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        Adam Webb's e-mail address has changed to: oddweb@clara.co.uk
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From: Awe@cix.co.uk
Date: Sun, 20 Jul 1997 08:48:51 -0400 (EDT)

"PYRE"

Adam Webb



Assistant Director's Office. J.Edgar Hoover Building.

Dana Scully crossed her legs and adjusted the hem of her skirt. As
always when she and Mulder were both seated in front of Skinner she
felt mildly nervous. While it was true that the Assistant Director had
stuck his neck out for them both on a couple of occasions now, he was
still the boss and how far he could go was subject to very definite
limits. By the nature of the work, there was always a chance that
investigating an X-Files case would ruffle feathers among the un-named
clandestine circle to whom Skinner ultimately answered. Just as it had
in the past, with almost fatal consequences. The fact that she and
Mulder were still alive was due to blackmail. The Smoking Man and
company had been outmanoeuvred, for once, and were apparently content
to let sleeping dogs lie. Though it was a situation which she knew
might change at any time, and probably without warning. So whenever
circumstances hinted that something might be about to go wrong, her
heart beat a little faster.
	The tiny, incomprehensible voice continued to warble from the
telephone's ear-piece, irritating Mulder in the manner of an insect.
Shortly after entering the office the call had been patched through,
and Skinner was apparently obliged to take it. The conversation was
obviously too important to avoid though not overly sensitive, Mulder
deduced from the fact that he and Scully were still in their seats.
Prompted by boredom Mulder let his gaze fall upon the upside down
label of the file which sat in the middle of Skinner's desk. Only to
find that once again the curse of his photographic memory provided
details to match the numerical designation. The memory that came with
those numbers forced him to take a deep breath as he suppressed an
involuntary shiver of fear. Images flowed like quicksilver before his
mind's eye, showing him a highly dangerous individual; a man whose
crimes had been at the heart of a case which had required him to face
his greatest fear.
	Finally ending the call Skinner replaced the hand-set in its
cradle. "Agent Mulder, agent Scully, the reason I've called you both
in is X-File number 11214893." He quoted from the label. "The case
of...."
	"Cecil L'Ively, pyrokinetic murderer." Mulder finished.
	"Is there a problem?" Scully asked.
	"In a manner of speaking." The Director leaned back in his
chair. "Mr. L'Ively is currently incarcerated at the Portillo Maximum
Security Psychiatric facility, Pennsylvania." Making the briefest of
eye contact with Mulder he added. "You'll be glad to know that he's
confined in a non-combustible cell, under 24-hour surveillance by
infra-red cameras. Anything hotter than a cigarette automatically
triggers the sprinklers. L'Ively isn't able to break out, and won't be
eligible for parole anytime this century. This was a fact that he'd
accepted, and his acceptance meant that we were in a good position to
bargain."
	"L'Ively incinerated his victims. Yet we're still prepared to
cut a deal." Mulder grumbled. "Why does this not surprise me."
	Silencing the agent with a scowl, Skinner continued. "In
exchange for co-operating with scientists who wished to investigate
L'Ively's, unusual abilities, his living conditions were to have been
significantly improved."
	"They want to study him!" Mulder said aghast. "What for, so
they can duplicate his pyrokinesis?  Is that what this is about? Real
life Human Torches. Just what we need to make America safe!"
	"Agent Mulder!" Skinner brought his palm down hard on the desk
top. "That's enough. Has it ever occurred to you that not everyone who
wears a lab coat is crazy. Most of our scientific community are more
interested in preserving life than in finding new ways to take it.
With L'Ively's co-operation, there was an opportunity to learn a great
deal." Fingers tapping the file he slid it toward Scully. "Data which
would have been of invaluable help with the treatment of burns
victims. Take a look at the section on tissue regeneration."
	Quickly scanning the salient details Scully spoke to Mulder.
"When he was taken into custody L'Ively was suffering from fifth and
sixth degree burns over 90% of his body. Injuries so severe that they
would have killed most people. But the medical prognosis was that he
would make a complete recovery in just over a month." Scully looked
toward the Assistant Director. "I doubted that forecast at the time,
but according to this data, it proved to be correct. L'Ively's
injuries were healed without trace in just thirty- four days."
Returning her attention to the page she added. "L'Ively's unique
biology is nothing short of astonishing. Quite unlike anything
previously known to medical science." Catching Skinner's eyes she
added a qualification. "Assuming that what I'm reading is accurate?"
	"It's been verified." Skinner confirmed. "But, in order for
anyone else to benefit, many more tests needed to be conducted. If it
were up to me, I'd have given the order. L'Ively owes society. We
shouldn't need to ask his permission." Hands rising in exasperation he
said. "Unfortunately, the reality of the situation is that we must
obey our own rules. Whether we like it or not, L'Ively has rights. He
can refuse to participate, and that's what he did, for several months.
Probably in an effort to get a better deal. Finally, terms were
agreed."
	"So why are we here?" Mulder asked, fearing the worst.
	"Unforeseen circumstances, agent Mulder." Sliding open a
drawer, Skinner took out a sheaf of printed papers and placed them on
the desk. "This is an extradition order. The British think they now
have enough evidence to put L'Ively on trial for the murder of Reggie
Ellicott MP, the attempted murder of Sir Malcombe Marsden's family,
and the Windsor castle fire of 1992!"
	"Are you telling us that we've been called to testify?" Scully
asked, unsure of where the Director was headed.
	Skinner nodded. "Under the circumstances, it was decided not
to oppose extradition. L'Ively's trial begins in three days time, and
you've both been requested as witnesses for the prosecution." Glancing
down at his notepad, he read the name that was scribbled there. "Lord
Grenfell Twisleton-Reeve,"  Skinner's eyebrows raised momentarily, "is
the counsel for the prosecution. His people will contact you
concerning your depositions, when you arrive in London." Skinner's
expression changed to one that said and now for the bad news. "As
you're going to be giving evidence, I've also assigned you to escort
the prisoner home. Inspector Green will be there to meet you on the
tarmac." Seeing the strange look that flared briefly in Agent Mulder's
eyes, and completely misinterpreting it, he quickly added. "Special
security measures have been arranged."
	"Would that include an in-flight fire hose?" Mulder asked
sarcastically.


11:00pm. Philadelphia International Airport, PA.

Mulder felt the hairs on the back of his start to rise as he saw the
specially designed hyperbaric chamber being wheeled down the canvass
covered boarding corridor, toward his position at the rearmost
entrance to the aircraft's cargo bay. Scully was walking alongside the
coffin-like casket, which was being pushed by a pair of burly security
men who'd accompanied them from the Portillo Maximum Security
facility. The top third of L'Ively's 'accommodation' was dominated by
a large slightly convex plate glass window. Glass which was said to be
capable of withstanding a point blank high velocity bullet, and more
importantly, would require furnace-like temperatures before it even
began to melt. There was no way that the prisoner could break or burn
his way out, Mulder silently reassured himself.
	As the casket stopped in front of him while loading
documentation was double checked. Mulder saw L'Ively holding up his
palm, displaying that it was empty in the manner of a theatrical
magician. The next instant a tiny fluttering orange fire blossomed
from his extended index finger. In the space of a second its intensity
quadrupled, flaring into a pencil-thin lance of white hot flame.
Coming from the casket a high-pitched beeping sound filled the air,
indicating that the rise in temperature had been registered by
in-built sensors. L'Ively appeared unconcerned, either with the fact
that his pyrokinetic display had tripped the alarm or that his skin
was being consumed. Mulder had a fleeting vision of the wiry little
Englishman's body repairing itself and staggering out of the burning
wreckage of a downed aircraft. It was a fact stranger than fiction
that Lively had already survived three deaths. But all of those had
been death by fire, Mulder reminded himself, falling from a great
height would prove as fatal to L'Ively as it would to anyone else.
Grinning like a hob-goblin L'Ively used the residue of his own melting
flesh to draw a large greasy brown heart shape onto the glass, and
through it blew a kiss to Scully. Then folding his blackened finger
into his palm he abruptly banished the fire.
	"Don't let him spook you." One of the security men commented,
a wry smirk creasing his face.  "This chamber is made entirely from
non-flammable and flame retardant materials. Fire inside ain't a
problem, the gas mixture is carefully regulated." Tapping the side of
the unit he said. "There's a miniature computer hooked up to the
sensors."
	"Presumably it has some sort of safety factor, a program to
ensure that he doesn't suffocate."  Scully interjected.
	"Yes ma'am, it has." The guard frowned, not quite making the
connection to what was being suggested.
	"If there's a constant minimum flow of oxygen, what's to
prevent the prisoner from generating a sustained flame?" Mulder asked.
	"Then the CO2 build-up will become greater than the unit's
air-scrubbing system can cope with, and he'll black out." The second
guard flashed a sardonic smile. "He has a choice between breathing and
burning, with the added risk of brain damage from oxygen starvation.
The smart money would be on breathing. Cecil may be nuts, but he ain't
crazy."
	Knuckles tapping lightly on the thick glass, the first guard
attracted the prisoner's attention.  Bending over the chamber he said.
"Hey, Limey. Remember to say hello to the Queen for us!"
	"Toodlepip!" L'Ively's barely audible response came with a
smile that was halfway between humour and resentment.
	Observing that, aside from the residue of L'Ively's melted
skin, the glass did not seem to have been affected, Mulder breathed a
silent sigh of relief. He found it disturbing that the man's abilities
and control over them had clearly increased, but was somewhat
reassured by the fact that whatever abilities he now possessed, they
were evidently still manageable.
	"Are we ready?" Scully asked.
	"You go ahead. I'll meet you on the plane" Mulder gestured,
waving the security men forward. As Scully moved past him he added.
"First I want to make sure we get our 'baggage' stashed."

