The Danville Series by Cadillac Red Disclaimer: The characters of Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and Walter Skinner do not belong to me; they belong to Chris Carter and Fox. I mean no harm and will make no money from their use. Spoilers: Really none, except a detail in "Detour" Setting: Somewhere in the fourth season. Rating: PG. Some discipline, no slash. Title: Acting Out Author: Cadillac Red Summary: Mulder's sudden regression into bratty behavior leave Skinner puzzled about what's behind it, until he finally decides to get to the bottom of the mystery. Acting Out Sheriff’s Department Hopewell, New Jersey Special Agent Dana Scully watched the conference room door close behind Hopewell, Pennsylvania's sheriff and his two deputies. She waited to hear the lock click shut. Then she turned on her partner, Fox Mulder and hissed, "Are you TRYING to piss these people off? Because if you are, you're doing an exceptional job!" Her partner, Special Agent Fox Mulder was slouched in a chair at the end of the gray metal table that dwarfed the room. The room had a glass wall onto the reception area of the station house and he refused to give the receptionist and the Sheriff's department staff any indication that Scully's reaction affected him. He calmly removed a pack of sunflower seeds from his pocket and proceeded to pop one into his mouth, instantly shelling it with his teeth. He thought about spitting the shell out on the floor, so deep was his disdain for this town and these so-called officers of the law. But he thought better of it. Scully's pissed now, that little piece de resistance would send her right over the edge, he knew. He spit the shell back into his hand and looked around for the trash can. "Are you planning to answer me any time today, Mulder?" she said, raising her voice for the first time. "I asked you a question. If you can't show a little respect for these people, at least show me some common courtesy." He was immediately struck with remorse. He had nothing but the utmost respect for Scully. She was his best friend as well as his partner; he valued her intelligence and her integrity but most of all he trusted her implicitly. How could she even think otherwise? His internal dialogue continued to its illogical conclusion. Don't four years of partnership count for anything? Haven't I proved how much I respect her in countless ways, in countless hick towns and countless similar circumstances? Doesn't that earn me any slack? This train of thought immediately became a runaway, casting off a ball of resentment that spilled out in his response. "You have a problem with my approach to this case, Scully? he said, more snidely than he even intended. "You think I'm stepping over the line with the Keystone Kops out there? Well, I believe I'm the senior agent here and how we handle this investigation is MY call. If you don't agree, why don't you give Skinner a call? I'd be more than happy to go back to D.C. and let you wrap up "The Case of the Midnight Haunting!" With that, Mulder stood and grabbed his suit jacket. Without another word, he stormed out of the room. He was raging silently as he headed out of the stationhouse. Without a second thought, he jumped in the rented car and took off, stranding his partner without a means to get back to their motel. Scully was furious but she refused to show that to the Hopewell Sheriff's department staff. No matter what, it was important that they see a unified team from the FBI. Mulder was acting like a jerk but she still felt compelled to put the best face on it she could manage. This was so out of character for him, at least lately! She knew something was bothering him. Whatever it was, she'd sensed it right off, even before the left Washington the day before. He'd come from Skinner's office with this case and a chip on his shoulder and it had grown in weight ever since. And she had to admit, he wasn't wrong about the quality of the Sheriff's department's investigation so far; they were well over their heads in handling this kind of thing. The best that could be said about them was that they knew it, which is why they called the Bureau in so quickly, she guessed. The strange thing was that the case made it to the X-files division so fast. The X-files were not exactly a secret, but few people outside the Bureau knew of its existence and small-town police departments didn't generally have the ability to reach into the Bureau and tap into that resource without going through proper (and time-consuming) channels. This was routed directly to Assistant Director Skinner, then to them. It was just odd, she thought, trying to put her partner's infuriating behavior aside so she could concentrate on the results of the autopsy she'd conducted that morning. Maude Jacobsen had been 77 years old. She'd been healthy and happy, up until two weeks ago, surrounded by her four children, 15 grandchildren and 29 great-grandkids, all of whom lived in the area. They were a fine, upstanding family and Maude apparently lived a full and vital life. She'd been widowed in 1944, left with four babies when her husband was killed in the South Pacific. As a Navy brat, Dana understood how awful that must have been for her. She knew her own mother had the strength of Job, had to, to deal with her brood of four and a husband at sea a good part of the time. But what if he had not returned, as Isaiah Jacobsen did not return. His young widow went about raising four children, never remarried and made the best of a tragic situation. Scully admired a woman with that kind of strength. She had interviewed one of Maude's daughters and asked why her mother never married again. The daughter laughed and said that Mom "was just waiting for Daddy to come back for her, that's all." Which got to the crux of this case, Scully thought. About 12 days ago, Maude announced to her family that Isaiah had returned and she "had to get ready to go." This healthy woman then went about tying up the loose ends of her life. During the next week, all of her sons and daughters claimed to have received visitations from their father, along with several of the older grandchildren and a neighbor who knew Isaiah before he left for the Navy. None of them were frightened by this experience, they claimed they were just "glad to know Maude and Isaiah were going to be together again." Finally, the news of this ongoing "haunting" reached the local police and Sheriff Cole thought it "might warrant looking into." He asked his two deputies to put the Jacobsen home on their patrol route on an hourly basis. And last Thursday, his youngest Deputy, Douglas Dawson, nearly hit a tree when he spotted a "white haze" descending on the Jacobsen house just around midnight. He couldn't describe it any further, so shocked was he by what he saw. He immediately called Sheriff Cole who came running the three blocks from his own home in time to see the shapeless white mass (now twice the size, according to Dawson) ascend from the home and dissipate. When the two entered the Jacobsen house, they found Maude, dressed in her Sunday best, slumped over at her piano. The sheet music was "I Love You Truly," Maude and Isaiah's wedding song, according to the neighbor. Time of death was fixed at 12:05 a.m. on the 60th anniversary of Maude and Isaiah's wedding. To add further fuel to the fire, someone apparently broke into the town's soda shop the same night. There was no sign of forced entry, nothing was taken. But two glasses were left on the counter, with the residue of two strawberry sodas. The shop owner swore the place had been thoroughly cleaned before he left the night before. And, of course, the soda shop turned out to be where 19 year old Isaiah Jacobsen proposed to 17 year old Maude Williams a little more than 60 years earlier. "Uh, huh," Mulder had replied, smirking, when Sheriff Cole finished this story. "I think this was the plot of a Frank Capra movie, am I right?" He pretended to look around the room for the tell-tale equipment, asking "Are we on Candid Camera?" The Sheriff had been visibly embarrassed and his deputies looked just plain uncomfortable to be present to see their boss ridiculed like that. Mulder ignored it and continued. "Well, we can clear this right up. Scully here's a PATHOLOGIST," he said, speaking slowly as they were children and nodding in her direction. "As soon as she completes the AUTOPSY, we'll have a cause of death and . . . that oughta do it." With that, he got up and left the room. "Maybe there's a movie theater in town," he said as a parting comment, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I need something to do while this CASE gets solved." But the autopsy revealed nothing. Maude Jacobsen was a normal, 77-year old woman with no discernible cause of death. She had not been murdered, she did not commit suicide, she had no illness or other medical or toxicological condition that would contribute to her death. She just . . . died. Mulder was angry with Scully for not coming up with a finding. "What do you want me to do, Mulder," she had retorted, "make something up?" So they stayed on, checking out the house and grounds, interviewing family, friends and neighbors. The Sheriff and his deputies had pretty much trampled all over the relevant locations. On top of it, neither Sheriff Cole nor Deputy Dawson could give more detail about what they saw. "It was just a white cloud," Dawson kept saying, despite Mulder's almost brutal questioning. "He calls himself a law enforcement officer?" Mulder ranted to Scully. "What kind of description is that?" "Maybe it's exactly what he saw, Mulder," she had replied, trying to calm him down. "And besides, he's 23 years old, he has less than a year of experience. Give him a break, all right?" But Mulder had pushed on and in the last meeting with the Sheriff and his two "stooges," as Mulder put it, he had crossed the line, even in Scully's opinion. There was nothing to be gained from making these people feel foolish, she had tried to reason with him, but he had a chip on his shoulder that outweighed Scully at this point. And it had ended in a familiar way, she thought, he stormed out and ditched her. She was lost in this train of thought when Deputy Dawson stuck his head in the door. "I don't know if you'd be interested," he said shyly. "But I was just talking to my Mom and she said to invite you to dinner." Scully smiled at him, appreciating the simple hominess of that gesture. And, she reasoned, she had no way back to the motel anyway. "I'd love to," she told him, giving him her biggest smile. Not far away, Fox Mulder was sitting on a bench across from the soda shop that had been broken into. He told himself he was continuing the investigation but he knew deep down he was just waiting out his anger. He knew he had blown up for virtually no reason. And he knew he had to go apologize to Scully. But he couldn't shake the petulant, self-pity he'd come to Hopewell wearing like a badge. And that made it awfully hard for him to swallow his pride and go back and get her. So he sat there, staring at the building across the street, trying to overcome his tumbling emotions. His phone rang suddenly. "Aaah, Scully, you must be getting hungry," he said out loud, as he pulled the cell phone from his coat pocket. "Mulder," he said. "Skinner, here," an annoyed voice replied. "I understand you left your copy of "How to Win Friends and Influence People" home on this trip, Mulder." Mulder unconsciously sat up straighter. "Sir, I . . . we've . . . run into some problems here," he said. "I'm from that area, Agent Mulder. I have a connection with the Sheriff's department." Mulder's heart nearly stopped at this news. In his head, he quickly ran over the details of his interactions with the Sheriff's department, trying desperately to figure out how to "spin" the story so he looked better. He could come up with nothing that would help. "I understand that one of my agents has been a 'consummate professional,' Skinner said angry. "And one, I'm told, has been acting like a 'spoiled brat.' So who do you think is the 'consummate professional," Agent Mulder?" "That would be Scully, he replied. Skinner was dangerous when he fell into speaking to him as if he were a child. "And that would make you . . . .?" Mulder hesitated a split second. "The other one," he finally answered. "Exactly as I thought," Skinner said. "I'm on vacation, Mulder. The last thing I want is to be getting calls about your rude and unprofessional behavior. Am I making myself clear?" "Yes, sir, I think that's very clear," he said. Resentment was starting to swell inside him. "Then I will not have to call you again, am I right, Agent Mulder?" Skinner said, his voice betraying his lack of patience with Fox Mulder. "This case will be handled with the professionalism and diplomacy the Bureau expects from you." "Yes, sir," he replied dryly, dancing on the