Cook County Hospital

Chicago, Illinois

December 31, 2010

5:45 pm

Scully was staring at the slightly bedraggled ‘Happy New Year’ garland strung over the Emergency Department’s intake desk, awaiting their turn in line. It was New Year’s Eve and as with many previous holidays, they were seeking medical attention for her partner.

Mulder, for his part, winced as he noticed the blood dripping on the highly polished floor of the Emergency Department’s check in area. “Uh, Scully. I think I need another tissue,” he whispered. When she looked at him with one raised eyebrow, he nodded to the floor and the interesting Jackson Pollack his red blood cells were creating.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Mulder, I told you to keep pressure on it,” Scully chided as she dug through her purse and found a slightly used Kleenex to wipe up the blood drips. “Raise you hand. The blood will drip down your sleeve.”

“And maybe someone will pay attention,” he added, dutifully raising his right hand with his left hand holding his forearm in a death grip so that he appeared to be answering some pertinent question in fifth grade — or requesting the hall pass to go to the restroom. “What’s another good shirt, anyway,” he sighed.

“It’s destroyed already, Mulder. The suit jacket, too,” Scully replied, even though she was sure he had been muttering to himself.

“No, not the jacket,” he objected. “Mrs. Wang can re-weave it. She did wonders on my navy blue jacket a couple of months ago.”

“That was a snag, not a bullet hole,” Scully reminded him as they managed to step one person closer to the window. “Geez, this is worse than the Craddock Marine on 8th Street at lunch hour,” she complained. When he simply shrugged she glared at him. “If you’d just allowed me to call for an ambulance, we’d be in the treatment room already.”

“It’s a scratch, Scully. It doesn’t even qualify as a flesh wound! I still don’t know why you wouldn’t just run past a Walgreens, get some gauze and tape and patch it yourself.”

“Because the Bureau doesn’t see fit to cover me for malpractice when you allow the wound to get infected,” she said sweetly but her eyes were pure malice.

“I would never sue you, Scully. I’ve seen you on the witness stand,” Mulder responded dryly. Amazingly, they moved up two more spots and were next in line.

Just as the nice intake nurse finished with the hacking cough in front of them, a matronly woman in a teal sweater and ‘mom’ jeans pushed her way past Scully to the window. “My husband — he was just taken in by ambulance. How do I get back there?” she demanded.

Scully raised her other eyebrow at Mulder who sighed again without further comment.

“Ma’am, if you’d give me your husband’s last name,” the nurse asked patiently.

“North. James North. I followed them, he’s having severe chest pains. I have to get back there, he’s probably having a heart attack right now,” the woman insisted frantically.

“Just a moment, let me check,” the nurse said evenly and left through a door in the back of her cubicle.

Mulder looked over at Scully who was studying the floor, probably looking for any telltale marks from his blood.

About three minutes had elapsed when the same intake nurse stuck her head through the double doors next to the registration cubicle. “Mrs. North — you can come this way.” The woman spun on her heels and in her haste, bumped into Mulder’s upraised arm. He let out a gasp but Mrs. North didn’t notice as she scurried through the doors.

“Mulder, are you all right?” Scully asked as she steadied him, being careful not to jostle his arm. It was a rhetorical question, her partner was white as a sheet and looked like he might hit the floor any minute.

“I’m fine,” he spat out through gritted teeth. “Can’t we just go? This place is a zoo.”

“No, you’re not ‘fine’. It’s still bleeding. You need stitches and I don’t like my patients moving around on me when I’m sewing them up,” Scully said with a sad shake of her head. Her words were flippant, but her expression was one of growing concern. “By now I think you might be a tad low on fluids.”

“Tell them to top me off with 10W40 — I’m high mileage,” he quipped but immediately bit down hard on his bottom lip.

Finally, the intake nurse was back at the window and miraculously, they were actually at the front of the line.

“Name and nature of your problem?” she asked tiredly.

“Special Agent Fox Mulder, and he has a gunshot wound to his –” Scully didn’t even have a chance to finish her sentence before the nurse’s eyes grew to the size of saucers and she was picking up the phone to alert the head nurse and simultaneously yelling over her shoulder for a gurney.

“Why didn’t you tell someone earlier?” she chided. “How long have you been waiting?”

“It’s just a scratch,” Mulder continued to insist, but the ashen color of his cheeks was making a different statement.

“Really, I think a wheelchair would suffice,” Scully said patiently. “He doesn’t need a gurney.”

The nurse had disappeared, only to reappear through the double doors pushing a wheelchair. “Good, because it appears we are fresh out of gurneys. If you don’t mind Officer Mulder,” she nodded, indicating he should be seated.

“Agent, not . . . never mind.” Mulder quietly accepted his fate and sat down in the chair. Once off his feet, he did feel a little better — but he wasn’t going to let Scully in on that little secret.

The nurse pushed the wheelchair and Scully trailed behind him through the double doors. On the other side, it was complete and utter chaos. From what Mulder could see every examination room was filled and there were people clogging the hall. The nurse looked around and started to push the chair over toward a room only to be beaten there by a crowd surrounding a gurney, doing life saving procedures on the fly on a hefty man in shorts and ratty tennis shoes.

“OK, um, this looks like . . . ” the nurse stood still for a moment, considering her options. “Yeah. Well, sorry about this Officer Mulder, but I think this is the best we can do for the moment.” She shoved the wheelchair over into an alcove in the hallway and set the brakes. “Sorry, Mrs. Mulder, but you’ll have to stand until I can find you a chair.”

“I’m not his — ” Scully gave up trying to explain their marital status because the nurse had already run off, presumably in search of the elusive visitors chair for the hallway.

Mulder reached over and tapped on her hand, bringing her attention down to his level. “Um, Scully. It’s really starting to hurt,” he admitted in a near whisper.

“Oh, Mulder,” she sighed. Looking around, she spied a counter with labeled drawers. Checking the labels quickly, she found a pair of scissors and some gauze and tape. She gave him a stern look. “Mrs. Wang can’t work miracles, Mulder. The jacket is toast.”

He sighed dejectedly. “Oh, all right,” he agreed with a huff and held out his arm. Deftly, she made short work of the sleeve of the jacket and then the sleeve of the white dress shirt.

Using the gauze to wipe away most of the blood, she bit her lip without realizing she was doing a perfect imitation of her partner. “Mulder, this is deeper than a scratch. It needs stitches, at least 7 or 8 from what I can see. See, it went diagonally — ” It was only her lightning fast reflexes that caught her partner before he slid to the floor, passed out cold.

“Oh my God, did he just pass out?” asked a new nurse. She stooped down and helped Scully get the unconscious agent back into the chair. “He really needs to be on a gurney,” the young woman said.

“Yes. If there was one to spare, I would definitely concur,” Scully said, blowing a wisp of hair out of her eyes.

“Hang on a sec. Don’t go anywhere,” the young nurse instructed.

“We won’t, I promise,” Scully replied, but the sarcasm was lost as the woman hurried off. Surprisingly, she was back in just a few minutes pushing a gurney, followed by an orderly big enough to be a nose tackle for the Washington Redskins.

“Jim here is going to give us a hand getting your husband on the gurney.” This time Scully didn’t even try to correct the misconception. In record time, Mulder was hoisted on the gurney and the nurse proceeded to take his vitals. “His pressure is pretty low. When did this happen?” she asked as she made notes on Mulder’s chart.

“About two hours ago,” Scully answered after checking her watch.

“Gunshot wound?” the woman asked, reading the chart.

“We’re FBI agents. We were a part of a team apprehending a suspect and things — got a little out of hand. I didn’t think it was that serious until I got a good look at it just now. Unfortunately, Mulder looked at it, too. He’s usually OK around blood, unless it’s his own.”

“He’s an officer? You should have said something,” the young woman chided.

Scully sighed. “We did, a few times now. Look, I understand how busy you are, but he really only needs stitches and some fluids. I’m a medical doctor.” She dug in her purse to find the small laminated card that identified her as a member of the medical community of the District of Columbia, in good standing. “If you would just get me a suture kit and some IV fluids — ”

The other woman regarded Scully’s offered card and frowned. “I’m pretty sure you have to have privileges at this hospital in order to treat anyone. Let me go ask.”

And before Scully could utter another word, the young nurse was gone into the chaos surrounding them.

By this time, Mulder was starting to come around. “What happened?” he rasped.

“You saw your wound and fainted,” she snapped. He bit his lip and she was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry, Mulder. This place is a zoo. But you do need stitches. And I think you could use some fluids — your blood pressure is pretty low.”

“Scully, if we were in some post apocalyptic world with no rules, what would you do in this situation?”

She raised her eyebrow and glared at him. “Mulder, I’m not going to ‘jack’ a suture kit and a unit of ringers solution. Just get that thought out of your mind right now.”

“Well, then we wait,” he replied. He moved his shoulder to try and find a more comfortable position and yelped when his arm caught on the side rail. When Scully looked down, he was bleeding again.

“Oh, for the love of — ” She shook her head while grabbing a corner of the sheet covering the gurney. “Mulder, apply pressure to this.” She turned and started off.

“Uh, Scully, where are you going?” he asked fearfully.

“To jack a suture kit and some IV fluid,” she told him with conviction born of exasperation.

She hoped she would find the necessary supplies in the same cabinet she had found the scissors and gauze, but that fate was not smiling on her. She wandered down the hall, looking in exam room after exam room, hoping to find one that didn’t either wasn’t in use, or perhaps the patient was in Xray. Finally, she was able to find such a room, only to discover the same woman from the lobby sitting in a chair, staring at the empty spot where a gurney had previously been.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t think this room — ”

The woman was shaking her head slowly. “I told him not to try and play basketball with the kids in the driveway. But he said ‘it’s Christmas and it’s nice out, how often does that happen?’ Then, before I know it, Jimmy comes running in yelling the Grandpa’s chest is hurting. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it,” she said, dabbing her eyes with a very wadded piece of tissue.

“Um, I hate to disturb you, uh, Mrs. North, but I’m looking for some supplies — ” Scully explained quietly as she went to the cabinets on the back wall of the exam room and started her search.

“He still thinks he’s a kid! I tell him, all the time, David — you’re 62 years old! You aren’t a spring chicken! Does he listen? Of course not. Might as well talk to the wind . . . ”

“I’m sure the staff is doing everything in their power, Mrs. North. Your husband is in good hands,” Scully said just as she opened a bottom cabinet and found her prize. “Oh, thank God,” she muttered, grabbing the kit. Now, if she could just find the where they hid the Ringers —

“Can I help you?” came a stern voice from behind her.

Scully straightened slowly, tucking the kit inside her suit jacket. “Um, yes. Mrs. North needs some tissue. I was just looking for a — ”

The nurse, wearing a steely expression, held up a box of tissue, sitting out in plain sight. “You mean these?”

“Uh, I thought maybe you had some of the ones with lotion,” Scully covered quickly. “Well, good luck Mrs. North. I hope you have some good news soon,” she said in a rush and headed back out into the chaos of the main area.

It was easy to get turned around in the large emergency department, but Scully was certain she knew the way back to the alcove where Mulder was waiting on a gurney. Until she arrived and found a portable X-ray machine where his gurney should have been. Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she retraced her steps and started off in the other direction. In the subsequent alcoves she discovered, she found assorted wheelchairs, a woman on a gurney who was sound asleep and a cardiac crash cart, but no Mulder.

Swallowing down her fear, she approached one of the harried nurses. “Excuse me, but can you tell me where I can find Fox Mulder. He was brought in with a gunshot wound — ”

“Oh, I remember! Officer Mulder, yes, just a minute,” she said, turning to step away but this time Scully tailed her until the young woman stopped at a computer terminal. “OR 7,” she said with a tired smile.

Scully sputtered and shook her head. “I don’t understand. He’s in surgery?”

“Looks like,” the nurse said with a smile. “Are you another officer?”

It was a bald-faced lie, and Scully always had trouble with those, but it was a time for drastic action. Remembering how quickly they fell all over themselves when Mrs. North had appeared at the ER intake desk, Scully squared her shoulders and stared straight into the eyes of the young woman. “No. I’m his wife,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t crack.

“Oh my goodness. Well, let’s get you up to the surgical waiting room right now!” The nurse looked around her and waved to a passing orderly. “James, would you please show Mrs. Mulder up to the surgical waiting rooms. Tell the desk nurse her husband is in OR7 and the surgeon should speak with her as soon as possible.”

“Sure thing, Nancy. Mrs. Mulder was it? If you’ll just follow me.”

Surgical Waiting Room

8:45 pm

Scully had thumbed through all 17 back issues of Sports Illustrated and had just started in on Architectural Digest when the nurse at the desk called her name, or at least her name according to Cook County Hospital. “Mrs. Mulder?” the nurse called above the hubbub of voices of other distraught family members.

Scully elbowed her way to the desk and gave the nurse a strained smile. “Is my . . . husband out of surgery?” she asked.

“The surgeon would like a word with you. Just go through this door and to your left, fifth door on the right,” the nurse said primly.

Scully followed the directions, finding what she hoped was the right office and let herself in. It was a sterile room with two chairs, a computer monitor on a desk and the standard box of tissues. She sat in the chair closest to the door and waited.

“I’m Dr. Ahad, I performed surgery on your husband,” said the tall young man with olive complexion and big brown eyes. He didn’t really look at Scully, only at the folder in his hands. “It was a tricky surgery, but I think we caught it in time. If you’ll take a look at the images I was able to pull from the scope — ”

“Scope?” Scully repeated, somewhat confused. “You had to use a scope?”

Dr. Ahad glanced over at her and nodded patiently. “Wouldn’t perform surgery without it.” He pulled a keyboard from under the desk and typed hurriedly, bringing up an image on the monitor. Grabbing a pen from his lab coat pocket, he pointed at the image. “As you can see, this protrusion — that’s was the source of the problems — ”

“What?!” Scully interrupted while staring in shock at the screen. “What I see there is an aortic dissection! That was not what Mulder had at all. It was a flesh wound! A little deep, but tissue, not even an artery. What the hell have you done?”

“Flesh wound? Madam, your husband presented at the ER with severe back pains and shortness of breath. His blood pressure was quite high, and three of the four tests we performed this morning — ”

“Hold it right there,” Scully said with a relieved sigh. “We weren’t HERE this morning. We were at the police station. My — husband — was shot during the apprehension of a suspect. He did not have back pain nor shortness of breath — at least not the last time I saw him, which,” she glanced at her watch, “was two and a half hours ago.”

“Then you aren’t Mrs. Miller?” Dr. Ahad asked, chewing on the edge of his lip.

“No. I’m . . . Dr. Dana Scully — MD. My, uh, husband is Fox Mulder — Special Agent Fox Mulder who ‘presented’ at the ER this afternoon with a gunshot wound to the upper arm. He needed stitches and fluids.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Ahad asked bluntly.

“I have absolutely no idea,” Scully replied.

Dr. Ahad looked nonplussed for a moment. “Wait right here, um, Dr. Scully was it? I’ll be right back.”

“Sure, fine, whatever,” Scully sneered as she leaned back against the wall. She let her head thump a few times just because it helped relieve the gnawing pain at the base of her skull that wrapped around her forehead, crushing all rational thought processes.

Much to her surprise, a mere ten minutes later, Dr. Ahad had returned. “I found him. If you follow me, I’ll show you were he is.”

Surgical floor, 9 West

9:35 pm

Scully pushed the door open and took in the sight before her. Mulder was lying on the bed, head elevated, arm in a sling, flipping through the meager channel selection on the overhead television.

“Oh, hey, Scully. You get lost somewhere?” he asked brightly when he saw her in the doorway.

“Mulder, how in the world did you get yourself admitted?” she asked, crossing her arms.

“Don’t ask me. They haven’t told me anything since somebody wheeled me in an OR and stitched me up. I must have fallen asleep because next thing I know, I’m here, there’s a dinner tray at my bedside and I have this,” he held up his good arm to show her the IV tubing. “I’d leave, but I think they took my clothes hostage.”

She shook her head and walked to the end of the bed, picking up the chart resting in the basket. She read through the pages and nodded. “You’re here for observation because you passed out at the sight of your wound,” she told him, dropping the chart back in the basket. Spying the visitors’ chair, she dragged it over closer to the bed and sat down tiredly. Feeling something digging into her side, she pulled out the suture kit and tossed on the bed near Mulder’s feet.

“Scully! You sly dog. You _did_ jack a suture kit! It must be love,” he grinned at her.

“Lot of good it did me. When I got back there, you were gone,” she said, stifling a yawn only to have another overcome her almost immediately.

“You look beat,” he said affectionately.

“I am. And I’m starved.”

He smiled at her and pushed the nurse call button. In a moment, the intercom in the ceiling came to life. “Yes, Agent Mulder? What can we do for you?”

“Patty? Did you tell me you keep sandwiches in the fridge at the desk?”

“Sure do. What can we get you?” came the answer.

“Got a turkey on whole wheat, with a packet of that Dijon mustard?”

“Let me look,” which was followed shortly by “no turkey, but I have a ham on rye.”

Mulder shot Scully a look, which she promptly returned with a tired nod. “That’ll work. Could you bring that in with a can of diet soda — something non-caffeinated, if you have it.”

“One ham on rye and a diet lemon-lime Shasta, coming up.”

“Mulder, those sandwiches are for the patients,” Scully objected, but her stomach was growling so loud she felt like she had to shout to be heard.

“Come up here,” Mulder ordered, after scooting over to make room on the bed.

“No, Mulder. The nurse will be in — ”

“Scully, she won’t mind. C’mon. You’re going to fall asleep in that chair, fall over, crack your head open on the hard floor and then you’ll be the one in the bed. Now get the cute little ass up here.”

She had just settled in when there was a tap on the door and the nurse came in with the promised sandwich and 8 ounce can of soda, balanced with a cup of ice. “As ordered,” she said, smiling. “Oh, hello. You must be Mrs. Mulder.”

Mulder started to correct her, but Scully jabbed her elbow into his rib. “That’s me. Thanks for taking care of my big lug here,” she smiled back.

“Oh, he’s been pretty good so far. Hey, since this is a private room, let me see if I can’t find one of the nice chairs — the ones that fold out into a bed. I think you’d both be more comfortable.”

“That would be great, Patty. Thanks,” Mulder said glancing suspiciously at his partner. The nurse smiled and left, closing the door partway behind her.

“What was that all about?” he demanded.

“What?” she asked around bites of the sandwich. “The Mrs. Mulder thing?”

“Yeah. You usually bite their heads off when they mistake you for my wife.”

Scully finished off the sandwich and chugged most of the soda before daintily wiping her mouth on the accompanying napkin. “Sometimes, you just have to play the system, Mulder,” she told him with a grin that soon turned into a long and wide yawn.

“I don’t think we’re going to be ringing in 2011 tonight, Scully,” he told her, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear.

“That’s OK. We’ll catch it next year,” she said, snuggling into his side.

“2012,” he said quietly but when he looked down at his partner, he found her sound asleep. “Happy New Year, Scully. Love you.”

the end

The Hook

By Martin Ross

Category: Casefile, humor

Rating: PG-13 for language

Summary: When an old urban legend seemingly comes to life in the Virginia wilderness,

Mulder, Manville, and the Gunmen go on a potentially lethal fishing expedition.

Disclaimer: Everybody in this little fishing party except Wallace Manville belongs to

Chris Carter.

E-mail: rossprag@fgi.net

“I feel like I’m gonna hurl,” Langly murmured as he huddled by the fire with his

comrades. The Gunman’s chiseled facial features were even more jagged and haggard

than usual in the dancing reflection of the spitting flame. His eyes, ringed in evening

shadows, were haunted, troubled.

“It’s all right, Langly,” Byers assured him gently. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.

Right, Melvin?”

Frohike glanced up from his enameled aluminum plate. “Naw. Nothing at all,” the Lone

Gunman’s ringleader grunted distractedly.

Langly straightened, eyes flashing. “Easy for you, asshole. You’re not a killer. You didn’t

have to look into those eyes, those cold, dead eyes, knowing you’d destroyed a life.

Gutting him, dismembering him like that. I don’t know if I’ll ever be the same, man.”

“If it helps,” Mulder offered quietly, “he was really delicious. Right, Doc?”

Dr. Wallace Manville, former colleague of the notorious Hannibal “The Cannibal” Lecter,

nodded silently, his mineral eyes contemplating the full, pocked Virginia moon.

“God, and to think I joined in your gory little ritual,” Langly moaned.

“It was a trout,” Frohike breathed, sucking a sliver of piscine flesh from a molar. “Get

over it, Nancy. And your anguish would be a little more compelling if you hadn’t eaten

two of the damned things.”

“I am definitely going vegan,” the skinny hacker groaned. “I feel lousy, nauseous. The

guilt is eating my insides.”

Mulder tipped his canvas camp chair precariously as he retrieved a jar and a bag of

Doritos from between Langly’s Skechers. He held the jar to the firelight, scanning the

cheaply printed label. “I don’t think it’s guilt, Roland Martin. ‘Whisker-Lickin’ Cheese

Bait — Cheese, Brains, and the Whisker-Lickin’ Secret Ingredient the Big ‘Uns can’t

Resist.’ It actually says ‘’Uns.’ Langly, you finished off a half-jar of this crap.”

“It said cheese,” Langly squeaked. “It was right next to the freakin’ jerky!” He looked

down, eyes widening, and Frisbee-ed a dipped chip into the woods. “I ate bait! Jesus, I

ate fish food! Could that kill me, Doc?”

Manville continued to study the luminescent orb. “Depends largely on what kind of

brains they use. If it’s locally produced, it very likely contains swine brains. So bovine

spongiform encephalopathy shouldn’t be an issue, although I’m sure FDA guidelines of

specified risk materials would prevent–”

“Bovine what?”

“BSE, mad cow disease,” Frohike chortled. He turned toward Byers, who was vaguely

ludicrous in the fresh plaid flannel shirt and stiff jeans he’d reluctantly substituted for his

customary suit. “John, you take the first shift and make sure Langly doesn’t take a header

into the lake or start mooing at the moon.”

“Go milk yourself, asshole,” Langly snapped, sinking back sulkily into his chair.

“I was wondering why you bought that stuff,” Byers said, by way of an olive branch.

“Cheese bait’s generally for catfish, carp, other scavenging fish. I actually read yellow

corn is the ideal trout bait.”

“That’s a popular Native American option,” concurred Manville, the only experienced

angler in the group. His voice seemed to float serenely on the night breeze. “A ball of

white bread or cheese also is suitable. And, of course, there’s Eisena fetida — the Red

Wriggler.”

“The Cadillac of Worms,” Mulder quoted WKRP in Cincinnati. “So, Langly, if you were

scarfing cat bait all day, what were you using as bait?”

Langly scowled and dug into the pocket of his dingy windbreaker. He displayed a bag

full of colorful, translucent annelids. “The old dude at the bait shop said these were the

perfect lure.”

