"He's God's soldier, Scully." Leaning forward, Mulder took the cup of
coffee and held it between his hands, as if warming his fingers. "That's
how he sees himself. I think you might be right about the minister. Or--
what do they call them? Deacons. We need to talk to the minister, check out
the congregation."

"Sure." Scully patted his arm again. "Trask said you found something at the
first site."

"Snowmobile tracks," he told her gloomily. "And the place where he took the
first victim. I know it, Scully. Only forensics will tell us for sure, but
I know it."

She nodded. Trask believed it, too, whatever Bergman thought. "I believe
you, Mulder. We can talk to the minister this afternoon. Trask says she can
get us an appointment."

He murmured again. "Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound, And
Mustard growled, and they all looked around. Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh!
cried Belinda, For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda. Pistol in his
left hand, pistol in his right, And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood; It was clear that the pirate meant
no good." Mulder sighed. "He's very afraid, Scully. Only his belief in his
God allows him to do this. He's not going to be a very aggressive
individual, probably very soft-spoken, people probably think of him as
weak. But he has his own kind of strength." 

He brooded in silence for a moment and Scully glanced over at Trask and
Bergman.  Bergman was watching Mulder in horrified fascination. She wanted
to ask him what he was looking at.

Mulder took another sip of coffee, still staring at nothing. "Belinda
paled, and she cried, Help! Help! But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household, And little mouse Blink
was strategically mouseholed. But up jumped Custard, snorting like an
engine, Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon, With a clatter and a
clank ad a jangling squirm He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.
The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon, And gulped some grog from his pocket
flagon, He fired two bullets but they didn't hit, And Custard gobbled him,
every bit."  His voice had ridden steadily and people were starting to
stare at their table.

Scully shivered. Where the hell was Mulder pulling this stuff from? None of
this had been found on the bodies. "Mulder," she began, but he looked up at
her as if really seeing her at last.

His expression was serious.  "I think he's hoping to prove himself to the
people he's feared for so long. To prove that God is on his side. That he's
serving God so much better than they could." He blinked, eyes wide and dark
pupil swallowing the iris, diving into his private hell. "Belinda embraced
him, Mustard licked him, No one mourned for his pirate victim, Ink and
Blink in glee did gyrate, Around the dragon that ate the pyrate. " He
blinked again and his pupils contracted. "This is such a fucking mess,
Scully."

Scully silently agreed. 

The waitress--oh, God, not Inge again--came up and beamed at Pendrell, who
blushed and beamed back. The stories from VCS suggested that Mulder had
scored plenty on his travels as a profiler. She wondered if it had kept him
sane. He didn't even seem to see the pretty blonde as she refilled his
coffee cup, but when she missed and splashed coffee in his lap, he yelped.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Inge told him absently and went back to Pendrell.

Scowling, Scully grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the dispenser to
mop Mulder up, but his hand caught her wrist gently.

"It's okay, Scully, I've got it." His eyes were frightened again, but he
managed a smart ass grin and a mock leer. "Unless you really feel it needs
your medical attention, Dr. Scully."

"All right." Bergman's voice was rough. "What do we know? For real," he
added, giving Mulder a jaundiced look. 

"The first victim was discovered in Jacob Bronson's Christmas tree field,"
Trask read through her notes. "On a Tuesday morning. Frozen stiff. He'd
suffocated on the live bait stuffed into his throat and nose. There was a
note found on the body, but it was inadvertently discarded."

Scully picked up a folder, choosing to bypass that admission. "The second
and third victims were found together. Brothers. Both bachelors, both in
their sixties, both farmers, found naked except fore the thermal underwear,
their bodies entwined in the ice-fishing shack they kept on the lake. Both
of them drowned in cod liver oil. Their lungs were full of it."

"He wanted to be sure that no one read the message wrong," Mulder muttered.
"That it wasn't a sexual statement, that's why he left them in their
thermal underwear, he didn't want people to think he'd molested them."
Reaching, he pulled back clear, plastic evidence bag, held it up to the
light and went even paler.  "That's what I was afraid of." 

