ACT THREE

En Route

11:45 a.m.

The ground is sodden with rain when Mulder leaves the precinct, cloud cover thick overhead. It's nearly noon, but the darkening sky fails to reflect it. Yesterday's warmth is gone. A cold, sudden gust presses his leather jacket against his back. He watches the wind whip through a birch, twisting perfect yellow leaves from their moorings into a mini-vortex on the sidewalk. He pulls the door of the car closed with a solid thud and points the Taurus east towards the Shelter Island ferries. His cell phone rings.

"Mulder."

"I have good news and bad news," Scully says without any trace of humor. "Which do you want first?"

"To quote a nice, Long Island girl: 'hit me with your best shot.'" He keeps his tone light, hoping to ease the tension that hums through the unit.

"Allison Jorge is still unconscious and her doctors don't know when that will change."

"What's the good news?"

"That is the good news. The bad news is there's a major storm moving into the area."

"I heard that on the radio. How is Allison Jorge being unconscious good news?"

"Because we got back to town early and I had a chance to do a little more digging. Allison Jorge is married to Wilson Jorge, a free-lance journalist for the Sag Harbor Times. I spoke to Mr. Jorge and he wanted to know if I thought it was coincidental that all the women abducted had been in Sag Harbor on Labor Day."

Mulder perks up. "Were they?"

"Yes, they were. All in attendance at a lecture hosted at the Mystic Bookshop, Mulder. Guess who the speaker was."

"The Naughty Professor?" He swears he can feel her grudging smile.

"I'm reading you the promo advertisement. 'Science and myth merge at our next Mystic roundtable when Dr. Julian Oracoff, professor of marine biology and environmental science at Southampton University reveals the mysteries of Atlantis.'"

"That puts him in direct contact with every victim prior to the abductions, Scully. And I just saw what looks like a portrait of Julian from our eyewitness on Jorge."

"I'm heading to the campus right now to arrest him."

"I have his address. I'm going there for further evidence."

"We don't have a search warrant."

"But we have probable cause. Put Oracoff in the tank and meet me there with the papers." Silence ensues for several, long seconds. Then come Scully's words.

"You were right, Mulder."

"Hey, it was your catch that tied it together."

"Guess that means you're not working alone."

His throat aches and his eyes soften. "Don't even suggest it," he murmurs. He thumbs the phone off and opens the map of Eastern Suffolk on the seat beside him. The mist on the windshield consolidates into droplets and he switches on the headlights and the wipers just as the skies open again.

The required ferry crossings and drive through Shelter Island and its southern companion would be pretty if the sun were shining or if he cared. One or the other. As it is, he's restless as he always is just before a bust. The roads are slick, traffic reduced to a crawl through the small towns that flank Route 114. The swi-ka-slap, ski-ka-slap of the wipers keeps time in his head, a slow counterpoint to the fireflash of neurons sparking in his cerebrum.

Julian's cryptic remark about the Roman's seventh month still nags at him. The creature has abducted one woman every three days since the fifteenth. September is the seventh month in the early Roman calendar and "end-turn" suggests the thirtieth as the final day the Atlantean portal will be open. Mulder hypothesizes that Oracoff will abduct another woman on that day in a last ditch attempt at communion. But calendars have changed over the centuries.

He finds himself on autopilot while he drives, his inner eye searching personal databanks of information remarkably accessible to his eidetic memory. Images of ancient calendars: Mayan, Chinese, Egyptian and Gregorian rise in Technicolor glory, each fading into the next until the Roman calendar appears. He holds the image of that particular calendar while snippets of text play like subliminal audio tapes: kalendae, lunar, 10/355 and an obscure mnemonic phrase, "Fifty Mules May Jostle the Ostler," which reminds him that except for February, March, May, July and October, all the remaining months have twenty-nine days. Twenty-nine.

Today is the 29th of September.

