He was the kind of man Mulder had idolized as a young 
boy and despised by thirteen: self-assured charm and 
smooth manners wrapped around old money and a 
mercurial conscience.  Handsome, worldly, and more 
dangerous than he seemed at first glance.  
"Fox Mulder," he said formally, extending his hand.  

This wasn't real, he assured himself.  It was not 
happening.  He'd wake up, and it would be a horrible 
nightmare.  Dana would be asleep beside him and Sam 
would be down the hall, playing his guitar.
  
Waterston rose from the sofa, smoothed his suit coat 
and silver hair, and responded in a liquid, New 
Orleans gentleman's drawl, "Dr. Daniel Waterston." He 
dropped Mulder's hand and turned as Dana entered. 
"Hello, Puss," Waterston said softly, going to her 
and drawing his fingertip under her chin. "It's been 
a long time."
  
"It- it has," she answered uncertainly, looking to 
Mulder. 
  
He stroked his finger gently down the side of her 
face, his blue eyes glittering coldly. "I've missed 
you so much."
  
Dana stood surreally still, not responding, but not 
pulling away. Mulder cleared his throat, and 
Waterston dropped his hand. 
  
"I'm sorry," Waterston apologized, grinning in a 
way some women probably found irresistible. "I don't 
mean to be improper. Dana is just a very precious 
thing to lose.  I'm thankful to have found her 
again."
  
Mulder gestured for everyone to sit down.  Dana 
started to sit beside Mulder, but stopped and chose a 
solitary chair near the hearth.  She inhaled, 
gathered her thoughts, then said cautiously, "I was 
told you died.  There was a letter from your 
commanding off-"
  
"He thought I had," Waterston cut her off. "I was 
wounded and taken prisoner.  I woke in a POW camp not 
knowing who I was or where I belonged.  I couldn't 
remember my own name, but I remembered you, Puss. I 
could see you in my dreams - like an angel.  For 
years, I wasn't sure if you were real or something 
I'd imagined.  But last month, my memory came back.  
I started searching for you, and thank God I've 
finally found you."
  
"Did you remember Dori as well?" she asked evenly. 
"She came to our house.  With her sons.  She- she 
said she belonged to you. I-"
  
"You believed her? Puss, you can be so gullible.  I 
hope you didn't give her any money," Waterston 
answered, nimbly sidestepping her question.
  
"May I ask," Mulder said, his empty stomach 
churning nauseously. "How you found Dana after so 
many years?"
  
Waterston stretched out his legs casually, making 
himself comfortable. "The courthouse has your name on 
record as paying the taxes on one of my plantations 
for the last two years, Mr. Mulder. For which I'll 
reimburse you, of course, and for any other expenses 
my wife has incurred while in your employment."
  
Mulder exchanged quick glances with Dana: Waterston 
thought she was the housekeeper. She had on a simple, 
dark silk dress - more expensive, but similar to what 
Rebekah wore. "That's very generous." Mulder leaned 
forward, clasping his hands. "But - and forgive me 
for being so forward - but that's a great deal of 
money for a man whose cause lost the war, and who 
claims he was basically dead until last month."
  
Waterston folded his arms. "You're right, Mr. 
Mulder: that is a forward. Puss, get your things.  
We're going home."
  
"This is my home.  Mr. Mulder is my husband.  I- I 
did not know-"
  
"I'm your husband," Waterston responded, his smooth 
exterior hardening. "We're going home.  Don't make me 
tell you again, Puss."
  
Already on edge about Sam, that was the last straw 
for Mulder.  His pulse quickened, and the room grew 
brighter. "Call her 'Puss' again and I'll knock your 
teeth in, you arrogant son-of-a-bitch," he hissed. 
"Stop interrupting her, and don't you dare threaten 
her.  Do you really think you can show up after two 
and a half years, tell her some asinine story about 
losing your memory-"
  
"She's my wife."
  
"She's not your wife.  Your wife and two children 
are in New Orleans. I've met them.  Nina Waterston 
assured me you'd returned from war safely and were in 
Charleston on business. I checked: your business in 
Charleston is a French woman named Maria.  There's 
Dori, and how many others?" Mulder shook his head 
angrily. "At first, I assumed you collected pretty, 
exotic women, but then I realized none of them speak 
English well.  That's why you picked them. Most 
can't read. They're isolated from society, so they 
trust you as their link to the world. You could have 
a wife in Savannah and another in Charleston, and one 
would never know about the other.  If I was going to 
be a bigamist, Doctor, that's exactly how I'd do it."
  
Waterston started to object, but Mulder was just 
getting started. He still needed a target, and 
Waterston made a good one.
  
"I think you bit off more than you could chew with 
Dana.  You couldn't quite keep her under your thumb.  
You tried.  You lied to her.  You got drunk and hit 
her.  You made her feel like a whore. A bad wife. A 
bad daughter.  You intercepted her mother's letters 
to her, and Dana's to her family.  When she was still 
too much trouble, you shipped her to a seldom-visited 
plantation in the swamp to cool her heels, let your 
overseer deal with her as he saw fit, and moved on." 
  
Mulder paused for breath, and Dana asked, "Is that 
true?"
  
"No," Waterston said too quickly. "Not a word of it, 
Puss."
  
"Is it?" she repeated, looking to Mulder.
  
He nodded, crossing to his desk, and leaned down to 
unlock the bottom drawer. "I can prove it.  I have 
letters: one from Nina wanting to know when her 
husband was coming home.  Your mother's letters to 
you, Dana, and one of yours to your mother.  Benjamin 
and Dori found it in the overseer's house on the 
plantation and sent it to me.  You must have given it 
to the overseer to mail, but he didn't."
  
