"Being Crazy," In 44 Chapters.

Name: Branwell

E-Mail: COMBS-BACHMANN@WORLDNET.ATT.NET

Date Finished: December 29, 1998

Rating: NC-17, Violence, Adult Situations

Category: T, A, UST, MSR, H for an adventure with angst and
undercurrents of romance and sexual tension and humor. I have
a really tough time with this labeling, so let me know how to
improve it if I'm misleading people.

Archiving permission: Anyone may feel free to archive this.
Just keep my name with it.

Time: Set between "The End" and "The X-Files Fight the
Future"

Spoilers: Numerous through Season 5, especially "Christmas
Carol," "Emily" and "The End."

Summary: The X-files are gone and Mulder is lost without
them. Scully is trying to keep things together for both of
them. In the middle of this crisis Scully receives a plea
for help from her brother Bill. She and Mulder must carry
out an unauthorized investigation of a crime to save Bill's
family. At the same time a memoir falls into Mulder's hands
that Scully's sister Melissa believed to be an account of a
Scully family member's past life. Mulder's curiosity
overcomes his sensible resolve to avoid reading the story
of a dark, difficult life that he and Scully supposedly
once shared. He doesn't want to believe in the authenticity
of the document. Then events in the present go out of
control and drive out every other consideration.

******************************

Chapter 1, End in Fire

Limbo. The Catholic Church had removed the belief in limbo from
its creed not long ago. Nevertheless that's where they were now. They
had a temporary office with broken-armed chairs that had been rejected
from all the other offices on that floor. Scully sat at the larger of
the mismatched desks, staring at the PC screen. Mulder sat at the
other desk staring at nothing at all.

Scully knew he was still seeing the ravaged file cabinets in
their old office. Much of the information in them probably still
existed in his head. But anything that had been filed for future study
was gone. Old cases that hadn't been examined in twenty years were
forever lost. There was nothing she could say to minimize the
calamity. She knew because she'd already tried.

They had reported here for several days and sat in silence,
while the FBI supposedly conducted an internal investigation into the
arson. Mulder hadn't even bothered to make a cynical joke about foxes
guarding henhouses. Their current assignment was to review a reissue
of the FBI Policies and Procedures Manual for Purchasing and Leasing.
Scully was looking at page one for the eighth time and the meaning of
it had not yet become clear to her.

She kept thinking about the past months since her recovery from
cancer. On the whole they had been frustrating and ineffectual. She
and Mulder had survived, no small feat, but they had solved few cases.
They had made no progress in their investigation of the government's
connection to mysterious experiments in biological weaponry. Instead
they had lost ground in their understanding when theories they
believed to be disproved were resurrected. With disasters on a greater
scale than ever before going on around them, the truth was even more
elusive than it had been in the past.

Then there were their personal lives, such as they were. She
thought that the worst part of the previous months was the pain and
tension in their relationship with each other. Immediately after her
recovery she had felt close to Mulder. Close enough to acknowledge to
herself that she loved him. She had even thought he might be trying to
reach out to her emotionally. Then they had disagreed over a document
Scully's mother had found among Melissa's personal papers. Melissa had
believed that it recounted a past lifetime where Scully and Mulder had
been lovers. Mulder had swallowed the whole story unquestioningly. He
was clearly upset when she denied any feeling of connection to that
life. But he never once suggested that he had similar feelings in this
life. Since then he seemed bent on putting as much distance between
them as possible, both emotionally and literally. He feared the
closeness they had experienced, or maybe he wanted to prove he was
uninfluenced by the story.

Of course she had to admit to pushing him away when he reached
out to her and offered support. After Emily's death she felt so
fragile that all her defenses would have crumbled if she had allowed
him to get close. God only knew what she might have said or done in
her extremity.

To top off the mess they were making of their partnership,
Mulder's old flame and colleague Diana Fowley recently showed up and
tried to insinuate herself into their working life. Scully thought
Diana probably believed six impossible things before breakfast,
including the phenomena of channelling and reincarnation. Scully
couldn't resist mentally trying Diana out in the roles of some of the
less admirable characters portrayed in Melissa's manuscript. She
scolded herself for enjoying the exercise. Poor Diana lay in a coma at
that very moment.

The circumstances resulting in her injury, however, did nothing
to increase Scully's respect for the woman's acumen. She had read the
crime scene report. There was window glass in the wound Diana
received, but no corresponding hole in the drape. Diana must have
opened the curtains and looked out the window while she was guarding
the target of a previous sniper attack! Her last assignment had been
as a member of team fighting international terrorism. Scully was
surprised she had lived to return to the states. It was a wonder she
hadn't perished while opening a piece of mail labeled "Letter Bomb."

*******************************

Mulder felt as though he were watching his life on a television
set. Frequently some unseen person with the remote muted the sound. He
had no control over the action on the screen. He watched his life, and
watched Scully watch him watch his life. What was his motivation
again?

Oh, yes, Samantha's abduction, the ur-X-file. It was gone,
stolen or burned.

Scully assured him that this lost, disoriented feeling would
pass. It was shock. He would feel anger, depression, grief,
acceptance. It sounded like the stages of dying. That was why he
thought Scully was wrong. He would never come out of this emotional
stasis because if he did the feelings would kill him.

*******************************

The phone rang and Scully answered it. After a few words she
hung up and looked at him with concern.

"I have to go to Skinner's office."

Mulder automatically started to get up, but she shook her head.

"He only wants me. Kim said it's personal. You don't need to go.
Probably it's some mix-up in my personnel records. "

Mulder sat back down and continued to scrutinize the fake wood
grain on the desktop.

The time that passed before Scully reappeared at the door could
have been 5 minutes or 5 hours for all he knew. What he saw when he
looked up jolted him briefly back into real-time. Scully had traces of
tears on her face, and a grief-stricken look.

"What's happened?" he asked, with almost his usual emphasis.

Scully was still too distressed to think about the effect her
news might have on Mulder.

"Skinner told me my Mom called. Matthew, my nephew, Bill and
Tara's baby, was kidnapped out of their house last night. He's just
disappeared."

Mulder noted sluggishly that someone had muted the sound again.
He heard an annoying buzzing instead of a voice, and the picture
started to dwindle too. Then he felt his chair being rolled back and
his head being pushed down toward his knees. His first attempts to
straighten up were unsuccessful, because two small hands placed
pressure firmly on the back of his neck.

Did there always have to be an open file on a mysterious child
abduction? Was it a law of nature? One file was destroyed, so another
one had to be created?

"When did you eat last, Mulder?"

"I don't remember."

"That's not recent enough. Come on. I'm sorry I blurted that out
so suddenly."

Scully took his hand and tugged. He got up mechanically and
walked alongside her. As the blood circulated normally through his
brain again, he began to think about how inappropriate this was.
Scully had just gotten terrible family news. She was shocked and
grieved. So what followed? He cracked under the pressure on her. She
took care of him, and in the process she apologized to him for
revealing her problem in an insensitive way. He took her arm and
stopped suddenly. As he tried to form the words to express his
sympathy, and his regret at being such a weak sister, he found he had
to lean against the hallway wall for support.

"It's OK Mulder. I know this is a terrible time for you," she
assured him.

Over his inarticulate protests Scully steered him into the
cafeteria, and seated him at a table. She turned up a few minutes
later with a tray full of food. It was an eclectic spread that
included fruit and cottage cheese along with sausage, sauerkraut, and
mashed potatoes.

Instead of the nausea he expected at the sight and smell of
food, Mulder felt his body gear up for digestion. Obviously his
physical self was determined to make the most of this opportunity.

Now that she had accomplished her mission, Scully sat down and
her face resumed its expression of anxiety and sorrow. Mulder didn't
want to give her any more trouble so he ate. As he systematically
emptied the plates in front of him, Scully related the few details she
had on the crime.

"I talked to Bill and then I called the detective in San Diego
who's heading the investigation. It's only been about six hours since
Tara found Matt's crib empty. He was gone when she went in to check on
him at six A.M."

Mulder made a conscious effort to switch on his profiling
persona and was gratified at the immediate results. Questions and
answers made sense again.

"Was anything else missing?"

"Nothing at all, so far as Tara can figure out. Of course she's
a basket case."

They both knew that the scenario wasn't the best. No ransom note
was found. The kidnappers didn't take diapers or clothes for the days
to come. Why not?

"Signs of breaking and entering?"

"None, so far."

After a moment's hesitation Scully continued slowly.

"They have a security system-a pretty good one. The doors and
windows are secured so that an alarm goes off in the security firm's
office when they're opened. The system has to be disabled with a code
to prevent that. There was no alarm last night. But Bill insists he
enabled the system before they went to bed last night."

Scully paused and then went on again.

"I'm taking time off and flying out there. I'm afraid the local
police are going to blow this case, Mulder. They're putting most of
their time into questioning the family and checking their alibis. I
think they've already made up their minds that Bill and Tara are
covering up child abuse and murder."

Mulder considered offering to accompany her. The awful memories
of his last visit to San Diego on Scully's behalf played themselves
out in unwanted detail at the thought. He remembered how reluctant
Scully had been to involve him at all. She only called him because she
needed his testimony at a custody hearing. The crisis that was Emily
exposed his betrayal of Scully's trust in him by forcing him to admit
he had known all along that her stolen ova were being used to create
some kind of monstrous hybrid children. For a while he believed she
would quit the X-files to mother the little girl who resulted from one
of these experiments. Their efforts to uncover the truth were useless.
They were helpless to save the child's life, and Scully let him know
that his emotional support was unnecessary and unwelcome. Why would
she want him now?

No, he really didn't need to see the closed off expression with
averted eyes that would follow his proposal. He didn't need to hear
the chilly "Thanks, but no thanks," response.

"Give me a call if there's anything I can do to help, Scully,"
he said, keeping his own eyes on his food. "If the authorities bring
in the FBI, I'll find out who's handling it and make sure all the
angles are covered."

Scully was saddened to realize that where once Mulder would have
offered his company without a second thought, he now held back. After
four years of steadily increasing trust and friendship between them,
why did they now devote so much energy to holding each other at arm's
length? She sat in silence thinking about what San Diego would be
like. Convincing the police to expand their investigation would be an
arduous job in itself. At the same time she would have to deal with
memories of Emily and the incredible suffering and fear of her
victimized family. Defeat seemed so certain it bowed her shoulders
with its preordained weight.

As the minutes of silence passed, Mulder looked up to see if
something were wrong. Scully's apprehension and loneliness were
painfully evident in her bearing. His reason admonished him to stay
out of it. What would happen to the carefully maintained space between
them if they were living en famille in San Diego? Besides, Bill hated
him. He'd be welcomed with all the enthusiasm a taxpayer reserves for
an IRS auditor. The local police would resent the hell out of him. If
Matthew was never recovered, his presence and participation would make
it his failure. Worst of all, what if it were his expertise that
pinned the crime on Bill or Tara?

His negative resolve, constructed at great emotional expense out
of impeccable logic, melted like ice on a griddle when he looked at
Scully. She might not think she needed him, but what if she did and he
weren't there? He owed her too much to let that happen.

"Scully, you wouldn't by any chance want me . . . .Maybe when
you get there you'll want me to fly out for a day to talk to . . . .I
don't want to complicate things . . . ."

"Would you come out with me?" she interrupted eagerly. "I felt
like I shouldn't ask. It's a terrible imposition."

Mulder was taken off guard by her swift acceptance.

"You know I won't cover up anything I find," he said warningly.

She nodded silently.

"Are you flying out with your Mom tonight?"

"Yes. We've got tickets for a direct flight to San Diego. It
lands at 3 A.M., Pacific time."

"I'll follow you out tomorrow night, Scully. You call me
tomorrow morning with the relevant names-employers, employees, former
employees, security company staff, neighbors, co-workers, etc., etc."

Scully watched as Mulder sat down at the PC and started scanning
FBI databases for patterns in infant kidnappings. She couldn't be
thankful for this dreadful event, but her pressing need had certainly
brought him, at least temporarily, out of what looked like a serious
depression.

"Thanks, Mulder," she offered.

"Don't forget any repairmen they've had recently," Mulder
replied. He was already focused on a particular case file.

Mr. Congeniality he would never be, Scully admitted to herself.
She took care of her leave arrangements and started home to pack. Her
Mom would be ready to go at 10 P.M. That should leave enough time to
get to the airport and through security.

When Scully opened her briefcase in her apartment, she realized
she had forgotten to bring home the old book her mother had given her
last Sunday at dinner. It was another item from her sister's research
materials. Her interest in New Age philosophy and medicine had led her
into many unusual areas of study. Her mother told her that Melissa had
pursued her interest in family histories connected to reincarnation
with a lot of enthusiasm until 1994. Then she had bundled all the
manuscripts and books away into storage and become more concerned with
meditation and prayer.

Mrs. Scully hadn't received any mysterious calls to draw her
attention to the book this time. Scully was very thankful for that.
She didn't want anything more to do with phone calls from the dead.
Unaware of the difficulties the other document had caused between her
daughter and Mulder, Maggie Scully had offered the book as a curiosity
and companion piece to the manuscript inherited from Aunt Kate. The
provenance of the book made its connection to their family even less
likely than that of Aunt Kate's "family history."

Scully remembered leaving the book on the shelf right over the
PC where Mulder was working. The memory didn't please her. While he
would never be Mr. Congeniality, he would beat out the entire Western
world for Mr. Curiosity. If the first few pages were any indication,
the story was downbeat---a bad influence on someone who was already
depressed. She had pretty much decided not to read it herself. Not
because she was depressed. It was because these supposed accounts of
past lives embarrassed and confused her. To have Mulder read it would
be worse than reading it herself. It would just re-open the whole
issue between them, and he would be especially vulnerable right now.

Scully acknowledged the fact of her screw-up with a shrug. It
was still possible he would overlook the book in the intensity of his
concentration on Matthew's disappearance. She couldn't be concerned
about it in the light of other problems.

On the flight to San Diego Scully found no comforting words for
her mother. She finally settled for holding her hand in silence while
she considered the practical questions. Bill had recounted some of the
police investigation for her. The parents were always the first
suspects in a case like this, but they should have been eliminated as
possibilities within hours. Instead they had been questioned
repeatedly on the same points. The Susan Smith and Jon Benet Ramsey
cases had every detective determined not to overlook the suspects
closest to home in their sympathy for the families of missing
children.

Scully had advised full co-operation, since that would put the
police back on track as soon as possible. She still felt an anxiety
close to panic when she thought about the actual criminals and the
head start they were getting while the police harassed Matthew's
family.

******************************

Mulder searched the crime databases until the cleaning crew
arrived at eight o'clock. He couldn't think of anything further to do
without names, so he prepared to leave the office. As he started down
the hall, he heard a voice behind him.

"Mister, you forgot your book."

He stopped and looked blankly at the young woman hurrying after
him with a tiny old volume in her hands.

"It looks like it might be valuable. It's so old."

He looked at the title-"Memoirs of a Journalist: An Account of
the Grave New Evils that Threaten Our Modern Civilization." Still
baffled, he opened the cover and found a letter that answered his
questions.

Biblioquest
P.O. Box 32841
Boston, MA

October 25, 1985

Dear Ms. Scully:

We are pleased to be able to send you a book that meets the criteria
specified in Ms. Zenith's letter of July 31, 1985, as follows:

1. Memoirs published between 1820 and 1850.
2. Authored or edited by a member of the Fox or Spinner families.
3. Dealing with events in London, England during the period from
1810 through 1815.

We never before dealt with a request that was simultaneously so
rigorously and so loosely defined. Working with these instructions
from someone who 'channels' from the spiritual realm was quite a
challenge. Miss Emily Brewster, the specialist who directed your
search, said it was the most interesting assignment she ever tackled.
In short, she was enthusiastic.

We are working on your other requests. The search for twelfth and
thirteenth century English documents relating to the Duke of Exeter
does not hold much promise. It appears most unlikely that anything
will be available on the market. Most such items are already in
collections belonging to a university or to the Crown. If anything did
go on auction, it would almost certainly exceed the price range you
specified by an order of magnitude.

In the other matter we are still hopeful. We found no attempted
lynchings in late nineteenth century Ohio which involved people with
the names you specified. However we are expanding the search
parameters, historically, geographically, and categorically.

Please encourage Ms. Zenith to refer other clients to our business
When they require a literary search. We look forward to working with
you in the future.

Your bill is being sent under separate cover.

Very truly yours,

Miles Van Dyne
Senior Manager

Wonderful! Things hadn't been the same between him and Scully
since they both read that first document Melissa dug up. He felt an
uncertainty in their relationship that was like teetering on the brink
of a precipice so high that he couldn't see the bottom from where he
stood. He wasn't going to repeat his earlier mistake and cause himself
a lot of inner turmoil by reading this book. OK, maybe it was true,
but apparently insight didn't always improve relationships. More
insight might destroy theirs entirely.

He thanked the young woman and tucked the book into his
briefcase. If it fell out into a dumpster somewhere he wouldn't miss
it. If it didn't he'd return it to Scully, unread, at some far future
date.

At home Mulder prepared for bed, turned his television to the
Sci-Fi channel, and lay down on the couch. He would astonish Skinner
by requesting leave tomorrow. The Bureau would be glad to get him out
of the way while the debate on what to do with him raged on.

He and Scully toiled down the steep dirt path that skirted the
cliff. The heat and humidity around them left them both wet with sweat
at the slightest exertion. But something was after them and they had
to keep moving. As they picked their way down, the path got narrower
and narrower, until they were clinging to vegetation on the hillside
to keep from falling. Finally the path itself disappeared and they
were crouching, trying to make progress across the angled cliffside.
They reached a place where ancient volcanic flows from above had
streamed down. The lava had hardened into folds of rock that looked
like a stone waterfall. It plunged a hundred feet to the rocks and sea
below.

A vine Mulder was using for just a little support gave way and
his precarious balance was lost. He rolled once and started slipping
toward the edge. Scully saw and lunged forward after him, grabbing for
his belt. She caught it, but her weight and purchase on the smooth
rock were not enough to stop his slide. He yelled at her to let go
just as they both went over the side.

Mulder woke up feeling just as sweaty as he had in the dream,
but it was a cold sweat. This nightmare first occurred last autumn and
now he had it at least once a week. So far he had always waked up when
they were in free fall. He hoped the dream never progressed to the
point of impact on the rocks below.

Scully's call came an hour later, at eight o'clock A.M.

"Scully, what's going on?"

"It's looking worse and worse. Detective Wagner doesn't believe
Bill's and Tara's story. He's not seriously considering other
possibilities. Some of his people are running other leads down, but I
think they're just going through the motions. I'm afraid Tara's going
to have a breakdown if they don't find something out soon."

"How's Bill holding up?" Mulder asked curiously.

"Oh, you know us Scullys. We're as tough as old boots."

Mulder imagined all the Scullys conscientiously meeting family
toughness standards, while poor Tara felt like a madwoman for being
distraught.

"I've got the names from Bill and Tara. They should be the same
ones the police have," Scully added.

Scully began to read off the names with their connections,
addresses and phone numbers. Mulder wrote them down, repeating the
spelling of each. When she had finished she sighed unconsciously at
the prospect of going back to dealing with her brother's household.

"Thanks again for helping, Mulder."

"Hang in there, Scully. I'll get there about 11 o'clock your
time. I'm going to rent a car."

He paused for a moment and exclaimed, "It must be five in the
morning there right now!"

"That's right, Mulder. Nobody's getting much sleep here. I'll
see you tonight."

When he arrived at the FBI building he slipped into their
temporary office and renewed his searches of the official databases.
The names Scully had given him didn't raise many flags. He learned
that the guy who cut their grass was a deadbeat dad, and that their
neighbor Dirk Goldman had a bad habit of soliciting middle-aged men in
public bathrooms. Marilyn Sharkey, the 72-year-old lady who lived
across the street, owed several thousand dollars on traffic tickets
received in Reno and Las Vegas. Mulder was impressed. They had
succeeded in living squeaky-clean, no insignificant achievement in
California. But he knew these sources barely scratched the surface. It
remained to be seen what kind of dirt the real pros could dig up.

Skinner could barely conceal his surprise and relief at Mulder's
announced intention to take leave. The last time he saw the agent he
feared Mulder was falling into a clinical depression. There had been
little time to think about it, since his own daily schedule was a
pressure cooker of highly charged meetings. Many of them involved the
future of the X-files and the agent in front of him.

"Are you going back to Graceland?" he asked with a smile, as he
signed the leave slip.

"No sir, I'm going out to the West Coast."

Skinner nodded absently.

"Give this to Kim on your way out. Have a good vacation."

Preoccupied with strategy for the 3 o'clock in Director Carter's
office, he didn't make the connection with Scully's situation until
Mulder had stepped into the outer office. Skinner moved quickly after
him, but Mulder had already disappeared. The infinite potential for
trouble that Mulder's words had unveiled made Skinner flinch.

"Kim, if a call comes for me from the San Diego Police
Department, try to handle it. Put them off if you can. I'll return the
call later."

Much, much later, he thought.

Chapter 2, Virtual Dirt

When Mulder showed up at the Lone Gunmen's place Frohike and
Langly were idly searching the net for unusual sources of information.

"Are you too busy to do some research for me?" Mulder inquired.

"Have you got something interesting?" Langly asked. "We're just
looking for additions to our personal info database. We've got a table
of topics and names we run daily for hits, just in case something
turns up to our disadvantage. Did you know that someone who calls
himself Zebulon has a website where he claims that you consulted him
as an expert on extraterrestrial phenomena? He says he was able to
clear up some difficulties you had with interpreting evidence."

"Somehow it doesn't surprise me, " Mulder said, shaking his head
resignedly. "Men, I'll bring back a case of Jolt and a pizza if you'll
dig up some dirt on these names."

"What did they do to get on your bad side?" Frohike questioned.

"Seriously, Frohike. Scully's nephew was kidnapped yesterday.
He's only a baby."

"Bummer," Langly sympathized.

Byers had entered in time to hear the last exchange.

"It's the ex-spouse. It's always the ex-spouse. I helped my
sister track down her little girl. My ex-brother-in-law had taken the
kid to Florida on a one-week vacation and didn't come back. He was the
world's worst father. He just didn't want Nikki to have her little
girl."

"Did you get her back?" Mulder asked.

"I sure did. And we made that man sorry he ever tangled with
us," Byers went on with unusual malice.

Langly gave an evil, reminiscent grin. Mulder couldn't keep a
hint of disbelief from his voice.

"Did you beat him up?"

"Certainly not. But if he ever gets credit again on this planet
I'll go back to a 486. Trust me, it's almost always an ex out for
revenge," Byers said with a wise look.

"It can't be an ex-spouse this time. Bill and Tara aren't
divorced, and neither one was married before. The police have all
these names, but unfortunately they've focused on Scully's brother and
his wife as the main suspects."

Langly took the list and looked at it. He handed it to Frohike.

"Here, let's get their social security numbers. When we've got
those, their asses are ours. And make that two pizzas, one
vegetarian," he flung back over his shoulder at Mulder.

When Mulder returned he had two and a half pizzas. The smell of
the pizza parlor had reminded him that he had neglected to eat again
today. He didn't want to do something inconvenient, like faint at the
airport. Mulder sat down beside Frohike, who was collating their
results.

"How's Diana doing?" Frohike inquired casually.

"She's no better and no worse," Mulder replied soberly.

"Were you going to hook up with her again, if she hadn't gotten
shot?"

Frohike prided himself on his sensitivity, but he didn't feel it
was required here. He was curious.

"If it's any of your concern, no. She was probably a mistake,"
Mulder replied stiffly.

"You think?" was Frohike's sarcastic answer. "You've got an
unerring instinct for finding the women that'll make love hurt, don't
you, buddy?"

Mulder ignored him. Having Mulder around always raised morale at
the Lone Gunmen's hangout. His apparent failure to appreciate his
partner made them feel like his emotional and social superiors. They
all agreed he was doomed when it came to women. Langly argued that it
was a good thing, since it left him free to concentrate on
conspiracies.

"Well, I'm afraid there's a reason the police are concentrating
on Scully's brother and his wife," Frohike observed after scanning the
results of the search. "You probably already knew about these," he
continued. "These are the results of running the names you gave me."
He riffled through the stack, muttering as he went. "Hmm, arrests for
soliciting, traffic violations, pornography purchases but nothing
younger than pseudo teenager, behind $5,000 in child support payments,
registered as possible threat to the President."

"We also ran William and Tara Scully," he said, handing over a
paper. "Did your lovely partner tell you Tara was treated for
postpartum depression in February? She's still seeing a doctor and
taking Prozac."

"Geez, do you know what size bra she wears? Don't answer that,"
Mulder added hastily. "Bill's not a nineties kind of guy. He doesn't
share much and he and Scully don't talk that often. I doubt if he told
her. If he did, she didn't tell me."

Mulder knew that a mental condition like that would be a red
flag for the detective on the case. Did Tara lose control with a fussy
baby and Bill decide to cover for her? Neither possibility fit with
his experience of the Scully family. However his acquaintance with
Tara was minimal, and interactions with Bill had been either covertly
or openly hostile on Bill's side. His doubts about participating
loomed again based on this discovery. He stood up and packed the
papers into his briefcase.

"I know I speak for Scully too when I say thanks for your help.
My flight leaves in two hours. I'll read these in detail on the plane.
We'll find Matthew."

Dead or alive, Mulder added silently. He couldn't stand
it if this investigation remained unsolved, as his sister's
disappearance had. He was a grown-up this time. He'd do whatever it
took.

Chapter 3, Uneasy Allies

Mulder was relieved that Bill and Tara no longer lived in the
same house Scully visited previously. At least her memories wouldn't
be quite so overwhelming. After Matt was born, the family had moved
out of base housing. It was a about an hour's drive from the airport
to their new home. Like many homes here it was built on a street
carved terrace-style from the side of a hill. Across the street was
the hill leading up to the next level of houses. He saw there was
still a scarcity of sleep in the Scully residence. Every window in the
two-story stucco building appeared to be lit.

Scully answered the door. Mulder noted approvingly that she wore
a jacket, which meant she was wearing her holster and gun. Then he
registered her unreserved smile of welcome and found himself smiling
back. He barely stopped himself in time from enveloping her in a hug.

"I feel better knowing you're here. Thanks for coming," Scully
told him.

"No problem. I'm really sorry this has to happen to anyone, but
your family has suffered too much. Good evening, Maggie," he said, as
Scully's mother entered the hall.

"Hello, Fox. I want to thank you for coming out here to help.
It's a lot to ask. My poor children," she faltered, her voice wavering
slightly. "Well that doesn't help, does it? I'll show you where you'll
be sleeping. You can leave your bag there."

Mulder thought Bill Scully must be making pretty good money. The
house was large, although placed on a typically small California lot.
There were four doors in the upstairs hall in addition to his assigned
bedroom.

"Dana and I are sharing this room," Mrs. Scully said, pointing
to the room across the hall from his. "That's the bathroom," she
added, indicating the next door toward the end of the hall. "Bill and
Tara's room is on the left at the end and the baby's room is across
from theirs."

Mulder saw light coming from under the door of the baby's room.

"Is someone in there?" he inquired.

"Tara," Mrs. Scully answered, looking anxiously at the door.
"She's hardly come out during the past day and a half."

He put his suitcase and briefcase in the bedroom. The lack of a
TV was a disappointment, but perhaps there was a portable one
available.

"It's 4 A.M. your time. You'd probably like to get some sleep
before you start talking to people," Mrs. Scully offered.

There was a questioning note in her voice that betrayed her hope
that Mulder would decide to start work immediately. Which was exactly
what he intended to do.

"I don't want to lose any time. Is Bill around, able to talk?"

She nodded and started down the stairs ahead of him.

Mulder knew that Bill would be the most difficult person to deal
with. He might as well get the initial sparring over with. Scully was
waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. She had clearly
anticipated his plan of action.

"I'll take Mulder to Bill, Mom. I need to speak to him first."

Scully gestured to Mulder to follow her into the kitchen area.
Only a low counter separated it from the family room.

"There was a new development this afternoon. Bill got a call at
work from an unknown person. The caller was a man, who said, 'I'll
settle for half of what you owe me.' He hung up immediately. Bill
called security right away. It took hours to trace the call, and it
turned to be a public phone near a busy gas station. The attendant
said the phone gets a steady stream of users, and they don't even have
to get out of their cars. The history records on the phone confirmed
that. They're running checks on non-cash purchases made at the gas
station at that time, but I doubt if the kidnapper was that careless."

"Have the police put a tap on the phone lines here?"

"Yes, they did that within the first six hours."

"Are they looking more seriously into other suspects now?"

Scully frowned as she answered.

"No, that's the part that's starting to drive us crazy. Nobody
else heard what was said. Security at the installation is permitted to
record calls, but they usually don't. So the police suggested that
Bill took an opportunity to divert suspicion to a stranger when he
received a call from someone who got a wrong number. They're even
hinting that he arranged with Tara to go out and make the call."

"Wasn't your mother here with her?"

"No, Mom had gone out for about an hour to do some grocery
shopping when the call came. It's so frustrating, Mulder. The trail is
getting colder and colder."

"Why did Bill go in to work today? Didn't Tara want him to stay
home?"

Scully looked surprised at the question.

"His position has a lot of responsibilities. He had to go in to
set up a process to delegate some of his duties and make arrangements
to postpone some exercises."

'Iron Bill' Mulder thought, remembering how Scully came to work
the day after her father's funeral. Mulder worked all the time and
people called him weird. These people did the same thing and were
praised for dedication. It must be a style thing.

"He brought some work home. He's in the den with it right now."

"Scully, first, did you know that Tara was treated for
postpartum depression last winter?"

"No, I didn't. I would have told you. I know that affects how
the police view the case." Scully looked thoughtful. "That explains a
lot about Tara's condition now."

Bill sat behind a huge, well-organized wooden desk that faced
away from a large curtained window. The effect was to make anyone
entering the room feel as though they were in the presence of The
Boss. His expression was grim as he marked up various charts and
schedules. He looked up and his face underwent a change that surprised
Mulder. He smiled uncertainly and came out from behind the desk to
shake Mulder's hand.

"Mulder, I can't tell you how much I appreciate your involving
yourself in this. I know you're doing it for Dana, but . . .I know I
haven't always been as understanding of your position as I should."

"It's OK, Bill. I'm doing this for Matt. Don't worry about it."

Mulder shook the proffered hand and then turned away abruptly.
Bill looked a little taken aback, but also relieved.

"Let's work over there," Mulder suggested, pointing to a large
table that held only a ship model.

"Sure," Bill said. "Do you need anything? Pencil, paper,
coffee?"

"Not yet," Mulder replied, holding up his cassette recorder.

The three of them sat down at the table and Mulder asked Bill to
tell him the whole story from the beginning. It became obvious that
Bill had been over the story so often that he had it by rote.

"On Monday night I worked late. I didn't get home until about
8:30. I used the system code to enter the side door and reset it after
I got in the house. Matt was already in his crib asleep. Tara and I
had some salad and fish for dinner. Then she woke Matt up to feed him
before we sent to bed at 11:30. She's hoping he'll start sleeping
through the night if she does that. She gets so tired being waked up
every single night. I worry about her. We didn't wake up until my
alarm went off at 6 o'clock. We were so pleased he had slept through.
That's a memory that'll be hard to live with."

Bill had to stop and regain control of his voice.

"Tara went in to check on him while I was shaving. She screamed-
--God I'll never forget that terrified scream. I just about keeled
over. I thought he must be dead. You know, one of those crib deaths.
She kept screaming while I went rushing in. I asked Tara to search the
house while I called the police. She was pretty irrational about it,
but I had time to look too, before the police got there. There was no
sign of breaking in or out. The security system was set properly.
There was just nothing. No Matthew."

Here Bill covered his face with his hands, but it didn't look
like a rehearsed gesture. He was a man trying to hide deep pain under
a paper-thin veneer of control.

"I don't know if I can come back from this," he murmured, almost
to himself. "I've come back from some other things---but this? I don't
know."

Scully forced her thoughts away from Emily. Her own daughter had
died here in San Diego about six months ago. She had come back from
that. Most of the way, anyhow. The emotions knotted up with Emily's
death were so complex she avoided thinking about the experience. She
tried to keep it confined to the mental cellar where other memories
connected to her abduction were shut away.

Mulder started asking questions.

"Do you have a good code on your security system?"

"I work with security systems that control access to nuclear
devices. I know how to put together a good code."

"Do you change it frequently?"

At this Bill looked shamefaced.

"No, Tara says she can't remember which one is valid when I do
that. I haven't changed it in the five months since we moved here."

"Do you know of anyone who believes you have a lot of money?"

"No, we live like our neighbors, from paycheck to paycheck with
huge mortgages and credit card debt."

It was with his next question that Mulder hoped to make some
progress.

"Do you know of anyone with a serious grudge against you? Not a
squabble over a power tool or who gets the office with a window, but
someone who blames you for a serious injury? It doesn't have to be
true---they just have to believe it's true."

"The police asked me about that too, but I can't think of
anything. We get along fine with our neighbors. I've gotten promotions
over people, but they haven't come through deceit or unfairness. I
haven't had to discipline anyone over a serious matter in years.
Everything's been handled quietly through proper channels. Nobody's
career was ever ended, although sometimes there were setbacks."

"Would anyone at the base go through your records with Scully to
identify possible suspects?"

"They might, with my permission. But surely the police have done
that."

"I'm not sure they've given it their full attention. Please make
arrangements for that tomorrow."

"I'll do that," Bill agreed, making a note.

"Now I'm going to ask harder questions that you have to answer
honestly if you want me to stay and help you. Have you had any
romantic or sexual relationships outside your marriage? Women, men,
children, sheep, whatever. The point isn't to convince yourself that
you've met some technical standard of faithfulness. It's to help us
save Matt's life by dealing honestly with the possibilities."

"I know exactly what you mean," Bill answered, his face turning
red. "The answer is no. It would be wrong. To tell the truth I've
never been tempted. Tara and I love each other. I don't do anything
that could jeopardize that."

Scully's eyes stung when she heard her stolid brother's open
avowal of his feelings. She understood exactly how he felt.

On a personal level, Mulder tried to imagine not even being
tempted. He failed, but then recollected that the love Bill spoke of
included a real-life sexual relationship. That would probably tend to
take the edge off. As an investigator he noted the deep feeling for
Tara that might lead Bill to cover up her misdeeds.

"Have you run up any kind of gambling debts or borrowed money
from loan sharks?"

"Nothing like that, unless you count Chase Manhattan Visa as a
loan shark. We only owe the usual people for the usual things."

"Have you or Tara ever been counseled or treated for any mental
condition that would make the police suspicious of you?" Mulder threw
in, as casually as he could.

Bill gave him a sharp glance, while Mulder made it his business
to look preoccupied with the cassette recorder. Silently he was
rooting for Bill to tell the truth. The man seemed so genuine---Lord,
how he didn't want to have a hand in putting Scully's brother in
prison!

"You already know, don't you," Bill charged angrily.

Mulder returned Bill's angry glare with an impassive stare.

"Tara suffered from postpartum depression after Matt was born.
It's a chemical imbalance in the brain, probably brought on by the
changes in hormone levels that happen during pregnancy and birth. At
least that's what the doctors tell me." Bill rubbed his eyes tiredly.
"Sometimes I wonder, though, if what Dana put us through around the
time Matt was born had something to do with it. That was enough to
depress anybody."

Mulder didn't dare look at Scully's face. He didn't want to
witness her struggle to conceal her sorrow at the memory and her hurt
at the implied accusation. She had gone very still at her brother's
words. Granted, Bill was under an enormous amount of pressure. Still,
didn't he realize how cruel it was to suggest Scully was somehow to
blame because they became witnesses of Emily's tragedy? And Scully
could never have any other children. Mulder had an impulse to take one
of her hands in his, but he restrained himself.

Scully was the doctor, but the next words were clearly up to
him.

"Did Tara ever show signs of neglecting or harming Matt while
she was depressed?" Mulder inquired.

He gave Bill credit for giving the question careful thought.

"She wanted to sleep all the time when she was going through the
worst of it. I had a couple of baby nurses in for about a month. After
that the Prozac started helping and she did all right. She never got
angry at Matt, or did anything to endanger him."

"You should have given us the names of the nurses on that list.
We can't help if we don't know everything that might be related."

"I guess whoever did this took our right to privacy too," Bill
said with resignation. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make things
difficult."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Bill. It happens to a lot of
women and they recover completely," Scully comforted. Her voice was
shaky to begin with, but gained firmness as she went on.

Mulder had always known Scully was tough. Now he had the
opportunity to see how some of her armor had been acquired. It wasn't
a pretty sight, but he was honest enough to admit that the process had
created the perfect partner for him. Scully rarely challenged him with
an emotional response. She had slipped a few times.

He'd never forget one of those occasions, no matter how much he
wanted to. It was at the end of the case involving murders attributed
to the mentally handicapped Harold Spuller. Scully confessed that she
had been too frightened about the implications for her own mortality
to tell him about seeing a ghostly image of one the victims. He had
berated her, implying that she was acting against him by withholding
information. That memory was a real treat to contemplate while she lay
dying in the hospital later that year.

How much right had he to be critical of Bill Scully for his
insensitivity? He had done plenty to plug up any chinks left in
Scully's armor when he met her. When she turned away from him at the
time of Emily's death he should have rejoiced that she had learned to
leave him out of her emotional life. To his surprise he'd felt lost
and hurt. He realized that he missed the difficult and perilous work
of communicating with Scully on a deeper level. But it was for the
best, wasn't it?

"We need to talk to Tara," he informed Bill.

"She's not doing too well at the moment," Bill stated flatly.
"She stays in Matt's room and cries continually. She keeps playing the
music she used to get him to go back to sleep at night. He's so fussy
at night for a six-month-old. This past month Tara was just getting
back to her normal self."

Bill's eyes had a far off look that seemed to be fixed on a
happier time.

"Never mind me," he sighed. "I know you have to talk to her. If
you don't, and you don't find Matt, she'll never be normal again
anyway. Good night, and thanks again to both of you."

Chapter 4, Lullabies

Outside the den Scully turned to Mulder.

"I think I'll go sit with Mom for a while. I already tried
talking to Tara but . . . .Maybe Bill is right. Maybe what happened
with Emily was a factor in her depression and I remind her of it. You
might do better by yourself."

Mulder could hear the sadness in her voice, although her face
was carefully controlled. Once again he felt like reaching out, and
again told himself to leave well enough alone. Scully could always
rely on her mother for support.

"Sure. I'll see what I can do."

He ascended the stairs and knocked at the door of Matt's room.
There was no answer, although he could hear lively music playing.
Perhaps she had fallen asleep. He inched the door open and saw that
Tara sat with her eyes closed in a large rocking chair. She held a
stuffed bear over her shoulder as though she were rocking a baby.
Mulder braced himself for an unpredictable interview, and hoped he
wouldn't be dealing with a woman who'd gone over the edge.

"Tara," he spoke softly.

She opened her eyes slowly.

"Fox Mulder," she identified him. "Have you found him for me?"

Her face changed from apathetic to eager, and animation entered
her voice. He had seen the same look on the faces of people crowding
around the podium in a faith healer's tent.

Mulder was expecting the changes in appearance consistent with
depression, but was still surprised at how different she looked.
Tara's long blond tresses were gone. The new short cut had been
neglected, so it looked lifeless and stringy. Her movements were
sluggish. She had gained weight and her face was puffy.

"No, I just got here. I need to ask you some questions to help
me find Matt."

He looked around the room scattered with Matt's baby things and
filled with lilting music.

"Maybe we should go to another room where you can concentrate
better," he suggested.

"Oh no, I'm waiting here. I want to be right here when they
bring Mattie home."

"OK, we can work here. Are you sure you're up to answering
questions? Bill said it was all right, but I can wait . . . ."

"I'm fine," she interrupted. "As Bill would say, if you ripped
his heart out and stomped it flat. I'm fine. As fine as anyone can be
walking around with that handicap."

Her belligerence faded quickly to lethargy. Then she roused
herself a little to continue talking.

"Bill told me about the things that have happened to his family.
He told me about your sister too. Have you been fine since she went
missing?"

"No, I never have. I've always thought my sister's disappearance
ruined my whole life. I'm never going to get past it, because of the
way it twisted my family and me. That's one reason why I want to find
Matt for you. I don't want to see your family destroyed without having
a chance."

After a pause Mulder went on.

"That's probably more truth than you need to hear right now. But
people want you to do your grieving and recovery on schedule these
days. Tell them to take a flying leap."

Then Tara volunteered the information Mulder was hesitant to
pursue with someone so delicately balanced on the edge of collapse.

"I was just beginning to feel like a good mother during the past
two months. I had to take hormone shots to get pregnant. You have no
idea how hard it is to manage fertility treatments when one of you is
on active duty in the military. And what those shots do to your moods!
We were so happy while I was expecting. Then poor Dana came out here
at Christmas. I felt sorry for her and Emily but what happened made me
scared. I kept imagining how I'd feel if our baby got sick and died
like that. When Matt was born healthy Bill said we'd beaten the curse.
Everything was the way it should be.

"So why was it harder and harder to get out of bed to take care
of our baby? I was so anxious about doing everything right. If I did
the wrong thing Mattie might die. While I was sleeping I didn't have
to worry about it. Finally Bill came home one evening and I hadn't
gotten up all day, except to feed Matt and change his diaper. Bill
took me to the doctor the next day. We didn't wait for an appointment
at the base hospital. It takes too long, and Bill didn't really want a
record in his file. We went to Dr. Lenninger. He told Bill to hire a
baby nurse and started me on Prozac. I went to a counselor once a
week. Those next few weeks were the worst. Bill kept expecting me to
get better, but it doesn't work right away. A few of those days, I
swear I thought hard about getting in the car and heading for the
highway. What if I didn't quite miss the overpass going 75 miles per
hour? No more pain, that's what."

This reasoning came uncomfortably close to some of Mulder's own
occasional musings.

"But you didn't do it. You came through and started feeling
better," he suggested.

"Yes, really slowly things started to get easier. Melanie said
to kick back and take it one day at a time."

Tara stopped and looked at Mulder as though she had just
remembered his presence.

He had perked up at the mention of a new name.

"Who's Melanie?" he encouraged her.

"A friend who came over a few days when we couldn't get a
nurse."

"You like her?"

"Yes. She took care of Matt but she talked to me too."

Mulder sensed for the first time that something was being held
back. Now was the time to back off and win her confidence.

At that moment his concentration was destroyed by the song
issuing from the CD player. It was tune for the fiddle that shouldn't
have stood out so sharply from among the other traditional Scottish
songs. He was bewildered by a welter of emotions that boiled up inside
him from no traceable cause---elation, despair, soul-destroying guilt,
love, the bitterest hatred imaginable, and a longing so painful that
he thought he was going to have to leave the room. The melody ended
abruptly. He became aware that he had been sitting mute for two
minutes. Tara sat rocking with her eyes closed, apparently not
noticing his sudden silence. He felt as though he had been taken
someplace else entirely and then unceremoniously dropped back here.

"That was an interesting song," he commented.

Tara didn't respond.

"Tara, did you ever give your doctor the code to your security
system here?"

"Why on earth would he need that?"

"How about the nurses who took care of Matt?"

"No, they came and went when Bill did. They didn't need it."

"Is Melanie a neighbor of yours?"

"No, she lives in a another suburb."

"How did she end up helping you out?"

"She's the sister of an officer who was under Bill's command.
When Matt was born he told Bill she was crazy about babies and would
love to baby sit. She works as an aerobics instructor every other day,
but on off days she could help."

"Do the police have her name?"

"I suppose so. Bill gave them everyone's name."

"Did Melanie need your security code?"

"No." Tara answered so quickly that her answer overlapped the
question.

"Something about Melanie bothers you, doesn't it Tara?"

"No. She's so easy to be around. Sometimes easier than . . .
people I'm closer to."

"Is it hard to live up to the Scully family expectations
sometimes?" Mulder asked with an understanding smile.

"She wasn't always watching me, comparing what I did to what I
used to do. I could just relax. The trouble is . . . ."

Mulder restricted himself to a mildly interested look and hoped
that Tara needed to talk.

"I don't remember everything about her visits. Look you can't
tell Bill. You can't tell anybody. She brought this dynamite weed a
couple times. I hadn't smoked since college. They'd take away Bill's
security clearance if they found out. But I was so miserable."

"So you smoked some to relax."

"We went outside where the bushes screen off the yard from the
sidewalk. Afterwards we'd go in and pig out on Oreos and Ben and
Jerry's ice cream. Melanie brought the food. Bill doesn't like to have
junk food in the house."

"No harm done though," Mulder observed.

"No harm, but the thing is I'd never smoked anything that strong
before. I was so wasted a few times I don't remember everything that
happened."

"So, when was the last time Melanie came over?"

"It was the middle of March. After that we didn't need anyone
anymore. Bill and I started smiling at each other again. Until Tuesday
morning."

"Bill says you both got up as usual."

"I went in to get Mattie and tell him what a good boy he was to
sleep all night," Tara said in a crooning voice. "But he wasn't
there," she finished in a wail that brought back the memory of his
mother's uncomprehending cry after Samantha's disappearance.

"Fox, do you think aliens took Mattie?" Tara choked out between
sobs. "I know Bill doesn't believe that's possible, but . . . .Please
tell me what you think."

Mulder was thankful that he could mitigate that fear.

"I haven't come across anything that suggests that, Tara. I
think this is human evil, and I promise you I'll do my best to solve
it. I'm going to leave now and do some thinking. Don't you want to lie
down and sleep so you'll be able to take of Mattie when we find him?"

"Don't you understand? I've slept enough. I just want one more
chance to be a good mother."

Sometimes Scully just led him to a plate of food or a handy
couch when he wasn't being sensible. He didn't know Tara well enough.
Someone else would have to do that for her. He slipped out of the room
quickly. Another song was beginning and he was feeling the same onset
of emotional turmoil that he had before. This time the sensation was a
heart-rending sadness. He didn't like the agitation or the sensation
of being displaced from the here and now.

He found Scully and her mother in the kitchen starting a pot of
hot cereal and cutting up fresh fruit.

"Any chance of bacon and eggs?" he asked.

Maggie Scully looked distressed.

"They never buy fatty foods. I'll run out and get some in a few
minutes."

"Whoa. I was just kidding. I'll have what everybody is having,"
Mulder was quick to protest.

Maggie went from looking harassed to blank. She handed him a
bowl and spoon and hurried over to start cleaning and chopping
vegetables for some other meal.

Scully and Mulder went into the dining room with their cereal to
talk privately.

"You were right about Tara associating you with her problems,
Scully. She's very confused. I learned some things that are new to me,
but they'll have to be handled carefully. I don't think she's told
anyone else."

Mulder related the story told by Tara about Melanie and the pot
smoking.

"Bill would kill her if he found out," Scully said worriedly at
the end of it.

"Under the circumstances we'd better be careful about using that
kind of language," Mulder reminded her. "Today I'm going to try to
talk with the detective---his name is Wagner, right? I'll decide how
much to share after I meet him. Will you be going out to the base
personnel office?"

"If Bill's commanding officer gives the OK."

"You better use any clout your father's name has here. The Navy
won't be thrilled to have civilians inspecting their files."

"I know. I'm also going to call Commander Johansen first thing.
We've got some credibility there."

Scully stood up.

"I'm going to get a couple hours sleep and then start the phone
calls. I'll meet you back here later on."