Apprehension tingles like spray over his skin as Mulder realizes another abduction will occur before midnight. Scully is on her way to arrest him. Good. Or maybe not. The professor's undue attention to her may be nothing more than fascination, but Mulder isn't convinced it's not more devious than that. He reflects on his partner's safety and nearly turns west towards Southampton when he hits Route 27, then cans the idea. He's just escaped the doghouse for not granting her credence. Besides, she's with Guarino and will have plenty of backup. She can take care of herself. He turns eastward toward Montauk with Scully on his mind. The houses thin and the rain eases. Sand dunes mark his left and the vast stretch of the sea, his right. Mulder

switches on the radio, searching for something besides weather updates. Giselle promises to be noteworthy based on the damage being reported from southern latitudes. The gloom of the day and the news depresses him and he pauses as the dark acoustics of a guitar capture his ear...

...shouldn't be so complicated...

But it always is. Mothmen, mermen, madmen. What difference does it make? In a world of universal invariants, they are just random elements, with Scully as the ultimate, unstable isotope. She withholds and gives herself with equanimity, a tantalizing paradox of belief and denial, virtue and sin.

...started out clean but I'm jaded...

With no hope of a reprieve and no desire for one, either. Fucking Sir Galahad he's not. He's just a man trying to be strong but sensitive, close but unstifling, carnal but pure. Jesus, Scully. He's not him either.

...can you help me, I'm bent...I'm so scared...this is how we will end...

He snaps off the sound and takes the appropriate turnoff onto a private road. Topography changes and he's riding atop a rising crest that drops off to his right. He finds the mailbox for No. 4416 standing as sentinel at the top of weathered wood steps that disappear down the side of the cliff. Pulling the Taurus into dense overgrowth on the opposite side of the road, he leaves the car and heads down the stairs.

The bungalow is small, nondescript and in need of a fresh coat of Paint. Considering Julian's expensive taste and fancy manners, Mulder is surprised, but only for a moment. The house is shielded from view by the rising cliff and dunes surrounding it, making it a perfect refuge for someone with something to hide. His sneakers sink into the sand as he rounds the back of the cottage. He sidles along one wall until he stands poised by the corner at the front of the house. He checks for evidence of an occupant, then steps out onto a small deck.

The front door is flung wide, open to the sea and the sand. What draws his attention, however, is a figure at the water's edge some 30 yards beyond. Julian Oracoff stands naked, his back to Mulder, his feet in the surf. He spreads his arms wide, palms turned upward. A few, still moments pass and they return to his side. He wades into the surf grown rough with the impending storm. All at once, he dives without warning. Mulder watches for a head to emerge just beyond the foamy waves that pelt the shore. He waits... and waits... and waits. Finally, a small splash alerts him to a spot far beyond the breakers, beyond any place where a human being should be.

Mulder is a strong swimmer but as he assesses the odds of anyone being capable of swimming that far, that fast, a small thrill ripples through him. He pulls himself away from watching the distant figure to enter the house. A single large room with a small kitchen and bath set to one side comprise the entire living space.

He searches for evidence, coming up empty until he reaches a heavy pine table nestled into a rear corner, beneath plate glass windows overlooking the side and back of the house. The surface is covered with books, papers, rolls of what look to be sea maps, a spyglass and other assorted items indicating research and study into maritime pursuits.

Mulder pulls latex gloves from his jeans pocket and dons them before shuffling through the pages. He unrolls a map and discovers one marked with odd handwritten runes beside what appear to be longitude and latitude indicators and sextant markings. A glint of gold catches his eye and he pulls a gold nameplate from between the sheets, holding it up before his eyes. It reads "Mallory."

He bags the necklace and continues to explore, his interest diverted by the unusual assortment. He thumbs through several books, pausing here and there to take in a passage about Egyptian hieroglyphics or a few words from an Aramaic-English dictionary. His cursory perusal stops upon finding a slim sheaf of paper hand-bound on one side with grassy twine, strange runes embossed on the fragile cover. He recognizes the material as papyrus. Between the bindings are sheets filled with strange marks and drawings of machines that seem familiar somehow, despite their alien appearance.

So engrossed is he that he fails to notice the figure that enters the house on silent footsteps. The creature approaches and at last, a sixth sense tells Mulder he is not alone. He turns to meet the eyes of Julian Oracoff, hair slicked back, body beaded with seawater, a faraway look in his eyes. Mulder moves to grab his weapon, then takes a step backwards in mute silence, stunned as his eyes drop along the man's form to find in the center of Julian's chest a third eye, open and blinking.