He handed the stack of envelopes to Dana, who 
stared at them in disbelief. Waterston started to 
snatch them away, but Mulder intervened, holding his 
hand up warningly.
  
"How did you get these?  From my mother?  From-" 
She stopped to examine the envelope. "Nina 
Waterston?"
  
"She's my sister, Mr. Mulder," Waterston said 
haughtily.
  
"She's your wife.  Nina wrote to him at the end of 
the war, but he never received the letter, Dana.  It 
was eventually forwarded to Savannah, then to me 
along with Waterston's letter to you. Which I gave 
you," he added, as if that redeemed everything.
  
"You met this Nina?  In New Orleans?  When?" Dana 
asked.
  
"During one of the trips when I told you I was 
looking for Sam."
  
"You knew Dr. Waterston was alive all this time?" 
she asked, forgetting the doctor was present.  She 
focused on Mulder, her eyes sparking dangerously. 
"And you did not tell me?"
  
"It didn't matter, Dana. Alive or dead, he wasn't 
legally married to you.  I told you when Dori came: 
if he had a placage mistress, he had a white wife.  I 
just didn't tell you that it probably wasn't you.  I 
didn't see the point in hurting you further."
   
"The letters from my mother?" Dana asked angrily, 
still thumbing through the old envelopes.  Her face 
flushed, and her hands shook. "How did you get 
letters from my mother?"
  
"I told you: I have an address for her in New 
York," Mulder answered. "I stopped last fall on my 
way to Boston with Sam. She gave me those letters to 
give to you.  She was worried about you. She didn't 
understand why you hadn't written, and why her 
letters to you were returned unopened."
  
"But- but you did not give them to me.  They are open 
now.  Who opened them?"
  
Mulder took a deep breath, leaned back against his 
desk, and gripped the edge with his fingertips. "I 
did. I asked Byers to translate them. And," he 
hurried to add. "When he realized what they were, he 
wasn't happy.  He refused to do it again."
  
"Then who translated this?" she asked, holding up 
both the English and Gaelic copies of her letter to 
her mother.
  
"The same typesetter who does the journals.  I'd 
asked him to do it a month ago and forgotten about 
it.  I only got it yesterday, and I hadn't had a 
chance to tell you.  We've been, uh, preoccupied."
  
"You had a stranger read my letter to my mother," 
she said slowly, her cheeks going from pink to 
scarlet and her voice getting louder. "Then make a 
copy in English so you could read it too?" 
  
"A month ago," he protested, gesturing broadly to 
demonstrate his innocence. "I didn't want you to read 
your mother's letters first and be hurt if there was 
something negative in them.  If she was criticizing 
or blaming you... If everything was all right, I was 
going to give them to you; if not, I wasn't.  As for 
your letter - I wanted to know what was wrong between 
you and your mother.  I'd asked you a dozen times and 
you wouldn't tell me."
  
"Puss-" Waterston drawled.
  
"Oh, you can go to the Devil," she snapped angrily, 
standing up.  The pile of yellowed pages and old 
envelopes fell to the floor. "You can just go 
straight to the Devil!"
  
"Dana-" Mulder said, starting toward her.
  
"So can you!" she yelled, storming out.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
It was the easiest thing in the world - not 
stopping her from leaving - but it felt exactly like 
dying.  He remembered.  First, the shock, then the 
cold clamminess of it, then the tingling numbness 
settling over his body and pulling him away from 
reality. Sounds and colors were muted, and time 
seemed to drag its feet, letting the last few 
precious seconds stretch into eons.

He followed Dana to their bedroom, watching as she 
shoved a few things into a satchel.  None of the 
expensive jewelry or gowns he'd bought her, but a 
change of underclothes, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, 
and the framed daguerreotype of her father and 
brothers from her dressing table.  If she added 
diapers and some baby clothes, she'd be taking almost 
exactly the same things she'd arrived with.

He kept hearing Sam's voice inside his mind, 
pleading, 'Just let her go, just let her go.'
  
"Dana..." he started. This was not irreparable. This 
was the part where he said he was sorry. Where he 
blocked her path long enough for her Irish temper to 
cool. Where he put his arms around her and they 
agreed he was an idiot and he swore it wouldn't 
happen again, though they both knew it would. "You 
don't have to do this.  Not like this.  When I said 
we shouldn't be together, I didn't mean..."
  
"You meant you have no respect for anyone but 
yourself? That you expect me to trust you completely, 
but you do not have the common courtesy not to open 
my mail?  Or tell me the truth?  That I can run your 
house, balance your books, raise your children, and 
warm your bed, but you still treat me like I am a 
slow child?  Was that what you meant, Mr. Mulder?"
   
"No, I meant-" He swallowed painfully. "I don't 
want you hurt. I'm trying to protect you.  That's all 
I was doing- All I'm trying to do now.  Can't you see 
I don't have a choice?  Sam-" 
 
"It is not about Samuel. Or me. It is only about 
you and what you want. That is all it is ever or will 
be about: you."
  
"Dana-" he croaked as she stalked past him. "I'm 
sorry.  Please don't leave like this.  Where are you 
going?"
  
"Go to the Devil," she repeated in a tone as cold 
as ice.
  
Mulder loped down the upstairs hallway after her.  
He took one stride for every two of hers, but he had 
to hurry to keep up. "No," he blurted as she stopped 
at the closed nursery door.  He put his arm across 
the doorway, blocking her path. "You can't take her."
  
Dana struggled to push his arm down, but he didn't 
budge. "Get out of my way.  She is mine, and you said 
I could take her."
  
