11:27 P.M., Prosperity Avenue, Fairfax, 
Virginia

"Will you be coming to bed soon?"

Walter Skinner looked up at his wife, 
Sharon. Her warm brown eyes met his own and 
he saw her mouth quirk. "I could sure use 
your body heat."

Skinner frowned.

"We could rub noses." She waggled her 
eyebrows.

He laid the pen in his hand atop the thick 
file in his lap. His eyes hurt and he leaned 
back, shoving his glasses up to rub them. 
The couch shifted as Sharon's weight settled 
beside him. He looked over at her and 
mustered a smile. "Sorry. I think I'll be up 
a while longer."

"Is it a bad one?" She gestured toward the 
file. "What's this one about?"

"Don't worry about it." The quick darkening 
of disappointment on Sharon's face made 
Skinner sigh and choose his next words 
carefully. "I'm sorry. That's not fair to 
you. Yes. It's a bad one. But you don't need 
to hear about this shit, Sharon. You don't 
need to be a party to this ugliness." He 
reached out to comb her hair back from her 
face and then stroked her cheek.

Sharon gave him The Look, the squinting-and-
furrowed-brow assessment that meant he'd 
just said a stupid thing. But her annoyance 
was mitigated by the caress of his palm. She 
leaned into it and sighed. "Walt, if it's 
upsetting you I want to hear about it. How 
many times have I told you that?"

"I know, but this is a sensitive case. I 
can't talk about the details. Please don't 
ask me."

Sharon's face darkened again, this time with 
sorrow. "All right, Walter. I understand 
that." She shifted in preparation to rise. 
"Come to bed when you can, okay? You won't 
be of any use to your sensitive case if 
you're bone tired."

He managed a little nod. "All right, Sharon. 
Sleep well."

The soft sounds of running water and the 
thumps of bathroom cabinets distracted 
Skinner from studying the file. There really 
was no point in reading it. He'd only be 
dotting Is and crossing Ts of agents with no 
clue that their assistant director could 
tell them more about the disappearance of 
Spooky Fox Mulder than anyone they'd already 
interviewed. Skinner was culpable in this 
case; he could be prosecuted. That is, if a 
man of cast he was becoming *could* be 
brought to justice.

It had been about two years since the gray 
ghost "Charles Spender" had turned up in 
Skinner's office, a cigarette dangling 
languidly from his thin-lipped mouth. 
Spender-- who Skinner had then believed was 
NSA-- had come to request Skinner's special 
service to the nation. This service, Spender 
explained with a phantom smile, might 
occasionally seem ugly or cruel, but it was 
vital to national security.

Skinner had served in Vietnam; he understood 
about dark deeds that were meant to benefit 
a greater good, and despite that firsthand 
knowledge, Skinner remained a patriot. He'd 
let himself be guided by Spender and soon he 
began to understand that his special service 
was to rein in the Bureau's loose cannons, 
especially the inarguably brilliant and 
increasingly paranoid Fox Mulder. Spender 
said the agent had to be sat on before he 
discovered and exposed the details Black Ops 
ultra-secret military projects.

But was Mulder actually paranoid if the 
reasons for his paranoia were true? Skinner 
asked himself with a sick smile as he let 
his head thump against the back of couch. 
Perhaps Mulder's notion that aliens had 
abducted his sister and Agent Scully was 
wacky, but not the rest of his fears: 
wiretapping, bugs, break-ins to copy 
Mulder's personal hard drive-- Skinner had 
signed off on those himself. And Mulder had 
still not discovered the pinhole camera in 
the ceiling of his apartment's living room....


The soft buzz of Skinner's cell phone awoke him. 
11:37 flashed on the VCR clock. Lost time, 
he thought, and grimaced as the phone 
buzzed again. Skinner fumbled, dropped it, and 
grunted as he grabbed it again. "Hello?"

"Still up? Your wife has the right idea, you know."

"What do you want?" Skinner demanded. He 
crossed the living room, crouched low, 
keeping his shadow away from the draped 
front window.

"I have a delivery for you."

Skinner's back was to the wall and he barely 
stirred the curtain as he looked out. An 
ember glowed in a sedan just across the 
street. "I don't want anything from you. Get 
away from my home," he ordered.

"I can't do that. And you don't want me to 
do that." Outside the streetlight picked out 
a shadow as the car door opened. Skinner 
heard the slam when it closed. He hung up 
and let his thumb skim over buttons, pressed 
nine and one but then there were footsteps 
on the porch. Skinner froze, feeling the 
final button under the tip of his thumb
then anger spurred him across the room to 
wrench the door open.

Under the yellow porch light Spender's 
familiar, creased features were jaundiced. 
Deep lines stood out beside his 
mouth and his eyes were flat as he took a 
drag from the cigarette. "You should have 
been there, Walter. You disappointed a 
number of people. And poor Agent Mulder certainly
could have used you on his side today."

"You sonofabitch." A shiver ran over 
Skinner's arms then up his neck. "I don't 
want you here."

Spender shrugged and pawed in his coat 
pocket to withdraw a black rectangle. "Here. 
This is yours." He offered it to Skinner. 
"Take it. You owe Agent Mulder that much."

