ACT TWO

Van Helden Residence

6:00 p.m.

Mulder's walk from the lockup takes him past quaint shops and a long, wide thoroughfare that leads to the wharf. Turning right onto a winding street, he scans the numbers of the large vintage houses until he finds it: 212 Waterbury Lane. He stands at the picket gate, eyeing the three-story, white clapboard colonial tucked behind an English garden lush with roses, foxglove, dahlias and other flowers. His mom had been a gardener. Odd, how she crept into his thoughts. He's caught unawares by a sudden flash of planting seeds and pulling weeds, Samantha tugging at the hem of his mother's dress. They are images consoling and chilling.

Swinging open the gate, he passes under an ivied trellis, over flagstones leading to a street-level entry. He pulls the cord on the door-side ship's bell that announces his arrival and the tone lofts in the air, along with the drone of insects, the scree of gulls and the muffled sounds of a harbor town doing business. The heavy door opens to reveal a young woman with dark hair and large, darker eyes. Mulder asks for Ms. Van Helden and is ushered inside. He follows the girl through silent rooms until they reach the back of the house. Stepping through what looks to be a rear exterior door, Mulder finds himself in a sizeable conservatory, sunlight seeping through algae-filmed glass. Copious plant life overflows the space and he's surprised to see butterflies fluttering among the greenery. The room is humid and he loosens his tie, attempting to ease the stiffness in his back by shifting his head from side to side.

Olly arrives and when their eyes meet, she smiles at him. "I'm glad you came." She gestures to one of a pair of deep-cushioned rattan club chairs that grace the small slate patio at the center of the greenhouse. "You must be tired. Please, sit down. I'll have Mariana bring something cool to drink."

Mulder sighs. He is tired. And curious. "Thank you," he replies and sinks into the deep cushions. Olly gives instructions to the serving girl, then comes to stand beside the empty, matching chair opposite Mulder's. "This is an interesting house," he tells her.

"Yes. It is. Built in 1862, just before the War of the States. Sag Harbor was abolitionist in nature, but it was also a Tory stronghold during the Revolution. It's a colorful history."

"And you know a lot about it."

"I know a good deal about a great many things, Agent Mulder."

Mulder sits forward, leaning his forearms on his thighs. "Like who's abducting these women?"

Olly looks away and closes her eyes. She sighs to herself then opens them, returning her gaze to Mulder. "What do you know about the Lost Continent of Atlantis?" Her question is serious, disarming him with tolerance.

"I've heard the myths, the legends. Atlantis was an island kingdom destroyed by a cataclysm that submerged it beneath the Atlantic. Its existence has been debated since Plato, who described it as a utopian civilization. The Nazis laid claim to the legend during World War Two, claiming it as the source of its genetic superiority. Other researchers have attempted to prove its existence without success, the most notable being Edgar Cayce, who gave psychic readings while in a trance-state. He produced hundreds of pages of information regarding Atlantean culture."

Olly nods. "And what do you know about its people?"

"What should I know?"

She moves to the entry, taking an ornate tray from the girl he saw earlier. "Thank you, Mariana," Olly says gently. "You may go for the day." Mariana disappears. Olly is quiet as she sets the tray down on a small wrought-iron table and pours mint tea into a frosted glass. She hands it to Mulder, then straightens. He is again struck by her demeanor, her grace, and the intelligence that surrounds her. She is a beautiful woman, still. She reminds him of another woman he admires-his partner.

"The Atlanteans were a noble race," says Olly. "They lived and worked at all manner of trade, just as we do. Their technology was as sophisticated as ours. Some say more so. They traded with the ancient Egyptians, providing blueprints for the pyramids in exchange for the secrets of immortality. They were thinkers, artisans, engineers, scientists. They were also hermaphroditic."

Mulder's eyes widen, his curiosity bumping up a notch.

"Yes," Olly continues, noting his interest. "All life as we know it, in its earliest stages of formation, are. Some say they were also extraterrestrial in origin. I don't know about that."

Mulder swallows down a mouthful of tea, assessing the woman standing before him. Well-read and well educated, comfortable with money and its privilege, nurturing, imaginative. Her likelihood as a suspect is minimal. "You're saying the Marimorph is hermaphroditic?"

"No." Olly sits, holding one hand within the other on her lap. "The Marimorph is only the masculine entity of the creature. In their original incarnation, the Atlanteans possessed specific masculine and feminine entities co-existing within a single humanoid morphology. When the Great Cataclysm sundered the continent, it submerged, as you say. Those unable to reach the sheltering protection of its self-contained cities were, themselves, torn asunder by a force that split them apart physically, mentally and spiritually. The surviving creatures, confounded and helpless, dispersed throughout the landforms of the earth."

"That means the entities..." He tilts his head at her.

"Disjoined, becoming separate male and female creatures, yet each only half of the whole."

"Can they recognize one another?"

"In part. The feminine entity is called a Perimorph, a woman of subtle beauty and creativity, with no memory of her origin. Possessing humanoid anatomy, she lives out lifetime after lifetime coupling with human males to produce rare, hybrid progeny of great intellect. History books are rife with their names."

"Such as?"

"Some suggest Tutankhamun, Confucius and Edison as just a few Atlantean-human hybrids. The masculine entity is the Marimorph. He is also humanoid in anatomy, brilliant, cunning and seductive. He, unlike his counterpart, remembers every lifetime as well his origins. He is driven by nature to seek his literal soulmate."

