This part rated PG-13


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Chapter Four
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February 28, 1993
4:14 p.m.

The flight from Las Vegas to Dulles seemed to take forever.

I didn't try to tell Melissa what had happened -- not over the 
phone.  For one thing, I didn't know how to say it without sounding 
like I'd lost my mind, and for another ... well, =I= didn't 
understand what had happened, so how could I explain it to someone 
else?

Of course, Missy made it easy for me.  She didn't pepper me with 
questions or demand explanations.  She just asked how much money I 
needed and made me promise to call back with my itinerary so she 
could meet me at the airport.

It was then that I knew it was really her.  My big sister.  Growing 
up, I'd always wanted to play with my brothers, and was never 
concerned with the things that Missy cared about.  But when I was 
hurt or if the boys had played too rough, I always sought her 
comfort.  She never reproached me for neglecting her, and she never 
mentioned it when it was over.  There were times when I would doubt 
that I could ever be like her: assured, generous, understanding.

When our world views began to diverge even further, she could still 
make me wonder if I was wrong.  Where I was argumentative, she was 
calm.  Where I was closed, she was open.  So it was just like her 
to not ask why I needed help, but just to offer it, no strings 
attached.  I tried to keep my emotions under control during that 
phone conversation, but the balloon was a pinprick away from 
bursting.

Missy was alive.  She was alive and well and talking to me on the 
phone.  I'd =buried= her, but somehow my sister's voice was asking 
me how much money I needed and where she should send it.

I didn't want to end the conversation.  I needed to hear her voice.  
I was sure that once I hung up with her, I'd find that it was all a 
dream, that I'd fallen asleep listening to Mulder ramble on about 
how the Knicks were faring this season.  If this was a dream, I 
wanted it to last a little while longer.  On the other side of the 
coin, if it wasn't, the sooner I got out of here the better.

But there came a point when the conversation had to end, helped 
along by the robotic voice telling me that I only had thirty 
seconds left to talk to my sister.  I didn't have any more change 
to prolong the conversation.

"Okay, Dana, I'll meet you at the gate," she said.

"Missy..."

"What is it?  Say it fast, hurry."

"I love you.  I love you, Missy--"

The line went dead.  I could tell I'd lost the battle with my 
emotions when I felt the wetness on my cheeks.  That felt too real, 
as did the unyielding cold wall I was leaning against, for this to 
be a dream.  Taking a deep breath, I struggled to process it all 
and quickly wiped my face with the back of my hand.  I needed to be 
doing things; I needed to be making plans and preparations.  I was 
also peripherally aware of people passing by, looking at me 
curiously for a few seconds as they went about their business.

My dead sister was alive.  I didn't understand how that could be.  
A jumble of explanations flashed through my mind, each wilder than 
the one before.  Trauma-induced delusion.  Post-hypnotic 
suggestion.  Inter-dimensional travel.  I almost smiled; I could 
almost hear Mulder expounding such an extreme possibility.  But he 
wasn't here, and I had no idea how to find him.

I pulled myself together and walked a little ways down the street.  
Coming across a small casino, I welcomed the shelter from the 
elements and dodged patrons drunk on alcohol and vice.  Reality 
seemed blurred around the edges, as if I were at the center of a 
merry-go-round spinning at top speed.

I managed to find a restroom, where I used the facilities and 
cleaned up as best as I could.  I had cuts and scrapes from my 
desert adventure, and it looked like I had a nasty bump on my 
forehead.  Funny, I hadn't felt it at all.  Now I touched it 
gingerly and tried to cover it with my hair.  I desperately wanted 
a shower, but that would have to wait.  The best thing about being 
in Vegas was that no one gave me a second glance.  People were far 
too involved with themselves and with the never-ending pursuit of 
easy money.  I would have to do a lot to stand out in this crowd.

One of the cashiers told me where I could find the nearest Western 
Union office, which luckily was only eight blocks or so down 
Glitter Gulch.  I had a little cash, but didn't want to use it 
unless I absolutely had to.

As I walked, I caught sight of a bank clock, displaying the date 
and time.  February 28, 1993.  That was odd.  I tried to dismiss it 
as computer error, but it kept niggling at the back of my mind.  
Another idea, distinctly Mulder-like, was brewing in my mind, and 
when I found a newspaper rack for the Las Vegas Review-Journal, it 
was confirmed.  It was 1993.  Everything I knew about physics said 
it was impossible, but somehow, some way, I had traveled five and a 
half years back in time.

