Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 6 and Part 2.

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


ST. MATTHEW'S CATHEDRAL 
HIGHBRIDGE, THE BRONX 
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
MARCH 8 (FOUR DAYS LATER) 
10:04 a.m.



The cathedral smelled faintly of incense and dust and oiled wood,
the ceiling drifting with wisps of smoke from the offering candles at
the front of the massive building, glowing with pinpricks of light
that bathed the alabaster statues above them in flickering light. 

Skinner took all this in as he came down the wide main aisle, moving
against the thin crowd coming away from the 9:00 a.m. Mass, mostly
old women leaning on canes and wearing various shades of grey and
black. Still others were emerging from the squat bodies of
confessionals at the sides of the church, their eyes down. They
looked to Skinner like frail old birds moving in their dark plumage,
their hands trailing the shiny bodies of rosaries. 

Granger walked beside him, one hand in the pocket of his leather
jacket, his eyes darting around the expanse. It was Granger who held
the photograph, the picture of the man Mae had sent them to, taken
from the man's house which they'd just visited, frightening the man's
aged mother in the process. She'd handed over the picture, taking it
from a frame on the mantle, her eyes still as wide as they'd been
when Skinner had introduced himself and flashed his badge. 

"My son's done nothing wrong," she'd said, her voice heavy Irish and
quiet as the grave. She wore a heavy black dress, her hair in a grey
bun. The house smelled like bread. 

"I'm sure you're right," Skinner had said, smiling stiffly, and
taken the picture just the same, heading to the church where his
mother said her son would be. 

Now Skinner stopped in the middle of the cathedral, glanced at the
photo in Granger's hand once again, and looked around. Granger did
the same. 

Only a few figures remained in the pews, and only one of them a man
who looked, from the back, that he might be the right age they were
searching for. He was in the second row, in conversation with an
elderly priest, their heads bent close together as though they didn't
want anyone else to hear what they were saying. 

"That's got to be him," Granger said softly, noting the curly black
hair above the neck of the navy jacket, hair that matched the
picture, that of the smiling man in the center of a group of smiling
men. 

Skinner nodded, said nothing, and began walking again, Granger
falling in behind him.

The priest looked up as they approached and some look Skinner
couldn't quite place passed over the aged man's face. Whatever it
was, it passed quickly, and the man took his leave, the younger man
in the pew turning to face them as they approached, coming around the
front of the pew, the man following them with his eyes. 

He regarded them with a studied, careful expression, his blue eyes
bright even in the dim light. 

"Conail Rutherford?" Skinner said. He did not remove his hands from
his trench coat as he spoke. 

"Aye, I'm Rutherford," the man replied. He eyed Granger. "Can I help
you with something?"

Skinner introduced himself, and Granger, noted that Rutherford
didn't flinch at their titles. Then he gave a look around, listening
to the hollow sounds of footsteps in the wide open space.

"We'd like to speak to you, if we may. Would you prefer to go
somewhere else to do it?"

Rutherford's gaze didn't waver. "I've got nothing to say I can't say
here," he said, but he kept his voice pitched soft. His accent was as
thick as his mother's. "In fact, no offense, but I've got nothing to
say at all." 

"No offense taken," Skinner said, shaking his head. "But I do think
you've got something to say."

"How d'you figure that, Mr. Skinner?" Rutherford said, leaning back
and putting his arms across the back of the pew. 

Skinner glanced at Granger, who began to speak. 

"Mr. Rutherford, are you aware of two recent bombings in the D.C.
area?" Granger said, his voice even, non-confrontational.

The other man's eyes darted from Granger to Skinner and back again. 

"Aye," he said. "Those agents who got killed? That woman?" 

"Yes," Skinner said. "Agent Dana Scully. Does that name mean
anything to you, sir?" 

Rutherford gnawed on his bottom lip. "No, it doesn't," he said. 

Skinner was about to say something, but Granger, whom Skinner could
see was watching Rutherford as though he were studying a particularly
intricate painting in a museum, beat him to it. 

