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Chapter Twelve

Steve, on the other hand, had different ideas entirely. Although his head still hurt when he awoke, he was able to first sit, then stand up, without being visited by the ominous dizziness and nausea, and the pain from the gash on his face had subsided from searing to moderately tolerable burning. He was most of the way to the door, with minimal difficulty, when the question of appropriate attire occurred to him. A moment's reflection brought him to the same conclusion Jesse had reached earlier. He considered his options briefly, then started to grin until his face suggested he refrain.

A few minutes later, he slipped out of the laundry room, having succeeded in liberating a clean set of scrubs which fit, more or less, probably less, and would at least get him home without attracting unnecessary attention or being detained for indecent exposure. Or so he thought. His planned escape route apparently was no great secret, because, as he pushed open the last door from the southwest corner stair to the parking garage, he discovered the very person he was trying to avoid.

"Going somewhere, son?" Mark's voice was amused; his eyes were not.

Steve sucked in a breath and let it out, counting to ten. "Dad -- I have to talk to Cheryl. And Dana. And Mulder. And not from a hospital bed."

Mark leaned against the wall, arms folded. "Not until you talk to me first."

"Dad, I --"

"And then I'll drive you home to change myself," Mark finished.

Mouth still open to argue with his father, Steve closed it, reopened it, and closed it again while he considered the offer. Finally, he nodded. "Okay, Dad. You win. But can we talk in the car?"

On the way home,he described the bizarre swim the afternoon Murphy came to visit. "You know, Dad, screwy as it sounds, for a while there, in the water at least, it really didn't bother me that a seal was talking to me, or that it called me cousin, or that I was hearing phantom music, or any of that. It was such an incredible experience. And then -- by the time I got home, I guess I'd convinced myself that I'd imagined it."

"And the wet suit wouldn't have helped because you'd already been in the water," Mark mused. He shook his head ruefully. "No wonder you stiffened up when Murphy started going into detail." He gave his son a sharp look. "That name -- you said you knew what it meant when Murphy used it."

Steve's mouth tightened. "Yeah."

"But -- oh." Mark slid another look at his son's impassive face. "The seal?"

"Yeah."

"You think Murphy's involved more than he's let on." It wasn't a question.

Steve sighed. "Oh, he's involved, all right. I'm just not sure exactly how or how much. Maybe he's the advance man, working hand in flipper with my pinniped friend."

They had reached the house; Mark trailed behind his son as Steve headed downstairs to acquire more appropriate clothing. "Son -- I saw that -- creature that attacked you."

Steve froze, shirtless, one leg half in, half out of the scrub pants. "What are you talking about, Dad?"

Mark gave him a puzzled look. "Didn't you see it?"

Having successfully negotiated the removal of the scrubs, Steve grabbed the jeans hanging over a chair, trying not to jolt his tender head any more than necessary. "Dad -- it had already tossed me head on into the middle of the wave to end all waves. I saw something, but it was pretty blurry; and I'm not sure if the stuff jumbled up in my own brain is accurate." He started to add the only natural reminder that he had a concussion, then thought better of the idea; the last thing he wanted to do was remind his father of it.

He might as well have stood on his head and wished for the moon. Mark's eyes narrowed as he gazed at his son critically, at length. "That's to be expected with a concussion," he commented pointedly.

"Dad --"

Mark held up a stern hand. "I'm not going to hinder you here, son. Simply be advised that, should you fall flat on your face, crow will turn up on the dinner menu."

Steve laughed, then swore and grabbed for his cheek as the movement pulled at the wound. "Damn. Can't guffaw like that for a while." He glanced at his father. "So what was it you saw, anyway?"

Mark shivered involuntarily. "It was big, I remember that. It was at least a good two heads taller than you, and much broader. It had -- claws." His eyes slid involuntarily to Steve's face; his son reflexively lifted his hand towards the bandage. "And -- teeth, almost fangs, I think. Those were harder to see clearly."

"You saw a lot more than I did," Steve said grimly. "But what bothers me is that I have a vague memory of seeing the seal turn into it."

His father nodded. "That I saw too." A chill was spreading down his neck and back. "Son -- just what exactly did you stumble into?"

Steve made a frustrated sound. "Seal monsters, phantom whistles, and cryptic cousins? Hell if I know -- wait a minute." He stared at his father, eyes wide with astonishment. "Now I know what it was about Murphy --"

"Besides what we've already determined?" Mark inquired.

"Yeah." He sank down onto the bed, apprehension still written largely on his face. "His eyes. They're the same as the seal's."

Mark gaped at him. "You can't be serious."

Steve spread his hands helplessly. "Dad, I didn't say it made sense. Hell, I can't explain any of this -- any logic I might have been able to apply went out the window when I started hearing musicians who weren't there and talking to assorted marine life." His head was starting to throb, but he did his best to ignore it. "I need to call Cheryl."

Still barechested, he padded out to his living room and collected the telephone where he had left it what seemed like eons ago. "Cheryl? It's me. I'm home. Could you swing by?" He listened for a moment, a faint trace of exasperation in his eyes. "Of course my father knows where I am. And I'm still in one piece."

She must have delivered a snappy comeback, however, because the tension in his jaw eased, and he laughed. "Okay, I'm not. And I'll even put on a shirt for you."

Mark raised a curious eyebrow. "She giving you that hard time you so richly deserve?"

Steve grinned, slightly cautiously. "Yeah. Said if I didn't want to have my bell rung, I'd better be lying down, histrionically damaged and appropriately bandaged."

His father laughed. "Could be done. Here, let me help you with that shirt."

Chapter Thirteen

After reassuring herself that her partner was in no imminent danger of falling flat on his face, Cheryl curled up in one corner of the couch and listened to his story with some concern. "Steve -- if Murphy is mixed up in whatever is going on -- well, he knows where you live."

"Cheryl, I can't go around for the next God knows how long looking over my shoulder for a giant seal."

She gave him a look. "That's not exactly what I meant," she said, not quite mildly.

He felt a twinge of guilt. "I'm sorry, Cheryl. Frankly, this whole thing has been a little hard to get used to." Without really thinking, he reached over and took her hand, squeezing it gently.

In the time they had been partners, despite the occasional hand on the arm or shoulder, they had touched seldom, and skin on skin of any kind even more rarely. The embraces they had exchanged after Steve's encounter with the Wyler organization had been isolated incidents which both preferred to view as the result of highly unusual situations and tensions, unlikely to recur. Now, Cheryl felt the warmth of his hand on her own, and her treacherous eyes refused to look anywhere except into his intense blue gaze. "I was so afraid for you," she said softly, involuntarily, and leaned forward to his waiting mouth.

What was happening to him lately? he wondered remotely. So many bad, even deadly, relationships in the past, and so much loneliness, longing for someone who would fit herself into that empty place and make him whole. And now -- this aspect of his life had taken on an independent character of its own, it seemed, to tantalize him with an excess of infinitely desirable partners, each more than capable of helping him find what he sought, each more than suitable in her own way. He thought he should feel guilty for being unable to make a decision, but his gut instinct was adamant that this was a necessary part of the process before he could legitimately ask any one of them to share his life.

All this swept through his mind virtually instantly. Her eyes, like dark amber, had their own light, not as coolly clear as Dana's, nor as soothingly warm as Rachel's, but with a soft glow, a resonance surrounding them that he had never seen before. For the life of him, he couldn't think of any intelligent reason, although there undoubtedly were several, not to kiss her.

The first touch was tentative, as his mouth sought hers hesitantly, then surer as he sensed the velvet softness he had felt months earlier and not dared to seek since. This time, there was no instinctive separation as she returned the pressure, at first gentle, then more demanding. He slid his hand behind her neck, molding it to the soft curve, and drew her in closer, losing himself in the intoxication of her lips.

After apparent centuries, she disengaged herself delicately, replacing her mouth on his with gentle fingers. They stared at each other, both for the moment incapable of speech. Finally, never taking his eyes from hers, Steve captured the fingers lightly caressing his lips, kissed them, and with great deliberation reached for her, seeking her mouth once more.

She anticipated his intention and interposed her hand again. "Steve --"

He tried again, with similar results, and sighed. "What."

Cheryl smiled at him tentatively. "That was lovely."

"But?" he asked, gazing at her intently.

She had to ask, even though she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer. "Steve -- you know I care for you. But -- are you sure this is what you're looking for -- that it's not something we're likely to regret?"

He was silent, concentrating on the circles his thumb was drawing on her hand. Finally, he stirred. "No, I'm not." Now he did look up, fixing that intense stare on her face. "But I need to know, Cheryl." He reached for her again.

She shook her head. "Steve, I'm serious. I'm not sure I can make the choice between partners and lovers. And it's not as if you aren't -- distracted -- as it is."

He contemplated the smooth, tawny skin, the luminescent eyes, the infinitely kissable lips. "Cheryl," he pointed out with a tinge of impatience, "that's partly why I need to know."

She blinked. "I thought you were enjoying the 'is-she-or-isn't-she' routine," she said lightly, trying to avoid falling into the compelling blue depths.

His eyebrows started to descend. "Was that all it was?" he asked, capturing her eyes despite her attempt to avoid his.

She had to at least make an effort, Cheryl thought with a shade of panic, feeling her body doing its best to undermine her resolution. "Steve, don't look at me like that. You know I hate it when you give me that look --"

The tiny fires deep in his eyes leapt, so enticingly, and she couldn't, didn't want to resist. "No, it wasn't," she whispered, and pulled him to her.