"Dates a lot, does he? I'm sorry, I don't mean to be glib."

"You're an interesting man, Agent Mulder. You listen as if you believe me, yet I sense hesitation."

He quirks his head to one side. "I'm just thinking about what my partner would say of all this."

"A skeptic?"

"You could say that."

"The auburn-haired woman with the piercing blue eyes? The one I saw with you?"

"Yeah, that's Scully."

"A woman who keeps her counsel. She's of help to you."

"Yes. Yes, she is." He pauses before adding, "though I don't always see it that way." He gives Olly a self-effacing smile.

"It can be difficult to recognize what's best for ourselves, what links us to one another, how lines of fate and time cross paths in their mobius-like movements."

Mulder nods, contemplating her words. His cell phone chirrups, interrupting his internal discourse. "Excuse me," he says, reaching inside his jacket for the unit. "Mulder."

"It's me," Scully says. "Where are you?"

"Olly's house. Where are you?"

"On a one-lane road, stuck behind a truck full of ducks."

"Ducks?"

"Quack-quack, Mulder. I'm turning onto Preston now."

He smiles at the vexation and tease in her voice. He stands, holding up a finger to Olly and walking a short distance away. "Did you speak with Oracoff?"

"Yes, I did. We're meeting him in town for dinner."

"When?"

"Eight o'clock. Some place called The American Hotel."

"The American Hotel," he repeats. "Should I check us in?"

"Can we afford it?"

"Let me find out. Only the best for you, you know."

"Right. Where are you? I've got a map."

"212 Waterbury Lane. Meet me here."

"I'm there." He hears the phone line go dead. He returns to Olly who stands, an odd expression on her face. "My partner's meeting me here. I have to go."

"You'll do no such thing," she tells him. "I'm sorry to have eavesdropped, but I couldn't help but overhear. You need accommodations and The American is booked. I have six bedrooms. Please, allow me to offer you a place to stay."

Mulder shakes his head. "No, thank you. I- We couldn't- impose."

"Nonsense. It's no trouble and I like having guests. Besides, it will mean less paperwork when you get back to Washington, won't it?"

Mulder remembers Scully's attitude earlier in the week. He also harbors a nagging suspicion that Olly isn't telling him everything she knows.

"Alright," he agrees.

"Good."

The clang of the ship's bell announces a visitor. Olly excuses herself and Mulder hears Scully's muffled voice. Unintelligible dialogue ensues. At last, the two women emerge. "It's arranged," states Olly. "You'll both stay here. Care to see the rest of the house?" Scully looks at him, a mixture of question and amusement in her eyes. He gives a small shrug in return.

"Certainly," Scully replies.

Olly takes them on the short tour, pointing out items of historical and architectural value. The women fall into easy conversation and Mulder hangs back, enjoying his view of Scully relaxing under the kind attentions of the older woman. The house is fascinating, filled with history and items reflecting the nautical nature of the town. An antique sextant, an impressive collection of scrimshaw that reminds him of his dad's collection, dozens of sand dollars heaped into a heavy basket, and pieces of driftwood are scattered amidst the eclectic furnishings. And everywhere, there are crystals of varied sizes, shapes and colors. It's a queer, but cozy environment.

Olly leads them up a wide staircase at the entry. Midway between the second and third floors, Scully says, "This is amazing." Mulder has preceded them, but she and Olly pause to look at an enormous window at whose center sits a stained-glass image of a bay surrounded by trees. "Is this-?" She looks at Olly in question.

"Yes. Louis Comfort Tiffany made that. It's a replica of his piece, 'Oyster Bay.' He crafted it for the previous owners of this house with the stipulation that it always remain intact and in place. Do you appreciate art, Agent Scully?"

"I do. You have some interesting pieces."

"I do, indeed. And guests," she adds.

The women join Mulder, who waits on the landing. Olly stands facing the agents and says, "I have two singles and a double on this floor. Will you be sharing?" Her assumption causes Mulder to look away and to stifle a smile.

Scully keeps her composure and replies, "The singles are fine, thank you."

"I hope I haven't offended. I pick up on vibes. It's the crystals, you know. A shared room seemed right for you, but-"

"The singles will be fine," Mulder repeats, his eyes on Scully, who refuses to meet his gaze.

"Fine." Olly face grows anxious. "You have an appointment at The American, yes?"

"Yeah," Mulder says, noting the change of expression.

"I overheard that, too, I'm afraid. I also heard the name Oracoff."

"Do you know him?" Scully asks.

"Julian Oracoff?" Scully nods. "Yes, I know Julian. Is he in trouble?"

"Not if he's telling the truth," Scully replies.

The American Hotel

8:15 p.m.

Julian Oracoff glances at his wristwatch and sits back in his chair. The agents he's meeting are late and he's miffed at being kept waiting. He picks up the crystal goblet resting beside his hand and holds it aloft. The jewel-toned liquid captures the candlelight, its rubied glow refracting in the wine. He brings the glass to his lips and sips the vintage with reverence before replacing it on the table.

He looks forward to seeing the woman who visited him earlier today. Her choice of occupation makes no sense, in his mind. Law enforcement types are a notoriously practical lot. But Dr. Scully seems discerning. She's intelligent and perceptive, and with her vivid coloring, quite attractive.

He casts his gaze around the room, observing the few occupants dining in the post-season quiet. The room's appointments are tasteful and he likes the service: attentive, but discreet. He's accustomed to urban living and prefers the academic climate of the Ivies, but location is everything and his research demands his presence in this locale, far from city lights.

