TITLE: The Valley of Shadows 7: There Comes a Time
AUTHOR: bellefleur
E-MAIL: bellefleur1013@yahoo.com
DISTRIBUTION: sure, but let me know
RATING: PG-13
CATEGORIES: X/mythology
SPOILERS: Season 9
DISCLAIMER: Not mine; they belong to FOX, CC, etc. 
SUMMARY: Meanwhile, back at the FBI...

Notes: This story is the seventh part in a series that 
rewrites the end of season 9 and then branches off in its 
own direction.  Read Parts 1 through 6 at: 
www.geocities.com/bellefleur1013/shadows_toc.html
Special thanks to Mims for the beta.  

* * * * *
* * * * *

The damp streets of Washington glistened beneath the 
lampposts as Skinner circled the quiet block.  But the 
narrow lane he turned down had little illumination, adding 
an air of foreboding to the intrigue he already felt.  He 
parked along the curb and checked his rearview mirror 
before exiting the car.  He'd taken precautions, and there 
were no signs that anyone had followed.  

Reaching for the door handle, Skinner shook his head at his 
paranoia.  Back when he'd been promoted to a desk job in 
the FBI upper echelons, he thought it would mean a slower 
pace and regular hours--he never expected it to be so cloak 
and dagger.  Yet here he was, once again, meeting his 
agents at a covert location in the late hours of the night.

He crossed the empty roadway and headed for an unimpressive 
diner with a handwritten "Open 24 hours" sign in the 
window.  It was a wonder this place was still in business.  
Skinner fought off a yawn, a reminder that it was well past 
his bedtime, especially for the middle of the work week.  
He suddenly felt very weary, and wizened.  He was getting 
too old for this.  Considering the allegiances he'd made 
within the Bureau and the way men like Alvin Kersh were 
getting fast-tracked past him, he knew he'd reached the end 
of the line as far as promotions were concerned.  Early 
retirement had been suggested to him once or twice, none 
too politely, yet he'd been determined to stick around just 
to prove himself.  But maybe retirement wasn't such a bad 
idea.  

Skinner opened the door and distantly registered a bell 
tinkling, his mind instead dwelling on visions of his cozy 
hunting cabin, full of peace and solitude, and unending 
vacation.  But he quickly pushed the fantasy aside and got 
down to business.  He made a beeline for the counter and 
ordered a coffee, black, to go, with a nod toward the one 
occupied table to indicate where it could be delivered.  

Making his way to the booth, Skinner glanced over his two 
agents.  They were seated on opposite sides of the table, 
both drinking coffee, and talking quietly.  A smile briefly 
twitched at his lips as he mused that their predecessors on 
the X-Files would've been seated side by side, at least in 
the later years.  He wondered how long it would take these 
two to fall into the same pattern.

"Agent Doggett, Agent Reyes," he greeted as he took his 
seat next to Doggett.  But that was all of the formalities 
he had patience for.  "What's so important you couldn't 
discuss it in my office during daylight hours?"

The agents shared a look, then Doggett reached into his 
jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper.  He unfolded it and 
pushed it over in front of Skinner.  It contained simply a 
list of ten names.

"Someone slid this under our office door last night.  No 
prints, nothin' to identify the source," Doggett explained.

"The only clue we had to their significance was the name at 
the top."  Reyes reached over and tapped the name in 
question.

Gene Crane.  *Special Agent* Crane.  The same man who had 
supposedly died in a car crash in the FBI parking garage, 
only to turn up very much alive and whisked away on some 
top secret project.

"Alls we could find out is that they're FBI agents, and all 
ten have a military background," said Doggett.  "Whoever 
these guys are, their records are sealed up tight.  We 
couldn't get any further without runnin' into brick walls."

"We thought it best to stop before we raised any red 
flags," Reyes said, lifting her coffee mug to her lips.

Skinner nodded and considered the list.  The names were 
familiar to him, for one reason in particular: all ten had 
been promoted within the last six months.  But he decided 
to keep that information to himself.

