"The Seventh Side of the Triangle" (8/13)
by Susan Jameson(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)
See part 1 for disclaimers, etc.




Tunguska
6 a.m. EST

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

As Daniel Saw It

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

Find the truck driver, she said. He'll lead you to your friend.

As directions go, that one was right up there with "you can't miss
it."

I found a truck, if not a driver. The truck was overturned, wrecked
and riddled with bullet holes. There was blood on the glass, on the
interior and on the outside of the doors. I hoped that meant that
whoever was in that truck when it rolled over was still among the
living and capable of being found -- and questioned.

That was a joke: Daniel Reilly trying to interrogate someone who, in
all probability, spoke about as much English as I did Russian. I'm not
used to asking people anything more piercing than if there's a history
of osteoporosis in their family or how they managed to break a leg
playing badminton.

I couldn't help wondering if I was anywhere near where Fox was, or if
I had been set up and was going to disappear just as he had. There was
every possibility that Marita Covarrubias had sent me on a wild goose
chase. Or a wild fox chase.

God, he'd have killed me if he'd heard me making bad puns about his
name. He says he got enough of that in elementary school.

I had slept on the ground the night before, and I was sore as hell but
I kept going as long as I could, following the trail, watching for
footprints in the damp soil, blood drops here and there, any signs
that someone who was injured had passed that way.

All those skills I learned when I was a Boy Scout were finally going
to be of some use.

And speaking of things you got enough of in grade school, no stupid
Boy Scout circle-jerk jokes either, please. In my case, they're all
too painfully true.

The long, difficult walk was taking its toll on me, and I had to sit
down again and rest. The sun was high, but it was still chilly and I
just didn't have the stamina to keep going. I dropped my backpack on
the ground, flopped down onto a pile of leaves and closed my eyes,
waiting for sleep to overtake me again ...

I was so exhausted, dreaming so deeply, that at first I didn't realize
that what I was hearing wasn't part of my dreams. It was a whiny
grating, metallic kind of sound that rose and fell in pitch like an
old-fashioned siren.

I used to hear that sound in overseas medical clinics where they never
heard of disposable scalpels. It was the sound of someone sharpening a
knife.

And that was when I awoke to the unpleasant realization that I wasn't
alone in Tunguska forest.

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

The truck driver's home
Tunguska

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

As Mulder Saw It

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

I was in someone's house. That much was clear.

It's just that I couldn't begin to remember how I got there.

One minute, I was asleep in a pile of leaves; the next, I was
sprawling across a hard floor listening to a man -- the truck driver
from Tunguska gulag -- arguing in Russian with a woman, who I decided
must be his wife. The only word I caught was "son of a bitch."

I was pretty sure that referred to me.

After a brief, snarling exchange with the woman, the truck driver
stalked off, slamming the door behind him. The woman was instantly
calmer, bringing me a hot drink and checking to see how badly I was
hurt. She said something to me, but my Russian vocabulary consists of
about six words, none of which is considered polite.

"No Russian," I said.

"American?" she said in a thick accent.

"Tell your husband I'm sorry about his truck," I said, thinking that
was the reason for his anger.

She wasn't listening. She was looking at my arm. "The test?" she
asked, clearly upset.

"Yeah," I said.

She sighed heavily, shaking her head. "They kill everybody for the
test," she said.

They didn't kill Krycek, I thought bitterly. Or the truck driver, now
that I thought of it. "Why don't they kill you?" I asked her.

"My husband makes deliveries," she said, and I could hear the despair
in her voice. "They spare our lives. But now ... no truck ... he is
afraid."

Pissed as hell was more like it, I thought. Time to get moving before
he comes back. "Well," I said, "I have to go now."

"No," she said, emphatically. Obviously she didn't understand.

I tried to explain. "They'll come looking for me," I said. "They'll
come looking for you."

"No," she said. "There are other ways."

Other ways? What the hell did that mean?

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, puzzled. "What other
ways?"

She didn't answer me. "Grisha!" she called out, and a young boy
entered the room -- a young boy with no left arm.

"No arm, no test," she said, as though it were all quite simple.

Not to me, it wasn't. I had no fucking idea what she was getting at.