He notices Scully as soon as she enters the room. She's changed her clothing. The somber pantsuit has given way to a sleeveless, dark blue sheath with a scooped neckline and a fitted bodice that enhances her petite form. She sees him and follows the maitre'd to the table.

Julian rises at her approach.

"Hello again, Dr. Scully. You look lovely."

"Thank you," she replies before taking the chair beside his.

"I thought your partner was joining us."

"He's making a phone call. He'll be here shortly."

"Too soon, I'm afraid," Julian states.

She smiles, a bit self-conscious, and he realizes she's unaccustomed to being flattered. It's refreshing. He imagines she must keep her femininity under close wraps working as a federal agent. Pity. Women are such interesting creatures.

"I've taken the liberty of ordering wine for us. May I pour you a glass?"

"I'm sorry, no," she replies. "Agent Mulder and I are still, technically, on duty. But, please don't hesitate on our account, Dr. Oracoff."

"Please call me Julian and I'm hoping I may call you Dana." She nods once and he tops off the glass he's been nursing. "This is a Pinot Noir from Pindar. It's a local label, but quite good. The North Fork is fast becoming the Bordeaux of New York."

"Do you know this area well?"

"Well enough for my purposes."

A voice intercepts asking, "Which would be what, exactly?"

Julian hears the suspicion in the voice and turns to look up into a pair of intelligent hazel eyes. He already knows that this is Fox Mulder, Dr. Scully's partner. As suspected, he hates the man on sight. He'd been hoping for someone much older, paunchier and cruder than the slender, handsome agent that stands beside the table. He stands to meet the man's eyes, level with his own and extends his hand.

"You must be Agent Mulder. I'm Julian Oracoff."

Mulder shakes his hand and he sits across from Scully, Julian between them. "My work, agent, is to teach marine biology and do research into the life forms found in the shoals off the Atlantic barrier reef."

"How do you do that while on land?"

"I have use of a small submersible the university provides."

Mulder glances across the table at Scully. "Does anyone ever go with you on these underwater junkets?"

"They're called research expeditions and yes, occasionally students go with me."

"Where is it now?"

"At the University's launch, near the public dock."

"And its usage is always tracked?"

Julian smiles, unperturbed by the subtle grilling. "Always. There's a ship's log, as well. You will find all in order, Mr. Mulder."

The two men watch each other, their reactive chemistry palpable. Just then, the waiter approaches with menus in hand. They peruse the placards for a minute. Julian notes Mulder's well-concealed discomfiture with the 4-star prices and French descriptions. Their expense allowance is probably a pittance, Julian thinks, but he wants to impress the lady and isn't afraid of Uncle Sam's wrath. He holds up a hand and says, "Do you like seafood? If I may suggest..."

"By all means," Mulder says, his tone polite, but his mouth set.

Julian orders oysters and foie gras, endive salad and grilled salmon; all in impeccable French. Mulder meets Scully's eyes over the vivid African daisies that adorn the centerpiece. Their shared expression suggests a well-honed routine. Julian's guard goes up as Mulder turns his attention to him. cully maintains a serene expression.

"Scully tells me you're only here until January," Mulder states.

"Yes. My research could call me away from teaching at any time."

"Your research?"

"My thesis on antediluvian artifacts."

"I meant to ask you earlier," Scully says. "Antediluvian, as in Noah's Ark?"

"Actually, I'm interested in a much earlier catastrophe. One that redefined the face of the Western Hemisphere and took from us a golden civilization."

"Sounds like something I heard earlier today," Mulder mumbles.

"Sounds like a story I heard once in a lullaby," Scully quips in a dry tone.

Mulder smiles at her. Julian chuckles, "Did I say over the rainbow?"

"Then where?" she asks.

"Under the sea."

Mulder adds, "Yeah, Scully, with the Little Mermaid."

Julian stiffens. "The ignorant often ridicule that which they do not understand."

"So, enlighten me." Mulder's tone is edged with sarcasm.

The waiter interrupts with appetizers. Conversation ceases for a brief time as delicacies are consumed. Julian leans towards Scully and says sotto voce, "Did you know oysters are an aphrodisiac, Dana?"

"Many foods are considered to be conducive to the production of hormones and endorphins within the body, yes."

Julian's eyes twinkle as they meet hers, "Such as?"

"Such as...asparagus, walnuts, pine nuts, grapes." Her eyes flick to the glass of wine before him and back to his attentive gaze.

"Really?" he says, leaning his chin on his hand as he listens, enjoying the spark in her eyes and the shape of her mouth as she speaks.

"Yes. And spices like ginger, nutmeg, vanilla and of course," she pauses and smiles, "chocolate."

"Ahh. So that's why gentleman bring chocolates to beautiful women?"

"Well, the scientific explanation is that it releases endorphins that create the same sensation as being in love."

"Imagine that."

"Don't forget green M&Ms." That was Mulder. Scully looks across the small table to her partner with raised brows and a look of incomprehension. He's sitting back in his chair with only his right hand resting at the table's edge, fingers drumming the white linen.

"Excuse me?"

"Green M&Ms, Scully. The latest substance to induce a frenzy of wild passion." His tone is light, but his fingers betray his insecurity.

"Green M&Ms."

"An ad hoc university study in Texas verifies that people are using green M&Ms as sexual stimulants. Every one knows you have to eat those first when you open the package."

"Mulder-"

"But," he says leaning forward into the table with both hands pressed flat against the surface. "Getting back to our *original* discussion..." he says with soft, but deliberate intent.