Unfortunately, the question of the future nature of the relationship was fated to go unanswered for the time being. Steve had only just begun to explore the sweetness of her mouth when the telephone rang, his pager beeped, and Mark called down the stairs, all simultaneously. He tried to ignore them, but all three were insistent, and he finally conceded the point that this was one more issue which was going to have to remain temporarily unresolved.

With commendable coordination, he kissed her again, quickly, stilled the annoying beeping, and answered his phone. "Sloan here. Hang on just a moment." He covered the receiver with his free hand and yelled up the stairs. "Come on down, Dad." He gave Cheryl a rueful grin, and returned to the telephone call. "Yeah. All right. We'll be right there. No, I'm fine. All right."

Mark gave the two of them a quizzical look before speaking, wondering. "There's been another one."

Steve nodded. "I know. That was Mulder." He glanced at his partner, then caught the same expression on his father's face. "Don't you both start. I'm going, I'll be all right. Cheryl, would you mind driving so Dad can put his fears to rest?" But the grin took the sting from the words, and his father returned it, hoping that for once his son would stay out of trouble for a while.

* * *

Mulder was pacing, while Scully squatted by the corpse, examining the slashes on its face. "Looks like the others," she commented to her partner. "Sea water, scratches --" She picked at something in one of the wounds. "Bits of shell, crushed throat; same M.O."

Mulder grunted. "Something's not right, Scully."

She dusted off her hands and rose from her hunched position. "What do you mean, Mulder?"

"It's toying with us," he replied. "Till now, there's been a pattern of time and distance. This one doesn't fit. Murphy did it deliberately just to show us that he could."

She looked skeptical. "Are you still dogging that theory that he's the selkie?"

He shrugged. "He fits."

"I realize that you don't like him either, but, if we accept your theory, we have to assume that he's also the thing that attacked me." Steve walked carefully into the room, Mark and Cheryl behind him.

Scully was at his side in an instant, giving him an unfortunately professional once-over. "Steve, are you sure you're all right?" she asked with concern.

"I'm fine," he replied impatiently. "What's out of sync about this, Mulder?"

Mulder explained his pattern theory to the newcomers. "Up to now, your cousin --"

Steve's eyes sparked ice. "He's not my cousin."

Mulder looked unconvinced, but yielded the point. "Whatever. Murphy, the selkie, whatever you want to call him, it, has been working his way systematically down the coast, not killing in the same place. Ever. Until now." He gave Steve an odd look. "Shortly after meeting you, and your, um, unusual encounter in the ocean, after expressing a definite interest in two women who coincidentally are involved with you to one degree or another, he essentially looks to be putting down roots right here in southern California."

The ice in Steve's eyes was superheating. "Are you implying this latest killing is somehow my fault?" he demanded, fists clenching.

Much as he disliked the man, Mulder couldn't force himself to be quite that prejudiced in his opinions. "I don't know," he admitted. "But there's a reason he's staying around, and I just can't shake the feeling it's got something to do with you."

Steve flicked a glance at Cheryl, who shrugged and pulled out her cell phone, ordering an APB on one Keefe Murphy, resident alien. "And what might that be?" he growled.

Mark decided to try his hand at uncertain peacekeeping before the situation got totally out of hand. "You still think he's after Dana and Cheryl, don't you, Mr. Mulder."

The agent nodded. "And your son's likely to end up dead next time if he's not careful," he said, not particularly concerned with the brutality of his warning.

Steve threw up his hands in disgust. "I won't go swimming by myself till this is over, okay?" He glanced over to where the medical examiner's team was preparing to remove the body. "Let Amanda know if you find anything else, okay, Fred?" He started to turn back to the others, and staggered as a wave of fatigue hit him.

"That's it," his father said sharply. "You're going home, to bed, and I don't want any arguments."

Steve tried anyway, but was outvoted. Seeing the tension in his eyes, Mulder unbent slightly. "Don't worry about Scully, Sloan. I'll make sure she's safe. Really." Gingerly, the two men shook hands, with grudging respect, each hoping Mulder wasn't guilty of overoptimism.

After Mark had gone inside, Steve lingered at Cheryl's car. "Want to come inside for a cup of coffee -- or whatever?" he invited, voice caressing the words temptingly.

She took a deep breath. "Maybe we should wait until this is over, Steve," she said reluctantly, trying not to look at the fires leaping in his eyes.

He tried not to let the disappointment into his voice. "And then?" he asked lightly.

Relieved, she gave him a warm smile. "And then at least I can't be accused of taking advantage of a man with a head wound," she teased.

The eyes themselves were dancing now. "I'm going to hold you to that, partner." He leaned into her window before she could guess his intention and stole a quick kiss, then walked off, laughing.

"You're incorrigible," she called after him with a smile, then drove off, chuckling to herself.

Chapter Fourteen

After a quiet couple of hours, during which Mark admirably succeeded in restraining himself from inquiring about his son's condition every few minutes, Steve wished his father a good night and headed downstairs. He had just finished brushing his teeth when a stray thought hit him; he picked up the telephone and dialed Cheryl's number.

There was no answer. He waited a few minutes and tried again, with the same unsatisfactory result. He glanced automatically at his watch; it was barely after ten, and he knew she usually stayed up to watch the late news. He punched the redial button, and listened to the ringing with a growing sense of unease.

He came to an abrupt decision and slid his feet back into his shoes, then ran upstairs. "Dad?"

Mark looked up from his book, frowning. "I thought you and your concussion were going to bed, son."

"I know, Dad," Steve said placatingly. "I need to run over to Cheryl's for a few minutes; she didn't answer her phone." He anticipated his father's objection. "Dad, I promise I'll be careful; but I could just be overreacting. If you don't hear from me within a half hour, though, call in backup, okay?"

The look on his son's face convinced Mark there was no point objecting. "All right, son, but if you do anything foolish I guarantee you'll hear from me."

Steve grinned at him. "I know, Dad. I'll be good."

When he reached Cheryl's house, however, he wasn't so sure. Her lights were on, so she obviously was home; but, when he tried calling her number again, he got the same results as before. He wished he could be sure whether she was all right. He didn't want to go crashing in and surprise her in the bathtub, for instance; but his gut was twitching. He was still debating the issue when he heard a strange noise from inside; and when he glanced at the window, he saw the shadow of the head of a man. A man with a beard.

Something snapped in Steve's brain. He'd already had more than enough of whatever screwiness was happening in his own life; he was desperately tired of Mulder and the FBI agent's obsessive posturing; and he had definitely had his fill of the smug foreigner claiming to be his blood relative. Soundlessly, he opened the door with the spare key he knew Cheryl kept under a flower pot, and eased inside, gun drawn and ready.

She was in the living room, sitting on the couch, watching TV. Except the TV wasn't running, and her eyes were not quite focused. She was breathing, though, and quick, anxious fingers on her wrist confirmed her pulse. He started to turn, and froze as he heard a voice, the soft sound of the seal song drifting behind it.

"It's a slow learner you are, cousin."

Slowly, Steve completed the turn, bringing his gun up to aim at the intruder's chest. "My scholastic deficiencies notwithstanding, Murphy, you're under arrest."

"Oh, yes," came the derisive voice. "The false security of the firearm." Murphy pointed at his own chest. "Go ahead, cousin. Assuming you can bring your overprincipled self to shoot an unarmed man, your weapon will have little to no effect."

Steve gave him a scornful look. "More of your mystic sea legend crap, no doubt," he said, nettled.

That faint alien something he had seen at their meeting at the house surfaced briefly in Murphy's eyes. "All I have shown you, all you have seen, and still you fight it. It's disappointing me you are, Fintan."

Steve exploded. "Don't call me that!" He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. "You're under arrest. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney."

Murphy listened with unfeigned interest as Steve finished listing his Miranda rights. "Very considerate, you Americans. Especially when you obviously have other desires." He stood up. "Unfortunately, my schedule will not permit me to engage in that particular diversion." He started moving towards Cheryl.

"Hold it right there, Murphy," Steve snarled. "What did you do to her?"

Murphy stopped obligingly and considered the question. "Let me see. How best to describe it -- ah, I cast what was once called a glamour over her."

"A what?" Steve asked suspiciously.

Murphy sighed. "It is truly regrettable that you missed this part of your education. A glamour. She is not harmed, she is merely -- distracted, unaware of what we do here."

Steve laughed unpleasantly. "Then I guess she won't see me blow you away if you don't turn around and put your hands behind your back."

Murphy laughed in his turn. "She will not -- and neither will I."

"I'm not kidding, Murphy," Steve growled. He started to edge forward, gun still ready, reaching for his handcuffs with his free hand.

Murphy sneered at him. "Perhaps you should try shooting before you fall victim to your own mistaken self-confidence, cousin."

"Why?" Steve grunted, irritated.

Murphy sighed. "Truly, you disappoint me, cousin. I had hoped you would eventually comprehend, but still you refuse to see." He waved at the gun. "Those bullets will cause only minimal damage to this form."

"This -- form?" Steve repeated, not quite stupidly.

The strange eyes briefly held a trace of amusement. "They will not harm me in either seal or selkie shape."

"For Christ's sake," Steve said disgustedly. "Why is it that it keeps coming back to this --"

"Selkie 'business', cousin?" Murphy's voice was unexpectedly sympathetic. "Because it is true, Stee-faun. A selkie is what I am, and always have been. Your bullets cannot harm me. If you had been but more receptive to that which I have attempted repeatedly to impart to you, you would understand. And you would not even now be placing yourself once more in peril."

Steve looked at him in disbelief. "Why now?" he asked, stalling for time, wondering when the cavalry was planning to arrive.

