Standard Disclaimer with addendum:  Much thanks to Amperage and Livengoo.
Amperage gave permission and Livengoo double dog dared me. Rating:  NC-17
for language, behavior and murder Category:  Demented Spoilers:  Probably
none, but Pendrell is still alive at this point

Minnesota 

by Wickedzoot@aol.com 

Fox Mulder, former Crown Prince of Profilers, now FBI court jester and blue
flamer of the X files--the kind of work that never got any attention,
unless you were counting tabloids like the National Enquirer, or fringe
groups like MUFON and NICAP--was almost crashed in his narrow, prop plane
seat, with a small thread of drool running down his chin to pool in the
palm of the hand presently supporting his chin. Dana Scully watched him
nervously as the small plane bounced and wove through the winter clouds. 

"What's with him?" State Trooper Katrina Trask from the seat just beyond.
"Is he always like this?" Her jaws moved slowly and a small bubble,
poisonously pink, began to extrude between her lips.

Ignoring this, Scully studied Mulder's profile. "Dramamine, " she told
Trask and frowned, leaning toward her partner. "Mulder, do you need another
Dramamine?"

He turned his head slightly, glazed eyes finally locating her. "Scully,
you've already given me four." His tone was plaintive, almost childishly
miserable.

She wasn't at all sure that four Dramamine were enough to counter the
movement of the small plane. Her own gut was queasy, and she had a cast
iron stomach from years of sailing with her father. "You don't look quite
right, Mulder. I don't want you to get sick." 

Privately, she was morally certain that if he *did* throw up, everything
she'd ever eaten, starting from her first breakfast of formula and
including the stale honey-roasted peanuts she'd eaten on this flight from
hell--only 110 calories a package, a self-satisfied inner voice offered--
was going to make an encore appearance. "It's all right, you can take a
little more, it won't hurt you." Much.  

"I'm already higher than this plane," he mumbled and sucked back the thread
of spit that was taking on a dangerous thickness. "Higher than the fucking
Space Shuttle. Even the ones that didn't blow up. If I get any higher, I'll
be an X file myself."

"Too late, Mulder," she told him and the plane jounced her back against the
seat. Her fingers went white knuckled and Mulder moaned, tilting his head
back against the headrest.

"Scully, that's my wrist!" 

Hastily, she unclenched one hand, pushed his arm away, and regripped.

"Never met an FBI agent before," Trask commented. "Especially not one
drugged to the gills."

Scully shrugged. "He has a sensitive stomach anyway, and he's prone to
motion sickness." 

Don't think about that , Dana Katherine, she told herself, as the bottom
fell out of the plane. Mulder reeled and fell over with his head in Trask's
lap. Moaned a little.

Trask considered Mulder's head in dismay. Levered him up and back into his
seat. "You sure he didn't take anything other than Dramamine?"

"I'm sure."

The plane leveled off again and the pilot looked back to give them a
maniacal smile. Wondering how long it would take to detox Mulder, Scully
turned back to the file in her lap, risked putting her glasses on and
shoving them back hard against the bridge of her nose. 

Four bodies so far. 

One Native American in his late fifties, two white males, both
bachelor/farmers and well over forty, and an elderly white woman. No
apparent connection between any of the victims. Except for one thing. No
matter how they'd died, there had been a bit of poetry left with the body.
One in the mouth, two in the fishing caps worn by the two white males, and
one left in the pocket of the flannel quilted jacket worn by Caroline
Timmeson, the elderly woman. 

She had been the most inexplicable, found eviscerated and stuffed with lime
Jell-O and marshmallows, and chunks of that Swedish bread everyone ate at
Christmas. 

Who would want to kill a grandmother, a woman who still went out and
chopped her own wood, heated her house with a woodburning stove, whose
dinner lay congealed and icy on the dining room table when her body was
found? She wanted to ask Mulder, wanted to get some input from him, but he
was staring again, pupils dilated. 

She hoped to God he wasn't going to be hallucinating on her. Mulder sober
was hard enough to work with.

Turning back to the file, she read the cold, black and white facts of the
case. They didn't tell her much. But Caroline Timmeson was waiting for her
in the Timmsville morgue. And would hopefully tell her more. 

Seventy-three and hale and hearty, from all accounts. Seven grandchildren.
Five children. She'd once been the mayor of Timmsville, had kept the farm
after her husband had died thirteen years ago and actually turned it
around. Thank God it was winter. They hadn't found the body for three days;
the winter chill after the stove had gone out had kept it moderately well
preserved. 

Turning back toward the front of the file, she peered at the photocopy of
the poem that had been found in Caroline Timmeson's jacket pocket.

  "Yes, food, Just any old kind of food. Pheasant is pleasant of course,
And terrapin, too, is tasty, Lobster I freely endorse, In pƒt‚ or patty or
pasty. But there's nothing the matter with butter, And nothing the matter
with jam, And the warmest of greetings I utter To the ham and the yam and
the clam. For they're food, All food, And I think very highly of food.
Though I'm broody at times When bothered by rhymes, I brood On food. "

Mulder said it was Ogden Nash. Whoever the hell Ogden Nash was. But if
Mulder said it was Ogden Nash, it was Ogden Nash. 

She wondered distantly if Timmsville had a library. The first poem, found
on the Native American male, had been tossed, God only knew why. Maybe the
cops in Timmsville thought he'd tried to eat it, it was about par for small
town law enforcment, and made her jaw tense to think about it. 

The second note had been so contaminated by the fish oil that had soaked
into the cap that the ink had run, they'd never know what it had once said.
The third was waiting for them in the Medical Examiner's office. In
Timmsville, that was Dr. Olafsson  . The local family doctor, moonlighting
on the side as ME.

The plane dipped again. Scully hung on, eyed Trask who was nodding in
satisfaction.

"We're landing," Trask told her and blew another bubble. Popped it with her
tongue. She felt Scully's gaze on her and flushed. "I'm trying to give up
snuff."

Scully shuddered.

Beside her, Mulder smiled sweetly and began to hum. She didn't recognize it
and was seriously afraid to ask what it was. Turning, she peered back at
Pendrell's chalky face and gave him an encouraging grin. 

Damn, Pendrell wasn't hanging on any too well, either.  Oh, well, Pendrell
would survive. Even if Mulder did throw up. 

Leaning down cautiously, she put the file back into her briefcase, leaned
back up to elbow Mulder in the ribs.

The sweet smile disappeared. He turned his head very slowly, as if he were
afraid it would fall off, and stared at her. "I don' need any more
Dramamine, Scully," he slurred and blinked. Wiped his wet hand on the
armrest.

"We're here, Mulder," Scully told him gently and elbowed him again. "Wake
up, Mulder." 

Mulder nodded disorientedly. "I was dreaming." 

Scully sighed. Still out in la-la land. "You weren't asleep, Mulder, your
eyes were open."  

"Oh?" He gave her a glazed look. "Where are we, Scully? How did we get
here?"

The plane chose that moment to bounce off the tarmac and she clutched the
armrests again, picking up a healthy amount of Fox Mulder's spit on one
hand. .  

Mulder moaned and closed his eyes, for the first time during the entire
hellish flight. "Sc-u-u-l-ly."

"Shut up," she told him, panic-stricken. Holy Mary, Mother of God, don't
let him throw up. Please don't let him throw up. I'll go to church for the
rest of Advent, and even confession if you don't let him throw up.

The plane bounced again, further terrifying her; Mulder went a peculiar
shade of green and wrapped both arms around himself. Then, reassuringly, it
leveled out, tires in contact with the pavement beneath.

"Agent Scully, I don't feel well," Pendrell moaned. 

"Not now, Pendrell," she hissed. Oh, please God, not him, too. She was
doomed, that's what it was, she was in hell, she'd really died in the
hospital after her abduction, and had been in hell ever since, the natural
result of having given up the Church, having an affair with a married man,
and working with Fox Mulder.

The plane came to an abrupt stop. 

Trask, perhaps feeling as nervous as she did, popped the door and all but
leapt out. Dammit, Mulder was between her and the door; grappling with him,
she got his seatbelt off, got him out of the seat--guilt burning her face
as he whacked his head on the ceiling of the plane, the edge of the door,
and tripped over the narrow step to fall on his knees on the pavement.

He didn't seem to notice it, much. Just stared out over the winter
landscape, moving his tongue around his mouth as if he tasted something.
Something about which he had serious reservations. She hoped it wasn't the
contents of his stomach. She'd warned him about the peanuts, but he'd eaten
Pendrell's and his own.

Behind her, she could hear Pendrell gagging and took in deep lungfuls of
frigid, clean air, easing her own nausea. "Welcome to Minnesota, Mulder."

"Minnesota?" he repeated, his tone vague. "Scully, my legs are cold."

Trask levered him up again and eyed him dubiously. "You need some coffee,
boy."

Coffee might be just the ticket, Scully thought and nodded agreement as
that sweet smile formed on Mulder's mouth again. "Coffee," she repeated and
put her hand in the small of his back, herding him toward the small
terminal. She didn't even wince when she realized that her hand, still
slick with Mulder-drool, had frozen to the back of his overcoat.

Pendrell was going to have to fend for himself.
_________________________________

Mulder peered blearily at his image in the water-spotted, age-pitted,
mottled silver surface of the mirror, and bent to splash water on his face
before moving aside to the paper towel dispenser. He'd looked better after
two day binges. Not that he'd ever had one, but he looked worse now than he
would have, he was sure of it.

At least Pendrell looked worse. Sliding a look at the younger agent, he saw
him sponging the remaining stains off his suit jacket. The only consolation
was that he looked better than Pendrell did, even as shitty as he felt. And
that suit God, Sears polyester, the kid had no fashion sense at all.. Poor
Pendrell. What a way to start his first field assignment, upchucking all
over the back of the small plane.

"Well, Pendrell," he sighed and dry scrubbed his face with the paper towel.
He was going to be lucky if he could walk straight. And the four cups of
coffee Scully had made him drink only made him feel alertly stoned. At
least he wasn't hallucinating. Yet. "How's it feel to be out of the lab and
out in the field?"