"You don't understand," I said. "These tests ... the smallpox scar on
your arm is some kind of identification. You have to help me escape.
I'll help you escape. You have to help me get to St. Petersburg."

Just then, I heard a sound at the door and turned around quickly. It
was the driver, standing in the doorway, holding a large knife.

Suddenly it was all very clear: No arm, no test.

And no doctor, no anesthesia, either.

No fucking way, buddy. Maybe I can't beat you in a halfway fair fight
in the shape I'm in, but a fight is what you're getting, nevertheless.
I stood up, shaking my head.

He just stared at me, raised the knife and gestured for me to follow
him outside.

And then he froze. Someone was standing behind him; I could hear the
clicking sound of a gun being cocked, and I knew it must be one of the
guards from the gulag come to find me and take me back.

"Put the knife down," the man said, stepping into the light. I saw his
face and I nearly wept with relief.

Somehow, against all hope, it was Daniel.

And at last, I was safe.

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

The rest of what happened in that house that night is hazy in my
memory. I remember a long conversation in which -- aided by Mrs. Truck
Driver's translation -- Daniel managed to persuade Mr. Driver that he
could undo the damage caused by the tests without an amputation.

He argued his case pretty well, too, considering he had absolutely no
idea what tests they were talking about.

Finally, they agreed to let Daniel tend to my injuries -- but in their
barn. There was no way the driver was going to let me stay in his
house and risk my being found there. After my stay in Tunguska gulag,
I understood his reluctance, believe me.

All through the negotiations I sat there staring at Daniel, still
scarcely able to believe he was really there. He looked tired as hell,
almost too tired to stand, but he did stand: he stood very close to
me, keeping himself between me and the driver, although he didn't
touch me or even speak to me directly while we were in the house.

He did put one arm around me as he helped me out to the barn, though.
Mrs. Driver helped him get me up in the hayloft; she spread a blanket
across the hay, and I collapsed onto it. My legs just wouldn't hold me
up another second.

I heard a heavy thud as Daniel dropped his backpack, and I opened my
eyes. Mrs. Driver was still there, nervously holding a lantern; Daniel
was kneeling beside me, taking a stethoscope out of his backpack and
putting it around his neck.

"Just exactly what the hell did you think you were doing, running off
to Russia without telling anyone?" he said as he wrapped a blood-
pressure cuff around my arm, but I heard a slight quiver in his voice
that told me just how worried he'd really been.

"Sorry, Mom," I said, trying to smile. "I forgot it was a school
night."

That remark didn't get the laugh I was hoping for, but that didn't
worry me. Daniel's a different person when he's being a doctor: He's
dead serious, entirely focused, almost to the point of being
impersonal. It's a side of him I don't often see, but I'm in awe of
him when I do.

He took the cuff off, did the whole "follow my finger" routine,
shining the penlight in my eyes, which I just fucking hate -- I don't
tolerate bright lights well -- then he and Mrs. Driver helped me sit
up, and Daniel unbuttoned my shirt and put the stethoscope to my
chest.

That was when he saw the whip marks.

"Jesus Christ, Fox, who did this to you?" he said, looking down at me
with eyes that were both angry and horrified.

I shook my head. "Let me tell you later," I said in a near-whisper.
"I'm not ready to go back there yet."

"Are you going to tell me about these 'tests' later, too?" he said, as
he poured some kind of liquid onto a gauze pad and started dabbing it
on the welts. It stung a little, but Daniel's touch was soothing, and
I didn't mind the pain.

"Much later," I said, turning so he could work on my left side. "Much,
much later."

Daniel nodded. "Later, then," he said, in that quiet voice. He still
sounded a little shaky, but his hands were steady as he continued to
examine and treat my wounds.

"How the hell did you get all that stuff into Russia?" I said,
flinching a little as he gave me an injection of tetanus anti-toxin
and another of an antibiotic. "In fact, now that I think of it, how
did you manage to get a gun past airport security?"

He shook his head. "Let me tell you later," he said, as he started
bandaging the worst of the wounds. "Much later."

"Okay," I said, and I think I actually managed a smile. "Much later,
then."

After applying a few more bandages and giving me a couple of Tylenol,
Daniel was finished. He sat back and sighed heavily, then turned to
Mrs. Driver, who was, if anything, more nervous than she'd been
before. A little more negotiating, and she agreed that we could stay
in the hayloft until dawn, after which we needed to be on our way.

