with one arm curled under his head to make a
pillow. He looked younger in his sleep, and very vulnerable. Skinner
shook his head and removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his
nose out of habit as he tried to beat back the headache that
threatened to explode his head. He opened his desk drawer, pulled out
a bottle of aspirin and dry- swallowed three.

The boy curled more tightly on the couch and Skinner took his
raincoat from the rack, and laid it gently over him. The kid's
clothes had blood on them. He looked down at himself. So did his, for
that matter.

He checked the clock again -- after 3:30 -- and he was lucky he
wasn't still at the church. It was only because of his position that
he had been able to leave and take the boy with him. He reached up
and rubbed his neck with both hands, then began to pace. He'd put the
boy in protective custody, but he wouldn't be able to keep him at the
FBI. He still had to work in -- he looked at his watch this time --
about 4 hours. He needed clothes, the boy needed clothes. He needed
information. Hell -- he needed help.

He went to his desk, thumbed through the rolodex and dialed a number.
It rang twice, then a muffled voice answered.

"Mulder." 

"This is Skinner." He could hear the man straighten up, even through
the phone.

"Yes, Sir?" 

"I need you to come on in to work. Something's come up and I need
some help." He could hear Mulder mumble to someone, and he shifted
uncomfortably when he realized it was Scully. Their relationship was
still a different concept to him, and while he approved, it was still
a bit awkward. "Can you bring me a clean set of clothes -- maybe you
have a sweatsuit I can borrow?"

"What happened?" In his mind, he could see Mulder getting up,
starting to get dressed even as he spoke. The sounds of feet hitting
the floor, drawers opening and closing, confirmed his mental vision.
"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I just -- well, there was a shooting and I ... I'll
explain when you get here. He looked over at the boy -- he needed new
clothes as well. "And ask Scully if I can borrow a sweatsuit from her
also."

Mulder's voice was muffled again, but Skinner could still make out
the words. "Get your blue sweatsuit, Scully." There was a pause,
then, "I don't know. Just get it and we'll go." Then clear in his
ear, Mulder spoke to him again. "We're on our way. Are you sure
you're OK?"

"Just get here," Skinner said gruffly. "And thanks." He hung up the
phone then walked over and checked on the boy. Still sleeping.

He moved to the window and stared out over the city. The streetlights
cast a pale glow on the area and he was struck by the beauty of the
nation's capital. A city designed for one purpose -- to serve as the
seat of the nation's government. And with that lofty purpose in mind,
there had still been a concerted effort to make the city one of
beauty. Most cities of this size were strewn with skyscraping
buildings jetting non-scenically into the sky above. But there was
none of that in DC. There was a city ordinance that prohibited such
Goliath structures, and because of that, the scene resembled more of
a rural theme park than an industrial state.

Supposedly, when L'EnFant laid the plans for Washington DC, he
designed it in the mold of Paris, complete with grassy fields, long
reflecting pools, and a sense of beauty that would be lost in an
urbanized relative. That vision of a French architect lived today in
the clean lines of white stone that faced the buildings, the trees
that lined the streets, and the pockets of grass and shrubs that
peeked up on every corner.

Now, as he waited he looked out at the serenity of the city as it
slept. He was surrounded by history -- past history, living history,
historyy yet to be written. The trees had shed their leaves for the
winter and yet the sidewalks were clear. Without turning his head, he
could see the Old Post Office to his right, the National Archives to
his left. Across the street lay the Justice Department, and he
laughed softly at the thought that anyone could think true justice
could be established by a department of its own.

Justice. 

Thought turned his mind to the priest -- it was up to him to see to
it that an old priest received justice. He began to catalog what he
knew.

The priest and boy were in trouble of some kind. The boy was special.
He had only the priest's word on that and nothing else to back it up.
What was it the old man had said? He came from the church. Skinner
looked over at the boy again. He certainly appeared to be Vietnamese.
But his accent was pure American, so he had to have been raised here.
And he was far too young to be the offspring of someone at the church
at the time of the attack. Too young by half. The priest had also
said the boy knew, the boy could explain. Well, when he woke up, that
was exactly what Skinner would expect. Explanations.

The elevator beeped and Skinner pulled back from the window. He could
hear soft voices in the hall, then a quiet knock on his door heralded
the arrival of his agents.

It was time to get everyone up to speed and figure out what to do
next.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Hoover Building
Washington DC 
November 6, 2002 7:10 a.m. 

"It's at the bank." Andrew finished toweling his hair and stood
abruptly, droplets of water flinging across Skinner's chest. He
glanced over as Skinner brushed the front of his shirt. "Sorry."
Scully's sweatshirt went over the boy's head next and he reached up
and began to run his fingers through his hair, trying in vain to
remove the snarls.

"Scully's waiting in the office," Mulder reminded them. "If you two
are done, I'm sure she'd like to know what's going on." He studied
the boy a moment longer then added, "She's probably got a comb or
something."

Skinner followed Mulder and the boy from the men's locker room back
through the FBI's basketball court and into the elevator. They had
let the boy sleep while Skinner updated his agents. Several hours of
discussion and speculation later and they had only been able to
conclude that they needed more information about the priest, and that
they needed to talk to the boy.

A short ride later and they were in the basement. Scully sat at the
desk, pulling what information she could find on Father Richard
Madden. It wasn't much, and she said so as the men entered.

"All right, then," Skinner said in acknowledgement, "back to you,
Andrew. Father Madden said you knew what it was."

"And you said it was at the bank," Mulder prompted. 

"Can I have one of these?" The boy had his hand on one of the danish
Scully had produced while the males were cleaning up. She nodded and
he took a huge bite, then mumbled, "Stuff 'sat da bank." He swallowed
and took another bite. "Father had the key to the box."

"What stuff?" Scully asked as the boy finished one danish and reached
out hesitantly for the last one. "Go ahead."

"Papers." The boy's mouth was full and he was looking around. "Do you
have anything to drink?"

"Just coffee." Mulder started to pour a cup but the boy stopped him. 

"Never mind. I'm not allowed to have coffee." 

"We'll get you something to drink in a minute." Skinner looked at the
boy. "How long have you been with Father Madden?"

"Long as I can remember." Andrew looked longingly at the half danish
Scully hadn't finished and she pushed it over to him. He smiled his
thanks and went back to eating, ducking his head in mild
embarrassment as he saw the looks he was being given. "Sorry," he
muttered. "I'm hungry all the time. Father said it was 'cause I'm
growing."

"How did you end up with Father Madden?" Skinner pulled a chair
around to the front of the desk and gently nudged the boy into it. "I
mean, he's not your real father ..."

"No." The boy shrugged. "He told me my mother was from An Ho, and she
brought me to him when I was just a baby." He looked mournfully at
the empty box that held the danish, then turned to Skinner. "I don't
remember my mom. Father says all we know is in the papers."

"Why were you running?" Skinner asked. "And from whom?" 

The boy shrugged again. "I don't know. We lived in South Carolina
until I was eight. Father adopted me and he had a parish there in
Summerville -- Saint John the Beloved." The boy frowned as he spoke.
"Then something happened. We left and Father wasn't a priest anymore.
He told everyone I was his grandson. We moved a lot. About a year
ago, he showed me the papers and told me they were all about me." The
boy rose and took a few steps, then stood still as if he didn't know
where to go. "He started talking about how I was special." He
shrugged again. "I didn't understand. The papers were all full of
things I didn't understand. Medical stuff, I think. Anyway, I didn't
feel any different. I was just tired of moving around."

"So what happened?" Scully poured coffee for herself and took a sip. 

"I told Father I was tired of moving. He'd been home- schooling me
for years, and I wanted to go to a real school. You know, play ball,
make friends, maybe have a girlfriend, go to the prom in a couple
years." He sighed. "Graduate." He took a few more aimless steps,
kicking at the floor with one toe, then looking up to fix Skinner
with a determined look. "I just wanted to be a regular kid for a
while." He dropped his head. "I don't feel special -- I'm just me."
He moved back to the chair and sat, slumping down into its embrace.
Dark eyes lifted to look at the three adults in the room. "What's
going to happen to me now?"

"I don't know, Andrew," Skinner answered honestly. "I've got you in
protective custody, because of what happened to Father Madden last
night. But I won't be able to keep you indefinitely. Child Welfare
will get involved eventually. In the meantime, we need to figure out
what's going on and I think those papers are the place to start. Do
you know what bank?"

The boy nodded. "Bank of America, in Richmond. The one on East Main
St." He kicked his feet out even further, sliding deeper into the
chair. "The key is at the Basilica. Father hid it in the
confessional, while we waited for you."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Bank of America
Richmond, Virginia
November 6, 2002 1:06 p.m. 

It had taken two hours to drive down from DC. The rest of the time
had been spent getting the key, getting the warrant, and getting the
kid fed. He really did eat all the time, and was still thin as a
rail. Skinner glanced over at the boy as they waited for the woman to
open the gate to the vault.

He looked over his shoulder to the right, to where Mulder and Scully
sat, talking quietly as Scully pointed to something on the paper in
the folder she held. The boy moved forward then, and he followed,
waiting as the woman pulled a box from the wall and set it on the
table.