“Gummi Worms,” Frohike cackled. “Jesus, Ringo, you really are Roland Martin. Wilford

Brimley was yanking your ball sack. Shit, fish probably croaked from diabetes.” The

trollish conspiracy buff frowned. “Just who the hell is Roland Martin, anyway?”

Mulder sighed, washing down the last of his trout with a shot of Dew. “Maybe this

wasn’t the hottest idea for a road trip, after all. Just thought it would be a good

opportunity for some male bonding is all.”

“Dude, there’s hardly enough testosterone here to make a small Girl Scout,” Langly

scoffed, forgetting mad cows and Eisena fetida. “No offense, Doc.”

Manville smiled and shook his neatly shorn head.

“Just why did you invite us out here, Mulder?” Byers inquired somberly. “We’re hardly

the outdoor types — Frohike gets antsy around neon tetra. And, once again, no offense,

but the three of us and Dr. Manville, well, we’re an eclectic group, to say the least. Why

trout fishing on the Cranesnest River?”

“Yeah,” Frohike muttered, glancing anxiously into the darkness. “I can practically hear

banjo music and Ned Beatty squealing like a sodomized pig.”

Fox Mulder placed his leftovers on the grass beside him and folded his hands over his

now full stomach. Manville closed his eyes, still smiling. The agent shrugged.

“OK,” Mulder surrendered. “I wanted to borrow your expertise on a case.”

“Expertise?” Langly demanded. “I don’t think I’m gonna find a Wifi connection out here

in Deliveranceland. Why drag us all the way out here for a consultation?”

“I don’t want your technical expertise,” Mulder grinned. “I need your knowledge of

popular folklore, of American apocrypha. You guys are questionably the East Coast’s

leading experts on urban legends. Or, in this case, I guess, rural legends.”

Frohike’s eyes narrowed behind his thick lenses, but his brows beetled in interest. He

jerked his outsized skull toward Manville. “And him? I assume he’s along for some other

reason than teaching the Bassturbator here how to cast a line.”

“Eat me,” Langly growled.

“Dr. Manville here,” Mulder overrode, “is along to help us land a really big fish. Of the

human variety.”

“What’s the hook?” Frohike asked.

“How very appropriate,” Manville mused.

**

“A teen boy drove his date to a dark and deserted Lovers’ Lane for a bit of heavy petting

and labored breathing,” the psychiatrist and former CIA profiler began as the Gunmen

moved closer to the now-smoldering fire. “After turning on the radio for mood music, he

began kissing his girlfriend.

“Shortly, the music suddenly stopped, and an announcer’s voice broke in. It seems a

convicted murderer had just escaped from the state insane asylum, which happened to be

located not far from Lovers’ Lane. Anyone who noticed a strange man lurking about with

a hook in place of his right hand should immediately report his whereabouts to the police.

“The girl became frightened and asked to be taken home. The boy, feeling bold, locked

all the doors instead and, assuring his date they would be safe, attempted to kiss her

again. She became frantic and pushed him away, insisting they leave. Relenting, the boy

peevishly jerked the car into gear and spun its wheels as he pulled out.

“When they arrived at the girl’s house, she got out of the car, and, reaching to close the

door, began to scream uncontrollably. The boy ran to her side to see what was wrong and

there, dangling from the door handle, was a bloody hook.”

“Shit,” Langly murmured. “That happen around here?”

To his surprise, Frohike wheezed in merriment. “The Hook, Dweeb. You never heard that

one? Byers, you were a Boy Scout, right?”

“Junior Achievement,” the bearded former bureaucrat amended with a note of modesty.

“No one really knows the source of the folk tale,” Manville continued. “But it

proliferated in the ‘50s, most likely as a sexual cautionary tale for hormonal adolescents.

Naughty children meet unspeakable fates. The hook, of course, is an obvious Freudian

symbol – if you subscribe to Freud. One of the first public records of the story was in a

1960 Dear Abby column, where the escaped amputee was actually identified as a rapist.”

“Wait a minute,” Byers said. “Are you saying…?”

“Gus Shiveley, 63, truck driver with Parti-Tyme Snacks for the western part of the state,”

Mulder related, shifting into Bureau mode. “Disappeared from his regular route about a

month ago. Found him in a cornfield two weeks later, slashed to death — the truck was

hidden behind an abandoned barn nearby. According to the Dickenson County coroner,

the fatal wound virtually pulled the carotid artery from Shiveley’s throat. The weapon left

a distinct curved signature. See where I’m going?”

“The Hook,” Byers whispered, looking for all the world like the Scout he’d never been.

“Was this the first one?”

Mulder shook his head. “Something about the murder rang a bell with the coroner, and he

checked into the death of another trucker about five years earlier. Luckily, he wasn’t just

one of these political hacks with a scalpel, and he knew how to do a thorough p.m. The

first death was designed to look like a tire-changing accident, but the fatal wound to the

victim’s chest was consistent with Shiveley’s.

“The first vic, Alan Yost, was a cross-country driver for a sporting goods supplier. Also in

his sixties — coroner theorized the killer picked older, potentially weaker prey — but no

apparent connection to Shiveley. The coroner was about to let it go when they found

Dena Jo Hillock.

“Dena Jo, 74, and her husband, Fred, ran a limo service out of Baltimore — proms, visiting

dignitaries, weddings, et cetera — until their divorce 10 years ago. Dena Jo had a summer

cabin right around here — she loved to trout-fish. That’s where they found her a week ago

— on her front porch, her skull virtually split with what the coroner identified as a hook-

like weapon. That’s when he called the Bureau.”

“So your first thought for a destination weekend was to bring a computer geek, an

overweight hippie, a pasty Eagle Scout — excuse me, Byers, Junior Achiever, and a doctor

of psychology out to the middle of the woods for a game of serial killer roulette,” Frohike

suggested, incredulously.

“You guys said you were tired of shooting the fall foliage,” Mulder said. “Look, I am an

experienced profiler, Wallace here’s an ex-spook, and I’ve seen you three attack an extra-

large Domino’s like you were conducting a Mossad raid on a Hamas bomb factory.

Seriously, I have a theory, but it’s out there. And out there basically is where you guys

live.”

Langly scanned the nearby pines. “If one-handed serial killers are moving in, then I’m

ready to get a place in the ‘burbs.”

“You appear to be a little bit young for this guy — or gal,” Mulder reassured him. “Though

Frohike, you might want to stay close to the group.”

“Great,” the paranoid gnome rasped. “So what do you think this moron’s up to?”

“Serial killers fall into several basic categories,” Mulder began. “The first is the missionary

killer.”

“Wouldn’t want to go doggie-style,” Langly giggled.

“Missionary killers believe their acts are justified on the basis that they are getting rid of a

certain type of person,” Manville amplified patiently. “Aileen Wuornos, the infamous

female serial killer, murdered men who used prostitutes. Often, the missionary is

motivated by racism, religious zealotry, or just some past abuse or slight at the hands of

an individual who becomes representative of a whole class or category.

“In this case, we could speculate that the killer lost a loved one in an on-road encounter

with a semi or came out the loser in a fight with an enraged trucker. Or given the solitary

nature of trucking, maybe we have a homegrown Wuornos — a prostitute with a heart of

steel rather than gold.”

“Hooker with a hook,” Langly breathed. “Kinky.”

“Step off, perv,” Frohike muttered. “Or maybe this freak is some enviro-kook out after

eighteen-wheeled gas hogs.”

“Diesel hogs,” Mulder corrected. “And calm down, Langly.”

“Just sayin’.”

“My second theory was that we were dealing with a Visionary — a serial killer who

somehow felt his deeds would achieve some ultimate societal goal. That’s actually where

your diesel hog theory would fit in. He or she’s killing old truckers for a single reason.

Maybe the killer believes they pose a greater safety threat on the highway. Maybe it’s like

the divide between the WWII vets and the Vietnam vets — the killer feels the old school

drivers are ruining it for the new kids. Except where does Dena Jo fit in?”

“She seems to be the wild card all around,” Byers suggested. “She’s a woman and has

nothing to do with trucking. Or wait. Was she ever in trucking?”

“Fred and Dena’s A-I Livery — unfortunate Flintstonian choice of names — was

incorporated in 1964. Prior to that, Dena was a hostess at a Baltimore nightspot and Fred

was the bartender. This wasn’t the kind of place where the out-of-town long-haulers

tended to hang out.” Mulder stared into the fire. “But there is at least one important link

between Dena Jo, Shiveley, and Yost — I confirmed it with the Dickenson County

coroner. Hey, time to break out the Smores. I bought dark chocolate — saw it on Iron

Chef…”

“Screw the Smores, Canteen Boy,” Frohike snapped. “What’s the connection?”

“Dena Jo Hillock, Alan Yost, and Gus Shiveley were all loyal, card-carrying, lifelong

members of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters. The Teamsters is the nation’s

largest organized union — it includes truckers, rail and port workers, airline haulers,

garbagemen, and professional chauffeurs like Dena Jo Hillock.”

Byers planted his palms on the thighs of his too-blue jeans. “Mulder, are you saying this is

some kind of Mob thing, a union power grab?”

Mulder snagged Manville’s SIGG Anthracite thermos and poured another cup of Redbird

Estate-Grown Kona. “Dena, Al, and Gus were strictly rank-and-file, and the closest they

came to La Famiglia was the Sopranos DVD set they found in Yost’s sleeper cab. But

their age raised a flag for me, and I found an interesting tidbit in Dena’s history. I started

digging and came up with the possible link.

“Alan Yost was from Detroit, where the Teamster movement largely got its start. When

he was younger, it’s reported he wasn’t above swinging a bat or a plank on a scab or a

union-breaker. He ate, drank, and pissed Teamster.

“Gus Shiveley was a guest at a New Jersey union rally in 1962 — voice of the rank-and-

file — sharing the podium with several of the major Teamster honchos including Jimmy

Hoffa himself. He even had a photo shaking mitts with the Great Man himself on his

trailer wall.

“And by the early ‘60s, Dena Jo and her mate had virtually locked the limo trade in

Charm City — supposedly through Fred’s early mob friendships. They were the go-to

couple when some mid-level celebrity or high-level hood was in town.”

Byers gasped. Manville smiled at the moon. Frohike’s eyes narrowed.

“You going where I think you are with this?” the chief Gunman challenged. “Hook

Man’s not the urban legend you brought us out here to catch.”

“Different legend,” Mulder admitted. “Want to hear my profile of the killer?

“He was born in the early part of the 20th Century in a small rural town. When he and his

folks moved to the city, he was tagged as a hillbilly, and he quickly learned to talk with

his fists. By the Crash of ’29, he’d gained a rep as a tough character. He dropped out of

9th grade to unload boxcars for a major grocery chain. Thirty-two cents an hour was

terrific pay at the time, but he and his coworkers got paid only when they were actually

unloading produce and meat, and the foreman was a guy they not-so-fondly called ‘Little

Bastard.’ After a group of workers were fired for going to a food cart at midnight of their

shift, our friend staged a work stoppage — just as a shipment of fresh strawberries arrived.

Faced with a carload of rotting fruit, management buckled, and a legend was born.

“About a year later, our friend got into a fight with his foreman and quit his job. Before

long, he’d landed a job as union organizer for the International Brotherhood of

Teamsters. He used Detroit mob connections to shake down a group of small grocers, and

landed his first conviction and some heavy street creds. By 1957, he was Teamsters

president; by 1964, he’d organized nearly every over-the-road trucker in the United

States. But the Kennedys — John and Bobby — were out to nab him, and soon after, he

was convicted of bribery and sent away until 1971, when Nixon offered to free him if he

promised to stay out of union activities for 10 years.

“Our man was planning to sue to invalidate that restriction in order to reassert his power

over the Teamsters when he disappeared on July 30, 1975, from the parking lot of the

Machus Red Fox Restaurant in Oakland County, Michigan, outside Detroit. He’d been

due to meet two Mafia leaders, Anthony ‘Tony Jack’ Giacalone from Detroit and

Anthony ‘Tony Pro’ Provenzano from Jersey.”

“This is incredible,” Byers breathed.

“Ever since then, hoods and hitmen looking for a name or a book deal have been claiming

to have disappeared our guy, and the feds have been pulling up planks, concrete, sod, and

even a barn to find his remains.”

Mulder stopped then, and consulted his watch. “OK. Gentlemen, I propose we call it a

night.”

“What?” the Gunmen sang as one.

“It’s 8:32. He ought to be closed up by now.”

“Who?” Frohike demanded.

Manville drained his remaining Kona and rose. “The killer. The Crane’s Haven Bait and

Sandwich Shop closes at 8 p.m. during the spring. I overheard him complaining about his

counter guy being out with the flu.”

“Wait a minute, wait,” Langly protested. “You lost me. Somewhere around ‘Want to hear

my profile?’ You trying to tell us the old asshole at the bait shop is a serial killer?”

“Not a serial killer,” the psychiatrist stressed. “We — Agent Mulder and I — suspect he

went into hiding in the ‘70s. Some of my intelligence sources suggest he’d angered some

major mob chiefs, but he didn’t dare go to the Department of Justice. Probably had

nothing sufficient to trade for Witness Protection. So he disappeared, faking his own

abduction and/or death, and bought the bait shop and a new identity away from

organized civilization. County records showed the store changed hands in 1977.”

Mulder took over. “But as luck would have it, even with his advanced age, that cheesy

thick beard of his, and the seed cap he wears to conceal his famous hairline, Al Yost must

have recognized him when he dropped off a shipment of rods or lures. Maybe it was a

facial feature, maybe it was a turn of phrase or a gesture, but Yost recognized him. Our

guy probably tried to deny it, and maybe Yost winked and promised to keep his secret,

but he got worried and, that night, tracked him down.

“God knows how many old Teamsters he’s slaughtered over the years. Maybe just Yost

and Shively, the potato chip guy who usually dealt with the sick counter man. From

rumors I’ve heard, Dena Jo Hillock may have had even more intimate insight into our

man’s behavior and quirks.”

“But, but he’s at least 90, unless the smell of death was that huge cigar he was smoking,”

Byers said.

“Actually, more like 95. But a burly, well-kept 95. He’d have to be, in case some old

wiseguys stopped in for a Red Wriggler.”

“So what now?” Frohike asked. “We call in the cavalry? Confront him at the store?”

“Not necessary,” Mulder smiled. “See, Skinner wasn’t too wild about my theory, and

Scully suggested ‘a little snipe hunt with the guys’ might help me unwind. And what’s

old Fish Breath going to say if we show up with a pair of cuffs and a wild story?

“No. We’re going to put out the fire and turn in. C’mon, boys, bedtime, or no smores

tomorrow.”

**

Melvin Frohike cracked his spine, yawning, as he loosed a steady stream of urine on a

Virginia pine. He’d been unable to sleep after Mulder’s strange campfire tale, and fish

seemed to work on his bladder.

The Gunman shook some dew from the lilly, and zipped up. Then a beefy arm ringed his

neck, and he felt cold metal on his bristled cheek.

“Hey, pal, you ever hear of a comfort zone?” Frohike croaked.

“Shut up!” The voice was gravelly, cold, ancient but steady. “You guys shoulda stayed in

the city. All kinda danger out here in the sticks. Arggh!”

The source of the bait merchant’s argghing was a sudden inundation of light — the

halogen lights Manville had rigged at the edge of the clearing. The old man staggered

back, releasing Frohike, and Mulder stepped forward, gently tugging an object from his

rough, liver-spotted fingers.

The agent examined the tool. “A souvenir from your old Kroger days, unloading crates of

apples and sides of beef? Came in handy when Al Yost and Gus Shiveley threatened to

blow your secret. Did you feel any regret at all when you split Dena Jo’s melon?”

“I don’t know none of them people!” the old man grunted as he shielded his eyes. His

cap had fallen off, revealing a familiar Sgt. Carter crewcut. “You punks don’t know what

you done. I know some guys — some rough characters.”

“Me, too,” Mulder grinned, flashing his ID. “Assume the position, if you can do it

without breaking a hip.”

The old man began to curse, using language Langly later vowed to add to his everyday

lexicon. When the state police arrived, he gained his second wind, and sulfur remained in

the air after he departed.

Mulder displayed the meat hook he’d confiscated from the killer. As he turned it in the

halogen glare, the Gunmen stared at a pair of carved initials: J.H.

“How’d you know he’d come for us?” Langly asked.

“I dropped my line in the water this morning,” Mulder said. “See, when we stopped for

bait and snacks — or in Langly’s case, snack bait — I pulled a little switch.” Mulder

reached into his Eddie Bauer jacket and withdrew a plastic Ziploc. Inside was a short,

turd-like object with one rough-cut, burned end and one end chewed nearly to a pulp.

“Shit,” Frohike laughed. “You lifted his stogie.”

“No doubt saturated with his DNA which I intend to run through Quantico. But don’t be

shocked — I left him something in return. It took me a few days to locate an Internet

dealer and have it overnighted. I left it in his ashtray, where he’d put his butt.” Mulder

pulled out a quartered piece of paper. Frohike unfolded it and stared down at the

computer printout.

“You bastard!” the Gunman howled, handing the paper to Byers. Langly craned over his

shoulder, studying the picture of a weathered, yellowed restaurant matchbook. On its

face, in elegant Old English script, was a single word.

Machus.

**

Scully blinked as the front door opened. She’d stayed up late to watch Deliverance on

AMC, but had fallen asleep before Burt and the gang could meet up with their rural

Welcome Wagon.

“You’re back early,” she murmured, switching off the TV and rearranging the couch

pillows as Mulder deposited his recently purchased tackle box on the kitchen counter.

“How’d it go?”

Her partner held up two hands roughly a foot apart. “I caught a trout this big. Langly ate

a jar of bait. Frohike is convinced he has West Niles. Oh, yeah. And we found Jimmy

Hoffa.”

Scully nodded. “Wonderful. You know those boots are going in the dumpster, right?”

*end

My Favorite Moment

Author: Waddles 52

Category: MSR

Rating: PG 13

Summary: Mulder and Scully try to have a normal Valentine’s Day.

Disclaimer: Okay, I think we all know the drill by now. The only thing I get out of writing

these fics is a sore back and a feeling of accomplishment, neither of which will make a profit

for me.

Archives: Exclusive to VS 15 for two weeks. After that it is available to archive. Please let

me know first. Okay?

Author’s Notes: Apologies to those of you in Winston-Salem and surrounding areas. After

doing some research, I know that the hockey team plays in a different building. I needed

an ice rink under the floor for a certain scene in my fic, so I took creative license and

changed things around a bit. Your city seems very nice and who knows, maybe I’ll end up

there for a concert myself one of these days. Stranger things have happened.

February 13th—–Basement Office

“I really hope that’s a new assignment you have in your hand.” Their office had been dead

for the past few weeks and Scully was so eager to get back into fieldwork that she’d even

settle for a real field, crop circles included.

“Sorry, Scully.” Mulder immediately noticed her disappointment. “Skinner had something

else in mind for us,” he grinned, waving the paper in his right hand.

“Don’t tell me. He’s going to send us to the archives to look for misfiled reports and we’ll

never be seen or heard from again.”

“Well, he doesn’t want to see us for a few days but he isn’t punishing us. These papers are

our tickets to freedom, at least until the 18th when our bright and shining faces are

expected in Skinner’s office at 8AM sharp.”

Scully looked confused.

“Grab your coat and briefcase and I’ll explain it on the way home.”

Mulder hefted a suitcase onto their bed and opened it. Scully began to carefully pack some

of her items. When she was satisfied with their placement she turned to face her partner,

her arms crossed on her chest. “All right, Mulder. You’ve kept me in suspense long

enough. I know that Skinner gave us some comp time and that we’re going out of town,

but I need to know whether to pack your long underwear or your Speedo. Where are we

going?”

He sat at on the foot of the bed and gently pulled her down to sit beside him. “I know that

you don’t particularly care for men painted blue after the last Modell case.” Mulder paused

as he thought of an even more unpleasant memory from that time.

“Putting that aside, I thought you might enjoy seeing some men painted in a different

shade of blue who are very much alive. I managed to score two third row seats to see the

Blue Man Group,” the tall, lanky man announced, looking very pleased with himself.

“Are you kidding? I thought they were here last night.” Scully was still a bit confused

about all of Mulder’s plans. Since their job required them to be on call essentially 24/7 it

was difficult to make plans too far ahead which made it next to impossible to get good

seating to events at the last minute.

“They were. We’re going to see them tomorrow evening in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

We’ll be leaving pretty early in the morning for the drive down and after the concert I

thought I could try to make-up for all of the Valentine’s days we’ve had to work . . .”

“Or the ones you spent in the hospital,” Scully interjected.

“Especially those. I thought we could leave the Twin Cities sometime Friday morning and

head to the beach for a day or two. Even though it’s still a bit too cool to swim, I figured we

might enjoy a few walks on the beach. On Sunday morning we won’t be able to sleep in.

Instead we’ll eat a nice breakfast and drive back at a leisurely pace.”

“That sounds wonderful, Mulder. I think the Blue Man Group will be a great way to take our

minds off work, or the lack thereof, and the other things you have planned sound pretty

interesting.”

“Great. I’m glad that you like what I’ve planned so far.”

Scully gave her partner a quick peck on the cheek and hopped off the bed to make her way

back to the dresser. “So, it’ll be too cold for the Speedo?”

“Um, I don’t think I’d want to wear it to the beach but I’ll be glad to model it for you in our

room.”

“Works for me.” She threw her favorite red Speedo into the suitcase.

Mulder decided it was time to get busy too. Although, he’d rather watch his love pack or

better yet, try to distract her from the job, he remembered that he still needed to reserve

some rooms for their Valentine getaway. He’d finalized the ticket purchase online last night

and found himself holding his breath as he waited for a reply from AD Skinner about some

comp time they had coming to them. Thank goodness he hadn’t had time to get grouchy

and signed off on the forms right away. Now, he hoped to come up with something very

nice in the way of lodgings for Scully

Scully had been curious about Mulder’s Wal-Mart purchase for a great deal of time on the

trip to North Carolina. Although her handsome partner wasn’t against saving money on

every day items, it wasn’t the type of store that he normally frequented. So it had been a

niggling thought ever since he put the bag in the trunk of the car early this morning.

“Hey, Scully, is that map handy?”

“Sure thing, Mulder.” She looked up in time to notice that they were getting close to their

destination and it was rush hour. She’d have to put her earlier thoughts away and put all of

her concentration into navigating the heavy traffic.

The Winston-Salem entertainment-sports complex was a lot larger than either of the agents

expected. Instead of one large building, there were several different venues along with

quite a few large parking lots. Fortunately, several signs pointed them in the right

direction.

Mulder smiled to himself. He had a big surprise for Scully and he couldn’t wait to see her

face.

“We’re pretty early for a change, Mulder. Are we going to grab a fast-food dinner or wait

until we get to the motel and order something?”

“I’m kind of hungry right now. All that driving really gave me a huge appetite and it just so

happens that I made reservations at a really nice place.” He pointed to the Coliseum.

“I didn’t know that concession stands took reservations or had valet parking for that

matter.” Scully marveled as they pulled in front of the coliseum and stopped at the valet

parking stand.

