Title:  Gutless  (0/16)
Author:  Magdeleine
Keywords:  Casefile, UST, Angst
Rating: Strong R.  No kids allowed in this clubhouse. 
Summary:  Deaths in a small town, Uber-UST, and a parrot.
Spoilers:  Nary a one.
Disclaimer:  Not mine, but it beats the hell out of Fight Club.
Archive:  Xemplary, Gossamer, Spookys OK; everyone else please ask.
Feedback:  Please do.  playwrtrx@yahoo.com
URL: http://shannono.net/theden
Notes:  Author's notes at the end.


"The scientific approach to life is not really appropriate to states of 
visceral anguish."  
	--Anthony Burgess
 
GUTLESS

Prologue

Cooper Street
Tehtonka, Kansas
Wednesday, 9:36 PM

"... refused to comment on the mysterious death of Lola Gruber.  
Sources close to Sheriff Volney, however, have indicated that although 
the local woman was found Tuesday morning, it is very likely that she 
had been dead since sometime Monday night ..."

*THUNK!!*

Aimee opened her eyes.

At first her head ached too much to focus, and all she was aware of was 
the scratchy couch cushion under her cheek that smelled like an allergy 
sufferer's worst nightmare.  One hand was cold; she let it scrabble 
around until wiry carpet fibers under her fingertips told her that she'd 
fallen asleep with one arm hanging off the couch.  The other arm was 
faint and numb, folded hard under her torso like paper in an envelope.

She'd had the flu for three days, and at the moment it felt like she'd been 
asleep for all of it.  She shifted onto her side and the skin over her 
breasts and stomach went hot, fizzing and boiling as the blood came 
back to the surface.  Fever spiked down her arms as she moved, forking 
at her hands like lightning.

"-- sources also revealed that there was no sign of forced entry at 
Gruber's home, although they admit that there is some question of 
whether or not the front door was locked --"

The jangling silver light in front of her resolved itself into the television 
screen.  Sideways, from her perspective, but otherwise recognizable as 
the KSNW news.  Channel three.  Normally she wouldn't be caught 
dead watching KSNW, but at the moment it didn't seem so bad.

God, she really must be sick.

"-- whether this bizarre death could have been the result of natural 
causes," the news anchor announced with a solemn face.  Stephanie 
something.  Big-haired bimbo.  "We caught up with Sheriff Volney at 
the county courthouse today." 

The shot of Stephanie cut away to grainy footage of a big man with a 
gray mustache, angry and on the move.  His mouth moved silently for a 
moment before the sound kicked in.  "-- telling you that this was not -- I 
wouldn't call it an evisceration, no.  Who told you that?"

*THUNK!*

Aimee finally remembered what woke her up in the first place, and 
twisted around to face the ceiling.  "GREG!" she croaked.  Her throat 
was dry, her mouth stiff with ropy saliva; she had to work hard just to 
form her brother's name.  "HEY!  GREG!  CUT IT OUT!"

Silence from upstairs.  She listened suspiciously, the skin of her temples 
feeling thin and papery over her pounding veins.  Nothing.  She let her 
head fall back against the couch cushion, thinking of her lease and the 
hefty deposit she had on this place.  He'd better not be moving 
furniture.  Last time he'd knocked a four-inch hole in his wall and had 
seen nothing wrong with just hanging a poster over it and calling the 
problem solved.  If he pulled something like that again, she'd kick his 
ass out -- if she didn't kill him first.

The television flickered and the sound cut out for a moment.  After a 
moment, just as it always did, it snapped back to normal.  "-- victim was 
found in her home near Tehtonka late Tuesday morning by her sister-
in-law.  KSNW's John Eskridge spoke with Joanne Gruber earlier 
today."

The close-up of the reporter cut away to a shot of a tear-streaked 
woman with lanky hair, standing in too-bright sunlight in front of some 
dingy siding.  "It was awful," the woman said in a strained voice.  She 
sniffled once and dabbed her eyes on her sleeve in a businesslike 
manner, as if ignoring the implications of tears would keep them from 
overwhelming her again.  "I knocked for such a long time, you know, 
and I thought Lola was just downstairs doing laundry so I walked on in, 
but when I finally found her she was upstairs on her bed and she was ... 
she was ..."  The woman teared up again, half-turning from the camera 
as she bit her lip and fought for control.  The camera stayed on her, 
merciless in its blank curiosity, until she shook her head and waved it 
away.

Back to the news anchor, who gave the camera a look of solemn 
concern that came a moment too late for authenticity; someone in the 
control room must be giving the cues late.  "If you have any 
information on the death of Lola Gruber, please call the Cooper County 
Sheriff's Office."  A number appeared at the bottom of the screen.

That was quite enough about the murder for one day.  Aimee fumbled 
at the coffee table for the remote control, knocking over a bottle of 
medicine.  The lid was off.  Crap.  Red liquid oozed over the surface of 
the table, filling the room with the cloying stink of cherry-flavored 
alcohol.  Clots of the stuff hung off the lip of the bottle.

She made a face and pried the remote out of the mess.  The flu had left 
her so weak that she had to use both hands.  Gooey strands dangled 
from the damn thing as she took aim at the television and fired off a 
channel change.

"-- creating a line of thunderstorms moving in our direction," said the 
Channel Ten weatherman.  "The good news for us is that the front is 
moving very slowly, so it won't be here until Sunday or so.  The bad 
news is, this batch of thunderstorms is a doozy.  Get out and enjoy that 
warm weather while you can, folks --"

The remote was starting to shake dramatically in Aimee's hands.  She 
braced her elbow against the edge of the couch and changed the 
channel again.

"-- half off the retail price.  This is a limited time offer --"

She started to drift off again, the sticky remote coming to rest against 
the collar of her flannel pajamas.  It would stain, of course.  She didn't 
care.

"Ohhhhhhh ..." a male voice groaned.

Her eyes snapped open and she stared at the television.  What the hell 
was she watching?

A tanned, muscular man on her television flashed a toothy smile.  
"Order the Oxyciser NOW and get a FREE instructional video!" 

An infomercial.  What the --

"Mmmmmm ..."

It wasn't coming from the television.  Her gaze drifted back to the 
ceiling.  

A gravely, throat-rending moan came from her brother's room.

Great.  She was down here dying of the flu, so of course Greg went 
upstairs to whack off.  Of course.  Aimee rolled her eyes and turned the 
volume up.  

"This amazing machine would ordinarily cost you more than one 
hundred and fifty dollars, but if you order TODAY, you can have the 
award-winning Oxyciser in your home for only eighty-nine ninety-five!"  

A longer groan from upstairs, this one with a sort of a yipping noise at 
the end.  The infomercial did nothing to cover it up.  God, why hadn't 
she rented a house with carpet?  Or better yet, one that was 
soundproofed?

She extended her entire arm to point the remote this time, as though 
somehow that would make it work better and faster.  

On the television screen, the camera swung dizzily down to focus on a 
row of spandex-clad women lying on their backs, their thighs and 
buttocks propped up on rapidly oscillating plastic stirrups, their feet 
skittering around on the floor.  The jiggling was minimal on two of the 
women, but the other three were bobbling like statuesque gelatin molds.

"Ugh," Aimee blurted, starting to feel seasick.

"OHHHHHHHHHH," Greg enthused from upstairs, louder than ever.

This time Aimee pointed the remote at the television with such violence 
that it struck the edge of the coffee table.  The battery panel popped 
open on impact and the batteries tumbled out, rolling out of reach.

Upstairs, Greg's moans continued to spiral toward ecstasy.  On the 
television, the women continued to jiggle, hips grinding away at thin 
air.  To add insult to injury, the screen flickered and the sound cut out 
again.

"Fuck."  Aimee flung the disemboweled remote at the television.  

That was when Greg screamed.

Aimee lurched to her feet and started scrambling toward the stairs 
before she really thought about it.  This wasn't normal.  She'd heard a 
lot of Greg's self-induced love life back when he'd hit puberty, and a 
couple of times since then, and this wasn't normal.  This sounded bad.  
This sounded like he'd hurt himself.  

She tried not to focus on what Greg could have done to himself that 
would have made him scream like that.  Instead, she concentrated on 
climbing the stairs without killing herself.

The first of the broad wooden stairs made a sound like a shot as she 
stepped on it, and even though it *always* did that and she should 
have expected it, she shrieked.  Her vision wavered -- when she looked 
wildly down at the step, her feet seemed to be small and very far away, 
as though she were looking through the wrong end of a pair of 
binoculars.  

Her legs were shaking too hard to support her; she collapsed to her 
knees and hauled herself up one stair after another on all fours, the 
world tilting back and forth like something out of a funhouse.  The 
yellow light bulbs dangling from the ceiling seemed to strobe past her.  
An awful silence seeped down from her brother's room in cold waves, 
her own noises insignificant compared to that icy quiet.  She could 
distantly hear the wheezy gasps of her own breathing and the gritty 
noise of the dirty wood under her hands, and God, wouldn't it be 
hysterically funny when she got upstairs and it turned out that she'd 
panicked just because her brother had been masturbating to a 
particularly good picture of Brad Pitt?

They'd have a good laugh over this later.  They would.  And then she 
was going to get a really, really thick layer of carpet for his room to 
make sure this never happened again.

Concentrate on that.  Concentrate on later.

The last stair came as a shock.  She collapsed on the sudden horizon of 
the hallway, her hands fluttering against the floor like pinned 
butterflies.  "Greg?" she called weakly, her voice cracking on her 
brother's name.  No answer.  "Greg?  Are you okay?"

The cold silence soaked into her joints and filled her ears with a 
seashell roar.  She struggled down the hallway on bruised and aching 
knees, her hand trailing along the cold wall for balance, the flannel of 
her pajama bottoms whispering secrets along the hardwood floor.  She 
froze at the door for an eternity, staring up at the monolithic stretch of 
wood.

She stretched a shaking hand into the unknown.

She knocked.  

"... Greg?"

There was no answer.  

Downstairs, the television screamed to life.  "ORDER NOW!  LOSE 
WEIGHT THE NATURAL WAY WITH OXYCIZER!  RECOMMENDED 
BY DOCTORS!"

Aimee tried to pretend that she was respecting Greg's privacy, that the 
reason she couldn't bring herself to open that door was simple fear of 
interrupting some kind of ... private moment.

The frozen knot in the pit of her stomach testified to her lie.

"YOUR FRIENDS WILL BE AMAZED!"

She pushed the door open with numb hands.

Dim yellow light from the hallway flooded into her brother's darkened 
room.  Aimee's world tilted again and she leaned hard against the wall, 
panting, her knuckles white where they clutched the door frame.

Her mouth was dry.  She breathed in a mouthful of silence and her 
brother's name whispered out of her like ice flakes.

She licked her lips uselessly.  "Greg?"  She couldn't see him.  Her fist 
clopped woodenly against the door even as she realized there was no 
reason to knock.  "Greg, are you --"

"JUST FIFTEEN MINUTES A DAY, THREE TIMES A WEEK!"

There was an odd smell in the air.  She noticed it on a level just above 
subliminal.  The smell of that hideous silence, perhaps.

"Greg?"

She shuffled into her brother's room on her knees like a child, recoiling 
from the silence, from the images of what could be.  Her eyes were wide 
open, the staring, straining eyes of a woman searching the dark for a 
recent nightmare.

She found it.

Her legs gave out and she folded up like a broken doll, her butt hitting 
her heels and grinding the tops of her ankles against the hard floor, her 
hand still clamped on the doorknob.

Greg was draped across his bed like a rag doll.  His shirt was off, and 
she could see a searing red mark, like a sunburn ... red all over his chest 
and stomach, red where his thin frame seemed caved in, hideously 
slumped, hideously *wrong*.

Aimee hitched in a breath and tried not to scream. 

"... Greg ...?"

He didn't move.

"... Greg??"

"YOUR LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME!"

The smell was much stronger in here.  A sloppy odor, like unwashed 
socks going to seed in a men's locker room... and, subtly, playing along 
underneath it, something familiar.  Like bacon.  A homey odor at odds 
with the cold fear that was tearing at her stomach with razor claws.

Greg wasn't breathing.  She could see it from here; he wasn't breathing.  
Her world dimmed and stumbled but her brother's body remained at the 
epicenter of the quake.

He was dead.  He was dead he was dead he was dead he was d --

"CALL TODAY!"

That smell wasn't bacon.  Aimee suddenly realized what it was.

Sour acid rushed up her throat -- she turned to one side barely in time 
and threw up violently.  The thin vomit pattered irregularly onto the 
bare floor, puddling and trickling down into the cracks between the 
boards.  It hung off her lips in long glistening strands.  Some stunned, 
distant part of her mind noticed the bright pink color and she thought 
of blood and bubblegum ice cream before remembering the cherry-
flavored medicine.  The smell hit her, and she heaved again, fruitlessly, 
because even the stench of her own vomit wasn't enough to cover up 
the sweet smoky smell caressing the back of her throat.

The smell of her brother's roasted flesh.

<X><X><X><X>

Chapter 1

U.S. Highway 165
Sunday, 5:18 PM

"Three victims, all residents of Tehtonka, Kansas:  Lola Marlene 
Gruber, female, Caucasian, forty-eight years old; Gregory Allen Marks, 
male, Caucasian, twenty-three years old; Marjorie Elise Bailey, female, 
Caucasian, thirty-seven years old.  Go." 

"Both female victims lived alone; Greg Marks had been living with his 
sister, Aimee Lydia Marie Marks, twenty-eight, manager of the local 
IGA grocery store.  Go."

"No common traits in employment; Lola Gruber was a substitute 
teacher; Greg Marks was unemployed, with aspirations of becoming an 
artist; Marjorie Bailey was a secretary for a local temp agency.  Go."

"The victims appear to have been killed on a two-day cycle; Lola 
Gruber died last Monday, Greg Marks died forty-eight hours later, on 
Wednesday night, and Marjorie Bailey died forty-eight hours afterward, 
on Friday.  The pattern has no apparent connection to the lunar, solar, 
or astrological cycle, nor to any known occult traditions.  Go."

"Very nice, Scully."

"Keep it moving, Mulder, or you forfeit your turn."

"Right.  There was no sign of forced entry, no prints on the bodies or 
the crime scene, no signs of sexual assault or torture, no ritualistic 
arrangement of the bodies.  All three victims were found lying in bed in 
their own rooms, dressed for sleep, with the lights off.  Considering that 
there were no signs of a struggle in any of the three cases, it's a safe 
assumption that the victims were asleep at the time they were attacked, 
and quickly overcome.  Top *that*."

"Watch me.  The first two victims -- and, from what I have been told, 
the third as well -- were marked by an irregularly shaped erythemic area 
covering much of the chest and abdomen, characteristic of a first-
degree burn.  The internal organs had been removed from the thoracic 
and abdominal cavities, but the means of removal are unclear.  Cause of 
death was most likely blood loss and shock, possibly manual anoxia.  
Go."

"... I don't think I can top that one, Scully."

"Well, Mulder, you know the rules.  Pull over and give me the keys."

"No no no no, waitaminit, hold on."  Mulder stared at the endless 
Kansas highway, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he 
ransacked his memory.

Scully watched him, smiling enigmatically.  "Give up?"

"Ten seconds, Scully."

She tilted her head and smirked up at the ceiling of the Crown Victoria, 
humming the theme from 'Jeopardy.'  "Doo doo doo doo, doo doo 
doooo..."

He shot a poisoned look at her.  "Cut it out."

Scully cocked an eyebrow at him, barely suppressing an evil grin.  
"Time's up.  You know how this works.  It's my turn to drive."

"No, wait --" Mulder interrupted, holding up a finger.  "Greg Marks was 
gay."  He beamed at her.  "Go."

She turned a skeptical look on him.  "It doesn't count if you make the 
information up, Mulder."

"I'm not making it up."

She waited for that glint in his eyes that meant he was joking.  "It's not 
in the file."

"I know," he admitted, grinning insufferably in the general direction of a 
freight train chugging along parallel to the highway.  "I talked to a few 
people.  Come on, your turn.  Go."

Scully considered this for a long moment, weighing the consequences 
of pressing this any further.  "Mulder," she said, "is there anything else 
not written in the file that you would like to share with me?"

"Do I win?"

She shook her head, smiling a little.  "Down, boy.  I'm declaring a 
temporary time out."

"I don't think that's covered in the rules."

"*Mulder*."

He rummaged around in the door pocket and came up with a new bag of 
sunflower seeds.  He offered the bag to Scully, not taking his eyes off 
the road.

"No thanks."

"No, no, I need you to open it.  I don't wanna crash the car."

She took the bag away from him without a word.  Opened it.  Gave it 
back.

"Thanks.  Sheriff Volney called me shortly after we were assigned to 
this case -- I believe you were in that meeting about the Erikson 
mutilation at the time -- and we spoke briefly, man-to-man."

"Man-to-man," she repeated, arching her eyebrows at him.

He shrugged and popped a sunflower seed in his mouth.  

The rental car was remarkably soundproof; the vague mumble of the 
motor and the wheels against the road did nothing to mask the faint 
noise of the hull clicking against Mulder's teeth ... and the soft sucking 
sound as he shifted the seed from one side of his mouth to the other ... 
and the barely audible popping as he cracked the seed gently, expertly.  
And then, that indescribable liquid whisper that meant that he was 
flipping open the cracked hull with his tongue, extracting the seed --

"The sheriff is a gentleman, Scully.  There were some things about this 
particular case that he didn't feel comfortable writing up in a report."

Scully found that she was still staring at him.  Surprised at herself, she 
shook her head to clear it,  and turned to watch the dark green highway 
signs whiz past.  

TEHTONKA - 5 MILES.  

She marshaled her thoughts with a firm hand and took a deep breath.  
Another.  The strange wave of arousal faded away as abruptly as it had 
started.

"I hope," she said, still not looking at him, "that the sheriff's 
gentlemanly reluctance to breach any sensitive subjects wasn't due to 
any religious or moral objections he might have."

"Actually, I believe that his reluctance is more due to the fact that 
Tehtonka is a very small town and practically the entire case file of the 
first murder was somehow leaked to the public.  Everything the sheriff's 
department knew, the local media knew.  And frankly, Sheriff Volney 
does not strike me as a man who likes pursuing an investigation with 
his pants around his ankles."

"Nice metaphor, Mulder."  Scully glanced over at him.  

Mulder took his attention off the road long enough to waggle his 
eyebrows at her.  "Who said it was a metaphor?"

She rolled her eyes and turned back to the window.  "I was under the 
impression that they had the leaks under control."

"Right," Mulder agreed.  "The sheriff got the leaks under control by 
keeping every new piece of information under lock and key.  Half his 
deputies don't know what the other half are doing, and none of them 
heard the interview with Greg Marks' sister.  Volney did that himself."

Incredulously, she cranked back around and stared at him.  "How the 
hell are they supposed to conduct any kind of effective investigation if 
only one man knows what's going *on*?"

Mulder shrugged.  "Like I said, Scully, it's a small town, and the sheriff 
is a stubborn man.  You read the file; Volney's been screaming for 
federal help since the day after the Gruber murder."

"Yes," Scully agreed dryly.  "Since the man refuses to use his own 
deputies, I expect the next logical step would be to go looking for some 
federal agents to do the work."

Mulder was shaking his head before she'd finished.  "Volney is an 
arrogant bastard, but you have to admit he had a point.  Nobody at the 
Kansas City field office was taking him seriously.  SAC Bauer was 
ready to come down here and kick his ass personally.  Face it, if 
Volney'd had help when he asked for it, Greg Marks and Marjorie Bailey 
might still be alive."

She leveled an eyebrow at Mulder.  "If he'd used his own officers 
instead of waiting for someone else to take care of it, they might have 
found the murderer themselves and we wouldn't be having this 
conversation."

"Maybe, maybe not.  They didn't have that much to work with, Scully."

"I don't have that much to work with, either," Scully informed him, 
letting a touch of ice creep into her tone.  "What else aren't you telling 
me?"

"The woman who found the first body --"

"Joanne Gruber?" she asked archly.

"Oooh, Scully," Mulder purred, "is the time-out over?"  He deftly 
picked the sunflower hulls from between his lips.  That soft, wet sound 
again.  A tiny flash of tongue.  Moisture glistening on his lower lip.  

Scully shivered, and gritted her teeth.  "No," she said, half to herself.

"Okay," he said.  "Joanne was interviewed on the Wichita news less 
than an hour after she was interviewed by Sheriff Volney.  Nobody 
seems to know how they got her name; the reporter, when asked, 
refused to name her source."

"Great."

"The reporter also got Joanne to admit that she didn't remember 
whether or not she had personally unlocked the front door of Lola 
Gruber's farmhouse, although she'd assured Volney that the door had 
been unlocked when she arrived."  He scratched under his chin again.  
"To make matters worse, a friend of Lola Gruber's told one of the 
sheriff's deputies that Lola was notoriously random about locking her 
doors, so there was no way of telling what actually happened."

"Which, if I remember correctly," Scully said, "was when he called for 
federal help the first time."

Mulder snorted.  "Yeah.  A lot of good that did him."  He popped 
another seed into his mouth.

Scully looked away, forcibly suppressing the twinge of arousal.  A 
feeling of cold dread flooded her stomach.  It was going to be one of 
those days.

One of *those* days.

Back during the first year that Scully was with Mulder -- with the 
X-Files, that is -- she'd started calling them Mulder-Awareness Days.  
They appeared out of nowhere and left just as quickly, a sort of bad 
hormonal joke that she had to endure as a consequence of being 
sexually inactive.

She'd had so many of those days by now that she'd jokingly catalogued 
the various levels of intensity.  Level One was a day when she'd catch 
herself staring at Mulder's ass, give herself a mental shake, and go on 
with life.  On Level Two days, Mulder's oral fixation became the focal 
point of her existence; she'd find herself hypnotized by the pencil-
chewing, the lip-chewing, and, of course, the damn sunflower seeds.  
Level Three days were tough to live through; she'd spend most of the 
day avoiding his touch; the slightest brush of his hand would be like 
touching a live wire.  Level Three days, to be honest, tended to send 
her home to cold showers and pints of Ben & Jerry's. 

"Scully?"  She turned to find Mulder frowning at her, concern creasing 
his forehead.  "You were spacing out on me for a minute there.  
Something wrong?"

"No, nothing."  She broke eye contact, a warm flush spreading over her 
neck and chest.

He gave the road momentary attention and looked back at her.  "Are 
you sure?"

"I'm sure."  

"You look kind of weird.  Are you feeling all right?"

"A little carsick, maybe."

"Need some air?"

"Yeah."  

Mulder obligingly switched on the vent, and cool air washed over her.  
She turned away and found herself watching his reflection in the 
passenger window, tracing the ghost of his face with her eyes.

She pulled her gaze away with an effort and sighed, shaking her head.

"Better?"

"Much.  Thanks."  

This was going to be one hell of a long day.

<X><X><X><X>

Chapter 2

936 Lakeshore Drive
5:32 PM

The house was yellow and low to the ground.  The man guarding the 
front porch was gray and built like a tank, sporting a thick steel-colored 
mustache and a nose like a car wreck.  He stepped forward before 
Mulder and Scully reached the stairs, glowering down at them with 
copper-colored eyes.  "You the FBI agents?"

Scully pulled her ID out of her pocket.  "Agents Scully and Mulder," 
she said, holding it up for inspection; Mulder followed suit an instant 
later.  "And you are ...?"

"Sheriff Michael Volney."  He motioned with his hand as he turned 
toward the door.  "Come on in.  Watch out, the boards are a bit 
warped."

Scully climbed the three steps with appropriate caution, Mulder 
following behind.  As they reached the top of the stairs his hand settled 
at the small of her back, just like it always did.

She shivered.

"Cold, Scully?" Mulder murmured, practically at her ear.

She shook her head and sped up, pulling away from his touch.

Volney was just inside, holding the door open for them.  "About damn 
time you two showed up," he growled, puffing humid, salami-scented 
breath directly into Scully's face.  "We've been waiting all day."

Scully tried not to flinch away.  "Sheriff, I apologize for any 
inconvenience, but we took the earliest available flight from --"

"Sorry is one thing, Agent Scully, but I've got lab people all the way in 
from Wichita."  Volney leaned in to emphasize his point, his salami 
breath fluffing his mustache.  "They've been here all damn day, on a 
Sunday, and every single one of them has a family to get back to, and 
they can't do that until the coroner takes the body back to Leotie.  
Which, by the way, she would love to do sometime this week, if you 
two would just --"

Mulder stepped up behind Scully, the hem of his trench coat brushing 
against her calf.  He was so close behind her, she could feel the heat 
from his body all along her back.  Her skin began to tingle as though 
she'd stuck her finger in a light socket.  "Excuse me, Sheriff," he said, 
"but my partner and I were called in on extremely short notice.   We 
appreciate the courtesy of keeping the crime scene largely intact for 
us --"

"I sure hope you do," Volney snapped, taking a step forward, "because 
I was promised federal assistance in this matter almost four days ago.  It 
took a third murder in this community to inspire the Bureau to keep that 
promise, and that fact does not make me a happy man.  We have better 
things to--"

Claustrophobia reared up and clutched at Scully's throat.  "All right," 
she announced, pushing out from between the two men.  "Sheriff, the 
file we received didn't include a copy of the witness deposition.  If you 
could brief us on the details of how the body was discovered ..."

"Hmph."  Volney chewed on his mustache and squinted at her as 
though gauging her authority.  Apparently she passed muster, because 
the sheriff shrugged and complied.  "We got the call about six P.M., 
Saturday.  A friend of Marjorie's, name of Karen Schaeffer, came over 
and couldn't get an answer at the door, so she looked in through the 
bedroom window and saw Marjorie just lying there.  Called us from her 
car phone."

"Was the door locked?" Mulder asked.

Volney glared, and Scully remembered the controversy on the news 
over whether or not the door in the Gruber case had been locked.  
"Yes," he gritted out.  "We checked."

Mulder shrugged and went back to nosing around the dead woman's 
living room, his hands clasped behind him like a rookie cop who has to 
remind himself not to touch anything.  Volney glowered at him for a 
moment and turned to face Scully.  "No sign of forced entry or burglary.  
'Course," he added, indicating the cluttered room with a nod of his 
head, "God only knows what all's supposed to be in here.  Hard to tell." 

"Have they determined the time of death?" Scully asked

"Oh, sometime Friday night is what they're thinking.  Nine, ten o'clock.  
Gives me the creeps, truth to tell.  Ten o'clock I'm home watching the 
news and waiting for my daughter to come home from the movies, and 
across town a woman's gettin' murdered.  Coulda been my kid."  He 
blew out a long breath, fluttering his mustache, and cocked an eye at 
Scully.  "You're the medical one, right?  You wanna take a look?"

"Of course.  You said the body was in the bedroom?"

"Sure is."  Volney crossed the living room, waving at a tiny hallway.  
"Right this way," he said, wrinkling that unfortunate nose.  "Might 
want to hold your breath."

Scully glanced up at Mulder.  He looked back down at her, reading the 
implicit question.  "You go ahead, Scully.  I'll be there in a minute."

<X><X><X><X>

Mulder waited until he was sure that Scully wasn't coming back, and 
took a quick survey of the room.  A shelf full of Reader's Digest 
Condensed Books, a small herd of little china cows, Princess Diana 
dolls, a set of Elvis plates, throw pillows embroidered with the images of 
Disney characters, ugly glassware everywhere ... it looked like the 
Home Shopping Channel had exploded.

He walked over to a little curio cabinet and gazed through the glass 
doors at a collection of thimbles.  Each thimble apparently represented a 
certain state; the little area for each one was neatly labeled with the 
state's name.  Rhode Island was missing.

Continuing past the thimbles, he found himself face-to-face with a 
blonde, surprised-looking Cabbage Patch Kid of indeterminate gender, 
hanging from the wall by a small cord around its neck.  Mulder's lips 
twitched upward.  

"Hey," he informed the doll, "who says culture in the Midwest is 
dead?"

"DEAD!" 

Mulder jumped back a step and stared at the Cabbage Patch Kid.  The 
Kid stared back.

"DEAD!" the voice repeated, and whistled.  This time Mulder tracked 
the voice by slowly turning toward the kitchen.  The kitchen lights were 
off, the saloon-style doors segmenting the shadows inside.  "Hello?" 
he asked, pitching his voice to carry as he edged to the side of the 
doorway.

"HELLO!"

Whoever it was -- whatever it was -- it smelled.  

He eased his semiautomatic out of its holster, holding it next to his 
shoulder with the muzzle pointed up, and gingerly pushed one of the 
doors open, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.

The same voice emitted a loud scream.  "AAAAWK!"

Mulder's eyes finally dilated properly, and that was when he saw the 
birdcage next to the refrigerator.

A big damn birdcage.

With a big damn bird.

It was a parrot.  A gray one, with a blood-red tail.  Mulder crossed the 
room as he holstered his weapon, and stared at the bird.  The bird 
stared right back at him, tilting its head to one side, then the other.  
Apparently, neither one of them could believe what they were seeing.

Mulder reached out to tap on the cage, took another look at that 
vicious beak and turned it into a little wave instead.  "Hey there, birdie."

"HELLO!"  The parrot fluffed its wings and blinked.  "WHO ARE 
YOU?"

Mulder glanced over his shoulder, feeling self-conscious.  He 
considered briefly, shrugged, flipped his ID open and held it up in his 
best G-man style.  "Mulder.  FBI."

"MULDER FBI!  MULDER FBI!"  The parrot let out an ear-piercing 
shriek and flapped its wings with gusto.  "HELLO!"  And without 
further ado, the parrot burst into song.  "WHEN THE MOON HITS 
YOUR EYE LIKE A BIG-A PIZZA PIE THAT'S AMORE ..."

Mulder's jaw dropped.  

"WHEN THE WORLD SEEMS TO SHINE LIKE-A YOU'VE HAD TOO 
MUCH WINE THAT'S AMORE ..."

"Holy cow," Mulder muttered, grinning from ear to ear.  "Scully is just 
going to *love* this."

<X><X><X><X>

The corpse was female, Caucasian, in her late twenties; about five-foot-
four, one hundred sixty pounds.  Just forty-eight hours dead.  She was 
dressed neatly in a nightgown made of oatmeal-colored flannel, fuzzy 
socks, and, as Scully noted when she pushed aside the unbuttoned 
sides of the nightgown, simple cotton underwear with little rosebuds 
printed on them.  The corpse was lying face-up on the twin bed, mouth 
slack and tongue protruding slightly, arms at her sides, hands already 
enclosed in paper bags.

There were no lacerations, no puncture wounds or gunshot wounds, no 
blood splashed about.  There was only one mark on the body: a huge 
scarlet blemish on the chest and abdomen, running from collarbone to 
pelvis, fading out along the sides like bloody fingers trailing along the 
woman's ribcage.  The skin colored by this blemish was slightly 
roughened, the epidermis flaking off at Scully's latex-gloved touch.

What was really intriguing, though, was the appearance of the torso.  
Scully's first, irrational thought was that someone had already 
performed the autopsy; the entire trunk seemed to be collapsed, 
flattened, as though it were a football that had been punctured and 
stepped on during a particularly rough game.  When Scully prodded at 
the cool skin of the abdomen, it sank beneath her fingers.

The prodding caused a tiny hint of air to ooze out of the corpse.  Scully 
caught a whiff of it and was violently reminded of an autopsy she'd 
done a few weeks earlier, a near-evisceration.  All the organs and their 
contents had been mangled together into a soupy mix, but the wound 
had bizarrely suctioned itself back together again and held the goop 
inside like the world's most disgusting jelly doughnut.  This smelled like 
that -- like bile and gastric acid and vomitus and feces, all mixed 
together -- but this scent was lower, subtler, an olfactory clue rather 
than the thing itself.

Scully found herself looking at the dead woman's underwear, at the pink 
rosebuds.  Rosebuds that, if Scully's guess was right, nobody besides 
Marjorie Bailey had seen since the day they were purchased.  
Something she thought was pretty, maybe.  They looked like something 
a little girl would wear.

Death and dead bodies, Scully was used to, could deal with; the 
rosebuds, however, had a kind of mute pathos that struck at her.  She 
blocked it off, drew a wide black magic-marker line to separate the 
curious pathologist from the horrified human being.

"... just this week," the coroner was saying.  "They're all like that."  

"Hmm?"  Scully looked up, trying to figure out what she'd missed.  The 
local coroner, Jean Denison, was a tall, bony-looking woman, about 
fifty years old, with a thick Okie accent and big hair.  Dressed in jeans 
and a T-shirt under her lab coat, she struck Scully as a woman in denial 
about her age; to add to that impression, Dr. Denison had been 
chattering at Scully nonstop, apparently assuming she had found a new 
best friend.

Dr. Denison was much mistaken.  Unfortunately, Scully was in no 
position to set her straight; she would be dealing with this woman for 
several days and could not afford to antagonize her at the outset.

"Not a scratch on any of 'em," the coroner continued, leaning in closer.  
This was not news to Scully, but she let it go.  "I can't be positive until 
we open this one up, but I'm pretty sure the viscera are missing, just like 
in the others."

"Doctor Denison --"

"Oh, call me Jean, honey."  Jean leaned over, lowering her voice 
confidentially.  "I tell you, Agent Scully, I hope to hell you and your 
partner can help us out, because I have *never* seen anything like this 
before.  Well, except for the two other ones we got stuck in the cooler 
over in Leotie, you know what I mean, we got a bunch of 'em but that 
don't make this one any more normal."

Scully looked up at her and forced a smile.  Sheriff Volney had left, 
moments ago, to check on the fingerprint experts who were smoking 
cigarettes outside the perimeter tape, waiting to begin their work; Scully 
was stuck with the present company.  It was a relief to be without 
Mulder for a few minutes, but this woman was really beginning to grate 
on her nerves.  "Dr. Denison --"

"Jean, honey; call me Jean."  The older woman grinned engagingly at 
Scully, revealing a set of remarkably large teeth, stained yellow with 
nicotine.  

"Jean."  Scully's own smile was making her jaw ache.  "Was the 
nightgown buttoned or unbuttoned when the body was discovered?"

"Buttoned.  The pictures are still being developed, but we've got the 
Polaroids around here somewhere if you want to see ..."

"Yes, please."  That fake smile was slipping; to cover it up, Scully 
glanced down at the bedside table while Jean ruffled through an 
envelope.  The table, unlike everything else in the house, was relatively 
free of clutter; the only things on it were a watch, a pack of cigarettes, a 
lighter, and a photograph in a heavy silver picture frame.  Curious, 
Scully leaned in for a closer look at the picture:  a candid shot of a 
handsome man in his late thirties, holding a drink by a Christmas tree.  It 
looked like something from an office Christmas party; certainly nothing 
that rated such an expensive looking frame.

"These are the ones you want, I think."  A pair of Polaroids were 
abruptly shoved into Scully's line of vision.  Startled, Scully looked up; 
Jean was standing over her, her hand extended in offering.  "Well, go 
on, honey, they won't bite you."

"Thank you."  Scully accepted the Polaroids.  She gestured at the 
picture in the silver frame.  "Who's this?"

"Oh *that*.  That's Jim Taymor, Marjorie's boss."

"Was he Marjorie's ..."  Scully couldn't think of an appropriately 
delicate term.  "... boyfriend?"

"Her WHAT?"  Jean let out a startled shriek of laughter.  "No, no, 
honey, Jim's married."

"Could they have been having an affair?"

"Oh no.  No, I don't think so.  Not to speak ill of the dead ..." Jean's 
eyes flickered briefly towards the corpse.  "... but Marjorie really wasn't 
Jim's type."

Scully followed Jean's eyes.  True enough; even allowing for the 
discoloration and distortion that had come with death, it was obvious 
that Marjorie Bailey had never won any beauty contests.  The thought 
made Scully feel bizarrely disloyal, as though she had been listening to 
unflattering gossip about a close friend.  She looked involuntarily at the 
rosebuds again and shut her eyes.

<*Not to speak ill ...*>

There was a light knock on the door frame; Scully looked up to find 
Mulder standing just outside the door, his eyes crinkled in amusement.  
"Scully," he said, "you are not going to believe what I found in the 
kitchen."

"Are you going to tell me, or are we going to play a round of Twenty 
Questions?"

Jean's eyes lit up as she spotted Mulder.  "Oh, you must have found 
the parrot."  She strode to Mulder, stripping the latex glove off her right 
hand and extending it toward him for a handshake.  "Jean Denison.  I'm 
the Medical Examiner."

"Special Agent Mulder."  He shook her hand, although the look on his 
face told Scully that he was irritated at this woman for spoiling his fun.  
"I take it you've met my partner.  And the parrot."

"Are you kidding?  That's all we listened to for *hours* until Sheriff 
Mike had the idea to put it in the kitchen.  Nearly bit him twice, he told 
me, and it *did* bite that young lady deputy of his.  Sharon, or 
Shannon, whatever her name is."  Jean waved one hand in a distracted 
manner.  Fiddle-dee-dee.  "Sheriff Mike has been threatening to shoot 
the damn bird all day and I don't half blame him."

"Sheriff Mike?" Mulder asked politely.

"You met him, Volney.  He lets me call him Sheriff Mike as a kind of a 
pet name, I guess.  He acts all gruff, but he's a big teddy bear at heart."  
Jean rolled her eyes heavenward.  "You men.  You think if you act all 
macho nobody'll notice you're human, but what you don't know is that 
women can tell what's underneath."  She hadn't released her hold on 
Mulder's hand yet, and as her eyes flicked over him she smiled coyly.  
"I'll bet you're plenty human, aren't you?"

"The jury's still out on that."  Mulder's smile was strained.  His eyes 
flickered from the middle-aged coroner towards Scully, his gaze holding 
hers for a moment, and she fought down laughter.  The message 
couldn't be any clearer if he'd held up a big cartoony sign reading 
HELP.  "Uh ... what were you saying about the parrot?"

"Well, we don't know what we're gonna do with the damn thing," Jean 
continued, still smiling that big-toothed smile at Mulder.  "The next of 
kin lives out of state and won't be here for three days.  Can't just leave 
the bird at the crime scene once we go, but nobody wants to take him 
home with them.  Hell, I can't blame 'em, can you?"

Oh, this was delicious.  Scully gave in to that smile and let it spread 
across her face; if she'd tried to keep it in any longer, her jaw muscles 
would surely have snapped.  Poor Mulder.  So uncomfortable.  So 
trapped.  She let the situation continue, just to see how he'd manage to 
get out of it.  

"Ahem."  Sheriff Volney was standing in the doorway, scratching his 
ear.  

Jean released Mulder and turned her bright-eyed attention on the 
sheriff.  "Well, hello there, Sheriff Mike!  We were just talking about 
you."

The sheriff ignored her, focusing on Scully.  "You about done in here?  
The fingerprint people want to start dusting the place."  A pair of lab 
technicians flanked the big man, peering around him like children 
examining a stranger from behind their mother.  "That is, if we can haul 
off the body."

All eyes went to Scully.  

Scully stood up, peeling off her gloves.  "Yes, I'm finished here."

"Good."  Volney moved aside and ushered the lab technicians through 
the door.

Mulder glanced over at Scully and tipped his head towards the door, 
raising his eyebrows slightly in a question.  She nodded slightly and 
followed him into the living room.

"What do you think?" he asked in a low voice, coming to a halt and 
glancing back at the doorway.  "Any ideas?"

"I don't know, Mulder.  I'm going to drive to Leotie with Dr. Denison 
and get the autopsy done before dinner, so while you have all this free 
time it might be a good idea to get an interview with the woman who 
found the body."

He nodded.  "Anything in particular you're looking for?"

"You might want to ask her about the victim's social life," she said.  
"Try and find out about a man named Jim Taymor."

Mulder rummaged in his pocket and came up with a pen; another 
pocket yielded a crumpled receipt.  He smoothed the receipt on one big 
hand, turned it back-side-up, and poised the pen over it.  "Is that just 
with an A or with an A-Y?"

"A-Y, I think."  For some reason she found herself looking at the way 
the base of his thumb curved into his wrist.  The strong line of the 
metacarpal bones along the back of his hand.  The way the muscle 
along the side flexed as he scribbled the name on the receipt.  The 
texture of his skin.

She blinked, and concentrated very hard on her left shoe.

"... over dinner, okay?"

It dawned on her that he was asking some kind of question.  She looked 
back up.  "What?"

"I said, we can compare notes over dinner, if that's all right with you."  

"Oh."  Scully blinked again.  "Yeah.  That's fine."

Mulder's brow creased.  "Are you sure you're all right?"

Just then, Jean Denison emerged from the bedroom, patting delicately 
at her hair.  "All right, the boys from the removal service'll be here in a 
few minutes to take care of the body."  She focused on Scully.  "Are 
you gonna need a ride?  Or ..."  Her gaze shifted to Mulder, roaming 
over his body before focusing on his face.  "Or is ... Agent Mulder 
coming along?"

Mulder shifted his weight uncomfortably.  "I ..."  He looked down at 
Scully, desperation in his eyes.

Scully came to the rescue.  "Unfortunately, Agent Mulder has to 
interview Karen Shaeffer tonight, so he won't be coming along."

"Too bad."  Jean raked Mulder with her eyes again, far from subtly.  

"Yeah," Mulder said, edging behind Scully.  "It's a real shame."

Scully smothered a grin.  Served him right. 

Jean shrugged.  "All right, then, honey, I'm gonna go get the car 
started.  It's the blue Chevy."

"I'll be right there."  Scully turned to face Mulder, intending to say a 
quick goodbye and follow Jean out the door.  Her plan, however, did 
not cover her reaction to finding Mulder inches away, his eyes 
searching her face.  

She would have said something, but for some reason she couldn't 
remember how to breathe.

Oh God.  What was he doing?

"Scully."  His voice was a low rumble, resonating in her bones.  His 
eyes never left hers as he leaned towards her, impossibly close already 
and getting closer every moment...

OhGodohGodohGod --

Unconsciously, irresistably, she swayed forward a few millimeters.  

Mulder veered slightly to one side, his cheek brushing against a wisp 
of her hair, his breath caressing her ear for a tantalizing moment before 
he spoke.  "I think we should take the parrot."

It took a moment for the words to work their way through the hormonal 
haze obscuring her thoughts -- a moment for the realization to kick in 
that he wasn't going to kiss her, after all; a moment to maneuver her 
thoughts back on track and for her to assimilate what he'd just said.

She pulled back, staring up at him in openmouthed shock.  "Excuse 
me?"

"I think we should take the parrot with us."  Mulder had that innocent 
look on his face, but she wasn't buying it for a moment.

"Mulder, I don't -- you just can't --"  She stopped herself, and took a 
deep breath.  "We're not taking the parrot with us."

"Scully --"

"Forget it."  She could feel her face getting hot from embarrassment and 
anger, and it made her even more pissed off.  

"Just listen to me for a minute."  He put a hand on her shoulder, 
distracting her enough to let him continue.  "Scully, that parrot may be 
a witness to the murder."

She waited for him to crack, to smile and admit he was joking.  He didn't.  

"Mulder.  It's a *bird*."

"Not just any bird, Scully, a *parrot*."  He grinned, looking 
insufferably knowing and smug.  Scully couldn't decide whether she 
wanted to laugh in his face or punch him in the stomach.

"I know it's a parrot, Mulder.  You already told me that."

"Think, Scully."  He squeezed her shoulder to emphasize his point.  
"This is the only house pet on the planet that can mimic the spoken 
word.  If it heard something on the night of the murder --"

She jerked away.  "Do you have any idea how long it takes to teach a 
parrot to say even a simple phrase?  There are tapes to play for them 
that repeat a phrase over and over and over again, just so their owners 
don't have to spend all their free time saying 'Polly want a cracker.'"

He grinned again.  "Believe me, Scully, this is one smart parrot."

"No matter how smart, the chances of a parrot hearing something a 
single time and being able to repeat it later are ... are infinitesimal."  
Despite her intentions to keep this conversation quiet, Scully could 
hear her voice getting louder.  She didn't care.  "It's just not going to 
happen."

"Scully --"

"Dammit, Mulder --!"

"MULDER FBI!  MULDER FBI!  AAAWK!"

Scully's head swung toward the voice in the kitchen, her eyes widening 
in disbelief.  She took a deep breath before she slowly turned her head 
to look up at Mulder, and found him grinning down at her.  His smart-
ass grin.  The really, really insufferable one.  The one he always got 
when he was right.

Alone in the kitchen, the parrot began to sing again.  "DANKE SHÖEN 
... DARLING ..."

Scully chewed on the inside of her cheek for a long moment.  "All 
right," she finally said, her jaw clenched.  "I admit ... you just ... 
might ... have a point."

"Gee, don't go out on a limb for my sake, Scully."

She gave him the eyebrow.  "Don't press your luck, Mulder."

<X><X><X><X>

Chapter 3

Bob's Diner
9:47 PM

"Is that all you're going to eat?"  Scully watched her partner wolf down 
a slice of apple pie a la mode.  Correction:  his third slice of apple pie a la 
mode.  The first piece had arrived at nine-twenty-seven P.M.; it had 
been gone in approximately thirty seconds.  The second piece had 
vanished in under a minute.  By comparison, Mulder was positively 
dawdling over this one.

He grinned across the table at her.  "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, 
Scully.  This is great pie."

"I thought your usual for pie binges was sweet potato, not apple."

He paused, his fork suspended in midair.  "Where'd you hear that?"

She shrugged.  "It's a rumor."

He looked at her suspiciously for a moment and went back to shoveling 
pie into his mouth.

She shook her head in wonder.  "I suppose that a lecture about the 
questionable nutritional value of your meal would be in order, but I get 
the feeling that you know exactly what you're doing and simply don't 
care.  Throwing caution to the wind, as it were."

"Relax, Scully.  We're in a little diner in the middle of Kansas.  I'm just 
sticking with something I'm sure they'll get right -- as compared to, say, 
a chef salad."  Mulder gestured toward Scully's plate.  The chef salad -- 
oil and vinegar delivered on the side -- was woeful-looking.  Scully had 
been picking through it, hoping to find something edible, and was 
almost ready to give up.  "Although I'm sure the parrot will appreciate 
any leftovers.  They do eat that sort of thing, don't they?"

"It's possible.  Although I've heard that this one likes a bitten-off finger 
now and then as a snack."

"Ha, ha.  Oh, that reminds me --"  Mulder leaned sideways and 
rummaged in his pocket for a moment.  He came up with a key on a 
clunky metal key ring.  "Here."  He slid it across the table at her.  "Room 
one-twenty-one in the Mo-Z Inn, right next door.  Knock yourself out."

"Thanks."

"The parrot's back in my room.  I don't think he's gonna say anything 
useful without some prompting, so he'll be all right alone."  He took 
another bite of pie.  "Incidentally," he said with his mouth full, "Karen 
Schaeffer told me the parrot's name."

"Do tell."  

Mulder held up a finger in a wordless 'wait' as he swallowed.  "Guido."

"Nice name."

"Incidentally, Guido has quite the repertoire of Dean Martin songs.  
Sounds just like Dino, only with a head cold.  You get used to it after a 
while."

Scully gave him the eyebrow.  "Mulder, you do realize that Guido will 
be *your* roommate, don't you?"

"I've been meaning to discuss that with you."  Mulder leaned back, the 
red vinyl of the booth seat squeaking at his movement.  "Marjorie 
Bailey's sister will be here on Wednesday.  That means that Guido is 
staying with us for tonight, tomorrow night, and Tuesday night."

Scully gave up on her salad, sighed, and pushed it aside.  "That means 
that you'll have a smelly roommate named Guido for three days," she 
said wryly.  "Must be a dream come true.  Congratulations."

"Yeah.  Thanks."  He waved the joke aside.  "I was wondering if you'd 
consider trading off nights."

"Forget it, Mulder.  The parrot was your idea.  You wanted him, you got 
him, you keep him."  Scully folded her arms across her chest and glared 
at her partner.  

Mulder shrugged mildly and took another bite of his pie.  The vanilla 
ice cream had melted somewhat, and a milky drop trickled lazily across 
his lower lip; he caught it with a single swipe of his tongue.

And, apparently to remove any residual stickiness, he ran his tongue 
over that spot again.  

Scully stared.  

Certainly he couldn't know what he was doing to her.  It wasn't 
intentional.  It couldn't be intentional.  Mulder was preoccupied with his 
next bite of pie, without an iota of attention being paid to the abruptly 
aroused woman sitting across the table from him.

This was definitely a Level Two day.  God.  Nothing to do but grit her 
teeth and hang on.

"So."  Mulder's voice snapped Scully back to attention.  "Tell me about 
the autopsy."  She guiltily jerked her gaze away from his lower lip, 
looking out across the booths of the nearly empty diner.  Mulder 
misinterpreted the gesture, and shook his head.  "Don't worry, there's 
nobody close enough to hear.  I want details.  Tell me."

Scully sighed.  "Mulder, there's really nothing new to tell."

"Then go back over the old stuff.  Red patch on the torso?"

She nodded.  "Just like the others."

"Wounds, signs of restraints or a struggle?"

"None."

"And the internal organs --?"

"All gone."  Scully shrugged.  "I took a close look at the other bodies.  
They're all the same.  Completely hollowed out."

Mulder considered this.  "And there's nothing different about this 
corpse at all?"

"They found some kind of dried residue on the outside of the mouth; 
we're sending a sample to the lab in Kansas City for analysis."  Scully's 
eyes slipped briefly to Mulder's mouth, where a smear of ice cream 
traced a comma around the curve of his lower lip.  She looked away.  
"That's the only sign of anything outside the body."