The Airbus flight was a commercial passenger service, which meant
they'd be touching down at London Heathrow in approximately six and a
half hours. They were flying through the night and with the clock,
which meant they'd be in better shape than if travelling from the UK
to the USA. Providing they got some sleep. Eschewing airline food
Scully switched off the overhead light soon after the plane was in
level flight, and slipping on the supplied eye mask, wished her
partner goodnight. Mulder replied in kind, but knew that he wouldn't
be sleeping. He rarely could when flying, and certainly not on this
trip. Partly it was due to concern over the prisoner, but mostly he
was caught up in the acidic wash of personal remembrance.
	Already Mulder's thoughts stung with images of someone else
who played with fire, though of a different and in some ways more
damaging variety than L'Ively's. On the most recent occasion that he
and New Scotland Yard's Inspector Green had crossed paths, he'd told
Scully 'Phoebe is fire.' It was an assertion based on one of the most
painful experiences in his adult life; the culmination of an intense,
ultimately devastating relationship he'd had over a decade ago with
the woman who was waiting for them on the other side of the Atlantic.
	Something that he'd never shared, even with Scully, was the
contents of the cassette tape which Phoebe had left for him when,
after L'Ively's capture, her job had taken her back to England. He'd
kept it for weeks, first in a desk drawer at his apartment, then in
the pocket of a jacket. Finally, he'd worked up the courage to play
it, and immediately cursed himself for doing so. In retrospect, it had
been a no win situation. If he'd dumped the tape without playing it,
he would always have wondered what was on it. But once he'd known,
lack of knowledge had seemed the better choice, because in his case it
was impossible to forget.
	It had taken him ten long years to get over his affair with
Phoebe, and then suddenly she was back in his life, requesting his
help. Briefly, at a ball held in honour of the Marsden family, Phoebe
had been back in his arms. As they'd danced his thoughts had exploding
with renewed longing. But before he'd had time to make a big mistake,
Scully had discretely intervened, and shortly after that fire had
broken out on the 14th floor. Mulder shuddered involuntarily at the
memory of how he'd been overcome by smoke and panic while trying to
rescue the Marsden's children, and again when he thought of how he'd
allowed himself to be drawn, moth-like, to the burning brightness of
Phoebe's flame.
	When he'd received her cassette he'd thought that Phoebe might
be making another move in their endless private mind game. Something
intended to spark pleasant memories, or perhaps gently mock him.  
Despite the bitter circumstances of their original break up, he still
could not bring himself to believe that Phoebe's hedonistic actions
had been intended to do as much damage as they had. Miscalculation was
a more likely explanation. People in general and women in particular
had a habit of mistaking his quiet confidence and high IQ for
emotional invulnerability. In the past Phoebe had made that mistake,
because he'd let her. In the present day, Mulder reminded himself, it
was up to him whether he allowed history to repeat.

Secured among the racks usually reserved for passengers baggage, Cecil
L'Ively continued to work on the area of glass he'd been steadily
weakening. Drawing the heart shape had been just the start, a harmless
display intended to put his escorts off their guard. What they didn't
know was that the finger he'd used had been reignited the moment he
was alone. By act of will he'd concentrated his pyrokinesis,
harnessing its power and applying it only to the tip. There had been
no open flame, just internalised heat which had vitrified his
fingernail and fused it with the bone. The end result was a crude
super hard superheated tool, which he could use to score into the
underside of the glass. By going over and over the heart shape as the
hours passed, resting only when forced to, he'd been able to weaken
the area, disguising the damage with the residue of his own flesh
produced by brief flares.
	Once more building the heat in the deadened tip of his finger
to a glowing whiteness, L'Ively used it to cut another millimetre into
the glass. Now that he was more than three quarters of the way through
he was careful not to push too hard. He didn't want to break though.
Not yet. After a few moments the ratio of oxygen to carbon dioxide
became to small, and he began to feel woozy. Willing the flame back
inside himself he waited, taking shallow breaths for the long minutes
it took until he heard the air filtration system's servo-motors
winding back up to normal. It was a fine balancing act that he was
attempting, but he'd been assured that he would succeed. Being allowed
the means to effect an escape was part of the deal he'd made with the
chain-smoking Yank. Mr. Marlboro had insisted that he be implanted
with some kind of tracking device, as added insurance, but that was
okay. Once he'd done what he had to do, he'd return willingly. What
Marlboro had offered him in return for full co-operation was the kind
of life he'd always dreamed of living.
	Cecil smiled in the gloom, his nicotine stained teeth
reflecting the glow of the small lights that were permanently switched
on inside his chamber. He'd always been a gambler, ever since the day
in 1963 when a Satanic cult had tried to burn him as a living
sacrifice, and found that he didn't die. Whenever his spirits were low
he recalled the terrified look on their faces the moment he'd
staggered out of the inferno which blazed around the stake they'd
bound him to; a burning child, screaming in agony and hatred. The fire
had hurt him, as it still did, but it could not kill him. In the years
between then and now he'd learned to accept the pain, and in a
perverse way, enjoy its bite. The pain told him that he was alive and
in command of a primal, incredibly beautiful, yet ultimately
destructive force. Fire was a lover that was his alone, and he knew
that its kiss would never desert him.


10:15am. Heathrow Airport, London.