"Gar'n far vinesh. Sindu orrishma v'tosh," Julian intones.

"Oracoff, listen to me," Mulder says, his gaze returning to look into the creature's human eyes. "You don't have to do this. I can help you."

"V'tosh," is the creature's response, shaking his head. "V'tosh." He advances towards Mulder, central eye blazing.

Sag Harbor Precinct

5:50 p.m.

News of Giselle fills the radio waves. The rain and wind that precede her grand passage across the East End swell and abate at uneven intervals. The streets are filled with residents scurrying to prepare for power outages often triggered by such weather.

Cover breaks for a few minutes and a tangerine sky peeks through smoke-blue clouds, their undersides stained with sunset's glory. Scully pulls into a vacant spot in front of the neo-Georgian façade of the station house and exits the car. Her mouth is set in a tight line, her focus and concern evident. She climbs the stone steps with purpose in search of Detective Guarino.

"Agent Scully?" a familiar voice calls from behind. Scully turns at the top of the stairs to see Olly climbing to meet her. The older woman approaches and stops several steps below the petite agent, to better meet her eyes. "Have you heard from Agent Mulder?"

"No, not for hours."

"I'm very worried for him. Do you know where he's gone?"

"Julian's." She heads off Olly's reply. "We know about his connection to the bookshop and the abductees, Olly. I'm not sure what your part in this is, but I think it's time you told me."

Olly's gray eyes grow troubled and she places a hand on Scully's arm. "He can't help himself. He doesn't mean harm, but the Marimorph is driven by a biological imperative and I'm afraid he'll stop at nothing."

"You're saying Julian is the Marimorph." Scully's skepticism colors her words.

"Yes."

Scully's eyes narrow as she takes in the fact that Olly believes this story. "Do you know where he is?"

"Not at the moment, no." Scully can see the conflicted emotions in the woman's eyes and while she doesn't understand her reasons for protecting him, she understands the feeling behind the action. "He... came to see me this morning. I told him I'd tell you about his complicity in the abductions. He overpowered me."

Concern for the older woman flashes across Scully's face. "Did he hurt you?"

"Not physically. I'm not sure what happened, to tell you the truth. I can't seem to remember."

The truth resonates deep within Scully. Of course. How could she not have seen it before? All at once, the concept of lost time begins to make sense, as do her own befuddled thinking and uncharacteristic passivity in Julian's presence.

"He wasn't at the university," she tells the older woman. "I was there today and they told me he didn't have classes."

"No, he wouldn't be there today. It's the 29th - the last day."

Julian's words about the time frame for the portals spring to mind. Scully leads Olly up the remaining steps, guiding them towards the illuminated entry. "I need your help."

"I'll do whatever I can."

"Find Nick Guarino. Tell him we have evidence tying Julian to at least one abduction. Tell him I have a search warrant for his house and I'm heading there now."

"The Marimorph is a clever creature, Agent Scully. He'll escape you any way he can. Probably by water."

"Tell Guarino that." Olly hesitates for only a moment, then grabs Scully by the shoulders.

"I will. You find Mulder. He's in danger."

Scully remains calm, her inner anxiety contained only through years of practiced experience.

"I know," she says.

Hampton Beachfront

Several unsuccessful attempts at reaching Mulder's cell have Scully's radar on full-sweep. She's accustomed to being out of touch for long stretches of time, but Olly's words disturb her. Headlights flash on the 4416 carved into the wooden mailbox post 20 feet ahead, and she pulls the rental off to the shoulder.

She kills the engine and checks her weapon before leaving the vehicle. The private road is nothing more than a narrow strip of asphalt cut into the side of a high cliff. Without streetlights, the crescent moon that peeps from behind swift-moving clouds provides scant lighting. It's colder than when she started out and the thin jacket and linen trousers she's wearing do little to warm her in the wind that blusters around her small form.

Descending the steep stairs, she knuckles the side entry with a heavy hand. Through the window beside the door, she observes Julian's approach. She's nervous, concerned for Mulder's safety. She must ascertain his whereabouts before slapping the cuffs on Julian.

Julian's expression upon seeing her is one of surprised pleasure. "My dear Dana," he begins. "How wonderful of you to visit me, although I suspect from your expression that you're not here on a social call."