"Well, whoever the killer is, he's certainly tidy."  He ate the last bite of 
his pie and waved the empty fork at Scully.  "Any damage done to the 
surrounding muscle tissue?"

"A little here, a little there.  The esophageal membranes in particular 
seem to have been scalded away."

Mulder played with the little pool of melted ice cream on his plate, 
stirring the crust-crumbs into it with the tines of his fork.  "Some kind of 
acid, maybe?"

She rubbed the bridge of her nose.  "Maybe."  It had been a short 
autopsy, but a maddening one, and hearing the same questions out 
loud that she'd been asking silently was giving her a headache.  "I 
doubt it, though; there would have been some third-degree burns on 
the mouth and esophagus, and unless the victim was anesthetized, she 
would have put up some kind of a fight before enough acid could be 
poured down her throat to do this kind of damage."  She sighed.  "And 
the tox screen didn't come up with any sign of anesthetics."

"Maybe ..."  The tone of his voice had changed, and Scully glanced up 
to see Mulder gazing off into space. 

"Mulder," she said, her voice sharp.  "What is it?"

He twirled his fork thoughtfully for a moment, then tapped it against the 
plate with a scratchy clinking sound.  "There have been documented 
cases of partial spontaneous combustion ..."

"Oh, no."

"Wait, Scully, just hear me out."  Mulder leaned forward, resting his 
elbows on the table, and lowered his voice almost conspiratorially.  
"Spontaneous combustion, almost by definition, is a phenomenon in 
which a body burns itself from the inside out.  In many cases not only 
are the surroundings left untouched, but the victim's clothing is neither 
burnt nor singed, and in many cases parts of the victim's own body 
remain perfectly preserved."

"I see where you're going with this," Scully said, mirroring his pose and 
lowering her own voice.  This was, after all, a small town.  "You're 
saying that this could be some kind of weird local variant on 
spontaneous combustion, a variant that only affects the soft tissue of 
the viscera and not the muscle tissue surrounding it."

"Exactly."  Mulder grinned, and waved his hand as though imagining a 
marquee.  "Spontaneous visceral combustion."

Scully took a deep breath.  "I have several objections to that theory."

"Fire away."  His mouth twisted in a smile.  "No pun intended."

She gave him her stop-screwing-around face.  "First of all, there have 
been no proven cases of spontaneous combustion."

He shook his head sagely.  "Ah, but there have been a great many 
cases in which there was no other answer.  And when all logical 
answers have been disproved ..."

Scully ignored him.  "Secondly, even if I accept that such a thing is 
possible, there is no physical evidence of any burning.  If I remember 
my X-Files correctly, cases characterized as spontaneous combustion 
usually leave a ... a slag covering of some kind on the ceiling directly 
above the body.  There was no such evidence in any of these cases, 
Mulder."

"Is there a third objection?"  Mulder glanced down at his plate, trailing 
a finger through the tiny puddle of melted ice cream.

"Yes."  She stopped, completely forgetting the third objection as 
Mulder casually sucked the ice cream off the tip of his finger with a 
soft, wet sound; she watched, mesmerized, as he repeated the process.  
Swirling the finger in the melted ice cream.  Lifting his hand.  Parting his 
lips ...

"Scully?"

"Hmm?"

"What's the third objection?"

For a panicky moment, she couldn't even remember what he was talking 
about.  Hoping to cover, she shook her head and waved a dismissive 
hand.  "It's not important.  What'd you find out from Karen Schaeffer, 
besides the name of the parrot?"

"Some personal information.  Karen was supposed to meet Marjorie so 
they could drive to Leotie for dinner; that obviously didn't go as 
planned."  He shrugged.  "Marjorie doesn't seem to have had that many 
friends.  Sort of a recluse."

"Speaking of Marjorie's social life, did you ask Karen about Jim 
Taymor?"

Mulder pulled a notebook out of his pocket, glancing down at the 
indecipherable scrawls that lurched across the page.  "I asked, but all 
she came up with was that he was Marjorie's boss."  He examined her 
expression.  "Expecting another answer?"

"No, not exactly.  Jean Denison already told me about their work 
relationship.  I'm wondering, though, if there was some kind of ... 
personal relationship between them."

Now Mulder looked curious.  The notebook went back in his pocket.  
"Based on what?  Something else Jean Denison said?"

"No, actually, I think there might have been something going on that 
Jean didn't know about."  Scully paused to consider her statement.  
"There is a picture of Jim Taymor in a heavy silver frame on Marjorie's 
night stand.  He's a married man.  I believe that there may be a 
possibility that the two of them might have been having an affair."

"And this relates ... how?"

"I'm not sure yet."  Scully shrugged.  "Just a lead I think we should 
follow up."

"Hmm."  Mulder studied her thoughtfully.  "You have a theory, don't 
you?"

Scully took a sip of iced tea and tried to ignore him.

"You have a theory, I can tell."  He tilted his head nearly sideways, 
trying to catch her eyes.  "Scuh-lleeee."  He grinned boyishly.  "Come 
on.  I showed you mine, now you show me yours."

She half-smiled at him.  "Gee, with a repertoire of sweet-talk like that, I 
can see why all the girls talk about you in homeroom."

"I got a million of 'em.  Come on, Scully."

"This is just a preliminary theory," she temporized.

"Don't tease me.  Spill it."

"All right."  She closed her eyes briefly, bracing herself.  "There was a 
case in London's Old Bailey in 1954; a pharmacist named Arthur Ford 
poisoned two women who worked for him.  Apparently he put the 
poison into pieces of candy and gave them to the women; the women 
died within a few hours and the autopsies showed that the internal 
organs had been literally burned away by the drug."

Mulder considered it, and nodded.  "Sounds like a possible explanation.  
What was the drug?"

Scully's mouth twisted sourly.  "Cantharidin."  She looked at him, and 
waited.

It took a moment for the reference to filter through Mulder's brain, but 
when it did, his jaw dropped.  "Cantharidin?  SPANISH FLY?"

Scully just looked at him, expressionless.

Mulder threw his head back and burst out laughing.

"Mulder, it's not that funny."

He attempted to control himself, settled down into a broad smirk, and 
brought his eyes back level with Scully's.  She raised an eyebrow.  That 
was all it took; his lips twitched and all of a sudden he was laughing 
again.  "Oh, Scully," he managed, "you should see the look on your 
face."

Scully was not amused.  "In the London case," she continued stoically, 
as though Mulder were not still chortling and wiping tears from his 
eyes, "the pharmacist was apparently trying to seduce the two women, 
counting on the rumored aphrodisiac effects of cantharidin to assist 
him in the matter.  He took some of the drug himself, although for some 
reason he survived to be tried for manslaughter."

Mulder finally stopped laughing, although a smile kept threatening to 
break out around the edges of the fist he had pressed loosely against 
his mouth.  "All right," he said, "let me get this straight.  You're saying 
that this organ displacement or disintegration or whatever it turns out 
to be could be caused by ... cantharidin?"  The corners of his lips 
twitched involuntarily upwards at the word.  

Scully sighed deeply.  "Mulder, if you're not going to take this 
seriously, there's really no point in continuing this discussion."

"No, no, I'm listening, I swear."  Mulder put on his best attentive 
expression, lacing his fingers together in a prayer-like posture.  "Go 
on."

She lifted both eyebrows.  "If you so much as smile, I'm out of here."

"I promise to be on my best behavior."  Straight-faced, he traced an X 
on his lapel.  "Cross my heart."

"Fine."  Scully reluctantly returned to the topic.  "The corpse I 
examined today is similar to the ones in the 1954 case in a number of 
ways; primarily due to the intense congestion of blood in the genital 
area --" she shot a suspicious look at Mulder, but he remained 
pokerfaced and wide-eyed, "-- and of course the apparent 
disintegration of all the soft tissue of the organs."

Mulder continued to watch Scully, and his unwavering attention was 
starting to make her a little uncomfortable.  He had his elbows propped 
on the table, his hands hovering near his chin -- one hand curled in a 
loose fist and the other curled around it.  His clear storm-colored eyes 
were focused earnestly on her face, and he was chewing lightly on one 
thumb.  It was making her very uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable was not quite the word to describe it.  The right word 
was flitting behind that brick wall in Scully's mind, she could sense it 
back there, but she refused to peek through the chinks in the wall to get 
a look at it.

"There are some differences ..."  She wished he'd look away.  "In the 
case of cantharidin, there would be necrosis of the esophageal mucous 
membranes, but in this case the membranes have been completely eaten 
away."  He was still looking at her, his teeth clicking slightly against the 
side of his thumbnail.  Scully was starting to think that this unrelenting 
stare might suffocate her.  "If it was a traditional form of cantharidin 
poisoning, it would have taken over an hour for the victims to die, and 
we probably would have found some bloody vomitus nearby, possibly 
bloody fecal matter, something.  In this case, however all four victims 
seem to have had an instantaneous death with no sign of a struggle or 
a drop of fluid misplaced."

Mulder continued to look at her.

"I'm finished, Mulder."

"Can I ask one thing?"

"Please do."

He leaned his chin on his hands.  "Where would someone find Spanish 
fly in Tehtonka, Kansas?"

Scully shrugged.  "Maybe they didn't find it in town.  Maybe they 
drove to Wichita.  Maybe somebody has an uncle who knows 
somebody in the business.  That's not the point, Mulder."

"I just thought it might come in handy to know where to shop."  His 
eyes were full of mischief.  "Unless you by some chance have a little 
baggie of cantharidin tucked away in your suitcase..."

"Mulder."

"I'd lend you some of mine, but I forgot it in my medicine cabinet back 
in DC.  Darn the luck --"

"All right, Mulder; that's it."  Scully slid out of the booth, her heels 
slamming firmly on the floor; she pulled her trench coat off the seat and 
shrugged into it with quick, brisk movements.  "Obviously you're not 
able to take this seriously right now.  I have things to do.  I'm going to 
go do them.  I will see you later."

"Scully --"

She caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass door as she walked 
out, but she didn't look back.

<X><X><X><X>

The Mo-Z Inn
Room 121

It was a room much like any of the thousands of others she'd slept in; 
beige paint, rust-brown carpeting, a thin machine-quilted synthetic 
coverlet on the bed almost exactly matching the color of the carpet.  An 
empty bookshelf hung sadly on the wall between the window and the 
bed, gathering nothing more literary than dust; a battered dresser with a 
television set bolted to it was jammed up against the opposite wall with 
a flat-cushioned excuse for an armchair next to it, ensuring that nobody 
inclined to sit in the armchair would actually be able to see the 
television.  

The room had the stuffy smell of rented air, of faint cigarette smoke and 
other people's bodies and the leathery smell of luggage.  Scully hated 
that smell.  She'd smelled it too often.

The night sky rumbled again, lacing the heavy clouds with flickering 
lightning.  There was no rain, and almost no wind, although a sudden 
cold gust rattled the windows as Scully opened them, hoping enough 
of a breeze would circulate to freshen the air in her room.  With any 
luck, it wouldn't rain for at least another hour, and she could have fresh 
air before she went to bed.

She toured the room as if it were a crime scene, turning back the tightly 
tucked covers on the bed to examine the sheets, rubbing the edge of 
her shoe against the grain of the carpet to check for insufficient 
vacuuming.  Not bad.  The bathroom seemed clean; it smelled of bleach, 
but bleach was much preferable to mildew.  She ran the water in the 
shower experimentally, and found that the water pressure was strong 
and the shower head was adjustable.  Not bad at all.  

There were, unfortunately, no towels.

As Scully sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, explaining the towel 
situation to the guy at the front desk, she noticed that something else 
was missing.  Her luggage.  

Great.  Mulder had dumped her luggage in his room right along with his, 
again.

She hung up and walked over to the connecting door.  She hadn't heard 
him come in, but she knocked, just in case.

"COME IN!"

It didn't sound like Mulder.  Scully frowned at the door and opened it 
anyway.

The parking lot lights beamed through Mulder's open blinds, turning 
the room into a black-and-white cartoon sketch, shaded with gray.  
Scully spotted her luggage sitting next to Mulder's bed and grabbed it 
in a hurry, feeling strange about being in his room in the dark.

There was the rustling, pumping sound of wings flapping.  "HELLO!"

She turned and saw the parrot for the first time.  Gray, like the rest of 
the room.  He leered at her, his beady little eyes glinting.  

"Hello, Guido."

Guido bounced up and down on his perch like a feathered survivor of 
the club scene.  "VOLAAAAARE!  OHHHH-OH!  CANTAAAAAARE!  
OH-OH-OH-OHHHH!"

"That's just great," Scully sighed, and left the room.

<X><X><X><X>

"Housekeeping!"

Scully opened the door.  The bosomy woman standing outside was 
dressed in jeans and a uniform tunic, with long hair hanging in a thick 
braid over one shoulder.  The scratched metallic name tag over her 
heart informed Scully that "Housekeeping" was named "Mae."

Mae held up a stack of white towels.  "Here ya go.  Sorry about the 
wait."

"No problem."  Scully held out her hands to accept the towels, but Mae 
didn't hand them over.  Instead, she nodded towards Mulder's room.

"Do you want to complain to management about the noise?"

"Do I --?"  Scully realized that Guido was still serenading the public next 
door.  Astounding.  She was already used to the damn bird.  "Oh.  No, 
that's okay."

"Look, it's none of my business, but everyone else has been 
complaining."  Mae leaned against the door frame with the air of a 
woman in the mood to gossip.  "Jeff -- that's the manager -- says he's 
going to call the police if we get one more complaint about that parrot."

Scully, who was *not* a woman in a mood to gossip, pulled her ID out 
of her pocket and flipped it open at eye level.  "Believe me," she said, in 
a tone that brooked no argument, "the police don't want the parrot, 
either."

Mae's eyes widened.  "Ohhhh," she said, nodding sagely.  "So the 
gorgeous guy with the parrot ..."

"He's my partner."  Scully snapped shut her ID, tucked it back in her 
pocket, and held out her hands for the towels.  Again, Mae did not 
appear to notice.

"Ohhh.  Look, it's none of my business, but ..."  Mae leaned in, her 
sharp eyes snapping with mischief.  "How on earth do you sleep at 
night with a man like that in the next room?"

"A couple drops of chloral hydrate will do the job every time," Scully 
said, straight-faced, and took the towels from Mae.  "Thank you ..."

"You need anything else, just call the front desk."

"Yes, thank you, I'll do that."  Scully waited politely for Mae to leave.

Mae did not appear to be leaving.  She leaned forward a little, pitching 
her voice to a low, confidential tone, dripping with innuendo.  "And if 
your *partner* needs anything --"

Scully shut the door.

<X><X><X><X>

She stood under the water, head down, one hand on the wall.  She 
hadn't shampooed, hadn't soaped up the washcloth -- very frankly 
hadn't dared to touch herself, convinced that the sensation would 
conjure up a fantasy of her partner's hands on her.  Just standing there, 
letting the cold water flow over her, waiting to stop feeling as though 
her scalp was boiling.

Mulder.

Mulder sucking ice cream off his finger, Mulder licking his lips, Mulder 
watching her intently from across the table as that gorgeous mouth 
worked on his thumbnail.  Mulder ...  Her eyes drifted shut as she 
involuntarily imagined that mouth on her face, her lips, her breast ... her 
body's reaction to the fantasy was visceral and immediate, and she 
wrenched herself out of it with a stifled moan.

Scully leaned her forehead against the cool tile and closed her eyes.  

God, that man made her *ache*.

The cell phone rang twice before it truly registered on Scully where the 
noise was coming from.  "Oh, hell."  She turned off the water and 
struggled out of the shower, dripping everywhere.  Mulder.  What was 
he calling for?  Did he expect her to come back and pay her half of the 
bill?  She wrapped a towel around herself and dried her hands on it as 
she padded out of the bathroom to search through her discarded 
clothing for the phone.

She snapped it open and held it slightly away from her head, afraid that 
her dripping hair would short out the phone.  "Scully."

"Agent Scully, this is Sheriff Volney."

"Yes?"  She frowned, puzzled; this was not the voice she had been 
expecting and it took a moment to change gears.  "What is it?"

"You might want to find your partner and get out to one-seventeen 
Franklin Street."

"What?"  Scully was having a little trouble hearing the sheriff with the 
phone four inches from her ear.  In Mulder's room, Guido burst into a 
spirited rendition of 'I've Got You Under My Skin.'  "Sheriff, could you 
repeat that?"

"I said you might want to get out here.  One-seventeen Franklin.  
There's been another murder."

<X><X><X><X>

Chapter 4

117 Franklin Street
10:25 PM

Joshua Schmidt was about eighteen years old, tall, dark-haired, and pimply.  
And dead.  Really, most sincerely dead.  Like Marjorie Bailey and the two 
victims before her, Joshua was face-up on his own bed, staring at the 
ceiling, his jaw slack and mouth agape.  Like the other victims, he was 
dressed conservatively for bed -- in this case, a faded t-shirt and a pair 
of flannel pajama bottoms.  Joshua's mother, father, and two younger sisters 
were huddled outside the bedroom door, too stunned and confused for tears.  
They stubbornly resisted the awkward efforts of the two deputies to move 
them to a more convenient location, like the living room, so that the body 
could be examined without further trauma to the family.

Mulder hated situations like this.  On the one hand, he felt an instinctual 
need to protect the grieving family from seeing Joshua handled by impersonal 
hands.  On the other hand, it was after midnight, he had been up since five 
A.M. -- four, if he accounted for the different time zone -- and his body 
was clamoring for sleep, exhaustion weighing him down and rooting his feet 
to the floor.  Under any other circumstances, he would have tried to help 
the deputies soothe the family and guide them away, but the weary ache in 
his head was making him impatient with their grief and he couldn't think of 
any other words than Will You Just Get The Hell Out Of Here, Please?

Not the kind of thing the FBI advised in these situations.  But hedging 
around like this, standing in a corner with your thumb up your ass because 
the goddamn family had some kind of religious reason for not letting the 
corpse out of their sight -- that couldn't be proper etiquette, either.

If he didn't know better, Mulder would have sworn this was the guest 
bedroom, rather than the lair of a high school senior.  It was spotless.  No 
posters.  No sports memorabilia.  The dirty laundry was neatly stowed in a 
wicker basket in the corner by the dresser.  One small bookshelf, with a few 
lonely books on it.  The desk was uncluttered, except for a worn grammar 
textbook and a pad of paper.  There was a crucifix hanging on the wall above 
the bed, and a well-thumbed Bible with a red faux-leather cover on a tiny 
bedside table.

The place gave Mulder the creeps.  When *he* was eighteen, the only time his 
room had looked half this clean had been when company was coming over and 
his mother had roused herself enough to decree that This Mess Must Go.  
Joshua Schmidt's room didn't have the polished feel of order imposed by a 
mother's hands; this room felt almost sterile.

Scully was standing near the bed, speaking with Jean Denison in a low voice.  
Mulder couldn't hear the conversation -- he was keeping well away from Dr. 
Denison, thank you very much -- but Scully's body language and gestures told 
him that she was talking about the similarity of this corpse to the others 
they had seen.  He could also see that Scully didn't like Jean very much, 
although she was keeping it well hidden under her usual air of cool 
professionalism; to Mulder, though, it was obvious from the angle of her 
spine, the faint line between her eyebrows, the occasional unconscious 
clenching of one fist, and the impatient way she pushed her hair back from 
her eyes.

Her hair.  The rumpled state of Scully's hair made Mulder grin, despite his 
efforts to keep a straight face.  She hadn't said anything about it, but she 
must have been just out of the shower when Volney called her; her hair had 
still been only towel-dry when she'd dragged Mulder out of the diner.  It 
had been brushed down flat against her skull, but when Scully's hair air-
dried, it had a mind of its own -- defying any attempts at control, curling 
every which way and refusing to stay neatly tucked behind her ear.  Hair 
that was just as stubborn as the woman beneath it.  Perfect.

Sheriff Volney had finished taking the crime scene photographs almost ten 
minutes ago; he'd been more leisurely with the back-up Polaroids, snapping 
shots of every square inch of the room.  He stood near the desk, fanning 
himself with the latest couple of developing prints, glancing at them every 
once in a while to check their readiness.  He looked every bit as itchy and 
ill-at-ease as Mulder felt.

Mulder didn't like Volney.  The man was grumpy and stubborn and too damn 
self-important.  For some reason, his direct copper-colored stare and 
southern-Kansas drawl made Mulder feel like he was ten years old again, 
sitting on the bench outside the principal's office:  defensive, keyed-up, 
and irritated at himself for feeling that way.

Then again, the family showed no signs of budging, and Mulder couldn't go 
talk to Scully while Jean Denison was over there.  God, no.  The only thing 
left to do was to strike up a conversation with Volney.

Mulder glanced over at the sheriff, making eye contact.  Volney raised one 
bristly eyebrow -- an expression Mulder wasn't used to getting from anyone 
but Scully, anymore -- and tilted his head to one side in invitation.  
Mulder crossed to the desk, standing next to Volney; both men kept a casual 
eye on the proceedings in the hallway.

"Poor kid," Mulder offered.

Volney made a snorting sound beneath his moustache.  "Yeah, poor kid," he 
muttered, pitching his voice low.  "Home schooled."

He seemed to expect some kind of response to this; Mulder nodded sagely and 
made a noncommittal "hmmm."  

"Wouldn't'a been so bad," Volney continued, "except that this bunch doesn't 
know what the hell they're doing when it comes to education.  Ninety percent 
Jesus and ten percent everything else.  Damn near nobody raised like that 
has a snowball's chance in hell of coming out normal."  He shook his head, a 
frown drawing long vertical creases on either side of his mouth.  "Poor 
kid."

Mulder couldn't think of a thing to say.  He settled for nodding again, 
feeling slightly foolish.  Across the room, Jean Denison raised her hands in 
some kind of surrender and left the room, rubbing the back of her bony neck.  
Scully turned back to the corpse, scribbling in that little notebook of 
hers.

"You religious, Agent Mulder?"

"No, not really."

"Hmm."  Volney blew air through his moustache and considered this.  "I'm 
Methodist, m'self.  Mostly a Sunday morning Christian, if you catch my 
meaning.  I got nothing against people practicing whatever kind of religion 
they want, but these kind of cloistered Bible nuts get me a touch concerned.  
Don't talk to anybody else, won't send their kids to school, all that 
jazz -- and that damn crazy uncle Fred of theirs comes to every damn city 
council meeting and rants about how Jesus is gonna come down from heaven and 
smite every last one of us if we build that new dike to keep the river from 
flooding the damn baseball field."  He cast a surreptitious look in Mulder's 
direction.  "That sort of shit makes me want to start checking out the place 
for a secret cache of Uzis, know what I'm saying?"

"Yeah."  Mulder took another look around the Spartan room, imagining the 
life that Joshua Schmidt must have led.  "I've seen that kind of thing a few 
times."  For a moment, a memory of twisted lines of bodies at a Tennessee 
farm flashed behind his eyes; he dispelled it with a shake of his head.  
"It ... never ends well."

Volney nodded slowly, gazing vaguely toward the door, his lips pursed 
slightly in a soundless whistle.  It almost seemed as though he hadn't heard 
Mulder at all, but when he turned his head a moment later there was a gleam 
of something approaching respect in his eyes.  "Nope," he said, and turned 
back to the door.

"GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME!!!"

The voice was unbelievably loud in the tiny room, echoing like the roar of 
an avalanche.  Mulder's gaze shot toward the doorway.  The two deputies were 
struggling with a skinny short man in his late fifties, bald except for a 
few colorless puffs around his ears.  He was wearing polyester pants and a 
yellowed dress shirt with perspiration stains that showed as he brandished a 
Bible over his head with both hands.  "DO NOT HINDER THOSE WHO WORK FOR THE 
LORD THY GOD!"

Volney sucked in his breath on a mild obscenity and made for the door with 
surprising speed, his head lowering like a bull charging a red cape.  "Fred, 
will you cut it *out*?  This is not the time for your horsecrap!"

The little computer in the back of Mulder's brain sprang to life, spitting 
out the answer to this mystery man's identity.  Fred.  Crazy uncle Fred, the 
one who came to meetings and yelled about smiting.  This certainly promised 
to make the proceedings more interesting.

Fred's yelling took on a sing-song quality, the kind that Mulder identified 
with televangelists and auctioneers.  "For behold, the day COMeth, BURNing 
like an oven, when ALL the ARROGANT and all the evilDOERS will be stubble, 
the DAY that comes shall burn them UP, says the LORD of Hosts --"  The rest 
of the family shrank away, inching towards the living room; it seemed that 
the appearance of Crazy Uncle Fred moved them more than all the efforts of 
the two deputies.  

Volney held up a warning hand.  "Fred, if you don't settle down, I'm gonna 
have to get you locked up again!"

Fred was starting to foam a little at the mouth.  "The Lord will SMITE thee 
with the boils of EGYPT, and with the ULCERS and the SCURVY and the ITCH, of 
which thou canst NOT BE HEALED!  We must PURIFY the boy, CLEANSE him of the 
unclean spirit --"  

To his credit, Volney did attempt to handle the man gently, but after Fred 
twisted away and brandished the oversized Bible at the sheriff, Fred ended 
up pinned against the wall, one of Volney's big hands holding him in place.  
"Now Fred," Volney chided, "I warned you.  It looks like another spell at 
the hospital for you, now doesn't it?"  He slapped a pair of handcuffs on 
Fred, gesturing down the hall in disgust.  "You know the drill, boys.  Take 
him away."

Fred continued to hold forth as he was led off.  "The unclean SPIRIT is the 
ENEMY OF THE LORD.  We must CLEANSE the boy lest he lose his IMMORTAL SOUL 
to the agent of SATAN, to the succubus LILITH --"

Mercifully, Fred's voice faded as the distance increased.  Mulder exchanged 
a glance across the room with Scully, who raised her eyebrows in an amused 
facial shrug.  He rolled his eyes in the direction of the hallway with a wry 
grin, and was rewarded for his efforts with a rare half-smile from his 
partner.

"Goddamn Fred."  Volney absent-mindedly wiped his hands on the sides of his 
pants, as though just touching the man had put him at risk for a 
communicable disease.  "Damn crazy lunatic sonovabitch.  Of all the times 
for him to sound off, I swear."

Scully cleared her throat delicately, drawing Volney's attention.  "Does 
this happen often, Sheriff?"

"Often enough.  About once every month or so we have to haul him off to the 
psych ward at Bryan Memorial; the family goes up and gets him out once he 
calms down."  Volney shrugged philosophically.  "Nothing much we can do 
about keeping him there, and we can't incarcerate him forever just on 
account of being a public pain in the ass, so ..."

"What --"  The word came out of Mulder's mouth involuntarily.  He was 
vaguely aware of everyone turning to look at him, but the question forming 
in his mind took up most of his attention.  "What did he mean when he said 
that he needed to *cleanse* the boy?"

"Oh."  Volney looked uncomfortable.  "That was before you got here.  Fred 
started raving about being attacked by a demon and staving it off with a 
prayer and some cross-waving; I guess he thinks that's what happened to 
Joshua, too."  Volney shook his head.  "Everyone in this family is a little 
cracked, but Fred takes the cake.  I'm not too surprised that he's messed up 
about the kid dying; those two were good buddies.  Josh was even starting to 
act a bit like Fred, last I heard."

Scully had her professional face on again, frowning faintly.  Her hair 
spoiled the hard-boiled image, though; it was difficult for Mulder to take 
Scully seriously when she had to keep swiping a particularly stubborn curl 
out of her eyes.  "Act like him?  In what way?"

Volney seemed to give this question a great deal of thought.  "Just certain 
things he'd do.  Mannerisms.  Nothing you can really lay a finger on, it's 
just that Fred tends to make people feel a bit disturbed, and lately Josh's 
been much the same way, not to speak ill of the dead ...  Sort of a spooky 
kid, real geeky." 

Scully looked over at Mulder, tipping up an ironic eyebrow.  Mulder ignored 
her.

Volney hesitated, chewing on his moustache, then added, "The kid was 
following my daughter around, past couple weeks."

"Do you mean he was stalking her?"  Mulder was still a little stung from the 
'spooky geek' comment and having a hard time picturing this kid as the 
stalking kind.  "Are you sure that he wasn't just trying to ask her out on a 
date?"

The sheriff fixed Mulder with an icy glare.  "He was ghosting around after 
her for more'n a month, mister.  She was scared.  I finally had to step in a 
few days ago and tell him to leave her the hell alone."

"Sheriff?"  One of the deputies was standing hesitantly in the doorway.  "We 
have a problem."

Volney made a noise halfway between a chuckle and a groan.  "Great.  What 
now?"

Jean Denison appeared beside the deputy.  "Sheriff Mike --"

The sheriff gave Mulder a long-suffering look.  "What *is* it, Jean?"

Jean balled her hands into fists.  "They don't want to let us do the 
autopsy."  Mulder half-expected her to start hopping up and down and 
shooting steam from her ears like Yosemite Sam.

Scully blinked.  "I was under the impression that the medical examiner is 
required by law to investigate any death under unusual circumstances.  Is 
that not the case in Kansas?"

Jean shook her head vigorously.  "No, no, law's the same, we're on safe 
ground there, it's just these people don't take kindly to having their dead 
ones cut open.  Religious objections."

Volney stroked his moustache. "They don't have a legal leg to stand on, but 
they can make a big stink about it."  He tossed his hands in the air, 
surrendering.  "Aw, hell.  I'll go talk to them."

"Need any help?" Mulder offered, automatically.

"Nah," Volney said, "you two stay here.  I'll be right back."  He gave the 
ceiling a pained look and exited; Jean and the deputy followed closely 
behind him like baby ducks toddling after their mother.  

Mulder waited until they'd rounded the corner before he smiled at his 
partner.  "So, Scully, whaddaya think of Uncle Fred?"

"Obviously delusional."  Scully crossed to the bed, snapping on a pair of 
latex gloves.  "Reminds me a little of someone I know."

"Frohike?"

"Close, but not quite."

"Maybe it's Skinner."  Mulder followed her across the room, enjoying the 
banter.  Scully's bad mood seemed to be over, thank God.  He mentally 
crossed his fingers and hoped it would last.

"Hmm, no, but he *is* in the FBI ..."  Scully smiled faintly as she checked 
through the black bag that Jean had brought in from the coroner's van.  
"Aha."  She brought out a wicked-looking pair of steel scissors and deftly 
cut the t-shirt off the body of Joshua Schmidt.  As she peeled back the thin 
pieces of cloth, Mulder got a good view of the vivid red mark covering most 
of the sunken torso.  Scully pressed gently below the sternum; the skin sank 
beneath her fingers like the stretchy rubber of a deflating balloon.  "He's 
still warm.  I'd say he's only been dead an hour or two.  I'll have a better 
idea once I get the rectal temperature."

"That's okay," Mulder said hastily, warding off the idea with one hand, "I 
don't really need to know."

Scully moved up to the face, pulling back one eyelid.  "Cornea's clear ..."  

Mulder had always prided himself on having a strong stomach.  After all, 
he'd faced down Eugene Tooms in a mess of bile; he'd seen people who had 
been devoured by mutant fungi; he'd seen so much blood in his career that it 
almost failed to surprise him anymore.  For some reason, though, watching 
Scully finger a dead boy's eyeball was making him feel a little queasy.

Ugh.

"Mulder, take a look at this."  Scully pulled the corpse's mouth open, 
peeling back the top lip with one hand and pointing with the other.  There 
was a kind of cloudy slime clinging to the teeth, pooling a little around 
the tongue.  "That looks like the same residue we found around Marjorie 
Bailey's mouth."  She made a little face.  "Except this is much fresher."

"Fresh, not frozen.  Just like you get at the farmer's market."  Mulder 
turned his attention to the ceiling, hoping to see some kind of stain or at 
least a discoloration directly above the bed; no such luck.  So much for 
spontaneous combustion.  

This close to the corpse, though, Mulder was starting to smell something.  
It wasn't a familiar crime-scene smell -- blood, or rotting flesh, or even 
excrement -- this was something else.  Two something elses, in fact; a ripe, 
sticky smell and a scent that he had dismissed vaguely as the lingering 
scent of dinner.  Baked ham, or something like that, except that this smell 
was stronger near the corpse.

He looked again at the angry red mark on the body.  Not baked ham; baked 
Joshua.  The thought made Mulder feel even queasier.  He was too tired for 
this shit; he just wanted to go back to the motel, get some sleep, and think 
of a new theory in the morning.

Scully continued her cursory examination of the corpse, which, based upon 
the words 'rectal temperature,' was nothing that Mulder particularly wanted 
to observe.  To distract himself, he started snooping around the room as 
discreetly as possible, not touching anything out of respect for the 
integrity of the crime scene.  There wasn't much to see.  Hell, it looked 
like the kid had even *dusted* regularly.

This was no fun at all.

"Air temperature, seventy-one degrees Fahrenheit; body temperature ... 
ninety-four point five.  Time of death was no earlier than eight-thirty or 
so ...  You know," Scully said conversationally, "this looks pretty routine.  
I think if I get a good sample of this substance in his mouth, I could 
probably let Jean do the main part of the autopsy by herself."

"Oh, really?"  Mulder had half an eye on the grammar textbook.  Diagramming 
sentences.  Christ, what a way to spend your last evening on earth.

Scully pushed her hair out of her eyes delicately with one wrist.  "She's 
capable of handling it.  I could check in on it later.  It'd give me a 
chance to sleep in a little instead of being up to my elbows in a corpse at 
six in the morning."  She did something to the body that produced a strange 
squishy sound; Mulder kept his eyes on the textbook.  There were some things 
that man was just not meant to know.  Scully didn't seem to pay any 
attention to the noise; she kept on talking as though it hadn't happened.  
"I thought we could do an interview with Jim Taymor.  Maybe track down 
Sheriff Volney's daughter, too, while we're at it, and get the story on what 
sort of 'stalking' Joshua did."

Whatever the noise had been, it did not repeat itself.  Heartened by this, 
Mulder ventured back near the bed.  It was a plain bed with a solid wooden 
headboard, running clear to the floor; Mulder idly glanced behind it.  
"Well, hello there ..." he said, half to himself, and knelt down to take a 
better look.

"What is it?"  Scully, still engrossed in her work, cocked an eyebrow in his 
direction.

"Looks like good old Joshua had a hidey-hole behind the bed."  Mulder pulled 
a pair of latex gloves from his suit pocket and snapped them on.  He reached 
between the headboard and the wall, easing out the object of his 
attention -- a Tehtonka High yearbook with a dark green cover.  He held it 
up triumphantly.  "Jackpot."

"A yearbook," Scully said flatly, unimpressed.  "He's a high school student, 
Mulder.  High school students have been known to have yearbooks."

"Ah, ah, ah ..."  Mulder wagged a finger at her.  "*Normal* high school 
students have yearbooks.  Joshua Schmidt was home schooled.  Explain to me 
why a home schooled student would have a yearbook for a school he doesn't 
attend?  Better yet, why does he have it hidden behind his bed?"

"I don't know."

"Neither do I," Mulder murmured, checking the yearbook over.  The spine was 
broken towards the back of the book, rather than the middle, where one would 
expect it; he experimentally opened the book, letting the pages flip open 
along the break.  Black and white pictures of last year's junior class 
smiled up at him in all their teenage gawkiness.  He scanned the names, 
hoping something would pop out.  "Wait a minute, maybe I do know."

"What?" Scully asked, walking over to him.  She pulled off her gloves and 
pushed back that curly strand of hair with one talcum-dusted hand.  "What'd 
you find, Mulder?"

He extended the yearbook toward her in explanation.   She sighed, pulled a 
fresh glove out of her pocket, and snapped it on, accepting half the book in 
her gloved hand so that she and Mulder supported the weight of it together, 
as though they were sharing a hymnal at a church service.

"Check it out," Mulder said, tapping at a black-and-white picture of a 
pretty, dark-haired girl.  The caption off to the side gave her name:  Amber 
Volney.

"It could be a coincidence."

Mulder ruffled through the pages of the yearbook.  He stopped at a worn, 
dog-eared page, pressing the book open, and scanned the pictures.  "Here."  
He pointed at a full-body picture of a dark-haired cheerleader in mid-jump, 
pompoms flying -- Amber Volney.  A few pages later, another dog-eared page; 
this one had a shot of Amber Volney in the school play.  The next dog-eared 
page had a shot of several girls posing for the camera together; despite the 
fact that the caption did not give the names, the face of one girl was 
completely familiar -- Amber Volney.  There were three or four other pages 
in the book that were dog-eared from repeated viewing; a quick check 
confirmed that Amber Volney was the only girl who was on every page.

"Well, there you go," Mulder said, grinning at Scully.  "Looks like Joshua 
was in luuuuve."

Scully raised an eyebrow.  "I somehow doubt the sheriff will see it that 
way."

"Scully, are you mocking a young man's tender feelings for the girl of his 
dreams?"

"No," she said, "but I believe the word 'obsession' fits those tender 
feelings to a 'T.'"

The little computer in the back of Mulder's brain was still chittering away, 
but he was so tired that it took real effort to focus on what it was 
bringing up.  Pictures.  Obsession.  Pictures at the bedside.  It all 
coalesced so suddenly, he could almost hear the *click*.  "Hang on, didn't 
you say that Marjorie Bailey had a picture beside her bed?"

Scully looked up at him.  "Yes, of her boss ... Jim Taymor.  What about it?"

"What was it you said -- you thought they were having an affair?"

"Well ..."  Scully twisted her mouth, her typical reaction when Mulder had 
caught her in the middle of a half-formulated theory.  "I said that it was 
possible.  Jean doesn't seem to think so, but secretaries have been known to 
become ... infatuated with their superiors, and that might be the case with 
Marjorie and Jim Taymor."

"So ..."  Mulder looked down at his partner's rumpled hair and lowered his 
voice to a more flirtatious tone.  "We could be talking about another case 
of unrequited love."  

"Could be ..."  

The hell with it, this was a golden opportunity.  Mulder let his voice slide 
even lower, into a dark chocolate rumble.  "Or possibly just ... unrequited 
lust." 

Scully went abruptly still, her eyes narrowing.  She dropped her side of the 
yearbook, causing Mulder to fumble and make a less-than-graceful grab at the 
book to save it from plummeting to the floor.  She crossed back to her 
original place near the bed, carefully packing instruments into the black 
leather case.  "Maybe we ought to interview Amber Volney, too, just to make 
sure."  Her back was to him, her tone cool.

"You think they were dating behind the Sheriff's back?" Mulder asked, 
frowning faintly, less concerned with the dating rituals of teenagers than 
with the sudden return of Scully's bad mood.

"It's not impossible.  Perhaps Amber broke off the relationship and Joshua 
wasn't ready to let go," Scully said, sounding slightly agitated.  She 
continued to tidy, dropping the used latex gloves into a baggie to dispose 
of later.  Mulder still couldn't see her face.

"So he stalked her, and she told her daddy a big lie so he'd threaten 
Joshua, is that what you're saying?"  Mulder stared at the back of Scully's 
head and watched her swipe at that red curl as it fell into her eyes again.  
What had set her off this time?  He'd flirted a little.  So what?  It hadn't 
even been a particularly good flirt.  He hadn't had the spare brainpower to 
come up with a good double entendre for at least a half hour now.  Was she 
pissed off because he'd flirted?  

Mulder wished he wasn't so tired.  Attempting to profile Scully on a good 
day was a workout, but after twenty hours on his feet and, if the truth be 
known, with a touch of indigestion from all that apple pie, profiling Scully 
was gaining him very little except a dull ache at the base of his skull.

"That's a little extreme, don't you think?" he added, just to see if she'd 
turn around.

She faced him, completely expressionless.  Whatever anger she was feeling 
was tucked neatly behind that calm exterior; Mulder couldn't get a read on 
it at all.  "I'm saying it's possible, Mulder, that's all."

Hell.  He was too tired for this.

"Agent Scully?  Agent Mulder?"  Jean Denison was in the doorway.  "Could you 
come out here for a minute?"

<X><X><X><X>

Andrew Schmidt and his wife Marty were both tall and dark-haired, traits 
they had obviously passed on to their children -- Joshua's younger sisters, 
Esther and Deborah, were both dark and gawky girls in their early teens.  
The girls were bustled out onto the front porch to "pray with your father," 
leaving Marty Schmidt in charge.  It quickly became obvious to Scully that 
Marty was the head of the household, an iron-fisted ruler who might have 
been quite successful in a military career.

Jean Denison, it seemed, had met her match in Marty Schmidt, and was not at 
all happy about it.  The moment that Jean reentered with Mulder and Scully 
in tow, Marty had turned and glared at Jean with piercing green eyes until 
Jean dropped her gaze, turning away from Marty and seeming to shrink in on 
herself; Jean looked daggers at Marty the moment Marty's attention was 
diverted, but didn't do anything else to challenge her authority.  It was 
like something straight off The Learning Channel.  No question about who was 
the alpha bitch *here*.

Sheriff Volney motioned for Scully to come forward; she did so, not without 
the vague feeling that she was Alice in Wonderland being introduced to the 
Queen of Hearts.  Mulder started to follow; Volney frowned at him and shook 
his head, and Mulder stopped in his tracks.  

Scully had to admit she was happy that Mulder wouldn't be in such close 
proximity for a few minutes, at least.  She'd been thinking that maybe this 
Mulder-Awareness Day was over, after her shower this evening ... she'd even 
relaxed enough to joke with Mulder a little.  And then, at the first little 
flirtatious move on his part, she'd felt her body chemistry shift once 
again.

This was turning out to be a very long day.

"Marty," Volney said politely, "this is Agent Scully.  She's the one we were 
telling you about."

Marty looked Scully over carefully, tilting her head to one side so that her 
dark hair waterfalled over her shoulder.  Scully stood still and kept her 
expression neutral, quelling the illogical expectation that the tall woman 
was about to come over and sniff at her like a dog.  At last Marty focused 
in on some spot directly below Scully's chin; Scully realized with a start 
that the point of interest was the gold cross around her neck.

"Yes," Marty announced suddenly, meeting Scully's eyes at last, "you are a 
believer.  I can tell.  You have the hand of the Lord upon you, Agent 
Scully."

Scully was at a loss.  She had been mentally running through condolences, 
trying to pick one that was at once professional and compassionate; this, 
however, was a scenario for which she was completely unprepared.  
Nonetheless, she extended a hand to Marty.  "Mrs. Schmidt."

Marty took Scully's hand, but instead of shaking it, she clasped it in both 
of her own and held it firmly, keeping Scully too close for comfort and with 
no avenue of escape.  "Agent Scully, I can't tell you what a comfort this is 
to us.  Jean has told me that you are close to the Lord, and I can see it on 
you."

Scully shot a look at Jean, who turned red.  This was getting irritating.  
She hadn't spoken to Jean about issues of faith during any of their time 
together; she could only assume that Jean had plucked this story out of thin 
air, making a guess based on Scully's demeanor and her cross necklace.

"I'm glad to be of help, Mrs. Schmidt," Scully said, wishing the woman would 
let go of her; Marty had large sweaty hands and the whole handshake was 
starting to feel very humid.

"It means a *great deal* to us that Joshua will be in the hands of a woman 
of faith.  We know you will handle him with respect and dignity."

Scully blinked.  "I beg your pardon?"

Marty pressed Scully's hands even harder, boring into her with those vivid 
green eyes.  "We would *never* let anyone touch our Joshua unless we knew 
they were acting as the hands of the Lord."

This was starting to make sense, but Scully didn't like it.  "Mrs. Schmidt, 
I think there's been some kind of mistake --"

Volney made a sharp gesture behind Marty's back.  Scully focused on him; he 
lowered his eyebrows and shook his head gravely.  Oh God.  It was all making 
sense now.  This was the way out; this was the way to get the family to 
peacefully agree to let Joshua be autopsied.  This was the straw that 
everyone was grasping at, looking to Scully to play along and not say 
anything.

She felt like screaming in frustration.  The very idea of using her identity 
as a Christian to get a family to agree to an autopsy was fundamentally 
abhorrent to her, almost as repugnant as the idea of sleeping with someone 
to get a job, or a promotion.  Under any other circumstances she would 
gladly do the autopsy, but she was irked by being accepted as a doctor 
because of her faith instead of because of her abilities.  It was like being 
back at the naval base, being catered to because her father was respected 
rather than on her own merit.  It had infuriated her then; it infuriated her 
now.

But the look on Volney's face, and on Jean's, and on the faces of the two 
deputies at the door, was a uniform expression of exhaustion and desperate 
hope.  And Mulder, still hanging back in the hallway, looked like he was 
about to fall asleep on his feet.  It was late.  If she broke this last 
straw, it would only get later.

Marty Schmidt's hands trembled, and Scully's perception of the woman flipped 
sideways, from ice-cold woman to a deeply grieving mother whose control of 
the situation was the last link to her dead son.  It was so easy to forget, 
sometimes, that these were people with lives of their own, lives that did 
not begin and end with their involvement in an FBI case, lives that had been 
irrevocably changed.  

Scully could deal with death because she could act upon it, investigate it, 
explain it.  These people could not.

Scully pressed her left hand on top of Marty's and gave her a gentle smile.  
"Mrs. Schmidt," she said, putting as much sincerity into her voice as she 
could, "rest assured, I'll do the best I can to give your son the care he 
deserves."

<X><X><X><X>

GUTLESS

Chapter 5

The Mo-Z Inn
2:17 AM

The night was cool and windy, and the storm clouds were still rumbling 
occasionally, withholding their rain.  The only sound besides the wind and 
the dull thunder was the crunch of the parking-lot gravel underfoot as 
Mulder and Scully walked to their motel rooms in silence.

Scully was exhausted.  Her thoughts had taken on that peculiar merry-go-
round quality, each one cycling back to the front in turn.  Autopsy in four 
hours.  Sleep.  Better have the field office in Kansas City run an analysis 
on the blood.  Sleep.  Make sure the blood samples from the previous victims 
went out, too.  Sleep.  Might be a good idea to take apart the plumbing and 
look for traces of visceral material in the sink traps, especially the 
garbage disposal.  Sleep.  God, autopsy in less than four hours ...

As they reached the sidewalk, a particularly strong gust of wind nearly 
caused her to lose her balance.  She flailed for a brief moment; Mulder's 
hand shot out and grabbed her elbow, steadying her.  "You okay?" he asked.

She shook his hand off.  "I'm fine, Mulder."

Mulder held up his hands in mock surrender.  "Okay, okay."

"Good night, Mulder," Scully said, too worn out to rise to the bait.  She 
pulled the room key out of her pocket and headed for her door.

"Scully, hold on a sec."

Inches from freedom, inches from bed.  She put the key in the lock.  
"Mulder, please, it's late.  It's beyond late, it's early.  Can't we talk 
about it in the morning?"

"It'll only take a minute," Mulder promised, leaning against the wall next 
to Scully.  "Humor me."

She looked longingly at the door.  So close ...  "Fine," she said, and 
pushed her hair out of her eyes with a weary hand.  "One minute."

"I want to interview Uncle Fred," Mulder said, and shoved his hands into his 
pockets like a man bracing himself for a deluge.

She stared at him.  "You're joking."

He shrugged.  She could hear the fabric of his trench coat rustle as his 
shoulders shifted.

"God," she sighed, resting her forehead against the door frame.  "Look, 
Mulder, Fred Schmidt is delusional at best and possibly psychotic.  I very 
much doubt that you could glean any information from him that isn't either 
deeply flawed or completely fictional."

"Maybe, maybe not," Mulder said.  "Volney told us that Uncle Fred claimed 
that he was attacked by something shortly before Joshua's death.  Whoever or 
whatever it was that killed that kid probably made a try for his uncle first 
and for some reason Fred was able to fend him off."

"Him?"

"Him, her, it, whatever.  Fred may be an unreliable witness, but he's all 
we've got."

"Fine," Scully grumbled, and straightened up.  "I have to be at the hospital 
at seven to start the autopsy.  We can stop off at the psychiatric wing 
after I finish, and talk to Fred."  She reached for her key, still jutting 
brightly out of the lock.  "Goodnight."

"One more thing ..."

Her open palm slapped against the door and she leaned into it, straight-
armed, her head a little bowed.  "*Yes*, Mulder?"  She turned to see Mulder 
giving her his puppy-dog face, peaking his eyebrows and looking pitiful and 
hopeful at the same time.  "What is it now?"

"Scully, do you remember when we were talking about switching off nights 
with the parrot?"

"No, Mulder," Scully gritted out.  "I remember *you* talking about it."

"Just for tomorrow."

"No."

"Only the daytime hours, Scully.  I'll take him back at night, I swear."

"Mulder, the parrot is your responsibility," Scully told him in her most 
authoritative voice.  "I don't want it anywhere near me.  Is that clear?"

"Yes," Mulder said, without changing his expression.

"Do you, dare I ask, have anything else to talk to me about?"

"Not really."

"All right."  Scully was trying to look stern, but that stubborn curl that 
had been plaguing her all night slithered out from behind her ear and fell 
into her eyes.  She couldn't summon the energy to brush it away and instead 
blew at it, once, ineffectively.

Mulder smiled, a rare gentle smile that made Scully's stomach turn over.  
"Problems?" he asked, his eyes straying to that curl.

"Nothing I can't handle," Scully said, but it came out much quieter than she 
meant it to.  He was still looking at her with that smile on his face, and 
she couldn't think of anything else to say.

Mulder's every movement seemed to be twice as slow as usual, as if she was 
watching him move underwater.  He reached over and smoothed that errant lock 
of hair out of her eyes, tucking it gently behind her ear.  His fingers 
seemed to linger on her skin, burning a path across her forehead as he 
brushed back a few flyaway hairs.  That sweet little smile widened slightly 
as he took his hand away.  "Good night, Scully."