Walking down the last of the concrete steps Scully pressed the bar
latch on the service door and stepped out onto the tarmac of Heathrow
Airport. As Mulder had watched over the loading, she had volunteered
to supervise the prisoner's removal from the hold while he attended to
the necessary formalities. Outside the air was a little cooler than
she'd expected, though not unpleasant. By English standards it was
shaping up to be a typical Summer's day. Heading for the rear of the
plane, accompanied by an airport security man, Scully scented the
residue of burned jet fuel which hung invisibly in the air. It
reminded her of the argotypoline rocket fuel that L'Ively had used as
an accelerant during his crime spree in the United States.
	Although she hadn't said anything to him, Scully had been able
to sense that her partner's level of tension had increased shortly
before touch-down, and had a pretty good idea as to why that was.
Where Inspector Phoebe Green was concerned, Mulder had a blind spot.
Phoebe was the love he'd lost - an emotional Holy Grail - and like
that mythic object, it could not be found. Mulder knew it, deep down,
though like all true zealots, he still harboured the desire to try.
Preventing that foolish effort was something Scully considered to be
an unofficial part of her job. If she thought that Mulder was about to
do something stupid, something that would lay him wide open, she'd
already made up her mind to stop him, if she could. That's what
friends were for. Oh, he'd bitch and moan if she got in the way, but
later when he'd thought about it, he'd thank her.
	"Good morning." Scully smiled warmly at the two uniformed
policemen who were waiting patiently at the bottom of a steel ramp
which had been wheeled into place at the open entrance to the rear
cargo hold.
	"Good morning, agent Scully." A half familiar voice came
echoed from the hold. "I see our man has arrived in one piece."
	Scully looked up in mild surprise and saw Inspector Phoebe
Green standing at the top of the ramp. The woman was dressed
conservatively in a light blue blouse with matching jacket and
knee-length skirt. The outfit was plain, but she looked quite
stunning. Phoebe's copper-red hair was longer than when they'd last
met, now falling to just above shoulder-length, and appeared to have
been cut only hours ago.  Which, Scully shrewdly guessed, was probably
the case. Inspector Green was a woman who knew exactly how to present
herself.
	"He's all 'ship-shape and Bristol fashion', as you say."
Scully chirped, forcing herself to be friendly.
	Stepping off the bottom of the ramp, Phoebe flashed a plastic
smile, leaned in close and whispered. "Actually, that phrase went out
of popularity in the 1950's. Along with 'sleep tight don't let the
bed-bugs bite' and half a dozen other absolutely awful
colloquialisms." Raising her voice to normal conversational level she
added. "Oh. Welcome to England." With a nod to the two waiting
policemen she sent them up the ramp. "Easy does it, chaps."
	Scully opened her mouth to reply, but was stopped by the sight
of an approaching police wagon, and Mulder in the passenger seat
coolly watching her and Phoebe. As the vehicle rolled to a halt Mulder
stepped down from the cab, his facial expression impassive he tried to
give nothing away. He was let down by his body language. There was a
slight stiffness to his movements which to Scully's trained eye
indicated that he was apprehensive. She knew without looking that
Inspector Green would also have spotted the clue.
	"Hello, Phoebe." The greeting was warm but deliberately low
key.
	"Welcome back." Instantly picking up of the implications of
his tone, Phoebe refrained from planting the kiss she'd been
contemplating. "You look tired, Mulder. Was it a bad flight?"
	"The in-flight meal tasted like rubber soaked in brine. The
movie featured actors in imminent danger of death from testosterone
poisoning. And the coffee was room temperature sludge." Mulder joked.
	"Oh, poor Mulder." Phoebe smirked in Scully's direction.
"Being stuck in a metal tube, breathing recycled air for hours and
hours always did leave him a trifle tetchy."
	Following Mulder and Phoebe up the ramp, Scully entered the
aircraft's hold. The faster she could get L'Ively unloaded and into
British custody, the happier she'd be. At least then she wouldn't have
to put up with Mulder's wounded puppy-dog expression, which peeked out
whenever he thought no one was looking. He looked tired, and would
probably be able to cope a lot better once he'd had a decent meal and
a few hours sleep.
	"Wakey, wakey Mr. L'Ively." Phoebe said. When there was no
response she bent at the waist, hands resting on either side of the
casket as she peered inside. "Is he getting enough air in there? He
looks a little pale to me."
	"He didn't get to catch many rays, in his prison cell." Mulder
said dryly. "Hey," Mulder gently slapped the side of the casket near
it's occupant's head, "rise and shine, Cecil. You're home."
	"He doesn't seem to hear you. Is it possible that something's
gone wrong with this contraption?"  Phoebe asked. "Agent Scully, I'm
told that you're also a medical doctor. Would you care to give us an
opinion?"
	Scully took a step forward and twisting sideways, inserted
herself between Mulder and Phoebe.  There were no obvious indications
that the hyperbaric chamber's mechanisms had failed. In fact it looked
to be exactly the same as when she'd last seen it, in perfect working
order. There was some sign of increased burning; the smear of melted
flesh on interior of the glass, and the blackened calluses that were
L'Ively's finger tips showed that he'd not been idle. It was as if he
had tried to damage his mobile prison, then given up when he found
that pyrokinesis was not effective. While his complexion was a little
on the pallid side of healthy, his breathing looked regular enough.
	"I could be wrong." Scully half turned, wanting to see the
look in Phoebe's eyes when she heard the news. "But my medical opinion
is that this man is sound asleep!" Disappointingly, the Inspector's
look of cool confidence did not waver for even a heartbeat.
	"In that case, I think we should get moving." Phoebe glanced
at her wristwatch then jostled Mulder's elbow to attract his
attention. "With a bit of luck, we'll be done in time for elevenses."
	Scully was about to release her hold on the chamber's sides
when she heard a sharp cracking noise. Out of the corner of her eye
she spotted movement, but was not quite fast enough to draw back out
of harms way. L'Ively's fist smashed through the heart-shaped section
of glass, and in an instant his questing fingers were closed tightly
around her throat.
	"If anyone moves, I'll toast her." L'Ively threatened. Voice
calm and imbued with deadly conviction he added. "Nobody has to get
hurt. It's up to you. All I want is out of this tub."
	"You're making a big mistake." Phoebe said, staring into
L'Ively's eyes with an intensity that matched his own. "Stop this,
now. Harming Agent Scully won't help you avoid trial. Be sensible, and
you'll be treated fairly."
	"Do me a favour, darlin'." Cecil smirked. "I'm charged with
murder, four counts of attempted murder, and arson at Windsor Castle."
Cackling with pleasure he added. "I did 'em all, too!"
	"You confess and then expect to be set free!" Phoebe flared.
"You've got a nerve, L'Ively. I'll give you that."
	"Let's take it easy." Mulder interjected. "The most important
thing right now is for everyone to stay calm."
	"We have no guarantee that he'll keep his word." Phoebe
snapped, angry that she hadn't spotted the weakened state of the glass
which had allowed the situation to developed.
	"Why wouldn't I?" L'Ively seemed genuinely perplexed. "I don't
kill pretty women. Not unless I have no other choice." From the back
of his hand whisps of grey and black smoke began to curl upwards,
around the sides of Scully's face. "Like I said, all I want is out."
	"Sorry, no can do." Phoebe folded her arms under her breasts.
	Knowing how stubborn his ex-lover could be, Mulder's mind went
into overdrive, desperately trying to find a way forward. When no
solution presented itself he leaned over the chamber and locked eyes
with L'Ively. For a long moment the two men exchanged an intense look,
as if participating in some kind of psychic duel. When Mulder
straightened abruptly his expression had become as cold and unreadable
as a slab of stone.
	"Let her go." Mulder ordered. Drawing his pistol and cocking
it he aimed it between L'Ively's eyes.
	"My fire is like a pressure cooker." L'Ively explained coolly.
"If you pull that trigger, mate, I'll lose control."
	"He's telling the truth." Scully gasped. "It's in his case
notes."
	"Alright, let's take this one step at a time." Phoebe gently
pushed Mulder's gun hand to one side.  "Much as I hate to admit it, Mr
L'Ively has the upper hand. At least for the time being. However, he
knows that if he harms Agent Scully, he'll lose his advantage."
	"He'll lose more than that." Mulder threatened.
	"There'll be no need for violence." Phoebe said confidently.
"Mr L'Ively doesn't want to risk his life."
	"That's right, luv." L'Ively grinned with pleasure. "I want to
live happily ever after. Now, stop faffing about and get me out of
this contraption!" Catching Mulder's eyes he said. "Remember, I'm
close to flash point. Any nasty surprises, and I'll take the lot of
you with me."
	Mulder was first to emerge from the hold, his hands in motion
as he signalled the British policemen to keep their distance. Behind
him came Phoebe, walking stiff and upright. Bringing up the rear were
L'Ively and Scully. L'Ively's arm was now wrapped around Scully's
midriff, holding her tightly against himself as a shield. Mulder's gun
had been disposed of back in the hold, and Scully's weapon was held in
the hand he had curled around her waist. His other hand was still
closed over her throat, fine tendrils of smoke rising from it as a
warning of what might happen if anyone were foolish enough to try and
stop him.
	"Okay ladies and gents, here's the plan." L'Ively looked
around and instantly spotted the vehicle he'd been told would be
present. "Agent Scully and me are going to take the ambulance." Arm
jerking Scully back against him he spoke into her ear. "You are a safe
driver, I hope."
	"Very." Scully rasped.
	"Right then, let's be off."
	"Wait." Mulder blocked L'Ively's path. For a moment he looked
into Scully's eyes, trying in silence to reassure her that he would
find a way to set her free. Then switching his attention to L'Ively,
he said. "If you break your word, I swear I'll track you down and put
a bullet between your eyes."
	"Stay cool, Clint." L'Ively mocked. "Providing you lot keep
your side of the bargain, your friend here won't be needing a new
face. Once I'm where I want to go, she's free. I'll have no reason to
keep her in toe. Unless she wants to be my girl. How about it, luv?"
	"You're not my type." Scully said.
	"Too hot to handle, eh?" L'Ively replied.
	Wisely, Scully gave no response. Sliding into the cab of the
ambulance as directed, she eased into the driver's seat and
familiarised herself with the layout of the controls. On L'Ively
instruction she started the vehicle, shifted into gear and eased into
motion.
	"Where to?" Scully asked, belting up in anticipation of a
bumpy ride.
	"Just drive." Strapping himself into the seat L'Ively reached
up to the switch on the roof and brought the blue flashing light's and
sirens to life. "Put your foot down. I'll tell you when to turn."
	"Are you really going to let me go?" The question was
delivered with only the barest hint of fear.
	"Yeah." L'Ively answered. "As the saying goes, an Englishman's
word is his bond. I only need you to get clear. Don't give me any
trouble and you won't get hurt. That's a promise, darlin'."
	The half leer on her captor's face sent a shiver of revulsion
through Scully. The only consolation she could think of was that
nothing in L'Ively file had suggested that he'd ever committed any
sexual crimes. He longed for unobtainable women and killed the men who
had them, but he wasn't a rapist. In theory if he found her attractive
then the attraction could be used against him. It would be a dangerous
game, but one that she knew she might have to play.

Back at Heathrow Airport Phoebe Green had sprung into action the
moment the ambulance had driven away. She was presently talking into
her radio, organising road blocks and requesting a Police helicopter
to pick her up.  Mulder watched, painfully aware that it had to be
Phoebe's show, but heartened by the certain knowledge that she was his
equal. He couldn't help but remember that he'd failed Scully once
before, when she'd been taken by Duanne Barry. This time, he was
determined that it would be very different. His determination and
belief were strengthened by the fact that he was not alone. In Phoebe
Green he had the best possible ally, and between them he felt
confidant that they would get Scully back in one piece.

Hurtling down the motorway at 80mph Scully obeyed her kidnapper's
instructions to turn across the flow of traffic, and was momentarily
amazed to see that the drivers of the oncoming cars were swerving
madly, doing everything in their power to get out of the way. A second
later she realised it was because they all thought they were avoiding
an ambulance on a mercy dash.
	Scully knew that the British equivalent of an APB would have
been put out the moment she and L'Ively had driven away, but also that
those in pursuit would not want to risk her life unless there was no
other way. Mulder would see to that. No, she corrected herself,
Inspector Green would have given the order. Mulder's ex was a risk
only to him on a personal level, professionally there was no reason to
doubt her commitment or competence.