line between indifference and disrespect. "I wouldn't want to disappoint the Bureau." Angry silence on the other end of the line lasted another split second. "Good," was all Skinner said before disconnecting. Mulder pounded on the "End" button on his cell phone and thought back to his meeting with Skinner, when he had been given this case. ******************************************************************* Two Days Earlier Office of AD Skinner Scully was in the lab when he got the call to go see Skinner. He went alone and was surprised to see the Assistant Director dressed casually, in jeans and a sweater. An overpacked weekend bag was sitting next to his desk. Skinner was on the phone when Mulder got there, and motioned for him to take a seat. "Chuck, I've been looking forward to this for months, too, believe me. I'm leaving in a few moments. Rent those rafts and put a couple of beers on ice for me. And if you're a real friend, you and the guys will set up my tent, too!" Skinner laughed easily at whatever the other party replied, then signed off. He turned his attention to Mulder, all business again. "I have something for you and Scully," he said. "It came in an unofficial channel and, normally, I'd ask the local field office to check it out first. But you're between assignment and, well, I'd like to see this one handled right from the outset." He stopped, noticing that Mulder seemed distracted by the weekend bag next to his desk. "Didn't I tell you I was going on vacation, Mulder?" he said. "My Marine Corps buddies and I have an annual white water rafting and camping week. It used to be just the guys from the platoon. Now, though, most of their sons are teenagers so we're a much larger group. Still, it's a great week. The run-off from the mountains is fierce this time of year. There's something about pitting yourself against nature . . . . well, it's probably more my kind of thing than yours anyway, Agent Mulder . . . ." He picked up the file folder on his desk and handed it across, turning the conversation back to the subject at hand. Skinner had actually thought about inviting Mulder along on this trip. The two of them had gone to the Orioles' season opener and had dinner couple of times in the past five months. Since Skinner had started taking a "personal interest" in Fox Mulder's comportment, the Assistant Director had gone out of his way to make sure the younger agent knew he was there for both positive and negative reinforcement. On the occasions when they were relaxing and enjoying a meal, or a beer at the game, Skinner had often thought that Mulder was just plain starved for male companionship. So Skinner took it upon himself to try to help him get over those deficiencies. It was a little out of character for Skinner to take such an interest in one of his agents; he had rarely crossed the line between boss and subordinate in his career. He honestly couldn't explain why he did so now; there was just something about Mulder's strange combination of ego and vulnerability. And Walter Skinner had been lucky in the father he had been given; perhaps he could pass some life lessons on, even if he never had kids of his own. While Mulder was perusing the limited information, Skinner watched him closely. Mulder was not especially good at hiding his feelings and he appeared to be, what? . . . . annoyed? Skinner's Marine buddies ran the gamut from cops and firemen to a heart surgeon and the Assistant Attorney General of Ohio. But they were all "bootstrap" kind of guys, no Oxford grads among them. Mulder would probably not have enjoyed their company and, who knows, he might actually have insulted someone. It had certainly happened before, Skinner thought wryly. On occasion, he'd seen Mulder create animosity in others in less time than it took most people to spell the word. He wasn't going to take a chance with these guys. "Ghosts," Mulder had said simply, looking up from the file. His face held no expression at all. "And, of course, I'm the FBI's 'ghost specialist.'" Skinner decided to overlook that comment, and pressed on. He was already running late and nothing Mulder said or did was going to keep him from this trip. "I expect you and Agent Scully in Hopewell tomorrow, Agent Mulder," was all he said. They parted on that note. ********************************************************************* Hopewell, Pennsylvania Now Mulder was in trouble with Skinner again. He rose from the bench and headed back to the rental car. He needed to mend some bridges and the first one he wanted to attend to was Scully. No matter how pissed off Skinner got at him, it always helped to know she was on his side. He drove back to the station house and pulled the car into a "No Parking" zone outside the front door. "Where's Agent Scully?" he asked the receptionist, a woman in her mid to late forties. She was just packing up for the day and looked up at him in surprise. He half expected her to tell him she was off-duty. But instead she smiled pleasantly and gave him a sympathetic shrug. "You just missed her, Hon," she said. "Doug Dawson took her to dinner." Mulder's face fell at the news. He was hoping to catch her before she left for dinner, planning to buy her a nice meal as an apology. His eyes strayed for the first time to the receptionist's name plate. It was placed to the side of her desk. In such a small town, he guessed, it was an extraneous accessory. He smiled though when he read the name. "Marilyn Skinner Jamison." Skinner's mole, he thought quickly. He gave her his most winning smile and leaned over the top of the desk. "I'm kind of stranded," he said, "I hate to eat alone. Can I buy you dinner, Marilyn?" The receptionist smiled back at him but shook her head. "Believe me, this town doesn't have too many places you'd want to eat anyway. But I'd be happy to fix you something at my place. I'm a pretty good cook, blue-ribbon winner almost every year at the County Fair!" "Marilyn, that's the nicest offer I've had in months," he said, extending her his arm to escort her to the parking lot. Mulder suffered through an evening of polka music and photos of Marilyn's blue-ribbon winning dishes. Unfortunately, what she prepared this evening was an old Pennsylvania favorite that won her first place in '89. It was something with boiled pig's feet and sauerkraut and some other things he didn't care to inquire about. He choked down a large plate and even managed a few bites of the second helping