"You're lying, sir," Granger said, his voice that same even timbre. 

Rutherford's face grew red, as though someone had just smeared him
with blush on his pale cheeks. "I like your approach, Mr. Granger,"
he said, and there was something low in his voice, angry. "You'll
call me a liar but still call me 'sir.' I like that." 

"No offense, of course," Granger replied, tossing Rutherford's
earlier words back at him. He gave a small smile. 

"Right," Rutherford said, glanced around. "Now if you two will
excuse me, my father just passed away a few days ago. I'm here for
some solace, not--"

"Mae Curran sent us to you, Mr. Rutherford," Skinner said, opening
the bomb-bay doors and letting it fly. 

The bomb hit its target. Rutherford gaped, and his face grew redder. 

"I don't know who you mean," Rutherford tried, but even he couldn't
seem to muster an ounce of earnestness in the words. 

"Let's cut the bull--" Skinner glanced at the disapproving eyes of a
saint in the stained glass on his right, and bit back the word he
intended to use. "We know who you are, Mr. Rutherford. And what you
do. And who your friends are. There's no use hiding any of that from
us. Or trying to." 

Rutherford looked down at Skinner's feet, his jaw working. 

"And frankly," Skinner continued. "We don't give a good god--" He
bit off the word again. "We don't care about any of that. From what
we understand, you have never been involved with the operations of
the terrorist arm of the IRA, at least not in any direct way that we
can implicate you."

"So what is it you want from me then?" Rutherford said sharply. 

"Those bombs, the ones that killed those people in D.C., were from
someone connected to the IRA," Granger said softly. 

"Not a chance," Rutherford said, scoffing. "Not a bloody chance."

"What makes you say that?" Skinner asked. "How can you be so sure?" 

"The IRA doesn't operate outside of Ireland like that, not that it
operates at all anymore. And they've got no reason to go after that
woman or any of those other people. They don't do a thing without a
reason and a damned good one at that." 

"If you say so," Skinner said, feeling the hair on the back of his
neck stand on end. The words stuck in his craw. He couldn't help the
sardonic tone that came with his reply. 

"Don't be so quick to judge what you don't know a thing about,"
Rutherford said, his voice getting quieter, his teeth clenched. 

"I know enough," Skinner said, unable to help himself. 

"How can you be so sure this is IRA?" Rutherford shot back. "It
could be anyone--"

"Because whoever it is is trying to kill Mae Curran, too," Granger
interjected calmly, his voice almost like a presence interposing
itself between the two men. 

Rutherford paused, regarding him. "Then it's not IRA," he said. "For
certain."

"What makes you so sure?" Skinner repeated, calmer now. 

Rutherford seemed to struggle with himself, then he said,
hesitantly: "Because there's a 'hands-off' on her. No one would dare
touch her, even if they wanted to, which they *don't*. And besides.
No one even knows she's alive. We assumed Owen Curran killed her."

"No," Skinner said. Time to roll the dice. "We have her. In
protective custody. Her and her baby and Owen Curran's son. Her
husband was killed in Australia. By a bomb that Australian
authorities say matches the device used in both the bombs used in
D.C. to kill Agent Scully."

Rutherford met his eyes seriously. "Australia?" he said
incredulously. "That's no IRA I know of. Nobody's got arms that long.
And they wouldn't kill Mae. No one blames her for what she did to
Owen. Not a person in Ireland blames her after what he did to the
embassy here." He looked at both of them. "And no one blames that
agent who died, either." 

"Someone blames both of them," Granger said. "Very much." 

Rutherford seemed to consider for a moment, looking down. "I can't
help you find who is doing it," he said at last. "I don't know where
to start looking for someone who would have that kind of capability.
To even find Mae would be close to impossible. She knows how to
hide." 

He seemed far away for a moment, in the land of memory. "She always
did," he added, and he sounded somehow sad. 

Skinner regarded the man, let out a breath. "Who then?" he asked.
"Who can we go to?" 

Rutherford balked again, shaking his head. 