"Can we get lunch when we're done here, Mr. Skinner?" Andrew sat at
the table, and Skinner could see he was trying hard not to look
bored. He'd been asked the same questions in slightly different forms
during the whole drive down and it was a tribute to the boy's
upbringing that he hadn't told them all where to stuff it.

"Mmmm-hmmmm" Skinner mumbled affirmatively. He had the box open and
was scanning the few pages there. He was savvy enough to recognize
"cloning" and "in-vitro" but the rest of it was beyond him. He read a
little further, then gazed at the boy speculatively. If part of these
papers really did pertain to the boy, then he was not only special,
he was a medical miracle. He gathered the papers together, closed and
locked the box and nodded at the boy's eager look. "We're done here.
Let's go feed you. Again."

The boy jumped up and raced out of the vault, heading for the doors
to the bank. Skinner followed quickly, calling, "Wait for us,
Andrew." In the waiting area, he saw Mulder and Scully rise, begin to
move for the doors and then everything seemed to shift into slow
motion.

A look of shock crossed Mulder's face and he and Scully both reached
for their weapons. Skinner turned to look at the doors just as Andrew
cried out in pain. Directly in front of him, standing by the double
glass doors, a man had the boy by the arm, yanking him hard toward
the door. Skinner pulled his weapon, crying, "Federal Agent! Release
the boy!"

People were screaming, an alarm had been set off and its shrill cry
echoed in the air. There were civilians in the way, standing frozen
in shock or laying on the floor. Chairs were overturned, and as he
stared at the man holding Andrew, someone knocked a computer off a
desk, as if that would help anything. Scully was on her phone, tucked
in behind a desk, and Mulder still stood with his gun pointed at the
man who held the boy.

The man produced a gun and began to fire and he could see Mulder duck
and roll and take cover behind Scully's desk. Skinner jumped over a
woman laying on the floor, making his way to another desk. In the
middle of his leap, another gunshot rang out and he felt something
hit him in the chest. He landed near the desk, rolled behind it and
lost sight of Mulder and Scully. He looked down to see the entire
front of his shirt was covered in blood.

"Oh, God," he breathed out, and it was as much prayer as it was
exclamation. He couldn't talk, he couldn't move, and he couldn't
breathe. He saw the red on his shirt growing larger and larger and he
knew this was it. It hurt. Oh, God, it hurt so much! He closed his
eyes because it was too hard to keep them open.

'I blew it, I blew it, I blew it. Father Madden trusted me with the
boy and I blew it. I'm so sorry. Dear God, I don't want to die. I'm
not ready to die. I don't even know who the boy is -- what he is.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. I want to see another
day. I want to walk in the park. I want to see the summer. Our Father
who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Please don't let me die. I
haven't got anything to offer -- but please don't let me die. Bless
me, Father, for I have sinned ...'

"Shhhh -- Walter. It's all right." 

He pried his eyes open to find Andrew kneeling beside him. The room
was strangely quiet and the kid was glowing. "What's all right?" he
mumbled.

He felt a warmth hover over his chest, then slide inside his chest
and the pain was gone. He could breathe again and the fear
disappeared. He reached out a hand and touched the boy. "Andrew?
How?"

"Shhh, Walter. This is not the time. Close your eyes and rest." 

He was suddenly very, very tired, and all he wanted to do was sleep.
His eyes slid shut and he forced them open. "Andrew, stay with Scully
and Mulder."

The boy nodded obediently. 

"They'll take care of you." 

"You're doing that just fine, Walter. Things happen the way they are
supposed to." Andrew reached out and touched his forehead and he
couldn't stay awake any longer. "Sleep now," the boy murmured.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Medical College of Virginia Hospital
Richmond, Virginia
November 6, 2002 10:49 p.m. 

"I think he's waking up." 

Skinner recognized Scully's voice and felt a soft hand on his
forehead.

"Call his doctor." 

He could hear a chair scrape against the floor as someone stood and
then footsteps sounded as the person moved to the door.

"Nurse. Please get Dr. Mateo." 

Mulder. He should have known. But what did they do with the kid? Was
he here too?

"He's waking up." 

He floated for a time, no light, no pain, not even thinking. Then
softer steps moved into the room and someone lifted his eyelid and
shone a light in. It hurt, and he moaned.

A voice he didn't recognize called his name. "Mr. Skinner? Can you
hear me?"

Well, hell, as tired as he was he'd be damned if he was going to
waste energy talking to someone he didn't know. He'd just go on back
to sleep.

But before he could drift away completely, Scully started speaking
again. "He's more likely to respond to someone he knows." Her hand
was on his head again. "Sir? Sir, it's time for you to wake up." When
he didn't move, she ordered, "Open your eyes."

He groaned, but pried his eyes open obediently. The light hurt and he
slammed them shut again. "Light," he croaked.

"Mulder." Scully spoke softly, but the lights went down almost
immediately, and he risked opening his eyes again.

"Wha' happened?" He swallowed hard; his throat was dry. Mulder
appeared with a cup of water and placed the straw between his lips.
He took a couple sips and the dryness was eased.

The woman he didn't know, presumably his doctor, was back at his side
now, fussing with something on his head. The penlight was out and she
was heading back toward his eyes, but he closed them obstinately and
barked, "No."

"I need to check your reactions," she said. 

"I'm reacting." He batted the hand that was fussing with his IV away.
"Leave me alone."

The woman started to say something, then he heard Mulder interrupt.
The voices faded as his agent walked the doctor out of the room.
Good. Now maybe he could figure out what was going on. But damn! The
hand was back at the IV. This was confusing. Didn't Mulder just get
rid of that doctor? He started to push it away again, but met
resistance.

"Not this time, Sir. Put your hand down and behave." 

He opened his eyes in time to see Scully smoothing a piece of tape
over the needle in his hand. Mulder came back in and moved to his
partner, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. She looked up and
smiled, then returned her attention to him. "What do you remember?"

"The bank." His eyes grew wide as he scanned the room. "Where's the
boy?" He began to cough and Scully had the water there for him again.

Mulder's voice was hard. "They got him." 

"What?" Skinner sputtered, water spraying out of his mouth. "That's
impossible." He started to pull himself upright in the bed, then
stopped, shocked when there wasn't any pain from his chest wound. He
looked down. Hospital gown. He sat up. Still no pain. He looked up in
confusion. "I was shot?"

Mulder and Scully exchanged confused looks of their own. "Yes, Sir,"
Scully replied.

Skinner clawed at the front of the gown, but it wouldn't give. He
reached up to untie the back, but couldn't with just one hand. So he
reached over, pulled the IV loose. Now he could get to the ties.
Scully was fussing about the IV, but he tuned her out. He ripped the
gown loose. There was silence in the room as he stared at his own
unmarked chest. Slowly, he lifted his head and repeated, "I was
shot?"

Mulder nodded, looking at him quizzically. 

"In the chest?" 

"No, Sir." Scully was speaking now, as she held a bit of tissue over
the small wound on his hand. "In the head." She looked at her
partner. "And I'm beginning to wonder if it was more serious than we
thought."

"In the head?" Skinner lifted a hand and touched the bandage on his
left temple. "But ... I remember. My shirt was covered in blood.
Here." He touched his chest, over his heart.

"Head wounds bleed like a son of a bitch," Mulder replied. "I know." 

"No, Mulder," Skinner spoke emphatically. "I was shot -- here." His
finger jabbed at his chest. "My shirt was covered in blood. I felt
the bullet when it hit. I couldn't breathe."

"We saw you fall, Sir." Scully touched his head briefly. "The bullet
hit here and you dropped like a log." She shook her head. "No chest
wound."

"The boy was there." Skinner looked around again. "They couldn't have
taken him. He was there -- with me." Skinner rubbed his chest again.
"He touched me. He said something." Skinner closed his eyes, rubbed
his nose. "Where the hell are my glasses?"

Mulder produced them and he put them on, his headache receding as the
room snapped into focus.

"The boy was nowhere near you, Sir." Scully was looking at Mulder
again, concern evident in her face.

"I'm telling you, Agent, that boy was right there next to me. He
touched me. He spoke to me. He. Was. There." He reached over, fumbled
at the rail on his left, and then grunted approvingly when it went
down. He swung his legs over and then stopped abruptly when Mulder
grabbed his arm. He looked back over his shoulder, puzzled to see
Scully standing with her back to him. "What?" he grumbled at Mulder
as he tried to shake his hand off.

"Uh, Sir? That gown you just ripped off was the only thing you were
wearing."

Skinner froze. "Oh. I see." He pulled his legs back into the bed and
tucked the blankets back around himself. He was blushing from head to
toe.

" 'sall right, Scully." Mulder laughed and Skinner scowled at him.
"He's back in the bed."

Scully turned around. She was blushing too, and there was an awkward
silence, then Skinner said, "Well. I'll need to use the facilities at
some point, so if someone could ..."

"I'm on it, Sir." Scully headed for the door, relief apparent on her
face. "I'll get another gown."

"Get me some clothes," Skinner commanded. "And get me released." 

"Yes, Sir." 

"Look, Mulder, while we wait, bring me up to speed on the boy." He
was suddenly self-conscious of his bare chest and he pulled the
blankets higher.

