(Headings and Disclaimers in Chapter One) Chapter 9 of 20 An annoying light burned and circled Scully's eyes. She blinked and gave it a half-hearted and ineffectual swat. "Good! You're awake." Scully tried to swallow, but her throat was so dry it hurt to try. "Have an ice chip," said the voice beyond the tiny light. Scully opened her mouth and fingers wrapped in plastic gloves appeared from the darkness to place a chip of ice between her lips. "Light.." she said at last. "Yeah, sorry." The small light snapped off and was replaced by a larger, softer glow further off in the dark. Now Scully could see an older woman with her dark hair up in a bun. She wore a lab coat and a stereoscope around her neck. "I'm Dr. Otis. Clare Otis. I was hoping to meet you soon under different circumstances." Scully's eyes closed. "Nope. Awake up. I, uh, retired from practice two years ago, but they couldn't find anyone crazy enough to treat convicts, so here I am." "My head.." "Hurts like a big dog, I'll bet. You correctly diagnosed a concussion, Dr. Scully. Can't give you anything yet for that mother of all headaches you've got, ya know." "Hmm." "Any allergies?" "No." "Any recent surgeries?" "No." "Anything you want to tell me?" Scully hesitated. "No." "You got bruises on both your arms. Do that in the shower too?" Scully grabbed her right arm and saw a bruise near the vein. She groaned; nausea nearly took her under. Well, we'll see," said Dr. Otis. "I double as the prison psychiatrist too, so you have to talk to me sooner or later. That's how these private penal companies make money, you know, the staff pulls double duty. I don't mind really. I'm a stockholder so when AtoZ Penal makes money, so do I. " Scully's head hurt so dreadfully she feared the pounding would move to the rest of her body if she moved or spoke anymore. She started to drift off again. Dr. Otis shook her patient's shoulder. Scully trembled and made an effort to listen. She failed. "Don't doze off in the middle of a conversation." "Hmm-m." "Not much of a conversation, though. I'm doing all the talking. You're not saying anything. Why is that?" "My life story for two aspirin and a piece of ice," Scully said. She wondered if that came out right; her mouth felt like it was full of -wash cloth. She jerked, flayed by a fleeting memory of an assault on everything most precious to her, most jealously guarded, most holy. She closed her eyes then opened them to see if Dr. Otis noticed anything unusual. "What was that," Clare Otis said, writing in Scully's chart. "That shudder? And don't say 'muscle spasm.' You don't strike me as someone who scares easily." "Headache," Scully said. "Mm-m," Dr. Otis said in a tone meant to convey she would let the misdirection go for once. "Now, Dr. Scully, would you give one of your concussion patients two aspirin?" "My patients are already dead," Scully said. "Hum--Not a good cure rate, then." Dr. Otis took a cup and rattled the ice in it. She dipped her fingers inside, took out a chip and slipped it into Scully's open mouth. "Won't want that to get around - nobody will want to come to the clinic." Scully's eyes widened in hope and judging from the cringe around her mouth Dr. Otis obviously saw something in Scully's response that she liked. "I can work here?" Scully whispered. "Yep, if I say so. That woman had scarlet fever - the one you fussed about on your first day. Another good catch. She could have died." Dr. Otis put the ice cup down and rolled back the sheets. "Let's see your arms." She held Scully's right arm up, noted the bruises again, and dropped it. Satisfied, she did the same with her other arm and both legs. "Good muscle tone. What do you think?" "Slight to moderate concussion." She shivered beneath the sheet and light blanket. Dr. Otis pursed her lips. "Slight to moderate? With unconsciousness?" "How long?" Scully asked. "Three hours." "Three hours!" "I did a CT scan at the local hospital... negative -- and brought you back. You don't remember? Still say slight?" "With the scan and in the absence of continued high blood pressure or low body temperature, yes," Scully said. "The headache behind the eyes?" "It'll go," Scully said turning her face away. Dr. Otis nodded. She reached for a blood pressure cuff over Scully's head. "What do you remember last?" Her patient stiffened. "From a medical standpoint." "Water running. A crack on the back of my head. Visual pain -- streaks of bright lights that blinded me, actually." "You don't remember people crawling in your head?" She tightened the cuff around Scully's arm. Scully whipped around so fast the nausea threatened again. The last vestige of color drained from