Mulder showed one of the attendants his confirmation letter and handed over his keys.

Another attendant opened the door for Scully and before she could figure out what was

going on they were ushered into the Windsor Club.

“Happy Valentines Day, Dana,” Mulder whispered as they were seated at a table for two. “I

hope you don’t mind but I had to give your menu choices when I made the reservation. I

didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“Mulder, you know that I trust you with my life . . .” she trailed off and took a sip of water.

“But, not with your food. Ouch! Scully, that hurts!” He moved to wipe a fake tear from his

left eye but wound up laughing instead.

Their waiter came to take their wine order and refill their water glasses. Soon he was back

with their appetizer, a creamed soup with toasted bread.

“Mmm. It smells heavenly,” Scully observed and took a tentative spoonful. “And it tastes

just as nice. I love creamed onion soup.”

Their very attentive waiter brought the next course when they had finished their soup. A

Caesar salad was put in front of Scully. Mulder dug into his house salad as quickly as he

could. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I was hungry,” he explained when he noted the

amused look on Scully’s face.

Their waiter brought their wine then took their empty salad plates. Shortly thereafter, their

entrées and vegetables arrived.

Mulder held his breath. His entrée and vegetable choice for Scully would make or break this

meal.

“Mulder, you did good. This is delicious.”

Her partner had chosen a Pistachio Crusted Chicken Breast along with asparagus and a

Mushroom Risotto.

“Mine is great too.” Mulder had opted for a 10 oz. Prime Rib with a Twice-Baked potato and

broccoli

“Here’s to your wonderful idea for this getaway and the Valentine dinner.” She raised her

glass to him.

“You are quite welcome. For dessert, I ordered one of each so we could share.”

That was very thoughtful of you. I wonder if the motel has a fitness room? I may need to

work some of this off tonight.”

“You know, I’m not really sure what it has. I had trouble finding what I wanted and finally

had to settle on something even the F.B.I. per diem would cover. I really tried to find

something nicer but I guess a lot of people decided to eat in a hotel restaurant and just

spend the night there. I promise that the accommodations will be much better for the rest

of the trip.”

After dinner, the couple made plans to meet on the concourse. Scully visited the powder

room while Mulder said he had to get something from the car.

Scully beat her partner to the concourse and began to look over the assortment of Blue Man

Group products for sale. When she felt a tap on her shoulder she turned to greet her other

half and his Wal-Mart bag.

“I’ve been wondering off and on all day just what you have in that bag.”

“Well, wonder no more, M’Lady. Tada!” He pulled two matching blue, vinyl ponchos from

the bag and handed her one.

Scully reached for the plastic-wrapped package, a puzzled look on her face.

“Our seats are pretty close to the front and I thought it would be less expensive to get them

at Wal-Mart. I should arrest these guys for highway robbery.” He pointed to the very

expensive ponchos for sale along with the over-priced t-shirts, programs and posters.”

“But I don’t understand why we would need them in an indoor coliseum.

“You are familiar with the Blue Man Group?” Mulder questioned, trying very hard not to

laugh.

“Of course I am. I’ve seen them on Leno and other shows on TV.”

“Since I don’t want to spoil the surprise just be sure to put it on right before the show

starts.”

Scully couldn’t help chuckling as they left the coliseum. She pulled the wet, sticky poncho

gingerly over her head and deposited it in the nearest trashcan as Mulder did the same. “I

really had fun tonight. Thank you for arranging all of this.”

“It’s about time we had a semi-normal Valentines Day. Agreed?”

“Yes. I would like to make it a yearly thing, too. The dinner was very traditional and quite

delicious and while I wouldn’t normally associate the Blue Man Group with this particular

holiday, I’ll remember this night every time I see them.”

“I’m glad you had fun.” Mulder walked a step or two ahead to unlock the passenger door

for her. It was then that she noticed the extra-long piece of toilet paper stuck to the

bottom of his shoe.

When Mulder got behind the wheel, he too, noticed it and pulled it off and tossed it into the

back seat. They looked at each other and laughed out loud, remembering the rolls of toilet

paper streaming down from the ceiling during the finale.

______________________________________________________

“Eew! Mulder, why didn’t you ask for a non-smoking room?”

“I did! Hang loose. I’m going downstairs to the desk to get this straightened out.”

A few minutes later Mulder returned with a smallish box under his right arm. “All of the

non-smoking rooms are occupied. When we missed the 7 PM check-in deadline, they gave

our room to someone else. They have offered to upgrade us to a King Suite at no additional

charge. It’s still a smoking room but it hasn’t been occupied since Monday. It has a hot tub

and a high def, flat screen TV. It’s either that or go to another motel and take our

chances.”

“What’s in the box?”

“They gave me a bunch of those air fresheners that look like real candles but run on

batteries. It won’t keep the smell out of our clothes but it might make the room a little

more bearable. So, do we stay or go?”

“It’s too late and I’m too tired to look for another motel. I say we take the upgrade and

turn on the air fresheners.”

______________________________________________________

Scully was sitting on the couch when Mulder brought in their luggage and the new key card,

which he threw on the counter.

As he put the suitcase down he could tell that she was very uncomfortable. “What’s

wrong?”

“I don’t know, Mulder. Maybe I’m coming down with something. All I know is that my feet

feel as if they are encased in a block of ice.”

Mulder knew exactly what she was talking about as his feet felt the same way. They were

both more susceptible to cold since their time in the Antarctic so many years before. He

went to the back corner of the room and turned on the hot tub, then came back to sit

beside his love. “Put your feet up here.” He motioned to his lap.

Scully quickly complied. Mulder removed her shoes and began to massage her feet. “You

know, there was a hockey rink under the floor at the coliseum. My feet are pretty cold too.

I’m going to rub your feet for a while to see if I can get your blood moving a bit. It might

warm you a little.”

“Mulderrr,” she purred. “I can guarantee you that if you continue to massage my feet

things will definitely get a lot warmer.”

“What do you say we try out that hot tub? I turned it on and I can already see the steam

rising.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea.” Hopefully, the steam wasn’t the only thing that was

rising. “Why don’t you get some of those candles going while I rustle us up some towels?”

“That sounds like a great idea.” Mulder got up and pulled the first candle from the box.

By the time Scully emerged from the bathroom clad only in a towel, Mulder had turned off

the room lights and turned on several candles. He’d also managed to get rid of his clothes

and get into the hot tub.

Scully sniffed the air. “Well, the air fresheners do seem to cover up most of the smoky

smell.”

“And they add so much to the ambiance of the room,” he grinned and stood to help his

petite partner into the tub.

Scully smiled broadly as she dropped her towel. Mulder was wearing the red Speedos.

“Now, those really add to the ambiance of the room.”

The two F.B.I. agents sat down in the small hot tub and shared a passionate kiss. “I really

didn’t intend to leave the Speedo on for very long but I guess I can continue to wear them if

it pleases you so much.”

“Oh, I think they can be just as pleasing right here.” Scully helped him slip out of the swim

briefs then hung them over the side of the tub. “Much better!”

“Happy Valentines Day, Dana,” Mulder whispered as the redhead climbed into his lap and

put her arms tightly around him.

“And a Happy Valentines Day to you too. I really enjoyed myself today.”

“How are your feet?” The slender, dark-haired man brought her right foot out of the water

and kissed each toe.

“Oh, that really warmed me up. Could you work on the other one?”

“My pleasure.” Mulder repeated the process with her left foot. “What was your favorite part

of the day?”

“Well, the ride down was fun. I really enjoyed being able to chat about something other

than work and the CDs you brought were a nice mix of music we both enjoy.”

“Anything else?” Mulder traced her jaw line, sprinkling light kisses along one side and then

the other.

“Well, the surprise Valentine dinner was wonderful. You managed to pick dishes that I

really enjoy and the glass of wine was a nice touch.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. I saw the details online when I got the tickets for the concert and

just barely made the deadline for reservations.”

“The Blue Man Group was hilarious. I had seen them on TV but had no idea that they got

that involved with the audience. It was fun and I didn’t mind getting pelted with

marshmallows and other odd things. Thanks for the poncho, by the way.”

Mulder chuckled softly. “All of those things were very nice but my favorite part of the day is

right now, with your arms around me.”

“It’s my favorite moment also.”

Their mouths met in another sensuous kiss. Eventually, Scully broke the kiss to get some

air. “How are your feet?”

“They are on fire just like the rest of my body.”

“Mine feel the same.”

After sharing several more molten-hot kisses Scully caught her breath and then spoke. “I’m

so hot that I think I should get out of this tub and dry off. Then I might watch some TV

while I wait for my vital signs to return to normal.”

“Want some company?”

“More than ever because you are really the one who made this day so special for me.”

“I love you so much, Scully. I wish life could always be this nice, stale cigarette smoke and

fake candles aside.”

Scully pitched her partner a towel and they both stood beside the bed as they dried off.

“I love you, Scully,” Mulder whispered as he picked her up and laid her on the bed.

“And I love you so very much, Mulder. I wish we could stay this way forever.”

“I can’t guarantee forever or even tomorrow if Skinner gets a wild hair and calls us back,

but we do have here and now and I suggest we make the most of it.”

“My sentiments exactly. Let’s seize the day and hope for many tomorrows.”

Mulder pushed Scully down into the mushy hotel mattress and began to make love to her.

“Mmm,” Scully mumbled. “I think this is my new favorite moment.”

Mulder grunted in agreement. Soon both agents were silent in the afterglow of their

favorite time.

The End.

1

Love Hurts by Vickie Moseley

Evanston, IL

February 7, 2008

Scully found him picking his way around the formerly immaculate living room. Blood had

already soaked into the cuff of his pants and she winced at yet another ‘dry-cleaning

miracle’ poor Mrs. Yancy would be forced to perform. “Mulder, are you about done here?”

she asked, her eyes darting around the room.

Unlike most of their cases, this one had a very definite perpetrator. Dr. Philip Coates,

professor of English Literature at Northwestern University was currently awaiting autopsy at

the Cook County Morgue, his body resting next to his wife of 35 years, Dr. Imogene Walsh-

Coates. It had already been ruled a murder-suicide, but Mulder still seemed to be searching

for clues. Clues only he could find.

“Mulder?” she asked again. It wasn’t unusual for him to get this focused during an

investigation. What was unusual was the fact that he’d dragged her out of bed in the

middle of the night to catch an early morning to flight to a crime scene that had already

been resolved. “Mulder!” she raised her voice to cut through his mental gymnastics.

He looked up at her, startled. “What?”

She sighed and crossed her arms. “Are you close to finished?”

“Yeah, just about,” he replied absently, picking up a framed photograph with his latex

gloved hand. “Did you get a seat at the autopsy?”

“Yes. And if you don’t come with me, you’re stranded here. I’d have the rental,” she

reminded him evenly.

He brushed his fingers across the images on the photo and gently replacing it on the table

beside the once cream-colored sofa, now spattered with brown stains of blood. He looked

up at his partner. “I guess I can go now. I can always come back.”

He walked over to her and turned her toward the door. They ducked under the yellow crime

scene tape and crunched through the six inches of snow-pack to the road.

“Mulder, you still haven’t told me why we’re here.” He’d been almost silent on the plane

and for once, had no bevy of case files to assault her with during the flight. She’d dozed

and he’d just sat watching the stars out the window.

“The Coates are the fifth couple in the Chicago metro area in the last year to fall by their

own hands, Scully. All the other couples were professional people — Ph.D.s, lawyers,

medical doctors. All the couples had been married at least 20 years, had grown children,

were considered stable, happy people.”

“Mulder, I admit that’s a high number, but do you realize the population of Chicago and the

suburbs? We’re talking a pool of 3 or 4 million people! And assuming that just because a

person has a good career means they aren’t susceptible to the pressures of modern life —

that’s elitism at it’s finest.”

“Scully, I’ve not saying insanity and education never mix, I’m saying this is a pattern. I

think there’s something more at work than meets the eye. Remember David and Amy

Cassandra?”

“The real question is, do _you_ remember David and Amy Cassandra, Mulder?” she asked,

tilting her head. “Amy was an alien abductee who underwent a dangerous treatment for her

depression. Do you suspect that another Dr. Goldstein might be at work in the Chicago

area?”

“Well, from what I’ve been able to determine, there is no alien abduction link here, Scully.

But the fact that there might be another Ketamine-pushing dentist-drilling mad psychologist

lurking in the shadows did cross my mind.”

As he adjusted his coat and put the keys in the ignition, she caught his hand. “Mulder,

look.”

He glanced down and saw that during his examination of the crime scene, he’d brushed

against some of the blood. It was already darkening to a deep purple on his shirt cuff and a

spot the size of a quarter was drying on his skin. “Oh, damn it,” he cursed casually. “Got a

tissue?”

She rolled her eyes and reached into her purse, withdrawing an individually packaged

antibiotic wipe. “Here, clean it off. We’ll have to mention that to Mrs. Yancy.”

He took the wipe, opened the packet and used the small square to clean off the blood from

his hand. “No open wound. I won’t catch anything, right?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

“Not anything more than at any other crime scene you’ve traipsed through,” she assured

him. “C’mon, I told the ME I’d be there by noon and it’s 11:15 already.”

“Yes ma’am,” he saluted and pulled out from the curb into the quiet residential street.

Cook County Morgue

7:45 pm

“We’ll have those test results by tomorrow morning, Agent Scully,” Dr. Wanless, the medical

examiner said as he pulled off his gloves and hair cover. “Want me to call you at the FBI

office here?”

“Yes, or my cell phone. I left the number with your assistant,” Scully said. “I’ll let you

know if our labs turn up anything in the samples I sent over.”

“Seems a little redundant — both of us looking at the same blood,” Wanless said with a

cocked eyebrow. He’d been cordial and accommodating all afternoon, but Scully knew some

of her requests had caused more than a little curiosity and maybe even some concern.

“I know my methods seem . . . unusual. But I have my reasons,” she answered with a

shrug. “I’ll be sure to share anything I come across.”

“Well, it seems a little bit of overkill for a murder-suicide, but if there is something else at

work, I’m sure the family would appreciate the effort you’re taking,” Wanless said with a

warm smile. “Have a good night.” He left to go to the men’s locker room to change.

“Hey, I’m lost and wondering if you can help me find my partner. She’s a gorgeous red

head and usually seen wearing ugly blue scrubs and her hair in a pony tail,” Mulder said, his

eyes twinkling as he entered the room.

“I might know where you can find her, if you promise to feed her as soon as possible,”

Scully shot back.

“Uno’s? Best pizza in town, Scully.”

“Veggie with a side of fried mushrooms and you’re on, G-Man,” she replied. “Let me go

change.

“Fried mushrooms. Was it that grueling? What did you find?” he asked, following her to the

door of the women’s locker room.

“After I change. Over food. I promise,” she told him with a hand to his chest, pushing him

backwards as she hurried through the locker room door.

Uno’s Pizza

Chicago

8:30 pm

The dinner crowd was thinning as they were ushered to their table. Mulder put in the order

for the half veggie, half supreme pizza, deep dish, and fried mushrooms. Scully sat back,

relishing the feeling of sitting down after 7 hours in an autopsy bay. He let her ‘relish’ until

their drinks arrived, then his patience ran out.

“OK, Scully, what did you find?” he pleaded. “Please,” he asked politely, nodding his head

in her direction.

She smiled at him, but sighed. “Basically, Mulder, nothing. I did a complete survey of Dr.

Coates brain — no lesions to suggest a cause for violent behavior. His adrenal glands

showed no sign of wear, as we’ve seen in cases of LSDM exposure. I even checked the

xrays for chips in both the victims and found nothing. I sent samples of the blood over to

our labs and the Cook County labs are running tests as well. Unless something shows up in

the tox screen or a bacterium . . . Mulder, maybe they just had a simple argument that got

out of hand,” she concluded finally, twirling her soda straw between her fingers.

“I did a little checking on the past murders, Scully, as well as this one. In each case, the

victims were described as ‘the perfect couple’. Friends were appalled, neighbors were

shocked. No records of domestic disturbances, no known affairs, nothing to indicate a

troubled marriage. And in two of the couples, they had just booked cruises or vacations,

sometimes within days of the murders.”

Scully shook her head. “I don’t know what to tell you, Mulder. Sometimes it takes nothing

to make a person snap.”

“If it were one instance, I would agree, but Scully, this is five couples. That just doesn’t

make sense.”

“Well, I’m not sure what we’re going to find by staying here in Chicago. Unless you think

we should alert the CPD and have them warn all professional couples that are happily

married — ”

He grinned at her jab, but grew serious again. “I just feel something is here, Scully.” He

absently scratched his hand, just below the knuckle of his thumb. “Something happened.

This wasn’t random violence. There was a cause.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you, Mulder. I just don’t think the ’cause’ you’re looking for will

link these murders. In all likelihood, there was a different cause in each case. Violence

happens, even in the best relationships. You know that as well as I do.” She noticed he

was still scratching. “What’s wrong with your hand?”

He looked at her with a confused expression, then followed her gaze to where he was still

scratching his knuckle. “I dunno. It just started to itch a minute ago. Mosquito maybe?”

“In February. In Chicago. Hardly,” she said, taking his hand and inspecting it closely.

“There’s a rash here. Did you rub up against something?”

“That wet-nap you gave me this morning,” he said, shrugging.

“You’ve never had a reaction before,” she noted.

He pulled his hand from hers and rested his chin on it trying to get the discussion back on

the case. “Scully, I know you think this case isn’t a case, but my gut is telling me there’s

something going on. Can we please stick around, just until we get the test results back

tomorrow? Then we can go home with what we have and I can chew on it in our own little

office.”

She rolled her eyes, but in the end nodded with little enthusiasm. “OK, Mulder, but in

return, you’re the one to take the clothes to the dry cleaners and face Mrs. Yancy’s wrath.”

He was about to object strenuously when their pizza arrived and all conversation ended.

Mulder and Scully’s Townhouse

Georgetown

February 10, 2008

9:55 am

Mulder opened his eyes. The headache he’d been quietly fighting for the last 24 hours was

beginning to win the battle. Even the weak mid-winter sunlight streaming in through their

bedroom window caused him to wince. He reached behind him for his partner and came up

with empty sheets long gone cold. He sat up immediately, the pain behind his eyes

doubling and then tripling in force. “Scully?” he ground out.

Getting out of bed, he shivered against the cold of the bedroom. “Scully?” he called again.

No answer greeted him. He made his way to the bathroom. The room was humid, the

shower curtains still wet. He blinked as his vision doubled for a second and then cleared.

“Scully!” he bellowed, as loud as his headache would let him.

She was gone. She’d left him. Alone.

The word rattled around in his head, dancing with the pain that had taken up a staccato

beat against his forehead. Alone. She left him. Alone. She found someone else, someone

smarter, sexier, someone had caught her fancy and he would never see her again . . .

He closed the lid on the toilet and sat down, burying his face in his hands. That was how

she found him ten minutes later.

“Mulder?” she asked, walking past the bathroom, but coming back to stand in the doorway

when she saw him sitting there. “Are you all right?”

His head snapped up from his hands. “Where were you?” he demanded. He bit his lip when

his headache reverberated each syllable inside his skull.

“Mass. I went to 9 o’clock at St. Anne’s. Why?”

A convenient lie, a small voice whispered in his head. Mass, who would question that? Of

course, St. Anne’s was on Tinley Circle and there was a Catholic Church just across the

Georgetown University football field just a block or two away. Who was she meeting at

Tinley Circle?

He rose and shoved past her. “You should have told me you were leaving,” he snapped,

heading into the bedroom. He grabbed a pair of jeans off the chair near his side of the bed.

“I woke up and you were gone.”

“Mulder, it’s Sunday morning. I always leave you in bed. I brought back croissants and the

New York Times, like I always do,” she said casually. “Do you want to eat here or down in

the dining room?” she asked but he obviously was only half listening.

“I don’t like it when I don’t know where you are, Scully. You know that,” he said tersely as

he removed a long sleeved tee shirt from the dresser and gingerly pulled it over his head.

“I didn’t know where you were, I didn’t know if you were meeting someone — ”

She eyed him critically. He was squinting and kept turning away from any sunlight in the

room. She knew she was right when he grabbed his sunglasses from the nightstand and

put them on. “Mulder, do you have a headache?” she asked.

“I’m going out,” he growled.

“Mom’s expecting us in Baltimore at 3,” she reminded his back as he headed down the

stairs.

“I’ll try to be back in time,” he quipped and slammed the door on his way out.

The winter sunshine was only partly dimmed by the dark glasses and the cold air was a

shock after the warmth of their home. He felt for his keys, but decided he needed a walk,

fresh air. If he’d had two brain cells working in tandem, he would have thought to put on

his running shoes and gone for a nice four or five miles. Walking would just have to do.

About two blocks down the street, in the direction of Georgetown University campus, his

head started to clear and he realized what an idiot he’d been. He knew Scully went to Mass

each Sunday. He knew they had a standing date to snuggle in bed with the Times when she

got home. She’d even picked that church near Tinley Circle because the second Mass

offered was scheduled to get out just about the time he usually started to wake up on the

average Sunday when they were home. It was something he always looked forward to each

week they weren’t out on a case.

Why in the world had he thought she was meeting someone? Who would she meet? Since

they’d become intimate she had never looked at another man. His mind quietly reminded

him of Damien Willis . . .

No, she had been hypnotized at the time! And even then, she’d fought to keep from hurting

him. No, Mulder had absolutely no reason to question her love and devotion, and yet . . .

he had.

What the hell had happened? That damned headache had blotted out every rational

thought from his mind. But now, in the fresh air and sunshine, the pain had vanished and

he was left feeling like a complete and total asshole.

The little campus bookstore had just opened up for early risers. There was a display of

stuffed animals in the window, all decked out in red and pink ribbons with hearts and

flowers. Damn — Valentines Day was just around the corner. And he’d just blown up at

Scully for no good reason. Now he felt lower than an asshole.

Luckily his wallet was still in his pocket. He went into the bookstore and looked over the

selection in the window. A stuffed bulldog with a forlorn expression looked exactly as he

felt. He picked it up without bothering to look at the price and took it to the cash register.

Once in line, he saw some of her favorite chocolates and bought her a small box. He paid

for the purchases and hurried out the door. He had a lot of apologizing to do.

She was in the living room, pretending to read the Times when he got home. She looked up

apprehensively as he walked into the room. The thought that she might think he was still

mad at her stabbed him right in the heart. He’d seen a similar look on his mother’s face

before his parent’s divorce — that look never really went away. Suddenly, he couldn’t

breathe right.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasped out, hurrying to her side and burying his head on her shoulder.

Scully was a little shocked at his actions, but not at his words.

“Mulder, I’m sorry, too. I’m really sorry if I scared you. I know how frightening it is when I

wake up and you’re not there. If I did something — ”

“No, Scully, it’s not your fault. Not at all. I just forgot it was Sunday, that’s all. And that’s

a pretty stupid reason for me to storm out of the house. I’m an idiot.”