Scully realized she hadn't breathed since the last time she spoke.  She 
sucked in a lungful of air, trying to look as though her normal respiratory 
process hadn't been interrupted by the slightest touch of her partner's 
hand.  "Good night, Mulder."  She fumbled at the key and the doorknob and 
almost fell across the threshold.

Holy Mary, Mother of God.  She pushed the door shut behind her and managed 
to turn the dead bolt.  Her hands were shaking.  Actually shaking.  
Unbelievable.  She must be in worse shape than she'd thought.  A further 
personal inventory revealed that her knees were on the verge of buckling; 
she sagged against the door and closed her eyes.

Mulder's door closed, the impact of it making her own door rattle in 
sympathy.  Her own trembling, however, was starting to fade away.  She began 
to classify the phenomenon, her mind flinging pieces into different 
categories like a woman sorting laundry.  She hadn't really eaten since 
lunch.  She'd been up for almost twenty-four hours straight.  Whatever 
effect Mulder was having on her, it was obviously augmented by low blood 
sugar and exhaustion.  As a matter of fact, it was unlikely that much of 
this at all was due to Mulder's touch.

A breeze brushed her cheek with icy fingers.  She looked up, frowning, and 
saw the curtains billowing away from the open windows like a pair of lungs 
made of synthetic fibers.  Fresh air, very fresh, but far too cold.  She 
ducked under the curtains and closed the windows.  The scratchy curtains 
settled around her like a drift of feathers; she fought her way out and 
headed for the bathroom, hanging her trench coat neatly on one of the 
headless hangers in the open closet nearby.  She did a cursory tooth-brush 
and face-wash, changed into her pajamas, dug her travel alarm clock out of 
her suitcase and set it, hit the light switch, and crawled gratefully 
between the cool sheets.  

There was no further noise from Mulder's room, not even a squawk from the 
parrot.

<X><X><X><X>

She couldn't sleep.

At first she thought that it was the cool temperature of the sheets that was 
keeping her awake, but they soon warmed to her body temperature and she was 
forced to reconsider her theory.  

Perhaps it was just the way she was lying on her back.  She curled up on her 
right side, only to find that no matter where she put her elbow she just 
could not get comfortable, and her hair kept falling into her eyes.  When 
she tried the left side, her leg fell asleep.  She clenched and unclenched 
her toes; her leg began to fizz like a can of soda someone had shaken up as 
a joke, and she gritted her teeth until it subsided.

She twisted over onto her stomach, kicking at the covers -- the blankets 
were too heavy, that was the problem.  Too tightly tucked in.  Too 
oppressive.  She took a moment to peel off the synthetic quilted coverlet 
and the fleecy blanket beneath it, leaving her with just the sheets.  Now 
she was too cold.  There was a tiny draft coming in from somewhere, tickling 
her knee.  And the sheets were still too tight around her feet.

Scully kicked violently at the covers, thrashing around until she was 
wallowing in a pile of over-bleached cotton and slithery polyester.  Better.  
But the pillow was way too flat.  Maybe if she added the second pillow for 
more neck support ...

The pulse in her neck was fluttering too quickly.  She took a series of 
long, deep breaths, hoping to slow her heartbeat, but it didn't help.  There 
was a dry, fuzzy band of tension inching across the back of her skull, the 
kind of headache she hadn't experienced since the night she'd drunk eight 
cups of coffee at a 24-hour diner, trying to pry a story out of a skittish 
witness.  She was itching to check the clock, but hoped that if she just 
kept her eyes shut ... 

Just a little bit longer, that's all ...

Scully wasn't sure how long it'd been since she'd turned over onto her back 
again.  She was almost positive it had been more than five minutes, but then 
again, the early hours of the morning were always a case in point of 
Einstein's Theory of Relativity -- an hour could go by in an eyeblink or an 
eternity.  The light filtering through the curtains gave her very little 
clue as to the time.  She thought it was moonlight, since the shadows were 
cool and tinted with blue, but that may just have been wishful thinking.

The hell with it.  Scully turned over and grabbed the alarm clock, clicking 
the little button that lit up the time so that she could see that it was 
almost four in the morning.  Four.  Two hours until morning.  She glowered 
at the little clock and barely resisted the impulse to hurl it across the 
room.  

Insomnia.  God help her.

Scully rolled out of bed, pulled on her robe, and paced the room.  It was 
insane how awake she felt; by all rights she should have been sleepy.  By 
all rights she should have been *sleeping*.  She was so tired that her bones 
ached, but she seemed to have completely lost the ability to fall asleep.

Work, perhaps, would dull her chattering brain and let her get a few 
precious hours of sleep.  She turned on a small lamp, not quite ready to 
illuminate the whole room, and sat down at the small table in the corner.  
The case file was tucked neatly into her laptop case; her notebook, however, 
was missing.  She found herself stalking around the room like a frantic 
mother with a carpool of children outside and the car keys nowhere to be 
found.  It wasn't in the laptop case, it wasn't on the bedside table, it 
wasn't in her suitcase, it wasn't on the bed.  Could it be in the car?  Had 
she left it at the hospital in Leotie this evening?

She stood next to the table and dug at the base of her skull with one hand, 
trying to ease some of that dry ache while her mind spun in circles.  At 
that moment, there was a parroty squawk from the next room, and Guido's Hit 
Parade came back on the air.  "EVERYBODY NEEDS SOMEBODY, SOMETIMES ..."

"Oh for God's sake," she groaned, and slammed the laptop shut.  She switched 
off the light and stared into the dark while her eyes adjusted.  Her hair 
fell into her eyes again and she automatically shoved at it, not really 
noticing the movement of her hand until her fingers brushed her forehead and 
she was jolted into memory.  

Mulder's touch, Mulder's gentle smile.

A tiny sound slipped from her lips, like the whimper of a sleeping infant.  
She blinked, and shook her head violently to clear it.  This was ridiculous.  
She was a responsible adult who ought to be beyond adolescent fantasies, and 
certainly shouldn't be letting this sort of thing keep her awake all night.

At any rate, a responsible adult ought to have some kind of medication in 
her suitcase that would make this subject moot.

Scully was not a great believer in sleeping pills.  She was well aware that 
they served as a poor substitute for relaxation and the natural sleeping 
process; she had read all the documentation on the side effects and come to 
the logical conclusion that it was better to tough it out.  Nonetheless, she 
found herself digging through every nook and cranny of her suitcase, hoping 
that she'd ignored her own conclusions and brought something along, anyway.


<*A few drops of chloral hydrate will do the job every time.*>  She'd been 
joking when she said that, but now the joke was on her.  There were no 
sleeping pills in her suitcase.  The closest thing she could find was the 
box of motion sickness medication she'd used on the plane -- one of the side 
effects was drowsiness.  She weighed her options, rolled her eyes, and put 
the box back in her suitcase.

She almost wished she *had* a few drops of chloral hydrate.

"EVERYBODY NEEDS SOMEBODY SOMETIMES ..."  

Correction:  She wished she had a few drops of chloral hydrate for *Guido*.  
Damn that bird.  Damn Marjorie Bailey for only teaching him the first line 
of that song.  Damn Mulder for insisting they bring him back with them ... 
and while she was at it, damn Mulder for being so sweet to her tonight.  
Damn her hormones for making so much of it.  Damn this insomnia.  

Damn, damn, damn.

She found herself hovering near the connecting door.  Any moment now, Mulder 
would wake up, she was sure of it.  He'd get up, and go over to the 
birdcage, and shut that bird up.

Her brain was spinning, conjuring up unsolicited fantasies of what her 
partner might be wearing.  A T-shirt and sweatpants, probably; that was what 
he usually wore to bed.  Maybe he'd left off the T-shirt.  Maybe he was only 
wearing boxers.  Or maybe ...

She tried to push away the last thought, tried desperately to keep it from 
creeping through the crack in her mental brick wall, but it slipped out 
anyway.

Maybe, just maybe, Mulder was about to walk across that room with no clothes 
on whatsoever.

Dana Scully was no voyeur.  She did not glance through windows when she 
walked past people's homes; she did not put her ear to the wall to listen to 
her neighbors' arguments; and she certainly didn't peek through the 
connecting door to her partner's room in the hopes of catching him wandering 
around in the buff.  So why in the hell was she standing by this door, 
straining her ears, listening for any hint of movement?  

She felt ridiculous.  She felt like a cheap cliche.  

She felt like yanking the door open and looking in because she wasn't 
hearing a damn thing that meant Mulder was awake and how on earth could 
Mulder *not* be awake with that parrot making so much noise?

"EVERYBODY NEEDS SOMEBODY ..."

Her hand gripped the doorknob.  She stopped, her adrenaline-driven heart 
pounding in her ears so loudly that it almost drowned out Guido's crooning.  
What was she *doing*?

Curiosity warred with common sense.  A rationalization crept up in her mind, 
the cozy thought that she just really wanted to check on him, wanted to make 
sure he was all right.  She could say that the parrot was keeping her awake 
and she wanted to make it shut up.  It was close enough to the truth that 
she wouldn't choke on it as a lie.

"... SOMEBODY SOMETIMES ..."  The damn parrot sounded like a broken record.  
How could anyone sleep through that?

She knocked softly and listened, expecting to hear Mulder's footsteps 
approaching the door.  Nothing.  Guido's serenade continued unabated.

She waited, and knocked again, a little louder.  Still no response.  Scully 
took a deep breath and eased open the door to Mulder's room.

He was on the bed.  Lying on his back.  Sound asleep.  Snoring very softly.

Fully clothed.

She honestly didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

The light was still on in his bathroom, seeping over Mulder's sleeping form, 
illuminating him with a dim yellow glow.  He had removed his jacket and 
loosed his tie before falling asleep, and undone the top two buttons on his 
shirt, but that appeared to be all.  The bedcovers were pulled back and he 
was sprawled out on the sheets.  One arm was draped over his chest, the 
other dangling off the edge of the bed; he was still wearing his shoes, 
although one seemed to be untied.

She could not stop looking at him.

The opening of the door had brought an abrupt halt to Guido's staccato Dean 
Martin impression, and the silence in the room was almost eerie.  Scully 
could hear Mulder's breathing, and her own heartbeat, and that was all.

She stood there for a long time, watching the slow rise and fall of his 
chest.  Paralyzed.  Her arms were wrapped around herself as if she was 
straitjacketed, holding herself back from causing damage.  She breathed 
shallowly, her brow furrowed in something like pain as she stared at her 
sleeping partner.

He looked like a little boy.  Sleep erased the tension from his face and 
touched his lips with the ghost of a smile, a faint echo of the way he'd 
smiled at her outside a few hours ago.  

She meant to leave.  She couldn't.

Mulder moved.  Just a little.  The hand dangling over the edge of the bed 
twitched, and her partner shifted on the bed, frowning, murmuring something 
unintelligible.  Scully's heart rate shot up into the panic zone, despite 
her brain's efforts to shut down the flow of adrenaline.  Her paralysis 
broke.

What was she doing here?  What could she possibly be thinking?

Her eyes flicked over the room in confusion, her gaze caught by the 
fluttering curtains at the window.  His window was open.  She suddenly 
realized that it was cold in Mulder's room, cold enough to see your breath.

She took a step into his room, and then another.  The rough carpeting rasped 
against her bare feet like steel wool.  She developed a plan of surgical 
precision: go in, shut the window, go back to her room, shut the door.  
Swift, precise, no wasted movement.  She programmed it into her bones, 
banished every thought of any other action.

The window was stuck.

She gaped at it in shock for what seemed like forever, unable to process the 
concept.  When the realization finally registered, she yanked at the wooden 
frame as hard as she could, but there was no budging it.  It might have 
responded well to a good *whack* with the heel of her hand, but this was not 
the time to find out, not with her partner sleeping peacefully ten feet away

Shit.  She glared at the window and chewed on her lip, trying to develop a 
new plan.

She could ...

She could tuck him in.

She'd done it before, of course.  Several times.  She'd put him to bed after 
his father had been murdered and had sat beside him for most of the night, 
cooling his face with a wet cloth and soothing his nightmares with her 
voice.  Such a long time ago.

She'd stripped him down to his boxers, that time; in comparison, tucking a 
few blankets around him tonight was nothing important.  Certainly nothing to 
hesitate over.  Nonetheless, she stood for long moments like a girl at her 
first dance, shifting her weight from foot to foot, hands twisting together 
hard enough to mark her skin with her nails.

One deep breath.  Another.

Scully crossed resolutely to the foot of the bed.  Her breathing sounded 
much too loud in the hushed room; she tried to be quieter, but her chest was 
already so tight with tension that the added action made her feel like she 
was suffocating.  She moved slowly, lifting Mulder's feet one at a time, 
easing each shoe off with a care she usually reserved for adjusting the 
focus on a microscope.  She set the shoes on the floor, side by side, and 
gently tucked Mulder's feet under the rumpled covers. 

He was still asleep.

Scully crept around the edge of the bed, still walking on the balls of her 
feet like a cat, and reached over her sleeping partner to grab the sheet and 
blanket.  It was a stretch, especially considering her determined effort not 
to lean on the mattress for fear of waking Mulder up; she found herself 
hovering over his chest for an endless moment, breathing him in.

He smelled of leather and warm cotton and sea-salt.  

She finally managed a two-finger hold on the elusive bedding and inched her 
way back, trying not to let the covers brush against Mulder until they were 
finally in place; she let them settle over him, drifting into place with an 
almost imperceptible whoosh of air.  There.  Done.  Mulder's hand was still 
dangling over the edge of the mattress; as an afterthought, she gently slid 
her fingers around his wrist and lifted his arm, moving it so that it rested 
on the bed, his hand palm-up, fingers curving in the soft relaxation of 
slumber.

Scully stood next to Mulder's bed for a long moment, watching him sleep.  

She knew that she ought to leave.

She didn't.

She reached out without really thinking and touched his hair, the barest 
hint of a caress, much in the same way that he had touched her a few hours 
earlier.  Her other arm was wrapped around her stomach again as though she 
were holding her insides together from a gunshot wound.

His skin was a shock against her fingertips, his warm solidity a shock to 
her mind.  He was here, and she was touching him.  This was not a dream.

The breath rushed out of her as reality hit home.  She hitched in more air 
and swallowed hard. She was shaking all over; her nails bit into her ribs as 
her left hand tightened convulsively.  She watched in awe as her fingertips 
ran lightly over his cheek, traced the line of his stubble-roughened jaw.

Touching him was like holding a lighted match.  It threatened to burn her 
but she could not let it go, not yet.  Not yet.

She brushed his lips with her thumb.  Soft, slightly chapped, curving in a 
gentle smile.  Her throat seemed to lock up as she traced the shape of his 
mouth, the memories of each time those lips had touched her cheek coming 
hard and fast and threatening to topple her over.

Slowly, her spine creaking at every centimeter, she bent over him.  Closer.  
Closer.

She could not breathe at all.

Her lips were inches from his.

"EVERYBODY NEEDS SOMEBODY, SOMETIMES ..."

Scully had never moved so fast in her entire life.  One moment a breath away 
from kissing Mulder in his sleep; the next thing she knew, she was almost 
six feet away from the bed -- six feet in the wrong direction, six feet 
further away from the connecting door.  

Shit!  

She came to a sliding stop, the carpet burning her feet with the friction, 
her veins pumping almost pure adrenaline, trying to get enough control over 
her shaking limbs to make a similarly rocket-propelled journey back across 
the room to the door --

"... Scully?"

OH, SHIT.

Mulder sat up, groggy, blinking and running a slow hand over his face.  
Scully froze, her heart was going like a trip hammer, trying to take a 
breath that would fill more than a quarter of her lungs.  A shrieky little 
voice in the back of her head kept screaming *Caught! Caught! Caught!*  It 
made it impossible to think.

"Sorry, Mulder," she said in something near her normal voice, "I didn't mean 
to wake you."  That was for damn sure.  "Go back to sleep."

"What are you doing in here?"  Sleepy, but not stupid.  Mulder was still 
rubbing one eye, but she could almost hear the neurons in his brain firing 
up and working through this new puzzle.

"I ..."  She couldn't remember.  All she could remember was the way his 
eyelashes had curved across his cheeks, a tidbit of information which was 
absolutely no help under the circumstances.  "I ..."

Guido chose that moment for a repeat performance.  "WHEN THE MOON HITS YOUR 
EYE LIKE A BIG-A PIZZA PIE THAT'S AMORE ..."

The memory of her cover story hit like a thunderbolt.  The parrot, right.  
She indicated the cage with a tilt of her head, raising her eyebrow and 
starting to feel a little more like herself.  "I couldn't sleep."  She 
crossed to the cage and made a great show of pulling the cover over the 
cage, effectively silencing Guido's serenade.

"Oh, sorry about that," Mulder mumbled, pulling back the covers and swinging 
his legs off the mattress.  "I fell asleep the minute I got in here.  I 
didn't even take off --"  He broke off, looking down at his stocking-clad 
feet and at his shoes parked neatly beside the bed.  "Huh."

Scully stiffened.

Mulder stared at his shoes, a strange look on his face.  "I could have 
sworn --"

"I -- I --" she stuttered.  The vague, unfocused fear of discovery had 
suddenly sprouted teeth and bitten her heart in half.   "Mulder --" she 
croaked.

"Hmm?"  He was still pondering his feet.

"-- I'll take the parrot tomorrow."

He looked up.  "What?"

The words had fallen out of Scully's mouth so quickly that she had to 
backtrack to remember just what those words *were*.  "I said ... I'll take 
the parrot tomorrow."  It didn't make any more sense the second time.  "Just 
for the day.  Like you said."

Mulder stared at her, a sleepy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.  He 
stood up and ambled towards her, yawning, and extended one hand as though 
for a handshake.  "I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met.  Fox Mulder.  And 
you are ...?"

She swallowed the remnants of fear and waved his hand away, acting her 
normal part.  "Mulder, it's obvious you're having trouble with Guido.  If he 
keeps this up we're going to get thrown out of the motel.  It's in both of 
our best interests if I help you out."

"Scully ..."  He was smiling.  That puzzled, delighted smile that meant that 
she'd surprised him, that warm smile that spread across his face and lit up 
his eyes and made her feel irrationally pleased with herself.  He was 
smiling, and she felt herself starting to smile back, and she hated herself 
for it.

She had a brief eyeblink vision of reaching for him, tugging his face down 
to her own.  His arms tight around her.  Their legs tangling together as 
they tumbled onto the bed ...

She turned away.  If she had looked at him any longer, she might have melted 
down like a candle and not have been recognizable when she cooled.  "I'd 
better get to back to bed.  I've got an autopsy in three hours."

He shrugged, and started towards the bathroom.  "All right.  Good night, 
Scully."

"Good night, Mulder."  Scully walked through the door and closed it behind 
her.  She could hear water running next door -- probably Mulder brushing his 
teeth, or washing his face.  She sighed, and stared through the dark in the 
direction of his bathroom.

She focused, and found herself staring at her trench coat.  A thought 
squirmed through her pounding brain, and she walked over and put her hand 
into the pocket.

Her fingers recognized the cool lines of the little notebook but she pulled 
it out to stare uselessly at it, in the dark.  Next door, Mulder's 
bedsprings creaked.

She crossed the room in ten blind steps and looked at her alarm clock.  It 
was four-fifteen.  She didn't feel the least bit tired.

It was going to be a very long night.

<X><X><X><X>

GUTLESS

Chapter 6


"BEEEEEP BEEEEEP BEEEEEP BEEEEEP --"

Scully's hand shot out and clobbered the alarm clock, knocking it off the 
night stand.  It clattered to the floor and kept right on shrilling, muffled 
slightly by its new face-down position on the carpet, but otherwise 
perfectly audible.

"beeeeep beeeeep beeeeep beeeeep --"

"Oh hell," Scully groaned, and opened her eyes.  Six AM.  The merest hint of 
sunlight filtered through the curtains, but most of the light in her motel 
room was dim and flickering and strangely colored.  She lifted her head just 
enough to discover the source of the weird light -- and dropped back to the 
pillow with a groan.  The TV.  Apparently she'd fallen asleep while watching 
television, tangled up in the pile of sheets and synthetic coverlet, 
drooling down one cheek, her hair in her face.  How glamorous.

The alarm clock continued its tinny one-note aria.  In order to reach it, 
Scully would have to get out of bed, but she didn't want to get out of bed.  
She never intended to get out of bed again.  She was fused to the lumpy 
mattress, pressed down by multiple G-forces like an astronaut during 
takeoff.  The alarm clock would just have to keep beeping, because Dana 
Scully had become one with the bed.

She couldn't have had more than an hour of sleep.  Barely enough for a 
respectable nap.  Just enough to make her mouth feel sticky and to give her 
the shakes when she tried to move.  Her mind felt like it was crawling 
through thick mud, just trying to put a coherent thought together ...  Get 
up.  She had to get up.  She had to get up and get dressed.  There was an 
autopsy to do.  Oh, God, the autopsy, and something else ... she couldn't 
remember, something she had told Muld --

Oh.  

GOD.

The *dream*.

The dream was coming back to her, now.  An hour of sleep wasn't very much, 
but it was enough to dream, and good merciful heavens, what a dream.  She 
closed her eyes and rubbed her face with a shaky hand, trying to piece it 
all together.  

Mulder, of course.  She remembered him smiling at her when he'd caught her 
in his room, remembered it very well -- that must have inspired this dream.  
A dream in which she hadn't looked away from him, hadn't stopped herself 
from smiling back at him, a dream in which he'd leaned in and touched her 
cheek and slowly, oh so slowly brushed his lips against hers ... and she'd 
wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, and he had pulled her 
to him with those strong arms and his hands slid over her and he ground his 
hips against her and he kissed her and kissed her and oh God how he'd kissed 
her ...

Ohhhhh.  Ohhhh, sweet merciful heaven.  She was aroused even now, lying 
half-dead in her bed and unable to move; she wanted nothing more than to go 
back to sleep and let that dream-Mulder finish the job of making love to 
her, but she had to get up.  She had to.

Maybe she'd just lie here for another minute.

There was a very soft knock at the connecting door, like a hesitant 
woodpecker.  Speak of the devil.  "Scully?  Are you awake?"

"Just a minute," she said, hating the thick feel of her voice.  She fought 
her way out of the sheets and forced her lead-lined feet to walk over to the 
chair where she'd thrown her robe.  She pulled the robe on, struggling with 
her own arms, and remembered the time back in medical school when she'd 
helped a classmate dress a corpse in a robe and slippers, as a joke on a 
third student; the wobbly feel of her own muscles reminded her of the 
awkward limbs of that corpse.  Dana Scully, the Living Dead.  She picked up 
the still-beeping alarm clock and shut it off, tossing it onto the bed as 
she crossed to the connecting door.

"Scully?"  Mulder's voice was muffled, but the tone was unmistakably 
concerned.

"Hang on a minute, Mulder."  A few strands of hair were pasted to her cheek 
by damp, sticky saliva; she pried them off before opening the door halfway.  
Mulder was leaning against the door frame, looking almost as weary as she 
felt.

He had changed out of his dress shirt and slacks since she'd last seen him; 
he was now wearing a gray T-shirt and dark sweatpants and looking 
deliciously mussed, his hair flattened on one side and standing on end on 
the other, his jawline dark with stubble.  The warm sleep-smell coming from 
him was familiar, and somehow achingly erotic; that first-thing-in-the-
morning fragrance that only a lover would know.  A lover, or a partner who 
was seeing him far too early for comfort.

"Did I wake you?" Mulder asked, rubbing his neck.  Another flash of that 
dream came back to Scully, a sensory half-memory of Mulder's strong hands 
carving a path down the length of her spine and pulling her closer to him.  
Ohhh ...  She felt a warm tingle go through her and swallowed down the 
impulse to throw herself at him and bury her face in his chest.

"No, no, not really," Scully managed, congratulating herself on keeping such 
a steady tone of voice.  She yawned involuntarily, covering her mouth.  "My 
alarm went off a few minutes ago."

He nodded and looked at her for a moment, blinking sleepily.  Scully wracked 
her brain, trying to think of what he could be doing, what on earth he could 
possibly want.  He wasn't dressed yet, so he obviously wasn't ready to leave 
for Leotie.  Oh God, had he figured out that she'd --?  

She felt a wave of panic sweep over her and stomped down on it, hard.  She 
hadn't done anything wrong.  She'd had an odd moment there, sure, but she 
hadn't done anything, really, except tuck him in to keep him warm.  
Perfectly innocent.  Any good friend would do the same.  

"Mulder?" she asked at last.  "What do you want?"

"Want?"  He rubbed at one sleepy eye, almost smiling.  "Not much.  I just 
wanted to know if you wanted to have Guido move in with you now, or after 
the autopsy."

"I beg your pardon?"  Scully was having trouble connecting the dots on this 
one.  

Mulder's eyes narrowed, just a bit.  "I didn't dream that, right?  Didn't 
you say you'd keep him today?"

"Oh.  OH."  The memories were coming back now.  She'd told him -- oh, hell.  
Late-night excuses be damned, what could she have been thinking?  "That's 
right," she said slowly, "I said I'd take the parrot today."

Mulder grinned.  "Oooh, this is fun.  Do you remember agreeing to buy me 
lunch today, too?"

"Nice try, Mulder."

He shrugged.  "Worth a shot."  

Scully rolled her eyes and opened the door the rest of the way.  "Okay.  Go 
ahead and bring him in."

"All riiiight," Mulder cheered.  He disappeared back into his room, 
returning after a moment with the cage.  The cover was off; Guido peered 
balefully at Scully, spreading his wings for balance as Mulder held the cage 
up like a trophy.  "Any particular place you want me to stick him?"

Scully's lips quirked upwards.  "As a matter of fact, yes ... but I'll 
settle for you putting the cage over in that corner."

"Ouch," Mulder said, wincing melodramatically.  "You're wicked at this time 
of the morning, Agent Scully."

Scully lifted an eyebrow and headed for the bathroom.  "Get the parrot set 
up and get out of here, Mulder, or I'll show you just how wicked I can be."

"Oooh, Scully," Mulder leered.  "Promise?"

Scully sighed and shut the bathroom door behind her.

The bathroom was an appalling mess.  She had dripped all over the floor last 
night, and, in the end, all her good intentions had amounted to was little 
more than sliding a few towels around with one foot while attempting to dry 
her hair.  The rest of the towels had fallen onto the floor with the others 
during her fumbling late-night bedtime ritual, resulting in the damp mass of 
white terry cloth currently lurking on the cold tile near the toilet, 
exuding chilly moisture and the promise of mildew.  

A single unused washcloth hung on the towel rack, looking lonely.  Her 
hairbrush and comb had both fallen in the sink and were huddled together 
below the faucet like refugees, a few red strands curling away from the 
brush to stick to the surface of the porcelain basin.  And to top it all 
off, the toothpaste tube was missing its cap.

Scully was a woman to whom tidiness was not only habitual, but almost 
instinctual.  A mess like this could only mean that sometime in the last 
twelve hours she'd lost her mind completely, which might not be that far off 
the mark.  

She sighed, and toed the pile of wet towels, conducting an eyeball search of 
the room for the toothpaste cap and coming up empty.  Perfect.  Just 
perfect.

There was a loud squawk from the bedroom.  Scully rolled her eyes and opened 
the door just in time to hear Guido's latest proclamation.

"JACK AND JILL WENT UP THE HILL, THEY EACH HAD A BUCK AND A QUARTER.  JILL 
CAME DOWN WITH TWO AND A HALF, DO YOU THINK THEY WENT UP FOR WATER?"

"Mulder!" Scully scolded.

Near the window, Mulder looked over his shoulder with a guilty smile.  "What 
can I say, Scully, I got sick of the Rat Pack impressions."

"So you taught the parrot a dirty joke?"

"No, no."  Mulder looked self-righteous.  "A slightly off-color poem."

"Oh, excuse me, Mister Culture."  Scully watched him, tightening the sash of 
her robe just a bit.  "You do realize that we have to return Guido to his 
rightful owner the day after tomorrow, don't you?"

"Relax," Mulder said, moving a finger back and forth in front of the cage 
like a doctor checking for head trauma.  Guido followed the finger with his 
whole head, fascinated.  "Nobody can prove it was me.  For all we know, 
Marjorie Bailey had a large repertoire of questionable poetry in addition to 
her extensive collection of Elvis memorabilia."  Mulder elaborated on his 
parrot hypnosis by wiggling his finger puppet-style.  

The parrot's head snaked forward and he snapped at the bars.  Mulder yanked 
his hand back in a big hurry and slammed his elbow into the wall, dislodging 
the empty bookshelf above him; he ducked and managed to avoid getting his 
head bashed in as the heavy shelf thudded to the floor.

Scully snorted, amused.

"Bad Guido," Mulder informed the bird, wagging his finger at him from a safe 
distance.  "Hey, Scully, did you know that parrots typically start biting 
when they're ready to find a mate?"  He looped a crooked grin at her as he 
put the shelf back up.  "Much like humans in that regard."

"Whatever you say, Mulder," Scully sighed, and crossed to the bedside table 
to pick up the telephone receiver and dial.  "Housekeeping?  This is Agent 
Scully in room one-twenty-one.  I need a new set of towels.  Yes.  Thank 
you."

"New towels, Scully?"  Mulder, finished with his work on the shelf, plopped 
into the sagging armchair and grinned devilishly at her.  "Did you have a 
hot-tub party and forget to invite me?"

She quirked an eyebrow at him.  "Sorry, Mulder, I figured you needed your 
sleep."

"Your concept of my priorities is sadly out of whack."

"Speaking of priorities, I have an autopsy in less than an hour."  Scully 
made little shooing gestures at her partner.  "Go.  Get back in your own 
room."

Mulder clambered out of the chair and made a face.  "You're no fun anymore."

"Keep that up, Mulder, and I'll teach the parrot to say something insulting 
about you."  She steered him to the connecting door in her best no-nonsense 
manner.

Mulder seemed intrigued at the thought.  "Like what?"

"You'll know it when you hear it," she promised, and shut the door behind 
him.

"JACK AND JILL WENT UP THE HILL," Guido announced, "THEY EACH HAD --"

"Oh, shut up!" Scully snarled.  Surprisingly, Guido fell silent.  He fluffed 
his feathers arrogantly and regarded his new roommate with his head cocked 
to one side.  Scully stared back.

This was the first time she had taken a good look at the parrot.  Despite 
being a pain in the ass, Guido really was a gorgeous bird; his feathers were 
a beautiful mix of shades of light and dark gray, except for the deep 
scarlet of his tail.  Gorgeous, loud, and irritating ...  She briefly 
pondered the image of Mulder sitting on a perch in a large cage, engaged in 
a long monologue about extraterrestrial life, and shook her head to dispel 
the thought.  

There was a knock at the door.  "Housekeeping!"  

"That was quick."  Scully opened the door and recoiled involuntarily at the 
familiar face.  "Oh, God."

Mae the Maid stood outside, once again holding a neat stack of towels.  
Luckily, she didn't seem offended by Scully's reaction; Mae just grinned and 
shook her head, causing the thick cinnamon braid over her shoulder to flap.  
"Don't worry, I didn't work all night, just covering a shift for someone 
else."  She lifted the towels, extending them toward Scully.  "Need some 
towels?"

"Yes, please."  Scully accepted the towels and warily stepped back to let 
Mae inside.  "I'll get the old ones for you.  They're a little wet."

Mae entered the room and came to an abrupt halt, staring at the birdcage.  
"Is that the parrot?"

Scully was already halfway to the bathroom.  "That's him."

"God, he's a big one."  

"Don't get too close," Scully warned, pausing with one hand on the door 
frame before disappearing into the bathroom.  "Sometimes he bites."

Mae approached the cage warily, stopping a few feet away and hovering as 
though repelled by a magnetic field.  "Hey there, birdie," she cooed.  "Hey 
there."

Guido regarded Mae carefully, first with one eye and then with the other.  
Apparently dissatisfied, he cranked himself around on the perch and 
presented her with his tailfeathers.

The connecting door to the next room swung suddenly open and Mulder entered, 
shirtless, holding a box of bird food.  "Hey, Scully, I --"  He noticed Mae.  
"Oh, excuse me."

Mae stared at him.  Her mouth moved, but no sound emerged.

Mulder scanned the room fruitlessly.  "Scully?"

"Hang on a minute, Mulder," Scully called.  "I'll be right out."

"No, don't bother, I'm just leaving the food for Guido."  Mulder started to 
set the box of birdseed on the bookshelf near the cage, then made a face as 
though remembering something and set it on the floor, instead.  He nodded at 
Mae and left, shutting the door behind him.

Mae stared at the door.  At last she managed a low whistle.  "Oh, baby," she 
murmured, shaking her head.  "Fuck me 'til I *faint*."

"Did you say something?" Scully asked, emerging from the bathroom with her 
arms full of damp towels.

"Me?  No."  Mae vaguely accepted the bundle of terry cloth, her eyes 
distant.

Scully took in the dazed expression on the woman's face.  "Are you all 
right?"

"Ohhhh, yeah," Mae said, her voice starting high on the scale and sliding 
down.  Her eyes focused on Scully and she grinned.  "Yeah, I'm just dandy.  
Do you need anything else?"

"No," Scully said cautiously, "that'll be all."  

Mae exited without another word, but she gave Scully another eyebrow-
waggling smirk before the door closed between them.  Weird.  That woman was 
starting to worry Scully.  The last thing she needed on this trip was some 
kind of mental case prowling around the motel.  She had enough to deal with 
as it was.

<X><X><X><X>

She hadn't gotten around to scrubbing during her previous shower.  This time 
she was determined to make up for it, even if she had to take off a layer or 
two of epidermis.  Besides being cleansing, it was bound to wake her up a 
bit.

So, she'd had a dream.  Big deal.  Admittedly, it had been one hell of a 
vivid dream, but that didn't mean it had to affect her whole day.  She just 
had to get a hold of herself, and get past it.  It had only been a dream.  
She dealt with the detritus of crime and human cruelty every day of her 
life; surely she could deal with the aftereffects of one erotic dream.

Two Mulder-Awareness Days in a row was a concept that defied sanity.

She sighed and rubbed her face with one hand, feeling the lukewarm water 
trickle over her cheeks.  Logically, she reasoned that there must be 
something at the bottom of days like this one.  In every male-female 
relationship there was always some kind of sexual tension.  It was only 
natural.  Evolution, concerned with the propagation of the species, had not 
provided for cross-gender friendships, and so hormonal promptings like this 
should not be unexpected.

Hormones.  Scully closed her eyes and considered it.  An excess of hormones 
could be just as debilitating to the judgment as strong drink, or drugs.  
There wasn't anything she could do to avoid it; she could only hang on, ride 
out the hurricane, and police her thoughts more carefully, just in case her 
crippled judgment decided to act upon any of those thoughts.

Simply put, don't touch him.  And for God's sake keep him from touching her 
at *all*.

<X><X><X><X>

Scully emerged from the bathroom in record time; clean, hair tamed, and 
makeup in place.  Guido seemed pleased to see her; he shifted from foot to 
foot and nodded his head in a little parrot-dance.  "HELLO!"

"Hello, yourself," Scully said, feeling almost benevolent towards the bird.

Guido whistled at her and burst into song.  "DANKE SHÖEN ... DARLIN' ... 
DANKE SHÖEN ..."

Scully pulled her clothes on as fast as she could.  Illogical though it was, 
she felt a little uncomfortable about dressing in front of the parrot.  On 
the one hand, she was aware that Guido was just a bird -- on the other hand, 
he was a *talking* bird, and that put a weird spin on the situation.  She 
felt much better when she was fully clothed.

She took a last look in the mirror and noticed Guido watching her from 
behind.  "How do you like the suit, Guido?"

"JACK AND JILL WENT UP THE HILL," Guido announced, bobbing his head up and 
down.  "THEY EACH HAD A BUCK AND A QUARTER."

"Oh, please," Scully groaned.

"OH PLEASE," Guido echoed cheekily, and let his beak gape open.

Scully stared at the bird, shaking her head.  It was amazing.  She could 
have sworn that Guido was grinning, and a familiar grin at that -- a very 
Smart-Ass-Mulder grin.  She rolled her eyes and turned away.  She must be 
losing her mind.

There was a sharp knock at the front door.  "Room service."  It was Mulder's 
voice, pitched to a warbling falsetto but still perfectly recognizable.  
Scully opened the door, yawning, and came face to face with a steaming 
Styrofoam cup with a stylized coffee mug on the front.  "Looks like I got 
here just in time," Mulder said.  "Yawning like that has been known to cause 
dislocated jaws."

Scully smiled faintly and accepted the coffee, shivering at the chill in the 
air.  "Is that an X-File?"

"No, actually, it's just something I heard when I was a kid," Mulder 
grinned, and took a sip from his own cup of coffee.  His hair was still damp 
from the shower; Scully could smell the shampoo.  He held up a waxy paper 
bag and shook it slightly.  "Two jelly doughnuts, one chocolate glazed, and 
one plain.  Are you ready to go?"

"Almost."  Scully meant to duck back inside, but she saw Mulder shake his 
head slightly.  "What?" she asked.

"We're a little ahead of schedule," he said.  "Check out the scenery, 
Scully.  Stand still for a minute and breathe." 

The impending clouds from the previous night were still impending, so the 
dawn was a gray one, but the air was fresh and tangy with early spring.  The 
Mo-Z Inn was located on the edge of town, on what passed for a hill in this 
part of the country, and the view seemed to literally go on forever.  There 
were bare brown fields, dotted with stubble, and miles upon miles of grayish 
grass, but here and there Scully saw what looked like fields carpeted in a 
vibrant green -- winter wheat, an incongruous sign of life and growth.  
Scully could hear the murmur of human voices and the faint metallic sound of 
silverware from the diner next door, and a scattering of birdsong from the 
nearby trees.  

It was still cold, but it was very peaceful.  On a summer morning, Scully 
imagined, this might be like a little slice of heaven.

"How long do we get to do this?" she asked, smiling into her coffee.  Cream, 
no sugar.  Perfect.

"We still have thirty seconds.  How's the coffee?"

"Good.  Strong."  She took another sip.  "Hot."

Mulder smiled down at her.  "Does that mean you won't teach Guido to say 
mean things about me?"

She'd completely forgotten about her threat.  "Oh.  Mulder, I --"

"OH BABY!" Guido piped up in the background.  "FUCK ME 'TIL I FAINT!"

Scully's jaw dropped.

Mulder blinked.

"FUCK ME 'TIL I *FAINT*!  OH PLEASE OH PLEASE OH PLEASE OH PLEASE --"

All the blood drained from Scully's face.  Mulder looked at her in surprise.  

She held up one hand like a traffic cop.  "Don't say it."

"Who, me?"  Mulder looked innocent.  "I'm not the one who --"

"I said *don't*."  Scully glared at him, turned, and darted back into her 
room, grabbing her ID, keys, and weapon.

"OH PLEASE OH PLEASE OH PLEASE --"

The temptation to whip the semiautomatic out of its holster and shoot the 
damn parrot was almost overwhelming.  Scully had to force herself to clip 
the gun at her waist and walk back outside.  She slammed the door behind 
her, effectively cutting off the sound.

The agents walked to the car in complete silence, neither one looking at the 
other.

"Jeez, Scully," Mulder said at last, sounding mildly scandalized, "all *I* 
taught him was a lousy poem."

"Shut up, Mulder."

There was another long stretch of silence as they got into the car.  Mulder 
sat in the driver's seat, silently handed Scully the bag of doughnuts, and 
started the motor.  

Finally, he broke the silence.  "Hey, Scully?"

"What is it, Mulder?"

"Dibs on the chocolate doughnut."

"In your dreams."

<X><X><X><X>

Chapter 7

Bryan Memorial Hospital
8:27 AM

The coffee finally kicked in about halfway through the autopsy.  Scully 
could feel the caffeine making its deliberate way through her veins, easing 
the ache in her hands and making her sluggish thoughts suddenly slam into 
hyperdrive.  All the anger and frustration that had been buried underneath 
the exhaustion came crawling to the surface, and Scully found herself 
standing at the head of the old-style porcelain table, clutching a Strycker 
saw and entertaining thoughts of using it to chew through Jean Denison's 
skinny neck.  

The nerve of that woman, to put her on the spot like that.  The *nerve*.

This was possibly the most frustrating autopsy in history, rivaled only by 
yesterday's frustrating autopsy of Marjorie Bailey.  The only thing revealed 
in the external examination -- besides an impressive collection of acne 
scars and a birthmark shaped like a telephone receiver -- was the large red 
patch on the torso, and which revealed nothing upon closer examination that 
she hadn't already noticed.  There was no block of organs to examine, and 
the brain, now soaking in a jar of formaldehyde, wouldn't be solid enough to 
manipulate for a good two weeks; all that was left to do was poke around in 
the body cavity, taking samples of the scalded-looking muscle tissue and the 
occasional puddle of foul-smelling mucus.

And nothing, *nothing* on the outside.  Scully had checked, and checked 
again, searching for any marks that would indicate restraints, or a bruise 
from a struggle, or even fibers or hairs from a stranger's mere presence.  
Not a thing, except for the flaky red patch.  She had examined some of the 
skin samples from the patch, and found exactly what she'd expected: it was a 
burn mark, a scorch mark, as though someone had taken hot water and let it 
dribble over the boy's upper body.  No sign of what had made it.

Stranger still, there was an identical swath of scalded tissue on the inside 
muscle wall, exactly parallel to the mark on the outside of the body.  
Closer examination showed signs that the heat, whatever its source, had 
penetrated right through; the question was -- was it something burning its 
way in, or something inside the boy burning its way out?

She was too tired to remember why she had agreed to do this.  All she could 
focus on was that it was one-hundred-percent Jean Denison's fault.  Jean, 
who had shamelessly volunteered Scully for this crap.  Jean, who could have 
been doing this instead.  Jean, who was probably still sleeping right now.  
Jean, who spent all her time staring at Mulder's ass instead of getting any 
damn work done, not that Mulder would ever have anything to do with her ...

Oh, that *bitch*.

Scully realized she was brandishing the Strycker saw like a weapon, and 
carefully set it back down on the aluminum tray.  God, what was the matter 
with her?  Back to work.  Finish this up, then go get some more coffee and 
wait for Mulder to get back from the psych ward ... coffee, yes, definitely; 
even that awful bitter hospital-cafeteria coffee sounded good.  How 
pathetic.  At this rate, she'd be chewing coffee beans by the end of the 
day.

She had just pulled the scalp back down over the calvarium when her 
caffeine-heightened senses picked up on a presence, someone hovering just 
behind the doors of the autopsy bay.   She looked up to find Mulder peeking 
through the window.  He met her gaze and smiled.

Scully stripped off the latex gloves and tossed them in the medical 
disposables bin, which Mulder seemed to take as his cue to push the door 
open slightly and stick his head inside the room.  "Hey there."

"Hey."  She pulled the surgical mask and protective eyewear off her face and 
ran a hand through her hair, trying to get rid of the lingering sensation of 
pressure from the mask ties.  "I didn't expect you back so quickly."

"Almost finished?" Mulder asked, his eyes flickering from her face to the 
corpse and back again.

"Almost.  I can leave the rest of it to the morgue assistant."  She raised 
an eyebrow.  "Didn't Uncle Fred have anything interesting to say?"

"Haven't talked to him yet," Mulder said matter-of-factly, pushing the door 
the rest of the way open and walking on in.  

Something was up.  Scully's eyebrow crept further toward her hairline.  
"By any chance are you having trouble finding the psych ward?"

"Haven't looked for it yet," Mulder said in that same tone of voice, 
frowning as he looked down into the still-open chest cavity of the corpse.  
He caught Scully's look as he glanced back up, and shot her a swift grin.

She ignored it.  He wasn't buying her off with that grin, not today.  
"Then what have you been doing for the past hour and a half, Mulder?"

"Waiting on you, mostly."

"Why?"

He grinned that adorable Aw Shucks, Ma'am grin, shrugging one shoulder.  
"I just thought the interview might go better with you there."  

"I'm touched," Scully said dryly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  
"What brought this on?"

Mulder shrugged again, chewing just a little on his lower lip.  "I might 
need backup in case Fred starts hurling Bible verses at me."

Scully shook her head.  "I'm pretty rusty on my Scripture, Mulder.  I don't 
think I'd be much help."

"Why, Scully, I'm shocked," Mulder gasped mockingly.  "A good Catholic girl 
like you, unprepared to lock horns with a small-town chapter-and-verse nut 
like Fred."

Her frayed temper snapped.  No more of that shit -- first Jean Denison, 
then Marty Schmidt; there was no way in hell that she was going to let 
Mulder jump on this particular bandwagon.  "Dammit, Mulder, will you give 
the religious stuff a rest?" she snarled.  "Just because I happen go to 
church doesn't give you the right to pawn off every fundamentalist freak on 
me, so drop it."

Mulder blinked at Scully.  It occurred to her, belatedly, that she had blown 
up at the wrong person.  It wasn't his fault that Jean Denison had pulled 
this crap; it wasn't his fault that the victim's family was intensely 
religious; it wasn't his fault that she hadn't found anything in this 
autopsy.  It *was* his fault that she hadn't slept last night, but then 
again, it wasn't something he'd done on purpose.

God help her.  She closed her eyes for half a second; when she opened them 
again, Mulder was walking toward the door.

Oh, no.  "Mulder --"

"I'll just go do the interview," Mulder said, not looking at her.  "I don't 
think it'll take more than five minutes, ten tops.  I'll meet you in the 
lobby."

He was out the door before she could apologize.

<X><X><X><X>

"Mulder!"

Mulder turned to find Scully bearing down on him like a redheaded bullet 
train.  She'd come after him.  Of course she had; Scully never liked being 
let off the hook, even when Mulder was the one who'd put her on the hook in 
the first place.  "Scully," he said sharply, continuing his walk down the 
hall, "I told you, I'll handle it on my own."

Scully caught up with him, automatically adjusting her pace to keep up with 
his longer stride.  "Mulder, I'm going with you."  

"Forget it, Scully," Mulder said with an overly casual shrug.  "You're busy.  
I'll meet you back here in ten minutes."

"Mulder --"

"Ten minutes, Scully."

Scully grabbed Mulder's sleeve, bringing him to an abrupt halt and pulling 
him around to face her, so close that she was practically treading on his 
toes.  "Dammit, Mulder, will you let me apologize already?"

Mulder stared down at her, surprised.  Some unidentifiable emotion flitted 
across her face before she regained her usual neutral expression; she pulled 
her hand away and moved back half a step.  What had just happened?  He 
searched her eyes, looking for the source of that sudden withdrawal, but the 
barriers were back up and he couldn't get a read on her.  "Okay," he said 
slowly.  "Go ahead."

Scully just looked at him.  "Stay here," she said at last.  "Give me a 
minute to get cleaned up, and I'll go with you.  All right?"

"All right," Mulder agreed.  He chanced a small smile.  "Is that the 
apology?"

Scully's mouth twisted in something halfway between a smile and a grimace.  
"At this point, Mulder, I suggest you take what you can get."

<X><X><X><X>

There was only one nurse manning the station at the psych ward, and she 
seemed far too young to be in charge.  She was twenty-five, perhaps younger; 
an attractive, baby-faced woman, her dark hair and huge dark eyes 
contrasting with the brilliant white of her uniform.  She glanced up as the 
agents approached, swiveling her chair away from the computer with a 
professionalism that bordered on religious fervor.  Scully was struck by a 
memory of herself around that age, throwing herself heart and soul into 
medical school, burning up with dedication.

Mulder, it seemed, was not considering professionalism; out of the corner of 
her eye, Scully noticed his gaze slip past the nurse's face, lingering 
lower -- on her breasts? -- before he looked back up with his most charming, 
conspiratorial grin.  "Hello," he said, the flirtatious tone of his voice 
echoing the implications of his grin.  

Scully gritted her teeth.

The nurse -- her name tag gave her name as Lois Rubin -- did not respond to 
either the grin or to the voice.  She merely smiled politely, exposing small 
white teeth that reminded Scully of Tic-Tacs.  "May I help you?"

Mulder leaned forward, resting his elbows on the high counter surrounding 
the nurse's station; Scully could practically smell the testosterone levels 
sliding up the scale.  "I certainly hope so.  We're here to speak with Fred 
Schmidt."

Lois glanced at a clipboard on her desk.  "I don't have any information on 
this.  Are you related?"

"To --?"

"To Mr. Schmidt."

"No," Mulder said, sounding amused.

Scully flipped her ID open and held it up, tired of this game.  "We're with 
the FBI.  I'm Agent Scully and this is Agent Mulder.  We'd like to ask Mr. 
Schmidt some questions."

Lois blinked, her eyes getting even wider.  She went stock-still like a 
startled woodland creature, wary and poised for flight.  "May I ask what 
this is regarding?"

Scully put on her stern expression.  "It's regarding the death of his 
nephew."

Wheels spun almost visibly in the young nurse's head as she attempted to 
process this unfamiliar request.  Finally she stood, making an almost 
unconscious gesture toward the phone.  "I'll have to call my superior."

"That's fine," Scully assured her; Lois picked up the phone and dialed, 
turning away to ensure her privacy.  Scully glanced at her partner, only to 
find Mulder's attention still glued to the shapely nurse.  He seemed to be 
staring directly at Lois's round bottom.

Scully felt like punching him in the nose.

Lois murmured something into the phone, pitching her voice too low for 
Scully to make out what she was saying.  A pause; more murmuring.  Lois 
turned her head to glance at the agents; Scully caught the words "don't know
if we should, really" as Lois turned back around, then more unintelligible 
murmurs.  

