REDRUM AS8X11 Original teleplay by Steven Maeda Original story by Steven Maeda & Daniel Arkin Rewritten by Lara Means FRIDAY, JANUARY 12 SNAP. A squeal, or a squeak. Walter Skinner opens his eyes and focuses on the source of the noise -- a rat, caught in a deadly trap, its neck held fast under the bar. Skinner blinks a few times at the sight, then shakes his head to clear it. He sits up, too fast, and his head scrapes against something above him. “Dammit,” he mutters, raising a hand to his scalp. His fingers come away a little bloody. Only now does he take in his surroundings, confusion evident on his face. “What the hell…?” Walter Skinner sits on the lower of two bunks in a dingy jail cell. Sunlight streams in through a barred window across the hall. A dirty toilet, cracked sink, and of course the rat trap in the corner complete the picture. He looks down at himself now and sees that he’s wearing an orange inmate jumpsuit. A buzzer sounds and the door to the cell slides open. Skinner leaps to his feet as a guard approaches. “Let’s go,” the guard tells him, cutting off Skinner’s question before it can form. They walk down a hallway, where Scully and Doggett are waiting. Scully’s arms are folded tightly and her mouth is set in a thin line. Doggett paces, agitated, his hands clenching and unclenching. Skinner sees them and calls out to them. “Agents?” Doggett stops his pacing, exchanges a glance with Scully. Neither of them says anything. “What’s going on here?” Doggett looks to Scully again, but she just glares at Skinner and turns away. Doggett speaks to the guard. “Press got wind of the transfer. Looks like Woodstock out there. Why don’t we postpone, take him out later once the crowd thins out?” The guard shakes his head. “They’ll camp out for days. We’re going ahead with it now.” “What transfer?” Skinner asks his agents. “Dammit, what’s happening?” The guard takes Skinner’s arm and attaches a handcuff to his wrist -- Skinner tries to yank his arm away, but the guard holds it firm and motions for assistance. Skinner struggles as Scully and Doggett step back, allowing him to be handcuffed. “Scully! Doggett! What the hell is this? Will somebody tell me what’s happening?” Scully’s eyes are hard as she watches, not answering him. Finally she turns and heads for an outer door. Doggett turns to Skinner, putting a hand on his arm. He leans in close. “Sir. Don’t do this. Just let them do their jobs, all right?” He follows Scully out. Skinner is shoved in that direction too, and as he and his jailers trail the agents outside, he stares at a calendar on the wall -- it’s Friday, January 12th. The guards surround Skinner, some gripping his arms tightly, others with hands firmly on his shoulders. Scully and Doggett lead the way down the stairs and through the throng of reporters and television cameras. Spooked by the chaos around him, Skinner allows himself to be jostled by the guards as reporters shout questions. “Mr. Skinner, why did you do it?” “Mr. Skinner, do you regret your actions?” “Mr. Skinner…” The guards push the reporters back, clearing a path from the bottom of the stairs to a prisoner transfer van. Scully and Doggett lead the way and open the doors to the rear compartment. For Skinner, time seems to slow… …a flash of light catches his eye, from a rooftop across the street… …Scully and Doggett turn toward him, neither of them looking at him… …“GUN!” he shouts, points toward the rooftop… …Scully and Doggett whirl, draw their weapons… …the guards try to push him to the ground… …he hears a dull popping sound that echoes in his head… …Scully staggers back, toward him, arms flailing… …he catches her as she falls… The ambient sound comes rushing back, as if catching up with what just happened -- screams from the crowd, people running. The dull POP becomes the loud CRACK of a shot fired from a high-powered rifle. “Scully!” Skinner’s voice, loud and anguished. Doggett and the guards try to control the chaos, protect the public. Skinner, in the eye of the storm, holds on to Scully. Bright red blood flows from the gunshot wound in her chest. Still shackled, he can’t put pressure on the wound. He frantically searches the crowd for Doggett or anyone who can help him save her. “I need some help here!” He scans the rooftop, hoping for a glimpse of the shooter. He thinks he sees someone running, a streak of blonde hair, but it’s gone before he’s sure. He turns his attention back to Scully as her hand clutches at him. Her eyes flicker open for an instant and she looks up at him. Her voice is tiny and thin, but