Poor Pendrell gave him a miserable look: residual nausea, embarrassment,
envy and hero worship, all compounded by the faintest fragrance of Eau de
Airline Peanuts. "Oh," faintly, "Great, Agent Mulder."

"Now, just remember, no playing stuff the bunny with the locals," Mulder
told him, patting his pockets vainly for a comb. God, he looked like shit.
"Gotta watch that, the city fathers tend to get irritable. And so do the
city mothers. And no messing with my partner, Pendrell, not on duty."

Pendrell went scarlet. "Agent Mulder, I have the highest respect for Agent
Scully."

"Sure you do. But are your intentions honorable?" The words were reflexive,
he didn't even have it in him right now to do a really thorough job of
tormenting the poor kid. And he had no comb anywhere on him. He did have
one in his shaving kit. Dammit. "Pendrell, do you have a comb?" 

Mute, Pendrell handed him one. At least the flush was more flattering than
Pendrell's buttermilk pallor that left those freckles standing out in 3D.
Mulder eyed the comb before dragging it through his hair. "Yup, when you're
in the field, it's time to make the re-acquaintance of Rosie and her five
lovely sisters."

That got him a blank look. He smiled and handed the comb back. "You know,
Pendrell, spanking the monkey. Banging the bishop. Choking the chicken.
Strangling the trouser snake?" Pendrell stared at him, uncomprehending. It
made him a little impatient and he made an unmistakable gesture with his
curled fingers. "Whacking off? Masturbating, Pendrell? You have heard of
it, haven't you?" 

Pendrell went scarlet again and ducked his head. "I'm Catholic, Agent
Mulder," he muttered and finished his ablutions rather hastily, tossing the
sodden paper towel in the trash as he went past Mulder.

Mulder's brows drew together in a puzzled frown. "What's being Catholic got
to do with it? You're not allowed to whack off? Scully always told me you
have to confess something or they get you for pride, isn't that right?
Whacking off seems pretty harmless, and you don't have any vices, do you?" 

Pendrell muttered something inaudible and fled, yanking the door to the
men's room open so hard that it banged against the wall.

Mulder looked after him and shrugged. Leaned forward and straightened his
tie, decided he looked as presentable as he could under the circumstances.
Not great. Not even anywhere approaching great. Or even good. Good would
require that his pupils were a normal size, that he didn't have purplish
crescents under each of his eyes, that his usual mushroom in the basement
pallor didn't include that greenish tinge. With the hyperawareness of
caffeine intoxication on top of Dramamine overdose, he noted that he could
almost see his own pores, not to mention each and every beard follicle.
Fascinating, he could almost hear the sound of his beard growing  

Jerking back from that vista, he brushed ineffectually at his trousers. Of
course, he didn't generally look as though he'd slept in his suits. But
Scully always swore that the wrinkles would steam out if you hung them in
the motel bathroom while you took a shower. Besides, women always got this
nurturing look in their eyes if you were looking a little disheveled.
Scully didn't, to be sure, unless he added that pout that had always worked
so well on her. Add the soulful look in the eyes and Scully would probably
brush the suit out for him .

He guessed he was glad he was at least nominally Jewish if Catholics
weren't supposed to whack off. But it did explain Pendrell's terminally
fraught behavior around Scully. God, if he didn't take care of business
himself, he'd probably be breathing down her slender neck and getting a
mouthful of Scully knuckles. Scully wouldn't file a complaint about him,
oh, no, she'd just break his jaw. And probably emasculate him.

That made him shudder and his testicles tried very hard to crawl up into
his body. Hell, it felt like they were trying to crawl up under the
loosening knot of his tie. So he tightened it.

Pulling the men's room door open, he stepped out and nearly mashed Scully's
Papagallos pumps. "Scully," he yelped, backed into the door as it swung
shut. "What the hell--the ladies room is down the hall."

"What did you do to Pendrell?" she asked pointedly, looking very tall for a
short person. 

"Nothing, I just sort of had a man to man talk with him."

Her mouth crimped in that fishwife from Sligo way that made him go weak in
the knees. In his current condition, he nearly swooned. "He says you made a
pass at him."

Mulder's jaw dropped. "He what? Pendrell? You gotta be kidding? Jesus,
Scully, does he look like he'd be my type, even if I *was* gay? Christ,
Krycek was my partner." He rather thought her eyes were amused. 

Certainly one corner of her mouth lifted and one little Pappagallos clad
foot tapped on the stained linoleum. "I didn't know Krycek was gay,
Mulder."

"Neither did I." he told her quellingly. "All I know, is that he seemed to
spend a great deal of time watching me in my red Speedos. It didn't seem
like a good idea to ask him about it." 

Her mouth quirked more. "Well, evidently Pendrell interpreted your man to
man suggestions that same way."

"I'm gonna kill the little dweeb." Mulder started forward, incredulity
giving way to bad temper.

"Down boy," Scully told him, one small hand firmly in the center of his
chest. He was still sufficiently loopy that it was enough. Swaying, he
leaned back against the door. "I believe you. Just--just be careful about
what you say to Pendrell. He's really very innocent for someone his age."

Mulder snorted. "Mental or chronological? Innocent is one thing, dumb is
another. " 

She took his arm and led him back to the coffee shop. "C'mon, let's have
another cup of coffee. Trask has got a nice four wheel drive vehicle coming
over from the police station, they're going to let us use it while we're
here. But it may be a little while, so I thought we could get something to
eat."

Food. Mmm. Something to replace the rumbly in his tummy. Scully hadn't let
him eat breakfast after she'd found out how they were getting to
Timmsville. And it was now nearly 1:00 in the afternoon. "Good idea." He
wove a little as she led him back to the booth, slid in and regarded his
coffee cup with dread. 

She'd filled it again.

"Drink up, Mulder. Think of it as easier than detox."

"Huh." He eyed the cup, turned it around in his hands. Trask distracted him
from this, the growing pink bubble swelling and swelling until it obscured
her mouth and nose. He had to quell the swift urgent desire to poke his
finger into it, but looked away guiltily as it popped, adhering to her
skin.

Glanced back, saw her calmly pull the wad of bubblegum out of her mouth and
use it to get all the sticky bubble off her face. And put the wad back in. 

Scully averted her eyes. He couldn't. Awful fascination held him as the
process began again, and his stomach did a lazy roll that reminded him of
the flight. 

Scully's elbow distracted him from this. "How about some Swedish pancakes,
Mulder?"

He swallowed hard and finally nodded. "And sausage, Scully. And eggs." She
gave him a narrow look. "Scully, I'm starving. Why do you think I ate all
those peanuts? I haven't eaten since dinner last night." He let his lip
poke out a bit and widened his eyes just so, the ingenuous look that had
kept hundreds of women from killing him when he got up and got dressed in
the middle of the night.

As always, the double barreled whammy worked, and she made no protest when
the waitress took his order.

"So," Trask put her bubble gum on the edge of her saucer. "What do you
think of that poem? What's it supposed to say to us?"

Mulder sighed. "First of all, the killer is playing a game with us."

Scully rolled her eyes. "Is this where you tell us what kind of car he
drives, whether he's right or left handed, and what kind of potato chips he
favors."

"He's right-handed," Mulder told her reprovingly. "And I don't deal with
that other crap, Frank Black does. And he's retired."

"Frank Black?" Trask asked, puzzled.

"Yeah, one of the early profilers. Used to dial 1-900 psychic hotlines."
There was a trace of scorn in his voice. "No, this guy is playing a game
with us, he wants us to understand his motivations, but at his own speed.
He doesn't want us to get ahead of him."

Scully looked at him. "All that from Ogden Nash?"

He gave her a cocky grin. "Very good, Scully. I didn't know you studied the
modern masters of American poetry." 

She snorted. The waitress stopped by with basket of sweet rolls. Mulder
picked a cinnamon bun and moved his coffee cup out of the saucer. Laid the
bun on saucer and picked up his knife. "Caroline Timmeson was found
relative to her refrigerator." Reaching, he moved the pitcher of cream
toward the saucer. "The bun is Caroline Timmeson." Holding the bun with
index finger and thumb, he used the knife to neatly bisect it. "After she
was killed, her body at that point was carefully stuffed with significant
substances. Different kinds of food that have a meaning to our killer."
Biting his lip, he hesitated. "Not the individual types of food, exactly,
but the symbology behind them."

Scully gave him a long, level look. The look she gave him when she thought
he was out of his fucking mind. He smiled. "No, really." Licking his
fingers clean, he reached for the file, neatly abstracting the crime scene
photos. Laid one on each side of the saucer. Picked up a packet of butter
and spread it down the center. "So, he killed her and laid her body on the
floor.  And then the killer eviscerated her." He glanced at Trask, pulled
out the moist buttered center of each half of the bun and popped both
pieces into his mouth.

Trask went pale.  "Jeez."

Scully leaned over and picked a stray raisin off the poor, dissected bun
and gestured with it. "So, what you're saying is that is not merely the
killer's obsessions--" The raisin went between those luscious, rosebud
lips. She chewed a moment thoughtfully. "But his attempt to communicate
those obsessions with us?"

Mulder nodded emphatically.  "Yeah, kind of like spreading a venereal
disease. He's making out with us, trying to woo us, to win us to his view.
This is his version of heavy petting."

Trask shifted uneasily in her chair, eyes downcast. "Minnesota is God's
country, we don't do that sort of thing up here. Unless we're engaged."

Mulder grinned wickedly. "I'm not surprised. If you whipped anything out up
here, it would freeze off."

Trask gave him a chilly look. "Mr. Mulder, I don't appreciate that kind of
dirty talk."

Scully smirked at him sidelong. "He's still not himself, Trooper Trask."
She cast a meaningful look back at poor Pendrell, so mortified he was
sitting alone in the back of the coffee shop. Trying to pretend that he was
fine. That he hadn't thrown up everything but his toenails in the airplane.

Trask frowned, but nodded. "Just remember, please. We don't use that kind
of language up here."