Mulder snorted. 

"Cold," Skinner said shortly, daring Mulder to make a comment. When
the younger man remained silent, and managed not to smile, Skinner
nodded approvingly. "You were saying?"

"We don't know who took him, but we have a pretty good idea of why.
We've got it narrowed down to two things."

Skinner raised an eyebrow in question. 

"The papers you took out of the box. Scully read through them while
we were waiting for you to wake up. They detail in vitro and cloning
experiments from the mid-eighties."

"About the time the boy would have been born." 

"Yeah." Mulder began to pace, one hand running through his hair. "The
source of the clone DNA is weird though. It's never really specified,
just indicated that the donor wasn't living."

"The Holy One," Skinner murmured. 

"What?" Mulder stopped, turning to look at Skinner. 

"The Holy One. The boy said his mother was from An Ho. That's where
the holy one was buried." Skinner cleared his throat and Mulder
passed him the water.

"I don't understand." His agent pulled the chair by the bed and took
a seat.

"When I was in Vietnam, there was a martyr buried at this church I
used to help out with. Andrew Nam Thuong. The Holy One. I was there
one day and the church was attacked. They killed just about
everyone." He reached up and touched the bandage on his head. "I was
hit in the head and passed out. They must've thought I was dead." He
shook his head. "The priest -- Father Madden -- escaped into the
surrounding fields with several of the children and hid."

"What does this have to do with the boy?" Mulder studied Skinner
carefully. "Are you implying what I think?

"They dug up the grave -- the grave of the Holy One." Skinner leaned
back in the bed, closing his eyes. "They took the body."

Mulder shook his head. "When did this martyr die?" 

"Eighteen thirty something." 

Mulder smiled. "Then it wouldn't matter. There wouldn't be any viable
DNA."

"You've never heard of the incorruptibles?" Skinner relaxed against
his pillow. "I know the religious aspects of your work aren't what
interests you most, but I'm sure you're fairly well-versed on the
more well-known aspects of hagiography."

"Incorruptibles are saints whose bodies don't decay." Mulder gave him
a smart-ass look. "Are you saying this Saint Andrew was one of
those?"

"Not saying. No one knew. He'd been buried for close to 150 years."
Skinner shrugged. "I'm just saying, don't discount viable DNA. We
don't know."

"There wasn't anything to indicate the boy was a clone. Nothing
clear. Cloning technology didn't exist when he was born." Mulder
seemed uncomfortable in his new role as skeptic.

"True," Skinner mused. "But then, most people think there's no such
thing as nanite technology, either, don't they?" He stared at Mulder
until the other man looked away.

"Okay -- so you think the boy is a clone of this -- this holy one."
Mulder turned back to look at him. "Why?"

Skinner ticked off points on his fingers. "The papers seem to
indicate the boy is the result of some type of experimentation --
cloning of something, right?"

Mulder nodded. 

"I swear to you, Mulder. I was shot in the chest." 

Skinner saw the skepticism on his agent's face. 

"I felt the bullet go in; I was dying." Skinner laughed as he
remembered how the boy had seemed to glow. "I saw the light."

"Head injuries can do that, Sir." 

"The boy was with me." 

"He never left my sight, Sir. The man by the door had him firmly in
his grip. I watched as he was pulled through the door and yanked into
a car." Mulder fixed him with a firm look. "That boy was never
anywhere near you."

"Bi-location, Mulder." 

"Hagiography again, Sir? The ability to be in two places at one
time?"

Skinner just cocked his head and stared at Mulder. "That's not all,
Mulder." Skinner touched his chest, gently running two fingers across
the sculpted pec that covered his heart. He looked up at his agent,
calmly meeting his gaze.

"I was dying." Skinner took a deep breath, still holding Mulder's
eyes. "I think that boy healed me."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Act III 

Hoover Bldg
Washington DC
November 7, 2002 10:42 a.m. 

"Any luck on the name? Dr. Nicholas Braden?" Skinner was sitting on a
chair procured from who knew where down in the basement office of his
agents.

"His name is actually well-known in scientific circles." Scully took
her glasses off and looked over at Mulder and Skinner.

"So you think he could have done this?" Skinner rose and moved to
stand behind her, reading over her shoulder.

Scully shrugged. "The technology didn't exist when Andrew was
conceived. IVF -- in vitro fertilization -- was just becoming a
reality around that time. Louise Brown was born in England in 1977 --
she was the first IVF baby. America's first was born in Norfolk in
1981 -- also a girl. Nobody was even thinking about cloning at that
point."

"But could he have done it?" Skinner was pacing now, one hand
massaging the small of his back. He may not have any chest pain left,
but he sure as hell ached from the fall he took -- whatever caused
it.

Scully shrugged again. "I can't give you any answers that are
certain." She lifted the papers that had been in the safety deposit
box. "There's mention of transgenic research, adult bone marrow being
used to produce totipotent stem cells, recombinant DNA being used to
produce a genetic line with Mendelian traits ..."

"Whoa!" Skinner stopped in front of Scully's desk. "English, please,
for the rest of us?"

"Well, the donor is unspecified. It could be multiple donors -- it's
just not clear." Scully picked up a sheet and waved it at Skinner.
"It looks like these pages were torn at random out of some sort of a
journal. They're not consecutive -- each starts and ends in the
middle. The few dates I found are all over the place -- from 1972 to
1985. No consistency there, either."

"The priest's note said that Andrew's mother brought the pages with
her when she brought him the baby." Mulder was leaned back in his
chair, both arms behind his head as he watched the interaction
between his boss and his partner.

Skinner picked up a page and began reading. "This one talks about
MAPCs --" He looked up. "Start there. What are they?"

"Mesenchymal Adult Progenitor Cells. Those are stem cells derived
from adult bone marrow that have been shown to multiply almost
indefinitely in culture." She pursed her lips as she tried to work
out the best laymen's explanation. "With the proper stimulus, these
cells could, theoretically, develop into any type of cell in the
body."

"So you could grow a baby from these?" 

Scully gave a semi-shrug. "Possibly. There's current research into
using these cells to help treat Parkinson's and some other
neurological disorders." She sipped her coffee and looked over at
Mulder for a moment before returning her attention to the AD. "We're
not at the point of growing babies yet."

"Not that we know of, anyway." Mulder finally joined the conversation
and Skinner was glad the man seemed to have found his open mind
again.

Skinner put the page down and picked up another. "What about this?
Transgenic germline?"

"That involves identifying a specific genetic trait in one strand of
DNA, pulling it from the original and splicing it into a new strand.
The recombinant DNA is integrated into the chromosome of the germline
cell and can be passed on to offspring as a Mendelian trait."

Skinner stared at her. "Again?" 

Scully rose and moved toward the door. "Mendelian traits? Remember
your high school biology? Brown eyes dominant, blue eyes recessive?
Those are Mendelian traits."

"So our guy wanted to be able to pass on a specific trait?" Skinner
took Scully's seat at the desk and sat, waiting.

"It appears that way. Germline cells are the ones that allow that
kind of -- inheritance, shall we say? Somatic cells are the ones used
for gene therapy -- go in, snip out the bad stuff, slip in the new,
and voila!" She waved her hand in a large circle. "No more Tay
Sachs." She leaned up against the door, crossing her legs at the
ankle. "That's not even possible now."

"So what was our guy trying to isolate?" Mulder had moved to the desk
and taken the paper from Skinner. "Does it say?"

Scully and Skinner both shook their heads, then Skinner spoke. "No.
But I have an idea." He looked up as Scully moved back to the desk
and both his agents stared down at him. "Let's assume that I'm right,
and this guy was working with DNA from the saint. What if he thought
the ability to work miracles was something that was determined at the
genetic level?"

"Oh, please ..." Scully snorted softly. "The whole definition of
miracle is something that happens that surpasses natural powers and
is ascribed to the divine or to supernatural causes." She shook her
head. "Wouldn't a miracle gene shoot that whole concept down?"

Mulder shrugged. "He's not saying that the gene exists, just that
Braden may have believed it did."

"And he may have thought he had identified it." Skinner rolled his
shoulders and leaned back. He shuffled through the remaining pages
and pulled one out. "Here, at the bottom, he talks about pulling
samples from the marrow of the ... Damn! It stops there. That's the
closest we have to an identity of the donor."

"He details failures on this page." Scully lifted another sheet.
"Cells that wouldn't divide. Embryos that were deformed. Spontaneous
miscarriages." She looked up. "This almost looks like a summary of
time put in and attempts made prior to a success. Like 'see how hard
I had to work to make it all come out all right.'"

"He talks about one success." Skinner lifted the page. "'With this
power, I will rule the world.'" He shook his head. "What kind of
insanity is that?"

Mulder shrugged and backed away from the desk. He poured a cup of
coffee and carried it back to Skinner. "You think the man was trying
to clone a saint -- to identify a genetic ability to work miracles."
He looked at Skinner. "I'm not sure you should be inquiring about
someone else's sanity." He grinned to soften his words.

"This from the man who believes in aliens." Skinner rose and began to
gather the papers together. "Sane or not, we need to find this man
Braden. He's the only lead we have to the boy -- and I am, by God,
going to find that boy."