Scully looked over at Mulder, expecting to find him still staring at Lois's 
ass; she was relieved to realize that he was engrossed in one of his less 
offensive hobbies:  eavesdropping.  Under normal circumstances, Scully might 
have elbowed him or cleared her throat to indicate her disapproval, but at 
the moment, almost anything was preferable to ... to ... 

Well, eavesdropping wasn't really so bad.

Lois turned back around, setting the receiver back in its cradle with a very 
professional *click*.  "Mr. Schmidt is in room three-oh-three.  You can stay 
for ten minutes; any more than that and he gets agitated."  She leaned 
slightly over the counter and politely pointed at the hallway to their left.  
"It's down that hallway, past the elevator."

<X><X><X><X>

"Have you been washed in the blood of the Lamb?"  Fred Schmidt was sitting 
cross-legged on the hospital bed, the sheet pulled to his waist, the 
hospital gown hanging on his skinny frame in baggy folds.  He was 
considerably calmer than he had been last night, possibly due to some kind 
of medication.  His enthusiastic Bible-waving had been replaced by wide-eyed 
staring -- but after two long minutes of the staring, Scully was beginning 
to miss the Bible-waving.

This was insane.

She couldn't believe she'd actually argued with Mulder for the privilege of 
coming along on this interview.  Damn him and that pitiful look of his.  So 
she'd jumped down his throat for no reason.  So what?  She shouldn't feel as 
though she had to make it up to him, she shouldn't have some automatic need 
to make the puzzled hurt leave his eyes.

She'd made the offer and now she had to deal with the consequences.  Namely, 
Fred.  Fred, who had been staring at her face with his dry, spiraling, 
mesmerizing stare for two very long minutes now -- and completely ignoring 
Mulder.  Fred, who had been keeping up an intense, low-pitched monologue for 
most of those two minutes, ignoring any queries that the agents had put to 
him and not listening to any of their answers to *his* questions.  Fred, who 
did not seem to have anything useful at all to contribute to this 
investigation and was still *staring* at her.

Mulder was a dead man.

"*Have* you?" Fred pressed.  He never seemed to blink.  Perhaps his 
colorless eyes were equipped with a clear nictating membrane that prevented 
them from drying out ... or maybe they were already dried out, and Fred 
simply didn't care.  "Have you been WASHED, have you been SAVED, have you 
found SALVATION?"

Enough of this.  Scully crossed her arms over her chest and returned Fred's 
stare.  "Mr. Schmidt," she said calmly, "there are a few questions that we 
need to --"

"You need the love of CHRIST," Fred informed her; his eyes grew even wider, 
and a thin trickle of saliva began to make its way down his chin.  "A woman 
is a base creature of LUSTS and PERVERSIONS, she must be sanctified by the 
blood of the LAMB before she goes out into the world to TEMPT men into sin, 
just as Eve tempted Adam in the Garden of Eden ..."

It occurred to Scully just how much Fred's attitude towards women would 
benefit from a swift kick in the testicles.

Mulder cleared his throat and leaned into Scully's line of vision, bringing 
an end to the staring contest.  "Mr. Schmidt," he said, "we have to ask you 
some questions about your nephew's death."

"All God's creatures return to the dust at their proper time," Fred intoned, 
tilting his head so that one colorless tuft of hair pointed skyward.  
"Joshua's soul is in the hands of his Heavenly Father."  He still hadn't 
blinked.  Scully couldn't remember how long the interval between blinks was 
supposed to be in humans, but she was positive that Fred had exceeded it at 
least a minute ago.

"Be that as it may," Mulder said calmly, "what we're concerned about is the 
*manner* in which Joshua's soul departed his body last night."  He was using 
his soothing voice, with just a hint of-- what was it, amusement?  Yes, that 
was it, Mulder was amused.  The bastard.  "You told the sheriff that you 
yourself were attacked shortly before Joshua's death.  Can you tell us about 
the attack?"

"I was sleeping -- I was dreaming -- I felt-- someone -- PRESSING me," Fred 
announced, staring at Mulder now, spitting a little on each plosive sound.  
"Pressed so that I could not MOVE, could not BREATHE -- someone on TOP of 
me -- on my CHEST --"

Well, now, this was getting somewhere.  Scully risked a glance at Mulder, 
searching for his opinion in his face.  Whatever he was feeling, he was 
hiding it well; her only clue was the slight press of his lips ... could be 
tension, could be annoyance, could be some kind of repressed smile ... 

It sure as hell was sexy.

"Running hot HANDS over me -- PRESSING into my body like a WHORE --"

Mulder turned his head slightly, and Scully realized with a jolt that she'd 
been staring at his mouth.  Oh, no, for God's sake, not now ...  He caught 
her eye, lifted an eyebrow slightly and tilted his head just a little in 
Fred's direction, the ghost of a smile lurking in his eyes.

"HOLDING me down, helpless -- helpless as a BABY -- lighting a FIRE in my 
belly --"

She looked away.

"A FIRE that burned in my loins like the --"

"Mr. Schmidt," Mulder interrupted, "can you tell us who it was that attacked 
you?"

Fred focused on Mulder, leaned forward, and lowered his voice to a hoarse 
whisper.  "The spirit."

"I beg your pardon?" Scully exclaimed, immediately regretting it as Fred 
swiveled around and focused on her.  

"The unclean SPIRIT," Fred hissed intently.  "The unclean spirit came upon 
me in my SLEEP -- it tempted me with LEWD DREAMS --"

"So," Mulder interrupted again, "you were asleep, the ... unclean spirit ... 
pressed you to your bed and made you dream ... and then what happened?  You 
woke up?"

"Yes."

"What exactly was it that woke you?" Mulder asked.  "Was there a noise in 
the room?"

"No no no ..." Fred shook his head slowly, and let out a long hissing 
breath.  "It was the dream."

"You woke up because of the dream."

"Yes."  Fred nodded once, sagely.  "The Lord commands us to FIGHT 
temptation, just as He fought Satan in the desert."

Mulder had his Super G-Man face on; his body language was deliberate and 
showy, designed to prove that he was firmly in charge of this interview.  
"So you fought the dream, and woke up."

"Yes," Fred agreed.  His lips parted slightly and the tip of his pale pink 
tongue thoughtfully touched first his upper lip, then his lower lip, and 
disappeared back into his mouth.  "I awoke, and the demon was on me -- a 
perverse creature of SATAN -- a demon built like a woman, created to TEMPT 
men with her body, ENSNARE them and TRAP them in sin --"

"Mr. Schmidt," Mulder began ... but whatever control he'd had of this 
interview had been short-lived. Fred had started to sway back and forth, his 
eyes rolling back in his head and his voice edging back up into that 
peculiar evangelical resonance as he continued his monologue.

"-- eyes like glittering EMERALDS and hair the color of NIGHT, FLOWING like 
a flock of goats moving down the slopes of GILEAD -- lips like a scarlet 
THREAD -- breasts like two FAWNS--"

Scully hadn't been kidding when she'd told Mulder that she was a little 
rusty on her Bible verses, but Fred's babbling was eerily familiar.  The 
Song of Solomon, practically verbatim.  She frowned.  Green eyes, black 
hair -- why did that sound familiar?  Someone she'd met recently?

"-- running her HANDS over me -- her HANDS -- on my CHEST --"

The description clicked home as Scully remembered Marty Schmidt, the dark-
haired, startlingly green-eyed alpha female of the tiny zealous family.  The 
Commandments said not to covet thy brother's wife, but apparently Fred had 
ignored the fine print and gone for his nephew's wife, instead.  

An affair?  No, even Marty Schmidt had to have better taste in men than 
that.  Unrequited, then, but still noteworthy.  Something strange was 
definitely going on in this town.

"MR. SCHMIDT!" Mulder snapped.  Scully whipped her head around, surprised, 
half-expecting to see her partner grab Fred Schmidt by the front of the 
shirt and shake him -- but Mulder seemed calm enough.  His eyes had that 
sharp look, the watchful gleam of a hunter who has just spotted a flicker in 
the underbrush and is waiting to see if it was just the wind or the brush of 
a tiger's tail.  Focused.  Intense.  

Sensual.

Oh, sweet Mary, mother of God...

Fred ignored Mulder as though he had never spoken.  "-- PRESSING against my 
body --"

Mulder turned his eyes to Scully.  There was frustration in his look, 
amusement and annoyance and anger all churning together, making his eyes 
seem darker.

His thought processes were easy enough to follow.  That flicker of attention 
from her, to Fred, and back again, the barest movement of an eyebrow -- that 
was an old signal, the one they always used to trade off during interviews, 
the one that meant, 'I'm not getting anywhere with this, it's your turn.'  

Scully frowned marginally and shook her head just a fraction.  No.  She'd 
had enough of Fred for one day; she was still angry with Mulder for pulling 
her in here in the first place, and besides, she couldn't think of anywhere 
to take this interview.

"-- putting her scarlet MOUTH to mine to sip my LIFE out through my lips --"

Mulder gave her the signal again, elaborating it with a double-eyebrow lift 
and a tilt of the head.  Scully glared at him and deliberately turned away.

Forget it.  She'd already done Mulder enough favors for one day --

And then she felt Mulder's hand brush against her wrist.  A very light 
touch.  Warm fingertips.  An almost palpable electrical charge vibrating 
between them.

Oh God.

Scully stepped away from Mulder, ostensibly to get closer to the bed but 
really in a desperate quest for escape.  "Mr. Schmidt!" she bit out.  
Amazingly, Fred stopped his swaying and chanting, and focused his pale eyes 
on Scully.  She took a deep breath.  "Mr. Schmidt, can you please tell us 
how you fought off this ... demon?"

Fred blinked, actually blinked.  "I PUSHED the harlot from me -- she HISSED, 
and MOCKED me, and sprang toward me AGAIN --"  He drew a deep, shuddering 
breath.  "I prayed, prayed to JESUS, to save me from the demon, and --"  

He stopped, his mouth hanging open, as if his batteries had run down.

"... And?"  Scully prompted.

Fred focused on Scully.  The crazy whirling in his eyes came to a sudden 
halt, and for a moment his expression was completely normal and sane.  "And 
it was gone.  It just disappeared."

Scully felt an opinion forming in the back of her mind, but this was not the 
time or place to share it.  Instead, she looked up and over her shoulder at 
Mulder, raising her eyebrows in a silent question -- Can We Go Now?

Mulder, deep in thought, shook his head.  "Just a few more questions, Mr. 
Schmidt.  Last night you said something about needing to 'cleanse' your 
nephew.  What exactly did you mean by that?"

Fred still seemed sane; he blinked owlishly at Mulder and spoke in a normal 
voice.  "Joshua needs to be cleansed of the touch of the demon, lest his 
immortal soul be compromised."

"The same demon that attacked you?" Mulder asked.

"Of course."  Fred's attention drifted back to Scully and he smiled, 
narrowing those eerie eyes and showing most of his teeth.  As she watched, 
the pale light in his gaze began to spin again, like a crazed merry-go-
round.  "The demon," he whispered, holding her eyes.  "The unclean spirit.  
The succubus."

<X><X><X><X>

Chapter 8

Sometimes, Mulder forgot just how tiny Scully was.  It was easy to lose 
track of her physical stature in the shadow of the mental giant that he 
sparred with every day.  She had an aura of confidence and authority like an 
aura which obscured the size of the woman beneath it, and on a day-to-day 
basis he thought of her height -- if he thought of it at all -- as simply 
Scully-sized.

Then there were the odd days he would blink, and stare, and marvel at how 
little she was.  The curl of strong, slender fingers around a steering 
wheel, or the incongruous sight of tiny hands gripping a seemingly oversized 
semiautomatic.  Such little hands.  Once, when she had fallen asleep on a 
flight to Atlanta, one of those absurdly high-heeled shoes had fallen off; 
he'd leaned over, picked it up, and had been astounded to discover that 
Scully's shoe was small enough for him to hold on the flat of his hand.  
Such little feet.

He was currently watching those feet, marveling at how fast those little 
legs could move.  It was amazing -- sort of like watching a hummingbird.  
Scully was propelling herself down the dimly lit hospital hallway at warp 
speed, apparently putting as much space as she could between herself and 
Fred Schmidt, and leaving Mulder in the dust in the process.

"Scully!" he called after her.  "Wait up!"  

She slowed down and came to a stop, but didn't turn around; she just waited, 
her head slightly bowed, as he jogged down the hall.  He was grinning from 
ear to ear as he caught up with her, trying to find the perfect smart-ass 
remark to celebrate those tiny feet, but when he leaned a hand on the wall 
in front of her, she didn't look up.  That could be a bad sign.

He decided to go ahead with the remark, anyway.

"Training for the two-hundred meter again?" he teased, waiting for her to 
look up, waiting for her eyebrow to slant, waiting for that slight, amused 
purse of her lips ...  Hopefully, she'd be in the mood to play; she'd toss a 
comeback at him, and the mood would lighten before they had to get back to 
the business of pondering four dead people, an unknown culprit, and a crazy 
uncle.

She looked up, glaring at him from beneath lowered eyebrows.  This did not 
look like a receptive mood.  This looked like a mood which could lead to 
Scully socking him in the jaw.

Mulder thought of another funny thing to say, this time about Scully's tiny 
fists.  He opened his mouth, took another look at his partner's dark scowl, 
and decided against the comment.  

"What is it, Mulder?" Scully finally asked, peevishly.

He pointed back down the hall.  "What'd you think of Fred Schmidt?"

"That was a waste of time, Mulder."  She tipped her head up to glower at 
him, her eyes glittering.  "If he had in some way witnessed the crime, I 
could see the point, but --"

"He says he was attacked by a spirit being," Mulder insisted.  "I think it's 
worth investigating."

"He's delusional, Mulder.  He had an erotic dream about his nephew's wife, 
that's all."

Mulder almost laughed out loud.  Despite her obvious opinion of the Fred 
interview, she'd still listened, analyzed, put together clues.  Classic 
Scully.  "Right.  Marty Schmidt.  You caught that, too?"

Scully sighed.  "It was fairly obvious.  Green eyes, dark hair.  He 
fantasized about Marty and felt guilty enough about it to come up with this 
ridiculous story."  Her eyes shifted away, glancing vaguely down the 
hallway, and it occurred to him just how tired she was.

"Do you think he was lying to us?" Mulder asked, taking advantage of her 
inattention and scanning her face for further danger signs.  Her color was 
off.  The skin around her mouth looked too tight.  He felt a twinge of 
unease and guilt, and sighed.

"Lying?  No ..."  Scully's mouth twisted, her gaze still categorizing the 
air molecules in the hallway.  "Not deliberately.  I think that he honestly 
believes he was attacked by some kind of paranormal entity, but ..."  She 
trailed off, rubbing the bridge of her nose wearily.  

There was a memory dancing around in the back of Mulder's brain, peeking at 
him coyly around the disorganized piles of information, just out of reach.  
He snapped his fingers as it came into focus.  "Skinner."

She snapped back to attention, and stared at him as though he'd lost his 
mind.  "Excuse me?"

"We've seen this sort of thing before, Scully."  The memory was coming up in 
Technicolor now, doing a tap dance like Ginger Rogers.  "Come on, Scully," 
he prodded.  "Remember?" 

Scully blinked, her eyes flickering off to her right as she considered it.  
"The prostitute," she said at last, meeting his eyes again.  "And Sharon."

Mulder waited for her to make the connection; the memory had met up with a 
few others and they were doing a kickline in the middle of his brain.  
"Well," he said at last, "you see?"

"See *what*?" Scully asked, her voice going up in pitch.  "Mulder, that case 
has absolutely nothing to do with this."

Terrific.  And here he'd thought she was with him on this.  He sighed, and 
laboriously retraced his mental steps, rewinding the kickline and the tap 
dance and shunting the thing back into plain black and white.  "Skinner had 
a recurring dream in which an old woman would ..." he gestured vaguely, "... 
would straddle his chest and suffocate him."

"Yes..." Scully agreed, as though humoring a small child.

He ignored the tone.  "Fred Schmidt just told us practically the same story, 
Scully."

"But -- but -- that --"  She flailed a hand in the direction of the room 
they had just left, her words deserting her.  "He didn't say anything *like* 
that!  He said --"

"He said," Mulder supplied, feeling rather triumphant, "that he had a dream 
about a woman on his chest who pressed on him until he couldn't breathe."

Scully took a deep breath, making an obvious effort to compose herself.  
"All right, I will admit that it is possible that Fred Schmidt has a sleep 
disorder vaguely similar to the one that Skinner suffered from, but --"

"A succubus, Scully."  

She snorted.  "The only succubus that I know exists is that lousy art film 
William Shatner did in Esperanto."

"That was 'Incubus,' not 'Succubus.'  Come on, you just heard Fred Schmidt 
say it himself."

"Mulder," she said in that warning voice, "what he was describing was 
something called sleep paralysis.  It's a conscious state of involuntary 
immobility occurring just prior to falling asleep, or immediately after it.  
In normal REM sleep the brain sends out a signal immobilizing the entire 
body except for the eye muscles; this is a sort of short-circuited version 
of the process."  

Scully had fallen into that particular recitative style that she always used 
at times like this, her head cocked slightly to the left and her eyes 
unfocused.  Mulder watched her as she spoke, again marveling at her; this 
time not at her tiny size, but at the gigantic stature of her mind.  It was 
always such a glorious experience, listening to her rattle off encyclopedic 
amounts of information, even if he didn't agree with the theory she was 
putting forward.  Arousing, too, but that wasn't something he liked to dwell 
on.

Mulder wondered, briefly, if Scully's memories ever did tap dances.  

"Essentially," she continued, "the brain is awake and completely aware of 
its surroundings, but the body is still deep in REM sleep and therefore out 
of the conscious control of the individual.  Any attempts at deep breathing 
or any other voluntary movements are therefore unsuccessful, and the 
individual perceives this lack of motor control as paralysis, and the lack 
of voluntary breathing as a sensation of pressure on the chest."

Tap dances?  Probably not.  At least, not when she was in a mood like this 
one.  Scully's mind always seemed to be well-organized, like an extensive, 
tidy bank of filing cabinets, all indexed and cross-indexed and available at 
the drop of a hat.  His own mind, on the other hand, often reminded him of 
his bedroom -- well, what was supposed to be his bedroom -- the information 
distributed in random boxes, stacked in haphazard piles, all connecting in 
surprising and unexpected ways.  

Scully's eyes narrowed; she must have thought he wasn't paying attention.  
"I'm listening," he assured her.  "Go on."

"There's not that much to say, Mulder.  The pressure on the victim's chest 
often leads to feelings of intense fear and occasionally to visual and 
auditory hallucinations of some kind of malevolent creature crouching on the 
chest, trying to strangle or smother him."  She paused, reconsidered.  "Or 
her.  Sleep paralysis is an equal-opportunity disorder."

Another scrap of information teased at him, tickling him from behind.  
Words.  A phrase.  Something about women ... women of good something or 
other.  For some bizarre reason the image coming to mind involved a horse 
and cart.  Buggy?  Cab?  Carriage?  Yes, that was it.  Carriage.  "Women of 
good carriage."

"I beg your pardon?" Scully asked.

"It's Shakespeare," he provided, fishing around in his memory for the rest 
of the quote.  "'This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, that 
presses them, and learns them first to bear ... making them women of --'"

"-- 'of good carriage,'" she finished for him.  "Yes, I think I remember 
reading the quote in someone's overambitious doctoral thesis on the subject.  
I believe it's from Julius Caesar."

"No."  He grinned at her, feeling the balance of power shift back to him 
with a single word.  "Romeo and Juliet."

She blinked.  "Oh."

Swish.  Two points for Fox Mulder.

It was all part of the game they played, the intellectual one-upmanship.  
Almost more fun than basketball, in its way.  They would each find a 
starting position, dredge up as much information as they could remember on 
their respective points of view, and then proceed to play the game, each 
trying to use information to discredit the other's opinion, and to shore up 
their own.  On every case, they would play several rounds of this game; each 
round would find their starting positions just a little closer, a little 
more similar.  At some point enough evidence would be in play to agree on 
the basics, and the game would become a purely philosophical one

In its own way, it beat basketball hollow.  Scully, after all, flatly 
refused to play basketball with him.

"It's an almost universal phenomenon, Scully," he told her, stalling a 
little as he dug up the memory, dusted it off, turned it over in his hands 
to test its weight.  "They did a study about twenty years ago.  Almost every 
culture has a myth or legend associated with the 'hag' experience, with 
almost the exact same characteristics described in stories from Korea to 
Ireland to the West Indies."

"Cultural sources," Scully shrugged.  "Such experiences can be induced by 
the simple knowledge of the traditional stories, coupled with the stimulus 
of an episode of sleep paralysis --"

"Scully," he interrupted, "when they did this study, half the people who'd 
had a 'hag' experience had no prior knowledge of any of those traditions.  
They're common even in present-day industrialized countries where there is 
no such commonly accepted cultural mythos."  

She gave him *that* look, the one that meant that she had caught him 
contradicting himself again.  "I find that hard to believe, considering 
we've spent hours discussing how the UFO phenomenon has replaced myths and 
folklore in the explanation of unusual events in today's modern culture."

"You're misquoting me, Scully; I was the one who said that the UFO 
phenomenon was the basis of most of the myths of --"  He shook his head 
abruptly, realizing that she had baited him off the track of his original 
argument.  "Never mind."

Two points, Dana Scully.

Scully made a small, almost amused sound in the back of her throat.  "At any 
rate, Mulder, I think we can safely assume that Fred Schmidt's nocturnal 
attacker was merely a hallucinatory product of sleep paralysis."

"I don't think so."  He leaned a little closer to her.  "Scully, I think 
this might be the key to everything that's happening around here."

She stared at him.  There!  A perfect shot from half-court, nothin' but net.  
He leaned back slightly, satisfied.  It never took Scully very long to 
recover from one of his sudden pronouncements, but the stunned expression on 
her face in those precious seconds was better than iced tea and sunflower 
seeds.  

Her mouth had dropped open a few centimeters; as he watched, she recovered 
and snapped it shut again.  "Mulder," she said in her I'm-the-only-sensible-
one-here voice, "whether Fred Schmidt was attacked by a spirit being, as he 
believes, or had an episode of sleep paralysis, the point is that it has 
nothing to do with the murders.  This is a dead end."

"What if," he said, carefully picking his way through the topical minefield, 
"what if the entity that attacked Uncle Fred is actually the murderer that 
we've been looking for?"

"What are you saying, that this was an actual person instead of a product of 
his imagination?"

He stalled.  "Not a person, no."  

"What, then?  A succubus?"

Mulder wished that someday he'd remember to do a little research before he 
got into these arguments.  The game had shifted back into Scully's hands; 
she was poking holes in his wall of defense right and left and it was time 
for a full time-out.  "Look," he said abruptly, "at the moment I'd really 
like to know more about Fred's medical condition.  Is there any way you 
could get a look at his charts, find out the diagnosis, any medications he's 
on?"

To her credit, Scully followed him over the conversational speed bump, 
scarcely missing a beat.  "Yes ..." she conceded grudgingly.  For some 
reason, her mouth twisted into a frown.  "We can ask at the -- at the 
nurses' station."

"Ahh," he grinned, happy to get an easy answer for once.  "What was that 
nurse's name again?  Lois?"

Scully gave him a very dark look that he did not understand in the least, 
ducked under his arm, and stalked off down the hallway.

<X><X><X><X>

"Oh," Lois said as Mulder and Scully approached the nurses' station, "you're 
back."

It wasn't the enthusiastic response Mulder had been hoping for.  He hadn't 
expected her to get up and do cartwheels, but she could at least act a 
little more friendly.  As it was, it sounded as though the young nurse would 
rather have dead fish dumped on her desk than deal with a certain pair of 
FBI agents.

Mulder gamely put on his warmest grin, hoping to thaw the ice a little bit.  
After all, it never hurt to make nice with the locals.  Just had to turn on 
the ol' Mulder charm a bit.  "Hello, Lois," he said suavely.

To his surprise, the nurse's thin excuse for a smile faltered, and 
completely disappeared.  Shit, maybe he'd gotten her name wrong.  It *was* 
Lois, wasn't it?  Or was it Louise?  Or Lola?  Maybe that was what Scully 
had been reacting to, earlier.  She would have warned him, though, wouldn't 
she?

He casually let his gaze slip down to the name tag on the lapel of the 
nurse's uniform.  Lois.  He read it again, just to make sure.  Still Lois.  
So he'd had it right.  What was wrong here?  The ol' Mulder charm must be 
losing its effectiveness.

Mulder ventured a glance at Scully, hoping that she would salvage the 
situation.  Scully scowled at him, her face like a thundercloud, lightning 
in her eyes.

What in the hell was going on?  He turned back to the young nurse behind the 
desk.  She looked at him as though she'd somehow heard about how he usually 
treated hospital staff.  He felt the sudden urge to explain that he had the 
greatest respect for the medical profession, it was just that he'd been on a 
short fuse every time he'd been in a hospital lately, and if the doctors 
would have just pulled their heads out of their asses and told him what he 
wanted to know instead of wasting time telling him to calm down, everybody 
would have been a lot happier.

Instead, he put on his most neutral expression and made a great show out of 
studying the countertop.

God, he hated hospitals.

Scully leaned over the counter, touching the edge of it lightly, as though 
for balance.  "We need to see Fred Schmidt's medical chart."  She gave the 
nurse a quick flash of teeth -- not quite a smile; it seemed more like 
Scully was baring a sharp pair of fangs -- and added, "Please."

Lois's eyes flickered to the telephone, apparently considering a quick call 
to her supervisor; she chewed briefly on her bottom lip and seemed to come 
to some kind of decision.  She swiveled her chair around, plucked a chart 
off of a wire carousel, and spun back to the front.  "All right," she said, 
depositing the chart on the counter in front of Scully with a lightweight 
metallic clatter.  "There you are.  Just don't walk off with it."

Scully picked up the chart with the tips of her fingers, exuding the 
ingrained dignity of a queen, and aimed a delicately arched eyebrow at Lois.  
The young nurse had the grace to look embarrassed.

Mulder hung in the background, hands deep in his pockets, shifting his 
weight from one foot to another.  Hospitals.  Shit.  The urge to get the 
hell out of this place was so strong that it made the backs of his knees 
ache.  Deep breathing was called for, but Mulder could practically feel that 
hospital smell pricking at his skin already, and he absolutely refused to 
breathe in any more of that odor than he had to.

He felt queasy.  Psychosomatic symptoms.  Some people went into a hospital 
sick and come out well; others went in well and came out feeling sick.  Some 
kind of irony there.  How long did it take to read a goddamn chart, anyway?

"Hope he's got good insurance," he said suddenly, surprising the hell out of 
himself.  He hadn't really meant to say anything; the words had simply 
fallen out of his mouth without warning.  He smiled belatedly at the nurse, 
feeling like an ass.  "From his job, I mean.  For this."

Lois stared at him like a cornered animal.  Oh, fabulous.  As though things 
weren't screwed up enough already, now he was *scaring* her.  Jesus.  Wasn't 
he doing this right?  Had he somehow plugged in his small-talk generator 
backwards this morning?  Had he blown some kind of fuse in his brain?

Scully was staring at him, too.  He could feel it on the side of his face 
like the heat of the sun on a winter afternoon, sharp and precisely defined.  
She'd been staring at him a lot today.  Had he missed a spot shaving?  He 
fought the urge to run a hand over his face.  He'd have to check it out, the 
next time he was near a mirror.

"If he even has a job, that is."  Jesus, was that still his voice?  He 
couldn't believe it.  Find the off-switch, pull the plug before this gets 
any worse.

"I think --"  Lois, surprisingly enough, was actually responding to his 
question.  "I think he does temp work, down in Tehtonka."  

"Really," Mulder said inanely.  "I, uh, I didn't know that there was a temp 
agency in town."  What the hell were you supposed to say about that?  "... 
They get much business?"

She shrugged.  "I don't know, I guess so.  My cousin Amber works in the main 
office, and she's there all the time.  I couldn't even get her to go to the 
movies last Friday 'cause she was working late.  I guess Taymor works her 
half to death."

Mulder's jaw came unhinged.  "Excuse me?"

There was a loud clatter as Scully practically dropped the chart onto the 
counter.  Her eyes were wide and very blue.  "Did you say *Taymor*?"

"Yes ..."  Lois looked from one to the other, shrinking back warily.

"As in ..."  Scully seemed almost reluctant to say it.  "... *Jim* Taymor?"

The nurse's left hand was creeping toward the phone.  "Yes," she said in 
that special humor-the-crazy-people voice.  "Why..."  She licked dry lips.  
"... why do you ask?"

Ideas were exploding like fireworks in Mulder's brain.  He turned and stared 
at Scully.  Scully stared back.  Barely thinking, he grabbed her wrist and 
headed for the door at full speed, pulling his startled partner after him 
like a water-skier.

"Thanks," he yelled over his shoulder.  "You've been a lot of help."

<X><X><X><X>

"Will you let go?" Scully yelped, halfway into the unpaved parking lot.  She 
could almost always keep up with Mulder, but when he was hauling her along 
like this, she could barely keep her feet under her.  She tried to wrench 
out of his grip, but she couldn't get enough leverage, not when she was 
skidding along like a stubborn puppy on a leash.  "Dammit, Mulder --!"  

Her self-defense reflexes were screaming at her to rip off his leg at the 
knee and beat him over the head with it, but she fought off the idea.  Time 
for Plan B.  She grabbed his wrist with her other hand and hit the brakes, 
her suede pumps grinding into the gravel and bringing up a cloud of pale 
dust.  Yet another pair of shoes that would never be the same again, but the 
sacrifice was effective.  Mulder slowed, and stopped, and looked at her 
blankly.  

"Mulder," she growled, "have I mentioned that I'm old enough to cross the 
street by myself?"

"What?"  He blinked, but his eyes didn't focus properly; he seemed to be 
fixed on his own thoughts, only aware of her in a peripheral way.

Scully was all too aware that she was, for all intents and purposes, holding 
hands with Mulder in the middle of a deserted parking lot.  Well, not 
exactly holding hands, but close enough.  His long fingers were still looped 
around her left wrist; her right hand was gripping the side of his wrist, 
right where she could feel the muscles in his forearm shift under his shirt 
cuff.  She was too close to him again, too aware of his strength and of the 
heat he gave off, and much too aware of the spot where his radial pulse 
drummed away under her fingertips.

If she bent her head just a little, she could put her mouth to that spot, 
feel that pulse against her lips, steal a little taste of his skin ...  The 
very thought was so explicitly detailed, so solid, that she almost drowned 
in it.

No.  Not now.

She pried his fingers off of her, pulled away, and deliberately put several 
feet of space between them.  He was looking at her, focusing on her at last, 
but she avoided eye contact; instead, she studied her wrist, rubbing it as 
if to restore circulation.  

"Are you all right?" he asked, a note of real concern creeping into his 
voice.

"I'm fine."  And she was, really she was.  As long as he didn't touch her 
again, she'd be just peachy.  "What's going on, Mulder?"

He was still looking at her; she could feel it, like a brand on her skin.  
"Do you remember the file on the other victims, Scully?  Employment, jobs?"

Of course she remembered the file.  She'd practically memorized the damn 
thing on the plane.  "They were ... they didn't *have* jobs, Mulder.  One 
was an occasional substitute teacher and the other was fired from his last 
job two months ago."

He raised his hand, and she thought of the pulse in his wrist, and shivered.  
He held up a single finger.  "Marjorie Bailey worked for Jim Taymor."  A 
second finger.  "Fred Schmidt got jobs through Jim Taymor's agency."

"Fred Schmidt," Scully said patiently, "is not a victim."

"We can argue about that later, Scully.  Whether or not he has anything to 
do with this, I have a hunch that Joshua Schmidt went with his uncle to that 
agency, maybe even worked for them himself."  Before she could protest, he 
held up a third finger.  "Lola Gruber.  She can't possibly have made that 
much money from substitute teaching in a small town.  What do you want to 
bet that she went to Taymor's place looking for other employment?"  A fourth 
finger.  "Greg Marks.  No job, living with his sister, art supplies to buy.  
How long do you think he was willing to wait until work came in?"

She considered it.  Granted, it was the first time that a name had come up 
twice in the investigation, but it was hard to believe that the local police 
could have missed a connection like that, especially in such a small town.  
"Mulder, I don't think --"

"It's a hunch," he insisted.  "Come on, Scully, what've we got to lose?"

She glared at him wordlessly.  A slow grin spread over his face like jam on 
warm bread, sweet and insufferable.  She was going to give in.  She knew it, 
he knew it, but the hell if he was going to see her surrender.

Scully pivoted neatly and stormed off toward the rental car.

"Hey!" Mulder called.  "You might want these."

She turned, barely in time to notice the car keys flying at her.  She 
snatched them out of the air, one-handed, and kept walking.

"Nice catch, Scully."

"Just get your ass in the car, Mulder," she snapped.  "It'd be a real pity 
if I accidentally left you behind and had to interview Jim Taymor all by 
myself."

<X><X><X><X>

Chapter 9

Taymor's Staffing Service
9:13 AM

Almost all the buildings in Tehtonka's one-street "downtown" were boxy 
limestone affairs the color of dry coffee creamer.  Most had faded signs and 
dated merchandise, but there had been some effort put into revamping several 
of the buildings; snappy canvas awnings and brightly colored plastic signs 
stood out strangely against the worn stone.  It struck Scully as vaguely 
tacky and embarrassing, like a wrinkled grandmother appearing at a wedding 
with flaming red lipstick and a clown's-spot of rouge on each withered 
cheek.

Taymor's Staffing Service occupied a building catty-corner from the only gas 
station in town and directly across Main Street from a mostly deserted 
parking lot.  There were twelve diagonal parking slots along the street in
front of the building; only one was occupied.  Scully parked the rental car six
slots away.

"Protecting the paint job?" Mulder asked as she threw the Crown Vic into 
park.

She rolled her eyes and got out of the car.

The building had previously housed some sort of department store or clothing 
boutique; a name -- "Smitty's"  -- had been etched into a large limestone 
block over the front door, centered in one leg of an 'L' of display windows 
lined with chipped, cracked green tiles.  The display area inside was square 
and raised about half a foot, like a stage.  Twenty years ago, it might have 
been populated with mannequins; today, the space was a receptionist's area, 
the only concession to privacy a waist-high set of faded red curtains strung 
along the windows.

Inside, the unoccupied reception area was flooded with file folders of every 
conceivable color.  A huge pile of unopened mail teetered perilously in 
the receptionist's in-box.  So many drawers of the numerous file cabinets 
were open that Scully expected them to tip over at any moment.  

Not that she gave a damn.

Scully was feeling restless.  Her neck ached, her feet hurt, and she was 
slightly nauseous from all the coffee.  There was a fuzziness in her mind, 
like white cotton or white noise.  Maybe this was a second wind, but it 
didn't seem worth it.  The exhaustion was still out there, merely suspended 
for the moment like an anvil over a cartoon character's head; she had the 
vague feeling that if she looked up and consciously noticed it, the whole 
thing would crash down on her and knock her flat.

She stood still, instead, and suppressed the urge to shift from foot to 
foot.  

"Hello?" Mulder called, his voice pitched to carry.  It echoed in the empty 
room.

A sleek dark head popped up from behind the receptionist's desk, narrowed 
eyes glaring suspiciously at Mulder and Scully.  A teenage girl.  Smooth, 
stylish haircut, slightly too much makeup lining her green eyes.  She 
unfolded from her crouched position like a cat, dark clothes clinging to a 
dangerous figure.  The six-inch height difference between the regular floor 
and the reception area made her seem to loom like a giant as she leaned 
forward over the desk, balancing lightly on fingers spread like claws.

"Yes?" the girl sneered in that impatient tone of voice that teenagers 
habitually use on doddering fools past the age of twenty-five.  Scully felt 
a white flash of irritation well up like stomach acid.

Scully snapped her ID up and open, Mulder following suit half a beat behind 
her.  "We're from the FBI," she said, icy cool and mentally daring the kid 
to piss her off.  "We're looking for Jim Taymor."

"Why?" the girl asked belligerently, without hesitation.  "He hasn't done 
anything."

Scully's eyes narrowed, sizing this kid up and not bothering to conceal it.  
"We're not saying he has," she snapped.  "We just need to ask him a few 
questions."  

The girl's expression hardened into a stubborn mask.  The face was familiar, 
somehow, and the expression was familiar too, but the white noise in the 
back of Scully's head was too loud for her to pin down the reference.

"He's busy," the girl informed Scully, her eyebrows lowering into a dark 
scowl.

Scully mirrored the expression, and spoke with ice-chip enunciation.  "Maybe 
you should check with him.  This should only take a few minutes."

The girl just glared, steady as a rock.  "He's *busy*," she repeated as 
though to a particularly dense three-year-old.  "He'll *be* busy until about 
nine-thirty.  If you want to wait, that's your business.  There are chairs 
over there."  She jabbed a finger at the far wall.

Scully was sick of craning her neck to look up at this little bitch.  She 
deliberately stepped up onto the 'display' platform and put one hand on the 
reception desk, an obvious invasion of the teenager's space.  "Well, then," 
she said acidly, "maybe *you* could answer a few questions for us."  She 
gave the girl a thin smile.  "While we're waiting."

The girl held her ground and refused to be intimidated -- a sign of either a 
fearless natural leader or of a seasoned con.  "You can ask whatever you 
want; that doesn't mean I'll answer."

Scully felt her temper flare like a solar storm.  "What's your name?" she 
asked, too loudly, the anger bleeding through into her tone.

The girl took a long look at Scully, a measuring look.  

Scully brought her ID back out of her pocket and tapped the edge twice on 
the desktop.

The girl's eyes shifted to the ID; she scowled.  "Amber."

The white noise in Scully's head cleared for a moment.  Amber, Lois's 
cousin.  And, wait, hold on, there was something else ...  The face and 
expression she'd recognized a moment ago suddenly focused into the distinct 
mental pictures of a black-and-white yearbook photograph and a sheriff's 
furrowed brow.  "Amber *Volney*?"

Amber's expression turned wary.  "Do I know you?"

"We've been working with your father," Mulder said helpfully.  He was still 
on the main floor, managing to look non-threatening and friendly, picking up 
the 'good cop' act as though it had been designed for him.  For just a 
second, Scully hated him.  "He mentioned you," Mulder added.

Amber eyed him, suspicious.  "Small world," she said tightly.

Mulder smiled his most charming smile.  "So, Amber.  I take it you work 
here."

The teenager looked at him as though he'd just walked in from Mars. Mulder's 
smile slipped a little; Scully caught a glimpse of something dangerous in 
his eye before the grin went back into place.  He waited.

"I don't have to talk to you," Amber announced suddenly, folding her arms 
across her chest like a barrier.  

"You're right," Mulder agreed pleasantly.  And grinned.  And waited.

Scully made a subtle show of tucking her ID back into her pocket.

The girl mulled it over, her eyes banked like hot coals.  Her mouth worked 
in an angry chewing motion before she spoke again, loud and defensive.  "I'm 
here on a work program.  Sixth and seventh periods, three days a week."  Her 
eyebrows arched.  "Happy?"

Mulder just smiled.

"You're early today," Scully said, more snidely than she'd intended.  Like a 
challenge.

Amber glared at her.  "I'm not skipping school."

"Oh, you're not?" Scully asked mockingly.  The white noise in the back of 
her head was back, roiling in sync with the acid in her stomach.  Somewhere 
under all of it she knew she was pushing too hard, but that was okay.  She 
wanted to push.  She was frustrated; she had to push *something*.  "How old 
are you?  Fifteen?  Sixteen?"

The kid's face went dark with pure hatred.  "I'm *eighteen*."

Scully snorted.

"*I*," Amber snarled, "am putting this place back together since the person 
who took it apart is dead and dead people don't come in to finish 
reorganizing shit.  I got the whole day off of school because I'm *needed* 
here.  Is there a *problem* with that?"

Scully opened her mouth to tell this punk-mouthed kid just who and what was 
the problem around here, the blood speeding up in her veins and singing with 
adrenaline and a kind of joy in the release --

And Mulder's hand closed gently on her shoulder.

"Well, Amber," Mulder said charmingly, too loud and too close to Scully, "I 
know you have lots of work to do so we'll try to keep this short."  

Too close.  Her blood was already up; his touch and his warm proximity made 
the air whistle in her ears as though she were falling.  Her pulse pounded 
in her neck and her breath wheezed shallowly, like an old woman's.

Scully yanked away from him and stepped off the platform, her back rigid.  
One step away, then another.  She told herself that she was just turning the 
line of questioning over to Mulder.  She wasn't running away.  She *never* 
ran away.  

She rubbed angrily at her neck and took another step.  The muscles under her 
hand tensed even more, like a seam puckering and bunching as the thread 
caught on a nail.  It just made her even angrier.  Dammit.

Another step would be too much tension to bear.  She swiveled neatly and 
caught the tail end of a puzzled look from Mulder that made her want to 
scream and tear her hair in fury.  Her inability to put a name to her own 
frustration made her furious.  It was just like him to spend years reading 
her emotions like some kind of damn psychic empath and then abruptly turn 
and stare at her without comprehension.  Some profiler *he* was.

To make matters worse, he turned his back on her and went on questioning 
that little snot-nosed bitch as though nothing was wrong.  Bastard.  
Scully's heart squeezed painfully and she folded her arms across her chest, 
hugging herself a little to ease the ache.

Amber had started shuffling files again, a method of taking control of her 
surroundings and dismissing Mulder in a single move.  It was very clear 
that, in her mind at least, the conversation was over.

Nonetheless, Mulder persisted.  "How long have you worked here?"

The girl kept at her busywork, practically ignoring him.  "All semester."

"Did you work a lot with Marjorie Bailey?"

Amber snorted.  "Not if I could help it."

Mulder doled out the charming smile again.  "I take it you didn't like her."

"She was a *freak*," Amber said flatly.

"I see.  Did you notice anything strange in her behavior last Friday?"

"You mean stranger than she usually acted?"

Mulder smiled faintly.  "I mean, did she seem nervous or distracted?"

The girl's eyes flickered at 'distracted,' but she shook her head.  "No."

"Did she get to work late, or leave early?" Mulder pressed.

"No."

"Do you know of anybody who had a grudge against her?"

Amber's eyes flickered again, but she shook her head.  "No."

Scully smelled a lie in progress.  She walked to the reception desk, angling 
so that she was closer to Amber but still nowhere near Mulder.  One step up, 
and she was back on Amber's level.  "Could you tell us about Marjorie's 
relationship with Jim Taymor?" she asked, watching for that flicker again.

This time the flicker became a lightning bolt.  Amber glared at Scully full-
bore, her jaw set angrily.  "They didn't *have* a relationship," she 
snapped.

Bingo.  Scully crossed her arms and leaned her hip against the edge of the 
desk.  Raw adrenaline sawed at her stomach, and she welcomed it.  "What I 
mean is, did they get along well at work?"

"I guess."

"Did you ever see them fight?"

"They didn't *fight*," the girl growled.  "Jim barely knew she was *there*."

"Is it possible that the two of them could have been ... closer than you 
knew?"  Scully leaned in, letting her tone of voice insinuate the more 
intimate question.

Amber followed the train of thought quite nicely, like a kitten chasing a 
string.  She turned beet-red.  "You think they were having an *affair*?" she 
choked out in bitter chunks.  "*Them*?"

"I'm asking your opinion," Scully said calmly, noting the girl's reaction 
and getting an evil little thrill out of it.  Oh, this was good.  She had 
this kid's number now; she knew all her buttons and how to push them.

"It's not even possible," Amber hissed.  Her neck was bright pink; as Scully 
watched, the color flooded past the girl's collarbones and stained her neck 
down to the collar of her t-shirt.  

Scully tilted her head slightly to one side, slowly, deliberately, enjoying 
every moment like a bar of dark chocolate.  "Are you sure?"

"He never would have looked at her.  Never."  

Scully lifted an eyebrow and ruthlessly pushed the final button -- she 
looked at Amber with pity.  The disdainful, knowing pity of an older woman 
for a blundering kid.



She didn't say anything.  She didn't need to.

Amber exploded.  "She was so *stupid* to think she'd get anywhere with him."

"Really."  Scully let her voice drip with scorn.

"She'd *never*," the girl ranted.  "It's like she thought he'd go for her 
'cause there wasn't anybody else, but that was bullshit."

Scully snorted delicately, as though she knew better.  

Right on cue, Amber powered up again, trying to prove some kind of point.  
"It's not just her, they're *all* after him.  The substitute teacher.  And 
what's-his-face, the fag.  They all thought they were so subtle.  Hanging 
around here all the time when we don't even have jobs for them, hello!"  She 
glared at Scully in poisonous triumph, her chin up and her eyes slitted. 

Scully sniffed, purposefully looking a little irritated and disappointed.  
She let the expression drop as she turned away from the girl, flashing 
Mulder a victorious grin.  Her head was still buzzing and her stomach still 
churning, but her ego, at least, had been soothed.  There was a little guilt 
hovering somewhere around the edge of the white noise in her head, whining 
like a mosquito, but she ignored it.  Manipulating that girl had been no 
worse than dragging the truth out of any other reticent witness.

She ignored the niggling thought that she didn't usually feel so damned 
pleased with herself when she got the information she wanted.  And that the 
information she'd manipulated out of this girl was scarcely more than office 
gossip.

Mulder met her gaze, but his expression stopped her cold.  He looked 
surprised -- surprised, and disappointed.  

She flinched and turned away from that look.

"Your father told us that Joshua Schmidt was following you around," Mulder 
said, picking up the line of questioning as though nothing had happened.  
"Is that true?"

"Don't you believe him?" Amber mocked.  She seemed to be in a better mood 
now, secure in her belief that she'd come out on top of her argument with 
Scully.

"Why was he following you?"

Amber's eyes tracked back to Scully like a heat-seeking missile, and bored 
into her for a second before switching to Mulder again.  There was some kind 
of nervousness under the aggression; Scully could practically sense it.  Her 
investigator's instincts twitched, urging her to take another shot at 
deconstructing this kid, but the warning in Mulder's eyes held her back.  

She sighed, and stayed put.

"He wanted to talk to me," Amber admitted at last, tossing her hair.

"That doesn't sound very threatening," Mulder observed.

"It wasn't *threatening*," the girl gritted out in a marvelous are-you-
retarded? tone.  "I just didn't want him talking to me.  I didn't want him 
around me.  I just wanted him to stay away."

Mulder waited, but nothing more was forthcoming.  "Why?"

"*Because* --!" Amber exploded, and clamped her mouth shut.

"Did he ask you out?"

The girl sighed, the great exasperated sigh of a tragically misunderstood 
teen.  "He didn't *ask*.  He just -- he just kept trying to *talk* to me."

"I see," Mulder deadpanned.  "He tried to *talk* to you."

"It was the *way* he did it."  Amber gestured dramatically.  "All sneaky, 
and quiet, and casual.  He was just so -- UGH."  She shuddered.

Scully snorted gently, envisioning the scene.  Tall, skinny, acne-covered 
Joshua shyly approaching poised, gorgeous Amber.  Not having the guts to 
actually ask her out; terrified but desperate to have some kind of contact 
with her.  Sure, the kid had practically stalked the girl, but considering 
their widely disparate social status -- and after observing Amber's 
personality up close and personal -- Scully was starting to really feel 
sorry for the dead boy.

<*Not to speak ill ...*>

"He even came *here*.  To the *office*," Amber added, as though this 
location was somehow of great importance.  "He kept hanging out here, with 
his crazy uncle.  He even filled out an application, like we were actually 
gonna find work for him."

"I'm curious," Mulder said, "what you thought of Joshua's uncle."

Amber made another vicious face.  "Like I said.  He's crazy."

"He was employed here?"

"If you want to call it that."  The phone on the receptionist's desk emitted 
a loud beep.  Amber reached out and hit the speaker button, her eyes daring 
the agents to stop her.  "Yes?"

The intercom crackled to life.  "Could you come in here?"

"Just a second," Amber said, and hit the button again.  She lifted her chin 
and fixed Mulder with a forceful look.  "May I?" she asked sarcastically.

Mulder shrugged calmly.  "Be my guest."

Amber muscled past Scully; as they went eye-to-eye, the girl stared 
contemptuously at her in a kind of coup de grâce, her eyes the color of envy 
and new leaves.  Scully stared back.  Amber's lips pursed thoughtfully; she 
stepped off the platform and trotted down a short hallway and through a 
door.  

The door shut behind her, and the two agents were alone.

"Nice kid," Mulder muttered.

Scully snorted and took a careful step around the desk, examining the 
reception area.  Too many windows.  In the hands of a more skilled interior 
designer, it might have been a light, airy space; as it was, it made her 
jumpy.  It felt like there were eyes peeking over the waist-high curtains, 
ducking back down just before she looked for them.

So, this was where Marjorie Bailey had worked, here in plain sight of anyone 
walking down Main Street or filling up at the KwikMart, on display like the 
Dog-Lady in a circus sideshow.  Just an extra incentive to the jobless 
population of the county:  An exhibit on employment, featuring a Real, Live 
Worker.

As she looked out the window, one hand resting lightly on an open file 
drawer, Scully had to fight off the sensation that she was some kind of 
bonus attraction ... Today Only!  A Real Live FBI Agent!  Come And See For 
Yourself!  Her lips pulled back from her teeth in disgust and she shuddered, 
turning away from the empty street.