"What?" Bergman sounded irascible. "Things that go bump in the night? Green
Jell-O?"

Trask elbowed him.  "Jeez, Harald."

Yams and ham, Scully thought and studied her partner worriedly.

Mulder took a pencil from the table and pointed at the last line, of which
she could only make out a few words, so sodden was the paper in fish oil.
"See that, Scully? I recognize that. 'I'd call me Us.'"

She nodded encouragingly. "And?"

With a cough, Mulder cleared his throat. "Tell me, O Octopus, I begs, Is
those things arms, or is they legs? I marvel at thee, Octopus; If I were
thou, I'd call me Us." He tossed the pencil and the evidence bag and sighed
wearily. "More Nash. The brothers were close, they'd lived and worked
together since they'd inherited the farm, more than thirty years." His head
came up and he eyed Bergman. "Were they church goers?"

After a moment, Bergman's lips tightened. He shook his head, almost
reluctantly.

Mulder rubbed his forehead. "I thought that might be the case. He killed
them together, as they lived. The poem just tells us that they were both
equal in their sin, they were joined spiritually, and thus required the
same punishment--or cleansing. Cod liver oil. The tonic given to children
to strengthen them, to prevent rickets. But they already suffered from
spiritual rickets, and the killer gave them the cure." His voice was
hushed, sorrowful.

"So how does he know?" Pendrell asked of the room in general. All eyes
turned towards Mulder. 

"I don't know for sure," Mulder sighed, closed his eyes. "He's involved
with the church. A deacon, or a minister. But there's something missing.
There's a body we haven't found, somebody who hasn't been reported missing
yet. His first kill. He's getting more and more creative, he started
simply. And we haven't found that yet."  

Trask swallowed audibly, her bubblegum tucked into her cheek like a nut
held in the mouth of a chipmunk. "First body?"  

Mulder's eyes snapped open. "Yeah. He's an intelligent fellow, our
murderer. I think he wasn't quite sure what he wanted out of this, there at
the first, but now he knows. He hid the first body. Or it was just bad luck
that it wasn't discovered. Now he wants everyone to know. Wants his work to
be obvious, wants the sinners to know what he's doing. And maybe, he knows
just exactly who's coming to dinner. Us. He wants us to understand why he
does it." Mulder's grin was manic and somehow demonic and Scully shuddered. 

The wind howled outside the windows of the Country Kitchen, but it was warm
and safe inside. Not that you could tell, looking at the white faces around
the table. 

Well, except for Pendrell, who was holding a whispered flirtation with the
waitress while he decided what to order. Except for that, they were all
silent, and Mulder closed his eyes, leaned back again, long legs stretched
out.

Scully shuddered again. No more gargoyle cases, she told him silently, I
don't know where you go when you do this, someplace where monsters live
under the bed and try and yank you under--but I'm not going to let you fall
down that hole, Wabbit, so just hang tough for me.

Inge finally tore herself away from Pendrell and poised her pencil over her
pad. "Is everyone ready to order?" she asked brightly.


Mulder was sitting in his hotel room, having ducked out on the team on the
excuse that he got more paperwork done in still and quiet--and in full view
of a television set, although this part of it was unstated. 

Scully had agreed, but insisted Pendrell go with him. Mulder imagined
raised brows at that one, Spooky Mulder needs a babysitter, the lab geek
from DC. 

He'd wanted to raise his own, but losing his lunch again had weakened his
case before he tried it. 

Mulder hated throwing up anyway.  And pancakes, despite their essentially
bland and innocent nature, were fast losing their appeal after upchucking
two plates of them. Sucking on one of his popsicles, he sat down cross-
legged on the bed he'd chosen, his laptop in front of him. 

Pendrell stood against the door looking nervous. "Agent Mulder, can I talk
to you a minute?"

Looking up, Mulder swallowed poisonously green lime sweetness and nodded.
"Sure, Pendrell. What's on your mind."

Pendrell blushed and stammered for a moment. "Um, that is, you said
something about not, um, seeing the local girls, that it caused trouble.
Were you serious, sir, or were you just pulling my leg."