In lieu of anything safer to say, Mulder reached for another packet of
butter and spread it again on the torn interior of the cinnamon bun's
carcass. "After we eat, I think we should see the crime scene."

"I need to take a look at the body, Mulder," Scully told him.

"Yeah, and I want to stop at the motel and change clothes. I don't plan on
charging around in three feet of snow in this suit."

She eyed him with amusement. "Mud, nor blood, nor green goo has ever
stopped you before, Mulder."

He did the soulful thing again. "Yeah, but Scully, I don't wanna get
frostbitten. I'm not wearing my woollies."

She only smirked.


Scully sighed and leaned against the cigarette machine in the motel lobby.

The motel was so bad Mulder could have chosen it deliberately. He loved
small town Americana in the form of motor hotels that had last been
redecorated before either of them had even been gleams in the eyes of their
respective fathers. She wasn't sure if it was the Dramamine or the caffeine
or both, but she could swear that he brightened when he saw the late
Fifties decor inside the lobby. 

However, this time he was innocent. 

The Snowman's Delight was the only motel in Timmsville. It boasted a
microwave and vending machine pastries in the lobby, along with one of
those tall coffee urns she remembered from years of Catholic church
bazaars. 

The clerk's name, allegedly, was Bjorn Bjornson. He was tall and blond, if
greying, and was taller and broader than Trask. He eyed them suspiciously
until Trask growled introductions, but then thawed noticeably and pushed
over four registration cards.

It appeared that he was Trask's second cousin.

Bjorn essayed a smile. "Will you be paying with a credit card or cash?"

"Credit card," Mulder muttered and began fumbling in his suit pockets.
"Scully, do you have my wallet--no, here it is." He slid the card across to
Bjorn who examined it suspiciously before running it through. "Put all of
them on mine, Scully can get our meals."

Pendrell slanted him a nervous look and nodded before printing his name,
his business, and his home address laboriously on the 3 by 5 card. Mulder
scrawled his, as usual, and she filled hers out in the neat, rounded style
she'd learned at parochial school.

Mulder was waiting impatiently by the front door with his key in his hand
by the time Pendrell finished and took his key from Bjorn. Rolling his eyes
at Scully, Mulder pushed it open and went out into the overcast afternoon.

Scully followed. Damn, it was snowing again. And it was bitterly cold.
Mulder trudged down the slushy sidewalk ahead of her, peering at the faded
numbers on the doors until he reached his.

Scully stopped at the door just before that. "You'd better bring your
laptop in," she told him, "It's freezing, I'm not sure that it's going to
survive."

He nodded absently and wriggled his key in the lock, grimaced and jammed it
harder, turned it and shoved the door open with his shoulder.

Sighing, Scully glanced at Pendrell, who went past, his shoulders slumped,
his attitude forlorn. "Pendrell?" she called, feeling sorry for him. "When
you get changed, come back, I'll give you something for your stomach."

If anything, his shoulders slumped further. Nodding, he moved past Trask,
who had stopped at the door just beyond Mulder's and opened it without
fuss. 

She sighed again, unlocked her own door and went inside.


Caffeine and Dramamine. What a combination. 

Shivering, Mulder hung his suit up neatly and yanked thermal underwear out
of his bag. Shimmied into it, his breath almost like smoke in the air. God,
these people were crazy. This was worse than the Arctic. 

The caffeine made the shivering worse. His nerves jittered and jived and
his skin crept with gooseflesh. The thermal shirt went over his T-shirt,
the white, drool-stained dress shirt abandoned on the floor. Thermal socks,
wool socks over that, a pair of jeans, a Henley, and a wool sweater went on
before his teeth stopped chattering.

God, how had he let himself get sucked into this trip? The morgue photos of
mutilated bodies had spoken to something in him, something that hated
seeing the evil wreaked on human beings by other human beings. Sometimes he
hated himself for being susceptible to that. 

But sometimes he hated himself for believing in aliens, so he supposed it
all came out even in the end.

There was a tap on one of the connecting doors. He looked up, a little
startled, and grinned when he realized it was Scully, thank God, not Trask.
Crossing the room in his stocking feet, he opened it for her, found her as
bundled up as he was.

She studied his face. "I'm going out to the crime scene with you, Mulder.
I'm not sure you're in good enough shape to go alone."

He rolled his eyes at her. "You worry too much. But that's fine, put
Pendrell to work on the forensic evidence at the morgue, I don't think his
stomach's up to seeing blood on the floor yet."

Her mouth quirked, but she gave him a stern look. "Don't pick on Pendrell,
Mulder. This is his first field assignment, he needs a little support."

"Buy him a crutch," he told her and went back to his bag, pulled out his
heavy boots and sat down to put them on.

"How attractive," she told him and grinned. "They make your feet look even
bigger than they are, Mulder."

He bared his teeth at her in a mock snarl. "Hey, you know what they say
about men with big feet, Scully."

"My best friend used to say that was wrong, it was noses that gave the
truth away."

He gave her a quick look, saw her smirk and waited out the blush. They were
partners, for God's sake, don't follow that comment with the usual follow
through. But his mouth worked independently of his brain, as usual. "Any
time you want to test that theory, let me know. I'll be glad to show you."

Scully snorted. "I'll get my coat."

"And your mitties." He slid her a grin, but it vanished when he caught
sight of his notes.

God, Ogden Nash. How could one of America's foremost comic poets have
caught the attention of this sick mother? How could Ogden Nash speak to the
heart of a sociopathic murderer?

He wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he had to find out. Had to, if he was
to stop this madman.

He had to study the artist's work to understand the artist. And he had to
understand the artist if he was going to catch him.

Shuddering in a way that had nothing to do with the cold, Mulder rose and
pulled his parka out of his bag, shouldered into it and went to the open
connecting door. "Jesus, Scully, how long does it take you to get your
coat? It ought to be an X file, how long it takes women to get ready to go
anywhere."

He ducked the tastefully low-heeled pump that flew toward him.


The Timmeson farm was about fifteen miles from Timmsville. The drive was
largely silent, except for the continuous and regular sound of Trask
blowing bubbles and popping them. And the click of her jaws as she chewed.

Mulder had withdrawn into himself, studying his notes, slumped in the back,
frowning as he traced the shape of words he'd written himself. As he read
and reread the killer's choice in poetry.

Scully stared out the window at the winter landscape. Trees raised bare and
ice-covered branches to the north wind, drifts obscured anything that might
have lain under them, and the grey-yellow slush under the tires of the
four-wheel drive truck spat and spattered as Trask drove through it.

Lord, she hated winter. Loathed it. Detested it. Grey and white and more
grey and white and cold that seeped into her bones. Chilled more than
flesh. No wonder everyone up here was so laconic. If she had to live up
here, she'd not only be laconic, she'd end up on SSRIs for life.

"Here we are," Trask finally said, turning into a long, snowy lane. "Looks
like they plowed out here. Make it easier to get in."

Scully gave her an incredulous look, wondering how she could tell. "Looks
pretty deep to me."

"Nah, they've plowed it. Otherwise it would be as high as these drifts."

Mulder leaned forward, staring past them through the windshield at the grey
house at the end of the lane.

Scully followed his gaze, shivered. Shades of American Gothic.

Mulder sighed. "Some singers sing of ladies' eyes, And some of ladies'
lips, Refined ones praise their ladylike ways, And coarse ones hymn their
hips. The Oxford Book of English Verse, Is lush with lyrics tender; A poet,
I guess, is more or less, Preoccupied with gender. Yet I, though custom
calls me crude, Prefer to sing in praise of food. "

Trask scowled. Scully turned in her seat. "The rest of the poem?"

Mulder nodded, his mouth a thin line. "Yeah. The part he left out is as
revealing as what he left on the body." Leaning his chin on his hand, he
considered, watched the house as the four-wheel drive drew nearer to it.
"The local police are here."

"I called 'em." Trask gave him another frown. "So what does it tell you,
what he left out?"

"He doesn't want to be seen as a sexual predator," Mulder muttered, "He
doesn't want anyone to mistake his motives as sexual. Of course, they are,
killing always is, but he wants his murders to seem pure. Untainted by the
lusts of the flesh."

Scully thought Trask paled. 

"Some painters paint the sapphire sea, " Mulder voice was very soft, "And
some the gathering storm. Others portray young lambs at play, But most, the
female form. 'Twas trite in that primeval dawn, When painting got its
start, That a lady with her garments on, Is Life, but is she Art? By
undraped nymphs I am not wooed; I'd rather painters painted food. " He
offered Scully a wan smile. "He wants us to know that he wasn't interested
sexually in Caroline Timmeson."

Scully considered the stout, elderly grandmother and shuddered. "God, I
hope not."

"Jeez, that's disgusting," Trask growled. 

Mulder gave her an incredulous look. "Of course it's disgusting. He's a
serial killer, for Christ's sake. They're always disgusting."

"Hmm." Trask frowned. "Yah, I guess."

Mulder gave her another look. And sighed.


The police chief was clearly irritated at having to deal with the FBI. The
FBI in blue jeans, no less, which clearly added to his irritation. They
stood on the porch, politely arguing about why the FBI had been called into
this case until Scully's toes were going numb.

Mulder finally simply ignored the polite argument and reached for the door
handle.

"Hey," the police chief, Harald Bergman, started forward to stop them. 

Trask moved between them. "Now, Harald, you know this is beyond your
resources."

Bergman scowled, but stepped back. Let Mulder turn the door handle and open
it.

"Oh, shit." Mulder's voice was soft. "The fucking pipes broke."

Everyone frowned. Deeply. Scully noted this and went forward to stand
beside him. "Oh, shit," she echoed. 

The floor was covered in a thin layer of ice and Mulder carefully advanced
onto it, his arms out to keep his balance. She followed, holding onto
furniture, into the kitchen where she leaned against the door jamb as
Mulder carefully sank down on his heels. She could still see the smudged
chalk outline through the ice. 

And the blood, of course, too.

"Right here," Mulder breathed and carefully rose again, holding on to the
back of a kitchen chair as he studied the table. "Jell-O mold."