Mulder had stepped up onto the platform along with her, prowling almost 
noiselessly, taking advantage of Amber's brief absence to snoop without 
shame.  He looked absurdly big and awkward in the little space, like a puppy 
coerced into a dollhouse by a little girl ... and, like a puppy, he was 
nosing around *everywhere*, looking remarkably innocent all the while.

As Scully watched, he peered into a metal trash can and, apparently less 
than enchanted with the contents, gave it a little kick.  He seemed to sense 
her gaze on him, and looked up, a smile lighting his eyes.  The expression 
was almost like a warm hand touching her face, gently smoothing at the 
tightness around her mouth.  She swallowed and looked away from him, down at 
the desk.

Marjorie Bailey's former desk was cheap and wobbly, a plywood do-it-yourself 
job that had probably come in a box with cryptic instructions and seven 
different kinds of screws.  Her signature version of decor had taken its 
toll here, too, populating the desk with Beanie Babies, plastic Kewpie 
dolls, and a stuffed lavender rabbit.  No photographs, though.  Scully 
remembered that there hadn't been any pictures at Marjorie's house, either, 
except for the one of Jim Taymor.  Sad.

Mulder's meanderings brought him closer to where she was standing; she felt 
his nearness pulling at her like a magnetic field and moved away, deeper 
into the reception area.  Looking down, she found her hand on one of those 
open file drawers that had bugged her earlier.  She idly ran a thumb over 
the files inside, barely looking at the names -- Al Bishop, Judy Doerr, 
Rebecca Stephens, Rachel Walker ...  

"Hey," Mulder murmured suddenly.  "Check it out, Scully."

Scully turned to look.  Mulder held up a two-pound plastic bag of sunflower 
seeds, apparently gleaned from the desk of the dead receptionist.  
"Jackpot," he grinned, hefting the bag experimentally.  "Whaddaya think, 
Scully?  Evidence?"

"Put it back," she growled, feeling another sliver of patience grind into 
dust.  He looped a crooked smile at her and dropped the bag back into the 
drawer.

She glared at him and considered kicking his ass, considered cornering him 
and explaining things to him in a low, angry voice, things like propriety 
and constitutional rights and his role as an agent of the law.  She 
considered it hard enough that she gritted her teeth, slammed the file 
drawer and took a step toward him.

He looked up, startled.  "Scully?"

The expression on his face stopped her in her tracks.  She looked at him for 
a long moment, thinking about puppies and the puzzled look they gave you 
when you tried to punish them for something they didn't understand.  "Never 
mind," she said.  "I don't remember what I was going to say."

She rubbed fitfully at her temples, trying to ease some of the dry ache.  It 
didn't help.  God.  She was too tired for this.  

"You know," Mulder said conversationally, "I could probably handle this 
interview on my own."  He glanced at her carefully and alarm bells went off 
in her head.  "You can go on back to the motel if you want."

"And what would you do, walk back?" she asked, biting back a more suspicious 
response.

"It's only a few blocks," Mulder shrugged.  "It'll be nice.  I can get some 
fresh air."

"Mulder, it's going to rain," she exclaimed, incredulous.

"Probably not for a while yet," he grinned.

"What about the interview, Mulder?"

"I'll take notes," he promised.  "What, don't you think I can handle an 
interview by myself, just this once?"

"I have my doubts," she said in a dry voice.

"Scully, you wound me," he gasped melodramatically.  "I can operate without 
you just fine.  Watch."  He stepped slightly to one side and raised the 
pitch of his voice to a falsetto imitation of her own.  "Mulder, are you 
saying that this man has actually been melted, poured into some alien 
version of a Jell-O mold, and chilled until firm?"  He shifted to his other 
side and went back to his normal voice.  "Gee, Scully, when you say it that 
way it sounds kind of sexy."  Back to the other side and the high voice.  
"Mulder, shut up."

She smiled despite herself.  "Seems like you have this under control.  I 
might as well go back to DC." 

"Nah," he rumbled.  "But going back to the motel wouldn't hurt."

She examined his expression suspiciously.  "Not to sound paranoid, but are 
you trying to get rid of me?"

Mulder blinked, all innocence.  "Why would I do that?"

"Nice try," she told him, folding her arms across her chest.  "What are you 
up to, Mulder?"

He sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck, looking frustrated.  "I'm not 
'up to' anything, Scully.  I was trying to be nice."

She gave him the eyebrow.  "In my experience, that sort of 'nice' generally 
leads to you running off on your own and hurling yourself into danger, which 
leads to me having to track you down and drag you back out."  She let the 
sarcasm deepen.  "You really know how to show a girl a good time."

"That's not it this time," he insisted.  "I just ... you ... you didn't 
sleep last night."

She stiffened and stared up at him, her eyes wide.  "What?"

He just looked at her, waiting.

The white noise in the back of her mind began to roar.  How did he know?  
How did he *know*?  "I don't know what you're talking about," she snapped.

"Come on, Scully, give me a little credit," Mulder said angrily.  "I may be 
a pretty self-absorbed bastard sometimes, but I'm not stupid."

"If you're trying to prove your intelligence," Scully snarled, "I can tell 
you right now that this isn't the way to do it."  Hot.  God, it was hot in 
this room.  And he was too close.  She turned slightly away, unwilling to 
back up but desperate for breathing room.

"If there's something wrong, I'd like to believe you'd tell me," Mulder 
growled.  Still too close, and his voice had an edge on it like a Ginsu 
knife.

"I'm not surprised," she told him harshly, turning her back on him.  "You'd 
believe practically anything."

Silence.

Another cartoon image flashed through Scully's mind:  time had stopped and 
she could reach out and pull the words back down out of the air before 
Mulder could see them or hear them.  She could tuck them in her pocket with 
her ID, throw them at people like little poisoned darts, she'd never have to 
use her weapon again and God, what was the matter with her that she was 
thinking like this?

Behind her, Mulder exhaled raggedly, a deeply wounded sound that pricked at 
her heart with white-hot needles.  "I guess," he said thickly, "I should be 
more selective about some things."

Regret bloomed in her stomach like blood from a gunshot wound.  "Mulder --"

She turned, tense muscles creaking, but he was moving away, his footsteps 
arrhythmic and his shoulders squared with pride and hurt.  Oh God.  What had 
she done now?  

Caught as she was in a gray whirlwind of shock, Scully didn't hear the door 
to the office open, didn't notice Amber Volney until she charged up into the 
reception area, full speed ahead, looking flushed and smoothing her hair.  
It was too late to move back to the 'public' side of the desk.  Scully 
lifted her chin instead and met Amber's glare head-on.

For a moment the universe trembled on the edge of war.  Amber pointedly 
stood aside, waiting for this intruder to vacate Her Space, angry green eyes 
drilling holes through Scully.  Scully listened for a split second to the 
fury churning up in her stomach, fueled by anger and guilt and things long 
suppressed, and she focused on the hinge of the girl's jaw, that spot where 
an elbow smash would hurt the most --

She bit the urge back, feeling it catch in her throat as though she'd 
swallowed Tinker Toys.  She turned and walked to the edge of the platform, 
half-expecting Mulder to chivalrously offer his hand to help her down -- he 
didn't.  The air between them hummed with tension, like the nauseating drone 
of a cicada.

Scully stepped down on her own.  Amber, smug and satisfied, ensconced 
herself behind the desk and pointed down the hall.

"Go on back," she purred.  "Mr. Taymor will see you now."

<X><X><X><X>

Chapter 10

Office of Jim Taymor
9:35 A.M.

Usually Mulder walked behind her.

Usually his hand settled lightly at the small of her back, his fingers 
painting delicate curls of heat along the curve of her spine, his thumb 
pressing gently between her lowest ribs.  Usually his breath barely stirred 
a few strands of her hair.  Usually she could feel his presence behind her, 
warm and reassuring.

... Not today.

Today, he'd just turned and stalked off, leaving her without a backward 
glance.  

It stung.  It felt, as a matter of fact, like the last time she'd been 
struck in the face, heat and blood-buzzing pressure exploding in her sinuses 
and a faint taste of copper in her mouth.  She gritted her teeth against the 
sensation and followed him with angry, measured steps.

When Mulder was storming around like this it was damn near impossible to 
keep up with him.  By the time she was halfway down the hallway he was 
already blowing through the open office door with only a perfunctory rap on 
the door frame to announce himself. 

She sped up, almost jogging for a few steps, then deliberately slowed to a 
walk.  The hell with it.  Better to arrive calmly and a little late than 
directly behind Mulder and out of breath.

Her heels sounded on the thinly carpeted cement almost as though the carpet 
wasn't there.  Calm footsteps.  Professional footsteps.  The footsteps of a 
woman who was perfectly in control of this situation, thank you very much.

Scully stepped through the doorway with her expression composed and her back 
straight.  

Mulder turned, overly casual and oozing arrogance.  He made a little "come 
in" gesture and gave her a jeering smile.

Scully felt her face turn to stone.  Automatically, almost without her 
noticing it, her hand slid into her pocket and snapped out her ID.  Mulder, 
she noticed, was still holding his own ID in his loose I-already-announced-
myself grip that always made her think he'd either drop it or toss it 
casually across the room.

"Special Agent Dana Scully," she announced, and belatedly focused on the 
person she was announcing herself to.

And blinked.

Who the hell was this?

"Jim Taymor?" she asked incredulously, staring at the man behind the desk.  
Jeans and a button-down shirt, thick blonde hair, dark blue eyes, clean-
shaven.  Twenty-five, at the most.  An infant.  He resembled Jim Taymor, 
sure, but he must be Taymor's son, his nephew, his --

"Yes, I'm Jim Taymor."  The man stood up, and Scully got another surprise -- 
he was short.  She'd somehow expected him to be almost Mulder's height, but 
she could see now that he was barely any taller than she was.  "Sorry about 
the wait.  Business call."

Scully just stared.

The picture she'd seen had shown Jim Taymor to be attractive enough, but 
nothing near *this*.  Closer inspection revealed fine lines around his eyes 
and a sprinkling of silver hairs among the gold -- this man was middle-aged 
and not the kid he appeared to be at first glance.  It must be his height.  
Or maybe the clothes.

Then Taymor's gaze met hers, and she realized that his height and clothes 
were barely half of it.  Those dark blue eyes were simmering with some kind 
of strange, magnetic energy; the intensity of the man was almost 
frightening.  He smiled at her, a slow, electric smile with just the right 
amount of teeth showing.  Scully could practically smell the pheromones 
wafting in her direction, dancing a hypnotic molecular dance among the 
camouflaging swirls of a subtle, dusky cologne.

Good God, this man was sex on a stick.  No wonder Marjorie Bailey had kept 
his picture next to her bed.

Scully tucked her ID back into her pocket as Taymor crossed the room.  Those 
compelling eyes searched hers as he took her hand in both of his.  "Very 
nice to meet you," he said in a lazy voice.  His hands were startlingly 
warm, and large for such a short man; she glanced at them -- the curious 
reflex of a trained investigator, or a single woman -- and automatically 
noted manicured nails and a wide wedding band.  

Taymor motioned at a pair of heavy-looking wooden chairs in front of the 
gleaming oak desk -- real oak, obviously well cared for.  "Please," he said 
cordially, "have a seat."  

"Thank you," Scully replied, carefully neutral.  She started toward the 
chairs and Mulder cut across her path, plowing past her like a battleship at 
full throttle.  Her head jerked back an involuntary inch, her diaphragm 
tightening as she put on the brakes and recoiled from the near-collision.  
Mulder stalked on past her, something dark and bitter in his eyes and the 
set of his shoulders, something arrogant and hurt.

He refused to meet her eyes.  

So that was how it was going to be.  Scully smoothed the vestiges of 
surprise from her expression and followed her partner, moving as silently as 
a deep-running submarine.

She sat in the chair next to Mulder's, her spine very straight and her face 
very still.  He was sprawled in his chair, an angry caricature of 
relaxation, his eyes hooded and his elbow crossing across his armrest and 
hers, jabbing into her space like an accusation.  The air between them was 
very close.  

A subtle attempt at scooting her chair over resulted in the discovery that 
these chairs didn't just look heavy; they *were* heavy.  So much for the 
subtle approach.  A second, much less gentle attempt netted an inch or so of 
space, but also drew a curious look from Jim Taymor.

Scully sighed inwardly and resigned herself to the close proximity.

"Would you like some coffee, Agent Scully?" Taymor asked, pausing with his 
ass halfway to the chair as though the thought had struck him in midair.

"No, thank you," Scully answered politely, too aware of the coil of tension 
and acid in her stomach to even contemplate adding more caffeine to the mix.  

Taymor continued to hover, his deep gaze never leaving her.  "I think we 
have some juice ... or some water?"

"I'm fine.  Thank you."  Scully was quickly losing track of the number of 
times she'd thanked this man.  Her smile felt stiff, as though her mouth had 
turned to plastic.  She felt the laser track of Mulder's glance at her, but 
when she stole a quick look at him out of the corner of her eye, he was 
staring straight ahead, expressionless.  A muscle in his cheek twitched 
once -- that was all.

He sat perfectly still.  So did she.  The tension sparked between them like 
electricity crackling between oppositely charged poles; given a way to 
harness the energy, they could power Tehtonka for a year.

Jim Taymor finished his descent into the well-padded chair and leaned back 
with a wide smile.  "So," he said, "what is it that the FBI would like to 
talk to me about?"

Scully folded her hands neatly in her lap.  "Mr. Taymor, we have been 
informed that Marjorie Bailey worked here up until the time of her death.  
Is that correct?"

"Yes ... this is about Marjorie, then?"

"Yes, sir, we're investigating her murder.  I understand that Marjorie was 
your secretary ... or was it 'assistant'?"

"Receptionist, assistant, whatever.  We don't have official titles around 
here.  It's more like ..."  Taymor pondered a moment, caught up in some rosy 
inner vision.  "... more like a *family*."

Scully arched an eyebrow.  A statistic scrolled across her mental landscape 
like numbers on a stock ticker, something about the majority of murders 
being committed by family members.  If all four victims were indeed within 
this 'family,' she was going to have to take a close look at the personnel 
files.  "Mr. Taymor --" she began.

"-- Have the police contacted you?" Mulder interrupted, running roughshod 
over Scully's half-formed question.  She snapped her mouth shut like a 
padlock.  

Breathe.  In.  Out.  Again.  

Taymor took a moment to focus on Mulder.  "What?  Oh.  Yes, I spoke with the 
sheriff on Saturday."

"Did the sheriff ask you about Marjorie's actions on Friday?" Mulder asked.

"No," Taymor replied, sounding surprised, "he didn't really ask me anything.  
Just set up an interview time for Monday -- this afternoon, I mean -- and 
warned me not to go telling people anything about what I know."  He 
scratched at the hinge of his jaw, his finger rasping loudly on dark-blonde 
stubble.  "Not that I know anything."

"You haven't been in to give your statement yet?" Mulder exclaimed.

"No, not until this afternoon.  I assumed he had a backlog or something."  
Taymor blinked slowly.  "... I take it that's not normal operating 
procedure?"

"I hope not," Mulder snorted.  

Taymor's eyes slipped sideways, back to Scully as though drawn there by a 
gravitational force.  "Well, then ..."  He was smiling like a game-show 
host -- a glib back-from-commercials smile, a smile that tolerated 
interruptions because they paid the bills.  "... You can ask me anything you 
need to know."  Another wave of cologne and pheromones.  "Anything."

Somehow the effect was less than convincing.  Scully could practically feel 
the man reaching out for her, grasping for the control panel in her psyche 
that would send her spinning down to crash-land in his bed.  Reaching, and 
*missing*, fumbling like a teenager who was bewildered by the clasp of his 
date's brassiere.

It was annoying.  Worse, Taymor didn't seem to notice that his efforts were 
going unrewarded; Scully saw lazy triumph brimming in the man's eyes.  She 
bit down slowly on the inside of her cheek until her molars almost touched, 
maintaining her bland expression by sheer force of will.  "Mr. Taymor," she 
said, emphasizing the formal title, "there are a few quest --"

"Was Lola Gruber employed with this agency?" Mulder asked, blithely 
interrupting again.  His casual tone of voice was belied by the fine line of 
tension drawn between his eyebrows.  He was doing this deliberately, oh yes 
he was.  Scully tasted blood and realized that she was gnawing at the inside 
of her cheek again, the points of her canines biting almost completely 
through a tiny fold of flesh.  She hadn't noticed the pain.

Breathe.  Breathe. 
 
"Was Lola Gruber employed here?"  Mulder asked again in a tone like carved 
flint.

Taymor looked at him then with the air of a man who had much better things 
to do.  "Occasionally."

"... Was she employed here *lately*?"

Taymor hedged.  "I believe so ... it's hard to keep track."

"What about Greg Marks?"

"On and off.  Not to speak ill, but he wasn't very dependable."

"Fred Schmidt?"

Scully's lips twitched.  There went any chance of that line of questioning 
yielding any useable answers.  

"Yes, until recently.  He's been hospitalized."

Mulder's fingers drummed on the arm of his chair; Scully expected him to 
jump out of the chair and start prowling around the office.  "Hospitalized 
for psychiatric reasons, you mean."

Taymor looked faintly irritated.  "I suppose so."

Drum, drum, drum.  "I can't help but wonder why anyone would keep a man with 
a history of psychiatric problems on their payroll."

"Fred's a good worker," Taymor shrugged.  "He loses a day or two every month 
or so, but the rest of the time he works like a demon.  We actually get a 
lot of repeat requests for Fred.  Harris Construction's requested him six 
times in the last year alone."

"I'd like to see his file," Mulder said.  His fingers continued drumming, 
falling into a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like the William Tell 
Overture.  Badabump, badabump, badabump-bump-bump ...  Scully's hands 
tensed, curving like claws in an involuntary spasm, the only outward sign of 
her strong impulse to crush those drumming fingers against the arm of his 
chair.

Taymor gave Mulder a cool, thoughtful look.  "Is that just a request or do 
you have some kind of warrant?"

Mulder's smile was almost predatory.  "I'll let you guess."

Taymor considered this.  He checked Scully's face for a second opinion; she 
lifted her chin, tilted her head slightly, and exuded confidence in the 
nonexistent warrant.  It seemed to be enough to convince Taymor.  He 
snorted, leaned forward, and punched a button on his phone.  "Amber?"

"Yes?" a familiar voice answered, slightly distorted through the intercom 
speaker.

"Could you get a file for me?"

A brief pause.  "What do you need?"

"Fred Schmidt's personnel file."  Taymor's gaze whispered back to Scully and 
he smiled, as though somehow he was doing her a personal favor by responding 
to Mulder's request.  She ignored it, letting it fade into the background 
like the pulse of traffic and sirens in a city.  Unimportant.

A shuffle of papers over the intercom.  "Do you want me to bring it in now?"

Mulder shook his head.  Taymor did not appear to notice; his eyes forwarded 
the question to Scully.  She echoed Mulder's silent negation.  Taymor tapped 
a single finger against the intercom.  "No, that won't be necessary.  Just 
have it on hand."

He punched the intercom button again to switch it off, his movements smooth 
and almost burlesquely casual.  "Anything else?" he asked, still gazing 
exclusively at Scully.  She felt Mulder shift his weight next to her, his 
elbow brushing up against her ribs before he yanked it away.  Her skin stung 
at the brief contact as though she'd been swabbed with rubbing alcohol -- 
uncomfortable, overly sensitive.

She sat up straighter and focused on Taymor.  "As a matter of fact, if we 
could get a list of --"

Mulder cut across her question with one of his own.  "How long was Marjorie 
employed here?"

Scully's tamped-down temper flared.  "Mulder!"

He looked at her at long last, eyes smoldering, daring her to make an issue 
out of this.  She glared back, matching his intensity, and a short silent 
battle of wills ensued.

Taymor, oblivious to the power play going on in front of him, leaned back in 
his chair and ran a hand over his jaw thoughtfully.  "She was here for 
something like four years ... five ... hell, hang on."  He punched the 
intercom button again.  "Amber?"

"Yes??" the girl snapped impatiently.

"How long did Marjorie work here?"

"Um ..."  There was a thump and a rustle of paper.  "Looks like ... nine 
years."

"Thanks."  Taymor turned the intercom off and shook his head in wonder.  
"Nine years.  I'll be damned.  How time flies."

Mulder and Scully were still locked in furious combat, each waiting for the 
other to break.

"... Agent Scully?"

Scully blinked and turned, feeling a wave of disorientation as she shifted 
gears.  "Hmm?"

Mulder took full advantage of her momentary lapse and charged in with 
another question of his own.  "Did Marjorie act any differently last 
Friday?"

Taymor's extraordinary eyes were puzzled.  "She came to work on time, she 
did her job, ate lunch here, went home at five.  Same as usual."

"I mean," Mulder said slowly, on the bare edge of patronizing, "was she 
upset, or disturbed, or anxious about anything?"

"I didn't notice," Taymor shrugged, another phrase shimmering like an 
overtone behind his answer: <*What?  Why would I notice that?*>

Mulder looked impatient.  One of his feet started tapping a staccato rhythm 
on the thin carpet.  "So what you're saying is that you didn't notice 
anything out of the ordinary?"  

"I didn't really notice *anything*," Taymor admitted.  His eyes were blank, 
windows to a complete void of understanding.

"You were in the office on Friday, weren't you?" Mulder demanded, openly 
sarcastic.

Scully winced.

"Of course I was in the office.  As a matter of fact, I was here until 
almost midnight, Agent ...?"  Taymor's voice trailed off on a questioning 
note.

Mulder's eyes were hooded.  "Mulder," he supplied darkly.

"-- Agent Mulder.  I had a great deal of work to catch up on."

"Is there anyone who could verify you were here that late, Mr. --"  Mulder 
let his voice trail off in blatant imitation of Taymor.

Taymor registered the hit with a slight tip of his head.  "You could ask my 
wife, Agent *Mulder*."

"She was here?"

"No.  She called around eleven."

"Was anyone else working late?"

A tiny pause.  "No."

Mulder considered it -- Scully could practically hear the gears turning in 
his head as he chewed over that pause, made the decision not to pursue it 
right now, and filed it away for future reference.  There was a long moment 
of silence.

"Anything else?" Taymor asked at last.

"That'll do it," Mulder announced, standing up without fanfare.

Scully remained seated, her face set stubbornly.  "*I* have a few questions 
for you, Mr. Taymor."

Mulder made a frustrated noise and stalked to the back of the office.  
Scully heard his footsteps change direction well before he reached the 
door -- not storming out, then.  The footsteps fell silent; she chanced a 
surreptitious glance and found him feigning interest in the view out a tiny 
window, his arms folded casually across his chest.  The view, however, could 
not possibly be that interesting -- the little window looked out on a brick 
wall across the alley, covered in the dusty stringy skeletons of dead ivy.

Taymor beamed at Scully as though he had won some kind of contest for her 
affections.  "Yes, Agent Scully?"

Mulder snorted.  Apparently he had registered the fact that the little man 
had no trouble remembering *Scully's* name.

Scully gave Taymor her most official look, her eyebrows slightly peaked.  
"First of all, we need a few more files."

"Oh, of course.  One moment --"  Taymor pressed the intercom button with a 
flourish.  "Amber?"

The intercom crackled.  "What do you need *now*?" Amber snarled, apparently 
near the end of her patience.

"A few more files for Agent Scully," Taymor announced.  He motioned grandly 
for Scully to speak into the intercom.  

She hesitated, not really comfortable with the idea, and at last shrugged 
and leaned forward a little awkwardly.  "Lola Gruber --"

"Lola Gruber!" Taymor repeated helpfully.  The game-show host image occurred 
to Scully again and she had to fight off the feeling that she would soon 
have to buy a vowel or phrase her reply in the form of a question.

"-- Greg Marks --"

"Greg Marks!"

"-- Joshua Schmidt --"

"Joshua Schmidt!"

"-- and Marjorie Bailey's file as well."

"And Marjorie Bailey!"  Taymor beamed at her again.  

Scully managed a weary, insincere smile and wondered what sort of insane 
twist of fate had bestowed such magnetic good looks on such an idiot.  
"We'll need to see a list of businesses that use your service, a list of 
people currently employed by your agency, and a list of people who have left 
in the past several months."

"Did you get that?" Taymor asked the intercom, after a vaguely confused 
pause.

Silence, fringed with static.

"Amber?"

"Yeah, I got it."  Amber did not sound happy.

"How long will that take?" Taymor pressed, bathing Scully with another one 
of those long, liquid glances.  "Agent Scully is in a hurry."

Scully shook her head.  "I'm not in a --"

Taymor waved the objection aside.  "Amber?"

"FINE," the girl hissed, and the intercom went dead.

Taymor seemed briefly puzzled by the girl's attitude but shrugged and 
returned his dazzling attention to Scully.  "What else can I do for you?"

Scully realized that she was still leaning slightly forward and corrected 
it, sitting straight and tall like a good soldier.  She crossed her legs 
neatly for good measure, dimly aware of Mulder pacing behind her, tiger-
padding back and forth across the back of the room.  "I'd like to ask you a 
few questions about your working relationsh --"

And suddenly Mulder was right behind her and his voice blasted out like a 
foghorn.  "Mr. Taymor," he said loudly, "do you sleep well at night?"

"Mulder --" Scully murmured in a low warning tone.

"Have you ever woken up and been unable to move or breathe?"

Taymor stared at Mulder, completely puzzled.  "I don't --"

"Or had sensations of being crushed or being pushed downward into the bed?"

"*Mulder*."  The warning in Scully's voice was more pronounced this time, 
but Mulder seemed oblivious.

"Have you ever had an out-of-body experience?  Or --"  Mulder was really on 
a roll now, crashing gleefully ahead without allowing Taymor to get a word 
in edgewise. "Or have you seen or sensed another presence in the room with 
you, or felt an invisible entity attempt to strangle you, or dreamed about a 
woman kneeling on your chest and crushing you?"

Taymor goggled at Mulder, flabbergasted by this lunatic masquerading as an 
FBI agent.  "Agent Mulder, I don't see what any of this has to do with --"

"I'll ask the questions, Mr. Taym --"

"MULDER."  Scully couldn't remember standing up, but she was suddenly toe-
to-toe with her partner, glaring up at him.  "Maybe you should wait 
outside," she hissed.

He didn't quite look at her.  "Really."  He pitched his voice low; like 
hers, it was inaudible beyond the sphere of their personal space.

"I believe so, yes."

He met her eyes then, and there was a bleak expression in them that rocked 
her back on her heels.  "I'm not surprised," he muttered, imitating her 
voice, tossing her own words back at her.  "*You'd believe practically 
anything.*"

With that, he stalked across the room and stared out that little window at 
the alleyway again, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.  Scully stared 
after him, the breath sucked out of her as though she'd been punched in the 
stomach.  The exhaustion settled back onto her like a lead cape as she sank 
back into her chair and turned back to Taymor.  Just get this done -- get 
this done, get this *done*, get out of here.

Taymor smiled possessively at her.  She did not smile back.  Something of 
her attitude finally seemed to filter into Taymor's awareness and his smile 
turned puzzled.

"Mr. Taymor," she began, "could you tell us about your working relationship 
with Marjorie?"

Taymor shrugged, still puzzled.  "We had a very good working relationship."

"Did you have any disagreements?" Scully pressed.  "Workload, salary, 
benefits, coworkers?"

"No, not a one.  Marjorie never complained."

Scully somehow did not find that surprising.  Complain?  About good ol' Jim?  
Never.  "Did you see one another socially?"

That earned her a startled look from Taymor.  "No, not really."

"Community activities?"

"No, can't say that we did."

"Church?"

Taymor smiled as though at some private joke.  "The wife and I aren't much 
for religion, actually."

Scully bit back a harsh response and tried one last time.  "Did you ever see 
Marjorie outside of the office?"

"No, I don't believe so.  My wife ran into her a few times at the grocery 
store, as I recall, but that's probably the extent of it."  His smile this 
time was hopeful; perhaps he expected that, having supplied Scully with what 
she wanted, she would reciprocate.  

She plunged ahead, impatient to get this last important question asked.  
"Mr. Taymor, were you and Marjorie having an affair?"

Taymor's jaw dropped.  "Excuse me??"

Scully spoke slowly and enunciated clearly, her face a mask of glacial calm.  
"Items were found at Marjorie's home that indicated that she may have 
been ... inclined toward a romantic relationship with you."

The businessman stared at Scully with wide, solemn eyes, gaping like a fish, 
the suave expectant attitude disappearing completely.

"Were you having an affair with her, Mr. Taymor?"

"No."  Taymor shook his head.  "No.  I had no idea that she -- I had no 
idea."  The expression on his face practically screamed surprise, but Scully 
did not see the guilt that she had expected.

"Well."  She stood up, giddy with relief that this endless interview was 
finally over.  "Thank you for your time, Mr. Taymor."

"Oh.  Oh, no problem."  Taymor also stood, still looking rather shell-
shocked but gamely rounding the desk with his hand outstretched for another 
handshake.  Scully gave him a wan smile and let him clasp her hand again, 
thinking vaguely that if this man's sexual stock always dropped like this 
between handshakes then the next time she saw him she might not even 
recognize him as human.  "If you need anything else ..." Taymor abruptly 
released her hand in order to dig around in his jacket pocket and came up 
with a business card.  He flashed a charming smile and handed it to her.

Scully accepted the card gingerly, with two fingers, and glanced at it.  A 
full half of the card was taken up by a color picture of none other than Jim 
Taymor, smiling the same oh-so-charming smile that she was currently 
experiencing live and up close.  The business name and address particulars 
were squashed into the remaining half, the tiny print looking much like a 
small troupe of army ants marching across the card.  "Thank you," she told 
him, and looked at Mulder.

Mulder gave Taymor a blatantly insincere smile.  "See ya," he said in his 
Plays Well With Others voice, and started for the door.

Scully smiled one last time at Jim Taymor and turned for the door.  Mulder 
was already through it and apparently long gone; she wondered just how fast 
she was going to have to walk to catch up with him before he got to the car.

Mulder, however, was standing right outside the office, his head slightly 
bowed, waiting for her.

Surprise flared through her and she stopped dead in her tracks, looking up 
at him wide-eyed.

He swept a hand toward the lobby in a courtly gesture.  "After you."

She examined his expression suspiciously, looking for a trap.  She didn't 
see one.  Mulder's eyes were weary and a little sad, tinged gray with 
regret.

Cease fire.

Some painful knot in her chest suddenly loosened -- not all the way, but 
enough to breathe again.  She looked at him for another moment and started 
down the hallway.

After a step and a half, Mulder's hand settled lightly at the small of her 
back.

<X><X><X><X>

Amber was waiting for them in the reception area, her arms piled high with 
file folders.  "Here," she announced, and dumped the folders in Scully's 
arms without any pretense of civility.  "Enjoy."  She pivoted neatly and 
stalked off.

Scully did a quick, awkward juggling act to keep the folders from tumbling 
to the floor in an avalanche of paper.  Mulder reflexively held out a hand, 
palm-out, as though he could control the situation with some kind of anti-
gravity super-power.  "Steady," he muttered.

Perhaps there was something to that super-power thing after all, because the 
folders stabilized just as Amber came back.  This time she handed Mulder a 
toaster-sized cardboard box with the legend "King's Parrot Food Yummy 
Tropical Mix" across it like a banner.

"For me?" Mulder asked, examining the box with sarcastic thoroughness.  
"Gee, I didn't get you *anything*."

"My dad says you have the parrot.  So."  She shrugged

Scully's eyebrows went up.  "Is this a ... present ... for the parrot?"

Amber's face contorted in disgust.  "Oh, God, no.  I hate that fucking 
bird."  She waved vaguely at the box as though she was trying to flick 
something nasty off her fingers.  "That was Marjorie's.  I'm still cleaning 
out her desk."

Mulder's fingers had discovered the open pour-tab on one side of the box.  
"I take it she brought the parrot over for a visit now and again."

"Visit, hell, that bird practically lived here."

The two agents exchanged a startled look.  "Here?" Scully echoed.

"*Yeah*,"  Amber intoned, stretching the word into a two-note phrase, high 
to low, a little song about the stupidity of adults.  "Marjorie brought that 
stinky bird in here almost every day.  She thought it would get lonely if 
she left it at home."  She looked pointedly at Scully.  "Didn't my dad tell 
you that?"

Scully shook her head, lips pursed.  "It seems," she said carefully, "that 
there's a lot that your dad hasn't told us."

<X><X><X><X>

Chapter 11

Cooper County Sheriff's Department
10:28 A.M.


Mulder had finally figured it out.

It had taken him a while, but he was suddenly, giddily, completely certain
what was wrong with Scully.

He eyed her carefully, his gaze brushing the crown of her hair.  She was so
regal, so vibrantly dignified that in this dingy, badly lit hallway she seemed
to glow like an oil lamp.  If he didn't know her so well, he might not have
noticed that anything was wrong.  Hell, he almost hadn't noticed anyway.

The slide and grit of their footsteps was very loud on the peeling linoleum. 
Granulated dirt was tucked into every crevice of the floor, darkening the
jagged edges where pieces of brittle linoleum had broken off.  This building
was new, as law-enforcement buildings went, but shoddily constructed; for some
indefinable reason it reminded Mulder of the basement of the Hoover building.

The rhythmic click of Scully's heels echoed off the wooden paneling like a
metronome.  Mulder could feel the edge of her pancake holster under her suit
coat, brushing against one of his fingers as she walked.  He kept his hand in
gentle contact with her back, some half-forgotten part of his mind glorying in
this little secret that he and only he knew -- not just the location of her
weapon, but this other thing, too.

It was obvious.  She hadn't slept; she was touchy, antagonistic, even more
skeptical than normal; and, for the kicker, she'd been avoiding his touch. 
Now, Mulder had never claimed to be an expert on women, but in this case the
facts spoke for themselves.  Hell, they practically *screamed*.

Mulder stole another look at her face.  From this angle, most of what he could
see was hair, but there was a sliver of pale cheek, waxing to a crescent when
she turned her head slightly.  A little paler than normal, although heat came
off her in waves, particularly where his hand brushed the small of her back.

It all added up.

Scully was obviously coming down with the flu.

They hadn't fought in the car.  They had barely spoken.  The awkward silence
had draped over them like San Francisco fog, guilt and regret occasionally
flashing from their individual lighthouses.  

Mulder had let her choose their destination as a sort of peace offering.  He'd
expected her to opt for a quick tour of the two crime scenes they hadn't
already seen -- they could tramp around outside, check for any signs of forced
entry that the good sheriff and his men had missed, then head inside and nose
around the actual crime scenes, see if they could sniff anything out.

Scully, however, had sat pale and serious with her hands neatly folded on top
of the folders on her lap.  She hadn't said much, but the words she used were
precise -- they were going to the sheriff's office.  They should speak with
Volney, find out exactly what they were missing, and coax the missing
statements and crime photos and files out of Volney's hands.

She hadn't looked at him.

Mulder had looked at her, though, his eyes tracing the cool lines of her face,
and at that moment the flu revelation had crept out of back of his mind and
tackled him, taking him completely by surprise as his eureka moments often did.
He had blinked, and looked back at the road, and driven to the sheriff's office
in silence.

They were still in silence now.  And she was still pale.

His hand twitched involuntarily at her back as he thought protective thoughts
and entertained melodramatic visions of making it up to her -- the fight, the
flu, everything.  He could get her back to the motel and put her to bed, get a
glimpse of those silky pajamas before he tucked the sheets up around her chin. 
He could find someplace in this town that made good chicken-noodle soup, and
feed it to her spoonful by steaming spoonful ... the heady image of Scully's
lips closing around a spoon that *he* was holding was enough to distract him
from what had been a purely humanitarian plan, and he guiltily squashed the
thought.  

Then, of course, he could go off and take care of the case himself.  

Mulder let go of the daydream regretfully.  Take care of Scully?  Right.  If
he tried to take care of her, Scully would tie his hand to the parrot cage and
let Guido bite all his fingers off.  Wouldn't happen.  End of story.

As they reached the end of the hall, there was a rush of cool air, slipping
deliciously through the overheated office atmosphere like vanilla ice cream in
hot chocolate.  Mulder spotted Volney in a corner next to a rust-laced file
cabinet, propping open a metal door with one big meaty hand as he wrestled a
chunk of limestone across the floor with his boot.  

"Hey there," Volney grunted in surprise, noticing the agents at almost the
same moment the limestone reached the door with a grinding *thunk*.  "Didn't
expect to see the two of you today."  He released the door experimentally; it
*thunk*ed back and forth between the wall and the impromptu doorstop several
times in swift succession and then hovered in the middle.  Volney seemed
satisfied.  "Sorry 'bout the cold, but some damn fool burnt a bag of popcorn a
while back and I can't stand the smell any more."  He eyed the agents,
scratching thoughtfully at the roots of his moustache.  "Autopsy done?"

Scully nodded, her expression grave.

"You here about the results?" Volney asked hopefully, his copper eyes sharp
and curious.

"I have a few theories," Scully said.  She stood straight and tall, and Mulder
felt sudden pride sweep him like sheet lightning.  "If we could step into your
office to discuss them ...?"

Volney nodded curtly.  "Sure."  Another curl of cold air swept into the room;
the door bounced between the wall and the stone, *thunk-thunk, thunk*.  Volney
ambled through a door with the word 'SHERIFF' lettered on it, not waiting to
see if the agents would follow.

They followed.  Mulder let Scully pick the first of two square metal-frame
chairs, and sat in the other, noticing with a pang that she scooted her chair a
few discreet inches from his, sitting primly on the edge.  She did that a lot,
sitting half-off the chair, her back straight and shoulders square; Mulder
suspected that she only did so because otherwise her feet would not reach the
ground.  Today, though, the chair was low; today, Scully was radiating ice-cold
authority.

"They say it's gonna rain," Volney told them conversationally.  He settled
into the swivel chair behind his desk and shifted his weight around until he
got comfortable; the chair protested with a soprano shriek of frustration. 
"Not too much, I hope," he added.  "It'll be hell on the farmers for planting."

Mulder watched Volney watch Scully, and he caught another glimpse of that
razor-sharp curiosity beneath the sheriff's easygoing veneer.  He felt a
familiar flash of triumph, the victory of a safecracker as a stubborn bank
vault finally clicks and cracks open, revealing a hint of the contents.  Just a
hint.

Volney had a personal stake in the results of this autopsy.  Mulder couldn't
tell what it was, but he was suddenly certain that the sheriff's keen interest
was more than professional.

The thought was unsettling.

"So," Volney said at last, "what'd you find on the Schmidt kid?"

"The results of Joshua's autopsy were consistent with the other three
victims."  Scully's chin tipped up with a touch of arrogance.  "The cause of
death in each case is unknown, but probably identical.  Some aspects of the
autopsies seem to point toward poisoning, but every tox screen has come back
negative."

Volney leaned back, stroking his moustache; the chair uttered another angry
squeal.  "So you're saying they *weren't* poisoned."

"Unless," Mulder said, unable to help himself, "they were poisoned with a
substance not known to medical science." 

Scully shot him a brief gunfire glare and turned her attention back to Volney.
"It's far more likely that this is an enzyme that occurs naturally in the body.
Potassium, for instance, causes heart failure in a matter of seconds when it's
injected into a vein, but a tox screen might miss it because potassium is a
normal part of our chemical makeup.  We could attempt a more careful chemical
analysis of the bodies but, frankly, with the internal organs missing in each
case I'm not sure how accurate it would be."

"Couldn't you work backward?" Volney asked.  "Figure out what could do this
kind of damage?"

"Normally, yes."  Scully's tone was level but the twitch of her fingertips was
pure sour grapes.  "Except that I've never seen anything like this before. 
I've sent blood and tissue samples to our field office in Kansas City, but they
might not get back to us for several days."

Volney made a derisive noise as though he was in the mood to spit, but was too
polite to do so in the presence of a lady.  There was, briefly, silence.  The
humming of the wind returned, redoubled, gained harmonic overtones.  *Thunk-
thunk, thunk-thunk, thunk*.

"There's a possibility," Scully said at last, "that this could be a binary
poison -- two substances that are only lethal when they're combined.  One
component could be administered hours or even days before the other, depending
on the quantity and how it entered the bloodstream." 

Volney chewed viciously on his moustache.

"Perhaps," Scully continued, her eyes hooded, "a more expedient way of going
about this would be to determine a motive for these killings."  She waited a
beat, and casually let the penny drop.  "Which I believe would require
unrestricted access to the witness depositions, the remainder of the crime
scene photographs, and any other records you may have gathered."

Volney's face went hard.  He glowered at Scully for a long moment, then
switched his glare to Mulder as though somehow this was *his* idea, but Mulder
wisely did not make eye contact.  Volney's mouth twisted and he scowled at
Scully, attempting to intimidate her into dropping the subject.

Scully did not intimidate easily.  "Sheriff, we've been coming across things
that were not in your reports, evidence which you obviously have not informed
your own deputies of."  She looked Volney straight in the eye and let him have
it.  "I would like to request at this time that you share whatever information
you have been holding back."

Volney blew a frustrated breath through his moustache.  "Agent Scully," he
said, "I have already briefed your partner on whatever trivial information you
may be missing."

"Agent Mulder has filled me in on the details which you gave him, sir, but
until we have every scrap of information, I believe that there will be the
continuing chance that we may be missing something important; trivial though
some of these small details may seem, one of them may turn out to be a key
piece of evidence or trigger some thought process that leads to the
identification of a suspect."

Volney's frown drew deep lines in his face.  "I understand your concern,
ma'am, but let me assure you that there's no reason to worry.  At the risk of
repeating myself, I already told you everything I know."

"It is very possible that you *think* you have told us everything, sir,"
Scully said with icy clarity, "but without the actual physical documents in our
hands there is always the chance that some piece of information has slipped
through the cracks."  

"Slip through the cracks?"  Volney snorted.  "Hell.  Did you see the news this
morning?"

No," Scully said dryly, folding her arms across her chest, "as a matter of
fact we missed it."

Volney leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk, his hands clasped
together in a callused knot.  "Then I'll just have to fill you in.  This
morning the Channel Ten six o'clock news ran the murder of Joshua Schmidt as
their leading story.  Now, I'm already upset about the fact that I woke up to
an instant replay of one of the longest nights of my life, but when I heard the
nice lady on the news hand out a couple of quotes that she said came from the
FBI agents working the case ... well, that just ruined my whole day."

Scully was unfazed.  "Neither Agent Mulder nor myself have made a habit of
chatting with representatives of the media, sir.  In our line of work we find
it somewhat inconvenient."

"I didn't say you had, ma'am, but it's a hell of a case in point.  There is a
leak, and it's a big one, and I don't know where it is.  I know it's probably
not the two of you because this was happening long before you showed up, but
the fact is I can't afford to let this information out of my hands."

"I assure you," Scully said, etching her words in granite, "we are well versed
in taking extra security precautions for confidential documents."

Volney shook his head.  "I'm not letting those documents out of this
building," he announced.

Scully's chin went up another centimeter, her eyes like blued steel.  "Sheriff
Volney, I am qualified as a medical doctor as well as a federal agent.  Agent
Mulder has an Oxford education in psychology and was an analyst with the
Violent Crimes Unit for several years.  If you are looking for someone more
qualified to track down this killer, *sir*, you may have to call Sherlock
Holmes and see if he can catch the Concorde from London.  As it is, I suggest
that you cooperate and give us what we need to do our job."

There was a long moment of silence.  The wind thrummed again, pulling music
from the door as though it was a bronze harp string, and the door *thunka-
thunka-thunka-thunk*ed several times before settling down.  Volney -- this big,
graying heap of a man who in another life might have been a stoic bachelor
farmer or an assistant director of the FBI -- turned his attention inward,
briefly, eyes narrowed as though consulting an inner set of scales.

Scully studied the sheriff, her face thoughtful as she weighed her options. 
The pallor that Mulder had noticed when they were alone had vanished; Scully
was in full federal agent mode, suspending her private weaknesses in the
interests of What Must Be Done.  It was a breathtaking sight, and Mulder was
not immune.

Volney returned from his internal journey and focused on Scully.  The two
stared at each other in steely silence, the air tense with the clash of wills.

When Scully spoke again, her voice came like a whip-crack.  "Sheriff," she
said, tilting her head to the side the tiniest bit, "I would like to suggest a
compromise."

<X><X><X><X>

The pile of file folders was not very thick.  Scully had tried not to
exaggerate it in her mind, but nonetheless she'd expected ... well, more. 
Large, important-looking files that would correspond to the amount of effort
put into gaining access to them, not this scrawny bunch with crumpled pages
straggling out of the pale manila folders.

Mulder was more vocal about his disappointment.  "That's it?  All of it?"

"I told you there wasn't much to it," Volney said, laying one big, callused
hand on the little pile as though it were a favorite dog.  "Few pictures,
coupla depositions, some notes I typed up.  Logs from the crime scenes.  Lists
of items found at the scene, evidence reports, that sort of thing."

"Nice," Mulder muttered.  Scully sighed, and turned away from him to examine
their impromptu library.  It seemed to be a conference room of sorts -- tiny,
square, paneled with the same faux wood that covered the walls of the hallway. 
The ceiling was low and reminiscent of an elementary school, with a single row
of recessed fluorescent lights, slightly off-center; one of the rectangular
plastic covers had apparently fallen and was propped in a corner, looking
isolated and forlorn.  An oblong banquet table in the center was surrounded by
a number of metal folding chairs, each with "CC Sheriff's Dept." stenciled on
the back in a powdery blue.

Scully's gaze accidentally intersected with Mulder's; their eyes locked for a
brief second before she lifted a wry eyebrow and turned back to the sheriff
with a tight lipped smile.  "We appreciate this, sir."

Volney gave her a wry look.  "I'm glad to hear that."  He jerked a thumb at
the door.  "You remember our agreement, now.  These documents do not leave this
room.  When you go, they stay.  I'm not making any exceptions to that."

Scully felt her smile fading, as though it were being erased.  "We weren't
asking for any.  Sir."


The sheriff nodded firmly.  "Just as long as it stays that way."  He watched
them for a moment.  "I'll be back down the hall.  You yell when you're done." 
He turned and unceremoniously walked out the door.

Scully glanced at Mulder.  He caught her look and tipped his head toward the
table, raising his eyebrows slightly in a silent question.  She examined the
selection of folding chairs and picked one, the legs clanging dully against the
chair next to it when she pulled it out and again when she scooted back in
after sitting.  Mulder sat on the other side of the narrow table at a careful
diagonal from her -- not directly across, nothing confrontational.

Scully took out her notebook and a pencil and nudged the pile of files across
the table at Mulder.  He started to reach for one, but hesitated, his eyes
flickering up to her face.  She shrugged a little and gave the files a harder
push.  Mulder lifted his eyebrows, processing this.  He sifted through the pile
and selected one; after a thoughtful look at it, he offered it to Scully.

She accepted it gingerly, with a little nod.  Silence fell in the little room,
broken only by the rustle of paper as the two agents perused the files.

"Scully, could you pass me the --"

"This one?"

"Yeah.  Thanks."  

Another lull.  Mulder's chair squeaked as he shifted his weight, his knee
brushing Scully's under the narrow table.  She glanced up at him.

"Sorry."

"Mmhmm."

Silence.  The whispery scratch of Scully's pencil as she took careful notes in
her little notebook seemed abnormally loud.  The fluorescent lights hummed like
an old refrigerator.

Footsteps.  A skinny deputy glanced idly into the conference room, locked eyes
with Scully, and looked away, embarrassed.  He walked into the darkened room
directly across the hall and flipped on the light, revealing a battered copier
with a smudgy rosette of footprints near the paper tray.  The machine made loud
groaning sounds; the deputy shifted back and forth in a little waiting dance,
his eyes fixed on the business end of the copier.  A copy emerged; the deputy
grabbed it, switched off the light, and left, going to great lengths to avoid
looking into the conference room.

Scully felt Mulder's eyes on her.  She glanced at him, but by that point he
was staring at the folder in front of him.  She shrugged it off and went back
to reading.  

A few moments later she could feel him looking at her again.  She set her
pencil down perfectly parallel to her notebook, *click*, and looked up.  "Yes,
Mulder?"

He slid a file across the table, pushing it cue-stick style with a single
finger.  "Evidence lists," he said shortly.

"What about them?"

Using the same finger, Mulder flicked the file open.  The finger ran lightly
down a column, seeming to read it by sense of touch, and tapped significantly. 
"Contents of the drawer of Lola Gruber's night table."

Scully read it out loud.  "One bottle of Tylenol.  Toenail clippers.  Three
paperback romance novels."  She raised an eyebrow.  "Sixty-seven business cards
from Taymor's Staffing services, tied with a red ... satin ... ribbon."

"Mmhmm."  He flicked the page over and tapped at a new spot.  "Lola Gruber's
desktop."

Scully humored him.  "Sixteen pencils.  Checkbook.  Calculator, broken.  Three-
hundred and ninety-four page handwritten manuscript of a lurid romance, staring
a heroine named Lena Grabel and the handsome owner of a temp agency named John
Taylor."

"With originality like that," Mulder deadpanned, "I'm sure she'll be published
posthumously."

"Mulder, does all this oblique hinting mean that you believe Lola Gruber had a
crush on Jim Taymor?"

"Not just her."  Mulder single-fingered another anemic file across the table
and flipped it open.  This time he stopped at a photograph, and tapped it. 
"Here.  This is the wall directly across from Greg Marks' bed."

The shot was in color, starkly lit -- a wall and a door which apparently led
to the hallway.  The door and door frame were unmarred; the wall next to it was
narrow, barely wide enough to accommodate the huge, unframed oil painting.