She pulled away so she could look at his face. Silent tears were streaming down his cheeks.

“Yeah. But you’re MY idiot,” she said with a tender smile, wiping his damp cheeks with her

thumbs. “Besides, you brought me something. Where’s my ‘I’m an idiot’ present?”

He untangled from her arms only long enough to retrieve the plastic sack from the floor. He

handed it to her before pulling her onto his lap.

“Oh, Mulder, he’s cute,” she cooed. Then she caught sight of the price tag. “Mulder, you

spent $29.95 on a stuffed dog?” she asked, eyebrow raised in accusation.

“Uhhh . . .” was his only defense.

“But the chocolates are nice,” she said, kissing him on the nose. “C’mon. You can feed

them to me, along with the croissants I brought you.”

So what if they were a little late getting to Maggie’s in Baltimore.

FBI Headquarters

February 11, 2008

Mulder pulled another file folder from the stack on the left side of his desk and opened it on

the pile in front of him. He was reading statements from friends and family members of the

five murder-suicides. In each case the tributes were glowing, but he still sensed that he

wasn’t getting the whole story. The frustration he was feeling was beginning to manifest

itself in a pounding headache right at his temples. He removed his glasses and tossed them

onto the open file folder.

“Still searching?” she asked, looking up from the report she was typing.

“These weren’t random events, Scully.”

“OK, let’s take a step back. Have you found any commonalities?”

“They all had higher than average IQs and they all made more money than the both of us,

combined,” he sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Aside from that, nothing. They live in

different suburbs, apparently never crossed paths — it just doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, maybe it’s something environmental,” she suggested. “They all live in the Chicago

area, right?”

He didn’t have time to answer when the phone on his desk started to ring. He grabbed it

angrily, barking his name into the handset. After a second he held the phone out to her.

“Skinner’s assistant.”

She gave him a look that spoke to her confusion and took the phone. “Scully here.” She

nodded twice and hung up the phone. “Skinner wants to see me in his office.”

He looked at her curiously. “He wants to see you? Did she say what it was about?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “No idea. Just said that I was to come up immediately.” She

glanced down at her watch. “Look, I have no idea how long this will take. Why don’t you

go on to lunch without me?”

He frowned. “I can wait till you get back,” he offered, but his stomach growling almost

drowned out his words.

She grinned at him. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll grab something from the cafeteria,” she said,

squeezing his arm. “I’ll see you later.”

He watched her leave the office, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He heard her

heels tapping down the hall, heard the elevator bell as it announced its arrival. Suddenly he

felt very cold and shivered. He got up from the desk and walked over to pull on his coat. It

was freezing in the office.

Scully’s coat was hanging there, next to his. He touched it, feeling the wool. There was a

scent on it — her perfume. But it didn’t smell right. It wasn’t her perfume — it smelled

different. He sniffed the collar and down the shoulder to the sleeve. It was a men’s

cologne, he was sure of it.

Skinner! It smelled like Skinner’s cologne!

They were having an affair, right here in this building! That had to be it. Skinner was

always calling her, having her come up to his office. Could they be that stupid? Did they

think he wouldn’t find out?

Maybe it was Skinner she was meeting at Tinley Circle. The thought almost dropped him to

his knees. He and Scully had made love — right after she’d been with Skinner for a tete-a-

tete. How could she do this to him?

He had to confront them. He stormed out into the hallway and right past the elevator,

choosing the stairs as the quicker method.

The lancing pain hit him right as he rounded the fourth floor landing. It felt as if someone

had driven a railroad spike through his left eye. He dropped to his knees, grabbing his

head, hoping he could ride out the agony. He couldn’t keep his eyes open and the cold

seemed to seep into his very pores. He didn’t even notice when his head hit the edge of the

step, sending him into oblivion.

A clerical worker found him several minutes later. By the time Scully arrived, with Skinner

hot on her heels, Mulder was lying on a cot in the infirmary.

“He says he doesn’t want to go to the hospital,” the nurse said grimly. “You could make it

an order, sir,” she directed at Skinner.

Scully hurried to his side, gently peeling back the tape and gauze covering a small cut on

his forehead.

“I’m fine, Scully,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

“Mulder, what happened?” she asked, perching on the edge of the cot.

“I slipped,” he lied, staring at his shoes. His thoughts were all jumbled, but the anger was

still there, still licking at his mind. He couldn’t look at her, not when she was betraying him

right under his nose.

“Slipped,” she repeated, her disbelief obvious.

“Yes, I slipped. My foot slipped off the step and I fell. Now, may I please go back to the

office and everyone can stop standing around staring at me?” he asked impatiently.

“Were you unconscious, Mulder?” she asked, her arms crossed.

He looked away, not answering.

“He was just coming around when I got there. There’s no telling how long he was out,” the

nurse offered.

“We have to get an x-ray,” Scully told him firmly. “You could have a concussion.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, which only served to make it hurt worse. “No. I’m not

going to any hospital.”

“Agent Mulder, you were injured on Bureau property, you will go to the hospital and get

checked out. That is an order,” Skinner said gruffly from his place by the door.

“Why? So you can screw my partner while I’m gone?” Mulder sneered. He was off the table

and before anyone could stop him, he pulled his gun on Skinner. “I should have seen this

coming. You’ve had your eye on her for years.”

“Mulder!” Scully yelled. “What are you talking about?”

“Mulder, I don’t know what you think is going on, but believe me, you aren’t thinking clearly

here,” Skinner said slowly, holding his hands up and away from his body. “No one wants to

hurt you.”

“No, you just want me out of the way, that’s all,” Mulder shouted back. “But you can’t have

her! I’d rather see her dead than with you!” He turned toward Scully and that gave

Skinner just enough time to tackle him to the floor, knocking the gun out of his hand.

Mulder struggled for a moment before the pain ratcheted up again and this time he simply

blacked out.

Georgetown University Medical Center

February 12, 2008

Skinner found Scully at the nurses’ station, flipping through a chart. “How is he doing?”

Scully smiled at their boss. “Much better this morning, thank you. I was just checking his

levels. His doctor thinks we’ll have the infection under control in time for Mulder to be

home for Valentine’s Day.”

Skinner smiled and shook his head. “It was an infection?”

“As near as we can tell,” Scully hedged as they made their way down the hall. “His white

count was off the scale and he was running a pretty high fever when we finally got him

here. We’re still trying to pin down the exact nature of the bacterium, but it appears it was

passed to Mulder from the infected blood of the last victim — Dr. Coates.” At Mulder’s door

she stopped. “He’s still pretty embarrassed by it all. He’s apologized to me about a 1000

times just since breakfast.”

Skinner shook his head and stopped before entering the room. “He does know that he

wasn’t to blame, doesn’t he?”

“Intellectually — yes. Emotionally — not so much. I can understand, sir. Once upon a time

I had the same problem.”

Skinner nodded. “You both spend way too much time finding your way into a striped file

folder.”

Scully opened the door to Mulder’s room, Skinner following her, but careful to leave a polite

distance. “Agent Mulder, you’re looking better.”

Mulder blushed and licked his lips. “Sir, I’d just like to — ”

“Save it, Agent,” Skinner smiled fondly. “Wasted breath. I know you weren’t yourself. You

know, one of these days you’re going to run out of that excuse — I was drugged, I was

infected.”

Mulder rolled his eyes. “Just my little way of keeping your life interesting, sir,” he said with

a shrug.

“That you do. Well, I’ll see you back at the office — as soon as your doctor releases you for

duty.”

“Thanks for stopping by,” Scully said. Mulder nodded his thanks and they both watched

their superior leave.

Scully reached down and took Mulder’s hand. “Mulder, I know I don’t say this often enough

— ”

“Scully, I know you’re not seeing anyone else. You don’t have to say anything.”

“Mulder, what I was going to say is, you have to be more careful at crime scenes,” she

huffed. “If you hadn’t gotten the blood on your wrist none of this would have happened.”

“Yeah, but it helped us solve the case,” he pouted.

It was her turn to roll her eyes. “There are much easier ways to solve a case.”

He nodded slowly. “So . . . I guess I have to stop by a jewelry store when they finally

release me. Somehow I don’t think a $29 stuffed dog is going to make up for this one.”

“No, but a nice pair of pearl earrings might do the trick. Followed by a Valentine’s dinner

along the Potomac,” she said with a smile.

“Scully, I think I’ve learned a lesson here.”

“And that would be?”

“Love hurts. Especially in the checkbook.”

1

Love Hurts by Vickie Moseley

Facetime

By Martin Ross

Category: X-Files/The Closer Crossover

Rating: R for language, sexual content, violent images.

Spoilers: Sanguinarium

Summary: LAPD Deputy Chief Brenda Johnson may finally have met her match in a

fugitive sorcerer and an agent named Mulder.

Disclaimer: Thanks to Chris Carter and James Duff for creating two of TV’s quirkiest

sleuths.

Residence of Dr. Robert Hartman

Beverly Hills, California

11:23 a.m.

“Jesus H. Marimba,” Provenza breathed as he frowned down at the body sprawled on

the pool deck, and then at the serene face on the skull that presumably matched the

body sprawled on the pool deck.

The white-haired detective then glanced irritably up at the young cameraman trained

on his every move.

“Damn it, Buzz,” Lt. Provenza growled as he glared at a clearly amused Lt. Flynn five

yards away. “Take two.”

“We have to keep rolling — Chief Pope says,” Priority Homicide’s official

documentarian apologized, his eye glued to the viewfinder.

“Like freakin’ MTV. I don’t know why we couldn’t have waited for Tao. I mean…Aw,

crap. The victim — or victims — is — or are — a male — or males,” Provenza

informed the camera, then sighed in exasperation. “The M.E. hasn’t arrived on the

scene yet, so we haven’t yet been able to, ah, definitively ascertain whether this

body–” he gestured — “belongs to this head. However, CSU has bagged and tagged

a wallet taken from the, ah, body that contains a California driver’s license belonging

to one Dr. Robert Hartman, who resides at this address. Said license appears to

match the, um, the aforementioned head, but we’ll need the M.E. to verify that the

head belongs to the body.”

Flynn, struggling to maintain a deadpan expression, nodded at the body. Provenza

shot daggers.

“There appear to be no other wounds on the body, or the head, aside from the body

being decapitated and the head being, um, uh, disembodied?”

Flynn doubled over, shaking silently, face scarlet.

“Cut, dammit!” Provenza snapped.

“Hey, Geraldo,” Lt. Flynn wheezed. “I know a good agent, you need one.”

“Hey, Flynn, shove it up your…”

“And a good morning to you, Lieutenant.” Provenza and Flynn turned in unison as

Los Angeles Deputy Police Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson approached the taped-off

crime scene, trailed by Sgt. Gabriel. The chief eyed the body, then the head. “Oh,

my. And who do we have here, Lt. Flynn?”

“Dr. Robert Hartman. Boob jobs and asslifts.” Flynn looked up from his notebook and

registered the tight-lipped expression beneath superior’s sunglasses. “Uh, cosmetic

surgeon, Beverly Hills. Does a lot of celebs, society wives. I think he did the tits on—

”

“Thank you, Lt. Flynn,” Brenda chirped. “Lt. Tao had a chance to go over the scene

yet?”

“Ah, he’s on a Homeland Security bioterrorism training exercise today, Chief,”

Gabriel murmured. The sergeant had struck the deal that had kept the squad intact

but on periodic loan to DHS.

“Dress slacks, shirt buttoned to the neck.” The transplanted Georgian nodded toward

the expansive mansion beyond the Olympic-scaled pool. “Anyone been inside yet,

Lieutenant?”

“Sanchez’s in there with the CSU guys.”

The deputy chief squinted at the open patio doors. “Sgt. Gabriel? Thank you,

gentlemen — carry on.”

“Detective Sanchez?” Brenda called as she edged past a tech printing the patio door

handles. Hartman’s den was immaculate, masculine and leathery and lined with thick

volumes. The CSU crew strove not to look up as the infamous head of the Priority

Homicide Squad prowled deeper into the plastic surgeon’s home. “Detective

Sanchez?”

“Right here, Chief,” Sanchez called from the front of the house. Gabriel hustled after

the deputy chief.

They found the compact detective in the marbled foyer, examining the front door

jamb with gloved fingers. “No sign of forced entry, Chief.”

“I assumed so, Detective,” Brenda murmured, scanning the small room. The foyer

opened both into a spacious living room and a darkly paneled dining room. A broad,

carpeted staircase beckoned to the right of the Olympian dining table. Sanchez and

Gabriel exchanged resigned glances as their boss beelined for the staircase.

Brenda used her pen to lift the tail of a cerulean blue Daniel de Fasson tie draped

over the newel post. “Must’ve just came home – barely had time to get his tie off.”

“Maybe the killer was waiting for him to get home,” Gabriel suggested. “Doc invited

him in, they went out to the pool, had a fight…”

“And the killer pulled out his handy machete and sliced his head off?” Sanchez

grunted.

Brenda turned and peered into the dining room. A pair of French doors lie beyond

the table, and she spotted brick and stainless steel beyond the doors.

“Or,” Brenda breathed, striding past the staircase, “or the killer came around the

back way.” She threw open the French doors. “This is one of those, oh,

whadoyoucallits…?”

“Grilling patio,” Gabriel murmured, admiring a gleaming commercial barbecue and

the arsenal of grilling tools hanging beside it. “My uncle, the dentist, he has one of

these. Not nearly as nice as this, though.”

Brenda stepped out onto the flagstones and slapped the high brick wall surrounding

them. “Nice private place to meet somebody, you don’t want the neighbors to see.”

“What?” Gabriel called over a growing mechanical roar.

“I said—” Brenda stopped, eyes widening. “What’s that sound, Sergeant?”

“Sounds like a mower,” Gabriel half-shouted.

“A what?”

“A lawn mower, Chief. I think it’s a lawn mower. Maybe next door.”

Brenda rushed back through the house. Sgt. Gabriel shrugged as Sanchez looked up,

and gave pursuit.

**

“Sir!” Brenda called as she stumbled over the immaculately tonsured turf next door.

“I need to talk to you!” The landscaper, hardwired into an iPod, looked up briefly,

then returned to his mowing.

Brenda stepped up her pace. “Sir, stop that! This is a police investigation! Y’all have

to stop that!”

The compact, mustachioed man continued to plow a shallow furrow in the emerald

lawn.

“Pare que, o voy a tirar su culo en la cárcel!” Sanchez shouted behind Brenda.

The man slowed, looked around, but did not stop. “El jefe dice que hay que hacer

hoy!” he grunted loudly.

“‘The boss says I have to do it today.’”

“Lord,” Brenda gasped as the phrase simultaneously translated itself. Then she

jumped again as she detected the black-suited stranger behind her shoulder.

Sanchez gave chase. “Hey! No me importa. Se trata de una investigación de

asesinato.”

“‘I don’t care. This is a murder investigation,’” the helpful interpreter provided.

Brenda edged away from him.

“‘Esa no es mi preocupación,’” the gardener called out, staring straight ahead at the

vast expanse of unshorn grass.

“‘It is not my concern,’” the stranger murmured into Brenda’s ear. She batted at

him.

“Excuse me,” she snapped. “Who would you happen to be?”

“Si yo llamo de INS, sera!”

The mower halted and its operator disengaged the engine.

“Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI,” the newcomer supplied. “Your guy said it will be his

concern if he calls the INS–“

“INS, yes, I got that,” Brenda said through her teeth. She beamed at the young

Latino cop. “Thank you, Detective Sanchez.” The smile vanished as she returned to

Mulder. “Agent, while I truly do appreciate your spirit of interagency cooperation, I

can assure you that I am quite fluent in Spanish. Now, may I ask why you’re

tromping all over my crime scene?”

Mulder grinned, jerking his head toward the house next door. “I thought the crime

scene was over there. I mean, that’s where your men currently are swapping

headless guy puns with the CSU techs.”

Brenda’s eyes narrowed as her lips twisted into a forced smile. “Sgt. Gabriel, could

you please remind Lts. Provenza and Flynn that this is a high-profile murder

investigation, and that the media and especially Asst. Chief Pope may not share their

sparkling re-par-tay? Thank you, Sergeant. Detective Sanchez, could you please ask

this gentleman…”

Sanchez nodded stolidly.

Brenda turned to the gardener, who stood by with bored anticipation. “Un momento,

por favor?” The man shrugged. Brenda nodded curtly.

“Now, Agent Mulder, you were about to tell me about your jurisdictional interest in

this case?”

“We — my partner, Agent Scully and I — believe your victim to be the suspect in a

series of fairly grisly murders about 12 years ago, in Chicago. The suspected

murderer, Dr. Jack Franklyn, also was a cosmetic surgeon.”

Brenda frowned. “And you’re telling me this man came to L.A. and eventually put out

a shingle as one of Hollywood’s highest-profiled nip-and-tuck specialists?”

Mulder paused. “The Chicago case dead-ended, well, based on some fairly compelling

evidence…”

“Evidence of what, Agent?”

“Evidence of our chief suspect‘s demise,” Mulder said hastily. He turned. “By the

way, barn door’s open.”

The landscaper’s eyes and right hand moved immediately to his jeans. His fingers

froze, and the dark brown eyes rose guiltily.

Brenda glanced appraisingly at Mulder, then smiled sweetly at the lawnmower man.

“Well, it appears as though we have conquered a major cultural barrier here.”

“OK, OK,” the man sighed with a Latin-tinged California accent. “My name is Rey

Menendez. I heard what happened to that man next door, an’ I guess I didn’t wanna

get messed up in it. I was born East L.A., but I got cousins, comprende?”

“I do, sir, and I see no need to delve into your family affairs,” Brenda said softly.

“But we do have a murder investigation here, and anything you can tell us would be

greatly appreciated.”

“In other words,” Sanchez rumbled, “the sooner you talk, the sooner you walk.

Comprende, amigo?”

“Si, yes,” the gardener nodded somberly. “I was getting my mower off the truck —

like I said, the owner here, he’s having some kinda party out here tomorrow. Well, I

hear this yelling from next door — the dead man, he’s fighting with this chica–“

“Latino?” Sanchez demanded.

“No, man, blonde babe, muy caliente, you know? She had these wraparound shades,

but I know I seen her before, like at the movies. But around here, that ain’t no big

thing. Comprende?”

“Yes,” Brenda murmured troublingly.

Priority Homicide Squad

Los Angeles Police Department

Park Center, Los Angeles

3:54 p.m.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Erin Linscott sobbed, a pinkie perched under her lower lid to

prevent disfiguring liner leakage. The actress beamed tearful gratitude as Sgt.

Gabriel nudged the box of Kleenex across the interview table. “I told Bobby he

needed to hire some security, a little muscle. He was in US just last week.”

Brenda perked. “Excuse me.”

“The magazine. It was a huge spread, all about how many careers Bobby’s saved

while he does all that work with burned kids.” The pinkie trapped a small, salty

reservoir — the two-time Golden Globe nominee quickly swabbed it away. Brenda

noticed the artful curve of her button nose — a curve that hadn’t existed when

Linscott had filmed Sophomore Summer seven years ago. Her chest also had gained

breadth and definition since that classic had been released. Brenda took a flyer ar

how she and “Bobby” had met.

“I’m sure he was just a fine man,” Brenda murmured sympathetically. Will — Chief

Pope — had given her the speech about the sensitivity of Dr. Hartman’s homicide and

its implications for Hartman’s largely A List clients.

“Thanks — he was,” Linscott said, sniffling. She smiled poignantly — the signature

smile that had branded her “the Julia Roberts for a new generation” and catapulted

her beyond Meg Ryan’s aging charms. “You’re a very nice lady, not what I would

have expected from a cop.”

“Why, thank you,” Brenda beamed, dripping magnolias.

“With that voice and bod, you could get into movies, or at least TV. Shit, half the

girls I know would kill for those lips. Collagen?”

“They are my own,” Brenda cooed.

“Wow. If you just had a little work done on–” Linscott halted, looking away from the

center of Brenda’s face. The deputy chief absently touched the tip of her nose, and

Brenda imagined she could hear Flynn’s laughter from the Tech Room, where several

of the squad were watching the interview with Hartman’s bereaved girlfriend. Gabriel

bit his cheek, while Mulder, behind Linscott’s shoulder at Will’s insistence, appeared

oblivious to the exchange. Linscott’s attorney sat stoically, like an Armani-draped

lawn ornament.

Brenda’s smile faltered. “So, ah, Ms. Linscott? When did you last see Dr. Hartman?”

The starlet paled. “Two nights ago — we went to a premiere, Jake Gyllenhaal’s new

thing, then Lucques on Melrose.”

“Then back to Dr. Hartman’s place?” Brenda inquired casually. The attorney came to

life, and she raised a hand. “I don’t mean to be intrusive — it’s just the doctor’s

cleaning woman was in yesterday, and we’ll want to eliminate any prints of friends or

acquaintances we find in his home.”

Surprisingly, Linscott was smiling coyly. “You don’t read the trades or the tabs, do

you?”

“I’m usually pretty busy,” Brenda flustered, not wanting to sound elitist.

“Uh, Chief, Ms. Linscott’s straight-edge,” Sgt. Gabriel said.

“Excuse me?”

“No booze, no tobacco, no drugs — not even coffee,” Agent Mulder interjected. “And

absolutely no sex. Straight edge started in the hardcore punk culture in the ‘80s —

it’s been revived by alternative rockers and entertainers into the organic/natural

foods movement.”

Linscott grimaced. “You make it sound like a cult, like Scientology or something. Oh,

Jesus, don’t tell anybody I said that, or I’d never work with Cruise or Travolta or

diCaprio again. Not that I have, actually. My mother — she used to manage me —

told me sex would ‘drain my focus’ on the set, and then I started hanging out with

Woody Harrelson…”

“All right,” Brenda interrupted, glaring balefully at Mulder. “So you claim not to have

been on Dr. Hartman’s premises since two nights ago.”

“I’ve been busy — we’re shooting an indie, great story about lesbian colonists in New

England who were tried as witches. Real Oscar stuff.”

“Reason I ask,” Brenda persisted, “is we have a witness who claims to have seen a

woman matching your description engaged in animated discussion with Dr. Hartman

shortly before his decapitated body was discovered by a neighbor.”

Linscott gasped. The attorney clasped her arm.

“This interview is concluded,” he purred. “I will note your insensitive and derogatory

manner with your superiors.”

“How sweet,” Brenda smiled. The attorney gathered his case and his client and

exited with well-crafted dignity.

“She seemed surprised,” Sgt. Gabriel suggested a beat later.

“She’s an actress, Sergeant,” Brenda retorted.

“You don’t get out to the movies much, do you, Deputy Chief?” Mulder asked,

grinning. Brenda spun on him.

“You know, Agent, you never did explain to me just how an apparently deceased

suspect could remain a viable suspect? I’ve had some small experience in forensic

pathology, and that just doesn’t seem to track. Would you care to amplify?”

Mulder sighed and perched on the edge of the interview table. “Agents Scully and I

investigated the murder of a patient at the cosmetic surgery unit of Greenwood

Memorial Hospital in Chicago. The murder was particularly gruesome — the patient’s

physician used a liposuction wand to extract much of the victim’s internal organs.”