"Well, food molds if it's left out," she told him reasonably enough. 

He gave her a look. "No, Scully. She had a Jell-O mold on the table. That's
where he got the Jell-O."

Oh. And it was probably too cold in here for anything to mold. "What about
the bread?"

He pointed mutely at the empty breadbasket.

Scully swallowed the taste of acid in the back of her throat. "He used her
own dinner?"

"Looks that way." Mulder let go of the chair and walked slowly around the
table, his eyes still resting on it, his eyes haunted. "Food, Just Food,
Just any old kind of food. Go purloin a sirloin my pet, If you'd win a
devotion incredible; An asparagus tip vinaigrette, Or anything else that is
edible. Bring salad or sausage or scrapple, A berry or even a beet. Bring
an oyster, an egg, or an apple, As long as its something to eat. If it's
food, It's food; Never mind what kind of food. When I ponder my mind , I
consistently find, It is glued, On food. "

The rest of the people in the room exchanged looks.

"What the hell is he goin' on about?" Bergman's face was creased in
bafflement.

"Poetry," Trask intoned.

"The rest of the poem found on the body," Scully added.

"Holy Mother of God," said the deputy, by which Scully assumed he wasn't
Lutheran. 

"The killer shows an incredible class consciousness in his choice of the
verse left on the body," Mulder told them softly. "And not merely class
consciousness, but regional consciousness as well. He shows his contempt
for the mores of this part of the country, for the food, for the people in
stuffing Caroline Timmeson with the good, middle class cooking on her
table."

"He does?" Bergman asked, bewildered.

Mulder nodded soberly his eyes still on the table. "The choices he made in
stuffing her body cavity also tell us a lot. For example, the lime Jell-
O...." He crouched over the table, wearing latex gloves over his leather
ones. Dipped out a bit of frozen Jell-O, all that was left in the bright
copper mold. "Green, the color of fertility, the color of gardens, of the
trees here in this part of the country. Particularly in the Tree of Life.
It symbolizes the Garden of Eden."

Scully nodded as if that made sense to her.  Spooky Mulder on a roll.  She
stole a glance at the others.  Trask looked amazed, Bergman only looked
more irritated.  The deputy's mouth was hanging open.

Mulder sighed, a poignant sound that puffed out white in the bitter chill
inside the house.  "More, the bitter tartness of celery and lime suggest
the terrible loss of innocence at being expelled from the Garden of Eden.
The marshmallows are the sweet nostalgia for more innocent, less
knowledgeable days. For that purer, nobler self that has been subsumed by
his predator's instinct." He held his finger up to the rays of light that
came, however dimly, through the glass window above the sink, just beyond
him. Like a small, perfect emerald, the bit of Jell-O caught the light.
"Jell-O is crystal clear," Mulder murmured. "And he sees himself as
recapturing that clarity, that innocence, that nobility, by purifying
Caroline Timmeson with her own Jell-O. And yet, the imagery still is more
complex than that. The Jell-O--" he paused, looked toward Scully grimly.
"Scully, didn't the ME's report say that it was a Jell-O salad?"

She nodded again, trying to follow where he was going. "Marshmallows,
celery, peaches, grapes and pineapple."

Mulder nodded again. "Caroline Timmeson willfully corrupted the purity of
the Garden by adulterating it with other substances. She--she added the
fruit of the Tree of Life, knowledge, losing her innocence, casting away
her true nobility, turning away from the Garden deliberately. The Christmas
bread--he stuffed her with it, showing that no matter how much of it there
was, she could never hope to attain redemption."

Trask's bubble popped audibly, startling Mulder's audience from its dazed
condition.

"What the hell are you talking about," Bergman demanded. "That is the
biggest load of--of moonshine I've ever heard in my entire life."

"Jeez, Harald, he knows what he's doing," Trask hissed. "He's an FBI
profiler."

Scully looked at her, keeping her own expression impassive.

Sure, it all *sounded* good, but she wasn't at all sure that Mulder *did*
know what he was doing. After all, four Dramamine and four cups of
coffee....

Maybe she shouldn't have insisted he have the last cup. 

Carefully making her way over to him, she put a gloved hand on his sleeve.
"Mulder," she said gently, "It's freezing in here."

But Mulder moved toward the refrigerator in a sort of skating motion, arms
out again. 

From this angle, he looked like a tall thin penguin, moving toward the top
of a slope. She hoped to God he didn't slide down on his ass.

The refrigerator door opened and Mulder put his head in. "Oh, God." Hollow,
haunted voice.  He turned away and looked back at them, stricken. "There's
a ham in here. And yams. Leftovers."

Scully swallowed again. "And?"

Mulder's jaw tightened.  "The killer didn't leave everything on the table.
Chief, I want your men to see if they can get any prints from inside the
refrigerator."

Bergman opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, closed it. Finally
nodded grudgingly. 

Mulder looked at her, his expression like that of a child who has seen his
dearly beloved puppy run over by the street cleaner.  When he spoke, it was
in a sepulchral whisper, as if he were afraid the victim's ghost would hear
him.  "He ate the ham and the yams and put the leftovers away. He used the
rest to stuff her like a Christmas turkey."

"Thanksgiving," Trask muttered. "We don't eat turkey at Christmas up here."

"Whatever." Mulder rubbed his nose with his parka sleeve and started to
skate toward the door. "Scully, I'm freezing, let's get out of here."

Scully did, gladly. Her feet were numb to the arch of her foot, now.


The Country Kitchen.  

For a town this size, it wasn't a bad restaurant, small and homey, filled
with wooden mallards and other North Country kitsch.

Trask evidently was related to the owners here, too, and they greeted her
with as much warmth as she'd seen here in Timmsville, escorting their small
group to what was evidently the best table in the house.

To Scully's horror, the special was ham with red gravy, mashed yams, and
green beans.

Mulder blanched and ordered pancakes again. No meat. Especially not pork.

That eased her mind somewhat. 

Trask sighed. "So you think this is someone from out of town? Not local."

Mulder gazed gloomily at the salt and pepper shakers, shaped like two
skiers, one female, the other male. 

His thumb moved unconsciously over the endowments of the female salt shaker
until Scully wanted to slap him. "No, he's local. It's just that he has
complete contempt for his own heritage. He wants to be something he's not.
A New Englander--the mention of oysters and lobster--or a Southerner. He
probably reads Faulkner or Hawthorne, probably showed an unnatural affinity
for them during his college courses. His contempt is expressed by using
symbols of his heritage, of regional favorites peculiar to this part of the
country, to destroy his neighbors. The scene is organized, carefully
arranged for our benefit, no signs of killing frenzy or visible psychosis.
He probably appears quite normal, quite sane, when he's not gripped by his
need to kill. And he's older, white, possibly in his late forties to early
fifties. He probably began by tormenting his siblings."

Scully cleared her throat. "Mulder, everyone torments their siblings."

He gave her a grim look. "I didn't."

She cleared her throat again. "What about the time you tied Sam to her
headboard so she'd leave you alone while you read Starship Troopers."

He went ashen. "I didn't torment her, I just kept her in one place. This
man--he probably didn't content himself with just tying them up. Wedgies,
Scully. Short sheeting their beds. Live reptiles in their shoes. Maybe
worse. He might even have murdered their pets. Put their turtles into bowls
of ammonia instead of water. Shoved firecrackers into their dogs' rectums.
Fed their cats Ex-Lax."

She stared at him in horror. "Oh, God, Mulder."

He nodded. "The development of a serial killer is a terrifying thing,
Scully. He would have dropped cigarettes into their fishbowls. And fished
them out again so that no one would know. But he wasn't born this way,
Scully. More killers are made then born. And his parents..." He shuddered,
rubbed his face with b
don't even want to think about it, Scully."

If he didn't want to think about it, given what *he'd* gone through as a
child, she certainly didn't.

The waitress brought the tray with their food. Mulder gazed wanly at the
plate of pancakes and the little cruet of lingonberry syrup. Picked up his
fork and poked at the stack, as if he were afraid it would get up off the
plate and bite him.

Trask leaned back to let the waitress put the plate in front of her. Scully
hadn't paid attention during the ordering process, she'd been watching
Mulder. And now, when he went even paler, she looked back to find that
Trask had ordered the special.



Apparently nothing, because he picked up his fork and took a bite of
pancakes, staining his mouth purple with the syrup. Chewed slowly, staring
at his plate. Took another bite, grimacing as if it were perfectly horrid
medicine. Chewed and swallowed, all the while his gaze rested just past
Trask's shoulder. 

Relieved, Scully turned to her own: meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy and
succotash. Canned, no doubt. She suddenly doubted her own wisdom in
ordering this, but she'd been preoccupied with her partner. Surely, she
thought, she'd ordered fish. "I'm sorry, I thought I'd ordered the fish." 

The waitress, a stunning blonde in her early twenties, blinked at her and
then looked down at the tray, frowning. "Oh, sorry, wrong order." Whisked
the plate out from under her, leaving her to sit and watch Trask dig into
ham and yams. She shuddered, glanced back to Mulder, who was manfully
taking another bite of his pancakes.

Pendrell came in then, looking around forlornly as if he expected he'd been
abandoned. Scully called his name, earning several surprised looks and a
scowl from other diners, but he saw them and trotted over, brightening
visibly.

"Agent Scully, Agent Mulder." He stood while Trask slid over in the booth
and rearranged her dinner, then sat down beside her. "Oh, you've ordered
already."

"I'm still waiting for mine," Scully told him, suddenly feeling guilty. But
it had seemed important to get food into Mulder again, she wasn't sure why.

The waitress, having spotted a new arrival, appeared almost magically with
a cup of coffee to refresh their cups and handed Pendrell a menu.

Pendrell blinked and looked at Trask's plate. "That's okay, I'll have the
same as Trooper Trask."

The girl beamed at him, Nordic blue gaze fixed on Pendrell's brown, puppy
dog eyes. "I'll have it for you in just a minute, sir. What would you like
to drink?"