Couldn't argue with that.

Daniel thanked her; she left, and I lay back down on the blanket.

"So am I going to live?" I asked, trying to sound casual, although I
sure as shit didn't feel that way. The truth is, I was worried as hell
about those tests and what they had done to me, but I had no idea how
to describe any of it to Daniel. He probably couldn't do anything
about it anyway, so what would be the point of worrying him?

"In spite of your best efforts not to, yes, I think you are," Daniel
said, quietly, shaking his head. Then, thank God, he smiled and moved
closer to me. "You are one stupid son of a bitch, Fox," he said, as he
lay down beside me. "Are you aware of that?"

"Painfully," I said, just as his lips met mine.

Two seconds later, I was fumbling desperately at his zipper.

God, I wanted him so badly that night. I wanted his strength and his
gentleness, wanted the slow slide of his hands over my skin, the warm
movement of his tongue against mine, the hard thrusts of our joining
together, the safety of his arms as he told me with his body that, to
him, I was well worth crossing an ocean to find.

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

I awoke only once during the night, roused from sleep by a terrible,
animal cry of pain that echoed through the forest. I lifted my head,
searching for the source of the sound, but the trees muffled and
reflected the sound so thoroughly that it was impossible to tell.

I lay down and wrapped my arms around Daniel, and I slept again.

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

We were out of the barn and on the road toward Norilsk before the sun
was up. We had to move slowly and quietly, in case there were any
guards around, and it was a real toss-up as to which of us was closer
to exhaustion, but we managed to make good headway for most of the
morning.

Around noon, we stopped to eat and then rest for a while beside a
brook which, besides providing water, provided enough cover noise so
that we could finally exchange "How I Got to Russia" stories. Daniel
leaned up against a tree and I, indulging myself in the rare freedom
of being unknown and unseen, sat between his legs and leaned against
him, and he put his arms around me.

Daniel told me about Scully and the committee, which upset me pretty
badly, although I did my damnedest not to let it show. But I couldn't
help it; I knew that Scully was in jail only because of her loyalty to
me, even though I'd been such a total asshole about Ratboy.

Maybe someday I'll learn to listen to her ...

Yeah, right. Somebody call Hell and see if it's frozen over. Anyway,
Scully's not always right; she's just always careful, and methodical,
and loyal, and committed to the journey ... and to me ... and ...
Shit. Whoever had locked her up had better run when he saw me coming.

Daniel tried to reassure me, told me that Jim was looking in on her,
thanks to Skinner's awesome bureaucratic pull, but that only made me
feel worse, knowing that another man was bringing her the comfort I
wanted so badly to give her.

I've always known that some man is going to take her away from me some
day. I just keep telling myself it's not yet, not yet ...

I tried to get my mind back on course by asking Daniel how he got to
Tunguska in the first place, but there he became strangely quiet. It
took a good bit of prompting to get him to tell me about Marita and
how she'd helped him get to Russia with a backpack full of medical
supplies, food and -- let us not forget -- a gun and about 100 rounds
of ammunition.

I found out why he was so reluctant when he told me, rather nervously,


that she seemed to have guessed at the true nature of our
relationship.

That was worrisome, all right, although not necessarily where Marita
herself was concerned; if she was willing to help Daniel, then it
seemed she was still a fairly reliable ally. I did wonder for a moment
if discovering I was gay was going to lessen her enthusiasm for
helping me in the future, but at this point, that question was largely
academic; the real problem facing us was getting back to the States.

While we were resting, I got the gun from Daniel's backpack, loaded
and unloaded it a few times and dry-fired it twice. It was a model I'd
never fired before, and I didn't want any unpleasant surprises if I
had to use it.

"Is this your gun or Marita's?" I asked him as I reloaded the clip and
chambered one round.

"Hers, of course," Daniel said, running his hand slowly through my
hair. He likes to do that, and I like it when he does, although just
now it was a little distracting ... but what the hell.

"Why 'of course'?" I asked, twisting my head to look up at him.

"Because I don't own a gun, G-man," Daniel said. "I haven't fired one
since I left college, and I don't intend to now if I can help it."