I wasn't as shocked as I might have been.  I'd made a hypothesis, 
and it had been proven.  It explained everything I had been exposed 
to since regaining consciousness after the flash of light from the 
plane -- or whatever it was.  The fact that it just couldn't be -- 
that I couldn't =be= here -- was moot.  It seemed that I either had 
to believe that today's date was what the newspaper and the bank 
clock said it was, or accept that I had succumbed to what I had 
long feared would be Mulder's ultimate fate: insanity.

But I was still rationalizing -- crazy people didn't do that.  Or 
did they?  This had to be the result of that ... experimental 
aircraft that had flown directly above us.  There was no other 
possible explanation.  I had a vivid recollection of its sudden 
appearance, right before it rushed towards us.  There'd been a 
strange tingling feeling all over my body, and I was lifted off my 
feet.  I remember Mulder's hand in mine, warm and reassuring -- and 
then even that had been taken from me.  The next thing I knew, it 
was, apparently, 1993.

The implications of the date made me dizzy.  It suddenly occurred 
to me that if this were truly 1993 and Missy was alive, then my 
father would be, too.  I recalled that Missy had been staying with 
my parents while she'd been between jobs and cities, and although 
relations between her and Ahab had still been extremely tense, 
she'd needed a place to live for a while.

As for myself, I'd just moved into my apartment in Georgetown.  I'd 
broken up with Ethan -- God, had I once been so normal as to have a 
boyfriend? -- barely two weeks ago.  I was teaching at Quantico.  
On and on, I remembered what had been happening in my life during 
this time.  But through it all, my mind kept coming back to two 
things: Missy hadn't been shot, and Dad hadn't had a heart attack.  
So many terrible things had yet to occur.

Before I knew it, I'd reached my destination, glad to see that as 
with most things in Vegas, the Western Union office was open 24/7.  
The money hadn't arrived yet, but at least I didn't have to wait 
outside.  I knew it would take a little time -- my sister had never 
been one for credit cards, so she'd have to wait for the bank to 
open, which wouldn't be for at least another hour.  I knew she 
wouldn't go to our parents.  We hadn't discussed it, but Missy 
would know instinctively that that wasn't an option.  We were 
sisters, after all, and had experienced our share of occasions like 
this.  Well, not =quite= like this.

When the money came, I signed for it and caught a cab to McCarran
International, and by good fortune found that there was a flight to
Dulles leaving almost immediately.  Since it was non-stop, I 
decided to take it rather than wait for the one to the more 
convenient National Airport -- I knew I couldn't waste time with a 
stopover; I was already antsy as it was.  I got some change and 
called Missy quickly to deliver the flight information, then had to 
run to reach the gate before the plane left.  I half expected that 
she wouldn't answer; part of me still thought that this couldn't be 
real.

But at last I was looking out the window at the old, familiar 
scenery as the plane made its final approach to Dulles.  It all 
seemed so eerily normal -- the rays of the sun slanting down over 
the countryside, the Potomac River off to the left, the highway 
almost directly beneath us that I knew from long experience was 
Route 267.  I could almost believe that we were returning from an 
ordinary case, just as we had countless times in the past.

Of course, one thing was different, and I was reminded of it every 
time I turned my head.  Mulder was not sitting next to me.

The plane touched down with a slight jolt.  I waited with growing 
tension as we taxied across the field.  I had no carry-on luggage, 
of course, so I was out of my seat and heading for the exit as soon 
as permission was given.  To the front of the plane and past the 
flight attendant with barely a nod of acknowledgment.  Down the jet 
way, doing my best not to run, my heart beating faster as I took 
the final sharp turn.  Stepping out into the terminal --

And there she was, standing a few yards away, gazing out the window 
at the plane I'd just exited.  My sister.  Melissa.  And she was 
indeed alive.

It took me a few seconds to cross the intervening distance.  I 
didn't call to her; I couldn't.  My throat had closed up, seeing 
her standing there.  Then I was wrapping my arms around her and 
pulling her close.

"Dana?"  Missy's voice was slightly muffled by my embrace.  "What's 
going on?"  She turned in my arms and returned my hug.  I buried my 
face into her shoulder, my silent tears wetting her blouse.  I 
could smell her perfume, those scented mood oils she used to buy 
that I'd told her once or twice were too cloying.  At that moment, 
it was the best thing I'd ever smelled in my life.  She let me 
carry on like this for a minute or two before finally pushing me 
gently away.