Pendrell blushed under the heat of that look. "Do you by any chance have
any Ovaltine?"

Mulder shuddered.

"Coming right up," the girl--whose name tag proclaimed her to be Inge--
snatched the menu back and hurried toward the kitchen.

God, Scully thought, amazed, she was flirting with Pendrell. Mulder hadn't
garnered so much as a smile, and the girl was flirting with Pendrell. There
was no accounting for taste, obviously. "Did you come up with anything new,
Pendrell?"

"Yes, Agent Scully. Significant amounts of fiber and hair--although it
looks more like animal hair. I sent off some samples to the lab in DC.
Hopefully we'll hear back sometime the day after tomorrow."

"Good." Scully took a sip of her tea and sighed. "I'll be going over the
body tomorrow morning, Pendrell. If I find anything else--I'd like you on
hand."

Inge reappeared, bringing Pendrell's Ovaltine and his dinner order.

"Excuse me." Scully kept her tone polite. Pendrell was positively beaming
back at the young woman. "Excuse me, where's my fish?"

"Oh, sorry." Inge managed to tear her eyes away from Pendrell long enough
to offer Scully an apologetic look. "I'll go check on it."

"I'd rather have you bring it," Scully muttered and looked sidelong at
Mulder's pancakes. They were beginning to look good, despite the amount of
purple syrup he'd poured over them.

Pendrell took a sip of his Ovaltine, sighed in pleasure, and dug into the
ham, pushing a forkful of the pink, succulent meat around to coat it in red
gravy.

Next to her, Mulder made a small noise in his throat, not quite a moan, not
quite anything else. 

Scully eyed him nervously, noticed that he was watching Pendrell, and
reached for a package of melba toast from the basket in the center of the
table.  "Mulder," she began, hoping to distract him, "You said he was
white. But the first victim was Native American. And his latest victim was
a woman. Don't serial killers generally stick to one race and one gender?"

Mulder started and looked at her, eyes wide. "Um. Oh, yeah, usually. But
they had some things in common, Scully. Despite having been baptized
Lutheran, they never went to church. They liked to ice fish. They took part
in the Winter Festival every year."

She blinked. "So, which do you think is the relevant link?"

"Given the clear symbols of purity and innocence lost, I'd have to guess it
was the Winter Festival, Scully."

Scully frowned.  "Not their lack of church attendance?"

Mulder shook his head, took another bite of his pancakes. "I don't think
so, Scully. But Winter Festivals--like Christmas, they mark a time when the
earth is fallow, when everything lies sleeping under a blanket of snow. The
Festival is about the promise of rebirth in the spring."

Scully considered that dubiously. "Maybe. But I think I'll check out the
local minister anyway, Mulder."

He nodded wearily and glanced back at Pendrell, just now putting an
enormous, red gravy-drenched bite of ham in his mouth. She heard Mulder
take in a shaky breath, heard the faintly muttered, "Oh, God," and he was
gone, rocking the table enough to slosh tea and Ovaltine across the Formica
surface of the table.

Scully shook her head at Trask and went after him, no easy task when big
burly types of either gender kept stepping into her path--one of them
stopped her at the door to the men's room.

"You can't go in there, Miss," a deep baritone voice told her sternly. "Men
only."

She looked up into a face that matched the voice. Max Von Sydow with fewer
wrinkles and blond, slightly greying hair. And a mustache. Reaching into
her pocket, she pulled out her FBI badge and ID, flashed them. "He's my
partner."

"I don't care if he's your partner or your legally wedded husband," the man
told her firmly. "You can't go in there."

Scully blinked and scowled. "He's my FBI partner," she told him shortly.

Pendrell came up, panting, behind her. "Is Agent Mulder all right?"

The man's eyebrows rose. "Oh, you're the FBI agents Katrina brought up." He
nodded at Pendrell. "Better go in and check on him, son, make the lady
happy."

Lady? Scully restrained the urge to viciously kick him in the shins. "Dr.
Scully," she told him sweetly, holding out her hand. "I'm a pathologist.
And you are?"

"Dr. Eric Olafsson  ." He took her hand limply.

Her father had always told her not to trust men who had dead fish
handshakes, she told herself and nudged Pendrell forward. "Stay with him
until he's feeling better, then bring him back out."

Pendrell's eyes widened with a hint of panic. "Is he throwing up?"

"Probably." Scully smiled poisonously at Dr. Olafsson  . "Serial cases
sometimes affect him this way."

Olafsson   nodded glumly. "A terrible thing."

The door closed on Pendrell. Nodding politely at Olafsson  , Scully
returned to the table, where Trask was stolidly munching her way through
the last of her ham and yams.

Still no fish and the waitress was busy chatting up another table. Sighing,
Scully considered what was left of Mulder's pancakes. No sense in letting
them go to waste, she told herself, and pulled the plate toward her.


Pendrell was hovering behind him, probably turning that peculiar pale shade
of green again. 

It was terrible to puke purple, Mulder reflected hollowly, leaning his
forehead on the arm he'd braced over the toilet seat. Purple was enough to
make your stomach roil and heave all over again, and as if hearing his
thoughts, his stomach did.

The killer had calmly eaten ham and yams and put the leftovers away, all
after killing, eviscerating, and stuffing Caroline Timmeson. He was
morbidly certain that they would find her organs in the snow somewhere,
frozen rock solid. 

He hoped they didn't find them in the freezer. He hadn't thought of it
then, hadn't suggested they check there. Raising his head, he gasped for
air. "Pendrell? Tell Scully to have the police check Caroline Timmeson's
deep freeze for her internal organs. The killer had to do something with
them, and we need to know if he took them with him."

There was a faint sound behind him. God, if Pendrell puked--well, thank
God, there were two stalls in here.

Pendrell's hands fluttered like birds over his head, the movement just
visible in the surface of the water.  "Agent Mulder, are you all right?"

Of course I'm all right, he thought dully. An overdose of Dramamine, too
much coffee, Ogden Nash, and eviscerated old ladies. Why wouldn't he be all
right? "I'm fine," he managed to say, before another wave of nausea twisted
his gut, forcing the last of his supper out. Great. Now all he had left was
lunch. Nope, that looked like sausage, he'd lost lunch, too. 

And just noticing that made him heave again.  Reaching up, he flushed,
closing his eyes to avoid watching the water whirl away what he'd just
vomited.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw more fluttering.  "Agent Mulder,
would you like a wet paper towel?"

Resting his forehead against his wrist, Mulder considered that. "Can you
get me a glass of water?" he asked faintly, closing his eyes as another
spasm racked his gut.   Without opening his eyes again, he fumbled until he
found the handle, flushed again. If he couldn't see it, it couldn't make
him throw up again.  Could it?

The men's room door opened and closed again. Pendrell went out and someone
came in. Someone who went to stand at the urinal.

Mulder took in a shallow breath.  Hams and yams. Ham drenched in red gravy.
In Caroline Timmeson's blood. Under the ice that covered the floor, he'd
seen the blood soaked carpet, seen the delicate trails of blood frozen in
the ice. She'd bled a lot.

His stomach roiled again and he tried to think determinedly of something
else. Of the Redskins. Of EBEs. Of anything but grandmothers carved open
and stuffed with their own supper.

Opening his eyes, he stared into the toilet.  The water was very hard up
here in Timmsville. There was a mineral deposit forming a ring in the
toilet bowl. And someone hadn't been using their favorite toilet bowl
cleaner exceptionally well, either. His stomach rolled threateningly.

The sound of pissing trailed off and he heard a zipper. "You doin' okay,
Mister?"

Mulder turned his head. 

Addressing him was a kid, a boy surely no more than eighteen or nineteen.
"Um, there's a short red-head out in the dining room, sitting with Trooper
Katrina Trask. Can you tell her I need something for my stomach?"

The boy nodded sympathetically. "You have the meatloaf? I try to warn
people, but they think it sounds good." Backing away, he went to the door.

Mulder's stomach roiled again. "Thanks," he muttered faintly and leaned
over to throw up, Christ, it had to be the peanuts, he didn't have anything
else left.

When that spasm passed, he became aware that someone was tapping his
shoulder. "Agent Mulder?" Pendrell's voice was anxious. "Here, I brought
you some water. And some soda. Agent Scully says you should try to get some
of the soda down after you rinse out your mouth."

The wet paper towel was there, too. Mulder took the first glass, took a
mouthful and vigorously swished it around his mouth. Spat and repeated.
Twice more. "Are my lips purple?"

Pendrell blinked at him stupidly. "No. Should they be?"

Mulder closed his eyes briefly. God, give me strength, he petitioned and
sighed, accepting the wet paper towel. "Pendrell, you're okay, I take back
everything I've ever said about you."

Pendrell blinked again, frowned slightly. "What have you been saying about
me?"

"Nothing much." Mulder pushed himself up shakily, made it to the sink and
splashed cold, iron-scented water on his face. With nothing left in it, his
stomach was making peaceful overtures. The soda might be worth the risk.
"Just--Pendrell, don't order ham and yams again, okay? Or sit at another
table if you do."

The poor kid's expression was baffled. "You don't like ham and yams?"

Would he eat them in a box? With a Fox? In the rain? On a train?  Mulder
shuddered. "The killer likes ham and yams."

Pendrell blanched. Mulder took the glass of soda, sipping delicately. Ah, a
fine vintage of lemon-lime soda. Not Seven-Up. One of those tacky little
generics. Shasta. Food Club. But it stayed down when he swallowed
experimentally, and showed no inclination to come back up. 

Sipping slowly under Pendrell's embarrassed gaze, he managed to get the
entire glass down. Sighed in relief and straightened. "Let's go back out."

"Are you sure you're all right, Agent Mulder? You still don't look too
good."

Mulder peered at himself in the soap-spotted mirror over the sink. He still
had that faintly radioactive Dramamine and coffee glow left over from the
flight up and Scully's detox method, now compounded by the pallor left from
heaving his entire day's food supply into a toilet bowl. He looked like a
liver fluke in disguise.  "Yeah, well, I'm as okay as I'm going to be.
Let's go back and face the music, Pendrell."  He dried off his face, tossed
the balled up towel in the trash, and reached for the door handle.