At 9 A.M. Mulder was sitting in the most uncomfortable
fiberglass chair ever built. Detective Wagner had told him he would
fit him in whenever there was a break in his schedule. An hour later
it was clear that only a statistician using chaos theory could predict
such an event. Mulder had already scanned "Gun World" and the "True
Blue Law Enforcement Officer Supply Catalog." He rooted around in his
briefcase twice and only came up with one resource to allay boredom---
the scorned "Memoirs of a Journalist." All right, he told himself,
I'll read it like fiction, and if it gets horrible, which it probably
will, I'll stop.

Chapter 5, An Unpublishable Memoir

"Memoirs of a Journalist: An Account of the Grave New Evils that
Threaten Our Modern Civilization."

Privately published, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1855

This book is our memorial to our mother, Sara Fox Spinner. She
worked her whole life to accomplish its publication, but failed to
overcome the reluctance of the publishing world to become associated
with the hard truths of life.

As we promised her before her death six months ago, we are
printing the manuscript ourselves. Unfortunately we believe the effort
is a futile gesture in these sentimental and corrupt times.
Nevertheless, maybe one soul will be inspired by the story of these
brave people to some act of courage or selflessness that will justify
its existence. Maybe one exceptional person will be enlightened in the
pursuit of truth.

Morgan Spinner, Horace Spinner and Amelia Spinner Biddle

Foreward, Philadelphia, September 9, 1815

My dear brother Morgan died six months ago on Feb. 14, 1815. How
much sorrow those words encompass only I can know. People tell me that
time softens all grief. Thus far, I do not believe them. He was the
person dearest to me on earth, and I will never have another such
companion. I can only hope to find some consolation in dedicating
myself to his last request.

For months he devoted himself to a mission that he believed was
worth dying for. It killed him. After he collapsed on Christmas Eve he
asked me to do something for him. What you, gentle reader, are about
to peruse is a collection of writings that Morgan asked me to edit and
publish. It is a story told by three people, and I am one of them. The
other two are dead now.

Morgan wanted our story told to warn others of the new criminal
element springing up in our modern world. Influential secret groups
already exist that transcend national boundaries. They value nothing
but power for their own ends. To them war is a profitable condition
that creates markets and distracts people from legitimate concerns
about their liberty. We must be vigilant to seek them out and expose
them.

There is another cause, dear to my own heart, which these
writings may also serve to advance. I am proud to identify myself as a
bluestocking, and an ardent supporter of equal rights for women. The
story of our sweet friend Amelia is an example of the tragedy that
follows from our benighted society's outrageous treatment of women.
Women are not just encouraged, they are forced, to rely on the support
of a father, brother or husband. If this support fails they are
abandoned to become the prey of the lowest types of men. Once fallen,
no woman is permitted to retrace her steps to the upright path from
which she strayed. These monstrous injustices must and will be
rectified. I work toward this goal in the schoolroom daily, and dearly
wish this book might play some small part in changing the beliefs of
the uninformed.

I warned Morgan that we risked the refusal of publishers by
including the unvarnished truthful details. He said, with considerable
emotion, that softening the narrative would be an insult to Amelia,
who had to live those details. I promised to conceal nothing, and to
strive constantly to bring this manuscript to the attention of the
public.

Morgan was a journalist, so he was in the habit of keeping a
written record of important events in his life. He encouraged Amelia
to start a similar diary. When he realized he would not live to tell
their story himself, he requested my assistance. At his behest I
combined their accounts with portions of my own journal from this
period. I cut what was irrelevant, repetitious or tedious from all
accounts, and added explanations and transitions where they were
needed. The headings indicate the source of the text, and the date of
the events that entry contains. I had to approximate many dates since
multiple days were often covered within one entry, and the entry was
usually written some time after the events took place.

Let the reader be warned; Morgan was a passionate man, whose
profession is notorious for its irreverence and cynicism. He shared
these traits. Amelia received a blameless upbringing, but her later
life contained many incidents which can scarcely be mentioned without
offending the sensibilities of the gently bred. I beg the reader's
pardon before the fact. However, if the things set down here
discomfort you, please remember it is the life of our urban age itself
which sickens your soul.

Sara Fox

Chapter 6, A Past Life Resurrected

Morgan's Journal, Feb. 3, 1814

February 3rd was the third day of the Frost Fair. At dusk many
people still remained on the frozen expanse of the Thames, giddy with
the excitement of standing where boats usually floated. My sister and
I had been here for several hours. Sally was enjoying it so much I
made up my mind to bear with the cold and stay until all the tented
stalls had closed up for the night. Perhaps I could write something
about it for "The Times." Our excuse for treating ourselves to the
fair was the celebration of my rise in salary as a reporter for the
newspaper. The new steam powered presses would increase circulation
enough to justify higher pay and more reporters.

Despite her total lack of belief in astrology, palmistry, the
tarot or any other form of fortunetelling, Sally insisted on entering
the gypsies' tent and hearing her future prophesied. I stayed outside
and listened to the hardy Scottish fiddlers playing for copper and
silver. The lanterns hung amongst the tents were beginning to swing as
the wind picked up. Their movement threw wildly dancing shadows over
the ice, giving the remaining huddled crowds a mysterious,
otherworldly look.

"Play us 'Tonight My Sleep Will be Restless,'" a man requested,
dropping coins into the fiddle case carefully placed on a shawl in
front of the players. His accent identified him as a Scotsman himself.

They began a tune that was calculated to make anyone's sleep
restless, with its sad, seeking melody. My breath was beginning to
freeze on my scarf. I had pulled it up almost to my eyes, at Sally's
insistence. Sometimes her solicitude was overpowering, but I tried to
be patient, since we had no other family than each other. She worried
that I was too skinny, and had too many chest complaints.

A small, thin woman wearing only a shawl over her dress was
moving through the crowd hesitantly. I watched her because I thought
she might be a pickpocket, but realized that her hands were probably
too cold and numb to work that trick. She could be a prostitute. That
approach would only be an excuse for begging under these
circumstances. There was no place for her to go with a prospective
cull. The entertainers, or market men and women would take her in
custody if they saw her trying her game. They coveted a respectable
reputation for the fair, so families would attend.

Her face was hidden in the shadow of the bonnet she wore, but I
could tell she was looking at me. Another man in the crowd requested a
highland reel from the fiddlers. They obliged, preceding the song with
a warning to the crowd that they were too cold to play much longer
tonight.

"Do you have any copper to spare tonight, sir?" she asked, in a
voice that had the whine characteristic of many of her kind.

I nodded my head while digging a few coins out of my pocket for
her. At that moment Sally came bouncing around me, her brown curls
flying about with her movement.

"Morgan, would you have guessed? I'm going to marry an
American!" she laughed.

I saw the woman jump, and then begin to retreat hastily. Before
she could turn away completely a gust of wind caused a nearby lantern
to illuminate her face. I was stunned into immobility for a few
seconds. Then I started after her, calling her name.

"Amelia, wait a minute. I want to talk to you. Amy, wait."

She moved over the snowy cinder path more quickly than I would
have thought possible for someone in ordinary shoes. But my boots gave
me a telling advantage, so I began to catch her up. She reached the
embankment stairs ahead of me by only a dozen paces. Then she slipped
on the glazed stone steps and fell backwards, hitting her head on the
ice. She didn't move. I hadn't meant to frighten her.

Sally was close behind me. She told me later that she hadn't
recognized Amy until I called her name. When I picked her up from the
ice, Sally was already taking off her coat to cover the unconscious
woman.

"Sally, it's Amelia Sullivan. Do you remember her from
Chitterton? She made daisy chains for you," I said foolishly.

"Yes, I remember now. What are you going to do with her?"

That question had no simple answer. Sally chafed her wrists and
held drops of sal volatile on a handkerchief under her nose with no
result. Some people were approaching from the nearby tents to find out
what the problem was.

"Was she making immoral propositions or stealing from you? Shall
I have her taken up by the watch?" one burly merchant questioned.

"No, we know her. She fell and hurt herself," I informed him.

He looked doubtful, but made an offer.

"Do you want a hackney to carry her home? I can send a boy."

"Yes, please."

When he disappeared behind the pie tent, Sally asked her
question again.

"I guess I'll have to take her to a hospital," I replied
reluctantly. "You can't take her back to the Square, and Mrs. Mobley
wouldn't let her stay in my rooms."

"I think you're right. You know what she is now, don't you?"
Sally inquired straightforwardly.

"No, I'm not sure of what she is," I answered shortly.

Usually I appreciated Sally's candor, but I didn't want to think
about the meaning of what had happened. Sally said no more. Her
shivering worried me, but I couldn't bring myself to put Amy down on
the ice to give Sally my coat. I was relieved to hear the driver's
call from the top of the stairs. After I carried Amy up the stairs and
deposited her in the cab I insisted that Sally wrap herself up
immediately.

There was no difficulty at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. They were
there to minister to this kind of patient. As in all of the hospitals,
they don't change sheets between patients and mortality is far higher
than among those nursed at home, but at least it was shelter. The nun
in charge of the ward checked Amy for a skull fracture and found none.
She directed her assistants to make her comfortable in a bed.

"She'll probably be all right after sleeping and eating. She's
been on the streets, hasn't she?" the nun asked.

"We think so," Sally answered for me.

I was going through the bag she carried for something that would
tell me where she lived. There was a handbill for the Cyder Cellar
tavern, but nothing else to associate her with a particular place in
London. Sally had to get back to Hughes Square soon. Lady Shelton
thought of her as a friend as well as a governess, but it wouldn't be
appropriate for her to be out too late.

With great misgiving I decided to write a letter and leave it
for Amy. In it I asked her to contact me for old time's sake, and left
my lodging house address and the address of "The Times." I couldn't
decide what to do about money. Even at fifteen she had a strongly
developed sense of pride. I was also wary because she had run away
when she saw me, instead of trying to use our connection to her
advantage. I contented myself with writing that I would pay the
postage on any letter.

For a moment bitterness at the memory of past unanswered letters
tempted me to tear up this one and dismiss the whole incident from my
mind. I told myself to be sensible. It was pointless to dwell on
feelings as dead as the flowers that bloomed during that long ago
summer. Charity required that I assist her as dispassionately as any
old acquaintance.

Sally watched quietly as I wrote the letter. I knew she was
worried about this encounter, but she waited until we were in the
hackney going back to Hughes Square to question me.

"Do you think she'll contact you?"

"I don't have any idea," I said, feeling tired down to my bones.
At the same time I knew the disturbing events of the evening would
make it difficult to sleep. "How well do you remember her, Sally?"

"Probably I remember more than you wish I did. You were in love
with her, weren't you Morgan?"

"I was seventeen. It was puppy love. Of course we considered
ourselves engaged. We used to read Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet" to
each other in the meadow west of Edward's cow pasture. Neither of us
realized that all Lady Capulet needed to do was wave the prospect of
ten thousand pounds a year under Juliet's nose to bring about a happy
ending for everyone."

"It doesn't look as though it brought Amy to a happy ending,"
Sally observed.

"She must have been too weak to hold out for the wedding and an
assured income. Just a latter day Manon Lescaut. I should have known
from the freedoms she allowed me that London would bring her to this
pass."

"Don't be too quick to judge her. London is very hard on women
if their families don't protect them. I know from my visits to the
workhouses that a great many girls are on the streets from stark
necessity, not viciousness. You said you considered yourselves
engaged. What I remember best about her was how much she loved you. It
shone out of her eyes, Morgan."

"She never answered a single letter I sent to her. Those big
bright eyes deceived you, Sally. She's made her choices and ruined her
life."

And my life, I added silently to myself.

"Yet you intend to help her. That is remarkably unselfish of
you, my dear," Sally remarked in her most skeptical tones.

"It's the least a good Christian can do," I retorted, knowing
she would understand the joke.

"I see," she said ironically. "You mean the Christian revenge of
heaping coals of fire by endlessly doing him good turns when your
enemy's down on his luck."

"Yes, that's the one."

"I don't believe you know your own mind. Good night Morgan."

I went back to my rooms and spent a miserable night trying, and
failing, to sleep. The next day I had to see Mr. Griffith early in the
morning. I tried once again to persuade him that there was an
important corruption story connected to the death of the Honorable
John Eastman. Once more he sent me off to cover the hangings at
Newgate.

On the way I stopped at St. Bartholomew's Hospital to see if I
could talk to Amy. I was saddened but not shocked to find she was
gone. The nun now on duty said she had given the letter to Amy when
she woke. She had appeared upset and demanded to leave the hospital
immediately. No address or note had been left for me.

There was no reason for me to feel obliged to do more, yet I
felt compelled to search further. I made up my mind to look for her
that afternoon in the dubious neighborhood of the Cyder Cellar.

Chapter 7, A Business Relationship

Amy's Journal, Feb. 4, 1814

When I woke up in St. Bartholomew's Hospital I couldn't remember
how I arrived there. After a few words with a gossipy skivvy, I began
to recollect the Frost Fair and the awful coincidence that led to my
meeting with Morgan and Sally. I had gone there in hopes of finding a
good-natured crowd with some money to spend freely and a few coppers
to spare. When the nun gave me Morgan's letter I knew I had to leave
the hospital immediately. Unless he had changed a great deal he would
be back here. Morgan could be relentless in the pursuit of an
objective. But even he couldn't search me out from among all the
streets and squares in London.

In spite of a headache that threatened to blind me with pain, I
struggled into my clothes and slowly made my way through icy winds to
my room off Maiden Lane. It was warm enough to sleep there until late
afternoon when I awoke, hungry and thirsty.

I knew what would make me feel better. A big noggin of blue
ruin, or thirty-six drops of laudanum, would take me away from worries
about old feelings and present poverty. It was easy to resist since I
had no money at all. I promised myself that even when I acquired some
money I would continue to resist, as I had for the past few years.
When I stopped working as a streetwalker I found the strength to drop
those fatal habits. There is no shorter road to the lunatic asylum
than their indulgence.

Now I earned money by running errands or sewing for younger,
more attractive whores. This life ages a woman far beyond her true
years. Nobody wants most of us after we're twenty. Sometimes I was
paid to do the work of the midwife or physician for one of the girls.
More often I did it for nothing. A sick prostitute can't earn money to
pay for medicine or nursing.

The bitter cold made it difficult for all of us. My usual girls
weren't able to earn money to pay me for fetching them pies or ale, or
washing their gowns. They didn't have as many appointments, and so
didn't require delivery of messages and fetching and carrying. That
was why I was reduced to begging at the Fair the night before. I was
very much afraid I would end by getting caught as a thief if the
weather didn't break soon.

Today I'd try the streets as a beggar once again, because there
was no choice. Soon the cold would force me back to my room still
hungry and thirsty if I were unsuccessful. Even if I'd had a coat or
boots before, I'd have sold them by now for food

I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Morgan walking along
looking into the faces of the girls on the street. I told myself he
was here looking for a girl for immoral reasons, but I knew he was
looking for me. This time the shame would kill me.

I tried to duck my face below my bonnet brim and boldly hurry
past him. With that uncanny perception he always had he picked me out
and grasped my hand as I went by.

"Amelia," he said quietly, as though naming me for the first
time. And it almost felt as though he were, since I hadn't been called
anything but Scarlet, or worse, for years. So I had to brazen it out--
-disgust him so much that he couldn't feel sorry for me and he'd leave
me in peace, alone on my way to perdition.

"Are you looking for company tonight, sir? No lady sister to
purse up her mouth and say 'Tsk, Tsk," I whined, leering at him
broadly.

He winced painfully when I spoke that way, but he continued
holding my hand.

"Please Amelia. I need to talk to you."

"I can get you someone younger and plumper than me," I grinned
at him. "For a small fee."

"Please. Don't do that," he said helplessly.

He didn't know how to react. I wasn't going to let him play lord
of the manor to my penitent fallen woman. It was best that I voice his
true feelings for him, to make things simple.

"You don't want to think about what I am. It makes you sick. You
want to be angry but you feel so sorry for me you don't know what to
say. I don't need your pity. I'm content as I am. This life suits me."

I pulled my hand away and put on an air of indifference.

The pained look on his face disappeared. The hard look that
replaced it was one I had never imagined him wearing.

"I'm a writer now, just as we planned together a long time ago.
That's how I earn my money. You could do some work for me, if you're
interested. Don't worry. I'll pay you for your time."

I hadn't counted on how much it would hurt to see that cold
appraisal in his eyes. But now we were getting somewhere and I knew
why he really came looking for me. Like everyone else, he wanted
something.

"What kind of help do you need?" I asked suspiciously.

"Come with me to some place where it's warm and we can get a
drink. I'm freezing," he answered.

He did look paler than a few minutes earlier, but at least he
had a greatcoat. Despite my best efforts I couldn't stop shaking in my
shawl and bonnet.

"If you want something other than gin we'll have to walk a few
streets west," I told him.

Instead he hailed a hackney cab and told the driver to take us
to Button's coffeehouse. A ride was a luxury I hadn't been able to
afford in years. It was wonderful being out of the cold wind on
upholstered seats. When I opened my eyes at the end of the ride Morgan
was watching me expressionlessly. I had forgotten to stay aloof and
unimpressed, but luckily he didn't seem to realize how much I enjoyed
the journey.

The rich delicious scent of the ground coffee beans reminded me
of the last time I had been in a coffeehouse. Papa had taken me with
him when he went to meet some people, and do some business at Lloyd's.
I paged through newspapers and drank a sugary mix of half coffee, half
milk while he had heated conversations with his so-called friends. Now
I knew they were probably creditors. One man, a Mr. Todd, came over to
me and asked how I did, and complimented me on my round, pink cheeks.
He petted them excessively. No one would be tempted to touch my gaunt
white face now.

It was so warm in there I hoped I would be able to stay awake.
When Morgan asked what I wanted my pride wouldn't let me ask for
anything but black coffee. My stomach begged for more, but I reminded
myself that I was earning money. Later I could get bread and herring
at the shop two doors down from the house where I lived. Morgan still
had the huge appetite I remembered from his youth. He ordered enough
pastries, pudding, cheese and soup for three men.

"What do you want me to do for you?" I asked.

Morgan was staring down into his coffee, lost in thought.

"What? Oh, yes. I want you to gather information for me from
people who have contacts with the criminal classes. I have a theory
about some criminal activities in London. My newspaper might publish
it if I can find evidence."

He looked up at me, now caught up in his ideas. His eager
absorption took me back to evening walks when we solved the problems
of the world as simply as only two well-read and inexperienced
children could. Where had those children gone? He hadn't changed as
much as I had.

"I've learned about some incidents that seem to be random, but I
think there's a pattern. I'll tell you what kind of information I
could use. If you couldn't find out for yourself, I believe you could
find a person who knew. You have the right kind of acquaintances."

Morgan looked down again after the last words.

"You won't expect me to inform on friends, will you?"

"Not unless you count a criminal mastermind among your friends.
The people I'm interested in probably don't do anything illegal
themselves. They use other people as their instruments."

"Oh, like Jack Quickill."

"That's a new name to me," he said, with a surprised look.

"It's not his real name. Nobody knows that. He owned the place
where. . .I worked there for while, years ago. They call it the
Panasay. I think that's French."

Morgan knew better than to ask about my work, but I could see he
was full of curiosity about Jack. His enthusiastic expression gave him
the look of the boy I knew years ago. I found myself resisting the
urge to lean over and pat his hand fondly. I used to do that out of
sheer pleasure at watching him take fanciful flight with some new
idea.

"What did people know about Jack?" he inquired.

"Nothing for certain. Rumor claimed he started as a highwayman.
That's where the nickname was supposed to come from. He never
hesitated to shoot to ensure his escape. Joanie said she once saw him
shoot a rat running through the alley. He hit it square, using a
pistol and shooting from a second story window."

Morgan whistled appreciatively.

"I wouldn't want to find his second waiting on me."

"Don't worry. He wouldn't take a chance in a duel. He'd lay an
ambush along a street where you were in the habit of walking. Odds are
he'd send his bullyboys to beat you to death with their walking
sticks. It happened to one of the girls. She stole five pounds and he
made an example of her."

"How did he get away with open murder?"

"The watch attributed it to an attack by unknown ruffians. They
were probably bribed. Jack let it be known to us why and how it
happened."

"That's the kind of information I want from you, Amy. I'll tell
you something about why I'm working on this story."

"But your food is here," I said anxiously. "It's going to get
cold."

How could anyone be indifferent to all that expensive food?

"I'm not as hungry as I thought I was. All I can eat is this
soup. If you want anything you might as well have it as send it away.
I'll tell you what I know while you decide."

I couldn't bear to see it all go back to the kitchen untouched.
It was difficult to eat daintily and slowly, proving that I didn't
need anyone's charity. It was lucky that Morgan's explanation made it
unnecessary for me to talk.

"Two events that affected me personally made me curious about
the London underworld. One was the disappearance of David Bloom a year
ago. He was last seen working late in his shipping company's warehouse
on the Surrey dockside. The other was the discovery of the body of a
Member of Parliament named John Eastman floating in the water at the
same place.

"When I first came to London I wrote about the building of the
Surrey Docks. I met David Bloom and his father, Stephen. Afterwards
David and I would meet sometimes at Drury Lane or Covent Garden and
then go to a club after the performance. The Bloom's company, the
Tulip House, exported tools and imported wool and cotton. They'd been
evading the French blockade of English goods by trading at Dutch ports
with counterfeit 'neutrality' licenses. When Napoleon took control of
the Netherlands in 1810 they planned to end their wool trade with the
Continent and expand their trade with the American colonies. I thought
they had. Last year we met to see "Hamlet" and that night David got
drunk. He hadn't done that before. I could see that something was
worrying him, and I encouraged him to confide in me.

"Over the course of the evening I found out he had been
blackmailed for the last three years to allow the firm's ships to be
used for smuggling. He was required to look the other way while
unknown cargoes were added to the farm implements and tools that they
exported legitimately. The crews were given papers that allowed them
to enter Marseilles or Naples under the Turkish flag. The profits had
been spectacular, but he told me that he was getting more and more
worried about what was going on. A sailor who returned from one of
these trips had come to him with a troubled mind. One of the boxes of
goods had been damaged and he thought it contained ammunition. He
wanted to know if they were sending guns to the enemy his brother was
fighting to defeat. David sent him away with assurances that he was
mistaken. The next day the sailor was garroted and beaten to death
outside a stew in Bethnal Green. David told me he'd resolved to
investigate and find out what the secret shipments were. I offered to
help him, but he wouldn't hear of it. Then there was a nine-day's
wonder the next month when he disappeared.

"I wrote several stories about it, and questioned a great many
people, but nothing was ever heard of him again. There were
irregularities in the company's books, so eventually everyone assumed
he had run away with stolen money. It made no sense at all, since the
company was prosperous and he was an only child favored by his father.
When I told my editors about the blackmail they told me not to be so
gullible. The man had been setting the stage for his disappearance. I
had the story published anonymously by a small printing press.

"Six months later I met John Eastman, a Whig Member of
Parliament, while I was covering parliamentary debates. Somehow he
traced the anonymous blackmail story to me, and he came to me for
information on criminal conspiracies. After several meetings, he
admitted he was being blackmailed to control his voting and activity.
He had more influence than expected for a young new member. His
speeches and ability to rally support for a position showed promise.
Before the blackmail began he was using his powers of persuasion to
sway the Whig vote to a more warlike stance against Napoleon. He also
encouraged British participation in alliances against Napoleon.

Recently he became silent and passive, always voting with the
Whig majority. Like David he wouldn't hear of the London authorities
being informed. However he intended to do his own investigation. We
tried to trace a few of the individuals who threatened him. But he
went off on his own and started openly using people he didn't know
very well to spy on people he suspected. At the inquest the
authorities said he was drunk, fell and hit his head, and then got up
and wandered until he stumbled into the water and drowned. I saw the
body at the morgue, and there was too much to damage to his head to
attribute to a simple fall. Besides that, there was no explanation for
his presence at the docks. Ever since then I've been spending what
time I could on these cases, and trying to persuade "The Times"
editors that one important story connects them.

"I need reliable people with the right contacts. This is where
you could help me Amy."

I nodded, since my mouth was full. Morgan hadn't changed much at
all. If I helped him with this it would be something to look forward
to each day. And regular money. Of course there was nothing but
business between us now.

After I finished what I could of the food, Morgan extravagantly
ordered another hackney for the trip back. I instructed him to leave
me on Maiden Lane where he found me so I could try for another
customer tonight. Telling him that I was still streetwalking would
show him that I had nothing to hide in my past or present life. In any
case, I didn't want him to see the miserable room I lived in now. In
reality I was going back there to sleep. With two shillings for the
next week and a full belly, I decided I could skip begging that night.

Chapter 8, An Objective Viewpoint

Sally's Journal, Feb. 20, 1814

For several days Morgan offered me no information about Amy.
When I asked if he had found her he answered "Yes" and looked grim. It
seemed cruel to press him for details, when he clearly didn't want to
talk about it. Yet I could see that it was preying on his mind,
disturbing his sleep, and taking away his appetite. Something had to
be done. I finally resolved to brave his forbidding manner and made a
suggestion.

"Yesterday I was going through some clothes I wore when I was
living at Reverend Chilbert's. They're too small for me now. Could I
give them to Amy?"

"You can't give Amy anything," he said sarcastically. "She won't
accept anything except payment for value received. Do you want to hire
her for a Game of Flats?"

I simply raised my eyebrows at these words. That kind of talk to
his sister was vulgar even by his standards. He must be suffering
terribly to use such extreme language to deflect my concern. I
resolved to show him that rough words wouldn't discourage me.

"No, but I take it you speak from experience. Do you buy the
usual, or do you require a specialty? The English, French or Greek
perversion?"

That made him look at me and think.

"I beg your pardon, Sally. I shouldn't have spoken to you that
way."

"I don't mind how you speak as long as you do, Morgan. Tell me
what's troubling you. Have you been able to do anything for Amy? I
know you haven't been using her as a prostitute."

He looked at me defiantly before he replied.

"I've hired her to get information for me about those incidents
at the Surrey Docks. She wouldn't let me near her except on a basis of
business. What could I do?"

"You could have walked away and not looked back. Some kind of
feeling still ties you to her."

"I think it's called hate. When I look at her all I see is
waste, of her life and our. . . ."

He stopped abruptly, knowing it was too late to prevent me from
understanding his sentiment.

"You were going to say love, weren't you," I said gently.

"How can I hate someone so pitiable? How can I love someone so
false and shallow?" he stormed, clearly at himself rather than at me.

I let him talk as wildly as he chose.

"I never spoke of her, but there wasn't a week in the past ten
years that I didn't dream of finding her. In the dreams we would be in
strange places, wearing strange clothes, but always I'd recognize her
and always she'd love me still. I didn't want you to know I was such a
fool."

"You're not a fool. Just because you were young doesn't mean
your feelings weren't real. You know I'm no wild-eyed Romantic.
Nevertheless, I do believe in love that can bind a man and woman for a
lifetime. There are very good reasons why you can't enjoy that love
again with Amy, but it isn't any use to deny it existed and may still
exist in some ruined form. I'm sorry Morgan."

He wasn't finished with his angry words.

"She's not shamed by her fallen condition, she glories in it!
She parades her activities in front of me as though for my admiration-
--or torment! There's no evidence that she remembers what we once
felt. No sense that she cares for what I might suffer."

"What would you expect her to do? What could possibly be the
prescribed behavior for such a situation? Should she grovel at your
feet? Offer you low prices on her merchandise? Try to hide her history
and pretend that she's spent all her evenings at Chapel singing Psalms
and reading tracts? That wasn't the proud girl I knew in Chitterton."

"I always suspected her parents were fools. There must have been
unconscionable neglect on their part to result in this. When they
failed her, she should have turned to me. I should have been there,"
Morgan continued, in a voice that became less angry and more
despairing with each sentence.

That last statement was at the heart of his troubles. He had
stopped writing letters after waiting six months without receiving
even one in answer to all of his. From that time on he was changed.
His one-time simple pleasure in the world was lost, replaced by a
darker, more cynical humor. Yet he blamed himself now for not saving
Amy from a life of vice.

"It wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it? Tomorrow I'm going to ask her to tell me her story.
Maybe I can determine how to portion out the blame. Perhaps I'm as
innocent as a new-born baby," he said, with little hope in his voice.

I wasn't surprised that he wanted to know, but I dreaded what he
might learn for the pain it would cause him.

"You might be better not knowing the details. I've sat with sick
girls and heard stories that make you want to renounce your kinship
with the human species. In all seriousness, Morgan, however bad you
imagine her story will be, the real one will be worse."

"I have to know, Sally."

As usual, Morgan was going to do exactly what he pleased, with
no regard for advice from others. It was this healthy disrespect for
outside opinion that made him such a good reporter and wonderful
companion. It was also what frequently made trouble for him.

Chapter 9, A Woman's History

Amy's Journal, Feb. 21, 1814

The first week I worked for him Morgan asked me to go each
afternoon and talk to the servants outside the house of Henry Trent.
He was another Whig MP whose position on Bonaparte had shown signs of
shifting recently toward more tolerance. I had a description of an
unidentified man who was often seen visiting Eastman's rooms before
votes were taken. This week Parliament was to discuss the terms of
England's latest alliance against the Emperor, and the expected peace
terms when he surrendered in Paris. Morgan thought Trent might receive
a visit. None of the household servants saw a mysterious visitor that
week. The last day of the week, when Mr. Trent left for Westminster, I
walked to Morgan's rooms off Fleet Street. There was no intelligence,
so there would be no money today. In other ways fortune had been
kinder. My girls had been busier this past week, and so had more work
for me.

In spite of the continued cold, the streets were alive as usual
with noise and movement. The hawkers, cluttering the streets with
their carts, filled the air with promises of the best pies, buns,
vegetables, fish or cream to be had. The carters and rakes competed to
endanger the greatest number of people on foot with their reckless
speed and disdain for anyone else's right of way. Small boys in front
of the shops urged passers-by to enter and spend their shillings.
There were young and not very young women who were obviously trying to
sell themselves. It hadn't been more than four years since I had been
doing the same, but I no longer remembered how I had been able to bear
doing it.

When I arrived the drapes were drawn in Morgan's room. Since the
usual murky haze already dimmed the day outside, the room was left in
gloomy darkness. He asked me if I had any information to give him.

"No, I talked to some street hawkers in the square and to the
scullery maid and footmen, but they hadn't noticed anything unusual."

He reached into his pocket and started to count out some coins.

"I said I didn't have anything," I reminded him.

"I pay you for your time, not the results. I don't want you to
lose interest in asking questions," he said. "You may be able to help
me today anyway. I want you to tell me your own story. If it has
nothing to do with my conspiracy I may be able to use the background
information in some essay or article."

At first I couldn't speak. The unexpected bounty of pay almost
overcame my power to stay careless. At the same time I wondered if I
should refuse it to maintain my pride. Morgan's own dispassionate
preoccupation with his papers reassured me. He was thinking only about
his own interests, not charity.

I thought it still might be too difficult to chronicle my
miserable history for Morgan, though we no longer had tender
sentiments for each other. Much as I hated to admit it, I cared what
he thought of me. I recoiled at the thought of telling him how I chose
wrong over right in the past. I betrayed what we once promised each
other through my blind trust in the wrong person. I became the outcast
I was now through my blundering decisions. But I didn't want to
acknowledge my sins to him. He tried again to persuade me.

"Please tell me the truth. We may be able to inform people about
things that need to be changed in London. Mrs. Mobley agreed to send
Marianne up with the tea. Let's sit at the table so I can write down
notes."

At that moment Marianne knocked at the door with a tray. There
were sandwiches, scones and cream along with the tea. Morgan certainly
liked to have a lot of food at hand. I decided that I could tell my
story impersonally, and thereby earn my money. What did it matter what
he thought? He already knew the worst.

"I remember when your parents took you to London. It was ten
years ago last autumn," he prompted.

I remembered too. I noticed as the coach left our little
Somerset town that the trees had begun to turn. Morgan and I had said
our tearful good-byes the evening before. We had agreed that he would
wait for a final wave of farewell at the huge oak where the main
street through town joined the road to London. He stood there as
promised, his hazel eyes squeezed half shut against the morning sun,
his thick brown hair standing up like a brush. I waved my handkerchief
until he was out of sight. Then I sank back against the thinly
cushioned seat and tried not to cry.

He was only seventeen to my fifteen, but we were secretly
betrothed. Mama and Papa hoped to distract me from Morgan with London
and the social seasons. Since Papa had made unexpectedly large profits
on his investments in shipping, they hoped for a better marriage
prospect than the orphan son of a small farmer.

Morgan and I had other plans. He and his sister Sarah were
living in Chitterton with a distant cousin, earning their keep by
helping him with work on his small farm. When he could, Morgan read
and wrote with a purpose. He dreamed of moving to London where he
would make his mark as a writer. We would marry when he began earning
enough money to support a household. I would do something momentous
with my life, but we didn't know what yet.

There was one dream so fanciful I didn't have the courage to
speak of it to anyone. Just after we moved to Chitterton in 1802, Papa
wounded himself seriously while he was cleaning a bird gun. Mama was
prostrate with distress, so I took over the sick room. The local
physician told me I was a remarkable nurse, and that it was a shame
women like me couldn't study the art of medicine. Privately I wondered
if I couldn't be one of the first to do so. It was too fantastic an
idea to propose seriously, but I thought about it sometimes.

Morgan's sister Sara, called Sally, then ten years old, was to
come live with us when we married. While we were forced to live apart
we would write faithfully. Of course we would remain true to each
other until death. Could we ever have been so romantic, so ignorant of
the world? It seemed as though a hundred years had passed since those
hopeful days.

"Papa rented a grand house on a fashionable square. It was
Manchester Square," I elaborated.

"I know. I went there when I came to London seven years ago,"
Morgan interjected unexpectedly. "I was curious about what had
happened to you and your family. Since you had never written to give
me any news. No one I spoke to knew much except that your father had
died and you and your mother had gone away in a fancy carriage."

"I never received any letters from you. But I did write to you."

"I doubt that the London mail failed to deliver some twenty
letters over a period of six months. And yours as well," he said with
a frown.

"You sent twenty-three letters. You're right. I didn't know what
happened until long after the fact. It wasn't the mail service that
prevented our correspondence," I agreed.

"After we moved in Mama started to plan dances and dinners, and
we began to receive invitations. We weren't part of the higher levels
of society. I was frightened enough by the large gatherings when we
went to respectable assembly rooms and dinner parties. There were
plenty of merchants with marriageable sons planning to match their
inheritances with a handsome dowry."

"It must have been impressive to a young girl from Chitterton,"
he commented.

"London seemed as wonderful as you and I ever imagined it. The
problem was money. I didn't know what was happening at the time. Now I
know that Papa was going to Newmarket and Doncaster as often as he
could to put money on horse races."

I heard Morgan suck his breath in sharply. He probably knew what
was coming next in my story.

"Of course he lost, and bet more to recover his losses, and then
borrowed money to bet some more. He juggled his accounts and concealed
everything for almost a year. All that year he scolded me for failing
to catch a rich husband. I was driving him wild with my refusal to
consider to marriage. At first I told him my heart belonged to
another. Later I told him I would never marry because my heart was
broken. He told me that my heart had nothing to do with it. Finally
the argument became idle as our household finances grew more troubled.
No eligible men presented themselves to be considered for the honor of
my hand.

"During the last few months in the Manchester Square house we
had angry duns turning up at the doors demanding money, Our servants
gradually left since they weren't being paid. Finally the bailiffs
turned up to take Papa to a spunging house. I think Mama believed
recovery was possible until that happened. When she had to sell her
wedding ring to raise the hundred pounds he needed to get out, she
understood. Papa came home and they had a talk behind closed doors.
After that Mama gave up. She sat around in curl papers and her
dressing gown all day, waiting until they came to take us to prison
for debt."

"You went to prison!" Morgan exclaimed.

"No. Before they evicted us from the house on Manchester Square
something happened."

This part was going to be difficult. I could never have
predicted the events that took place in my life after this time. They
made me a different person, and much of it was by my own choice. At
first.

"One morning Papa didn't come downstairs to eat the cereal and
bread that I had to fix for us now. I went upstairs to fetch him. He
was. . .his body was hanging from a hook on the back of his bedroom
door by his braces around his neck. I'd never seen anything like it. I
knew it had to be him, but his face was black and swelled, and his
tongue stuck out all purple. . . . There was a terrible smell, like a
privy. I'll always blame myself for the way I screamed."

Morgan jerked in his chair, raising his arms a little, as though
reaching for something. Maybe he felt sick. Why had I told him those
details? I had never told them to anyone else. Suddenly I understood
that in all this time there hadn't been anyone else I thought would
care or understand what those details meant to me. But he wouldn't
care anymore either. It was a very old habit reasserting itself.

"If I hadn't screamed and brought my mother rushing upstairs I
could have told her the facts slowly and carefully. But she came in
the bedroom and saw Papa before I could gather my wits and stop her.
She fainted, not into an ordinary faint. It was something worse. When
she woke up she didn't really wake up. She just sat staring off into
nothing. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I didn't find that out until
afterwards.

"The one footman who stayed with us went and got help. Gossip
flew through the square. Within hours there was a mob at our house.
The landlord came to evict us and dozens of creditors came to take
what they could to pay on our debts.

"There was no one Papa hadn't borrowed from. I didn't know who
to turn to. Mama didn't even seem to recognize me. She certainly had
no advice to give. I ransacked the house looking for something to sell
so I could pay for a place for us to stay. It was then I found your
letters. Papa had hidden them in his room. All of the thirty letters I
had written to you were tied up with them. I sat there and read them
where I found them. It took hours. He hadn't posted any of the letters
I had entrusted to him for mailing, and he hadn't given me your
letters. I can only suppose he kept them to use against me if I
continued to refuse to marry. He could prove to me that you had ended
it between us, but he would have to admit what he had done. Maybe he
knew it wouldn't have worked."

Morgan made an indecipherable sound that caught my attention. It
was too dark in the room to read his expression. I hastened to
reassure him that he shouldn't feel guilty about the content of the
letters. Morgan always tended to blame himself for things that
couldn't be helped.

"You have nothing to regret about the letters you sent. You were
very patient, slow to get angry, never malicious or cruel, even in the
last few. You broke off our connection with kindness. I could tell how
you suffered under my apparent indifference. It was good of you to
attribute my behavior to my youth. My later letters to you were less
understanding than yours. Of course you never read them, so I don't
owe you an apology."

Reading those letters had brought me as close to despair as I
was ever to be. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to follow
Papa into eternal forgetfulness. Before I found the letters I had
imagined, rather incoherently, that Morgan might somehow help me in my
distress. After reading them I knew I was alone. My heart was freshly
wounded with the knowledge I had caused Morgan so much pain. He would
hate me now. If my mother hadn't been depending on me I would have
given up. But I had to find a way for us.

"Then Mr. Todd showed up. He told me father had sent him a note
the evening before, asking him to take us in, but not telling him why.
The creditors wouldn't let us take anything with us, so I coaxed my
Mama downstairs and into his carriage and we left in the clothes we
stood up in. I remember noticing that the trees were starting to look
bare in the park across from our square. It was a little over a year
since I had waved good-bye to you outside Chitterton.

"Mr. Todd surprised me when he didn't take us to his home.
Instead we went to a little house off Holborne Road that had cloths
thrown over the furniture as though it had been shut up recently.

"'I'll get you a servant directly,' he assured me. He gave me
money to go to the market, and the names of some stores where I'd be
permitted to buy on his credit. I couldn't find the words to thank him
enough, and told him so.

"He looked at me as though he were trying to figure out if I
were telling the truth. Why wouldn't I be grateful, I wondered?

"Over the next week I found someone to help take care of Mama,
and bought us some clothes, nothing extravagant. Our neighbors all
seemed to be young women with the latest fashions in gowns. For all
their smart dress they were friendly, and helpful with finding
reasonable merchants."

Morgan changed position again, this time lowering his head into
his hands. I was certainly doing a lot of talking. He must be tired of
sitting and listening.

"Do you want me to stop while you have some tea and something to
eat?" I asked him.

"What? No, no, I'm not hungry." Then, as if recollecting
something, he added, "Please go ahead and eat, Amy. I had a big
dinner, fried eggs and ham."

"Then you shouldn't have ordered so much for tea. It's
wasteful."

I wouldn't have wasted any of this good food.

"Don't let it go to waste. Eat it, or take it with you," he said
in a low voice.

I was already eating quickly, glad of another mealtime windfall.
I wasn't anxious to continue my story from this point. I thought maybe
he would lose interest if I prolonged the interruption. But he waited
patiently. I continued after finishing the sandwiches.

"You probably see what was happening, but I didn't. I was
innocent, or a dunce, if you prefer. Mr. Todd came by every night for
the next two weeks and stayed for a couple of hours. He seemed to be
getting annoyed with me. My efforts to express my gratitude and show
him how well I could manage the money he allowed me didn't improve his
temper.

"Then one evening he brought a package for me. He told the maid
to take Mama into her bedroom and stay there with her for the rest of
the night.

"'Open it up,' he told me in a commanding tone of voice.

"I opened it and found a vulgar-looking gown that was very
skimpy in material. I tried to look pleased and to thank him for the
present. I was puzzled.

"'Go in your room and try it on. Show me how it looks.'

"When I hesitated, he got angry.

"'You're always telling me how thankful you are, but with all
I've done for you, you won't do this one thing for me.'

"I had to admit that I often expressed my wish that I could
repay him. I went to the bedroom and put the gown on. It exposed
almost all of my breasts, and I couldn't imagine how he expected a
respectable girl to wear it out of the bedroom. Certainly not out of
the house. Maybe beneath my reasoned thoughts I was beginning to
understand. I must have taken too long trying to make up my mind to
return to the parlor, because he banged the door to the bedroom open
impatiently. I couldn't believe he would behave so rudely. The anger
left his face and he kept staring at me intently.

"He shut the bedroom door behind him and came over close to me.
The respectful manner he had before was gone. He reached out and ran
his hands over my breasts, waist, hips and. . .everything. I tried to
push him away, but he was big and strong enough to shove me down on
the bed. He grabbed my wrists and held them while he used his other
hand to push the gown up to my waist.

"I struggled, but I still didn't scream. Things were starting to
become clear to me. His next words made everything quite certain.

"'Your father had to know I don't dispense charity. You please
me enough to put up with your mother. I hadn't bargained on her
turning into a lunatic, but I'll still make the deal. You can leave
this house if you don't want to do me any favors. I suggest you have
someplace in mind to go. If you have to go to the workhouse, they'll
send your mother to Bedlam. What do you want to do?'

"I think he enjoyed watching my face while I tried to understand
everything. At the same time he pushed his fingers inside me roughly.
It hurt. I knew what would follow would hurt even more. I couldn't
help tears, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of sobbing. I
never cried again after that.

"'Well? Do you intend to co-operate?' he asked again.

"You see, he gave me two chances to refuse.

"I knew it was wrong, but there was nothing I could think of
that would save Mama but sin. I might be able to survive on the
streets, or get a job as a maidservant, but there would be no way to
provide lodgings for my mad mother. During our first weeks in London
we visited Bedlam. It was better to be damned than condemn my mother
to that. I told him yes and closed my eyes.

"He bit my breasts, and unbuttoned his pants. He as violent as
he could be out of frustration over the days of denial. The act itself
felt like someone was tearing me apart.

"That was how I started living an immoral life. Ministers say
that the first wrong step is hardest, with each step following getting
easier. I found that was true. Each step closed off avenues of escape
and led to the next, with fewer choices. Soon there were no good
choices to make anymore. I could only choose from immoral actions. I
decided the course of my life that night. I learned to live with it.

"My one regret is that I didn't have a lover before Mr. Todd.
Before he killed those feelings in me. That summer before I went to
London I wish I had taken you for my lover. I didn't need to save
myself for Mr. Todd. He didn't care."

Morgan started to say something, but a fit of coughing came over
him, and he had to drink tea before he could finish his question.

"Where is Mr. Todd now?"

That was a strange question.

"I think he died a few years later. Why?"

"I wondered if he was still repeating that pattern of living.
Taking advantage of inexperienced women."

I shook my head.

"Mama and I lived there for another six months. At first he came
every night, but after a few weeks he settled into a schedule of three
times a week. I started saving as much household money as possible. If
I saved enough to leave London, or even buy a share of a milliner's
shop, I could still turn away from this life.

"As you see things didn't turn out that way. One scheduled night
Mr. Todd didn't visit. I was happy to skip activities I found nasty
and painful. When he didn't come for a week I started to worry. Was he
tired of me? Would we have to leave again? Where would we go?

"In my fear I turned to our neighbor, Clara Dunstan, with my
question. She was an experienced ladybird and often gave me practical
advice.

"'Well, dear, you've got to prepare yourself by finding out the
worst. Do you know where he lives? You've got to send around and get
the facts. Then you can make your plans.'

"I did know. Once I read his address upside down from a ledger
while a clerk recorded my purchases to his account. Clara advised me
to send our servant Isabel to gossip with the footman or upstairs
maid. I took her advice, but Isabel's report left me less certain than
ever about my situation.

"'He's had an attack of apoplexy, Ma'am,' she told me. 'His wife
despairs of his life. He can't move his left side of his body at all.
They don't know what will happen. Mrs. Hunt, the housekeeper, told me
she's seen dozens of men recover from such and live to father more
children. Begging your pardon, Ma'am.'

"I couldn't decide what to do, so I stayed and waited, hoping
that the money would start coming again. Finally, a month later, I got
a letter from his wife. She wrote to me that Mr. Todd, fearing that he
would die and go to hell, had confessed everything to her. He planned
to reform himself. On his behalf she was ordering me to leave the
house in Holborne Road or I would be evicted.

"I turned once again to Clara. Her patron knew of a place in
Cheapside where they let rooms. I still had enough money to rent a
carriage and move our things to a room there. It was a decent place.
The rooms had only one or two people living in each one.

"Clara's friend sent some friends to see me. The girl in the
next room let Mama visit her while I had visitors, and I let her
little girl stay with me when she had to entertain. I made a little
money from those men. But I didn't become popular. I had no arts, you
see. Mr. Todd preferred young and reluctant women to courtesans.
Desire was dead in me, and I couldn't seem to pretend.

"Eventually we had to move to a poorer room in Covent Garden. It
was there that Mama got sick and died after two months of fever and
coughing. When she died I'd been nursing her for weeks, taking none of
my few opportunities to earn money. There was no money to bury her.
The undertakers wouldn't remove the body, except for a pauper's
burial, until I could pay.

"I'd never taken to the streets before, but now I was desperate.
I went out determined not to return until I had the money I needed for
a funeral. In my ignorance I didn't know that certain groups of whores
had their own jealously guarded areas. They all drove me away until I
was in the narrow streets of St. Giles. I couldn't believe my luck
when a decently dressed man approached me and told me he wanted to
take me to an apartment upstairs.

"I shouldn't have believed in luck. He was finding girls for a
bawdyhouse. They wouldn't allow me to leave until I didn't care about
leaving anymore. There was enough gin and opium provided, for a price,
to deaden the desire for other things. I knew by the time I had been
held there for a day that my mother had been thrown into a mass grave.
What difference did anything make then?

"That was how I chose my lot in life, Morgan. I was weak for my
mother's sake and the decisions I made were irreversible. I'm a person
you wouldn't want your sister to know about, much less meet. But on
the whole I've become accustomed to it."

Why didn't Morgan say something? He must have known how sordid
the story would be. I looked away so I wouldn't have to see the
revulsion in his eyes. I hadn't cried in eight, no, nine years. There
was no point in starting now. It was quite dark now. I wandered over
to the mantle and lit the lamp.

"Amy, what happened in the house? What did they do to you that
hurt you so much you didn't care about leaving?"