"Where's Mulder?" she asks in a low, steady voice.

"Your partner? I really don't know." His words seem genuine, but she doesn't trust them. He steps aside and gestures for Scully to enter. She does so in silence, turning when she reaches the center of the room.

"Have you been unable to reach him?" Julian inquires. Scully doesn't answer, but steps towards the kitchen and looks there and through the open bathroom doorway. Julian doesn't object, which heightens her mistrust.

"You know, Dana, I'm very glad you're here tonight. I couldn't have planned it better. The weather is regrettable, but not unexpected. Storms often accompany the aperture's closing. It's a warning of sorts." He goes on, his voice a soothing riff in her head, its mesmerizing quality distracting her.

Why is she here? Mulder, she reminds herself and pushes herself to speak. "Mulder was meeting me here."

"Really? Well, I'm sorry to inform you that he won't be able to make that appointment." Julian smiles. And from that, Scully understands that Mulder's life is in jeopardy.

If he's even alive.

Mulder wakes with a pounding headache and a stiff back. He's gagged and bound, his wrists and ankles secured by thick rope. He's sitting on a damp cement floor, his cheek resting against a rough wooden wall. Pulling himself into an upright position, he looks around. The scent of wet sand and ocean and metal assails his nostrils. He's in a shed of some kind.

Grimy moonlight filters through a small, four-paned window above his head. He looks at the assortment of tools that fills the small space, looking for something that can slice his bindings. Then he spies it: a scythe poised on a rusty nail.

With controlled exertion, he inches his body to where the tool hangs. It's in a precarious position, just above him. He has to maneuver himself into a kneeling position to gain leverage and the effort is exhausting. His mind keeps fighting him, telling him to sleep, to sleep, v'tosh.

That's what Oracoff kept saying, Mulder realizes, although he has no idea how he recognizes the word. Sleep, however, is not an option. Raising his wrists above his head, against the serrated edge, he rocks them with tentative strokes against the blade. The cutter teeters on its iron perch, threatening to drop its curved, honed edge atop the fettered agent. He must have patience but all he can think is, "Scully will be here soon." The soft buzz of the blade and the faint odor of burnt fiber waft in the dark.

Oracoff Residence

"Stop right there." Scully fixes her weapon on Julian, who remains in place. His eyes betray not fear, but amusement.

"Really, Dana. Is this necessary?"

"Just be quiet." Her external demeanor is calm, even as she feels her mind growing clouded. What is wrong with her? Julian is speaking again and she focuses on his voice.

"I realize you have tender feelings towards your partner out of loyalty or camaraderie or even sexual attraction. But we're beyond that at this point. You have a greater purpose and tonight you will fulfill your destiny."

"What do you mean, destiny?" She must stay alert.

"Your rightful place in Atlantis."

His continued serenity in the face of her authority and her weapon are congruent with grandiose delusional thinking, making him a dangerous wild card. Yet, even as her mind grapples with Julian's insanity and her need to find Mulder, she's lulled by the timbre and cadence of his words.

"My place," she repeats with a shake of her head, hoping to clear the fogginess that escalates without reason.

"Yes. United with me in the sacred waters, we will transfigure, our separate identities coalescing into a single form - our true form -that will enable us to travel to the depths of the ocean where we will find haven again." Julian steps forward, but Scully reasserts her grip on her SIG, which had dipped as she listened to his fantastic theory.

"Stop right there," she warns, a frantic edge in her voice.

Julian sighs and looks at her as if she were a stubborn child. "There's no point in this."

His superior attitude and the growing helplessness she feels irks her. Anger cuts a fiery swath through the miasma in her brain and she battles for clarity. "Is this what you told the others?" she challenges. "This fairy tale?"

"You mean the women I honored? They've all been returned, alive, relatively unharmed."

"Allison Jorge is in critical care. If she doesn't make it, you'll be facing murder charges as well as kidnapping, to say nothing of threatening a federal agent."

"Federal- you're referring to Mulder?" She cocks her brows at him. "He isn't dead, you know, just disabled."

"What do you mean?"

"He's unharmed, if that's your concern, but he won't be interfering."