Mulder gazed at him blankly. "I'd never pull your leg, Pendrell. It can
cause trouble unless, of course, you're someplace where there's a Bureau
office and the local girl is working there. Well, it can still cause
trouble then," he added, smiling nostalgically as he remembered a night
he'd had to climb out a window stark naked, his clothes stuffed under his
arm. "If she has brothers bigger than you are." 

But, oh, it had been worth it. His toes curled in his socks, just
remembering it, his first experience with the old adage, Catholic girls
give the best head. That thought led inexorably to the only other Catholic
girl with whom he was presently acquainted, which led back to the Miata,
the garter belt, damp red curls, and pouty lips wrapped around his--
"Anyway," he said hastily, "Pendrell, you can flirt all you want, but when
it comes to stronger stuff, take care of business yourself."

Looking crestfallen, Pendrell nodded and sighed. "I suppose you're right.
It wouldn't do any harm, though, to take in a movie, would it?"

Mulder's eyes narrowed. "Ah, the little waitress. Inge. No, I suppose it
wouldn't, just don't let Scully see you with her. Wouldn't want her to get
jealous." 

Aside from the fact that Scully had sworn she was going to shoot the
waitress if they got saddled with her again. She'd had to finish his
pancakes again, never having gotten her own lunch order.

Pendrell's face was crimson and peculiarly earnest. "I don't think she'd be
jealous, would she?"

"Maybe not. But Irish girls are pretty hot blooded. I mean, she shot me
once, and it wasn't even out of jealousy." Unless she'd been jealous he was
about to shoot Krycek, but he somehow doubted it.  Krycek hadn't killed her
sister yet.

Nodding worriedly, Pendrell inched back toward the door. "Oh, that's right,
I forgot. Well, thanks, Agent Mulder. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't
mention this to Agent Scully."

Mulder smiled beatifically at Pendrell. "Of course not, Pendrell. This is
just between us." And snickered when the door closed. What a dweeb. 

Of course, Pendrell was an intelligent dweeb, which meant that might be
hope for him yet. But he had other things to do right now than worry about
Pendrell.

He had the killer.

The way the killer picked his victims was obvious. Too obvious. Caroline
Timmeson *had*, it turned out, been a somewhat irregular church goer. Which
meant that either the killer was extremely rigid in how he defined regular
attendance, or that he was looking at the wrong indicator. 

His mind worried that nut while he turned on the television and settled
down to another wonderful grade Z movie with lots of bouncing boobs and
scanty apparel. 


Scully got back from the morgue, opened the connecting door to see Mulder
riffling through papers, spreading the contents of the files around the bed
with his notes. He glanced up at her briefly, went back to rifling his own
notes.

"Shit, Scully, I'm missing something. It can't be that easy, it can't just
be the church attendance. It's more than that." Lunging for the phone, he
punched in numbers, gave her a manic grin as he waited. "Yeah, this is
Agent Mulder, can you get Bergman for me?"

"He doesn't like you," Scully told him mildly, resting a hip against the
door jamb. "Mulder, you look like hell, why don't you get some sleep?"

Mulder grinned again, flipped her off without pausing in his conversation.
"Yeah, Bergman, Mulder. I need you guys to dig up everything about the
victims you know. Not just the public stuff. Personal quirks. Did they use
bad language, did they enjoy a nip or two on a snowy evening. How did they
treat their kids, their pets. Have your guys talk to family members." He
scowled suddenly. "Yeah, well, I want to know what he's tracking besides
church attendance, Bergman. Caroline Timmeson went to church." He rolled
his eyes at her. "Yeah, I know she didn't go all the time, but she was a
member of the church. I want to find out what else he's tracking, okay.
Yeah, thanks." The phone went down with a slam and Mulder scowled again.
"Stupid asshole."

"That's an insult to assholes." Scully kept her tone mild. "Mulder, I want
you to get some rest, okay?" That got a dark look. Moving into his room,
she swiftly gathered up the scattered papers and files and backed away from
him when he leaned forward. "You look like shit, you still haven't
recovered from yesterday, and you threw up your lunch."