"You sure looked like you were going to fire it when you came through
that door," I said, giving him a quick kiss before turning back to my
impromptu weapons-familiarization course. "But given that we've only
got one gun, I don't think you'll be called upon to fire this one
anytime soon."

"You'd better hope not," Daniel said, with a quiet laugh. "I'm a lousy
shot."

"That's all right," I said, shifting to one side and putting the gun
in the waistband of my pants. "I'm a lousy surgeon."

"I'll do my best to make sure you never have the opportunity to prove
that," Daniel said.

I was just opening my mouth to answer him, but something stopped me;
some noise, or vibration, maybe, that said someone was nearby. From
the look in Daniel's eyes, he'd felt it, too.

"What the hell was that?" he said, lowering his voice.

"I don't know, but I'm not waiting here to find out," I said, getting
slowly to my feet. "Get your gear and let's take cover."

Daniel grabbed his pack, and I reached down to help him up. Just as he
got to his feet, I saw a movement in the trees to the north of us, and
I knew what it was I'd felt.

Horses. Horses running at a pretty good gallop, by the looks of
things.

I grabbed Daniel around the waist and practically threw him into the
brush nearby. I reached behind me for the gun; from the corner of my
eye, I could see the alarm in Daniel's face, but he didn't move or
make a noise. That Navy training of his comes in handy sometimes.

As they approached, I could see that there were two riders. They
reined their horses to a halt alongside the stream and when I saw
their faces, I thought I was going to pass out.

They were guards from Tunguska gulag, and there was little question
that they were searching for someone. I was pretty sure that someone
was me.

We might have been able to elude them with a bit more warning, but
that goddamn stream had made so much noise that I hadn't heard them
until they were right on us. Christ, what a fucking idiot I am.

I didn't recognize one of them -- a short guy with long hair -- but
the other guy was the one who'd always seemed to be in charge: the
bald guy with the glasses, the one whose cigarette Krycek had so
thoughtfully lit, the one who'd injected me full of God only knows
what.

You've heard of the taste of fear? It's metallic, and very, very
strong. Just then, my mouth was full of it.

Scared or not, I was not going to fall into that motherfucker's hands
again, and I sure as shit wasn't going to let him get hold of Daniel.

But we were in a bad position: There was no hope of getting away from
them, and almost no hope that they wouldn't spot us; the foliage
around us wasn't very thick, and we were partly exposed. They would
see us, soon, and we were dead men when they did -- or worse, test
subjects for the Russian consortium.

I would only get one free shot; as soon as the gun went off, whichever
guy I didn't shoot would be coming after me.

At least I'd had the good sense to chamber a round before I put the
gun away. That would help maintain the element of surprise long enough
for me to take that first shot.

As slowly and quietly as I could, I drew the gun and took aim.

The first bullet hit the short guy square in the chest. He was dead
before he hit the ground. But my cover was blown now, and the
advantage of surprise was gone, too.

Baldy whirled his horse around and headed straight for the spot where
Daniel and I were hiding, pulling his bullwhip out as he approached.
He was a moving target, and one that I wouldn't get a second chance
at.

There was no time to aim. I pointed the barrel in his direction and
pulled the trigger.

The bullet struck him in the upper abdomen. The injury itself wasn't
so bad, but the shock of the bullet made him lose his grip on the
reins and slide sideways from the saddle. He landed on the ground with
a loud thud and lay there groaning in pain.

Good enough, I thought, and I reached for Daniel to help him up.

I should have realized that Daniel wasn't just sitting there passively
waiting for me. When I turned around, he was already on his feet,
reaching for his backpack. He was as white as milk, and his eyes were
wide with shock -- but he was heading toward the guard.

I grabbed him by his belt and hauled him down, none too gently.
"Daniel, what the hell are you doing?" I stage-whispered. "We've got
no time for this. If someone heard those shots, we're dead."

"If I don't help that guy, he's dead," Daniel said, flatly, and his
eyes were steely. "You expect me to run off and leave him there?"

"Goddamn right I do," I said, still whispering. "Daniel, these guys
have been traveling in a pack. There'll be two more of them here in a
minute or maybe less to see what's happening."

"Fox, I'm a physician," Daniel said, and I could tell he was getting
angry. "I can't just walk away from him."