Julian is pleased he's disturbed the agent with his attentions to the woman. He's quite certain that testosterone is goading Mulder to this petty sniping and equally certain that what Mulder really wants to do is exhibit typical human male territoriality by shoving him against the wall and saying, "Back off, pal." Still, Mulder refrains and Julian admires his restraint.

The agents eye one another for a few, silent moments and then Scully asks of her partner, "You said you heard something earlier today. From whom?"

"Olivia Van Helden." Julian's chin and interest lift despite himself, a fact not unnoticed.

"Do you know her?" Scully asks the professor.

"She owns a bookstore. I buy books." She nods and drops the topic, much to Mulder's surprise.

"So then," Mulder begins while casting a pointed look at his partner and back to Julian, "You don't really know each other."

"No. What did she tell you?"

"She has a theory that sounds a lot like yours about an island that was submerged in the ocean after a great cataclysm."

"Atlantis," Julian offers.

"Yes. Then you have chatted."

"We've discussed that topic, among others."

"You know about the Marimorph."

Julian's posture doesn't shift, but he takes in a deep, quiet breath and releases it. "Yes, I know about Marimorphs and Perimorphs and the Great Cataclysm. Are you suggesting such creatures actually exist? Or that such a creature is responsible for the women that have been taken?"

Mulder prepares to say something, but is cut off by his partner saying, "I think what my partner is suggesting is that someone may *believe* he is such a creature and is perpetrating these crimes in a delusional state."

Mulder's eyes narrow. "Tell me something, Dr. Oracoff. Ms. Van Helden tells me that the creature is driven to abduct these women, hoping to discover his soulmate and return to the sea with her."

"That would fit the mythology. Atlantis is believed to still exist deep beneath the surface of the sea, it's portals opening but once a year for a brief span of days during the passage of the autumnal equinox. Only then can its long-lost nomads re-enter and rejoin with their kindred. Some even suggest that the storms that plague the Atlantic at this time of year are a direct result of those portals opening."

"So the portals are closed again?"

"By the end-turn of the Romans' seventh month."

"And you believe that the creature seeks its soulmate?"

"The idea of a soulmate has long-existed."

"As a fanciful notion," Scully enjoins. "Physical scientists attribute it to biochemistry, anthropologists to mating rituals and psychologists to deep-seated mother separation issues."

"Ahh, but for the Marimorph, dear Dana, the soulmate is its sundered self seeking reunion."

Mulder grumbles, "I'd say his version of a one-night stand is a bit severe."

Julian eyes the man with an icy stare. "I believe-" he begins, but never finishes because Detective Guarino is striding towards their table.

"We got us another victim," he tells them.

Mulder looks at Julian, whose face remains impassive and unaffected by the news. He meets Scully's eyes and they rise in tandem.

"I'm afraid we have to go," Scully tells Julian.

"I'll take care of the bill," Julian says.

"Thanks," Mulder says with some satisfaction before he follows Guarino and Scully from the dining room, his hand at the small of her back.

Julian notes the possessiveness of the gesture. There's subtext here. Mulder's jealousy is transparent. He believes the woman belongs to him.

Foolish human.

Onboard Police Cutter 678

9:00 p.m.

Spray off the dark water kicks up into Mulder's face as the police cutter makes its way across Peconic Bay. The moon is concealed by clouds, incongruous in the night sky, backlit by silvered light. Mulder leans into the prow, breathing in the tang of salt air. The feel of moving water beneath his feet triggers memories of days long gone. No one who grows up on a sea island ever takes the ocean for granted or leaves it behind. You are always, essentially, separate from the mainland, shaped by the brine that surrounds you.

They are heading towards Southold, on the opposite side of the immense bay that spans the distance between eastern Long Island's fish tails. Scully comes from behind to stand beside him.

"Allison Jorge," she begins, her voice raised a notch to be heard over the hum of the engine and the steady, rhythmic splash of the cutter as it rebounds off the water. "Age 34, teacher and mother of three. Husband called the police after she didn't come home last night and failed to show up at school this morning. No known issues of marital discord or enemies. She was found by a woman walking her dog on the beach. Southold PD say she's barely hanging on, so they've choppered her to Stony Brook Medical Center."

Mulder purses his lips and nods without looking at her. "He's stepping up the pace, Scully." He turns towards her. Her trench is buttoned tight, collar turned up against the mist. Gusts off the water whip her hair across her face. He finds himself wanting to brush the stray strands off her cheek, but pushes the thought aside. "And I think I know why," he says.

She waits. He knows she's prepared for either a legitimate profile of a kidnapper or the esoteric meanderings of his mind. Her willingness to hear him is something he never fully understands, but needs as much as the air that dampens his skin. "He's on a time-limited schedule," Mulder begins.

"What do you mean?"

"Oracoff said the equinox is a critical date for the creature," he says.

"The Marimorph?" He gives her a half-smile and nods.

"You said it yourself. Whether this creature is real or imagined, we're likely to see another abduction before the weekend."

"The end-turn of the Romans' seventh month."

"That's just double-talk for September." She nods. "I suggest we keep an eye on Dr. Oracoff's movements."

"You suspect Julian?"

"Scully, that guy was shoveling so much shit he could have fertilized Kansas."

"Mulder-" she chides, her annoyance surfacing.

"College professors don't make the kind of salary Julian seems accustomed to spending."