her face. "Why do you say that?" But Clare was preoccupied with taking Scully's blood pressure. "Almost normal. Little high. You forgot to mention vertigo," said Dr. Otis. She bent over and cranked the head of Scully's bed up slightly. "It'll pass. I think you are right. I think the concussion is slight. I think the nausea, tremors, visual pain comes from something else." "What else." Scully could barely breathe. "You tell me." Scully closed her eyes and willed the throbbing, pounding to stop. Blessed sleep took her almost at once and she let go of the pain. Dr. Otis allowed her to sleep. She tucked the sheets around her patient. The woman on the bed would have blended into the white sheets without that red hair. She picked up Scully's chart and wondered what to write in it. Concussion, certainly. What else. What else could she write: that Scully was the fourth case like this that she'd seen? That one died later as apparent suicide and two were transferred to a psych hospital? Should she set Dr. Scully on suicide watch? She didn't seem suicidal, but neither had the other inmate. The other inmate had been crazy. Sane one minute, crazy the next, and off the railing the minute after that. Dr. Otis' pen tapped on the paper. Dr. Otis didn't understand what was going on in her prison. She thought this patient might. Clare Otis had no plans to lose her. She wrote: "Confined to clinic, 24 hours". She was uncomfortable with sending Scully back to the general population so soon, but there was no way to keep her in the infirmary longer. Nevertheless, Clare Otis was going to stay on top of this one. She went to get some coffee. While she was up, she searched for Scully's records on her computer, printed them out, and brought them back to the bedside to read. "Dr. Scully?" A finger poked her away from a deep, safe place into the cool, dim light. She could smell stale coffee. "This is your 3 a.m. wake-up call." It was medical school all over again. "I'm up. I'm up." Then she remembered. Dr. Otis smiled down at her. Every hour on the hour during the night she had awakened Scully to make certain the concussion hadn't become coma. "You look tired," Scully said. "Night's still young - unfortunately, I'm not anymore." Dr. Otis shook out a thermometer and Scully opened her mouth. "You seem more alert. Headache better?" Scully closed her eyes and opened them quickly. "I take that as a yes. Things are looking up. I'll give you more ice as soon as I get this reading-" She looked at the thermometer. "Normal." She offered Scully some ice. "Anything else I can get you?" "Agent Mulder." Her eyes widened as if she'd surprised herself by the request. Dr. Otis thought about it. She recognized the name immediately from Scully's folder - her former FBI partner, and her most recent visitor. Maybe Dr. Scully would tell him what she wouldn't tell her doctor. "Okay," Dr. Otis said. She knew she'd made the right decision when Scully relaxed into the pillow with undisguised relief. Dr. Otis took Scully's file back to her desk, punched in her code for an outside line and ran her finger down a form for emergency numbers. She found Fox Mulder listed with two numbers. Glancing at Scully she noted some color returning to her patient's cheeks. Now we're getting somewhere, Dr. Otis thought. Knowing the hours law enforcement officers kept, she tried the cell phone number first. ***** Mulder came immediately as she knew he would. Scully could sense him near long before she could see him or feel his hand on her arm. When he called to her, she swam through an ocean of warm water to reach the surface and answer him. "That's not the sexiest hospital gown I've ever seen you in," he said. "Puke green with a peek-a-boo neckline." She pawed at the opening on the gown. "Morning?" "I haven't had breakfast yet." He hadn't shaved either. She glanced around to find Clare Otis reading in a chair across the room. Clare threw them furtive glances but kept a discreet distance. "Dr. Otis says you don't play well with others," Mulder said. "I know.. I told you... I didn't want you on this..." "I didn't hear that. You said not to focus entirely on this case." "You never listen." "Aren't you glad?" "Maybe. Sometimes. All right, this once." He studied her, brushed the hair off her face. It looked as though his touch on her forehead hurt so he took his hand away. She closed her eyes, "What is this, Mulder?" "Can we talk about mind control?" "Yes." Her exhale of capitulation seemed noisy in the quiet clinic. And scared him. "Lots of experiments by the military," he said. "Some of them fairly successful. Lots of talk about classified experiments -- especially during