"How did you know that it worked that way?" I exclaimed,
immediately realizing I had given away too much.

"I've made it my business to know a lot about how things work in
London, and the things people do to each other."

"You don't want to know more about this, Morgan. It isn't
anything you have to know."

"Please, I'm a reporter. It's my trade to know everything. Don't
insult me by telling me there's something new under the sun that I
haven't already heard about."

It sounded as though he were trying to tease me as he did so
long ago. I sighed. Why did he want to know these ugly things? I
walked around the room. Some of these memories still had the power to
agitate me.

"The man I met in the street took me upstairs and offered me
wine. That was the last thing I remember until I came half-awake in a
bed with an old man trying to penetrate me. I was too drugged to move.
When the man succeeded in reaching his climax he was ridiculously
pleased with himself. He smiled at me and then left. A woman came in.
When she saw I was awake she told me to get up and wash.

"I was confused.

"'What's happening? Why are you doing this for God's sake? I was
selling myself on the street. All he had to do was pay a little.'"

"'No, that's not what he wants. We had to help you sell him what
he wants. You played the part of the young virgin who just cured him
of the French Pox. It takes some art to provide the setting,' she
explained to me.

"I had heard of the cure. Some infected men believed that carnal
relations with a virgin would pass the disease to her and leave them
cured. When I looked between my legs I saw the effects of the art she
was talking about. There was blood, but it wasn't mine. They had
inserted a small bladder filled with chicken or pig blood into me, to
make the man think he was taking an unwilling virgin.

"I pretended to have to relieve myself and tried to run away,
but they had men watching. They brought me back and told me I could
co-operate or they could force me. It turned out the pimp on the
street had sold me to Jack Quickill. I was good for this game because
I was young and small. The woman told me she would give me gin
afterwards. It would make me feel numb. She was right. But I soon
found opium was better."

Morgan reached carelessly for something on the table and
accidentally sent the teapot tumbling into his lap. The tea must still
have been very hot. He jumped to his feet with a gasp, his eyes
watering at the scalding pain.

"Quickly, go change," I urged him. "Put cold water on yourself
where you're burned."

He rushed from the room while I sopped up some of the now cooled
liquid with napkins. He returned in dry clothes a quarter of an hour
later. When he did he seemed to have forgotten our conversation.
Instead he began explaining how he was going to find a corruptible
servant working for the member from Topham. Mr. Gilbert's change of
attitude made him curious about recent events in his life.

I wasn't surprised he had lost interest in my personal history.
It was too commonplace and unsavory to merit his attention.

Chapter 10, A Reaction

Morgan's Journal, Feb. 23, 1814

I'm a writer by profession, yet I can't bring myself to write
down the story I heard from Amy that afternoon. At the age of sixteen
her own bastard of a father sold her into prostitution. That's what
her story came to in plain language. Perhaps he thought he was doing
the best he could to provide for his family. The miserable coward
would have done better to live and become a rag and bone picker.

Throughout her narrative I kept seeing Amy as she was at
fifteen. While her mother occupied herself with stylish clothes and
card games, her father went off to London frequently on mysterious
"business." Amy was left to do as she pleased. For the most part that
meant reading and exploring the countryside. They refused her the
lessons and texts she requested on the grounds that education for a
female was a waste of money. The young men of the neighborhood didn't
know what to make of intellectual curiosity incorporated into a small
feminine person who never flirted.

To me she was a woman as beautiful as the dawn. Her skin was
like pink and white satin with a warm dusting of golden freckles, and
her hair shone like a new-minted copper coin. United to her beauty was
a warm, unaffected nature expressed without artifice in her open and
sympathetic manners. Amy's parents had done nothing to develop her
native intelligence, but I sensed a great potential there. She had
already acquired more information than most young ladies bring from
finishing school.

Although her parents were lazy, they were fond. Her experience
of the world hadn't yet included anything worse than benign
indifference. She hadn't been schooled to doubt and question the
motives of the people around her. Could there be a worse evil than
violating that childlike trust? And then afterwards Amy accepted her
behavior as wicked, while the man who took advantage of her tried to
save his soul by turning her into the street. If I believed in a God I
would have to credit Him with setting up some rare jests.

As I feared the story didn't exonerate me. Amy's parents had
displayed enough evidence of their incompetence before they moved to
London that I should have been concerned. Why did I expect them to
protect her in London when they never did a thing in Chitterton to
protect her from me? Shortly after their arrival in Chitterton Mr.
Sullivan inherited thousands of pounds from a distant relative. Local
gossip whispered that before that event he often didn't meet his
financial obligations. His later investment in particular cargoes of
the Calcutta Imports Company was a unique stroke of luck. I should
have made it clear to Amy before she left that I would always help
her, no matter what our relations became. I was mad to write a letter
ending things between us no matter how hurt I felt. If I hadn't she
might have contacted me when her father died.

In truth my mistake was made earlier. She remembers it
differently, but it wasn't really Amy who made the decision not to
take me as her lover during that long dreamy summer of 1803. In her
innocent desire she let me have my will with her. It was I who
prudently hesitated and restrained myself. "We're married in the sight
of God," she would tell me guilelessly. It never seemed to occur to
her that I could decide to marry someone else in the sight of the
congregation. I remember many occasions when she let me loose her gown
and caress and kiss her bare breasts. There has never been anything as
sweet in my life since.

I loved her incompletely but splendidly in the meadows around
Chitterton that summer. The scent of new mown hay or fresh clover
still transports me back to those glades at the edge of the pastures.
I should have taken everything she wanted to give me, and married her
proudly when her belly inevitably swelled with our child. For of
course she was right to trust me. I would never have abandoned her.

"We should have gone to Gretna Green that summer," I mourned to
Sally the next day. "Why was I so careful, so fixed in my
determination to be a writer in London?"

"It's your nature to be single-minded. How could a boy of
seventeen predict that her family would be so unreliable and dangerous
for her? How could anyone?" Sally tried to comfort me.

"I didn't know any better than to take her for granted. Love
came too easily and early. I didn't know how rare it was and cherish
it, as I should have. I let the woman I loved leave my protection and
be killed. That's what happened. The person who inhabits her body now
is different. She feels nothing anymore. Amy is dead. They call her
Scarlet."

"Don't you ever call her that. It's unworthy of both of you.
Even if you believe she feels nothing, you may be wrong. It might hurt
her terribly to be called that by you," she warned. "What do you
intend to do, now that you know her story?"

I laughed. Sally enjoyed being proved right as much as anybody.
I might as well give her the satisfaction.

"You were right. I couldn't listen to her whole story, just as
you warned me. I had to knock the teapot into my lap to explain my
loss of countenance and give me an excuse to leave the room. When I
came back I changed the subject to something I can't even remember
now. I could hardly wait for her leave so I could start on a walk to
Islington. But I'd have to walk to Edinburgh to even begin to clear
those awful images out of my brain."

Sally didn't look as though she took much pleasure in being
right.

"Why were you so anxious to disguise your reaction? Why not be
open with your feelings?"

"You don't understand. You didn't see her face while she told me
those horrible things. Remembering those experiences didn't upset or
pain her. There was no emotion. If I ever show any she mocks me with
crude comments and suggestive remarks."

"So she isn't indifferent. She's putting up walls to keep you at a
distance."

That was typical of Sally. She tries so hard to be fair that it
spills over into mercy and compassion. I couldn't seem to find those
qualities within me when I contemplated Amy. Yet I felt a bond between
us so strong it withstood every blow, whether from fate, Amy or me.
Somehow we had been united so completely that I doubted whether even
death could dissever us.

Chapter 11, Private Investigation

The officer who came to get Mulder had to tap him on the
shoulder. Before he redirected his thoughts, he had time to remember
his promise to himself. Who would have expected the story to get
horrible so quickly? Anyone familiar with the analysis of our lives
done by that glorified fortune-teller Zenith, he answered himself.
Come on, what did you expect? It upsets you. Quit reading it! It won't
kill you to control your curiosity in return for some peace of mind.

It was noon and Detective Wagner had a burger, fries and a shake
on his desk. He looked like exactly what he was---a Vietnam veteran
who no longer had time to stay in shape due to his impossible work
load and his compulsion to accomplish all of it. Now he balanced
thinning hair with a thickening middle and held it all together under
the pressure of a hair trigger temper. He had no time for fools, and
he looked tempted to ease his schedule by classifying Mulder as one.

"Good afternoon, Detective Wagner. Thank you for seeing me."

"You're FBI."

"I'm not here in an official capacity. I'm a friend of the
family."

"I only agreed to see you because I think Bill Scully needs the
advice of a friend. I've seen this situation before. That idiot is
going to take the fall for his looney-tunes wife. I'm going to keep
the pressure on both of them until one of them cracks. You tell him
that the sooner he tells us what really happened the lighter he'll get
off. Doesn't he understand she can plead diminished responsibility if
not insanity? This nonsense is taking people off cases that really are
unsolved."

Mulder was stunned. He had expected diplomacy and bland
assurances that the investigation was proceeding. Instead he was told
plainly that the police considered it solved. They saw their job now
as the collection of evidence to support the prosecution of the
Scullys. If he told them about Melanie, they would use it to bolster
their characterization of Tara as not responsible for her actions. For
once in his life he should be cautious.

"Do your people think they know where the baby's body is?"

"No, but that won't be a problem when we have a confession. Then
we can go right to it."

"Any hint of organized crime or the drug trade being involved?"

"That's right, blame the Mafia or drug trade wars. Convenient,
faceless and not located in the suburbs. This is a domestic crime and
eventually we'll get there. The sooner eventually is, the less
manpower we waste."

"What about Melanie Cartwright?" Mulder questioned.

"What about her?"

Wagner picked up a folder and ran his eye down a list of names.
Then he flipped back to a page with hand-written notes.

"She's an aerobics instructor who helped the Scullys out with
child care. Employed part-time at Plato's Fitness World. Sister of an
acquaintance of Bill Scully. No outstanding warrants, no arrests, no
record. Neighbors have seen nothing unusual. She hasn't had a child
around the premises. Word from my interviewer is that there is nothing
remarkable about her except the way she fills out a leotard. Do you
know something about her that we should know?" he ended, with the most
intimidating possible stare.

This was the moment of truth. Could he work with the police and
share his knowledge, or would he end up making the situation worse for
Bill and Tara to no purpose?

"No, sir."

Wagner pressed a button on his intercom and ordered the unseen
listener to "Get in here, Harry."

"You work for the government, Mr. Mulder. You'd understand if,
at a future time, I denied some of the colorful language I used today
during our discussion. However, I will stand by the substance. Show
Mr. Mulder out, Harry," he told the young uniformed policeman who
opened his office door.

On his way back to the Scullys' from the police station Mulder
stopped at a pay phone and checked in with the Lone Gunmen. He had the
names of the nurses to pass on and he wanted the Gunmen to devote
plenty of attention to Melanie Cartwright.

One of the problems he had foreseen with this case was the
possibility that Scully would be offended if he kept Bill and Tara in
mind as suspects. Detective Wagner had just cleared his conscience on
that point. His strategy now was to assume Bill and Tara were
completely innocent and truthful. The police were covering the other
possibility beyond any need for his assistance. Every instinct he had
developed during his years in Violent Crimes told him that time spent
investigating Bill and Tara was time wasted.

*******************************

Out at the submarine base on Loma Linda, Scully was receiving
the VIP treatment. Name-dropping had resulted in co-operation that
felt like a miracle when she remembered other attempts they had made
to extract information from military sources. A civilian from the
personnel office had welcomed her by name and shown her to a private
office with a copy machine and a PC. There was already a stack of buff
file folders on the bare desk and she was signed into the personnel
database with a guest ID. Miss Elly Mantia told her to come to her in
the adjacent office with any further needs and then left her alone to
get on with it.

Scully discovered that the folders contained Bill's records,
including reprimands, commendations, and routine evaluations. These
referenced the other folders where documentation of related
investigations had been filed. Somebody had shown unusual initiative
in bringing these things together for her. She concluded that there
were people here who believed in her brother and his wife. They were
willing to put some effort into proving it. Cheered by this thought
she attacked the pile of papers.

Hours later the lack of enemies in Bill's life was discouraging
her. She found no evidence of disgruntled victims in accounts of
disciplinary hearings. The statements, even from the accused, were
moderate in tone and recognized an essential fairness in Bill's
decisions. Scully's mind wandered briefly into thoughts of what
Mulder's files would look like to an impartial observer. There would
be no lack of potential enemies.

Scully made a short list of people to call and thought hard
about other avenues of investigation. What else did people get blamed
for? Accidents. She returned an armload of files next door to Miss
Mantia, and requested inquiries into accidents that occurred under
Bill's command.

The time she spent waiting for the files she put to use making
phone calls to the people on her short list. They were worse than
making cold calls selling life insurance. Each one required a unique
strategy depending on the offense, and on the identity and mood of the
person she talked to. She had to be very careful not to reveal the
extent of her knowledge about the incidents, since she couldn't
explain why she had access to sensitive military material. None of the
call recipients gave much sense of an emotional reaction. The most
serious incident involved a drunken fight in a bar that laid one
participant up for six weeks. The brig time hadn't riled the accused
seaman, and the hospital time hadn't impressed the man injured. The
latter had no energy to spare for reliving memories of a fractured
skull after he spent considerable time trying to convince Scully to
attend an Amway presentation.

Despite the difficulty of the calls Scully still had fifteen
minutes to spare before Miss Mantia came back with a wire cart on
wheels. It was stacked with buff folders and green barred paper.
Seeing the consternation on Scully's face, she remarked
sympathetically "Navy yards and ships are dangerous places." She
explained that they had original records in folders only for accidents
that took place on this base. The computer printout contained data on
accidents occurring at other locations. Scully sighed and called her
mother at Bill's place to tell her that she would be working late, and
to give her the number of the phone on her desk.

Everyone but security had left by seven o'clock. Scully had
worked out a satisfactory way to classify the incidents and had
separated the printouts by incident. She was going back through each
unit and evaluating its seriousness. The footsteps in the hallway
barely registered in her mind. It was only when there was a knock at
the door that she jumped in surprise.

"It's me."

"Come on in, Mulder."

She realized that she hadn't thought about the footsteps because
they were so familiar. She had sat working in their basement room
through many nights, hearing, but not really listening, as Mulder
paced or made repeated visits to the vending machines down the hall.

"Your Mom told me you had a lot of paperwork to get through
before you could leave. I thought I'd help."

That was unusual. Paperwork didn't usually draw Mulder into the
ranks of the conscientious. But she was very thankful to have him
there. He could spot patterns and discrepancies in narratives almost
as though he possessed some of the spooky power his detractors
jokingly gave him credit for.

"How did you get the guards at the gate to let you in?"

"I asked them to call Johansen. They were reluctant, but I
persuaded them he'd be sorry to miss the call."

"What did you tell the police today? Do they know about Tara and
Melanie now?"

Mulder shook his head.

"You were right from the beginning. The police investigation is
hopeless. Their minds are closed up tighter than pills in a blister
pack. Wagner told me I should persuade Bill to confess to being an
accomplice."

He could see that Scully was upset at the degree of certainty
displayed by the detective in charge, but she didn't reply in words.
She quickly moved one of the shorter stacks of papers to a clear spot
on the desk for Mulder's inspection. They were the most serious
accidents and deserved the closest attention. He agreed with her
strategy. Scully fetched him a chair from Miss Mantia's office.

They worked silently for three hours and managed to get through
every stack of paper. The silent building and companionable atmosphere
gave them both an eerie sense of having traveled back to their old
office. Scully looked up once and unexpectedly met Mulder's eyes. His
expression was so tranquil that she couldn't help flashing a smile of
pleasure back at him, and he couldn't help returning it. It almost
felt like they were in harmony again.

"OK, I've got a short list. I see that you're down to your last
file. Let's compare notes," Mulder finally commented to her. Scully
recognized a carefully restrained pitch of excitement in his voice,
and her hopes soared. She started with her observations first.

"I took the ones where the victims had to be discharged from the
Navy due to permanent injuries. One of them involved burns received
when a part failed on an engine cooling mechanism. There were two
falls down hatchways that resulted in partial paralysis. They were
attributed to carelessness on the part of the men who fell. I plan to
call family members tomorrow and follow up, but I don't see any reason
to suspect a connection," Scully summarized, shaking her head.

"I've got the fatalities---a drowning, one fall from the deck of
a ship and one from the tower on a sub. And a fall inside a ship's
engine room during maintenance. That's the one," he ended with
certainty.

"OK, how do we know that's the one?"

Mulder began reciting from memory.

"The person who fell was Seaman Sylvia Morales. She was doing
routine maintenance work from a catwalk when she fell over the side.
It was twenty feet down to a steel grid, where she sustained serious
head injuries. She lived in a comatose state for two weeks before she
died. Her four month old fetus died with her."

Scully held out her hand wordlessly for the folder. Mulder gave
it to her with a distracted air. He was already heading down various
investigative paths mentally, while she read the file to herself.

"The family was satisfied with the ruling that her fall was
accidental," Scully commented.

"So they said. And probably truthfully. But who's missing from
the story?"

"The father of the baby," Scully answered dutifully.

"The military hospital listed the father as unknown. She'd been
seeing an obstetrician there. Why didn't she give the father's name?"

"Because she didn't know which of a number of men were
responsible?" Scully suggested reasonably.

"Possible, but what if it was because he was in the Navy too and
their relationship broke some fraternization rule? It doesn't really
matter. The point is since we don't know who the father is, we don't
know how he reacted to the accident, or who he blamed."

"And of course the clincher is the phone call about 'half of
what you owe.' He'll settle for the baby apart from the mother."

Mulder sat and looked across at Scully expectantly. When she
failed to say more he prompted her.

"Well, aren't you going to shoot down my theory for being based
on inadequate evidence? Before you do, I'd like to point out that it's
one hundred percent paranormal, supernatural and extraterrestrial
free."

"It's the only theory we've got, Mulder. I feel more like giving
it vitamins and fresh air instead of shooting it down. But I don't
think I can stay awake another night. I've got to go back to Bill's
and get some sleep now."

Even Mulder slept surprisingly well that night. But the light
under the door to Mattie's room stayed lit and the music continued
into the next day.


Chapter 12, Everyday Tragedies

The next morning they began following up on the cases they now
considered very long shots in connection with Matthew's kidnapping. It
took numerous and demanding phone conversations to confirm their
irrelevance. On completing this task they felt justified in making
their initial contacts with people connected to the death of Sylvia
Morales.

The prospect raised their anxiety levels even higher. They had
no official authorization for their investigation, and therefore had
no right to demand co-operation from anybody. Another serious problem
was the need to avoid any action that would alarm the kidnapper. They
could frighten him away, beyond their ability to locate him again.
Closer pursuit might scare him into some impulsive action, such as
killing Matthew to eliminate evidence. Further complicating matters
was the fact that they might need to return to people with more
questions as the investigation progressed. Their story would have to
be durable.

"Let's see, our cover has to be plausible, non-threatening and
reusable. We don't want to impersonate anyone in an official capacity.
What does that leave?" Scully wondered aloud.

"Journalists, of course," Mulder replied off-handedly.

He was reviewing the copy they had made of Sylvia's file for the
names of other possible targets of the kidnapper's anger. Suddenly he
realized what he had said and looked up to see Scully's eyes lit up
with enthusiasm for the idea.

"No, bad idea," he went on quickly. "Journalists are very
threatening these days. Look at what they did to Princess Di."

Superstitious dread filled him at the thought of pretending to
be what Morgan was.

"No, a good idea," Scully protested "We can say we're doing an
expose on the unfair treatment of pregnant sailors by the Navy. We
want to hear their opinion, whether they agree or disagree. There's no
penalty for saying you're a free lance journalist. The beauty of it is
I can do the initial approach over the phone. If they refuse, they
haven't seen us. We've kept our options open."

Get a grip, Mulder told himself. It's just a story and you
aren't going to read any more of it anyway.

He listened while Scully sweet-talked someone at the Morales'
house into agreeing to a four o'clock appointment. She promised them a
dignified article about their late daughter's career in a respectable
publication and protection of their identities. When she hung up he
asked if they wanted to be on the Jerry Springer show.

"No. I talked to Sylvia's father. He's very agreeable, but he
seemed to have a hard time keeping his mind on the conversation. There
must have been something distracting going on at his end. Shall we
call The Boys on our way to the Morales' place?"

When Mulder returned to the car from the phone outside a Dairy
Market he was lost in thought. After several minutes of silence Scully
gave in to her curiosity and asked him what the Gunmen had learned.

"They didn't have anything more on Melanie Cartwright than the
police did. No record anywhere. It's hard to believe she gets the
stuff Tara described on a regular basis without a whisper of
suspicion. I don't believe Tara was lying. I wonder who her supplier
is."

"Melanie may not have any connection to Sylvia Morales. Maybe
she's just a sociable pothead."

Mulder looked dubious at this, but he said nothing more.

The Morales family lived in an older section of the city in a
small but well kept ranch house. The woman who opened the door
appeared to be about fifty years old. She wore slacks with a full cut
tunic over her stout frame. Scully gave her a big smile and introduced
herself as Debbie Sorley.

"I spoke to your husband a little earlier about a magazine
article. My co-author and I want to interview you about your late
daughter's career in the Navy."

Mrs. Morales' expression was both puzzled and alarmed.

"You can come into the living room. I'm going to ask my son to
join us. I'm not sure what we want to do."

Scully sat down on an old overstuffed couch. Across the room was
a large window that faced onto the front lawn. To her right was a
large new television; to her left a hallway led to what appeared to be
bedrooms. Behind her was a large arch leading to the kitchen area.
Mulder stood beside the arch examining family pictures hung on the
wall between the living room and kitchen. From there he held forth on
the merits of the decorating job.

"These people know how to arrange a house for comfort. No
offense, but your brother just doesn't have the touch. Here, at the
center of everything, is a nice big sofa. Close behind is the kitchen,
for convenient snacking. To the right, a television, close enough to
pop in a video without an exhausting walk. What is it with your
brother and televisions anyway? Can't they afford one?"

"Bill believes they're corrupting the culture. He's especially
against children watching. So they don't have a TV."

"Didn't he watch TV when he was a kid?"

"We watched TV whenever we could---spy shows, cowboy shows,
variety shows, Saturday cartoons, you name it. But you have to admit
TV has changed since we were kids."

Mulder had to admit it had. He thought it was much better now.

They heard sounds of animated discussion from the kitchen.

"I told you never to leave him alone," a man was saying.

"You don't know what it's like being tied down here all day with
him. Sometimes I think I'll go crazy myself," Mrs. Morales replied.

She came back into the room with a younger man.

"This is my son, John. John this is Debbie Sorley and. . .what
was your name?"

"Reynard Muldrake," Mulder replied.

"They want to write an article on Sylvia and her career in the
Navy. They said they talked to Dad and he agreed to see them," Mrs.
Morales explained to John.

"I'm sorry you made a trip over here for nothing. There was a
mistake when you talked to Pop. He can't see you, and we don't want a
story done on Sylvia," John stated politely but firmly.

Mulder walked over and shook John's hand.

"We want to get different points of view on how fairly the Navy
treats woman. We know your sister had a special difficulty," he said.

"No, we aren't the kind of people who want their problems on TV
or in the tabloids," John replied.

Scully tried to project restrained sympathy.

"Some people think the Navy is discriminatory and unfair toward
enlisted woman like Sylvia who get pregnant. We know she would have
been removed from her ship within a month, whether it was medically
indicated or not. . . ."

Scully's words trailed off as heavy running footsteps came down
the hallway. The events that followed happened much too quickly to
follow at the time.

"Are you calling my Sylvia a whore, you bitch!"

A disheveled man tore into the room yelling the words. What
riveted everyone's attention was the 9mm handgun he was pointing at
Scully. He stopped his forward motion only to brace himself to take
the shots. She struggled to get up from the soft, low cushions, but
couldn't move quickly. Neither John nor Mulder was in a position to
approach the gunman from the side. Mrs. Morales was farthest away and
seemed to be frozen in place.

There was no way he could miss his shot at Scully. Mulder didn't
have to think. He hurled himself straight for the man and his gun just
as he squeezed off three shots. The impact of Mulder's body knocked
the gunman backwards. As he fell he pushed Mulder violently to the
side, so that the agent rolled over toward the hallway, ending up on
his back. John reached the shooter seconds later, pinning his gun hand
to the floor and removing the gun. Meanwhile Scully had scrambled off
the couch and raced across the room.

She crouched over Mulder feeling as though the day had turned
inside out into a nightmare. Catastrophe. Three shots point blank to
the chest. His heart, his lungs, his spine. It would be a miracle if
he lived. Oh, please.

Apparently it was a day for miracles. He opened his eyes
immediately and started feeling his head gingerly for bumps or
bleeding. There was no blood, and no sign of trauma to his body.
Scully's breathing and heart rates dropped from the "end of the world"
range to "missed him by that much" levels.

"Is he alive?" John asked in an anguished voice. "Mom, call 911
right now."

"Are you OK?" Mulder asked Scully doubtfully. "Who got shot?"

"Maybe no one got shot," she answered in a voice that quavered
uncertainly. She ran trembling hands over his chest and sides,
reassuring herself that there were no wounds. Mulder started to push
himself to a sitting position, and Scully couldn't come up with any
reason why he shouldn't.

"We don't need 911," Mrs. Morales said grimly. "I told you it
was too dangerous to keep a gun around the house now. But you wouldn't
listen. Did you know that closet shelf where you hid it was the same
place he hid his gun from you kids when you were little? It didn't
matter because he would have found it no matter where you put it. He
pokes around into everything. I just loaded it with blanks and left it
there."

"What if he'd found your bullets too, and reloaded it?" Scully
asked John with a forbidding expression. "What's your father's medical
condition?"

She was feeling a powerful emotional reaction, and John seemed
to be an appropriate target.

"Pop's been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's," he
answered, with a sad look at the man now lying quietly on the floor.

"So you allowed a person suffering from dementia to have access
to a handgun. That's reckless and illegal."

John nodded his admission listlessly.

Mulder feared that in her zeal to drive home gun safety, Scully
would say something to ruin the strategy they planned for their
investigation. In a calmer moment he might have stood aside and
happily watched her destroy their journalistic cover. Instead he was
excited to realize that he might hold a new bargaining chip. He
intervened with diversionary words.

"I don't think we need to be concerned about the law or damages,
since no one was hurt. They understand the danger now. Debbie, don't
you see an interesting angle for our story here? The tragic father
defending his daughter's honor even as his mind slips into darkness.
I'd like to put this unfortunate incident behind us and go over
Sylvia's story."

He looked pointedly from Mrs. Morales to John.

"Please sit up here on the couch, Mr. Muldrake," Mrs. Morales
said with a grimace that they supposed was meant to represent a smile.
"Let me go get Sylvia's yearbook and scrapbooks."

Scully clamped tight control down on her remaining fear, anxiety
and euphoric relief at Mulder's escape. She went over to Mr. Morales
and knelt beside him.

"Can I help you up?" she asked him, holding out her hand. He
accepted her helping hand as readily as he accepted his son's.
Anything she had done to draw his rage was forgotten. John led him
back to a bedroom while Scully and Mulder settled on the couch with
his mother.

Mrs. Morales gave them a detailed history of her daughter from
high school on. Scully dutifully took notes, paying special attention
to boyfriends. Up until her assignment to the San Diego Submarine base
they all seemed to drop away without leaving a trace. Then boyfriends
disappeared from the story altogether. When she began her account of
the accident they realized she wasn't going to give them information
on the baby's father.

"So you were satisfied with the findings of the board of
inquiry. You believe the navy wasn't at fault," Mulder stated.

"I couldn't see how. The doctor didn't know of any reason why
she couldn't work as usual. She didn't complain about dizziness. I
know they never wanted to bother about safety harnesses when they were
doing some quick little job, but the rules said they were supposed to.
She was breaking the rule."

Mrs. Morales gave a mirthless laugh.

"So she died as she lived. Breaking the rules. I think it's kind
of funny, you coming here to write about her 'career.' She couldn't
have stuck it out long enough for a career in the navy. After the baby
was born she'd have completed her tour and then left. She'd already
lost interest."

"Do you know who the father of the baby was?" Scully asked
gently.

"No," the woman answered, with a look on her face that said,
"You can't prove I do."

"Have I told you enough to help you put that painful incident
behind you, Mr. Muldrake?" she asked with snide overtones.

"Thank you, Mrs. Morales. You've been very kind," Mulder
answered. "And allow me to thank you for loading the gun with blanks.
Next time you might consider just unloading it. One of the people
involved might have a heart condition."

"I thought a burglar would run, and think he was lucky John
missed. If something like this happened I wanted to give John a good
scare. It would convince him to get rid of the gun. It didn't occur to
me that there would be innocent bystanders. I've got things I've got
to do. Thanks for not suing us." she said grudgingly.

With that Mrs. Morales left for the kitchen. Her son emerged
from the hallway a few minutes later. Mulder beckoned him over to
where they sat.

"Can we ask you a few questions? Your mother told us what she
could."

"Sure. I guess it doesn't really make any difference."

"Were you satisfied with the verdict of the board of inquiry?"

"Yes, I was satisfied. It was awful and wasteful, but it was an
accident."

"Was anyone involved who felt differently about it?"

John sat in thought for a minute while Mulder and Scully held
their breath.

"Yeah," he finally said with what sounded like relish. "Her
boyfriend was a total jerk about it, the way he was about everything
else. He never did a thing for her, just took, took, took. And she
stood up for him. She didn't want me to tell Pop who he was. She was
afraid Pop would go after him. We didn't know it but the disease was
affecting him, making him irrational, a long time before we took him
to the doctor. But there was another reason why she didn't want to
tell on Lover Boy. He's an officer in the navy himself. He was doing a
bad thing, fraternizing and all that."

"Your father couldn't go after him now. Why don't you tell us
who he is and he can get the punishment he deserves for breaking the
rules?"

"I don't think so. The truth is, he's more than just a jerk.
I've never known anybody to hold a grudge the way he does. He makes
these elaborate schemes to get even with people. I don't want to know
if he does anything about them. Why would I want to get him mad at me?
When the accident happened he nagged Mom about trying to sue Sylvia's
commanding officer until I had to take him aside. You'd think he was a
smarmy car salesman from his looks, but the way he stared at me. . . .
He didn't have any legal standing, see. He couldn't even say he was
her boyfriend. Dad had just been diagnosed and we didn't want a
useless lawsuit. A few days after I confronted him I found our old dog
dead under the bushes. I think he was poisoned, and I think I know who
did it. He's a scary guy. Mom's afraid of him too."

"We have other sources," Mulder assured him. "We can protect
your identity. He sounds like someone who ought be exposed and
stopped."

"What the hell did Sylvia see in him? She was spoiled and
selfish. She was a taker too, but she met somebody who out-matched her
by light years. He was so bad for her. He IS bad."

John started by speaking softly, but ended with conviction.

"His name is Richard Chandler. He's a lieutenant on a submarine
at the base in San Diego. Sylvia met him when she was assigned to a
ship there. He does something secret with missiles on the submarines."

Scully and Mulder asked a few more questions about Chandler, but
John had little more information. He hadn't contacted him or been
contacted in the three years since the accident.

They thanked him effusively for his help and promised him a
discreet presentation of their data in a reputable magazine. He smiled
disbelievingly and saw them out as quickly as he could. He was
shutting the door while Scully was letting him know they would be sure
to contact him with any further questions.

After they got in the car, Scully turned to Mulder with a very
serious expression.

"Mulder, please don't ever do that again."

"What?" he replied in bewilderment. "I thought you'd be happy.
That's the information we needed. I didn't do anything out of line to
get it."

"Don't step in front of a gun for me like that. You should have
gone in low and tackled him. That would have thrown his aim off enough
to make him miss me. You were acting like a bodyguard."

He knew she was right. But her tactic would have left an outside
chance for a successful shot at her. It wasn't in him to permit that.

"Just doin' my job, Ma'am," he drawled with an irritating twang.
"Purtectin' the cit'zens of this'yere fair state."

She turned toward him and put her hand on his shoulder.

Mulder leaned toward her without realizing he had moved. Was she
going to cross the line?

"Do you know how I would have felt if you had been killed?"

How she would have felt was written all over her face. He
reveled in the tenderness and concern for him exhibited there. The
memory of her hands lightly stroking his chest came back with a rush
and blocked rational thought comprehensively. He wanted her to cross
that line so much he had to stop her at any cost.

"Let's see, you'd be overcome by an incredible sense of relief
at the prospect of never finding another video that doesn't belong to
me in the office VCR?" he guessed.

Scully removed her hand and blinked rapidly a few times.

"No, that's not it," was all her reply.

She sat silently while he talked about the next steps in their
strategy on their way back to Bill's house.

Chapter 13, Breaking Rules

The next morning Scully made some calls and was amazed to
receive co-operation when she asked for access to files at the base on
a Saturday morning. By ten o'clock she was back in the personnel
office. Ms. Mantia didn't even radiate the hostility she expected from
a government employee forced to work on a weekend. When questioned the
woman confirmed that she would get two specially authorized days off
for the time she put in with Scully. Commander Johansen was coming
through for Bill like a father.

Scully enlisted Ms. Mantia in a search for Lieutenant Richard
Chandler's records. He turned up as a real person who fit the known
facts, but his original records had been archived a year ago. Scully
read the on-line data while his files were messengered from storage.
She warned herself not to get used to this kind of service from the
military. It wouldn't carry over into any other case.

Chandler had not re-enlisted at the end of his last stint, in
spite of considerable inducements offered by the navy. He had an
advanced degree in nuclear engineering and eight years of experience
working with nuclear warheads on submarines. The electronic records
stated the facts baldly. When the original material arrived Scully
found editorializing in some comments. One of the officers present at
his debriefing referred to his sense that Chandler didn't take the
interview seriously enough. Another complained that the lieutenant
didn't show sufficient respect. They recommended standard tracking of
his movements for five years due to the sensitive nature of his
knowledge and experience.

Periodic entries in the database showed that he had apparently
lived on his savings for two years and then dropped out of sight
during the third. The security investigator entered a standard
direction to staff follow up on this, but there was no indication that
they took action. Budget cuts and reductions in force had resulted in
every department choosing to let invisible tasks slide.

When Scully returned to her brother's that afternoon she found
him closer to breaking down than she had ever seen him. He looked as
though he hadn't slept since Tuesday. Bill's suffering made her think
for a moment about what the weeks of her abduction must have been like
for Mulder and her family. Her mind shied away from the idea of that
much emotional pain inflicted for so long.

"Wagner was back this morning to question Tara," Bill told her,
his voice hard with the effort of control. "Have you found anything,
anything at all?"

Scully was relieved to have some hope to offer.

"Yes, yes we have."

"Are you close?"

"I'm not sure how close we are. But we've got a lead. It's the
boyfriend of a woman who was killed working on a ship you had command
of three years ago. Sylvia Morales. She was pregnant."

While she spoke Bill continued to look blank until her last
statement.

"I remember now. She was always ignoring safety protocol. Who
the heck was her boyfriend? No one ever mentioned anything about him."

"A Lieutenant Richard Chandler who worked on a sub."

"Fraternization," Bill commented, raising his eyebrows. "Doesn't
ring any bells. So did he make threats, has he got a criminal record?"

"No," Scully answered reluctantly. "The evidence is indirect. He
got angry at her family when they refused to challenge the navy's
ruling that it was an accident."

Bill looked depressed.

"Maybe it was a mistake for you to ask Mulder for help. How good
is he at this, Dana? What kind of success rate has he had?"

"Violent Crimes ask for him when they can't solve it themselves.
Sometimes they're lucky enough to get him. He's very good. Give him a
chance. He hasn't even got a lab or forensics specialists to work
with."

"Beggars can't be choosers, I guess," Bill said resignedly.

Scully almost came back with the pearls before swine canard, but
she looked at the dark circles under Bill's eyes and restrained
herself. He had no idea how lucky he was to have Mulder on his side in
this. Scully took her brother's hand and squeezed it affectionately.
She promised they wouldn't give up.

Mulder showed up shortly after this with a vitality in his step
that gave Scully a little more hope. She showed him the results of her
research and he told her what the Lone Gunmen had come up with on
Chandler.

"They traced him through bank accounts and credit cards for two
years after he left the navy. Then no activity for six months. Then he
was back, right here in San Diego. He deposited less than ten thousand
dollars in each of three different bank accounts. He used his credit
cards to lease a hot car, buy expensive clothes, rent a high-end
apartment, and join a health club. The leases were up in March and he
disappeared again. The car dealer and apartment manager had forwarding
addresses that turn out to be fake."

"That's interesting, but we can't get a warrant based on that,
"Scully said.

"Listen to the rest," he said, holding up a hand to silence her.

"I thought that if Chandler was out for revenge Bill couldn't be
the only target. Bill was more than one step up in command from
Sylvia. All he was doing was following navy procedure and the advice
of her doctors. Why would Chandler ignore the people closest to the
accident?

"The doctor who declared her fit to stay on duty was a Dr.
Charles Darren. He didn't re-enlist either when he had to decide last
year. He left the navy and moved to New York City where he joined his
brother's practice.

"The man who ran the actual work detail was a George Evans. He
was transferred to Maryland shortly after the accident. Last November
his wife died after a mysterious fall off their apartment balcony one
evening while he walked their dog. The newspaper accounts implied that
the police considered him the number one suspect, but the timing was
questionable and they couldn't get a case against him. Evans even
claimed to get a phone call from someone who told him he had three on
his conscience now. He couldn't prove he got the call. Even he thought
it might be a sicko who read about the case and wanted to be involved.
No one had any idea what the call meant."

This didn't sound substantial enough to interest the police in
Richard Chandler. Scully would have been disappointed if she hadn't
recognized a characteristic energy in Mulder's voice.

"What can we do Mulder? Do you think Wagner would act on any of
this?"

"No, but guess what health club Chandler joined back in
December. It was Plato's Fitness World, where Melanie Cartwright
works," he ended triumphantly.

Scully knew that Mulder had mentally filled in a lot of links
based on this. But even she was impressed with the significance of
this "coincidence" and she knew by his grin at her that he knew she
was.

"So how do we tie this together without the co-operation of the
police?"

"I've been out laying the groundwork for that very task. I know
Melanie Cartwright's work schedule now and I'm going to do a little
breaking and entering later this afternoon," Mulder said, with an
attempt at nonchalance.

He watched her look of horror fade to be replaced with
hesitation. He thought there might even be a hint of approval there.

"Time is running out, Scully. We can't let them indict Tara."

He could see that he didn't have to say anything further. Part
of Scully's brain and all of her heart were arguing his case for him
more powerfully than he could have.

They parked around the corner from Melanie's house about half an
hour before she was scheduled to start her shift at Plato's.

"I should have the next six hours to search. I'm taking my cell
phone. Call me and let it ring once if anyone approaches the house.
I'll find some hiding places as soon as I get in, and if I can't get
to a door I'll stay in one of them until I can get out. But she lives
alone and I shouldn't be interrupted."

Scully hoped he was right. If he got caught doing this it would
solve the bureau's problem of what to do with him and the X-files
forever. Mulder wouldn't be eligible for a job as security guard at an
Odds-n-Ends store.

He'd been inside for three hours when Melanie returned
unexpectedly. She left her car running while she hurried inside with a
harassed look. Scully just had time to ring Mulder's cell phone once
before Melanie entered. He should have time to hide, and that might be
good enough if Melanie were only making a quick stop to pick a
forgotten item.

She emerged moments later with a thoughtful expression. She
drove off again, only to return within ten minutes followed by a pick
up truck. The driver was a big man with a greasy ponytail and a
generous sprinkling of tattoos on his arms and chest. Scully rang the
phone again, but felt panic rising as the driver of the pick up
removed a shotgun from his gun rack. Clearly Melanie's suspicions had
been roused and they were going to search the house. She left the car
quietly and started around the corner while the man opened a box of
shells and cracked the gun for loading. She didn't know what she was
going to say or do, but somehow she would prevent Mulder from being
caught inside the house.

Scully approached the pair boldly, and remembered the bane of
her mother's existence once they moved off base in the seventies.

"Have you ever wondered what God's plan is for you?" she asked
them earnestly.

When they simply stared at her she followed up.

"Are you the gentleman and lady of the house?"

Conditioned by habits of politeness the woman automatically
answered, "I live here."

"May I come in and explain the Lord's plan for your salvation?
Your friend might like to hear the Good News too."

She glanced at Gus, who seemed to be paying more attention to
the fit of her knit shirt than her words. She directed her gaze toward
the beer belly that swelled out beneath the sleeveless leather vest
that was the only top he wore.

"If you give up drinking, smoking, chewing and eating flesh the
Lord will make a new man of you," she informed him sweetly.

"I'm not religious," Melanie muttered.

"We can decide to change at any time. God gave us the gift of
free will. Do you know the gospel story? King Herod issued a decree
that required everyone. . . ."

The woman interrupted.

"Look, we're busy right now. Maybe you can come by some other
time."

"OK. When?" Scully beamed.

"I don't know. Don't you have a pamphlet with a phone number on
it?"

She looked at Scully more closely.

"What church are you from?" she asked.

At that moment Mulder walked briskly up the driveway.

"Thank heavens you've found her. Mom was so worried. I've been
driving and walking around the neighborhood for hours. I'm her
brother," he explained. "We live about three miles that way," he
added, pointing eastward.

"Come on, Charlene. It's time to go home," he addressed Scully
kindly, and took her by the hand.

"Is there something the matter with her---besides being a
religious nut?"

Mulder smiled tolerantly at his partner.

"The light in the piazza is pretty dim, if you get my drift. She
spends all her time watching religious shows on TV. She's got a lot of
the spiels memorized. Sounds like a regular little preacher. Mom
nodded off during 'Faith Fest' and bam! Charlie here was out the
door."

The man with the gun still looked baffled.

"What's the matter with her?" he asked Melanie.

"She's retarded, Gus."

"Oh. Well, do you still want me to go in and look around?
Melanie thinks there was a prowler in her house a while ago," he
explained.

"Oh dear." Mulder looked at Scully reproachfully. "Charlene, did
you go in this nice lady's house when she wasn't home? You know you're
not supposed to do that."

He ogled Melanie appreciatively. She was wearing her aerobics
instruction outfit to great advantage. She returned the compliment.

Scully's face felt as red and hot as a Christmas bulb. She
thought Mulder was enjoying this scene entirely too much. However, she
played her part by hanging her head and looking ashamed.

Mulder winked at Gus and observed, "Women! Always got their hair
or nails on the brain and can't remember unimportant stuff like
locking doors. But it's easy to forgive them when they're as cute as
Melanie here."

Gus indicated Scully with a nod, and addressed Mulder.

"Does she date?" he asked, licking his lips unconsciously.

"No, we don't let her date," Mulder said apologetically.
"Believe it or not, there are men out there who would take advantage
of her mental condition to. . .you know. Not that you would do that,
of course," he concluded solemnly.

Mulder was beginning to lead Scully away from the house as he
spoke. He took her around the corner to their car and solicitously
helped her in. Waving enthusiastically at the couple in the driveway,
he drove away. Gus and Melanie stared after them.

When Mulder had turned the corner he dared to look over at
Scully to see what kind of reaction he was going to get. He was braced
for her displeasure, but mischief lurked just below the surface.
Scully tried hard to maintain a severe expression. They both dissolved
into extravagant laughter when their eyes met. Crises loomed all
around them, but it still felt wonderful to laugh together.

When she could talk Scully chided him.

"If any agent besides me had heard that exchange you'd be
spending the next six months in seminars and workshops getting your
attitude adjusted."

"Well I was flying blind. I had no idea what you'd been saying
until Melanie called you a religious nut."

"When did you get out of the house?"

"Right after the first time she came back. I could tell by the
way she walked and hesitated and then went on that she knew something
was wrong. I went out the back and down the hill to the next street.
Then I walked back around the block."

"What did you get?" she asked practically.

"Jackpot. I've got phone numbers, addresses, pictures and I
found her stash. Tara was telling the truth about her having stuff
anyway. Coke and pot. I took some for analysis. Does anybody at the
regional office owe you?

"No. but I'll bet somebody at the regional office owes Mullins,
and he owes me. How are we going to explain having it?"

"It was a dark and stormy night when I approached a suspicious
group gathered at an overlook on Highway 1. They scattered to their
cars, leaving this behind. There was mud on their license plates. A
one-armed man fled the scene on foot."

"I can almost picture it," Scully answered sardonically.

"I'm going to stop at a pay phone on the way back to your
brother's. I want the Gunmen to check out the phone numbers. We're
going to find Chandler, and when we do we're going to find Matt."

Mulder was wired with anticipation and driven to action. This
was when she had to watch him to make sure he didn't do something ill
considered.

At the moment, however, he appeared to be mesmerized by the
sight of a leggy young woman in spandex crossing the street in front
of their car.

"There's nothing that adds to a girl's appeal like dropping a
hundred IQ points, is there?" Scully remarked.

Mulder's thoughts were miles away and it took him a few beats to
follow Scully's train of thought back to the scene with Gus. He was
about to make a ribald remark about how wearing an aerobics exercise
outfit would be a nice finishing touch. When he noticed Scully's
pensive look he reconsidered.

"You told me smart was sexy," he answered.

"Obviously that only applies to men," she corrected. "Bill was
proud of me in high school-his kid sister, 'Dane the Brain.' But he
never considered dating one of the 'grinds' or 'eggheads.' And Tara is
pretty and good-natured, but she isn't Bill's equal in intellect or
self-confidence."

Mulder knew that something reassuring but impersonal was
required here. The trouble was that he had no objective viewpoint on
Scully's appeal. Every day he concentrated hard on not noticing it. If
he didn't, he tended to start thinking about what would it be like to
watch as his touch on her body gradually submerged the control of her
sharp intelligence in erotic sensation. Soft moans would escape from
her wet lips, her hands would clutch his back, her hips would rise
involuntarily to meet his. . .would she say his name? Would she say,
"I love you, Mulder," through a muffled groan of pleasure?

"The light turned green. About a minute ago," Scully pointed
out.

He hastily took refuge from the challenge of his partner's self-
doubt in lame humor.

"I don't care what anybody says. You can do better than Gus,
Scully, even without sacrificing brain cells."

She thought about Melanie and the anonymous young woman in
painted on shorts. "And you can do better than me," she murmured, as
he pulled off the road into the parking lot of a convenience store
with a handy pay phone. Her response was too quiet for Mulder to hear.

Chapter 14, Running Out of Time

Late that evening Scully and Mulder sat in Bill's office at the
table they had adopted as their workplace. They looked at each other
gloomily. None of the addresses, phone numbers, or pictures he had
taken from Melanie's at such risk seemed to hold a clue to Chandler's
current location. If she had any connection to him she was smart
enough to keep the information in her head, or at least to hide it
better than she did her drugs. The Lone Gunmen had run multiple checks
on the information and couldn't isolate anything useful. Scully and
Mulder had run out of ideas.

"You know what we're going to have to do Scully."

"Question her directly?"

"What else is left? The problem is we can't say anything that
might set her off to warn Chandler."

"We can't tell the truth. What about being journalists again?"

"What would we say? We'd like some information on the current
whereabouts of your most recent boyfriends? No, we're going to have to
do something that will make her feel threatened and unprotected by any
promises Chandler made to her."

"Mulder, you're talking about going far outside legal
boundaries."

"I'm open to suggestions."

"No direct threats. It's too dangerous in every way."

"I'll be honest with you; I don't know exactly what I'll have to
say or do. But I won't hurt anybody except in self-defense."