The waitress set down a Styrofoam cup in front of Skinner, 
steam wafting from the plastic lid.  He nodded politely, 
and the trio remained silent until she had returned to the 
counter.

Then Reyes leaned closer and finally voiced the words 
Skinner had been expecting: "Sir, we think these men are 
Super Soldiers, strategically placed in the FBI."

"For what purpose?" Skinner asked.

"Infiltration, by the aliens," she said as seriously as 
Mulder would have.

Doggett quickly added, "Or the military."

The agents attentively awaited Skinner's reaction.  He let 
his eyes wander, unseeing, over the list one more time, 
then he folded up the page.

"I want you to drop this immediately."  He tucked the paper 
into his jacket and reached for his wallet.

"But, sir--" Reyes started to protest.

"Do you remember what happened when you tried to take down 
Kersh?  You were lucky to keep your jobs.  If you pursue 
this, your jobs may not be the only thing at risk."  
Skinner stood and dropped a five-dollar bill on the table, 
then picked up his coffee.  "Am I clear, agents?"

Doggett looked away with worried eyes, and Reyes met 
Skinner's gaze defiantly, but both nodded.  Skinner could 
only hope that his orders still meant something to them.  
It was too bad, however, that he seldom heeded his own 
advice.

* * *

Skinner scanned the hallway again before slipping the lock 
pick into the keyhole.  This late at night, even the 
janitors had gone home, and the security guard didn't 
patrol more often than once every 15 minutes.  Internal 
security at the Hoover building was far too lax, a result 
of the Bureau's arrogance about their "superb" external 
security, especially since September 11.  But anyone who 
really wanted access could easily get in, as evidenced by 
the parade of shadowy figures who made themselves at home 
in high-level offices.

The knob turned easily.  Skinner glanced around once more 
before slipping through the doorway into the darkened 
office.  He pulled out a penlight and switched it on, not 
daring to use anything brighter; but in the complete 
darkness, such a small light was sufficient.  With haste, 
he moved to the secretary's desk and started sifting 
through stacks of papers, trying to determine the most 
logical location for the files.

While his hands worked, his mind continued to search for a 
plausible defense should he get caught.  Letting himself 
into the personnel office earlier was far less 
questionable.  At least he had a key and a right to be 
there, even if the late hour was extremely unusual.  He 
could just claim to be a workaholic putting in overtime on 
a case.  But breaking into a colleague's outer office was 
certainly inexcusable.  Unfortunately, it was the only way 
he could see to get his hands on those files.

The foray into personnel had garnered nothing more than 
heightened suspicions.  The electronic records on the ten 
names from the list were buttoned up tight.  Only the 
barest of personal information was available without a 
security clearance and a password.  The hard copies of 
their records were all listed as checked out to another 
office: Deputy Director Alvin Kersh.

But the present search, too, was quickly proving to be 
fruitless.  After thumbing through every pile, rifling 
through every drawer, Skinner couldn't find any sign of the 
ten personnel folders.  He swept the light over the room, 
hunting for any hiding place he might have missed.  The 
narrow beam fell upon a door opposite him, and he stopped.  

His heart began to race as he considered the possibility.
If sneaking into the secretary's office was reprehensible, 
breaking into Kersh's inner sanctum was certainly worse.  
Grounds for dismissal, if not prosecution.  But now might 
be his only chance.  Was it worth the risk?

In the quiet, a wall clock obscured in the shadows sounded 
surreally loud as it ticked off the seconds, a reminder 
that he was running out of time.  "In for a penny, in for a 
pound," Skinner whispered under his breath.  And then he 
refused to deliberate it any further.  He would just get in 
and out as quickly as possible.

His hands fumbled with the lock, but he took a calming 
breath and made short work of it.  He turned the knob, and 
switched off the penlight.  Impenetrable darkness enveloped 
him until his eyes adjusted.  Unconsciously holding his 
breath, he slowly pushed open the door.

The clock ticked away behind him; in the inky blackness 
ahead was nothing but silence.  There was no immediate 
evidence that he'd tripped an alarm or caught the attention 
of security.  His pulse began to even out, and he set to 
work, determined to linger no more than a couple of 
minutes.