The other man was starting to look irritated. "It's interfering you are, cousin." The voice was losing its smoothness. "I have chosen. Do not dare defy me."

It took a few seconds; then the words sank in, and Steve stared at Murphy, shocked. "I don't care what you think you're doing, pal. You can't have her, and I'm arresting you now." He started to move forward, just as Murphy leapt at him, and squeezed the trigger almost by reflex.

Or thought he did. Yes, he had fired; his vision registered the obvious bullet hole in Murphy's chest as he was borne backwards by the force of the other man's body. The gun and the handcuffs went skittering away as he hit the floor, and he grappled with Murphy, only to feel the beginnings of fur instead of fabric beneath his groping hands. Feeling slightly sick, he glanced up to see the same eyes as before, now belonging to the face and body from his post-injury nightmares. His eyes widened, his grip loosening of its own volition; the creature took advantage of his temporary distraction to pull back, bringing him along, and then hurled him sideways, to fetch up hard against the wall, pain searing through his head and cheek at the impact.

It loomed over him as he attempted to push himself to hands and knees. The faint music was growing stronger, angrier, yet simultaneously more mournful.

"You push me too far, cousin. It was never my desire to harm you."

"Then don't," he wheezed. Something in his ribcage didn't feel right, and his head throbbed. "Give yourself up before anyone else gets hurt." Somehow, he was on his feet again, though unsteadily, and the floor seemed to be miles away.

The selkie shook its head. "I think not, Fintan."

Hands splayed behind him against the wall for support, Steve made himself look, really look, at the selkie. It was huge, at least eight feet tall, and easily over three hundred pounds; he wondered detachedly why he had to keep running into gargantuan evildoers instead of criminals his own size. It had an eerie beauty, the profile sternly fair despite the seeming furry pelt, until it smiled. No human teeth, these; not quite fangs, but larger and sharper than the average wolf's nonetheless.

And the most unearthly, yet overpoweringly compelling eyes, holding the stuff of hundreds of years of history and legend, a loneliness so great it was almost unbearable, far beyond any such he had ever experienced. Whether it was the head injury which increased his perception, he didn't know; but he finally understood the selkie's basic quest, forever ultimately doomed, and the nature of their common bond became clearer.

"Of course," he managed between unwilling gasps for breath, clenching his teeth against the stabbing in his chest. "They're all mortal women. So they eventually die, leaving you alone again." He shuddered. "Just how old are you, anyway?"

It stared at him somberly. "Far older than you can conceive."

"But -- your family -- I still don't understand." He was really starting to hurt now; he set his teeth and hoped fervently he could hold out and keep it talking long enough until help came.

The selkie considered, then shrugged. "By blood you have the right. Even this shape eventually -- wears out. When it nears the end, I transfer my -- essence -- into the babe carried by my final bride. Your ancestor Muirgheal was one such."

The story was so totally preposterous, and somewhat sickening in truth, that he didn't even want to consider believing it. But the most inescapable evidence had just broken at least two of his ribs and even now stood before him, no doubt planning its next move. And there was something about its last statements which set off his gut instinct, a definite warning that something truly terrible was about to happen.

Cautiously, he pushed away from the wall, fighting the urge to clutch at his abused ribcage, taking stock of his fitness for any extended extreme physical activity. His body's response had been known to be more encouraging. Best to keep the selkie talking if possible. Where the hell was his backup, anyway?

"So what happens now?" he asked slowly.

Again the immeasurably sad look. "I will soon reach that time again. I must love, and mate -- and I wish to have more than a few short years before I -- must be reborn."

Steve involuntarily glanced towards Cheryl's motionless body. "Not with my partner, you're not," he growled, surreptitiously flexing his hands. "She doesn't fit your criteria anyway," he said boldly, hoping his memory of Mulder's theory was accurate.

Apparently the selkie didn't include truth-reading among its talents. Steve waited, expecting to be called on the lie, but it seemed more puzzled than outraged. Finally, it inquired, "She and you are not lovers, then?"

If he interpreted the word strictly, he was telling the truth. "No," he said carefully. "She's my friend, but we're partners. We don't have that kind of relationship."

An indefinable expression passed over the selkie's face, and Steve felt a sudden chill. "Very well," it replied. "Then I will have the child of the earth."

The chill turned to icy horror. "What do you mean?" Steve asked thickly, afraid he already knew the answer.

"The beautiful Dana will suit even more," it said levelly.

"Are you insane?" Steve exclaimed, forgetting momentarily that he was conducting a conversation with something not quite human, and therefore possibly qualified himself for such a determination.

"Your loyalty is commendable, Stee-faun, but I have made my decision. You cannot deny the bond between you, and therefore it is my right to claim her."

Steve yanked his phone out of his pocket. "Not if I call her right now and tell her you've targeted her -- you'll have the whole of the FBI on your hairy tail."

It moved, so fast that it blurred, and the instrument was halfway across the room, while he clutched his bleeding arm, which now bore three scratches similar to the one below his temple, all burning in much the same fashion. Its tone was impatient. "Stee-faun, you try my patience to the limit. I would not kill you for blood's sake. But I will maim you, if need be, should you continue to hamper me in my endeavor."

He scrabbled backwards towards his gun, and felt his hand, hunting for it unseen, close on the comforting metal. "Go ahead. Make my day," he gritted, and whipped the gun around, emptying the magazine as the selkie moved towards him.

And dropped the empty firearm, useless now, and useless in any event, for there was no indication that any of the bullets, which he knew he had seen hit the creature, had done any damage whatsoever.

"Were you not listening, Stee-faun?" it asked, as it yanked him up effortlessly, tossing him once more into the wall.

The ribs were definitely broken. His father was certain to be displeased. "You seriously expected me to believe you," he gasped, trying to catch his breath with difficulty.

"My race takes no refuge in falsehoods, cousin." It leaned over him, claw-tipped fingers outstretched. He couldn't prevent the instinctive flinching from the feral appendages.

"So you'd have me believe you're invincible," Steve challenged, and immediately felt the pain explode through his head as the creature struck him, barely sheathing the claws prior to contact.

"Fintan, I would do no such thing. We do not lie."

He stared at the selkie, wishing his eyes would cooperate and focus. "You mean you're actually going to tell me how to stop you?" he asked skeptically.

The eyes were definitely scornful. "No, Stee-faun. I will only tell you that I am not immune to injury. The means you have already been shown."

Obviously, his head injury was worse than he thought. He didn't understand this at all. He said so, with feeling, trying once more to achieve a more perpendicular state with regard to the floor.

The selkie divined his intention. It reached out a hand and shoved him floorwards again, almost as an afterthought, then scooped Cheryl up in its arms. "You have three days to deliver Dana Scully to me, Fintan, and I will return this woman, who undoubtedly deserves better, to you. Otherwise, you will never see her again." It paused, making sure he was listening. "Bring her to where first we met. Do so before the rising of the moon three days hence, Stee-faun, or suffer the consequences."

It turned away, shimmering in Steve's blurred vision as it seemingly disappeared with its burden. Frantic, he finally succeeded in finding his feet, and started to stumble after, only to lose his fragile balance and plummet headlong to the floor, unconscious before he hit it. He was still lying there senseless when the backup unit arrived, no sign of anyone else anywhere in the house.


Chapter Fifteen

Disembodied voices. Always disembodied voices, he thought resentfully, which seemed to hover cheek by jowl with harsh lights that prodded every single nerve ending in his head. And then that persistent hand pushing up his reluctant eyelids so that yet another light could add insult to injury. Annoyed, he tried to lift his left hand to push it away, and abruptly thought better of it as flames streaked up his arm.

One of the voices took note of his movement. "Steve? Come on, buddy, twitch again for me."

Everyone's a comedian, he thought sourly. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the light and the pain, and growled, "I'll do somersaults if you'll take that damn light away, Jess."

Jesse leaned closer. "Take it easy, Steve. And I'd maintain a real low profile if I were you."

"Jesse, I'm not up to guessing games. What are you talking about?" It still hurt to open his eyes, and his body ached in places he hadn't thought were capable of hurting.

"Your dad," Jesse whispered. "He's on the warpath."

Oh. He had a vague memory of making a foolish promise to his father. Something about not ending up where he was. "Jess, please give me something before he gets here, or I'm in big trouble."

"It's a little too late for that, son."

Jesse was right. He hadn't heard that excessive degree of control in his father's voice for quite some time. Without thinking, he moved restlessly, and gasped with pain as his head reminded him how much abuse it had taken recently. He felt his father's knowledgeable touch on his head and his torn arm, then deftly exploring his battered ribs, while he tried to make himself as small as possible.

Mark's voice was ominously calm, and Steve realized with apprehension that his father was extremely angry indeed. "Bruises, cuts, lacerations, nasty ones by the look of them; broken ribs. I see you must have had a prolonged conversation with cousin Keefe. I'm assuming you lost the argument."

Memory returned with a rush, and he tried to sit up. "Dad -- Cheryl -- I have to talk to Mulder."

His father pushed him back onto the examining table, somewhat taken aback at the degree of his son's weakness. "You're not going anywhere until I discharge you. And that's not going to happen until we have a little chat about a promise you made."

Steve tried to sit up again, and got most of the way before dizziness conspired with his father and Jesse. "Dad -- you can chew me out from here to next Sunday once this is over, and I'll stand still for every word of it. But I've got to get out of here now." He rolled his head in Jesse's direction, eyes pleading. "Jess, please, help me. Tape me up and get me on my feet now."

Mark was unrelenting. "Not without a damned good reason, son."