she served him without asking. By the time he got back to his room, his meal had digested a little and he didn't immediately vomit as he'd expected. He rinsed his mouth out with mouthwash several times though, then laid down to wait for Scully. It was 9: 30, where the hell was she? He flipped through the four channels the TV received. The only good thing that had come out of today was that he knew Skinner would get a glowing report on him from Marilyn. Mulder knew when he was on, and he was definitely on tonight. However Marilyn was related to Skinner, it was certain she'd have nothing bad to say about him to the Assistant Director. Hearing a car pull up outside, he bounded off the bed to see Scully exit a police cruiser. She appeared happy and was laughing at something the car's occupant said. Then she waved good-bye and entered the room next door. Mulder watched her go inside from a crack in the drapes, then threw himself back on the bed with his head against the headboard. When Scully knocked on the connecting door, he nonchalantly answered, "It's open." She came through the door with a smile that said he was forgiven. It quickly disappeared when he spoke. "So how was dinner with Deputy Dog?" Scully scowled at his comment, then decided to ignore it. "Just lovely, actually. His parents were wonderful, they reminded me of mine." "He still lives at home? I guess that put a cramp in the evening, huh, Scully?" Mulder shifted on to his side, his head propped up by his hand. She took a deep breath and went on ignoring his barbs. "I did find out something interesting, though." "Let me guess," he interjected immediately. "His parents are first cousins!" "No," she said evenly, turning back toward her own room. "I found out the secret recipe for the world's best pot roast. 'Night, Mulder," she called sweetly, closing the connecting door. The next day began early. Mulder and Scully wanted to attend Maude Jacobsen's funeral. It was a lovely service and burial but uneventful, then the mourners relocated to the Jacobsen home for lunch. Everybody in attendance, family and friends, seemed to accept that she had "gone off to be with Isaiah." Scully thought that was a lovely way to look at death. Mulder groaned when she told him. This annoyed her and she left him to go speak with the other family members. "You haven't got a romantic bone in your body, do you, Mulder?" was her parting shot. He was surprised, and a little hurt, by her remark. He thought she understood him better than that, knew he could be a romantic, would be even, when the time was right. Another voice in his head countered. He quickly grew bored speaking with the countless Jacobsen sons, daughters, grandchildren and assorted in-laws. These family things were never his style. His head hurt from lack of sleep (worry over his problems with Skinner and Scully . . . or the inability to forget he had actually ingested pig's feet, he wasn't sure which one.) He decided to skip the rest of the affair. Marilyn was in attendance and he was terrified she'd try to feed him again! He gave her a broad smile when he saw her, told her he had to get back to the station house and ran (literally) out of there without even telling Scully he was leaving. Back at the Sheriff's department, Mulder bumped into the Sheriff's other deputy, Arnie Baumann. "Hi, Barney," he said, and headed back into the Sheriff's office. He was required by procedure to request permission to see the department's files but, what the hell, they weren't going to say no. He was just moving things along. Deputy Baumann was annoyed at the FBI agent's making himself at home in their station house, and even more ticked off at his willful refusal to remember the Deputy's name. Baumann radioed the Sheriff immediately with the news. Dana Scully was chatting with the Dawson family when the Sheriff found her. He was angry now at Mulder's behavior and his overt disrespect toward his department, and the town of Hopewell. And he wanted Scully to handle her errant partner. Scully assured him she would find Mulder and reel him in and she left the Jacobsen family homestead with Doug Dawson in tow. Mulder had taken the car again and she needed the ride. But when they arrived at the station house, he had already departed, having found something in the files that piqued his interest. Deputy Baumann couldn't tell her where he had gone and, from the state of chaos he'd left their files in, no one could tell immediately which ones he'd taken. But Baumann did notice that Mulder had driven east when he left the parking lot. On that thin piece of information, Scully and Dawson headed out. They cruised through the town of Hopewell and the environs for several hours, eventually spotting the rental car on the interstate, going in the opposite direction from their car, back toward Hopewell. Dawson used the lights and siren and crossed over the divider, hitting the gas to catch up to Mulder. Mulder spotted them in his rear view mirror and was annoyed to see Scully riding shotgun with Dawson. He knew they were trying to flag him down, but he was only a few minutes from his destination. He picked up speed and exited the interstate. In another two minutes, he pulled up at the Jacobsen home, to a driveway full of people (including Sheriff Cole and Mr. & Mrs. Dawson), the wailing police cruiser skidding to a halt behind him. "Agent Mulder, do you have an explanation for this?" Sheriff Cole fumed as he exited the car. "The lights and siren are universally recognized as a signal to pull over." Mulder glanced back at the rental car. "I did pull over, see?" he answered. "Anyway, I think I have the answer to Maude's death right here." He pulled a computer print-out from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "It took me a while to make the connection," he said, glancing around for Clarissa Jacobsen, one of Maude's daughters-in-law. "We checked with Maude's doctor to see whether she was on any medication but we never checked the hospital. It was 45 miles away and why would she go there when she had a doctor in town?" He looked directly at Clarissa. "But you make that trip regularly, don't you, Clarissa?" he asked her. Now he started walking toward the house. The crowd, including Clarissa, followed closely behind him. Scully caught up with him and tugged on his arm. "What are you doing, Mulder?" she hissed through clenched teeth. He gave her a sidelong glance and continued. "Clarissa works at