"He worked at the Jones Institute in Norfolk in the early eighties.
Maybe we should start there." Mulder pulled Scully's coat from the
rack and held it for her, then handed Skinner his before putting on
his own. "Norfolk's only 4 hours away."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Unknown Research Facility
November 7, 2002 1:15 p.m. 

Andrew sat on the floor, his legs pulled up to his chest and his arms
wrapped around them. It was cold and he was hungry. He missed Father
Madden. He needed to go to the bathroom. He was scared. He didn't
want to be here anymore. He tried praying, like Father had always
told him to do, but it all just seemed so pointless. It hadn't helped
so far.

Tap, tap, tap. 

His body stiffened at the sound and he began to cry again. He hated
this. The man was coming for him and there wasn't anything he could
do about it.

Tap, tap, tap. 

Andrew closed his eyes and pulled his legs tighter. He dropped his
head, forehead resting on his knees and rubbed his face back and
forth, trying to stop the tears.

Tap, tap, tap. 

The man had killed puppies. Little baby puppies. Right there in front
of him. And then ordered him to fix them. Andrew sniffed and wiped
his nose on his pants. What kind of insanity was that?

Tap, tap, tap. 

His arm hurt where the big man had dragged him out of the bank. He
wondered if Mr. Skinner was looking for him. Would he even know where
to look? Andrew had tried to read the papers Father had put in the
box, but they hadn't made sense. He couldn't remember if there had
been any names in there. If there were, maybe Mr. Skinner could find
him from the names. He snuffled into his pants. Mr. Skinner had to
find him. He didn't have anyone else.

Tap, tap, tap. 

The door opened and Andrew looked up, staring at the man's eyes. They
were cold and black, and the boy cringed back, trying to crawl into
the wall.

"Ah, Andrew. You're awake." The man smiled but it never reached his
cold, black eyes.

"Please let me go. I won't tell." Andrew's voice was soft, pleading,
and he inched away as the man stepped forward.

"Andrew," the man said softly, "I've been looking for you for 15
years. I'm not about to let you go now." He reached out, grasping the
boy's arm and Andrew shrank from the cold touch. "You are the
culmination of this life's work." He pulled the boy to his feet
roughly, fingers biting into his skin.

The doctor dragged the boy down the hall, no longer speaking. Andrew
closed his eyes, tears trickling out beneath the long lashes. He
offered up a silent prayer. 'Please, Father, no more puppies.' His
breath caught and he swallowed a small cry. 'I don't want to see more
puppies die.'

The man opened a door to another room and tugged him through. It was
a small room, with a long window in one wall. Through the wall,
Andrew could see people standing in a line. There were about ten of
them, and they all looked scared. Most of them stared at the ground
but there were two, a tall black man and a teenage girl, about his
age, who were staring up, over the window, looking at something he
couldn't see.

The man looked at Andrew, then pointed at the window. "You have the
power, boy," he said. "And I gave it to you." He touched the window
three times -- tap, tap, tap -- and Andrew shuddered. "You will do my
bidding."

A shot rang out and Andrew jumped, watching in horror as the girl
cried out, then fell over, her chest exploding in crimson. Andrew
leaned into the window staring in disbelief, then began to slide to
the floor as his legs gave out.

"You can save her, boy," the man said. "You have the power." 

Andrew covered his face with his hands and cried. 

He wanted the puppies. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Jones Institute
Norfolk, Virginia
November 7, 2002 3:20 p.m. 

"Do you have any idea where he might have gone when he left here?"
Skinner sighed softly and rubbed his eyes beneath the glasses as he
listened to Mulder questioning the fourth person. A little
browbeating and heavy use of "FBI" had elicited a list of seven names
-- people who had worked with Braden in  the eighties who were still
employed by the Institute. The local office was working on tracking
down people who had worked with the man but had moved on to other
positions.

The woman shook her head, but she cast a furtive look about the room
as she did so. Her hands were clenched together before her, and she
was sweating. Mulder smiled up at Skinner -- sure they were thinking
the same thing.

This one has something she's trying to hide. 

"Ms. Giametti," Mulder began, "this is very important. What can you
tell us about Dr. Braden?"

The woman shuddered slightly, and clasped her hands even more
tightly. "He was a genius. An excellent doctor -- one of the best, if
not the best."

"But?" Mulder prodded gently. 

It was all Skinner could do to hold his place and his tongue, and let
Mulder work the woman.

Her eyes cast about the room, almost as if she were seeking a way
out. She refused to meet Skinner or Scully's eyes, and she only
glanced briefly at Mulder before she dropped her head and studied her
white- knuckled hands. "He was -- difficult -- to work for." She
cleared her throat and swallowed hard. "He was a genius -- he really
was." Her eyes rose now, to meet Mulder's. "His theoretical work was
years ahead of anyone else's."

"But he was difficult?" 

"All brilliant men are." 

Mulder looked up to find Skinner smirking and he turned away quickly,
flushing. He shook his head slightly, refocusing on the woman before
him and asked, "Ms. Giametti, do you know where we can find Dr.
Braden?"

Her eyes stayed glued to her hands and she shook her head. 

Frustrated, Mulder rose and removed his coat, holding out one hand to
keep Skinner from moving closer. He sat at the table again, and
scratched the back of his neck. "Ma'am? We believe that Dr. Braden
has kidnapped a young boy and we need to know how much danger this
young man is in."

The nurse's head came up and she lifted one hand to cover her mouth.
Her eyes looked haunted.

Mulder narrowed his eyes as he studied the nurse. "Is Dr. Braden
going to hurt this boy? Has he done this before?"

"I -- I don't ..." The woman was pale, and her hands were shaking
slightly. "He, uh, well, it wasn't known at the Institute, but, he,
uh, used human subjects."

Skinner moved forward. "Human subjects? For what?" 

The woman seemed to shrink into herself. She avoided making eye
contact with the AD, and began to fidget. "You know what we do here,
right?" She looked up briefly at Mulder, then dropped her eyes again.
"Dr. Braden -- he was working on various advancements in reproductive
medicine."

"And that means?" Skinner tapped his foot on the floor, a staccato
sound -- tap, tap, tap.

The woman jumped, her eyes skittering wildly around the room. It took
her a minute to place the sound, and she relaxed marginally, lifting
one hand to scrub at her face.

Skinner and Mulder exchanged a puzzled glance. 

Reproductive medicine, Ms Giametti." Skinner pulled a chair out and
joined his agent and the woman at the table. "I'm afraid I don't have
time to pull this out of you one word at a time. Tell me what you
know about this man Braden. Tell me what this man wants with the boy.
Tell me why talking about Braden is making you so nervous."

Mulder pushed back from the table and folded his arms. Skinner got
the message loud and clear. If you're going to screw up my
interrogation technique, then you do it. If the situation hadn't been
so critical, he might have apologized -- or laughed. As it was he
gave Mulder an 'I'm sorry -- what else could I do?' look and then
fixed the woman with a steely glare. "I'm waiting."

The Joneses -- Dr Howard and Dr Georgeanna -- were still practicing
then. They found out Dr. Braden was, well, skipping some of the
protocols."

And?" Skinner's foot was itching to tap again, but he forced himself
to be still.

He was allowed to resign. He, uh, left." She clasped her hands again,
wringing them together.

The side of Skinner's mouth pulled down as he stared at the woman.
She was lying again -- he didn't need Mulder's gift of interpretation
to see that. But why?

How do you know he left? How do you know any of this?" Skinner pulled
the folder over that Mulder had been working from. It held the list
of current employees, and the positions they had held twenty years
ago. His brow furrowed as he found Linda Giametti's name, then his
eyebrows shot up as he looked at the woman again. "You were his
nurse. You worked directly for him."

The woman nodded miserably. "He rushed things. He made these
incredible leaps. He didn't follow the rules, but he got things
done."

Why are you so reluctant to talk to us about this?" Skinner nodded
toward Mulder. "If you aren't forthcoming -- immediately -- I am
going to start an investigation into your life that will make
Watergate look like a couple questions asked by your friends."

The woman covered her face with her hands and began to cry. Mulder
and Skinner exchanged looks that shifted from puzzled to completely
baffled. Mulder left briefly and returned with a box of tissues,
which he placed in front of the woman. She grabbed a handful and
continued to weep into them. After several minutes, the tears slowed,
and then stopped. Skinner poured a glass of water from the pitcher on
the table, and pushed it toward her.

"What the hell did that man do to you?" he asked in astonishment. 

"He gave me a child." 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Customer Service Zone - Central
Richmond, Virginia 
November 7, 2002 5:27 p.m. 

"The man kidnapped a boy from right here in Richmond. It just
happened yesterday. All the proper forms were filed. Your people were
involved from the get-go." Mulder stopped a moment and scrubbed his
face in exasperation, then turned his back to the Precinct Captain.
Or the 'Customer Service Zone' Captain, as they were so politically
correctly called here in Richmond. He took two steps towards Skinner
then stopped.