"She's not yours. It doesn't work that way. If 
Waterston finds out about Emmy, she's his," he 
whispered hoarsely. "He'll take Emily and use her as 
a pawn to control you.  I'm not letting that happen.  
I'm not letting that bastard raise my daughter."
  
"Move," Dana screamed, still trying to shove him 
aside.  One hundred and ten pounds of her wasn't much 
leverage against a hundred and seventy pounds of him.  
She cursed him in Gaelic, too angry to realize he 
couldn't understand anything except the intent.
  
"Hush.  Dana, if he knows about her, he can take 
her from you," Mulder hissed under his breath. "Just 
like I can take Cally.  You have to leave her here."
  
"Go hifreann leat!  Go mbeire an diabhal leis-!"
  
"Quiet! Listen to me. You're not thinking. Why, 
after so long, has he come back for you?  He'd have 
to suspect you're more than my employee for me to pay 
taxes on a plantation neither of us own or live on. 
He knew you'd married and he knew where to find you; 
he just didn't care until now. He'd moved on to 
someone else, but she's died or left him, so now he's 
suddenly recalled his love for you. He doesn't want 
you; he wants to control you.  If he has Emily, he 
can do that.  You'll never be able to get away."
  
"Goddamn you!  Goddamn you, Mulder."
  
"I think he already has."
   
"Puss?" Waterston called from the staircase. "Is 
something wrong?" He pushed back his suit coat, and 
Mulder saw a pearl-handled pistol on his hip. "Is 
there something in that room that you want?"
  
Cally was taking her morning nap, but Emily wasn't.  
She could hear them and call for her Dah-Dah at any 
moment.  There was no way Waterston would miss a 
blonde-haired, blue-eyed child - just the right age 
to have been conceived the last time he'd seen Dana - 
rushing to a dark-eyed, dark-haired man.
  
"No," Dana said immediately, stepping back.  
  
"Leave it, Puss.  Leave him.  I'll buy you whatever 
it is that you want."
  
She swallowed several times, staring helplessly at 
the closed nursery door.
  
"I'll take good care of her.  Of them," Mulder 
whispered, speaking around the wet lump in his 
throat.  He bit his lip hard, then added the most 
profound thing he could think of: "I love you.  
When you can - when you're ready - send a telegram.  
Let me know where you are and I'll send money.  Just 
money; I won't write, and I won't come after you.  
Go," he urged her.
       
She didn't respond, but turned and quickly 
descended the steps, persuading Waterston to turn 
back.
  
Mulder followed slowly, feeling like he was 
underwater: close enough to see the surface, but too 
far down to ever reach it again.  He stopped on the 
step where Waterston had been, watching as Dana 
knelt in the library, gathering up the letters Mulder 
had given her and shoving them haphazardly into the 
satchel.  She snapped the satchel closed, then  
returned to the foyer and stopped, looking around 
at everything except Mulder.
  
"I'll take you anywhere you want to go," Waterston 
offered.
  
"I am not your wife."
  
"That doesn't matter. I still love you. I just want 
you to be happy," he said, oozing snake-oil charm. 
"Anything you want, Puss."
  
There were footsteps upstairs, and the nursery door 
opened.
  
"I want to see my mother," she said crisply, 
quickly picking up her umbrella and clutching her 
satchel, her knuckles white.
  
"We'll be on the next train north," he promised, 
opening the front door for her. "There's a cab 
waiting.  We can talk on the way."
  
She glanced up at Mulder, her eyes full of hurt and 
anger, then stepped outside.  Waterston slammed the 
door triumphantly.  Mulder stood on the stairs, 
immobile, and listened to the hooves clopping across 
the wet cobblestones as the cab drove away.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
The dining room table seated twenty, though only 
God knew why. He couldn't remember more than a 
handful of people ever sitting at it at one time.  
Not sure where else to go or what to do, Mulder took 
his place at the head of the table, looking down the 
polished expanse of dark wood.  Maids came and went, 
casting curious eyes his way as they cleaned and 
dusted.  Someone needed in the silver chest, and 
asked where Rebekah was; she had the key.  A voice 
said she was at the market, and polishing the silver 
would have to wait.

'Just let her go,' he kept repeating to himself 
silently.

The storm was raging, and the rain was hitting the 
dining room windows in waves. He watched it for a 
while, then turned as he heard footsteps. It was the 
little maid he'd seen Samuel kiss. He still didn't 
know her name, he realized.

"You: do you know where my son his?" Mulder asked her 
abruptly.

She stopped, clutching a dustpan against her chest. 
Her hazel eyes were wide and uncertain.

"Is he at your home?" he said curtly. "Is that where 
he went last night?"

"No sir," she managed earnestly. "No."

"Do you know where he might have gone? Did he tell 
you?"

"No, Mr. Mulder. He-he-he doesn't talk to me."

He went back to watching the rain against the window. 
The girl stood on the rug a few seconds, uncertain, 
before she walked quickly away.

'He doesn't talk to me, either,' Mulder told the dark 
sky.

Dana would... Dana would be okay. She would go to New 
York, visit with her mother. There would be a 
telegram from her in a few days, and he would send 
money. She'd rid herself of Waterston easily; that 
didn't concern him. She would establish a home in New 
York, and he would send her photographs of the girls. 
He would write to tell her about the children, and 
she would want to see Emmy and Cally, he knew. She'd 
want to see Samuel too, and, perhaps - assuming 
Mulder could find Sam - Sam would want to see her. 
Perhaps, once her temper cooled, Mulder could 
accompany the children to New York. Dana was still 
his wife, and he couldn't see any risk to her in just 
being in the same room with him. Talking with him. 
Having dinner with him. Listening with him as Sam 
played guitar or cello. Perhaps going to the theater 
or for a stroll, hand in hand. A goodnight kiss, 
even. Plenty of married couples loved each other, 
just from separate bedrooms. Perhaps, after the 
children were asleep, if she invited him to her bed, 
he'd just be very, very careful.