"Music?"  Behind him, Pendrell sounded puzzled.

Rolling his eyes, Mulder left him to think about it and made his way back
through the diningroom to the table.

Curious eyes darted his way; he felt himself flush as he avoided them, kept
his gaze fixed on Scully, who was already pulling her coat on, reaching for
her bag and sliding out of the booth.

Relieved, he grabbed his parka and zipped it up

Scully nodded at Trask. "I'm going to take him back to the motel. Tell
Pendrell to put dinner on his card, okay?"

Trask nodded. Mulder's eyes fell to her dish without volition and he braced
himself.  No, god, at least the hams and yams were gone. Now she was eating
what looked like hot apple pie with vanilla ice cream. A nice non-regional
favorite.

Scully tipped him a narrow look on their way to the door. "How are you
feeling?"

"Hollow." He managed a threadbare smile. "Other than that, mostly
embarrassed."

She walked out ahead of him, clearly on the warpath with someone or
something.


The motel was just down the street from the restaurant.  On the way there,
Scully dragged him into the local market and picked up soda crackers and
gingerale while Mulder wandered the narrow aisles, trying to decide if
there was anything on any of the shelves he wanted, anything he thought he
could keep down.

In the end, he grabbed a package of popsicles, poisonous food coloring and
lots of corn syrup. Scully looked askance at these. "Where are you going to
put those? We don't have freezers in our rooms."

Mulder rolled his eyes. "Outside my door, Scully. It's colder outside than
in a refrigerator freezer."

"Oh, right. I'm sure they'll be there in the morning, too." She snorted,
handed the clerk some bills to pay for everything.

"Scully, are you suggesting that Timmsville is at the mercy of a gang of
roving popsicle thieves?" The clerk looked up at him, expression dour, a
lean man in his thirties with habitual frown lines. When they were outside
again, he snickered. "I always thought Swedes were happy people, you know,
cheery and a lot of fun."

Scully tightened her hood and slanted him a look. "Mulder, they live close
enough to the Arctic circle that the winter days practically don't exist.
And the suicide rate is horrendous."

He looked around. "So they emigrated to Minnesota? Why not someplace
sunnier?"

"The Spanish and English got all the good parts." But her mouth quirked.
"Come on, Ace, I want you to take some Pepto for that stomach of yours, and
try some gingerale and crackers."

He rolled his eyes again. "Yes, Mom."


Mulder was half-afraid, half-hoping that Scully was going to continue to
hover.  But there was no hovering back in the room, which had thankfully
warmed enough he couldn't see his breath anymore. 

She did stand and watch while he grimaced and drank the proffered dose of
Pepto--yuck, that was enough to make him want to hurl all over again,
wintergreen pink with a tinny aftertaste--but then left him to go through
the connecting door to her room. Closed it behind her.

The motel had advertised cable, which in Timmsville consisted of a couple
of stations from Minneapolis, one from Chicago, and a movie channel that,
thankfully, had some of the sleaziest B movies he'd seen in many a day.

Curling up on his side--the one thing the motel did have was fabulous
feather pillows, two woolen blankets and a thick, quilted comforter--he
pulled the bedclothes over himself and watched, growing increasingly
drowsy, as nubile blondes bounced their breasts and cried out in horror or
terror or simulated pleasure.

Drowsy and horny. What a combination.

But he was too aware of Scully's presence in the next room to do anything
about the latter, so he let the former take control of him.


It wasn't so much that Mickey Mouse was standing next to a Tyrannosaurus
Rex under the leafy palm trees of Southern California.  Or somewhere close
to it.  It wasn't the raptors jumping merrily across the road.  After all,
he'd dreamt of Jurassic Park more than once.

It wasn't the Red Miata, either, although the passenger seat had been
pushed back as far as possible and his legs still felt somewhat cramped.

It was the fact that his partner was driving and while driving, wore
nothing more than a scrap of lace garter belt, black stockings, fuck me
pumps and a nun's wimple and veil.  She'd evidently been wearing the entire
habit, but had earlier shed it, it lay like a discarded skin behind and
under her.

"Sc-scully?"  Startled.

She gave him a brief, preoccupied smile and pulled to the side of the road
in the shadow of the Tyrannosaurus Rex.  "There, Mulder."  Put the parking
brake on before turning to him.

His eyes were drawn immediately to her breasts.  Perky breasts, with the
kinds of pale nipples that made him go weak at the knees.  They bobbed
slightly as she shifted, hooking one stocking'd leg behind his back, the
other over his knee.  It gave him a very good view.  Reddish brown curls
met his gaze, and there was a brief flash of pink between her legs that
made him go dizzy.  "Uh, Scully?"  He had no idea what he was going to say.

Or why she was wearing the wimple and veil.  

Scully leaned forward, brushing her lips over his.  He might be crazy, but
he wasn't stupid, he kissed her back, making little whimpering noises in
his throat as he touched warm, silken skin, felt her nipples wake up and
say hello to him.

And the warm flesh between her legs, God, she shifted again, letting him
part the puffy lower lips, find the wetness inside and begin to stroke it
outward, spreading the slickness.  Her kiss became hungrier.

God, he'd dreamt about this day for damned near ever, pulled back from the
kiss and took a very grateful nipple into his mouth, rolling it over his
tongue, between his lips.  Still stroking her with his fingers, finding her
clitoris and giving it his best two fingered salute.  Sliding those fingers
back inside her with each stroke, to keep her slippery.

She got wetter, of course, and his jeans felt like the zipper was about to
burst.  He moaned and released the nipple, paid homage to the other one,
moving his free hand to the abandoned breast.  Small nub against his palm
and Oh, God, she was hot and squirming and silky wet and he would have just
pounced and driven into her if the Miata hadn't been so....

Cramped.

She began to sing.

"How do you solve a problem like Marita, How do you catch a spy and pin her
down, How do you find a word that means Marita? A bad Mata Hari, a gullible
fool, a clown?" Many a gun you'd like to show her, Many a time you'd like
to read her brain! But how do you make her say, The secrets you need today,
How do make her feel the massive pain? Oh, how do you solve a problem like
Marita? How do you kill her off without arrest!"

The lines didn't scan well, and he dimly remembered the tune from the Sound
of Music.  Scary, but his body was ignoring the song until the last night
went up almost frighteningly in pitch and Scully's body stiffened, Scully's
fingers in his hair tightened almost painfully and she shrieked in
pleasure.

God, he felt smug.  

Leaning back, he surveyed her flushed face, kissed the lush mouth. 

"Oh, that was very good, Mulder," Scully approved, her tone languid.  "Now
it's my turn."

He was not at all averse to that notion.  Whimpered when her hands started
at his waistband and ubuttoned his jeans.  Moaned when she squeezed him
through his shorts.  Groaned as she freed him and bent to close that
luscious pair of lips around him.

A blow job.  

Oh, God, Scully was giving him a blow job, in the front seat of a Miata,
with Mickey Mouse watching.  Wearing a nun's wimple and veil.

And apparently humming My Favorite Things.

He waved weakly at Mickey, his brain cells rapidly turning to sludge.  Did
he care that he was getting blown in front of Mickey Mouse?  He did not. If
it was okay with Mickey, it was okay with him. 

Something huge blocked the sun from the front window, he realized that the
T. Rex was also watching, a big, unblinking eye.

Scully was up to the verse about the dog biting and he closed his eyes, a
little unnerved by the eye.

Her tongue flicked all around the crown of his cock, skillfully probing the
tip, teasing the rim and he thought he was going to faint.

Groaned for her.......

Just please let her not sing.

Please.

Oh, God, that gorgeous mouth was hot and lush and Christ, he was going to
come, and he tried to warn her, tried to tug her up, but all she did was
intensify the humming.  Girls in white dresses, he thought dimly, adding
the words in his head, and suddenly, the pleasure at the base of his spine
uncoiled and he, too, cried out, trying hard not to thrust up too hard, too
deeply.

Only when he opened his eyes, Scully was suddenly fully attired in full
habit again, Mickey Mouse was taking a picture, and oh, my, god, there was
a line of tourists doing likewise.

He shrieked outright in horror--

--And found he was in the motel in Minnesota, his cock still throbbing and
sticky and sweats sticking to him....and Scully shaking him awake.


Scully glanced at her travel alarm when she heard the first faint sounds
from the next room.  Shit, Mulder was having a nightmare again. Good thing
she'd brought her handy dandy traveling Mulder pharmacy in from the car. 

Getting out of bed, she shrugged into her plush robe. Her toes curled away
from the draft at ankle height and she fumbled for her bunny slippers. The
bag was on the desk and she padded over to it, sighing under her breath as
she heard another muffled cry. 

Rummaging through it--let's see, what did she have? Seconal? Hmmm, a
possibility, though it might be a bit more than was required. Very
tempting, but given the way the poor man zoned on Dramamine, this might
knock him out for days. She tried to remember if there was a limit on how
much Dramamine she could give him within a 24 hour period. Finally shrugged
and poured two tablets out into her palm.

The sounds were increasing in volume by the time she got the warped
connecting door to give way. God, poor Mulder's room was chillier than
hers. Wincing at that, she made her way to the edge of the bed, not wanting
to startle him awake with the light.

"Mulder," she murmured, and bumped into the edge of the bed, "Mulder, it's
okay, it's just a dream."

The moaning went up another notch in decibel level. She patted his back and
rubbed between his shoulder blades, but it didn't do any good, he kept
moaning, sounding terrified and distraught. 

Suddenly, frighteningly, he cried out wordlessly and jackknifed in bed,
nearly knocking her off.  Okay, enough was enough--Scully reached for the
lamp and clicked it on.

He squinted and blinked rapidly, his dazed expression was heart-rending. It
must have been the one about his sister. 

It occurred to her that it was strange that she, his partner, should know
the repertoire of his dreams. "It's okay," she told him softly and pulled
the covers back to slide closer to him on the bed.