“My God,” Brenda whispered. “And this was Dr. Hartman? This Dr. Franklyn you

referred to?”

“No,” Mulder drawled. “An associate of Dr. Franklyn’s, a Dr. Lloyd.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand…”

“The lipo-cide was the first in a series of deaths that occurred at the hospital, Several

of these deaths occurred under highly unusual, improbable circumstances. Agent

Scully and I managed to intercede in the last murder attempt. A set of surgical

instruments was found in the intestinal tract of the intended victim. Our investigation

revealed several of the doctors in her unit were involved in ritualistic practices. The

black arts, to be precise.”

Brenda’s jaw dropped. “What are you trying to tell me, Agent Mulder? That Dr.

Hartman is some kind of cult leader or warlock or something.”

“Actually, a male witch is still called a witch, not a warlock–”

“Thank you for the comparative religions class, Agent Mulder.” Brenda murmured.

“And you believe our victim is this witch doctor Franklyn?”

“There’ve been a couple of strange murders in Southern California over the last few

months — murders with vaguely medical overtones and with links to Dr. Hartman’s

practice. And Dr. Hartman’s arrival in Los Angeles coincides roughly with Dr.

Franklyn’s abrupt disappearance in Chicago.”

Brenda nodded, her expression incredulous, and turned. “Sgt. Gabriel, find out if

Det. Daniels has managed to locate the deceased’s partner, Dr. Callan?”

Mulder adjusted his rump uncomfortably. “Ah, Deputy Chief?”

“Yes?” The single word was imbued with simultaneous dread and menace.

“My partner, Agent Scully, managed to run down Dr. Callan at L.A. Memorial right

before Ms. Linscott got here. She’s already headed over.”

Brenda was silent for a moment, before her eyes turned glacial and a copperhead

smile spread across her features. “Well, Agent Mulder. I appreciate your wanting to

save us the inconvenience of chasing all over town after Dr. Callan. But we have an

active, local homicide here — not some. . .some witch hunt. So if you’d like to try

another end run around my squad, we’ll see what you’re A.D. thinks of your little

fairy tale. Have I made myself clear, Agent Mulder?”

He swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

The copperhead smile vanished. “Excellent. You don’t mind if Sgt. Gabriel drives, do

you?”

Los Angeles Memorial Hospital

4:56 p.m.

The FBI’s end run had been blocked at the gate: They found Agent Scully — a small,

ultra-serious counterpoint to Mulder’s flaky persona — checking her phone mail in

the L.A. Memorial burn ward waiting area. Scully pocketed the phone as her partner

approached, cops in tow.

“Skin grafts,” she sighed. “He’s been in there the last two hours.”

Mulder blinked. “I guess everyone grieves in their own way.”

“It’s actually fairly admirable,” Scully suggested. “Callan’s colleagues say he was

pretty broken up about Hartman’s murder, but insisted on operating on the kid in

there. I guess Callan did most of the pro bono surgery for the partnership. Hartman

loved the Hollywood scene. Weird — if it is him, you wouldn’t think he’d want to

maintain such a high profile.”

Scully’s observation was designed to discourage, but Mulder wasn’t so easily

daunted. “He’s demonstrated his arrogance and ego to us. Given his ‘abilities,’ I’m

sure he feels a growing omnipotence. Flaunting his power and success is probably a

big part of his trip.”

“What abilities?” Brenda inquired. Mulder spun. “See? Pretty unnerving, isn’t it? What

abilities?”

“It’s complicated,” Scully began.

Brenda squinted and rubbed her temples. “Well, gimme a try. I finished high school,

you know.”

“As well as graduating Langley and passing the Atlanta and D.C. police exams,”

Mulder grinned. “We’re not being condescending — this is just a very convoluted

case with some unorthodox dimensions.”

“Yes.” Brenda stretched the word by a syllable. “You mentioned that Dr. Hartman

was a witch.”

Scully exhaled loudly. “That was an oversimplification,” Mulder said. “Based on the

circumstances of the Chicago murders and certain, ah, symbols we found on the

hospital premises, we believe Hartman, AKA Franklyn, was a black magician. A very

adept practitioner of the dark arts.”

Brenda listened silently, then smiled and nodded. “Now there — was that so difficult?

I’ll simply ask Sgt. Gabriel here to deputize David Copperfield, and we’ll have this

whole thing wrapped up by suppertime.”

Sgt. Gabriel tapped his boss’ shoulder. “I think the operation’s over, Chief.”

A distinguished, if homely, man in scrubs emerged as the double doors of the

surgery suite whooshed open. Brenda adjusted her purse on her shoulder and edged

past Mulder and Scully.

“Good job, Mulder,” Scully breathed.

**

“Dr. Callan?” Brenda called, her heels clicking on the gleaming hospital tile.

Darrel Callan looked up blearily. “I assume you’re the police, about Bob.”

“Deputy Chief Brenda Johnson,” she announced briskly.

“How’d the operation go?” Gabriel asked quickly. Caulking the gaps in his chief’s

interpersonal skills set had become an important duty as otherwise assigned.

Callan glanced back. “According to form. That’s the easy part — now, we have to see

if the grafts take. And any 10-year-old who’s sustained this kind of trauma is looking

forward to decades of counseling.”

“Speaking of trauma,” Brenda interjected gently, “I’m sure you’ve been informed of

the extreme circumstances of your partner’s death.”

Callan nodded. “I’ve been in surgery since about 11 or so, but your Detective Flynn

notified our office nurse, and she text-ed me.”

“Yes,” Mulder said. “We’ve been trying to reach you.”

The plastic surgeon straightened with a severe smile. “Agent, let me tell you

something about the medical profession. We see death on a daily basis — maybe not

in my practice, but here, in the trenches — and we soon learn that if death isn’t final,

it is at least irrevocable. Now, that boy in there has been waiting in intense, nearly

untreatable pain for some glimmer of hope. He and his parents. Bob, sadly, is

beyond pain. Triage, people — that’s what it’s about.”

“I hear you do a lot of pro bono work, Doctor,” Scully said.

Callan glanced at the redhead. “Dr. Hartman is — was — an accomplished aesthetic

surgeon. He accomplished sheer magic with a scalpel — his work was as seamless as

God’s own. I’m no slouch myself, but I have an aptitude perhaps better suited to the

clinical setting. Bob and I are blessed with the resources, the wherewithal, to offer

our skills to those who most acutely need them.”

“Your skills, don’t you mean?” Brenda asked sweetly. “What I hear, Dr. Hartman was

more accustomed to the club scene than the burn ward.”

Callan nodded knowingly. “OK, I see where this is going. Look, Bob was the big

moneymaker for the practice — Bob. Let me tell you up front — with Bob’s death,

yes, I inherit controlling interest in the practice. But not Bob’s skills or reputation.

Less revenue, less pro bono. Besides, Detective Flynn said Bob’s death was violent,

as you characterized it, extreme. A crime of passion, it would seem. I know of only

one person who elicited much passion in Bob.”

“Erin Linscott?”

“I doubt that New Age wraith would have had the strength or stomach to do what

was done to Bob. However, wherever there’s a hot young Hollywood starlet, there’s

usually some young piece of beefcake driven by testosterone and temperament. You

might look there. Now, I want to start making arrangements for Bob’s internment. If

you have any further questions, I’m confident my attorney can address them.”

“Thank you,” Brenda told Callan’s back as he headed resolutely down the corridor.

“He makes a good point,” Sgt. Gabriel conceded. “Hartman’s the one in the tabloids,

the one on Entertainment Tonight.”

“And the one with a partner who’s more interested in healing scarred kids than

realigning the noses of the rich and famous,” Mulder suggested. “As commendable as

Callan’s altruism is, it has to be a drain on the practice’s ‘resources.’”

“Hartman was ready to give Callan the old heave-ho,” Brenda murmured, tasting the

idea. “Callan does a pre-emptive strike, makes it look like a crime passionel. Or he

goes to Hartman’s to save his skin, so to speak, and tempers flare. Sergeant, we

need to see if Hartman had the clout to cut Callan loose.”

“Could’ve been a hit, too,” Sgt. Gabriel offered. “The assistant M.E. at the scene said

Hartman may have been beheaded with a single blow. Sounds like a pro trying to

look like a meth head gone wild.”

“Superhuman, almost supernatural strength,” Mulder noted.

Brenda regarded the agent with disbelief, then turned on her heel. “C’mon, Darren.

I’ll give you a ride back to the sstation on my broom.”

Howard-Johnson residence

Los Angeles

6:38 p.m.

“Uh, oh,” Special Agent “Fritz” Howard breathed as he pulled his key from the front

door and the scent of herbs and rich gravy hit his trained nostrils. He lowered his

briefcase and peered into the dining nook. The glow of candles illuminated the aged

wood of the table.

“Oh, boy,” he sighed.

“Hi, there, Fritzie,” Brenda beamed as she emerged from the kitchen with a steaming

casserole. She was wearing an apron over the only dress Fritz had ever given a

nickname — an unspeakable nickname.

Now, he was truly frightened.

Brenda crooked an arm around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss that might

have brought life back to the dead. The deputy chief leaned back, sighed

contentedly. “How was your day, Baby?”

“OK,” Fritz said, extracting himself. “What’s up?”

Brenda blinked. “Fritz, whatever do you mean?”

“What do you have? Rachel Ray hidden in the kitchen? You’re wearing your fu–,

your hey sailor dress, and you’re pouring on the Steel Magnolias routine a little

thicker than usual.”

Brenda’s nostrils flared. Then she composed herself with an injured smile. “I just

thought you might enjoy a little spoiling tonight, a little special treatment.”

Fritz smiled. “Brenda. C’mon.”

She stared at her fiancé for a moment and frowned. “Oh, all right. You have pretty

good pull with the L.A. field office, don’t you?”

“I guess. Wait a minute. Is this about that Mulder guy you asked me to check out?”

“He is absolutely, totally certifiable,” Brenda pleaded. “You have to do something,

Fritz.”

“Wow, this guy must be a real flake, if you’re–”

Brenda’s nostrils returned to full aperture. “And just what is that supposed to

mean?”

Fritz backpedaled. “Hey. All I’m saying is, you’re a big girl — I mean, you have a

very strong force of will. Very.

“You are not helping yourself,” Brenda said through her teeth.

“Look, I’m not questioning your take on Mulder. He definitely seems a few grains

short of a bowl. He and his partner, who seems solid enough, are basically their own

two-person department within the Bureau. The X-Files, whatever that means. I

couldn’t find out much, but apparently, they investigate freaky stuff — paranormal

occurrences, crimes with some kind of scientific angle, supposed ritualistic or

government conspiracies.”

“Oh, my God.”

“He’s also one of the FBI’s top profilers — he’s cleared dozens of serial cases. He

might actually be useful. At the very least, he seems to be harmless — a slightly

obsessive goofball. And Mulder doesn’t seem to care much for authority — you give

him a chance, and you two actually might hit it off.”

Brenda’s lips tightened. “So you don’t intend to help me.”

“You don’t need help — at least in the professional sense. Wait. Scratch that. C’mon,

Brenda, where you going?”

Brenda stopped ion the bedroom doorway. “Gonna get this damned dress off. It’s

killin’ me, and you sure as hell ain’t gonna get the opportunity.”

Residence of Dr. Robert Hartman

Beverly Hills

9:12 a.m.

“You weren’t in yet, and he said it was real important,” Provenza explained as

Brenda strode purposefully up the late Robert Hartman’s paved drive, Sgt. Gabriel

again in tow.

“I told y’all I had a dental appointment,” the deputy chief huffed, brushing past the

white-haired detective. She sailed through the open front door. “Agent Mulder?

Agent Mulder! Where the hell are you?”

“In here — the kitchen.”

“Criminy dutch,” Brenda muttered as she stalked through the luxurious home. She

found the agent poring with gloved fingers through a series of bottles lined up on a

marble prep table. Scully was comparing bottles with a book spread open on the

counter. Mulder looked up.

“Chief Johnson,” the agent grinned. “There’s something I wanted you to see.”

“Y’all going to fix me breakfast?”

Mulder chuckled and plucked a bottle from the table and jiggled its chopped yellow

contents.

“Basil.” Brenda paused. “I thought basil was green.”

“Goldenseal. It’s most commonly used to make yellow or orange dye, but it’s also

celebrated in some circles as an herb used for healing and to attract money.”

“That’s fascinating,” Brenda drawled.

“So far, Dr. Hartman’s spice cabinet appears to contain goldenseal, alder bark,

patchouli, myrrh, and what’s the rosemary, Scully?”

“It would appear to be blessed thistle,” his partner reported dispassionately.

“Great for hex breaking,” Mulder told the deputy chief. “All these herbs and

botanicals are used by neopaganists and other practitioners of the dark arts. And get

this.”

Brenda followed Mulder to the breakfast nook, where he indicated a large wooden

bowl full of white crystals.

“Salt?” Brenda queried. “So the good doctor had a thing for margaritas.”

“Coarse salt. It’s a little less conspicuous than an altar pentacle for cleaning tools

and other mystical knick-knacks.”

“I’m partial to anchovies on my pizza,” Brenda responded dryly. “Different strokes.”

Mulder sighed, shaking his head. “Scully, keep inventorying. Chief, would you

accompany me to the dining room?”

“Do I have any choice?”

Mulder stopped before an antique sideboard. A large black platter trimmed in gold

hung above the piece. The agent peered at his reflection in the platter, brushing a

lock from his forehead.

“Pretty,” Brenda said, tersely.

“And functional, if you’re a functioning sorcerer. See that pattern at noon, 3, 6, and

9? The circle flanked by two crescents. That’s the Lunar Triple Goddess, which

represents the three aspects of the moon — waxing, waning, and full. Another

common neopagan symbol. This is a black mirror — what’s called a scrying object.

You look into it, and eventually, an image appears that can be viewed directly or its

meaning interpreted by a trained practitioner. I could go on and on, but the fact is,

this house is full of subtly hidden manifestations of pagan belief and practice.

Brenda was silent for a moment. “Obviously, Agent Mulder, you haven’t been in L.A.

nearly long enough.”

“If Dr. Hartman were a run-of-the-mill Hollywood whack job, you think he’d go this

far to hide it? I thought whackjobbery was kind of a badge of honor out here.”

“I’m beginning to think so,” Brenda mumbled.

“The point is, isn’t it straining coincidence that Dr. Hartman follows the same pagan

practices Dr. Franklyn employed to commit several murders?”

“You’ll have to pardon me, Agent Mulder, but I’m still at something of a loss about

the specific circumstances of your Chicago homicides. And what led you to Dr.

Hartman?”

Mulder paused. “Well, as I told you earlier, you’ve had a couple of suspicious area

deaths. The teenager in Encino who was found in a ditch without his kidneys?”

“Satanists,” Brenda suggested, not mentioning the crucial fact that the boy’s body

revealed no incisions or scars.

“What about that woman in Belair? The realtor who went in for an appendectomy

and who wound up with a lungful of locusts?”

Brenda formulated a response, then reconsidered and formulated three more.

Finally, she slung her bag over her shoulder.

“I have some real police work to do, Agent Mulder,” she stammered, bumping into a

dining room chair. “I’ll leave you and Agent Buffy to pursue these ‘leads.’”

Mulder stood with mute amusement as Brenda barked a series of orders at her

underlings. The mansion’s front door clattered.

“Hey, Scully,” he called into the kitchen. “Chief Johnson just gave me a great idea for

a new role-playing game…”

Priority Homicide Squad

Los Angeles Police Department

Park Center, Los Angeles

3:54 p.m.

“All right, what’ve we got?” snapped Brenda, who was flanked by a long double white

board painstakingly filled with photos, documents, and sticky notes outlining

timetables and trivia about all the persona involved in the life and untimely death of

Dr. Robert Hartman.

The deputy chief had returned to Parker Center under a black cloud, and her

detectives came to rapid attention as she entered the squadroom. Now, the

members of the LAPD’s crack Priority Homicide Squad glanced uneasily at each

other.

“Um,” Lt. Flynn finally articulated. “Turns out the good doctor had a gambling jones.

Haunted the poker parlors every Thursday night.”

Brenda was intrigued. “Was he in deep?”

“Actually, Chief, he’d been warned off at a couple of joints. They couldn’t prove

anything, but he cleaned up on every table he played.”

“Maybe his sportsmanship came into question,” Brenda muttered. “Check to see if

there’ve been any particularly disgruntled playmates. Lt. Provenza? Any unhappy

patients?”

Provenza, who’d volunteered to take the list of starlets, debutantes, and models,

pushed his bag of Fritos aside. “You’da thought this guy was Dr. Schweitzer or

something. A medical miracle worker, according to the brain trust. Gotta say, he

sure does some fine work…”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Brenda sang. “Detective Daniels, any leads on the angry ex

front?”

The young detective consulted her notes. “Linscott dated that Australian action guy,

Troy Patersen, for a while last year, but things just kind of fizzled out, and he’s with

some British supermodel now. A few other guys, but everybody checks out for the

time of the murder.”

“Lt. Tao? What did Dr. Morales come up with?”

Tao’s glasses fell onto his nose as he rose for his customary discourse. “As the M.E.

thought, cause of death was a simultaneously severing of the carotid and jugular

arteries. One clean stroke with what appears to be a single-edged, rough-edged

blade.”

“Serrated?”

“No — it would appear the blade was recently sharpened, but not professionally. The

wound itself contained traces of dirt and chlorophyll. Now, the lab hasn’t processed

any of the blood found near the body yet, but…”

“Just a second, please.”

The squad looked up as one. Mulder was framed in the squadroom doorway, arms

crossed, wearing a frown.

“Lt. Tao, right? Did you say chlorophyll?”

Tao looked to Brenda. The deputy chief nodded curtly, in resignation.

“Yes, um, the wound contained traces of chlorophyll, as well as metal particles,” Tao

explained. “The particles were only a few microns—”

“Particles?” Mulder queried.

“Yes. Particles. Traces.”

“Traces?” Mulder murmured.

“Traces, yeah. I dunno. Like filings, I guess?”

“Metal filings?”

“Agent Mulder,” Brenda implored. “Before poor Detective Tao exhausts the entire

Roget’s Thesaurus, could I please ask why these, these…filings…are such a source of

fascination for you?”

“Filings and chlorophyll,” Mulder amended.

“Of course, chlorophyll,” Deputy Chief Johnson breathed. “Chlorophyll and metal

filings.” Brenda froze; her eyes widened as she bit her lips. “Oh, my goodness. Lt.

Flynn.”

Flynn’s mug stopped halfway to his mouth. “Chief?”

“I need you to secure the lawn next door to the Hartman house.”

The lieutenant frowned. “The lawn? Wait a minute. The lawn next to the victim’s

house?”

“The lawn, Lieutenant, the lawn. I need you to put up a perimeter around the entire

lot. Nobody else gets in.” Brenda looked up at Flynn. “Lieutenant, shoo. Shoo now.

And take Detective Tao with you. I want you to check for blood, skin, whatever,

behind the neighbor’s house.”

Tao’s glasses dropped from his forehead onto his nose. “You know how big that lawn

is, Chief?”

“Detective Tao, all I need you to do is test a patch about 20 feet long and, oh,

maybe six feet wide.” Brenda pivoted toward Provenza, who glanced guiltily up from

his Far Side desk calendar – his 2005 Far Side desk calendar. “Lt. Provenza, I need

you to locate the landscaping service that was, uh, servicing the Hartman home at

the time of the murder. Though I don’t hold out a lot of hope that you will. I’m

guessing our landscaper has gone to ground, you should pardon the pun. Well, get

dialin’, Lt. Provenza, please. Time’s wasting.”

“Ok, whoa” Sgt. Gabriel blinked. “I’m lost. Totally. You think the lawnmower guy

killed Hartman.”

“Heat of the moment?” Mulder suggested. “An impulse kill? If so, he was pretty quick

on his feet.”

“Chief,” Detective Daniels demanded.

Brenda ran a hand through her hair. “Rey Menendez or whatever his name turns out

to be must’ve been staking out, or stalking Dr. Hartman, but Dr. Hartman caught on,

confronted him?”

“Must’ve had a replacement mower blade handy,” Mulder explained. “Just sharpened,

thus the filings. Used blade, thus the chlorophyll. Like a machete.”

“But with the cops working the protest down the block, he couldn’t risk making a

hasty exit,” Daniels contributed. “So he decided to stay at the scene and bluff it out.

There’s always a lawn service working somewhere out there.”

It dawned on Sgt. Gabriel. “So you’re saying he put the murder weapon on his

mower and—”

“And ditched the evidence in full view of the LAPD,” Brenda fretted. “Yes, I suppose

that’s what I’m saying, Sergeant.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Mulder commiserated. “I should’ve suspected something was up

when ‘Menendez’ was so worried about us siccing the INS on him. If he was a real

illegal, he’d probably have known Immigration and Naturalization had become

Immigrations and Customs Enforcement, ICE. We all kind of dropped the ball, Chief.”

Brenda smiled sourly and crooked her head coquettishly. “Well, thank you — that is

sooo sweet, Agent Mulder. C’mon, Sgt. Gabriel, let’s roll.”

Residence of Yves Faison

Beverly Hills

11:05 a.m.

“You hear me just fine,” the indignant landscaper snapped. “Not your grass. Mine.”

Yuki Matsuhari, CEO and president of Beverly Gardens Landscape (indeed the firm’s

sole executive officer), had ignored the LAPD crime scene perimeter next door and

had proceeded to buzz (and mulch) the crucial turf. This time, no interpreter had

been necessary — the sight of Flynn and Tao charging across the lawn, arms flailing,

had struck a universal chord with the homeowner’s regular landscaper.

Lt. Flynn stepped toward Matsuhari, who grasped the handle of his mower

territorially. “Listen, buddy…”

“Lieutenant, if I may,” Brenda Leigh cooed. “Sir, I’m sure you would want to

cooperate with the Los Angeles Police Department. That…grass…in your possession

may be evidence in a murder case.”

Matsuhari crossed his arms. “Compost. My tomatoes. My grass. Mr. Faison say I can

take away. Good organic content — I fertilize myself.”

“Jesus,” Flynn breathed as Brenda tried to avoid the potential implications of the

gardener’s proud revelation. She raised a calming hand and bolstered her smile.

“Mr. Matsuhari, I regret to inform you that the gentleman next door was murdered.”

Matsuhari’s brow rose. “No shit?”

“No sh–…I mean, no, sir. We’re currently investigating the poor man’s death. That’s

why it’s imperative we take custody of this grass.” She glanced back at the half-ton

pickup in the drive. “Every bag of it.”

Matsuhari frowned, considering.

“Sir,” Mulder interjected from behind Brenda’s shoulder. Again, she jumped. “I’m

with the FBI. I’m sure the Bureau would be happy to compensate you with the

composting material of your choice in exchange for you surrendering the clippings in

question.”