"Twenty people have died, Mr. Rutherford," he pressed, speaking
softly through his teeth. "Twenty-one counting Mae's husband. There's
got to be someone we can talk to." 

Granger's quiet voice filled the space again. "We're talking about
protecting Mae's life now. Mae and her baby and Sean Curran. That
matters to you. I can tell that matters to you." 

Rutherford regarded Granger silently. "Aye," he said after a beat.
"That matters to me."

Skinner looked at Granger, at the look the two men were giving each
other. He was once again reminded of how good Granger was at his job.
It was who he was. 

"Then give us someone to talk to," Granger said. "A direction.
Anything." 

Skinner watched Rutherford war with himself again. Then finally he
spoke. 

"John Fagan is the one thing those two had in common besides Owen.
And the only thing Owen had in common with them was the IRA, and the
IRA wouldn't do this. So it's got to be someone connected to John."

He paused, looked at Skinner. "Word is one of them killed John
Fagan," he ventured. "Is that so?" 

"Yes," Skinner said. "One of them did." 

Rutherford nodded. "The agent? The woman who died?" 

Skinner rolled the dice again. 

"Yes, Agent Scully killed him." 

It was a lie. The only one he would tell outright. 

Rutherford nodded again. "All right," he said. "I'll...find a way to
let that bit get out. If this person is doing this for John, maybe
he'll stop now, knowing that. Knowing he's done his job." 

Skinner nodded. It was what he hoped Rutherford would say. 

"Where do we go to find this person?" he pressed, trying to be
gentle with his probing, following Granger's lead. 

Rutherford looked at the floor. "I don't know anything about John.
He was more slick than Owen, kept everything a secret. Kept even his
family a secret. He seemed to just appear in Belfast one day all
those years ago. Nobody knew where he came from." 

"Surely there must be *someone* who knows where he came from, who
his friends were," Granger said. 

"Have you talked to Ed Renahan?" Rutherford offered. 

"Who is that?" Skinner asked, feeling a pulse of adrenaline with
getting a name. 

"He's Scotland Yard," Rutherford said. "Knows everything there is to
know about the IRA that the British know. He might know something.
Something that even I don't know. And he's got...contacts in the IRA.
Ones I definitely don't know. Or want to know. He might be a good
place for you start." 

Skinner nodded, looked at Granger, who nodded back, agreeing with
him silently. They'd gotten all they were going to get. 

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Rutherford," Skinner said, jamming his
hands in his pockets, as though he could already feel the cold
outside. 

"And we're sorry for your loss," Granger said, nodding to the black
armband pinned to Rutherford's jacket. He handed the man the picture
from his mother's house, which Rutherford took.

"Thank you," Rutherford said. "Give Mae...my best. And do what you
can to care for her. I'll see what I can get around." 

"We will," Skinner said. "Thank you." 

He wished Rutherford a good day and turned, heading back around to
the front of the altar, the priest still there like a sentinel,
watching he and Granger go back up the main aisle and back out into
the sunlight. 


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


HIGHWAY 371 
OUTSIDE FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO 
12:33 p.m.



It all felt so familiar -- the sand of the desert and the dark
shapes of the mountains in the distance, the scrubby trees and brush
streaming by the window, the dull winter sky the color of slate. A
storm was coming in from the north, the sun coming through in
brilliant rays and piercing down onto the landscape below in wide
white bars of light. 

Mulder had found a station that played something besides country
music, oldies from the fifties coming through, "The Great Pretender."
Scully shifted in the passenger seat of the minivan, being mindful of
her battered side, and glanced over at Mulder in the driver's seat,
both his hands on the steering wheel as if he needed his grip to keep
the car's wheels on the road. 

In a gauzy haze of memory, she saw him there beside her, a beard on
his face, her own gaunt reflection in the distorted curve of his
sunglasses. 

Another time, she reminded herself, sitting up a little straighter
still and forcing herself into the present. 