Scully had thought she couldn't feel any guiltier than she did
about helping Mulder break into Melanie's house. That night, on the
drive back to the scene of the crime, she found that she could. She
also discovered that as great as the guilt was, her worry for Mulder
dwarfed it. Melanie could have gotten a gun from Gus for self-
protection. Or she might prove braver than they thought and call the
police no matter what the consequences to herself. All of the times
Scully had criticized Mulder for recklessness that got him jailed
weighed on her conscience. He could go to prison for this.

The plan was to threaten Melanie with reprisals from drug
dealers who believed she was selling in their territory. Given her
clean background, Mulder was fairly sure that Chandler was mixed up
somehow in her use of drugs at Tara's. He was going to pretend to know
Chandler was Melanie's drug source. He wouldn't hurt her if she would
tell him where Chandler lived. All he cared about was that one little
bit of information. With the focus on drugs he hoped that even if
Melanie contacted Chandler he wouldn't suspect they were on his trail
for the kidnapping. He hadn't bothered trying to get the drug samples
analyzed. He was going to use them as added incentive for Melanie's
co-operation.

Mulder congratulated himself on persuading Scully to stay
outside in the car while he talked to Melanie. He wasn't sure if it
was her embarrassment or sense of sin that made this possible, but he
was grateful. Without the constraint of Scully's presence, he could be
a lot more forceful.

Scully's motive was a straightforward desire to keep watch
outside the house. She would prevent any interference by whatever
means proved necessary. This time she wore her gun.

It was after midnight when Mulder started knocking at Melanie's
door. The plan started to go awry immediately when she opened the door
for him and began berating him as he entered.

"You, you liar and thief! Did you come to return the stuff your
so-called sister took from me?"

Melanie had an unfocused look that weakened the impact of her
hard words. She had to concentrate very hard to remember from moment
to moment that he was in front of her.

"No, that's not why I'm here, but you can have them back. I'm
here on behalf of my boss. He's concerned about some drug sales in
this area."

As he spoke, Mulder held up the plastic bag with the drugs and
papers he had taken earlier and continued to speak.

"This is his territory, but he's heard you're indulging in some
amateur action. We know who your supplier is. If you tell me how to
get in touch with Richard Chandler you won't have to be punished. He
can answer my boss's questions. We won't have to bother you anymore."

"I don't know where you get your information, but you're dead
wrong."

Melanie smiled at the bag with the drugs in it.

Mulder saw that she wasn't as scared as she should have been.
When he approached her he could smell the smoke in her hair and
clothes. The room beyond was filled with a bluish haze. She was too
relaxed to care about his fictional boss. He sighed his disapproval of
drugs and tried again.

"We heard you sold stuff to a man named Gus, presumably the man
who was here yesterday."

With that remark Melanie seemed to lose her self-control and
broke into uncontrolled giggling.

"Me, sell to Gus! He gives me the stuff, you idiot! Tell your
boss he should get some better snitches."

"Why did you sell to Tara Scully? That was a big mistake."

"I never sold drugs to anybody. We shared a few times."

"You must be rich to be so generous. Where'd you get the money,
selling drugs?"

"I think you're trying to trick me," Melanie answered slowly.

Mulder thought he was more likely to succeed with every minute
that passed.

"Did someone tell you to share with her?"

"I don't remember exactly. Tara was so sad. She needed to cheer
up."

"How did you end up taking care of Matt?"

"Rick told me to ask my brother Jerry if anyone he knew needed
help with a baby. Rick said I had to pretend I didn't already know
about Bill and Tara. I really do love babies."

"So why does Gus give you drugs to share?"

"Rick told him to, of course. Rick's in the Jet Set now. He can
get anything he wants to party with. Where he lives it's not illegal.
He sends it to Gus for me."

"Oh, so Gus is Richard's friend. I know Gus lives around here.
What was that street? It's on the tip of my tongue."

"Sage Street you mean?"

"Yes, that's it. What was his number? Did it begin with a '3'?"

"No, it ends with a '3'. It's 43 Sage."

Melanie looked at him doubtfully.

"Am I telling you something I shouldn't?"

"Not at all. I already knew it. I just can't remember what city
Richard moved to."

"Well, if you ever remember, let me know. I'd like to invite him
back for a visit. He went someplace foreign. He had a job with some
guy who was starting his own religion."

"That's very interesting. What religion was it?"

"I don't remember if he told me. It was some cult, I think. They
had a lot of money though."

"When was it he left the area? Was it two weeks ago?"

"No way. He left back in March. He said he had a really
important position and next Christmas I'd be hearing about what he
did. But he told me he'd been recruited on the side as a spy for the
CIA. He needed me to help him with his assignment. They had
information that maybe Tara's husband was passing secrets to the
Soviets. No, wait, it's not the Soviets now. Who was it?"

"The U.S. still has lots of enemies. What did he have to do as a
spy?"

"He was going to have to break in and search Tara's house for
incrini-. . .icrinim-. . .evidence. I helped by getting their keys
copied, and their security code and telling him how to open the
windows and doors without setting off the alarm."

A look of pride on Melanie's face faded to one of doubt.

"If he wasn't really a spy, I did something wrong."

"Maybe you should be more careful next time. Did Richard have
any other friends in the area?"

"I never met them. He probably had other girlfriends," she
answered with apparent unconcern.

"Do you have some Ben and Jerry's in your freezer?"

"Sure, Are you hungry?"

"Not me. Wouldn't you like me to fix you a bowl before I leave?
I've got to be going."

When she nodded yes, he followed her to the kitchen and dished
up a large helping of Cherry Garcia with Oreos on the side.

"You know you should stop with the drugs. Look at you, alone
here on a Saturday night with your drug habit."

"I'll stop pretty soon. I can stop any time I want to, so what's
the hurry?" she rationalized, as she dug into the ice cream.

"So long. Thanks for talking to me."

Melanie waved good-bye happily with the returned plastic bag.

Scully realized how tense she was when she finally relaxed at
seeing Mulder in one piece. She started talking before he got the car
door shut.

"I hope you didn't have to scare her too much."

"That's not something we have to worry about. What we have to
worry about is how we're going to persuade Gus to talk to us."

Mulder told her how Melanie's condition had worked for them.

"Unfortunately she didn't really know what we want to know. If
Gus knows, how do we get the information from him?"

"Well, I could lure him out to this car as Charlene and seduce
him while you search his house," Scully proposed with a grave
expression.

Mulder flashed a panicked look at her.

"Scully I know we've both broken some rules but. . ."

"Gotcha! Just kidding."

Scully was pleased that she had managed to get a reaction out of
her famously unflappable partner.

"I knew that," he said. "Joking aside, what can we do?"

"Do you think Gus is susceptible to being intimidated."

"Probably not by me. He may not be Nobel Prize material, but
he's been around for a long time. I couldn't even get an aerobics
instructor to take me seriously as hired muscle."

"That leaves pretending to be something else, like journalists,
or more breaking and entering. I'll bet his schedule doesn't run
exactly like clockwork. What if I called and pretended to be Melanie
asking him to come back because there was another prowler?" Scully
suggested.

"We're almost to his place. They only live about ten minutes
apart. That wouldn't even give me half an hour."

"What if a heavy breather called her while he was there?"

"Pretty thin margin Scully. But I hate to wait any longer."

They drove by Gus's little wooden house and determined what
would be the best way in. The pick up with the gun rack was parked in
his driveway. Scully knew Mulder had lock picks from Frohike that he
used to enter Melanie's. Mulder had been especially grateful for these
after the case in Digger last fall. When they returned to D.C. he
presented Frohike with a gift certificate good for three movies from
the Adult Video Club. She had thought it best to stay out of the whole
ugly business.

Mulder headed for a nearby gas station where Scully called
directory service to get the phone number for 43 Sage. She practiced
one sentence a few times and then tried out her version of Melanie for
real. When Gus finally answered she thought he sounded too sleepy and
bewildered to be critical of her impression.

On the way over Mulder tried to persuade Scully to come inside
and search with him. He had an obscure dread that she might actually
try to delay Gus by seducing him if he left her outside alone to
intercept the man. He failed to change her mind about keeping watch
outside. After swiftly opening the door with his lock picks, Mulder
made a quick call to Melanie as a "breather."

She answered the phone with her mouth full, and was extremely
slow to react. He could only hope she would try to keep Gus with her
as long as possible.

Gus's place was as untidy as Mulder had expected, but rich in
possibilities. His attention was caught by a bulletin board that had
accumulated a series of layers of papers pinned over each other.
Applying the principles used in a fossil dig, he located the layer
laid down last March. There was nothing suggestive among the flyers
advertising St. Patrick's Day beer bashes. He worked his way backward
and found something odd, which meant it could be meaningful.

It appeared next to a 1099 form, so it might have been tacked up
in January or February. The magazine article was a lavishly
photographed layout on the ancient Mayan settlement at Bonampak.
Someone had circled a paragraph near the end of the text, which was
sparse compared to the illustrations.

An unidentified millionaire is attempting to build
a replica of the temple and amphitheater on an
island called Xibalba. He has spent millions
on this effort over the years, employing a small
group of international odd job men. It is said that
they have succeeded in erecting an astonishing
structure, but no journalists are permitted to visit
the island to view or photograph it. According to
the locals the man (whom they will not name)
is of Mayan descent and believes in the sacredness
of the temple. Anthropologists would like to see
what a contemporary descendant of these people
might have come up with by drawing on oral
traditions, but they are not permitted to visit.

Mulder imagined an island in the Caribbean, a sea criss-crossed
by illegal drug trade routes. It was home to a man who offered a good
income to workers who respected security and kept secrets about their
assignments. This place would have no extradition arrangements with
the U.S. It added up very suggestively for Mulder. If Chandler had
brought a kidnapped child to this place his patron would be furious.
He would probably co-operate with a quiet plan to restore the child to
his true home. Mulder certainly hoped that was the case. He was going
on the theory that Matt had not been killed until he had proof
otherwise.

He searched the rest of the board and riffled hopelessly through
shoe boxes of receipts and bills that he found under the coffee table.
The one thing that raised his hopes was that he found no magazines
similar to the one the article had come from. Someone else had brought
that article to Gus's attention. Maybe Chandler couldn't resist
bragging a little to impress his local gofer. Mulder had been inside
for forty-five minutes. He'd better leave before Scully made the
ultimate sacrifice to secure his search.

Their car was around the corner. As he headed toward it he
thought about how foolish it was to worry about Scully using sex to
solve this case. Her joke was just a joke. There was no opportunity
for her to gain anything by that route anyway. The truth was, he was a
little uneasy at the apparent ease with which Scully accommodated
herself to his illegal activities. How far would she go on behalf of
her brother and nephew? He knew from his own experience that a joke
like hers was born out of an idea that she had actually considered,
however briefly. And was her zeal all for love, or did she still have
things to prove to Bill that had roots in their childhood?

If pressed he would have to admit that the "Memoirs of a
Journalist" haunted him. He hoped the story was purely fiction. It was
horrible to think anyone had ever had to hear a catalog of experiences
like Amy's from a woman he once loved. Of course there was no
connection whatsoever between the story and him or Scully.

"I think I've got something," he said as he got into the car.

"That's good to hear. It was going to be hard to go back and
tell Bill we had no further leads."

"It's not much," he warned, fully aware of how tenuous the
connection to Chandler was.

He described the article and his reasoning to Scully as she
drove them through the dark streets.

"How in the world do we check it out?" she responded.

"We're going to have to go there in person and make some
contacts. It's a long shot, but we know that Chandler manipulated
Melanie into getting him into your brother's house. He was out of
sight for the six months before that and he uses Gus to deliver drugs.
If we poke around here much longer I'm afraid Gus might contact
Chandler."

"I'm not arguing with you, Mulder," Scully observed mildly.

He had noticed that, and was finding that he missed it. Who was
going to ground him and keep him honest during his wild theorizing?
Without Scully as a touchstone and with no processes and limitations
imposed by the bureau, things threatened to spin out of control.

"Scully have you noticed you're not being as critical as usual
of my ideas and methods?"

"Yes, I've noticed," she answered, giving him a guilty look. "I
know I shouldn't let myself be subverted by personal feelings. But
there won't be any justice here if we don't produce it ourselves. I
did the right thing and gave up taking revenge for Missy's death. This
isn't revenge---it's to save Matt's life and keep my family out of
prison. I'll go pretty far to do that."

Mulder's mind reverted to his earlier worries and he found
himself asking her a bizarre question.

"Would you go through with a seduction to help solve this case?"

That seemed to come out of nowhere, Scully thought. One little
joke and all of a sudden I'm Mata Hari.

"Actually, if there no other way, and it seemed likely to pay
off, I might consider it seriously," she answered honestly.

Mulder tortured himself in silence with visions of Scully being
pawed by someone like Gus.

"Wouldn't you fuck some woman to get the answers to your
sister's disappearance?" Scully countered in a strange, rough voice.

They couldn't be having this conversation, Scully thought. I'll
wake up any minute. She should have refused to answer his question,
and she never should have lobbed it back at him. Her tone of voice and
rare use of an obscenity must have given her feelings away to him. It
hurt so much to think of Mulder with another woman that she had to go
all macho and vulgar to talk about it.

He was too preoccupied with his own fixation to notice her gaffe
or answer her question. It was impossible for him to stop the words
that now seemed to speak themselves.

"Scully, please promise me you won't sleep with somebody to
solve this case, or any other case until you've talked to me first. We
need to be sure we've considered all the options."

That was outrageous, and he knew it. Flushed and miserable, he
stared self-consciously out the window, but he wouldn't take it back
even if he could.

Scully thought of assuming an air of indignation, or mercilessly
ridiculing what seemed to be unforgivable male presumption of
ownership. Who would it hurt beside herself if she sacrificed her
bodily integrity for a cause? It was her choice. At the next stoplight
she looked over at Mulder and couldn't bring herself to defend her
right to rent her body. There was too much real distress evident in
his slumped posture and averted face. The chance of the situation
actually occurring approached zero. Even if it did, her curiosity
would never allow her to miss out on a chance to hear what options
he'd suggest in those desperate straits.

"OK, I promise to talk to you first."

He turned to her with an expression almost childlike in its
surprise and relief. Scully thought that for a few moments he had
forgotten to retreat behind his walls. She felt a sudden sharp ache
for the loss of the sweet, warm nature that had been stunted and
misshapen in him years ago.

"Thanks Scully. It bothered me a lot thinking how dangerous that
would be for you."

He couldn't believe it. She had let him off. She could have
nailed him to a cross and left him beside the road as a warning to
other males who thought they had the right to dictate rules of sexual
behavior to women. Instead she had reacted from the heart to his
feelings.

They were both thankful to be pulling up in front of the Scully
house. Now all they had to do was convince Bill they were on the right
track. They were going to propose heading off to an island in the
Caribbean. Their lead was a magazine article found on the bulletin
board of a slow-witted drug dealer. It still had to be easier than the
previous conversation.

When they entered the house it was strangely quiet. They had
gotten used to lights and noise around the clock. Finally, at 3
o'clock AM, the household appeared to be asleep. Neither of them even
thought of waking up Bill to discuss their results. He needed sleep
more than anything else. Besides, Scully was exhausted, and Mulder
knew he should try to sleep. Scully joined her mother in their
bedroom, while Mulder looked around for reading material in lieu of a
television set. He found he couldn't stand Tara's magazines, full of
household hints and beauty tips. Bill seemed to receive only official
publications of the U.S. Navy. Mulder was certain that this
institution had many interesting bits of information to pass on, but
they wouldn't be found in official publications.

He sighed in resignation and settled down on his bed with
"Memoirs of a Journalist." The damage had already been done to his
imagination, and he had escaped the consequences only through Scully's
good graces. It couldn't get much worse than what he had already read.

Chapter 15, An Awkward Arrangement

Amy's Journal, March 25, 1814

In only a few weeks Morgan and I had slipped into an uneasy
habit of meeting to exchange information. He asked me to report to him
every day even if I had nothing new to tell him. His rooms off Fleet
Street were so close to "The Times" building that he returned to them
for tea each day. After eating and putting the final touches to that
day's work, he returned to the newspaper offices to turn in his copy
for the next day's edition. He insisted that I have tea with him on
most afternoons. It wasn't long before I quite missed our discussions,
and the food, when Morgan had to absent himself.

As we met regularly, it became more difficult to keep the
necessary indifference in my attitude toward Morgan. He would
sometimes talk of Chitterton. Our own history was never mentioned, but
he alluded to old friends and places we used to frequent. I had made a
conscious effort to banish thoughts of my old life from my mind. His
word pictures brought back memories I thought forever lost.
Occasionally I forgot myself and started reminiscing along with him as
though we were any two old friends, well met after a long separation.

When this happened I had to be sure afterward to embellish the
stories I told him of living in Covent Garden and carousing at the
taverns. I couldn't afford to forget the chasm that now separated us.
Frequent references to "my gentlemen friends" usually brought an end
to idle chatter, and we got back to business.

If Morgan had known that my gentlemen friends consisted of old
Mr. Tanner and young Tom Briers the references might not have silenced
him so effectively. Since I nursed Tom through his recovery from an
infection, and Mr. Tanner through a fever, they thought of themselves
as my family. Now I didn't have to worry about unwanted company in my
room. If they heard a disturbance in the hall they quickly emerged
from their rooms nearby with sticks at the ready. From my bawdy talk
Morgan wouldn't have guessed my resolve that no man would ever touch
me again.

On March 25 I went as usual to Morgan's rooms to be told that we
were going to visit a friend of his. I was apprehensive about the kind
of friend who would want to meet me. We walked up Fleet Street and
turned east, going only a few short blocks before we stopped in front
of a tall narrow building that must have been more than a hundred
years old. Number three was a door off the dingy entrance hallway.

The man who opened the door was almost as short as I. He had
eyeglasses that didn't seem to help much, since he leaned very close
to my face and still squinted. When Morgan spoke he smiled and stepped
back from the door.

"What's going on, Morgan? You've never brought a gorgeous
creature like this to see me before."

"Miss Sullivan, allow me to present Mr. Friedrich. Mr.
Friedrich, this is my old friend, Miss Sullivan."

All these polite forms sounded foreign to my ears. Why was
Morgan bothering? Surely even the half-blind Mr. Friedrich could tell
I was an old whore. He continued to smile courteously in my direction
anyway.

I was amazed at how the man had wedged a printing press and
reams of blank paper among pieces of more conventional furniture.
There was a wonderfully warm coal fire burning in the grate. Morgan
must have seen me admiring it.

"Amy, why don't you go over and stand by the fire. I need to
speak to Mr. Friedrich about some private matters," Morgan suggested
smoothly.

So, they had secrets from me. I didn't think Morgan had changed
so much that I couldn't trust him. Still I kept my eye on them.
Morgan's face looked strained and harsh as he spoke very low but
vehemently to Mr. Friedrich. I wondered if he was saying hard things
to the little man. Once when Mr. Friedrich glanced over in my
direction I thought he looked as if he were going to cry. Then Morgan
handed him something, and Mr. Friedrich left the room.

"Does Mr. Friedrich publish your writing?"

"Sometimes. When I write news articles or essays that are too
strange or pointed for "The Times," Horace will put it into a
broadside. Of course it goes between a poem commemorating the hanging
of Tom Maloney and a story about the goodwife of Worcester who gave
birth to five rabbits."

I had to laugh at the wry look on Morgan's face as he said that.
Then I saw him smile for the first time since we had said good-bye
more than ten years before. That smile took me back to summer walks in
country lanes so quickly I almost lost my composure. We used to laugh
together about everything and nothing. The joy of love penetrated our
existence and warmed us from the inside out. The mere memory tempted
me to forget myself and act presumptuously, as though love still
existed.

"When Moll and I were with a gentleman friend last night, I
heard a story to tell you," I bantered, with a meaningful wink.

The dangerous smile disappeared, to be replaced by his usual
impassive look. In truth, I finally had some intelligence that I
thought might be useful to Morgan. Taking his money for the useless
bits of gossip I had so far managed to glean from the girls I worked
for had begun to worry me. It felt like charity. But last night Moll
had related an incident that seemed closely connected to Morgan's
concerns. I had been mending her shift at the time, rather than
helping her satisfy a customer who enjoyed multiple partners.

"Moll had a cully who used to visit her regularly. He said he
was a common sailor, but he had a lot more blunt than most of them.
Three weeks ago he stopped his usual visits. Then, a week ago, he
showed himself at the George Tavern. He was already roaring drunk.
Usually he treated the room, but he had no money this time. Moll's a
good sort; she bought him an ale. Then he started talking about things
he shouldn't. He started damning the Allies for driving Napoleon into
a corner in Paris. Moll tried to hush him. The crowd at the George is
unpredictable. They might toast a Bonapartist one night and the next
night drag him out and hang him from a lamppost. When he wouldn't be
quiet she brought him back to her room to sleep it off.

"Out of curiosity she asked him did he want Napoleon to invade
England? He said he didn't give a curse for Napoleon, or for the
Allies. War was just better than peace for making money. Moll asked if
he carried supplies to British troops. He laughed and said an old dog
didn't have to go so far. Surrey Docks was far enough to carry his
cargo. Then she said he wouldn't say any more. He promised her a box
at Drury Lane one night, and new ear bobs to wear there, if she
wouldn't repeat what he said to anyone. That's why she was telling me
the story. He hadn't come back to keep his promise. She wanted to tell
someone just to show him."

Proudly I watched the dawning realization in Morgan's eyes. We
had discussed the blackmail and then Bloom's disappearance many times.
One important question was: Who might have access to a warehouse and
the waterfront area after the gates were secured at four o'clock in
the afternoon every day? We had assumed that the goods were moved from
a warehouse to one of the Bloom family's ships. We hadn't considered
the transfer of contraband directly from a boat, which entered the
docks on its own business and was then secured alongside the larger
ship already in place.

"Does Moll know his name, or the name of the ship?" he asked,
with his characteristic look of total concentration.

"He goes by Jerry Jones, probably not his real name. His skiff
is the Molly Bounce."

"I can examine the records of the ships docking over the last
few years. Jerry Jones may not be the only seaman into this rig. If I
could find a pattern I might be able to lay a trap," Morgan mused.

I had thought a step or two beyond Moll about the sailor's
story, but Morgan had gone one further. I should have known he would
plan to act. He was going to put himself in danger by trying to trap
violent criminals who had already killed twice. I was unprepared for
the fear that filled me when I considered this prospect.

"You won't be able to find a pattern without knowing when the
illegal cargoes were loaded. Maybe David Bloom knew that. Nobody else
does," I suggested hopefully.

"Ah, but I know what night he disappeared. There's a very good
chance that one of those ships was involved in his disappearance-
which was almost certainly murder. What ships were there that night? I
can start with the Surrey Dock records."

"If you believe he was murdered, isn't it going to be too
dangerous to try to take these men?"

"I won't try to take them into custody. I'll just gather enough
information to interest the Charter Company that owns the dock and the
Foreign Office."

"You think that spies are working for Napoleon here in London
don't you?"

"Don't you?"

"Have the blackmailers put pressure on David's father?"

"I don't know. He denies it. He denies that David could have
been blackmailed, or that any cargoes unexamined by Customs ever went
out in their ships."

I relaxed when I heard of those denials. Probably there would be
no further smuggling. The newspapers proclaimed in each issue that
Napoleon was defeated. A peace would be signed any day. His agents
couldn't expect to accomplish anything for him now.

"I'll be on the lookout for Jerry Jones. Maybe I can use my
particular attributes to charm him into more revelations," I said with
an abandoned air.

My eye was drawn to the door by the noise Mr. Friedrich made
when he entered the room with a tray of hot pasties, oranges and
toffees. Toffees wrapped in silver paper from a shop!

"Papa used to bring home toffees like that, for a treat!" I
exclaimed.

They were very dear. I turned back toward Morgan and was puzzled
to see him nursing bruised, bloody knuckles.

"This room has too much furniture for a long shanks like me," he
explained curtly, dismissing my concern. "I can't move without barking
my shins or running my hand into a wall."

Chapter 16, A Misunderstanding

Morgan's Journal, April 8 and 9, 1814

My examination of shipping records from the Surrey Docks was
fruitless. On the day of David's disappearance there had been nothing
unusual about the ships present in the docks. The Molly Bounce was
absent. The usual mix of large ocean-going vessels and smaller boats
used for shipping on the Thames was present. Amy had been right.
Without dates for the loading of contraband, nothing could be made of
the dock logs. The Molly Bounce last entered the Surrey Docks in
December of last year.

London rejoiced at the news of Napoleon's surrender on Easter
Sunday. No one wanted to hear any more about Napoleon's agents or
French conspiracies. Nevertheless I was convinced that some members of
Parliament were still being forced to further the deposed Emperor's
interests. A few Whigs once exerted a balancing influence on their
fellows, who blindly admired Bonaparte. They were now silent or had
changed their views. They all called loudly for an end to British
involvement on the Continent, forgetting that Napoleon once planned to
involve himself very deeply in British affairs by invading our island.
I suspected that corruption in the operation of the docks continued as
well. I couldn't explain the purpose of this activity, since the
Scourge of Europe had renounced all claim to sovereignty and was being
sent into exile in a few weeks.

In the wake of the Allied victory over Napoleon, I concentrated
my efforts on Members of Parliament who unexpectedly changed their
positions on the terms of treaties. Topham was a district of artisans
and laborers. The community had returned a Radical named James Gilbert
to Parliament three times. Mr. Gilbert differed from other Radicals in
his constant advocacy of stern measures against the French enemy.
Recently he'd begun speaking of moderation and the need to avoid
renewed hostilities by demanding little in the way of reparations from
the defeated. He no longer felt it necessary to banish Napoleon to a
distant location.

Mr. Gilbert's stableboy proved to be a magpie for interesting
bits of gossip and shiny silver coins. On his information Amy had been
watching the Gilbert house from ten to eleven each morning. We
expected a tall, thickset visitor with light hair, and blue eyes with
a slight squint. Amy was to try to identify the hackney and driver so
we could question him later.

On the afternoon of April 8 Amy didn't show up for tea as usual.
Her failure to appear preoccupied me increasingly as the evening came
on. Part of me believed she had stepped into a gin shop and become
incapable of stepping out, although that had never happened before.
The other part wanted to rush into the streets and look for her,
fearful of an accident or an encounter with a footpad. When she
finally came to the door at seven o'clock I let my anger overtake my
worry.

"So you finally decided to keep your appointment," I greeted her
with sullen overtones.

Then I noticed Amy was caught up in her own emotional reactions.
She was pale and agitated, clearly full of some kind of news and
unsure how to tell it.

"I followed him, Morgan. The man I was waiting for came to Mr.
Gilbert's on foot, so I followed him when he left. He walked to St.
Giles."

Here she stopped. She stared blankly, seeing something besides
her immediate surroundings.

"Well?" I questioned.

She raised her eyes to mine reluctantly and I could see the mask
of hardness overtake her features.

"He went to the Panasay."

The place where she had been sold into slavery. The warren that
should be burned to the ground as an anteroom to hell. I told myself
to remain calm and unaffected.

"Was it just a visit, or is he stopping there?"

"I waited a long time and he didn't come out. Then I asked the
scullery maid when she came into the yard to wring out the dish
clothes. He works for Jack Quickill."

"You shouldn't have asked any questions. She could be telling
Jack right now about your interest in him," I admonished her.

"It's all right. I told her I was looking for a place to work
and that I fancied the looks of the man. Maybe I will take a place
there and earn some money. It would be easier earnings than walking
about London all day," she said with a sly look at me.

Her barb hurt more than usual because of the anxiety that
preceded this scene. Why should I always be the one to be tormented
and teased?

"Yes, why don't you? I'll pay you again what you earn there if
you'll spy for me," I tossed off coolly.

I regretted the offer immediately. What if she accepted the
terms? I knew I couldn't live with them, so I'd have to find some
plausible reason to recant. After a half-minute pause I saw that this
wouldn't be necessary. My comment had made more of an impression than
I could have hoped. Amy was completely unprepared for my proposition
and stood speechless. Her uncertainty made her look younger. The girl
of my youth could almost be seen beneath the cynical demeanor of the
older Amy. I had finally gotten through the shell and touched her. At
that moment hurting her seemed preferable to making no emotional
connection. So I did it again.

"Why aren't you interested, Scarlet? It's no more than you do
every night in Convent Garden and you'll get double pay."

She became even paler and stood silent.

"I can't do it, Morgan. I'm sorry. You'll have to get someone
else to do this work. I won't be back. Good-bye."

With those words she turned and slipped out the door. I went
into a passion of self-justification that lasted half the night. She
had insisted repeatedly on her vicious life and immoral ways of
earning money, I reminded myself. Maybe she exaggerated her exploits,
but if she did it was to hurt me. All I did was do her the favor of
taking her seriously.

I could look at it from as many angles as I chose. The fact
remained. She was gone and I didn't even know exactly where she lived.
I spent the second half of the night working on a plan to find her and
re-establish the terms of our working arrangement. As unsatisfactory
as they had been, they were better than nothing.

It was a great relief when the sun rose and I could start my
day. After checking my copy at "The Times" I set off to see Horace
Friedrich. Amy didn't know that she wasn't the only person who
gathered information for me. On the day I introduced her to Horace, I
instructed him to find out all he could about her. He hadn't succeeded
in learning much the last time I spoke with him, but I was hoping for
more today.

"I'm not going to ask how you slept," he addressed me when he
opened the door and I strode past him. "I doubt if you did."

I wished him a belated "Good Morning."

"I wanted to find out if you knew anything more about Amy yet. I
really need her address."

"Why the sudden need? If I might inquire," he added quickly when
I glared at him.

"Something I said gave offense to Amy last night. She doesn't
want to work for me anymore."

Horace's smile faded away.

"What did you say?"

"Never mind what I said. She knows how to be very provoking."

I didn't like Horace's sombre expression.

"You owe me more than one article. Write me a poem about the
secret murder of Fanny Edgecombe and how her ghost brought the killer
to justice. I had to talk for days about Bonnie Prince Charlie and
horseflesh to get your information. Those men who live in her lodgings
took a great deal of drawing out before they'd talk about her."

"What sort of men?" I forced out between clenched teeth.

"Hold hard. Don't start the jump before you get to the hedge.
Old Jock Tanner was born in Glasgow about sixty years ago and hasn't
seen anything outside Scotland yet that's worth having. He peddles
needles and thread. Tommy Briers takes penny wagers on horseraces, but
most of his money comes from his earnings as a crossing-sweeper. He's
so small people mistake him for a child. He was in great demand as a
jockey at Newmarket. Then he was thrown and a hoof crushed his hand.
He couldn't ride as he did before and that was the end of his career."

"So they're not. . .pimps?"

"She hasn't been honest with you, Morgan. I feel bad that I
didn't send you my information in a letter earlier. You might have
spoken to her differently if you'd known all the facts."

"If she lied it's her fault," I replied stubbornly.

"What I can't fathom is the reasoning behind the lies she's
told. Tanner and Briers told me she's been living like a nun for the
past three years---and I don't mean a Covent Garden Abbess. Three
years ago, in fact, she cut a man who tried to assault her in her
room. It turned out she keeps a razor under her mattress. After that
men left her alone. It didn't hurt that about then Tanner and Briers
appointed themselves her protectors. That happened after she nursed
Tanner through an attack of putrid fever that he wouldn't have
survived otherwise. When Briers moved in across the hall he was
suffering from an infection in his hand. She took care of him too.
Neither of them tolerate a critical word about her."

"So was her whole story a lie?" I wondered aloud.

Horace could probably hear the hope in my voice. He gave me a
pitying look.

"No. Jock was living in the same room he's in now when she
started working in the streets five years ago. She was staying with a
petty thief who used her earnings to buy their gin. Jock gave her
three to six months before she'd be dead of drink or disease. Then he
heard she'd moved in with some bawd named Clara who was dying of
consumption. From that time she changed. She stopped drinking gin and
stayed in to care for Clara in the evenings. Apparently the woman had
saved money to ease her dying days.

"After Clara's death Tanner expected Amy to move in with another
thief or pimp, but she didn't. Instead of going back to prostitution
she scraped by doing errands, sewing, physicking---whatever she could.
She earned enough to get a room in the same lodging house as his, and
she's been there ever since. Sometimes she's had to beg on the street,
but she never sells herself. He's never seen such a change in the life
of a whore in his life.

"He learned more about her past while she nursed him through his
sickness. It sounds like the same history you told me, except you
didn't tell me about her own sickness."

"I didn't know about any sickness," I admitted.

"Well you told me she was forced into that notorious stew in St.
Giles. Of course she got the Pox. Tanner says she almost died. After
that she looked too old and used up to earn them any money in the
brothel. They turned her out on the streets. That was when she started
living with various men in Covent Garden."

My thoughts were jumbled after Horace's revelations. It didn't
make sense. Why had Amy pretended to be living as a prostitute when it
was no longer true? I thought back over the first speech I had with
her after the Frost Fair. She forestalled any initiative from me by
claiming to be happy with her life. In fact, she acted out a spirited
"Beggar's Opera" with me every time I saw her. I never had a chance to
offer to restore our old relations or to express my pity and horror at
her history. I never had a chance to accuse and condemn her either.

She repudiated me before I had a chance to repudiate her. That
was where the answer lay. Her claim to living happily as a harlot
removed any possibility of a close connection between us. She saw to
it that I only had one choice to make, so she couldn't be wounded when
I made it. If I had listened more closely to Sally I could have
figured this out for myself.

"She lied to keep me away. When I stayed my distance she told
herself that I rejected Scarlet, a whore, not Amy. But it was too much
when I finally accepted her as nothing more than Scarlet. It probably
felt like Amy's final death knell."

As soon as I said those words I was overcome with anxiety. They
rang so true that the idea of her death brought on a sense of
foreboding.

"It strikes me that in the view of most people she wasn't lying.
She can never be virtuous again in the eyes of society. Once a woman
falls she isn't allowed to get up again," Horace asserted earnestly.

I wasn't interested in debating the fine points of truth. I
wanted her address so I could make sure she was safe.

"Where does she live?

"The big slate blue lodging house behind the George on Maiden
Lane. A room on the third floor," he replied promptly.

"Thank you. I'll write you a poem about the day the devil left
his footprints in St. Giles."

My rooms were on the way between Friedrich's lodgings and Maiden
Lane. I stopped in on the way and my worries were allayed. Mrs. Mobley
had a note for me delivered by a boy only an hour ago. I didn't
remember Amy being such a poor speller, but she probably hadn't
written much for the past ten years. She addressed me by my last name
and signed the note "Scarlet." What did that mean? Was she using the
nickname herself as a form of sarcasm? Apparently she was willing to
work, though, and I was excited at the note's contents. I was to meet
her at the Surrey Docks tonight at seven o'clock. She had something
important to show me in the Tulip House offices. We had uncovered part
of the answer!

Chapter 17, A Gamble

Amy's Journal, April 8 and 9, 1814

As soon as Morgan proposed that I work for Jack at the Panasay I
knew I had been playing a stupid game with myself. Now I realized that
all along I comforted myself with the belief that Morgan still held a
special place in his heart for me. I had spun stories of my life as a
streetwalker to shock him into keeping his distance. It was a needless
effort. I understood finally that I was nothing to him but a tool,
better or worse for the job at hand. The comprehension almost brought
me to my knees with the pain. I had to get out. I had to deaden those
feelings, quick, quick, quick. I couldn't watch that careless
expression or hear those words one more time from the person I had
never stopped associating with love.

My destination was never in doubt as I hurried through streets
lit by the linkboys of tavern guests and theatergoers. The apothecary
on St. Agnes Lane would have his back door open tonight and I had
enough money to buy a full bottle. It would be a wise economy to buy
oblivion in one five shilling purchase instead of buying fifty drops
here and one hundred there.

"I'll have a bottle of your black draught," I told the man,
letting him see my money.

"You're not thinking of taking all this at once?" he questioned
half-heartedly, peering more closely into my face.

"Certainly not," I answered with dignity. "I get these terrible
headaches."

"Especially when you don't take your black draught," he chaffed
me.

He handed the bottle over with no further comments. At the gin
shop I bought a full bottle and some stale rolls to prevent my stomach
from rebelling at the reintroduction of these virulent liquids. Then I
returned to my room and laid my purchases out on the floor beside my
mattress.

All I could think about was the need to shut off memories and
pain. I chewed the dry bread and washed it down with gin. The mixture
hit my stomach like a lit coal, but it was a good burning that
promised relief from mental agony. There was a moment of suspense
while I waited to see if it would stay down. The familiar numbness
stole over my brain, and I decided to play a game with the bottle of
laudanum. I would close my eyes, pour some in the glass, and drink it.
Let fate determine the amount.

I swallowed the contents of the glass and gagged at the
persevering bitterness of the taste. When I looked the bottle was so
close to empty it was hardly worth stoppering. I drained the remnant.
All I needed was another glass of gin to take the taste away. It took
the taste away and unwelcome consciousness with it.

The next thing I remembered was a sensation of gliding upwards
through dark mazes and tunnels. Something was dragging me around the
room. There was a terrible pressure under each arm and a constant
droning in my ears.

"Open your eyes, Scarlet. Come on now. It's time to wake up."

My legs gave out and that was when I discovered I'd been
standing up.

"Don't let her head hit the floor! She's in enough trouble. Moll
better get back here with the coffee soon. My legs aren't going to
take much more of this."

"Here she is. Drink this so we can sit down and rest a little
while."

Some of the strong, sweet drink half-spilled down my front, but
some of it went down my throat. Someone kept pulling me about, trying
to bring me to my feet, but my knees might as well have been pieces of
rope.

"For a very small person she's quite a weight, isn't she?"

"No. We're just not very impressive physical types."

I recognized the voices now. It was Jock Tanner and Tom Briers.

"She's awake. I saw her expression change. Open your eyes,
there's a good girl."

The morning light bored between my eyelids like needles.
Everything hurt, but my head hurt the most. Then my stomach started to
heave, and claimed my attention as the source of greatest discomfort.

"Grab the chamber pot. She's going to lose that coffee."

I lost the coffee and whatever else remained in my stomach.

"Please, I'm awake now. Let me lie down," I pleaded.

They argued for a few minutes and then managed to get me
upright. I staggered over and fell onto the mattress, where I tried to
retreat back into dreams.

"No, you can't go back to sleep yet," Jock told me firmly. "I'm
sorry if you didn't intend to wake up, but we didn't know. You haven't
been taking the gin or opium recently. You might have miscalculated
the amount that was safe. Molly couldn't rouse you to collect the
sewing you promised to have done for her. You left the door unlocked.
She went in and saw the bottles and found you. Your breathing was
getting slower and shallower every minute she waited. She came and got
us."

Of course I hadn't intended to wake up, but I hadn't made a
conscious decision to end my life. That would be a sin. I suspected I
would have succeeded anyway if the apothecary had given me honest
value. His black draught had been adulterated and weakened. Otherwise
Moll would have been too late. So my misery would continue.

My failure forced me to face the horror I had known was in store
all along. I remembered everything from yesterday. I was going to have
to return to Morgan and tell him I would do as he asked. Morgan hadn't
changed. If I wouldn't spy for him he would represent himself as a
customer to gain access to Jack and his secrets. Danger would be all
around him. He'd contract the disease he falsely claimed to have. That
couldn't be allowed to happen.

I thanked Moll and Jock and Tom sincerely. Their intervention
saved Morgan from the consequences of my weakness. What insanity had
led me to expect anything at all from him? The past was buried. It was
my self-indulgence that was endangering him. If I hadn't been tempted
to see him and talk to him every day, to impress him with my
performance as a spy, he wouldn't know anything about Jack and his
brothel. Whatever happened to me would be just punishment. I was
clearly obliged to bring the series of events I had set in motion to a
safe conclusion.

The nausea and shaking subsided by late afternoon. I was able to
get down the stairs and make my way through the streets back to
Morgan's rooms. My wisecracks and doxy attitudes were prepared when I
knocked on his door. They had to be dropped when a young woman with
long, golden-brown, curly hair opened the door. I recognized Sally
immediately and hoped the reverse wasn't true.

"Oh, I must have knocked at the wrong door. I'll go check with
Mrs. Mobley," I said hastily. I was backing away when she reached out
and took my hand. I shook her hand off and turned around.

"Amy, I know about you and your history. Morgan's having great
difficulties, but I think I understand a little about how you feel. He
doesn't realize how hard it is to be a female. If I hadn't had a
protective brother who was also a friend I might be like you now."

I turned back and looked at her in disbelief. Her face showed
only perfect sincerity. She grasped my hand again and continued
talking as she urged me inside. Did she realize that the opportunity
to hear Morgan's name, perhaps to say it myself, drew me after her as
effectively as her hand holding mine?

"Morgan sheltered me when I was very young and then saw that I
was provided with a livelihood. He told me about dangers and
temptations that beset young women. The most important thing he did
was care for my happiness. I knew that he wasn't acting out of fear
for his own honor. He protected me until I had friends and sufficient
understanding to protect myself. Your father should have done that for
you."

"He did the best he could. He tried to make me get married," I
protested.

I got a sorrowful look in answer. Gently pushing me back into a
chair, she took the one across from it. She looked a great deal like
him. Her generous, handsome features were made beautiful by her soft
brown eyes. I couldn't decide how to respond to Sally. Did she pity
me? I didn't want that. She seemed to excuse my history as beyond my
control. That couldn't be true. I didn't want it to be true. I didn't
want to pity myself. I settled for talking strictly business.

"I came here to talk to Morgan about the work we're doing. What
he wants me to do next."

"I came here just to visit. We're both disappointed. But I'm
pleased to have a chance to talk to you. You see, I've been wanting to
ask your help."

I should have known this would follow the sugary words. Under
the gilt is the iron. Morgan's open acquaintance with me had to offend
his unmarried sister. Perhaps it even put her employment or potential
marriage at risk.

"My help? I can't do anything for you."

"Yes, you can. I'm worried about Morgan. I said he was having
difficulties. He isn't eating or sleeping well. I believe it's his
concern over you that's troubling him. He's told me about you. Amy,
I'm not sure I believe the things you say about the way you live. I
think maybe you're too proud to admit that life defeated you. You
don't want to take help from someone you hurt, however inadvertently.
Could you overcome your pride enough to put Morgan's mind at rest?"

That surprised me. She cared most about him. Her understanding
of me was uncomfortably close to the truth. Morgan was luckier than he
knew to have such a friend in his sister. But she was wrong about his
feelings.

"You're mistaken. He doesn't care about me anymore."

I wasn't going to reveal the disgusting details of the proof to
his young sister, but there was no doubt in my mind. She looked at me
calmly, seeming very sure of herself.

"The two of you are putting up false fronts to protect
yourselves from each other. It's killing Morgan to hear you claim to
be happy about selling your body to different men every night. He's
tormented but he can't bring himself to leave you in your precarious
way of life without his friendship. I can't believe you would bother
to work for my brother if you were whoring as contentedly as you
claim."

"I'm sorry, but you don't know everything that's happened. If
something is disturbing Morgan it's something other than me."

Sally was very frank for a maiden of twenty, but she still
seemed terribly young. Her eyes were reddened and her voice a little
less certain now. What would I do if she cried?

"Please. Morgan is all the family I have now. He's suffering and
it's wearing him down."

I shook my head helplessly.

"You're wrong. It's not within my power to help. I have to leave
now. I'd like to leave a note for Morgan."

While I spoke I looked around the room for a piece of paper I
could use. I spotted a piece under the table where he usually sat to
write. I picked it up and saw it was a handbill for the Cyder Cellar.
That would do perfectly. But when I turned it over there was already a
note on the back. The contents were disturbing.

In an uncertain, ill-spelt hand the message read "Deer Mr. Fox,
I need you to meet me at the Sury Doks by the Tulep Company warhows
north door at 8 o'clok. I fownd owt sum vary important informashun. Do
not fal to be thar." The frightening part was that it was signed
"Scarlet." Of course I hadn't sent it.

Someone was trying to lure Morgan down to the docks by
pretending to be me. I was terribly afraid he had gone. It was five
o'clock now. Maybe I could get there in time to warn him.

There was no reason to scare Sally. I pocketed the note and said
an abrupt good-bye. I had to find a hackney. It was lucky that Morgan
paid well. Even after last night's debacle, I still had enough money
to pay for a ride to the ferry landing east of Blackfriars Bridge. The
fastest way to the Surrey Docks would be down river by boat. I would
have to bargain for a fare no higher than my remaining money.

Despite the danger of being late, I paused on my way to buy a
second-hand razor from the barber at Fleet St. and Shoe Lane. I
couldn't spare the time to fetch the one I kept in my room.

Chapter 18, A Matter of Life and Death

Morgan's Journal, April 9, 1814

I travelled to the docks on the roads north of the Thames,
crossing by ferry at the point across from Rotherhithe. My plan had
been to get there early and make certain that the area was safe before
Amy arrived. I was first delayed at "The Times," when Mr. Griffith
decided to dispute my description of Talleyrand as a "dangerous
hypocrite." I preferred the words "unmitigated liar," but I was forced
to accede to his "wily diplomat." The traffic was unexpectedly heavy
on Wapping High Street and then the coach was damaged by a damned fool
of a carter who cut too close trying to overtake us. We had to wait
and squeeze ourselves into the next coach scheduled. I was almost
late.

My greatest worry turned out to be groundless. The gates I had
expected to be locked were not even completely closed. I failed to
think carefully about the implications of this. Somehow Amy had opened
the gates and left them ajar for me. How? That was one of the
interesting things I was agog to discover. I stopped briefly just
inside the gate to light the lantern I had borrowed from Mrs. Mobley's
stableboy. There was a little remaining daylight, but it wouldn't last
long. I closed the lantern's slide to hide the light until I needed
it, and began to walk quietly along the canal, toward the warehouses
and piers.

The Tulip warehouse was on the west side of the Commercial dock
basin. I approached the darkened building as carefully as possible.
Since I didn't know Amy's purpose I couldn't predict the results of
being found by the watchmen. I avoided drawing their notice. When I
bent slightly to place the lantern on the ground two figures came at
me out of the black shadows beside a stack of empty crates. One of
them brandished a long stick and struck out at me as he came running.
I had time only for a quick exclamation. I pulled away from the blow
and my hat absorbed some of its destructive power. Nevertheless I fell
half-stunned to the stone walk. Instantly my attackers grabbed my arms
on each side and pulled them behind my back. My hands were tied while
I was still in a daze.

"An easy night's work, eh, Boodle?" one of the men drawled,
hefting his stick proudly.

"It's not over yet. I'm not convinced it was a good idea to
bring him here. We shouldn't draw more attention to this place."

"Jack must think third time's lucky. My old mother used to say
that with every third glass of gin."

"She died trying to brush the spiders and snakes off in Bedlam,
didn't she?" Boodle observed morosely.

He opened the slide of their own lantern and fished a strip of
cloth out of his pocket. This he fashioned into a gag and tied it
tightly across my mouth. By the time this task was completed I was
fully aware of my surroundings once more. I wasn't even going to be
able to argue for my life. I was sure it was my life at stake. They
had been waiting for me and I was going to end up in the water as John
Eastman had. The note had lured me into a trap as handily as cheese
entices a mouse to its doom.

The note! They must know about Amy. They used her name to get me
here. I wondered if they had sent her a note signed with my name.
Would she believe in a message to Scarlet from a Mr. Fox? If she did,
would she bother to come, or would she ignore it, on the reasonable
grounds that she had already quit my employ? Perhaps they didn't
consider her a threat. If she arrived now she should be able to see
the danger from a distance and run.

I comforted myself with this thought until the sight of her
stepping into the circle of light horrified me. Clearly the two men
were as surprised as I was.