"Dana?" she repeated.  "Hey, Dana -- what's wrong?"

"I ... I'm just so glad to see you," I said, trying to get myself 
under some semblance of control.  I was still having trouble 
getting the words out.  "I've missed you so much."

"Yeah," she said, a touch of irony in her voice.  "What has it 
been?  Three days?  What were you doing in Vegas?"  She took a step 
back, and her eyes narrowed.  "Jesus, Dana.  What have you done to 
yourself?"

I was expecting that question.  It had occurred to me, on the long 
flight across the country, that there would be countless 
differences, large and small, between what she expected and what 
she would encounter. The Dana she knew was five years younger, 
heavier to the point of pudginess, and had longer hair.  She wore 
baggy, unstylish clothes. She had not yet been abducted or had 
cancer, she didn't have a computer chip in the back of her neck 
keeping her alive, and though she'd been in the FBI for a year or 
two by this point, she had never been called upon to risk her life.

She was innocent.

"Dana!" Melissa said for a third time.  "What the hell is going 
on?"

"I ..."   Again, words failed me.  I'd spent the entire flight 
preparing myself for this moment, but now that I was faced with the 
reality of being in Missy's presence and having to tell her a story 
that was impossible on its face, I was floundering.

As I should have known would happen, my sister saved me.

"Come on, Dana," she said at last.  "Let's get you out of here and 
find someplace quiet where we can talk."  And she took my arm and 
led me out of the terminal.

***

5:32 p.m.

"Okay, Dana," Missy said, settling back more comfortably into her 
seat.  "Let me see if I've got this straight."  She stopped to take 
a sip of her latte, and I let my gaze travel around the room again.  
She'd taken me to Mr. Magoo's, a coffee shop in Arlington that she 
and I used to frequent.  I hadn't been there since the week before 
she died.

"You're saying you've traveled back in time from the year 1998."  
She said the words as Mulder might have spoken of sewer mutants or 
spontaneous human combustion.  Her tone was calm and matter of 
fact.  Then her eyebrow quirked and her lips quivered as she added, 
"And you didn't do it in a DeLorean."

"No," I replied, shaking my head, unable to suppress a smile of my 
own.  This =was= Melissa; it was really her.  In the end, she'd 
made it incredibly easy.  Her earnest attention hadn't made me feel 
ridiculous, though a few times I could hardly believe the words 
that were coming out of my own mouth.

"So here you are, stranded in the past," she said.  "And the 
obvious question is ... what do you do now?"

"Try to find a way back," I answered without hesitation.  "But 
first, I have to find out what happened to Mulder."

"Ah, yes.  That guy you mentioned.  Your partner.  Any idea where 
he might be?"

"No.  Yes.  I don't know."  I took a deep breath.  "I spoke to him 
on the phone before I called you this morning.  Three times.  Only 
... only it wasn't really him, if you know what I mean."

"It was his previous self -- his current self," she said.  I 
nodded, amazed that she was taking this all so calmly, though 
really, I shouldn't have been.  She continued, "How do you know 
he's even here?  Maybe you're the only one who was caught up in 
this ... this vortex thingy, whatever it was."

"Maybe," I admitted -- but then I shook my head resolutely.  "No.
He's here, I'm almost sure of it.  We were standing right next to 
each other, and ... and just as the plane passed over, he grabbed 
my hand.  We were =together=, Missy --"

"Dana," she broke in, her voice still calm and analytical.  "It's 
obvious you want that to be true.  But listen to yourself.  You 
sound like ... like ..."  She grinned.  "You sound like =me=.  Now 
take a deep breath, and let's work this through from the beginning.  
You and this Mulder were together, and then you weren't.  You lost 
consciousness, and when you woke up, he was gone.  What does that 
suggest to you?"

I sighed.  I didn't like the implications of what she was saying, 
but there was no use in denying it.  I answered in a monotone, "It 
suggests that we were both swept up, then were separated.  He could 
be anywhere -- anywhen."

I felt depression settling over me.  Was it possible that Mulder 
could be gone forever?  Was that something I could accept?  
Certainly in the past I'd faced the possibility that we could be 
separated by death, but this ... somehow this seemed more final.  
As if a door had been closed, never to be reopened.  They say when 
God closes a door, He opens a window, my Sunday school teaching 
automatically supplied.  For once, the platitude didn't speak to 
me.  I felt no comfort.