Flying high above the motorway the Police helicopter paced the
speeding ambulance, keeping well back and high enough so that the thud
of its rotor would not be heard over the din of the emergency siren.
That last thing its occupants wanted to do was alarm Cecil L'Ively. If
he lost control while the vehicle was on the road, the potential for a
major loss of life was great. The hastily concocted plan, therefore,
was to trail him at a distance, and shoot him with anaesthetic darts
when a suitable opportunity occurred. Ideally, this would be when the
ambulance had come to a halt, and Agent Scully was in the clear.
	Phoebe hoped that they could apprehend L'Ively without anyone
getting hurt, but just in case she had a medivac helicopter on
stand-by, and seated either side of Mulder in the rear of the chopper,
a pair of Police marksmen who were armed with Armalite rifles. Use of
deadly force was something she very much wanted to avoid. Partly
because it would be better for everyone if L'Ively stood trial for his
crimes. The other reason was Mulder. The poor dear would never admit
it to her, but she'd been able to tell from the moment the three of
them had first met that his relationship with Dana Scully went a long
way beyond work. The exact nature of their intimacy didn't really
matter. Whether Mulder and Scully were 'only' friends or had become
lovers, the effect on him would be the same if she got hurt. Past and
present converging in her mind, she hoped to spare him that kind of
pain.
	"Do you think you could take your hand off my neck, now?"
Scully asked her captor.
	L'Ively thought for a moment. "Yeah, I suppose so. You aren't
daft enough to try and jump out."  He smirked and withdrew his hand.
Holding it palm upwards he watched intently as a golf ball sized globe
of orange fire exploded from his flesh with a fierce pop. Before it
could even begin to prosper he closed the blackened stumps of his
fingers tightly around it, smothering the flame's half life. "Just
remember, all that's keeping it under control is my willpower."
	"That must be difficult." Scully said, trying not to sound
patronising. "I mean, with so much else on your mind."
	"What would you know about what's on my mind, eh." L'Ively
snapped. "I hope you're not one of those bloody shrinks? Mind-benders,
I hate 'em. They're worse than lawyers. I'd torch every last one."
	"Take it easy. I'm no Sigmund Freud." Pausing as she
negotiated her way around a line of slower cars, she continued. "We're
going to have to slow down soon. The traffic is getting heavier."
	"Yeah, I'd worked that out all by myself." L'Ively muttered.
"Just keep driving."
	"Where are we headed?" Scully questioned.
	"Kensington, for starters. Right in the centre of London!"
L'Ively said triumphantly. "I can disappear there. Get to where I've
got to go. Back to where it all began. They won't catch me, not this
time. I have that on good authority." He chuckled secretively, then
added. "Some of the people I was talking to, back in the States, they
understand."
	"Understand what?" Scully pressed.
	"About fire. It's a living thing, see. It has its needs, and
right now it needs to go home."
	Before Scully could continue what was shaping up into an
informative conversation, events took a deadly turn. Only yards ahead
of the ambulance the front tyre of a car blew out. The driver, caught
unawares with only one hand on the wheel reacted a fraction too
slowly, and failed to regain control in time to prevent his vehicle
from turning over. Scully's eyes widened in horror as she saw it begin
to roll, and realised that there was no way she could avoid collision.
The only action she could take was to brake hard. There came a
terrible screeching noise, then the impact, like running into the fist
of an invisible giant. Seat belts saved her and L'Ively from going
through the windscreen, but could do nothing to prevent whiplash from
smashing her chest into the steering wheel, then the side of her head
back against the steel door frame. Another vehicle ploughed into the
rear of the ambulance, ramming it forward and tearing through metal
with a horrific grating noise. As Scully's senses cleared she heard
the crackle of electrical sparks followed by the unmistakable whoosh
of flame catching hold. Scully knew she had to get out. For the first
time she realised that her captor was already gone. A glance across
the cab showed her that his door hung open, like a broken wing.
Fumbling for the catch of her seat belt she found that it was jammed.
Adrenaline surged, but was quickly smothered by a blanket of mental
fog. Consciousness receded quickly, making her feel as if she were
falling down a well. The last thing Scully registered before darkness
claimed her was the acrid stench of burning petrol.

While the Police helicopter came in to land Mulder counted five
vehicles ablaze, including the ambulance that Scully had been driving.
The scene of devastation brought to mind an image of the Gulf War; a
photograph taken after the allied forces attack on Saddam Hussein's
troops fleeing along the road to Basra. The photograph had shown a
terrified Iraqi soldier, little more than a boy, who'd been burned
alive while trying to climb out of his truck. Closing his eyes for a
moment, Mulder prayed to a God he didn't believe in that Scully hadn't
met with a similar fate.
	Weaving his way after Phoebe as she passed among the
paramedics and fire fighters, Mulder got as near as he dared to the
ambulance. The pressurised bottles of gases stored in the rear had
exploded, destroying much of the back half and turning the front
section into an inferno. Nobody trapped in there could possibly have
survived, but peering through the shattered windscreen with his hand
held up as a shield against the incredible waves of heat, Mulder drew
some comfort from the fact that he could not make out any burned
bodies.
	"Mulder. Over this way." Phoebe grabbed his arm, tugging him
along in her wake.
	A hundred yards clear of the blaze they found Scully on a
stretcher, being loaded into the back of a waiting ambulance. Her face
was caked with blood from a small head wound, and she looked very
still.  Mulder felt cold, as if some inner part of his being had
suddenly frozen solid. He and Scully had been through so much
together, saved each other lives on several occasions and had more
than their share of lucky escapes. But this time it looked as if their
luck had run out, and if it had he knew that he would never be able to
forgive himself.
	"Is she dead?" Mulder said, dreading the answer and
unconsciously tensing in anticipation of the expected reply.
	"She should be, mate." The paramedic in attendance flashed a
grim smile. "We got her out just before it went up."
	"Then she's going to be alright?" Phoebe chipped in, showing
her warrant card to a uniformed officer who'd been about to move them
away. "There are no permanent injuries?"
	"Too early to say, ma'am." The paramedic locked Scully's
stretcher into position and climbed in beside it.
	"I'm going with her." Mulder said.
	"Of course. Call me at New Scotland Yard, when you have news."
Phoebe closed the doors behind him. Phoebe stood watching as the
ambulance lurched into motion and set off down the motorway, sirens
blaring and lights flashing. Then turning away she spoke into her
radio, issuing a string of new orders.  The man responsible for the
devastation was on the run, and couldn't have gone too far.

Drawing one blackened finger along the dashboard of the private car
he'd hijacked, Cecil L'Ively used a controlled application of his
ability to burn, but not set alight the materials. As he did so he
stared at the vehicles owner, observing with an amused smile the
effect that his display was having. The stink of melting plastics and
scorched wood was all the warning that the terrified driver needed to
know what would happen if he made a fuss.
	"Drop me off over there." L'Ively indicated with a nod. "Then
go home. Do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred pounds." The
comment was delivered with a mischievous smirk. "Don't say a bloody
word to anyone, for at least an hour. You got that, mate?"
	The driver nodded grimly, frightened eyes glancing down at the
burned knuckles he'd earned as a result of attempting to punch the
lunatic who'd flagged him down. Silently he promised himself that it
was the last time he'd ever be tempted to play good Samaritan.
	Taking in a deep breath L'Ively thrust his burned hands into
his trouser pockets, and set off down Oxford Street. Now that he was
in the heart of London's West End, the cops would never find him. As
usual the street was jam packed with shoppers and tourists, which was
perfect cover. When he got to the junction with Tottenham Court Road
he quickly located the Tube station and started toward it. A second
later he stopped abruptly, momentarily startled to see a uniformed
policeman standing at the top of the steps. But while he was working
out what to do, the copper stopped a woman and showed her a picture
attached to the clip-board he was carrying. L'Ively was close enough
to hear him ask if she'd seen a young boy, missing for 48 hours and
last seen in the vicinity of the tube station. Smirking to himself,
L'Ively strolled past the copped and made his way underground. Thanks
to the driver of the car, he was well ahead of the hounds, and had
enough currency to get him to where he had to go.


8:20 PM. Park View Hotel, West End.

Mulder was half asleep, still fully clothed and laying flat out on his
hotel bed when the knock dragged him back to consciousness. Swinging
his feet off the edge he stood up, ran his hands through his hair, and
went to answer. As he'd guessed, it was Phoebe. She had a bottle in
her hand.
	"Phoebe, I'm really not in the mood." Mulder began.
	"I wasn't thinking of painting the town red." Phoebe said
gently. "But we could both use a drink."  Depositing the whiskey on
the bedside table she vanished into the bathroom and returned with two
plastic beakers. "These will have to do. I forgot to bring glasses."
Cracking open the seal Phoebe poured generous measures and handed one
beaker to Mulder. Delving deep into her shoulder bag she produced two
identical document folders. "These are printouts of all we have on
L'Ively. I thought we could go through them while we're waiting."
After a couple of second it was clear that Mulder wasn't going to
volunteer a comment, so she asked the question. "Is there any news on
Agent Scully's condition?"
	"No change." Mulder said glumly. "The hospital said they'd
call me here the moment there are any developments. She's stable,"
raising the beaker to his lips Mulder took a gulp and grimaced, "but
we won't know if there's been any brain damage until she wakes up. All
we can do is wait and hope."
	"No." Phoebe said sternly. "That is not all we can do. I don't
know Scully very well, but I'm sure she'd agree with me on this. Our
job is to find the son-of-a-bitch who put her in hospital, and bring
him to justice."
	"It's a great concept." Mulder was unable to keep the edge of
sarcasm out of his voice. "Got any clues as to how we should do it?"
	"Only what Scully said." Phoebe referred to fleeting seconds
in the ambulance, when Scully had regained consciousness. What had
been said, and related to her by Mulder, was clearly something that
Scully had thought important. But deciding its meaning was no easy
matter. "What was it again, exactly?"
	"Fire needs home." Mulder took another sip of his scotch.
"Aside from the obvious, a possible reference to somewhere that
L'Ively used to live, I have no idea what it might mean."
	"His last four known residences in the United Kingdom are all
under twenty-four hour surveillance." Phoebe said. Taking a sip of her
drink she added. "If he shows his face, we'll catch him."
	"And if he doesn't?" Mulder asked.
	"Then we'll catch him anyway." Phoebe was adamant. "We'll do
it because despite evidence to the contrary, we're smarter than him."
Forcing herself to smile she added. "Come on, Mulder, this is no time
for modesty. Surely you don't believe a little rat like L'Ively can
consistently out think us. If he was that smart he would never have
been caught in the first place!"
	"Something's been bothering me." Mulder admitted. "He
shouldn't have been able to break free like he did."
	 "I know. It's a complete cock-up." Reaching out Phoebe rubbed
her hand up and down Mulder's arm. "The results of tests on the
chamber will be known by morning. In the mean time we have this data
to search through," she brandished her folder, "and thanks to Scully,
we have a clue. I admit, it's a three pipe problem, but we were always
good at solving those."
	"Other people's problems. As I recall, our own were never
fully resolved." Mulder said, a little more acidically than he'd
intended. "At least not from my point of view." Turning away he
crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Gathering his
strength he met his old lover's steady gaze head on.  "Don't be
messing with my head, Phoebe. Not now."
	"Believe me, Mulder, I'm not." Standing in front of him,
Phoebe took Mulder's chin between her fingers and gently turned his
face up to meet her steady gaze. "Whatever feelings you and I may
harbour, whatever needs to be said, has to be set aside. The past and
the future are separate issues. Right now the present needs us to work
together."