"What's this? Who are you?" the man with the stick questioned
her nervously.

"I'm Polly. Jack just hired me. I help manage the Panasay. Jack
sent me here with a message," she replied. "He's changed his mind.
Information was received that showed this man has connections at
Carlton House. He'll be more dangerous dead than alive. No one
believes him now. If you kill him more people will talk about it and
write about it. Jack says to threaten him and then let him go."

The two men drew closer together and muttered in each other's
ears. When they turned away from her, Amy's apparent serenity
disintegrated.

I recognized the look on her face, although I had only seen it
once, long ago. One very hot summer's day we went out searching for a
sheep lost from Cousin Edward's flock. After hours of walking we found
the sight of the lower meadows pond too much to resist. The summer had
been wet and the pond was deep. I stripped down to my breeches and
plunged in. Amy waded carefully at the edges. She had never learned to
swim. I teased her about her caution. She responded good-naturedly
with badinage that insulted my prowess in the water.

At some point in the escalating hilarity I thought it would be a
clever joke to remain submerged until she became alarmed. Then I would
pop up and we would laugh about her needless worries. There were
hollow reeds growing at the edge of the pond. I could use one for a
breathing tube. The extra time underwater would add to the impact of
the joke. When I finally emerged from the water among the reeds I
realized I had waited too long. She was wading toward the center of
the pond where I had first gone under. The fear and grief reflected in
her face were controlled by sheer determination. That was the
expression her face wore right now.

I remembered crouching in the water, too ashamed to acknowledge
my cruel attempt at humor, knowing all the while that delay only made
it worse. I watched her sweeping her arms through the water and
dragging her feet through the mud systematically. She was searching
for some part of me that she could grasp and bring to the surface.
Just when I had summoned up the nerve to hail her, she stepped into
deep water and slipped beneath the surface. As I pulled her to safety
and then saw the rejoicing in her eyes at the sight of my healthy self
I vowed silently that I would never put her through anything like that
again.

I insisted on teaching her to swim during the next month,
without ever admitting my culpability. In the course of learning to
hold her breath and dive, she must have figured out that my actions
that day were deliberate. She never spoke a word of reproach. Now she
had walked into danger again for my sake.

When my attackers returned their attention to us, Amy's face
resumed its neutral look. They still hadn't reached an agreement.

"Jack never changes his mind, does he, Boodle?"

"Give it some thought, Rattler. He would if he had good cause.
It just never happened before. I don't know how she would know about
Jack sending us here if she wasn't his messenger."

They stood undecided. Rattler was studying Amy's face too
closely for my liking. With a sudden movement he stepped over to her,
grasped her upper arm and pulled her scarf back revealing her red
hair. He clapped his hand over her mouth but gave a loud bray of
laughter himself that was hushed quickly by a glare from Boodle.

"Ned told me she was easy to follow in a crowd. This is the
woman he followed back to Fleet Street. She's Scarlet! On her way back
to Covent Garden she bought enough laudanum and gin to keep her
occupied the whole day today. Ned didn't think she'd interfere with
the trap," Rattler crowed. His grin faded and he asked doubtfully,
"Well what do we do with her?"

"Leaving two bodies would be worse than one. We don't even know
if Jack wants her dead," Boodle pointed out." Why don't we take her
back with us and let him decide. Maybe Jack can think of a way to use
her to make some money. He's not a one for waste."

"That sounds safe to me," Rattler concurred with satisfaction.
"Have you got another gag?"

"No. There's no way I can plan things properly if other people
don't keep up their end, is there? If Ned had done his part, I
wouldn't need one, would I?" his accomplice grumbled.

He finally dug out a neckerchief from an inner pocket and gave
it to Rattler to tie around Amy's mouth.

I was agonizing silently, unable to take my gaze from her white
face. There would be no apologies or good-byes for us. I wanted to
tell her that I knew all of her story and that I understood. That I
was sorry for so much, some of it my fault and some of it beyond my
control. My eyes filled at the injustice of this enforced silence at
the end. Then Amy looked back and I finally compassed the love for me
that still lived in her soul. It had been there all along for the
seeing eye to distinguish. I hoped she could read in my face the
answering love that shed its ugly disguises on the spot, and leapt
forth naked to meet hers.

While Amy and I watched each other in wonder darkened by our
hopeless situation, Boodle and Rattler decided on a location for the
completion of their plan. They hustled me to my feet and Boodle took a
pistol from his belt.

"Walk out along the wharf to your left. Keep going until I tell
you to stop. "

When I didn't start moving he swung the pistol experimentally
toward Amy, forcing my immediate compliance.

We walked out at least five hundred feet to the end of the
longest jetty. There were piles of boxes on the wharf beside each of
the boats tied up on the sides. We never saw a sign of any watchmen.
There had probably been generous bribes distributed to keep them
inside the warehouses tonight. The pier head itself was a stone
structure that rose ten feet out of the water at its end. The river
currents sent the water in soft slaps against the granite below us.

The last thing I remember is Boodle replacing his pistol in his
belt and taking the heavy walking stick from Rattler.

********************************************

Amy's Journal, April 9, 1814

When I left the banks of the Thames I had the sketchiest of
directions from the boatman. I found the gates, which had been left
unfastened, and entered a dark, seemingly deserted world of water and
stone.

If there hadn't been remnants of daylight it would have been
impossible to traverse the docks without stepping off into the water.
Even so, I couldn't read the signs on the warehouses. There were few
lanterns hung in the area surrounding the basin of dark water. At
intervals the piers extended like fingers from the stone walls into
the huge pools where boats of all kinds creaked at their moorings.
There were a few watchmen on board the large vessels, I presumed, but
the modern docks were famous for their security. Merchants no longer
lost a large percentage of their goods to theft.

The size and complexity of the docks surprised and disheartened
me. They were even larger in scale than the East India docks I had
visited with Papa before our money was gone. The brooding silence and
huge shadowy spaces contrasted sharply with my daytime memory of the
bustling East India dockside. I realized that here there were two
separate pools and both were large. How was I going to locate the
Tulip Company Warehouse? I jumped at the noise of a squeak that
sounded close by. Another moment and I knew it was a rat being
dispatched by a cat on the other side of the water.

Sounds carried well over water. If I were very attentive maybe I
could find my way by listening for sounds of activity. It was hard to
stand quietly when I knew I was missing the meeting. I was probably
too late to deliver a warning. I would have to do what I could to
remedy the situation instead.

The sound of very quiet footsteps came to me from the other dock
area. I was able to walk even more softly in my leather-soled,
heelless shoes. The steps led me toward the warehouses lining the
eastern basin. A muffled cry and small scuffling sounds spurred me to
a much faster pace. The scene I witnessed from the shadows left me at
a momentary loss.

Morgan was sprawled on the pavement close to a warehouse door.
Two strangers were tying his hands behind him and placing a gag on
him. I reminded of myself of the many lessons I had learned in hiding
fear and distress. The difficulty was that I cared more about what
happened to Morgan than to me. Staying in control would be harder than
ever before. First I'd try a bluff. Then I'd resort to the most
desperate measures.

Pulling my shawl up over my head, I boldly stepped into full
view. I claimed to be a messenger from Jack Quickill. It almost
worked. Something about me reminded the one called Rattler of
Scarlet's description. When he pulled the shawl back I knew that we
were doomed.

In our extremity I couldn't deny myself a last attempt to
communicate my regret and sorrow to Morgan for having brought him to
his pass. The Ned they spoke of must have followed me to his rooms,
perhaps because I was foolish enough to speak to the skivvy. Yes,
Morgan would hate and reproach me for that. His own indifference to me
was clearly established. Nevertheless it hurt too badly to think of
Morgan going to his death believing in my disdain. I had stopped
pretending to myself last night. I loved him still, as I always had.
My pride no longer mattered.

I had nothing but my eyes to convey my feelings. After years of
relying on concealment of honest emotion to survive, expression didn't
come easily. I reminded myself that this was my last chance. Before I
turning toward him I braced myself for the blame and anger I expected.
It was a tremendous shock to see tenderness and concern for me in his
face. I couldn't take it in properly. Then all I could think about was
how much I must have hurt him, if he had those feelings all along.
There was so much to say, so much to make up for, and all I could do
was look longingly at him. Our time together was almost gone, and most
of it wasted.

Renewed argument between the two thugs brought me out of my
painful contemplation of Morgan's face. I had to concentrate if we
were to have any chance at all. Both men picked up lanterns and
motioned us to walk down the length of the wharf. Boodle used a pistol
to force Morgan's co-operation. I was disconcerted to see that he
obeyed Boodle instantly only when the gun was pointed at me. His
caring for me made me liability. If I won him an opportunity to run,
would he take it? I was alert for any advantage, but Rattler never let
go of my arm. At the end of the wharf they argued again.

"I always do the hitting, Boodle!" one thug insisted sulkily.

"The last time you might as well have sunk an axe into his head,
it was so banged up. It's supposed to look like a bump from a fall,
remember?"

Boodle took the stick as he spoke. I knew this was my last
chance. He swung it in a false blow the first time, just taking
Morgan's hat off. Without pausing he brought it around again and
connected solidly with the back of his head. Morgan dropped like a
felled tree at Boodle's feet. All that time Rattler kept his eyes on
me.

When Boodle made motions to kick Morgan off the end of the jetty
I thought I would have to settle for the poorest of opportunities.
Then a bit of luck came my way.

"Is it going to look like an accident with his hands tied behind
his back and a gag on?" Rattler asked sarcastically.

His partner was clearly embarrassed at his oversight and fussed
at the ties as though the perfect method for untying them was of the
first importance. Rattler relaxed and enjoyed the sight of his
discomfiture. It had to be now, and I would have to be as quick and
ruthless as the cat I heard a short while ago.

One little shake brought the razor down my sleeve and into my
hand. I lunged up straight for Rattler's left eye and tried my best to
cut it out. The suddenness of my attack and the pain and terror it
caused prevented him from doing anything more than trying to ward off
the razor. He grabbed it from me by the blade, cutting his fingers to
the bone in the process. Warm blood sprayed everywhere.

"Christ, help me," he screamed. "She's cut my eye, the bitch
blinded me!"

He was too busy trying to hold his eye in, to hold me too. I ran
for shelter behind one of the piles of boxes on the wharf. Under cover
of the shadows and stacks of barrels I crept toward the end of the
jetty where Morgan lay. I was dismayed to see Boodle take the time to
push Morgan's prone body off the end before he ran to Rattler. The
splash was loud because of the long fall. I went over the side, out of
the thugs' sight, and lowered myself as far as possible. I wanted to
slip in quietly, but I still had to drop four feet down. The splash
sounded loud to my ears, but it seemed no one was paying attention.

It was a cold April and the water was cold too. No light from
the lanterns reached over the side of the wharf, so I had to figure
out where Morgan was most likely to be. His coat had trapped a little
air. Otherwise I don't know how I would have located him in the dark,
frigid water before he drowned. He remained unconscious despite the
sudden immersion. I supported his head with one arm while I held an
iron ring set in the stone jetty with other.

My first concern was danger from the two murderers above. There
were no further screams, expostulations or sounds of footsteps. Had
they given up looking for me in favor of finding help for Rattler? I
listened as long as I could force myself to stay quiet. I was starting
to shiver uncontrollably in the water. Worse of all my hands were
starting to become numb. When I could no longer grasp the ring we
would sink. I had known all along that I couldn't climb out with
Morgan. The cracks between the stones might allow me to clamber out
alone, but never carrying another person. And I couldn't leave for
help because Morgan would drown. I would have to call for assistance
and somehow keep us afloat until it came.

I counted to one hundred and then started yelling for help. Time
seemed to stand still while we were suspended in an icy black void.
What could I do about the increasing numbness in my limbs? I realized
I could slip my forearm through the mooring ring. What did I have that
I could tie? Morgan's stock would do. He favored simple black ones
with uncomplicated knots. At first I was afraid I had waited too long,
and that my fingers couldn't manage the required movements. I put one
arm through the ring and pulled Morgan close between both arms. I
rested his chin on my shoulder. The hardest part was tying a slipknot
to loop separately around my wrists. When I succeeded I pulled it
tight with my teeth. The progressive numbness kept me from feeling the
constriction. Morgan couldn't slip away from me now.

He was still breathing, but I didn't know how long we could
survive the cold water. After continuing to call for another quarter
of an hour I understood that I had made a fatal miscalculation. Even
forty miles from the sea the tides made themselves felt in the dock
basins. The tide was rising and we were fastened to a ring that was
submerged more deeply in the water with each passing minute. There
wasn't enough light for me to see the evidence of the high tide mark.
I already felt the pull on my arms from the lift of the deeper water.
I could release Morgan from my arms so I wouldn't hold him underwater,
but then he would drown from lack of support for his head. Death could
have been worse. I was lucky to avoid whatever nasty use Jack would
have found for me. At intervals I continued calling for help. In
between I tried to wriggle out of the bonds around my wrists, or to
wake Morgan up so he could swim to safety. The last thing I remember
was starting to feel warm again, and thinking hazily that someone had
added hot water to the river.

Chapter 19, A Reconciliation

Amy's Journal, April 10, 1814

When I awoke I was cold again. Although I was covered in
blankets and warmth was all around me, it didn't seem to sink in, and
I couldn't stop shivering. I kept my eyes closed in hopes that I could
learn something about the people around me before they realized I
could hear them. Someone one was lying close beside me. I could hear
breathing and sensed heat from a large body. I hoped it was Morgan.
Someone else was in the room making small movements and rustling
papers. Then I heard a door open and a voice speak out.

"Haven't they waked up yet? Captain wants to hear their story.
He's worried about that puddle of blood and razor. He doesn't want to
lose any more crew to Newgate."

"No, nothing so far. It's only been two hours since we pulled
them out. Give it a little longer. Then I'll use something to try to
bring them around."

The door shut and footsteps came closer. I decided to wake up in
case I could do something to protect us both. When I opened my eyes I
was looking into a pair of blue eyes set in a weathered, mahogany-
brown face. I had no idea who the man was, but he wore a sailor's cap
on his thick white hair. We were in a cramped cabin with a wood
burning stove and a lantern that gave a flickering, smoky light.

"Good morning, Missus, " he said cheerfully."I'll bet you have a
story to tell. Do you remember it?"

I propped myself up and checked first to make sure the person
beside me was Morgan. He had a big hard knot on the back of his head,
but nothing else wrong with the parts that were visible to me. We were
both tucked tightly into a one person bunk. That was when I realized
that neither of us was wearing any clothes. I gave the sailor a hard
glance, but he grinned and shrugged it off.

"You were both as cold as the chapel floor in January. We
couldn't leave you in those wet things. If it makes you feel any
better, I act as ship's doctor as well as cook."

What did it matter if a few more men saw me naked? It wasn't as
if I were a virgin and had a right to be particular about my dignity.

"We wrapped you up right away. Don't you worry about it, " he
added reassuringly, looking at me as though he regretted his grin.

"How did you find us?" I inquired.

"They took their time, but one of the watch thought they heard
something and actually went outside their quarters. They saw a lantern
at the end of the jetty and walked down to investigate. When they
looked over the side and saw you, one of them came here to the Daphne
and woke us up. They knew we had a few people on board. It took some
extra help and a winch to get you up. You probably had about ten
minutes before the water would have been over your heads. I told them
we'd put you to bed on the Daphne with hot bricks and you'd live or
die. That's the part of the story you didn't know. Now tell me the
part I don't know."

It was Morgan's story. He should tell it or keep it secret, as
he chose.

"I. . .I don't really remember," I answered, trying to look
bewildered.

He pursed his lips up as though for a whistle and looked at me
thoughtfully.

"We considered a few explanations. He might have been the victim
of an attack by a whore and her pimp after being lured from a low
tavern. But I wouldn't expect the woman in question to be tied with
her arms around him. You might both have been set on by footpads, but
why here? I finally decided it must have been a jealous husband with a
bent for devilish torture. He planned for you to drown slowly with
your helpless lover in your arms. How close was I?"

"Is there money on it?" I asked skeptically.

He laughed.

"No. There's no book on it. There was a lot of blood and a
bloody razor on the wharf close to where you were found. The blood
isn't from either of you. If my Captain doesn't get a satisfactory
explanation he'll call the Bow Street Runners and you might be taken
up on charges. Do you have friends that will stand up for you?"

I didn't have friends who would impress the courts---except for
Morgan, perhaps. The prospect of the workhouse terrified me. I had
been taken up before and forced into the workhouse for a few months.
It was worse than the streets. The only lesson I learned there was
that women could be as beastly as men. I decided to tell as much of
our story as it took to convince the Captain.

"I'm Scarlet," I introduced myself. "This man employs me to get
information for him. He's a newspaperman named Morgan Fox."

I told him about the mysterious death and disappearance. He
already knew about them. The two most common rumors involved a haunted
pier or a crazed Irishman who lived under one of the numerous
footbridges. Morgan's theory about Bonapartist agents made him smile,
but he seemed to believe my narrative of our capture. He wasn't
surprised by my failure to take the tides into account, saying it was
understandable in someone who didn't live on the water. I learned that
his name was Tim Darby, and that the ship we were on was a tea
clipper.

Mr. Darby's Captain decided to send a note to Mr. Bloom when he
arrived at the Tulip Company Warehouse in a few hours. If he
identified Morgan the matter wouldn't be pursued unless a body was
found. Mr. Darby asked me who should be contacted to take care of
Morgan, since he still lay unconscious.

It didn't take much thought to conclude that his sister Sally
should be contacted. The poor girl was already worried about her
brother because of me. Though I hated to add to her burden with this
frightening news, I had no right to keep it from her. Before Mr. Darby
left, I asked for my clothes. I dressed and tried to organize my
thoughts.

For the first time I had the leisure to re-examine the
conversation I had with Sally. It took on a different meaning when I
recalled the way Morgan had looked at me when we were expecting to
die. I had to acknowledge that I contributed to the distress Sally
believed was injuring him. My presence could only poison his life
further. I would disappear and thus cease troubling him when Sally
arrived to take over his care. My decision was reinforced when I
helped dress him and saw how easy it was to count every one of his
ribs. He needed peace.

Mr. Bloom's secretary eventually found his way to the Daphne and
identified Morgan for his employer. Shortly after that Sally arrived
with Horace Friedrich and a carriage lent by Lady Shelton. Sally
insisted that I accompany them back to Morgan's rooms, although I
tried to slip away quietly. During the journey she coaxed me into
giving a detailed version of last night's events. Mr. Friedrich and
she exchanged several meaningful glances over my head, but remained
silent. After we arrived Mr. Friedrich took a seat at the door to
Morgan's rooms as though he were guarding the entrance. Perhaps they
fearing an attack by more of Jack's hired killers.

In the late morning, Morgan finally woke up. He was calling out,
and for me, of all people. I jumped up without thinking, before I
remembered my plan to remove my disturbing presence from Morgan's
life. Sally smiled a warm smile at me.

"Let me have a few minutes with him, Amy. I'll call for you very
soon," she told me.

As soon as she left I started for the door. Mr. Friedrich barred
my way.

"I can't let you go. Sally told me it would be dangerous for you
on the streets alone. We don't know when those conspirators might come
after you again."

"What, am I never to go anywhere alone again? That's not
possible."

He just smiled and shook his head, never moving from his
position in front of the door.

Didn't they understand? Morgan had to be protected from me and
my love. I had nothing to offer anymore except pain and regret.

"Amy please come in and set Morgan's mind at ease. He'll rest
better when he's sure you're safe."

Sally motioned to me from the doorway to the bedroom.

**********************************************

Morgan's Journal, April 10, 1814

When I awoke I was in my own bed. The sky was murky, as it
always is in London. I couldn't determine the time of day. My attempt
to sit up only intensified my headache and nauseated me. I decided to
lie still and try to remember the events that left me confined to bed
during daylight hours. The memories came back slowly and piecemeal
until I remembered Rattler guessing Amy's identity. Then I sat up and
started yelling for her without caring for the symptoms it caused.
Sally came running in with concern and happiness equally mixed in her
expression.

"Sally, where's Amy? If she's gone we've got to go St. Giles to
find her. Is she gone?"

I wasn't making much sense, but Sally grasped my main source of
worry.

"Don't worry. I'll send her in to see you in a few minutes.
First you and I need to talk."

Sally settled herself on the chair beside the bed and took my
hand.

"Morgan you'll have to be brave."

I almost choked.

"Oh, God are you going to break it to me gently that she's dead
or gone?"

"No, No. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. What I mean is,
you're going to have to be honest with Amy. Horace told me about how
she's really living. She's going to have to be honest too. I know I'm
younger than both of you, but age isn't everything. Sometimes I feel
like I'm presiding over a nursery when I see the way you deceive and
hurt each other. I've cared for five year olds who could make their
hearts known more plainly."

"I'd already come to that conclusion, Sally. Last night death
was so close. We both realized we'd been fooling ourselves as well as
each other. Please tell me what else happened last night! I can't
remember anything after walking down the wharf."

"I'll let Amy tell you herself. I also want to warn you, no
matter what Amy realized last night, she's poised to take off and
leave you. I don't know why, but I advise you to learn the reason and
refute it if you want her to remain your friend."

"More than my friend. Please go get her before she sneaks out. I
deserve a chance to present my case."

I owed my success as a journalist to my persistence. Some rivals
used less complimentary terms to describe this trait. Whether they
called me persevering or obsessive, I knew I had the determination to
succeed in becoming Amy's lover once again. After seeing the emotions
exhibited on her face last night, I was certain I could wear her down
if she didn't disappear.

Amy entered the room as warily as though it might contain a trap
ready to shut its jaws on her. Her face was closed off again, but I
was relieved to note the absence of artificial gaiety and lecherous
posing. I knew my lover was still there in the hurt and frightened
woman. To bring her out I would have to be the man she loved. I would
have to show my true feelings and gamble on her acceptance. It
terrified me, but I looked her in the eyes and spoke.

"When we were captured last night all I could think of was how
much I needed to talk to you. I had to tell you that I never stopped
loving you. I promised myself I'd do that if we lived."

Amy stood there unmoving, uncertainty plain on her face. The
pose reminded me of her frozen stillness before she left my rooms so
swiftly the night before last. The thought scared, and I let my fear
show. I would let myself be weak.

"Amy, I'm frightened. I'm afraid you'll leave me, and I need
you.'

She was struggling to get over some internal barrier that
allowed love out only when it was hopeless.

"What happened to you these past years changed you, but it
didn't divide us. Without you I'm not myself. We can be happy
together. Please. I can't be alone again now that I've found you."

As the seconds passed my fear increased. Was her spirit so
maimed that only the prospect of death could break through the
protective scars? I pushed back the covers and tried to swing my feet
over the side of the bed to go to her. The movements didn't go quite
as planned. Pain flooded my skull and the room swam until I lost my
balance. The floor was rising to meet me when Amy rushed over and put
her arms around my shoulders. She steadied me and I lifted my face to
hers again.

"Can't you forgive me for suggesting that you work for Jack? Do
I need to tell you I didn't mean it? I wouldn't have let you, not if I
had to burn the place down. It just hurt so much when you talked to me
about other men that I hit back. I'm so ashamed of that and sorry. I
know you've gotten nothing but hurt for so long. You must have
thought. . .I don't know. . .did you think everything was gone, your
dreams and memories and everything? That's what I thought when you
acted like you hardly remembered what we shared before."

I could feel her arms trembling around my shoulders. Tears
started to roll down her cheeks. She raised a hand to wipe them away
and then looked at her wet fingers as though wondering where the water
came from. I wanted to put my arms around her, but I was using my
hands to steady myself upright on the edge of the bed.

"Please promise me you won't leave me, Amy," I insisted.

My face must have faithfully reflected my suffering and anxiety.
Amy started to nod.

"Tell me," I whispered.

"I won't leave you of my own will, Morgan," she whispered back.

"This isn't romantic, but I'm afraid if I don't lie back down
I'll be sick," I told her apologetically.

She lowered me back on the pillows with practiced movements.

"Will you marry me?" I asked her with a smile.

"No, I can't marry you," she answered seriously. "I'll be your
friend."

I wasn't surprised by her answer.

"I'd be very grateful for that. Please be a good friend and
satisfy my curiosity. What happened last night? How did we survive?"

Amy related the story to me and I was astonished. Her daring and
willingness to risk her life not once but twice left me speechless.
And yet her actions only confirmed the sense I had of the deep
foundations of our connection. It felt like something I could rely on
as completely as the principles of mathematics. When we were very
young, I assumed that everyone found love like this. I didn't question
the origin of an affinity that seemed as natural as breathing. Now I
wondered and I marveled at my luck. How had I been mad enough to risk
losing her by going along with our play-acting? Never again, I told
myself.

Chapter 20, A Friendship

Amy's Journal, April 10 through May 15

Now I've caught up to the time when Morgan first asked me to
write in a journal. He told me he already sat down every few days and
wrote what had happened to him that was interesting or important. It
was for himself only, so he was completely honest. He said no one
would read what I wrote unless I permitted it. This book I'm writing
in is too beautiful for my words. It has gilt on the leather cover and
marbled endpapers. I told Morgan I couldn't write well enough to do
justice to it.

"You may not be Jane Austen, but you'll do well enough. Just
avoid sermonizing and long descriptions of landscapes."

"I've heard of Jane Austen, but what did she write?"

"Oh, yes. You probably missed "Sense and Sensibility" and "Pride
and Prejudice." You've got a treat in store. Horace! Horace have you
got copies of Miss Austen's novels? Amy hasn't read them yet."

"Look under the washstand beside the door. That's where the
latest novels are," Horace called back absently.

We were sitting in the cramped rooms where Horace published his
pamphlets and broadsides. Today he was swearing like a drunken tinker
while he turned out stacks of a tract entitled "The Rake Reformed." He
hated its maudlin religious sentiments, but it paid good money.

Morgan was back at work after remaining in bed two weeks to
recover from his injury. I thought we were going to have a serious
quarrel the very day he made me promise to be his friend. He didn't
want me to return to my room in Convent Garden for fear Jack Quickill
would send more men to murder me. I stayed with Morgan that night.
Sally, Horace and I slept on pillows and comforters in his sitting
room, but I insisted on returning to my own place the next day. I felt
safe enough with its familiarity and the people I knew around me.
Morgan argued until he looked sick that Horace had to accompany me. I
gave in to spare him the effort of further argument. Horace talked to
Tom and Jock at length that day in the privacy of their rooms.

A few days later I started worrying a little when a thick-
necked, pillar of a man moved into the room at the bottom of the
staircase that led up to our floor. When I welcomed him to the house
he told me he was Gavin Barham, volunteering no further information.
He had a mastiff that obeyed his commands, but the dog never wagged
his tail or whined to be petted. I mentioned my concern reluctantly to
Morgan a few days later. It seemed possible that the man was connected
to the murder attempt, and it might be dangerous to let his presence
go unremarked. I was surprised to see a smile of satisfaction appear
on Morgan's face in response.

"I'm relieved to hear that. Tom knew Gavin when he went fifteen
rounds with Jem Belcher in 1804. He needed a better place to stay and
you need someone to keep an eye on things. No one is going to get by
Gavin and Bear very easily."

"But what about you? Who's looking out for you?" I asked him.

"I took the precaution of buying myself a pair of pistols,"
Morgan said lightly.

That was all he'd say. I knew he was pursuing the truth about
our attackers through every means he could think of. He went to both
Houses of Parliament every day it was in session and told every member
he could about the corruption centered in St.Giles. City of London
officials already avoided his approach. They didn't want to hear the
new reasons he invariably had to justify the arrest of Jack Quickill
and a search of the Panasay for evidence of blackmail.

Apart from the greater intensity of Morgan's efforts on his
investigation, our lives went on much as before. I continued to do
errands for Covent Garden whores and Morgan worked at "The Times." We
met daily in his rooms, and I reported the latest gossip to him, or
gave him specific information. He still paid me for my work, but I
wouldn't take any more money than I did previously.

We enjoyed the renewal of our friendship and the relief of
abandoning pretense with each other. The laughter was back, but there
was still an area of awkwardness without an easy solution. Morgan
wanted to expand the terms of our relationship to include romantic and
physical signs of our attachment. I couldn't help myself. Every time
Morgan moved to touch me, I increased the distance between us. The
idea of an embrace or kiss repelled me. Once in a while I endured a
caress, but inwardly I went numb while my mind closed off my awareness
of my body. Morgan sensed my reaction and it disturbed him.
Nevertheless he understood. As much as I wanted to feel a difference
between his touch and the memory of all the hurtful touches from my
past, I didn't feel that difference.

Morgan didn't seem to understand that this distaste was a good
thing. He began making a marriage proposal at the beginning of every
week. I refused him each time. The first time I explained the reasons,
but he brushed them aside as trivial.

We were out walking that May afternoon. After days of rain and
mired streets the sun broke through. We took a picnic into the park
instead of having tea in Morgan's rooms. Although it was still
unseasonably chilly, the sky was a tender blue, full of the fat white
clouds with flat shadowed bottoms that look substantial enough to cut
into slices.

"I don't like to burden you with past sad events," I told him
that first time. "But there are sound reasons for my refusal. One of
them is that I can't behave to you as a wife should. I can't feel the
things for you that a wife should feel."

"Don't worry about that," he said gently. "I think I can
persuade you to see things differently some day."

"Whether you could or not, there are other reasons." It was
awful to talk about, but I had to warn him off. "I caught the French
Pox before I left the Panasay. They put me through the cure---most of
it anyway. They had to stop because I was dying from the mercury. The
trouble is that it isn't a certain cure. I knew girls who seemed well
for years, and then they died over a period of months with horrible
symptoms---madness, sores all over their bodies. The disease may be
dormant in me now, but I could infect you or die from it myself at any
time."

"The risk is no worse than what any man takes when he consorts
with a. . .woman who has been with other men. Thousands of men take
that chance every day in London."

"You were going to say a prostitute, weren't you?"

His face gave him away.

"You've gone to prostitutes yourself, haven't you?" I accused
him in irrational anger.

"Yes, before we met at the Fair, and I learned some things about
what it means," he answered steadily. "I preferred to be with women
who were looking for their own enjoyment. But sometimes that kind of
woman wasn't easily available. A few times I went to houses."

Well, I knew he wasn't a priest. Still, the thought made me feel
both furious and guilty. How dare he hurt other woman as I had been
hurt? And what if he had found me when he was looking for a woman and
I was still selling myself on the street? Would we have simply made a
bargain? I knew he sensed my reaction.

"I never went anyplace where the women were drugged or kept
against their wills. At least openly. I didn't understand that
circumstances could be as coercive as physical force," he continued,
with downcast eyes. "It was pointless, really. No better than solitary
relief. I'm only telling you so that you know I've already taken
chances, and perhaps made myself a risk to you, too."

"You'd know if you had caught anything. Anyway there's another
reason. I'm barren. I had a stillborn baby girl six months after they
forced me into the Panasay. At least they told me she was stillborn. I
know a lot of the babies born in whorehouses die from neglect if not
outright murder. She probably wasn't very strong because of the gin
and opium I took then anyway. I was out of my mind for two weeks after
the birth. I had a fever and inflammation in my belly. Afterwards the
other girls told me I was lucky. They said nobody ever got pregnant
again after being sick like that. I guess they were right, because I
never did."

I knew by looking into his eyes that Morgan wanted to take me in
his arms and comfort me. I stood up from the bench where we sat by the
Serpentine and walked around it to prevent him. I put my hands on his
shoulders and he rested one cheek lightly against my arm. He had to be
content with so little. It brought the tears to my eyes to think of
it.

"I can't ever marry you Morgan," I repeated. " I can't bring you
health, natural affection or the prospect of children."

"Not now," he soothed me. "We'll talk about it again later."

If I didn't have my repulsion from physical contact to protect
me, I'd be worried. There has never been anyone more tenacious than
Morgan. If he could use kisses and caresses he might persuade me.
Words I would be able to resist.

Chapter 21, Grasping at Straws

Mulder realized that the print had become impossible to read
because his hands were shaking violently. He started to slam the book
down hard on the table beside his bed, stopping his fierce gesture at
the last second. The noise would have waked everyone in the house.

It tore him up inside to think of Scully reading, much less
placing faith in this bogus history. The implications were cruel
beyond words. Was she meant to believe that in more than one lifetime
she had lost a girl child, been made barren and deliberately been
given a fatal disease that lurked in remission for an unknown period?
What kind of stupid universe would punish a good person that way? He
knew of course. An indifferent one. The same one that destroyed
innocent people every day, as casually as he swallowed antibiotics to
kill bacteria. If only Scully hadn't had a chance to read any of this
book.

He laughed at himself even as part of him clung to this forlorn
hope. Even if she hadn't read it, what if it were true? If it were
real their past would make itself felt in the present in some
unpredictable manner. It had happened before. Could he conceal the
nature of the Cosmos from Scully? Well, yes, maybe he could. She
believed in God, after all. Maybe universal justice and a meaningful
existence for every human being fell within the bounds of her
credulity.

He spent the next fifteen minutes trying to visualize their
brief time in the temporary office. She had stared at the PC screen a
lot, trying to justify their pay on the cost center for reviewing the
procedures manual. Finally he pinpointed the day and time when the
book showed up on the shelf, and concluded it had been the morning she
received the news about Matt's kidnapping. She hadn't read it in their
office, but who knew what she had read at home? Maybe nothing. Scully
didn't like these attempts to dig into so-called past lives. Please
don't let her have read it. He was going to bury it in his briefcase
again and burn it when they got back to D.C.

Mulder noticed with surprise that the memories of a few days ago
no longer had the power to paralyze him. Instead he found himself
looking ahead, thinking about what could be salvaged. The loss of some
filing cabinets didn't have to defeat them. He finally fell asleep
while he formulated plans for the re-building and re-opening of the X-
files investigations.

Mulder watched Scully standing incandescent in a golden ray of
sunlight. She was wearing a high-waisted dress, and looking at him
from the other side of a street. There was so much traffic---carts,
carriages, hackneys, tilburies, and soldiers on horseback---he
couldn't cross over to her. He waited patiently, but a continuous
procession separated them as effectively as any canyon or river. Then
he woke up with a start. The dream had been a pleasant spectacle
compared to the fun-house phantasms that usually invaded his sleep.
His resulting uneasiness grew from its link to the world evoked by the
"Memoirs."

He was still dressed, but had slept deeply for six hours. They
were wasting time. They had to locate Xibalba and arrange
transportation. It was a matter of fifteen minutes for him to shave
and change. He was not surprised to find Bill at the dining room table
with breakfast. Scully's presence after their late night was
unexpected.

"I thought you'd sleep later," he remarked, as he sat down with
coffee.

"I would have if I hadn't set my alarm," she replied with a
yawn. "I wanted to start early on what needed to be done, and I knew
Bill would be up early."

"Dana told me all about what you've been doing. What if you'd
been caught?"

His worried voice made it clear that Bill spoke in fear for
their futures, not in criticism of their actions. Mulder noted once
again the elasticity of Scully ethics when they were up against a wall
of authoritarian indifference and invincible stupidity. Maybe they
were none of them so different from him after all.

"Did she explain what we want to do next?"

"Yes. I'm skeptical, but I had to ask myself, 'What's the
alternative?' I've gone ahead and made some arrangements."

Scully looked uncomfortably at Mulder, wondering how he would
react to Bill's high-handed assumption of responsibility. Mulder saw
her concern and decided to wait and see. A man with experience as a
sailor and acquaintances all over the world might be the very person
to arrange their trip for them. He listened to Bill with an open mind.

"I located the island on an old chart. It hasn't appeared on
maps printed since the seventies. It's over the Colombian Basin, close
to equidistant between Jamaica and Colombia. Plenty of old retired
navy men live and sail in the Caribbean. One old friend of mine,
Eddie O'Brien, has a place on an island off Nicaragua. It's about six
hours by boat to Xibalba, but the island isn't much closer to any
better place. What do you think?"

"It sounds good to me. Shall we book a flight to Jamaica,
Scully?

"Um, actually Bill's already reserved three tickets on this
afternoon's flight to Kingston."

"Bill, haven't you been warned not to leave the area by
Detective Wagner?" was all that Mulder could think to say.

It had never occurred to him that Bill would leave his home and
wife to go with them. He had no argument prepared.

"You're not the only person willing to take risks. Do you think
I care about anything if we don't succeed at this? I don't think I'll
have a wife for long if Mattie never comes home. Tara can't go on this
way, and if she has to go to prison it will be hopeless."

Mulder raised his eyebrows but did nothing further to express
his reaction to Bill's plans.

"Does your friend Mr. O'Brien know what's going on? He should
know what he's getting into," Mulder pointed out.

"He doesn't have a phone. I know a ham operator who can start a
message to him that I'm on my way to ask his help in an emergency.
Eddie will help. He's a pilot as well as a sailor. But we'll have to
hire a pilot in Kingston to fly us to Mancha de Mosca, since he won't
know to pick us up."

"Mancha de Mosca," Scully repeated. "Is it a tourist resort or
his own desert island?"

"Something in between," Bill answered, after a moment's thought.
"Eddie shares his island with two fishing resorts. They cater to very
rich and pampered fishermen. The beauty of it is that there are only a
few of them at a time on the island. There's a landing strip, a
generator and plumbing to make their lives convenient. Eddie gets the
benefits without the crowds."

"Does he do tourist trips?" she asked.

"No, he lives on his pension. All he does is keep up a Piper Cub
and a beautiful old yacht that was built back in the fifties. He's not
what some people would consider a sociable or a productive person."

"What do you think of him?" Mulder asked curiously.

"Something bad happened to him, and he's doing the best he can,"
Bill answered. "Eddie isn't much older than I am. He took early
retirement. I never knew details, but he was on a submarine that was
disabled off the Alaskan coast. Almost all the men died. He couldn't
talk about it, because the circumstances were classified. I don't
think he wanted to talk about it anyway. He took a long medical leave,
went to a desk job for one day, and then applied for a discharge.
That's all I know."

The three of them left for their own rooms to pack their
suitcases. Dana had an additional difficult task to take care of. She
had to break the news of their departure to their mother.

"Dana, is it really necessary for all three of you to go? What
am I supposed to tell Detective Wagner? And what if they show up to
arrest Tara?"

Scully felt extremely guilty for leaving her mother alone to
cope with this. Yet she couldn't see sending Mulder and Bill off
together on such a sensitive mission with a few rah rahs and a wave of
her handkerchief. They were treating each other well, but she took
some of the credit for herself in keeping them on their best behavior.

"Mom, I think we do all have to go. I'll get the name of
somebody at the base you can call for legal advice. Tell them Bill is
staying with a friend, which is true. I'm not going to give you more
details. Then do what the lawyer tells you. My big worry is that the
police will do something that unleashes the media. So far nobody's had
the nerve to jeopardize a possible ransom hand-off, but Bill's leaving
may set something in motion. We'll be back as soon as we can."

"Take care of yourself and Bill, Dana, " Maggie said with a
heavy sigh.

Dana hugged her.

"We shouldn't be in any danger."

Maggie continued to look at Scully so sadly that she had to ask
if there was something else that worried her.

"It's just that I feel so guilty about whatever I did to you and
Bill. You both depend on me so heavily for emotional support. I found
out the term for it recently---I'm an enabler, Dana. Do you think I
should sign up for a twelve step program?" she asked with an attempt
at a laugh.

Scully stiffened at these words. Her mother never criticized
her, and this sounded like criticism.

"It sounds more like you think Bill and I should sign up for the
program."

"Don't get upset. I don't mind that you turn to me when you need
to cry or be scared. But what would you do without me? Your father
used to depend on me the same way. I thought Bill had found somebody
he could really share with, but now Tara seems too weak."

"And I haven't managed to come up with anybody at all," Scully
finished for her mother.

"You probably haven't given anybody a chance to be stronger than
you---ever. I got in on a grandfather clause, I guess you could say.
I'm sorry, I didn't mean to send you away mad at me. It's just that
sometimes it seems like a little more than I can handle. But I always
handle it, " she said with a smile at her daughter's sulky look.

That expression took her back to Dana's teenage years. She had
come close to having four teenagers in the house at once. When she
remembered that she wondered how anything else could ever seem too
hard to accomplish.

"I love you, Mom."

Scully said her traditional words of parting sincerely. Her
father's death and the realities of her work had led her start this
habit several years ago. Any parting could be the final parting, and
she was determined never to leave with hard feelings or words of love
unsaid.

"Do you want me to drive you to the airport?"

"No thanks. We'll be leaving our rental car there. Thanks for
taking care of Tara."

Mulder felt as though he should talk to Tara one more time
before they left. A few words of encouragement from him might slow
down the deterioration of her psyche. He remembered how eagerly he
listened to people who would say something, anything, positive about
getting Scully back during the time of her abduction. There were good
reasons to have hope in this case. Maybe a little hope would make a
difference if she thought of killing herself before they managed to
locate Matt.

He gritted his teeth and knocked on the door of Matt's room. No
answer came, so he opened the door slowly. The same music she had
played before swelled loudly as he stepped in. Tara had bathed and
tidied herself up, probably at Bill's urging. But her affect, if there
was any change, seemed more remote and lethargic than before.

"Bill told you we had a lead we're following up, didn't he?"

Tara nodded tiredly. Mulder went over and turned down the volume
in the CD player.

"Tara, don't do anything permanent before we get back. You know
what I mean. Think about what it would mean for Matt to grow up
without you. I know about what it feels like to lose your mother.
Death isn't the only way we lose people."

Tara just looked at him.

"All you have do is postpone action until after we get back."

He stood there and waited at least a full minute for a response.

"All right," she finally answered. "I won't do anything before
you get back."

Mulder went over to the CD player and turned the volume up again
just in time to experience the misery and despair he had felt before
when he heard that particular song. He hurriedly picked up the case.
The album was "Skyedance."

"Tara do you think it's good for you to keep listening to this?"

As he spoke he realized that one song didn't seem especially
different from another to her.

"I like the songs," she said. "So did Mattie," she ended with
unmistakable finality.

The problem was obviously his, so he left the room immediately.

Chapter 22, Living Well

Small airplanes were a lot better than boats, but they still
tended to make Mulder queasy. He wasn't feeling his best when they
landed on Mancha de Mosca. The island was oval in shape, about five
miles long and three miles across at the widest point. It could have
been created from an advertisement for Caribbean vacations. There were
enough low hills to make it picturesque. Clean, deeply blue-green
water washed up on pristinely white beaches. Wild flowers and palms
grew in profusion in the interior.

The pilot left them with their bags at the airstrip, directing
them to a path that would take them to Eddie's place. Anticipating a
hot sweaty walk encumbered by luggage, they found it unexpectedly
breezy, shady and pleasant.

"Your friend, Eddie, how did he manage to save up enough to
retire here?" Mulder asked.

"He invested, never had a family, never had occasion to spend
much on himself."

"So all I need to do is master the stock market," Mulder
observed thoughtfully.

"Somehow I don't think you'd find serenity here." Scully said.

Eddie was a lean, leathery man who looked at least twenty years
older than Bill. He spoke in such a low monotone he almost seemed to
be talking to himself when he conversed. His constant companion was a
glass of coke and rum. He sipped at it constantly, never showing any
noticeable effects from it.

On first meeting him, Scully thought Eddie was one of the most
serene people she had ever known. After further scrutiny she changed
her opinion. He hadn't learned the wisdom of tranquility, nor had he
lost touch with his emotions. He just didn't seem to have them. When
he talked to Bill he might have been reading a script called 'A
meeting of old navy buddies.' There was no spontaneity or enthusiasm
in his voice or face. When she contrasted his manner with the
supposedly deadpan demeanor of her partner, Mulder's true
responsiveness became obvious.

Eddie welcomed them with all the right words, explaining that a
radio message had come through earlier that day giving him the news of
their arrival. Bill told him the story of the kidnapping and the
evidence that brought them here, although he didn't include details on
how they had gotten it. Eddie didn't seem curious to know them.

He showed them to separate rooms in the haphazardly designed but
sturdily built structure that was his home. The screens in all of the
windows and doors kept it relatively bug free. All of the modern
conveniences were available except communications. Eddie's news from
outside came only over his radio set.

"Can you tell us who we should contact to get in touch with the
man who's building on Xibalba?" Bill asked his silent friend.

"Now that I know what you need, I know who to talk to. Get
comfortable here while I do that. Make yourselves drinks if you want."

With that Eddie disappeared into another room, shutting the door
emphatically enough to send an effective message about privacy.

"That man is an emotional flat-liner, Bill. And an alcoholic,"
Scully stated.

"He wasn't always like this. I think some circuits got burnt out
up in Alaska. But he still loves the sea, and he's a good sailor."

It was while they were waiting for Eddie that Scully sat down
and read the entire magazine article about the Mayan temple at
Bonampak, and its duplicate on Xibalba.

"I remember when I was in school I read about the Mayas. The
history books described them as simple farmers compared to the Incas
and Aztecs. This makes them sound awful," she commented.

"Archeologists have dug up a few things since then. Apparently
they weren't any more peaceful than the other advanced civilizations
in Central and South America. But they were also more sophisticated
than experts thought before. Makes you wonder about what drives
creativity, doesn't it?" Mulder responded.

"Did you see this picture of the Queen and her ladies pulling
ropes of thorns through their own tongues?"

Bill wrinkled his nose as though he'd noticed the garbage needed
to go out.

"I managed to skim through that without absorbing all the
details Dana. I didn't think I needed to know. I suppose they treated
women pretty badly, like a lot of primitive cultures do, " Bill said
dutifully.

"It wasn't just the women. Listen to this: 'The men of the Royal
Family drew blood by pulling the spine of a stingray through their
penises. The blood loss probably induced a change of consciousness
ascribed to communication with the divine.'"

She looked up to see both men wincing and crossing their legs in
an unpremeditated protective gesture.

"Don't you think 'change of consciousness' is putting it rather
mildly, Bill? I'd say that experience would land you in a whole other
dimension." Mulder remarked.

Scully continued her account of the article.

"They went to war and took prisoners just to torture them for
the glory of their city. The murals show some of the prisoners having
their fingernails torn off, pleading for mercy from Shield Jaguar, the
King. Archeologists called in computer specialists to enhance the
images. See, they brought back all the details of the blood pouring
out."

Scully offered the article to Bill as she walked out of the room
so he could admire the technical achievement. He waved it away.

"That's so morbid. It's no wonder their culture went down the
tubes. Imagine thinking that the gods wanted to see people tortured
and killed."

"Isn't that a fairly accurate description of how the Christian
God is supposed to view the crucifixion? In fond acceptance of the
sacrifice? I always thought those images of a bleeding, dying man on a
cross were a little morbid."

"You can't understand how great the difference between the two
things is because you weren't raised in the Christian faith. Your
family is Jewish, aren't they?"

Bill's face was reddening with anger. Mulder had found a button
that really made things happen inside him.

"Not to notice really. Even from close up we looked a lot like
our neighbors."

"So your family wasn't observant. You know, that's probably why
you believe in little green men and witches and vampires and all that
trash. People need something beyond the material to hang on to. You
won't accept the traditional beliefs. Instead you buy all that
'National Enquirer' nonsense. Melissa was the same way," Bill ended in
angry dismissal.

"The difference is there's evidence for what I believe exists,
and not for what you believe," Mulder replied coldly.

"Evidence," Bill returned derisively. "I haven't seen anything
in 'Scientific American' from you that proves the existence of
vampires."

Scully had returned with a coke, which was the only drink Eddie
seemed to keep in his kitchen.

"Ask your sister about the evidence," Mulder suggested, with a
smirk.