the Korean War and Vietnam Wars. Sense a pattern here? It's killer stuff." "Is it?" "Sure-even in the movies: "The Manchurian Candidate", for instance." "X-Files?" "You know them, Scully. Pusher..." "The result of a physical anomaly," she said. There was only a hitch in his recitation. "Rev. Orison put an entire prison to sleep.." Mulder let the rest of it go. He knew she would automatically see herself shooting an unarmed Donnie Pfaster in an act of revenge or self-preservation. "Mass hypnotism," she said. "What are you looking for?" "Something more than illusion, parlor tricks, gimmick mind reading games," she said. Every word seemed an effort. Mulder's head screamed yes, yes, thousands of cases, dozens of proven incidents. This time what she needed from him was some rational explanation, something she could to hold onto. "Outside the cases we've seen, what people normally call mind control is the power of suggestion blown larger by stress, bad food, sleep deprivation. Any of that in your life lately?" "Do you think it's possible for someone to enter your mind and know what you know, see what you see, think your thoughts with you? As the bank guard said?" "That what happened last night?" She grimaced. She appeared to have trouble thinking and when he could see muscles ripple, her body rebel. "Yes -- don't know." Mulder thought he would be as sick as she looked. "That sure, huh?" She almost laughed, then closed her eyes against the effort. "Not sure of anything." His hand clutched hers tightly and he pressed their linked hands to his cheek. Her eyes fluttered open then seemed to reach for him. "Okay, one thing." It was almost a tangible thing: Mulder sensed waves bringing her back to shore, the sand between her toes again, and the sand turned to rock under her feet. He felt relieved. "There's also the mind meld I mentioned before," Mulder said, stirring himself from the comfortable place they were together. "I've read more about it. Talked to a few spiritualists. People enter your mind, learn what you know and use it to control you, even transport your spirit. It exists in legends primarily, although I have heard of it in some Far Eastern cultures. Tibetan monks, for instance, claim they achieve perfect peace only when they are one with the mind of the Dalai Lama. You think this is related somehow to last night?" Before she could answer, an image of Henry Donaldson leapt into Mulder's head. Donaldson, his monks, and his companions on the mission. "I don't know what happened last night. I can't explain it," Scully said. In her report Mulder saw she was trying to concentrate on giving an accurate, impersonal account of what she could recall, but the horror obviously became too great, the sickness too virile. "The worst kind of intrusion-things I would never share-things I hardly dare to think myself. It was intellectual rape!" "Scully, let go of this for a minute," Mulder's voice was firm. "Think about a-a baseball game. Your favorite, uh -- baseball game." She regarded him blankly, then they both grinned. "Okay, your favorite symphony," he said. "It's okay. The worst of it's gone now." "Happened before?" Mulder's thumb tenderly stroked her cheek, her jaw. "Never like this. Never." She stared at him, then dropped her eyes. "You know what happens." "I saw you sick, fighting delusion, angry. You never recall the attack that brought it on." "Yeah." "Is that what you mean? The sickness, delusions, rage?" "I haven't been sick in a long time. Things were clearer. I could read.." "You couldn't read?" "I've been-using your trick - like now." She paused and he heard something that sounded like "six times six equals 36" stumble out of her mouth. He was quiet for a while to let her finish the multiplication tables. Mulder thought she'd fallen asleep until she mumbled," I saw my mother." "Did you?" "That night-you came. Zelda took me-" Scully closed her eyes. It seemed nice to remember it. He could see the corners of her mouth turned. "In my dream, she took me to the hospital to see her. It was so real." "For your mother too." He dropped that into the air. He thought he saw that ghost of a smile flicker on her lips. "Mmmm. Fred's more interested in the night nurse than my mother." "The guy?" "The blonde at the desk - one with the chest." "Good taste." Mulder made a mental note to talk to Fred Morton. "He thinks mom is going to be fine," Scully said. "So he tells me." Scully nodded, eyes still closed. Mulder started to touch her shoulder then it struck him that Morton had cancelled his visit with Mrs. Scully the previous afternoon. His partner came instead, explaining Fred woke up with a stomach virus. Mulder