It was abstract, in garish colors that reminded Scully of other crime scene
pictures, bloodier ones.  These colors, though, were blues and purples and
vivid greens all swirled together, a maelstrom with a man's face leering out of
it.  A stylized face with vivid blue eyes, in a picture that somehow screamed
sexuality without giving her the faintest idea how it was accomplished.

Scully looked up at Mulder; their eyes met and locked.  "Jim Taymor," she
said, voicing the name hanging fire between them.

Mulder nodded, a feral smile lighting his eyes.

She examined the picture again.  "Greg painted this himself?"

"Bingo."

Scully considered it, shuffling ideas and laying them out like a game of
solitaire.  "Marjorie, Lola, Greg.  What about Joshua?"

"That one I don't know yet, but three out of four ain't bad."  Mulder tapped
his index finger on the file in front of Scully, his expression dark and
intent.  "Scully, is it just me, or were all of the victims somewhat less than
popular?"

She arched an eyebrow.  "Meaning ...?"

Mulder lifted his head and began ticking off points on his fingers.  "No
significant others.  Few, if any, friends.  And, judging from what we've heard,
all of them were pretty much on the bottom of the food chain in the local
dating scene.  Beyond the fact that none of them were nominated for Prom Queen,
I'm wondering if their common social status might point toward a motive for
their murders."

"Mulder, are you saying that what we have here is a serial killer who targets
the radically unpopular?"

He spread his hands casually.  "The weakest members of the herd are easiest to
pick off.  Even human predators seem to instinctively target social outcasts --
prostitutes and hitchhikers are classic examples.  These people may be the
small-town equivalent."

"I don't think --"  Scully stopped, her mind whirring and clicking.  

Mulder looked at her warily.  "What?"

"Have you read Aimee Marks' statement?"

He snorted.  "Yeah.  Sounds like her brother was having a party for one before
he died."  He shook his head.  "Makes going blind look like a preferable
alternative, eh, Scully?"

She shot him a dirty look.  "This isn't funny, Mulder."

"I know."  For a moment there was something bleak behind his eyes that she
recognized from her mirror.  Gallows humor could only be bought with the coin
of sympathetic humanity -- every good cop worried about those coins running out
and leaving them empty.  Federal agents, too.

The recognition resonated between them, a single note plucked on the violin
string of their connection and radiating into the stillness.  Scully looked
away, something under her ribs vibrating sweetly with that note; she was
surprised to find the string had not been snapped by their earlier battle.

"No witnesses have been found for Lola's murder, or Marjorie's," she said,
building a stone foundation with her words.  "Joshua's family went to bed at
nine and were only awakened an hour later by a scream from his room.  Aimee's
account is the only clue we have about what led up to these deaths."

Mulder held up a finger, his brow furrowed.  His alarmed expression made
Scully think of cartoon gauges spinning wildly out of control, whistles
shrieking from their drama-frown openings.  "Are you going where I think you're
going with this?"

"In all four autopsies, there was an extreme congestion of blood in the
genital area," she informed him dispassionately.  "This may indicate a high
level of sexual arousal at the time of death.  All four corpses were discovered
lying on their backs, on their own beds, in the dark.  It may point toward
similar activities in the moments preceding their deaths."

Mulder stared at her in thunderstruck silence.  "Scully," he blurted at last,
"are you saying that these people *masturbated* themselves to death??"

She shrugged.

He gaped at her, hanging in suspended animation on the leading edge of
laughter.  "You know, I'm pretty sure the Surgeon General would disagree with
you.  Masturbation is guaranteed not to cause blindness, hairy palms, insanity,
or the disintegration of internal organs."

She waved it aside.  "You said it yourself, Mulder -- they were all single,
and at least three of them seem to have been enamored with Jim Taymor.  A high
level of sexual frustration requires some form of release, and without a
partner ..."  She trailed off.  There was a weird thrumming in the air like
someone bowing the lowest string of a cello, something subliminal and
frightening.  They were both acting remarkably professional under the
circumstances, but neither one was really looking at the other -- their gazes
were stuttering, skidding off each other's faces.   

"If this is a binary poison," she continued stoically, "it's possible that
only the first component was actually administered by the murderer.  The second
component may be enzymes naturally created by the victims' own bodies during a
... an instance of auto-erotic activity."

She should have known better than to try the more delicate term; the tension
in the room began to ripple and shift into an almost hysterical comic
atmosphere.  

Mulder's lips twitched as he obviously suppressed a grin.

"Oh, for God's sake," Scully exploded, "this is *not* funny."

"Scully, do me a favor," he said, eyes twinkling.  "Say 'auto-erotic activity'
again."

"*Mulder*."

He chuckled, crossed his arms on the table and hunched over, tilting his head
boyishly.  It was a normal gesture, the first truly normal moment between them
in an hour.  She felt relief swell up in her like a helium balloon, buoyant and
slightly ridiculous.  "Tell me something," he demanded.  "We're finding new
details in these files just based on what we know *now*.  What happens tomorrow
when we know more; do we come back here and look through the files again?"

"I don't know."  She sighed, hunching forward in unconscious mimicry of his
posture.  "I'll try to talk Volney into letting us have copies."

He just looked at her.  He didn't have to say it; it was obvious that Volney
would never agree.

"I'll think of something," she insisted.

Footsteps rang out in the hallway; Scully looked up to see Volney himself peek
around the doorway, chewing on his moustache.  She straightened up, feeling
absurdly as though she'd been caught passing notes in study hall.  "How're
things coming?" Volney asked, that razor-edged curiosity glinting through his
casual air.  "About done?"

Scully reluctantly forced herself back into negotiating mode.  "Sheriff Volney
--"

A hand settled over Scully's knee.  Her head whipped around and she stared
wide-eyed at Mulder, who was looking at Volney and being very casual about the
fact that he only had one hand on the table.  As she looked at him, Mulder's
hand tightened, his thumb sliding neatly into the sensitive notch along the
edge of her kneecap.  Scully started to shake.  It was nothing -- a silent
suggestion to keep quiet, that was all -- but the shock of feeling his hand on
her body, and the irrepressible fantasy of the places it could move from there,
almost overwhelmed her.  

"We're fine, Sheriff," Mulder lied smoothly.

Volney did not appear convinced.  "Agent Scully?"

Mulder met her eyes across the table with a minute shake of his head.  Oh, the
bastard.  She'd kill him.  She'd kick his ass from here to next Thursday, as
soon as she could regroup from this watery weakness threading through her veins.

"We're fine," she managed, sounding slightly strangled.  She frowned at
Mulder, a piercing no-nonsense stop-screwing-around look, and brushed at him
with a feeble hand, trying to shove him off.

"If you're sure --"

"We're sure," she lied through gritted teeth, and swatted at Mulder's hand
again.  This time he seemed to get the hint, and removed his hand after one
last squeeze.

Volney seemed mollified.  "Okay.  I'll be back in a few minutes."  And with
that, he departed.

Mulder was on his feet and gathering the files together almost before the
sheriff was completely out of the room.  "Run interference for me," he hissed.

"*What*?"

He thumped the edges of the files against the table once in an effort to
straighten the pile.  "I'm gonna make some copies.  Keep an eye out for Volney."

She gaped at him.  "Mulder, are you *crazy*?"

"Hey," he tossed back at her with that lopsided reynard grin, "that's crazy
like a Fox."

He was across the hall before she could gain her feet.

"Shit," she whispered furiously, and made her way to the door.  There was
nobody in sight; she let her eyes flick from one end of the hallway to the
other, like a woman trying to make a left-hand turn in heavy traffic.  Her
right hand itched for the weight of her weapon, a comfort that this level of
adrenaline demanded despite the circumstances.

The copy machine was a noisy sonovabitch, and slow.  It groaned and complained
as though it were in labor, ignoring the interesting little rain dance that
Mulder was doing in front of it.  Five copies, now.  Six.  Seven.

Scully hated this kind of surveillance.  She associated it with Kevlar vests
and jumpy triggermen, hostage situations and bombs.  There were none of the
backhanded comforts of routine team surveillance, no cold French fries to share
with Mulder or bizarre conversations to stave off the boredom.  This was all
edge.

A deputy wandered across the glass door at one end of the hallway, in and out
of her vision in an instant, sending her heart rate into orbit.

"Hurry," she hissed.  Mulder waved impatiently at her and continued his slow
progress.

She could hear murmurs at the other end of the hallway, the one that ended in
the break room.  The wind-beaten door *thunk*ed rapidly a few times; there was
the scrape of limestone on concrete and then the door slammed.  The
conversation seemed to grow louder -- she couldn't make out any words, but one
of the voices was definitely Volney's.

"Mulder," she growled in warning.

"Almost done," he whispered back.  The copy machine groaned, as though in
denial.

Volney's voice was louder now, and Scully heard footsteps.  The hair on the
back of her neck stood up.  

"Mulder, will you MOVE YOUR ASS?"

Mulder came flying into the room at almost the same moment Volney appeared at
the end of the hallway.  Loud, measured footsteps ticked away like the second
hand on a stopwatch.  "Here," Mulder hissed, shoving half the copies into her
hands.

"What the hell am I supposed to --?"

Mulder made a frustrated noise as he tossed the originals haphazardly onto the
table.  "Like this --!"  He rucked up his suit coat and stuffed his handful of
copies half-down the back of his pants, draping his jacket back over it. 
Scully imitated him, furious, moving at light speed, maneuvering around her
holster.

She had barely put herself to rights when Volney appeared in the doorway,
looming larger than life.  There was so much adrenaline in the air, a person
could get high just from breathing.

Volney crossed to the table and thumbed through the files.  He looked up
suspiciously at the agents from beneath bushy brows.  "You folks done?"

Mulder smiled his best G-man smile.  "Oh yes, sir," he said sweetly, "we have
everything we need."

<X><X><X><X>

Chapter 12


The Mo-Z Inn
Room 122
7:45 PM

"You call it.  Heads or tails?"

"Heads."

"... Oooh, tough luck."

"Damn!"

"Hah.  Remember, Mulder, no sausage this time."

He reached for the phone and paused, one hand touching the receiver.  "Green
peppers?" 
he asked hopefully, giving his partner a forlorn look.

"Fine."

"Olives?"

Scully was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a
melange 
of prim official files and the crumpled copies they'd pilfered from the
sheriff's 
office.  She glared at him over the rims of her glasses, unwilling to crane her 
neck just to make proper eye contact.  "Don't push it, Mulder."

He shrugged philosophically and thumbed through the meager pages of the
Tehtonka-
Leotie-Parker City phone book, the phone receiver tucked into the crook of his 
neck.  "There's only one pizza place in town."

"At least there *is* one."

"... Anchovies?"

She gave him a sharp look, saw laughter behind his eyes, and allowed herself a
small 
smile.  "I know I keep telling you to get more seafood in your diet, Mulder,
but I 
don't think that's the way to do it."

He seemed satisfied, and sat down on the bed to dial.  "Think the place is any
good?"

She was barely listening, distracted for the moment by picking carpet fuzz off
her 
slacks.  "I'll be happy if it's still hot when it gets here."

"Oooh," he grinned.  "I love a woman who's easy to please."

"Don't get used to it."

"I wouldn't dream of --  Hello, yes, I need to make an order for delivery. 
Mulder.  
Room one-twenty-two at the Mo-Z Inn.  Large pepperoni, with mushroom, green 
peppers ..."

"Extra cheese," Scully said without looking up.  She smoothed out another
crumpled 
copy and placed it on top of one of the manila folders from Taymor's, matching
up 
the parallel sides.  It seemed to hover, held aloft by the wrinkles ingrained
in 
its surface. 

"... Extra cheese.  Hey, Scully, thin crust or thick?"

"Thin."

"THIN," a squawky voice echoed from Scully's room; Scully leaned back and
glared 
at the parrot through the open connecting door.  Guido ducked his head slyly
away
from her gaze and fluffed his wings, muttering to himself in scratchy bird-talk.

"Thin crust.  Uh-huh.  One large iced tea, one large Diet Coke ...  Thirteen
fifty-
eight?"  Mulder dug out his wallet one-handed and counted out a short stack of
money
onto the bedside table, eyed it critically and took back a few dollars.  "Uh-
huh.  
You too.  Bye."  He hung up and collapsed back onto the bed, bouncing
slightly.  
From Scully's viewpoint, he vanished from the knees up.  "Hey, Scully?" his 
disembodied voice asked.

"Yes, Mulder?"

"Wanna hear a funny story?"

"No, Mulder."  She examined another copy, cast an eye around for the correct
file 
to match it to, and placed it appropriately, square in the middle.

"Hmph."  One orphaned foot scooted over to the other as though for company,
slid 
up to scratch at the exposed sock, and came back down, toeing off first one
shoe, 
then the other.

"Keep your shoes on," she warned.

The toes wiggled in their checkered socks, a This Little Piggy kickline.  "Too 
casual for you?" Mulder's distant voice inquired.

"No," she said patiently, "your feet smell."

"Your shoes are off and *I* didn't complain."

"My feet," she informed him, "do not smell."

Mulder made a noise of amused effort and hitched his feet up onto the bed, 
reappearing from the waist up as he sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed.  
He snaked out a long arm and snagged his laptop computer from the bedside
table, 
phone wires trailing after him like IV drips.  "Wanna hear what I found on the 
internet?"

"Download those pictures on your own time, Mulder."

The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly.  "Sorry to disappoint you, Scully, 
but this time I just looked up some information on succubi."

"OH PLEASE," Guido put in from the next room, and whistled.

"My sentiments exactly," Scully said dryly.  She turned an abused copy right-
side up and set it in place on a stack of others like it, puffed up to 
cartoonish height like the TV commercial version of a fifty-nine cent 
hamburger.

Mulder pressed onward.  "The local Plains Indians have a variant on the myth 
that sounds like it might f --"

"Mulder," she interrupted, irritation spiking her like a tequila shot, "is this 
really necessary?"

Silence.  She looked up, belatedly concerned, and caught the tail end of his 
hopeful smile as it slowly faded into something wary and watchful.  The agents 
studied each other across the room for a moment, without words, the rickety 
balance between them tipping back and forth and trying to right itself.

For some reason he was being far too careful with her.  She groped for the 
motive behind it, felt it slide away from her like a minnow, leaving behind 
an uneasy sense of dread.  When Mulder was careful, it meant trouble; it meant 
his profiler's mind was at work, and although she had seen him make some 
spectacularly bad calls at profiling women, she couldn't be sure that this 
would be one of them.  If he'd sniffed out the fantasies she'd been 
entertaining about him, the dream she'd had last night --

She willed away both the thought and the stab of fear that came with it.

Without thinking about it, she stood up and padded across the room, her 
pantyhose rasping oddly between the carpet and the ball of her foot, the 
crooked toe-seam twisting between two toes.  She sat down on the edge of the 
bed, reached out and pulled the laptop toward her.  "All right.  Let me see."

The image on the screen was some kind of artist's rendering, not the Native 
American pictorial that Scully had expected.  The female "demon" seemed as 
human-looking as the prone figure it pressed against, except that the 
victim was swathed in a blanket and the demon was nude, with obscenely 
large breasts.  Without the blanket, it would have been a clipping from a 
pornographic comic book; as things were, it looked like a couple attempting 
a bizarre form of birth-control, with enough smoke billowing around to ensure
that the casual observer would comprehend that this was a Supernatural Event.

She met Mulder's eyes and was relieved to find the wariness gone, submerged 
again in the electric current of his intense interest.  An arachnid thought 
crept around the wall in her mind, murmuring hot words about what that high-
voltage intensity would feel like focused on her.  A shiver rippled across 
her skin and she had to grit her teeth to keep from arching her neck.

"Scully?"

"Are you going to tell me," she said in a remarkable facsimile of her normal 
voice, "or do I have to figure out what this is myself?"

Mulder made an amused noise deep in his throat and pulled the laptop to a 
position midway between them, brushing at the touchpad to scroll down past 
the cartoonish figures.  "The local Okomhaka tribe has a myth about a spirit 
creature they call the Tochok.  It's said to be a spirit being that attacks 
people in their sleep, just like the succubus or any of the others; the 
difference is that the Tochok actually kills its victims."  

Scully gave him the eyebrow, right on cue.

He lifted his hands to proclaim his innocence.  "I didn't just pull this out 
of my ass, I swear.  It's right here."

She chuffed quietly but let him continue.

"The Okomhakas say that the Tochok invades a physical body -- a host, not a 
victim -- and sleeps inside it during the day, only coming out to hunt at 
night.  The host, for the most part, is unaffected.  The victims, however, 
are attacked while they are sleeping, pressed on to the point of suffocation, 
and then the Tochok drains them of their spirits."

"Drains?"

"Yeah.  Here's the important part, Scully -- victims of the Tochok are said 
to have a big red mark seared into the skin of their abdomens.  If we assume 
that 'draining them of their spirits' is a semi-religious misnomer for 
somehow liquidating all internal organs and sucking them out through the 
victims' mouths, then this looks a lot like a certain M.O. we've been seeing 
lately."

Scully stared at him.  "First of all, Mulder, 'liquidating' is *not* an M.O., 
it's something you do to assets."

"Really ...?"  His gaze dropped mischievously.  "Your assets look pretty solid
to me."

"Second," she continued, stone-faced, "the only way to liquefy human organs 
besides ordinary decomposition is to drop them into a blender and hit puree."

Mulder chuckled and reached over to manipulate the laptop touchpad.  "Right 
here, Scully.  The Okomhakas say that the Tochok would appear as the person 
that the victim desired the most.  Perhaps that pressing on the abdomen is 
a close enough approximation of sexual contact to release some pent-up 
energy, sparking some kind of combustion that evaporates the organs and 
leaves the muscle tissue alone."

"Mulder," she growled, "that is the most ridicul --"

"-- ridiculous theory, yeah, I know," he agreed, overlapping her words in an 
all-knowing way that made her want to punch him in the nose.  "But look at 
it this way, Scully.  All four of these victims were bona fide members of 
the Lonely Hearts Club, and all of them were hopelessly infatuated with Jim 
Taymor --"

"Except for Joshua Schmidt," Scully informed him dryly.  "Unless you've 
decided his obvious stalking of the sheriff's daughter was just an act to 
cover his true preferences."

Mulder pointed his index finger at her like a gun.  "Bingo.  The others had 
it bad for Taymor, and Joshua had it bad for Amber.  Every single one of 
them sexually frustrated."

She stared at him for a moment, looking for a way she could blow holes in 
his theory without having to use the word 'sexual.'  There wasn't one.  
She sighed.

Guido was muttering to himself in the other room, sounding remarkably like 
a flu patient doing some preliminary gagging, and shuffled his feet noisily.  
He whistled suddenly; when the agents' attention turned to him, he preened, 
twisting his head from side to side.  "PRETTY BIRDIE!"

Scully groaned.

Mulder chuckled, and took the chance to wind up his argument.  "That would 
explain why there has been no evidence at any of the scenes, no trace 
evidence on the bodies, and why nobody's ever seen the murderer.  A demon 
could coalesce inside the victim's bedroom and then disperse again the 
moment the deed was done, leaving no sign that it was ever there."  He 
grinned.  "And no eyewitnesses."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that."

"What?  Who?"

She lifted her chin, a streetfighter daring an opponent to go for the 
knockout punch.  "Fred Schmidt."

"Scuhllee," Mulder drawled, his eyes drooping lazily, "I thought you had 
that dismissed as a clear-cut case of sleep paralysis."

"I'm not saying it's not.  It's entirely possible that Fred Schmidt caught 
a glimpse of the murderer and incorporated it into an episode of sleep 
paralysis."  Her lips twitched involuntarily.  "Granted, Fred Schmidt is 
not the most reliable witness in the history of crime, but that doesn't 
mean we should completely disregard his account of events."

"Fred's account of events is that he was attacked by a dark-haired, green-
eyed demoness," he said pointedly, "which would back up my theory more 
than yours.  Especially if we're right about Fred's unrequited lust for 
Marty Schmidt."

"Marty Schmidt," Scully ground out, "is not the only woman involved in 
this case with dark hair and green eyes."

He furrowed his brow at her.  "Where are you going with this, Scu --"

"Amber Volney is dark-haired, green-eyed, and vehemently vocal in her 
dislike of the victims."

"She's a kid," Mulder glowered.  "She's the *sheriff's* kid."

She shrugged neatly, crossed her legs and wiggled her toes inside the 
pantyhose.  "The children of any authority figure are often prone to 
misbehaving, particularly during their teen years."

"Speaking from personal experience?"

"Not a lot of teacher's kids in my classes.  Nuns are celibate."

He smiled automatically, but his attention was already laser-locked on 
another target.  "Do you really think that a small-town teenage girl 
could do this, Scully?"

"We've seen worse," she reminded him.

"Right."  He mulled it over, frowning.  His right hand, apparently 
lacking explicit orders, began picking at an unraveled quilting thread
on the nylon bedspread.  Scully could barely hear the silky scritching
sound, but it registered along her spinal cord, branching out in tiny 
silver tingles down her nerves.  Szzzicc szzzicc szzzicc --

She grabbed his hand, holding it prisoner six inches above the bed.  
He looked at her in honest surprise and the reality of his flesh 
hit her like a brick -- the weight and mass of his big hand in hers, 
the heat, the rasp of dissimilar fingerprints along her own.  His 
fingers squeezed hers reflexively and for a moment she forgot to 
breathe.

She let go with the exaggerated care of a woman on a tightrope, her 
hand swimming back into her personal space to land like a lunar 
module on her lap, her head buzzy with bloodrush.  Mulder looked 
at her oddly and scratched at his neck with his newly released hand.  
"All right, convince me.  Means, motive, opportunity."

"Fine."  Scully removed her glasses, folded them neatly and set 
them on the bedside table.  "Opportunity.  Amber does not have a 
valid alibi for last Friday.  She told her father she was going to 
a movie with her cousin.  Her cousin, the nurse from the hospital --"
She groped for the name and could not remember it.  Her little 
notebook was propped up against her shoes, all the way across the 
room, unavailable.  "She said that Amber was working late with her 
boss, Jim Taymor, and couldn't go to the movies.  Jim Taymor said he 
was working late, alone."

"Teenagers lie to their fathers," Mulder shrugged.  "She could have 
been anywhere."

"Motive.  Amber is in love with Jim Taymor."

He looked at her blankly.

"She has a crush on him, Mulder.  When I hinted that Marjorie could 
have been having an affair with him, Amber went through the roof.  
She's jealous, and taking out the competition -- or, in Joshua's 
case, removing an irritant."

He blinked.  "Hold on, Amber said that Taymor wasn't having an 
affair with Marjorie, or with any of the others.  If she's the 
murderer, wouldn't she go after his wife?"

"No," she sighed, "not necessarily.  I'm not sure about how teenage 
boys operate, but for teenage girls ..."  She paused, trying to patch 
together a clean explanation without invoking personal experience.  
"When a teenage girl has a hopeless crush, she tends to see the 
girlfriend or wife of the crush as ... invulnerable.  The legitimate 
significant other serves as a focus of jealousy, but there is a 
certain ... fear of retribution involved."

Mulder was eating this up.  He looked like a preschooler at Story 
Time, listening wide-eyed to her story, his long legs folded in 
front of him in an awkward pretzel.  "Fear of retribution from the
girlfriend?"

She shook her head.  "From the crush.  Fear that the crush will hate 
her, or in some cases ..."  Her mouth grew dry for no good reason 
and she had to swallow before she could continue.  "In some cases, 
a simple fear of exposing her feelings."

Mulder tilted his head, his curious gaze fixed on her.  "... So 
what you're saying is that the girl projects all her frustration 
on everyone else who is in the same boat?"

"Essentially, yes."

"Which is your whole reason for suspecting Amber Volney?"  His 
tone was carefully neutral, but Scully's hackles rose nonetheless.

"I wouldn't say it's my *whole* reason, Mulder," she snapped.  
"Besides the fact that Amber Volney had daily contact with each 
of the victims and obviously bore all four of them ill will, I 
would venture to say that after years of investigative work I can 
spot a liar as well as you can."

He took a careful look at her, then shrugged and tilted over to 
one side, stretching his long legs out along the bed.  "All right," 
he agreed mildly, and propped his head up on one big hand.  "Answer 
me one question.  You yourself haven't been able to figure out 
exactly how these people were killed.  How good are the chances 
that an ordinary, small-town Midwestern high school student could 
come up with a mysterious binary poison that could baffle an FBI 
forensic pathologist?"

Scully went very still as she formulated her reply, her posture 
straight and her face expressionless.  "Despite what I may 
accidentally have led you to believe, Mulder, forensic pathology 
is hardly a science that is set in stone.  Human beings find new 
ways to kill each other almost every day, and there's a certain 
amount of catch-up time between the inception of those new methods 
and some pathologist discovering them and writing them up in the 
medical journals so that they become common knowledge.  The chances
that a small-town teenager could accidentally come up with a 
brand-new modus operandi are slim, I will grant you, but they are
infinitely greater than the chances that a mysterious demon is 
stalking the local population of sexually frustrated citizens."

Mulder shrugged, a curious smile on his face.  "Point taken."

"Thank you."  She could still feel the aura of heat coming off 
of him where his weight made the mattress dip.  Gravity tugged 
at her, urging her to tip over and tumble into him, and she 
closed her eyes briefly to consider defining this in Einsteinian
physics, with Mulder as a white-hot star and herself a comet 
curving around his gravity well. 

"I'll withdraw my assumption that she *couldn't* commit murder,"
he said at last, causing her to open her eyes and stare at the 
laptop.  "I just don't think she could get away with it.  No 
fingerprints, no forced entry, no trace evidence -- either this 
kid is really lucky or she's hiding some serious brainpower."

"You said it yourself, Mulder," she informed him, letting her 
eyes focus on his reflection in the laptop screen.  "She's the 
sheriff's daughter.  It's possible that he may be protecting her."

He balked at that, his mouth pulling up on one side.  "Oh, come 
on."

"It makes sense.  He's the only one who has all the evidence in 
his possession.  He's the only one who has been at all the crime 
scenes --"  Mulder made a stubborn face; she pointed at a 
very rumpled set of copies with flaring self-righteousness.  
"He's the only one signed in at every one; you saw that yourself,
he was the first man on the scene every time.  He has kept 
information from his own deputies and attempted to keep it from
us.  For all we know, he may still be withholding evidence -- he
may have even destroyed evidence."

"He's the sheriff, Scully."

"He's a *father*, Mulder."  A memory flashed across her field 
of vision, embedded in reality like a subliminal message in an 
advertisement:  her father, tall and terrible, threatening 
another man with his fists as little Dana stood, amazed, to 
one side.  She had been five or six, playing uninvited in the 
neighbor's yard, and had taken the petals off of flower after
flower to see how they were put together.  The neighbor had 
caught her and chased her off his property with a hoe, only 
to encounter Big Bill Scully, home on leave.

"He's a father," she repeated, "and fathers will do anything 
to protect their daughters.  Even if they're in the wrong."

"We don't have any proof on this."

"We haven't looked for any," she retorted.  "We do, however, 
know that Volney is willing to act to protect his daughter; 
he already admitted that he threatened Joshua Schmidt."

"Waitaminit, you don't think Volney did this himself --"

"No, no, I don't believe he would have volunteered that 
information on Joshua if he had."

Mulder sighed deeply and rolled onto his back, hands tucked 
behind his head, staring at the ceiling.  "Scully, I don't like
this."

"I know," she said quietly, still not looking at him.

There was a moment of silence before Mulder spoke again.  "Do 
you think there really is a leak?"

"I don't know, Mulder.  It's possible.  Perhaps *Volney* is 
the leak."  She shrugged.  "At any rate, it would give him the
excuse he needed to keep all the information under lock and key."

"Mmm."  He mulled it over; even without looking at him Scully 
could tell he was chewing on his bottom lip.  "If he knows -- 
or suspects -- that Amber is the killer ..."

"He probably didn't think the FBI would pay attention," she 
filled in.  "It took three deaths, after all."

"Right," Mulder said in a voice drenched with irony.  "I think 
there's another possibility, Scully.  He could want to have her 
caught -- just not by him, or anyone under his command.  That 
way he could justify it to himself."

She half-looked at him, cutting her eyes around to the side 
without turning.  "Agent Mulder, does this mean you believe my 
theory has merit?"

"Agent Scully," he rumbled, an arm tossed over his eyes, "I 
always do.  In this case, though, I hope you'll forgive me for 
hoping you're dead wrong."

She smiled wryly, stealing this quiet moment while he couldn't 
see her, watching the rise and fall of his chest and gleaning a 
strange comfort from his respiratory process.  A wordless, primal 
longing reared up in her like a sob; she wanted nothing more than 
to lie down next to him and wrap her arms around his chest and 
bury her face in that spot between his neck and his shoulder.  
She stared at that spot dizzily, breathing hard through her mouth.

White light flashed outside, illuminating the room like a movie 
set for half a second.  Thunder grumbled along after it, forever 
late for the party; Scully's head snapped up guiltily at the 
sound.

A loud whistle of surprise from the next room shrilly echoed the 
thunder.  "FUCK ME 'TIL I *FAINT*!"

Scully groaned.

Mulder started to chuckle, his arm still thrown over his face, 
his laughter shaking the bed.  "Hey Scully, how 'bout we take 
Guido back to DC with us and keep him in the office?"

"I don't think it's a good idea," she told him, her eyes 
resolutely on the doorway despite the fact that she couldn't see 
the parrot from this angle.

"Why not?"  He lifted his arm slightly to peer at her, grinning.  
"Against regulations?"

"Perhaps."  There was a knock at the door, and she stood up to 
answer it, grateful for the excuse.  "I think the more pertinent 
reason, however, is that by the end of the first week I'd shoot 
you both."

He was still chuckling at her as she scooped up the money from 
the table and answered the door.

The pizza boy was very young and very shy, and Scully felt for 
some reason that she was scaring him.  She tipped him an extra 
dollar as a result, trying to assuage her illogical guilt, and 
shut the door very gently with her foot.

She turned around and discovered that the room was empty.

"Mulder?"  Scully set the pizza down on the bed, snatching the 
unstable drinks off the box top and depositing them on the 
bedside table.  She scanned the room, going very still and 
listening hard, her hand straying back to slide along the grip 
of her weapon.  "Mulder?  Where are you?"

"In here, Scully," a voice replied from the other room.

She peered through the connecting door into the dark room.  
"What are you doing in there?"

"Dinner entertainment," he said, and suddenly he filled the 
doorway, brandishing something huge and bullet-shaped, 
unrecognizable in the dim yellow light of the motel-wattage 
lamps.  A bolt of lightning scorched through the sky outside, 
illuminating the scene so that Scully could see --

The parrot cage.

Guido hunched sulkily in the cage, the feathers along the 
back of his head puffed up, his beak open in a soundless 
complaint and his pointy little parrot-tongue showing.  As 
Scully stared, nonplussed, Guido spread his wings slightly 
and made a hissing noise.

Scully folded her arms across her chest, giving bird and man
her most ironic eyebrow.  "This is the entertainment?"

"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em," Mulder announced, setting
up the cage and stand in mid-room.  "Since we can't make him 
shut up..."

"... You're planning on teaching him to sing 'Jailhouse Rock'?"

He grinned.  "Maybe tomorrow.  Hey, Scully, did you know that 
the kea parrot of New Zealand will occasionally attack sheep 
and eat the fat surrounding the sheep's kidneys?"

"Is this your new theory of the modus operandi for this case, 
or have you been looking up useless information on the internet 
again?"

"I don't think it's useless," he protested.  "It's good 
incentive for keeping this cage locked, for one thing."

She snorted and crossed back to the bed, opening the pizza box
without ceremony and scooping out a droopy wedge.  The cheese 
stretched, stringy dairy lifelines snapping one by one, the 
last few broken by a sweep of her finger.  She scooted into 
the middle of the bed, maneuvering her pizza hand carefully to 
keep the orange grease in the cheesy crevices, well away from 
her clothing.  The first bite was hot and gooey, cholesterol 
and fat and tomato sauce, everything tasty in the universe.  
She closed her eyes to chew, relaxing into the calorie respite
the way some people relaxed into a bottle of Scotch.

The bed dipped under a mysterious weight and breath rasped 
nearby.  Mulder.  She kept her eyes closed, reading his actions
from the movements of the bed and the sounds he made and a 
vague sixth sense that came from years of familiarity.  At 
first he'd only had one knee on the bed, leaning in to grab 
some pizza; now he was arranging himself up against the 
headboard and pillows; now he was taking a drink; now he was
eating, and looking at her.

His feet brushed her suddenly, came to rest along the outside 
of her thigh where she'd tucked her feet up in a modified lotus
position.  She sucked in hot oregano-scented air and opened her
eyes to find him looking at her, just as she'd known he was.  
He crossed one ankle over the other and poked at her with his 
big toe.  "Do you need to be alone with that?" he teased.

She gave him the eyebrow and took another bite.  Mulder was 
eating like a kid, with great gusto and a happy smile.  He was
already halfway through his first slice and eyeing a second, 
pizza sauce smeared along his upper lip in a red clown's 
moustache.  "Mulder," she said disapprovingly, shaking her 
head at the mess.

"MULDERRR," Guido echoed, mimicking her tone perfectly.  His 
little black eyes glinted.  "MULDER FBI!" he added, in a clear
Mulder-voice.  He stretched his neck to proudly display his 
profile.  "PRETTY BIRDIE!  CLEVER BIRDIE!"

Mulder pounded on his chest, wheezing with laughter.  "We 
gotta keep this bird," he declared, gesturing at the cage 
with his pizza as though there were a vast number of birds in 
the room to choose from.

"After all the damage you've inflicted on your apartment, 
Mulder, I somehow doubt you'll be able to afford the additional
pet deposit."  Scully took another neat bite of pizza.

He prodded affectionately at her with his foot.  It slid up 
farther this time, hitting her toes, sliding briefly along 
the length of her metatarsal bones and returning on the same 
path.  A flash of heat slithered up her thigh, lightning-quick,
and her body thrummed with silent thunder.

She pulled her foot away, tucking it beneath her tailor-style as 
casually as she could.  The stodgy bite of chewed-up pizza sat on
her tongue, unswallowed, unswallowable.

"Scully?"

She focused on him so abruptly she could feel her pupils 
constrict.  Mulder had a mouthful of pizza and was giving her 
a very curious look.  "Scully?" he said again, garbling it so 
that it came out as 'Scuhyee,' "y'okay?"

She shot him a frosty glare.  "I'm fine," she told him in a 
tone that brooked no argument, despite being choked around a 
squishy ball of chewed-up pizza.

He watched her for a moment, shrugged, and turned his attention
to the parrot cage.  "Hey, Guido, how're you doing over there?  
You don't like pepperoni by any chance ...?  No?"  His tone 
changed, turned crafty.  "Hey ... Marrrjorie."

Scully choked down the bite of pizza.  "What are you doing?"

"Conducting an interview," Mulder said, as though this were 
obvious.  "Hey, Guido.  Maaaarrrjorieeee."

"MARJORIE LOVES GUIDO.  MARJORIE LOOOOOOVES GUIDO."  Guido 
bounced smugly on his perch, head-banging to some silent music.  

"Mulder, you can't be serious."

"Watch me."  Mulder took another sip of his iced tea and, as 
though suddenly thinking of it, handed her the other drink.  
"Here."

She accepted it gingerly, like a HazMat vial.  "Thanks."

His eyes brushed over her thoughtfully as he chewed on the 
crescent moon of crust.  There was a question forming, brewing
over his head like a storm cloud, and she glared at him over 
her Diet Coke until the cloud dissipated.  He shrugged faintly
and turned his attention back to the parrot.  "Hey, Guido, 
here's another word for you.  *Taymor*."

Guido perked up, stretching until he was several inches taller.
"TAYMOR'S STAFFING SERVICE," he piped in a high, drawly voice.  
A chill ran down Scully's spine as she realized that she was 
hearing the workday greeting of a dead woman.  "WE DO OUR BEST
TO SERVE YOU BETTER.  HOW MAY I HELP YOU?"

Mulder made his thinking noise, a low rumble in his chest like
a cat's purr.  She could practically see the wheels and gears 
in his head whirling like mad.  "Hey, Guido," he said slowly, 
"... *Jim*."

"JIIIIIIIIIIIM," Guido echoed, still in that same high drawl.  
"OHHHH, JIIIIIIIIIMMMM."

Scully blinked.

"OHHHHH.  OOOOOOOOH.  JIM, OHHHHH, JIM."

Mulder shifted awkwardly, scooting further up against the 
headboard.  Scully sat very still, one hand stiffly holding 
the half-eaten piece of pizza out over the cardboard box.

They carefully avoided looking at each other.

"JIM.  *JIM*,  OH GOD, JIM ..."

Mulder shifted around again, digging in with his heels to 
get better purchase on the slippery polyester bedspread.  
The gravity center of the bed shifted abruptly and Scully 
started to tip over; her pizza hand shot out for balance 
and for a bizarre roller-coaster moment she tried to catch 
herself and not drop the pizza and not spill the drink in 
her other hand and whatever happened make sure she didn't 
fall on Mulder --

She didn't spill the drink, but she dropped the pizza.

Her hand came down directly on Mulder's leg, clamping on 
involuntarily.

"OH GOD, JIM -- OH YES, OH YES, YES, YES!"

Mulder jumped, startled; Scully stared at her hand, equally 
startled.  She seemed to be frozen in position, resistant to 
her mind's frantic messages to leggorightnow, and when she 
tried to pull away by leaning back, her hand slid down Mulder's
strong calf slowly, lingeringly.

"JIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMM!!!!"

Scully managed to pull away.  "Excuse me."  She got her feet 
on the floor and made for her room step by torturous step, 
still clutching her unspilled Diet Coke in her left hand.

"Where're you going, Scully?"

"I'm going to bed," she snapped.  "I'm tired and we're 
obviously not getting anything else done tonight."

"Don't you want any pizza?"

She caught sight of Mulder's puzzled face as she whirled to 
grab the doorknob.  "I'm not hungry."

"But --"

"Goodnight."  

She shut the door hard.  There was a moment of silence.

In the other room, Guido began to chuckle knowingly.

<X><X><X><X>

Chapter 13


The Mo-Z Inn, Room 122
2:27 AM

*KABOOOOOOM!!!*

The blast of thunder rattled the windows like a 
tambourine and slapped Mulder awake.  He 
reflexively rolled out of bed, grabbing for his 
semiautomatic on the bedside table and 
crouching out of the line of fire before his 
foggy brain could remember how to distinguish 
between close-range gunfire and a Kansas 
thunderstorm.  This, he concluded, was thunder.  
"God," he gargled; he hauled himself upright, 
knees popping, and staggered across the room to 
the window like a man wading through thigh-deep 
water.

He parted the curtains and peeked outside, 
yawning hugely and scratching at the prickly 
stubble on his jaw in a dulled version of a 
childhood reflex.  An older cousin had once 
told him that yawning like that could dislocate 
his jaw, and for half his childhood he'd 
clutched his face whenever he had to yawn, 
terrified of the promised consequences.  He 
yawned again, scrubbing at his eyes with a numb 
hand as the thunder rumbled threateningly.

Strangely enough, there was precious little 
rain to show for all the noise -- the gravel 
parking lot was bone-dry.  Mulder squinched up 
his eyes and peered up at the glowering clouds, 
trying to remember the warning signs for a 
tornado.  Circular cloud movement, and green 
color.  He couldn't remember if the green was 
the color of the clouds or whether a trick of 
the light would make everything *else* look 
green, but, happily, nothing was green.  There 
was a hint of that yellow tinge that storms got 
right before the rain started -- the sort of 
daytime stormlight that made everything sepia-
colored like an old photograph -- but mostly it 
was just dark, the thick clouds drooping with 
suppressed rain.

He gazed stupidly at the sky for what seemed 
like a very long time, inhaled another one of 
those huge jawbreaker yawns, and realized for 
the first time that what he'd grabbed off the 
bedside table was not, in fact, his gun.  He 
was thinking loopy disconnected thoughts about 
how brain-dead tired he must be to not know his 
weapon by feel, not to mention taking so damn 
long to focus on the difference, when he 
finally looked down and noticed that the thing 
in his hand that wasn't his weapon was Scully's 
glasses.

It took a moment to sink in.  He lurched across 
the room like a zombie and sat down -- whump -- 
at the end of the bed, where he stared at the 
glasses in his hand.  It took his sleep-logged 
brain a long time to dredge up the reason that 
Scully's glasses were in his room; finally he 
remembered that she'd stormed out when he'd 
interviewed the parrot, leaving him to eat 
pizza and look at files all by himself.  He 
puzzled over her actions for a moment, sighed, 
yawned, and admitted to himself that he wasn't 
getting anywhere.

It was hot in his room.  He pulled at the neck 
of his t-shirt, trying to get comfortable, 
wondering what the hell the problem with 
Midwestern weather was.  Last night he'd almost 
frozen his ass off, so tonight he'd cranked the 
thermostat up before going to bed, but of 
course now it was so damn humid from the 
gathering storm ...  He considered turning down 
the heat, but that would involve actually 
getting up and walking.  Instead, he yanked his 
t-shirt off over his head and tossed it onto 
the sagging armchair next to the dresser.  The 
air whooshed around him, feeling wonderfully 
cool on his sweat-misted skin.  Ahhh, much 
better.

His bleary eyes slid shut -- oh, such a sticky-
sweet, seductive feeling, just closing his eyes 
-- and he turned to the question he'd been 
working on before he'd gone to bed:  if the 
murders had been committed by a native variant 
of succubus, who was playing host to the damn 
thing?  He'd already ruled out the victims, 
since the Tochok didn't kill its host; that 
left ... the living.  Hell.

Try again.

From what he'd read, the victims and the host 
would have one major thing in common -- sexual 
frustration.  He'd seen it in the victims in 
this case; all that remained, really, was 
figuring out which of the sexually frustrated 
people in town was likely to be the host, and 
which were just in line to be the next victim.  
There ought to be some kind of outward sign, 
some kind of change in personality at least, 
but ...

Which was the king, which were the pawns?  Jim 
Taymor, Fred Schmidt, Amber Volney, the 
Sheriff, Jean Denison ... Aimee Marks?  Marty 
Schmidt?  Scully had mentioned something about 
one of the motel housekeeping staff acting 
strangely ...  He fumbled sleepily at the 
problem, but his mental dexterity seemed to 
have mittens on.  He could get the pieces set 
up, but couldn't seem to manipulate them 
without knocking the whole chessboard over.  He 
stared down at Scully's glasses, turning them 
over and over with numb hands, his mind going 
blank.  

Thunder crackled from east to west like it was 
in Dolby Surround-Sound, and Mulder roused 
enough to find a dull bit of humor in sitting 
here in his T-shirt and boxers, slumped into a 
quotation mark.  He blinked, but couldn't seem 
to get his eyes all the way open.  He blinked 
again, slowly, and discovered that he could get 
*one* eye all the way open if he left the other 
one closed.  Cool.

He leaned forward ponderously, swinging an arm 
up like an ape to poke the 'power' button on 
the television.  Ooooh, the Sandie Shores 
marathon was still on.  He made sure the volume 
was way, way down and sat back to watch.

Slowly the flickering image came into focus:  
two busty blonde women, wearing only high heels 
and silicone, writhing against each other in a 
bathtub.  He thought he recognized the one on 
the bottom, although at the moment it was tough 
to tell -- she wasn't in what you might call a 
recognizable position, and Mulder's drowsy eyes 
were having trouble focusing.  The moans coming 
from the television were muted, soft as a 
kitten's breath, much gentler than the frantic 
action on the screen would warrant.

After a few minutes, Mulder became aware that 
the tiny moans were being echoed somewhere 
behind him.  He turned around, his muscles 
reluctant as old rubber bands, and blinked at 
the parrot cage.  Guido seemed half his normal 
size; he crouched on his perch in a dense 
feathery bundle, head low, and stared at the 
television with his eyes hooded and his beak 
half-open, echoing those tiny kittenish moans.

The parrot cocked his head to one side, focused 
a single beady eye on Mulder, and winked.

*KABOOOOOOM!!!*

This time the thunder not only rattled the 
windows, it knocked out the power -- the 
television went off with a faint popping sound, 
plunging the room back into darkness.

Mulder groaned in defeat and collapsed backward 
onto the bed.

A quiet *snick* made him lurch upright again, 
blinking hard to make his eyes adjust, staring 
at the connecting door to Scully's room.  As 
the darkness resolved itself into many shades 
of gray, the door opened.

She looked like a ghost, pale and noiseless, 
her features indistinct.  Lightning flashed 
outside and she froze in the doorway, taut with 
indecision, one white hand still clutching the 
doorknob.

"Scully?" he asked, more for her benefit than 
for his.

Wide eyes turned toward him, glinting like a 
cat's.

"Let me guess," he teased softly, "you're 
scared of the thunder and you don't want to 
sleep alone."

Silence from the pale figure.  "I didn't mean 
to wake you," she said at last.

"I was already awake."  He squinted, trying to 
get a better look at her.  "What's up?"

"I was ...  I wondered ..."  She stopped and 
folded her arms across her breasts.  "I felt 
hungry," she said in a flat voice.  "I thought 
maybe there might be some pizza left."

"Um ..."  Mulder shot a guilty glance at the 
empty pizza box jammed into the wastebasket.  
"Not really.  Sorry."

"Hmm."  

He couldn't quite make out her expression in 
the dark.

"I've got some change if you wanna hit the 
vending machine," he offered.

"I'm not going outside in the middle of the 
night, Mulder.  Besides, isn't it raining?"

"Thunder and lightning, no rain."  He shrugged.  
"Welcome to the Midwest."

She didn't reply, probably didn't even hear him 
from whatever Scullyworld she was swimming in.  
He saw the dark shape of her head turn back 
toward her room.  "I'd better go back to bed," 
she said, very matter-of-factly.

"All right."  He abruptly remembered what he 
was holding in his hand.  "Hey, Scully --"  She 
turned back.  "Here."  He offered her her 
glasses, out at the end of his long arm.  "You 
forgot these earlier."

She hesitated for a long moment, then took one 
step towards him.  Another.  Her hand reached 
out and wrapped around the glasses, one cool 
finger straying over his thumbnail like an 
unconscious caress.  "Thanks," she whispered.

The television snapped back to life, drenching 
the two of them in swift blue light.  Scully's 
eyes went wide with shock, her eyes locked on 
some spot below his chin, her lips parted 
slightly.  The moans from the television and 
from the parrot started up again in erotic 
counterpoint, but to his surprise Mulder could 
hear Scully's harsh gasp over all of it.

Her eyes wrenched up and met his for a single 
stark moment and Mulder saw anguish there -- 
anguish, and a desperate hunger held in check 
by some terrible force of will.

It suddenly became very clear to him that 
Scully did not have the flu.

*KABOOOOOOM!!!*

She blinked, and her composure snapped into 
place like a glazed pane of glass, obscuring 
his sense of her.  "Thank you," she said again, 
more formally, and pulled her glasses -- and 
her hand -- away from him.

"Are you okay?" he asked stupidly.  It wasn't 
the question he wanted to ask.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

She shot him a flame-thrower's glare from 
beneath her brows; a night-darkened arc of hair 
curved perfectly down the middle of her face, 
teaseing her nose and shimmering red around the 
edges.  She did not answer.

His hand still hung in the air like a pendulum 
in arrested movement, the waiting and 
expectancy pervading the six feet between the 
two agents.

She looked at him for a long time.  He looked 
back.

"I'll see you in the morning, Mulder," she told 
him, and walked out.

<X><X><X><X>

It was twilight in the jungle.  

The air was dense with steam and with the smell 
of growing things, rotting things, things that 
prowled and hunted and whose eyes gleamed 
yellow in the shadows.  Scully could feel the 
humidity wrapping around her body like a wet 
trenchcoat.  Condensation fogged the windows of 
the rented car, obscuring the glass; as she 
watched, Mulder wiped it clear, and the 
moisture beaded and ran down the window in thin 
quicksilver rivulets where his hand came away.

He looked outside through the clear patch, 
relaxed and focused as he always was on 
stakeout, sprawled over the bucket seat and 
slumped a little so that his knees almost 
bumped against the dashboard.  One hand tapped 
on the steering wheel in slow motion, a low 
bomph-bomph-bomph-bomph like a drumbeat, a 
heartbeat.

Mulder watched the outside.  Scully watched 
Mulder.

She coiled herself on the passenger seat like a 
whip, taking in his every movement with hooded 
eyes.  Shadow painted her hands with cool 
stripes in the heat.  She could feel a bead of 
sweat trembling on the upper edge of her lip, 
tiny and bulging against gravity; she lapped at 
it with a swift curl of her tongue, her eyes 
never leaving Mulder.

His shirt was off and he was glossy with sweat, 
the twilight gleaming along the planes of his 
body, shimmery dark like onyx where the half-
light could not reach.  The short hairs on the 
back of his neck were dark with sweat, sticking 
to his skin and melting together into a hundred 
soft wet paintbrushes; the hair on his chest 
plastered against him, shallow furrows 
directing the sweat to the dark central line 
like tiny tributaries bleeding into a river.

Scully sat still and calm and let her eyes 
devour that bare chest, sat still while the 
caged animal paced behind her eyes and hurled 
itself against the bars, howling with need.  
Her hands curled into claws, nails sharp 
against her palms.  The ache to touch him cut 
straight to the bone, gripped at her stomach, 
thinned her breath to a panther's shallow pant.

The tropical insects hissed their chorus 
outside the car, thousands of individual songs 
blending into an undulating backdrop of sound 
as pervasive as the humidity.  A loud 
*crrrrrrack* resounded somewhere to the West, 
dragging across the distance as though the 
hammer of some unbelievably large pistol was 
being cocked unbelievably slowly.