Her hand went to her belly, the soft roundness of it beneath her
navel, as the baby fluttered with the movement. She rubbed softly
against the cotton of her top, the first piece of maternity clothes
she'd purchased, a deep green pullover that bagged a bit around her
middle, making room. 

She craned her neck to look into the back seats. Katherine was
chattering in the far back seat from the carseat they'd secured from
the rental agency, oblivious to the tension of the other members of
the car. Sean sat beside her, Katherine patting his upper arm with
her hand and Sean ignoring her, his eyes out the window and his face
a slate. He held an action figure in his hand, but only because Mae
had handed it to him. He would do anything he was told. 

Mae met Scully's eyes for a beat as she looked in her direction, and
Mae forced a tense smile, just a curl of her lips, as though she
meant to reassure Scully of something. Scully returned the gesture,
but she knew the smiles did nothing to comfort either of them. 

In the middle seat, Tunes Music sat, Bo curled up beside him, the
agent's eyes guarded by sunglasses despite the gloom outside. He was
chewing a piece of gum, and blew a small bubble quickly, a nervous
habit. He nodded to Scully, and she did feel somewhat reassured by
his presence, as though he were the close of the parentheses that
started with she and Mulder. He'd volunteered for the duty to be in
charge of Mae's custody and a contact person for the Counterterrorism
Unit. A man with no family of his own, he'd jumped at the chance to
be so close to the action on the case.

She faced forward again, Mulder glancing at her and asking the
ubiquitous question with his hazel eyes. She answered it with her
own, and then turned her attention to the road, the straight line of
it, the pavement a battered white and grey split by a broken line. 

She'd slept some on the plane, the government jet that Rosen had
secured for their transport, and she felt reasonably rested, though
her mind was heavy with a worry so extreme is was almost like a kind
of grief. 

Mulder turned onto a smaller highway, this one a two-lane, and a
sign indicated that they were entering the Navajo reservation, a gas
station right on the non-reservation side of the line and advertising
with huge signs that it sold beer. They kept driving, nothing around
them, hardly even other cars, and those that they did see pickup
trucks with people riding, bundled, in the back, many of them
children with hair the color of coal.

It wasn't long before they turned down an even smaller rural route
and then Mulder was slowing at a long dirt driveway, turning, and the
trailer was off in the distance, smoke coming idly from the steel
pipe chimney and drifting in the cool air. 

Two figures were on the porch, and they both stood as the minivan
came up in front of the house and came to a stop. One, the younger of
the two, was smiling amiably, his hands jammed in his jeans jacket
pocket. Victor Hosteen, his hair shorter than she remembered it and
his eyes just as bright. 

And beside him, looking thinner in a heavy plaid flannel jacket and
worn jeans, his silver hair draped around his shoulders, was Albert
Hosteen. He was looking directly at her and standing very still,
though Victor came forward as the passengers in the car all made
moves to get out, Music pulling the heavy sliding side door open and
stepping out with Bo. 

Victor had gone to Mulder's window, his smile even wider now as
Mulder opened the door, the younger man standing in the gap of the
door. 

"Hey, Mulder," he said, reaching in and slapping Mulder on the
shoulder. "You look like hell, man! Your face!" 

Scully had been looking at the deep scratches and bruises on
Mulder's face for so long now that she hadn't even noticed them
anymore. It made her painfully aware of how her own face would look
to Hosteen, bruised as it was, the cut on her forehead uncovered now
but still angry and red. 

"Thanks, Victor," Mulder grumbled. "It's good to see you, too." 

Victor laughed, and Mulder got out. 

Scully was still looking at Albert Hosteen, and he at her, through
the window. She tried to smile, but couldn't. Hosteen seemed to see
it, his lip curling slightly, and he nodded to her. She opened the
door and got out, easing herself down from the van slowly, holding
her side. She moved like an old woman, but she couldn't help the
lingering pain, the stiffness of the travelling. 

Now Albert did come forward, stopped a few feet from her, and she
looked up at him. 