12:09AM. Coventry Railway Station.

Cecil L'Ively was standing by the door as the train approached the
station, one hand resting on the top of the push down window. The
fingers of the hand glowed like embers, fanned by the wind of the
train's passage. L'Ively drew the power back inside himself as the
platform loomed out of the night, extinguishing his fire like another
man might extinguish a cigarette. The illuminated notice parallel with
his door caused him to smile broadly. Like all such notices on British
Rail platforms it said Passengers Please Alight Here. In his case, of
course, it had different meaning. Now that he was nearing the place he
had to reach, the fire inside him was becoming more difficult to
control. It was always the same, every seven years. As with normal
humans, whose cell structures were replenished once every seven years,
he too was reborn. But ordinary mortals, as he thought of them,
changed only slowly and with infinite subtleness. Not like him. Every
seven years he was reborn in a firestorm of power. The fire required
him to return to the place where it had begun. Only there, where the
stones remembered, could he properly rejuvenate. If he did not heed
the mewling call of the elemental force inside him, his control over
it would begin to slip. The power would spill out at inopportune
moments, jetting from his mouth when he coughed, or setting alight to
his clothing as he slept. It never killed him, of course, it just made
his life a living hell until it got what it needed.
	L'Ively passed through the deserted ticket barrier and walked
on through the almost empty station. Coventry was an industrial town,
famous for Lady Godiva and adding a word to the English language. That
word was coventrate, and it meant to totally destroy. The word had
been invented on the night of November the 14th 1940, when in a single
raid the German Luftwaffe had levelled virtually the whole of the
city. Winston Churchill, always so revered as the great leader, had
known in advance about the planned bombing but done nothing. Coventry
and its civilian population had been sacrificed in order to protect
the fact that British Intelligence had cracked the Nazi Enigma code.
Or so the story went.  L'Ively didn't much care how it had happened,
or how many normal people had perished in the flames.  All he knew was
that the Luftwaffe's rain of incendiary bombs had somehow made part of
the city into the place where he could rise, phoenix-like from his own
ashes, immortal and ablaze.
	Stepping into the cool night air L'Ively whistled for a nearby
taxi cab. The money he'd stolen was almost gone, and so he'd need to
find lodgings for the night. Somewhere cheap and cheerful, nicely
anonymous. Fortunately, he was very good a being the ordinary guy who
no one gave a second glance to.  It was tempting to go to his ultimate
destination straight away. But he knew that would be a needlessly
reckless move. There was time enough to recce the place, and make sure
that there had been no changes which might get in his way. He needed
to be sure, because for a short time after rejuvenation, the power
would be dormant, locked away from his will like the fires behind a
furnace door. Mr Marlboro knew that, and would undoubtedly send his
men to collect their new colleague when he was 'safe' to handle. He
probably thought he was being smart, but in a way they'd be doing him
a favour.


1:05AM. Park View Hotel, West End.

Mulder lay lengthways across the bed, staring blankly up at the
ceiling. For almost five hours he'd been reading and re-reading
Phoebe's data, trying desperately to make sense of what Scully had
said. With Phoebe's help he'd formulated half dozen theories which
seemed to hold possibilities. But proving or disproving any of them
would have to wait until first light. Had events taken place in the
US, he'd have mobilised teams and worked through the night. But as
Phoebe had reminded him this was England, and things worked
differently.
	Phoebe lounged in the room's single chair, her legs drawn up
and her arms wrapped around a large cushion. She'd had a lot planned
for her reunion with Mulder. Plans which had flown out of the window
when Scully had been taken hostage. L'Ively's escape looked like sheer
bad luck or bad judgement by the chamber's designers; not something
that could've been predicted. But even if the results of test being
conducted overnight did show that to be the case, it wouldn't stop her
feeling some measure of guilt.  She was the one who'd asked for
Scully's opinion. Depositing the now ragged sheaf of computer printout
paper on the carpet, she reached for the whiskey bottle and found that
it was empty. For a moment she thought about ordering up another from
room service, but then decided against it. The scotch already downed
had served its purpose. She and Mulder were more relaxed, even if
neither of them could stop thinking for long enough to fall asleep.
	"When we catch the little sod, and Scully is back on her
feet." Phoebe said, placing emphasis on the when. "I am going to take
you both out to dinner, and treat you to your favourite British meal."
	"My favourite British meal." Mulder repeated tiredly. "I'm
surprised you remember."
	"Mulder." Phoebe chided. "I may not have your photographic
memory, but some things are etched in my mind. And the sight of your
first encounter with Spotted Dick* is one of them!"
	"Hey." Mulder propped himself up on one elbow. Trying to
suppress the humour of the memory, and failing, he said.  "How was I
supposed to know it was a pudding. It certainly doesn't sound like
something to eat. In fact it sounds like some kind of acne riddled
pirate!"
	There was an awkward moment when Mulder found himself caught
between silence and a smile.  He looked at Phoebe, wondering if he
should give voice to the question he was contemplating. If he'd been
completely sober the answer would probably have been no. But as it was
the alcohol in his bloodstream had taken the bright edge off his fear.
	"Did you mean it?" Mulder asked, staring intently into
Phoebe's eyes.
	"Did I mean what?" She replied, knowing full well what he
meant, but wanting him to say it anyway.
	"The cassette you left for me when you were last in the US."
Mulder answered deadpan. "I kind of figured I wouldn't be able to
dance to it. But it still took me by surprise. Hearing you say..." He
faltered, throat clogging despite his efforts to remain detached.
	"Hearing me say, that I was sorry I hurt you, and that no
matter what you may have thought, I never stopped caring." Phoebe
finished for him. "Yes, it's true. I just wanted you to know."
	"Why now?" Mulder pressed. "Eleven years ago, I'd have done
anything to hear you say that.  Anything at all. But you wouldn't even
return my calls." Forced by the intensity of his emotions to look
away, Mulder swallowed hard. "You were too busy entertaining the next
fool."
	"That was then and this is now." Phoebe interjected firmly. "I
should've told you then, but I didn't. There's nothing I can do to
change the past, but the future isn't sealed. I thought that if I told
you, it would help you slay a demon." Moving closer she reached out
but was prevented from making physical contact by the look of
suspicion in Mulder's eyes. Sitting next to him on the edge of the bed
she continued.  "We've both changed, both grown so much. When I look
back on our time together, there are few regrets.  I think of all the
fun we had, all the love we made. What happened at the end was..."
	"A mistake?" Mulder said mockingly.
	"No. I knew what I was doing." Phoebe admitted. "I just didn't
think it would hurt you as badly as it did. Besides which, I got
scared." Seeing him look up, she flashed a nervous smile. "There, I'll
bet you never thought you'd hear me say that. Phoebe Green, just
another scaredy-cat."
	"Phoebe Green would never be just another anything." Mulder
said. "If you were scared, then there must have been a reason. Wanna
tell me what it was, or do I get to wait another eleven years?".
	"Oh, all the usual things. Commitment. Loss of freedom. But
most of all, I was scared of you."  Holding up a finger to stem the
coming protest she said. "Not you as a man. It was your intensity.
Mulder, you're the only man I've ever met who can be more intense than
I am!"
	"It has been noted before." Mulder said dryly.
	"Not that it was any excuse for burning your dreams the way I
did."
	"Hopes and dreams are like cut crystal glass, the most
precious among them always get dashed."  Mulder quoted part of a poem
which Phoebe had written for him during their affair.
	"If that's true then we must have a box full of broken
pieces." Phoebe said with forced brightness.  "Listen to us, we're
getting all maudlin and philosophical." Pausing for a moment she said.
"If it's any consolation after all these years, Jeremy Brett, the boy
I left you for, didn't last long. I called him by the wrong name one
night, at just the wrong moment, and that was that I'm afraid. Later,
when all the fireworks were over and you were on the other side of the
Atlantic, I sometimes lay awake at night wondering how things might
have been."
	"Different." Mulder said, building himself up for an
admission. "I was crazy about you then. If things hadn't gone down the
tubes, I'd probably have ended up asking you to marry me."
	Not in the least bit surprised, Phoebe smiled warmly. "I might
even have said yes to life as Mrs Phoebe Mulder." The title rolled off
her tongue like a mock announcement.
	"I'm shocked." Mulder's eyed widened in mimed astonishment.
"Wouldn't you have insisted on keeping your own name?"
	"Doubling up, you mean." Phoebe grinned, her eyes sparkling
with the mischievous look which in times past had driven Mulder half
crazy. "I shouldn't think so. Not with our unfavourable combination.  
Green-Mulder sounds like some ghastly form of rising damp!"
	"Hmmm." Mulder pursed his lips. "It's not much better the
other way around. Mulder-Green might be mistaken for a Victorian
embrocation used in the treatment of bed sores."
	"When you and I were in bed, we were never actually still for
long enough to worry about that!"
	"No we weren't." Mulder acknowledged. "That was a side effect
of having inventive, and at the time sexually oriented minds. But," he
signed wistfully, "as you said, that was then and this is now. We're
different people. Mature adults. Not love-sick young students, prone
to fits of pass..."
	Phoebe silenced Mulder by planting her lips over his. The kiss
lasted a long time, but both of them knew it had to end. Breaking
away, Phoebe stood on slightly wobbly legs and backed slowly toward
the door. Mulder watched her go. His body was screaming at him to tell
her she didn't have to leave, but fortunately for his long term
sanity, this time his mind was calling the shots.
	"Those lab test will be in at 7:00am. I'll pick you up just
before that. Try to get some sleep, if you can." Pausing in the door
way she turned and said. "Mulder, I don't know how to say this,
but..."
	"Then don't say it." Mulder cut her off sharply. "Just say
goodnight."
	Phoebe nodded. "Goodnight Mulder." Backing all the way out
into the corridor she closed the door behind her.
	 Mulder collapsed back on the bed and breathed a huge sigh of
relief. He knew exactly what Phoebe had been about to say, just as
their volatile personal chemistry had always enabled him to know at
times of high emotion. He knew what had been coming and where it would
lead. Resisting had taken every ounce of willpower at his disposal,
and his body would probably never forgive him. But regrets like that
were something he knew that he could live with. The alternative would
have been to open up to something he'd once thought he could not live
without. If he'd let her say the words, she would have ended up
spending the night. They would have made love and made promises, and
meant them too. While the night reigned. Experience had taught him
that while Phoebe often meant what she said at the time, her promises
were transient things. Just as bright and dangerous in their way as
L'Ively's flame.