Matsuhari looked at the phalanx of cops around him. “Deal.”

Flynn moved toward the truck.

“Not so fast, ‘buddy,’” Matsuhari shouted. “You get grass when I see my compost.”

Priority Homicide Squad

Los Angeles Police Department

Park Center, Los Angeles

5:14 p.m.

“Jason Peavey?” Brenda inquired as she entered Interview Room 1. She glanced at

the paler and far less buff man beside the thirtysomething landscaper. “And you

would be Jason Peavey’s attorney, I presume.”

“My client was enjoying a fishing weekend in San Jose when the Coast Guard

swarmed his vessel,” the lawyer huffed.

“How very frightening that must have been for your client,” Brenda purred, arching a

conspiratorial brow at the burly Peavey, whose gaze had been fixed several inches

below the deputy chief’s chin. Peavey smirked; she’d surmised from his bored

expression that he had little use for his attorney.

“Let’s see how sarcastic you are when we challenge your seizure of Mr. Peavey’s

property,” the lawyer sneered.

Brenda blinked. “Your client’s property was at the scene of a homicide yesterday,

without your client.” She turned to Peavey. “Do you have an employee named

Menendez, Rey Menendez?”

Peavey frowned. “Nah. It’s just me and my cousin, and he was with me in San Jo–”

“Jason,” the attorney prompted. Peavey exhaled, annoyed. Brenda smiled knowingly

as she straightened in her chair. “We’ve got a half-dozen witnesses, including the

dockmaster, who can vouch for my client’s whereabouts the last three days.”

Brenda nodded. “Mm. Well, then, maybe somebody stole your client’s truck.”

“Obviously,” the lawyer faltered.

“Except, shoot, we found it parked in your client’s driveway, wiped clean of

fingerprints. And the keys were inside his condo, on the kitchen counter, also wiped

clean. In all my years in law enforcement, I swear that is the most considerate car

thief I’ve ever heard of.” Brenda leaned across the table. “That what you think, Mr.

Peavey? That you’ve been the unfortunate victim of a gentleman car thief?” She

cocked her head. “Or is it possible instead that you’ve been taken advantage of?

That you’re the victim?”

“Address your questions to me, Chief,” the lawyer asserted weakly.

Brenda obliged, with a sunny smile. “Reason I ask is, we — I mean that editorially, of

course — found something kind of curious when we inspected the undercarriage of

your mower. I’m sure an educated gentleman such as yourself knows about

centrifugal force.”

She waited. The attorney stared stonily for a moment, then coughed.

“Oh, my.” Brenda turned back to Peavey, who looked up quickly. “Well, my daddy

used to take me on the Tilt-a-Whirl at the county fair — scared me something awful,

but then Daddy had trouble distinguishing sheer terror from squeals of delight.

Anyway, that car would keep whirlin’ and whirlin’ and whirlin’, and I’d be squashed

up against the seat like a tick on a huntin’ dog.” The chief’s already viscous southern

patois thickened as she reminisced. “I’m sorry. My point is, that was centrifugal

force. That’s what we think happened with your lawn mower.

“See, we think your gentleman car thief was considerate enough to clean the blood

and tissue off your lawn mower blade after using it to nearly decapitate a man.” The

magnolias in her voice turned to steel. “This fellow’s pretty bright — he knew the

police were on the way, so he put the murder weapon on your mower and used our

murder victim’s lawn to wipe away his sins, so to speak.

“But our friend apparently failed his physics courses, because he just forgot all about

centrifugal force. When that blade started whirlin’ and whirlin’, it spattered eensy,

teensy, microscopic bits of blood and DNA and brains inside the undercarriage. My,

your attorney appears a might green about the gills. I’m sure we could round up a

glass of water…”

The lawyer shook his head vigorously. Brenda nodded hers with equal vigor, and

turned back to Peavey.

“So in short, your gentleman car thief has implicated you in a homicide. That

scarcely makes up for the fact that he apparently fed your cats and took your

newspapers and mail inside while you were down the coast trolling for…marlin. This

man must be the most courteous murderer in the annals of crime. Either that, or you

know this man. We got two different sets of fingerprints off your cat’s food dish.

Guess when we run those prints down, we’ll just ask our killer if he knows good old

Jason Peavey.”

“Jason, no–” the lawyer advised.

“That’s right, Jason.” Brenda’s voice once again was redolent of honeysuckles. “You

listen to your attorney. He’s represented some very important folks over the years —

you’re lucky to have him. What, do you do his lawn? He must be very committed to

you…”

“Hey,” the attorney protested weakly.

Jason blinked, and Brenda knew she’d guessed correctly. The landscaper fell back in

his chair and exhaled loudly.

“Guy’s kind of an asshole, anyway,” Peavey muttered. “Jay Pirelli — he’s an actor.

Commercials, ‘Third Doctor in Background’ on Grey’s Anatomy, that kind of shit. We

play Texas hold ‘em every Thursday night, and when I’m out of town, I let him take

the truck out, do some mowing and shit to help him out. For a split, of course. In

exchange, he keeps Guenther fed and keeps the neighborhood methheads from

knowing I’m gone. Shit, you say he killed somebody?”

Brenda’s expression was unreadable.

Jason paused. “One of my clients?”

The deputy chief shoved a legal pad toward him. “Name, address, phone number,

anything else you can come up with.” Brenda shoved her chair back, and left the

landscaper to confer with his still-ochre attorney.

Tao was waiting in the corridor, fidgeting, tapping a manila folder against his palm.

“Chief, lab results just came back. They’re still analyzing the clippings, but there are

a few traces of what might be blood on the mower undercarriage. They have to do

some more tests, but if they can separate…”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Brenda sang, turning happily on her heel.

Sierra Hills Productions

Burbank

9:23 a.m.

“No, no, NO!” the director, a Francis Ford Coppola look-alike (save for his bleached

hair) shouted. “You’re a freaking fireman, not a Gap model! Quit pouting, asshole.”

He took a calming breath and a gulp of Evian. “All right, all right, everybody, take

five. Then maybe we can get this cinematic masterpiece in the can. You think?”

The pouting fireman lowered his hose, which had been trained on a bikinied blonde

in an Adirondack chair holding a bag of Ultra Caliente Habanero Snak Puffs. The

young actor, cheesily dashing with sharp Mediterranean features, tried to chat up his

co-star, who quickly retreated to the makeup table. He shrugged, then spotted the

two old dudes approaching him.

“Jay Pirelli?” The younger of the two asked. He looked like a slickly-dressed extra

from The Sopranos, as did his more rumpled white-haired buddy, but Jay was up on

his gambling obligations, so he smiled dazzlingly.

Then, the slick-dressed one came up with a wallet, and before Jay could see the first

flash of badge, he swung the Adirondack chair at the cops. It caught the white-

haired one in the gut, eliciting a stream of words Jay recognized from that gangsta

flick where he’d played “White Prison Guard.” Gaffers and technicians scattered as he

sprinted for the soundstage fire exit. Flynn and Provenza trampled the bikini blonde’s

fabricated “back yard” in pursuit, sidearms now drawn.

The exit door slammed into brick as Pirelli blinked against the harsh sun. It had been

somewhere around 10 takes to induce the director’s near-aneurysm, and he hadn’t

seen daylight for a few hours. His car was a block away, but Jay was buoyed by the

advanced age of his pursuers and his daily regimen at one of the cheaper Gold’s

Gym knockoffs.

“Mr. Pirelli?”

The voice was feminine, throaty, but full of steel. Like Hilary Swank or Sandra

Bullock in one of those cheesy action movies. His eyes adjusted to the light, and he

spotted the short redhead attempting to block the alleyway. Jay could hear the old

cops cursing behind him, and the redhead went for what he assumed to be a gun.

The actor had been an extra in the Longest Yard remake, and he crouched and

charged the short chick.

Then the lights momentarily went out. Jay came to to a field of blue sky, a startlingly

black gunbarrel, and a furious face framed in red. Agent Dana Scully rolled him onto

his belly, roughly.

“Shit, Flynn,” he heard the white-haired cop grunt. “I think I may be in love.”

Priority Homicide Squad

Los Angeles Police Department

Park Center, Los Angeles

12:12 p.m.

“Well, Mr. Pirelli, or should I say Mr. Menendez?” Brenda beamed as she settled

across from the actor. “I have to say, you were most convincing yesterday morning.”

Pirelli smiled lazily despite his circumstances. “Hey, thanks. I play better Latino than

Italian. I even did a terrorist on 24 last season. No lines, but hey…”

“New face must be opening a lot of doors for you,” the deputy chief purred. “I saw

your headshot before Dr. Hartman straightened that nose for you. Just another mug

in the crowd back then, huh?”

Pirelli leaned forward. “You gotta go ethnic today. And I don’t mean Italian — thanks

to those Defamation League assholes, most of the good Mafia gigs have dried up,

and ‘sides, it’s all about the gangstas now. After Doc Hartman fixed me up, the roles

started rolling in — I even lined up a semi-regular gig in a network version of one of

those Mexican telenovella things.”

“Sounds expensive, a nose job like that from a high roller like Robert Hartman.”

“We were in the same poker game lots, and he took an interest,” Pirelli said. “Doc

hardly ever lost a pot, but one night, I guess his luck went south, ‘cause by

midnight, he was into me five large. I’m sure he was good for it, but he knew I

needed a professional jumpstart, so he offered to front the five grand as a down

payment on a new nose.”

“Can’t repossess a nose, can you, though?” Brenda inquired. “Your agent says the

offers haven’t been rolling in so much the last couple months.”

The actor slumped back in his chair. “OK, I was a little slow coming up with the rest

of his fee. How was I gonna pay him off if I couldn’t get any parts?”

“You saying Dr. Hartman somehow blackballed you?”

“All I know is, one minute I’m up to my ass in primo roles — TV, movies. Then,

Hartman starts putting on the screws for his money, and I’m hustling commercials

for local check cashing joints. So I decide to see if I can find something to relieve the

pressure. Capisce?”

“Don’t you mean comprende?” Sanchez asked from his post on the interview room

wall.

“Hey, nothing personal, man,” Pirelli squeaked. “’Sides, I fooled you, right? I don’t

play into stereotypes, you know?”

“Gracias,” Sanchez replied. “So you decided to blackmail Hartman into letting up on

you?”

“He’s rich, these Beverly Hills docs can write scrip for anything, and he’s got a

gambling jones and a thing for the ladies. Though why he’d pick the Ice Queen…”

“Ice Queen?” Brenda inquired. “Ms. Linscott? She seemed like a perfectly nice young

lady.”

“With that 26-year-old virgin act? You ask me, Little Miss Straight Edge is a world-

class P.T.” Pirelli grinned at Sanchez. “You know what I mean, right, amigo?”

“Wouldn’t know, paisan,” Sanchez grunted.

“I figure if I can catch them in the act, prove Erin’s had her cherry popped, it might

be worth the balance of my bill to him to keep it on the down-low. So I staked out

his place last couple weeks.”

“Find anything good?” Brenda asked, a prurient glint in her eye.

Pirelli sucked at a tooth for a moment, evaluating his options.

The glint extinguished. “’Cause, Mr. Pirelli, you tried to eliminate key evidence in a

homicide — a murder weapon you brought to the scene. Now, I don’t really see you

for the part of killer, mainly cause I just don’t believe you got what Detective

Sanchez here might call the cojones for what happened to Dr. Hartman. But unless

you can offer me another scenario, I don’t see a happy ending for you, Mr. Pirelli.”

“All right, all right,” Pirelli puffed. “I took some pictures, last Wednesday and again

the other night, at Hartman’s place. He had Erin and some other people over — I

recognized an actor Erin did an indie with last year, and a couple of studio guys.

Some of the others, I don’t know — maybe some of Hartman’s doctor buddies. But it

was strictly low-key: Three or four of them parked down the street and went to the

back of the house. And there weren’t any lights on or music playing — it wasn’t a

party.”

“What do you think it was?”

“This town, I was thinking an orgy, maybe? ‘Cept a couple of these people would put

the brakes on an orgy at the Los Angeles Zoo monkey house. So I grab my Nikon,

and sneak around the bushes, hoping I can catch Erin doing a studio VP or Hartman

doing a collie or something?”

“And were there any unusual husbandry practices going on?” Brenda pursued.

“I got too weirded-out before I could see anything good. I finally found a window

around the side where I could see what was going on. There were candles all over

the dining room — on the floor, the tables, everywhere. Everybody was in a circle

around Hartman, and Erin was staring at some kind of screen on the wall.”

“Screen?”

“Screen, TV, I dunno. It was round, with like gold trim.”

Brenda’s nails grasped the table as she recalled Mulder’s tour of the dining room. The

agent had asked to monitor the interview with Pirelli in the Tech Room; she expected

him to come busting through the door any second.

“You positive it was a screen?” she asked, swallowing.

“They were watching some kind of weird shit — sci-fi, horror. Crappy special effects –

– face on the screen looked like something out of Star Wars. Nothing I could sell to

Hartman or the tabloids.”

Brenda looked up at Sanchez, who frowned in confusion. She turned back to Pirelli.

“OK. Let’s talk about Dr. Hartman’s murder. You borrowed your buddy’s truck to

stake out his place from next door.”

“Nobody pays attention to the lawn guy,” Pirelli explained. “I’d found out the

neighbor was out of town, so I set up on the back lawn.”

“You said you saw a woman arguing with Dr. Hartman. Was that the truth?”

“I, uh, I made that up. I thought I’d throw you off — point you toward Erin. I’d been

hauling crap around, trimming hedges, trying to sell the performance, you know.

Then I look over and see the doc’s legs sticking out from behind one of his pool

chairs. Then I see what looks like blood. So I go over, and, Jesus, I thought I was

gonna puke, except I did a Crossing Jordan and I knew you guys could trace my

DNA. I mean, shit, they lopped the guy’s head off. Who does that?

“And then, then I see the mower blade, all covered in blood. They must’ve got it off

the truck — somebody knew I’d been scoping things out and tried to frame me. I’m

about to get the fuck out of Dodge when I hear sirens, and I know I’m trapped. So

my actor’s instinct kicks in–”

Sanchez snorted.

“– and I pull the blade off Jason’s mower, replace it with the bloody one, and try to

clean it off on the neighbor’s lawn. I’m sorry about lying to you guys, but I didn’t

know what else to do. I couldn’t have done something like that, lady. Like you said,

I’m an actor — I don’t have the balls.”

Brenda nodded as she rose. “Well, why don’t you just hold on to whatever you’ve got

down there for a few minutes, OK? Detective Sanchez?”

Brenda jumped as she opened Mulder appeared in the open doorway. The deputy

chief shoved the door shut with her derriere. “Agent Mulder, would you please,

please stop…skulking? I assume you heard all that?”

“Franklyn’d definitely started a new coven out here,” Mulder concluded. “But made

up of, what, an A-minus-list actress and some other Hollywood types?”

“One of whom might’ve offed him,” Sanchez noted.

Mulder shook his head. “The Franklyn who engineered those murders in Chicago was

a powerful, accomplished magician. The gambling, the partying, dating young

starlets? It’s bush league. It doesn’t seem like him. Neither do those two homicides –

– the ones that led us to ‘Hartman.’ Too conspicuous, too risky.”

“So, what?” Brenda challenged. “Now you DON’T think Hartman was Franklyn?”

Mulder sighed. “I think Hartman WAS Franklyn. I think someone may have made a

deal with the devil. Or two.”

**

“Of course, I want to help any way I can,” Darrell Callan told Mulder tersely as he

took his seat in the Priority Homicide Tech Room. “But outside the practice, Bob and

I lived quite separate lives. As I’m sure you’ve discovered. I socialized with Bob and

Erin some, as a couple, but we scarcely traveled in the same circles/”

The agent smiled as Buzz tinkered with the interview room audio. On the monitor

before him, a grainy Brenda was oozing small talk and compliments as Erin Linscott

and her attorney settled in across the table. Provenza watched Mulder cautiously —

he’d been briefed on what had sounded like the most hair-brained, insane scheme

he’d seen his erratically brilliant boss perpetrate. Even Deputy Chief Johnson had

seemed tentative as she’d given him his sketchy marching orders.

“Interesting turn of phrase — circles,” Mulder murmured. “Hartman wasn’t always

the party boy, was he? According to some of his former associates, he was

something of a sociable recluse when he first came to L.A. Quiet, professional,

discreetly charitable, He earned a solid standing in the community and the

profession, re-established the kind of lifestyle he’d been used to in Chicago, but he

stayed under the radar. He didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to himself.”

“What are you trying to tell me?” the homely cosmetic surgeon demanded.

“On the other hand, Dr. Darrell Callan has been a fixture on the L.A. scene for

years,” Mulder continued. “You’re a gifted surgeon, but you’ve had something of a

checkered past, haven’t you? The horses, a DUI and a coke bust that both went

away with a little influence, the women…”

Callan sipped the coffee Provenza had supplied, staring calmly at Mulder. “Is that

what this is about? All right, yes, I’ve had my problems. I’m not proud of that, but

I’ve managed to gain control of myself, find a measure of discipline.”

“While good Dr. Hartman has adopted a lifestyle that might make Lindsay Lohan

flinch. Weird role reversal, huh?”

A retort formed on Callan’s thin lips. “Uh, Agent, she’s starting,” Buzz announced,

and the physician turned abruptly from Mulder.

“Ms. Linscott,” Brenda’s voice crackled through the speakers. “You are aware that

your boyfriend was engaged in some rather…unorthodox religious practices?”

Silence filled the interview room.

“This is Hollywood, Deputy Chief,” her attorney chuckled. “Whether Dr. Hartman

read L. Ron Hubbard or practiced Kabbala would seem irrelevant to this case. I hope

you’re not planning to intrude into my client’s privacy rights.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Counselor,” Brenda purred. “However — and this is

unfortunate — someone else already has committed a fairly grievance invasion of Dr.

Hartman’s and Ms. Linscott’s privacy.”

Brenda pushed a manila envelope across the table. Erin glanced at her attorney, and

he nodded warily. The actress emptied its contents — a series of photos printed from

Jay Pirelli’s SmartCard — onto the table. Even over the video monitor, Provenza

could make out the somber faces eerily illuminated in the glow of dozens of candles,

especially Erin Linscott’s normally perky countenance.

“OK,” Erin uttered finally, with a slight edge of defiance. “Like Ted said, this is

Hollywood. I’m sure some Southern Baptist police chief wouldn’t understand, but I’m

open to a wide variety of ideas and beliefs. Bob had gotten interested in Wicca, in

pagan beliefs, so I went along for kicks. Just kicks. I’d kind of appreciate it if we

could keep this out of the media — it might offend some of the Presbyterians in my

fan base — but there’s nothing illegal about exercising my religious freedoms.”

“Not a blessed thing,” Brenda assured her. “But this old Southern Baptist gal has a

feeling — call it a divination, if you’d like — that Dr. Hartman’s little old church

meetings might be connected to his murder.”

Mulder glanced at Callan, whose eyes were fixed on the monitor. “Beats the old

‘What’s your sign’ approach, huh? Don’t make disciples like they used to, do they?

He must have seemed like an ideal recruit at the time — weak, hedonistic, greedy.

You had to start fresh, and you were already aware of the logistical advantages of

the medical community for your ‘needs.’ I’m sure your new partner took to it,

especially after his practice — his medical practice — bloomed and he started scoring

with the ladies and the ponies.”

Callan turned with a disdainful expression. “You think I was involved in Bob’s childish

nonsense?”

“I think you created a monster — literally. Your partner was a pawn, though I’m sure

once you convinced him of your abilities, he was more than willing to accept your

deal. He’d have even greater fame and fortune, and the looks Nature had cheated

him out of. And most people would jump at the chance for a fresh start, even if their

appetites and weaknesses.”

The doctor turned to Provenza, who was deep into a bag of microwave popcorn.

“This man’s clearly insane. Do you and your chief really want to be associated with

this?”

The lieutenant shrugged and chewed thoughtfully.

“This no sex thing,” Brenda continued. Four sets of male eyes returned to the screen.

“It’s not just some trendy Hollywood thing.”

“It’s not a trend — it’s a lifestyle,” Erin snapped. “But if you mean is some new thing,

then no. I’ve been acting since I was 10, and Mom and Dad didn’t want me to fuck

anything up by getting knocked up or an STD or something.”

“That was the key,” Mulder announced, causing a kernel to pop from between

Provenza’s fingers. “You’d decided to start fresh, too. You had a new life in Paradise

and a new outlet for your power. The folks at the L.A. Memorial Burn Ward call your

work with those kids nothing short of miraculous, and they’re right, aren’t they? You

learned to curb your appetite, even as you whetted your partner’s. He became

obsessed with the powers you’d helped him discover. That realtor who wound up

with a chestful of locusts? The kidneyless kid they found in a ditch? My guess is, they

were sacrificed to strengthen his power.”

“So,” Brenda drawled. “You’ll pardon me if this sounds a mite personal, but Ms.

Linscott, would you be happen to be a virgin?”

“Hey,” the attorney protested. But Erin merely grinned.

“Maybe the only one in L.A.,” the actress laughed.

“I was wondering why — and I hope you guys will pardon me — a party-hearty

pussyhound like your partner would hook up with a clean-living, straight-edge

celibate like Linscott,” Mulder said. “But I think she was exactly what he wanted,

what he needed. A true, dyed-in-the-wool virgin. It must’ve been like discovering a

unicorn in the wild. The teenager and the realtor were appetizers — your partner

figured if he could offer Erin up, he’d gain untold abilities.

“I don’t know how you found out what he had in mind for her, but it was the last

straw. A couple of freak deaths in California are filler on Headline News; the murder

of an up-and-coming actress is round-the-clock coverage on CNN and MSNBC. You

could’ve lost everything. Sooner or later, we’d make the link to Greenwood

Memorial.”

“I think I’m done here,” Callan muttered, though his eyes remained fixed on Erin

Linscott’s image. “This is total gibberish.”

“I convinced Chief Johnson to authorize DNA tests on the victim.”

Callan snorted. “On Bob? I wouldn’t think identification would be a major problem.”

“I think you know what I was looking for, Doctor,” Mulder chided. “I had the lab pull

two samples. One from the victim’s cheek, which was confirmed as Robert Hartman’s

DNA.”

“What a surprise.”

“The other was taken from his bone marrow. I think you know what we found.”

Callan looked up, disdain – and anxiety – etched into his long, vaguely equine face.

He said nothing. Mulder smiled.

“So, did Dr. Callan ever participate in these little ceremonies?” Brenda inquired.

Erin paused. “A few times. He and Bob got into it more than once over it. It was like

with their practice – Callan wanted to be the big man, but he just didn’t have the

charisma, the clout.”

Callan straightened abruptly. “What? That bitch…”

“The trail might’ve ended with your partner if you hadn’t slipped at the hospital

yesterday,” the agent murmured. “You convinced Callan to switch faces – and places

– with you in exchanges for your power and protection. But when we showed up

unannounced to talk to you about the murder, Deputy Chief Johnson got down to

business before any of the rest of us were introduced. She’s a very assertive

woman.”