"Dana, we'll work this out, okay?"  Missy reached across the table 
and took my hand.  "I just wanted to point out some alternatives."  
She smiled.  "It was scary, hearing you sound so much like me.  
Have you really changed that much in five years?"

I forced myself to smile back.  "I guess I hadn't thought about it 
much," I said.  "But yes, things have changed.  =I've= changed."  I 
looked her in the eye and tried not to remember how she'd looked 
the last time I'd seen her.  I hadn't yet found the courage to tell 
her what the future would bring.  I swallowed and repeated, "A lot 
of things have changed."

"Okay," she said.  "So assuming Mulder =has= come back with you, 
where would he be?"

"I'm not sure."  I'd considered the question a number of times 
during the long flight.  "He could still be in Nevada," I began.  
"I mean ... if he didn't come through to the same time and place as 
I did, then he could literally be anywhere.  But that doesn't give 
us a handle on the problem. So I start by assuming he's there."

"That makes sense," Missy agreed.  But he wouldn't stay there, 
would he?  I think you said you guys still operate out of D.C.?"

"Right."  I chewed my lip.  "And no, I don't think he'd stay there 
-- not for very long, anyway, and not once he'd figured out what 
had happened.  Unless he had to.  Or unless he was taken prisoner."

"Prisoner?"  My sister's eyebrows shot up in surprise.  "Why would 
he be taken prisoner?  And by whom?"

"That ... that's complicated," I hedged.  I'd given her only the 
sketchiest outline of the sort of work Mulder and I did, and I 
didn't want to go into it right then.  "There are men -- people who 
oppose the work we do, and some of them can be pretty ruthless."

"Okay.  But they don't know you're here, do they?" she pointed out.
"So there's no reason to be worried about that.  Not right now, 
anyway."  She squeezed my hand, and I let myself be reassured.  "So 
where would he go?  Here?  To D.C., I mean?"

"I suppose."

"Then we just need to figure out where," she concluded.  She eyed 
me for a moment, then asked, "I assume it would be a fair 
assumption that he'd want to find you just as much as you want to 
find him?"

"Yes," I answered.  "Yes, he would."  I couldn't understand how 
that idea had escaped me.  Of course Mulder would be looking for 
me.  But that would mean ... "So maybe he =is= still in Nevada," I 
said, realization dawning. "Missy, I've got to get back there.  
He'd be looking for me there --"

"Slow down, Dana," she interrupted.  "Just take it easy.  First of 
all, you don't know that he's in Nevada.  Even if he were, how 
would you expect to find him?  I think the best thing to do would 
be to stay where you are.  Wherever he is, he'll come here 
eventually; it's the only logical rendezvous point."  I nodded 
reluctantly. Missy sounded like me and I sounded like her ... it 
was a strange world.  "And second of all --"  Her features 
softened.  "You're exhausted, baby sis.  When was the last time you 
slept?"

"Baby sis?  I'm older than you," I joked weakly.  I'd tried to doze 
on the plane, without success -- my mind had been in such a whirl 
that I just couldn't manage to drift off.  Mulder and I had arrived 
in Las Vegas the previous afternoon, having gotten up early to 
catch a plane out of Dulles.  Of course, I'd been unconscious for a 
time, but I counted that as a detriment rather than in the category 
of 'restful slumber.'  "Probably ... 24 hours.  Maybe 25," I 
admitted at last.

"That's what I thought."  She rose from her seat and walked around 
the table, then crouched down and wrapped her arms around my 
shoulders.  "Let me take you home," she said.  "You need to sleep 
for about 12 hours, then we can talk again and see if we can't make 
some sense out of all this."

"I can't go home," I said.  "Mom and Dad --"

"Yes, you can," she said.  "You've probably forgotten -- it's been 
so long for you, but Mom and Dad are visiting Aunt Olive.  They'll 
be gone for another ten days.  No one will know you're there but 
me."  She straightened up and took my hand.  "Come on," she 
insisted.  "I'm not going to kid you.  Getting some sleep won't 
solve all your problems.  But it will help.  I promise you that 
things will look better in the morning."

Suddenly I was so tired I could have fallen asleep right there in 
the booth next to the salt shaker.  I'd been staving off my 
exhaustion largely by not focusing on it, but now that Missy had 
drawn my attention to that part of the problem, all I could think 
of was a soft, warm bed.  I let her pull me to my feet and lead me 
out of the coffee shop.  I was asleep before we even got out of the 
parking lot.

My dreams were of Mulder.

==========END CHAPTER FOUR==========