He kept thinking of Anne, and of the sinking feeling 
he'd had at his parents' anniversary ball, when he'd 
gone after her a minute too late and never seen her 
again.

The grandfather clock ticked the morning away, and a 
train whistle blasted in the distance.

"What are you still doing here?" Rebekah's voice 
asked, from the doorway. "Are you sick? Why aren't 
you at work?"
  
"I'm, uh... I'm sitting," he mumbled, slouching in 
the elegant chair.
  
"Well, you can't sit there, Fox.  You're in the 
way. Come in the kitchen.  Have you eaten?"
  
"No," he remembered after some thought.  He pushed 
the chair back and followed Rebekah like a sleepy 
child.
  
"Miss Dana said to go on: that I should get to the 
market early and she'd fix breakfast.  She didn't?"

"She's, she's gone," he answered, feeling dazed. 
"She's not here."
  
Rebekah exhaled a 'these flighty young people' sigh 
and said, "Well, sit down. I'll feed you." She turned 
her back, stoking the kitchen stove and then reaching 
for a skillet. "What about my boy?  Does Mr. Sam need 
breakfast or is he going to sleep all day?"
  
"He's gone too," he mumbled, leaning against the 
kitchen table.
  
"He's already at the newspaper?"
  
"No, he's, uh, gone.  I don't know where he is.  He 
disappeared last night." Mulder picked up an apple 
and considered it thoughtfully. "He wanted me to 
leave Dana so she won't die.  I wouldn't, so he 
left."

Rebekah turned toward him, holding her wooden spoon 
in midair.
  
"Dana's gone; she left a few minutes ago. I kept 
both girls." He turned his head toward the kitchen 
window.  The sky was black, promising the worst of 
the storm was still to come. "It's pouring rain. Dana 
took an umbrella, but I don't know if Sam did." 
 
"Are you drunk?" Rebekah asked slowly.
  
"No. Just very empty," he said softly.  He put the 
apple back in the bowl and looked at her. "Tell me I 
did the right thing, 'Bekah."
  
"I still have no idea what you've done."
  
"I let Dana leave.  I made her leave, in a way. She's 
not safe with me. Sam's wanted us apart for months, 
but he's been afraid to tell me why. I finally 
realized it's because he's seeing the future if Dana 
and I are together: he's seeing Dana die having 
another baby.  He saw Melissa die. He's seen Dana 
almost die once.  It makes sense.  He doesn't hate 
Dana; he's protecting her.  He knows I love her, so 
in a way, he's protecting  me, too."
  
Rebekah stared at him for a second, then, before he 
could move, smacked her spoon hard against his upper 
leg. "Are you insane?" she demanded. "Or blind?  Or 
did I raise a fool?"
  
"What?" he yelped, rubbing his stinging thigh. "Stop 
that!"
  
She swung again, her wooden spoon whistling, but he 
dodged out of its path.  They'd perfected this game 
when he was nine, but he didn't care to revive it. 
"Damn it, stop that.  What's wrong with you?"
  
"What's wrong with me?" she said in disbelief.  The 
heat from the stove reddened her ruddy face, and the 
humidity from the storm turned her auburn curls to 
frizz.  She pushed a defiant strand back from her 
sweaty forehead, then wiped her hands on her apron 
angrily. "Fox, where did you get this 'seeing the 
future' nonsense?  Miss Dana walked in on Mr. Sam
kissing his friend.  That's what he's afraid of, I 
suppose: her telling you."
  
Mulder tilted his head to one side, perplexed. "But 
I already know he's been seeing someone; I just don't 
know who."
  
"The curator at that museum."
  
He paused, his mouth open, waiting for the punch 
line. "That's a man, 'Bekah.  The curator at the 
Smithsonian is a man.  A nice young man.  He lets Sam 
sketch the exhibits at night, when it's quiet."
  
Rebekah nodded, unimpressed by his power of 
observation. Sam was her darling; in her eyes, the 
boy could hold up stagecoaches and still meet with 
her general approval.

"Sam likes girls, 'Bekah. He likes that, that, that 
girl." Mulder pointed vaguely toward the front of the 
house. "Why would Sam be kissing a man?"
  
"Don't make it right, but at that moment, I suppose 
he wanted to," she replied matter-of-factly. "Miss 
Dana told him not to be doing that."

"Absolutely he shouldn't be doing that. Sam's 
fifteen. He's a child. I-I'm going to speak with this 
curator fellow, damn it."

She was still holding the wooden spoon in mid-air, 
not threatening him, but making sure he was paying 
attention. "Miss Dana beat you to it. Have you seen 
Mr. Sam's friend here since Thanksgiving?" She 
paused, then added, "But Poppy kept telling him Miss 
Dana would tell you and you'd-"
  
"Poppy knew?" 
  
Rebekah sighed like there was a program to this 
play and he should consult it before asking 
questions. "What do you think happened between her 
and that slippery Alex fellow?  She caught Alex 
trying to kiss Mr. Sam and was so angry she told your 
father.  The Senator near killed Alex, and he had a 
few words for Mr. Sam, as well."