Provenza chortled, nearly choking on a popcorn kernel.

“But you called me ‘Agent.’ For all you knew, I was one of the chief’s detectives. But

you must’ve been rattled to see me after all these years. Was that it, Dr. Franklyn?”

To Mulder’s surprise, “Callan” — AKA Hartman, AKA Franklyn – offered no outraged

denial. Whether or not he and Scully could sell the L.A. D.A. on Franklyn for

“Hartman”’s murder, the black magician had been unable to alter his own DNA, and

they’d link him to the Chicago killings.

“Doctor?” Mulder asked, concerned.

Franklyn/”Callan” had paled, and his face glistened with sweat as he stared at the

monitor. His jaw, encased in his partner’s former skin, twitched. For a second,

Mulder feared his ploy had induced a cardiac episode.

The doctor finally turned, eyes wide and haunted.

“I need to get out of here,” he rasped. “Please.”

Hollywood Marriott

5:34 p.m.

“You didn’t really think it was going to be that easy, did you?” Scully asked, rubbing

Mulder’s shoulder as she passed the bed. “At best, it was a long shot. At the least,

I’d say his reaction was confirmation of your theory. If we can get that warrant for

‘Callan’s DNA, we should have him.”

Mulder laughed sourly, laying back on the hotel mattress. “Given the judge’s reaction

to our request, I wouldn’t want to bet the farm on getting that warrant. Deputy Chief

Johnson didn’t exactly speak up in there.”

“Give her some credit, Mulder,” Scully protested, stepping out of her slacks. “She let

you carry out your bizarre little scheme.”

Johnson’s AV man, Buzz, proved a techno-whiz in incorporating the image a local

SFX specialist had crafted from the sketch based on Jay Pirelli’s description of the

face in Hartman/Callan’s scrying mirror into the interview room feed. Mulder had

picked what he’d felt was the right psychological moment to spring the demon’s

image on Franklyn. The result had been positive but somewhat short of totally

satisfying.

Staring at the hotel ceiling, Mulder barely felt the pressure on the mattress next to

him.

“Mulder!”

The agent blinked, and became aware of the naked redhead straddling his hips.

“There’s one thing bothering me,” he muttered.

Scully rolled off with a sigh. “That’s at least one less than what’s bothering me.

Maybe Erin Linscott has the right idea with this celibacy thing. Thing of how much

more work I’d get done, how much more energy I’d have.”

Mulder reached for a breast. “Sorry, Scully. I was just remembering…”

“Mulder, what?” Scully turned his chin. “Oh, shit. Can I surmise that we’re not about

to partake in crazed expensed hotel sex?”

Her partner grabbed for his jacket on a nearby chair. “I gotta call Deputy Chief

Johnson.”

Scully reached over the mattress’ edge, searching for her panties. “I surmise

correctly.”

Priority Homicide Squad

Los Angeles Police Department

Park Center, Los Angeles

8:04 p.m.

She found Mulder alternating between a trio of monitors. Buzz shrugged at the chief.

“Agent Mulder,” Brenda sighed in exasperation, “I thought you’d left for the day. You

putting together tomorrow’s séance?”

“I think I made a miscalculation, Chief,” the agent mumbled. “I want you to see

something.”

Brenda stood rooted in the Tech Room doorway for a moment, then waved Buzz

aside to lean in toward the monitors. She donned her horn-rimmed glasses.

“As you know, your interview tapes are time-stamped,” Mulder said. “The same’s

true for the webcam video of Dr. Frankl–, Dr. Callan’s reaction to Ms. Linscott’s

interview. We’ve paused both videos at the same point – right before you ask Ms.

Linscott about Dr. Callan’s involvement in Hartman’s coven. It struck me as strange

that a magician so adept would hang out with a bunch of Hollywood wannabes. Ah,

Chief, I need you to sit in this chair — the one Franklyn, er, Callan occupied this

afternoon.”

Brenda pursed her lips, then sighed and sat.

“Buzz?” Mulder prompted. Buzz looked to Brenda, who nodded in resignation. The tech

punch dual play buttons: Erin Linscott related “Dr. Callan’s” involvement in “Dr.

Hartman’s” rituals and noted the surgeons’ ongoing feud.

“Keep your eyes on Linscott,” Mulder instructed.

“What?” Callan sputtered on the other monitor, straightening in his chair. “That bitch!”

Brenda gasped. “Freeze it, Buzz,” Mulder snapped.

“It has to be a coincidence,” the deputy chief breathed. “It has to be.”

“Run them both back to the beginning of Callan’s outburst. Yeah, there. Play them at

half-speed.”

“Whaaaaatttt?” Callan shouted on Monitor 1. “Thaaaaatttt biiiiiitch!”

On Monitor 2, Erin Linscott’s head snapped up. Her eyes blazed into the interview

room camera, projecting fury at Brenda — at Callan. They lingered for a moment, then

returned to the chief.

“She knew Callan — Franklyn — was here, and what he’d said. He wasn’t frightened by

the subliminal demon image — Linscott scared him. This was a warning. To keep his

mouth shut.”

“That’s, that’s just impossible,” Brenda said coldly, standing, backing away from the

monitor bank.

“I was so intent on getting Franklyn that I ignored the obvious,” Mulder sighed. “After

seeing this, I went back to Jay Pirelli’s description of ‘Hartman’’s ceremony and the

photos he’d taken that night. I counted 13 separate individuals in the photos, including

‘Hartman’ and Linscott. That’s a traditional coven gathering — I don’t think they were

missing anyone. Certainly not ‘Callan.’ I think Linscott was lying, trying to divert

attention much like Franklyn did when he told us about the ‘magic’ the real Dr. Callan

performed with his patients.

“Then there was Pirelli’s account of the demon’s image in the mirror. He said it was

Linscott staring into the image. I don’t think she was merely observing it — I think she

summoned it. Like I said, I’d ignored a major clue to the true nature of this case.

Remember my showing you the symbol on the mirror — the full moon flanked by two

crescents? That’s the Lunar Triple Goddess symbol. It represents not only the waxing,

full, and waning phases of the moon, but also the three aspects of womanhood —

mother, maiden, and crone.”

“Maiden,” Brenda whispered.

“Or virgin,” Mulder clarified. “Buzz, bring up that video, please. I want you to see this,

Chief.”

She lowered herself slowly back into the viewing seat as Erin Linscott was replaced by

a younger, more flamboyant version of herself, strolling up a red carpet in a

microscopic red dress as crowds cheered around her.

“The 2003 Golden Globes,” Mulder explained. “Linscott took Best Supporting Actress

for her role as the daughter in Domestic Dispute.”

“Hated that show,” Buzz murmured.

“Amen,” the agent concurred. “There, Buzz. Great. Now zoom in just above the good

stuff. Yeah, yeah, there!”

Brenda adjusted her glasses and stared at Erin’s bare shoulder blades and sternum.

“The pendant,” Mulder urged. “Look at the design.”

Brenda peered, then stopped breathing.

“Breathe,” Mulder advised as she stared at the three lunar phases etched into the

platinum teardrop dangling from the actress’ neck. “Looks like Erin kept a few secrets

from the good witch doctor. Now, who do you think was using who?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Brenda murmured, “but you think

Callan…Franklyn…oh, whoever — you think he knows all this?”

“I think he knows he’s been outclassed,” Mulder said, pushing his chair back. “And so

does she. Scully’s already on her way to Franklyn’s place.”

Brenda paused, eyeing first Mulder, then the would-be sorceress on the runway. Then

she unholstered her cell phone.

Residence of Dr. Darrell Callan

Palm Springs

11:58 p.m.

When they arrived at “Dr. Callan’s” Palm Springs mini estate, Mulder and Scully

spotted Erin Linscott’s signature black Testarossa in the dead center of Callan’s

elaborately paved drive. They parked in the street below; Brenda and Flynn pulled in

a half block down.

“She may look like Lindsay Lohan’s sober twin, but Linscott’s very dangerous,even

unarmed,” Mulder warned Flynn as he drew his sidearm.

“Shoulda brought my cross,” the lieutenant chuckled, slipping on a Kevlar vest and

handing another to Deputy Chief Johnson.

As Brenda and Mulder sprinted up the lawn beside the home’s steep driveway, Scully

and Flynn took the stone perimeter wall in a rear approach. Twenty feet from the

front veranda, Brenda touched Mulder’s arm and nodded toward the darkness

beyond the open front doors. They moved to either side, then slipped into the foyer

with a mutual signal.

The cop and the agent were halfway to the kitchen when they heard it – a low,

animal moan that nonetheless was all too human. A single shadow danced in the

flicker of candlelight. The moaning changed pitch, and Brenda momentarily hugged

the wall beside the arched doorway. She hefted her weapon with a deep breath, and

charged into the light with Mulder.

“Dear God,” Deputy Chief Johnson cried out, slumping against the brushed steel

refrigerator. Mulder’s hand twitched on his gun, his feet frozen to the terra cotta

tiles.

The mass of exposed muscles, tendons, and bone seated at the kitchen table was,

unfortunately, human. Blood dripped slowly from the skinned man’s left foot, pooling

in a widening reservoir.

Brenda fumbled her cell phone from her slacks, fingers trembling uncontrollably as

she punched 9-1-1. Mulder inched toward the grisly apparition.

“Dr. Franklyn?” the agent whispered.

The lidless eyes moved for the first time, conveying nothing as they stared at

Mulder. Franklyn’s jaw twitched and opened. The agent leaned forward as the

magician’s blackened tongue slipped between his teeth. Then Mulder spotted the

opaque obsidian eyes, and fell onto his ass as the eel slid onto the tile between his

legs, slapping the bloody tiles.

Franklyn was gone before the EMTs arrived. An unfortunate crime scene technician

found the rest of the late doctor hanging neatly in his bedroom closet.

Vino: A Restaurant

Hollywood

7:25 p.m.

“In ancient Greek culture, virginity denoted strength and independence,” Mulder

explained as he prodded his duck confit. “Artemis, the Greek virgin goddess of the

moon and the hunt, protected women in labor, small children, and wild animals.

Hestia, the goddess of the hearth, never took part in the struggles of men and gods.

Virgin goddesses were immune to the temptations of Dionysus, the Greek god of

seduction and wine.”

“That’s so fascinating,” Brenda murmured cheerfully, eyes darting about the now-

hushed tables around them. Fritz had focused on his steak, and his sawing

intensified. Scully reached for Mojito No. 3.

Erin Linscott had seemingly dropped from the face of the Earth, and with the FBI and

Homeland Security blanketing every conceivable escape route, Mulder and Scully

booked a new flight east. The farewell dinner had been Mulder’s idea; Brenda could

find no plausible escape route.

By the time the entrees had arrived, Mulder already had shared insights on Wiccan

and Druidic rituals, an amusing anecdote about a Tibetan shaman, and his thoughts

on the latest Chris Tucker flick. He made no mention of the horror he and the deputy

chief had shared the previous night.

Brenda nearly swooned with relief as their waiter, yet another tragically flawless

young actor, materialized at Scully’s shoulder. The agent jumped, hiccupping twice.

“We have a delightful selection of desserts this evening,” the waiter purred,

brandishing a silver tray. “In addition to our famous black forest torte, the chef has

prepared a Mexican chocolate soufflé, an apple and goat cheese turnover laced with

Calvados, and a white chocolate and raspberry trifle. May I tempt you?”

Brenda’s eyes devoured the trayful of confections, then locked on Fritz’s stern

expression. Her eyes implored him; he shook his head once.

“I can’t,” Brenda whimpered, evoking Tennessee Williams.

“Two of those,” Mulder ordered, pointing to the renowned black forest torte. He

scooted back. “Gotta find the little fed’s room,” he informed his hosts. “Don’t let

Scully on top of the table.”

“Well, this was just a…a wonderful idea,” Brenda sang as Mulder disappeared into an

alcove. “Your partner is just so full of interesting information.”

Scully toasted with her mojito. “Yeah, he’s full of something, all right. Look, I know

he must seem kind of, well, flaky to you–”

Fritz snorted, then flinched under Brenda’s icy stare.

“Just for that,” the deputy chief informed her fiance with offended dignity as she

canvassed the room, “I am having what he’s having.”

end

1

File X

By Elf X

CATEGORY: Office/X-Files crossover

SUMMARY: Dwight Shrute encounters the unknown, and reacts accordingly.

RATING: PG

DISCLAIMER: The management and employees of Dunder Mifflin are the

corporate property of NBC. Chris Carter is the head honcho of the X-Files.

8:45 a.m.

OPEN WITH ESTABLISHING SHOT PARKING LOT OF DUNDER MIFFLIN, SCRANTON

BUSINESS PARK, SCRANTON, PENNSYLVANIA. DWIGHT SHRUTE, ASSISTANT TO

THE REGIONAL MANAGER, PULLS INTO THE REGULAR SLOT HE HAS OCCUPIED

THROUGH SELF-IMPOSED TRADITION AND INTIMIDATION FOR THE PAST SIX

YEARS. DWIGHT EJECTS THE STOP SMOKING TAPE HE HAS MODIFIED AS A

MOTIVATIONAL TUTORIAL ON MARTIAL ARTS DISCIPLINE (AFTER COMPLETING THE

SECTION COVERING HOW CHEWING GUM CAN HELP THE YOUNG MASTER FOCUS

ON DECAPACITATING HIS OPPONENT)

AFTER ENSURING ALL DASHBOARD CONTROLS ARE RETURNED TO THEIR DEFAULT

POSITIONS, DWIGHT CHECKS HIS APPEARANCE IN THE REAR VIEW MIRROR,

NODDING WITH SOMBER APPROVAL. HIS REVERIE IS INTERRUPTED BY A WET,

METALLIC EXPLOSION. DWIGHT CRINGES AS ANOTHER OBJECT STRIKES HIS CAR

ROOF, THEN ANOTHER.

DWIGHT (PUNCHING THE PANIC BUTTON ON HIS KEY FOB): DEFCON Two! DEFCON

Two!!

DWIGHT’S TRUNK FLIES OPEN — HE HAS PRESSED THE WRONG BUTTON. HE

SHRIEKS AS A LARGE, WET OBJECT SLIDES NOISILY DOWN HIS DRIVER’S

WINDOW. IT IS A FISH. DESPITE HIS TERROR, DWIGHT RECOGNIZES IT

AUTOMATICALLY AS A WALLEYE, A CREATURE HE CHARACTERIZES AS “THE LONG-

TAILED WEASEL OF THE AQUATIC WORLD.”

DWIGHT: DEFCON One!! DEFCON One!! BUT THE BOMBARDMENT APPARENTLY HAS

ENDED. HE PEERS OVER HIS FISH-COVERED HOOD, AND, AFTER COMPOSING

HIMSELF AND STRAIGHTENING HIS TIE, CAUTIOUSLY OPENS HIS DOOR. DWIGHT

STEPS OUT; HIS FOOT MAKES CONTACT WITH A DECEASED WALLEYE, AND HE

SLIPS TO THE CONCRETE, THUMPING HIS SELF-HARDENED CRANIUM ON THE

DOORFRAME. THE IMPACT DISLODGES A FISH PERCHED AT THE EDGE OF THE

ROOF, AND IT LANDS WETLY ON HIS CHEST. DWIGHT SCREAMS FEMININELY.

A FACE APPEARS ABOVE HIM. IT IS HIS COWORKER, JIM HALPERT, SMILING

GENIALLY.

JIM: Morning, Dwight. What’s up?

DWIGHT (TERSELY): Move on, Halpert.

JIM (SHRUGS AT CAMERA CREW): Sure thing, Dwight. (STARTS TO TURN, THEN

STOPS) Hey, Dwight, where did you put the Saferight Insurance orders?

DWIGHT: They’re on Michael’s desk. There was a last-minute change. Goldenrod

instead of salmon.

JIM: Way I’d go. Say, you want a little help there?

DWIGHT (DEFIANTLY BRUSHING THE WALLEYE FROM HIS CHEST): The day I need

your monkey-pawed assistance is the day I contact my dojo master and instruct him

to humanely euthanize me. He’d do it in a second, but you wouldn’t understand that.

JIM: Sure I would. I’ll be around, though, OK? By the way, they’re beauties, Dwight.

What did you use? Cheese bait?

DWIGHT (SNEERS NASTILY AS DEAD WALLEYE SETTLES INTO HIS ARMPIT): Cheese

bait for walleye. You’re such a woman.

**

TOBY FLENDERSON (SIGHS AS DWIGHT ENTERS DUNDER MIFFLIN OFFICES,

WALLEYE TUCKED UNDER HIS ARM): We talked about this, Dwight. No dead animals

in the office.

DWIGHT (FLOPPING WALLEYE ONTO RECEPTIONIST’S COUNTER WITH GREAT

DIGNITY): We agreed no mammals. And that was for lunch. This is evidence.

TOBY (GLANCING WEARILY AT CAMERA CREW): Evidence of what, Dwight?

DWIGHT: Of an apparent natural anomaly. Maybe a paranormal occurrence. It’s not

my field of specialty.

CREED BRATTON PASSES, STOPPING TO EYE THE FISH NOW STARING LIFELESSLY

INTO PAM BEESLY’S HORRIFIED EYES.

CREED: This belong to anybody?

DWIGHT SNATCHES FISH FROM COUNTER. IT SLIPS FROM HIS GRASP, SAILS

ACROSS THE OFFICE, AND LANDS ON STANLEY HUDSON’S DESK. STANLEY STARES

AT THE WALLEYE FOR A SECOND, AND TOSSES HIS CROSSWORD PUZZLE ONTO

THE BLOTTER.

STANLEY (RISING): That’s a smoke break.

CAMERA PANS TO MICHAEL SCOTT, REGIONAL MANAGER WITH DUNDER MIFFLIN’S

SCRANTON BRANCH, AS HE ENTERS. HE IS OBVIOUSLY FORMULATING A WITTY

BON MOT FOR THE TROOPS WHEN HE RECOILS WITH DISTASTE.

MICHAEL: Sweet fancy Moses! (EXPLETIVE DELETED) What in the wide world of

sports?

PAM: I think Dwight had an accident..

MICHAEL: I think the entire East Coast chapter of NOW had an accident. Whew!

TOBY (PEEKING ANXIOUSLY AT CAMERA CREW): Michael.

MICHAEL: Apparently, last week’s Office Hygiene Awareness Day had absolutely no

impact on anyone here.

TOBY (TO CAMERA): You take one personal day…

MICHAEL: OK, then. I’d like to see the senoritas in the conference room, pronto.

JIM: Gee, Michael, I kinda think that’s illegal. As was last week’s Office Hygiene

Awareness Day.

MICHAEL (SIGHS AGGRIEVEDLY; LOOKS TO CAMERA CREW FOR SUPPORT): I never

thought I’d see the day when women’s health issues would be verboten. What a blow

to the sisterhood, am I right, my home girls?

ANGELA MARTIN HUFFS BACK TO ACCOUNTING. PAM LOOKS NON-COMMITAL.

HAVING GARNERED NO SUPPORT, MICHAEL HEADS TOWARD HIS OFFICE. HE

DETOURS TO THE FILE CABINETS, WHERE MEREDITH IS SEARCHING FOR A

FOLDER. LEANING IN, HE TAKES A LONG SNIFF, SMILES DISARMINGLY AS

MEREDITH WHIPS AROUND.

MEREDITH: Hey! I’m not peeing in that (EXPLETIVE DELETED) cup again!

9 a.m. two days later

A PAIR OF OFFICIAL-LOOKING TYPES — A TALL YOUNG MAN AND A DIMINUTIVE

REDHEADED WOMAN — ENTER DUNDER MIFFLIN. SPECIAL AGENT FOX MULDER

APPROACHES RECEPTION DESK, PLACES ID ON COUNTER. PAM GLANCES

CURIOUSLY AT CAMERA CREW.

MULDER: Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI. This is my partner. We’re here to

investigate an anonymous report that originated from this office.

PAM (STANDS): Dwight? FBI.

DWIGHT’S OUTSIZED HEAD POPS UP. HE HANGS UP ON PROSPECTIVE CLIENT.

DWIGHT (PRACTICALLY SPRINTING TOWARD RECEPTION DESK AS PAM PICKS UP

PHONE): Agent Fox Mulder? Dwight Shrute. You must’ve gotten my message.

MULDER (SHAKING DWIGHT’S HAND): Your anonymous message? That mentioned

you by name and included your work number?

DWIGHT: I didn’t know who might be listening. It said on the Internet you

investigate supernatural and paranormal phenomena,

SCULLY (MUMBLING): Here we go. SHE SPOTS THE CAMERA CREW FOR THE FIRST

TIME.

DWIGHT REGARDS SCULLY CRITICALLY.

DWIGHT: This is her, right?

SCULLY: What?

MICHAEL EMERGES FROM OFFICE.

MICHAEL: Michael Scott, regional manager and government liaison. What can I do

you for?

MULDER (FLASHING ID): Special Agent Fox Mulder. This is…

MICHAEL: I knew this day was coming. Look, I can personally vouch for everybody

here, unless they’re lying, of course. Oscar? Show them your green card.

OSCAR: Jesus, Michael, you know I was born here. I’m a citizen. For crying out loud,

you met my folks, Michael.

MICHAEL (TO CAMERA): I remember now. Lovely, lovely, gracious woman, Oscar’s

mamacita. A real MILF, I believe the expression is.

OSCAR (TO CAMERA): Michael thought she was with the cleaning crew. She was

wearing a Dona Karin dress. She’s still trying to talk me into going into interpretive

dance.

MICHAEL (SEARCHES OUT KELLY KAPOOR): Ah, I see. A moment, please. Hey,

there, Kelly. What are you still doing here?

KELLY (PEEKS FROM AROUND CUBICLE, COSMO DANGLING FROM HER HAND):

What? Where am I supposed to be?

MICHAEL: Well, Corporate, silly. C’mon, daylight’s burning, giddyup.

KELLY: Why am I supposed to be at Corporate. (EYES WIDEN WITH EXCITEMENT)

Oh, my God, did Ryan call?

MICHAEL: That’s right, Kelly. Ryan said he wanted his little Now, run along to New

York while I talk to these two federal agents. Homeland Security, right?

MULDER: Mr. Scott, I don’t know what impression you’re under, but Special Agent

Scully and I are investigating Mr. Shrute’s claim of a paranormal occurrence in your

parking lot. We’d like to debrief Mr. Shrute.

MICHAEL (MURMURS, SMIRKING AT CAMERA CREW): That’s what she said. (PAM

ROLLS EYES AS JIM LIP-SYNCHS MICHAEL’S LINE)

SCULLY (BLINKS): What?

MULDER: Ah, we’d just like to determine if the incident that occurred the other day

was an intentional act, the result of some meteorological or physical fluke, or an

actual paranormal event. I’ve read numerous case studies of “falls,” sometimes

explained through natural circumstances, sometimes linked with sightings of strange

lights in the sky.