Through the darkness, Skinner headed toward where he knew 
the desk was, only flipping on his light when his foot hit 
the wood of the side panel.  On the pristine desktop sat 
only one stack of files, and he immediately reached for 
them.

"Something I can help you with, Walter?"

Skinner froze.  Across the room, a lamp clicked on.  But he 
didn't need to look over to know who had spoken.  He 
recognized the voice.

Skinner closed his eyes and shook his head, switching off 
the unnecessary light in his hand.  "It was all a set up, 
wasn't it?  I walked right into the trap."  He opened his 
eyes again and turned to face Kersh.  "So what now--you 
tell OPR and I'm eighty-sixed?"

The Deputy Director appeared calm and cocky, lounging 
comfortably in a plush leather armchair.  He reached for a 
flat wooden box sitting next to the lamp on the end table.  
"Tell them what?" 

Skinner regarded Kersh, who drew a cigar from the box and 
lit up; his expression was unreadable.  Skinner didn't know 
the man well enough to know what game he was playing.  
"What do you want from me?"

Kersh took a drag from the cigar and said casually, "Just a 
word to the wise: if you insist on pursuing this, there 
*will* be consequences."

"Are you threatening me?"  Skinner stepped around the desk, 
eliminating the barrier between them.

"Only warning you to think carefully about where you plant 
your flag."

"And what about you?  Where's your flag?"

"A wise man knows that in some battles, there are no 
winners, only survivors.  A flag is only likely to get you 
killed."  

Skinner sneered.  "A word to the wise?  Keep playing it 
like that and all you'll find is yourself on the wrong side 
without any allies."

"I hardly think you've proven yourself a reliable authority 
on choosing allies."

With hands on hips, Skinner let his gaze wander to the dim 
corners of the room.  "I was once where you are, trying to 
walk the line.  I was deluded into thinking there was such 
a thing as neutrality in this war.  But not anymore."  He 
looked back to Kersh.  "You think my allies are 
questionable?  I'll tell you one thing--I've learned 
there's no greater quality in a man than integrity, the 
courage to take a stand for what he believes in, no matter 
the cost.  In the end, it's the only true victory a man can 
claim: to be master of his own soul."

Kersh huffed out a bitter laugh, releasing a puff of smoke. 
"You mean, to declare the sky is falling when no one's 
listening?  You call that courage; I call it foolery."

"At least Mulder and Scully never compromised themselves.  
They never sold out."

Smirking, Kersh replied, "And look what it got them."

Skinner was rapidly tiring of their futile conversation.  
"If you're going to call security, then do it.  Otherwise, 
I'm leaving."

Kersh gestured toward the door with his cigar, then 
returned it to his lips.  Skinner eyed him warily for a 
moment before turning to leave. 

"Watch your back, Walter."

Skinner stopped with his hand on the doorknob and glanced 
over his shoulder.  "A man with friends doesn't need to; he 
has someone to watch it for him."   With that, he passed 
through the door and didn't look back.

* * *

To his weary bones, the journey from the far end of the 
parking garage to the elevator seemed much longer than the 
opposite walk less than two hours ago.  Skinner had hoped 
for a better parking spot when he returned from the gym to 
his apartment building, but this early on a Sunday morning, 
most everyone was at home sleeping in, leaving the garage 
filled almost to capacity.  Despite his burning the 
midnight oil this week, his Marine training wouldn't let 
him sleep late, even on weekends.  But with his 
accumulating fatigue and aging joints, the workout left him 
feeling spent rather than invigorated.

At the security door to the elevator lobby, Skinner reached 
for his back pocket to retrieve his access card, only to 
remember that he was wearing sweats without any pockets.  
His keys were in his hand, but he realized his wallet must 
still be in the car.  He turned around and looked back 
across the dim garage.  His car was all the way at the 
other end and around the corner.  The way he felt at the 
moment, it might as well have been several miles away.  But 
he really had no other choice.