The older man was standing by the door to the room they were using,
both arms folded across his chest in as clear a message of closed
body language as Mulder had ever seen. He watched the local police
captain through narrowed eyes, and his brow was furrowed in what
Mulder thought was pain from his head injury. He reached out
tentatively and lightly touched the other man's arm, waiting until he
had Skinner's attention. "You need to take something for the pain,"
he said softly. "Take a few minutes, get something to drink. Take a
couple of aspirin." Skinner looked past him and Mulder turned to see
what had caught his attention again. Scully was still talking to the
Captain. "Go on, get out of here for a bit," he reiterated. "Scully
and I will have the warrant and backup organized before you get
back."

Skinner stared at Mulder, then nodded slowly. He reached over to the
chair, pulled his coat from it, then slid into it. Without a word, he
walked out and disappeared down the hall.

It took about fifteen more minutes to convince the locals to approach
a judge about a warrant. Given that there was federal involvement and
a big push to get into the site they had identified as Braden's,
Mulder felt confident that it would come through within the hour.

"I'll stay on this, Mulder." They had the room to themselves for a
moment and Scully took advantage of it to walk over to her partner
and lean against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and rested
his chin on her hair. "You need to go find Skinner and tell him we'll
be good to go. He needs to be in on how many people we take and how
we approach."

Mulder stroked her back idly, but made no attempt to move. "Does he
seem okay to you, Scully?"

She shrugged within his embrace. "More on edge than I'm used to
seeing him." She pulled back and looked up to meet his eyes. "This is
all very personal to him. The priest being killed. The boy taken. You
know he feels he should have done something more." 


"I understand that." Mulder nodded and she leaned back into him,
tightening her arms around him. "I still think he's having an
unusually hard time maintaining his objectivity."

"There've been some unusual things occurring. Whatever he thought
happened when he banged his head, I think it shook him up more than
he's admitting." Scully reluctantly pulled away from Mulder. "And he
probably doesn't need to be left alone any longer." She stretched up
on tiptoes and met Mulder's lips halfway, indulging in a long comfort
kiss. "Go. Find him." She pushed him gently toward the door, then sat
and opened her briefcase. "I'll wait here."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

AAA Self Storage Facility
Richmond, Virginia
November 7, 2002 6:02 p.m. 

"His car's here all right, Scully." Mulder looked up at the
five-story building. "I don't see the idiot at the moment, but I do
see a piece of plywood that has been pulled loose." He shook his head
in disgust.

"Captain Albertini said that we should have the warrant within the
next half hour." Scully's voice was worried through the phone. "Just
try and find him and get him out. Convince him a coordinated effort
to track down Braden will be more effective than Lone Wolf McQuaid."

Mulder snorted. "Not sure I'm the best person to try and sell that
story."

"Do the best you can," Scully said, laughing. "As soon as I have the
paper, I'll be there."

Mulder shined his flashlight at the door of the facility. Down in the
warehouse district, on the James River, it was a run-down building in
the midst of other run-down buildings. More than half of the area was
vacant with boarded up windows or broken ones. This building bore a
weathered sign identifying it as the AAA Self Storage facility. The
front office had a plate glass window, covered with iron bars that
cast eerie shadows as he flashed the light around the interior. No
sign of his wayward boss, and why wasn't he surprised? He didn't
expect it to be this easy.

The nurse in Norfolk had told them that she had been desperate for a
child -- and she and her husband had no means of raising the
exorbitant fees in vitro cost in the early days. Braden had offered
her the procedure for free -- in exchange for help with his projects.
She'd been with him as he converted the upper stories of this old
storage facility into a state of the art research facility.

And now Skinner, in probably the rashest move of his career, had
broken in and was somewhere in the building, looking for Braden and
the boy. Despite the fact that they had nothing substantial to
indicate Braden would be here.

Mulder pried the plywood out from the wall and entered through the
broken window -- assuming he was following in the AD's footsteps.
Once inside, he shifted the flashlight to his left hand and drew his
weapon. The first floor seemed to be what was advertised -- a self-
storage facility. Doors lined the parallel corridors leading into
small 6x6 and 8x8 spaces. He moved carefully through the entire first
floor, finding stairs leading up in the east, west and north corners.
The elevator -- a large freight model -- sat unmoving in the office
and he elected not to try it.

He pulled his phone once more and tried Skinner's cell. Still not
turned on. Hell, the man probably didn't even have it with him.
Mulder rubbed at his forehead in frustration then decided on the east
stairwell. It was dark and dusty -- dusty enough to annoy, but not to
help. The dirt tickled his sinuses and made him want to sneeze, but
it wasn't thick enough on the floor to give him tracks. He still
didn't know where Skinner was.

The exit to the second floor was unlocked, and Mulder moved on
stealthily upward. Third floor -- also unlocked. Skinner had probably
gone to the top and was working his way down. Mulder entered the
third floor and looked around. From his vantage, it appeared as if
the whole floor had been opened up and then bisected. The room before
him was huge. A worktable ran along the back wall, and empty animal
cages were stacked on the other two. In the center were larger cages,
several work stations, and an exam table. Mulder shuddered as he
thought of what these animals had been subjected to in the name of
research.

He moved back to the stairwell and went up another floor. This door
was also unlocked and he entered into a maze of small rooms. It
reminded him of a hospital -- or a prison. He moved to the first door
and tried the knob. Locked. He peered through the grimy window, then
reached up and scrubbed at the dirt with his shirtsleeve. A second
look through the window, and he took an inadvertent step backwards,
bile rising in his throat. A skeleton lay on the bed, a rotting
hospital gown still clinging to its form.

The next door revealed much the same, only these bones lay on the
floor, and in the third room, the bones were a puddled mass, barely
visible beneath the window, as if the person had been clinging to the
door when death overtook them. Mulder fought back the nausea,
standing bent over with his head between his knees. If Braden, or
anyone else was here, he was totally vulnerable for the moment. He
just couldn't escape the fact that this so-called doctor had
apparently abandoned his research, and left his subjects behind to
die from thirst and hunger.

Mulder went back to the stairwell and headed up to the top floor. The
door was locked. He frowned, then studied the door. It was solid,
steel-jambed, and looked newer than the doors below. With his gun
held out to the right, he pushed against it with his left shoulder --
and then fell through when it opened suddenly. Rolling onto his back
he raised the gun up to point at -- Skinner!

The older man had his weapon trained on Mulder, and stood unmoving
for a long moment. Then he lowered the gun, and reached down to pull
his agent from the floor. "For God's sake, Mulder! You make enough
noise to wake the dead!"

Mulder laughed shakily. "There's plenty of them to wake." He jerked
his thumb over his shoulder. "Did you tour the fourth floor?"

Skinner folded his arms over his chest. "What the hell are you doing
here, Mulder?"

Mulder drew himself up to his full height and met the AD's glare. "I
might ask you the same thing, Sir. You are aware we don't have the
warrant yet?"

Skinner turned his back and started to step away. "Get out of here,
Mulder. You get in enough trouble on your own. You don't need to be
here with me."

Mulder took a couple of quick steps and grabbed the older man,
pulling him back around. "You don't belong here," he hissed. "You're
going to do more harm than good."

Skinner shook his agent off. "You're a fine one to talk." He took a
step backwards, then stopped. "Look, Mulder, I found signs that
someone's been here -- recently."

Mulder shrugged. "Homeless people -- coming in the same way you did."


"No." Skinner reached behind him and pulled something out of the
waistband of his pants, holding it up for Mulder to see. Scully's
blue sweatshirt. "Andrew was here. He may still be somewhere in this
building." He tucked the shirt back into his pants, one arm hanging
down behind him in an almost comical parody of a tail.

"All right," Mulder said softly, "where do we start?" 

"There's another locked room over here." Skinner nodded to his left
and began to move. "I was about to open it when you, uh, made your
presence known."

Mulder trailed Skinner, then stopped at the door he indicated. "Any
suggestions as to how we open it?"

"What floors did you check?" 

"Third and fourth. Why?" 

"No sign of anyone?" Skinner was standing stiff before the door,
speaking in a hushed tone.

"No -- just the ones he left behind on four." Mulder shrugged. "You
think there might be keys or something?" Mulder moved to an open area
a short distance away. "Did you search? Maybe we can find something
to force ..."

He was interrupted by the sound of wood smashing and looked back to
see the door broken down and Skinner standing on top of it -- inside
the formerly locked room.

"Or we could just knock the thing down and make sure everyone knows
we're here," he muttered, moving back quickly to stand beside
Skinner.

The room was full of equipment -- most of it unrecognizable. There
was a medical feel to it, and Mulder was willing to bet that Scully
would be able to identify some of it -- if she ever arrived with the
warrant. One of the machines was humming, a soft, almost subliminal
sound that made his jaw hurt, and he reached out to touch it.

"Don't!" Skinner cried as his hand connected with the metal casing. A
gauge on the faceplate shot into the red and stayed there, and Mulder
could see the electricity arc through the air as he tried to pull
back.

The pain was immediate. Mulder was blown back across the room and it
felt as if every nerve in his body was on fire. He hit the wall,
crumpled, and didn't move.

Skinner raced across the room, dropping to his knees. His gun fell to
his side, forgotten. Mulder's hand was burned where the current had
connected. He straightened the younger man's akimbo limbs and gently
laid his head flat on the floor. Two fingers at the carotid in his
neck revealed no pulse. Skinner laid his head on Mulder's chest -- no
heart sounds. He studied the man's torso -- he wasn't breathing.