MICHAEL (TO CAMERA): UFOs? Yes, I believe in UFOs, if by UFO you mean a UNITED

corporate team FAITHFUL to the OBJECTIVES of personal integrity and solid

stationery sales principles. Yes, I believe in visitations — regularly scheduled, mano-

a-mano client visitations. Aliens? Well, I think an alien is just a friend we haven’t

made yet, unless it’s the lizardy kind with three or four rows of teeth, like in Alien or

Predator or Alien II. Or Alien Vs. Predator. And of course, we all know those don’t

exist, like Bigfoot or unicorns or the duckbilled platypus or other mythecological

creatures. So, bottom line, I’d have to say, no, I don’t believe in UFOs. I mean, get

real.

DWIGHT (TO CAMERA): UFOs? No-brainer – they’re an elaborate hoax staged by the

satellite TV consortium to convince an unsuspecting consumer public poor video

reception is the result of otherwordly intervention. And, of course, the FCC’s in on it.

(PAUSES, LOWERS VOICE) But if there were extraterrestrials, I am proficient in

several martial arts disciplines. Any aliens as ill-advised as to invade Scranton would

sincerely regret ever meeting Dwight Shrute. Just ask anyone in this office.

**

MULDER: We’ll want to use your conference room to interview everyone in the office.

MICHAEL: Yesshir, Officer.

TOBY: Michael, we probably should wait until the corporate legal guy gets here.

MICHAEL (TURNS IRRITABLY): Go, scram, find a small animal to torture.

MULDER: We can wait, if you’d prefer.

MICHAEL (SMILES INTO CAMERA): We here at Dunder Mifflin have nothing to hide

from Father Sam. Don’t worry about him – he’s what we call a person of no interest,

OK? What are you doing here, anyway?

TOBY: Dwight could have been injured. I have to file a human resources report…

MICHAEL: Blah blah blah…

TOBY (SIGHS): Corporate wants me to be here.

MICHAEL: Well, I am here as Corporate’s official representative, so you can go check

for unauthorized fondling in the break room.

TOBY: They said not to, uh, not to leave you alone with them.

TOBY (TO CAMERA): Last spring, Michael invited the IRS auditor to a “three-

margarita business confab.” When that temp filed the harassment complaint last

month, he took the EEOC caseworker to Hooter’s. I’m sorry, legal says I can’t

discuss ongoing litigation.

MULDER: So. Mr. Scott, do you remember anything else unusual the morning of Mr.

Shrute’s…attack?

MICHAEL: Well, I know Meredith had a really bad haddock…

SCULLY: Excuse me?

MICHAEL (SMIRKS AT CAMERA): Yeah. A bad haddock. She was feeling really eel.

MULDER: I don’t understand. You think her illness had something to do with—

MICHAEL: Sorry, sorry. Guess I was just floundering. (CRACKS UP)

TOBY: Michael…

SCULLY: Ah, flounder, haddock. That’s very good.

MICHAEL: I mean, I’m sure I could lay my hands on her attendance records. Shoot, I

think they’re at Corporate. I could get them to send them over C.O.D. C.O.D.?

SCULLY: OK.

MICHAEL: Cod.

SCULLY: That’s…enough.

**

MULDER STARES AT THE DEAD WALLEYE ON THE CONFERENCE TABLE. THE

WALLEYE STARES BACK THROUGH THE PLASTIC BAG DWIGHT HAS PLACED BEFORE

THE AGENTS.

SCULLY (READING LABEL ON ZIPLOCKED BAG): Lackawanna County Sheriff’s

Department?

DWIGHT: I’m a former deputy. I always keep a supply in my desk. For just this kind

of situation.

MULDER: Fish falling from the sky.

DWIGHT (MAINTAINING RIGID EYE CONTACT): Or similar situations.

DWIGHT (TO CAMERA): When I resigned my badge, I was allowed to keep several

items as mementoes. Evidence bags, a police scanner, swabs. I offered to stop by

the station to drop them off, but my brother officers told me I didn’t need bother.

They were quite insistent. Semper fi.

DWIGHT: There should be enough for a DNA sample.

MULDER: DNA? Fish DNA? Why–?

SCULLY (BENDING OVER DECEASED, BAGGED FISH): Mulder, what’s this powdery

substance all over the, ah, corpse?

MULDER SQUINTS AT THE PISCINE DECEDENT, THEN LOOKS UP INCREDULOUSLY

AT DWIGHT.

MULDER: Did you actually fingerprint this fish?

DWIGHT: He’s clean. (HOLDS BAG ABOVE HIS HEAD, STARES AT WALLEYE’S BELLY)

Or she…

**

JIM: Hey, no way. I had absolutely nothing to do with Dwight’s, uh, (GRINS DESPITE

HIMSELF) fish storm.

SCULLY: The reason we ask is, your coworkers have detailed a number of, well,

pranks you’ve reportedly perpetrated over the last few years. Most targeting Mr.

Shrute.

MULDER (SMILING SLIGHTLY): You made him believe the CIA was sending him on a

secret mission?

JIM (GRIMACES AT CAMERA CREW): It was a slow day…

SCULLY: On another occasion, you rigged his car alarm to go off whenever he went

to the men’s room?

JIM (TO CAMERA): It’s easier than you think, if you know anything about magnets

and radio frequencies. It took three days, though, and I had to get Dwight to leave

his keys on his desk while Pam distracted… (PAUSES, LAUGHES NERVOUSLY) What?

No, what?

MULDER: You have a particular bone to pick with Mr. Shrute? ‘Cause, I mean, I

appreciate a good practical joke as much as the next guy.

SCULLY: Although this particular “practical” joke could have resulted in property

damage or personal injury.

MULDER GLANCES SYMPATHETICALLY AT CAMERA CREW, THEN CATCHES SCULLY

GLARING AND BEGINS SHUFFLING FOLDERS.

JIM: Besides, I wasn’t anywhere near here when it happened. I was late to work.

SCULLY: Can anyone back you up on that?

JIM STARTS TO SPEAK, GLANCES AT PAM, THE RECEPTIONIST, WHO’S ENGAGED IN

AN APPARENT DISPUTE WITH ANGELA. PAM SPOTS HIM, BLUSHES, TURNS BACK TO

ANGELA. HE SHRUGS, SMILING WEAKLY: Well, uh, I guess not.

PAM (TO CAMERA, SMILING RADIANTLY): Wow. I can’t believe he actually lied to a

federal law enforcement agency. For me. That is soooo sweet.

**

MULDER (PORING THROUGH FOLDER AS CREED SELECTS ANOTHER MUNG BEAN

FROM THE PAPER TOWEL ON HIS BLOTTER): I see from your personnel record you

were once an ordained priest.

CREED (SHRUGS): I worked with youth for a while. And I was an ordained high

priest.

SCULLY AND MULDER LOOK UP SIMULTANEOUSLY.

CREED (SHRUGS): I earned the title. Took a lot of sacrifices. (MULDER’S EYES

WIDEN). I mean, a lot of sacrifice.

CREED (TO CAMERA): I told them none of the neighborhood cats. I was very

adamant about it. (SHAKES HEAD FONDLY) Parishioners can be difficult.

CREED: Hey, you know an Agent Reyes?

MULDER: Monica Reyes? New Orleans field office, Ritual Crime Unit?

CREED: That’s her. If you ever run into her, tell her I said hi. (PAUSES) Except tell

her Malachi. (POPS A HANDFUL OF BEANS INTO HIS MOUTH) She’ll know who you

mean.

**

PARKING LOT – TIGHT SHOT AS MULDER KNEELS BESIDES DWIGHT’S FENDER. HE

JUMPS AS HE SPOTS CAMERA CREW.

MULDER: Jesus, guys, you know the meaning of a little personal space? This is a

federal investigation, you know. Well, OK, maybe not an investigation. But Scully

seemed OK with it – not that I have to ask her permission or anything. I mean, she

is my partner. Professionally speaking. (STANDS ABRUPTLY) This kind of fish fall isn’t

exactly unprecedented. In 1947, thousands of fish bombarded a strip 75 feet wide

and 1,000 feet long in Marksville, Louisiana. What was weird about that one was

conditions were pretty calm – most organic falls occur during storms. The 1830 fall

at Nokulhatty Factory, India, occurred during a drizzle, rather than a real storm, but

the principle’s the same. (STEPS TOWARD THE CAMERA) One of the more unusual

phenomena is the Lluvia de Peces, or “Rain of Fish,”which occurs between May and

July each year in Honduras. Although it’s always preceded by dark clouds and

accompanied by at least two hours of rain, thunder, and high winds, the fish that fall

are freshwater species, rather than the marine species you might expect if there

were a meteorological cause. In fact, some believe the Rain of Fish originated in the

1850s after a Catholic missionary, Father Jose Manuel Subirana, prayed to God to

help the poor of the region…

(CAMERA DROPS TO MULDER’S FEET AS CREW RETREATS)

MULDER (OFF-CAMERA): Hey! I haven’t even told you about the 1996 toad fall in

Llanddewi Brefi…!

**

KEVIN: I had a cousin one time who said he saw weird lights in the sky. Of course,

he lives by the airport.

SCULLY (RUBBING HER TEMPLE): About Mr. Shrute.

KEVIN: Oh, and one time in the breakroom, I found a pork rind that looked like

Gerald Ford. Which is kind of unusual, because most snack foods that look like

presidents usually look like Nixon…

SCULLY: That’s very interesting. Look, has Mr. Shrute had any run-ins with his

associates or clients lately?

KEVIN: Or is it potatoes? That look like Nixon, I mean.

SCULLY SIGHS.

KEVIN (TO CAMERA): The supernatural is kind of like a hobby of mine. Next to the

band, of course. I get really worked up sometimes. (GRINS SHYLY) Plus, Agent

Scully’s kinda awesome, you know? (LEANS IN) I think she might have been flirting

a little. She kept arching her eyebrow at me.

**

ANGELA: If you want my opinion – and you probably don’t – I think it may be a sign.

SCULLY (LOOKS AT THE CAMERA, THEN QUICKLY AWAY): A…sign?

ANGELA (SIGHS): A portent, an omen. You know what I mean. (NODS AT CROSS

AROUND SCULLY’S NECK)

SCULLY: A religious portent. Ms. Martin…

ANGELA: Miss. I’m not one of those feminist types.

SCULLY: Miss Martin, why would this alleged religious manifestation occur here at

Dunder Mifflin?

ANGELA: Just look around. Promiscuity (PAN TO KELLY, WHO HAS MULDER

VIRTUALLY PINNED AGAINST A FILE CABINET), aberrant lifestyles (ZOOM IN ON

OSCAR, UNDERLINING PASSAGES IN AN INSTYLE MAGAZINE), thievery (PAN TO

SUPPLY CABINET, WHERE CREED IS POCKETING A STAPLER). It’s not a paper supply

company – it’s the Scranton, Pennsylvania, branch of Sodom and Gomorrah. I mean,

two of my coworkers are actually having an offsite relationship of, you know, the

intimate type. (GLANCES AT JIM LEANING OVER PAM’S DESK. DWIGHT WALKS BY,

STOPS, SMILES PITIABLY AT ANGELA. SHE TURNS ABRUPTLY BACK TO SCULLY,

WHO IS STARING ACROSS THE OFFICE WITH A FROWN. SHE FOLLOWS SCULLY’S

GAZE TO MULDER, WHO GRINS GUILTILY BACK AT SCULLY AS HE TRIES TO SQUIRM

AWAY FROM AN ADVANCING KELLY)

SCULLY (CATCHES ANGELA’S DISAPPROVING SMILE): Uh, I’m sorry. You were

saying?

ANGELA (SWEETLY): Oh, nothing.

SCULLY (TO CAMERA): I usually don’t mind indulging Mulder in these little fishing

expeditions — no pun intended – although I’m usually the one who has to file the

expense reports, justify the travel vouchers, cover for him with Skinner. God knows I

don’t know how I’m going to explain why the FBI is investigating falling walleye. It’s

like this all the time. I mean, do other people’s boyfriends act like this? (STOPS

DEAD) Partners, other people’s partners, other agent’s partners. I need that tape.

No, really. I’m serious.

**

MICHAEL (BURSTING FROM HIS OFFICE, SHOVING KEVIN ASIDE): OK, gang —

mystery solved!

MULDER, LEANING AGAINST THE RECEPTION COUNTER, MURMURS INTO HIS CELL

PHONE AND POCKETS IT. SCULLY EMERGES FROM BREAKROOM, WHERE SHE HAS

BEEN AUTOPSYING DECEASED WALLEYE.

MULDER: You got something, Mr. Scott?

MICHAEL (CHECKING FOR CAMERA CREW): Only the answer to our little conun-,

conumbra…

STANLEY (PASSING BY): Conundrum.

MICHAEL (SMILES): No, Stanley, I don’t think that’s right.

MULDER: What’s your theory, Mr. Scott?

MICHAEL (PAUSES FOR SUSPENSE): Super Sargasso Sea.

MULDER BLINKS.

MICHAEL (TO CAMERA): Google. It’s like the compendrium of mankind’s assimilated

knowledge. For instance, these shoes. (PAN TO OVERLY SHINY BLACK LOAFERS)

Where else would you find a pair of high-quality Bhutanese footwear – 100 percent

animal-friendly nylon – for a mere $17? Not to mention some of the world’s finest

nude art photography.

MICHAEL: The fish in question disappear into the Super Sargasso Sea, travel through

some kind of cosmic wormhole, and pop out over the Scranton Office Park. E

pluribus unum — elementary.

MULDER: Well, that’s an interesting theory, Mr. Scott. Except the Super Sargasso

Sea is purported to be an oceanic phenomenon, and the walleye is a freshwater

species.

MICHAEL (LOOKS ANXIOUSLY AT THE CAMERA): Welllll, then, it must be the Lake

Effect.

JIM: Um, Michael, isn’t the lake effect when cold air comes off a large body of water

and…?

MICHAEL (NODS BRISKLY): Well, I guess I’m not needed here. We have a whole

room full of physiologists.

TOBY: I think you mean physicists, Michael.

MICHAEL GLARES AT TOBY, TURNS TO THE CAMERA, AND DARTS BACK INTO HIS

OFFICE, SLAMMING THE DOOR.

**

KELLY (IN BREAK ROOM DOORWAY): Well, hey, Agent Mulder.

MULDER JUMPS, BUMPING INTO SODA MACHINE AS HE SPINS AROUND.

MULDER: Hey. Uh, Ms. Kapoor, you seen Agent Scully?

KELLY: She’s still doing gross stuff with that fish. STEPS FORWARD; MULDER BACKS

INTO THE VENDING MACHINE. So, I was wondering what I’d have to do.

MULDER (SWALLOW): What?

KELLY: To be an FBI agent like you guys. I mean, obviously, there’s no height

requirement, right? See, ever since Ryan left me to go to Corporate, I kinda feel like

my life lacks direction, you know? Then I saw Miss Congeniality last night. And then

you guys came in today, and it was like, oh, you know…

MULDER: Karma?

KELLY: What’s that?

KELLY (TO CAMERA): Actually, I just kind of figure the FBI’s gotta be like a real guy

mall, you know? I mean, Fox is kinda geeky, but like they say, smart is sexy, if the

guy’s kinda hot already…

KELLY (DELIBERATING OVER BEVERAGES): I mean, like, I know a billion long-

distance relationships that work. One of the girls in my yoga class has been dating a

guy for half of his sentence, and they haven’t even done it yet. Well, unless you

count conjugal, and I wouldn’t think you could focus enough to really get into it.

(TURNS FROM MACHINE; BREAK ROOM IS EMPTY) Agent Mulder? Fox?

**

FLEEING BREAK ROOM, MULDER RUNS INTO SCULLY.

MULDER (SELF-CONSCIOUSLY): Hey.

SCULLY: Hey, yourself. I’m going to have to bathe in RealLemon for the next three

months to get rid of this smell.

MULDER: Can I bring the garlic butter?

SCULLY (NODS TOWARD KEVIN, WHO DUCKS BEHIND A PLANT): I think the big fella

there already would like to take me to Red Lobster.

MULDER: Long as you don’t get crabs. (MUMBLES) That’s what she said.

SCULLY: What?

MULDER: What?

SCULLY: Did you hear yourself just now?

MULDER (SLUMPS AGAINST A DESK): Oh, God.

SCULLY: Yeah. And on top of that, your fish have gone AWOL.

MULDER: What?

SCULLY: The bag you left in the break room fridge is gone. Your evidence has swum

south.

MULDER (DISTRACTED): That’s an avian behavior. Shit. But you did finish your…?

SCULLY: Walleye workup? Yup — I plan to write it up for the International Journal of

Pathology. There was distinct cellular damage I’d normally associate with freezing.

Rapid freezing. Flash freezing. Which would corroborate my theory that this fish fall

was a fish stunt, by one of Shrute’s coworkers.

MULDER: It might also be explained by these fish being abruptly collected and

transported through the higher stratosphere or maybe even a dimensional rift.

SCULLY (TO CAMERA): Oh, yeah, that makes much more sense. Fine, whatever.

MICHAEL: People!

SCULLY (TURNS TO SEE EMPLOYEES GATHERING AROUND RECEPTION DESK): Oh,

Lord, what now?

MICHAEL: It has become obvious with this latest “occurrence” — what I call the

miracle of the fishes (ANGELA GASPS) — that something here stinks like a day-old

walleye. I think it’s the stench of supernaturality, and it calls for supernaturalized

measures. Jim? Where are you going?

JIM (BAG SLUNG OVER SHOULDER, HAND ON EXIT DOOR KNOB): I’ve got a three

o’clock call at the high school, Michael.

MICHAEL: Oh, OK. So who knows anything about exorcisms?

JIM (RELEASING KNOB AND SHRUGGING OFF JACKET): But I bet they’ll wait.

MICHAEL: I called St. Ignatius, but Father Whatever — something Irish or Italian —

wouldn’t come over. Apparently, workplace exorcism is too commercial or secular or

something. So we’re going to have to improvise a little.

ANGELA: Absolutely not!!

TOBY: Michael, no religious ceremonies or rites in the office. Jan warned you after

that Native American manhood thing…

MICHAEL (SIGHS): Don’t worry, Toby — there will be no wooden stakes or garlic

involved. Begone, Evil Workplace Spirit, begone!! (GRINS AT CAMERA AS TOBY

SHUFFLES OFF TO HIS CUBICLE) There — this house is cleeeeaaan!

JIM: That’s from Poltergeist, not The Exorcist.

MICHAEL: Nonetheless. (PULLS A BOTTLE OF AQUAVITA FROM HIS POCKET) Voila!

Holy water!

ANGELA (EVEN PALER): Our father, who art in heaven…

PAM: Michael, I think you actually have to have water blessed to make it holy.

MICHAEL: Good point, Mother Teresa. Anybody have a Bible handy?

CREED: Christian?

DWIGHT (YANKS OPEN DESK DRAWER, PULLS OUT GREEN BIBLE): I’ve got one,

Michael!!

JIM (SQUINTING): “Gideon — Property of Scranton Best Western.”

ANGELA SHOVES PHYLLIS OUT OF THE WAY, RUSHES FOR WOMEN’S ROOM.

MULDER (WHISPERS): Flash frozen, huh?

SCULLY: Merely a theory.

MULDER: Works for me. What say we make like a walleye?

MULDER (BY REST STOP SIGN, TO CAMERA): There’s a phenomenon called Sick

Building Syndrome. Modern, sealed office buildings accumulate free-floating bacteria

and low-grade viruses, fumes from paint and carpet polymers, and stale, often

overcirculated air. As a result, workers suffer a greater frequency of chronic colds,

allergies, headaches, and other symptoms that can manifest in depression, apathy,

and, in some cases, undue stress and tension. I don’t think that’s the case here. I

can’t offer any other explanation, but maybe, sometimes, there are things we just

aren’t meant to understand. Right?

MICHAEL (TO CAMERA): Obviously, we were dabbling in forces too cosmic for Agent

Mulder’s bureaucratic mind to wrap its brain around.

5:15 P.M.

DWIGHT EXITS DUNDER MIFFLIN, GLANCING WARILY TO THE CLOUDS AS HE

CROSSES THE PARKING LOT TO HIS CAR. SUDDENLY, HE HALTS, STARING AT A

WHITE PANEL VAN PARKED THREE SPACES AWAY. THE LOGO PAINTED ON THE

DOOR READS “SCRANTON SATELLITE TV SERVICES.” DWIGHT STANDS TRANSFIXED

FOR ANOTHER FIVE SECONDS, THEN PULLS HIS COAT OVER HIS HEAD AND

SPRINTS FOR HIS CAR. TIRES SCREECH AS HE ESCAPES FROM THE LOT.

MICHAEL (VOICEOVER): There is so much we don’t know about this crazy universe

of ours. What makes the planets revolve around the Earth? (DISPLAYS A SHARPIE)

How many angels can dance on the tip of a pen? What is the sound of one hand

clapping? Geez, that doesn’t make any sense. The sound of two hands clapping,

yeah. If a tree falls in the forest and nobody’s there, how do we know it really fell,

unless you sent somebody in to check? And then the whole thing gets screwed up.

Heavy, heavy mojo.

KEVIN (TO CAMERA): It’s been sticking in my craw ever since Dwight said the band

sucked at Phyllis’ wedding. I eat at the Red Lobster a lot, and we played the

assistant manager’s kid’s bar mitzvah one time. And the news chopper guy at

Channel 5 kinda owes me for fixing him up with my cousin. I had no idea they’d call

in the FBI and try to do an exorcism and all that stuff. (SMILES CONSPIRATORALLY)

It was sooo sweet.

CREED IS AT HOME, IN HIS RECLINER, WATCHING A DOCUMENTARY ON UFOS,

WHEN A BELL RINGS. HE JUMPS UP, SPRINTS INTO THE KITCHEN, AND POPS A

STEAMING TRAY OF MAC AND CHEESE FROM THE MICROWAVE. USING AN

OBVIOUSLY PURLOINED YMCA TOWEL, HE CARRIES IT TO HIS TV TRAY.

MICHAEL (VOICEOVER): These are the questions Man – and Women, of course –

have been asking for decades. You could take the world’s smartest guy — Alex

Trebek — clone him into a hundred Alex Trebeks, and he – them, they – still wouldn’t

figure out the secrets of the universe. That’s why they call it The Unknown, or as Mr.

Rod Serling used to call it, the Twilight Zone. Because we don’t know what’s in there,

in that zone of perpetual twilight.

CREED DISAPPEARS INTO THE KITCHEN AS HIS MAC AND CHEESE COOLS. HE

EMERGES A SECOND LATER WITH A LARGE FRYING PAN. HE NUDGES THE

CONTENTS OF THE PAN ONTO THE PLATE NEXT TO HIS MAC. SIGHING

CONTENTEDLY, HE SETTLES INTO HIS RECLINER TO ENJOY HIS WALLEYE DINNER.

MICHAEL (TO CAMERA): What we don’t know, well, it could fill a thimble. (RETHINKS

LAST STATEMENT) A thimble the size of the Grand Canyon.

*end

1