Mount Pleasant Hospital. In 1995, she and another nurse were accused of performing a mercy killing. I had read about it at the local library but I didn't make the connection until I saw the file at the police station today." By now Clarissa Jacobsen had started to cry and was shaking her head. "No, I didn't do it. I didn't do anything to that man. The charges were dropped! And I would never hurt Maude!" But Mulder was on a mission and he continued into the house and up the stairs, calling over his shoulder. "Those charges were dismissed for lack of evidence, that's true." He disappeared for a moment, first going into the hall bathroom to check the medicine cabinet. Nothing. He then went to Maude's bedroom and looked in the drawer of her nightstand. Bingo! He came down the stairs holding a prescription bottle with the label side out. "Sleeping pills. Maude Jacobsen was issued a prescription for sleeping pills two days before her death. Her medical records indicate she's never had trouble sleeping, nor had she ever been prescribed a sleeping pill before." Scully took the pill bottle, and the paper from Mulder's other hand. She walked to the window to get a better look at them both. She had done a tox screen, she knew. How could this have been missed? The crowd of people in the foyer and living room was murmuring and gasping at this news and some of the family members had begun to cry. "Mother would never kill herself, never!" one of her sons said angrily. A small girl, a great-grand child Mulder thought, started to weep. He began to regret the public venue he'd chose for his disclosure. He was right, he knew, but perhaps this hadn't been the best way to go about it. If only Scully hadn't turned up in that police car with Dawson, he thought angrily. "Mulder," Scully called quietly to him. He turned in her direction and she motioned for him to come over. Sheriff Cole was now cautioning everyone not to jump to conclusions, telling them that they all knew Maude and shouldn't believe anything bad about her unless it was proven. He looked at Mulder with cold rage in his eyes, regretting the fact that he'd ever contacted Doug Dawson's uncle for assistance. What had he brought on these good people? "Mulder," Scully persisted, trying to get his attention quickly but quietly. He stepped up next to her. At least Scully would appreciate his discovery. She pressed her lips together before beginning. "This prescription," she said, indicating the computer print-out in her hand. "It's for 20 pills, Mulder." "Yeah?" he replied. "That would be more than enough to do the job." "Yes, it would," she admitted. "Unfortunately, there are still 20 pills in this bottle, Mulder. . . . I don't think it's even been opened before." He grabbed the bottle out of her hand and quickly shook the contents into his own. He counted them (20), and counted them again (still 20!) He looked at Scully, then glanced at the crowd over his shoulder. "Oh, shit!" Scully made an excuse to Sheriff Cole and the Jacobsen family that this "required further investigation" and she and Mulder made a fast getaway in the rental car. He seemed shell-shocked by the sudden turn of events; he kept shaking his head and running it over in his mind as he drove. Scully remained silent, too angry to trust whatever she might say. Finally, he could stand the tense silence between them no longer. "There's something here, Scully," he said. "I just know it." Scully paused before answering, trying to collect her thought. "I just don't understand, Mulder. How is it that you can believe in alien abductions, you can believe in psychic healing and. . . astral projection, for God's sake! You can believe in conspiracies that touch every level of our government! But you can't bring yourself to believe in the possibility of eternal love?" "Why can't you at least accept . . . . the possibility. . . of a love so strong that it overcomes all obstacles, transcends all boundaries?" Scully's voice was barely more than a whisper now. "Why is that so hard for you to believe?" He thought he was physically paralyzed but his brain cried out Finally he found his voice. "Is that what you plan to tell Skinner?" it asked, surprising even him. Scully looked down at her hands, willing them to unclench. "No, Mulder," she said evenly. "I don't think I'll describe it quite that way. I guess I'll just tell him the facts. An old woman lived a long life marked by some tragedy, and a lot of blessings. Last week she died. No sign of foul play, or suicide, she just died. Coincidentally on her 60th wedding anniversary." She didn't look at him again, she just grabbed the door handle and exited in silence. Mulder tore out of the parking lot and sped many miles down the interstate before turning the car around and returning to Hopewell. He thought about going back to the motel, to talk to Scully, but he didn't know what he'd say. Finally, having walked off another consuming bout of anger, Mulder was sitting in the glass-walled conference room in the station house again. He had the files on Maude Jacobsen laid out in front of him and he was going through them once more, line by line, item by item. Sometime after 6 p.m., he sensed a commotion in the reception area and glanced up to see the Sheriff, his deputies, several other staff members and Scully. He watched the commotion for a few seconds, wondering what had caused it; the group merged a little to the side and he saw Sheriff Cole shaking hands with someone, someone big, someone . . . Skinner! The Assistant Director was dressed in jeans and a plaid wool shirt. He was smiling at Cole and the others, acting friendly, it seemed to Mulder. He looked over his shoulder, hoping against hope that a back door had opened in the conference room where none had been before. Mulder sat at the table, unable to move as he watched the scene play out through the glass wall. Skinner bent his head to have a private word with Sheriff Cole, nodding expressionless at whatever the other man was saying to him. In his peripheral vision, Mulder could see Scully looking at him, trying to get his attention but he refused to make eye contact with her. The others milled about, waiting for whatever was going to happen next. He thought he caught a sympathetic glance from Marilyn; Dawson appeared immensely curious and Baumann looked like a kid about to go to the circus! Finally Skinner finished his conversation with the Sheriff. He strode toward the conference room door. But the Almighty didn't answer his plea, and Skinner didn't look like he was open to any pleading either as he closed the door and advanced on Mulder. Instinctively, Mulder stood up. "H-hi," he said. "Don't 'hi' me, Mulder!" Skinner began. "Just what the hell have you been doing here?" He stopped no more than a foot from Mulder, hands on his hips. Unconsciously, Mulder took a half-step back but he didn't answer. His eyes strayed to the window, to the bodies milling about, watching his predicament. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!" Skinner roared. Hazel eyes snapped back to the Assistant Director and the younger agent's face lost all color. Skinner's eyes were cold steel and Mulder saw him tighten his jaw, never a good sign. He searched desperately for the right thing to say but his brain didn't cooperate and, anyway, his tongue would not have complied. He stood mute before the angry ex-Marine. "I distinctly remember telling you that I expected you to conduct yourself with the professionalism and diplomacy the Bureau demands. Did you fail to understand that, Mulder? Instead you insult an entire town, accuse this woman's family of everything from murder to assisted suicide, lead the local police on a high-speed chase, of which you are the object, break one Bureau reg after another on working with the local law enforcement authorities. . . . Resulting in me being called back from my VACATION to deal with the mess you created. Am I leaving anything out, Agent Mulder?" Mulder shook his head and looked down at his shoes. Unconsciously, his eyes drifted to the glass wall again. He noticed Dawson's parents in the crowd now. "Mulder," Skinner bellowed, immediately forcing his attention back to the AD, who now stepped a little closer. Mulder flinched involuntarily, but Skinner didn't lay a hand on him. Instead he lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "Is this embarrassing, Agent Mulder?" he asked quietly. "Do you find this a little humiliating?" Mulder blinked twice, then nodded his head slightly, dropping his gaze to the floor once more. "Yes," he said, the word barely audible. Skinner stood back just slightly. "Now you know how Sheriff Cole must have felt when you ridiculed him in front of his staff." Mulder's eyes snapped back to Skinner. He blinked several times, struggling valiantly to keep tears at bay. Skinner saw his struggle and quickly lost his taste for a "public whipping." He had never been the kind of supervisor who criticized his people in public, unless an object lesson was called for. And it was clear this lesson had hit home. "Okay, let's take this somewhere private, Agent Mulder," he told the humbled young man. "My jeep is parked right outside the front door. Go wait for me there." Mulder nodded and headed for the door. He knew he'd have to run the gauntlet of onlookers outside the conference room and he prepared himself as best he could. Opening the door and passing through, though, no one spoke to him. They politely made themselves busy talking to each other, or staring at the wall. He kept his head down and headed out of the station house to wait for Skinner -- and whatever would come next. Walter Skinner said his good-byes, thanking his sister for keeping him abreast of the situation in Hopewell the past few days and promising that he'd be up to spend some time the following month. He asked Scully to tie up the loose ends of the case, strongly suggesting that he thought it should take about an hour, and left. "Poor Mulder," Scully said to Doug Dawson as she watched the retreating form. "I don't know if you know this, Doug, but your uncle is a highly effective yeller!" Dawson cast her a quizzical look but said nothing. He knew his uncle well enough to guess Mulder was in for a whole lot more than yelling -- and from personal experience, Doug knew that Uncle Walter was very effective at that, too! But if Agent Scully didn't know all this, he certainly didn't want to be the one to fill her in. Back at the Hopewell Motor Lodge, Mulder pulled a room key out of his pocket and led the AD into a hotel room that was as generic as the dime store prints on the wall. Skinner was struck by how neat his room was, until he noticed the women's clothes in the suitcase on the stand and a bag of cosmetics on the dresser. One eyebrow rose and he waited for Mulder to explain. The younger agent didn't see his silent question and simply continued through the room to the connecting door, which was unlocked. Skinner had lost a step or two in his confusion and Mulder looked back. "I left my key in my room this morning," he explained. Skinner thought that didn't explain much at all, but he decided not to probe any further; he already had a raging headache with Mulder's name on it. The second room looked like it had been hit by "Hurricane Fox" and Skinner was sure this was the room the young man actually occupied. He closed the connecting door and turned the lock, still not certain how to deal with his troublesome agent. He had a sneaking suspicion there was something going on with Mulder but he couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was. The behavior he'd displayed in the past three days wasn't his usual reckless, "take no prisoners" pursuit of the truth (whatever that might be today!); it was more like a cranky kid, "acting out." What the hell was going on? Mulder finally broke the silence. "Do you want my belt," he asked. "No," Skinner said. Mulder sighed, his eyes immediately falling to the one Skinner was wearing with his jeans. It was thicker and heavier than his dress belt. He had struggled all the way over to the motel with one other item. Finally, he got his courage up. "You asked me to remind you about the other incident, sir," he said. Skinner was puzzled. "Refresh my memory, Agent Mulder." "The uh, the last time . . . when you punished me? You said you'd 'bank' the time I went AWOL a couple of months ago, when you were at the Management Conference." Skinner could see how scared and miserable the younger man was and he was surprised that Mulder had brought this up. He let him continue. "You said to remind you if you ever needed to use a belt on me again. . . ." He took a deep breath and went on. "So. . . I'm reminding you." The Assistant Director recalled Mulder's last-minute confession of the aforementioned incident following an especially sound strapping he'd delivered several weeks earlier. He'd taken