The hairs on Skinner's body were standing erect from the electricity
that bled off Mulder. His skin tingled. He lifted Mulder's chin to
open the airway, then gave two big breaths into the unmoving man's
mouth.

No response. 

The rules of CPR were fuzzy in his head. Was it five compressions or
fifteen? Did five go with one man or two man CPR? Did he use his
whole hand or just the heel? He studied his agent, realizing he
didn't have time to debate the intricacies of proper rescue breathing
with himself. The man was dead. He gave a couple of compressions,
another breath, then pulled back to observe and listen.

Still nothing. 

Skinner could feel the panic overtaking him. He slammed his fist down
on Mulder's chest -- wincing at the strain. This couldn't be the
right way to give CPR! But he couldn't remember, and he didn't know
what else to do. Holding Mulder's nose closed, he breathed into his
mouth again, two more breaths. His knees were beginning to hurt and
his own chest was tight with the effort he was making.

And still Mulder did not move. 

Skinner leaned over and placed his head against Mulder's chest again.


Silent. 

Still. 

No heartbeat. 

No breath. 

He was kneeling back, ready to resume compressions, when he felt it. 

Small. 

Round. 

Cold. 

Pressed hard against his neck. 

He froze, raising the other arm in surrender and turned slowly. 

"You're a doctor, Braden," he breathed, pointing in desperation to
the man on the floor. "Do something."

Braden shrugged and nodded toward Andrew, who was huddled against the
wall, bare-chested, his face fear-stricken. "Ask him. He can do
something." He reached down and plucked the sweatshirt from Skinner's
pants and tossed it toward the boy.

"Andrew ..." Skinner pleaded. "Please ..." 

The boy's face scrunched in pain and he began to cry. "I can't! Why
won't anyone believe me when I tell you I can't?!"

Braden looked at Mulder, sniffed disinterestedly, and kicked at his
leg. When Skinner leapt to his feet, the doctor stepped back two
steps and pointed the gun at his face. "You're coming with me," he
announced.

"No." Skinner said shortly and dropped back beside Mulder. He
administered two more compressions. "C'mon, Mulder," he begged
softly. "Help me out here." As he leaned over to breathe into the
man's mouth again, a shot rang out.

With no further sound, Skinner collapsed on top of his dead agent. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Act IV 

AAA Self Storage Facility
Richmond, Virginia 
November 7, 2002 6:40 p.m. 

There was something warm on his chest. Mulder forced his eyes open
and looked up into Andrew's face.

"Are you okay now, Agent Mulder?" the boy asked. 

Mulder nodded slowly. His chest hurt. His hand hurt. He lifted the
hand in question and looked at it. Burned. "Wha' happened?" he
murmured groggily.

The boy shrugged. "I don't know. I was locked up in one of the rooms
on the floor under here. I'd been working on a way to get out and I
finally did. I heard a loud cracking sound -- and when I got up here,
I saw you on the floor."

"Skinner?" Mulder croaked. 

Tears filled the boy's eyes. "The doctor shot him. He dragged him off
to the elevator." Andrew dropped his head and his voice was a mere
whisper. "I was too afraid to try and do anything." A sob caught in
his throat. "I didn't want him to catch me again."

Mulder reached up, touching the boy's arm. "You weren't supposed to
do anything. Not your job." He paused, breathing heavily, then
repeated, "It's not your job. Our job. We're supposed to keep you
safe."

"But what about Mr. Skinner?" The boy's face was a mask of worry and
despair.

"Skinner can take care of himself. He's surprisingly resilient."
Mulder smiled at the boy. "You'd be amazed at what he's been through
and lived to tell the tale."

"The doctor is mean," Andrew announced. "He's scary. I, uh, I think
he's insane."

Mulder laughed. "No surprise there. I think we can all agree on that
point." He tried to pull himself up, failing when his legs refused to
cooperate. "Look, Andrew, do you think you can help me up?"

The boy shook his head slowly. "I don't think you should get up. You
were hurt pretty bad."

Mulder's eyes narrowed as he studied the boy. "I thought you were
downstairs when it happened."

"I was. I, uh, I mean, it just looks like you were hurt pretty bad."
The boy slid back from Mulder, composing himself. "Anyway, Agent
Scully is almost here. She'll know what to do."

Mulder twisted his head, craning to look at the doorway. "How do you
know she's here?"

"I can hear them, can't you?" The boy smiled and cocked his head,
pointing at the east stairwell.

Mulder focused and sure enough, he could hear steps, and then,
whispered conversation, and then Scully and another man were shoving
open the door and coming through -- she went low and the other man
went high. Mulder nodded approvingly. Scully preferred to come in
low.

"Over here!" he called, waving. "Braden's gone." 

Scully holstered her weapon and raced to his side. Her hands began a
frantic journey over his body, first at the wound on his hand, then
across his torso, checking for broken bones. She traced his arms and
legs and then held his face gently, looking into his eyes. "Hey,
you," she whispered. "You all right?"

Mulder nodded. "Something knocked me back from the wall over there."
He nodded in the direction of the bank of machinery. "It was
shocking." He smirked up at her, the smirk turning into a full-blown
smile when she rolled her eyes and smacked him -- oh so carefully --
on the arm.

"You'll live," she said, rising. She reached down and offered him a
hand and this time his legs were willing to work. Seeing him steady
on his feet, she turned to the boy. "How about you, Andrew? Did he
hurt you?"

The boy shook his head, then turned his back to them, wrapping his
arms around himself. They watched as his thin shoulders began to
shake. Scully moved to him, wrapping her arms around him and pulling
his head to her shoulder. She stood there, just holding him while he
cried, making soothing little nonsense sounds and rubbing his back.

Mulder watched, confused by the emotions this scene was creating for
him. He felt proud watching Scully comfort this child, and
proprietary as he observed his woman being the nurturer. He shook his
head. Scully would not approve -- but he couldn't stop the feelings.
He also felt a little at a loss. Scully had seemed to know right away
what to do, and he hadn't even thought to ask the boy if he was all
right.

Around them, the Richmond PD was beginning to take the place apart.
Doors were being opened, papers and instruments were bagged and
tagged, cameras flashed. Braden wouldn't be able to come back to this
place again.

He stepped closer to Scully and the boy, reaching out tentatively to
stroke the boy's head, and was rewarded when Andrew pulled from
Scully's embrace and looked up at him.

" 'm sorry," Andrew said softly, sniffling. "I'm not always such a
crybaby." He sniffed again and Mulder gave him his handkerchief.
"Thanks."

There was a cry from the stairwell. "There's a bunch of dead dogs
down here," an unknown voice called. "How do you want to bag them?"

Andrew started crying again, softly this time, and he pulled away
when Scully tried to embrace him. "They were puppies ..."

Mulder and Scully exchanged a confused glance. "Can you tell us what
happened to the puppies?" Mulder asked gently.

The boy shook, an all over body shudder, then blew his nose loudly.
"He killed them." Andrew swiped at his eyes. "He killed them all and
told me to fix them." Andrew looked up, anger warring with confusion
in his eyes. "It doesn't work that way!" He hands trembled at his
side, and this time, when Scully pulled him into her arms, he let
her.

"Thrwrpplto," he mumbled into her shoulder. 

"What was that?" Mulder asked. He had one hand on Scully's back, the
other, injured one rested lightly on the boy's back.

Andrew lifted his head. "There were people, too." 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Charlottesville, Virginia
November 7, 2002 6:40 p.m. 

Skinner lay in the back of a van. It was dark, inside and out, and he
hurt. His hands were cuffed behind his back -- with his own cuffs, he
felt sure -- and his ankles were wrapped with duct tape. His glasses
were gone so everything was out of focus, and already his head ached.
His left arm hurt, a sharp burning pain across the bicep, and the
cloth of his shirt was sticky. He smelled blood.

The van stopped suddenly, and he jerked. Using the momentum, he tried
to roll up to a sitting position, but was immediately overcome with
nausea. Eyes closed, he breathed slowly through his mouth, working to
keep the bile from rising in his throat.

"Shhh, Walter. Be still." 

Skinner's eyes popped open to a fuzzy Andrew, shrouded in the shadows
of the van. "Are you all right?" he asked the boy.

Andrew nodded. "Be quiet, please." He cast a fearful glance toward
the front of the van.

"Can you undo my feet?" Skinner scooted toward Andrew but the boy
drew further into the shadows.

"I can't," he whispered. 

Skinner lay still. It was both painful and awkward to lay on your own
arms and hands. It arched the back and made your head fall at an
uncomfortable angle no matter how you moved. He closed his eyes,
fighting both the nausea and headache. "You need to help me get
loose, Andrew. Then when he comes to get us out, I can take him."

"I don't think you can," Andrew replied, still whispering. "Your arm
is hurt and I know you don't feel good." He stared at Skinner from
his dark corner. "Shouldn't you just rest, or something?"