she manages a whisper… “Bastard…” Her eyes slip shut and her head falls to the side. “No,” Skinner chokes out, “Scully!” He takes her hand in his, feeling for a pulse in her wrist. Nothing. His fingers move to her neck. Again, nothing. He pulls her body onto his lap, cradling her, rocking her. The devastation he feels is evident in his voice. “Dana…” Her arm slips from his grasp and hits the hard concrete of the sidewalk. He takes her hand again, holds it tightly. He catches a glimpse of her wristwatch as the second-hand continues its sweep -- time, 8:40 and some seconds; date, the 12th. He stares at it, wondering if they’ll mark this down as her time of death. He closes his eyes, bows his head. Then… The watch begins to move backwards. * * * * * THURSDAY, JANUARY 11 Skinner wakes with a start on the jailhouse bunk. He glances around, spots the empty rat trap in the corner as a free and very much alive rat skitters along the wall. Everything else looks the same as before -- and he remembers. A shot. Scully, staggering backwards. Dying in his arms. Scully. The baby. Dead. Because of him, somehow. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, fighting tears he doesn’t feel he has a right to shed. The buzzer sounds loudly, the door slides open, and a guard comes in. He stands, waiting. Finally, Skinner looks up at him. ‘This is how it started before,’ he thinks. ‘I walk out that door, into the hallway, to Scully and Doggett. Then we go outside. Then… ‘Is it happening again? Do I have another chance?’ Skinner gets to his feet, leaving the cell with the guard. DISTRICT COURT Skinner is led into a courtroom in wrist and leg shackles. He’s hesitant, confused; this isn’t what he thought was going to happen. His eyes search the gallery, looking perhaps for Doggett, or even Scully, but he recognizes no one. The bailiff seats him at a table with a young female attorney; he doesn’t recognize her, either. The attorney looks up from her papers. “Do you know Judge Kinberg?” Skinner glances at her, uncertain. “Kinberg? No… no, I don’t think so. I may have testified before him a couple of times --“ “Good. Good, he might remember you in a professional capacity.” She turns to face Skinner fully, and only now takes in that deer-in-the-headlights look he wears. “What’s wrong with you?” Skinner just shakes his head. She grabs his arms, gives him a hard shake. “Look. Our biggest advantage here is you -- your status as an Assistant Director with the FBI. You have to be that man, Walter, or we’re screwed. Now, whatever’s got you spooked, you need to snap out of it. You are Assistant Director Walter Skinner, dammit, and that means something.” The shift in Skinner is visible and immediate -- shoulders back, head held high, hands folded on the table in front of him, a determined gleam in his eyes. Whatever the hell is going on, he’s got to fight it. Everyone rises at the bailiff’s instruction, and Judge Kinberg takes the bench. The bailiff continues, “District court, Department 6-B is now in session, the Honorable Benjamin Kinberg presiding. Thursday, the eleventh day of January, 2001.” Skinner’s eyes narrow at that. “Thursday?” His lawyer shushes him, but Skinner is insistent. “It’s Saturday. Yesterday was Friday…” “Today is Thursday. Yesterday was Wednesday.” The young lawyer takes another look at Skinner, brows furrowing. “Are you all right?” Judge Kinberg gavels them silent, then reads from the file in front of him. “Case number AS8X11, District versus Walter Skinner. The charge is second-degree murder in the death of Alexander Krycek.” Skinner goes pale, all the confidence he showed earlier gone. He falls into his chair, grasping his attorney’s arm and pulling her down next to him. “That’s what this is about? Alex Krycek?” The young woman nods, frowning. “What did you think it was about?” Skinner shakes his head, runs a trembling hand over his face. ‘I killed Alex Krycek…’ The Judge silences the gallery’s murmurs and glares at the defense table. “Ms. Wilson, is your client prepared to continue?” She nods, leans close to Skinner. “Pull yourself together, Assistant Director.” He nods in response, his jaw tight. He rises again, more in control now. “My apologies, Your Honor.” The Judge returns his attention to the file. “How do you plead?” Skinner’s voice is clear and strong. “Not guilty.” “Bail, Ms. Wilson?” “I’m sure Your Honor recognizes that Mr. Skinner’s position as an Assistant Director with the FBI -- an officer of the law -- makes him a target while in custody. We request he be released on his own