"People have other sources of income besides their jobs. And the man has taste. That doesn't make him a criminal."

"No, just fascinating. Or so it would seem." Mulder leans closer to her ear. "What's with you? You seemed a million miles away tonight."

"That's unfair."

He hears the subtle warning in her voice, but presses on. "He lied about knowing Olly and you just sat there." Scully looks away without responding, which irks him all the more.

The boat shifts as it curves towards the lights that wink from shore. Scully loses her footing and pitches forward, clutching at the lapels of Mulder's trenchcoat. He places one foot forward to maintain their balance and a steadying hand under her elbow. She looks up at him, an irritated purse to her mouth. "What do you expect from me, Mulder? I'm here, aren't I? I'm doing my share of the work."

"How? By exchanging precocious remarks with the good professor? I know what he wants." She glares at him. He knows he's being peevish, but he can't help himself.

"Mulder, I'll agree that he's seductive, but I'm not a schoolgirl. I'll buy that his non-reaction to Guarino's announcement was odd, but that doesn't prove anything. I'll even accept that he seems to have more information that the average person about the habits of mythological sea creatures, present company excepted. But, don't stand there and tell me that Julian Oracoff is a merman looking for love."

"In all the wrong places, Scully."

"You think he's searching for his soulmate, whatever that means?"

The hand that grasps her arm tightens in increments. "Don't you believe people can be meant for one another?" His attempt at depersonalization can't disguise his true question. She drops her head, then lifts her face to his again.

"Maybe I thought so, once. Real life has proven me wrong time and again." He sees the pain of past mistakes in her eyes, hears the regret in her voice.

"No, I- I don't suppose either of us has made the best choices in that regard."

She cocks her head at him, eyes narrowing. "Whatever it is that brings people together, Mulder, it's hard work that keeps them together, not some mystical force."

"That's all I'm expecting, Scully." He regrets the sarcasm that tinges his voice the moment Scully drops her hands away from him. She shrugs off the one at her arm and turns on her heel, heading towards the enclosed bridge where Guarino navigates the boat. Mulder knows he's said the wrong thing at the wrong time, exactly the wrong way.

Southhold Police Precinct

A Suffolk cop meets them at the police launch and drives them to the station house. Guarino leads the way through the bullpen to a desk where a young black detective sits typing a form.

"Niebler?"

The cop looks up, pinch-faced in the fluorescent lighting. "Guarino! What brings you to visit us 'simple folk' on the North Fork? I thought you preferred the paparazzi crowd."

"You're handling the Jorge case."

"Yeah. These the feds?" he asks, standing.

Guarino points to them in succession. "Agents Mulder and Scully are from Washington."

Niebler shakes their hands, then sits on the corner of his desk. "DC feds. This must be bigger than I thought. Of course, considering everything that passes through this end of the island, anything is possible."

"What do you mean?" Mulder inquires.

Niebler crosses his arms over his chest. "Most people think Long Island is homogenized white bread. Truth is, it's a hodgepodge. And crime doesn't know city from sticks. Sure, we got petty stuff like any other town, but the DEA sits on our doorstep on a regular basis looking for offshore shit trying to enter the 495 crack line to the Apple. All right under the noses of quiet suburbia."

"You going somewhere with this?" Guarino interrupts.

"Shoptalk, Nick. What's your problem? Besides, we got a possible ID on the kidnapper and an APB on the wire."

"Who gave the ID?" Scully asks.

"Hispanic girl. Lives in Bungtown. Says she saw a guy drag Allison Jorge out of the water." He leans in and drops his voice, causing them all to step closer. "Funny thing, though. She says she didn't see a boat and the guy had no suit and no gear."

"We'll want to speak with both women," Mulder states.

"The victim is in critical care at Stony Brook. I don't know how much you'll be able to get from her. As for the witness, she was pretty upset and it was late, so I took a statement and told her to come back in the morning. My sketcher will be here, too."

"Sure," Mulder concedes.

"You could have told us this over the phone," Guarino complains.

"Bite me, Guarino."

Friday, 9/29

Van Helden Residence

1:00 a.m.

The hallway is shrouded in shadow, muted light filtering through the stained glass panel between floors, casting luminous shades of blue-green, crimson and dark gold onto the burnished oak floor. Scully leans against the open door frame and allows the colors to infiltrate her mind. Blue is cool, calming. Red is warm, seductive. And gold? Gold is the divine calling to her. She closes her eyes.

Fieldwork leaves her weary now. What once was stimulating and worthwhile, now feels rote and unappreciated. Long days and longer nights are spent on the road, living out of a suitcase, prying into the private lives of others, peeking under the rocks of humanity to shed light on the dregs. Her well-worn role as skeptic and scientist is becoming more difficult to fill as she embraces extreme possibilities for herself. She has seen too much, heard too much, done too much to deny it. The accumulated weight of loss, deception and impending doom grinds into her bones. Science still provides parameters that keep her sane, but it cannot fill the spaces that grow emptier inside her with each case they pursue.

The double bind is stifling. She no longer wants a "normal" life. She'd be content, for a time, then bored. She knows this. Besides, the only man she can see herself with is still as likely as ever to run off on a moment's notice to chase God-knows-what because he's afraid he'll "miss something." Mulder. Yes, she loves him. And his devotion has been obvious to her for a long time.

Time and the extreme events since her trip to Africa have altered their partnership in ways she could not have predicted. And while she has always been attracted to her partner, she has never allowed herself to acknowledge the depth of that wanting. Until now. Perhaps, it is Spender's observation about her willingness to die for Mulder, but not to love him that pushes her towards a consummation she craves and fears.