7:04AM.  Forensic Sciences Department. New Scotland Yard.

The broken glass from the hyperbaric chamber lay in the centre of the
laboratory bench, illuminated by the intense glow of an ultra-violet
anglepoise lamp. The cracked and melted edges looked like something
from a war zone. Standing behind the bench, his plain white lab coat
made brilliant by the reflected light, was Professor Ernest O'Dowd.
	"Notice the stress fractures." O'Dowd used a metal pointer to
show the area he meant. "They occurred some hours prior to the glass
being broken, and were caused by the application of intense heat. It
was focused on one small area at a time, and reached temperatures
almost as high as an industrial laser beam. In the normal course of
events, with glass of this type, the fracturing would not have been so
deep nor as stressful to the sheet as a whole."
	"Then what you're telling us is that there was something wrong
with this particular piece of glass." Mulder made a logical
assumption.
	"Essentially, that' is my conclusion." O'Dowd nodded. "In
support, we have been able to determine that the composition of this
glass is suspect. It includes certain impurities, which it is
reasonable to expect would have been filtered out during manufacture."
	"Could that happen by accident?" Phoebe asked.
	"Possibly." O'Dowd looked uncomfortable. "I don't want to cast
aspersions, especially with our guest here."
	"All I'm interested in is the truth." Mulder encouraged.
	"Very well. In my opinion, the glass was of such a low
standard that it could not have passed even the most basic of quality
control testing. Therefore, I must conclude that somebody wanted it to
be breakable."
	"Son-of-a-bitch." Mulder cursed under his breath.
	"Thank you, professor." Phoebe said. "That will be all for
now."
	O'Dowd nodded, turned on his heel and headed for the lab door.
When he was gone Phoebe turned to Mulder and looked him straight in
the eyes. She knew without asking that something had clicked into
place inside his brilliant mind, and now she wanted to know what.
	"Whodunit, Dr. Watson?"
	"I call him Cancer Man." Mulder answered cryptically. "Not
that we'd ever be able to pin this on him. There's no point in trying,
believe me, I've gone down that road before."
	"Who is he?" Phoebe frowned, not liking the idea of anyone who
was beyond the reach of international law.
	"Someone with powerful friends, and his own agenda. One of
their areas of interest concerns people like L'Ively. Freaks of
nature, mutants, those who have been genetically manipulated. They
want anyone endowed with meta-human abilities, such as L'Ively's
pyrokinesis."
	"But, what would this cabal gain by arranging for L'Ively to
break free? For all they knew, he could've been killed in the
attempt."
	"Or killed someone else while escaping." Mulder grinned
ruefully. "One guess as to who was most at risk. What I don't get is
why they wanted him to escape when he reached England. There has to be
a reason. Cancer Man always has a reason for the games he plays."
	"Then let's go and find it." Phoebe's eyes twinkled. "It's
time for you to meet CARP, Mulder."
	"Carp?" Mulder cocked his head to one side.
	"Relax, we aren't going fishing, at least not in the way you
might imagine. CARP, is an acronym for Criminality Arcane Religious
Paranormal. It's a computer database we've been building. CARP
attempts to cross-references any unsolved crimes within the United
Kingdom which occurred over the past century, in bizarre circumstances
or involving something unexplainable."
	"Hey, it's a British X-Files." Mulder said cheerily.
	"After a fashion." Phoebe agreed. "CARP is housed in a back
room where all the odd reports went to gather dust, until some bright
spark had the idea of transferring them to hard disk."
	"You?"
	"Actually, no." Phoebe blushed. "It was a thirsty filing
clerk. He thought that getting rid of all the paper would be more
efficient, and save enough space for a drinks machine."

The CARP Room. New Scotland Yard.

Phoebe sat hunched over the computer keyboard, fingers stabbing at the
keys as she set up the parameters for a more specific data search.
Inputting the keyword 'fire' had produced a list of over twelve
hundred cases, which obviously needed to be narrowed down. Adding the
qualification 'unusual' to the list reduced it considerably, but still
not enough.
	"Try 'matching.'" Mulder suggested.
	Phoebe's fingers rattled the plastic keys. "We're getting
there." She said, seeing the list reduced to twenty-three. "What
else?"
	"How about 'injuries.'" The word seemed the obvious choice.
	"Got it!" Phoebe exclaimed as twenty-three became five. "Now,
this may not work, but it's worth a try." Fingers gliding over the
keys she set up a cross-reference with other databases. "I'm searching
for locations, using Social Security and National Health Service
records, using L'Ively and his known aliases as keys. Of course we
probably don't have all the name he's used, but..." A short bleep
announced the end of the computer's search.
	"Jackpot!" Mulder said. "L'Ively was close to four out of
five. Now, can you get us more on the victims."
	After a few moments the details came on screen. "Three out of
the five are suspected as being cases of spontaneous human combustion.
There was little or no damage to the surroundings, and no trace of any
known accelerant. As for the other two," tapping away Phoebe brought
up the details, "one is suspected as being an electrical fire, so
severe that any evidence was incinerated. The other is unofficially
classified as a double suicide." Phoebe paused, stunning by what she
was seeing. "My God, Mulder, look at the names."
	Mulder bent forward and read out the names that Phoebe was
indicating with the pointer of her mouse. "Mr and Mrs Feargal Kelly."
He paused, searching his memory. "It was in the files we read last
night. They were the couple who fostered Cecil L'Ively for two and a
half years."
	"Until he decided to end that arrangement, by the looks of
it." Scrolling data she read from the screen. "Their charred corpses
were discovered in what was left of their basement. The room had been
soaked in petrol, and ignited via an electrical spark from a home-made
timer. Mr and Mrs Kelly were found side by side, and the post mortems
revealed massive doses of barbiturates. The case only made this
listing because there was no apparent motive for suicide."
	"Okay." Mulder said slowly. "Let's see if there were any other
cases involving fire within a twenty-mile radius of the Kelly's home,
during the period that they fostered L'Ively."
	After a few moment the data on screen was replaced by a new
list. "There are thirty-one. Twenty- six of which occurred in or
around the city of Coventry." Phoebe checked against the original
list. "Three of the other unsolved deaths by fire were in adjacent
villages."
	"Fire needs home." Mulder repeated Scully's clue.

Hounslow Hospital. Room 414.