"But-"

"Mr. Sam's cello is in the library, and the symphony 
plays on Friday. If he ran away, he didn't go very 
far. Just far enough not to have to face you. Close 
your mouth before it starts collecting flies and go 
after your wife.  Whatever you did to Miss Dana, tell 
her you're sorry, Fox. And a fool. And try not to do 
it again."
  
"But-" Mulder started to object, but she raised her 
spoon, and he backed  away warily. "I don't know if I 
can stop Dana," he heard his voice saying. 
  
"You certainly can't stop her by standing in my 
kitchen."
       
  *~*~*~*
  
"I need a horse," he yelled, crashing through the 
stable doors.  The groom poked his gray head out of 
the tack room to check on the commotion. "A horse," 
Mulder repeated urgently. 
  
The groom continued rubbing saddle soap into a 
saddle with a rag, looking like he might consider 
stopping sometime that millennium. "Which one, sir?" 
he asked around the wad of tobacco in his lip.
  
"Any one!  Pick one."
  
Lightening cracked across the sky, and the horses 
whinnied frantically. Aramis snorted and kicked the 
back of his stall repeatedly, and Porthos peeked out, 
looking for reassurance.
  
"Now, sir?  It's raining, sir."
  
"Yes, now. Hurry." He could feel Dana getting farther 
away each second.
  
The groom spit languidly, apparently unable to grasp 
the concept of 'hurry.'
   
"Well, lemme think...  Porthos - he's favoring his 
left hock.  I believe it could be his shoes. Then 
Athos..."
  
He paused to spit again, and Mulder stalked past 
him.  He didn't have time to hear the litany of the 
animals' ailments, however riveting the groom might 
find it.  He grabbed a bridle and flung open the 
first stall, drafting Aramis, who wasn't sure he 
wanted any part of that idea.
  
"Bring me a saddle," he demanded as he forced the bit 
into the horse's mouth and buckled the bridle. "I 
need a saddle!"
  
"Will you be riding or hunting, sir?  Or sidesaddle 
for Miss Dana?"
  
"Oh, for God's sake," he shouted in exasperation, 
scrambling bareback onto Aramis and reining him 
toward the open door.
  
"Gonna get all wet, sir," the groom called from the 
tack room.
  
"Thanks," Mulder mumbled under his breath as the 
cold rain pelted him. Aramis slicked his ears back, 
not liking the thunder and lightening. The storm had 
worsened as the morning wore on, so the wet streets 
were deserted except for a few cabs and empty 
streetcars.  He kept his head low, his thighs tight 
against the horse, and squinted to see through the 
driving rain.  The sky was so dark it seemed like 
late evening, creating a city of shiny black shadows.  

As they galloped down Massachusetts and approached 
New Jersey Avenue, five blocks from the depot, he 
heard train's whistle pierce the air: three short 
blasts - it was approaching and stopping at the next
station.  He didn't know if it was Dana's train or 
not, but he kicked Aramis harder, and the horse's 
hooves slid precariously as they rounded the corner 
at breakneck speed.
  
"Go, go, go," he urged him, whipping the reins 
against the horse's neck. Lightening crashed across 
the sky, making the ground tremble in fear. Aramis 
grabbed the bit and bolted, and since he was headed 
in the right direction, Mulder let him go.  Thoughts 
swirled around his brain, one tumbling over another 
in an impossible jumble.
  
Sam.  His son, and the only son he was likely to 
ever have.  Mulder's only exposure to physical love 
between men had been Alex's unwanted kiss, Spender's 
perversions, and the effeminate male prostitutes he 
saw in alleys. It wasn't a line of thinking he 
applied to Sam, nor did it fit. Apples to oranges. 
Not his son.  Sam liked girls and the girls liked 
Sam. Obviously, Rebekah was mistaken or Sam was very, 
very confused.
  
His father. Mulder found the notion of men together 
unsettling, but his father would have found it 
repulsive.  He could imagine how harsh Bill Mulder's 
words had been: an abomination of nature, a Nancy-
boy, a sodomite.  He could imagine how harsh they'd 
sounded, especially to a boy who believed he was 
responsible for his mother's death.
  
Dana. What he could possibly say to get her to stay.  
Nothing, probably.  Nothing short of throwing her 
across his horse, taking her home, and tying her to a 
tree in the backyard was going to get her to stay.  
At the moment, that sounded like a good plan.
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shape 
approaching, then felt his body lurch forward as 
Aramis tried to stop.  The horse's hooves scrambled 
frantically, trying to avoid a fast-moving cab that 
had just turned the corner. Aramis sat almost on his 
haunches, throwing Mulder, who was unable to get his 
balance without stirrups, over his neck. 

Mulder tumbled head over heels, sliding across the 
pavement and into something hard.  
  
The world went white-hot, then a heavy, liquid 
black for a long, long time.
  
"You all right, mister?" was the next thing he 
heard, and Mulder opened his eyes to see Aramis 
standing nearby, sides heaving, head hanging low, 
with a long gash down one foreleg, which the horse 
was holding off the ground. "Gotta watch where you're 
going, mister."
  
Mulder scrambled up, pushing his wet hair back from 
his face and wiping his stinging hands on the seat of 
his trousers. Something dripped into his eyes and he 
wiped it away hurriedly.
  
"That horse is gonna need a vet, mister," the 
driver observed. "Or a bullet.  You're gonna hafta 
pay for the damage to my cab."

"I-I will," Mulder stammered, trying to get his 
bearings.  
  
D Street: one block from the depot. A locomotive's 
whistle shrieked again: two long blasts - it was 
leaving the station.  It could be the same train he'd 
heard earlier, or another; he didn't know how long 
he'd been unconscious. 
  
"Take care of my horse," he said, backing away 
unsteadily. "I have to catch a train."
  