Skinner's lips twisted. "You're the sorry 
bastard who owes Mulder. Everything I did, I 
did because you told me to, because you 
coerced me with lies. But I'm not going to 
be your lackey any longer. Get off my porch, 
stay out of my office--"

"Walter--"

"I said leave me alone!" he growled.

"I've heard that a lot today." Spender's 
shoulders hunched under his thick gray coat. 
The shabby figure bent and set the tape on 
the ground, then stood and drew long and 
hard on his cigarette. "You've got far less 
reason to say it than Mulder did."

Skinner watched Spender turn and walk away, 
watched until the brake lights were a dull 
glow at the end of the street. Skinner 
sighed and opened the storm door to pick up 
what Spender had brought: a videotape 
without a label. He turned it back and forth 
in his hands as he shoved the door closed 
with his elbow.

The tape made a soft plastic clatter when he 
loaded it into the VCR and pushed start. The 
tape showed a white blob that was surreal against
the black field until the camera suddenly found 
its focus. The image resolved into a white 
table defined by brilliant lights. Skinner 
frowned, staring, then his eyes widened as 
he saw the wrist and ankle straps.

He heard Mulder's voice shouting and cursing 
then Skinner watched two unknown men drag
Mulder to the table. He could hear the 
buckles clinking, found himself breathing in 
pace with Mulder until it felt like he'd 
hyperventilate. Skinner watched as Mulder was
bound into the humiliating, fully exposed
position, and flinched as a dark-
haired swarthy man sneered while he played with 
Mulder's naked body.

Skinner shut his eyes. Mulder's whimper 
pulled them open again. He felt sweat 
rolling down his bare scalp, saw it rolling 
off Mulder's face, and felt ill.

Mulder was gasping, men were arguing 
unintelligibly. At first, Skinner didn't 
know what the swarthy man was holding, then 
suddenly, he did. Skinner's hands went icy
as the camera turned and he was looking at
Mulder's body again, strapped to the table,
his genitals large on the screen.

Skinner watched the man toy with Mulder's 
scrotum then probe Mulder's anus with the 
anal plug as the electrical leads dangled from
its end. Skinner swallowed as the plug was
forced into Mulder, winced at the first spasm
caused by the current and Mulder's
concurrent scream.

Skinner stabbed at the button to shut the 
VCR off. He stalked over to the television 
and ripped the tape out of the machine. The 
small wastebasket in the corner fell over on 
its side when he threw the tape into it. 
Arms wrapped around his chest, Skinner stood 
waiting for the cold sick shakes to die 
away. He dug his fingers into his arms and 
kept hearing Mulder cry out. Squeezing his 
eyes tight shut didn't stop him from seeing 
the pale familiar face glazed with sweat 
under photo shoot lights, eyes wide as 
saucers as his tormentor sucked on and bit
his throat.

When Skinner opened his eyes, the little 
wicker trash can still lay on its side with 
the tape lying inside it. Skinner crouched 
and reached out, fingers brushing the black 
case. He swallowed and his fingertips half-
clawed the thing's edge then slapped it hard 
so it skittered away across the floor, 
clattering against the wall.

He lunged to his feet and kicked the 
delicate wicker wastebasket. Kicked it again 
and again, pinning the basket up against the 
wall and smashing it to twigs. Skinner 
kicked it until he was grunting and panting 
and Sharon's hands were on his arms, trying 
to pull him close.

"God Walter, what is it? What are you 
doing?" She looked up into his face, 
frightened. "What is it?"

"I...Sharon...." He sucked long, deep 
breaths, wrapped his arms tight around her. 
"I hate them, Sharon. I hate them."

"Who?"

The words were in his mouth, but he 
swallowed them, squeezed her and rocked her, 
comforting himself, too. She burrowed her 
head against his chest and rubbed his lower 
back. "Walt? Who do you hate? Are we in 
danger?"

Skinner almost laughed. "No, honey. No." He 
felt her head turn to take in the trash 
scattered across the floor then let her pull 
away from him. When she picked up the tape 
he wanted to snatch it. Instead, he took it
from her gently.

Sharon's chin set in a stubborn line. 
"What's on it, Walter?"

He looked at the tape and then at her again. 
"Something horrible," he sounded numb.

"Load it. I want to see it."

"No."

"I come downstairs to find you kicking the 
living room to pieces, and it's got to be 
over what's on that tape. I want to see it, 
Walter. I think I have that right."

He stared at her, squeezing the rectangular 
case with his fingers. "You can't see this, 
Sharon. It's got to stay private. It-- it's 
related to a case. Go to bed, honey. Please. 
Don't push me on this. Just-- just don't."

Sharon frowned as she looked back at the 
VCR. "You're going to watch the rest of it, 
aren't you?"

"I have to, Sharon. I--I can't explain this 
to you tonight. I may never be able to."

"You're shutting me out again," she softly 
accused.

"I have to, Sharon. I have to. Please don't 
ask me anymore." He looked into her eyes. 
Felt it as much as saw it when Sharon slowly 
turned and walked away.