recognizance.” The prosecutor, a silver-haired man, shakes his head indulgently. “The District is adamantly opposed to an O.R. release. Mr. Skinner will be well protected while he’s in custody.” The young attorney turns to him. “You could at least transfer him out of the general population.” “No!” Both attorneys and the Judge stare at Skinner, reacting to this second disruption of court procedure. “You can’t transfer me. That’s when it happens.” “When what happens, sir?” the Judge asks. “If today’s really Thursday, and tomorrow’s Friday, then… then tomorrow morning, as I’m being transferred, there’ll be an incident. An innocent person will die.” Judge Kinberg exchanges a sympathetic glance with Skinner’s lawyer, then nods toward the bailiff. Two officers move in on Skinner. “No, you don’t understand! Listen to me! Someone’s going to die!” A third officer joins the others. They move Skinner out of the courtroom as the Judge tries to restore order. VISITORS ROOM Skinner paces the room, back and forth behind the small table, trying to figure things out. ‘Krycek’s dead. Who killed him? Why am I charged? Scully’s alive… isn’t she? But for how long? If I really saw it happen, can I prevent it?’ The door opens, admitting Doggett and Scully. Skinner exhales, relieved, when he sees her. “Scully. Thank God.” He goes to her, tries to take her arms -- but she steps back, hands in front of her, out of his reach. She just glares at him, angry, practically seething. Doggett’s expression isn’t any friendlier. He looks extremely pissed off, but about what, Skinner has no clue. Doggett pulls a sealed evidence bag from his pocket and holds it out to him. “Is this yours, Sir?” “Agent Doggett, I want some answers. What the --“ “*You* want answers?” Doggett roars. “Why don’t you start givin’ *me* some damn answers for once?” He shoves the evidence bag in Skinner’s face. “Is this yours?” Skinner stares at Doggett, unsure just what provoked his agent’s outburst. He takes the evidence bag -- inside is his FBI identification badge, the one he wears clipped to his suit coat every day. He looks back to Doggett. “Where did you get this?” That’s apparently not what Doggett wanted to hear. He seems disappointed, almost subdued. “It is yours then?” “Yes. Where was it?” “Clutched in Alex Krycek’s hand.” Scully’s voice is icy. Skinner considers her answer -- considers his agents. He has to figure out what’s going on, and to do that, he needs their help. But they’re both so tightly wound… He sits down at the table, motions to the empty seats across from him. Scully turns away, but Doggett joins him. Skinner speaks to both of them anyway. “Agents… I need your help with this.” “That’s what we’re trying to do, Sir,” Doggett tells him. Skinner nods at this, presses on. “I need to know everything you know. Starting from the beginning.” “You don’t remember?” Doggett asks, incredulous. Skinner meets his gaze steadily. “Assume I don’t.” A look passes between Doggett and Scully, a look that Skinner can’t read. Although she stays back, away from the table, Scully watches Skinner carefully as Doggett answers. “Alex Krycek was found dead early Monday morning, in a vacant lot just across the river in Arlington. Two gunshot wounds to the torso… and one to the head. As Agent Scully said, that,” he indicates Skinner’s ID badge, “was found in his hand.” “Murder weapon?” “They’re testing your SIG now. They’re also…” Doggett looks away, glances back at Scully. “What, Agent?” Skinner demands. “They’re checking out your car, Sir. Looking for trace evidence.” Skinner takes a moment to consider what he’s just been told. How did Krycek get his ID badge? How did his body end up in Arlington? How did the police connect him to the murder? ‘Could I have done this?’ Scully takes a step closer. “You really don’t remember.” Skinner looks up at her, grateful that she seems to have thawed a little. “What’s the last thing you *do* remember?” ‘You dying in my arms’ is on the tip of his tongue, but he holds it in. He thinks about her question -- really thinks about it, for the first time since this ordeal started. What *does* he remember? “Sunday,” he tells them. “Sunday night, I was home, watching TV. Nothing unusual, same stuff I always watch. I went to bed… Then I woke up in a cell on Friday morning.” “Friday,” Doggett says, dubious. “Today’s Thursday, Sir.” “So I’ve been told. Look, I’m just telling you what I know. I don’t remember Monday, or Tuesday, or Wednesday…” He looks into Scully’s eyes. “But I remember Friday.” Scully just holds the look, a touch of anger creeping