"Hey!" the incensed driver shouted after him as 
Mulder turned and ran, splashing mindlessly through 
the puddles. "Where are you going?  I'll send for the 
police. I will. Hey! Get back here!"
  
The Washington B&O Depot was one of the busiest in 
America. There was a constant jam of carriages in 
front, waiting to pick up or drop off passengers.  At 
one end, an unrelenting stream of wagons loaded and 
unloaded freight from the steel arteries of a nation: 
produce, dry goods, mail, furniture, livestock, coal, 
lumber, munitions, soldiers, immigrants, and perfume 
- all went by rail.  
  
The yard behind the depot was a chaotic maze of 
tracks and turntables and sheds.  Arriving trains 
squealed to a stop, then exhaled a relieved sigh of 
steam, while departing locomotives digested a 
bellyful of coal and water and eased away from the 
platform. Occasionally, a long freight train flew 
past, bound for Baltimore or Richmond, rattling the 
windowpanes and leaving behind a layer of fine soot.
   
As he reached the front doors, Mulder wiped his 
forehead again, barely noticing his hand came away 
red and left a bloody print on the brass knob.
  
"There's a line, mister," a man yelled as he shoved 
through the crowds to reach the little window.
  
"The train to New York," he said breathlessly, 
bracing his hands on the counter. "What track?"
  
"To New York?" the clerk echoed. "We don't have an 
express to New York this morning.  Do you mean to 
Baltimore, then on to-"
  
"Yes," Mulder shouted. "To Baltimore!  What track?"
  
"Track four, sir." Mulder whirled, his boots 
squeaking against the wood floor. "But it's-" the 
clerk called after him. "Leaving now!"
  
He sprinted through the lobby, dodging passengers 
and satchels, and overturning chairs.  A porter was 
maneuvering a large trunk out to the platform, 
blocking the doorway.  Through the foggy window, 
Mulder saw a train sliding away from the platform.
  
"Move! Goddamn it."
  
The porter struggled with the trunk, getting it 
wedged tighter, and in desperation, Mulder turned and 
raced for the front door, then around to the loading 
dock.  The train had cleared the station, and gave 
two whistles and a belch of smoke as it began to 
gather speed.
  
He rushed after it, but skidded to a stop at the 
edge of the dock as another locomotive screamed by, 
dragging car after car of Pennsylvania coal after it.  
Mulder watched helplessly, bracing his hands on his
knees as he panted. By the time it had passed, the 
end of Dana's train was disappearing into the 
distance.
  
"Damn it, damn it, damn it," he cursed at no one in 
particular.  He stood among the wooden crates on the 
busy dock, jaw clenched, head pounding, and hands 
braced on his hips, then turned and sprinted into the 
depot again.
  
"Get the telegraph operator," Mulder shouted as the 
crowd parted, now giving him a wide berth.  The 
counter clerk leaned back warily as he approached. 
"Have him wire ahead.  Have them hold the train at 
the next station.  Don't let anyone on or off.  And I 
need another horse."
  
"We can't do that-"
  
"The hell you can. I own a quarter-million dollars 
worth of stock in the B&O Railroad.  I'm Bill 
Mulder's son. Tell them to hold the Goddamn train!"
  
The clerk looked dubious, and a few men muttered 
for Mulder to watch his language around the ladies.  
Standing in the middle of the depot like a lunatic, 
cursing, soaked to the skin, bloody and muddy, Mulder 
didn't look the part of a wealthy gentleman investor.
  
"Even if we could, sir, we can't.  The telegraph 
lines are down. The storm and all. We have no way to 
contact the next station."
  
"Then when's the next train to New York?"

"To Baltimore?"
  
"Yes, to Baltimore," he shouted, wondering if the 
clerk would be more cooperative if he was grabbed by 
the lapels and dragged through the window and over 
the counter. "When is the train to Baltimore?"
  
The clerk leaned close and said in a soft, 
comforting, everything-will-be-fine voice, "That 
train just left, sir."
  
"When. Is. The. Next. Train. Pointed. Toward. New. 
York?"
  
"It should be arriving on track one in about half 
an hour, sir," the clerk answered, then yelled at the 
back of Mulder's head. "Sir! You'll need a ticket, 
sir."
  
Mulder stumbled through the door and out to the 
platform, patting his pockets for anything that might 
be exchangeable for a train ticket.  His father's 
pocket watch: face cracked, hands stopped. No hat.  
No coat. No cash or coins. He didn't even have his 
keys. His boots or his wedding ring, he decided.  
Which would be worse to appear without in New York: 
his boots or his wedding ring?
  
He was huddled under the leaking eaves of the 
depot, working his ring over his scraped knuckle, 
when he noticed a small figure in a dark dress 
sitting on a bench at the end of the platform.  Alone 
in the crowd, huddled under an umbrella, she stared 
at something on her lap.  Around her, miserable 
porters lugged baggage toward the depot, and the 
arriving businessmen held newspapers over their 
heads, shouting instructions as they tried to 
protect their suits.
  
"Dana?" he called, raising his voice to be heard 
over the storm and the trains.  His vision was 
getting hazy, but he saw the figure look up. "Dana," 
he repeated, a chill trickling down his spine.  He 
commanded his feet to move, to get to her before she 
vanished into the mist.
  
"Mulder?" she said in surprise. "My God: what 
happened to you?"
  
"Everything," he answered honestly, the cold rain 
pelting him again as he approached.  It plastered his 
hair to his skull and dripped off the end of his 
nose.  His ruined shirt and undershirt clung like a 
second skin, and gravel from his collision with the 
cab was still ground into his palms.  There was blood 
coming from somewhere, but he hadn't stopped to check 
where.  It didn't seem important.
   