On the trek back to the car, Skinner found himself again  
preoccupied by the same thing that had been weighing on him 
since his late-night excursion into Kersh's office: When 
was the axe going to fall?  The rest of the week had passed 
without incident, and without any communication from Kersh.  
Was this just the calm before the storm?  The latent 
anxiety was certainly as much to blame for his current 
exhaustion as the lack of sleep.  Maybe that had been the 
point of the threat, to keep him on edge and off his game.

Before Skinner rounded the corner, out of habit his eyes 
wandered to the convex mirror posted on a pole to his left, 
meant to provide a view of oncoming cars.  As he kept 
walking, his tired mind took a moment to register that the 
car he saw with a hood up and a man bent over the engine 
was his own.

Suddenly on alert, Skinner halted just before he made the 
turn.  He backed up a few steps and watched through the 
mirror.  The intruder showed no awareness of hearing 
Skinner's approach, thankfully muted by the soft rubber of 
his sneakers.  Using this to his advantage, Skinner quietly 
dodged to the car parked opposite his and crouched down 
near the bumper.  The man was apparently too intent on his 
work to notice.  From this vantage point, Skinner couldn't 
see clearly what the intruder was doing, until he briefly 
lifted a hand full of colored wires.  That couldn't be 
good.

Plotting his attack, Skinner reached for his gun--only to 
remember that of course, he wasn't wearing one.  This was 
the last time he would go to the gym unarmed, he vowed.  
The element of surprise was all he had going for him, so he 
had to use it, and before his target was no longer 
distracted.

Skinner slowly crept to the other end of the car that was 
providing his shelter.  Just as the intruder was 
straightening to reach for the hood, Skinner sprang forward 
and wrapped an arm tightly around his throat.  The man 
reared back, almost knocking Skinner off his balance, but 
he only tightened his hold.  The intruder grappled at the 
arm squeezing off his oxygen, using his slightly greater 
bulk to wrench the two of them around the car, heading for 
the cement wall.  But the exertion of the struggle and 
Skinner's tenacity eventually proved too much--the man fell 
as a dead weight in Skinner's grasp.

Wary of being fooled, Skinner held tight while he caught 
his breath.  Finally, he let go, and the man slumped into a 
heap at Skinner's feet.  He was perusing the garage to see 
if anyone had witnessed their tussle, when a cell phone 
began to ring.  The sound was muted but close.  Skinner 
glanced downward first, wondering if the phone belonged to 
the man on the ground, but the noise was coming from 
elsewhere.  Then, it dawned on him that it was his own 
phone--he had left it in the car with his wallet.

Being sure to keep an eye on the unconscious man, Skinner 
quickly moved to the car to answer the phone.  He noticed 
with a touch of amusement that through all of this, he 
still had the car keys in his hand.  The phone was already 
on the fourth ring, and about to go to voicemail, by the 
time he answered.

"Skinner."

"Assistant Director Skinner?  This is Mary Thomas, from the 
Director's office.  Director Mueller has requested to see 
you as soon as possible."

"On a Sunday?  Are you sure this can't wait until 
tomorrow?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but it's an emergency meeting.  You know 
he wouldn't call you in on the weekend unless it was 
important.  Shall I tell him to expect you?"

It was a very polite way of saying that his attendance was 
not optional.  "I'll be there in half an hour."  Then 
Skinner ended the call, not wanting to linger, and not 
wanting her to argue that he had to arrive sooner.

For a long moment, Skinner just stood there, glancing 
between the phone and the man at his feet.  Could it be any 
coincidence that the reprimand from the FBI and the threat 
Kersh had warned of occurred at the same time?  If Skinner 
had remembered his wallet and phone, he would've been in 
his apartment when he got the call, while the intruder was 
downstairs tampering with his car.  Shortly afterward, 
Skinner would've come back down to drive off to the 
meeting, none the wiser.  But the plan had failed.