back in. “Have you recently suffered a head injury, Sir?” Skinner gives her a tiny, indulgent smile. “Matter of fact, I have. Scraped my head on the top bunk when I woke up yesterday… Friday… whenever. It bled a little, but otherwise --“ Scully goes to him, the doctor in her momentarily winning out over whatever else she’s feeling. She examines his scalp, then steps back again. “There’s nothing there. No cuts, no scrapes, no scars.” His hand moves to recheck what she just checked -- nothing. He remembers the blood on his fingers, as warm as her blood… He shakes off the memory, looking up at her again, at the set of her jaw and those tightly folded arms. Her anger puzzles him -- he doesn’t know the reason for it, nor can he think of a way to diffuse it. “I don’t know what else to tell you, Agent.” Scully’s eyes narrow slightly, and with a glance to Doggett, she turns. The slamming of the door echoes off the walls of the tiny room. Skinner now looks to Doggett, his eyes asking for understanding. Doggett meets his gaze for a long moment. “Sir… did you kill Alex Krycek?” “I don’t know.” “Look, if you’re laying a foundation for some kind of insanity defense --“ “Come on, Doggett, you know me by now --“ “I don’t know anything, Sir -- except that today’s Thursday, yesterday was Wednesday, and tomorrow’s Friday.” Doggett gets up to leave, but Skinner’s hand on his arm stops him. “If that’s true… if tomorrow really *is* Friday… then I need you to do something. I need you to keep Agent Scully away from here.” “You know better than I do that nobody keeps Agent Scully from going anywhere she wants to go.” “It’s important, John. Her life depends on it.” Doggett is taken by Skinner’s serious tone, his sincere concern for Scully. He nods, then goes. Skinner returns to his chair by the table and sinks into it. His breaths are ragged, his hands trembling. He can almost feel the nanites coursing through his veins. * * * * * WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 10 …Krycek, laughing… …Scully, shouting… …a gunshot… …Krycek, stunned… …another shot… …and another… The now-familiar buzzing sound wakes Skinner, who sits up carefully so he doesn’t bump his head on the top bunk. The cell door slides open and he stands as the guard enters. “I’m not going,” Skinner tells him, defiant. “’Scuse me?” “I’m not going. If I go, someone will die. You cannot transfer me.” “I don’t plan to,” the guard responds. “You got a visitor.” VISITORS ROOM Skinner is led into the room and finds Scully there, alone, pacing. Her head snaps around when he enters, and he’s taken aback at what he sees in her face. Fury. Her body trembles with it, as if the wrong word or touch could cause her to splinter apart. He’s never seen her like this before. His eyes drop to the gentle swell of her abdomen. Surely this level of anger can’t be healthy for the baby. “Dana, please --“ “*Don’t*,” she hisses. “Don’t pretend that you care about me, or my child. I think you proved two days ago where your priorities really lie.” Two days ago? “What the hell are you talking about?” “Krycek.” The name comes out as an epithet, and he almost expects her to make the Sign of the Cross and spit after she says it. “I thought you were my friend, *his* friend --” Confused, Skinner tries to reach out to her. “I *am* your friend…” “-- and now *this*! I never expected this, not from you. How could you do this to me? To Mulder? Don’t you realize what this means?” Scully’s breathing heavily, her rage not dissipating enough to suit Skinner. He speaks to her softly, gently. “Scully. Please.” He pours her a glass of water from the pitcher on the table, holds it out to her. After a moment, she reaches out for it, her hands shaking. Skinner sits down, hoping that she’ll sit too. Eventually, she does. “There are some things I need to know, things that might seem… odd.” She looks at him, her eyebrow rising. “Agent Scully… what day is it?” The eyebrow goes up another couple of millimeters. “I’m sorry?” “Is it Friday, or Wednesday?” “It’s Wednesday.” Skinner closes his eyes, somewhat relieved but still a bit bewildered. “It’s still happening, then.” “What’s still happening?” “Tell me about Monday,” he asks, ducking her question. “Why? So we can get our stories straight?” “Because it hasn’t happened yet!” he tells her. “That’s what I *think* is going on, anyway.” Scully stares at him, incredulous. He presses on, talking through his theory. “I go to bed Sunday night, nothing out of the ordinary. I wake up *Friday*, in a jail cell, with no recollection of Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday… The next time I wake up, it’s Thursday. I still don’t remember Monday, but Friday is clear as a bell. And today… today’s Wednesday. I don’t know what happened Monday or Tuesday, I don’t know how Alex Krycek died or if I killed him, because I haven’t lived those days yet. Somehow, time is moving backwards.” Skinner leans closer to her, takes her hand in his. “I think I’m being given a second chance -- a chance to put something right that goes wrong on Monday. But I don’t know what that is.” She slowly pulls her hand from Skinner’s grasp, watching him carefully. “Did you plan this? Because it’s brilliant. You’ll spend years in a hospital, but at least you won’t go to prison.” Disappointment is etched on Skinner’s face. “I expected you to believe me on this, just a little.” Her voice, her features grow harsh now. “Why is that, Sir? Because my role in the X-files has changed? Because I’m the Believer now?” Scully shoves her chair back and stands, maybe a bit too quickly. She sways, holds onto the table, then looks Skinner straight in the eyes. “I am a *scientist*. And as a scientist, I know that time does not -- *cannot* -- move backwards.” She storms out, slamming the door behind her. The sound reverberates through the room, just like it did Thursday. Like the sound of the gunshot did Monday. As if in a dream, he sees it in his mind. …struggling with Krycek… …his ID badge coming off… …Scully behind him shouting… …pulling his weapon… …squeezing the trigger… Exhausted, baffled, Skinner rests his head on the table. After a moment -- “You all right, Sir?” He looks up to see Doggett standing in the doorway. He scrubs his face with his hands, motions to the chair opposite him. “Yeah. Did you see Agent Scully in the hallway? Did she look okay?” Doggett closes the door and sits, shaking his head. “I just caught a glimpse of her going into the Ladies Room. Why, did something happen?” “That’s the trouble, Agent Doggett. I don’t know what happened.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Did I do this, John? Did I kill Krycek?” Doggett’s confusion shows in his face. With a glance around the room, he responds, “I wouldn’t know, Sir -- we’re still investigating.” “Right,” Skinner nods. “Have you gotten the ballistics report on my weapon?” Doggett shakes his head slowly. “They’re getting a court order right now to test it.” ‘That doesn’t happen until Thursday,’ Skinner reminds himself. “What about my car, did they find anything?” “Should they be looking at your car, Sir?” Doggett responds cautiously. Skinner shakes his head absently -- he’s starting to confuse what happens when. He closes his eyes, trying to think straight. …Scully behind him shouting… …Scully, her weapon trained on Krycek… …Scully in the basement hallway, her weapon trained… Skinner’s eyes pop open. The basement hallway. Suddenly, the need to know is overwhelming. “Agent Doggett, I need your help.” “That’s what I’m trying to do, Sir.” Skinner takes a breath, knowing that what he’s about to say may change his relationship with his agents. “In the basement office… in the smoke detector above Scully’s desk… there’s a camera.” Doggett’s eyes narrow. “You spying on us, Sir?” “No,” Skinner shakes his head. “The Deputy Director ordered it, not long after we found Mulder.” “Kersh is surveilling us?” Doggett asks, his voice rising. “And you knew about it?” “In case you haven’t noticed, Agent, I take orders from him the same as you. In any event, this may work to our advantage.” “I don’t see how,” he shouts, his agitation growing. “I need to know what happened Monday. There may be some information on that tape to help me figure that out.” Doggett nods, calming. “Where’s the tape?” “There’s a locked metal cabinet in the hallway outside your office. The tapes and equipment are in there. You’ll have to pick the lock, I don’t have a key.” Doggett nods again, heads for the door. “Agent Doggett.” He stops, looks back. “Whatever’s on that tape… I need to know.” Doggett goes. Skinner sits back and closes his eyes, waiting for the guard to come and take him to his cell. * * * * * TUESDAY, JANUARY 9 …shouting, coming from the basement office… …Scully’s voice, furious… …another voice, deeper, laughing… …Krycek, leaving the basement office… …Scully, following him, her weapon drawn… …a gunshot… Skinner wakes with a start, the sound of the gunshot still ringing in his ears. Something feels different this morning. He takes in his surroundings. His apartment. He must’ve fallen asleep on the sofa, the TV still on. God, what