"Planning to sleepwalk tonight?" She keeps her eyes closed, allowing Mulder's voice to slip around her shoulders like softest pashmina. She feels him move past her and when she opens her eyes, he's there, leaning against the opposite side of the doorjamb. Like bookends, they flank and fill the wider-than-normal doorway.

He's bare-chested and the legs of his flannel pajamas drag around his bare feet just a tad, brushing her foot. The fabric is a dark, subtle plaid. Why she notes this makes no sense to her, except that it distracts her from the elastic waist that dips around his narrow hips. She wonders about the anatomy beneath the cloth. Wonders and wants. She reminds herself to not react, just breathe, breathe, breathe.

His big toe comes to rest beside hers as he crosses his legs and his arms, getting comfortable against the frame. He rubs his back against the wood, like a cat. When she speaks again, her voice is calm, much to her own surprise. "Is there something you needed to talk to me about?"

"Not really. I was going to get a glass of water. Am I interrupting something? A meditation, a prayer?"

She sighs. "No, I was just watching the colors in the glass." She gestures to the windowpane with her chin and he twists his upper body to see it. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" She watches the shadows that flicker and dance through the multi-hued panes, spilling onto the floor.

"To risk sounding cliché, you are." The words may be cliché, but the attitude behind them is genuine.

Her eyes dart to his and she discovers he's turned back and is watching her. "Is this your apology?" She knows she's being difficult, but his words on the cutter still sting.

"Can't a guy just appreciate a beautiful woman when he sees one?"

"What do you want, Mulder?"

"You." The word is simple, straightforward, without any trace of innuendo, as if he had said "a sandwich" or "new running shoes." That stops her, cold. She takes a breath and tries to find a witty response to his simple confession. Words fail in the rush of blood into her veins and the flush that overtakes her. Her silence must make him uncomfortable because he's talking again. "I promised you I'd be more up front with you, so I'm trying, Scully. I know I behaved badly tonight and yeah, I do apologize. I suppose I can't blame you for enjoying a little flattery. It's just that, ummm, I want to be the one distracting you."

His unexpected honesty robs her of reason. His toe slips over the instep of her foot, sliding up and around her ankle as it blazes a slow trail up and under the satiny cuff of her pajamas. "Mulder-" she says, gentle rebuke in her voice. The foot stops at once, replanting itself beside hers. She thinks she can breathe again, until he moves, pushing himself away from the frame and leans in, towards her.

She doesn't look at him. She can't. She wets her lips and concentrates on the expanse of his chest-muscle and hair and skin filling her direct range of sight as he stands so close. He's showered and his clean scent invades her olfactory senses. She pushes backwards against the jamb, her hands at her sides, but he moves closer.

"Look at me," he says, his voice soft against her hair. She shakes her head. She doesn't know where his hands are. "No." Her pulse is racing and she battles her need to be touched and to touch him.

"Look at me, Scully," he pleads. "Please."

She lifts her face, the back of her head bumping against the jamb. She steels herself against the hunger in his eyes. She's aroused, but still angry. Focus. Yes, that's it. She's always focused on the work. That's what counts. They should talk about it. Later. His head dips down, down. His mouth nears hers at a slow, slow, slow rate. Then stops, his lips bare millimeters away from hers. "Seems we have a choice here," he says, the movement of his mouth as he speaks casting puffs of air against her mouth.

"What's that?" she manages to say. Meanwhile, the ache between her thighs grows impatient, insistent.

"I could go back to my room, alone. You can go back to your room, alone. Or..."

"Or?"

"We can share a bed in your room. Or vice versa. I'm easy that way." He's sniffing her, now; breathing her in. Sniffing her! And damned if she doesn't find it erotic as hell.

"Mulder-"

"Scully."

"We're working." It's a feeble excuse, but it's the only one she can think of at the moment.

"No. This is more what I'd call playing. You remember how to play, don't you? Share toys, make nice."

"I think I remember that," she murmurs.

"Never doubted you for a minute," he says, the tip of his nose rubbing against hers.

She wants to kiss him. But this. This is... nice, too.

"Very nice," he whispers back. She's said that aloud.

"Mulder," she barely manages to say.

"What?"

"I need you-" she begins.

"I need you, too, Scully." His lips press dry and warm against her temple and every nerve ending in her body goes on alert.

"No," she hears herself say. "I need you to listen."

"Mmm-hmm," he murmurs, his kisses moving across her eyelids and the bridge of her nose. Resistance becomes more difficult with each contact and if he puts his hands on her, she'll be undone.

"Mulder, please stop." His face pulls back from hers, desire and hurt confusion in his eyes. Her head lolls to one side and she drops her eyes. "You can't say things like you did tonight and then do this to me." Without a word, he steps away. She drops her head and looks at her feet, which never moved the entire time. She hears the snick of his bedroom door. She looks back up at the stained glass panel.

"Damn you," she whispers in the dark.

Van Helden Residence

6:00 a.m.

Mulder wakes in pre-dawn darkness, his arms thrown around the pillow beside him. In his dreams, the pillow has warmth, soft skin and auburn hair. In reality, it's only a pillow. He pushes it away in disappointment and sitting up, throws his legs over the side of the bed. His hand slips beneath the waistband of his pajamas, trying to remember her dream image. It's pathetic. He's nearly 39 years old and masturbating over a woman who desires him, but won't let him make love to her. Nature wins over logic and he brings himself to climax, breath exhaling around her name.