He remembered how crabby she had been the morning after drinking
a thermos of drugged coffee with a vampire that one night. A natural
explanation for the events they witnessed eluded her still.

Yes, Scully thought, she was going to jump into this fray. And
then she was going to go out and play keep away with a bear cub and
its mother. If Mulder wanted her evidence she could tell about seeing
the seraphim in the parking lot. Bill wouldn't like hearing about it
anymore than her partner would. How did you fit the conception and
destruction of pathetic, damaged children by an angel into the
Christian plan for salvation?

At some point, she wasn't sure exactly when, she'd given up on
religious coherence in her life. For a while, in the warm glow of
family rejoicing over her 'miracle' remission from cancer, it had all
seemed to make sense. Cool reflection had forced her to concede
privately that the implant in her neck had probably stopped the
disease. Now her church habits supplied the comfort of childhood
familiarity. The confessional gave her an arena to explore matters of
conscience. But her religion provided no guidance or answers. Don't
even get her started on reincarnation and karma.

She sat down with a big, false smile and presented them both
with her own question.

"What do you think? Should President Clinton be brought to trial
while he's in office for the sexual harassment of Paula Jones?"

They both stared at her blankly.

"I thought that since you've made so much progress in settling
religious issues you might be ready to move on to politics," she
explained.

Mulder took her point with a look of patience strained to the
limit.

"You're right. This kind of discussion is unproductive. Remember
though, you're the one who brought it up," he accused her.

"I apologize for bringing it up," she said tolerantly. "If
anyone wants a rum coke to relax there's enough for a party of twenty
in the kitchen."

Eddie appeared at the door and announced that he had asked some
people to do some checking. They would radio back at three o'clock
that afternoon. Then he almost smiled.

"Bill, would you and the others like to see my yacht? It's a
classic. Wood and brass. Built in the fifties."

They all went out to see the yacht in his small docking area.
Bill was impressed by the tiny harbor itself as well as by the
Revenge.

"You're sheltered from the worst seas and squalls here, aren't
you? What do you call the inlet?"

"Yeah. I call it Eddie's Cove. It's hard to find though. That's
not always a bad thing of course."

While Eddie went back to his radio, Mulder paced back and forth
between the house and the dock. Bill and Scully went over the Revenge
carefully, familiarizing themselves with the fittings and equipment.
He reminded her that they would probably go out on it with Eddie, and
that it would be wise to know it. Remembering Eddie and his unending
consumption of rum cokes, Scully had to agree.

Within half an hour Eddie returned to the dock and told them
about the arrangements he had made.

"We're going to meet someone from Xibalba tonight. At Los
Perdidos. That's an island about half an hour away. The resort bar is
Los Perdidos too."

He looked deliberately at Bill.

"They're expecting to talk to Mr. Mulder here. It's my judgment
that he should speak for you to these men. You're too close to this.
One of the men will be wearing a red baseball cap with 'I love New
York' on it. You're going to buy them each a Dos Equis and introduce
yourself as a real estate developer," he finished, turning to Mulder.

Worn out by this long speech, he paused to take a drink.

"I told them the story. The man building the temple is Senor
Chamuan."

"Is he from the islands?"

Eddie raised his shoulders indifferently.

"There are rumors he's from the Yucatan peninsula. One of the
Lacandon tribe. No one knows for certain."

"Why is he building the temple."

Eddie tilted his head slightly sideways in silence and raised
his shoulders again.

"I'll take you to Los Perdidos on the Revenge. We'll leave in
five hours," Eddie informed them.

"Eddie, would you let me pilot her?" Bill asked eagerly. "She's
such a beauty."

"Sure," Eddie answered, and again he almost smiled.

Chapter 23, Difficult Choices

At least Los Perdidos was only a half-hour away by the Revenge.
Mulder didn't have time to work up to a full-blown case of
seasickness. He thought he might even try a beer while they waited for
their contacts to show up. There was no sign of a man wearing an 'I
love NY' baseball cap.

The place itself was old. It was built of wood from trees cut
down on the island. The walls had darkened over time, and faux oil
lamps provided only a dim light. There was a space large enough for a
few couples to go through some restricted movements and call it
dancing. Three musicians played calypso rhythms. The crowd of about
twenty people was enjoying a notably lighthearted mood. A few looked
like tourists, others looked like tourists gone native---people like
Eddie. The rest appeared to be islanders relaxing at the end of the
workday.

When Mulder thought of the return trip he decided against the
beer. They ordered soft drinks all around when the young woman waiting
tables reached them. Shortly after that a slim young man with melting
brown eyes came over and asked Scully to dance. She was declining
politely when Mulder broke in.

"Don't be shy, Scully. Have some fun. The old men don't mind
sitting here while you live a little."

Not having any ready response to that, Scully got up and began
dancing at arm's length with the stranger. They were stiff and
uncertain, but Scully started to feel the beat and to anticipate the
movements of her partner.

"I'm Dana, what's your name?" she asked.

"Tonio," he answered. "You dance well," he commented, drawing
her closer.

She didn't resist, since they were moving well together now.
When she looked over at their table she almost laughed out loud. Bill
and Mulder were watching her with comically identical dour
expressions. Perversity drove her to mold herself a little closer to
Tonio. At that point Bill recognized Dana being contrary and he lost
interest in intimidating Tonio into good behavior. His glance wandered
over to Mulder and he became briefly thoughtful at what he saw. Mulder
was staring more sullenly than ever at Scully and her partner. His
attitude was so clear that Tonio noticed it. When the music ended he
brought Scully back to the table by a very chastely held elbow. He
didn't want any trouble.

If he hadn't been so preoccupied with thoughts of Matt and their
reason for being there, Bill would have wondered more about what kind
of head games Mulder was playing with himself.

"I think you could have gotten a little closer to him, if you'd
taken your jacket off," Mulder leered at Scully.

"Well what good would that do if you guys are going to scare him
away? If you don't like the way I dance with him, why don't you show
me how it should be done?"

She held out her hand to Mulder with a forgiving smile. He was
caught unprepared.

"Uh, no I don't know how to dance."

"Oh, come on. You didn't mind trying it with Phoebe."

He cringed at the memory.

"Didn't you notice, she was leading? Anyway our contacts will be
here any minute," he ended shortly.

He was surprised at how disappointed Scully looked at his
refusal. He couldn't have handled a real dance with her. It was one of
his fantasies, pulling her masterfully onto the dance floor and moving
around it with her at intoxicatingly close quarters. They'd smile
easily at each other, and at the end of it he'd bend down to
congratulate her on her dancing skills. She'd put her hands behind his
head and pull him into a long arousing kiss that would make him
painfully hard. They'd go outside and hail a taxi and neck all the way
to her place. Then. . . .

Those thoughts were a very bad idea. He concentrated on scanning
the crowd, watching the entrance, and thinking about what kind of
proposal Chamuan's representatives might have. He might be ready to
hand Matt over to them with no further ado. Everyone seemed to agree
that there was a baby boy on Xibalba and that the baby was in good
health. They should be able to attain a rare achievement with this
case---a happy ending.

Half an hour and another round of sodas later he saw the red
baseball cap proclaiming love for New York. He signaled to Scully with
his eyes and waited for the two men to select a table. When they had,
he waited for fifteen minutes more, and then went up to the bar for
two Dos Equis. Then he approached their table and introduced himself
as an American interested in buying land to develop a resort.

Scully and Bill watched the three men converse for a short time.
While his contacts finished their beers, Mulder returned and passed on
the details to Bill and Scully.

"Here's the situation. Carlos Chamuan admits that Richard
Chandler brought a baby and a woman back from a trip to Haiti a week a
ago. Chandler told him it was his son by an American woman who was
addicted to drugs. She didn't want the baby and was planning to
abandon it. He brought the Haitian woman to take care of the baby.
Chamuan didn't think about it too much one way or the other since it
didn't inconvenience him. Now we've turned up making this claim that
exposes his private paradise to strangers. He'd rather we kept it
quiet and dealt with him directly. He doesn't want international law
enforcement officials descending on him. He'll allow two people to
come onto the island and present your claim. If we satisfy him that
the baby is yours he'll order Chandler to hand Matt over. He claims
Chandler will do as he's told to avoid legal consequences. How do you
want to handle it Bill?"

Bill's first reaction was uncomplicated joy at the prospect of
seeing his baby boy very soon. Then Tara would be restored to him too,
as her true, energetic, loving self. He didn't care about right or
wrong, or the law, or justice. His need was met. Then the struggle
began. He ruthlessly decimated cocktail napkins as his inner voice
lectured him on duty and proper channels, and he fought against it. He
looked back at Mulder and Dana in turn, seeking concurrence with his
desire to deal.

Poor Bill, Dana thought. No father should have to make that kind
of decision. She didn't feel that she should say anything to influence
his decision. Things could go sour no matter which course he decided
on. The law would take so long that Matthew could disappear again
before they got real action. On the other hand Chamuan could pretend
to go along with them with the same end result.

Mulder had no such compunctions about expressing his views.

"I think you should settle it personally right away. Don't give
him time to think up objections and don't wait for some political wonk
to talk to a thousand lawyers. Scully and I should arrange to meet
this Chamuan tomorrow. If I give them the word tonight they'll be
expecting us at their dock tomorrow around noon. There's no place to
land an airplane; Chamuan wouldn't allow anything to land there
anyway. Is Eddie's boat ready for a trip like that on short notice?
Would he take us?"

Scully could see the relief and gratitude on Bill's face at
Mulder's words. Than an oddly guilty look stole over his features.

"Yeah, the boat can be ready in a few hours. But Mulder. . .now
don't misunderstand me. I'll be eternally grateful to you for finding
Matthew. No one else could have done it. And I know you took some
chances. At this point, though, I think it's time I took over. Over
the years, in my position, I've learned a little bit about people. I'm
not bad at politicking and judging character, and making the right
impression. Besides if something should go wrong it would be awful
good to know we had someone like you on our side, who could take steps
from off island. And we wouldn't need Eddie to pilot the boat---I
could do it myself. That would improve confidentiality from Chamuan's
point of view."

"You mean just you and Scully would go?" Mulder said with a
stunned expression.

"Yeah," Bill said with a big smile at Dana. "They won't be able
to out-fox two Scullys---nothing personal intended," he added hastily,
looking at Mulder.

Scully felt sorry for Mulder, who sat silent and chagrined. He
had clearly not anticipated being shut out of the last act entirely.
Bill was being as tactful as he was able, but it was obvious he
thought Mulder was too impulsive and outspoken to be effective in
negotiation. However she was proud to see her partner master his
feelings and speak of the arrangements coolly.

"OK Bill, but I have a proposition to make. I wish you'd either
let me go instead of Scully, or wait an extra day until I can get some
more background on this Chamuan. There's too much we don't know about
him. What if there's some reason he wanted to get you out of the U.S.
onto this island? What if it's some kind of trap? I swear I won't say
a word the whole time, except 'Run!' if it becomes relevant."

He even managed to smile at the end of that speech.

"You said if it were you you'd take action right away. And you
were ready to go with Dana tomorrow. What's the matter, don't you
think I can protect my little sister as well as you?"

Bill couldn't seem to help putting a barely perceptible sneer
into his expression. The exchange reminded all of them of angry,
cutting words Bill had once hurled at Mulder, blaming him for
tragedies that had befallen the Scully family. Mulder was at a loss as
to how to counter the response. Bill had lowered the problem to a
level reason couldn't address. He didn't want to participate in a
chest-thumping competition. His real worry wasn't that Bill couldn't
protect Scully; it was that Scully would be hard pressed to protect a
naif like Bill in a critical situation.

"No, that's not it. It's that you're not experienced at going
into unknown circumstances without backup."

"Like I said, Mulder, I'm really grateful for all the help
you've given us, but I have to make this decision and I think it's in
Matthew's best interest if Dana and I go tomorrow."

"This isn't the navy, and we're not in a command structure.
We've got to agree on this Bill."

"I think it's up to Dana to decide which of us she's willing to
go with," Bill said.

With that they both turned toward Scully for a tie-breaking
vote. Scully thought she should have saved her pity for herself as the
maker of difficult decisions. She was going to hurt someone dreadfully
no matter what she said.

"Bill you're wrong if you think Mulder couldn't handle the
people in this situation. You can't imagine some of the people he's
found common ground with and convinced to help us. He can be a
diplomat when a diplomat is needed."

That wasn't nearly enough credit given to Mulder, but she was
ashamed to see the warm gratitude in his eyes for her defense of him.
Did she normally give him so little encouragement that he was that
thankful for a few words of praise? When she considered the matter, it
was true that her criticism far outweighed her praise in their daily
exchanges. She resolved to express her admiration of his abilities
more frequently in the future. She hated to continue talking, knowing
that she was going to shut down that eager expression.

"Still I think that two family members would be the best
evidence of our good faith. And it's true we need a knowledgeable
person on the outside in case of trouble."

When she looked back at Mulder the light had left his eyes and
his face was wearing its remote expression. She plowed ahead
unwillingly.

"I think Mulder was right when he said we shouldn't wait for
complications to develop. We should go as soon as arrangements can be
made."

Facing Mulder directly, she strove for a lighter note.

"I know you're not a natural born sailor. Maybe this time you
can dodge getting seasick."

He looked at her with cold irony.

"As you say, that's always been my overriding goal---to avoid
personal discomfort."

He regretted the words before he finished saying them. His
sarcasm was an insult to Scully in front of her brother, who already
thought she put up with too much from him for too little appreciation.
She swallowed the rebuke in silence. Mulder told himself to shut up
and go away until he could stop behaving like a petulant child.

He returned to his contacts and explained who would show up the
next day to meet with Senor Chamuan.

Scully knew Mulder was wounded by her choice. It was not that
she lacked confidence in his ability to handle the situation. The
problem was that failure was still possible through no fault of his.
If failure ensued Bill would always believe that he himself could have
succeeded. Rather than allow this to happen Scully would endure
whatever punishment Mulder couldn't help inflicting. The trip back to
Mancha de Mosca passed in unpleasant silence.

When the Revenge had been tied up at the dock Mulder debarked
and stalked off into the night. Scully knew he was better off alone
right now, and made no attempt to stop or accompany him. She went with
Bill back to Eddie's place to plan what items to take with them and
what they would say to Chamuan.

They agreed that a measured dose of the truth would work best.
Their true identities and their willingness to cut a deal would be
openly admitted. The methods they used to track down Chandler would
remain untold. Bill took out the diaper bag he had packed hopefully in
his suitcase the day before. Just handling Matt's things brought him
closer to happiness than he had been for days.

He and Scully each packed papers in file cases. Scully had no
intention of bringing her briefcase or her weapon to Xibalba. Bill had
all of the identification needed to prove Matt was his child. He noted
that Scully included copies of newspaper articles and deduced that she
was bringing evidence to support some of their allegations against
Chandler.

By that time they had about six hours until their daybreak
departure. They could both go to their rooms and pretend to sleep.
Mulder still hadn't returned to Eddie's place. Bill felt a little
guilty and worried.

"Is Mulder going to be OK? God, he's so difficult. It's like
handling an artist or a mystic. Or a precocious child. The hell of it
is I don't think he means to cause trouble."

"When have you had occasion to work with an artist or mystic?"

"Are you kidding? The armed forces can look like salvation to an
incredible variety of people. I've had to cope with the spawn of Satan
and an uncanonized saint, and everything in between."

"Mulder had a lot more family problems than just his sister
disappearing. His mother. . .he never learned to be like other people
in some ways."

"Dana, is there any chance---do you think he has feelings for
you?"

Scully was completely at a loss as to how answer that question,
even to herself. How did she reconcile Mulder's conviction that they
were lovers in a past life with his emotional and physical withdrawal
during the past months? His behavior left her as confused as he
probably was himself. If he felt more than comradeship for her it must
be at an unconscious level.

"Not in the way you mean," she replied, greatly oversimplifying
the situation. "He's completely focused on his work. I'm just his
partner and friend."

"I'm happy to hear that. The two of you together as a couple---
it doesn't bear thinking about. You're both so intense and strong-
willed. And smart. You'd spend all your time watching each other to
see who'd blink first."

"There would be advantages though. Who else would ever
understand what I've been through as well as he would? The things I've
seen and done, Bill," she said shaking her head sorrowfully.

To herself Scully honestly admitted another advantage. If she
were going to choose a lover it would be preferable to acquire one who
made her want climb into his lap and kiss him until her lips stung.
Someone like Mulder. It would be ecstasy. It wasn't going to happen.

Damn, Bill cursed himself. He knew better than that. Dana always
had to take the opposite side of an argument. It was a wonder she
hadn't gone into law instead of medicine. He didn't want to provoke
her into defending Mulder as a prospective boyfriend. Still he
couldn't bring himself to argue in favor of such a relationship.

"I know you don't think Tara is brilliant or insightful enough
for me. What you don't know is how wonderful it is to look into your
lover's eyes and see innocence of the dark things you've had to learn
about. With someone like that you can live life the way it was meant
to be lived."

Not for the first time, Scully wondered what government secrets
Bill had learned and been forced to deny during his career.

"But Bill," she replied in a voice full of compassion. "Hasn't
this whole experience with Matt proven that innocence or ignorance of
dark things doesn't protect you from being a victim?"

He shrank from her slightly as though she had given him a blow.
She repented her honesty.

"I'm sorry. Maybe Mulder's had a bad influence on me. I blurt
things out that I shouldn't sometimes. I'm going to try to sleep a
little. Good night."

She heard Mulder come in and saw his light go out before she
went to sleep at three o'clock.

Three hours later Scully knocked on his door to let him know
they were leaving. When he pulled the door open immediately she feared
he hadn't slept at all.

"I wasn't going to let you leave without saying good-bye," he
said, confirming her fears about his lack of sleep.

She took the words as they were meant---the closest thing to an
apology that she would get.

"I've been trying to remember why I associate something wrong
with this trip, but I can't," he went on in a frustrated voice. "They
aren't expecting you to stay overnight. Why have you got a suitcase?"
he asked, switching his train of thought abruptly."

"Sometimes older men from a Latin culture have trouble taking a
woman seriously. I thought I'd help him out with some visual cues,"
Scully explained. "I'm going to change out of these jeans and into my
trouser suit before we get there."

"I hope you and Bill have the best of luck. There's nothing I
want more than for you to succeed and come back with Matt in your
arms. You know that, don't you?"

"I know that. Listen, I'm leaving my briefcase here with my gun.
Take care of them for me. And if anything should happen. . . ." Here
she held up her hand to silence the words of protest she saw Mulder
preparing to voice. "I want you to take out some papers folded up in
there with your name on them. You'll recognize them if you see them.
You can read them, burn them, make paper airplanes out of them," she
finally joked to allay the anxiety she saw on Mulder's face. "We'll be
back with a fussy baby by this evening. You'll get to experience some
of the joys of family life."

Scully had to settle one more question before she felt at peace
with her partner.

"Mulder, you do know that the reasons I chose to go with Bill
have nothing to do with any lack in you. It has to do with how Bill
sees things. In fact I'm worried about him. You and I both know he's
not the diplomat he thinks he is. I only hope I can smooth over any
problems he might stir up."

Mulder smiled back with an effort.

"You have to do what you think is best for everyone," was all he
said in reply.

Mulder walked with Scully out to the Revenge where Bill and
Eddie were going through an engine maintenance checklist.

"When do you want me to intervene from outside if I don't hear
from you," he asked Scully and Bill.

"Boats can have mechanical problems and weather delays. Give as
at least twelve hours leeway. Have Eddie try to contact the Revenge at
sea, or someone on the island, before you do anything irrevocable."

Scully gave Mulder a hearty hug, and was enormously pleased that
he returned it. His gesture brought a broad smile to her face. Mulder
watched that smiling face until the boat was too far away to make out
expressions.

Why did this feel so bad, so dangerous? He decided to distract
himself with the memoirs on the principle of combatting pain with a
counter irritant. The problems of Morgan and Amy were certainly
irritating enough to qualify.

Chapter 24, An Excursion

Morgan's Journal, July 5, 1814

By July I had still made no visible progress in my efforts to
connect Jack Quickill to the attempt on our lives, gun smuggling or
the deaths of David Bloom and John Eastman. All of the MPs I talked to
claimed to have no idea of who he was or how he could have any effect
on government decisions. A few protested their ignorance so fervently
I immediately suspected they were in his power. That's how fear can
make a man see enemies in the shadows. Of course there were enemies in
the shadows at the Surrey Docks that night. I would not give up.

We did no more direct spying on Jack and his agents. It was far
too dangerous. I restricted myself to political contacts and
conversations with a great number of people. They ranged from the mud
larks of Wapping Stairs through the wealthy merchants of the West End.
I only wished I could steal an invitation to Holland House. Lord and
Lady Holland were notorious for their sentimental support of
Bonaparte. They would be wonderful instruments for someone like
Quickill. They held exclusive Jacobin gatherings in their mansion near
Kensington Palace. It was said that Lord Holland was preparing to
visit the deposed Emperor in his exile on the Island of Elba.

Amy continued to refuse my suit. I was confident that eventually
she'd understand that marriage was the natural condition for two
people who felt as we did. We shared everything except a home and bed.
It was foolish to stay apart. I believed that the one true obstacle
was her repugnance to physical affection. If I could overcome that, or
convince her that I could live without it, the other scruples would
fall by the way. Accomplishing this was my other objective in life.

I had both objectives in mind when I invited Amy to come with me
on a coach trip to the Holland mansion. No opportunity to strengthen
my hold over her would escape me. The excuse for the journey was a
possible interview with Lord Holland. Horace had written a grand
looking letter of introduction for me, signed by Horace Friedrich,
Esquire, of the Friedrich Publishing House of London. It begged Lord
Holland, whose given name was Charles James Fox, to look favorably on
Morgan Fox, a published author who wanted to write the family history.
Of course I was no relation, and he would know it. He might enjoy
having the virtues and glories of his ancestors made known in a book
by person who merely shared the illustrious name.

June had been unseasonably cold and wet, while these first few
July days had been hot and dry. The roads would be drained and not too
dusty yet. We took an early coach, enjoying the sight of the green
world west of the city before the heat became too fierce. The route
bordered Hyde Park on the south. We saw the usual complement of demi-
mondaines in open carriages out to impress wealthy young men who were
themselves out to impress each other with their beautiful horses. The
houses became grander and farther apart as we traveled west. We passed
the Kensington Palace grounds and a quarter of an hour later the coach
left us where the long drive to the Holland mansion began.

The huge old home had been built one hundred and fifty years
ago. It had not been kept up well. Every year showed in slightly
sagging gables, crumbling stonework, and sloppily patched-up chimneys.
Ancient trees arched high over our heads. They shaded the drive but
provided no relief from the heat. The air shimmered with it. Even the
birds were discouraged by the warmth of the day, preferring to creep
on the ground under the hedges rather than to exert themselves by
flying. Only insect life remained unaffected. We passed through
pockets of madly swarming gnats. Yellow and white butterflies moved
over the flowering bushes in fluttering bursts of energy followed by
stillness.

Amy seemed unaware of discomfort. She looked around her
wonderingly, taking in the sight of the open spaces, the vegetation,
the long vistas visible in the cleaner air. I hadn't thought about it
before, but she probably hadn't been outside the city since she left
Chitterton all those years ago.

When we arrived at the door our appearances were the worse for
the walk. Damp with sweat and red in the face, I presented the letter
to a visibly unimpressed footman. After a long wait the butler himself
appeared to inform us that my letter would be given to Lord Holland at
a later date. He had left for Scotland after the third consecutive day
of sultry temperatures. On seeing the disappointment in our wet, heat-
flushed faces, Mr. Buryman offered to ask one of the family's coachmen
to take us back to the White Horse coaching inn off Piccadilly. I
quickly accepted this generous offer and started thinking of another
way to spend the day.

It was still short of noon when I spoke to the innkeeper of the
White Horse about the coaches going to Hampstead Heath. He told me
that they left almost every hour from the Green Man on Tottenham Court
Road. We could take a short ride to the Green Man from his inn. I
explained to Amy that we would be returning to London very late that
night. If she didn't want to take the excursion we could return to the
city now. She accepted the invitation with childlike enthusiasm.

At two o'clock we were on the road that leads from London to
Hampstead Heath. There was little activity in the garden plots north
of the city that provide most of the produce for London markets. The
harvesting had been done by dawn and the weeding and watering
completed before the sun reached its apogee. Past the gardens the
elevation of the land increased rapidly. London sank into a smudgy
hollow on the horizon and the air became dramatically clearer. The
heat and steep incline put enough of a strain on the horses to soften
our hearts and those of several other able-bodied passengers. We
trudged the last mile on our own feet, rewarding ourselves as
liberally as the horses with sweet well water when we reached the
village of Hampstead Heath.

After a lunch of bread, cheese and pickles at Jack Straw's
Castle, we took the walk to the widely known Vale of Health, where the
water was supposed to have wonderful health giving effects. An
attendant there laughed when he saw Amy making a face, as she tasted
the slightly sulphurous liquid.

"It doesn't taste healthy, does it? So often people believe that
the more unpleasant something is, the better it must be for them.
Suffering confers great benefits, according to that thinking. Me, I've
never been partial to it. If you'll forgive my familiarity, missus,
you'd make a wonderful advertisement for the waters."

It was only when I heard it from another person that I
recognized how much of Amy's beauty had been gradually restored to her
in recent months. Sufficient food and less time spent working late by
candlelight had filled out her face and figure. Her skin had regained
some of the pink and white prettiness of former days. If I let myself
dwell on it, my natural reactions would make it doubly difficult to
refrain from the attentions she found repugnant.

We explored the village itself with its new terraced houses,
rented by people who were there to take the waters. I pointed out the
tavern called the Spaniard, where in 1780 rioters were diverted by
strong drink from the destruction of Lord Mansfield's mansion. Several
years ago Horace published my account of another old tale about the
inn in a broadside. According to tradition, many years ago the
landlord's daughter loved a highwayman. The magistrate found out when
he planned to visit her, and ordered that a trap be set. The men lying
in wait gagged the frantic woman and bound her to a musket so that she
couldn't move or scream to warn her unsuspecting lover. When they
heard the hoofbeats of his approaching horse, she deliberately
triggered the gun, killing herself but warning her sweetheart away. Of
course he heard later what had happened and died in an attempt to take
revenge for her murder. Amy listened attentively to the story.

"Is it true?" she asked at the end.

"Who knows? The old man who told me the story said it happened
when he was very young. It sounds more like a story about war than
crime. Highwaymen aren't usually appealing enough to die for. Maybe a
supporter of the Young Pretender hid somewhere near here to avoid
capture after the Jacobite defeat in Scotland. The King's men could
have waited for him to visit his ladylove. If it is true, she
shouldn't have done it. She should have known what he'd do when he
found out."

"How could she help it?" Amy asked, gazing down the turnpike
where the highwayman, or rebel, supposedly heard the warning blast and
wheeled his horse in flight. "She couldn't let them shoot him, or hang
him," she ended with a shudder.

This wasn't supposed to be a gloomy day.

"It's probably a story made up to discredit the law, or the
King's justice---or injustice. People love to be indignant over a tale
of horrors while they enjoy their ale and chops. Let's go back to Jack
Straw's Castle and eat before the London coach is scheduled to leave.
The sun will be down in an hour."

We ate chops and drank ale ourselves at Jack's, but there was
better entertainment than a tragic tale. Two Scottish fiddlers tuned
up to play as we finished our meal. Amy didn't seem to mind that I
held her hand as we listened to their airs. After several dance tunes
they began the wonderfully tender and sweet melody that had recently
become my favorite.

"They call that 'Lassie with the Golden Hair,' don't they?" I
asked, as I tossed a few coins into the open fiddle case on the floor
in front of the cheerful and robust players.

"Yes sir. It could have been written about your wife, couldn't
it?" the dark man replied, with a nod at Amy.

"Perhaps if it were red gold. I've thought that myself," I
answered, grinning with the pleasure of hearing her referred to as my
spouse. I hoped it was an omen.

"Let's take a walk through the famous heath before the coach
comes," I suggested to Amy when the fiddlers paused for refreshment.

When she agreed I took the precaution of speaking privately to
the landlord about the time the coach departed. He assured me it would
be at least an hour before it left. Then I boldly inquired if he had a
room for my wife and me if we missed the coach. He winked and replied
that couples had been know to return late from walks on the heath.
There was a room for us if we were delayed. I tipped him generously
and we set out.

The heath was dim in the twilight. The setting sun had taken the
colors of the day with it, leaving a world of muted hues. Under the
shelter of the copses the temperature dropped abruptly, as though the
greenery exhaled cool air. Continuing away from the inn we walked into
a shadowy world where the boundaries between objects were unclear,
gliding like two ghosts through the ether.

The spectral illusion was broken when we heard somewhere off the
path the breathy moans of two people making love to the utmost
satisfaction of both. I feared the wild noises would upset Amy. I
couldn't see her expression, but she made no move to leave the heath,
or to hasten or slow our pace. For a long time we followed the path
deeper into the woodlands while a pale orange moon slid up the sky
from behind a black hill. Neither of us raised the issue of the
coaching schedule. Keeping to the schedule would have required us to
start back some time ago. Amy didn't show signs of fatigue until the
moon had risen higher, and whitened to chalk. When we found a large,
fallen tree she sat down on the trunk and motioned for me to sit
beside her.

"Does this remind you of the night we met in the cemetery to see
what happened at midnight on Midsummer's night?"

Until she spoke of it I hadn't remembered that particular
occasion. Maybe the King and Queen of the fairies bowled nine pins
with the shades of plague victims from the churchyard. We wouldn't
have noticed it. Despite our avowed intentions, we became too wrapped
up in exploring each other's bodies to investigate supernatural
phenomena. We panted and tumbled together like puppies with the
pungently sweet smell of damp summer grass all around the blanket we
lay on. Her words brought all the sensations back to me.

"I went home that night and cried because you wouldn't really
make love to me. I wanted you. But I loved you for being so
respectful, so careful of me that you wouldn't let me risk being
disgraced. You were so good, Morgan. I knew all along it was you who
kept us from getting into trouble. Later I thought you would have been
a better person than I was. You would have done things differently."

"Amy don't sanctify me. If you only knew. . . . It wasn't just
love that helped me restrain myself. I didn't want to be trapped in
Chitterton as a farm laborer by getting children before I had a
writing career. I wouldn't have deserted you if you'd been
compromised, but I didn't want that to happen. I wanted London,
excitement, to learn things, so much. What a mistake it all turned out
to be."

I was ashamed of my selfish reasoning, but it was only fair to
let her know that my motives were as flawed as anyone else's.

"It's all right. I don't blame the boy you were for having
ambitions and dreams. It's been justified by how well you've done in
London. It wasn't your fault my father was wrong-headed and weak. If
you hadn't cared about me you would have taken your pleasure and then
left me."

"God, Amy, I care so much. If I had it to do over again. . . ."

She half turned and smiled at me, raising her hand and tousling
my hair as though I were still a callow seventeen to her experienced
older self. I couldn't help moving a little under her hand, enjoying
even this sparing contact inordinately because of its rarity. She
looked into my eyes at that movement and her expression changed to a
look of wonder.

Then her hand went to my face, and her light fingers stroked my
jaw and neck. She was touching me as I had longed to be touched by her
for these last ten years. It took several spans of her small hands to
measure the breadth of my shoulders and chest.

"You've gotten bigger since Chitterton," she murmured, with a
hint of disapproval in her voice."

I couldn't deny it, or offer any defense. I grew four inches
taller between my eighteenth and twentieth birthdays. My frame and
musculature had increased correspondingly in size. It was
understandable that a woman who had been violated would appreciate
delicacy more than size and strength in a man. I could never be a boy
again. Amy would have to accept or reject me as I was. I tried to tell
myself I could accept rejection. We could remain as friends---be
married, and live as brother and sister.

She kissed my cheek, brushing her lips across the rough stubble
of my beard. That was new to her too. When she placed her lips on mine
I almost panicked and jumped up from uncertainty. I didn't want to
seem indifferent, but what if action on my part frightened her off? I
limited my movement to allowing my lips to open slightly, letting her
take the lead in determining what kind of kiss it was to be. It was
soft and shy, and almost unbearably inviting.

Amy turned away and stood up. Though disappointed I thought
there was good reason for hope. She hadn't shrunk away during our
brief connection. What had happened once could happen again. Then she
walked around my outstretched leg, placing herself close in front of
me. The tree trunk raised me high enough that she didn't have to bend
far to take my face in her hands. She began another kiss that made me
forget the first one. This time her tongue entered my mouth. The taste
and sensation was so familiar and yet so long missed, I responded
instantly with every part of my body. I never hated the fashion for
tight trousers as much as I did at that moment. Not only was the
constriction painful, the animal nature of my response would be
visible to her when this kiss ended. I had no idea how she might
react.

I sat still, willing my body to restrict its fervor, while my
arms ached to clasp her tightly, to take control of our passion and
drive us toward consummation. How did women remain passive when moved
by touches and kisses like this? The humbling answer came to me
readily. They were often unmoved, the resigned recipients of men's
lust.

Finally I recognized the deep, rapid breathing that signaled
Amy's excitement. Still I resolved to be careful, never pushing her
farther or faster than she wanted to go. I slowly lifted my arms and
touched her shoulders and the backs of her arms so lightly that it
would be clear to her that there was no confinement of her movement
intended. She made no move to stop me, so I placed one hand behind her
head, enjoying the fall of her loosened hair across my fingers. Her
hands went under my jacket, stroking my chest, sides, and back in
turn, her hands ending on my back. This brought us so close I could
feel the soft pressure of her breasts against me. An embrace any
tighter would bring her lower body against mine and raise an urgent
question in both our minds.

Seconds later that contact came, almost stimulating me to
climax. I moaned a little into our kiss and moved as if to pull back
from her grasp. She pressed herself up against me instead, clearly
aware of my state, and tolerant of it.

"Please. Is this all right?" I asked, while I ran my own fingers
over her neck down to the low cut neckline of her gown. In answer she
took my hands and placed one over each breast. I restrained my desire
to squeeze, and instead cupped them tenderly, gently tracing the
nipples through the thin muslin fabric. She quivered in response and
pushed harder against my hands. It was then that things went wrong.

Suddenly I was distracted by an image of another man biting and
sucking her breasts, and getting the same response from her. I
wondered how many other men had touched her this way, and what she
felt about it. Some of them must have been handsome and skilled. No,
she didn't have these feelings with those men who bought her; she said
so. It's you she loves, I told myself. I tried to put baseless
suspicions and painful visions aside and enjoy the moments I had
anticipated for so long. It proved to be impossible.

After a few more minutes Amy became aware that I was no longer
restraining my reactions to her affection. I was sitting like a block
of wood, not feeling any reciprocal passion. The physical signs of my
arousal subsided quickly. Amy didn't stop trying immediately. I wanted
to put an end to the misery of sitting there, each fresh effort on her
part filling my brain with visions of lechery from her past.

"Let's stop now," I said, putting a hand on each shoulder and
holding her at arm's length. "Let's not go too quickly. We can wait
until we're married."

She looked me with disbelief and heartbreak plain on her face in
the bright moonlight. My feelings must have too plainly communicated
themselves in my expression and movements. It wasn't going to be easy
to persuade her that nothing was wrong.

"You're afraid of the Pox, aren't you," she faltered. "I'm
sorry, I'm sorry. I told myself I wouldn't risk you. You just seemed
to want me so much. And Morgan I wanted you too."

She fixed her gaze on the ground. I wanted to gather her close
and comfort her, but I feared a renewal of her attempts to make love
to me.

"It's not the Pox. It's not your fault. I can live with your
past, but I'm not as ready as I thought to forget it. I need some more
time to understand you and myself. All I need is more time," I
asserted with as much confidence as I could. "After we're married
everything will be fine."

Amy looked back at me steadily. The love I had seen that night
on the docks was still plain, and there was no lessening of the love I
felt in return. It was only the physical passion that suffered when I
imagined Amy in the embraces of uncountable other men. It wasn't her
fault or her choice, I kept reminding myself. But I couldn't forget.

We walked back to the Castle in silence. By the time we returned
to the inn only the landlord remained in the tavern, throwing down
sawdust and sweeping it up. He directed us to our room with no further
pleasantries, perhaps detecting our subdued spirits.

Left alone in a room with one bed we were almost too overcome
with embarrassment to speak. I wordlessly arranged the armchair to
face away from the bed, putting a footstool in front of it.

"I'll sleep here," I told her awkwardly. "I'm going outside for
a few minutes. You can get ready for bed while I'm out."

I stayed out for half an hour, hoping she would be asleep when I
returned. The ploy didn't work. When I re-entered the room she was
covered up and the candle was out, but she bade me goodnight as I took
off my waistcoat. I went over to the bed and kissed her good night on
the cheek. She reached out for my hand and squeezed it briefly. I
could have climbed into the bed and seen what would happen. What I
actually did was release her hand and walk away, afraid to risk a
situation where I might be forced to call a halt to our lovemaking
again. That would hurt both of us too much.

I sat in the chair and tried to sleep. Through our open window,
over the next six hours, I heard the liquid melodies of the
nightingales gradually diminish, to be replaced by the rising notes of
the larks. What should have been a wonderful night had been spoiled by
my squeamishness. Worst of all, I no longer knew how to behave toward
Amy. It had been easy when only her feelings were uncertain. Now I
couldn't count on my own to be predictable.

The ride back to London was full of half-finished sentences and
apologies.

Chapter 25, An Unusual Introduction

Amy's Journal, July 6, 1814

Morgan and I would have been very uncomfortable with each other
the day after our excursion to Hampstead if it hadn't been for
Horace's news. A note arrived for me in the morning asking me to come
to his rooms and hear it along with Morgan.

"Miss Sullivan, you're looking lovelier than usual today,"
Horace enthused when I arrived.

I wished him good morning and then noticed Morgan. He appeared
to be absorbed in reading the latest pamphlets from Horace's printing
press. His inky fingers served as the excuse to avoid taking my hand,
but his greeting was no different than before. I smiled and tried to
act just as usual. Horace could sense some change in our manner, and
he stood briefly with a thoughtful look on his face. Then he explained
why he had summoned us.

"I visit Leigh Hunt in Surrey Gaol at least once a month. You
knew the Hunt brothers were still in prison for libelling the Regent
as a fat, old, lying debauchee, didn't you?" he asked, turning to me.

"No, I don't know who the Hunt brothers are," I answered
honestly, feeling as ignorant as I usually did of things Horace and
Morgan seemed to know all about.

Horace looked a little crestfallen, as though my failure to
fully appreciate his achievement lessened its value in some way. He
explained the situation patiently so I could share in the triumph.

"Leigh and John Hunt publish the 'Examiner,' a liberal paper.
The Tories tried for a long time to convict them of libel for their
criticism of the Regent. They finally succeeded last year. I visit
Leigh sometimes to let him know his brothers of the pen stand with
him. He loves to hear good stories, so last May I told him about your
adventure at the docks. Since then he always asks about whether you've
succeeded in exposing the villains behind the plot. I've told him how
disappointing our efforts have been. Yesterday he told me he'd passed
your story on to a person at the gaol. This person made an unexpected
offer to help you. He's a person of some influence and power. His
social status offers him some protection. However he insists that
everything be arranged secretly, since he might act outside the law.
You can meet with him in a private room at the Pirate's Head Tavern
tonight at ten o'clock."

"What's his name?" Morgan asked quickly.

"Conrad. It's an alias of course."

"I've heard rumors about someone like 'Conrad.' You don't
contact him; he contacts you, if he thinks you have a concern worthy
of his attention. After he talks to you he decides whether he'll exert
his influence for you. No action has been traced directly to him, but
somehow things happen in favor of a cause he's adopted. Sometimes I
feel as if I've been trying to empty the sea with a sieve. Now I may
see results."

Morgan and Horace gleefully shook hands, not minding the ink
stains. I shook hands too, but I had some doubts.

The idea made me uneasy. Mr. Conrad seemed too similar to Jack
Quickill, with his ways of making things happen in secret. The
likeness bothered me. It was different only because Mr. Conrad was on
our side, although I was sure his tactics were also quite different.
Horace and Morgan wouldn't want the help of someone who would use
violence. But I wasn't well spoken enough to explain my doubts. I only
asked to go along to meet with Conrad. It surprised me that Morgan
agreed immediately. I was worried about danger to him, but his
enthusiasm outran any consideration of risk.

We traveled to the Pirate's Head in a closed carriage from
Morgan's rooms that night. The late hour gave us the cover of darkness
for our comings and goings. A masked servant showed us to an upper
room of the tavern, where another masked man sat at a table. Instead
of inviting us to be seated he looked us up and down from the behind
the mask, in a manner that verged on discourtesy.

His clothes were of good quality, and his mask was of black
velvet. He wore gloves, so nothing of his skin or hair could be seen.
Of medium size, he appeared both shorter and slighter than Morgan.
When he finally spoke his voice was not deep, but it was melodious,
with the merest hint of a Scottish accent. Morgan broke the silence
first, impatient under the blind scrutiny of the mask.

"Isn't this a little too Gothic for real life?"

"You can say that after the experience you lived through at the
docks? And is this the beautiful naiad who saved your life? As you see
my dear, it's a pity, but I can't kiss your hand."

"It's not necessary, sir. I'm not the Pope."

"No, you certainly aren't. Still, I wouldn't be offering a
tribute to God but to a Goddess, the Goddess of Beauty."

There was really nothing to say to such ridiculous flattery. I
stood silent, looking down at the floor. I was startled by the
question he barked at me next.

"Are you looking at my feet?"

I brought my gaze back up to his masked face instantly.

"No," I answered in confusion.

"Didn't your mother teach you any airs, graces, lisps,
flirtatious sideways looks?"

I didn't know what to make of this conversation, so I stood
quietly.

The masked head turned toward Morgan.

"A silent woman seems such an unnatural creature that she
inspires more fear than ardor. Doesn't it bother you, wondering what
she's brooding about behind that still face?"

"No, I'm sure Amy will tell me if there's something important I
should know. And I've met more than one garrulous man in my time," he
added innocently.

Morgan was lucky that Conrad was so self-absorbed that the
remark went unnoticed. Or did it? Conrad now went to the point of our
meeting.

"So you can't find anyone who'll believe you about the man who
runs the Panasay. He's involved in smuggling and blackmailing Members
of Parliament. Have you heard anything about blackmail involving the
House of Lords?"

"No, no one has come to me from there. He's also involved in
forcing girls into prostitution," Morgan added, taking great care to
avoid looking at me.

"For most women that isn't a long step," Conrad replied in bored
tones. He continued with more intensity. "What we need to ask
ourselves is, 'What is his motive?' It's all so much a matter of half-
measures, and yet it's so viciously defended. Let me suggest a
reason."

Morgan leaned forward, barely able to contain his eagerness.

"My personal experience, put together with what you've told me,
leads me to believe there's an international conspiracy. The people
who head it gain money and power when nations go to war. They're
setting the stage for a renewal of the war on the Continent. All the
powers are to remain evenly balanced, as before. To do this they need
to weaken English preparedness, but not destroy it, and build up
France's power, but not to an irresistible strength. Most important
they're intent on creating disruption among the leaders of the
Alliance against Napoleon. Last of all they'll mastermind Bonaparte's
escape from Elba. Increasing the control of the ruling classes over
the populace is a continuous effort."

I could see dismay on Morgan's face. He hadn't expected such a
crazed theory, and didn't know how to reply. Finally he spoke slowly.

"I don't have enough knowledge to support such a conclusion. Yet
I can't disprove it. My own concern is to stop Jack Quickill from
committing more murders and selling English weapons to our enemies."

The masked figure sat in silence for a minute or so. It was
likely that he was deciding against helping Morgan. Then he spoke with
a sigh.

"At least you're honest. Maybe more experience will broaden your
mind and you'll come to think differently about my interpretation of
the world. Once I thought that in my position I could have some
influence, but it proved illusory. I admired Napoleon at one time. Now
I know he's as much a pawn as any of us. It all seems so hopeless.
When I act as Conrad I take my sword in my hand---figuratively
speaking of course. I make things happen quickly and believe I have
the power to change things. I have a young friend who writes poetry.
He thinks people have to be won over to liberty one by one, by our
eloquence. How long do you think that will take? We'll have the iron
collars on our necks long before that."

Neither Morgan nor I could think of a sensible comment to make.

"I'll do what I can about Jack. Don't breathe a word of this. I
know I can trust you, miss," he added sarcastically, with a little bow
in my direction.

I nodded back. Conrad rang a small bell and the masked servant
entered the room.

"Show them out, Fletch."

Morgan talked a great deal in the carriage on the way to Convent
Gardens. We discussed all the possible ways Conrad might deal with
Jack, but failed to hit on the method actually employed.

The next evening Morgan received a message from Conrad that he
was to go to St. Giles at eight o'clock and await instructions across
the street from the Panasay. Naturally I opposed this plan, basing my
argument on the result of following similar instruction in April. I
know Morgan had misgivings too, since he forbade me to go with him.
The solution I came up with was to ask Gavin to follow him and keep
watch for any threatening activity. As it turned out no one approached
him the entire two hours he waited. Instead he left at ten o'clock
when a huge fire suddenly flared up on the ground floor of the
Panasay.

The fire spread quickly to two other buildings and then burnt
itself out. Most of the inhabitants of the buildings involved escaped.
It was rumored that the owner of the Panasay, one John Cockrell, had
perished along with a few prostitutes. Four charred skeletons,
possibly of three women and a man, were found in the ruins afterwards.

Morgan fell into a black mood at this news. He tried to tell
himself it was a coincidence, but I knew he didn't really believe it.
The brutal imprecision of the method shocked him to the core. The
guilt and uncertainty haunted him for days. He voiced the same
thoughts I was having.

"There wasn't enough time to plan it properly. They won't trace
it back to Conrad, but the idea was bad. He's getting away with things
because he isn't scrupulous. Some of the people who died in that fire
were probably innocent. And I don't believe Jack was that easy to
corner."

I didn't need to add anything to these doubts. And yet despite
Morgan's misgivings there were no signs of Jack's continued activity.
The MPs he'd been visiting received no more visits. Mr. Bloom still
denied any attempts at blackmail. Morgan said his denials were a great
deal more convincing this time. We concluded that even if Jack
escaped, he must have lost the evidence against his victims in the
fire.

When the distraction of these events was over, I was still left
with the puzzle of what to do about Morgan. I was only certain of one
thing: my very existence distressed Morgan and left him no peace. He
cared for me, and wanted to marry me to protect me, but he would not
find happiness with me. Whether it was fear of disease, the desire for
children, or disbelief in my virtue, he couldn't love me without
reserve. And while I was in the world he couldn't love anyone else. My
own short-lived hopes faded away like the sunset over the heath that
night. What a fool I had been to let them briefly light my path. In
their absence the surrounding darkness seemed closer and more absolute
than before.

Eventually I would solve this dilemma. Until then I tried to be
a good friend to Morgan, never presenting him with a situation that
would make him uncomfortable. When he repeated his marriage proposal,
I said yes. He exultantly accepted my answer, but said nothing about
setting a date. I didn't press him on this issue. We could probably
remain engaged for the rest of our lives. He would never feel the need
to take the matter farther. Morgan deserved more of life. It would be
up to me to see that he got it.

Chapter 26, A Celebration

Sally's Journal, July 5 to Aug. 1, 1814

I hoped our lives would take a serene course now. We had
negotiated a turbulent section of the river of life, and should now
enjoy smooth waters. The youngest of Lady Shelton's daughters would be
presented at court this spring, so my time in their household was
drawing to an end. We spent little time in the schoolroom. Our
energies were dedicated to the direction of seamstresses, milliners,
and hairdressers. Louisa practiced her dancing, piano, singing and
curtsies with a devotion that would have been better spent in the
study of accounting methods and the science of farming.