He winced. Getting around his father in this mood was like trying to cut through a brick wall with a butter knife. He wished his father's face would settle in one spot; it might be easier to talk to him if he'd stop moving around. "Dad -- he -- it's got Cheryl."

Mouth open to launch his tirade, Mark shut it with a snap as the words sank in. Steve's eyes, unfocused as they were, held traces of horror and guilt. The lecture could wait. He put a soothing hand on his son's good arm, noting the clear tension in the muscles. "Steve, I'll call Mulder. They can come here. In fact," he added thoughtfully, "that might not be a bad idea; this is probably a reasonably safe place for Dana to be."

There was too much pain in too many parts of his body for him to effectively resist. "Dad, I --"

His father's eyes were not nearly as angry. "Don't worry, son. We'll make sure you get a chance to talk to them; and then you're going to rest."

His arm was burning unbearably; coherence was starting to become a fleeting quality. "Three days -- rising of the moon -- Dana --" His father's face was receding, and the grayness surrounding him was blotting out everything else.

Mark glanced at Jesse. "He's out again. Might as well let him sleep till they get here, take care of these gouges in his arm, his ribs, the rest of it. Then we can make sure he gets some proper rest."

Jesse nodded. "What do you suppose all that meant, what he was mumbling?" he asked.

Mark's face was grim. "I'm not sure, but I have a bad feeling about it."

True to his word, and although the process was more unpleasant than he had originally anticipated, Mark woke his injured son from the sedated doze when the two FBI agents arrived. Steve was drowsy, and clearly vastly uncomfortable. Scully felt her heart slide into her mouth when she beheld his battered state, and at that point she realized that, safe and secure as he might make her feel, she would never have that peace of mind concerning his own well-being. Strangely, he seemed to read her thoughts, despite his obvious infirmity; the blue eyes flickered, and he gave her an odd little wry half-smile which was both wistful and resigned. Heart twisting, she took his good hand in hers. "Tell us what happened, Steve."

Slowly, with painfully scrupulous attention to detail, omitting nothing, he related the events of the evening, including his own blind spot with regard to acknowledging the existence and the invincibility of the selkie, and his own culpability for the end result of the confrontation. "Moonrise," he concluded, his breath coming in shorter gasps as the mistreated ribs made another bid for attention. "We have till moonrise on Friday."

"To strand Scully on a rock at high tide waiting for him like Andromeda," Mulder finished dryly. "He's rather mixing his myths and legends."

Steve shook his head, or tried to. It objected substantially. Once the stabbing had subsided slightly, he took issue with Mulder's statement. "I won't allow --"

Scully put a calming hand on his arm. "Don't worry, Steve. We've got three days before we have to even consider that option." She glanced at Mark and Jesse, the latter of whom was contemplating Steve's IV with a calculating look. Not the worst idea in the world, she thought, giving him a quick thumb's up. She turned back to the restive patient. "Mulder and I will deal with this for a day or two, Steve. You're looking at a day in here at least anyway."

He started to take issue with her estimate, but had barely enunciated more than a word or two when the lassitude from the sedative began to seep into his body. For the life of him, he couldn't muster the energy to argue, and, if he was sleeping, at least he wouldn't hurt. He managed a slow smile for her, and slipped off into the comforting darkness.

He awoke from troubled dreams a few hours later, with a raging thirst and a sick feeling of dread. The tumbler his questing hand found was empty. Reluctant to attract unnecessary attention, he swallowed a few times and tried to will himself back to sleep. It was no use, however; the dryness in his throat increased relentlessly until he forced himself, feeling slightly foolish, to press the call button.

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

He managed to croak something about hot and thirsty, and the pleasant voice assured him she would take care of it; reassured, he closed his heavy eyelids again and drifted.

Nurse Scofield glanced briefly at the screen showing his vitals as she made the requisite note, then looked back at it again, disturbed. If the monitor was correct, he was running a substantial fever, higher than should ordinarily have been expected. She collected a fresh pitcher of water and refilled the tumbler for him, then doublechecked the monitor on his finger, confirming that it was functioning properly. She shook her head, and instinctively reached for his forehead, thinking wryly that the old time-honored methods never hurt, and gasped with shock as her fingers felt the hot, clammy skin. Quickly, she paged Jesse, then set herself to working on bringing Steve's temperature down.

Jesse performed a quick but thorough examination and ordered bloodwork and antibiotics. "Most likely bacterial, probably related to that stuff that came out of those scratches on your arm," he told the groggy, extremely disoriented patient. "I'm going to start you on a general antibiotic until I get the results back. Don't worry, buddy; you're going to be fine."

Steve wasn't so sure. He was so hot, so thirsty, and his arm throbbed. He mumbled something to that effect, or tried; amazingly, Jesse understood him, and made an effort to calm him. "Trust me. You'll live. Now try to get some sleep."

He made an effort to comply, but slipped instead slowly into a nightmarish dimension, fraught with disturbing visions. The fever dug in its heels, refusing to drop, instead obstinately creeping up higher as he wrestled the demon in his dreams, muttering thickly and incoherently, gasping with the persistent heat despite nurse Scofield's continued attention.

She thought he had awakened at one point, when she heard his voice, pleading for water. When she picked up the tumbler and turned back to him, he was obviously still feverish and delirious, and pushed her hand away. Sighing, she checked his fluid intake from the IV, and went back to wiping his forehead with a newly dampened cloth.

He couldn't escape. Over and over, he relived the surreal conversation, the violence and the pain of his ensuing injuries, the sight of Cheryl lying motionless in the powerful arms, the implacable eyes as the selkie delivered its ultimatum. He tried repeatedly to warn his dream self, to avert the disaster, but to no avail; the scene played out identically each time, leaving him in despair, the burning fingers of the fever clutching at him without cessation.

Chapter Sixteen

Mark was sitting with his son, watching and praying as Steve fought the bizarre infection. They had ruled out staph, but the tests had come back negative for any known culture, so they were relying on giving him massive doses of the strongest antibiotics possible, keeping him hydrated, and hoping his constitution would weather the illness. He had had difficulty breathing earlier, and it had been necessary to intubate him; now Mark's eyes maintained a vigilant pattern from his son's chest and its shallow rise and fall, to his face, to the monitor readings, and back again. The fever had finally leveled off, but it had yet to start to drop, and Steve had slipped gradually but inexorably from incomprehensible ravings to the current ominous stupor. Mark reached over again to wipe the fresh sweat from his son's face, neck and chest, trying not to think about what might happen if the fever didn't break.

His unwelcome musings were interrupted by nurse Scofield, advising him that there was an urgent telephone call for him at the nurses' station. When he picked it up, he heard Rachel's voice. A pang of guilt shot through him; she had no idea of what had happened, and he had been so preoccupied that he had totally forgotten about her.

"Mark!" Her normally serene voice, now uncharacteristically worried, held a trace of relief at hearing his. "They said Steve was there -- what's happened?"

They caught each other up quickly. She had called Steve the other night, which Mark realized with a start would have been the same night Cheryl was abducted, but had obviously only been greeted by the answering machine. Steve's subsequent failure to return her call, combined with what little information he had given her about the case, had inexplicably stimulated a finger of irrational worry, which had nagged at her until she had finally called the station. An unusually cooperative Captain Newman had informed her of Steve's injury and resulting hospitalization. She made a noble attempt to keep the justifiable note of reproach out of her tone, but Mark picked up on it anyway.

"Rachel, please forgive me. Under any other circumstances, I would have called you."

She wasn't sure she cared for his phrasing. "What do you mean, Mark? How seriously is he hurt?" And the question she was almost afraid to ask -- should she get down there.

"I'm sorry, Rachel," Mark said penitently. "I'm not trying to make this difficult for you." Reluctantly, he filled her in on the gravity of the situation, then had the unfortunate task of convincing her to stay put. "Rachel, this maniac is targeting women who are closely involved with Steve in one way or another. He's already abducted Cheryl and threatened agent Scully with the same fate; in fact, he's demanded her as ransom. He knows nothing about you, however, and that's the way it's got to remain. If I advised you to come and something happened to you, I'd never forgive myself, nor would Steve. I promise I'll let you know as soon as he's out of danger."

Oops. He hadn't meant to say that, but he was mentally drained, and it slipped out. Naturally, she pounced on it. "Mark, I'm coming down there, maniac or no maniac."

He started to argue, but was distracted by nurse Scofield beckoning to him. His eyes flashed to the monitor screen, to see a small but ever so welcome change in Steve's temperature; the fever was finally inching downwards. With vast relief, he quickly returned his attention to the telephone. "Rachel, honey, truly, you don't need to come. His fever just broke, thank God. And I swear to you I'll get in trouble if he finds out that I let you endanger yourself, and he'll probably have a relapse."

She could hear the strain in his voice, as well as the newer note of it lessening, and took pity on him. "All right, Mark. You win, on three conditions; one, that you keep me posted on his recovery; two, that you never do this to me again."

"And the third?" Mark asked, fairly sure what it might be.

Her voice trembled slightly. "Tell him I love him."

His wasn't particularly steady, either. "Don't worry, honey. I will."

* * *

His arid throat was outraged. Bad enough it had been consistently deprived of cool dampness; now there was something plastic, a tube it seemed, adding to its misery. He tried to cough, and cringed at the degree of discomfort throughout his entire body awakened by the movement.

"Son, take it easy. We'll have that out in just a moment."

His father's voice. He started to relax, then tensed again as he remembered the earlier tone of fury.

"Hey, buddy, come on. Don't tighten up on us."