Another dark look. "I'm fine."

"Sure." She nodded patiently. "I'd like you to stay fine, Mulder."
Retreating to her room, she dumped the files and returned with the Pepto.
"You can't live on popsicles, Mulder," she told him, glancing at the pile
of discarded sticks in the room's ashtray. 

"Scully, I hate that shit." He poked out his lower lip. 

Had she said his emotional age was fourteen? That was being generous. At
moments like this, she'd guess closer to three or four. "It'll help settle
your stomach."

"My stomach is settled," he growled, ducking away from her. 

She set the bottle on the nightstand and sat down, put a hand to his
forehead. "No fever," she sighed. "Get some rest. I'll wake you up in a
couple of hours, okay?"

Deep scowl, lines forming between his brows. With the pouty mouth, he
really resembled nothing so much as her four year old nephew in a snit.
Biting back a smile, she went to the door again, gave him a stern look, the
one she'd practiced since becoming an aunt. "Sleep."

"Arf," he told her, but pulled the covers back and slid between them.

Smiling a little, she pulled the door partly shut and went into her own
room. Opened up her laptop and brought up her file, sighed as she
considered what else needed to be added. Needed to be addressed. 

Instead, she closed it and opened her field journal.


Mulder leaned up and sighed, wishing Scully hadn't left the door partly
open. Slid out of bed and tiptoed into the bathroom, pausing only to grab
one of his magazines from his carryon. Locked the bathroom door--hell, she
couldn't exactly bitch at him for taking a shit, could she? 

Although, knowing Scully, she'd tell him he should have gone earlier. 

But that damned dream kept haunting him everytime he closed his eyes. And
when his eyes were open. When she'd touched his forehead, he'd flashed on
her humming again, gone almost painfully erect and had to wait until she'd
walked back out to loosen his zipper and adjust himself. Which, naturally,
had led to this notion.

Instead of looking at the admittedly delightful visions of female
pulchritude in his magazine, he leaned back on the closed toilet seat,
jeans around his knees, eyelids drooping to half-mast as the images from
his dream came back. 

Creamy, satiny skin, sweetly rounded, all hidden under that damned nun's
habit. Carmine lips, puffy and just as sweet, working their magic--his fist
worked, a hypnotic rhythm that kept him focused on his dream. On his
fantasies. Those damp red curls, puffy flesh opening to his touch, black
garter belt and seamed stockings, spike heels out of place with the demure
black and white. 

He'd dreamed he'd had his fingers inside that slippery flesh, there wasn't
room in the Miata to just throw her down and fuck her, so he'd explored
that while she sang those ridiculous Sound of Music songs and lowered that
luscious mouth over his throbbing shaft and oh, God, he was going to come,
he was coming,
intentions, even as he came into the strategically placed hand towel, even
as he bit his lips to keep from crying out.

Sagging back, he took in a shaky breath and heard her open the connecting
door. 

Oh, shit, now it's time to panic, genius--wiping himself off, he hastily
tucked himself back into his shorts, yanked his jeans up, nearly causing
himself permanent damage with the zipper. 

"Mulder?" There was a tap at the bathroom door. "Mulder, are you all
right?"

Frantically looking around, he tossed the wadded up towel in the corner,
stuffed the magazine into the trash ca eyes were suspiciously bright and he
was awfully flushed--and turned to unlock and open the door. "I'm fine,
Scully. Can't a man use the bathroom in peace?"

"I heard you, um, make a sound, I thought you were throwing up again." Her
eyes studied him closely. "Were you?"

"No." Inspiration struck. "Stomach cramps, Scully. That's all." He didn't
have to try to look embarrassed, it came naturally. Which would explain his
flushed appearance to anyone but Agent Dr. Dana Katherine Scully, the woman
with the X-ray intuition.

Frowning, Scully put her hand on his forehead again. "You're sweaty," she
pronounced and herded him back toward the bed. 

There was no escaping the Pepto this time, and the water he washed it down
with tasted strongly of iron. Oh, what the hell, go with it, Mulder--
"Scully," he said piteously, "Could you get me some bottled water? That
stuff really makes my stomach hurt."