"There was a letter. In my satchel," she called.  
She stood, turning toward him.  The wind whipped her 
skirt wildly, and her little umbrella strained under 
the force. "Did you put it there?"
  
"I didn't put anything in your satchel," he yelled 
back.  What are you talking about?"
  
"I found a letter from you. To me." She wiped her 
eyes: either rain or tears. "I have a ticket.  I 
should be on the train right now.  Your heart is in 
the right place, and you try so hard, but you should 
wear a sign that says 'heartbreak.' And you will 
never change. I must be the world's biggest fool to 
be standing here."
  
"No, love - you're married to him."  

Thunder rumbled again, warning them, and lightening 
followed, crashing a white finger across the dark 
sky.  Dana put both hands on her umbrella, trying not 
to lose it to the gale.
  
"I love you," he yelled over the trains and 
thunderstorm and the pounding inside his head. "I do!  
I'm sorry.  You can't leave, Dana. I can't let you 
go.  You- you're," he stammered. "You're my lost 
half!"
  
"I am what?" she called, her hair blowing loose from 
its chignon and swirling with the wind.
  
"My father had me read about them.  Men and women 
used to be one creature, but the Gods were jealous of 
their happiness and split them, so each is only half 
of a whole: alone, unhealed.  You're my other half. I 
found you."
  
"You found me?  You got lost in a swamp and I found 
you," she answered, then sniffed uncertainly.
   
A porter passed between them, wheeling a huge 
Saratoga trunk, and an engineer leaned out the window 
of a locomotive, trying to see he backed it into the 
waiting passenger cars.  The links collided with a 
heart-stopping crash, and the engine added a lungful 
of steam to the storm and then reversed.
  
The conductor whistled and announced the Richmond 
train was boarding. Passengers emerged from the 
depot: young men turning their coat collars up and 
making a dash for it; a couple hand in hand - the 
husband trying to shield his wife with his overcoat; 
squealing children with mammies yelling for them to 
avoid the puddles; a trio of women with useless 
parasols and ugly little hats who bemoaned the 
rain, then picked up their skirts and ran for 
conductor's waiting hand. The women leapt onto the 
metal steps in a flash of white petticoats and lace, 
then disappeared inside. At the end of the train, a 
groom struggled to get a nervous stallion up a wooden 
ramp and into a boxcar.
  
Mulder swallowed awkwardly, crinkled his forehead, 
and squinted against the rain. "Rebekah says Sam 
kissed a man," he called loudly.
  
Dana nodded and his chest tightened with the same 
sense of confusion and failure his father must have 
had when Mulder announced Melissa was pregnant: 
trying to comprehend why his son would choose a 
future filled with pain rather than the smooth path 
he'd envisioned.

"I don't understand why he-" he started, but was 
interrupted by a series of short, frantic blasts from 
a steam whistle. 

Mulder waited, but instead of stopping, the whistles 
continued until they blended into one long, desperate 
plea. Brakes squealed frantically, then a sound 
rolled toward them like thunder through the ground.
  
Dana whirled, and the wind seized her umbrella and 
the letter. She tried to retrieve the limp sheet of 
paper, but Mulder reached forward and grabbed her 
wrist, poised to run, but not sure which direction to 
go or what the sound was. In the distance, there was 
the horrible shrieking and moaning of steel giving 
way. 

People panicked, stampeding blindly. He put his arms 
around Dana, shielding her as best as he could.  On 
the street in front of the depot, horses whinnied and 
snorted, and those aboard the Richmond train kicked 
frantically inside the boxcar.
  
Something exploded, and he pushed them both to the 
wet platform, covering her body with his.  Her damp 
hair pressed against his jaw, her hot breath panted 
against his neck.  Around them, people shouted and 
screamed, and boots struck Mulder's back as a man 
scrambled over them. The frightened stallion broke 
free from his groom, and hooves clattered across the 
platform.
  
An unnatural stillness followed, with no sound 
except the wind and the rain punishing the wooden 
planks. Mulder raised his pounding head, then helped 
Dana sit up. He looked around, struggling to focus 
his vision. 

Whatever had happened, he expected to see smoking 
ruins and mangled bodies, but the depot appeared 
unscathed.  Porters and passengers poked their heads 
out of the trains like gophers. The engineers and 
conductors shouted between the locomotives, yelling 
over the storm and the terrified crowd.
  
After a few seconds, there was a series of smaller 
explosions, like a distant battle, and the crowd 
bolted again, trampling each other in their attempts 
to get nowhere.
  
"Mortars," Mulder mumbled, still holding Dana against 
his chest. He sniffed the wind, catching the peppery 
scent of gunpowder and hot metal. "Cannon fire.  What 
the hell?" 
  
Mulder squinted, barely able to see orange and red 
explosions against the black horizon, like fireworks.  
He surveyed them with a practiced soldier's eye, his 
body tensing in preparation for battle. 
  
"There's nothing in that direction to attack.  No 
forts, no armory..."
  
Dana looked, her hair falling wildly around her face 
and her wet skirt swirled over them like a shroud. 
"What is happening?"
  
"I don't know.  It looks like we're under attack, 
but there's nothing out there except farmland and 
railroad tracks... It's a train.  That's dynamite.  
It's your train, Dana; it's hit something or it's 
being robbed.  Those aren't cannons; those are 
boxcars exploding," Mulder said numbly.
  
"Oh my God," she said, half in realization and half 
in prayer. "Dr. Waterston is on the train.  He is in 
the smoking car.  He left me reading my mother's 
letters and went to smoke.  He does not even know I  
got off. I-I just did it. I- Mulder, that cannot 
be what it is. I was just on that train."  
  
