Reinette Winn's Residence
Raleigh, NC
6:15 a.m.

Too late.

Winn's place was a narrow condo in a gated community, within walking distance of the police station. The garage door was open and you could see a little silver BMW Z3 in there. There were only two police cars on the street—a patrol car and a detective's unmarked—and the beat cop was sitting on the stoop. As Mulder pulled up, the cop got to his feet and took heavy steps to the passenger-side window. It was Chapman, the front-desk sergeant.

"You can't stop here," Chapman told him.

Mulder showed his badge. "What happened here?"

"Medical emergency," said Chapman. "She called 911 herself. But when they got here, she was already..." He swallowed. "She didn't make it." He had a thousand-yard stare, and he kept resting his hand on the butt of his gun, not in a threating way, but to make sure it was still there.

"You knew her," Mulder said.

Chapman shook his head. "Not really. She was pretty quiet about her life."

"I'm sorry," said Mulder. He didn't say you need to call the CDC, and he kept on not saying it. If she had died as quickly and dramatically as Wickham, then this whole place would be crawling with disease investigators before you could say hot zone, and Mulder did not intend to be around when the net closed. Not that it mattered much anyway. If it had been in an urban police station, then you couldn't cast a big enough net. "I need to get in there."

"We're not working it as a murder," said Chapman. "Nobody thinks it was murder."

"I don't think so either," Mulder said.

He pulled the Buick in until it hugged the curb, nose-to-nose with the detective's car. He got out and entered through the garage. It was a sad place, cheap and under-maintained, the little "luxury" touches—plastic crown molding, laminate flooring that looked like wood—somehow making it even worse. The furniture was all matched sets, like it was from one of those rent-to-own places. A cop's life. He turned a corner and climbed a steep set of carpeted stairs. The first door he opened led to a cramped bathroom with mildew in the corners. With the end of a pen, Mulder opened the medicine cabinet. Inside were three prescription bottles: lithium, Depakote, valium-as-needed. Mulder's education was in psychology, not psychiatry, but that was a maintenance cocktail for bipolar disorder. Keeping the streets safe for Raleigh at work, white-knuckling her sanity at home. What else was new? At least she was doing something about it. Mulder closed the cabinet and saw himself in the mirror.

A pocket door led to the bedroom.

She was still there.

#

Like Wickham, Winn had died fighting for her last breath, the phone still clutched in her hand. Her eyes were so wide you could see the whites all around. Her jaw was set. Tough girl. I would have figured it out by now, Mulder thought. But you were ten steps ahead of me, Scully. You were already here. You were here yesterday morning. That was how it had been when Scully was abducted, too. Mulder had kept his head above water for four or five years without any help at all—in Violent Crimes, on the X-Files, everywhere. Then he had gotten used to having a partner. It had ruined him as in independent investigator. Nothing he did by himself had worked the same or as well again.

If I wasn't working this alone, she might still be alive.

He picked up on a subtle movement and lifted his gaze.

A black detective, about Winn's age, sat in an armchair next to her bed. He was so quiet and still that Mulder had looked at him twice already and not really noticed him. "They think it was some kind of weird pneumonia. They're sending a special meat wagon to pick her up. I'm supposed to wait here." He was wiry, looked and carried himself like an infantry soldier, and he wore gold-rimmed eyeglasses. "You're the FBI?"

Mulder took out his badge.

The detective nodded, "She talked about you. Yesterday was a big day for her."

"I'm sorry," said Mulder.

"That's good," said the young man. "You should be sorry. I hope it keeps you awake at night for the rest of your life." He kept his anger banked low and constant. "We're not stupid, you know. We're not a bunch of backwater Southern hicks. All this started with the FBI and a bunch of classified military bullshit. I don't care what really happened. You might as well have pushed her in front of traffic." He took a deep breath and seemed to get control of himself. He held up a hand. "I'm not going to do this right now. I just want to ask you if you have the brass to stay with her. To stay here and wait and wonder if the same thing is going to happen to you."

"You were her partner?"

The detective's eyes flashed. "Sometimes."

Mulder took a deep breath. "I can't."

"I didn't figure you would," said the detective bitterly.

"It's not like that," said Mulder. "I have someone out there too."

"I could stop you."

"Maybe you should." Mulder turned and left the room. The detective didn't shoot him. He went downstairs. He took his cell phone, looked at for a moment, and put it in the trash compactor. He called his motel room on Winn's kitchen phone. It rang six times, and then Frohike answered.

"It's me," said Mulder. "You need to go see some guys at NC State." He spelled their names. "Consider it an anonymous tip from a well-placed FBI source. And you can stay in the room as long as you want. They have the Playboy channel."

"Mulder, you should come back here."

Mulder nodded. "You're probably right."

"I'm not kidding," said Frohike. "This thing is bad juju. In nineteen-eighteen there were stories of guys who were OK, and then six hours later they were dead."

"It'll be fine," said Mulder. "I'm going to see my doctor right away."

"You don't want to go down in history as patient zero in a global pandemic."

"I'm going to try not to let that happen. Any tips?"

"I don't know. Pray?"

#

Winn had a set of household tools in her garage. Circumstances being what they were, Mulder wasn't interested in going into a department store, so he took a huge pair of bolt cutters and a flashlight and put them in the back of the BMW. Then he took the keys from the hook beside the door and backed the zippy little car out of the driveway.

He beckoned Chapman. "The guy in there. What's his name?"

"Peterson."

Mulder got out and took his go bag from the passenger seat of the Buick and put it in the passenger seat of the BMW. "He any good at his job?"

"He's smart," said Chapman. "On track for fast promotion. But he's wound pretty tight. A lot of the guys don't think he's going to last."

"Tell him my boss is a guy named Walter Skinner and he knew Detective Winn. The two of them can put their heads together on what a huge problem I am. Tell him I'm very sorry I took this car but it's a matter of national security."

Chapman scowled. "You need a silver convertible to protect the country?"

"Yes." Mulder got behind the wheel. "I need to get somewhere very fast."

"Where?"

Mulder put the car in gear and peeled out of the neighborhood.

#

She was in the car with him as he turned east and headed toward the sea. They all were: Winn, Scully, Samantha. This car was where Winn had really lived. She'd had it waxed regularly. Her badge hung on the rear-view mirror. In the glove compartment he found loose ammo for her revolver, and a postcard from a girlfriend in Florida, and a little Moleskine notebook full of motivational quotes. You are the only person who can make you happy. The sound system was after-market, and excellent. Winn had put all of her extra cash into this car. The CD was something Mulder had never heard before, a melancholy, heartfelt drawl, heavy on the piano, strong female vocals.

He left it.

The morning had dawned cold and gray with the promise of rain and a cold autumn. Mulder closed the top shortly after he got out on the highway. He wanted a tape recorder, so he would have a record of his thoughts and wild theories. He wanted a shower and a change of clothes. He was in a stolen car and was planning to commit several serious crimes. He wanted someone to say, stop.

He felt a little pain at both of his temples.

Maybe it was stress. He shifted into high gear.