As if Andrew's words were a reminder of his own reality, Skinner felt
the exhaustion of the past few days steal over him. His eyes slid
shut and he struggled to open them again. "Andrew," he murmured
softly, "if you can't get me loose, then you have to be ready to
run." He rolled onto his side, moving inches closer to the boy, but
still not able to touch him. "Do you hear me? When Braden opens the
door, I'm going to jump on him -- and you run. Run as far and as fast
as you can, got it?" Skinner paused, drawing in a deep breath as he
fought to stay awake. "Don't look back. And no matter what happens --
keep running."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Customer Service Zone - Central
Richmond, Virginia 
November 7, 2002 10:15 p.m. 

Mulder looked at his hand. It hurt. The white gauze bandage stood out
in stark contrast to his darker skin. The tape covering it itched. He
absently used one finger of his other hand and began to pick at it.
"I honestly don't know where to begin to look, Scully," he murmured.
"Braden's got Skinner -- we've got Andrew. You know that bastard is
gonna wanna make a trade."

Scully reached out and took his hand. "Stop picking at the tape." Her
smile softened the words.

He turned her hand in his, bringing it up to his lips and gently
kissed her palm. "It itches," he said, his eyes staring into hers.

"I know." She pulled her hand from his and carefully stroked his
stubble-covered cheek as he leaned into her touch.

They broke apart at the sound of steps, and looked at the door to see
Andrew standing there, smiling.

"I thought you were hungry again," Mulder said, looking at his empty
hands.

"The machine didn't have any more chips." The boy shrugged. "Maybe we
can go to Burger King before they close?" he asked hopefully.

"You eat enough to feed a horse!" Scully walked over and nudged him
playfully as she spoke. "I can't imagine why you aren't 7 feet tall
and weigh 400 pounds!"

"A horse!" The boy bounced excitedly over to Mulder. "He said
something about horses." Andrew was vibrating with excitement. "I
remember him talking about taking me to the farm, to see the horses."
His excitement quickly calmed as he dropped his head and added, "I
didn't want to go." He looked up to meet Mulder's eyes. "I thought it
would be like the puppies."

Scully looked at Mulder. "We're practically in the heart of Virginia
horse country. Could be he has something else around here."

"Won't be in his own name though." Mulder paused, thinking. "I'll try
and come up with some variants on his name. Get someone to find out
Braden's relative's names, his mother and grandmother's maiden name."

Scully was nodding as she walked out of the door of the small
interrogation room they were using as their office.

"What about that nurse? Giametti? Check that as well," Mulder called
to her back, accepting the little wave she gave over her shoulder as
acknowledgement. He turned and gave the boy a big hug. "That's great,
Andrew! Thanks! You've been a huge help -- you gave us a place to
start."

The boy beamed and then sobered. "Do you think Mr. Skinner will be
all right?"

Mulder nodded. "I think Dr. Braden will want to take care of him. He
knows that Skinner is the only thing he has to trade."

"He wants me, you know." Andrew's head was down and he dragged one
foot in a circle on the tile floor.

Mulder bent slightly, placing both hands on the boy's shoulders.
"He's not going to get you, Andrew. Scully -- Dana and I -- we're not
going to let him get you." He tightened his grip slightly. "You have
to trust me on this."

Andrew winced slightly and Mulder released him. "I'm sorry. Did I
hurt you?"

The boy shook his head. "No." When Mulder still looked at him
worriedly, he repeated. "Really, you didn't hurt me. I just, uh, have
this feeling that something bad is happening."

"It's been a rough couple of days for you, Andrew." Mulder rubbed the
boy's back. "I know this has been like a nightmare. But it's going to
end soon. We'll find Braden and it'll all be over."

"How are you going to get Mr. Skinner then?" The boy's head was
cocked at an angle as he met Mulder's gaze.

"Well, I may not be quite as big and brawny as the AD, but I have
been known to kick some butt in my day," Mulder said with a smile.
"Don't you worry. When the time comes, we'll get Skinner out."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Rolling Hills Horse Farm
Charlottesville, Virginia
November 8, 2002 1:13 a.m. 

"No more!" The agonized shriek was ripped from his lips as the cattle
prod hit him again. His knees buckled and he hung from his wrists
once more. He'd long since lost control of his bladder and bowels,
and the smell of his incontinence and blood mingled with the other
odors in the night air.

His own cries echoed in his ears as he struggled to get his feet
under him and take his weight off his overtaxed wrists. He had no
idea of how long he had been here. He'd lost track of time in the
van, falling asleep -- or unconscious -- somewhere along the line.
When the van stopped, and he came to, the boy was gone.

Distracted by concern for the child, and hobbled by the tape at his
ankles, he'd half-stumbled, half- fallen out of the van, knocking
Braden to the ground but not doing any real damage. And certainly not
doing anything to win his freedom. Skinner sighed and sucked at his
lip. He'd bitten it at some point and it was still bleeding.

Arguments and demands to see the boy had been useless. Braden
insisted the boy was still in Richmond. The doctor claimed the boy
had been left behind, locked in a room on the fourth floor of the
facility. But Skinner knew better than that. The boy had been there
when Mulder died, watching with a horrified expression on his face.
And the boy had also been in the van, talking to him while they
traveled to this farm in the Virginia countryside.

Skinner had fought as Braden held an ether-soaked cloth to his face,
trying not to breathe, but with his hands cuffed and feet secured, it
had been a losing battle. He'd finally drawn a breath, and succumbed
to the chemical's sleep-inducing properties. It was the second time
in a short period he'd been unconscious -- first in the van and then,
here. He'd come to tied up in this old horse barn, this particular
stall having been pre-established to hold a human being tied with
arms raised and legs spread. Skinner shuddered to think of what
Braden had used this setup for.

Three times since he'd been here, Braden had come in, announced to
the air, "You can save him," and then hit him with the cattle prod.
The first hit had been on his abdomen, and his bladder had released,
but he'd managed not to scream. Braden had left then, turning off the
light and plunging him into darkness. He stood gasping, panting hard
as he prayed for the pain to wear off.

The second time, it had been on his arm. Braden had torn the sleeve
off his shirt and Skinner could see that he'd been shot -- grazed
really. His arm had a deep crease across the bicep, and the blood had
dried. Or it had, before Braden laid the cattle prod in the wound and
pulled the trigger. He'd screamed that time, and lost his footing,
falling forward to hang heavily from his wrists. Braden had waited,
as if expecting someone to magically appear, then turned on his heel
and left. Once more, he'd been left in darkness -- and agony.

The last time was the worst. The point of the prod had been placed
firmly against his groin and held there for an eternity. The front of
his pants began to smoke as the electrical current threatened to
start a fire. Braden had only stopped when Skinner had collapsed,
screaming, hanging heavy from his arms, slack-jawed from pain.

The doctor looked around, as if there were someone there that Skinner
could not see and said, "You can end all this."

"Who? Can end? This?" The words dribbled from Skinner's lips in
little drops of pain. Every breath was agony. His crotch felt on
fire. In some far recess of his brain, he was almost thankful he'd
already wet himself because he had serious doubts as to whether he'd
ever be able to perform that function again. Or any other function
that required that particular body part rising to the occasion. He
moaned slightly and tried not to cry out.

"Andrew." 

"He's just..." Skinner twitched in his bonds, pulling himself upright
until his feet were beneath him and his weight was off his arms, "...
a boy."

"He is far more than that." Braden's eyes glittered madly in the dull
light of the yellow bulb on the rafter. "He is power -- complete and
total power."

Skinner sucked in air, willing his heart to calm and his body to
cease to ache. No chance of that he realized as even the slightest
movement relit the flames of agony in his groin.

"The boy is capable of anything." Braden wasn't even looking at
Skinner now. He paced across the double stall, speaking to himself.
"He can be anywhere, do anything. He can heal -- or he can destroy."
Braden paused and stared at Skinner. "He is the greatest weapon ever
made -- and he is mine! The man jabbed a thumb at his chest. "I gave
him life!"

"God gives life, Braden." Skinner coughed weakly. "Not you." 

"I made him!" the man howled, furious at being contradicted as he
bragged of his accomplishments. "I teased the vital components of
that child right out of a dead man." He strode to Skinner, made a
fist, and punched the big man in the gut.

Skinner 'whuffed' as his body reacted. Air forced from his lungs and
he instinctively tried to bend to protect himself, but his bonds
prevented it. He swallowed hard, trying to force back the sudden wave
of nausea that swept over him.

"I made life out of death," Braden crowed. "Powerful life!" He calmed
suddenly and began to study Skinner and the big man felt the first
real tendrils of fear seep like ice through his belly. Braden reached
out and touched Skinner's crotch. The doctor's fingers lingered,
assessing size and, perhaps condition. He looked up at the AD. "I am
always looking for good candidates for my reproductive studies."

Skinner stopped fighting the nausea and threw up. 

It had the desired effect. 

Braden pulled back his hand as if he'd been burned and jumped back,
glaring at the bound man. "You'll regret that," he said, then he
marched out, slamming the stall door behind him.

Skinner looked up as Braden left the barn, the light from the single
bulb above his head going out as the doctor denied him even sight.
His feet still under him, Skinner stood, swaying slightly, and tried
to determine how he was going to get out of this one.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Rolling Hills Horse Farm
Charlottesville, Virginia
November 8, 2002 4:10 a.m. 