And stopped suddenly, puzzled, to see a large damp spot on the front of his
sweat pants. "Mulder?"

Abruptly, Mulder's face crumpled and he scrambled away from her, sliding
out of bed on his knees and backing up under the counter and sink before
she caught up with him again. "No, don't touch me. Please, just go away,
Scully, I'm fine." He fended her off with eyes wide and panicky, hands
rising to ward her away.

"No, you're not." She reached out and made little patting motions in the
air. "It's okay, Mulder. You were having a nightmare. Anybody might wet
their pants at that."

His expression became even more miserable, even more panicky and a tear
rolled down one cheek. She was abruptly aware of the faintest aroma.
Something she recognized--whoops, not urine. She knew that smell. 

And she blushed deeply.

Mulder buried his head in his arms. "Oh,God," he wept, "I've never been
this mortified. Not even when you came in and found Detective White
molesting me. Oh, God, Scully, I can't ever look you in the eye again."

She swallowed. Jesus, just when you decided he was as insensitive as a
rock, he went all to pieces on you. "Mulder, wet dreams are perfectly
normal." Well, they were normal for fourteen year old boys, at least.
Although, considering Mulder's emotional age, that might be just about
right.

He raised a tear-stained face, his expression agonized. "Not like this! I
was dreaming about Mickey Mouse, Jurassic Park, you, me, and a Miata! And
you were wearing a nun's habit, for God's sake. And singing. Or humming."
He wiped at his eyes and hiccoughed. "I'm not even Catholic, Scully!"

Scully blushed again. A nun's habit? A Miata? Well, dreams were just
dreams, she guessed, but Mickey Mouse and Jurassic Park were a little
frightening. "Well, dreams are just dreams, Mulder." Jurassic Park? A
little frightening?  Jesus, he was sicker than she thought.

"We were taking a tour." He sniffled and gave her an imploring look.

A tour. Desperately, she sought for something to say to ease the
atmosphere. Not easy to when her mind kept trying to reproduce the images
from his dream and fit them together.  She was wearing what? A nun's habit?
And humming--oh, never mind, she understood that.  If he weren't clearly so
humiliated and miserable, she'd shoot him again. Finally, "Mulder, look, at
least you're not impotent."

He sniffled again, gave her a wrathful look. "That's supposed to make me
feel better?" he demanded and shivered, knees drawn up against his chest,
arms wrapped tight around them.

The other connecting door opened with the shriek of warped wood and Trask
lumbered in.  Scully put a hand lightly on Mulder's arm and felt him
shudder as she turned to look over her shoulder. 

Oh, God, she didn't blame him, she had to fight not to shudder herself. 

Trask had pink curlers in her hair. Cold cream on her face. And a set of
those nasal bands across her nose. If that weren't enough, she was wearing
an enormous red flannel nightgown. Well, she reasoned, it had to be
enormous, Trask was a pretty big woman. As tall as Mulder and twice as
broad. Especially across the shoulders and hips.

"What the gosh-darn heck is going on in here?" Trask's expression was
suspicious. Judgemental. Obviously, Scully thought, Trask believe there was
some form of hanky panky taking place. With both of them fully dressed. 

Of course, if Trask got a whiff of Mulder, she might be certain of it. It
was time to take control of the situation again.

Mulder whimpered, burying his face in his arms again, tucking his knees up
against his chest.

"Trooper Trask--" Scully steadied her voice. Kept it crisp. No nonsense.
"Could you please get me a glass from the dresser." She backed upwind away
from Mulder, praying that the Arctic draft didn't switch directions anytime
soon.

Mulder shuddered again.

A little baffled, Trask brought her one of the usual plastic cups with the
sanitary seal. 

Unfortunately, there was lipstick on the rim. 

Scully ran hot water and cleaned it thoroughly before filling it with cold
water. She waved Trask back and knelt again beside her partner. "Here,
Mulder, I want you to take these. These will you sleep."

Finally, he raised his head, blinked at the pills. "Scully, I don't need
any more Dramamine, we're on the ground now." 

She gave him a stern look, ignoring the pathetic way his lower lip
trembled. Glanced back at Trask. Finally, reluctantly, he reached for the
tablets. Swallowed them with the water and grimaced at the characteristic
taste of iron rich water.

"Better call the Culligan man, Scully." he growled, took another quick
taste to get the Dramamine bitterness of his tongue.

"He's fine," Scully told Trask. "Go on back to bed."

Still huddled under the sink, Mulder gazed at her. "You go back to bed,
too, Scully."

Trask's door closed. "Get up and take a shower," she told him, "I'll dig up
some clean sweats from your suitcase."

Blink.  Blink.  "I can take a shower by myself."  

Conciliatory, hesitant tone, but it only made Scully cross.  "Oh, get over
it, Mulder. I've seen you naked more times than I care to remember."  Nope
that was a mistake, she could have found a more tactful way of saying that,
his face fell further. "Oh, go on."

He dragged himself out from under the counter, avoiding her gaze. Went into
the small bathroom and closed the door.

Damn, she really was hoping to get another peek at him.


Mulder swallowed, tried to get his mouth to work up some moisture. His lips
were dry, gluey, nastily sticky. And his tongue felt like the Sahara. The
pillowcase under his cheek felt sticky, too--evidently, he'd used up all
his spit in drooling. Again. And the light was wrong, too bright. 

He blinked, found that his eyelashes were crusty. Pushed himself up,
wondering why he felt so damned groggy. Oh, shit. Dramamine. His eyes
closed tightly as he remembered suddenly. Remembered his dream. Remembered
Scully coming in, making him take the little pills. 

Oh God. The next time, she wouldn't be content with Dramamine. She'd give
him Valium. Or Seconal. She'd call Skinner, who would summon him back to DC
in his partner's care, who would make him stand on the rug in front of
Skinner's desk and give him the old talk, the "step back from it for a
while" talk, the "why not take a vacation and get some rest" talk. And that
cigarette smoking fucker would be capering gleefully that a sick, twisted
killer had finally managed what four years of terrorism and dirty tricks
had not.

They might even reassign him to something less stressful. They might force
him to take medical leave. Lots of crocodile tears over how hard he'd
worked, over how good an agent he was, how sorry they'd be to lose him,
even for a short time.....putting his face in the pillow, he moaned.

An icy glass of gingerale appeared from out of nowhere. Mulder took it,
leaned up and drank greedily. Scully sat on the edge of his bed.

Mulder swallowed, wished he'd feigned sleep.  

Scully smiled at him, that old, let me see where it hurts, partner, smile.
"How're you feeling?"  

"I'm okay," Mulder managed to avoid thinking about last night. About the
realization in her eyes. God, and she'd thought he'd pissed the bed. He
couldn't decide which was worse. 

Her mouth pursed. He watched in fascination, unable to dispel the image of
her in a nun's habit, her lips wrapped around his--don't go there, he
gibbered silently, oh, please, don't go there. 

Scully's voice was soft. "How long has this been going on?"  

He gulped. Wet dreams about his partner? Well, usually he took care of them
with fantasies before he went to bed. "Not long." And felt his face heat
up.

"Are they this bad?"  

He tried to interpret "bad". Did she mean Jurassic Park? The Miata and
nun's habit? Or did she just want to know if they were this intense? He
decided on the latter. "Not usually."  

Another silence. "How often?"  

Mulder frowned, considered Scully. He couldn't very well tell her that he
whacked off imagining her in a cranberry silk bustier. "Um. I don't know.
Not often. It's not the work, Scully. And it's not you, I know that's what
it must look like. But it's not."  

She nodded, eyeing him from behind a lock of hair. He suppressed a shiver.
"You want to tell me what then?"  

Mulder swallowed, trying to formulate an explanation that left out what was
real and that would simultaneously get him off the hook. For some reason,
she hadn't shot him right off. She was giving him a chance. "Well, you
know, we've been pretty busy, Scully. My, uh, social life has kind of
suffered. And," hard swallow, "You're a very attractive woman, so I guess
my psyche is just, um, using your image in these things."  

Scully sighed heavily. "Yeah, I can understand that."

His ears almost swiveled forward at the sigh and her tone. "You can?"

She nodded again, avoiding his eye.  Her cheeks were slightly flushed.

Mulder stared, glanced away, then stared again.  Did women have the
equivalent of wet dreams? He thought they did, but couldn't remember for
sure. And had never had the guts to ask one. Was she dreaming about him?
Fantasizing?

Without looking at him directly, Scully sighed, almost mournfully. "Mulder,
I'm worried about you."

"I'm okay." He looked up, couldn't prevent himself from noticing the lacy
outline of her bra beneath her shirt. Christ, he was going to dream about
that, too, if he wasn't careful. Jesus, she'd been humming songs from the
Sound of Music while she--no, no, don't go there, Mulder. "I'm not crazy,
Scully. I'm not coming apart. Not yet. I can finish this case up. Don't
make me go back."  

Scully frowned, a line between her brows. "Can you, Mulder? You couldn't
keep your supper down last night?"  

Mulder nodded. "It was just the ham and yams, Scully. I hate yams anyway--
and it made me think of him, sitting there while Caroline Timmeson's body
cooled, chowing down."  

She nodded again, pushed her hair back behind her ears. "Okay. I want your
word that when this is over you'll go to psych services and get some help."  

Mulder nodded. "I will. Thank you." He looked away from her, if only to
keep from thinking about those lips again. Oh, God, he was in real trouble
here. Thinking of his partner in sexual terms. But, God, that garter belt
under the nun's habit. And her mouth....he didn't dare look back at her.

"Okay. Why don't you shower and dress, we'll go and get some breakfast."
Scully rose and went to the connecting door, leaving him to sag back
against the pillows in relief.

He was going to have to deal with this ruthlessly. And if that meant
spanking the monkey everytime he felt that unresolved sexual tension
between them, he was going to spend a lot of time in men's rooms.


"You know what's going to happen? I'll tell you what." Bergman hawked
noisily and spat. 

Trask watched the ugly glob of slightly greenish phlegm freeze atop the
snowbank. A testament to the state of Bergman's sinuses. 