Her anxiety edges down only a notch. Her thoughts shift from Mulder to Olly. Has she reached Guarino? Her thoughts shift again to Julian and his motives. She feels distracted and cannot focus. She slips her hand into her pocket, reaching for her cuffs.

"Why these women?" she asks.

"I sensed something in the book shop, the day I met them."

"I wasn't there. Explain that."

"My intuition isn't foolproof. But you are connected to them somehow, and the sea. It's a part of you."

"The human body is 95 percent water. It's a part of all of us."

"No," he says, eyes squinting. "It's more than that. You resonate, much like someone else I know..." His attention lapses and Scully seizes the chance to step forward.

Focus returns with a vengeance and he grabs the cuffs from her fingers and tosses them aside. She gasps and backs off only inches, but it's enough distraction for Julian to snatch her weapon as well. He points the gun at her and backs her towards the table until her hips press the edge.

She curses herself for carelessness. Agents are taught early on to watch hands. She tries to remember basic defensive arts but cannot, and her lack of focus alarms and dismays her. She watches Julian's hands now for signs of intent.

"It's time to go," he informs her, gun still in his right hand while his left unbuttons the denim shirt he wears and the light envelops them.

Hampton Beachfront

7:45 p.m.

Once the first cord is severed, Mulder loosens the remaining bindings. He undoes his gag, taking in a deep breath, then spits out the taste of cotton and copper. The rope burns on his wrists sting, his knees ache and his head hurts. "Gettin' too old for this shit," he mutters to himself. He glances at his watch - 8 p.m.

He stands, groaning from the stiffness, sensation restored to his limbs in a painful blood rush. He pulls at the door's rusting iron handle. It doesn't budge. A second, fruitless attempt and he slams his left hand against the weathered doorframe. The splintered surface stings his palm as he peers out the window to see the back of Oracoff's house twenty feet away. The lights are on and questions swirl in his mind. Is Scully there? Is she safe? Does she have back up? Is Oracoff in custody? Or, knowing the creature's intentions and his tranquilizing effect on his victims, is *she* the one in danger?

He pushes aside the trepidation licking his heels and grabs a shovel that leans in a corner. Turning his face away, he bashes through the glass with the flat spade. Climbing out is awkward and he tumbles to the ground head first. He rises and stumbles as he makes his way towards the house. The side door is unlocked and he enters an empty room, the front door still flung wide. His breathing is quick and his brow furrowed with worry. A quick perusal confirms his darker suspicions. On the table lie Scully's cell phone and her gun. He picks up the weapon and shoves it into the waistband of his jeans. He turns and steps towards the front door, stopping when he spies her jacket and shoes in a small heap beside the entry.

Dread flows like a river as he steps onto the tiny porch. That's when he feels a warm wetness on his outer left thigh. He looks down and sees the dark stain of blood seeping through the ripped denim. He slips his thumb through the jagged tear to assess the wound and presses into a gash of some depth. He winces as he gauges its length at five inches. Damn.

There's no time to dwell on it. Giselle is beginning her pass over the Forks. The wind whistles in his ears and the heavens are nearly opaque with flat clouds, except for a sliver of sky at the horizon where a pale sickle moon hovers above black water. An impending, early moonset adds to his distress.

Peering out over the water, he notices something else. Two figures are knee-deep in the surf, heading out to sea on foot. He recognizes the tall, slender form as Oracoff. The smaller, feminine form being tugged along is his partner. Anxiety transforms to anger.

He races towards the ocean, stripping off jacket and tee shirt as he goes. At the water's edge, he yanks off his sneakers and socks and strides into the wild surf."Scully!" he calls to the pair that is at least fifty yards beyond him, but the wind swallows his cry. Cold bites through the heavy denim and his feet sink into the sandy floor. He strides through the breakers that tumble and pitch around him, a fierce undertow sucking at his legs.

Low tide. The ocean floor descends in a slow-gradient as he trails the receding figures that have, somehow, increased their lead on him. They must be nearing the barrier shelf, where the land drops off into the abyss. Once past the raucous waves, Mulder dives into waist-high water and begins to stroke towards the pair. His body temperature adjusts to the chill Atlantic waters and he pours his energy into reaching Julian and Scully. After several minutes of steady pulling, he stops, his feet just able to touch bottom as the water surges above his shoulders.