pity on the young man and let it go, promising to deal with it if they ever found themselves in a similar situation. He knew if Mulder hadn't raised it today, he would never have remembered that promise. Skinner eyed the miserable 'brat' in front of him, still trying to get a handle on what was motivating all this. He finally gave up trying to analyze Mulder and made his decision. "We're not going to deal with that today, Agent Mulder," he said. "You're going to have to drive back to D.C. in a few hours and I don't think you'll want to explain to Agent Scully why you can't sit down for the ride. Consider that a "wild card" now, Mulder. I get to deal with it whenever I feel it's warranted." Skinner sat down on the bed and looked at him. "Come over here, Agent Mulder," he said. Mulder was not willing to make the same mistake he had made the last time. Defying Skinner had brought him a strapping he'd never forget. He complied immediately, coming to stand next to the Assistant Director. Skinner looked up at him and continued his instructions. "Take off your pants." Mulder unbuckled his belt, let down his suit pants and stepped out of them. He was scared and confused. "Over my knee, Agent Mulder," he said, indicating that he wanted Mulder to lay across his legs. "O-over your knee?" he reacted immediately. "No! . . . I mean, please. . . . please don't put me over your knee!" He was mortified that the AD thought he deserved to be spanked like a child. "Agent Mulder, don't make me tell you twice," Skinner said firmly. "You know that would be a mistake." Mulder closed his eyes and swallowed hard; he wanted to balk but he knew it would only make this worse. His mind was reeling with emotions he couldn't even identify but his body somehow obeyed. He knelt down and bent over Skinner's long legs. Skinner immediately pulled him a little further over, then reached under the waist band of his boxers and pulled them down. Then he pushed up his shirt, baring his backside. Reflexively, Mulder's left hand went back to protect his bottom. "Move your hand, Agent Mulder," Skinner barked. "If I have to tell you again, you won't be sitting down any time soon." Mulder immediately pulled his hand away, leaving his buttocks completely exposed. He shivered and waited for Skinner to make the next move. "I don't understand what's going on with you, Mulder," Skinner said, "but your behavior today, since my office the other day, has been childish and bratty. And this is how my Dad dealt with spoiled brats. Now tell me, Agent Mulder," he said bringing his large hand down in a stinging slap on the young man's bare backside, "why are you being spanked?" He immediately followed the first smack with four more, then paused for Mulder to begin to recite the misdeeds that had put him in his current position. Mulder began his list. "For acting like a spoiled brat (Owww!) For ditching Scully! (Ohhhhh!)" Skinner gave him another hard slap across his rapidly reddening bottom. "Keep going, Mulder," he said. "For humiliating the Sheriff in front of his men (Ouch! Owww! Aaaah! UHHHN!)" Skinner was especially displeased with that element of Mulder's recent behavior and wanted to make certain that Mulder knew it. "What else, Agent Mulder?" he asked, followed by another stinging slap. "For not following proper procedures (Aaahhh!)" Mulder was sobbing openly already, a reaction Skinner thought was out of proportion to the punishment he'd received. He held the next smack, waiting for Mulder to continue. The young agent was crying miserably, and his breathing was ragged, like some wall of tension had burst, and the floodgates were open. Skinner decided to bring this to a close. "Don't forget outrunning a police cruiser (SMACK! SMACK!) and accusing the woman's family of murder in public (SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!). Is there anything else, Agent Mulder?" Mulder was sobbing so hard, he didn't seem to hear the question. Skinner was growing concerned. He moved his left hand from Mulder's back up to the back of his head and ruffled his hair to get his attention. "Have we covered everything, Agent Mulder?" he asked quietly. He could feel Mulder nod his head but he didn't seem to be able to form words. Skinner gently slid him off his lap. Mulder sank onto his knees, still sobbing uncontrollably, and leaned his head on Skinner's knee. The Assistant Director was concerned at the violence of his reaction and he brushed Mulder's sweat-soaked hair off his forehead and rubbed his back, trying to calm the distraught young man. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked gently. "N-n-no," Mulder said finally. He shook his head firmly and took a huge gulp of air. "All right, that's okay," Skinner said. He wanted to get him moving. In a more commanding voice he said, "I want you to go take a shower, Mulder. You don't want Agent Scully to see you like this." He helped Mulder to his feet and sent him off to the bathroom. Skinner watched him go, then bent to pick up the boxers and trousers that had fallen at his feet earlier. He placed them on a chair and picked up Mulder's overnight bag from the floor, checking to see what was in it. He spotted jeans and tee shirts and a couple of pairs of clean underwear and took the bag into the bathroom. He could hear the shower running and he was certain Mulder was still sobbing under the running water. Skinner had been planning to hit the road back to his friends . . . but under the circumstances, he didn't want to leave Mulder alone. He went back to the room and turned the TV on. Ten minutes later, Mulder reappeared, subdued but calm. He grabbed a pillow and threw himself down on the bed on his belly, with his bare feet crossed at the headboard and his head toward Skinner's chair. He looked up at Skinner from over the balled-up pillow. "I'm really sorry you had to leave your . . . friends," he said. "I know how much you must enjoy . . . . you know, hanging with them. I never meant to ruin your vacation. You probably want to be getting back, don't you?" Skinner had spent the past ten minutes mulling over Mulder's recent behavior problems. Suddenly, he knew he understood. He remembered the change in attitude that had taken place in his office three days earlier when he had mentioned this vacation. Mulder's speech and body language had altered immediately. Skinner had been thinking for several months that this kid was in need of more than discipline, more