Jesse, too. He wondered vaguely what had happened, why they both sounded so relieved -- why he had this damn tube stuck halfway down to his navel from the feel of it, but the thought process seemed far too complicated, and he settled for doing as he was told during the extubation process. Once it was out, he started to cough again, weakly, and his father was there, supporting his shoulder with one arm, water in the other hand. "Here, son. Slowly."

Even in small sips, the water was blessedly cool as it slid down his abused throat. And wet. Wonderfully, gloriously wet. He had been so hot, so incredibly thirsty. Memory started to wash back as well, confused for the most part, but clear enough for him to see the look in Mark's eyes and realize that he had once again put his beloved father, and his friends, in the wretched position of having to undergo that terrible wait with the unknown. "I'm sorry, Dad," he said, or tried to say; it came out as an almost unintelligible croak, but his father understood.

"For what, son?" he asked, as Steve tried not to gulp the precious water.

He sagged back and tried again, a little more clearly this time. "I'll listen to you next time."

Mark had to smile. "Right. And then I'll check you in here myself for observation." The misery and guilt in his son's eyes were inescapable, however, and he sobered. "Steve -- you did what you felt was right. That mustn't ever change, even if you end up on the rough side of my tongue later. Promise me it won't."

He ventured a cautious smile in return. "I promise, Dad." The pull at his temple reminded him. "What happened, Dad? Why was I intubated? And is there any news from Dana or Mulder?"

Jesse helped Mark push him back gently. "One thing at a time, Steve. You have got to take it easy." The young doctor indicated the bandages on Steve's left arm. "You developed an infection from those gouges on your arm."

Steve stared at him. "Jess, that doesn't make any sense. He slashed me up here on my head the other day, and I didn't get sick."

Jesse wore a pensive look. "I can't be totally sure of that either. But this last time you had three of them, and you weren't cavorting around in salt water to wash some of whatever it was away."

Steve snorted. "I wasn't cavorting."

His best friend raised an eyebrow. "You make a habit of surfing with seals, do you?" Laughing, he leaned back out of range as Steve raised a weak but still threatening fist. "Anyway, you were running an almost impossibly high fever for several hours while we pumped you full of everything we could think of -- well, not quite everything -- until it finally broke a little while ago. You're still feverish, but not dangerously so."

Steve's eyebrows veered downward. "Dangerously?" he echoed ominously.

Mark intervened. "Son -- you were comatose towards the end of it." He didn't say the rest.

He didn't need to. Steve shut his eyes, newly furious with himself for his own carelessness. "I'm sorry, Dad, Jess. Truly."

His father's hand gently squeezed his shoulder. "I know, son. I understand."

He was tired, so tired, but he still had to know. Wearily, he pushed his eyes open again. "Any news?"

Mark shook his head. "They're reviewing the most recent crime scenes, looking to see if there's any clue as to where Murphy's hiding out."

Steve shuddered. "I kept getting this bizarre image of green, kelp-covered walls underwater, and he had her in some sort of weird bubble so she can breathe."

Jesse stared at him, eyes round. "Wow. I'd better check your IV."

"Don't be ridiculous, Jess. I was delirious, remember? I'm surprised it was that tame." He was silent for a moment, then asked the question he really didn't want to have answered. "What day is it, Dad?"

Mark's voice was gentle. "Thursday, son. It's not quite dinnertime." He glanced at the IV. "You need to rest."

Steve took as deep a breath as his misused ribs would allow. "Dad -- if I promise to rest now --"

His father's expression was resigned. "Just so I don't have to waste time waiting around for you in the garage -- if you get some rest, and if you're not still running a fever, I'll discharge you conditionally tomorrow morning."

"Conditionally?"

Mark nodded. "Conditionally -- that you return here promptly once this is over and park yourself for whatever medical attention is necessary, until I see fit to discharge you properly."

This was a no-brainer. "I promise, Dad. Really." He smiled at his father affectionately, then closed his eyes resolutely, determined to be able to walk out of there the next day.

Chapter Seventeen

Mark glanced up at the knock to see Scully and Mulder standing in the doorway, and rose hurriedly from behind his desk. "Come in and sit down, you two," he invited. "Any luck?"

Mulder looked disgusted. "Whatever slimy wet tracks Murphy may have left have dried up."

Mark blinked, startled by the image. "I take it that means we're back to square one?"

"I'm afraid so, Mark," Scully replied. "Unless something changes in the next twelve hours or so, we're going to have to do this the hard way." She changed the subject, not quite deliberately. "How's Steve?"

Mark rubbed his neck tiredly. "I'm about to find out. He was sleeping the last time I checked in on him; the fever had come down considerably, but he wasn't out of the woods entirely yet."

"Woods, nothing," his son's voice chipped in. Steve stood in the doorway, trying not to lean against the doorjamb too obviously. "You promised I could leave, Dad."

Mark was already on his feet at Steve's initial comment. "I said conditionally," he reminded his son, giving him a sharp look.

Steve had an odd little grin, almost a smirk, on his face, as he handed his father his chart. "Jesse signed off on me, Dad. May I go now?"

His father eyed the theoretically inoffensive document critically. "Hmmpfh. And just what did you threaten to do to him if he didn't go along with this foolishness?"

The humor left Steve's face abruptly. "Dad. I'm all right. More or less. And you promised."

Mark's eyebrows hovered somewhere between disapproval and outright annoyance. "More or less?"

"Dad, please." Steve started to throw both hands up in exasperation, then thought better of it as he remembered the sling on his left arm. "I'm losing time." He glanced towards Mulder and Scully, both of whom had been attempting to pretend they were nowhere near the conversation. "I take it there's no news."

Mulder shook his head, his eyes unexpectedly sympathetic. "Murphy's found himself somewhere new to hole up and is lying low; he's left no trail anywhere of any activity whatsoever. It looks like you were the last person to see either one of them."

Steve pushed himself casually away from the wall and wandered over to a chair, hoping his father wouldn't pick up on his overly cautious gait. "Well, he obviously can't be keeping her under the rock where I first saw him."

"Or five fathoms deep?" quoted Mulder, filing Steve's involuntary shiver away for future reference.

Scully saw it too. "Steve?" she queried, with a look of concern.

He shook his head. "I'm all right. It just reminded me of something I dreamed." He obviously didn't want to pursue the subject.

"I hate to complicate this discussion," Mark observed, "but don't you need to give some thought as to how you're going to handle Murphy when you find him?"

Steve grunted. "I was hoping something would occur to me by now." He glanced over at Mulder, who was leaning back in his chair, long legs outstretched, sleepy eyes half-closed, deep in thought. "I don't suppose your extensive background study included anything along those lines?"

Mulder's eyebrows twitched slightly, although otherwise he didn't move. "No. Apparently, all the selkies who authorized biographies had the grace or good sense to disappear back into the sea minus their girlfriends."

Scully gave her partner a telling look. "That's helpful."

Steve agreed. "Just my luck; we have to run up against a desperado."

His father sat up suddenly. "Steve, what did you say he told you?"

"When, Dad? After I shot him full of non-existent bullet holes or before?" Steve's face was grim, not quite showing yet either the turmoil or the slowly growing cold resolution within.

Mark hated to make him go through it again, but they were obviously missing something. "After."

Steve took as deep a breath as his still vulnerable ribs would tolerate. "He told me bullets were ineffective." His eyes were chilly. "As if I hadn't already figured that out by then," he added sarcastically.

Mark scratched his mustache pensively. "Wasn't there something else?"

Steve considered, forcing himself to face the repugnant memory. "He said -- he said he could be injured -- no, that's not quite right. His exact wording was that he wasn't immune to injury." He noticed incuriously that his hands were starting to shake; resolutely, he got a grip on himself and continued. "And he said that I had already been shown how he could be vulnerable."

Scully looked doubtful. "Do you have any idea what he was talking about?"

Funny, Steve thought with mild detachment, how they had all tacitly agreed to refer to the selkie as "he" rather than "it," as if the specific pronoun somehow made the whole business less unbelievable. "I wasn't thinking, or even seeing, too clearly by that point, Dana. I don't know what he meant."

"What who meant?" Amanda asked, walking in with some pathology reports, which she deposited neatly on Mark's desk as he then brought her up to date on the discussion. "I see," she said thoughtfully. "How do you stop a three hundred plus pound monster who's immune to bullets and pulverizes his victims' windpipes with his bare --" Her voice trailed off as they all stared at her.

"That's it!" Mark exclaimed. "That has to be it. He drowns them and crushes their throats --"

"And, obviously, he's not likely to drown," Steve finished. He looked even more perturbed. "Dad, I hate to sound pessimistic, but I think I should point out that he outweighs all of us, quite possibly put together, has a good foot or so even on Mulder, and he just beat the living daylights out of me, which, despite my present condition, usually isn't that easy for someone to do singlehandedly. Just how do you propose we manage to immobilize him long enough to safely throttle him to death without getting pounded to a pulp in the meantime?"

Mark sighed. "I don't know, son. I'm working on it." He glanced around at the others. "And any contributions to the process would be greatly appreciated."

Steve shook his head, muttering to himself about needing to find a very large stick, preferably one four or five feet long. His soliloquy mumbled to an abrupt halt as he felt his father's inimical gaze fixed upon him, and he looked up to confirm that he was indeed the sudden object of his father's full attention. "What?"

Mark was thinking that his son looked tired, despite his valiant but unsuccessful attempt to hide it. "Jesse's perfidy notwithstanding, you and I have some minor business before I approve your discharge." He grinned at Amanda and the two FBI agents. "If you'll excuse us?" he requested, summarily and inexorably ushering his reluctant victim out of his office, Steve's futile protests echoing back down the hall.