"Scully!" he calls again to the man and woman now within earshot. His voice carries and they pause. Oracoff turns, holding Scully against him as he keeps her head above water. She is listless in his grasp, face turned downward. Mulder navigates until he is only a few yards from them. "Scully," he calls again and her head lifts towards the sound of his voice. Oracoff turns back towards open water, dragging Scully with him.

"Oracoff! Stop, you bastard, or I will shoot you."

He complies and turns to reface Mulder, who stands with the water at his chin, weapon held above the surface. Julian holds Scully before him like a shield, her face level with his as they both watch Mulder.

"Scully?" Mulder queries, watching her eyes and taking hope from the spark of lucidity he sees emerging there. Darkness falls as the moon sets and the rain begins to fall.

"Do you really think you can stop me?" Oracoff inquires in an affected manner. "Aside from your useless weapon, you're human -with inadequate biology, an inferior mind and a complete lack of appreciation for this woman and her potential."

Mulder's fear for Scully's safety is magnified tenfold as the water swirls around them and the rain escalates. He'd attempt a shot if he could get a clear line of sight. Meanwhile, his soul wrestles with the creature's words.

"Getting a little personal, aren't we?" he tosses off with as much glibness as he can muster.

"Mulder!" Scully calls, her voice faint but assured. Mulder still maintains his bead on Oracoff in spite of the night, the weather and the prospect that the weapon may not fire after submersion.

"Are you okay?" he asks her.

"Yes."

"She's perfectly fine, Mr. Mulder. Just like the others. Only she isn't going to be returned."

"What are you talking about?"

"Dana is going home tonight. To her rightful home."

"To Atlantis. Is that what you're telling me?" Mulder's sarcasm is tinged with curiosity. "You think she's your soul mate?"

"Mulder, he's insane," Scully says in a quiet voice.

"I know what he is, Scully, and he isn't going anywhere."

Oracoff interjects, "I suggest you head back now, before the storm worsens. The undertow is shifting. I wouldn't want to be held responsible-"

At that moment, Scully pushes against him, hard, attempting to escape his clutches. Her timing and unexpected behavior gains her freedom, except for the vise-like grip Oracoff keeps on her wrist. The sound of an approaching boat can be heard above the wind and rain.

"Guarino," Scully calls to Mulder.

"What?" Oracoff snarls and pulls her back towards him. She thrashes against him and he wails in anguish, "You would betray me?" His hands grasp her shoulders and he plunges her beneath the surface.

Mulder ditches the gun and dives forward. Coming up from underneath, he forces himself between the two. Oracoff releases Scully as they break the surface and she pushes free, choking and gasping for breath. Mulder tries to pin the creature's arms behind him, but his hands slip along slick skin. He feels a sharp tug on his legs and has but a moment to grab a lungful of air before being yanked beneath the dark water.

He struggles with Oracoff who holds his torso, face down, in the vise-like grip of his legs below the surface, his hands pinned behind his back. Mulder twists and turns, but cannot gain leverage. His lungs ache, his eyes burn and his head pounds. The first trickle of cold seawater fills his mouth and the faces of Scully, Samantha and his mother flash through his mind as the dark edge of unconsciousness slips forward.

All at once, the pressure around his waist is gone, as is Julian. Instinct kicks him to the surface and he's gasping for air, surrounded by a circle of white light. A motorboat chutters close by and he squints into the brightness.

"Mulder?" Guarino shouts from deck. "Scully!"

Mulder scans the choppy surface around him, panting and coughing. Rain pelts the water, sending spray back up into his face even as the rain batters him from above. He spies a flash of movement and the sound of moving water to his left. He gulps and pivots in place, his footing gone. He expects Oracoff. Instead, Scully swims past. She stops and turns back to him. "Come on," she says in a breathless rush and he follows.

They are still ten yards out from the side of the boat, when he feels the current shift. It isn't natural. And it's very strong. "Scully!" Mulder cries and she stops again, treading water. He feels the upsurge of cold current wrapping around his legs, pulling him away from the boat, away from the light, away from Scully.

"Mulder!" Scully yells, but her voice is distant in his ears as he is sucked into a slow-turning liquid vortex. "Mulder!" he hears again, closer. And then she's there with him, holding on to him, keeping his head above water.