Sweat gathered at the hinge of Mulder's jaw, 
slid down the long vertical ridge of muscle, 
caught and pooled in the hollow of his throat.  
His carotid artery pulsed steadily under his 
skin, making the little pool of sweat tremble 
like water in a worn stone when the earth 
shook, building up on the edge of his 
supersternal notch micrometer by agonizing 
micrometer.

Beat.

Beat.

Beat.

The weight of the third dimension became too 
much and the pool welled over the cusp, a flat 
stream trickling into his chest hair.  Scully 
exhaled sharply and the world went heavy and 
dim.

She had her mouth on him before her next 
breath. 

Her tongue lapped up the tiny river fleeing 
downward, licked the salt from his body in long 
swipes.  He made a surprised groan low in his 
throat, and she felt it rumble under her hand 
as she palmed his chest, his hot hair curling 
around her fingers as she bared her teeth 
against him in a triumphant smile.  He smelled 
like summer shadows, dark and warm and spicy.  
She breathed him in through her mouth, tasting 
his scent, and placed a lingering openmouthed 
kiss over his left nipple.

His chest heaved; air whuffed out through his 
nose and ruffled her hair.  She treated the 
right nipple to a matching kiss and trailed her 
tongue downwards, drinking from his skin as she 
followed the coarse dark line down his stomach.  
His abdominal muscles jerked away from her in 
surprise as he exhaled sharply, and her tongue 
stretched out to follow, the tip barely grazing 
him, tracing delicate lines around his navel.  
He gasped and started to pant, harsh hnnnnn 
hnnnnn noises echoing far over her head.  She 
nipped at his stomach right above the waistband 
of his jeans and his legs jerked involuntarily, 
one knee striking the dashboard with a dull 
thud.

The hot denim was already damp from his sweat 
when she slid her hand up to stroke him through 
his jeans, rubbing her palm slowly up and down 
the hard straining length of his cock as she 
nuzzled at his stomach.  He made a desperate 
sound, a swallowed agonized sob, and his hand 
slapped down on the control console on the door 
armrest, bracing against it as his entire body 
tensed.

The automatic door locks slammed down and up 
and down again as he arched up into her touch.

She slipped down a little further, burying her 
nose in the concave side of the denim tent 
stretching over his cock, drowning in the musky 
heat rolling off his body.  He was white-hot 
even in the sweltering holocaust of the car, 
his thick moan loud against the backdrop of 
jungle noises when she traced the zipper of his 
jeans with her nose.  She opened her mouth 
slowly, so slowly, gripped his cock lightly 
between her teeth and dragged down his length, 
the friction from the cloth burning her lips as 
though she were striking a match.  

He made a strangled noise and bucked shallowly, 
trembling with the effort of restraint.

A button unbuttoned, a zipper unzipped.  She 
dipped her hand inside and between humid layers 
of clothing, curved her fingers around his cock 
through the thin layer of cotton and gave him a 
slow stroke before finally drawing him out into 
the open.  Her hand curled around his 
circumference and his hips pumped up into her 
fist, just once; she could feel the slight give 
of the tight silky skin as he moved.

She stroked her hand down to the base of his 
cock, dipped her head, and licked him once, 
roughly, flat-tongued like a jungle cat.  He 
ground out a harsh moan as she did it again, a 
long sandpaper taste rasping over the length of 
her tongue.  Smoky, salty, coppery as blood.

She growled and gave him a third harsh lick.  

This time she slid down and swallowed him 
whole.

She devoured him with long sucking strokes, 
feeling his pulse on her tongue.  Hips 
thrusting against her, he groaned broken words 
in a broken voice, choking out a gravelly 
baritone aria that sounded more and more like 
an animal cry as she brought him closer to the 
edge.  

She growled in the back of her throat.  He 
seemed to struggle against her as though he 
were trapped, cornered, losing control of his 
movements --

Stroke 

Stroke

Stroke

"SCULLY --!"

<><><><><><><>

"SCULLY!"

Scully hurled herself into a sitting position, 
ripped out of sleep by Mulder's voice, and 
stared into the muggy dark with painfully open 
eyes, gasping for air, heart thudding as though 
she'd just run a marathon.  Oh God.  Oh God.

Jungle insects hissed their furious white-noise 
song like a Wagnerian pit orchestra.  The 
darkness was too thick to breathe.  She felt 
charged, electrified, every hair on her head 
standing at attention and the lighter hair on 
her arms fuzzy with static.

Where the hell *was* she?

The sound of a fist pounding on a door, almost 
in perfect time with her racing heart.  
"SCULLY??"

She stared down at her body, eyes slowly 
adjusting to the dark.  Bed.  She was in a 
motel bed.  Her pajamas were clinging to her, 
soaked with sweat.  The rough cotton sheets 
were twisted around her like pythons and the 
slippery comforter had puddled off the side of 
the bed, one corner still hanging onto the 
mattress like a rock climber clinging one-
handed to a cliff.  The Wagnerian symphony 
outside wasn't insects, it was a deluge; Rainy 
Season had come to Tehtonka.

A dream.  It had only been a dream.

A dream.

Something inside her stretched and ached 
unbearably at the thought.  She buried her face 
in her hands, humiliatingly close to tears; her 
sinuses closed up and two big invisible hands 
clamped around her skull to compress her 
temples.  "God DAMMIT," she yelled hoarsely, 
voice muffled by her palms and the anguish that 
had her by the throat.

Only a dream.

"SCULLY??"  Mulder kept banging away at the 
door.  Damn the man.  Oh, damn him.  

She forced herself to uncurl from her fetal 
position and swiped an angry hand across her 
eyes as she yanked the sheet off, despite its 
death grip on her leg, and climbed out of bed.  
She stumbled to her feet and grasped blindly 
for her robe, swallowing hard through the rocks 
in her throat.  It was like a damn sauna in 
this room but she couldn't conceive of opening 
the door for Mulder without the robe on.  It 
wasn't armor, but it was the most she could do 
on short notice.

Thunder rumbled outside, a huge leisurely 
building-shaking rumble that sounded like a 
boulder crashing down a flight of stairs.  A 
wave of giddiness almost knocked Scully to her 
knees; she sat back down on the bed 
unceremoniously, her hands twisting the ties of 
her robe like tourniquets.

"SCU --"

"ALL RIGHT," she yelled, eyes shut tight, the 
added vocal strain almost strangling her, "I'm 
awake, Mulder, will you SHUT UP ALREADY?"

The abrupt silence from his side of the door 
would have been hysterically funny under other 
circumstances.  She could easily imagine the 
popeyed look on his face, his mouth caught 
open, the heel of his palm arrested mere inches 
from hitting wood.

"Hang on a minute," she added as she tested her 
balance and stood again, the pressure of 
imminent tears turning her voice into a low, 
throaty Marlene Dietrich growl.  Very sexy.  
How ironic.


She got herself moving with the old trick of 
suppressing her knowledge of cause and effect -
- her mind was completely wrapped up in the 
goal of the door, unlocking the door, opening 
the door, but she refused to think about what 
would come through the newly-opened door.  If 
she thought about facing Mulder with her face 
flushed red and her hair standing up, smelling 
of sweat and dream-induced arousal --

She ignored it.  She walked.

The shakes hit her halfway across the floor, 
limbs trembling uncontrollably, feet placed 
unsteadily in a random forward path; lo, behold 
the revenge of a sleep-deprived body for a bare 
twenty or thirty minutes of sleep after pacing 
the floor for hours and hours.  She fumbled the 
lock open with ravaged hands and tugged at the 
doorknob.

The door wouldn't open.

Relief hit like a tsunami, and she sagged 
against the door in its wake.  Oh thank God, 
she didn't have to look at him.  She didn't 
have to let him see her like this.  Her 
mindless litany of thanksgiving was the closest 
to real prayer that she'd come in weeks:  thank 
God, thank God, thank God, thank God.  She lay 
her forearm against the blood-warm wood and 
pressed her forehead to it.

The knob turned by itself beneath her palm in a 
stealthy caress, whispering with soft metallic 
friction as the latch slid all the way open.  
There was a long pause, and then the knob 
turned back; somehow she knew, even after the 
movement ceased, that Mulder's hand was still 
on the knob on the opposite side.  "Scully, are 
you all right?" he asked in a low voice.

"The door's stuck," she admitted, torn between 
absurd pride and equally absurd guilt.  The 
condition of the door was most likely due to 
the fact that some mental giant had carefully 
painted both the door and the frame with semi-
gloss paint that had, under these conditions of 
high humidity, miraculously transformed into 
carpenter's glue.  Any efforts of her own, 
Herculean as they seemed inside her own head, 
were in fact unimportant and unworthy of the 
self-congratulatory cartwheels she wanted to 
turn.

"Did you unlock it?" Mulder asked, sounding 
skeptical.

"Of course."  Her voice came out high-pitched 
and bitchy instead of the ringing authoritative 
tone she'd meant to access.  Damn.  She flushed 
with anger or humiliation -- at this point, it 
was impossible to distinguish between them.

"Hang on."  A meaty *thunk* jarred the door 
under Scully's hand, unmistakably Mulder 
ramming against it with his shoulder.  He tried 
again, *thunk*.  The door was unimpressed with 
the macho man routine and remained epoxied in 
place.

She stepped in before he battered himself 
senseless against the stubborn wood.  "Mulder, 
don't.  If it's jammed this badly, you'll just 
damage the door frame."  Silence from the other 
side, tacit agreement.  "Just ... just talk to 
me through the door."

He made an amused noise that was stripped of 
its overtones by the inch of wood between them.  
"All right.  Did the Kansas City lab ever get 
back to you?"

"Halfway," she replied, the strain of speaking 
through a door starting to rub her voice raw.  
"Dr. Jane Marek called and said that the 
residue found in and on Joshua Schmidt's mouth 
was definitely the result of some kind of 
visceral pyrexia.  They found cell samples of 
every internal organ, as well as some muscular 
tissue.  Dr. Marek, and I quote, wanted to know 
if someone had tried to make a funky margarita 
out of the kid, unquote."

"Sounds like my kind of woman."

"She's married," Scully snapped, a little 
harsher than she meant to.

"Touchy.  Any news on the blood work?"

"Heightened hormonal levels consistent with a 
state of sexual arousal at the time of death.  
They found extremely low levels of a foreign 
organic substance that could not be identified, 
which may possibly be the mystery toxin we've 
been looking for.  They're running more tests 
today to determine if the foreign substance 
reacted with the hormones to induce the 
visceral pyrexia."

There was a long silence as Mulder digested 
that one.  The rain hammered down outside, a 
steady straight downpour that sounded like a 
giant bathtub faucet had been turned on over 
Tehtonka.  Scully rested her ear against the 
door and closed her eyes, listening for him.

She heard his touch whisper over the painted 
wood and, hypnotized, she lifted her hand to 
echo his movement.  Quiet, slow.  She let her 
fingers trail down the warm door, remembering 
the dream-feel of his chest, and unconsciously 
turned her face to nuzzle the hard surface.  

"Scully?"  His voice was almost a purr.

"Mm-hmm?"

"... What're you wearing?"

She jerked away from the door.  "Dammit, Mulder 
--"

His voice shifted into that misunderstood puppy 
dog whine.  "No, seriously, are you dressed 
yet?"

"Mulder, you woke me up.  I'm in my robe and 
pajamas."
"Get dressed."

She glared at the door as though she could bore 
holes through it with her gaze and take him to 
pieces, atom by atom.  "Why?"

"Just a little something they taught me at 
Quantico.  Always get dressed before going on 
stakeout."

"... We're going on stakeout."  Her voice was 
expressionless as her mind made the short leap 
back to the dream stakeout in the jungle, 
Mulder shirtless and moaning under her touch.

"Right."

"Whom, exactly, are we staking out?"

"You get three guesses," he told her slyly.  
When Mulder used the same tone of voice to 
describe a stakeout that he usually reserved 
for enthusing about an upcoming Knicks game, 
Scully counted it as a sign of danger.

"It's too early for this game, Mulder."

"I'll give you a hint.  The Tochok uses a 
sexually frustrated being as its host, and 
spots its victims during the course of the 
host's daily life.  So we're looking for 
someone who's been in contact with every one of 
these victims when they were near the object of 
their unrequited passion; probably someone at 
Taymor's Staffing Service."

Even in this questionable mental state, she 
arrived at the conclusion before he'd finished.  
"Amber Volney."

"Ooh, Scully, got it on the first try.  You get 
a gold star."

"Suffice it to say, Mulder, I don't think she's 
possessed by a demonic entity."

"I didn't expect you to, but at least we agree 
on the suspect."

She considered it.  "And you want us to go 
stake her out?"

"Yes."

"Right now."

"Yes."

"Mulder, do you know what time it is?"

"Um ..."  His presence disappeared briefly from 
the other side of the door, only to return a 
moment later; Scully sensed his approach the 
same way animals feel impending earthquakes.  
"It's six-oh-eight."

She gave her alarm clock an outraged glare, 
long-distance across the room, as though it had 
somehow conspired against her.  She hadn't 
planned on getting up until six-thirty.  Twenty 
precious minutes lost.  "What exactly did you 
plan on accomplishing that couldn't have waited 
until breakfast?"

"I'm not sure whether she's going to school or 
going to Taymor's today.  I thought if we 
tailed her from home instead of looking for her 
later, we might save a little time ..."

"Right *now*?"

Silence.  She pressed her ear into the door and 
listened to her own heartbeat, reflected back 
seashell-style.  There was a flash of 

lightning, the thunder spitting out in several 
distinct beats, a stately timpani solo.  The 
darkness was no longer absolute; dawn was 
crawling over the plains like a wet cat, skinny 
and pissed off and slinking along on its belly.

Mulder's answer, when it came, was unrelated to 
the question.

"Did you get back to sleep all right?"

"Yes."  The lie was heavy on her tongue and 
tasted like bronze.

Mulder's answering silence was accusatory.  The 
short hairs at her nape jerked upward as though 
an ice-cold hand had slipped up the back of her 
neck -- something was wrong.  Something was 
very wrong.  This was not the fragile treatment 
of last night, this was something new, a 
question on the brink of being asked.

He knew.

No.  

He might know, he might not; he definitely 
suspected.  

Whether or not he investigated his suspicions 
would depend upon what he thought he'd find.  
What he wanted to find.  This might sound like 
small talk, but there were razor blades 
embedded in every inch of it.

"Are you going to be up to this?" he asked, 
using the same tone that usually heralded 
unexpected autopsies.

"I'll be fine."  This lie was smooth and cold 
as iced milk; it went down easier than the 
first but it coated her throat on the way down.

"Scully ..."  He stopped, and she heard his 
touch whisper along the surface of the door 
again.  "Can I come around the front?"

"No."  She shook and shook her head like a 
child, so internalized that she'd forgotten he 
couldn't see her.  "No, you can't," she 
elaborated, each word like a brick.  Her heart 
was pounding, the pulse hard and painful in her 
throat.  She gathered more hard words in a 
mental hand, hefting them, waiting for him to 
make a move so she could hurl them at him, 
drive him away before he could attack.  

Silence.  The rain hissed down.  A truck with a 
muffler problem drove by, crashed through 
puddles along the road one by one -- *spffffff 
spfffffff spfffff* -- and rattled off, humming 
like a giant drunken bumblebee.  Scully had a 
strange vision of herself and Mulder crouching 
on either side of the door, armed, safeties 
off, each waiting for the other to kick through 
the door.

Mulder cleared his throat, seeming to sense the 
stalemate.  His tone changed.  "I mean, can I 
bring the parrot around."

It wasn't what he'd meant originally, Scully 
knew; but she was willing to go along with it.  
"Let me get dressed and you can bring him in 
here before we leave."

Thunder rolled across the sky, strangely 
distant compared to the too-present rain.  
Mulder's smile was practically visible through 
the door.  "Admit it, you have a soft spot for 
that bird."

"If you believe that, Mulder, you have a soft 
spot in your head."

<X><X><X><X>

Chapter 14

Drees Street and Main
7:18 AM

The tiny red Honda barreled along the road with little heed to the pounding 
rain or the twenty mile per hour speed limit.  Three blocks behind the 
Honda, a rented Crown Victoria struggled to keep up, the tar lines in the 
blacktop throbbing beneath its tires like a staccato cello solo.

Mulder was not happy about driving this fast.  He was normally ambivalent 
about bending the law when shadowing a suspect, but the rain-slick blacktop 
was hard to maneuver on.  He found himself wanting to drive like a blue-
haired old lady, which made him jumpy and irritated with himself, but the 
fact remained that while the sheriff's daughter might speed with impunity, a 
pair of FBI agents tailing the sheriff's daughter ought to be just a little 
bit more cautious.

He didn't want to think about Volney's reaction if he found out about this 
little excursion.

The windshield wipers were thwipping back and forth at a frantic pace, 
clearing the rain for a microsecond before the constant flow of water 
obscured Mulder's vision again.  He hunched over the steering wheel, 
practically driving with his knees and elbows, squinting out at the smeary 
red tail lights of the tiny assortment of cars engaged in the sport of 
controlled hydroplaning.  Water hissed steadily beneath the Crown Vic and 
swished out from under the wheels of approaching cars, changing pitch as the 
cars whizzed past.

Scully leaned forward and turned up the heat a notch.  The inside of the 
windshield began to fog up; Mulder squeegeed it angrily with the flat of his 
hand.  "Cut it out, Scully, I can't see."

"I'm cold," she bit out.

Mulder squeaked a hand across the windshield again, leaving a six-inch-wide 
swath clear in the middle of the fog, and grabbed recklessly at the heat 
control.  "It's not that cold," he informed her, and snapped the heat off.

She glowered and turned away from him, ostensibly to look out the rain-
marbled window.  "Fine."

The Honda's tail lights flared like a trumpet call and Mulder had to do some 
talented braking action to avoid drawing attention, avoid hydroplaning, and 
avoid cramming the Crown Victoria up the Honda's tailpipe.  He hadn't 
recognized Taymor's Staffing Service under the gray drape of rain; somehow 
he'd thought it was somewhere a few blocks further on.

The Honda shot into a parking spot directly in front of Taymor's.  As the 
Crown Vic passed it, Scully whipped her head around counterclockwise to peer 
out the back window when she could no longer keep in visual contact through 
the passenger side.  "Turn here!" she barked.  "Here!  *Now!*"

"I *am,*" he snapped back, craning his neck around to check for oncoming 
traffic.  The car plowed through a deep puddle with a low-pitched *sploosh* 
that slapped against the underside of the car.  There was a parking lot in 
this block, right across the road from Taymor's, but he couldn't see a way 
in from this street.  There were too many damned bushes in the way.

Scully twisted in her seat, still keeping an eye on the red Honda.  "In 
here," she ordered, and pointed authoritatively at the parking lot without 
looking at it.

"Hang on a minute."

"Mulder, will you PARK THE CAR already?"

"I AM," he howled, and hit the gas.  He wrenched the car to the left and 
through a one-car-wide inlet to the parking lot that he'd spotted barely in 
time, jouncing them severely as the wheels struck a faded orange concrete 
traffic bump far too fast.

It was nowhere near appropriate behavior for a stakeout, but Mulder didn't 
give a damn.

The parking lot was nearly empty.  Mulder ignored the chipped lines of paint 
on the concrete and plowed across the parking lot, braking hard and throwing 
the Crown Vic into park in a spot parallel to Main Street, the driver's side 
facing east, toward Taymor's.  He cut the engine and looked across the 
street just in time to see Amber Volney slam her car door and run across the 
wide sidewalk without a coat, umbrella or even a newspaper held over her 
head against the pouring rain, the perfect picture of the indifference of 
youth to cold and wet and mother's orders.  She splashed through a puddle, 
darted under the wide green awning that covered the entire front of the 
store, yanked open the wide glass door and slipped inside.

Moments later, Amber appeared in the display window, tossing her dark hair 
to free it of water, throwing her blue backpack into the chair behind the 
receptionist's desk.  She stopped, fluffed her hair a little with one hand, 
and then walked off toward the back, disappearing from sight.

Rain slammed down on the car in sheets, blowing in from the West, obscuring 
every window except the one facing Taymor's.

"Do you think she saw us?" he asked, more to have something to say than 
because he actually thought they'd been burned half an hour into the 
stakeout.  He kept his eyes on the lighted windows of Taymor's Staffing 
Service.

"No."  Scully's voice was very quiet, barely audible over the drumming of 
the rain.

Across the street, Amber Volney reappeared in the display window.  She sat 
down at the receptionist's desk, propped her feet up and began flipping 
through a stack of files in a haphazard manner.  Occasionally she tossed one 
onto the desk. 

"Looks like she's in for the day," Mulder said.

Scully didn't answer.

"I said, it looks like she's in for the day."

"I heard you the first time," she snapped.

He turned away from the lighted windows of Taymor's and looked at his 
partner in the pinched gray stormlight.  She had her arms wrapped tightly 
around herself, and her face might as well have been carved from stone, her 
eyes fixed straight ahead.  It wasn't exactly her angry expression, but he 
didn't know what else to call it.

"If you're tired," he offered, "you can go ahead and take a nap."

She angled her face in his direction but still didn't exactly look at him.  
"I don't want a nap."

"I'm just saying that I know I woke you up and we couldn't get any coffee 
and it would be understandable if you needed to take a quick --"

"Mulder, I don't need a nap."  She turned all the way away from him, her 
shoulders tight under her trench coat.

"Okay.  Okay."  

He sighed and turned back to Taymor's.  Amber was fiddling with the antenna 
on a little radio, frowning at it; she played with the dials, apparently did 
not get what she wanted, and gave the radio a hard *thwack* with her palm.  
This seemed to satisfy her.  She settled back into her chair and began to 
belt out a lip-synch solo, pointing sexily at someone invisible during 
relevant musical phrases.

A pickup truck bumbled past, splashing through various puddles, playing loud 
country music that made the panels of the Crown Vic vibrate.  The mobile 
concert faded out in the distance and all that was left was the cold rattle 
of the rain and Amber Volney's mute concert across the street.

Mulder sighed again, took off his seat belt, and shifted around until he was 
in a somewhat comfortable position.

"Hey, Scully," he tried, "I could sneak out to the gas station across the 
street and grab us some coffee."

"I don't want any coffee."

"It would help wake you up.  Wake us up," he amended quickly.

"Mulder," she said in a patient voice edged with scorn, turning slightly 
toward him, "it may be a while since you've done this kind of surveillance, 
but we're not going to have many bathroom breaks in our future and caffeine 
is a diuretic."

"I could get decaf."

"I'm not even going to go into the logic of that statement," she snapped, 
and turned away again.

<X><X><X><X>

10:52 A.M.

Scully saw the man coming before Mulder did.  More accurately, she saw a 
dark rain-streaked blur crossing the lighter rain-streaked blur that she had 
identified as Lind Street, and made an educated guess.  "Down!" she hissed, 
and slid lower in her seat.

Mulder didn't even turn to double-check what she was talking about; he 
hunched down in his seat awkwardly, his knee smacking the dashboard as he 
doubled up.  The noise tore through Scully's mind like a bullet --

<nipping at his stomach right above the waistband of his jeans his legs 
jerked involuntarily one knee striking the dashboard with a dull thud 
striking the dashboard with a striking the dashboard>

She swallowed a whimper and rested her head against the seat back with a 
cushiony thump.

The man-shaped blur scurried past the driver's side of the Crown Vic and 
slowly came into focus from the shoulders up:  short, bald, brown suit, 
goggle-eyed like a frog.  He held a blue plastic tub above his head in both 
hands like an offering to a whimsical ancient god.  There was a furiously 
twisting level of dark blue evident along the side of the tub, evidence that 
the man had been out in the rain long enough to collect a lot of water.

The man sped past the parking lot without glancing at the car, much less the 
federal agents crammed into it like the bottom half of a circus clown act.

"I don't think he saw us," Mulder announced as he wormed his way upright 
again.  He started peering out the only clear window as though an entire 
platoon of bald men with plastic tubs was about to come charging their way.

Her eyes were drawn to his face the moment his attention was elsewhere, like 
some kind of science experiment from second grade involving magnets and iron 
filings.  He hadn't shaved this morning, perhaps because he was in such a 
determined hurry to get on the road and start keeping an eye on Amber 
Volney.  She couldn't remember the last time he'd done that.  

She couldn't remember how she'd lived through the last time.

"You know, Scully," Mulder observed, absently drawing little curlicues on 
the fogged edges of his window, "the real difference about the Midwest isn't 
so much the people as it is the *cars*.  In the city it's such a hassle to 
find parking that once you park one place, you might as well keep the space 
for the day and just hoof it around the immediate area, rain or shine.  Out 
here, you can leave the umbrella behind and just drive the two blocks to 
your next destination.  The Midwest is rich in parking spaces."

She stared helplessly at the dark texture of his face and wished he'd shut 
the hell up.  The ache of wanting him was starting to grind at her bones 
like a high fever; it made her restless.  More than anything else she wanted 
to run her palm along his jaw and feel that stubble with her hand and her 
lips.

"Then again," he continued thoughtfully, "it might just be the cheaper 
gasoline."  

She didn't answer.  Her mind was caught up in flesh fantasies of sandpaper 
stubble scraping against the inside of her thighs, of threading her fingers 
through his soft dark hair to direct him and urge him on --

<hot hair curling around her fingers as she bared her teeth against him>

"You okay, Scully?"

She broke herself out of the vision to find Mulder facing her, studying her 
face with a faint frown etched between his eyebrows.  A sudden cramp in her 
neck brought reality front and center, and she realized that she was still 
slouched down below eye level, still in hiding.

"Fine."  The word didn't seem to mean anything anymore but she said it 
nonetheless, struggling upward to sit stiffly in her seat.  His eyes were 
still on her -- she could feel him examining her as though his huge rough 
hands were running along her limbs to check for broken bones.  

She turned and looked him full in the face and suddenly felt as if she'd 
been blindsided by a wall of cold water.  And she was drowning --

<drowning in the heat rolling off him drowning in his shadow his sweat his 
scent his eyes eyes eyes>

His eyes caught and held her for an endless moment, his face set in that 
eternal Mulder expression of puzzlement and mulish determination but his 
eyes, his eyes were lit with a spark of surprised awareness that burned to 
the bone.  Dizziness washed over her, a swirling giddy half-drunken 
sensation that she recognized from childhood, when she'd spun herself around 
and around like a top and thrown her head back to watch the pebbled ceiling 
magically turn into a universe of concentric circles.  

At age six, that sensation had been her favorite, better than swimming on a 
hot day, better than jumping into a crackling pile of leaves.

As an adult, it terrified her.

It was like standing in the doorway of an airplane at cruising altitude, 
with a parachute strapped to your back and the cold air sucking at you, 
standing and contemplating the incoherently huge distance to the ground 
while dumb animal fear warred with impetuous human desire and you know that 
at any moment desire would win and you'd hurl yourself out the door.

She could feel her attraction to Mulder pulling at her like some insanely 
strong gravitational force.  The door of the airplane was open, all right, 
and she was standing there with the wind whipping at her, staring down at 
the curve of the earth's surface, but the difference here was that she had 
no damned parachute, none at all.  The desire to jump remained, and that 
scared her worse than the concept of falling -- the panicky surety that she 
might do something without her mind's permission, that if she let down her 

guard for the slightest moment, something --

<her mouth on him on him drinking his hot sweat touch taste eat him alive>

-- might happen, something irrevocable.

She ripped her eyes away from him and turned away, feeling profound relief 
that she retained *that* much control over herself.

And then she yawned.

It was an absurd, huge, undignified yawn, and it scared her half to death.  
How could she keep watch over this starved animal hunger if she was too 
tired to concentrate?

"If you want to take a nap --" Mulder began.

"I don't want to take a nap."

His gaze sunburned her neck for another moment and then she felt it shift 
away.

When she felt sure of herself again, she chanced a swift look at him out of 
the corner of her eyes.  He was staring out into the rain, mulling something 
over in the deep cavern of his mind.  Something about his face made a tiny 
worm of unease twist deep in her gut -- something in the set of his jaw, 
maybe, or the way the rain rolling over the windshield threw moving shadows 
across his face.

She looked down at her hands, clenched together in her lap, and tried not to 
wonder what the hell he was thinking about.

<X><X><X><X>

12:26 PM

Mulder had entertained vague hopes that staking out Amber Volney would be 
more interesting than the usual kind of stakeout, but after more than five 
hours of watching the little brat do office chores, he was starting to 
wonder just what the hell he'd been thinking.  Had he really expected some 
kind of smoking gun?  All he'd gained from the experience, thus far, was a 
low opinion of Amber's clerical skills and a fairly numb ass.

Not to mention an earful of chilly silence from Scully.  The weird tension 
shivering between them, the one that Mulder didn't care to put a name to, 
had been cranking up and up all morning, like a violin string tightened 
beyond the point of vibration or resonance, tightened to the point where 
there wasn't much else it could do besides snap with a whip-sharp *THWAP!*

He knew, on a visceral level, what was going on, but he didn't want to think 
about it.  His waking mind had chosen to studiously keep away from examining 
anyone's motives this morning, particularly Scully's.

Or his own.

In the field, Mulder operated on instinct a good ninety percent of the time, 
and he was in the field right now.  There was a knot of dread in his 
stomach, about two fingerwidths down from the southern end of his sternum, 
making him restless; he felt like an elementary-school kid who couldn't sit 
still, the kind of kid who went charging around and around at recess instead 
of playing kickball.  Looking at Scully intensified the feeling; he watched 
her select a juice box from the little cooler at her feet and strip the thin 
plastic off the bendy straw with a surgeon's dexterity.

Ignoring him.  Shutting him out.

There was a strange urge building up in him, a nervous, twitchy need to draw 
her into conversation, stir her up, irritate her.  Very similar to the need 
he'd had at age eight to push girls down on the playground.

"I have a problem with your theory," he told her.

Her eyes went wide and she stared at the windshield, and it occurred to him 
that she'd been doing that on and off for hours now, usually at the points 
in conversation when, normally, she'd turn to look at him.  A sick feeling 
of recognition began glowing around the edges of his thoughts, but he 
ignored it.

She was silent and still as a rabbit hiding from a predator.

"According to your theory," he pushed on, "the murderer administered half of 
the binary poison and the other half was purely in the victims' hands.  If 
you'll excuse the expression."

She made a face, flinching away from him.

"So tell me, Scully ... if, as you've theorized, the murderer was not 
present for the murders, why weren't the liquefied guts still sloshing 
around in the victims when their bodies were discovered?"

There was a long moment of rain-pattered silence.

"Stomach pump," Scully said at last in a strained, throaty voice that he 
barely recognized.  "The murderer removed the viscera with ... with a 
stomach pump."

"I don't think so," he informed her, feeling a smug I-know-something-you-
don't-know glee that made him a little sick to his stomach.  "If the time of 
death was completely random, the murderer couldn't have known when to show 
up unless she'd been following the victims around, and *that* would have 
been noticed."  He leaned over in a fit of deliberate casualness and took a 
juice-box out of the cooler by Scully's feet, brushing her leg almost 
accidentally.

She flinched again and moved her leg away, the movement jerky.

He sat back up and unwrapped the straw with shaking fingers.  Some dark and 
nameless boy-monster was dancing savagely in the back of his mind, and 
Mulder couldn't seem to resist the suggestions the little devil was calling 
out.  It was like interrogating a suspect -- the crazy feeling of flying by 
the seat of his pants, not knowing some of the questions he would ask until 
he heard them pop out of his mouth -- running on instinct all the way.  
Exhilarating.

But this wasn't some suspect; this was *Scully*. 

He looked blindly down at the juice box and speared it with the pointy end 
of the straw.  Thunder exploded around them at the moment the straw struck 
home.  <*A tad over-dramatic for a box of cran-grape,*> he thought he said, 
but his lips never moved.  So much for witty repartee.

Scully's voice rasped into the ringing silence after the thunder, moments 
before he could hear the rain again.  "I don't know."

"What?"  He honestly couldn't remember the question, but the word sounded 
smug.  The great scientific Scully mind, finally stumped.

"I ... don't ... *know*," she snapped in her sandpaper voice.  Her face was 
flushed and hot-looking, as though she was running a marathon.  "If you're 
not going to fill in the blanks, dammit, you might as well go ahead and 
enlighten me as to your opinion."

It was the longest sentence she'd strung together in hours.  He drank down 
her voice greedily, like a man wandering in the desert who comes across a 
full canteen, and in a moment of perfect clarity he saw that this was what 
he wanted, this was what he'd been prodding her for -- he wanted her to 
talk, that was it.  Get her talking, pry her open bit by bit --

The nameless something in the back of his mind stirred at the thought.  

Mulder stubbornly ignored it, and moved on.

"I think there's somebody in this town -- let's call him or her 'Pat' -- 
who's having an occasional spell of amnesia, experiencing heightened sexual 
tension, having a few weird sexual dreams where they seem to be somebody 
else, say, Jim Taymor."  He looked at Scully.  Nothing.  "In the dream, Jim 
is making love to someone -- say, Marjorie.  And at that moment, across 
town, Marjorie dies."  Still no response.  "Pat gets up, goes to work, 
doesn't even remember the dream ... and all the while, he or she is playing 
host to a monster that they know nothing about."

He looked at her.  She was very pale, and silent; she stared at the 
dashboard like a woman contemplating her worst nightmare.

"I think it's all about dreams," he continued, hating her silence.  "The 
host, and the victims.  I think that the Tochok finds its victims while 
they're sleeping, and I think that it can not only *keep* them asleep, but 
it can affect their dreams.  Maybe you were right about the sleep paralysis 
thing --"

She jumped, as if goosed, and almost turned to face him; he saw her catch 
herself, and close her eyes briefly.

"-- I think maybe the Tochok can evoke the effects of sleep paralysis, so 
the victims can't fight back physically, only mentally -- and I bet that's 
why it only picks victims who are fixated on somebody.  I bet the Tochok 
takes the form of the person that the victim most desires, that unrequited 
love ... the one person that the victim could never resist ... the one 
person the victim would never want to fight off."

His voice slid down the octave, resonated like the sounding board of a 
string bass.  Scully's face screwed up in an uncharacteristic expression of 
pain, her eyes shut tight, her body seeming to vibrate with tension.  
Silent.  Still silent.  Shutting him out.

Why wouldn't she just *talk?*

"It's a creature that feeds on our deepest dreams," he told her softly.  
"The ones we don't tell anyone else, the ones we'd rather die than see 
dragged out into the light, those secret desires that we only think about 
when we're alone ... a lot of killers use that sort of vulnerability, but 
this is the first time I've seen it used so directly ..."

He trailed off, caught up in his own web of words, barely sidestepping the 
huge unnamed *something* stirring and whispering in his mind.  Thunder 
muttered thickly, high overhead, and thin light flickered over Scully's 
paper-white face, illuminating that expression that he instinctively 
recognized but refused to acknowledge.

He looked out the window then, across the street at the windows of Taymor's 
where Amber Volney was jabbering into a telephone, an elaborate dumbshow for 
the FBI agents out here in the tense cold.

"I think," he said at last, "I think that the only way to kill something 
like that is to kill the host."  

<X><X><X><X>

5:18 PM

The rain just would not let up.  There had been a few times that it got a 
little lighter, once so much that the streetlights turned off for almost 
five minutes, but the storm always came back full-force, sheets of rain 
pelting the rented car with an odd sound like an almost-empty washing 
machine agitating a few lonely clothes in a sea of bubbles.

It was dusk now.  Mulder was silhouetted against the dim light of the fading 
day, squinting to see across the street.  He seemed restless, on edge; his 
fingers drummed on his knee almost soundlessly.  

Dusk.  Twilight.

His breath fogged up the window and he absently wiped it clean with a sweep 
of his hand, the moisture running down the glass like quicksilver.

Scully dug her nails into her palms and hunched down a little further into 
her trench coat.  She was not superstitious, she refused to even consider 
it, but she had to admit to herself that, if she *had* been, the omens were 
not looking very good.  Here she was, on stakeout with Mulder at twilight in 
a car with foggy windows.  Granted, it was cold instead of hot, and the 
moisture in the air was composed of battering rain rather than thick 
humidity, but the similarities were perfectly clear to a woman of science.  
The only way they could be any clearer would be if Mulder decided to strip 
to the waist for some insane reason.

<his shirt off and he was bare and glossy with sweat oh god oh god oh>

The image tore fire through her brain, flared along every nerve ending in a 
white-hot flash.  She gritted her teeth and waited for it to pass, counting 
the seconds as if she were guessing the proximity of an approaching storm.  
One-thousand-one one-thousand-two one-thousand-three and the wave of flame 
passed over, leaving her feeling weak and shaky, her skin supersensitive.

She shuddered all over for a moment and then, helplessly, yawned.  Her eyes 
drifted halfway closed, and her shuttered gaze fixed on Mulder's face.  His 
good, strong, desperately handsome face, tired and stubbled and everything 
she could ever think of wanting.

And to think, she'd flippantly called it a Mulder-Awareness Day.  Dear God.  
Not since Custer took on his last batch of Indians had something been so 
phenomenally underestimated.

She was vaguely aware that one hand had unclenched and left her lap, slowly 
smoothing over the upholstered no-man's-land in the direction of Mulder's 
thigh.  For long, lazy seconds this state of events was perfectly all 
right -- nothing wrong here, folks -- and then some panic-button in her mind 
was tripped and her eyes snapped open, adrenaline slamming through her 
veins.  She looked at her traitorous hand in horror and snatched it back, 
wrapping the fingers of her other hand around her wrist like a handcuff.

She had almost -- oh Christ, she'd almost --

Mulder swung around in her direction and she nearly jumped out of the car.  
"Wha --?" she gasped guiltily.

"She's been gone for almost ten minutes," he said, pointing his finger 
accusingly at the driver's side window.  "She went down the hall and didn't 
come back."

Scully stared at him for a naked hideous moment before her numb mind could 
process the sentence.  Oh.  The stakeout.  Amber Volney.  "Oh."

He gnawed on his lower lip, deep in thought, and the tiger began to pace 
back and forth in Scully's stomach again.  A desolate thought occurred to 
her:  she was going to break.  Any moment now, the tiger would fling itself 
against the bars of the cage and the sucker would bust wide open-- any 
moment now, she'd climb right the hell across the seat and into his lap and 
start ripping his clothes off with her teeth.  It wasn't a question of *if,* 
anymore.  Just *when.*

She shut her eyes and, hopelessly, sent up a wordless prayer for the 
strength to last just a little bit longer.

Suddenly she heard the driver's side door opening -- cold wind blew in on 
her and spattered her with fine mist, smelling like fresh wet laundry hung 
up to dry.  The rain seemed to roar.  She wrenched her eyes open just in 
time to watch her partner climb out of the car, moving stiffly.

"Where the hell are you going?" she yelped, too stunned to follow him.

Mulder leaned down to peek back into the car.  "There's a window in Taymor's 
office that looks out on the alley.  I'm going to sneak back there and take 
a look."

"Are you NUTS?" she shrilled at him, but the door shut and she was left 
alone in the car, exhaustion pressing on her, listening to Mulder's faint 
footsteps as he ran across the street in the rain.

<X><X><X><X>

The sign on the wide glass door had been flipped so that it said CLOSED, but 
the lights were still on at Taymor's.  Mulder skimmed the front of the 
building, slumped a bit but not really daring to walk hunched over because 
that, if anything, would gain the attention of a passing motorist or someone 
in a nearby business.

He would bet even money that Amber had gone, skipped out the back for some 
weird teenaged reason, maybe headed out on a date that her father wouldn't 
approve of, leaving her car out in front of Taymor's as mute "proof" of her 
whereabouts.  Taymor would probably be working late, and as long as those 
lights were on she'd have an alibi.

By the time Mulder made it around the back of the building, he was soaked to 
the skin, shivering, his teeth chattering.  At least he was moving, though; 
at least he got to *do* something for a change.  

Water poured in a steady waterfall off the gutterless edges of the roof, 
hissing onto the pavement and sluicing into a stream down the middle of the 
alley.  He consulted his mental map of the interior of Taymor's and came to 
the conclusion that the window he had noticed yesterday should be right ... 
abouuuuuuuuut ...

Ah.  There.

Slowly, cautiously, he edged up to the window and peeked inside.  It was 
recognizably Taymor's office, all right; there was the bookcase Mulder had 
seen yesterday, there was the ridiculous merit award hanging on the back 
wall, there was the desk --

His jaw dropped, and he stared.

There were two mostly-naked people grappling passionately on the desk.  One 
of them was Amber Volney, and the other was most certainly Jim Taymor.

"Shit," Mulder breathed, his two top picks for the office of Sexually 
Frustrated Tochok Host going up in smoke.  The barely legal office assistant 
and the married owner of the company, who the hell would have thought it?  
Scully'd said that Amber had a crush on Taymor, but ...

As he gaped through the window, Amber fumbled a hand backwards over the 
surface of the desk down to a drawer, yanked it open and came up with a 
condom.  That squelched Mulder's half-formed hopes that maybe this was their 
first time and he *had* been right, just not *anymore* -- whatever these two 
were to each other, they'd practiced already.  This was no awkward first 
encounter.

Shit.

Mulder found himself plodding back across the street, splashing through a 
big damn puddle that he vaguely remembered skirting on the way out.  He had 
been *so* sure he was right.  They'd sat here all day in the damn rain 
because he was so *sure* ...

The rain came at him in waves, and he was forced to shield his eyes with one 
hand just to keep from being blinded.  Half-drowned, freezing his ass off, 
and his mind in a state of pissed-off shock, he stumbled to the Crown Vic 
and collapsed inside.

"Scully," he said, wiping water off his face, "you're not gonna believe what 
I --"

He broke off as he got a good look at her and realized that she was asleep.

She was slumped, just barely, her head tipped back against the seat back and 
tilted slightly off center like the earth's axis.  Her arms were wrapped 
tightly around her middle, her little fists tucked under her elbows.  Even 
in sleep, the faint line between her eyebrows was present and accounted for, 
and her mouth looked thin and tense.  He recognized it as her crossroads 
expression, when she was fighting with some decision that she didn't want to 
make, but had to.

He looked at her for a long time, the water dripping off him in fat beads.

She was ...

She was so ...

The nameless feeling in him expanded and roared, demanding attention.

"Scully," he said softly, and when that failed to wake her he leaned over 
and touched her shoulder.  "Hey, Scully --"

Her eyes snapped open and she stared full into his eyes.

And *snarled* at him. 

Her lips drew back from her teeth and her eyes slitted at him dangerously as 
she snarled a single word:  "*Don't* --!"

He yanked his hand away so fast that it ended up splayed in the air next to 
his ear, drawn back in the surprised defensive posture of a man almost 
bitten by a trusted pet.  Scully shrank back against the passenger door, 
breathing in harsh pants, one fist clenching and unclenching at irregular 
intervals as she stared at him with the burning eyes of a cornered wolf.

She looked absolutely savage.

"Scully --"

She shook her head in three short jerks.

"Scully, are you awake?" he asked suspiciously, suddenly positive that she 
was sleepwalking, having some kind of vivid dream -- he'd heard about this 
sort of thing, the polar opposite of sleep paralysis, where the connection 
between brain and body never switched off and people went raging around in 
the night acting out their dreams --

"I'm --"  Her eyes met his again, and the desperate way she stared at him 
convinced him that she definitely wasn't asleep.  She was awake, all right, 
and horribly lucid, and she was either terrified of him or she was trying to 
keep herself from murdering him.  He wasn't sure which.

"What the hell is *wrong* with you?" he blurted harshly, without thinking at 
all.

"Nothing!  I'm FINE," she snarled, despite the lie that her eyes made out of 
the words.  "I just dozed off for a --!  I -- what the hell is wrong with 
*you*?"

His temper started to rise, and he stomped it back down again with an 
effort.  "I just found out that this stakeout is pointless," he snapped.  
"We might as well go back to the motel."

"*What*?!"

"Amber Volney and her boss are over there fucking each other's brains out on 
his desk," he said, striking out with the blunt words as though they were 
fists.  "That's it.  That's all.  End of story.  We'll have to start over."  

"I don't understand."

"Neither one of them can be the host if they're not sexually frustrated, and 
whatever sort of relationship that is, I can guarantee you they're getting 
their itches scratched.  It pushes plausibility for one of them to be pining 
for somebody *else*, so there goes that angle.  Neither one of them can be 
the host or become a victim, so there's no point in hanging around unless 

you really want to watch them break out the post-coital cigarettes."

He reached for the keys still in the ignition.

Her voice rasped, "Don't you *dare*."

He snapped back around to face her and stared, shocked and astounded at the 
challenge.  "What?"

She seethed at him like a volcano.  "Just because *your* theory's been 
broken doesn't mean *mine* has --"

"Oh, please," he sneered.  Dull fury was starting to seep through his brain, 
radiating from that nameless place like blood flowing from a stab wound.  
"You don't say six words to me all day and *now* you want to start 
discussing the case?"

Her eyes flashed at him in warning.  "Mulder --"

"Okay," he said, his vision starting to go red.  "Okay, let's discuss it.  
Let's discuss this theory of yours.  You thought Amber was going around 
killing everyone who looked at Jim Taymor because she wanted him but 
couldn't have him.  Right?"

"That doesn't mean that she still couldn't be --"

"*Right*?" he pressed, not knowing why he was goading her on this, not 
knowing why he needed to rub it in her face.  An image flashed through his 
mind, something out of the cheesy adventure movies he'd watched when he was 
a kid -- Scully hanging off a cliff by her fingertips and he was stomping on 
them --

Tension boiled through the car like red fog.  He held Scully's gaze 
ruthlessly, and saw some kind of decision snap into place behind her eyes.

She turned her back on him and flung the passenger door open.

He tried to stop her as she scrambled out.  "Scully --"

"Go to hell," she snapped, and slammed the door.

<X><X><X><X>

Thunder cracked the sky open above Scully just as she made it to the end of 
the block, and the rain seemed to intensify, stinging down on her in huge 
hurtling drops that she briefly mistook for hailstones.  It felt as though 
her hair had come to life like Medusa's snakes, but that was just the 
freezing water streaming along her scalp, waving her hair like reeds in tiny 
swift-running currents.

The rain surrounded her, pounded down on her, ran cold down her face.  It 
blurred her vision and obscured her hearing -- the sound of the car door 
slamming a block behind her seemed unimaginably distant in the constant hiss 
of the rain, and the splashing footsteps hurrying in her direction were 
almost inaudible.

"SCULLY!"

She whipped around to find Mulder bearing down on her and for a moment it 
seemed like some kind of weird Breakfast at Tiffany's reunion scene, that he 
would throw his arms around her and protect her from the beating rain with 
his body and his wet mouth and his hands under her trench coat.  The 
illusion was broken when he stopped in front of her and began to yell.

"GODDAMMIT, SCULLY," he roared, "GET BACK IN THE CAR!"

She balled her hands into fists.  "NO!" she screamed up at him.  "I've 
wasted ALL DAY on your STUPID STAKEOUT!  Somebody's gonna DIE tonight and we 
wasted ALL ... DAMN ... DAY!"  Thunder boomed through the clouds above them, 
shaking the world; Scully barely noticed.  "You and your STUPID THEORY!  
We've been sitting on our ASSES all day instead of looking for a killer and 
because YOU guessed wrong!  Somebody's gonna DIE and WE CAN'T DO ANYTHING 
ABOUT IT!!!!"

"If you had a better idea," Mulder yelled, "you sure as hell never told ME!"

"You wouldn't have listened ANYWAY!"

"*YOU* never tried!" he howled at her, his face dark with rage.  "YOU just 
shut me out and IGNORED ME!!"

"DAMN you, Mulder," she screamed.  "What do YOU care?  It's all about your 
THEORY with you, I'M just here to listen like somebody in a damn SOCRATIC 
DIALOGUE!  Well, you know what?  YOUR THEORY *SUCKS*!!!"

He shook his head violently, water flying from his hair.  "Your problem 
isn't my THEORY, Scully!  It's something else, *isn't it*?"  He stepped even 
closer to her, towering over her like an angry grizzly bear.  "ISN'T IT?"

Terror and longing and fury all collided and exploded in her head.  
"*FUCK* ... *YOU*!!!!"

Lightning cracked above them.  She turned away and started to stalk off, the 
rain slamming against her face.

Out of nowhere Mulder's hand latched onto her arm, right below the elbow.  
"*Scully* --"

She whipped around and punched him in the jaw, a hard roundhouse right.  His 
head snapped back with the force of the blow and he overbalanced, stumbled, 
and fell to the ground.

Scully stared at her stunned partner for an awful moment, the rain roaring 
down around them.  Lightning burst overhead like a flashbulb.

She turned and ran.

<X><X><X><X>

Chapter 15


The Mo-Z Inn, Room 121
6:15 PM

The electricity was off at the motel.  Some faint illumination came through
the curtains, but the sun had almost completely set, the rain was still coming
down, and the streetlights were all dark.  It was still warm inside, to
Scully's surprise; the heat must have been on all day and apparently the
blackout was of recent vintage.  She fumbled through her suitcase with wet
hands -- in the dark, it was difficult to ignore the nightmare thought that the
sticky damp was warm blood -- and at last she came up with her flashlight.

She turned the flashlight on and swept the beam around the room.  A huge
ghoulish shadow rose up and batted at her with a twelve-foot wingspan, uttering
a blood-curdling shriek --

Guido.

The parrot flapped his wings twice and squawked at the bright light.  "JACK
AND JILL WENT UP THE HILL, THEY EACH HAD A BUCK AND A --"  Scully turned the
flashlight away and he settled down, chukking disapprovingly.