wondered. "Scully-" She didn't open her eyes. "Yeah." "Before last night -how did you feel? You said you could read more. What else? Any more vivid dreams?" She opened her eyes. "No dreams." She looked distressed. "I can't trust if what I do recall is accurate memory or-or a dream." "Let me sort it out." "Flashbacks of men in suits that I don't recognize." Scully began to fade again. "- a woman I knew at the academy - Ann Millard - newspaper pictures, guns, women-" "That could be your life passing before you," he said. "Ann Millard?" "Hmmm. Not seen her since the academy. Killed in the line." The pounding in Scully's head suddenly became unbearable. She touched her head as though to keep it from spinning off her head. Mulder looked to Dr. Otis. "What does Ann Millard have to do with what's going on?" he said. "Don't know. Way I feel now -- connected somehow." She didn't open her eyes, but she griped his arm. "So we use your sickness as a barometer of how hot or cold we are on this case," Mulder said, grabbing a nearby basin. Scully heaved. Dr. Otis moved toward them. "Not much more, Agent Mulder. In fact..." Scully's eyes flashed blue and dangerous. "No!" "Five minutes," said Clare. Mulder waited until the doctor turned her back to whisper to Scully, "I'm going to submit this to Law Enforcement Journal - when the investigator becomes vilely ill, the case is nearly solved." "Breaking new ground," Scully said. Mulder's tiny smile faded. "It's worse right after whatever mind games they play. You know that. You're very vulnerable now. You need some time where no one can get to you until your head clears." "How?" She flung her arm over her eyes. "I'll speak to Dr. Otis..." "No!" She said it too loudly, then dropped her voice. "What if-she's ...involved.." Sleep. Scully looked as though she wanted so badly to sleep. "What's going on?" Dr. Otis returned at double time. She felt Scully's racing pulse. "Vertigo," Scully said. "Time to leave, Agent Mulder. Let her sleep." Scully sighed. She couldn't fight anymore. "A minute," Mulder said. He dropped his voice and put his mouth next to Scully's ear. In the dark behind her eyes she heard the desperation over his words: "Tell me you're undercover. I'd probably kiss you." "I wish," she mumbled. "Later," he said, gently brushing the hair off her clammy forehead. "I'm not kissing someone who might throw up on me." "Ha..." She dropped into sleep and Mulder let her go. Clare watched Mulder pull the covers over his partner's shoulders and tuck them around her. "A word, Agent Mulder?" **************** Dr. Clare Otis married the man she loved when she was in her late 20s. He was a fellow medical student, brilliant, gentle, understanding. He was the only thing she loved more than medicine, than the healing of the human body. They lived together 40 years, raised two sons, and helped deliver one of their five grandchildren - a granddaughter with wisps of red hair -- before a heart attack killed him two years ago. She turned to her other love, to medicine, to heal her wound. Clare Otis knew what it was to love and live with a man. And even if she had no psychology training, the woman she was could have recognized another woman who truly loved a man. These days she didn't see many men and women outside her own family who had a sense of self and gave themselves freely to each other. Instead she saw a lot of co-dependent personalities, enablers married to drug or alcohol dependent mates, or emotionally immature men drawn to emotionally crippled women. She saw so little healthy give and take between a man and woman committed to each other that she'd didn't recognize it at first. But, lord, it was a pretty thing to see. Out of the corner of her eye, Dr. Otis watched the FBI agent and his convict ex-partner act out their love story in the early morning light. Their tenderness with each other made Dr. Otis glow just to remember her own love. She missed her husband. She was glad of this job to dull the pain of losing him. She had anticipated some problems with the work, but not others. She was too soft for a prison job, Dr. Otis realized. She should be in private practice. The inmates took advantage of her. She expected them to get over on her often and they did. She had to toughen up, she knew. She had not counted on this mystery in her clinic: the death that was ruled suicide nor the two inmates who were rational one day and psychotic the next. Dr. Otis did not think herself a fool, but the illnesses made her feel like one. Now she felt the answer lay within her grasp. Until Mulder arrived she saw Dana Scully as just part of the problem. Now she realized her prisoner might be