"Hello, Mr. Hosteen," she said softly, her voice barely there.
Something about seeing him choked her, emotion rising. She glanced
away from his intense gaze as she saw him taking her in, his head
cocking to the side. 

"Agent Scully," he said just as quietly. 

There was a beat of silence between them, Mae coming out of the van
holding Katherine, Sean close behind her. Mulder and Victor were
talking on the other side of the car, and Victor was laughing.
Something about Bo, who had joined them with Music, and something
about horses.

Scully looked back at Hosteen, and her hand came up to touch her
forehead. "I look bad, I know," she said. 

He huffed a small laugh. "For someone dead, you look very good," he
replied, amusement in his voice. She saw his eyes dart to her middle,
to the obvious protrusion there. "And I told you that I saw you with
a child." 

Her hand went to cover her belly as though she meant to hide it.
"Yes," she said, and a tiny smile spread on her lips. "You did,
didn't you?" 

Mae came and stood beside her, Katherine reaching toward Hosteen
with one hand, and Sean beside her. Sean was gaping up at Albert as
though the elderly man had just stepped off a spacecraft. Which,
Scully supposed, to Sean, he might as well have.

"Mr. Hosteen, this is Mae Porter, her daughter Katherine, and her
nephew Sean." 

Hosteen reached a hand out and took Katherine's, rubbing his thumb
along the back of her hand. 

"Mr. Hosteen," Mae said. "A pleasure to meet you. I don't know how
to thank you for your help by giving us a place to stay." 

Hosteen took her in, studying her. "Plenty of room," he said simply
with a kind smile, repeating the words Scully knew he'd said to
Mulder. "A friend of friends is always welcome." 

Now Albert turned to Sean, and Scully saw his brow crease down as he
looked at him, at the hollow look in Sean's eyes. Sean looked a
little afraid as Albert reached out and put a hand on his head. 

"Hello," Hosteen said, and Sean did not reply, but his eyes grew a
bit more wide. Albert only smiled. 

The front door to the trailer opened with a creak and a woman came
out, a young Navajo woman dressed similarly to Albert, swallowed up
in flannel and sweatpants. She had long black hair, her face dark and
full. Her eyes were set deep in her face, and as black as her hair.
Scully guessed she was about 20, if that.

Albert turned to face her as she came forward, an enigmatic smile on
her face. 

"This is Sara," he said as she stopped beside him. "Sara Whistler." 

Scully's eyes darted to Hosteen uncertainly at this stranger's
presence among them, but Albert nodded toward Victor. "She is with
Victor. She will be here from time to time." 

Scully relaxed some at that, nodded, and Mae reached out and shook
her hand, Sara saying nothing, that same strange smile on her face. 

Then Sara looked at Scully, taking in her face, the bruising, the
cuts, her brow coming down for an instant. Then she saw Scully's hand
on her belly. 

She reached out, and much to Scully surprise, she placed her warm
hand on top of Scully's over the baby, stroking Scully's shirt with
her fingers. 

"A girl," Sara said, and her smile grew wider. "A healthy girl."

Scully's eyes widened, and she drew her hand away without meaning to. 

Albert laughed, chuffing softly. 

"Come," he said, nodding toward the ramshackle trailer. "We have
been cooking. You all should eat." 

And he turned and went toward the house, Sara following with Mae and
Katherine and Sean, though Mae exchanged a nervous look with Scully
as she went.

Scully stood there for a few seconds, Mulder coming around the front
of the van with Victor and Music, Mulder holding Bo's leash. Mulder
looked at her, the smile he'd shared with Victor melting off his face
as he saw her hesitate. 

"You okay?" he asked, and Music and Victor looked at her, as well,
stopping on their way to the house. 

Scully pulled herself up, shaking her surprise and the strange
feeling of vulnerability and exposure off as best she could. 

"I'm fine," she said softly, and she reached for his outstretched
hand as he urged her forward and into the house. 


**

2:32 p.m.