day is it? “In other news this morning, District police have released the identity of the man found dead in a vacant lot in Arlington yesterday.” The TV. Local news. A quick glance at the lower right-hand corner of the screen tells him it’s 7:38 a.m. on 1/9/01. Tuesday. He sinks back into the sofa. ‘At least I haven’t been arrested yet,’ he realizes. The newscaster’s voice, and a photo of Krycek, draw his attention back to the TV. “Alex Krycek was a former FBI agent wanted by federal authorities and police in several states for questioning in a number of crimes. Police have declined to name any suspects at this time, but say that the investigation is continuing.” Skinner fumbles for the remote as the too-perky weatherman tells of a winter storm moving in. FBI HEADQUARTERS Walking through the hallway, feeling more secure in his charcoal-grey armor than in jailhouse orange, Skinner nods hello to several agents as he approaches his office. His assistant greets him with a “good morning” as he passes through. She brings in his mail and turns to go, but he stops her. “Do you know if Agent Scully is in yet?” “No, Sir, I don’t. Would you like me to find her for you?” Skinner shakes his head. “I’ll find her myself. Thanks.” He slips past her, back into the crowded hallway. BASEMENT Skinner exits the elevator and heads for the metal cabinet he described to Doggett on Wednesday. He pulls a lockpick from his pocket, opening the cabinet. Inside is a bank of video recorders. He ejects the tapes from two of them -- then, almost as an afterthought, he turns off the one that’s recording in the office now. Inside the office, Skinner puts one of the tapes into the VCR and turns on the monitor. He rewinds the tape a little, then pushes ‘play.’ Doggett, doing paperwork. The time code indicates it was recorded on January 5th, last Friday. Skinner ejects that tape, puts the other one in. This tape’s time code reads “01/08/2001 03:26:14” as the fuzzy black-and-white image comes up on the screen. It’s the middle of the night, early Monday morning. No one should be in the office at that hour -- but Skinner clearly sees Scully, sitting at her desk, going through a stack of files. From the looks of them, they’re old files, cases she and Mulder investigated together, but he can’t make out any details. She continues this for another two or three minutes, then rises, stretching out her back and running a gentle hand over her belly. Skinner looks away at this, embarrassed and a little ashamed to witness such an intimate display of affection. His attention is drawn back to the screen at the sound of a voice -- “Very touching.” Krycek. Scully’s head spins around on the screen just as Skinner’s does in the office. “What do you want?” she hisses. “Just want to see how you’re doing,” Krycek says as he walks into the office. “Liar.” “I’m genuinely concerned about you, Scully. You and your baby.” “You’re concerned about no one but yourself, Krycek.” “You’re wrong.” He takes a few steps further into the room. Scully reacts by drawing her weapon. “Stop.” “I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help you. I have information you need, information about Mulder --“ On the monitor, Scully cocks her weapon and advances on him. In the office, Skinner turns to see her standing in the doorway, staring at him. “Where did you get that?” “Deputy Director Kersh has had this office under surveillance for the past month,” he tells her, hitting the ‘pause’ button. “You son of a bitch,” she whispers. “We never should’ve trusted you.” “I’m trying to help you, Agent. Based on what I’ve been able to piece together the last two days, it’s looking more and more like you’re responsible for this.” “What?” Skinner grabs her upper arms, his need to know overpowering everything else. “Did you do it, Scully? Did you kill Krycek?” She easily breaks free of his grasp. “I never got the chance.” She reaches for the VCR and disengages the ‘pause’ button. The tape starts up again. “-- his name to me! You led him to Oregon! You got him killed!” the Scully on-screen shouts at Krycek. “Scully, no -- listen to me --“ “I’m done listening to your lies.” She takes aim at Krycek, moves her finger to the trigger. In the office, Scully can’t watch it happen again. She moves behind her desk, leans against it, staring at Mulder’s “I Want To Believe” poster. Still watching the tape, Skinner’s eyes widen as *he* enters the office, his weapon also drawn and pointed at Krycek. “I’ve got him, Scully,” he tells her, then gestures to Krycek with his gun. “Let’s go.” “No!” Scully