"You're also a Navy officer, and this is a battlefield," I said,
sharply. "It's him or us, and I have no intention of letting it be
us."

Daniel hesitated for just one split second, then nodded. "All right,"
he said; rather calmly, in fact, which surprised the shit out of me.
Somehow, I'd happened upon an argument strong enough to persuade
Daniel Reilly not to be a doctor. Unbelievable.

There was no time for self-congratulation, though. I could hear the
sound of more hoofbeats approaching, and while I'm no Lone Ranger, I
was pretty sure there was more than one horse.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," I said. I grabbed Daniel's pack with
one hand, his arm with the other, and we ran headlong into the cover
of the trees.

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

Federal lockup

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

As Scully Saw It

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

My eyes were burning and my head aching furiously by the time I
finished reading through all Mulder's various notes, test results,
arrest records and all the other minutiae in the Kilar file.

Mulder was almost certainly correct in his assertion that the one they
called "The Son" was suffering from congenital erythropoietic
porphyria. Mulder was also unquestionably on the right track in making
a connection to the murders committed in other states. What little I
know about serial murder, I have learned from Mulder, but even I could
recognize a clear pattern to these killings.

None of that was what I was looking for, however.

The real key was at the end of the file, in one short note, written on
a small sheet of lined paper in Mulder's characteristic scrawl.

"Question: Anyone ever survive going home with KK? Doesn't seem so.
Attraction fatal to several men."

The rest of the page was filled with phone numbers and names of
various LAPD personnel, families of victims, and so forth. At the
bottom of the page, however, there was another note, written in ink
that faded in and out, the way it does when the pen is running out of
ink.

"S. King asks do the dead love?" it said. "Only one way to know ... go
back to Kilar's house ... death is either an end or a beginning ...
maybe Scully will be th ..."

The letters faded into nothingness.

I watched, almost calmly, as a tear dripped from my cheek and landed
on the paper, obliterating the last, incomplete word. It didn't
matter. The paper had done its work, as I had done mine.

I had the answer to my question now; to mine, and to Mulder's.

Yes, Mulder: The dead do love.

And so do the living.

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

Tunguska forest

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

As Daniel Saw It

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

We hadn't gone very far before we found him.

I was still pretty shaken up by having watched as Fox shot and, from
what I could tell, killed two people. I was even more shaken by the
fact that I'd gotten up and walked away from an injured man who needed
medical help if he was to survive. I'd never done that before; I
couldn't even have imagined doing that before.

Fox had been right: it was a battlefield, and the only thing that
would have changed if I had stayed was that there'd have been four
casualties instead of just two.

But that's not why I left.

It was that bullwhip.

This guy, or someone like him, had taken that whip to my lover, had
beaten him so severely that I was pretty sure he'd bear the scars for
the rest of his days.

That's the only reason I let Fox persuade me. I just told myself it
was a unique situation, it was over and I'd never have to face it
again.

I soon found out just what a rotten prognosticator I am. We'd been
running, more or less toward St. Petersburg, for about an hour, and
Fox was getting slightly cyanotic and dyspneic, and ...

Sorry. Doctor jargon. His skin was a little gray and he was having
trouble catching his breath.

Anyway, we found a moderately usable path through the woods, hidden
from the main road by thick foliage, and we'd been walking slowly down
the path toward a small clearing.

Fox all but collapsed when we got to the edge of the clearing, but I
kept going. I'd heard a noise, and it wasn't hoofbeats this time; it
was the sound of a human being in terrible pain. I've heard that sound
way more times than I care to remember; orthopedic injuries tend to be
extremely painful. There was someone in those woods who needed my
help, and I was not going to abandon an injured person for the second
time in one morning.

And then I saw who it was.

I'm not proud of it, but I was so close to turning around and
walking away; that is, I was until I saw why he was crying out that
way: He'd suffered a traumatic amputation of the left arm.

It was about as bad an injury as I've ever seen, and I've seen some
bad ones, believe me. Someone had tried to cauterize the wound, using
coals or a poker or God only knows what, but it hadn't done any good.
The stump was still bleeding despite burns that could best be
characterized as fifth degree -- all the way to the bone.





END "The Seventh Side of the Triangle" (8/13)
by Susan Jameson(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)