"God!" Scully breathed the exclamation softly into the cold night
air. "There must be twenty buildings out there!"

"Twenty-three," Mulder muttered, the night vision glasses stuck
firmly to his face.

"He could be in any of them." Scully rearranged her arms to push down
a particularly long piece of grass that persisted in tickling her
face as she lay beside her partner.

Mulder dropped the glasses and turned to look at Scully. "The team's
in place. I think our best bet is going to be a quiet but direct
assault."

"Two people for the smaller buildings? Three or four for the larger
ones?"

Mulder nodded and began to crawl backwards, down from the crest of
the hill they had used as their lookout point.

Below them, in a curve of the road, local officials and FBI from the
Richmond Bureau waited for instructions. As Officer-in-Charge of this
little operation, Mulder quickly made the team assignments. "No radio
contact, unless you find the suspect or the AD. Anyone else you pick
up is a bonus. Take 'em down, secure 'em, do what you have to do, but
finding the Assistant Director is our primary objective here." He
looked around at the grim faces of his team. "Any questions?" Mulder
waited a beat, then said, "Let's move."

Agents in jackets emblazoned with 'FBI' and officers whose jackets
read 'Police' began to move. Pairs and small groups spread up and
down the road and began creeping across the rolling hills and through
the fields, all heading for the loose cluster of buildings spread
across several acres of farm. Mulder and Scully and three others from
the Richmond Bureau slipped through tall grass toward a large barn
off to the left and farthest from the house.

As they made their way forward, they could see others entering their
assigned buildings like shadows disappearing in the night. Before
they reached their objective, the radio at Mulder's belt crackled.
"Mulder."

"We've got Braden!" The man's voice was excited, nervous, tense. "He
swears he's rigged the whole place to blow, says we tripped an alarm
on the perimeter and he's already pushed ..."

There was a violent 'BOOM' and the barn before them was suddenly
engulfed in flame. The night shifted into day as other buildings went
up and the flames lit the dark. People scrambled away from the
burning buildings. Horses reared, their frightened cries echoing in
the night as people scrambled to avoid their thundering hooves.
Screams filled the air. Mulder could see two people dragging a man
from a smaller stable, and when he looked behind him, he saw someone
else carrying a woman from the remains of a small shed.

Everywhere he looked, there was fire. Two agents were manhandling
Braden out of the house -- the only structure not blazing.

He had set off at a trot toward the man, determined to make him
reveal Skinner's location, when Scully's cry halted him. He turned to
see her pointing at the large barn.

Skinner was coming out, walking through the fire. He moved steadily
toward them, seeming to slip between the flames. The AD had one hand
extended, out to the front and slightly to the left, and he wore a
dazed expression. Skinner cleared the barn doorway just as the
overhead rafter collapsed. Mulder darted over, catching the exhausted
man as he fell forward, dragging him away from the fire. In the
distance, he could hear the sirens as the fire trucks finally
responded.

Other hands were there, helping him lift and carry Skinner out of the
fire's path. They hauled him far into the field, and laid him in the
soft grass. Scully was examining him, but he lifted a hand and pulled
Mulder down. "Andrew," Skinner gasped. "Did the boy get out, too?"

Mulder shook his head. "Andrew's back in Richmond, Sir. He's still at
the police station. I didn't want to risk putting him with Child
Services until we knew this situation was contained."

Skinner was shaking his head violently. "No, no, no! He was here.
He's the one that untied me -- he led me out." The AD began to
struggle, trying to get back to his feet.

"Shhh," Scully soothed as Mulder and several others held the man
down. "Sir, the boy is not here."

Skinner pushed upward one more time, then collapsed back into the
soft ground. "I saw him," he cried. He lay back, closing his eyes and
whispered again, "I saw him."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Epilogue 

Georgetown Preparatory School
Bethesda, Maryland
November 13, 2002 7:45 p.m. 

"Are you getting settled okay, Andrew?" Skinner asked from his seat
on the boy's bed.

"All right, I guess." The boy was standing by the window, gazing out
into the night.

"Classes okay? Having trouble with anything?" Skinner rose and moved
to stand behind the boy.

Andrew shrugged. "I'm a little behind, but the teachers here -- they
said they'd help me in the evenings."

"It's not going to be all school, I hope?" Skinner reached out and
tentatively laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. When his touch was not
rejected, he squeezed gently.

"Not all." The boy turned beneath Skinner's hand and looked up.
"They've got a pretty good soccer team, and Father Brian said I can
work out with them for now, maybe try out in the spring."

"Sounds good, kiddo." Skinner led the boy back to the bed, sitting
beside him. Andrew fidgeted uncomfortably, his face revealing worry.
"What's bothering you?"

"Who, uh, how ..." He flushed and looked away, fighting some inner
battle with himself, then met Skinner's eyes again. "This place isn't
cheap, Mr. Skinner." He swallowed hard. "They told me you were paying
for me."

Skinner nodded slowly. "It's okay, Andrew. It's no big deal for me." 

The boy's eyes were wide as he looked up at the older man. "It's a
very big deal for me, Sir." He rose and walked back to the window.
"I, uh, I don't really have anywhere else to go."

"You'll be safe here, son. Braden's going to be locked up for the
rest of his life. No one's going to bother you here. You can have
that normal life you were talking about." Skinner watched quietly as
the young man moved through the room, touching things without
conscious thought. It was as if he were reminding himself that this
place was real, it was here, he was safe. "I've, uh, set up a small
allowance for you, too. Father Michael will give it to you however
you like -- weekly, monthly, whatever works for you."

The boy flushed again and dropped his head. His voice was soft. "You
didn't have to do that."

"I know I didn't have to." Skinner cleared his throat. "I wanted to.
It's, uh, 80 bucks a month. Is that enough?"

The boy shrugged. "I don't know. It's way more than I've ever had
before." He rubbed one toe back and forth across the rug, staring
downward at its path. "You don't have to," he repeated.

The room was silent for a moment, neither one looking at the other,
then Andrew moved. He came to stand in front of Skinner, waiting for
the man to look up and meet his eyes. "I can't give you what you
want." He spread his hands helplessly. "I can't give you anything."

Skinner shook his head. "I don't want anything, Andrew." He reached
up and took the boy's hand, bringing it to his heart. "You already
gave me my life."

The boy pulled back slowly, breaking contact with the AD, and then
stepped back. "I didn't do anything."

"You were there. You healed me. You healed Mulder." 

Andrew shook his head. "You're talking miracles. You sound like Dr.
Braden." It was an accusation.

"No," Skinner corrected him gently. "Not like him at all. I don't
want to use you, Andrew. I'm just privileged to know you. And I'm
more grateful than you can know for what's been given to me."

Andrew turned, facing away from Skinner and the big man waited
patiently. As he watched, the moon moved across the window and the
boy was bathed in its silvery light. "Don't you understand, Walter?"
the boy asked. "I'm not him -- I'm not your saint. I don't care how I
was made -- I'm just me. Andrew Madden. Nothing special, nothing
unique. Just a boy." A cloud blew before the moon and the light
faded. "Father Madden was the only one who wanted me for me."

His voice broke and Skinner took his arm, turning him gently and then
pulling him into a hug. He stroked the black hair and rubbed the thin
back as the boy sobbed. "Shhh," he soothed. "It doesn't matter."

Skinner pushed him away, holding him with two hands as he waited for
the boy to lift his head and look at him. "You are special, Andrew.
Just you. Andrew Madden. As special and unique as they come." He
reached out and wiped tears from the boy's face. "You've been through
more in your short life than most would face in ten lifetimes. You're
strong and good, capable of great love and great deeds." He shook his
head. "And you don't have to work miracles to be worthy of my respect
and love."

Andrew stared gravely into Skinner's eyes. "Will you come and see me
sometime?"

The older man nodded. "And between visits, you call me if you need
anything. Money, clothes, whatever. You can ask me for anything."

The boy fell into his arms again and Skinner held him, soft shushing
noises flowing from his lips. When the boy was cried out, he
murmured, " 'm tired."

"I know." Skinner stood and pulled the covers back on the boy's bed.
"Go put your pajamas on. It's early, but it won't hurt you to turn
in. You've had a busy couple of weeks."

Skinner fussed with the bed, then pulled a card from his wallet and
added his home and cell phone numbers to it. When Andrew came back
from the bathroom, he handed it to him. "Call me -- anytime, from
anywhere. I'll come." He stared at the boy. "You understand?"

"Yes, Sir." Andrew climbed into the bed, and Skinner awkwardly pulled
the covers up.

"I'm not very good at this," he said. 

The boy smiled. "You're doing fine." 

Skinner stood staring down at the boy in the bed. "Well, then." His
voice was suddenly gruff. "I should go." But he didn't move.

The boy lay quietly, waiting. 

"You'll call me? If you need anything?" 

Andrew nodded. 

"Well. I should go," Skinner repeated. He cleared his throat, then
leaned down and swiftly kissed the boy's forehead. He turned and
stepped quickly to the door.

"Walter?" Andrew's voice was soft. 

Skinner stopped and looked back at the bed. The moon was clear again
and Andrew glowed in its light.

"You believe in God?" 

Skinner nodded. 

"Remember -- people don't work miracles. God does." 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

End

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