Chapter Eighteen

Frowning, Mark signed his name to Steve's discharge papers. "I want you to know, son -- just because I have agreed to this, doesn't mean I'm happy about it." He scowled at his son, who hurriedly wiped the abortive smirk from his face and tried to look appropriately contrite. "And I'm serious about you coming back. If you try to report for work without checking in here with me first, I'll call Jim Newman and rat on you myself."

Steve grinned at his father, relieved to finally be getting out of the hospital. He had felt so useless, so ineffective; now at least he could try to do something about Murphy and rescue Cheryl.

Mark saw his son's eyes shadow again. "What is it, Steve?" he asked, imagining he already knew the answer.

"Dad -- I wish I knew how to find him. What to do to him when I do find him." He sighed. "I mean, how effective is my old Louisville Slugger really likely to be?"

Mark's eyes were sympathetic. "At the risk of reminding you of things you'd probably rather forget, son, you of all of us have had the most contact with him, especially in --" It felt ridiculous to say it.

Steve wore a pained smile. "In all of his -- shapes, Dad?" He shook his head. "You're right. Hell, I saw him -- and felt him. And it still defies belief."

"So was there anything?" his father asked. "Anything you think might be useful?"

Steve gave his father a strained look. "You've been hanging around me too long, Dad." He scrubbed his good hand over his chin as he pondered. "The main thing I remember, on every single occasion, he was obsessed with this clearly ridiculous idea of our being related."

Mark's mind flashed involuntarily on that one incredible image of man and seal, so patently in tune with each other and the power of the ocean. Something of his feeling must have shown in his face, and his son glanced at him sharply. "What is it, Dad?"

He tried to push the disturbing memory away. "Maybe he simply reacted to your affinity to the sea, Steve," he said carefully.

Steve wasn't buying it. "Spit it out, Dad. There's more to it than what you're telling me."

Mark blew out an exasperated breath. "Have I ever told you that you can be as persistently annoying as your old man?"

His son laughed. "Old, my eye. Yes, Dad. Often. Coming from you, I consider it a compliment." He sobered abruptly. "C'mon, Dad. Give."

Delicately, Mark described what he had seen, while Steve listened, frowning. "You know, son, I wish I'd had the video camera, but everything happened so fast, and then you were hurt -- well, it was over in seconds, or so it seemed." He had an odd expression on his face. "You see trainers working with animals, doing some amazing things. But this -- son, I know this is going to sound very strange in light of what happened, but it was beautiful. Absolutely extraordinary."

Steve looked uncomfortable. "I'm not sure I remember too much of it, Dad." But his eyes focused on some distant point beyond the wall of the examining room as his voice trailed off.

"I'm sorry, son." His father's voice was understanding. "I didn't mean to raise anything which should have been better left alone."

Steve shook his head. "No, Dad. It's all right. I remember it now -- it's just that I feel guilty --"

"Because you got hurt?" His father's eyebrows started to creep back downwards. "Son, I thought we discussed that to death already."

"No, Dad," Steve repeated. He had a wondering look in his eyes. "What you saw was probably one of the single most perfect moments in my life -- well, until he tossed me head first into that wave, that is." His hands moved restlessly. "You know I've always loved the water, Dad. But right then -- I owned it. It was mine for the surfing, all of it, the salt breeze, the --" He stopped, startled, as music faintly trickled into the room.

Mark stared at him. "What's the matter?"

He took a breath, willing himself calm. "You don't hear it, do you."

"The pennywhistle?" his father guessed.

Steve nodded. "That's really starting to get on my nerves."

His father looked distracted. "There's got to be some connection, other than the obvious. What did Murphy call it when he asked you about it that afternoon?"

"The seal song," Steve said reluctantly. "Not that that helps."

"Hmmmn." Mark fingered his mustache absently. "Do you remember anything else?"

He didn't want to bring it up, but he knew there was no point in avoiding the discussion. "Yeah," Steve said unwillingly. "He's inconceivably lonely."

"What?" his father exclaimed. "I thought he made an endless habit of romancing young women." He gave his son a narrow look. "You didn't mention this before."

"I know, Dad," Steve said tiredly. "It just seemed too far-fetched. And the conversation was so damn surreal, and I wasn't thinking very clearly at the time; and, to tell you the truth, for a while, I wasn't sure I hadn't just dreamed it." He fidgeted with the sling on his arm, avoiding his father's eyes. "He's lonely, Dad. Terribly, unbearably lonely. If you go along with his story, he's at least five hundred years old. And he -- he falls in love, and he settles down, for a while at least, and then --"

The penny dropped. "And then the woman dies, or goes back to her village, or her family forces him back to the sea; but ultimately he's bereft again."

Steve nodded. "And the crazy thing is, for a while there, I actually felt sorry for him." He shuddered. "And now he's got Cheryl. I've got to go, Dad."

His father lifted resigned hands. "All right, Steve. But Jesse and I are coming with the three of you tonight, and I don't want any arguments."

He inhaled anyway, then exhaled reluctantly as he recognized the iron look in his father's eyes. "All right, Dad. Only for backup, though, okay? I don't want anyone else getting hurt."

Steve spent the next few hours, along with Mulder and Scully, reviewing the crime reports from Murphy's victims, as well as re-examining the most recent murder scene along with Cheryl's house. They finally admitted defeat as the afternoon shadows lengthened, Mulder's running commentary grew more caustic, and Steve's already uncertain temper began to fray.

After narrowly averting yet another confrontation between the two men, Scully got to her feet and threw them a look of utter disgust. "I've had enough of you two sniping at each other. If you can't come up with anything more constructive to do, we need to devote some attention to Plan B."

"Plan B?" Steve echoed, from his position leaning against the living room wall. He wasn't sure that he necessarily wanted to hear the answer.

"She means where we stake her out on the rock like the sacrificial goat," contributed Mulder. Scully sighed and left the room, fed up with them both.

Steve glared at him. "I don't think that's particularly funny, Mulder."

The other man shrugged. "I might have known. No sense of humor, either."

His neck was getting hot. "Either?" When his question went unanswered, he straightened up and strolled over to where Mulder sprawled on the couch. "Care to elaborate?" he invited coldly.

The agent flicked him a disinterested glance. "Not especially, but I suppose you're going to insist."

"That's right, Mulder. I insist."

Mulder's eyes weren't particularly sleepy. "No sense of humor, Stevie. You hear musical instruments no one else can hear. And you don't seem to be able to avoid losing -- things."

The eyebrows slammed down with a vengeance. "Why don't you say what you mean." He paused, then added, as offensively as he could manage, "Fox."

Although Mulder technically was the taller of the two, his typical slouch when he stood up put them more or less nose to nose. "I'm only going to say this once, Sloan. You're not going to lose my partner like you did your own," he snarled, then stepped back involuntarily at the anger blazing in Steve's eyes.

"I. Didn't. Lose. Her." The rage, so insupportably suppressed for the last several days, was threatening to burst out uncontrollably, and it was all he could do to keep from wiping the sneer off the other man's face with his fist, even if he had to rely on his right hand. It came up anyway, clenched and hovering, until Steve managed to put a rein on his temper. "And, for your information, I have no intention of going along with your sick idea of a Plan B."

Mulder tried to look as if he were merely casually interested instead of fairly relieved. Scully had already threatened not to speak to him for weeks if he got into an actual bout of fisticuffs with the LAPD detective. "Do you have an alternative suggestion?" he inquired neutrally.

Steve exhaled explosively. "Yes. No. Well, sort of."

Scully chose that moment to return, somehow divining they had been at each other's throats again. "What, Steve?"

Prowling distractedly, he picked up one of the pictures from Cheryl's mantelpiece, which he hadn't noticed before. It had been taken at a retirement party they had attended a few months earlier; someone had caught them standing together, laughing at a story someone else had just told. He hadn't realized Cheryl had managed to obtain a copy. Unthinkingly, he traced his thumb along the edge of her smiling face. "I have to try to talk to him. See if I can get him to understand."

"Understand what?" she asked, puzzled.

He gave her a very strange look, his eyes almost the color of the ocean, and as mysterious. "That I can't do this his way." He took her hands gently. "I'm going to go down there first. Alone. Unless I call for backup, don't come down." She started to protest, but he shook his head. "Please, Dana. Trust me." Then he kissed her lips lightly, and turned and walked out of the room, leaving her to exchange a mystified look with her partner and follow at a discreet distance.

Chapter Nineteen

The rocky beach was empty, no sign of life whatsoever except the water slapping up against the rough boulders. Well, what did he expect, Steve thought resentfully, picking his way down to the shore; the selkie obviously wasn't to be waiting for him with open arms and a freely surrendered Cheryl Banks. It was strange, though; ordinarily, this particular beach was a favorite hangout for the harbor seals, and the absence of any glistening furry bodies frisking in the water or basking in the sun was disturbing. He reached the shore level and leaned against one of the larger rocks, squinting out towards the horizon.

Nothing. He was obviously going to have to do something, although he wasn't sure what. Irritably, he called out, feeling slightly foolish.

"Murphy? If you're here, show yourself. We need to talk."

His only answer was the quiet susurrus of the wind as it bounced off the rocks. He glanced around, wishing he didn't feel quite so exposed, but there was still no sign of anyone or anything else. An unsettling thought began to burrow up from the recesses of his mind; he resisted it at first, unwilling to sink further into accepting the existence of something which had no legitimate place in his reality, but it persisted, and, finally, after another sweeping glance confirming his lack of company, he submitted, and reluctantly let himself listen for the seal song.