than a strong hand. He needed a shoulder to lean on occasionally, a friendly ear, some male companionship. Skinner had offered those things, and they'd been accepted, first hesitantly, later more eagerly. But the last few weeks, Skinner had been busy with a big case that didn't involve the X-files, and getting ready to go on vacation. Mulder must have thought that he was pulling back, going away with his 'friends,' not even telling him, let alone inviting him. His ex-wife had always said he was immune to other people's feelings. He'd certainly missed a big signal here. He looked at Mulder, who was staring back at him. "Don't you want to get going?" Mulder asked again. "I don't want you to miss anymore of your vacation because of me. Not that I think camping is a real vacation!" He gave Skinner a small smile to show he was kidding, at least a little. "Ever been camping, Mulder?" Skinner asked him. The smile left the young man's face and he bit down on his lower lip before answering. "Yeah, actually, my Dad and I were Indian Guides." Skinner was surprised by this revelation. He'd never heard Mulder mention doing anything with his father. He started to ask more about it, but Mulder was continuing without prompting. "For about a year, when I was 9," he went on. "I kind of liked it at first. We took day trips, to the Berkshires mostly. . . . And I was really good. For some reason, I could track any kind of animal." Skinner smiled to himself. "Then the summer before I turned 10, we were supposed to go on a weekend trip. . . . I was real excited. My Dad and I had never done anything, just the two of us, before." He was lost in the memory now and Skinner let him run with it. "We were leaving Friday afternoon and when it came time to go, my father hadn't shown up yet. My mother told me things had changed at his work, that he had a lot of pressure now, and I shouldn't count on him. But I knew he would come, he'd promised me. So I talked the Leader into holding our bus. We waited an hour, but he never came. Finally, my mother told the bus to go. We pulled out -- I was the only kid on the bus without a father." "Anyway, I kept thinking he'd show up later that night, or the next day, but he didn't. Saturday night there was a terrible thunder and lightning storm, some of the tents were torn up. All the kids were crying, except me. They were all huddled in sleeping bags with their fathers. My friend Billy's father came to check on me, to see if I wanted to come sleep with them. But I pretended to be sleeping already. Skinner felt a lump forming in his throat but he said nothing. Mulder sighed deeply. "I remember thinking during the storm that I was gonna die. And I was glad. Like maybe that would show him." He laughed harshly at his faulty 9-year-old reasoning. "The next day, we pulled up stakes and went home early. When I got to my house, my Dad was in the living room, watching television. I walked up to him and yelled, "I hate you!" And for some reason, I started to cry. My mom was there, making excuses for him, saying he was under so much pressure, and I should understand that. But I just kept crying harder." "Then he got up. He said, 'What are you crying for, Fox? I'll give you something to cry about!' and he started to take off his belt. I ran up the stairs to my room but he was right on my heels. And then he let me have it. It was the first time he ever used the belt on me. After that, it happened a lot. Most of the time, I wasn't even sure what I had done to deserve it. . . . .Anyway, we quit the Indian Guides and I never went camping again." He'd told this story non-stop, without any emotion or tears. Skinner was nearly overwhelmed with rage toward Mulder's father, and a desire to protect and console the nine-year-old child he'd just gotten a glimpse of. He made a split-second decision. "Pack your things, Mulder," he said. "We're going camping." Mulder looked up in surprise. "Camping? I just got through telling you why I have lousy memories about camping." "That's exactly why you're coming," Skinner said. "You'll see, it's a whole lot more fun than you remember." "But I don't want to . . . I don't want to intrude," Mulder said. "I know this is something you do with your . . . . f-friends." "They're all good guys, Mulder," he replied. "You'll like them. And they'll like you, if you behave yourself. . . . And I'll be there to make sure you behave yourself." He smiled when he said it. Mulder was still reluctant. Skinner pressed him. "Besides, my friend Jim broke his wrist the first day out. He's gonna be sidelined for the white-water rafting tomorrow. Some how I got most of the kids in my raft, so I could use another pair of strong arms for the ride." "Well, if you need another guy . . ." Mulder said, capitulating. "I wouldn't mind helping out." He started to toss his clothes into his bag and Skinner sat back waiting for him to finish. "So tell me what you thought of my nephew, Doug," Skinner asked him, making conversation as Mulder packed. "He's a little green but he's a good kid--" "Doug Dawson?" Mulder asked, surprised. "He's your nephew?" "Yeah, I thought you knew," Skinner said. "Doug's mother is my sister Jean. Scully had dinner with them one night, so I thought sure you knew." Mulder was confused. "So, who's the receptionist?" he asked the AD Now Skinner looked confused. "I don't know, who is she?" he said. "You know, Marilyn. Marilyn Skinner Jamison's her name," Mulder prompted. The Assistant Director smiled. "Skinner's a very common name in these parts, Mulder. But I don't know her." Mulder sank slowly onto the bed. He felt sick, remembering the meal he'd eaten because he thought Marilyn was Skinner's connection in the department. "Are you all right, Mulder?" Skinner asked, concerned. "You look a little green." Mulder felt foolish but he decided to share the details with the AD anyway. Maybe he'd get a little credit for trying. Dana Scully entered her room a minute later to the sound of something strange coming from the next room, Mulder's room. She rushed to the connecting door and found it locked. She rushed outside, and used her key for his room, pulling her gun out and bursting in. Mulder was sitting on the bed, laughing and looking a little embarrassed. And the Assistant Director was doubled over in a chair, laughing so hard he could barely speak. "You actually ATE the pig's feet?" Skinner croaked. Scully looked at both of them and reholstered her weapon. THE END