One of the few unfortunate by-products of the peace with France
was the renewed ease with which English women could again ape the
frivolous modes that issued forth as haut ton from that country.
Louisa studied the latest magazines from the Continent and continually
changed the designs for her ball dresses. Of course the ridiculous,
traditional requirement for a seven-plumed headdress and train as
proper court presentation dress left me little justification for
sensible objections.

It disturbed me that Louisa's fate would depend entirely on the
outcome of her lot in the marriage market, as it is honestly
denominated. The most superficial attributes are richly rewarded in
that venue. Louisa's facility in serious musical study and mathematics
was worthless there. Any talent she had would wither and die. She
would pass her life as a diversion for her husband, a society hostess
and a breeder of heirs.

I told myself not to expect the worst outcome, since Louisa's
mother, Lady Shelton, had defied the forces of convention and emerged
as an effective citizen. She took part in salons dedicated to
political and philosophical conversation. She and her friends
supported projects to relieve the suffering of many poor people. My
visits to parish workhouses were part of their projects.

If I had anticipated going to another situation as a governess,
my spirits would have been low indeed. Few positions allowed a
governess the freedom and respect I commanded in the Shelton
household. I was immensely flattered and pleased that Lady Shelton had
offered me an opportunity to carry out a pet project of hers after
Louisa was safely engaged to a suitable young man.

Lady Shelton and a group of like-minded ladies planned to start
a school for poor girls connected to the parish workhouse in St.
Giles. It would be small, and funded entirely by private donations. An
energetic and idealistic young minister, the Reverend Pendleton,
promised practical help and the additional respectability possible
with the support of the established Church. It offered an unexampled
chance to experiment with ideas I had about preparing women to be
independent by giving them knowledge and skills.

I also saw a way to use this project to help Amy and thereby
please Morgan. There was usually little I could do to repay my brother
for his years of care for me. He would be gratified if I could provide
Amy with occupation and a more sheltered living arrangement at the
school until their marriage. Her practical advice and assistance with
the girls would help me greatly. I looked forward to communicating
this scheme to Morgan and Amy with happy excitement.

When I was a child I loved Amy instinctively. Children, little
sensualists that they are, flock to the healthy and pretty. She drew
me also because of the spontaneity she brought to her exchanges with
everyone, including me. There was no artifice. She listened and heard
what I said to her, and responded genuinely to my childish concerns.
But I would have forgiven her any amount of ugliness or inattention to
me for the beautiful smile she brought to Morgan's face when she
entered a room or turned up unannounced to share some farming chore
with him. I didn't believe that Morgan received the attention he
deserved from the people around us. Amy was my ally in recognizing his
unique qualities of mind and soul.

Her apparent desertion briefly created havoc in my emotions, but
her unwilling absence seemed as terrible to me as her failure to send
letters. In the course of my happy day-to-day life, I recovered
quickly. The only permanent effect I experienced came at second-hand.
Morgan's ability to trust others and joyfully accept the good things
in life was severely damaged after he lost Amy. I feared he would
never have the capacity for happiness that others enjoyed
unthinkingly.

Recently I had become re-acquainted with Amy through our
conversations at Mrs. Mobley's. We met to have tea with Morgan, and
sometimes ended up waiting for him for up to an hour. She was so
different, and yet so much the same. Once she seemed very intellectual
to me, with a large but randomly acquired stock of knowledge gained
from untutored reading. Now I detected her lack of a disciplined
mental structure to give context to those miscellaneous facts. And yet
I sensed a crudely powerful mind neglected for many years. She had
once had great potential for learning, possibly the ability to
penetrate to the heart of some of the world's philosophical and
natural mysteries. The waste was enough to make me weep. I hadn't
given up hope of renewing Amy's education during the creation of Lady
Shelton's school.

In late July Lady Shelton and Louisa traveled to Bath to gather
their strength for the Little Season in autumn. It would serve as
prelude to the all-important Spring Season. I was left to make the
final adjustments to Louisa's wardrobe and supervise the redecoration
of the ballroom. These tasks left me enough time to enjoy outings with
Morgan and Amy in the long warm evenings of late summer.

We attended performances in Drury Lane and Haymarket, and the
spectacles at Vauxhall Gardens and the Royal Amphitheater. Amy enjoyed
these with the uncritical wonder of a sixteen-year-old girl. Sometimes
it seemed as though the years between Chitteron and now hadn't left
much of a mark. Isolated among the uneducated and poor, in some ways
her maturation had halted. It was placed in abeyance by the desperate
immediacy of her need to survive. At other times the lessons in
ruthlessness and aggression learned during those years came to the
fore.

We made arrangements to attend the celebration of the Centenary
of the Hanoverian succession on August 1, in the royal parks. The
Prince of Wales spent thousands of pounds and weeks of labor creating
effects and erecting tents for the sale of food, drink and gewgaws.
Anticipation was whipped to a high pitch amongst Londoners of all
classes, and a large turnout was expected. The actual crowds exceeded
every estimate.

Morgan was uneasy as soon as we approached the park gates. We
later found that half a million people had attended the celebration.
Fearing trouble from the unruly multitudes, He tried to dissuade us
from attending. Amy and I were looking forward to the much-advertised
fireworks, and argued strenuously against leaving. He gave in,
admonishing us to stay close to him at all times.

This arrangement worked well all afternoon. We walked slowly up
and down the rows of tents, arm in arm. Puppet shows, gambling,
eating, drinking, and a great deal of ale-fueled horseplay were going
on simultaneously. As the twilight came on and small fireworks
displays blazed rainbows we found it more difficult to stay together.
We moved from Green Park to the larger St. James Park, in search of
more room. Before we knew it people had gathered again in a tightly
packed mob around us. They were trying for a close view of the Chinese
Pagoda on the bridge over the canal. We had no choice but to stay in
place there for the displays scheduled to take place over the pagoda.

The Roman candles, girandoles, jerbs and gillocks were
incomparable. It seemed royalty was good for spraying beautiful
waterfalls of sparks into the sky, if for nothing else. When the top
of the Pagoda began glowing red everyone assumed it was part of the
effects. It wasn't until a worker staggered out, aflame and screaming,
that the truth was realized. The news swept through the packed masses
more swiftly than the fire burned. The Pagoda was on fire, and more
fireworks were stored in it. It was going to explode.

The crowd was irresistible in its movement. We were forced to
travel with it or be swept under the thousands of feet running for the
park boundaries. We were carried away in different directions, but I
felt my arm grasped tightly at the last second, and I was pulled along
in that grasp. It was Amy who had a grip like Grim Death on my wrist.
She kept glancing back to make certain I was firmly on my feet. At one
point a drunken man lurched toward me with his elbow out, preparing to
push me aside so he could pass me by. Amy swung around and shoved him
hard in the direction he was moving, so that he missed me and instead
fell himself. She wouldn't let me pause to see if he made it back onto
his feet. Pulling relentlessly she kept us on a course for a gate set
in the high iron fences around the park. We were one of the first
waves of humanity to arrive there. A lone, scared Guardsman stood
uncertainly on the other side of the gate.

The crowd was clamoring at him to open it.

"Do you have the key?" Amy screamed at him.

He gave a frightened nod, but made no move to open the lock.

"We're not supposed to let anyone in at this gate," he parroted.

I was terrified at how quickly more people were pressing up
against us. We would be crushed or suffocated in minutes if someone
didn't take action.

"You," Amy screamed at a big man who was desperately trying to
shelter a small boy from the mob. "I'll take the boy. You get a few of
these men and lift the gate up. Look," she said, pointing at the sides
of the high gate. "You can lift it up off its hinges and toss it.
Quick."

She grabbed the boy from him and took one of his hands and
placed it on the bars. He yelled for help and a few other men followed
his example. They didn't budge it. Several other people realized what
was being attempted and urged more big men to the front of the group.

"One, two, three!" Amy screamed, trying to co-ordinate the
effort.

On her second try the men understood her intention and heaved
simultaneously. The gate moved that time. On the third frenzied try
the gate rose into the air at least four feet and cleared the hinges.
The stupefied guardsman barely jumped aside to avoid being flattened
by it. We moved through the opening at the same fast pace as before,
but now we were in the broad streets around the park, and the mob
thinned into a non-threatening, milling crowd.

Amy had passed the little boy back to his father. She leaned up
against the street side of the fence breathing rapidly, her face as
pale as a ghost.

"What about Morgan?" she asked me. "What if he was in an unlucky
place in the crowd?"

"We'll find him. I'm sure he's fine," I reassured her. I had
perfect faith in Morgan.

I had just finished the words when I saw her eyes light up at a
sight behind me. That was how I knew Morgan was indeed fine. He rushed
up to us and swept Amy up into an embrace that looked almost bruising.
He was bent over her, his face hidden in her hair, but I could guess
at the emotions he didn't want to make public. Amy's face wore a sad
and confused expression that I attributed to our dreadful experience.

We wouldn't find a free hackney cab within miles of the
festivities, so we began to walk back to Fleet Street. Eventually we
would come across a cab. I thought this would be a perfect time to
make my offer of a position to Amy. It would distract us all from our
recent anxiety and fright.

"I have some news for you both about my plans after Louisa
becomes engaged. She is sure to be snapped up during her first season,
so I shall be at liberty after next spring."

"Don't take the first place available. I can support you for a
while. It would mean a lot to me if you can find something in London,"
Morgan offered.

"As a matter of fact, I have taken the first place offered," I
replied triumphantly. "Lady Shelton has asked me to start and
administer a school for poor girls in the St. Giles parish."

Morgan looked as delighted and proud as I could have wished.

"That will be an enormous amount of work, but no one could do it
better than you," he enthused. "I know how pleased you'll be to set
your own goals for your pupils."

"You're right that it will be a great deal of work," I said,
while I pantomimed bending under a heavy load. "That's why I'm going
to exploit a dear friend and hire Amy to work as my secretary. She can
live there with the household staff while the school is being readied.
Only until you're married of course."

Amy's broad smile was enough answer for me.

"That sounds like a perfect arrangement," Morgan added.

Once again, his own pleased look was a sufficient reply.

"When are you getting married?" I asked. "If Amy leaves before
spring, I'll need another person to supervise the staff until I move
in."

Morgan told me several weeks ago that Amy had finally consented
to marry him. He appeared overjoyed by the prospect, and I expected
them to set a date any day. From their expressions now an observer
would have thought they had suddenly lost their understanding of the
English language.

"I just wanted an idea of when you would be moving out, Amy," I
explained patiently.

Amy positively stuttered her response.

"M. . ., M. . ., I haven't. . ., we don't. . . ."

"We still haven't set a date. There doesn't seem to be any need
to rush things," Morgan interrupted. "What's the hurry? Maybe we'll
wait until next fall."

I was very surprised. I would have been less so if I thought Amy
was the source of delay, still recovering from her mistreatment over
the past years. The sad, confused expression had returned to her face,
and her eyes were suspiciously bright. I didn't believe Amy wanted the
postponement. But Morgan had been the one to insist on the engagement.
It was as though he was content just to secure her loyalty without
accepting the woman herself. Their situation, which I had seen as
settled and happy, now worried me once again.

Chapter 27, An Accident

Sally's Journal, Sept. 10, 1814

Lady Shelton and Louisa traveled from the West End to Bond
Street every Monday and Thursday now, in search of the perfect frocks
and furbelows for Louisa's social debut. They kindly acquitted me of
the duty of accompanying them, so I used the time to visit Morgan.
Often Amy joined us for tea, and we discussed the latest news from
"The Times" or Morgan's progress in tracing Jack Quickill. I privately
doubted whether anything more would ever be learned. Justice had not
been served, but the horrible Panasay had been destroyed and the
blackmail had been stopped. We could take some satisfaction in that.

On September 10 Mrs. Mobley admitted me to Morgan's rooms,
explaining that he had not yet returned from the newspaper offices.
This was not unusual, so I prepared to amuse myself by reading. Before
I had even chosen a book from Morgan' overcrowded shelves there was a
loud, frantic knocking at Mrs. Mobley's front door. Seconds later I
heard Marianne's running footsteps on the stairs, and had the door
open before she reached it.

"Oh, Miss, it's Morgan," she gasped. "He's been in an accident.
It was Lord Derby's carriage in Piccadilly. It hit him when he tried
to cross. He's hurt awful bad. They took him into a house nearby. He's
in terrible pain and calling for you."

We were descending the stairs swiftly while Marianne gave me
these details. A footman in livery liberally festooned with gold braid
was fanning Mrs. Mobley. She was seated on the front step, overcome
with emotion at the news. I was worried and grieved, but determined
not to fail Morgan when he needed me. The footman turned to me as
entered the yard.

"Are you Miss Fox? Lord Derby is distressed beyond measure at
this accident. Your brother stepped right out in front of us. There
was nothing Bob could do."

Here he indicated the coachman, who tipped his hat in my
direction. The poor man had a horrible welt of puckered skin around
one eye, as though someone had used a broken bottle on him in a fight.
I couldn't help wondering if he should be driving a team, since the
scar tissue almost pulled the eye closed, but that wasn't the
important consideration now. The footman went on talking.

"I'm worried about your brother's leg. Sometimes an injury
like that ends in amputation. On the battlefield I've seen it happen
where. . . ."

The street started to revolve around me like a waltz in reverse.
Marianne stepped up and grabbed my arm. She gave the footman a
reproving look. He looked sheepish and became businesslike again.

"Lord Derby wants to do everything he can to assist you and help
with your brother's recovery. I can take you to him immediately."

If I didn't sit down soon I might disgrace myself by fainting
like a greensick girl.

"Thank you. I accept your kind offer," I managed to say.

Marianne opened the carriage door. I climbed in without further
speech and the footman shut it. We were in motion immediately and I
forced myself to think rationally about where I could take Morgan to
nurse him. I would never permit him to go to a hospital. They were
little better than places to die. Mrs. Mobley and I could probably
take care of him in his rooms. I had completed a mental list of
necessary supplies when I started to think we must have gone beyond
Piccadilly. The old-fashioned carriage was entirely closed, with
shuttered windows, so I had no way of seeing where we were. I banged
on the window, and on the ceiling right below where the coachman's
seat would be. No one seemed to hear, or at least no one answered.

Then I noticed for the first time that there was no handle on
the inside of the carriage door. I kicked hard at the door and window
shutters, but they were of heavy wood and didn't give way. When I
thought back over the events preceding this ride, my insides twisted
with new apprehensions. There had been no proof of the story told by
the footman. Suddenly I remembered Amy's simple account of her actions
at the Surrey Docks.

"I had to stop them from killing Morgan, so I tried to cut out
Rattler's eye with the razor."

I had been abducted as easily as any of the feather-brained
heroines in the sensational novels I despise.

**********************************

Morgan's Journal, Sept. 10, 1814

September 10 was a cloudy day. The skies were muddier than usual
with the smoke of thousands of chimneys. On days like this I longed
for the clearer air of the country, but I didn't believe I could ever
give up the daily spectacle of life crowded around me. If I had known
the ultimate price for my time in London I could have given up
anything.

I knew nothing then, and so I was pleased with myself. The
previous day I received information I had sought since Jack Quickill
was driven from his den in St. Giles. My instincts proved correct. He
hadn't died in the fire. There was a new place in Bethnal Green,
popularly called the Garrison, and I believed Quickill ran it.

Amy got the information for me from her friend Moll Hardwick.
Moll's brother, Dick, visited her and begged her to take in his
daughter Nancy. A new brothel had moved into a large old mansion in
the center of the Bethnal Green slum where he lived. Shortly after the
arrival of the new tenants, girls as young as eleven started
disappearing from the area. It was whispered in the gin mills and
taverns that the girls were taken to the Garrison to work, whether
they wished it or no.

As Dick told it, one man boldly knocked at the door of the place
and challenged them to allow him to search there for his daughter.
They sent him off with a polite refusal. He disappeared from the area
the next night. A week later a dredger found him in the Thames near
Wapping. The verdict was that somewhere upstream he fell off the steps
leading down to the river, probably because he was in a drunken
stupor. The inhabitants of Bethnal Green lost interest in confronting
the new residents, but Dick wanted his daughter out of harm's way.

The similarity of the pattern to Quickill's former practices
struck me forcibly. I wanted nothing more to do with Conrad's dramatic
but heavy-handed methods. There had to be alternative solutions to
allowing Quickill to make a farce of our rule of law

While I cursed my powerlessness against Jack Quickill, the small
problems of daily life didn't cease. Sally and Amy had joined forces
with a young curate named Pendleton in planning for Lady Shelton's
school. In short order he developed an attachment to Amy. He came from
a sheltered background, and I believe Amy's air of experience and
knowledge of life appealed to him as much as her pretty face. I felt
for him in his hopeless passion. He was very young, but he appeared to
be intelligent. Even more marvellous, he was a Christian who really
tried to practice Christianity. His ruddy hair belied his mild and
compliant temperament. He gaped and blushed in Amy's presence, and
went to great lengths to please her.

Amy felt sorry for him, and consulted with me on whether she
ought to tell him her history. That would end any thoughts of proposal
he might harbor. No member of the clergy could afford to marry a wife
with such a past. I advised her not to make her history public, since
that might cause Lady Shelton to object to her connection with the
school. When I questioned Sally on the subject she was astonished that
I hadn't thought of the obvious answer. She would inform him that Amy
was engaged to me. For some reason it hadn't occurred to me make our
engagement public, but of course I agreed to her plan. While it
relieved our dread of a declaration from Rev. Pendleton, the knowledge
didn't prevent him from continuing to seek out Amy's company for the
sweet torment of beholding what he could never possess.

I was very happy that I got to see Amy everyday. I looked
forward to seeing her placed in the new school. Even as a boy I had
sensed that Amy and I could share everything---discussion,
disagreement, laughter and tenderness. We worked together as though
the ten-year separation had never occurred. When we married we would
live together and enjoy the same shared purpose. I was assured of her
place in my life, so I felt no immediate need to formalize our bond in
marriage, or to consummate it physically. We had the rest of our
lives. This last barrier was perhaps the one thing we couldn't talk
about. But I was certain the passage of time would take care of my
difficulties with accepting her past. I never even considered the
painful prospect of living without her.

As usual I fought daily with Mr. Griffith over the extent to
which I would be able to publish the truth in "The Times." Stories
were suppressed on a regular basis due to a lack of sufficient proof,
or simply because they would make some rich or noble individual angry.
My blunt words were often replaced with measured, conciliatory
phrases, drained of most meaning.

Today, after another long argument, I went off to Newgate to
write moralistically about the hangings that were scheduled to take
place in front of enthusiastic crowds. This would make me late for tea
with Sally and Amy. I spoke briefly to Horace in front of "The Times"
offices and complained as one does to old friends. Then I waved
farewell to him from the hackney that I was lucky enough to catch
there.

That afternoon, as I had feared, I walked down Fleet Street
almost two hours late for tea. Mrs. Mobley and Marianne were pacing
agitatedly in the small front court. Usually they were busy inside. I
looked up and down the street for a sign of anything wrong. Amy was
standing across the road from Mrs. Mobley's. I saw her for only for a
few seconds at several intervals. The traffic kept passing between us,
so I'd get a glimpse, a curricle or wagon would cut off my view, and
then I'd get another quick look. A stray ray of sunshine was being
reflected on her from somewhere. Then Mrs. Mobley called out to me.
When I looked back Amy was gone. My eyes were playing tricks. I must
have seen a different woman. Soon every red-headed woman would exist
only to remind me of her.

Chapter 28, A Rescue at a High Price

Sally's Journal, Sept. 10, 1814

My first reaction was self-castigation at my stupidity. When I
had scolded myself thoroughly I considered the possibilities. They
would kill me, as they had been unable to do with Morgan and Amy.
Unless they intended to use me to bargain with. I knew that anger
would be more useful than fear, and deliberately fostered my
resentment at the deceit and injustice of their behavior.

By the time we arrived at our destination I was prepared to play
the outraged innocent for any advantage it could gain me. But my
spirit quailed at the cold efficiency of the men around me. When the
carriage door opened two men reached inside and each one grabbed me by
an arm. They hustled me into a large building through an enclosed
walkway. My plan to scream or wave for assistance was promptly
thwarted. Once I was inside they released me and the footman
maintained his courteous manner.

"Please follow me to a waiting room. You can see your brother
very shortly. The doctor is with him now."

That kept me quiet. For the first time I considered the
possibility that Morgan might actually be here and under their power
even if the accident story was a ruse. I might have to save us both.

A neatly dressed maid entered the room at once with a tea
service, a pitcher of wine, and a glass.

"You must need something to restore your nerves, dear. Have a
glass of wine. Or if you prefer you can have some tea."

I remembered what I had heard of Amy's story from Morgan. It
would be safer to take a cobra by the tail than drink the refreshments
offered here. Then the full dimensions of my situation became clear to
me. They didn't intend to kill me. I was going to be the cure for the
Pox for some rich, depraved man. Probably more than one.

Perhaps all women have considered the possibility of being
forced to choose between death and dishonor. I had, and sometimes I
pictured myself dying in a brave battle, and other times I submitted,
to live for my revenge. The grubby, shameful reality of the situation
left me unable to think clearly, much less nobly. I felt hot and then
cold. My breathing was so quick that my hands tingled. I approached
the maid with my arms outstretched. I had no clear idea of what I was
going to do.

"Please ma'am. I need to leave. Can you show me the way out?" I
begged her.

My face must have been fearful. She looked alarmed and backed
out, leaving the drinks on a table. I heard the key turn in the lock
on the outside of the door. There were no windows in the room. I tried
the only other door and found it opened into a chamber with a bed.
There was nothing that appeared suitable for use as a weapon. I
returned to the outer room and tried to think. Terror was creeping up
on me and winning out over every other thought and feeling.

I had been left alone for at least half an hour when I heard
voices approaching the door. My heart leapt as I recognized Amy's
voice, speaking in the whine of an uneducated woman of the streets. I
had heard her lapse into that speech only a few times, and only when
she addressed a Covent Garden acquaintance.

The door opened and there she was, wearing a scoop bonnet so
deep it almost concealed her face. She carried a basket with jars of
messy looking liquids and some things that looked like sausage skins.
In the shelter of the bonnet she laid her finger on her lips
warningly. Then she spoke to the maid.

"No, I don't need a bit of help. Don't worry, I'll persuade her.
You won't go against your own best interests, will you dolly? Jack
will be furious if she isn't ready in time, so you'd best leave us to
it."

We both stood motionless until we heard the key turn once more.
Then Amy began removing her bonnet and gown.

"We only have a little time. Switch clothes with me."

"But. . .how did you know?"

"Don't just stand there. Give me your clothes."

She wouldn't talk until I started removing my dress.

"I got to Morgan's lodgings right after you left. Mrs. Mobley
told me about the accident, the carriage, and the coachman with the
terrible scar. But I'd seen Horace on Fleet street just before I
arrived. He told me Morgan had gone to Newgate. I knew he hadn't been
hurt. Just yesterday we found out about Jack Quickill taking over a
house in Bethnal Green. When I heard about the scarred coachman I
thought I'd try Jack's new place first. I know how they think, so I
pretended to be one of the women who help with the false cure."

"What are we going to do?"

Amy put my clothes on as she spoke, and helped me dress in hers.
Her gown pulled tight and rode up above my ankles, but I managed to
fasten it. My dress pooled around her feet. She hiked it up through
the sash.

"You're going to leave to get help. I'm going to stay here and
pretend to be you until help comes. You're in Bethnal Green. Go down
stairs with the maid and turn left at the front door. Go straight down
the street until you can't go any farther. Then turn right and go
again until there's a fork. Take the left fork and then turn left when
the road ends. You'll come out on Shoreditch Road. There may be a
hackney cab still waiting. The driver wouldn't come back into these
streets. If the driver waited you can go to Lady Shelton's. Otherwise
wait there. Mrs. Mobley sent her boy for the Bow Street Runners. The
abduction of Lady Shelton's governess will get their attention. You
can help them find their way if you're waiting at the crossroads.
Morgan may get there soon also. I left instructions with Mrs. Mobley
for him."

"But Amy. They'll hurt you. I can't let you be hurt instead of
me."

She grinned and winked at me, while she tied the bonnet closely
around my face. My shawl covered her hair.

"You must know I'm used to what they do."

"If you could stand it so could I," I insisted, trying not to
show her how scared I was.

"Of course you could," she agreed.

Then she looked sad and serious.

"But what about afterwards?"

Then her tone became joking again.

"You have to meet that American and marry him. Remember your
fortune? So go. Tell Morgan. . . ."

Amy paused here and her features twisted out of control for a
few seconds.

"We'll be back for you Amy. You can give him any message in
person," I asserted.

I needed to believe that Amy would be fine so I could flee that
horrible place with a clear conscience. Only one of us could leave,
and she had made the decision for me when she exchanged clothes before
telling me the plan. I had to be hopeful against all my instincts. She
smiled her agreement with me.

"You're right, but tell him for me that I'm very happy today. I
haven't been as happy since I was in Chitterton with him all those
years ago."

She gave me a quick embrace and then called out for the maid
through the door.

"She's in the bed, all ready. The wine will keep her biddable.
I'll be on my way now."

Then she started coughing, and gestured me to start coughing.
She disappeared into the bedroom. I choked and wheezed my way down the
stairs and out into the street behind a handkerchief. The reluctance
of the hackney driver to enter the parish became clear immediately.
The people here were very poor. Drunks and cripples shared the stoops
with children trying to sell limp flowers or withered fruit. Tiny gin
shops did a brisk business, while a few unquenchable souls swept out
areaways or hung dingy laundry in windows. The ubiquitous prostitutes
clustered on corners and simpered at passing men.

While I tried to keep Amy's directions in mind, I noticed a few
hard looking women watching me speculatively. Quickening my pace, I
walked until I reached the fork. The women followed me to the left and
I walked faster. I had heard of gangs of thieves who would literally
steal the clothes off the back of the unwary. Taking advantage of a
noisy altercation inside a ground floor room that drew their
attention; I ducked into an alley and hid behind some heaps of rubbish
and garbage. Something dead in the mess created an almost intolerable
stench, but that made it all the better for concealment. I heard the
argument in the street about my whereabouts. They made only a half-
hearted search of the alley before giving up and looking for easier
prey. Fifteen minutes later I peeked out and decided to try my route
again. I missed one turn, when the road I was on ended, but appeared
to continue. It was a new road, and I had to retrace my steps.

Just before I reached Shoreditch, some of the same women who
pursued me earlier caught sight of me and started after me at a run.
If they got to me before I was out on the broader and more public
Shoreditch Road I had no hope. I started running too, and came out
onto the road almost under a galloping horse's hooves. I twisted and
threw myself backward onto my hands, flat on my face in the road.
Suddenly I heard Morgan yelling at someone to get back, saying that he
had pistols.

"Amy?" he questioned, in a voice raw with fear.

I knew he must have recognized her dress and bonnet. I quickly
rolled over and got to my feet.

"It's me!" I cried, and flung myself into his arms. He hugged me
as tightly as though he would never release me.

"Sally, Jesus Christ, I was afraid I'd never see you again. Are
you all right? Did any one hurt you? Those women. . . ."

"They didn't touch me."

"How did you get away? You're a remarkable girl."

He still held me close, breathing great sighs of relief at this
conclusion to the abduction. I knew that the truth about my escape
would distress him all over again. I had to tell him so we could save
Amy.

"Amy came and switched places with me. She's waiting for us and
the Bow Street Runners to come rescue her."

"What? She's inside the Garrison? No, you must be mistaken. She
wouldn't stay there," he answered quickly.

"Yes, it was the only way, Morgan. They were going to use me. . .
you know, the way they did Amy before. She said she wouldn't mind it. I
know she will mind, but she insisted. I didn't have a choice really."

I defended myself to myself as much as to Morgan.

After a final convulsive hug Morgan released me. His face had
gone gray and bleak as a bitter winter day.

"Too many of them know her. They'll kill her. I can't leave you
here," he agonized. "You'll have to come with me."

With that he helped me mount the horse he had borrowed and then
swung himself up behind me. He urged the horse as fast as he could
back along the way I had come.

When we arrived the front door of the place was ajar. Fearing a
trap, we entered very carefully. Morgan held his pistols ready and
preceded me by a few feet. We moved very quietly at first, but we
encountered no one. As Morgan searched the apparently deserted
building I stayed right behind him. While we wanted to find Amy, we
were terrified that we would find Amy. Since my departure the
situation here had changed dramatically. And the silence in the
building was almost absolute.

Room by room we went through the huge old structure, starting on
the bottom floor. When we reached the room on the second floor where I
had been imprisoned, and found it empty, I let myself hope a little.

On the third floor, we saw movement in one room and again my
spirits lifted briefly. The cause was a disoriented young woman who
hadn't realized that everyone else had vacated the premises. Morgan
questioned her in a voice that shook with fear and urgency. She was
too befuddled to answer. We quickly moved on to the next room where
the discovery we dreaded awaited us.

In the corner, almost too small and crumpled to be seen at a
glance, we found Amy. She was curled up on her side, her hands placed
protectively over her face. A closer look revealed terrible injuries,
probably inflicted by the heavy wooden staff tossed into the opposite
corner of the room. Her body didn't have the right shape in places,
and there was far too much blood. I was unable to force myself to look
carefully and analyze the wrongness in her limbs and rib cage. From
the bloody saturation of her gown in front I thought she must have
been cut as well as beaten. I saw enough to convince me that she was
no longer alive. Morgan hadn't yet absorbed that information.

He crouched down beside her and started to remove her hands from
her face. I tried to move quickly to stop him and spare him the sight
of her maimed features. My concern was unnecessary---her face was
unmarked, and even peaceful in its expression. Unfortunately this
circumstance seemed to convince Morgan that she was still living. He
knelt down, stroked her hair away from her cheeks, and started talking
to her. He spoke almost in a whisper, as though he feared to startle
her awake.

"Amy. Amy it's me, Morgan. Open your eyes. You're safe now."

His words fell into the deepest silence either of us had ever
known. It would be my place to make him understand what I didn't even
want to know. I knelt on the other side of Amy's body in the blood
pooled underneath her. Morgan didn't see me at all, so I reached down
and tried to take his hand. He allowed me to take his left hand, while
he kept his right on Amy's hair.

"She's hurt very badly, Sally. What can I do? Please tell me
what to do."

Never before had my self-confident, protective brother turned to
me for direction. Now that he had, I didn't know what to answer. He
turned back to Amy.

"I need to tell you what I've been thinking. We ought to get
married on St. Valentine's Day. That will give us time to find some
rooms, or even a house, before Sally gets the school started and needs
you every day."

I made myself say the awful words.

"You can't do anything for her dearest. She couldn't live with
those injuries. It's too late. Amy's not really here anymore. Try to
understand. She isn't suffering now."

He remained motionless, except that his shoulders heaved with
breathing that sounded as effortful and strained as any I had heard in
the workhouse from a pauper on his deathbed.

"I'm not a child, Sally. I can see she isn't suffering. But what
about me?" Morgan's voice rose in pitch and volume as he continued.
"She's left me here and I'm suffering. I'm suffering and I can't live
with that injury either."

I saw his gaze travel to the pistols he left lying on the floor.
I was scared of them, but I picked them up and dropped them into my
skirt. Tucking it up into the sash made an impromptu pocket. Folding
my hands firmly over the bundle, I looked him in the face.

"Not now. You can have them back later, when you've had time to
think."

He scared me by laughing. What would I do if he became
hysterical? How long would it be before some help from the Runners
reached us?

"That's what I told her. I needed time. To think. I think I've
already taken too much time to think. Everything important passed me
by while I was thinking. Do you believe Death will do that? No, Death
will be there punctually to claim a life wasted in thinking and never
doing what really mattered."

I was frightened that he was going to lose all control.

"Are you sorry Amy saved me?"

I knew I shouldn't have asked it, but I had asked it anyway, in
a voice that trembled with tears. It wasn't as though Morgan had been
offered a choice. Amy had taken the decision into her own hands, for
her own reasons. It was like a wife asking her husband if he would
save her or their child if both were drowning. Pointless and
unanswerable. Now, however, it did serve the purpose of bringing
Morgan back to his senses. He looked at me wildly for a moment, and
then appeared to actually see me.

"No, you can't believe that. It's just that. . .she's part of
me. Without her it feels like I don't belong here in the world. And it
hurts so badly. You don't know how bad it is Sally. I hurt her, I was
cruel to her, and now I can never make up for it. Never."

I couldn't bear the self-recrimination on his countenance.
Swinging the burden of the pistols to my side, I put my arms around
his shoulders.

"No, Morgan. You were good to her, so good. She loved you, and
you loved her back. There was nothing more you needed to do. If you
were short with her, or preoccupied with your work, she understood and
forgave you. I'm certain of it."

Morgan removed my arms from around him and shook his head
slowly. He leaned down and spoke again, very low, to Amy.

"Where are you now? Can't I see you again? I need to tell you I
was wrong."

Then he looked up at me again.

"I knew she was gone before we found her. I didn't admit it to
myself, but inside I knew. When I got back to my rooms Mrs. Mobley and
Marianne were waiting outside the front door, looking down the walk
for me. I saw them and wondered what kept them outside away from their
work. Then I glanced across the street and saw Amy. It was only for a
few seconds. I looked away and when I looked back she was gone. I
thought I mistook someone else for her."

Shamelessly I tried to use this incident to comfort him, even
though I judged it was just his imagination helped along by wishful
thinking.

"There, that shows she forgave you before passing on."

"Dishonesty doesn't become you, Sally," he answered sternly.
"You don't believe I really saw anything. Neither do I. I noticed Mrs.
Mobley's unexpected presence and worried about what it meant. My brain
created a vision to reassure me."

Then he paused and looked confused.

"But somehow I knew," he added, looking more perplexed.

The young woman from the next room wandered over and took in the
tableau. She was strangely unmoved by the bloody horror of the scene.
I concluded she still felt the effects of whatever drink or drug
constituted her nepenthe.

"Can you tell me what happened?" I asked the woman, who was
probably no more than sixteen herself.

"There was a great commotion a while ago. . .I don't mind
exactly when. Somebody was dragged down the hall and into the room
here. Jack was fierce, in a rare temper. I took care not to be
noticed. His voice is usually quiet, but it was cracking like a whip.
For him, he said a lot.

"'I don't doubt he'll have the Bow Street Runners here and shut
this place down too. But not before I take care of you. And I'll be
long gone before anyone gets here. You've gotten in my way for the
last time,' says he. 'Your little trick cost me the revenge I really
wanted for Morgan's meddling. I lost fifteen years of work setting up
a system to blackmail the right people. Your crusading pimp wouldn't
have gotten far without you.'

"I couldn't hear what the woman said; she spoke too low. Then I
heard Jack again.

"'Your husband-to-be! Is that what he told you? And you believed
him? He was just using you to get access to the seamy side of London.
You don't seriously think any man would bind himself by a vow to get
what was once on offer to anyone with three shillings and a glass of
gin?'"

I wouldn't have thought Morgan could lose any more color than he
already had. He sank lower over Amy, put his hands on the floor in the
now sticky blood, and whispered so softly into her ear that I could no
longer distinguish the words.

The girl yawned and scratched as she went on with her account.

"Then I heard noise like furniture being knocked around and a
shriek, like someone got hurt. And then I heard Jack again.

"'I'm not so easy to catch off guard as Rattler. You. Finish
that job quickly. We've got to get out of here.'

"There were steps going away, then there were a lot of thumps
and cracks and banging around, but it didn't last long. There weren't
no more screams or such. I heard a new voice, a man.

"'For Christ's sake, she's dead. So she cut you, you got your
revenge. You can't kill her any deader than dead. We've got to get out
of here like Jack said. The Runners will be here soon. Without our pet
judges, something of a hanging nature might stick. Come on.'

"Then all the steps went away. I finished what was in my bottle.
I haven't done anything to hang for."

"You'd better leave anyway, Miss," I advised her. "Justice isn't
always wise and reliable."

Morgan was almost lying on the floor, now resting his cheek
against Amy's. I didn't try to pull him away---at least he wasn't
threatening violence or the loss of his reason. The situation had
taken on an air of unreality, as though I were frozen in one of those
nightmares where the dreamer knows that something must be done but
cannot manage to accomplish it. I wondered if I was going to go mad
myself. After a time I heard the welcome voices of Horace, Rev.
Pendleton and some other men coming up the stairs.

The poor minister was clearly shocked by the unprecedented
violence of the scene. He stood as still as a statue while two of the
men pulled an unresisting Morgan to his feet and walked him down the
stairs. I followed quickly, trying to organize my thoughts. I would
accompany him back to his rooms and then send a note begging Lady
Shelton to take him in temporarily.

When we took our places in the carriage used by the Bow Street
Runners I sat by Morgan and propped him up with my shoulder. He seemed
barely conscious, and I wasn't sure he could maintain his own balance.
We were both stained with Amy's blood, a horrible reminder of the
scene upstairs in the Garrison. Nothing could be done about that until
we could change and bathe.

I looked out the window for what I hoped would be the last time
at this hell on earth. The narrow, stinking streets were as dark as if
they were at the bottom of a well. Suffering and cruelty filled them
like fetid water. It was as though the infernal regions had been
incarnated in the middle of a modern city. As we pulled away I heard
an inhuman howl from high up above somewhere in the Garrison. I
couldn't identify the source or the emotion. I thought it made a
fitting accompaniment to our leave taking.

Something had been pushed out of Morgan's pocket when he sat
down, and I bent down to retrieve it from the floor. It was a
beautiful leather-bound book, but when I opened it there was nothing
written inside. I looked up and was startled to find Morgan's eyes
fixed on the book with a fierce intensity.

"That's the new journal I bought for Amy today. She used all the
pages in the old one. She won't get the chance to put anything into
this new one. But I'm going to use it to record the story of how I
brought her murderers to justice."

Chapter 29, A Revenge

Morgan's Journal, October 25, 1814

The first execution was a primitive, sloppy, stupid,
unsatisfying purgation. My preparation consisted of weeks spent
drinking in different taverns each night, most frequently in the
Surrey Docks and Seven Dials areas. The brandy I took in carefully
measured doses gave me the energy I needed to keep going. Solid food
held no appeal for me anymore, although I forced something down each
day in obedience to the laws of nature.

I sat or stood alone with my drink, hunched over the talisman I
carried---Amy's journal. In it I recorded descriptions of the people I
saw, the times I saw them, and the people they spoke to. No one
bothered me. They seemed to sense the careless violence I harbored
close, very close, to the surface. The pistol handles protruding from
my belt undoubtedly helped keep troublemakers at a distance. Sooner or
later I expected to cross paths with one of Quickill's thugs. When I
did, I would plan and carry out the first step in securing justice for
Amy.

On October 25th I was making the final visit of my night to the
"Hand of Glory." It was a den of pickpockets, footpads and fences. I
don't know if the name was a saturnine allusion by the tavern owner to
the probable fate of his patrons. It might have been as aptly named
"The Finish," for it was one of the last places to close each night. I
looked up from my notes to see Rattler sitting across the room with a
tankard in his hand.

According to my vague but extensive scheme I should follow him
in order to track down Boodle, Jack Quickill and perhaps other men
involved in Amy's murder. I should make full use of what I learned to
locate the other guilty parties. Then I could capture Rattler, accuse
him and dispatch him with the dutiful efficiency of a public hangman.
I hadn't counted on my reaction at seeing him.

He laughed and yelled playful insults at acquaintances as though
he had no self-doubts gnawing away at his insides. His scar should
have reminded him constantly of his misdeeds, but he showed no signs
of a struggle with remorse. Rattler drank heartily and ate fried
oysters, while the blood gathered and thundered in my ears.

I left immediately and stationed myself in an alley to the south
of the Hand of Glory. There was no particular reason to think he would
turn south. I wasn't reasoning clearly. The knife I usually carried
alongside my pistols was in my hand. I had just enough sense left to
know that noise would be bad. My coat was wrapped around my left arm.
It was a chill night, but it might have been a balmy summer evening
for all the cold I felt, as a savage heat flooded my body. The only
light in the street was the oil lamp outside the tavern.

Rattler left alone, carrying his own light. That was another
circumstance I couldn't have counted on. When he was almost past the
narrow passageway I called him by name.

"Rattler. I have some news for you."

He was ready with his long walking stick, but I was more than
ready. His skill wasn't great. It was the weakness or incapacity of
his victims that made him effective. I had the energy of battle-fury
and the indifference to pain that can accompany it. Several blows from
his stick fell on my left arm while I learned how he dealt them. When
he began the arc for the fourth I lunged straight in and low. It was a
long knife, and I angled it up under his ribs. He crumpled slowly, a
look of surprise on his face. It dismayed me to see he wasn't going to
suffer much. I grabbed his coat and yelled in his uncomprehending
face.

"I'm sending you to hell for killing Amy, you bastard."

I don't believe in hell, but I hoped the prospect would terrify
him. He just looked at me as though I were gibbering nonsense. It was
only after he slumped over into a dead weight that I realized my
mistake. He didn't know who Amy was. He might have remembered the name
Scarlet. The guttering lamp hadn't provided enough illumination for
him to recognize me.

It was curious how little blood there was. I saw a little
dribble from his mouth and nose. The speed of his death indicated that
the knife reached his heart, but the wound seeped instead of flowing
with blood. I had a vague idea that the lack of blood was a good
thing. It had something to do with me escaping.

Voices outside the tavern snapped me back to my senses. I blew
the lamp out and stood still while a few men turned north on the lane.
My luck had to be running out. As their steps faded I wiped the blade
on my shirt, replaced my coat and walked unhurriedly through dark,
empty streets back to my rooms.

It had been over so quickly. During the long walk back I started
to wonder if I imagined the whole thing. Surely important lives didn't
end that swiftly and unceremoniously. He was important only for the
damage he did, but the magnitude of that damage lent him a great deal
of weight from my perspective. Perhaps I dreamed my revenge after a
few more brandies than the allotted number.

I wished so much to dream of Amy, as I used to, but I never did.
Horace told me it was because I drank too much. He claimed that doing
so makes deep, dreaming sleep impossible. Without the help of strong
drink I wouldn't sleep at all. Anyway he had to be wrong, because I
had nightmares almost every night.

Rev. Pendleton said he had a delightful dream of gathering
flowers in a heavenly meadow with Amy. She had wings. Maybe he thought
he was comforting me. In life that occupation didn't appeal much to
her, but I didn't tell him that. She liked to leave the flowers to
grow and die and scatter their seed, instead of arranging them,
already dead, in bowls or vases.

If I met Amy in a dream I wouldn't smile and admire her flower
arrangements. I'd shake her as hard as I could and scream my questions
at her again and again.

"Did you do it on purpose? Did you put yourself in danger to
'solve this dilemma?' Wasn't there any way to give me a little more
time? I just needed to understand how utterly trivial my qualms about
your sad past were compared to your eternal absence. Why couldn't I
have a little more time? Damn you to hell Amy, for the sentence you
put on me."

No, I wouldn't say that. I'd beg her forgiveness for all my sins
of commission and omission.

It wasn't until after her murder that I understood the finality
she ascribed to my rejection of her lovemaking at Hampstead. Before
she left my rooms for the Garrison that last day, she left her journal
with Mrs. Mobley, instructing her to give it to me if Amy were unable
to claim it. She was fully aware of the risk she was taking. It was
days before I could bring myself to read it, and more days before I
recovered from doing so. It forced me to revise my memories of the
last two months. I thought we were waiting for more wisdom and a
better time to consummate our love. I had my work to offer me
diversion from personal problems. In the meantime she was considering
a solution that would separate us to achieve my happiness.

The most hellish part of my nightmare is that her strategy for
saving Sally was flawless. How can I wish she hadn't tried? Hadn't
succeeded? There may have been no thoughts of self-destruction at all.
If Sally had still been inside upstairs when I arrived at the Garrison
it might have been too late to protect her health and dignity.
Quickill might even have murdered her instantly out of spite when he
saw no escape for himself. Amy extracted her neatly from danger. I
failed by arriving too late to give Amy a chance. And it was my
arrogance in pursuing Jack Quickill so relentlessly that put them both
in peril to begin with.

On arriving home I checked my shirt for blood to confirm the
reality of my experience. There was enough to require washing it out
in a pot of cold water with some lye soap. My left arm was deeply
bruised but unbroken. I blamed my sleeplessness on its ache and
prescribed more brandy as treatment. A period of unconsciousness would
enable me to get through tomorrow. I still reported for "The Times."
It would be a difficult day.

Chapter 30, A Crime Thwarted

Morgan's Journal, Nov. 20, 1814

I promised myself that the next execution would be properly
strategized---a cool and deliberate act of justice. That didn't work
out as planned either, but it happened in a much different way than
the first. I take credit for stopping a crime in the case of Boodle.

During November I found myself increasingly less able to
tolerate the brandy I had come to depend on. My nights were endless.
If I ever slept I woke from nightmares in sheets wet with sweat. I
started to roam the streets at night instead of torturing myself by
trying and failing to achieve sleep. That was why I found myself in
the Covent Garden market square in the brightening hour before dawn.
The carters and country dwellers who brought produce from the gardens
around London were setting up their stands along the walls. I
inspected the pyramids of still damp vegetables and remembered when
they would have looked appealing.

The posture of a man holding a lamp in the area of Russell
Street caught my eye. He was talking excitedly to a girl who looked up
at him with her eyes almost as wide open as her mouth. She might have
been thirteen. He carefully kept his body between her and the group of
farmers piling onions and leeks on tables some fifty yards away. The
girl wore a dress that seemed to be cut down from a brocade with a
long waist, a style that was popular thirty years ago. It was common
to see unsophisticated country women making practical use of old but
good material in this way.

I walked casually closer to the pair and heard a familiar voice.

"The gentlemen come to the theater in a barouche, with seats
upholstered in velvet. The show is aristocratic, with songs and
tragedy and love scenes. Then each gentleman looks for a beautiful
woman, such as yourself, to take to supper. Sometimes there's
royalty. . . ."

I turned away before Boodle could see me. The girl was
beautiful, with a heart-shaped face and a rose petal complexion
enhanced by Irish dark hair and blue eyes. She could probably command
fifty pounds a night from novelty-mad young bucks until someone
younger and fresher replaced her. Her pimp would get it all. I looked
around the square, hoping that someone would be looking for her.
Another glance at Boodle established that he was checking for the same
thing. I saw him gallantly put his coat around her shoulders and begin
walking down Russell Street toward Charles. There were a number of
bagnios on Charles Street.

I followed them at a short distance, wandering across the road a
bit, as though feeling the effects of my claret. When he urged her
into a dark doorway I swiftly followed. There was no one stirring in
the place. Perhaps they were all sleeping off the effects of the
evening. Boodle and the girl had reached the first landing when they
heard me running up the steps behind them. I reached the landing
before he reacted.

"Do I owe you money?" he asked, with fear in his voice.

What a coward he was when he faced an equal adversary.

"You owe me. You," I said to the girl. "Leave here. Go back to
your friends in the market square. This man was going to murder you."

Whether she believed me or not she tossed his coat on the
landing, ran down the stairs and out the door. Boodle was trying to
bargain with me.

"I'll have it for you by Thursday next, I swear."

"You'll never be able to get it for me. I want payment in kind.
Hold up the lamp, Boodle."

I grinned at him in the light cast up in my face. Recognition
came over his features, followed instantly by fear. He began backing
away from me. I reached out and grabbed the lamp, because I saw what
was going to happen. He tripped on the coat at the edge of the landing
and fell heavily to the bottom of the half flight. I was there with
him before he could clear his head and get up. I took him by the hair
and held him in place.