For a long, drawn-out minute, nothing happened. Then, slowly, only a faint trickling of notes initially, becoming louder as he strained to hear it, the music grew clearer, the pennywhistle once again sending its wistful melody across the wind. Momentarily forgetting where he was, or why he had called it, he stood awe-struck, lost in the sound.

"You are early, cousin. And regrettably unaccompanied."

Blinking, he surfaced from his reverie to see the selkie standing several feet away. At least he had chosen to appear as Murphy; Steve still wasn't sure of his ability to carry on any kind of rational conversation with the alternatives. He swallowed, trying to moisten a mouth suddenly gone dry. "I wanted to talk to you before -- before it was time." He hoped his voice sounded sufficiently calm.

Murphy stared at him. "What matters could there possibly be to discuss, cousin? I gave you an ultimatum. That I granted you one at all is highly unorthodox. Do not presume to trifle with me."

Steve held up his good hand in an attempt at reassurance. "I don't. I mean, I'm not." He was about to continue when the significance of what had happened finally hit him fully. He wasn't sure he wanted to acknowledge the implication. "Murphy -- the music --"

The other man sighed and sat down on one of the rocks, stretching out his legs, giving nothing so much as the sudden, disconcerting image of a seal sunning itself. "What about the seal song?"

"Do you have to bring it with you every time you show up?" Steve parried, still hoping not to have to believe anything else.

Murphy started to smile cynically, then grew sober as he took note of the reluctant recognition and accompanying distress in Steve's eyes. "Stee-faun, I did not do so," he replied seriously, almost kindly. "You called me with it."

He was afraid Murphy was going to say that, and take away his last chance of denial. He yanked his eyes from the other's sympathetic gaze and stared out to sea in silence. Finally, he turned back to the waiting selkie. "So I'm stuck with this for the rest of my life."

Murphy considered the matter. "Possibly. But --" The dark eyes were now touched with an inexplicable sadness. "So many of the old ways, so much of the old knowledge, have been eradicated because modern man simply refuses to believe, does not see the value of living in harmony with them. You are blood-kin, Stee-faun, but you are also a splendid product of your time and generation. If you truly no longer wish to swim with our little brethren, you will succeed in forcing the seal song to leave you. Forever."

Steve stared at him, shocked, his treacherous mind recreating those incredible golden moments of exhilaration. "I take it there's no choice in between," he said hoarsely, not sure he cared for the way the conversation was going.

Murphy shrugged. "Truth, I cannot be sure. That road could very well lead to madness." His eyes grew implacable and, paradoxically, more sympathetic. "The question would be more accurately whether, past tonight, you would wish to try."

Steve shivered, brought back with a jolt to the business at hand. "I don't know."

"Then," Murphy remarked, rising from his rock and stretching, "I suggest, Fintan, you concentrate on the here and now. Where is she?"

Steve shifted his stance, surreptitiously bracing himself for whatever might follow. "She's up there, waiting for my signal. Which I'm not going to give until I see Cheryl, safe and unharmed."

Murphy shrugged again, and moved his hand strangely; Cheryl appeared, perched on one of the larger rocks on shore. She looked unhurt, but Steve started to move towards her anyway, and stopped in his tracks as an iron arm barred his way.

"She has not been harmed, and she breathes normally." He laughed as he saw Steve's eyes widen. "You are more familiar with the legends of the sea than you allow yourself to admit, cousin. I rather enjoyed the image of seaweed-strewn ruins where I allegedly keep my unwilling bride, but I am sorry to disappoint you." He waved at the rocks. "We have been here, even as you searched. There are many caves, and the necessary -- blurring -- was not difficult."

He was furious for allowing himself to be distracted earlier. "That's all very well, Murphy. But I'm not calling Dana down until I'm sure Cheryl's all right."

Annoyed, Murphy grabbed him by his left arm. Steve knew it was deliberate when he felt sharp points digging into the existing wounds, and steeled himself against the pain; the other arm still held him at bay. He promised himself a very large piece of the man later, and forced himself to stay calm. "I'm serious, Murphy. You can maul me all you want, but I'm calling the shots right now. I'm not giving you one woman before I'm certain the other one's unhurt."

The impenetrable eyes held his cold ones another moment, then the arms dropped. "Very well. See to her if you wish."

He all but ran over to her. "Cheryl! Are you all right?" Quickly, he ran frantic hands over her arms and legs, more to reassure himself that she was still in one piece than anything else, and stopped as he realized that, although she was breathing normally, she hadn't said a word, and hadn't acknowledged his presence at all. He wheeled about, fury blazing in his eyes. "What have you done to her?" he snarled.

Murphy gave him a scornful look. "I told you she was unharmed. She is only entranced, and will remain so until our -- transaction -- is complete." He glanced at the waiting rocks. "I grow impatient, Fintan. Let us be done with this."

Steve had bluffed as long as he dared; he could see the outline of the selkie hovering faintly around the man's body. Still, he reached for Cheryl, determined to either lead or carry her out of harm's way, and was stopped once again, this time by the menace in the selkie's voice.

"Leave her, cousin. Or I will not honor my promise."

The shape was starting to take on that weird shimmer he had thought he had only imagined. His options, already becoming very limited, shrank even farther as a new voice called, clearly and coldly.

"He's not going to give you what you want until I come down, Steve." Scully stood at the lookout point above, Mulder at her side. Even from the beach below, Steve could see the rage in the other man's face and body. He sagged against another rock, trying not to give in to his frustration, as she made her way downwards, Mulder following.

Murphy's form resolidified. "Goddess. You honor me."

Mulder stepped in front of his partner, blocking the other man's way. "Not so fast, buddy."

The inhuman eyes stared at him. "You have no say in this matter. Stand aside."

"That's where you're mistaken, pal," Mulder gritted, refusing to move.

Murphy's lips thinned. "A bargain has been struck."

"Not by me, it hasn't."

Steve edged into position. "I don't recall your asking my consent either -- cousin."

Bad move. The shimmering started again. Mulder saw it also, and moved fast, but the selkie was faster. Mulder went flying, landing hard, as a powerful arm struck. Then that same arm reached for Scully, only to be stopped by Steve's hand.

"No. She hasn't agreed yet."

There was nothing left of the human now except the eyes, never particularly mortal in the first place. "Feeble subterfuges, Fintan," it growled, and he found himself sprawling, unhappy ribs complaining bitterly.

Amazingly, Mulder was at the creature again, ambushing it from behind, grabbing for its throat and bellowing something unintelligible. Steve saw the claws unsheathe and shouted a warning, but Mulder refused to relinquish his grip, even as the cruel hands reached rearward and raked across his back repeatedly, eliciting a howl of pain from the agent.

Steve winced, feeling an empathic burning in his arm. "That's enough, Murphy!" He pushed himself upright somehow and leapt at the selkie again, if for no other reason than to distract those vicious claws. Once more, he found himself face to face with the ground, fresh pain searing down his shoulder, eyes struggling to focus from the force of the blow.

Scully's yell brought him stumbling to his feet again, freezing momentarily in horror. The selkie stood in the slowly rising tide, negligently forcing a bloody and barely conscious Mulder underneath the water, ignoring the wounded man's struggling efforts to surface. And Scully was running straight at them; Steve managed to grab her as she went by and forced her back away from the scuffle. "Don't you dare, Dana! If he grabs you, he's got what he wanted, and he'll kill Mulder anyway!"

She tried to argue, but he pushed her to a sitting position on the ground. "No," he said inexorably, and turned back to fling himself on the monster. Amazingly, it relaxed its grip on Mulder, and switched its attention to him instead as he instinctively went for its throat.

"I have now had my fill of your interference, cousin," it said ominously. "Blood or no blood, I will kill you and the other, and take both women instead."

At last. Steve reached deep, deep inside, to that carefully cherished, sharp-honed, white-hot rage and set it loose, revelling in its power. "I don't think so, cousin. Meet Fintan."

To Scully, pulling her partner to relative safety out of the water, the vision was bewildering. At times, the two were distinctly man and monster; then the latter's outlines would blur, and she wasn't sure what she was seeing. Then it looked like Steve was surrounded by something she couldn't define either; he seemed to be taking a great deal of punishment, but he held fast, muscles straining under the thin cotton shirt, now thoroughly soaked, much like the rest of him, as the two fought in and out of the rising surf.

Now, however, it looked like he was starting to weaken, although there was too much blood for her to be sure. Frantic, she glanced around, and heard Mulder gasp something. She bent down to catch the garbled words.

"Needs -- a weapon -- crush -- throat --"

Scully looked around again. No driftwood anywhere; but there were rocks. Lots of rocks. Big ones. She picked up a promising contender and sidled closer to the struggling bodies, hoping not to distract the human combatant too drastically.

"Steve! Here, take this!"

Wild-eyed, he turned his head, and, recognizing her intent, reached out for the proposed weapon. The movement cost him dearly; the selkie drove the wicked nails deep into his unprotected side, and his head swam as he clung desperately to consciousness. Then he had the rock in his hand, its weight solid and reassuring, and, grunting with the effort, he brought his arm around with all the strength he could summon, smashing the deadly weapon against his adversary's neck.

Amazingly, the steel grip relaxed slightly, enough for Steve to force the selkie onto its back, desperately scrambling to straddle it to keep it down, slamming the rock, now with the force of both arms, repeatedly into its unprotected throat. He heard the bones snap, and jerked back as the enormity of his action overwhelmed him.

The selkie realized it too. The mouth worked, but no sound emerged, and the ancient eyes reflected the sudden recognition of mortality. The whistle, which had been shrieking wildly during the fight, suddenly dropped into a slow, plaintive air.