He cleans himself and rises, body lethargic with sleep that has provided little rest. He stretches, appreciating the sweet ache in his muscles. The air is chilled but welcome after the flush of sexual gratification, self-initiated or not. Crossing to one of the large, mullioned windows, he extends an arm against the window molding, the other hand pushing aside heavy Irish lace to look out over the rooftop of the conservatory and the neighboring houses. He spies oceanfront only a few blocks away.

Throwing on a pair of sweats and running shoes, he jogs down to the beach. Narrow-slat redwood fences are already in place, erected to protect the salt marsh habitats and sand dunes that lay in wait for the annual storms that pummel the area in autumn. Green surf pounds a flat silver shoreline, its foam-crested waves flecked with emerald kale, broken bits of shell and the desiccated husks of horseshoe crabs.

Pink sky and weak sun peek through cloud layer for a brief time before the drab day lightens the taupe sand and gray-blue ocean. He's seen the Pacific, San Diego style-deep blue stretching to eternity, sun-bleached beaches dotted with starfish and conch and the hulks of black rock jutting from the sea like ancient teeth. Not so the Atlantic, especially as cool weather approaches. It pleases him, his preference determined by youthful memory and a penchant for the melancholy.

He runs. Thoughts rise as the steady pumping of his legs forces oxygen into his sleep-muddled brain to make sense of things. Make sense of last night. He knows he's pissed Scully off with his behavior at dinner and his comments about Julian. But, more to the point, it was probably his comments about the work that upset her most. He isn't exactly sure how he hurt her, but he regrets his hasty words nonetheless.

He is certain of only one thing. She wanted him. He knows it from the very way she denied him. Yet, she still keeps distance in her mind, even when their bodies are so close. He wants her body, of course. But even more so, he wants her mind, her soul, her heart. He wants it all. When hasn't he?

Southold Precinct

9:30 a.m.

The Taurus snakes through morning traffic heading into Southold. Scully told him at breakfast that Guarino was accompanying her to Stony Brook to see what Allison Jorge might tell them. Their conversation had been terse, limited to the case, with no mention of their 'almost' assignation. He dislikes the brooding silence between them.

The car radio sputters and Mulder scans through several stations before stopping at the voice of a newscaster, "...weather advisory from the National Weather Service is being issued for Eastern Long Island and Southern Connecticut." A cutaway sound byte tells him about Tropical Storm Giselle scouring up the Jersey shore. Mulder peers up at the sky through the windshield at increasing cloud cover. A single raindrop slaps the glass and he grimaces. He hates rain. He especially hates working in the rain. But, what he hates most of all is working in the rain without Scully.

At the Southold precinct, he finds Detective Niebler enjoying his morning bagel and coffee. Mulder catches his eye over the folder he's reading. Niebler looks up. "How ya doin'?" the man asks with a good-natured smile. "Coffee?"

Mulder holds up a hand and remains standing. "I'm good. Where's the sketcher?"

"Upstairs. Where's your partner?"

"On her way to see Allison Jorge with Nick Guarino."

"Ha." Niebler shakes his head. "Man, that guy needs a vacation." He chuckles to himself.

Mulder likes the easy-going cop. "Maybe I'll join him," he commiserates, flopping into the hard chair opposite Niebler's desk.

"Rough week?"

"Rough night."

"Ahh," Niebler replies with a knowing smile. "She's pissed at you."

"Who?"

"Your partner."

"Scully?"

"Look, it's none of my business, but I've been there. Hey, I married my partner and now she works out of Mattituck. I miss working together."

"It's not what you think."

"The hell it ain't."

Mulder likes Niebler, but his personal life is just that. He keeps his face neutral and leans forward to grabs the manila folder on the desk marked "Jorge, Allison - 92800." Mulder scans a page or two, then lifts his eyes. "So, what do you think is going on here?"

Niebler runs a hand over his mouth and walks to a wall map of the East End. The twin forks jut their fin tails far from the main island. Long Island Sound lies north, the Atlantic Ocean south and east. Peconic Bay fills the space between the forks with Southold and Sag Harbor watching each other across the water, while Shelter Island and its ferries span the gap.

"Looking at the history, the victims all live on the bay." His finger blazes a trail around the inner perimeter as he rattles off, "Sag Harbor, Noyack, North Sea, Jamesport, New Suffolk, Southold."

Mulder's eyes narrow as he follows. "And the abductions began on..." He checks the folder. "September 15th, after Labor Day and a week before the equinox."

"So? What's the equinox got to do with it?"

"It's a significant date to the UNSUB. I'm thinking he's given himself a two-week time frame to carry out his plan. I'm just wondering if there isn't some shared event that triggered the series."

"It's possible. Labor Day around these parts is a big deal. Lots of end o'season barbecues and parties."

Mulder puts down the folder and approaches the map. He taps at a spot. "Sag Harbor a popular place?"

"Sure. It's touristy, especially on a holiday."

Mulder nods. "I think it's time we see how our witness is faring."

"Let's go," Niebler replies.

They climb to the third floor and walk to a small room where a woman sits with a sketchpad shading in the face of the suspected kidnapper. The girl that sits beside her is small, dark-skinned, with a single heavy braid down her back. Mulder recognizes her from the day before. It's Mariana.

He rounds the table and his eyes widen when he takes a look at the emerging sketch. He's about to speak, when the girl sees him. "I see him," she says in a hushed tone. "Is dark, but he look familiar."