Skinner knew the intruder wouldn't stay unconscious 
forever, so he couldn't afford to waste any more time.  
Quickly, Skinner rifled through the man's pockets.  Not 
surprisingly, there was no means of identification, just a 
small canister of black paint (to obscure the security 
cameras, Skinner surmised), a lock pick, and a remote 
detonator.  So, it was a car bomb.  Where did they mean to 
explode it--in the garage?  While Skinner figured that they 
selected the time of day to avoid witnesses, at least it 
had the incidental benefit that the bomb would not likely 
claim additional victims.  And the fact that he was parked 
between a dividing wall and an empty space would minimize 
the odds of igniting other vehicles.

There was little time for decision making, but in that 
moment, everything became very clear.  The events of the 
last week--the events of the last few years--all pointed in 
one direction.  Skinner would take that retirement after 
all.  

He had seen the signs for a while, and witnessing what his 
former agents had to go through to find the peace they 
deserved had made him consider his own future.  He had 
sincerely hoped never to need the "nest egg" he'd started 
saving for just such an emergency, but now he knew, there 
was only one right choice.  It was time to stop hemming and 
decisively plant his flag.

Knowing now what had to be done, Skinner swiftly moved into 
action.  He stuffed his wallet and cell phone into the 
intruder's emptied pockets, then maneuvered the inert body 
into the driver's seat and shoved the car key into the 
ignition.  If the bomb was destructive enough, the man's 
identity would be obliterated and the ID in the wallet 
might be convincing.  Even if they did an autopsy and ran a 
DNA test, the results could take weeks; at the very least 
the ruse could buy Skinner some time to get away without 
being tracked.

Skinner took one last look around the garage before 
shutting the car door and hood, and moving to a safe 
distance.  He still hadn't seen or heard anyone else 
around.  Just inside the door that led into the alley, he 
stopped and turned.  A push of the button would seal his 
fate.

He released the safety on the detonator, and pushed.

* * *

The hushed tension in the hogan was getting stifling.  
Mulder set aside the parenting book he had been idly 
thumbing through and looked over at Scully.  She and 
William were seated on a quilt spread out on the floor 
playing with his toy dump truck.  Susanne sat at the table, 
reading a pregnancy book, and Gibson reclined on a cushion 
on the other side of the room, reading a novel for his 
English class.

Scully sighed and glanced at her watch, then met Mulder's 
gaze.  "Did Michael say how long these things usually go?"

He wasn't sure how long Michael Hosteen had been away at 
the meeting with the tribal elders, but he knew it had gone 
much longer than they expected.  They were eagerly awaiting 
news about how their request to occupy and build at the 
ruins had gone over.

"I doubt they're watching the clock," he answered.  "They 
probably have a different sense of time than we do."  These 
days, however, it was hard for him to ignore the fact that 
time was running out.

William squealed in glee as his truck overturned, dumping 
the colored blocks, and Scully shifted her attention back 
to him without further comment.

Bored with sifting through the pile of books on babies and 
parenthood he had gifted to Byers, Mulder thought about 
wandering off to find the guys.  They had been here 
earlier, but as the hours wore on, it was clear that the 
whole lot of them needed to find things to do before they 
started driving each other up the walls.  It had been a 
small miracle that Susanne had convinced Byers to go hang 
out with Frohike and Langly rather than stay with her, 
feigning some excuse about her and Scully talking boring 
science--it made Mulder wonder if he was ever that bad 
about clinging to Scully.

Today, perhaps, he was.  Mulder had been worried about her 
ever since Langly found the news item online: Assistant 
Director of FBI Killed by Car Bomb.  Hearing of Skinner's 
death was hard for them all, but Mulder hadn't expected 
just how much it would affect Scully.  She'd been more 
reserved than usual, and even though she resolutely refused 
to let him see her cry, her face bore evidence of tears 
repeatedly.  He'd hoped that getting her out of the trailer 
to socialize today would help, but she was little more than 
physically present.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mulder caught Gibson's 
movement and turned to see him set down his book and head 
for the doorway of the hogan.  Mulder hoped this meant 
there would be news, but he knew Gibson had only been 
waiting around for his friend, Michael's nephew, and that 
might be the reason for his departure.

While Mulder watched the blanket draped across doorway for 
Gibson's return, William got up and began to totter after 
him.