Bergman's scowl was no less ugly. "The Fibbie wunderkind over there will
wave his magic wand, make a few more asinine pronouncements about the
killer's taste in cuisine for the press, and then go back to our nation's
great capital, leaving us with the final clean up and the hard work. Jerk."  

Trask sighed. She wasn't crazy about Mulder--the man was just too damned
weird. And nightmares--Heavenly Father, what a mess. Her sunglasses
reflected Bergman, his deputies, and Mulder, presently standing knee deep
in the snowy field where the first victim had been found. She wasn't sure
what he hoped to find here. "Is that what you think is going on, Harald?" 

Bergman spat again. "Sure. I've heard about this guy, Katrina. They give
him the hard to prove cases, let him come in and razzle dazzle the locals,
write up some piece of moonshine about the killer and then bring in some
poor son of a gun who fits his profile. He thinks somebody local did this.
I've grown up here, Katrina, I've been here most of my life, except for
seven years in Minneapolis. And I know our people like I know my wife and
family." He snorted. "They call him Spooky Mulder. Ain't that something?
They send us a Fibbie named Spooky. And even if his profile is wrong, he's
gonna get the credit when we bag some city boy sicko, never mind he wanted
to pin it on a hometowner." Bergman wrinkled his nose, pitted with
blackheads. Blinked behind those Smoky and the Bear mirrored sunglasses.
Stomped his feet to keep them warm. 

She looked back at the field, saw the rows and rows of young Christmas
trees. And Mulder just stood out there, up to his knees in the snow,
turning in circles like a little kid and muttering to himself. White spume
from his breath told her that, even if Bergman's disgusted mutterings had
not.  

She'd tried to tune Harald out. She didn't much like Harald, too many years
in Minneapolis had soured him, left him with the vocabulary of a hell-bound
Marine. He was married to her fourth cousin Tilda, and he wasn't really a
bad cop. But he'd taken a dislike to Mulder yesterday in the Timmeson
house. 

Mulder's little performance had unnerved Harald, and Harald was one of
those big macho types that had to be in charge anyway. He'd been carping at
the FBI profiler since joining them for a late breakfast. Agent Scully had
tried to shut him up, but Harald didn't pay much attention to what a little
bitty city girl had to say. She'd had to finally shut Harald down, earning
herself a look that promised her a ranting from Tilda. She wondered, not
for the first time, why Harald had ever left Minneapolis.

Out in the field, Mulder had stopped suddenly, bent over and peered at the
snow, digging with gloved hands. He crouched and sort of sighted, like a
surveyor would, then he was up and off across the field at a half-lope--or
as close an imitation was possible in this much snow.  

"Shit," muttered Bergman. "Off his rocker." 

Ignoring him, Trask followed Mulder, trying to step in his footsteps in
case Mulder had really found something. Ahead of her, Mulder had reached
the rows of young trees and was stepping carefully between rows, looking
before every step. 

She caught up with him easily enough.  "You got something we missed?"  

"I have no idea." Mulder sounded absent, though. And Trask, though she
hadn't admitted it to Harald, and wouldn't, had read about this guy. Had
read about his arrest rate, even in his current flaky division. Little grey
men--she wished some of them would come and give Harald a proctological
exam, might shut him up a little.  

"The killer--" Mulder was struggling to put words together, his mind racing
underneath the seemingly distant look. "Um. The killer didn't come from the
main road." Mulder's head turned, his sunglasses aimed back to target
Bergman, stomping his feet hard as he walked around the four wheel drive
vehicle and spat into the snow again. "Um, he came in through here." 

Trask bent to examine a flattened seedling, caught her breath in
recognition. Tipping her head back, she eyed Mulder. "How?"

Mulder frowned, the lines visible above his sunglasses. "Skis? No, the
first victim was a big man, he'd have to have dragged him." He walked
further, struggling with the snow that wanted to hold his feet captive. "I
don't know what this is," he admitted, pointing.

Trask's mouth drew down into a flat line. "Snowmobile. He brought the body
in on a snowmobile. Dumped it over there. Covered his tracks, at least to
here."

Once they knew what they were looking for, the path was simple to find. A
crusted, flat trail through the Christmas tree seedlings, some of them
ruined, rendered little more than green shoots coming up from under the
snow. 

Broken baby trees, lying frozen and sere, no long alive and growing. Snow
and ice and the flatness of the trail, down into the hollow behind the
hill, out of Bergman's sight. Their breath white smoke as they hurried,
following it back, farther and farther until--until they reached the
farmer's access road, where the trail ended. 

No food here. But then, they weren't sure what the first poem had said. It
might not have had anything to do with food. The killer had shared his
fantasy, but they'd missed the piece of the puzzle he'd wanted them to
have. It had been thrown away. 

When they returned and showed Bergman, he loudly pronounced it useless.
"Snowmobiles are thicker than trees in the woods around here," he snarled
at Mulder. "We don't even know those tracks were there when we found the
body."

"Nope," Trask intervened. "You don't. But you didn't look, Harald. Your
boys didn't look. I'm calling the state labs, I want them to go over this
scene again."

She swung behind the wheel of the truck, turned on the ignition and flipped
the lever for the heat to high. Bergman allowed Mulder to climb in back,
climbed in beside her without another word.

"We might find something else," she told Bergman firmly. "Something that
will help us catch this guy before he kills again."

Behind her, she sensed movement. Looked up in the rearview mirror to see
Mulder turn his head and look out the window.

Shivered as she heard his voice, faint and low from the back seat. 

"Belinda lived in a little white house, With a little black kitten and a
little gray mouse, And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon, And a
realio, trulio, little pet dragon."

"What the hell is that? More poetry?" Bergman turned and scowled at Mulder. 

Mulder's answering grin was wide, manic. "Ogden Nash. Let's drive around a
little." 

Trask looked in the rearview mirror. "Looking for what?" 

"For..." Mulder's voice trailed off, he shrugged. 

Trask shivered, despite the thermal underwear, despite the heat that was
beginning to thaw the interior of the vehicle. "Yah. Okay, you'll know what
you're looking for..."  

"When I see it." Mulder finished and leaned forward to look out the window
again.  


The covered bridge head was narrow, rickety and picturesque. There was only
room for one vehicle at a time, Trask had to pull off to wait for the
elderly Studebaker to go through. Mulder heard her sigh, but his attention
was elsewhere. Watching the endless procession of snowbanks. Looking down
at the frozen surface of the creek, all that life locked away until spring. 

Ice. Wintry waste all around him. And his thoughts kept nudging him, kept
pulling out more Nash, as if it would lead him to the killer. "Now the name
of the little black kitten was Ink, And the little gray mouse, she called
her Blink, And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard, But the dragon
was a coward, and she called him Custard.  Stop the car!"

"What?" Bergman's tone was sharp. 

But Mulder was out the door before the sharpness had died. Trask flicked
off the key, threw her door open and followed.

Good cops work on instincts, but Mulder was well beyond that. Well beyond
it. He was down, now, nearly under the bridge--"Mulder, watch out on the
ice, there was a thaw last week!"

Mulder was oblivious to the danger. "Custard the dragon had big sharp
teeth, And spikes on top of him and scales underneath, Mouth like a
fireplace, chimney for a nose, And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes. "
He turned his head, the sunglasses reflecting Trask's image back at her.
"He presents a fearsome image, but only he knows that he's always afraid.
He has to resolve the fear." His gloved hand pointed toward a scar in the
ice. "He found the man here, this is where he caught him. No sign of a
struggle, he was a familiar face. Someone who wasn't feared. The victim was
fishing."

Squinting, Trask saw the spidery line, already frozen into the surface of
the creek. The thaw, then more snow and refreezing. "Lord Above."

Mulder's breath came in white puffs.  "It was early morning. When no one
was about. Maybe--maybe Sunday? When everyone might be getting ready for
church? Scully might be right." Mulder's words seemed tangled, as if he
were going in several directions at once. "I need to see the autopsy report
again on that one. I need to see what he did with him." Paused,
speculatively, took off his sunglasses and peered into the shadows under
the bridge. "Belinda was a brave as a barrel full of bears, And Ink and
Blink chased lions down the stairs, Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a
rage, But Custard cried for a nice safe cage." Another pause. "He was
afraid of his parents. Afraid of everyone. He might have been the youngest.
Or the middle child. And they ran riot over him. And his parents--he was
afraid. Always afraid, he wanted to be safe. And he found his safety in the
Garden. In God's bosom."

Trask frowned, wondered at this. Realized that Mulder was imagining the
encounter on the ice. 

He went on, so fast that his words were staccato, almost excited.  "He gets
enraged when people don't see the safety that God provides. He wants to--
damn, Scully's right. It's the church attendance. We need to see the church
attendance. He's a member of the parish. Probably someone very involved
with the church."

"Mister Mulder," Bergman's voice was scornful. "In a town this size,
*everyone's* involved with the church."

"Could be the minister," Mulder murmured, still staring at the scar in the
ice. "Even the minister."

Trask swallowed hard, grabbed Bergman's arm when he moved as if to grab
Mulder. Glared at him silently.

And Mulder turned, picking his way across the uncertain ice as daintily as
a cat. Back to the heat of the car he went, his words floating over his
shoulder in the crisp chill of the air. "Belinda tickled him, she tickled
him unmerciful, Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called in Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon, At the realio, trulio,
cowardly dragon."


"Time of death could have been on Sunday," Scully agreed, when she joined
up with them again at the Country Kitchen restaurant. 

Mulder was leaning back in his chair at the end of the table, the booth
wasn't big enough for all of them. Heels kicked out flat against the floor,
expression brooding. Eyes distant. Sitting down beside him, she heard him
murmuring to himself, tilted her head to listen closely.

"Belinda giggled till she shook the house, And Blink said Week!, which is
giggling for a mouse, Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age, When Custard
cried for a nice safe cage."

"Mulder," she said, suddenly worried again. He was awfully pale, and he
shivered when she touched his arm. "What does it tell you?"