They battle the current, their strength ebbing in a steady stream as they keep one another surfaced. He feels Scully's grasp on him weakening and his left leg is throbbing. He's lost all sense of direction, knowing only that he must keep awake, keep kicking to the surface. They must stay alive.

The life preserver that splashes to his right is a welcome sight. Mulder reaches out and seizes it, holding onto Scully with his left arm. He draws her forward and she grabs onto the large orange ring. The water still drags at them, but inch by inch, they feel the tug of the rescue line bringing them closer to the vessel, until they are alongside the drop ladder with Guarino and Olly helping them up and onto the foredeck.

The rain stops and streaks of starlit indigo emerge between the thinning clouds. They collapse, side by side, onto a hard-molded bench that juts from the inside wall of the boat. Guarino approaches, blankets in hand. His grave expression reveals how awful they look. Mulder wraps one around Scully's trembling frame. He drops to one knee to tuck the second around her legs. He looks up into her eyes and says, "We gotta get you dry."

"Y-you," she stammers back in a whisper, tremors wracking her body.

He'd been warm in the water, adrenaline pumping, but the cooler air following the storm front nips at his clammy skin and the wound in his leg burns. A tight shiver overtakes him.

"Here," Guarino says, removing his squall jacket and handing it to Mulder, who doffs and zippers it with a grateful nod. "Oracoff?"

"I dunno," Mulder replies, looking up at the detective. "I lost him."

From the opposite end of the boat, Mulder hears Olly calling for Oracoff, over and over. He peers through the gloom to see her clutching the sides of the skiff, leaning forward, over the water. She's removed her storm jacket and the dark turtleneck and jeans she's wearing cling to her narrow figure. Her dark gray tresses curl black around her shoulders and in the half-lit space, she seems much younger than the seventy-odd years she's spent on terra firma.

Guarino turns towards her with a shake of his head. "I don't see how he could have survived."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

Guarino turns to question Mulder's cryptic response, when a sudden splash causes both men to turn portside with a start.

"Olivia," says Guarino meeting Mulder's eyes. They rush to the side. The detective casts the spotlight in a wide sweep across the ever-moving surface. They spot Olly, making steady headway towards the vortex that continues to spiral in a slow turn just beyond the reach of the boat.

"Olly!" Mulder yells. "Come back! You'll never find him," he shouts. He looks back at Guarino, who is removing his gun holster.

"I'm going after her," Guarino says, heading back to the drop ladder. Mulder grabs the spotlight, focusing its beam on the elderly woman who strokes away from them with unusual agility and vigor. He grapples for balance as the boat is captured in the outermost edge of the maelstrom and he's pitched against the side of the boat. Regaining his balance, he looks at Guarino who stands poised to dive, but seems frozen in place. His expression is one of disbelief as he stares at the water. Mulder shifts his gaze to where he remembers Olly being and exhales his breath in a rush.

The sea is growing lighter.

In an ever-widening circle around the boat, dark water is shifting tone. Black turns greenish-gray, then deep emerald. Mulder grips the side of the boat and calls out, "Scully, you gotta see this." He glances back at her, but she is huddled beneath her cocoon of blankets. He turns back, unable to resist the lure of the spectacle unfolding before him. The verdant waters continue to transmute, green morphing suddenly into aquamarine and turquoise combined. And then he sees it - a glowing form rising from beneath. Olly sees it too, he surmises, because she stops swimming and simply waits.

The luminous being rises, refracting light through the water in arcing ripples of gold that scatter as they disperse into the surrounding brine. It breaks the surface without sound or effort close to where Olly treads water. She reaches a tentative hand out to it and a luminescent limb mirrors her action. Fingers, or what Mulder assumes are fingers, touch her hand. He is mesmerized, unable to look away.

The image turns vaporous and he squints, then blinks several times before he realizes he's staring through a thick haze that rises and settles all around them with eerie swiftness. He strains to see the watery pair, but they are cloaked in a mantle of mist. The lights off the boat reflect back only impenetrable whiteness as fog billows over the deck.

Mulder closes his eyes and drops his head onto his arms in weariness. He knows they will never see Julian or Olivia again.

End ~ ACT THREE ~ Ancient Mariner