"William," Scully called.  "William, come back here."

But the boy ignored her.  She was on her feet as William 
grasped the blanket, and Mulder was just a step behind her.  
William had already passed through, so Mulder was surprised 
when Scully stopped abruptly in the entrance.  He pushed 
the blanket further out of the way to see what had caused 
her reaction.

At the end of the driveway leading to the main house sat a 
camper he hadn't seen before.  A man wearing a ball cap 
over long, stringy brown hair was descending from the 
driver's seat.  He said something to one of the Navajo men 
congregated outside, who turned and pointed directly at the 
hogan.

Mulder immediately looked to Gibson, who was standing a few 
feet in front of Scully and holding William's hand.  Even 
while Mulder was consciously thinking, "Who is it?" Gibson 
turned and opened his mouth to answer.  But before he could 
speak, Scully exclaimed, "Oh, my God!  Walter!"

Mulder was still trying to register this information as she 
rushed toward the stranger, who took off the cap, along 
with the ponytail attached to it, and suddenly became much 
more familiar.  "Well, look who decided to join the fold," 
Mulder said, mostly to himself.

Skinner met Scully halfway, absolutely beaming at the sight 
of her (Mulder wondered if he had ever seen the man grin 
before).  She didn't even hesitate to throw her arms around 
his neck, and although Skinner initially seemed taken aback 
by the greeting, he soon responded by wrapping his arms 
around her waist and hugging her tightly.

Mulder quickly caught up with them.  As the pair pulled 
apart, Skinner gave her a once-over and said, "You look 
good, Dana."  Only then did he acknowledge Mulder, and 
added, "So do you.  It's good to see both of you."

In an obvious display, Mulder stepped close to Scully and 
slid his arm around her waist, pulling her to his side, 
before he extended a hand in greeting to their former boss.  
"Good to see you too, *Walter*.  You're looking pretty spry 
for a dead man."

"That seems to be the admissions price around here."  
Skinner said it with a smirk, but Mulder got the distinct 
impression that was more in reaction to his blatant 
posturing, or maybe to the elbow Scully had shoved into his 
side in response.

Keeping his arm around Scully, Mulder gestured toward the 
camper with his free hand and said to her, "Finally, 
someone thought to bring their own housing."

Another car came rumbling up the drive, and Mulder 
recognized it as Michael's.  He left the group to go over 
and stand near the car as Michael got out.  

The two said their hellos but skipped further pleasantries 
since it was clear what was foremost on Mulder's mind.  

"*Officially*, the council cannot grant anyone but the Dine 
permission to build on our land," Michael said in his 
measured, steady manner.  "However, it is said that the 
dead inhabit those hills, people who were killed before 
their time.  Who's to say that is not true?"

Michael said the last line meaningfully, and Mulder caught 
his gist.  With a solemn nod, Mulder offered a very 
heartfelt, "Thank you."

Returning the nod, Michael then headed off toward the main 
house.  After a thoughtful moment, Mulder turned to find 
the group he had just left watching him expectantly.

"Who was that?" Skinner asked as Mulder returned.

"Michael Hosteen, Albert's son.  He was asking the elders 
permission for us to use some of their land.  He didn't 
offer details, but I'm pretty sure he had to go to bat for 
us to get their okay."

"So, it was a yes?" Scully asked.

"Mmm, more like, don't ask, don't tell," Mulder said.  At 
her raised brows, he explained, "They can't officially 
grant us permission to build, but they're not going to stop 
us either.  Half the men on the council were probably code 
talkers.  If Albert really passed on the secrets of the MJ 
documents, they may have a better idea what's in store than 
we do."

"And what exactly is in store?" Skinner ventured.

*That* was a loaded question.  Mulder shared a look with 
Scully, then glanced over at Gibson and their son, and 
Susanne watching on from the doorway.  With a friendly slap 
on Skinner's back, Mulder led him toward the hogan.  

"Welcome to the land of the living dead, Walter.  We have a 
lot of catching up to do."

* * * * *
* * * * *

Stay tuned for future installments!


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