the solution. Mulder and Scully's relationship raised questions in Dr. Otis' mind - questions she didn't normally ask. She never concerned herself with a prisoner's guilt or innocence since a court had determined that already. They all claimed to be innocent; Clare never allowed her patients to evade or excuse culpability for their crimes, since that was part of why they were in prison to start with. Dr. Scully was different. Her case file raised questions of guilt or innocence for Dr. Otis that could be dismissed separately but not cumulatively. Dr. Otis rubbed the bridge of her nose and her tired eyes. Out of habit and experience she had slipped Scully into the role of manipulative woman with Mulder the besot lover. In the morning light she could see that clearly wasn't the case. If he was in love, it was no more than she was. Dr. Otis began to rethink the matter. Even given their mutual attraction, why would a trained investigator continue to believe his partner innocent in the face of overwhelming evidence and her plea bargain? Scully's actions raised another question. While she robbed the FBI blind and held defense lawyers up for thousands of dollars in bribes, she apparently kept Mulder clear of her felonies -- an unselfish act that didn't happen often among female criminals. Later she didn't blame him or involve him at all. In fact, she tried to keep him at arm's length. He would have none of it. A strong woman and a strong man, Dr. Otis thought. That didn't jive with women who wound up in prison. And what did she plan to do with the money, Dr. Otis wondered. Scully didn't seem vain or in need of funds. She seemed self- contained and disciplined. In fact, the one security tape Dr. Otis had seen of her new patient and the FBI agent was enough to show her Scully played by the rules, Mulder pushed them. Dr. Dana Scully did not fit any known profile of a female criminal. Dr. Otis gave some thought to an undercover operation. If so, it was real good, she thought. No hints in the official record, plenty of official transcripts, newspaper clippings and all the trappings of a genuine crime-and-punishment scenario. The tape Dr. Otis pulled of Scully and Mulder's visit was nothing more than she expected from of a prisoner and her ex-partner. No, it was more. They talked about cases, the weather, family, his tie, and the prison food-ordinary conversations made so intimate by the participants that Dr. Otis felt like a dirty voyeur. Their partnership was beyond professional and probably stronger than either of them admitted. Dana Scully held another fascination for Clare Otis: medicine. Clare had a feeling Dr. Scully didn't crave the personal, human side of the profession as much as the scientific puzzle presented by a body that didn't function according to the blueprints. Still, she loved the art - they had that in common. After talking with Mulder about his partner, Dr. Otis requested a prison shakedown in hopes of turning up a pressure syringe that might have injected Scully with a new drug she wouldn't be able to identify from blood samples. She wanted to eliminate the possibility of drugs first. Then, Dr. Otis would use the prisoner's love of medicine and Fox Mulder to get what she wanted from Dr. Scully. ******************** When Scully woke again the light was so bright and irritating she shielded her eyes before opening them very far. Mulder had gone. She knew that from the emptiness all around her. Stirring a little she heard with irritation glasses rattling, metal clanging, a harsh laugh down the hall, a broom or mop slamming against the baseboards. The prison was awake. She wanted to scream for everyone to shut the hell up. The moment passed, but she became aware of a bitter aftertaste in her mouth that was somehow familiar. Scully pulled the blanket around her chin with a huff. Every voice, every noise seemed amplified. "No way, Bert." "Doc, it's not my call." "I won't let you do it. She's sick. What could she possibly do in here anyway?" Scully heard the unmistakable leather squeak of a policeman's holster harness. The curtain opened and the sergeant of the guard walked in. Without a word to Scully he pulled the sheet and blanket out from the foot of the bed. "What-what are you doing!" Scully sat up too quickly and her head spun. The guard grabbed her ankle, enclosed it in a manacle and secured the chain to the footboard. Scully kicked. "This is contrary to established policy. This is a secure area and no restraints are required. Come back!" As an apparent after thought the guard covered her exposed foot up before he left. He never spoke or looked directly at her. Shocked, then enraged, Scully