moves toward them, tries to put herself between them. “Scully, back off!” Skinner barks, grabbing Krycek by the collar and hauling him out into the hallway. Scully follows. On the monitor, the office is empty -- but their voices can still be heard from the hallway. Shouting over each other. Then, a gunshot. Then another. And another. Skinner shuts off the VCR and turns to Scully. Her back is to him, but it’s ramrod-straight. He knows the source of her anger now. “I did it. I killed him,” he says softly. “To *protect* me,” she spits out. “Yes. To protect you. I don’t want you having this baby in prison.” He takes a few steps toward her. “I still don’t know why this is happening, but I think I understand a little piece of it now.” That gets her attention, and she turns to look at him. “Why what’s happening?” He shakes his head, puts a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs it off. “I don’t want you investigating this. Hell, there’s nothing to investigate anyway. The police’ll come, I’ll confess, and that’s that. Case closed.” Skinner goes back to the VCR and ejects the tape -- he opens the front and rips the tape from the cassette. “You’re destroying evidence,” Scully tells him, her voice cold. “I don’t want this coming back on you.” He drops the tape into the garbage can, then looks at her once more. “Stay away from this case, Agent Scully. Stay away from me.” He walks out, heads toward the elevators. The enormity of what he’s learned, what he’s done, weighs heavily on him. ‘Doesn’t matter what happens to me,’ he thinks. ‘All that matters now is Scully. Keeping her safe, keeping her alive.’ As he nears the elevators, one of them ‘dings’ and the doors open -- revealing Doggett and two District cops. “Assistant Director,” Doggett says. “Your secretary said we might find you down here.” Skinner nods, then boards the elevator with them. * * * * * MONDAY, JANUARY 8 …the snap of a rat trap being sprung… …the clang of a cell door closing… …the click of handcuffs being fastened… …the cacophony of voices shouting questions all at once… …the crack of a gunshot… …the whispered last word of a dying woman… …’bastard’… Skinner tosses and turns in a king-size bed in a darkened bedroom, sheets twisted around him. Finally he jolts awake, sweaty and out of breath. He switches on the lamp on the bedside table and looks around. ‘Home. I’m home.’ He fumbles for his glasses, then picks up his watch. It’s 2:51 -- on the 8th. Monday. ‘Was it all a dream?’ he wonders. ‘Or did I finally make it back to Monday? Is it still going to happen?’ He scrambles out of bed, realizing he has less than an hour to find out. FBI HEADQUARTERS In the elevator on his way to the basement, an agitated Skinner glances at his watch. 3:26 -- the time code on the tape. Only a few minutes left. The elevator finally stops and he gets out, rushing toward the basement office. He stops just outside the door, drawing his weapon and listening carefully. “I want to help you. I have information you need, information about Mulder --“ Krycek. Skinner hears a weapon being cocked, then Scully’s voice, full of anguish and rage. “Don’t you *dare* say his name to me! You led him to Oregon! You got him killed!” “Scully, no -- listen to me --“ “I’m done listening to your lies.” Skinner rounds the doorframe and steps into the room, his gun trained on Krycek. “I’ve got him, Scully,” he tells her, then gestures to Krycek with his gun. “Let’s go.” “No!” Scully moves toward them, tries to put herself between them. “Scully, back off!” Skinner barks, grabbing Krycek by the collar and hauling him out into the hallway. Scully follows. Skinner shoves Krycek toward the stairs. “Get outta here.” Krycek looks at him, confused, as Skinner holsters his weapon. “Go on, Krycek, before I change my mind.” Scully tries to get past Skinner, leading with her weapon. “Skinner, no! He gave Mulder to Them!” She fires blind at Krycek, but the slug hits the concrete stairwell. Krycek ducks the shot, then runs up the stairs while he has the chance. Skinner grabs Scully’s gun hand and holds it tight. He brings the weapon up to his chest, barrel pointed straight at his heart. “You want revenge, Scully? Is that all you want? Then take it. Squeeze the trigger.” “You think I won’t? I sent you to protect him!” “And I lost him! So go ahead, shoot me! It won’t bring him back!” Scully gasps, her eyes wide. She’s trembling violently, her breathing harsh and ragged. “He’s *gone*, Scully! Mulder’s gone and there’s nothing we can do about it.” Slowly, Skinner takes the gun from her