Scully drifted, floating like a balloon on the winds of the
unconscious. All around her was light, blinding white light. There
were sounds too, crisp and preternaturally clear. One sound in
particular, she knew for somewhere. It was a common sound, but she
couldn't quite manage to pin it down. Gradually the intensity faded,
giving way to wispy amorphous shapes, which slowly began to take on
colours. Although they too seemed brighter than normal. Experiencing a
sudden, jarring memory of the crash, she wondered if she might
actually be dead.
	"No." Said a voice inside her head. "This is not death. It's
more like an R&R zone, Starbuck."
	"Who is there?" Scully asked, recognising the voice instantly,
but not daring to believe what she was hearing. Twisting around she
found the world suddenly resolving into something only a little
brighter than normal. She was seated in a brilliant white room on a
plain white chair at a plain white table. Sitting opposite was a
smiling, uniformed man. A man that her logical mind insisted could not
possibly be present, even if her heart wished so very much that he
was. In his hand was a pack of playing cards, with beautiful black and
white backs depicting clouds and starfields. Her father was shuffling
the pack. This was the sound that she'd heard just moment before.
"Dad. Is that really you?"
	"In a way." Major Scully smiled benignly. "This is the best
way for me to speak to you right now.  I have a message, you might say
it's from the boss. I'm told that here is not where you belong."
	"Then I'm dreaming?" Scully thought aloud.
	"This is beyond dreams." Her father replied. "Most people
don't wake up when they get this far, though you must. Death has
offered you sanctuary, but life needs you more. Placing the deck on
the table, her father cut it and turned over the top card. The card
looked like a three dimensional photograph;  herself in a hospital
bed, attended by nursing staff. "It's time to go back." Major Scully
smiled. "Be brave."  As if he was a water colour painting suddenly
submerged in an unseen river, her father's smiling face began to wash
from existence.
	"Dad, wait!" Scully called out, to no avail.
	"Goodbye, Starbuck." The words seemed to come from far away.
"When your time comes, look for me here. I'll be waiting."
	Scully looked at the card and found that she was falling into
it, pulled by a force she could neither see nor feel. She could not
look away, or offer even the slightest resistance. Strangely, she was
not afraid.


11:45PM. St.Michael's Tower. Old Cathedral, Coventry.

There wasn't much space at the top of parapet, but Mulder and Phoebe
made do. The tower's height an comparative isolation made it the best
place from which to view the area around the two cathedrals. One-
hundred and eighty stone steps below was the roofless ruins of
Coventry's old cathedral, which had been built in 1918, and reduced to
a smouldering shell during the longest air-raid of any one night on
any British city during the entire second world war. The ragged walls,
burned relics and spire were all that remained.
	Mulder tried to keep his thoughts on the task at hand, but
they kept on drifting back to Scully.  The last word he'd had from the
hospital was that a brain scan had revealed the presence of internal
bleeding, and they were going to operate to relieve the pressure. The
surgeon had said that the problem had been diagnosed quickly, and that
Scully's chances were excellent. But what nobody was prepared to
commit themselves to was when Scully would regain consciousness. She'd
been out cold since being taken from the crashed ambulance, and nobody
knew how long she might stay that way. So Mulder worried.
	Phoebe had determined that the old cathedral shell, of all
places in the city, was where L'Ively would head for. The site had a
greater association with fire - the devastating firestorm created by
Luftwaffe incendiary bombs - than any other place for miles around.
	"Here he comes again." Mulder said, using his night-vision
binoculars to track the progress of a tramp who was moving along
Cuckoo Lane toward St.Michael's Avenue, which stood between the ruins
and the old and new cathedrals. "It's like he's on patrol."
	"Tramps have their beats." Phoebe replied. "Just like
uniformed policemen, or Woodentops, as we call them." Through her own
binoculars she scanned the city to the west of the steeple. "It must
be here." She muttered. "Come on, matey, I know you're out there
somewhere."
	"L'Ively might've spotted our back-up, and been scared off."
	"Unlikely." Phoebe shook her head. "Aside from two officers
parked in a patrol car outside of Greyfriar's nick." She jerked a
thumb in the direction of the nearby police station, "we don't have
any back-up." Flashing an apologetic glance in Mulder's direction, she
added. "My superiors think this is a long shot. I'm only allowed to be
here because I said the FBI had requested my help."
	"I knew your unique view of reality would come in handy, one
day." Mulder replied deadpan.  Then picking his words carefully, he
said.  "Phoebe. We have to consider that we might be wrong. Maybe
there's some place else for L'Ively to go, some place that CARP
missed."
	"No." Phoebe was emphatic. "Everything we know or can
reasonably surmise points to L'Ively needing somewhere connected with
fire, somewhere in this city. All the indications were that it has to
be a place where there has been an enormous outpouring of emotion. It
must also be a location where he can be alone, at least for a while,
and that is not likely to vanish in a spate of redevelopment. This is
the only site that fits the bill."
	"He's back." Mulder said, looking through his binoculars. "If
L'Ively is coming here, seeing that tramp might be what's putting him
off. For all he knows, the guy might be an undercover cop." Catching
Phoebe's eyes, he shot her a questioning look. "He isn't, is he?"
	"Of course not." Phoebe said crossly. Training her binoculars
on the shambling figure she studied him for a few moments. He was too
tall and heavy set to be L'Ively in disguise, unless the pyrokinetic
had acquired acting skills. If she had to bet, then she'd bet on the
tramp being exactly who he appeared to be; just another down and out
looking for scraps of food and a place to bed down.
	"One of us should go check him out." Mulder suggested.
	"Agreed." Phoebe ferreted in the pocket of her black jeans for
a coin. "Heads or Tails?"
	"A game of chance with you!" Mulder pulled back like a man
afraid of catching a communicable disease. "Uh-uh," he shook his head,
"I don't think so." Smirking briefly to soften the effect of what had
been an intentionally barbed comment, he added. "You probably still
have that double-headed threepenny bit. I'll go check the bum, you
stay here."
	"Don't give me orders." Phoebe grumbled. "If there's any
checking out to be done, I'm the one who'll do it. Okay." Not allowing
any time for objections she switched on her pencil torch and entered
the stairwell. "Assuming I don't break my neck on the way down."
Lightly tapping the radio receiver she wore in her left ear, Phoebe
winked. "Keep me posted."
	Mulder kept his binoculars trained on the tramp until he
judged that Phoebe would have reached the bottom. About twenty seconds
later she emerged at the base of the tower, and pausing to check that
nobody was watching, began to make her way across the flagstones
toward the Queen's Steps. Mulder swept back to the tramp, and found
that the man had dropped out of sight. As he wasn't visible to either
the north or south, he had to be hidden by the Great Porch, or was
possibly on the stairs of the Crypt Chapel.
	"Suspect has stopped moving. I can't see him." Mulder spoke
into Phoebe's radio, knowing that the broadcast would also be heard by
the men parked outside of the police station. "Wait a minute." At last
he caught sight of Phoebe, who was seeing the tramp off the premises,
probably with 'a flea in his ear' as the British said. "Looks like a
false alarm."
	Waiting until he saw Phoebe coming back across the flagstones,
Mulder turned his attention west. The western wall of the old
cathedral was effectively a blind spot in which L'Ively could
approach.  Although, if he intended entering the ruins, as Phoebe
insisted that he would, then he'd have to do it via the eastern entry
point. The other gate had been chained shut. Aside from the vehicles
travelling along the roads which bordered the cathedral, and the
steady stream of slightly the worse for drink students returning to
the adjacent University of Coventry building, Mulder could detect no
movement.
	Hearing light footsteps coming up the stairwell, Mulder
relaxed a little. Phoebe was back, breathing a little hard, but
otherwise fine. Not that he intended showing her that he'd been
concerned.
	"What kept you." Mulder joked, half turning. His motion was
brought to a sudden halt by the sight of a man with a silenced gun. An
individual whose name he didn't know, but whose face was etched in his
memory as belonging to one of those who worked for Cancer Man. "I kind
of figured you guys would show up, sooner or later. What's the deal
with L'Ively?"
	"Shut up." The gunman said with confidence bordering on
arrogance. "You don't need to know."  Motioning with the gun he sent
Mulder into the stairwell. "Do the smart thing, Spooky. Stay cool. We
ain't here for you, or Lady Penelope down there!"