kicked at the manacle, the footboard. A clanging noise that reverberated through her head was her only reward. She didn't feel better at all. She heard someone applauding outside. "Way to go, Bert. I, for one, feel much safer knowing that a very sick, 105 pound woman can't wander around the clinic," said Dr. Otis from somewhere beyond the curtain. "You don't like it, talk to the director." "I will, don't worry." "Ah, Doc. Really. It's not hurting her and she is a special case-" "She's especially sick, you mean. I didn't object to the manacles outside the prison, even though I thought it was overkill for an unconscious prisoner. But this, this is barbaric." "She's been trained-" "Are all you people buffaloed by the fact that she was FBI?" "Orders, doc." The leather squeak faded away. Anger and bitter frustration burned Scully. She lay very still, willing herself not to feel the shackle. Willing herself not to feel like an animal. Scully closed her eyes. The curtain parted. "Hi. Feeling better?" In the daylight Clare Otis appeared heavier, her hair grayer. She plodded ahead as though too weary to do any better. "This is outrageous," Scully said to the ceiling. She laid stiff and straight, pressing into the mattress. "I couldn't agree more," Clare said. Taking a thermometer she stuck it in Scully's mouth and took her pulse. "Better." After a minute she read the thermometer with approval and wrapped Scully's arm in a blood pressure cuff. "I think we can graduate you from ice to chicken soup. Wanna try?" Clare paused to read Scully's blood pressure, grunted approval and reached over on a nearby rolling tray for a steaming mug. Scully had no appetite, but she accepted soup from Dr. Otis anyway. "You know, your lethargy, nausea, memory loss, and tremors aren't necessarily symptomatic of concussion," Dr. Otis said in a conversational tone. "Ever had this before - ever seen it before?" "No." "Never?" When she got no answer Dr. Otis said: "I have." Scully stopped sipping soup and glanced up. "Three times, in fact. You're the fourth, Dr. Scully. One of them died - apparent suicide. The other two became psychotic. What do you know about that?" "Nothing," Scully said, taking a tentative sip. The broth was hot and too salty. Dr. Otis took Scully's right arm and turned it over. She gently probed the bruised area but found no needle mark. She frowned. She tapped Scully's arm several times and raised her eyebrows; it was a question Scully chose to ignore. Clare Otis turned down the sheet and examined Scully's stomach and abdomen. As expected there was tenderness and she drew a wince from her patient when she examined the area. Clare pulled the sheet back up, noting Scully's hands curled into fists. "Never saw this before, huh?" Frowning Dr. Otis tucked Scully's arm under the sheet and made some notes on her chart. "I forget you're all liars, thieves, murderers and con artists. I keep asking a question and expecting a straight answer. I keep giving respect and expecting it back." She started to leave, then thought better of it. "You know, I'm tired down to my socks and I've got something here that I don't like. Now here's the deal, Dr. Scully. I've got an hour's worth of patients waiting for me. When I come back you have answers or you won't see Agent Mulder for a long while." "You can't suspend my visitor's privileges." Scully sat up sharply. "I haven't done anything." "I can not only suspend them, I can put Agent Mulder on the list of unacceptable visitors so you don't see him for five years. You think I can't figure out you were fighting last night? I can send you to isolation too." Dr. Otis said. "Do it." Clare looked askance. "Really? You wouldn't mind?" Scully drew her lips together and refused to look at Dr. Otis. Clare could almost feel the heat rising off her patient. Scully's fists slammed them to the mattress when Dr. Otis closed the privacy screen around the bed and left. Damn, Scully thought jerking the covers up. She couldn't be cut off from Mulder, not now. She couldn't risk connecting the dots for Dr. Otis until she had a full picture of what was going on and who was involved. She wanted to take Dr. Otis by the throat. The urge was so strong it shocked Scully, made her arms tremble. Her hands opened to grip the sheets and she kicked at the shackle a gain with an angry grunt. Scully suddenly realized she could think without debilitating headache or nausea as long as she kept a cold, penetrating fury aimed at some point in the future. And that anger was a fertile incubator to birth plans for a safe haven. It pleased her because she saw it as a way to return a portion of what she had received.