"A passenger train just hit a freight train carrying 
munitions!" a flagman yelled, relaying the message 
down the tracks.
  
That was what Mulder smelled: barrels of gunpowder 
exploding inside steel boxcars.  With the telegraph 
lines down, a passing freight train must have 
approached the station on the wrong track, colliding 
head on, at full speed, with the departing Baltimore 
line.
  
There were gasps and sobs as the flagman's message 
reached the crowd in the depot.  It was the Wednesday 
morning train to Baltimore: the fastest way to New 
York or Boston except the express. Mulder had taken 
it hundreds of times. Every seat was usually full, 
with men standing in the aisles and Negroes riding in 
the baggage car.  
  
"Oh God. That's your train, Dana," he repeated, 
watching helplessly as the explosions continued.  He 
looked down at her, then back at the horizon as the 
realization sunk in. He pulled her head against his 
chest, stroking her wet hair. "You would have been 
on it. I came after you, but I didn't make it in time 
to stop you. You should have been..." 
  
Two hundred passengers were dead in the train cars, 
but against all odds, Dana wasn't one of them. 
  
"I should have been," she echoed with the same 
certainty he had when he spoke of that battlefield 
near Chattanooga. "But I found your letter."

"You shouldn't have had the letter," he answered.
  
A horse-drawn fire engine clanged past, on its way 
to do what it could, though the rain would put out 
the flames and Mulder didn't see how anyone could 
have survived such a catastrophe.  He got to his 
feet, and then helped her up, noticing the world was 
starting to sway.
  
"Dana..." he started.  He wiped his forehead again, 
then watched as the rain washed the blood from his 
hand. He stared at it, mesmerized, and began to feel 
woozy.
  
"Are you all right?" she asked, then repeated her 
question when he didn't immediately answer. "Mulder?" 
She put grabbed his arm, steadying him. "Easy.  What 
is wrong? You need to sit down."
  
"'Bekah hit me with a big spoon," he mumbled as she 
guided him to an empty bench under the eaves.
  
She knelt in front of him, pushing back his wet 
hair to examine his forehead. "Rebekah hit you in the 
head with a spoon?"
  
"No, I don't think so," Mulder answered uncertainly.  
He looked at his hand again, then at her, his insides 
starting to shiver.  Her face seemed out of focus, 
like a photograph when the subject moved. 
  
"You need to lie down and get out of these wet 
clothes."
  
He nodded obediently and started on his shirt 
buttons, but she stopped him. "No, not here.  Wait.  
I need to get you home."
  
A passerby offered a handkerchief and she pressed 
it against his forehead, putting his hand over it and 
telling him to hold it there and be still.  Dana kept 
checking his head, looking worried, but to him, it 
just felt heavy. He could hear frantic voices 
jabbering and feet rushing somewhere, but they were 
far away.  His world seemed slower and simpler, 
reduced to its most important elements.  He grabbed 
Dana's soggy skirt with one hand, anchoring himself.
  
"Dana, I still hafta find Sam," he realized, lowering 
the handkerchief.
  
"No, you have to sit still. You are hurt, Mulder.  
You need a doctor."
  
"No, I gotta find my Sam," Mulder insisted, getting 
louder and trying to stand up. "He's my boy. I gotta 
find him.  He doesn't know-"
  
Dana pushed him back again. "Hush.  Calm down.  He 
does know."
  
"Do you need help with him, ma'am?" a tall, passing 
stranger asked, towering over them.  The rain dotted 
his spectacles and beaded on top of his bald head. 
"He looks a little dazed."
  
Mulder stared at him, a candle of recognition 
flickering.
  
"Please send a doctor if you can find one," Dana 
said, and the man nodded and hurried away. 
  
She pushed his hair back from his face again. "I am 
going to find a doctor, or find a cab and take you to 
a doctor." She looked around for her satchel, but it 
had disappeared in the chaos. "Mulder, do you have 
your wallet?"
  
He shook his head slightly. "Do you want my ring?" 
  
"No, you keep that," she said in the same comforting 
voice the station clerk had used. "I do not need your 
ring; I need money for a cab."
  
"No, you can take it." He took it off, holding it up 
to her.
  
"All right," she conceded softly, taking it. "Stay 
right here. Do not get up.  Do not take off your 
clothes. I will be right back."
  
As she started to turn away, he grabbed a handful of 
her wet skirt again, holding tightly.
  
"Mulder, let me go. You are hurt; I have to find a 
doctor."
  
"You get a second chance," he told her, but she 
didn't seem to understand. "Take care of my Sam.  He 
needs someone to take care of him. Take care of the 
girls.  And yourself."
  
"I will," she agreed. "Of course I will.  Mulder, 
try to stay awake.  Do you understand?"
  
Mulder nodded, let go of her skirt, and wrapped his 
arms around his chest as he tried to stay warm.  He 
felt dazed and groggy, and the world was beginning to 
seem far away.  He wanted to close his eyes and slip 
into the deep blackness of sleep until it was time 
to wake again. "You'll come back?  You'll find me?"
  
"I will come back; I will find you," she assured him. 
"Stay right here and do not go to sleep."
  
"I love you. Do not forget," he mumbled 
nonsensically, numbness beginning to creep over him.
  
"I will not forget," she promised, placating him, 
then slipped away, a small, hazy figure with auburn 
hair that vanished into the endless sea of people 
around him.
  
Mulder closed his eyes, waiting.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
End: Paracelsus XIV
  
End: Paracelsus