Cecil L'Ively emerged from his hiding place in the deep shadows inside
the entrance to the old tower.  When Phoebe's torch beam reflected
from his eyes, she reached for the gun she'd been issued with, but was
stopped by the click of a weapon being readied to fire. Freezing in
place she turned her head slowly and saw that there was a gun pointed
at her heart. The look on the face of the man who held it said that he
would full the trigger if pushed.
	"Don't worry, luv." L'Ively quipped. "It'll all be over soon
,then we can all go home to bed."
	"How did you get in?" Phoebe asked, determined not to let the
little rat see that she was scared.
	"Easy." L'Ively snorted. "Starski and Hutch brought their own
bolt cutters. All we had to do was wrap the links in a towel while
they were cut, and nobody heard a dickie bird." Slipping a cigarette
between his lips, he lit it casually with the end of his finger.
	"Are you okay?" Mulder asked as he emerged from the stairwell,
followed by his escort.
	Phoebe nodded. "Nothing but a bruised ego."
	"Let's keep it that way, huh." Said the first gunman.
"L'Ively. Are you about ready to do what you gotta do?"
	"Yep." L'Ively beamed. "Come on folks, I'm frying tonight!"
	Emerging from the base of the tower, L'Ively led the group
across the flagstones toward an area known as the Sanctuary; a large
stone alter, into which had been set a replica of the original charred
wooden cross, constructed after the bombing from the burned and
blackened beams of what had once been the old cathedral's heavy oak
ceiling. The words 'Father Forgive' had been cut into the stones
immediately behind it, and behind the alter glassless windows looked
like a stone spider's web stretching up into the night sky the black
cross.
	Leaping up onto the alter, L'Ively positioned himself with his
back against the black cross, and spoke to the men that his new
'employer' had kindly sent to assist him in his renewal.
	"Mr. Starsky." L'Ively said expectantly.
	Holstering his weapon the man retrieved a two litre plastic
container from the side of the alter and handed it to the Englishman.
L'Ively unscrewed the top and tossed it away, then hoisting the
container above his head, upended it, dousing himself liberally with
petrol. When the container was empty he let it fall, and shaking his
head like a dog, sent droplets of petrol showering over his audience.
	"Stand back, kids." L'Ively joked darkly. "And remember, don't
try this at home."
	The group moved back a few yards, stationing themselves next
to what was left of the steps that had led up to the old cathedral's
pulpit. Eyes never leaving the small figure, Phoebe watched intently.  
Everyone present probably had a pretty good idea of what was about to
happen, but only Mulder and herself had actually seen anything like it
before.
	Mulder noticed that L'Ively was breathing unusually hard. It
was as if the act of standing upright was draining him as a normal man
might be drained by running full pelt up a steep hillside. Thanks to
the arc lights which shed illumination over the cathedral shell, it
was possible to see that L'Ively's complexion had taken on the
appearance of a man having a coronary! Although, he didn't seem to be
having any difficulty breathing. Something was clearly changing inside
him, preparing for whatever he needed to do.
	The watchers did not have to wait for long. Grinning like a
madman L'Ively clicked fingers with both hands, and burst into flame.
In seconds his entire body was ablaze, clothes and hair burning away
with a ferocity and speed far in excess of that which could have
reasonably been expected to be generated by the petrol. The fire
seemed to come from inside him, emerging through his skin as patches
were reduced to black ash and flaked away. Holding his arms out from
his sides in obscene mockery of the cross that stood at his back,
L'Ively opened his mouth and screamed as loud as his lungs would let
him.
	"Jesus!" One of the gunmen cried out in alarm as a living
spark landed on his jacket and immediately took hold. In a couple of
seconds the fabric along the length of his arm was feeding the flame's
hunger. Fear took over, causing him to drop his gun as he struggled
frantically strip off his jacket before the fire had a chance to
propagate any further.
	Mulder glanced quickly at Phoebe, and saw that she was already
in motion, arm arcing out in a martial arts move. Twisting back to
face his own guard he dived for the man's fallen weapon at the same
time as the fellow realised what he was doing. The two collided above
the gun, and Mulder's temper exploded. Goons like this had tried to
kill him before on Cancer Man's orders, and they were indirectly
responsible for what had happened to Scully. Most of the time, they'd
gotten away with it. But not this night. Now it was time for some long
overdue pay back. Grabbing the thug by his hair Mulder drove the man's
face hard into the unyielding stone, rendering him instantly
unconscious. For a moment he thought about giving him another shot,
but then heard the sound of hands clapping slowly.
	"Bravo, Agent Mulder." Phoebe offered dry congratulation.
	As Mulder stood up he saw that the man who'd been holding
Phoebe at gunpoint was now face down on the floor with his hands
cuffed behind his back. The man's nose was bleeding from where
Phoebe's backfist had struck him, but otherwise he seemed okay. Unlike
Cecil L'Ively. The pyrokinetic's unearthly scream had faded away
during the fight. Now he was down on his knees, badly charred body
smouldering, though no longer aflame. He did not appear to be
breathing, and gave every indication that he was dead.
	"Maybe it was more than he could handle?" Phoebe suggested.
	"Maybe." Mulder said doubtfully. "Maybe not. He seemed pretty
sure of what he was doing."
	"Fire can't kill me." L'Ively's blackened eyelids snapped
open. "I knew exactly what I was doing."  He rasped. "I got a bit
carried away, that's all. Give me a month or so, and I'll be right as
rain."
	"We need an military ambulance, and some back up." Phoebe
said. "The boys from the local cop shop can stand guard until
arrangements can be made to move the Human Bonfire to a secure
facility."  Looking at Mulder she held out her hand. "Tell me you
didn't leave my mobile at the top of the tower."
	Canting his head to one side in a would I do something as dumb
as that expression, Mulder reached inside his jacket and pulled out
the radio. He was about to hand it over when Phoebe's expression
changed. The next thing he knew, she was dropping down and her leg was
scything around to catch him just above the ankles. Unable to avoid
the blow he tumbled backwards, just as the loud roar of a gun going
off filled his ears.
	Mulder actually felt the bullet whistle over his shoulder. An
instant later he saw L'Ively topple sideways, and realised that the
man had been shot in the chest. He was still alive, but before anyone
could react L'Ively coughed violently, expelling a gout of flame along
with air and blood from his punctured lung. He coughed again, and this
time the fire erupted like a small volcano, spewing out in a mixture
of superheated tissue and living flame. The wriggling, burning pieces
writhed around L'Ively's twitching body like maggots, burning whatever
they touched. When most failed to find a suitable source of
nourishment, they tried to crawl back inside his body, but seemed to
lack the strength.
	Mulder and Phoebe looked on in amazed horror. Neither quite
able to believe what they were seeing. L'Ively's movements were
becoming weaker with each passing second. The fire was now out of
control and his remaining flesh was being consumed by it. The fire
wanted to escape, but there was nowhere combustible and for it to go.
Except for one place. At the last, when all that was left of L'Ively
was calcified bone, a questing finger of flame darted up to touch the
large wooden cross. For an instant it looked like it might take hold,
then as if running out of strength, it failed to ignite the old,
seasoned wood and began to dwindle. Sputtering madly as its fuel ran
out the flame fought, twisting and turning like a whip even as it grew
smaller and weaker. Mulder got the eerie feeling that it could see him
and the other humans but, thankfully, lacked the power to make the
physical connection. What was it, he wondered, some sort of half-life
manifesting via L'Ively's mind? Or a genuine example of what legend
had called elementals? Scully would love to test it, he thought, but
personally, he hated fire and would be glad to see it die. After a few
more moments, he got his wish. Mulder heard footsteps, and turned in
time to see the almost forgotten gunman running toward the western
gate.
	"I'll get him." Phoebe said.
	"No." Mulder stopped her. "There's no point."
	"He threatened us and has just killed a man!" Phoebe looked at
Mulder as if he'd taken leave of his sense.
	"These guys don't exist." Mulder explained, knowing that some
battles were not worth fighting.  "You won't find any genuine ID, but
I'd bet I know who gives them their orders. Cancer Man looks after his
own. This one," he nodded at the handcuffed man, "will walk inside an
hour."
	"We'll see about that." Phoebe was defiant.
	"Still playing to win." Mulder smirked. Blowing Phoebe a kiss
he said. "I'll meet you on the next world."
	Phoebe caught the kiss and smiled. The past she'd shared with
Mulder had finally been laid to rest. The present, as usual, was a
thing of chaos. The future remained bright and untarnished. If fate
was willing, she and Mulder would cross paths again. If not in this
life time, then definitely the next. That's what happened to
soulmates. As she watched him loping off across the flagstones, she
spoke softly to herself, completing the line from the lyric of Voodoo
Chile, the old Jimi Hendrix song which Mulder had been quoting from.
	"And don't be late."

Hounslow Hospital. Room 414.

Dana Scully had woken from her coma shortly after midnight, with a
headache and a burning desire to write down all that she could
remember of the place she'd been, and what her 'father' had said.
After making the regulation checks, the staff had been only too happy
to provide a pen and paper. Now, in the light of day, the few lines of
scribble didn't seem anywhere near as important. She'd only shown them
to Mulder, who'd got wind of the incident somehow, after he'd brought
her up to date with what had happened to Cecil L'Ively.
	"With hindsight, what I though was happening seems more like a
dream. The memory faded just as quickly."
	"That could be a defence mechanism." Mulder commented. "The
jury is still out on NDE's.  There's no definitive proof either way,
but they might be glimpses of what happens when we die."
	"Or they could just be misfiring synapses." Scully added
scornfully. "Anyway, enough about the circles of my mind." She paused,
studying Mulder's expression. Sometimes it was as if he knew what she
was going to say next. "You and Phoebe spent a lot of hours together.
I can't see any wounds of battle, so I'm wondering if I should be
picking out clothes for a Fall wedding?"
	Mulder smirked darkly. "Only if you plan on accepting
Frohike's standing proposal."


___________________________________

Recipe for SPOTTED DOG PUDDING (known as Spotted Dick)

6 ozs. flour. 3 ozs. suet. 3 ozs. sugar. Eighth teaspoonful salt. 1
teaspoonful baking powder. Quarter pound of currants. Milk or water to
mix.

1. Sieve the flour into a basin with the baking powder and salt. 2.
Add the sugar, cleaned and picked currants, and suet, and mix all dry
ingredients together. 3. Mix to a moderately stiff dough with the
milk.  4. Have ready a pudding cloth sprinkled very generously with
flour, turn the mixture out onto the floured cloth, shape into a roll
with floured hands, and roll in the pudding cloth. 5. Boil for one and
a half to one and three-quarter hours. 6. Serve with a sweet white
sauce if liked, or with sugar only.

____________________________________________

This story is (c) 1996 Adam Webb.  The characters and the name X-Files
are (c) Fox Network Programming & Ten Thirteen Productions.  E-mail
correspondence to the author via the Internet should be addressed to
awe@cix.co.uk