Scully shed her dripping trench coat and hung it on one of the headless
hangers in the tiny closet area.  The clothes she was wearing were mostly dry,
except for the bottom quarter of her dress slacks; her shoes were completely
soaked and had water squishing around inside from the puddles she'd splashed
through on her blind run back to the motel.  She considered it, shrugged, and
squished her way to the bathroom.

The flashlight, thank God, balanced nicely on end.  She propped it up on the
lid of the toilet tank, where it illuminated the ceiling in a bright half-
circle, the other half of the circle stretching down the wall like a half-moon
made of silly putty.  As thunder boomed outside, the flashlight rattled
slightly against the porcelain, but stayed upright. 

She toed off her shoes and emptied them into the sink, squinting at them
critically.  Not too bad.  With any luck, they'd be fine after they dried.  She
stripped off her slacks and pantyhose; the slacks she wrung out and draped over
the shower rod, the pantyhose she wadded up and tossed in the trash.

There were clean towels in the bathroom.  Twice as many as there had been the
night before, and Scully sensed the stealthy hand of Mae the Maid at work. 
Special treatment for Mulder's sake.  Bitch.

Her stomach twisted at that and she yanked a towel out of the stack with such
violence that the remaining towels went everywhere like a white terry cloth
avalanche.  She almost stooped down to gather them up again, went so far as to
stretch out one hand toward a little washcloth perched companionably next to
the flashlight, but the gesture brought her bruised knuckles into view and
stopped her cold.

She'd hit him.  

This hadn't been some playful punch on the shoulder; she'd really clocked him.
And if the way her hand was aching was any indication, she'd hurt him.  The
thought made her head buzz and the world seem to tip sideways as though she
were drunk.

Her numb mind continued to churn out short-term plans like a ticker-tape
machine spewing out paper.  Dry off.  Put fresh clothes on.  Call the hospital,
check on how many stomach pumps they had and whether one was missing, and ask
about any medical supply stores in the area.  Call Dr. Marek and see if there
was any new development in the analysis of the mystery substance they'd found. 
Go through the employment rosters from Taymor's again and see if anything
popped out at her.

Apologize to Mulder.

The thought came out of the deep, shattering the tidy arrangement of surface
plans, and suddenly the ugly glut of mixed emotions came welling up too.  The
rain had frozen her mind as well as her feet, but now everything was thawing
out and she couldn't stop thinking.  Too many thoughts, crowding her head,
overwhelming her.

<hit him hit him ohmygodwhathaveidone
                    <want him so much so muchmuchmuch
     <somebody's gonna die tonight and i can't stop it, wasted all damn day
and i
<so tired, god just let me sleep a little i can't handle this when i'm so
          <helpless helpless goddammit i can't
		<bastard if he wants a fight i'll give him a
 <want him so much      SO MUCH
                     <can't help it someone's gonna DIE and i>

She ground the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, blinding herself for a
moment; for some reason it made the thoughts quiet down to a dull constant
mutter instead of a hurricane of huge, shrieking, horrified voices.  A little
space to think in.

Fine, all right, she was going to have to deal with this, but first things
first.  She dried her wet hair to a general dampness by rubbing it with a
towel, and used a fresh one to roughly dry off her feet and calves.  Some sort
of pants, then.  She left the bathroom, walking with short, jerky steps, the
steel-wool carpet exfoliating the hell out of her water-softened feet.  The
flashlight stayed behind, illuminating the ceiling of an empty room; she'd only
be a minute, really, why bother with hauling the dumb thing along?

She was pulling on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms in the dark bedroom when
car headlights swept across her window.  Her head jerked up and she froze, like
a cat going stock-still on a fence with its back arched and one paw in the air.
The car motor idled for a moment out in the dark -- a familiar motor, she'd
been listening to it for days now -- and then switched off.  Car door opened,
car door shut.  Footsteps, crunching through the wet gravel.  Keys jingling
outside.

Mulder's door peeled open with a rubbery sound, then slammed again.  It was
eerily quiet without electricity -- no televisions, no little refrigerator
motors running; mostly, though, there was the spooky lack of that almost
inaudible hiss that every electric light and appliance gives off.  Scully could
hear every one of Mulder's hesitant footsteps as he crossed the room, the
*chink!* as he tossed his keys onto the bed, the mellow *bong* as he
accidentally ran into a trash can and the muttered curse that followed.  It was
sort of thrilling to stand in the dark and listen; it was almost as if the wall
wasn't there and they were in the same dark warm room, neither one able to see
the other.  Almost ... intimate.  It gave her a chance to realize just how well
she knew his little noises, realize that she'd know his footstep among a
thousand others.

The thought floated to the top of her mind again, unstoppable, implacable: 
*apologize*.

She took one step toward the door without really meaning to, and suddenly she
knew just what would happen if she tried to apologize, and it made her feel
both furious and nauseous.  Not that he wouldn't forgive her -- when it came
down to it, taking her temper out on him and decking him in the rain was a
small thing compared to the other betrayals Mulder had survived in life -- but
she just *knew* that the bastard would ask her to explain herself.

He wouldn't let it go with a simple "sorry."  Oh no, Mulder would want a
*talk*.  She'd have to humiliate herself by admitting that her anger had been
the flip side of the unassuaged lust that had been tearing her up for days. 
Goddammit.

Worse, to have to face him and tell him these private, secret things when she
was still worn out with wanting him.  She'd broken once today already, when she
lost her temper -- it was not unimaginable that she might shatter down the
weakened lines of the first fracture.  She didn't know which direction it would
go; she might kiss him or she might kill him.

It was a toss-up.

Her stomach twisted violently as she realized just how much she wanted that to
happen.  How much she wanted to break.  There was a limit, dammit, a definite
limit to how long any kind of tension could be maintained without going insane.

She stared warily into the warm dark in the direction of the connecting door
and listened to Mulder rummage around in his suitcase and then start walking
around the room with more confidence.  Probably found his flashlight, just like
she had.  She heard him cross into the bathroom and stay there for a long time,
probably drying off, maybe taking a look at his jaw.  Most likely the bruise
was forming already, the outraged blood vessels flaring color that would look
black in the dim light of his flashlight.

<hit him hit him ohmygod i don't believe i actually>

Scully took another step toward the door, not really conscious of doing so. 
Just then, she heard Mulder exit from the bathroom, his feet bare -- she could
tell when he had his shoes off, God help her -- and pad across the carpet,
across the room.

The footsteps stopped right in front of the connecting door.

Scully's heart bucked.

She had no proof of it, but she was absolutely positive that Mulder was
standing there looking at the connecting door, just as she was, some sixth
sense arranging it so that their gazes were locked through the dark and the
door.  She couldn't breathe.

The moment seemed to last forever; in the timeless dark, it could have been an
instant or an hour.

*KABOOOOOOOOOOOM!*

A bright flash of lightning and its clap of thunder occurred almost
simultaneously, giving Scully the startled impression that she was at the
center of an explosion.  The moment was broken; she heard Mulder finish
crossing the room, heard the bedsprings creak in a getting-comfy pattern and
then stop.

On the bed.  He was on the bed.  The *bed*.

Stiffly, she took two steps back and sat down on her own bed, feeling for it
with one hand first to make sure it was where she thought it was so she
wouldn't end up falling on her ass.

He was on the bed.  

Did he know?  Was it an invitation?  Was he lying on his bed in the dark
hoping for her to walk through that door and join him?

The thought knifed through her:  *Had he wanted her, too, all this time?*

She sat there for an eternity, staring into the dark as though she were
hypnotized, exhaustion weighing her down like a quadruple dose of gravity.  It
would be so easy.  Just open the door and walk in.  So easy.  So simple.  No
explaining, no words, just the dark and his arms around her and an end to this
insanity.

She stood up.

She walked.  

Her joints seemed stiff, her movements uncoordinated, her legs jerking as
though electric shocks were being applied to her thighs.  Too soon the door was
in front of her, warm and smooth under her hesitant touch.  She stood there,
her heart pounding painfully in her chest, her breath shallow and sharp,
feeling as though she was about to burst into tears or scream at the top of her
lungs or erupt into gasping hysterical laughter.  When she touched the doorknob
her hand went numb and prickly.

She swallowed down a huge lump in her throat and steeled herself to turn the
knob.

And then she heard it.

Snoring.

She gaped at the door in shock.  He was taking a nap.  Oh Christ, he was
taking a nap and she'd almost walked right in and --

Shame flooded over her, and furious embarrassment.  Part of her mind was still
reaching forward into a future that no longer existed, still crawling into his
bed, crawling up his body and finding wordless relief in a kiss that cracked
the world open ...  Not only would there be no kiss, no bedwarm body pressed
against hers, there would be no relief.  Not tonight.

Anger flared through her in a red haze.  Vague thoughts of her gun were pushed
aside by stronger, bloodier thoughts of strangling Mulder with her bare hands. 
Inch by inch she fought the hot rage back, pushed it into a dungeon and locked
it up.  It took the last dregs of her energy and left her feeling cold and
hollow.

She stood in the dark, head bowed, and took up the burden of control like
Atlas shifting the world back onto his shoulders.  

Quietly she moved to the light switch and moved it to its useless ON position
in lieu of an alarm clock, then stumbled back to the bed.  She pulled the
covers back neatly and slid between the sheets, lying on her back, staring at
the ceiling like a doll tucked into a toy crib.

Eventually, she slept.

<X><X><X><X>

It was the Coliseum in DC, the last piece of the Greco-Roman architectural
puzzle.  On a lavish balcony the President was eating grapes with Siskel and
Ebert, all of them wearing laurel wreaths and togas except for the President,
who had for some reason declined the laurel in favor of a Chicago Cubs baseball
cap.

Scully and Mulder were alone in the arena.

The sun glinted off Scully's knife as she faced Mulder, her shoulders hot
under the flapping trench coat and the packed dirt hot beneath her feet.  The
sky was painfully bright, flawlessly turquoise.  The crowd roared like an angry
ocean, cheering for her, cheering for him, but most of all cheering for blood
to be spilt.

They circled each other warily, their arms outspread, knives at the ready.

Waiting to attack.

Mulder's eyes were dark and smoldering, burning into hers.  Beads of sweat
stood out on his forehead; as she watched, one slid down his face at an
achingly slow pace, binding up in the stubble near his mouth.  Without breaking
eye contact, he slowly wiped the back of his knife hand across his brow,
mockingly.

An obvious opening.  A trick.  She clenched her hand tighter around the hilt
of her knife and slitted her eyes at him, still biding her time.  A predatory
smile played over his lips, as if he was amused that she'd seen through him. 
His eyes never left hers.

This would be settled here and now.

The crowd roared again, louder than ever, as the two agents suddenly flung
their trench coats off their shoulders like the wings of huge black crows.  The
coats tumbled to the ground, raising a cloud of red dust that swirled around
them.

Mulder attacked first, making a bold slash at Scully's right arm.  She evaded
the slash easily and parried with a strike at his exposed throat, pale under
its stubble.  He jerked out of the way and eyed her, still smiling that
smoldering mockery of a smile.  Anger flashed through her like lightning and
she lashed out at him again, aiming for his ribs.

A hand seized her knife arm by the wrist and twisted cruelly, halting her
forward motion and sending shooting pain up to her shoulder.  She lifted her
arm and ducked under Mulder's arm like a dancer, planning on snapping out to a
position where she could wrench away, but before she could complete the turn he
pulled his arms down around her, trapping her against his body.

His breath puffed hot and humid through her hair and over her scalp as he
tightened his grip.  His knife hand traveled slowly down her torso, his
knuckles tracing a torturous path between her breasts and down to her belly. 
In apparent slow-motion he turned the knife, pressing the hard point against
her stomach gently but firmly, pressing something just as hard into her lower
back.

She felt his head move down, sliding against her hair, his mouth next to her
ear.  "Surrender?" he rumbled in his darkest chocolate voice, his lips brushing
her earlobe.  His hips moved against her rhythmically, rubbing a tingling path
along on her spine.  Up and down, up and down.

"On what conditions?" she asked, her voice unsteady.  She curved her lower
back toward him, curling away from the knife as she rocked against him,
distracting him from the stealthy movement of her left hand toward his knife. 
He groaned faintly into her hair and she shivered, goosebumps shimmering up all
over her body.

"No conditions," he breathed, and nuzzled lightly at the fine flock of hair in
front of her ear.  "Unconditional."

She turned her head to smile sideways into his eyes.  "No sale," she informed
him, and grabbed his knife hand, yanking it away from her body as she wrenched
out of his grasp.  It took a moment for mission control to throw the correct
switches in Mulder's head, but not as long as she'd expected; she barely
skidded past his outstretched hands, striking out at him like a blind thing --

Blood.  First blood.

She'd just winged him -- the red-tinged slash on his white shirt sleeve was
small and shallow -- but the brief surprise in his eyes made savage joy
skyrocket through her.  Too soon his surprise faded into a magnanimous sneer.

*Lucky shot,* he mouthed at her, and drove in toward her again.

His knife caught her blouse right under the arm, barely missing her -- she
felt the cold blade slide by less than an inch from her breast as she flinched
away.  Her rage flared white-hot and she stabbed at his thigh, overbalancing as
he jerked out of reach and she instinctively lunged after him.

Something hard slammed into her wrist and her knife-hand went numb; she yelped
and tried to hang onto the weapon, but her stunned nerves wouldn't communicate
the messages to her hand and the gleaming knife plunged to the red ground.

He was coming at her again and she saw the knife at eye-level.  Without
thinking, she grabbed his forearm and *bit*, tearing at his flesh with a growl.
He cried out and grabbed her hair with his left hand, trying to rip her away,
but she ignored the pain.  She held on with grim determination, eyes shut
tight, worrying at him like a terrier.

The crowd roared its approval.

Mulder's knife fell just as he succeeded in pulling her away from his arm.  He
yanked her head up with his fist full of her hair and stared at her in outrage,
his chest heaving, his hot breath coating her.  She laughed triumphantly up
into his face and licked his blood off her lips, savoring the thick tang of it.
He looked so stunned at that that she laughed again, howling like a wolf, and
lunged at him.

They overbalanced and hit the ground hard with Scully splayed on top of him,
his fist still clenched painfully in her hair.  She clawed her way toward his
throat, all humanity forgotten, weaponry meaningless in the rush of pure savage
bloodlust, grabbing handfuls of his shirt to pull herself up his body.  He
locked his hands around her hips like a man stomping on the breaks of a
speeding car, and rolled them over, crushing her beneath him.

"Gotcha," he rasped, gulping for air.  

"That's ... what ... you ... think ..." she panted, one hand scrabbling in the
dirt beside her.  She swung a leg over and around his hip, throwing her weight
so that they twisted over and she was on top again, straddling him, her skirt
hiked up around her thighs.

This time the knife was in *her* hand.

Mulder froze, his gaze caught on the blue flash of the blade as Scully whipped
it up, sweeping it through the air toward his throat --

His hand shot up and grabbed her forearm.  The knife jerked forward, back,
forward again as they struggled.  Back.  Forward.  Back.  It trembled in the
middle for a long moment and then Scully ripped away from him, the knife high
in the air.  Their eyes locked.  Scully made a move toward him; Mulder's hand
mirrored the movement to block it.  She feinted to the left; he followed it and
she jerked back to swoop in from the right.

He blocked her at the last minute, hitting her forearm hard.  The knife went
flying and suddenly he had a firm grip on both her wrists, pulling her hands
out to both sides like a face-to-face double crucifixion.  Her chin socked into
his collarbone.

His breath was hot on her throat as he panted for air, his back curved
slightly as though he were about to sit up, head tucked in.

"You fight ... dirty ..." she gulped.

"You ain't seen ... nothin' ... yet ..."

The hot humid breath on her neck suddenly solidified into his hot wet tongue
tracing her jugular, tasting the pulse at the base of her throat before he
latched on and suckled hard.  She gasped and arched against him, shifting her
hips to center herself on the hard bulge that had been beating time against her
upper thigh.

"Mulder ..."

His mouth skidded up her neck and across her cheek.  Their teeth clashed,
clicking wetly together like broken crockery, mouths striking wildly at each
other in a frenzy of biting and sucking and snatching each others' breath. 
Mulder groaned deep in his chest and pulled her hands back in, working them
between their bodies.  He tucked one of her hands over his heart, as though
they were slow-dancing; the other one he slid down until she found herself
cupping him, her fingers curling around him as he moaned into her mouth.

"Touch me, Scully --"

She ran her hand up and down his length and he whimpered and bucked against
her, his hands carving a path down her back and crushing her to him.  She
nipped him high on his throat and sucked the tiny wound dry, her teeth scraping
him as she found his mouth again and drank him down.

He reared up, pushing her into a sitting position, and ripped her blouse open,
burying his face between her breasts.  His stubble scraped and burned as he
turned his head blindly and pushed the fabric of her bra aside enough to pull
her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard; she gasped and stroked him faster, her
wrist bumping against her clit and sending a shower of sparks across her vision.

Her free hand slid up and scrabbled against his shirt; she yanked on it but
only succeeded in breaking one button off.  "Your sh-shirt," she managed, and
he grinned his wolfish grin against her breast and reached up to rip his own
shirt open.  She pushed her hand inside the shirt greedily, eating up his skin
with her fingers, marking him with her nails.

His hands were under her skirt now, cupping her ass and sliding back between
her legs, and she began rocking against him, against her hand and his cock and
his hands.  He groaned deep in his throat and tore his mouth away from her
breast to bite her shoulder as she found the zipper on his slacks and pulled it
down, reaching inside to bring his cock out.  "Scully --"

"Get -- my underwear --"

That was enough for clear communication; he yanked twice at the lacy barrier
and it ripped away.  She lifted up, positioning him with her hand, and then
slowly slid down onto him, the sensation burning her from the inside out as he
wrapped his arms around her back and gasped.  

And the crowd went wild.

Up.  Down.  Again.  So good, so good --

<Mulder -->

She threw her head back, exultant.

<Mulder -->

Mulder made a desperate noise deep in his chest and pushed her back, pushed
her over, pushed her down into the packed gritty dirt with his delicious weight
covering her.  Her legs wrapped around him and he thrust into her, the force of
it driving her backwards in the hot dirt.

<Mulder, oh god -- finally -- oh god>

Thrust.  Thrust.  *Thrust*.  Harder each time, each thrust shoving her further
backwards, the ground scraping her skin beneath the thin shirt, the heat
burning her back.  His hand slicked down between her legs and began to work her
clit in a tight circle, and as he gasped and grunted against her neck and
pounded into her she began to feel flames licking at her, the heat building and
building and build --

And --

The bedroom lights turned on.

<X><X><X><X>

The hard edge of consciousness slammed into Scully like jagged concrete and
she jolted awake, the light burning red through her knotted eyelids as she
gathered herself to scream in frustrated agony and --

-- *couldn't breathe* --

There was something crouched on top of her, its enormous weight crushing her,
squeezing the breath out of her and scorching her belly and ribcage.  Scully's
defensive reflexes reared up and she tried to turn on her side to buck the
attacker off *but she couldn't move* --

*Paralyzed*, her mind screamed, but she couldn't make any sound come out of
her mouth.  Her entire body had turned to stone and no matter what she tried to
do she couldn't move, couldn't breathe --

The red light shrieking through her eyelids went suddenly black; for a frantic
moment she thought that she had passed out, but her awareness remained sharp. 
The lights, then, had gone out again.  Dimly, beyond the pulse pounding in her
ears and the thick haze of her growing fear, she could hear thunder rumbling as
the storm continued unabated.

A terrifying heat was twisting through her lower torso, illuminating each of
her internal organs with a low, sensual fire -- she had sudden firsthand
knowledge of exactly where her spleen was, could sense each of the twists and
curves of her intestines.  Burning -- she was *burning up* and that more than
her paralysis threw Scully into a state of pure panic:  she had to move, had to
move *now*, had to move move move move MOVE MOVE MOVE --

Her eyes flew open in the dark and she stared up, like a corpse on a stainless
steel table, at the shadowed face of her attacker.

Even in the dark, she knew that face.  

<MULDER?!?!?>

She was still staring up at him in betrayed horror when the electricity
flickered on again and the full glare of the lights came streaming through the
empty eye sockets and open, leering mouth of the Mulder-shaped thing on top of
her.  

Scully's paralysis broke.

The thing cackled into her face with brimstone breath as her arms pistoned up
to push it away.  She felt its skin give like some kind of horrible taffy and
she had enough time to think that she was almost up to her elbows in what
looked like Mulder's ribcage and then -- then the springy surface snapped open
and it was if she'd thrust her arms into a pottery kiln.  She yanked her arms
back with a choked cry and rolled out of bed, thudding painfully onto her hands
and knees.  One hand -- stinging as though from a sunburn -- slapped up onto
the bedside table as she scrabbled away, searching for and finding her
semiautomatic in a matter of milliseconds.

She threw herself into the nearest corner, gulping air, and trained her weapon
on the thing hovering over her bed.  There was enough time -- barely -- for
Scully to notice with adrenaline-fueled clarity that there was only one surface
to the thing, the frontal, ventral side; the back of its head and body were
missing and she could see through it to a smooth pink interior like the inside
of a rubber mask --

<the Tochok the Tochok oh god he was right>

-- and then the creature reared up, shimmering like hot blacktop, its two-
dimensional Mulder-face beginning to run like melting butter, and it screamed a
hot thin scream like lava pouring into the ocean.  It leered at her with that
funhouse face and suddenly it was shooting away from her like high-powered
steam --

-- shooting across the room through the connecting door and then it was gone.

Scully's gun dropped to her side as her arm relaxed all at once, weak and
trembly.  Gone.  Fled back to its host, whoever and wherever that could be --

A soft sound came from Mulder's room that made Scully's hair stand on end.

And again, easily audible in the rain-pattered silence:

He moaned.

A sudden slideshow memory slammed through Scully's mind of Fred Schmidt and
his nephew and Mulder's idea that the murderer, when balked by Fred, had simply
gone on to the next best thing --

"MULDER!" she screamed, and launched herself across the room.

The door was stuck.

"Damn!"  She dropped her gun onto the bureau next to the television set and
yanked at the doorknob with both hands but the door remained as steadfastly
sealed shut as it had been twelve hours ago.  "Mulder!" she yelled, banging on
the door with both palms.  

Another soft moan from the other room.

"Mulder, wake up!"

There was no answer other than an indecipherable murmur of sleeping speech. 
Scully screamed in frustration and beat her fists on the door --

<affect their dreams and keep them asleep, that's what he said it could do,
maybe it forgot to keep me asleep but god knows it won't make the same mistake
twice>

She snatched up her weapon again and ran to the front door, unlatching it --
if she couldn't get through the connecting door, Mulder's *front* door would
work -- and stopped just before she threw the door open.  God.  She didn't have
the key to his door.  Any efforts to get the key from the front desk or break
in through the front would take too long; shooting the lock in would be tricky
and ran the risk of having the bullet pass through the door and hit Mulder. 
The only option left was to try to break down the connecting door and hope that
the noise would somehow wake him.

"MULDER!" she yelled again and threw her weapon back on the bureau, her eyes
darting over each piece of furniture in her room, judging each instantly for
solidity and weight.  "Come on, dammit, *wake up*!"  She spotted the shelf next
to the parrot cage, remembered the shelf was heavy, and practically flew across
the room to grab it.  "Come ON, Mulder, WAKE UP!"

The shelf was slightly too high for her to pull down easily; she jumped up to
slam one end up with her outstretched hand and knocked it off the wall.  It
came crashing down, striking the parrot cage en route to the floor, and
narrowly missed Scully's bare toes as she skipped back out of the way.  Guido,
sleeping inside the cage, stirred but didn't wake.

Scully grabbed the heavy plank of wood and charged back across the room. 
"DAMMIT, MULDER," she shouted as she adjusted her grip on the shelf, "will you
WAKE UP already?"

"*Scully* --"

She whirled around.  The intonation was Mulder's but the voice --

"*Scully* --" Guido muttered again, apparently talking in his sleep. 
"*Scully, touch me* --"

She stared, caught momentarily in a dream of knives and blood and a crowded
coliseum, hearing those words in Mulder's voice.

The HOST.  Oh, Christ, the PARROT was the host.

And the thing that it was playing host to was about to kill Mulder.

"MULDER!"  She slammed the shelf against the door, near the knob.  *WHAM.* 
"You were right!"  *WHAM.*  "You were right about the whole thing!"  *WHAM.* 
"Will you just WAKE UP, DAMMIT?"

*WHAM.*

*WHAM.*

*WHAM.*

The door wouldn't budge.  

When Scully paused for a split second to catch her breath, she could hear
Mulder moaning almost continuously in the next room.  "*MULDER!!!*" she
screamed in despair, beyond hoping that it would wake him up, and lifted the
board for another attack on the door.

A low chuckling started behind her.  Guido.  She whipped around and stared at
the parrot, chortling away in his little cage, and an idea came to her -- a
last-ditch crazy idea, a Mulderish idea.

<*Kill the host, kill the creature.*>

She grabbed her gun and leveled it at the birdcage, hearing Mulder's groans
become more and more frantic in the background.  Her finger tightened on the
trigger.

What if it wasn't the bird?  What if she did this and it *still didn't save
him*?

"Dammit!" she howled, her face contorting in an agony of indecision.  "Mulder,
WAKE UP, this isn't FAIR!"

"YOU AIN'T SEEN ... NOTHIN' ... YET ..." Guido rasped in perfect Mulderspeak. 
In the other room, Mulder uttered a wordless preorgasmic shout.

Scully aimed at the parrot's head and fired.

<X><X><X><X>

Mulder rocketed through Scully's front door seconds after the sound of the
gunshot had died away, his semiautomatic at the ready, the unlatched door
flying into the wall hard enough to put a dent in the drywall.  Scully looked
up at him with wide eyes, her weapon at her side, her face pure white.

"What happened?" he demanded.

One side of her mouth jerked up in a humorless smile, then down again.  "I
found the host."

"What?"  He trained his gun in a sweep around the room, expecting an intruder
to leap out from behind some furniture somewhere.  That was before he saw the
birdcage.

Feathers and blood were everywhere.  The little corpse was lying on the floor
of the cage, one wing cocked up as though Guido was waving goodbye.

Mulder lowered his weapon to his side and stared.  After a moment, he felt
Scully join him.  They stood side by side in silence, looking for a long time
at the mess.  

Finally, Mulder roused himself to speak.  "You know," he said, looking down at
the crown of Scully's fantastically rumpled hair, "there's a Monty Python joke
in here somewhere ..."

"Just leave it alone, Mulder."

<X><X><X><X>

Chapter 16

The Mo-Z Inn, Room 121
Fifteen minutes later


"Gatorade, Sheriff."

"Gatorade?"

"Gatorade.  Playing host to the Tochok probably drained the host's body of
certain chemicals that were replenished by the melted viscera of the victims. 
Sort of like Gatorade."

Volney pinned Mulder with a look of patient irritation, the expression of
choice for law enforcement officers across the country when dealing with Mulder
in one of his more talkative moods.  "Agent Mulder," he said sharply, "have I
mentioned that I was already sound asleep when Jeff Murray called my house to
tell me that you two were shooting up his motel?"

"Yes, you have, and incidentally, as *we* have already mentioned, there was
only one shot fired," Mulder said, straight-faced.  Scully expected him to add
'and Agent Scully was the only one involved in the gunfire' but instead, Mulder
neatly sidestepped the issue of the origin of that one shot and moved on.  "A
shot which, I might add, has effectively disabled the murderer by separating
the murderer from its physical host with no means of reentry."

Volney studied Mulder with a long, suspicious stare.  "Tell me, Agent Mulder,"
he said at last, "are you on any kind of medications I should know about?"

Scully sighed.  It always came to this.

"I know how this sounds, Sheriff," Mulder reassured him, but the reassurance
was a joke.  She'd seen it before.  He was already on Planet Mulder, thinking
that he was sounding sane and professional when in actuality he was too excited
about the case coming together to just *shut up*.

The fact that he was still barefoot and wearing his sweats and FBI Academy T-
shirt did not help matters.  

"I hadn't even considered that the host might not be human, but in hindsight
it makes perfect sense.  There have been studies done on parrots that suggest
that their speech is not just mimicry, but that they can actually put together
words and symbols in a manner similar to language; if we take that as a given,
it's only a small step to assuming that the Tochok would find a parrot just as
hospitable as a human being."

Volney turned and pondered the mess in the parrot cage, chewing on his
moustache.  He glanced at Scully, his impersonal visual inspection sweeping
over her and taking in the robe and slippers as well as the bed-dry hair and
the spatters of parrot blood which she could still feel drying against her
skin.  She met his gaze, lifting her chin a little.

"*You're* awful quiet, Agent Scully," the sheriff said accusingly, as though
he was checking on her sanity as well but didn't have much hope for a
satisfactory answer.  "Do you have any thoughts on this?"

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mulder lean against the wall and fold his
arms across his chest, apparently very interested in her answer.

She cleared her throat.  "I have a slightly different theory than the one that
Agent Mulder subscribes to.  There was a foreign organic substance discovered
in the blood work from the latest victims; I suspect that under further study
this will prove to be a kind of mutant allergen borne by the parrot which only
... select people were susceptible to.  The allergen seems to have created a
complex reaction, the primary result being the visceral pyrexia which was the
cause of death for the four victims.  There seem to be some lesser effects
including hallucinogenic episodes, such as vivid, violent dreams and some
residual hallucinations immediately after waking."

Volney looked so surprised and pleased to hear a sane theory that Scully
almost expected him to start purring like a big tomcat in a patch of sun. 
"Well.  Does this constitute a public health hazard, in your opinion?"

"It might," Scully admitted, "but it would be an easily contained one.  The
body of the parrot should be handled as a biohazard and properly packaged for
further study.  Those people who have already been affected by the allergen,
including Agent Mulder and myself, should be tested for the foreign organic
substance before being allowed to handle weapons or operate a moving vehicle. 
We may otherwise present a danger to the public."

Mulder shot Scully a surprised look.  She ignored it.

"While I was -- hallucinating -- earlier tonight, I imagined that the parrot
posed an immediate threat to myself and to Agent Mulder, and I shot it," she
said.  "This may or may not have been due to some subconscious realization
about the nature of the recent deaths and the parrot's possible involvement in
them.  Either way, I acted without thinking, and if any repercussions result
from my actions I will take full responsibility."

She gave this speech matter-of-factly, keeping a stone wall of calm between
herself and the creeping feeling of childish dread, the feeling that she was
going home from class today with a note for her parents in her backpack. 
Mulder was still watching her closely, an odd color of concern tingeing the
edges of his expression.  

Volney appeared to be chewing on the insides of both cheeks.  After a moment
of deliberation he shook his head and snorted.  "I don't know a damn thing
about medicine so I'm gonna take your word on this one, Agent Scully.  If you
two just set tight I'll get some people out from Bryan Memorial to take a look
at you and take the parrot away."  He rummaged through his jacket pockets like
a man contentedly scratching an itch and came up with a sleek cell phone that
looked to be the size of the big man's thumb.  He punched a single button and
brought it up.  "Rob?  It's Mike Volney.  Yeah, I'll hold."  

Scully cleared her throat delicately.  "Er, Sheriff ..."

"Hmm?"

"About the parrot's owner --"

Volney brought the tiny phone down to the level of his collarbone.  "If I may
be frank, Agent Scully, I don't give a damn about the parrot's owner.  That
bird bit one of my deputies, it tried to bite me, it's been a serious pain in
my ass and now you're saying it's the reason that four people in my
jurisdiction have died.  As far as I'm concerned, you did us all a favor.  When
Marjorie's sister shows up tomorrow I'll tell her that the parrot died of
natural causes and we burned the body."  The sheriff crinkled his copper eyes
at Scully.  "Does that answer your question?"

<X><X><X><X>

The water was cold, but Scully splashed it on her face anyway, scrubbing at
the tiny shriveled patches of dried bird blood.  The relief of getting it off
her skin made her a little lightheaded ... or maybe that was just a delayed
reaction to having to give a sample of her own blood.

The bathroom door creaked behind her and she jerked her head up, startled. 
Mulder was standing in the doorway, rubbing at the bandage on the inside of his
right elbow.  He met her gaze and smiled sheepishly.  "Hey."

"Hey.  Can you hand me a towel?"

"Sure."  He ran one long arm out and hooked a towel off the rack, tossing it
to her with the casual grace of an outfielder flipping a ball out into the
bleachers.

"Thanks."  She dried her face and folded the towel in half, then in half
again.  "Are they done with you already, or did Jean Denison show up with the
death squad and scare you off?"

"Funny you should ask," he said, leaning back against the door frame.

"They're *not* done with you?"

Mulder shook his head vigorously.  "No, no, they're done with me.  Took my
blood, took my weapon, the works.  Funny you should mention Jean Denison, I
mean."

Scully leaned one hip against the cold porcelain of the sink and cocked an
eyebrow at him.  "Is she here?"

"Nope.  And she's not going to be.  They caught her in Volney's office reading
those secret files he was keeping on this case; turns out she's been the one
leaking information to the media all this time.  According to the hospital
staff, Jean has a sort of a thing for Volney and this was some kind of
desperate bid for attention.  Volney's so mad, he wants to bring her up on
charges for obstruction of justice."

"He'll have a hard time proving it on a case like this one," Scully said.

"Yeah, well."  Mulder shrugged.  He studied her strangely for a moment, then
turned a few degrees to fake a relaxed punch at the door frame.  "They're
coming back around ten tomorrow morning to check on us."


"I know.  I'm the one who suggested it."
  
"You don't ..."  Mulder stopped, squinched his eyes a little, and tried again.
"Do you really believe this allergen theory?"

Scully looked down at the towel in her hands and frowned critically.  She
shook it open and refolded it with slow, careful movements.

"Scully?"

"I wouldn't have suggested it to the sheriff if I didn't think it had merit,
Mulder."  The towel was still not quite straight; she flipped it open again
with a sigh and started lining up the corners.

Mulder reached out and captured her busy hands in his, gently taking the towel
away from her.  He was suddenly very close; she could feel him looking down at
the top of her head as she looked down at her hands, stiff and awkward in
Mulder's grasp.  "That wasn't what I asked," he said, his voice very low.  "I
asked if you *believe* it."

She tried to say yes, but it stuck in her throat.  Instead, she shook her head
slowly and said, "You don't want me to answer that, Mulder."

He made an indecipherable noise and let her hands slide away.  "You're
probably right."

She tipped her head up to frown at him and promptly forgot all about doing so
when she spotted the purpling bruise on his jaw.  "Oh," she said faintly, and
reached up, leaning to one side to get a better look.  Her fingers skimmed
through the air over his jaw, not quite touching him; somehow, she couldn't. 
Green heat came off the bruise, bleeding into her hand through the millimeters
between them.  "Oh, Mulder," she murmured in soft horror, staring at the damage
she'd done.  "I didn't think I -- how does it feel?"

A wry smile creased his skin under her fingertips and she looked up in
surprise.  His gaze met and held hers, searching for something.  His face was
strained, somehow, and a little sad; the out-of-place smile was heartbreaking,
at once closed off and vulnerable.  "Don't worry about it, slugger," he said
with a little shrug.  "No permanent damage done."

"I -- Mulder, I'm so --"

"I said," he told her, pulling her hands gently away from his face, "don't
worry about it."

She frowned at him in confusion, her hands still thoughtlessly hanging in the
air between them.  The grinding need to touch him that had made her hands ache
for days had subsided, but something, some need, remained -- the need to reach
out and smooth the worry from his face, to step into his arms and hold him as
he held her, to speak gentle words of comfort.  These were good things,
partnerly things, but some new color had bled into them like ink into tissue
paper.  She wanted to touch him, but she couldn't be certain of her reasons. 
Somewhere in the storm, her bold black borderlines had faded and half-washed
away; all the landmarks were strange, as if she was looking up at the night sky
in Australia, searching for Orion.

Her hands drifted down to her sides by themselves, lost.

"All right," she said.  After a moment she folded her arms across her chest.

"Besides," he said indistinctly, "I deserved it."

She shook her head, not because it wasn't true but because her guilt
outweighed the reason.  "You didn't deserve *that*."

"Yeah, I did."  He looped a mirthless smile at her, exhaustion printed around
his eyes.  "I did."  They were both silent for a moment, the shifting of
Mulder's bare feet on the slick tiles very loud in the tiny room.  Mulder
looked at the floor.  "I had a dream," he said in a quiet voice she hardly
recognized.  "When I was asleep before, I mean."

"Everybody dreams, Mulder," she snapped, more harshly than she meant to,
knowing where he was going and not wanting to hear it.

Intent on some interior goal, he didn't seem to process her tone.  "This was
different," he insisted, frowning.  "I think --"

"Don't."

He heard her then, looked up with some new expression mixing with the hurt in
his eyes.  "Scully --"

"Don't," she repeated, softer this time, unable to think of anything else to
say.

Mulder's mouth opened and then shut again.  He seemed to deflate slightly,
sagging back against the door frame.  He gazed at the toilet and shrugged, the
careless gesture of a man berating himself for something.  "One thing," he
said, "and you don't have to answer if you don't want to.  What woke you up?"

"Oh."  It took a moment for her to stop bracing herself against some unasked
personal question and answer the one that *had* been asked.  "I'd left the
light switch on, and when the electricity came back on, so did the lights." 
She looked at him warily, but didn't ask what was coming next.

"Ahhh," Mulder sighed, and his lips curved upward.  "I left my lights off.  No
wonder you couldn't wake me up."

"What?"

"The eye muscles are the only ones not frozen up by sleep paralysis.  You told
me that yourself, remember?"

"I don't see where you're going with this."

Mulder leaned back against the bathroom wall and gave her a hollow smile. 
"Every victim died in the dark.  That's where I'm going with this."  He seemed
to think of something and made a face.  "Except for Fred Schmidt.  I'm not
really sure how he broke free; maybe the Tochok was so dependent on the mental
aspects of its victims that Fred was just too crazy to get killed."  He looked
at the toilet again, but she doubted he actually saw it.

Scully studied his face for a long time.  She wanted to reach out and take his
hand; instead, she turned back to the sink.  "Do you really believe that thing
exists?"

He caught her gaze in the mirror, his eyes weary and too knowing for comfort. 
"Don't you?"

She looked away.

<X><X><X><X>

The parrot was long gone, removed from its cage with dead rustling sounds that
Mulder would have paid half a year's salary to avoid hearing.  The cage was
also gone.  The parrot food was still there, sitting alone and forlorn in a sea
of white plastic sheeting where the remnants of the mess had been covered, just
in case.  Scully had packed and hauled her suitcase to Mulder's room a few
minutes ago, reiterating to all who would listen that this was only a temporary
stop on the way to whatever new room the Mo-Z management would come up with.  A
few eyebrows had been raised among the people from Bryan Memorial, and a pair
of deputies had exchanged a significant look of knowing amusement, but Scully
hadn't seen it and Mulder didn't give a damn.  Let them think what they wanted.

Mulder had been fighting idly with the connecting door for lack of anything
better to do.  It seemed to be loosening, although that might have had more to
do with the slackening rain than any of his efforts.  He took a surreptitious
look around the room as Volney shooed the Death Squad out into the thin rain,
letting in another whirlwind of cold air.  The blood-spattered bedclothes had
been stuffed in a large Hefty bag, and the exposed mattress lay staring at the
ceiling, its belly patterned by brown discolorations like sprawling birthmarks.

Cold.  Empty.  Mulder sighed, feeling disappointed for no definable reason,
and returned to wrestling pointlessly with the door.

Behind him, Volney whuffed out a great sigh of relief.  "All right, Agent
Mulder," he announced in the tones of a bartender declaring last call, "time to
lock up.  I'll be by in the morning to check in and get your weapons back to
you."  He shifted around, looking slightly guilty.  "I don't really think
you're a threat to the public, you understand ..."

"No, no, I got it," Mulder assured him, twisting the doorknob as he wrenched
at the stubborn wood under his hands.  "I've been through it before -- Scully
has a thing about covering our asses."

The sheriff gave him a look of bemused irritation.  "Can't imagine why," he
growled, and made a gesture toward the drizzle outside the open door.  "You
comin'?"

"Not yet, hang on.  I just want to --"  The door made a sharp ripping noise,
cutting him off.  Mulder gaped at it in surprise as it swung serenely open.  He
remembered Volney and turned to give him a sheepish smile.  "It was stuck," he
explained in a vague way.

"Hmph," Volney snorted.  "Gonna go through that way, then?"

"Yeah."

"Right," Volney said, and something suspiciously like a smile creased his
face.  "See you in the morning, Agent Mulder."

"Night."  Mulder walked through the connecting door as the other door shut and
locked.

The room was dim, barely illuminated by the yellow light peeking out of the
bathroom.  At first he didn't see Scully anywhere, just her luggage set neatly
next to the outside door, with her trench coat draped over it.  He shrugged,
and turned to shut the door.

Scully was curled up in the droopy armchair, fast asleep.  Her cheek was
pillowed on the left arm of the chair, just a few inches away from a worn spot
leaking a tiny cloud of stuffing.  She was still wearing her robe, flannel
pajama bottoms and thick white socks poking out from underneath it.  One hand
was loosely fisted and burrowed halfway under her cheek like the last remnant
of a babyhood thumb-sucking habit.  Her hair curled in every direction,
twisting up to cling to the fabric of the armchair back, falling over her cheek
and obscuring her eyes.  As he watched, her lips parted slightly and she sighed
in her sleep.

Mulder's breath caught in his throat as if he'd been punched in the gut.  A
stripe of queasiness that wasn't quite pain sliced down the inside of his
sternum, like a pathologist's scalpel cutting him open from the inside out.  It
pooled like blood in a place slightly above his stomach, right where his center
would have been if he flung his arms and legs out like a starfish.

He could not stop looking at her.

A dismayed revelation unfolded in his mind like a magician's flower.  He
stuffed it back down as fast as it came up, but he'd never really got the knack
of folding the damned things up in real life and he didn't do much better with
the one in his head.  Party-colored shreds of thought were left over, too
bright to ignore:  thoughts of kneeling by his sleeping partner and burying his
face in her stomach, her hands touching his hair like a benediction, the rest
of the world flowing past them unnoticed, unimportant.

Some kind of sound escaped him as he watched the dim light gleam off her hair,
making it glow like banked coals.  He knew better than to go to her; he'd
already done the rejection thing once or twice today, thank you, and all he had
to show for it was a sore jaw with a bruise the approximate size, shape, and
texture of a kiwi fruit.  He knew better than to go anywhere near her.

He went anyway.

It seemed to be a long trek across the rough motel carpet, and by the time he
knelt in front of the armchair he had a purpose in mind, a goal of waking her
up and getting her out of his room before his mouth ran away like the
gingerbread man and he ended up with a matching bruise somewhere even less
comfortable.  His hand reached out for her without asking the brain for
permission and before he quite realized it he was brushing air-fine hair out of
her eyes.  "Hey," he whispered, unable to take his eyes from her sleeping face.
"Hey, Scully."

"Mmm."  It was the barest hint of sound, accompanied by an eyebrow twitch.

"Scully, wake up."

She slept on, her breathing slow and regular.

"Scuh-lee," he murmured, tasting her name on his lips.  His fingers brushed
over her warm cheek and she made another faint sound, her mouth curving
slightly in a sleep-smile.  "Hey," he told her softly, "come on, this chair is
going to give you a sore neck if you sleep on it all night."

"Mmm."  

His fingertip traced her jawline with the most delicate of touches, flesh
painting flesh with a thread of blood-warmth.  As he reluctantly took his hand
away, that soft smile spread a little further across her face.  Mulder watched
her for a long moment, caught in glass.

She was ...

She was so ...

Twin curves of lashes stirred, lifted, and her eyes focused on him.  She made
a faint sound and blinked slowly, once.  "Mulder," she said, her voice rough
with sleep.

"Hi."

She blinked again, yawning a little on the long downswing.  "I fell asleep."

"Yeah," he agreed, adjusting his legs so that he was sitting in front of the
left arm of the armchair, his face level with hers.  "Comfortable?"

"Mmm," she rumbled, her eyes drooping.  "Not too bad."

She stayed that way for almost a minute, her breathing slow.  He cradled her
face with his gaze, expecting her to fall asleep, but a sliver of blue appeared
between the lashes of one eye and waxed lazily to a half-moon.  He smiled at
her, that odd queasy pain slipping leisurely up his ribs again.  "Hungry?"

"Yeah," she yawned.  "Too tired to eat, though."  The blue waned to a sliver
again, kept from total eclipse by sheer determination.  Mulder rested his
temple against the arm of the chair and watched her as though she might
disappear.  Scully arched an eyebrow at him, the one matching her single open
eye.  "What?"

"Nothing," he said, and closed his eyes, her warm sleep-smell surrounding him
and twisting in his lungs until it made his head spin.

"Are you tired?" she asked in a voice too low for Mulder to tell if the words
were in her doctor tone or her partner tone.

"Yeah."  He opened his eyes and found her looking straight at him with her
most enigmatic expression -- sleepier than normal, but unreadable due to the
droopy eyelids.

She studied him for a minute or two and then a crooked little smile appeared
like a crack in an egg.  "Hmmmm," she mumbled drowsily.  The pale hand stuffed
under her cheek worked its way back out to freedom, hesitated clumsily in
midair for a long moment, and then slipped over his face, cupping his cheek. 
She still smelled faintly of gunpowder.  He could feel each of her fingers
burning a separate and distinct furrow into his skin.  "You should sleep," she
whispered huskily, her thumb brushing a hot, shallow arc near his jaw, inches
from the angry bruise that same little hand had given him only a few hours
earlier.

"So should you," he whispered back.

Her eyes drooped and she made an amused sound that was thick with exhaustion. 
"Understatement," she mumbled, and her eyes glided shut.  Her hand relaxed and
succumbed to gravity, sliding down to rest on the side of his neck.  "Mulder
..."  She sighed his name as if she were already sleeping, and for all he knew
she was.

"Hmm?"

Her voice was almost inaudible, lips moving around a soft slip of air.  "You
said you had a dream ..."

Mulder's stomach flipped over and he exhaled hard.  "Yeah," he managed, too
aware of the bed behind him that still stank of guilty pleasures and guiltier
dreams, soaked into the sheets with his sweat.  

She breathed out a slow stream of warmth that curled around his face like fog.
"Me too."  

In the moment it took for him to go from puzzlement to comprehension, she fell
asleep.  

Mulder watched her sleep, thoughts buzzing around his head like lazy
bumblebees, the curve of her hand heavy and warm on his neck.  He reached up
and wrapped his fingers around her forearm, anchoring her to him.

"I know," he whispered.

- END -


<X><X><X><X>

AUTHOR'S NOTE: 

Attention:  Lena has not been allowed to compose this note herself, as it
would have delayed this story by at least another month. Instead, her beta team
has elected me, Shannon, to tell you that this story has been in the works for
more than a year and has had more editors than a dog has fleas.  She has been
threatened within an inch of her life if she ever, ever attempts another story
of this magnitude. This is her Magnum Opus, so enjoy it. She'll never write
anything over 50K again or we'll break all her fingers.


... Pssst, this is me, Lena.  Shhh.  Don't tell Shannon, but I'm gonna write
my own notes anyway.

I feel like I've been writing this thing my entire life.  Certainly I've been
writing it for most of my fanfiction career; there are people that met me a
year ago who don't remember a time when I *wasn't* working on what we called
parrotfic.  Many people have stepped in to help out over that year, and
hopefully I can thank them all.

First and forever, I have to thank Erlybird, giver of the world's best
feedback, constant cheerleader, and den mother to the most unruly pack of fic
puppies ever seen.  When I took the dead parrot out of my first fic and
substituted a regular corpse, Erly demanded that the parrot get a story of his
own, and so was parrotfic born.  Who knew?

Lysandra, my first beta reader and She Who Knows Where Quotation Marks Ought To
Go, for constant beta duties, for ordering me to stop outlining and start
writing, and for not laughing when I presented her with a truly horrible first
paragraph an hour after it was ordered.  Not to mention for her Herculean
effort this week as she ran a quick final beta on four chapters every day
(five, today).  I owe her much cheese.

shannono, the Grammar Nazi, for beta services, a stellar introduction to
baseball at Wrigley Field and the strangest "revise this thing NOW" stalk I
have ever encountered.

KatyBlue, who not only responded to my gushy feeback but also asked about my
next story and sent me tons of amazing information on parrots, including the
idea to make the sucker sing.

Jean Robinson, for stalking me on a story that hadn't even been posted as a WIP.

wen, for stalking me gorgeously with a cover for the newly named Gutless, for
mentioning that my ending really ought to act like an ending and then for
graciously forgiving me for acting like a jackass about having to rewrite it.

Marasmus, for asking to read it and then agreeing to do machete beta... not to
mention the shipment of British candy and British music and the funniest
picture-stalk I've ever seen.

Cofax, who asked all the right questions about the later chapters, who
wouldn't let me forget to give Mulder a little continuity and resolution, too,
and who nicely ignored my whining and bitching when it then took me twice as
long to write the chapters.

And last but never least, my beta groups, Babyfishmouth and Yes, Virginia, for
patient support above and beyond the call of duty, for the prudent application
of pointy sticks, for coming up with upwards of a hundred bizarre title
suggestions, and for putting me on trial for refusing to write smut.  I am
still honored and amazed to be surrounded by such a brilliant bunch of writers.
This Bud's for you.

Magdeleine 
March 4, 1999 - July 6, 2000

P.S. No parrots were harmed in the making of this fic.