The meal was excellent, if not the healthiest in the world -- fry
bread, chicken, cole slaw bathed in mayonnaise. Everyone ate, even
Scully, who did not feel up to eating much, her stomach unsettled
from hormones and travel. She'd managed a wing, a dab of the cole
slaw, and Albert's wonderful bread had helped to settle everything
down. 

Victor had done most of the talking, engaging Mulder with stories
about the horses, talking about basketball, which he'd apparently
started watching. Music joined in with vigor, his elbows on the table
as he ate a leg. 

There weren't enough seats at the table, all the chairs full,
Katherine toddling on the floor around everyone's legs. Hosteen stood
at the counter, eating quietly, watching everyone with a small smile
on his face, as though the sight of all of them in his kitchen
pleased him somehow. Every once in a while Scully would see him look
her way, as though checking the progress of her meal. He spent a good
bit of time watching Sean, as well, who was staring down at his
plate, eating only when Mae asked him to in a quiet voice. 

"... And UNC--" Victor began.

"Oh, don't talk to me about the Tarheels," Music interrupted, waving
his hand, making Victor laugh. 

"Come on, man!" he said jovially, and Music continued his protest. 

Scully appreciated the two men's ease -- it all felt normal in a way
things had not for some time. No talk of bombs or death. Nothing more
important to them at that moment than March Madness and the Final
Four. 

She could tell from Hosteen's face as she caught him looking at her
again that the rest was on his mind, though. Mulder had told him a
lot on the phone from the hospital, and it was showing on his face.

Not yet, she said to him with her eyes. She needed time. They all
did. 

Hosteen nodded, drew in a breath and let it out, reaching for his
coffee.

She looked down at her plate, the remnants of her food, then up at
Katherine, who was moving away from the table, stumbling across the
floor.

Scully froze. 

(A tiny hand on the silver handle, reaching up...)

"Mulder," she said, urgent. 

Mulder looked over at her, Tunes and Victor arguing about Duke now,
Tunes' favorite topic. Mulder's brow furrowed. 

"What is it?" he asked. Mae was getting another piece of chicken for
Sean, talking to him, Sara at the refrigerator getting more tea.

Scully looked at him. "Get Katherine."

Mulder looked over at the baby, who'd stopped to pick up a napkin on
the floor. "She's fine, Scully," he said, confused. 

(The skillet tipping, grease the color of amber...)

"GET HER NOW!" she snapped, starting to rise, but her ribs slowed
her. The room was stunned into silence, Mae coming up, as well. 

Katherine had reached the stove, her hand reaching for the shine of
the handle, metal on metal as the skillet slid--

Mulder was up in an instant, stepping over Bo quickly. Two long
strides and he'd grabbed the baby, pulling her out of the way as the
skillet flipped and grease rained down on the floor with a clatter
and a hiss. Katherine began to cry in surprise at being jerked so
hard into Mulder's arms. 

"Jesus!" Mae cried, coming around to get the baby from Mulder, who
was checking her to make sure no grease had gotten on her exposed
skin. He handed the screaming baby over to her mother, looking at
Scully. 

"She's okay," he offered, nodding. "She's all right." 

The room had gone still and quiet except for the baby's cries.
Everyone was looking at Scully, all of them looking surprised. 

Even Albert looked surprised, looking from the baby and the skillet
to Scully and back again. 

"How did you...?" Mae began, rubbing the baby's back to calm her. 

Scully pushed off from the table, rubbing at the cut on her
forehead, her hand shaking slightly, her breathing a bit uneven with
the waning of her terror at what she'd seen. 

She didn't answer Mae. She felt ashamed. All the eyes on her,
everyone still, looking at her in confusion and something like fear. 

"I'm sorry," she said softly, her hand still on her forehead.
"I'm..." She glanced at Mulder. "I'm going to get some air." 

He nodded, looked at the others in the room.

Scully chanced a look at Hosteen, who leaned back on the counter,
crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded to her, making a small
affirmative sound in his throat as his eyes bore into hers. Something
knowing in his gaze.

The feeling of exposure returning, Scully turned and hurried from
the room. 



***********


END OF CHAPTER 6. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 7.