and tucks it in his jacket pocket. As Scully’s face begins to crumble, she lashes out at him, fists pounding his chest. “Bastard!” she shouts at him. Skinner’s eyes shut tight, remembering, as his arms go around her. She repeats the word over and over, each time her rage giving way to her grief. Skinner just holds her as the tears finally begin to fall. SKINNER’S OFFICE Skinner sits behind his desk, phone to his ear. He waits a moment, listening, then speaks. “I understand the Deputy Director is busy, but I need to see him as soon as possible. Tell him…” He should say, ‘Tell him to get that damn surveillance equipment out of Mulder’s office,’ but he’s pretty certain Kersh’s assistant doesn’t know about it. “Tell him it’s about the X-files office.” Hanging up, he leans back and squeezes his eyes shut, contemplating everything he’s experienced. ‘Is it over?’ he wonders. ‘Or am I going to wake up tomorrow and it’ll be Sunday?’ A knock at the door rouses him. The door opens before he can reply -- it’s Scully. He stands, goes to her. “Agent Scully. I thought I sent you home.” “Yes Sir. You did.” She takes a deep breath, then looks into his eyes. “I need to know, Sir. Why you did it. Why you let him go.” Skinner looks at her, then closes his eyes. Her whispering voice rings in his ears. He shakes off the memory, looks at her again. She’s waiting for an answer. “It was the right thing to do.” Scully turns away from him, shaking her head. “You may not believe that, Scully, but it was. I couldn’t allow you -- either of us -- to act out of revenge.” He puts a hand on her shoulder -- she allows it now, lets him turn her to face him. “I promise you, Krycek will pay for what he did to Mulder, to you. But not like that.” “How can you make that promise? How can you hope to fulfill it?” “I don’t know yet. But I’ll find a way.” Scully nods, but doubt is written on her face. Skinner feels it too -- by his actions this morning, Krycek may have slipped through their fingers for good. ‘But Scully’s alive,’ he reminds himself. ‘That’s what matters.’ He gives her shoulder a squeeze, drawing himself up and becoming A.D. Skinner once more. “Go home, Agent. Get some rest.” He glances away from her, not wanting to say what comes next, but knowing he has to. “I’m putting you on restricted duty for the rest of the week.” Scully arches an eyebrow. “Sir?” “You came back to work too soon after the funeral. You’re still processing everything, still… still grieving.” *Finally* grieving, he wants to say. “I saw the grief counselor, as you ordered, Sir,” she tells him, her jaw tight. “Are you telling me I have to go back?” “No. But I want you to talk to someone, Dana. Your mother, Frohike… me… Someone who understands.” She lets out a deep sigh and looks away. “No one understands,” she says quietly. After a moment she swipes at a tear, gives him a tiny nod. “You’ll tell Agent Doggett?” Skinner nods. Her left hand on his arm, she turns to go. He glances at her wristwatch. “Your watch has stopped.” Scully looks at it -- the second-hand isn’t moving. She shakes her arm a little, taps the crystal. “There it goes.” She holds her wrist out for him to see the second-hand moving forward again. Time, 8:40 and some seconds. Date… The 8th. Skinner nods, and she leaves. Closing the door behind her, he leans back against it, running a hand over his face. Whatever happened before, it won’t happen again. END - - - - - AUTHOR’S NOTES: Thanks to CarriK for her transcript of this episode, from which I drew rather more heavily than I’d initially imagined. You should know that I adore Joe Morton, who played Martin Wells in the broadcast version of “Redrum.” That said… “Redrum” was the only episode from last season that I really, really didn’t like. Why? It was about Martin Wells. Someone we didn’t know, who was a friend of the New Guy, who we’d never see again. A series episode should be about or driven by the series regulars -- for all Scully and Doggett mattered in that version, it could’ve been an episode of THE OUTER LIMITS. (BTW, I didn’t care for “Hungry” in season 7 either, for the same reason.) So when Kristel announced this project, I saw my chance to ‘fix’ the story, and to give Skinner something to do. <g> A personal note regarding the events of September 11, 2001… I was going to write something profound here about the futility of revenge and how retribution never rights the wrongs it’s supposed to… but I can’t be profound right now. My thoughts are with those affected by what happened, whether you were affected directly or indirectly. Lara