*So I saw truly indeed, Fintan.*

Unsure if his own throat was capable of producing sound, he nodded, forcing the rage back, still hunching over the selkie's body, unable to tear his eyes away from that no longer immortal gaze.

*You have provided an unexpected solution to my dilemma.* The mental voice was pensive. *Perhaps it was time for me to finally reunite with past loves instead of seeking new ones.*

He didn't understand. Cheryl and Dana were out of danger, the selkie was finished, and all he could feel was a deep, inexplicable melancholy. He ran his tongue over dry lips and made to speak.

*No, cousin. You have acted as honor required. I bear you no grudge.* It moved, gasping for the air it could no longer assimilate. *A gift of advice, cousin. Do not let my fate become yours.*

Startled, he jerked into speech, hoarse though it was. "What do you mean?"

The eyes were even sadder. *Listen to your heart, Stee-faun. It already knows the decision to be made. Listen to it, and act accordingly, and live your life with the love you seek. It is already within your reach.*

The world had shrunk down to this bizarre conversation. "Which one?" he breathed, mesmerized.

*Listen to your heart, kinsman.* The eyes were starting to lose their sheen. *I ask of you one last thing.*

Steve wished he understood why the passing of this -- monstrosity -- was causing him so much distress, and why he felt he owed it something. "What's that?"

*Return my body back to our ocean once we are done so I may sleep where I belong.* The involuntary movements were becoming virtually non-existent, and he nodded, once more unable to speak. *My thanks, cousin. Your lady is well, and safe. May the seal song remain with you if you so desire. Fare well.*

The luminescent eyes glazed, and Steve found himself kneeling over the motionless body of the seal with which he had shared that glorious moment centuries earlier; unable to stop himself, he leaned forward onto its glossy fur and wept, the seal song mourning along with him.

Chapter Twenty

Mark glanced up as his son slowly made his deliberate way onto the deck, watching him with concern. Steve was obviously still experiencing a considerable amount of discomfort as a result of the final confrontation with the selkie, and probably should not have been discharged from the hospital just yet. Their previous discussion on that subject, however, had ultimately culminated in his son's flat insistence on going home coupled with the threat, delivered in as dispassionate and serious a tone as Steve was capable of, to leave as soon as anyone took their eyes off of him for even a second. The bleakness in Steve's voice, along with his worn face and haunted eyes, had convinced his father that perhaps access to his beloved ocean might encourage the healing process. Strangely, for the first two days, Steve had holed up in his half of the house, refusing to talk to anyone or even emerge upstairs. Mark had fielded calls from Rachel, Cheryl and Scully, as well as Amanda and Jesse, until he had finally lost patience and gone downstairs to confront his son. Steve had listened politely, thanked his father for his concern, and limped into his bedroom, closing the door firmly. Mark had returned to his own quarters, his irritation tempered by the intuitive feeling that he would be seeing Steve upstairs soon.

And now Steve stood leaning against the railing, staring at the Pacific for the first time since that terrible evening several days earlier. His own memory of the events immediately following the selkie's demise was still shaky; he remembered seeing Cheryl's worried face as he lifted his own, streaked with tears, only to pass out as shock and blood loss finally overcame him. Then his father and Jesse, bending over him, and his halting insistence that Mulder was in more urgent need of their attention. His father's reassurances that Mulder was being tended, and the sensation of calm, capable hands treating his own injuries, including the vicious wound in his side. And, strongest of all, barely able to stand, easing the seal's body, with his father's help, into the rising tide, watching it drift out to sea, before finally succumbing to the hovering greyness around the edges of his world.

He had spent some time, both while confined to a hospital bed and after coming home, mulling over the selkie's final words. Still bewildered by the depth of his response to its demise, he had finally decided to table any attempt at resolution until he could approach the subject with any degree of objectivity. Murphy's ultimate advice, however, was a little more difficult to tuck away neatly; faced with a considerable amount of time on his hands along with limited enthusiasm for any of his customary amusements, he brooded. He had spent a long telephone call trying to convince Rachel that he had survived his latest adventure relatively in one piece, and that she shouldn't attempt to deprive her patients of her presence so soon; he planned to drive up once Jesse cleared him to make the trip. Rachel had protested initially, but then acceded to his request, he suspected, with some relief at not having to take time off already from her brand new job.

And he wasn't sure that her career, or his own, to be fair, would not present the ultimate testing ground for their relationship. The only decision he had been able to reach concerning Rachel, in the wake of the selkie's words, was that he would have to raise the issue with her on his next visit, and presumably he would receive some sort of guidance from the character of her response.

For he was still not sure of the ultimate wisdom of the selkie's advice. His unpredictable heart had led him to this increasingly untenable position in the first place by essentially throwing itself at Cheryl's feet, and arguing that he couldn't possibly dismiss the idea out of hand without at least pursuing it to the same extent as he had with Rachel in order to make any kind of sensible decision. He wasn't sure that he cared for this logic, but he couldn't deny the pull on his emotions, or the effect her smile had on him.

This irresoluteness was another reason why, after confirming Mulder would survive, he had agitated to be released, and had immediately gone to ground, fairly sure that he would have at least a couple of days' peace before anyone bothered him, and secure in the expectation that his father would eventually advise him to snap out of it. Now, gazing out over the Pacific, he started automatically searching for brown furry heads in the surf, and caught himself with a start.

Mark was watching him more clearly than he realized. "What is it, son?" he asked sharply.

Steve gave him a surprised look. "Dad, I'm all right. You don't have to watch me like I'm going to break."

His father looked unconvinced. "In another few days, maybe not. For now -- yes, I do."

He slid into a chair and smiled at his father affectionately. "I know, Dad. Just checking."

Mark smiled back, wishing it were that simple. "Son -- you still haven't told me what happened."

"What do you mean?" Steve asked warily.

His father gave him a critical look. "Let's see; here's what I know. The three of you managed to sneak off without letting anyone know you were heading down there early. Jesse and I got a phone call from Dana, I assume just before she joined you, telling us where you were. When we arrived, Dana was trying to keep Mulder from bleeding to death, and Cheryl, looking rather shell-shocked, was pulling you out of the water. Then, once you came round, you insisted on pushing the body of a very large and very dead seal out to sea, mumbling something about a promise, after which you passed out." He folded his arms and looked at Steve quizzically. "Accurate so far?"

Steve finally found his voice. "Yeah. I guess." He glanced away at the ocean. "I'm not sure I remember too accurately myself."

But his father had that determined angle to his eyebrows, so he might as well muddle through it. Mark sat calmly through the telling until Steve described the selkie's final speech.

"Sounds like pretty fair advice to me," he commented.

Steve sighed. "Maybe so, but I'm obviously not listening in the right language yet -- I still don't know who it should be."

The doorbell rang; Mark rose and rested his hand briefly on Steve's shoulder. "You'll find out -- just keep your ears open." He smiled at his son's bemused expression. "After all, look what you called up the last time."

He was back within minutes, followed by Scully and Mulder, who was leaning on crutches, his right leg in a cast, but looking much healthier than the last time Steve had seen him. Mark helped the agent ease into a chair and fussed about making sure everyone was comfortable, then subsided into his own. There was a short, strained silence; then Steve and Mulder both began speaking at once. Embarrassed, they laughed, stopped, and started again simultaneously; finally, they got themselves coordinated.

"Sloan -- thanks for saving my life," Mulder said with his customary lack of inflection.

Steve shifted uncomfortably. "No more than what you did," he pointed out.

They eyed each other momentarily, then Scully said dryly, "I hate to break up this Kodak moment, but --"

"But we have something interesting to share with you," Mulder contributed. "First, we've received word that Mrs. Tallon has been found, safe and sound, in Vancouver. Why there, I have no idea, but she's returning to L.A. to give a statement. Our local office is still investigating the wives and/or significant others for Murphy's other victims. And we finally got the results on our background check request on Keefe Murphy."

Steve wasn't sure he wanted to hear it, but Mark was definitely interested. "What did you find?"

Scully lifted an eyebrow. "More a case of what we didn't find, initially."

"No green card," Mulder stated. "No passport. No driver's license. No birth certificate. It's almost as if he no longer exists." He glanced around with a faint grin.

"Oh, no," Steve groaned. "Why do I have this bad feeling?"

Mulder ignored the plaintive question. "We did find the most recent record available, so to speak."

Scully scowled at him fondly. "Don't you think you're milking the suspense a little more than necessary, Mulder?"

Now the agent looked positively blissful. "Nah." He grinned at them. "We found one Keefe Fergus Murphy, resident of Connemara, County Galway, Ireland -- born 1557, apparently died 1592 --"

"Apparently?" Steve asked, startled.

Mulder looked like a cat which had just finished a very large bowl of cream. "He was lost at sea and presumed drowned."

Steve was still assimilating this bewildering news when the doorbell rang again. He shook his head at his father, who was starting to get to his feet. "I'll answer it, Dad; I need the exercise."

Cheryl had glanced out over the street momentarily, then turned back as she heard him open the door. Her smile lit her magnificent eyes with her delight at seeing him. Somewhere deep within, he felt, even heard, a sweet-voiced whistle trill softly as he gazed into her joyous face; as he took her in his arms, he heard the seal song once more.



Copyright 2001 by Gerry Wolfson-Grande

All characters who have appeared in the series "Diagnosis Murder", together with the names, titles and the original back story are the sole copyright property of CBS and Viacom. Likewise, those who have appeared in "The X-Files" are the sole copyright property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Twentieth Century Fox. This fanfiction is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and solely meant for entertainment. No profit is being made or intended to be made by this story. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author.

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