"This man?" Niebler points to the sketch. "You've seen him before?" Mariana nods and looks back at Mulder.

"With Miss Olly," she says. "He come to the house a few times. She very worried. I very worried for her. Then last night, I am walking Cuco on the beach and I see him again."

Niebler asks Mulder, "You know her?"

They exchange glances and Mulder nods. "You could say that," he replies before turning back to the girl. "Mariana," he says in a soft tone. "Tell me what you saw."

She points to the sketch, her voice more confident. "I see *this* man coming from the ocean, carrying a woman. I think she is dead. I think he will see me, pero, he don't. He put the woman on the beach and goes back to the ocean. Then he is gone."

Niebler interjects, "You said that last night, too. What do you mean, gone? He swam away?"

She looks at Niebler. "No. I tell you, pero, you don't listen. He is gone. He disappear. I don't see him again. E vero. He must be dead, too."

"Whadya think?" Niebler asks.

The agent holds up the portrait and says, "I think I'm finally getting lucky."

"Huh? You recognize him?" Mulder nods. "Who is it?"

"A Southampton college professor."

"Not my jurisdiction, but Southampton is cool with us."

"Don't bother. This one's mine." Mulder hands back the sketch and turns, heading towards the door.

"Where ya going?" Niebler calls after him.

Mulder doesn't turn when he rejoins, "Fishin'."

Conservatory, Van Helden Residence

9:30 a.m.

"There now, that's better, isn't it?" Olivia Van Helden lifts the clay pot from the planter's bench and places it on the shelf sitting at eye level. She grabs a second pot and proceeds to examine the small, bright orange blooms for signs of parasite or blight. Satisfied with the visual inspection, she pours cool rice water over the semi-exposed roots. Barber's "Adagio for Strings" drifts through the moisture-laden space and Olly stops for a moment as a poignant passage tugs at her. She closes her eyes and listens, the music's emotional character affecting her.

"I thought you preferred the Romantics."

Olly starts and spins in place to find Julian Oracoff standing not three feet away, an inscrutable look on his face. She sighs.

"You startled me."

"I apologize. Where's your housegirl? I'd like some tea."

"She called in sick today." Julian nods and steps forward to scrutinize the orchids in Olly's hands.

"Laelia cinnabarina. A lovely specimen, Olivia, although I prefer the softer coloration of the Ghillanyi."

"Julian-"

"Of course, the Cinnabarina has a vivid character that appeals to some."

"Julian, stop." He looks her in the eye.

"Do we have a problem?"

"Yes."

He sighs and moves away from her, pushing through the overgrown ferns that flank the walkway to the seating area. He lowers himself into the cushions of the club chair and extends his legs, allowing his head to drop back onto his shoulders. Olly follows, uncertain how to begin. Julian's eyes are closed and he looks elegant, reclined in the chair. His pale linen blazer offsets darker gabardine trousers and hand-sewn calfskin loafers. Olly recognizes the attitude of wealth. The Van Heldens date back to the earliest Dutch settlements in the area, but she's never allowed either lineage or good fortune to distance her from those around her who were less fortunate.

She stands over him and says with some authority, "We need to talk."

Julian's eyes are slits as they regard her. He waits a few moments, then pulls himself upright. She pulls the matching chair over to his and sits opposite, nearly knee-to-knee. "Julian, you must stop now." He's silent. "Someone is going to die and I won't be party to that."

He studies his manicured nails. "Olivia, you worry too much."

"Do I? And what should I say to the FBI who are staying in this very house? I'm not a deceitful person."

Julian looks at her, gray eyes made lighter by the soft illumination that infuses the space. "What have you told them?"

"Nothing that implicates you. But I cannot, I will not, protect you forever."

He leans forward and takes her hands into his. Looking into her worried eyes, he says, "Olivia, you know you're the only one who understands. I can't help myself."

"You must try," she tells him in a plaintive tone. "When will it end?"

"When I find her," he states. He pushes back his chair and, dropping

Olly's hands, rises. He walks across the patio and turns. His words are deliberate. "There is... a presence in this area. I can't pinpoint it, but She is here. I feel it. I will find her, Olivia, and we will reunite in the sacred waters as we must."

Olly stands and approaches him. "I'm sorry, Julian. I simply can't be a part of this any longer." She moves past him, heading towards the entry to the house.

"Who will believe you?" he calls after her, causing her to stop and face him again. He takes a few steps towards her. "Yes, who? That fool Guarino? The government's watchdogs? No one will listen."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that."

His eyes narrow. "Besides, you'd be considered an accomplice for not coming forward sooner."

"I've thought about that, but I don't care."

"But you should care, Olivia." Julian's voice drops in timbre and pitch. "You should care because you must realize that I cannot allow anything or anyone to interfere with my quest." His hand moves slowly to the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. Olly tries to discern his purpose, but finds her eyes locked on his.

"Your quest is becoming a dangerous mission," she tells him. "When I first found you, dazed and shivering in here after that first time, I helped you because I felt sorry for you. And then, later, because I believed you. You are driven to these acts, but I never expected it to go this far or affect so many. I will tell, Julian. I will tell Nick Guarino and agents Mulder and Scully what I know about you."

His voice is soft, hypnotic, slow when he whispers, "You'll tell no one." Her eyes drop from his to where his shirt lay unbuttoned, bright whiteness filling her range of sight. Then darkness.

End ~ ACT TWO ~ Ancient Mariner