From: ssteiner@sbcglobal.net   
      
   Back to my guest. I wasn't the sharpest tack in the box, and I didn't put   
   'Will' and 'William' together until after he'd left.  One night after a huge   
   screaming match, I had gone to bed with a bottle of whiskey, and woke up to   
   find that he'd ransacked my research notes and files, and then stolen my car   
   and handgun. I guess he was bored and had started to nose around, or maybe   
   he'd been reading them steadily every night while I slept.   
      
   I can't even claim this was some great epiphany of my own.  He'd left a   
   large Ziploc baggie filled with medication, and the 'scripts said it all:   
   William Vandekamp. The drugs they had in that boy scared me.  I had been   
   prescribed most of them at one time or another to deal with the side effects   
   of a damaged brain: Tegretol, Haldol, Zyprexa-just to name the scariest   
   ones.   
      
   Will was fucked up in some pretty deep ways, not the least of which were the   
   sudden changes in personality. I think that's why we got along so well, I   
   could relate to him like no one had since his disappearance.  But, it was a   
   house of cards built on shifting sands-doomed to eventually tumble down.   
   The one thing I did think of on my own was the fact that he was probably   
   headed out to find Scully, and I had given him everything he needed to know.   
      
   How does a kid find his way from bum-fuck mid America to Bellingham,   
   Washington?   I can tell you.  He looks older than he is; he took my car,   
   and my Glock.  The car was of no consequence; it was the gun that worried   
   me. Calling the police to report it stolen was the last thing on my mind.   
      
   It took me a couple of days to get Mulder's email and convince him that I   
   had critical information about a grave situation, and we had to have a   
   serious conversation. He insisted that it be a face-to-face meeting, and for   
   that I can't blame him. I know he thought the emails were from some fucker   
   yanking the rug out from under him, not just metaphorically, but I had to   
   emphasize that I was Al Kent.  I hadn't been Alex Krycek for more than a   
   decade and considering our history, that name would probably have completely   
   shut down all lines of communication.   
      
   I packed a few necessities and took the skiff across the lake to the marina,   
   bummed a ride into Clinton, then shelled out cash for another car.  I felt   
   very strange driving across the country chasing after that kid and going to   
   meet the one person that my former life had revolved around. I had to   
   finally admit that I was Alex Krycek.   
      
   I had the dry facts, incontrovertible evidence that I had lied, cheated,   
   stolen; done everything in my power to alternately aid and abet then double   
   cross and betray Mulder. What I couldn't be sure of was if I was doing the   
   wrong thing by trekking down the path that led to him? Could I trust him to   
   keep my identity safe?  I knew that I had to take that risk, it was too   
   important not to, and I couldn't avoid the karmic symmetry. Maybe I was   
   hoping for some amnesty; actual forgiveness was a hopeless chimera.   
      
   I know you know this part, but the narrative demands that I include it. The   
   Mulder-Scully's had spent the years trying to figure out what to do with the   
   truths they'd finally uncovered, then had decided to get on with having a   
   family and a life while living under the deadline of doom.  Whatever threat   
   Mulder had posed to the shadow government had been neutralized by   
   disinformation.  Mulder, former VICAP wonder-boy, had been turned into a   
   kook by his beliefs and stint in the X-Files, and anything he had to say in   
   public on the subject was met with ridicule. The same folks that had tried   
   to crucify him on trumped up murder charges had likely decided that   
   martyring him was counterproductive. Mulder's nonfiction books that managed   
   to see the light of day were preaching to the choir-it was his fiction,   
   especially the true-crime novels, that kept him in meat and potatoes.  It   
   had been years since he'd published anything except under a pseudonym, but I   
   don't imagine that had any effect on the countdown going on in his head.   
      
   Scully had another career to fall back on, and Whatcom County was lucky to   
   have her as a coroner. They simply melted into the background noise, but   
   they still believed, waiting and watching.   
      
   *~*   
      
   I'd called him a couple hours earlier from a pay phone in Seattle. The   
   agreed-upon place was a taco joint on Meridian Street in Bellingham, busy   
   enough to provide cover, but not so big that we'd miss each other.   
      
   When I walked in and saw him lounging in the chairs by the window,   
   everything went double vision.  The man from the book jacket was   
   super-imposed over broken memories.   
      
   "Mulder?'"  I murmured as I stretched my hand out.   
      
   He stared at me for a moment, and then grabbed me in a rib-cracking hug.   
   "Oh, my god. It's you. Son of a bitch."   
      
   I had nowhere to go, so I hugged back, and the two Mulders resolved into the   
   solid man in my arms.  The flood of surprise, relief, and anxiety that   
   washed over me nearly made me weep. At least this emotional outburst was   
   warranted.   
      
   Mulder broke the clinch, and leaned back, not taking his hands from my arms.   
   "Not to put too fine a point on it, but I was sure you were."   
      
   "Shot in the head, and left for dead?" Okay, so there was some resentment,   
   and a hidden rage in that wave of emotion. Skinner had probably been well   
   within his rights to shoot me, but I can't go so far as to.  to forgive him.   
      
   He shuddered and closed his eyes.   
      
   I was suddenly contrite, and I shook his arm. "I actually don't remember it.   
   I've found out a lot of it, but," I pointed to the scar my face, "it's gone,   
   I'm not who I used to be. This isn't why I contacted you."   
      
   His hand still on my arm, he led me to a small table by the kitchen door.   
   "Christ, this is bizarre. Twelve years dead and you appear out of the blue,   
   telling me you've found William and he's armed and looking for us. Tell me."   
      
   I recounted the story I've just told you, and he listened without   
   interrupting.  When I finished, he sat thoughtfully for a few minutes while   
   he absorbed it.  "You think he's here in Bellingham?"   
      
   That took me back a step.  "Where else would he go for answers except to you   
   and Scully? I'm pretty sure he was looking for his mom when I picked him   
    up."   
      
   "He's at least two days ahead of you, but he hasn't contacted us.  What do   
   you think he's waiting for?"   
      
   "I don't know, Mulder.  I don't know."   
      
   The near hysterical phone call on his cell answered that for us.  Will had   
   made his move.   
      
   ***   
      
   When we arrived at the house, the paramedics were already on the scene. Will   
   had interrupted their July Fourth barbeque when he'd confronted Scully.   
   According to a neighbor who was on hand, it hadn't gone well, and Dana had   
   been shot in the gut, then Will had taken off with their daughter, Julie.   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)