"This isn't a boxing match or a cock fight. There's nothing
sporting about it. This is an execution for Amy's murder. You called
her Scarlet."

He probably couldn't really focus on what I was saying. The
knife I held in front of his face claimed all his attention. But I
don't think he was really human with a conscience to appeal to anyway.
I yanked his head back and slashed his throat to the backbone.

This time there was a tide of blood, but I had taken care to
place myself behind and above him on the stairs. When I was satisfied
he was dead I wiped my knife once more and walked out through a back
passage. The way led to a backyard enclosed by an old stone wall.
Scaling it landed me in a narrow alley opening into Drury Lane. From
there I returned to my rooms.

I felt no more guilt than I had when I took part in the autumn
slaughter of sheep and pigs on Cousin Edward's farm. These murders
were a source of peace, not remorseful nightmares. My guilt was
interwoven intricately with the virtuous pursuits of love and work. I
could never find release from it.

Chapter 31, An Acquaintance Renewed

Morgan's Journal, December 4, 1814

Early in December I started worrying that time was running out.
Despite my antipathy for Conrad and his ways, I would have to turn to
him for the information I needed. I had known for a long time where to
find him. On the 4th of December I was waiting at one o'clock in the
morning when he returned from some ball or supper in his carriage.
When I heard his odd, sliding gait on the cobblestones of the square I
left the shadows and joined him before he reached his door.

"Do you remember me?" I spoke out of the darkness.

He didn't jump as much as I would have under the circumstances.
Only a casual glance around for his manservant betrayed his anxiety.
Fletch was still giving directions to the coach driver.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

"The Panasay, Jack Quickill, Jack Cockrell. The silent woman.
She's very silent now."

"I heard. I'm sorry."

He unlocked his door and I pushed past him, continuing into the
sitting room where a fire readied for his arrival burned brightly. Now
I could see his handsome face, worried and calculating. We sat on
benches on opposite sides of the fireplace.

"You don't look very well yourself," he remarked.

The fever that consumed me nightly had mounted as usual during
the last few hours. My clothes hung loosely, and my face was colorless
except for the unhealthy flush on each cheek.

"Isn't this look all the rage now? Doomed and damned, but
dangerous. I'm well enough to do what needs to be done. You've got to
give him to me."

"Who?"

"You know who. Jack."

"What makes you think I know how to do that?"

"You'd better figure it out if you don't. Because I'll expose
you if you fail. I've heard you're already in trouble. Debt. Social
disgrace. Do you want to be imprisoned for arson? Don't bother
threatening me. I've left information with a colleague. When he
follows the trail it'll lead to you. You need me to remove the trail."

He didn't want to answer me directly, so he tried a diversion.

"Did you figure out that there was evidence inside the Panasay
that implicated me in things that would ruin me? He started
blackmailing me. I needed someone like you to be blamed in the right
circles. Please believe me that I never thought they'd attack your
family. What do think of my theory now?"

"I don't care about your theory one way or the other. Just give
me Jack."

"Humor me and listen. There's a plot to assassinate Wellington.
He's the one element that can tip the balance of power for a decisive
victory over Napoleon. In two weeks Jack will travel to Paris and take
up residence across the street from Wellington's quarters. Did you
know that fanatics have already bungled two attempts on his life? But
he's a brave idiot, he takes few precautions. I'm told Jack's uniquely
qualified for this mission. Shall you and I become players again and
stop him?

"I'm going to stop him. Alone, and for my own reasons."

"Are you capable?"

"Tell me where he is."

"There's a shooting party at Lord Eaton's country home in East
Leicestershire. Most of the guests were asked for social reasons. One
is practicing seriously. Lord Eaton asked him as a favor to a
gentleman who has in interest in Continental affairs."

"How will I know which one?"

"It's John Cochran this time. He looks like a basset hound and
sucks on a pipe every waking hour. His personality has all the
animation of an Elgin marble. Actually he's more like a shark-cold,
fast and deadly."

"Good night," I told him, preparing to stand up and leave.

He gave a shudder and spoke again.

"You know I'm to be married soon. It feels like a sentence to
the hulks hanging over my head. I keep postponing it. She's getting
desperate to bring me up to scratch."

I laughed.

"Don't give up. Procrastination can lead into a permanent
arrangement."

"Maybe a prison sentence wouldn't be as bad as marriage," he
intoned tragically, staring at a polished yellow skull on the
mantelpiece.

"So don't get married," I said.

I could scarcely bear his posing.

"But I have to. Get married. It's the only thing that can
protect me socially under the circumstances. Her goodness will atone
for my sins."

"Then she must be very good indeed. I pity the poor woman."

"At least you've still got your sister."

"You'd still have your sister if you hadn't abused the
relationship. Don't bother calling a servant. I know my way out. Good
night."

"Why don't you stay and have a drink? I have nightmares that
keep me from sleep," he said importantly, as though announcing some
unique affliction that merited my concern.

"I guess we've earned our nightmares."

With that I left him. I'd put his name in this journal except
that I'm sorry for his family. I wouldn't expose them to the danger of
revenge from the shadowy elite that influences the events around us.
Because no matter what I told Conrad, I believe his theory now.

Chapter 32, A Country House Visit

Morgan's Journal, Dec. 10 through Dec. 24, 1814

I sold my books to pay the expenses of going after Quickill.
There was other money, but I had to reserve it for Sally's future. The
tailor was astonished at the clothes I ordered. He couldn't understand
why a young man wanted the old-fashioned breeches, shirts and frock
coat I specified. I told him it was a joke a young friend and I were
going to play on his father. That made my order for a powdered wig
less conspicuously strange.

Mr. Griffith showed no surprise when I gave him my letter of
resignation. It had been weeks since I'd been even adequate in my
position. He looked sad and sympathetic, telling me that he hoped I'd
return when my health improved. Writing for "The Times" once seemed
like the most important attainment on earth. Now quitting was just a
minor postscript to the rest of my life.

When I looked into the location of the Eaton county seat I
found it was only ten miles cross-country from Belvoir House in
Rutland. This was an occurrence I could turn to my advantage. The
family of the Marquis of Granby was holding the largest, most elegant
house party ever conceived to celebrate his christening in two weeks.
The Prince Regent would be there, along with the Duke of York, and
dozens of other celebrated members of the highest society. The
magnitude and rarity of the occasion could serve as a cover for
unusual activities. Among all the visitors, temporary servants and men
making deliveries of supplies, I wouldn't be notable, even on a sleepy
rural estate. All I needed was one day.

I couldn't decide if I should find some significance in the fact
that this was the height of the fox hunting season.

I arrived in Strathern at eight o'clock in the morning of
December 10th after an all night ride from London. The trip was an
ordeal I thought I might not survive. My weakness increased each day.
I was shocked to see how natural the white wig looked when I tried it
on the week before. The hollows in my cheeks and under my eyes made me
almost unrecognizable. It could have been my father looking out of the
glass at me.

There was a local carriage for hire at the White Horse Coaching
Inn. My absurdly large tip earned me limitless respect from the
coachman. He delivered me to the doors of Eaton House at noon, and
carried my bags for me with a servile air. I had two fine leather bags
containing a sparse but elegant selection of clothing. Most important
I had a generous supply of pound notes to be liberally distributed
among the servants at Eaton House. Horace had created letters of
introduction so impressive in their seals, size and paper quality that
even the officious footman refrained from sneering.

"I need to see your master on a highly confidential matter," I
hold him authoritatively. "He received a letter last week introducing
me."

When the footman returned I was immediately shown into the
Duke's estate office, where he sat conferring with his bailiff.

"I received no letter concerning you last week. These letters
recommend you to me from the highest levels, but they are damnably
vague. What exactly do you want?"

"Your Grace, there are some matters between gentlemen that are
better not written down. In the briefest possible words, my pupil
visited our country last summer and found it very much to his taste.
He expressed a desire to me to visit it once again, and dispatched me
to make what arrangements I could."

"But why not contact his Royal Highness? Surely it would be
fitting for Prince Leopold. . . ."

"Please, no names. Discretion above all."

Raising my eyebrows I looked hard at the bailiff. The Duke
finally took the hint. Sometimes I wonder if a coronet heats the brain
and leaves it weak and diseased.

"Mr. Davies, excuse us. I'll send Smith to fetch you when we've
completed our business."

When Davies had left the Duke continued puzzling over my
mission.

"Why doesn't the Prince ask for an invitation to stay at Belvoir
House where the Regent is?"

"As a member of the inner circles at court no doubt you're aware
of a slight coolness on His Highness's part toward my pupil. There was
the incident in June, when the Princess refused her father's marriage
choice. Rightly or wrongly he blamed the Prince for turning her head.

"Mr. Coburg, as I shall call him, wishes nothing more than to
improve His Highness's opinion of him with an eye to a future. . .
well, an alliance of some kind. If they were to meet accidentally
during the hunt breakfast, or the hunt itself. . .who can tell?
Needless to say, if certain hopes were realized my pupil's gratitude
would be boundless."

The Duke didn't need much time to ponder this decision. Royal
gratitude might be a bird of passage, but it could feather a nest
satisfactorily before it took flight. The greatest obstacle appeared
to be the Duchess, who was already flustered over their house party,
and who wilted visibly when informed that a royal person named Mr.
Coburg would be staying with them incognito. I made haste to reassure
her.

"I'm here to see to the Prince's needs. It will be my job to
note anything that might be needed for his comfort and procure it. You
needn't do anything more than you would if Mr. Coburg from Brighton
were arriving on Saturday. All I ask is that you arrange a tour of the
house and grounds for me. I need nothing more than a small room on an
upper floor for myself. Don't expect me at supper. I'll be busy."

The young manservant who conducted me through the mansion and
its grounds had so many questions for me that I thought word of my
purpose had already penetrated to the servant's hall. I provided him
with much fanciful detail on East European royalty. If he ever meets
any they'll be puzzled by his attempts to inspect their traditionally
sharpened incisors. In return he named all the guests we encountered
and told me what their favorite activities were.

I learned that Lord and Lady Eaton led a large group that played
cards for high stakes each night in the salon. Young Mr. Rochester and
Mr. Gearhart played at billiards until two o'clock in the morning.
Miss Gearhart and Miss Chapman played the piano and sang each evening,
The rest wandered through the conservatory, wrote letters in the
library, or drank in the smoking room. Everyone rode to hounds in the
morning except Mr. Cochran, who went to the shooting range instead. I
didn't hear much of his conversation after that, but I tipped him
hugely after he showed me to my room.

I lay on the bed in a state of exhaustion for the rest of the
evening. My energy was very low, and I didn't know what I would do if
I were too weak to carry out my task. My fatigue brought me a few
hours of deep sleep on top of the lace-trimmed counterpane. When I
awoke before dawn I knew I would be able to do what was necessary.

I primed and loaded my pistols and stuck them in my belt once
more. The remaining money I put in my breeches pocket. My wig required
some brushing and straightening. Then I was ready to go.

The big house was dark, cold and silent. I slipped out through
the door from the estate office and set out for the shooting range.
This winter had been almost as cold as the previous one. The pearly
dawn light showed each blade of grass furred with sparkling white
rime. I could see that rabbits, deer and racoon had been about long
before me. Their small footprints dotted the frosty grass as I moved
farther from the house. To a Londoner the air seemed preternaturally
clear and sweet. Breathing it was like drinking water from a deep,
cold spring.

How Amy would have enjoyed this place, I thought. Lately I felt
closer to Amy, instead of feeling further removed from her by the
passage of time. The thought of her gave me comfort where it used to
cause only anguish. Sometimes I found myself thinking that maybe she
had stopped blaming me for the dreadful things that had happened. That
she existed somewhere and recognized how little I understood myself
and the consequences of my actions. The curious impression of her
presence across the street the day she died kept suggesting itself to
me. I had forced myself to contemplate the end of her existence and
accepted its finality. Why did I now find myself backing away from
this uncompromising rationality? The evidence hadn't changed.

I sat on a bale of hay where a shooter might await his turn and
shivered. The sky gradually turned from a pale absence of color to a
rosy pink. In the far distance I saw a delicate mist rising off a pond
or stream. The foxhunters were gathering at the front of the mansion
for an al fresco breakfast. Through the stillness came faint voices,
the rattle of cutlery being laid out, the snorting and stamping of
horses, and a few polite yelps from the well-trained hounds. As more
people gathered, the noise would increase, to end in the baying of the
pack and the thunder of hooves.

The noise of the traffic on Fleet Street had been almost
painfully loud that day. The rattle of iron-hooped wheels on stones
and the hoof beats of many briskly trotting horses were only part of
it. The street criers added to the general noise, and drivers insulted
each other and cursed freely at the top of their voices. But when I
remember Amy standing there across the street I don't remembering
hearing any of the noise. It's as though the world went silent while I
took in everything I could through my eyes. Why didn't that seem
strange at the time?

The first thing I was aware of was the smell of pipe smoke. The
noise of the hunt had covered his approach, but I could hardly claim
to have been alert. I turned slowly, like an old man out on a cold
morning. The gun he carried was no fowling piece. It was a soldier's
weapon.

"Cold out today for old bones," he remarked.

"Yes. But duty before anything else," I replied. "Perhaps you've
heard why I'm here. It's my task to be sure that the. . .gentleman I
represent will have sufficient facilities here. He's an avid shooter."

"Perhaps we can have some friendly competitions, if he arrives
in time. I'll be off to Paris before the New Year."

"We'll be expecting him on Saturday," I said, while I shifted my
position so that I faced him fully.

He frowned at his pipe and then tapped it against his tobacco
tin, emptying the ash. I watched while he went through the long,
involved ritual beloved of pipe smokers. It made igniting a bowl of
tobacco appear to constitute a day's work. He stood there looking so
civilized. From his polished boots to his Tory-high stock he presented
the likeness of a modern, bourgeois professional. Would the future
hold many such professionals? He walked among lords and bishops while
he profited from the basest criminality. There was no protection for
the innocent when such a man held power over lawmakers and judges. His
face showed a hint of amusement at my long scrutiny. How could he be
so oblivious of the evil that dwelt in him, and so unaware of what I
was thinking and feeling here beside him?

"It looks like a good hunting day. You're still young. Why
aren't you riding out with them?" I asked him curiously.

"Forgive my rejection of tradition. I'm old enough to dislike
the waste of energy. I prefer to engage in activities that accomplish
something."

"But shooting practice? There's nothing accomplished there.
Unless shooting is your profession."

My voice had hardened as I ended the remark. I sensed a start in
him and watched him closely while I continued speaking very quickly.

"Or is it your profession to make money by turning young women
into miserable wretches?"

His gun was coming up before I got the sentence out, but by then
I had shot him in the belly through my coat.

He grunted and collapsed onto his knees. The noises he made were
not words, but he might have been trying to say something. Hot blood
spilled out and steamed briefly in the chill air. I would have
preferred to leave him writhing, but I owed it to Sally to try to get
away. He couldn't be permitted to scream or identify his shooter. I
walked up close beside him. Now he was making a sound that was like
gagging and groaning at the same time. He probably wouldn't listen,
but I had to tell him why he was dying.

"I'm Morgan Fox. I'm killing you for beating Amy to death. You
called her Scarlet. Do you remember why you did things like that? It
doesn't seem as clear now, does it?"

I shot him in the head with the other pistol. Nobody would think
it odd to hear shots from the shooting range. I was too weak to drag
him very far into the woods. The hounds would sniff him out quickly
anyway. It was done.

I felt like a puppet after the sudden departure of the
puppeteer. Collapse was imminent, but I couldn't give up and let Sally
become the sister of a felon. Nor could I disappear and leave her with
the endless torment of not knowing. I told myself to keep my strategy
simple, so I started walking south. If I could get to a coaching inn I
might be able to get back to London.

My wig I discarded in a goat pen close to the walls around
Eaton's grounds. It was too cold to get rid of the coat. I changed its
appearance by ripping off the pseudo-military braid and frogged
closings. The only thing that saved me from dying beside the road was
a dairy cart on its way to Melton-Mowbray. Its driver was pleased to
exchange space in the wagon for someone to talk to on the journey. If
more than listening had been required of me, I would have failed to
meet the terms.

In Melton I took the first coach going south. The journey passed
with the incoherence of a nightmare. I made it as far as Oxford before
I couldn't climb back up into the coach. The innkeeper put me into a
room where his maidservants did the minimum required to keep me alive
and strengthen me enough to leave. It took almost a fortnight of beef
tea, claret and cream bring me to that state. Naturally it was paid
for from the money in my pocket. My recovery was shaky at best, but
they bundled me into the coach early on Christmas Eve and happily
waved good-bye when the money was gone. There was enough left over for
the coach fare and a cab. I could only admire the landlord's precise
planning.

When I arrived in London I took a hackney from the coaching inn
to Mrs. Mobley's. My head felt very strange, but I thought that lying
down would put it right. I didn't even manage to get the door to my
rooms unlocked. I was told that Marianne found me lying on the floor
in the hall when she went up to see if I wanted tea.

Chapter 33, A Death

Sally's Journal, December 2, 1814 through February 14, 1815

The first week in December we were arguing, as we often did now,
over food. Morgan had lost a great deal of weight, and my fears for
his health were dire.

He had come by to visit me at Lady Shelton's at nine o'clock in
the evening. After my abduction and rescue in September, Morgan was
there long enough to accustom the staff to his odd ways. They got used
to the outlandish hours he kept, and his unpredictable eating
schedule. This evening I found he hadn't eaten since buying a roll at
a pastry cook's shop in the early hours of the morning. I asked the
cook to put something cold on a plate for him. She kindly heated a big
supper for him and served it with negus in the upstairs sitting room.

"Morgan, you have to start eating more. You left all of that
shepherd's pie," I exclaimed, glimpsing the part of the plate he was
trying to conceal under his napkin.

As usual he tried to turn my scolding aside with a jest.

"Think of it as a national resource. If Boney ever escapes from
Elba they can use it to fortify. . . . "

He started coughing, which was also a common occurrence that
winter. He suddenly went quiet and I looked up. I saw the oddest
expression on his face before he turned aside and put his handkerchief
to his mouth. If I had seen that look on his face when he was a little
boy I would have thought he just found the hidden gold coin from the
Christmas pudding in his portion.

He moved to leave the room without speaking. I followed swiftly
and silently. He looked up, surprised at my presence, when I entered
the water closet after him. I was in time to see him spit a large
quantity of blood into the bowl. There was guilt in the look he gave
me, but I couldn't detect any sorrow for himself. He rinsed and wiped
his mouth and put his arms around me. I'm sure my face told him how
much I needed comforting.

"Oh, Morgan. First Mama and Papa, then Amy. Will I have to go on
without you too?" I asked him, selfishly thinking first of myself.
Perhaps I already knew that he regarded his own death as a blessing,
not a tragedy.

"Don't worry. I never coughed up blood before. After Amy's
murder is avenged I'll take better care of myself," he promised me.

I heard only duty, no heart, in the promise. It hurt that I was
not enough to make his life worthwhile. Yet I couldn't deny that it
was pitiful watching him try to go on, day after day, struggling under
the burden of melancholy he carried after her death. Once before he
had recovered partially from her loss. The suddenness of the blow that
took her from him again was having a fatal effect on him. His vitality
diminished as if his soul had adapted to require the light of her
presence. He no longer possessed the ability to adjust to the
precipitate return of darkness.

After this incident he pushed himself harder than ever in his
quest. He never seemed to sleep. Sometimes he disappeared from his
rooms for days at a time with no word to me. It was on Christmas Eve
that one of these absences ended. When Evans interrupted the wrapping
of presents in the parlor with a note for me, I was expecting it the
way one expects thunder to follow lightning. Morgan had collapsed in
his lodging house. He needed nursing care.

I went to Lady Shelton and she kindly agreed to allow me to
bring Morgan to an upstairs room in her house. With the help of the
housekeeper and maids I cared for him for more than a month. Now he
was a good, conscientious patient. He followed orders to eat and rest,
but this unaccustomed docility frightened me more than his previous
resistance to medical advice and common sense. Clearly he had given
up. He was going through the exercises of battling for his life, but
he had already conceded the victory to Death.

When he gained some strength back after his initial collapse he
told me a little about the results of his search for revenge.

"I killed them, or at least some of them, Sally."

He knew that I wanted to know. I wouldn't ask because he might
have been unsuccessful.

"I'm glad to hear that. The world is a better place without
them. Did you find Mr. Quickill?"

He was the one who most aroused my hatred and my own desire for
revenge.

"Yes. He was one of those I killed. It was worth it. I don't
doubt that. They didn't deserve to breathe the air along with human
beings. But I don't feel as much better as I thought I would, knowing
that her murderers are gone. Even worse, there's someone out there who
gave Quickill orders. I don't have time to find him and kill him too,"
he said dejectedly.

I didn't know how to reply to that, so I just held his hand.

In spite of our attentive care Morgan grew steadily weaker. By
early February it was clear that he wouldn't live to see the spring.

I sat with him as often as I could. I didn't know how I was
going to find the fortitude to continue my life without this bright
and loving spirit to share my triumphs and troubles. One of those
evenings Morgan was sitting by the window, as he often did now. Up
until the past two weeks he used this time to read the newspaper
Horace brought every night. Gradually he spent less and less time with
the paper, asking me each night to place it next to his chair. He
would look at it tomorrow when he wasn't so tired. We now had thirteen
papers in that pile, neither of us admitting that tomorrow was never
going to come.

"Listen Sally. You can hear the fiddlers."

Incredibly I did hear the distant strains of Scottish fiddle
music. Instead of working its way to a satisfying conclusion, the
yearning tune simply seemed to stop, as though cut short by scissors
in the hand of Fate. It was a nasty damp night to be out playing on
the streets.

"They call that 'Tonight My Sleep Will be Restless.' I heard it
that evening when I met Amy for the first time in all those years. My
sleep was destined to be restless forever after that," Morgan said.

It made my throat ache to hear him talk as though everything for
him was in the past. I tried to change the topic of conversation.

"Did the fiddler end that properly? It seemed to stop so
suddenly."

"Yes, that's the melody. It's like some lives, isn't it. All of
a sudden they're over long before you think they've reached a
resolution. It's melancholy, but at least it doesn't remind me of lost
happiness."

We heard the start of another tune, and Morgan grimaced at the
sound.

"That one is called 'Lassie with the Golden Hair.' They played
that everywhere last year. I loved it at first. It made me think of
how lucky I was to find her again. After she was gone it just. . . .
The street musicians found out they could get me to pay them to stop
playing it. All they needed to learn was the first six notes. That was
easy money on my street when I was at home."

He gave a sad laugh. As the disease weakened him all of his
passions were softening and fading. Once he would have cursed and
paced about, enraged at greed and cruelty. I grieved the loss of
something about him every day. It seemed mourning began long before
death with this wasting illness.

"Sally, I've got fifty pounds in a bag in the wardrobe. You have
to take it, and the hundred pounds you've saved, and buy yourself a
passage to the United States when I'm gone. That will leave enough to
get you to Philadelphia from New York. I've already written to William
Spinner of that city. He's the headmaster of a school supported by one
of the Quaker congregations. He promised me he'd give you a position
there when you arrive. I helped his brother when he was unjustly
accused of embezzlement, and prevented him from being transported.
Will is a good man. He can be trusted to do what's right. Please tell
me you'll go. I worry for your safety here. It may not be completely
safe anywhere, but I have too many old enemies in London."

I had tried to be cheerful and confident for Morgan up until
now. I couldn't keep up the pretense any longer. I came over and sat
on his lap with my head on his shoulder, as I hadn't done since I was
ten years old.

"Morgan, please don't leave me," I wept, knowing it was
hopeless. He didn't give me any words of false encouragement. He just
let me cry in his arms. I thought I would die from the loneliness and
emptiness.

It was then that he asked me to put together the journals that
recorded our sad journey through this year. No doubt he knew that a
task, even one so painful as this, was the one thing that might bring
me through the darkness ahead.

"Do you believe in an afterlife, Sally?" he asked me after a
little while.

I couldn't answer, but I reluctantly shook my head no.

"Neither do I," he sighed. "I wish I could. I had a strange
discussion about that with a Hindoo once. He was the majordomo for a
retired East India officer. I can't remember how we started talking
about it. We were sharing a hackney from Fleet Street to Piccadilly.
He believed our souls go on from one life to the next, being reborn as
babies over and over. I told him that didn't seem very credible to me.
He gave me a peculiar look."

"'You're one of the oldest souls I've ever met,' he told me. 'I
don't understand how you can have so much yet to learn.'"

"I've thought about it every now and then. You know, it would be
better if we were all re-born as men. It's too complicated and
dangerous trying to combine love with lust. And women are so often
mistreated," he said painfully.

The concept strained my imagination. But I wasn't going to argue
with anything that might give Morgan a scrap of comfort.

After a pause, Morgan spoke again.

"Sally, will you write the next entry in my journal for me? I
was waiting to get a little stronger so I could do it myself, but
perhaps I shouldn't wait. Delaying will only postpone publication."

Morgan was kindly assigning other reasons for his request than
the obvious one that he was dying. The entry he spoke of would be his
last. From now on he would get weaker, never stronger. That night he
dictated the contents of the entry preceding this one. His words
didn't quite use up the remaining pages of the journal he had
originally purchased for Amy. I allowed myself the superstitious hope
that he wouldn't die until they were filled. As always, reality made a
nonsense of such imaginings.

That was the last occasion when my brother was fully aware of
his surroundings. Late that night he lost more blood than usual after
an episode of coughing. Afterwards he seemed to float somewhere in a
febrile, shadowy twilight between life and death, the past and the
present.

On February 14th Morgan hadn't been able to lie down for the
past two nights. Propped in a chair he found some relief from his
breathing difficulties. The previous afternoon he had had a severe
hemorrhage that left him very weak, but he was peaceful and content.
He gazed steadily out the window into the dim gray evening, except for
an occasional impatient glance at the door. Then he addressed me with
an animation that had been missing from his voice for months.

"Sally, what time will Amy get here?"

My distress must have shown in my face.

"It isn't inconvenient, is it? We'll be going out directly. We
want to walk out tonight while the fine weather holds, and listen to
the nightingales. She's going to stop by for me, but I don't remember
if she said what time."

"She'll probably be here any moment, Morgan. Shall I draw the
curtain?"

"No, I'd like to watch the moon come up. I can hear the fiddlers
at the Castle from here," he replied, continuing to divide his glances
between the window and the door.

I stepped over to him and laid my hand on his forehead. The view
out the window was the street in front of Lady Shelton's
establishment. The sky was a leaden gray, and the only uncertainty in
the weather was whether it would rain or snow. There were a few
footmen in the streets, but nothing like the pleasant images Morgan
described. However he was no more feverish than usual.

Then his face brightened, as it used to do when Amy entered the
room. He was looking over my shoulder at the door to the hallway.
Suddenly he began struggling to rise from his chair, and I hurried
forward to prevent him from this exertion. He looked up at me
pleadingly.

"Sally, I can't seem to get up. Please help me get up."

I looked into his still beautiful hazel eyes and saw that,
whatever his delusion, he knew me. The old fire and intensity were
back in his expression. He was counting on my help and I had no heart
to deny him. I took his hands, once so strong, now so weak and
skeletal, into mine. With a long steady pull I brought him to his
feet. A look of great happiness came over his face, and he held out
both arms toward the door.

"Oh, Amy I've missed you so." He inclined his head toward me
saying, "Good night, Sally. Don't wait up. We may be very late. "

"I've got "Lara" to read. Don't hurry on my account," I found
myself answering senselessly.

Then, with no warning, his dear face went blank and he fainted.
I was able to guide his fall backwards into the chair. He never
regained consciousness afterwards. His death occurred quietly within
the half-hour, long before the doctor could reach us.

I have always been a rationalist, as was Morgan. Nevertheless, I
was positively afraid to turn around and look behind me during his
last conscious moments. And if his vision lacked metaphysical
validity, I am deeply thankful for the peace it brought him in his
last hours.

Chapter 34, Extraordinary Claims

Shit. What if the trip to Xibalba felt wrong to him because it
resonated with some buried memory of Amy/Scully making a fatal last
trip to save a kidnap victim? Melissa maneuvered Maggie Scully into
giving the story to Dana as a warning and they hadn't read it in time.
OK, that was the worst possible case. The important point to establish
instantly was why there was no connection between this story and their
lives.

Chamuan wasn't an international criminal. He was an eccentric
who didn't want the media or law interfering in his business. Of
course his business appeared to be the revival of an ancient, savage
religion. But Scully didn't go alone, he reminded himself hopefully.
It was also encouraging to think that there hadn't been a hint of
guidance from beyond in the way this document had been passed around
and ended up with him. Had there?

There were so many reasons why this narrative had nothing to do
with him and Scully that he couldn't count them. In the first place
there was nothing to connect this book with them except the ravings of
Melissa's pet channeler. Probably a lot of books fit the profile she
gave to the people at Biblioquest. Or maybe she had prior knowledge of
the book and planted it with a confederate on the East Coast. There
was no proven link except Zenith's psychic testimony. He was rather
proud of his reasoned skepticism in this instance. It was too bad
Scully wasn't here to appreciate it.

In the second place, he couldn't imagine his strong, disciplined
partner falling into such a degraded lifestyle under any
circumstances. Scully had too much self-respect and ingenuity to be
manipulated into selling sex. In the third place, he didn't like
Morgan. The man allowed the crudest, most stereotypical male jealousy
to destroy his life. No matter what he said about advantage being
taken, he acted as though Amy were at fault. How could he blame a
terrified teenage girl for doing what she thought was necessary to
survive? Morgan couldn't be him. Mulder suspected uneasily that these
arguments contradicted each other. If Amy's fate wasn't her fault,
then no amount of character would have protected her. And he knew it
was oversimplifying to label Morgan as jealous and judgmental. It
might even have been an excess of imagination and empathy that caused
his difficulties.

Mulder didn't try to reconcile these apparent inconsistencies
because the most important point was that the feisty bluestocking
Sally couldn't be Samantha. He wouldn't let it be true. Otherwise the
pattern implied that he couldn't have both Samantha and Scully in his
life. He refused to accept that limitation. Someday Samantha would be
strong enough to contact him, and together they would mend some of the
gaping holes in the fabric of their history. Scully would be right
there beside him when his search for the truth was validated by
success.

It was simple. He rejected the connection to the "Memoirs." What
was it that Scully went on about sometimes? "Extraordinary claims
require extraordinary proof." She liked to illustrate the maxim by
asking Mulder to imagine getting a voice mail message to meet Skinner
in his office and clear up some questions about his latest expense
report. Then he was supposed to imagine a voice mail instructing him
to rent a tux and show up at the White House for a dinner in his
honor. Her point was that he wouldn't think twice about reporting to
Skinner. On the other hand, what evidence would it take to convince
him that the current Administration wanted to honor him for his
pioneering work on the X-Files? Scully found this example much funnier
than he did. Nevertheless, he accepted the principle. He believed in
the reality of reincarnation, and he believed that he and Scully had
met in previous lives. This memoir did not chronicle such an instance.
It didn't meet his extraordinary proof test, and he was going to
dispose of it before it traumatized Scully.

Mulder went outside and walked up and down the beach for hours,
enumerating for himself the reasons why he didn't need to be concerned
over Scully's safety. At 6:30, when Bill and Scully were half an hour
late, he cornered Eddie in the radio room and persuaded him to try to
make radio contact with the Revenge. When this failed he urged him to
try to make contact with someone on the island of Xibalba. To Eddie's
own surprise, this attempt succeeded. The radio operator on Xibalba
told him the Revenge had arrived on time, but developed electrical
problems when they prepared to go. Chamuan's technicians were working
on the wiring and the Scullys should be able to leave at daybreak.
They would be bringing the American baby with them. The news would
have kept Mulder in a state of moderate funk if it hadn't been for
Eddie.

"Hmmmm, that's strange," Eddie remarked with uncharacteristic
inflection.

This statement screamed 'red alert' at Mulder when he converted
it to the emphasis of normal speech.

"Is electrical trouble unusual?" he asked with false calm.

"No, but that boat---I had her out a couple of months ago after
her wiring was totally redone. It was moist and choppy and I never had
a blink.

He looked thoughtful while he poured a liberal amount of rum
into his ever-present rum and coke.

This elevated Mulder's anxiety levels back up to unfocused
dread. And here he was stuck on this island, dependent on a
chronically drunken pilot.

"Eddie can you radio and get someone to take me out to Xibalba
on a boat?"

"What are you paying?"

Now he was really scared. Eddie hadn't even objected that he was
overreacting.

"I don't care. What would get someone interested?"

"Plenty of good enough boats and sailors for a thousand dollars.
As a favor to me. They're afraid to go near Xibalba, but not that
afraid."

"Then that's what I'm offering. Plus as much more as it actually
takes to get someone."

Mulder barely contained himself for the next couple hours while
Eddie tried to contact other islanders. There were dozens of boats
available for hire, and fishing parties had chartered all of them.
When he finally located a free vessel, he found that the boat couldn't
get to Eddie's Cove until noon of the next day. It was now one o'clock
in the morning. Eddie had anesthetized himself to the required state
for bedtime, and Mulder gave up on sleep. He walked down to the dock
and paced its length innumerable times.

Chapter 35, The Return

Bill was fighting sleep with everything he had as he tried to
make out the entrance to Eddie's Cove. Even at 6 A.M. the sky was
barely brighter than the sea. After all that had happened he couldn't
let sleepiness be the enemy that finally defeated him. He was amazed
that the primitive radar on this rackety cargo boat had served him
well enough to bring them this far. His glance toward the back of the
boat reassured him that Matthew still rested safely in a loving
embrace.

As he bumped the boat unceremoniously against the pier, he saw
the sight he was dreading. A long lanky form unfolded itself from a
sitting position against the maintenance shed. Mulder's anxiety was
apparent in his posture alone. They were 12 hours overdue. He couldn't
blame Mulder for being worried. But he needed a little more time
before he could face what was coming. He was still in a mercifully
numb state of shock and disbelief. Bill had an awful feeling that
telling Mulder what had happened would bring it home to himself with a
piercing intensity that he might not be able to bear. Oh, you were so
right, Mulder. You were so right. What a comfort that will be for both
of us in the years to come.

Mulder was wary when he saw the squat, shabby boat approaching
the pier. Then he was pleased. He recognized Bill at the wheel, and
made out behind him a feminine shape that cradled a small bundle. As
they got closer he thought his eyes were playing tricks. The woman
appeared to have dark hair, and a far more statuesque shape than
Scully. He hurried his steps toward the docking boat with renewed
anxiety.

"Is everything all right, Bill?" he called ahead. "What
happened? Where's Scully?"

He took the mooring rope Bill threw and tied it to a ring.
Bill's gray, set features made him want to babble to fill in the
ominous silence. The other person was an older Hispanic woman and
Scully was nowhere to be seen.

"Why did she stay behind? Are you sure it was safe to leave
her?"

"Let's go inside, Mulder," Bill temporized, while he helped the
woman descend from the boat.

"No, I don't want to go inside," Mulder responded with childish
stubbornness. "Tell me where Scully is."

"I think we should go inside first. I need to show Lina where
things are for the baby."

Mulder held him still by grasping his shoulders, not painfully,
but firmly enough to remind him of a few stories he had heard about
Mulder's temper. His face was close enough for Bill to see the growing
fear in his eyes.

"Where's Scully?"

To prolong this was cruel. Since it was inevitable, Bill spoke
as quickly as possible. He would deliver the blow with compassionate
swiftness.

"She's dead, Mulder. You were right. There was a trap set for
us. We escaped, but she was killed while we were trying to make it to
that boat."

"No, I don't believe it."

Mulder let go of him and stepped back. He was shaking his head
and holding both hands out in front of him, as though literally
holding back the unwelcome words.

Bill knew that he did believe it. He said nothing, relying on
Mulder's brain to overcome his reflexive denial. His next words
justified Bill's confidence.

"How did it happen?"

"We had to take a neglected old path down a cliff to the beach.
She'd been. . .injured while we were locked up. There was an angled,
slippery spot on the path and she fell. It was about a seven story
drop onto rocks that jutted up out of the water of an inlet. She was
killed instantly."

At least Bill hoped it was instant. He swallowed hard, trying to
maintain his own composure. Watching Mulder made it especially
difficult. A memory of one of his grade school art classes surfaced
with the vividness of a nightmare. Sister Mary Paul had brought in a
museum poster of a medieval painting that depicted the Last Judgment.
Her lecture on the painting held more religious than aesthetic
content.

"These are the damned on the left. Do you see the looks on their
faces? They look that way because now they realize the worst pain
they'll have to endure in hell. They'll spend eternity deprived of the
presence of God."

The despair written on Mulder's face matched the expressions
Bill remembered from the faces of those lost souls.

Then Mulder turned away from him blindly, stumbling over ropes
coiled on the pier. He continued walking away from the dock and the
house, moving faster with each step, until he was on the sandy beach,
where he broke into a run.

He ran flat out for more than a mile along the water. When he
couldn't go any farther he fell to his knees. It was as beautiful as
the Garden of Eden must have been. White sand, edged by green palms. A
sweet and tangy breeze blowing in from the sea. A few gulls circled
overhead, their sharp cries contrasting with the soft rhythmic
shushing of the tide as it receded down the beach. Smooth water
reflected the opalescent pale rose, gold, gray and lavender of the
sunrise. He should go get Scully and show her.

Never again, some violently repressed part of his brain informed
him. No more chances to share.

I know, he answered that desperate voice. If I had another
chance I'd tell her what she meant to me.

You hypocritical bastard, the voice replied angrily. How many
times has life's uncertainty been demonstrated for you? You had chance
after chance. What did you need, a two by four upside the head?
Remember how you resolved to change last fall? You changed all right,
for the worse. Instead of just being obsessive, you added self-pity
and bitterness to your list of sterling attributes. You thought you
couldn't get any more pathetic after your sacred belief in aliens was
made a mockery. The burning up of the X-files seemed like the last
straw. Well now you've got a really good reason to feel sorry for
yourself.

Dry sobs shook him and he doubled over, bracing his hands on the
damp strand. Eventually he subsided into limp exhaustion. The sand
around him had become hot from the sun, which was now high in the sky.
Staring at the sea he asked himself why he shouldn't swim out from
shore until he couldn't swim any farther. Accidental drownings took
place every year. People would be philosophical about losing him. He
was overwrought when they burned his files, they'd say, and lost track
of how far he'd swum. Who knows, maybe he was more upset by his
partner's death than anyone expected. It was hard to tell what was
going on inside old Spooky. He certainly never had a clue himself.

No, he wasn't going to be so self-centered as to do that before
he'd even understood what happened. Scully gave up her life for a
reason-to save Matthew. The least he could do was hear the full story
and make sure Bill and Matthew got back to California safely. It had
never been so hard, but he forced himself to analyze the facts.

In his head he replayed the painful scene with Bill, trying to
filter out his reactions and focus on the information communicated.
The process exposed the huge gaps and unknown factors in the story. He
concentrated on Bill's account of the accident. Now he realized how
broad that description had been. It was common for people to lose
track of things when a sudden disaster occurred. Later they
confabulated a logical set of events to fill in the blanks. What did
Bill actually remember, as opposed to what he thought would or should
have happened?

Mulder trudged back up the beach. He struggled mightily to
regulate his thinking and stay in control of his emotions. His success
was checkered. At one point he saw a crab scuttle off into a tangle of
rubbery, olive-green seaweed. It reminded him of the teeming waters
surrounding these islands and sent his mind skittering along dark
paths. His pretty Scully. . .by now her face would be gone. The
tropical aquatic food chain operated with wonderful efficiency. The
image dragged a shuddering breath from the depths of his being, but he
refused to give in and fall to the ground again.

He found Bill sitting hunched over the short wave radio in
Eddie's room. His eyes were red and wet, but he found some ease in
holding Matthew's plump and active little person to his chest. Eddie
sat across the table looking glassy-eyed, drinking a rum coke so
strong its amber color was barely tinged by cola.

"I got through to Eglin. They're contacting the Pentagon," Bill
told Mulder.

Mulder didn't seem to hear him, or to wonder why he wanted the
Pentagon to know that a kidnapping had been solved. He didn't look so
much like a lost soul now. He had the pallor and carefully measured
movements of a mortally wounded man who is determined to stay on his
feet for a little while longer. His voice was steady as he spoke.

"You've got to tell me everything that happened. I shouldn't
have run away. I need to know everything."

He gripped Bill's arm and pulled him to his feet.

"Eddie can stay here and take care of the radio. Come out here."

He led Bill to a chair in the main front room. Mulder
deliberately moved another chair so that it faced away from Bill's.
When he sat he looked out the screen door toward the horizon. He
didn't want to influence the story with his reactions.

"Start with when you first got there," Mulder ordered.

Bill took no offense at his tone. He was just beginning to
understand the bond that had existed between his sister and this man.
He wondered for a moment why his and Mulder's attitudes seemed
familiar. Then he made the connection. This was like going to
confession. Did Mulder know how badly he needed to tell the story, to
express his guilt and contrition, and to find forgiveness? The man was
a psychologist. No, he concluded, remembering Mulder's ravaged face.
This wasn't for his benefit. Mulder had some other purpose for putting
them both through this terrible exercise.

"We had no problems on the trip out. Whatever you might think of
Eddie, he keeps the Revenge in beautiful condition. The engine purrs
like a big cat, and the instrumentation. . .well, those things don't
matter. I was nervous about getting Matt back, but I was optimistic.
It seemed so amazing that we--you--had located him. Why wouldn't
things keep going our way?

"Two men in khaki met us at the dock those men had directed us
to. They patted us down and ran metal detectors over us and our
things. Then they drove us to Chamuan's home in a limousine. Can you
picture the waste of it, on an island about two square miles? The
roads, few as they are, are in excellent shape. He must spend millions
on that place.

"That temple he's building, we drove by it. It looks fake
somehow, not like the pictures I've seen of jungle temples. I think it
would fit right in at Epcot, with a ride going through it.

"His home is an old Spanish mansion, with an enclosed courtyard.
He was there to welcome us to lunch. He looks like a lizard. . .no a
toad! His face is wide and flat, with bulging heavy-lidded eyes and no
lips or chin. I disliked him right away. His attitude reminded me of
those officers who stop learning when they get promoted. They think
anything they don't understand is trivial by definition.

"Everything around us looked like an antique, including the
lunch plates and silverware. I don't remember what we had to eat.
Afterwards Chamuan got down to business. He told one of the men he
seems to use as bodyguards to go get Chandler."

Here Bill's voice became charged with hatred.

"Chandler came into the room. I didn't remember seeing him
before, but I'll never forget him now. He's one of those pink-faced,
smooth-talking types who looks like he'd misuse some petty political
office.

"Chamuan looked from Dana and me to Chandler. God, he was
enjoying this! He was pulling everybody's strings. He spoke to
Chandler like a cat would to a mouse, if it could.

"'Rick, William Scully and his sister Dana Scully have a
complaint to make against you. He says you have his son here, that you
kidnapped him from their home in San Diego. He claims the baby you
call Ricky is Matthew Scully.'

"'That's just ridiculous. Nobody wanted Ricky. He was living in
Haiti with his whore of a mother. She left him alone for hours in a
one room hovel while she went out looking for a fix. I told her I was
taking him. She couldn't have cared less.'

"'I've got pictures, footprints, his birth certificate and a
passport with him on it,' I said, and I laid them down on the table in
front of Chamuan.

"'A passport, at his age?' Chamuan asked.

"'It's a family passport, him and his mother. Since I'm in the
service I expect to travel with them.'

"My biggest problem was keeping my eyes off Chandler. If he
smiled at me again I knew I'd kill him.

"'I never noticed Ricky much. Babies all look alike to me,'
Chamuan was saying while he squinted at the pictures.

"'I'll pay to have DNA testing done,' I told him.

"'All these modern, new-fangled tests---foot-prints, DNA---King
Solomon didn't need them,' he said.

"He gave me this superior smile. That stupid rich jerk thought
of himself as some kind of judge or ruler. His own island was just the
place for him.

"At the time I was worrying more about Matt than Chamuan's ego.
He could see he shook me up by talking about killing a baby. He said
something that made me think he was changing the subject.

"'I think women have special abilities to see the truth about
things like this,' he said, giving Dana a smug look.

"Any other time I would have had to laugh. If he only knew what
she was thinking when he said that. But she's good---I mean she was
good---at focusing on what's important. She gave him a smile that just
broadcast 'Please tell me more of your valuable opinions.' She must
have been a good partner, Mulder."

Mulder protested silently at the last words. Don't memorialize
her yet. While you're telling me this part of the story she's still
alive for me. I'm waiting to hear what clever ways she found to help
you and how she's going to pull off a happy ending after all.

"Then Chamuan told me what his real plan was.

"'I'm going to have my men take you out to see Ricky and
Angelina. She's been taking care of him. Rick has a place of his own
where they've been living.'

"Of course I was overjoyed. We got into a jeep this time, and it
was only five minutes away. Miguel and Ben---that was the name of the
other bodyguard---lounged in the jeep while we knocked on the door.
The woman who answered the door had Mattie in her arms! He recognized
me! He reached out his little hands and the woman looked from our
faces to Mattie's and back again. I took him from her and she didn't
try to stop me.

"Dana did the talking. I couldn't. She explained who we were and
why we were there. The woman's name was Angelina. She looked more and
more horrified as Dana told the story. Then I asked Angelina about
something that had been worrying me.

"'Ma'am, did you notice a birthmark on Mattie, on his right leg?
It's under his diaper, it's up so high.'

"She started nodding.

"'Has that been kind of dry and scaly? We took him to the doctor
she said it was just eczema. But it could get very irritated because
of being under wet diapers. She prescribed some cortisone cream to
prevent that.'

"'Yes, yes,' Lina said.

"She took my hand and pulled me into the house.

"'Come in, please. Did you bring some of this cream?' she asked,
giving me a sideways look.

"'Sure,' I said. I started rooting through the diaper bag.

"She said, 'Let's go back into the bedroom and check Ricky,
except I guess it should be Mattie. That's where I keep the diapers.'

"Just then I found the tube of cream and we all went back to the
bedroom. I didn't want to let Mattie out of my sight. I think Dana was
a little concerned that I might do something impulsive. I noticed Lina
checking the name on the prescription label. She was no fool. After
that her face kept going from frowns to smiles.

"Mattie was laughing and healthy, and acted happy to be with
Lina. She'd taken good care of him. You can't know how it is to get
your lost child back. It was like I was raised from the dead myself.
After telling myself for days he was probably buried in some lonely
grave, here I was, with my cheek against his smooth, warm little head.
It was overwhelming. And to hear him laugh again!"

Bill closed his eyes and brushed his lips across the top of his
son's head. Matt reached up and tugged at his father's nose with a
pleased smile.

"When we went outside Miguel told Lina she had to come back and
talk to Chamuan.

"'I'll be happy to tell him the truth about that pig Rick. How
dare he lie to me like that? This was a crime against nature and a
terrible cruelty,' she told them.

"She let me carry Mattie during the car ride and during our
showdown with Chamuan and Chandler. They brought us all to his
library. The whole thing should have scared me more than it did. I was
so glad to be holding Matt, and so high on nervous energy, I thought I
could conquer the world. I forgot to be as humble as I should in front
of the little fuerhrer of the Caribbean. I thought I was in control
again.

"'Well, Chamuan, Angelina agrees that this is Matthew Scully, my
son and not Rick's.'

"He looked at me as though I was breaking one of