"Of course I will," she told him kindly and pulled the blankets up to his
chin. 

He nestled into the pillows. "And some animal crackers?"

She stopped on her way to the door and gave him an odd look. "Animal
crackers?"

"They're nice and bland," he told her, suddenly drowsy, all curled up in
the nest of blankets. "And maybe some of those little lunch pack cans of
pears?"

Scully nodded again, her brows drawing together. "Anything else?" Her tone
was a little dry.

He strove for terminal cuteness, the double whammy, wide eyes, lower lip
pushed out a little. "No, that would be great, thanks, Scully. You're a
partner in a million."

Which worked, thankfully, because she sighed, stopped eyeing him that way
and went back to her room. After a few moments, he heard her zipping her
parka--over those nice, round, little breasts, his inner voice announced,
making him squirm--heard the outer door open and close and the crunch of
her boots outside on the walk.

Closing his eyes, he smiled happily and let sleep tug him gradually under.


Fox Mulder woke up, face down in his own spit. He wiped the drool off his
cheek, and felt like a five year old, groaned and rolled onto his back.
There was some inane fishing show in the background. He stared at the
ceiling, trying to remember where he was this time. Wyoming? No, there
hadn't been stains on that ceiling. And he could hear an electric razor
like it was in the same room? Mulder sat up, startled. It was in the same
room.  Or rather, it was in his bathroom, and Pendrell's suitcase was at
the foot of the second bed.

Right.  Pendrell.  Winter.  1996.  Minnesota.  Pendrell.  And Scully.

He took in the open connecting door, the sound of Scully in the room over
next door. He felt a profound relief, suddenly, to have awakened lying
there, quietly, instead of lying curled in the wet spot.  He ran a hand
over his face to clear the last cobwebs away.  God, his mouth tasted awful.
Lime popsicles might taste great going down, but Pepto on top of it left a
kind of greenish black slime on his tongue. He worked his shoulders, his
neck. The razor in the bathroom stopped. He could hear Pendrell moving
around. 

Mulder pulled himself to his feet, taking in the clock and the darkness
outside, feeling oddly dislocated from the nap in the middle of the day.
Jesus, it was almost six-thirty. The phone rang next door, Scully kept her
voice down when she answered. 

Mulder caught one or two words, nothing much and padded to the open door to
lean in the door frame, raking a hand through his hair as he yawned.
"What's going on?"  

Scully spun, her shirt still only half-buttoned, crisp though, fresher
looking than Mulder by several degrees, and knowing it. "Hey, it lives.
We'll be down in around forty-five minutes, Mulder just decided to return
to the living. . .uh huh. Right." Hung up. "We're meeting the team for
dinner, Mulder. You have forty-five. Go get ready."  

He could see a small patch of bare tummy as she turned toward her suitcase
and continued buttoning the shirt.  Oh, not good, his mouth went dry and
that was unpleasant on top of lime-Pepto slime.  

Fortunately, he didn't end up with a stiffie, just the faintest twitch as
he hastily turned back into his own room.  "Hey, why is Pendrell in my
room?"

"Winter Carnival, Mulder, the owner had Pendrell's room already reserved,
he didn't expect us to be here that long."  

Mulder heard the sound of her zipper and glanced back to see her jeans
upzipped as she tucked the shirt in.  A tiny moan escaped his throat at the
sight of black lace panties, just visible as she tucked white cotton down
over. 

Black lace.  Shit, now he was really in trouble.

Pounding on the door, he let himself growl.  "Hurry up, Pendrell, I'd like
to get something to eat that I might be able to keep down, okay?"

Flurried sound, and Pendrell's voice was faintly breathless.  "Sure, just
give me a few minutes, sir."

Mulder stared at the door, considered his advice to Pendrell and the
breathless voice.  Eeew, Pendrell was beating off in *his* bathroom.  

Backing away, he shook his head in disgust, moved toward his suitcase and
retrieved a clean shirt and sweater.  The jeans would do, jeans always
tended to look slept in.  Especially his.  Probably because he usually did.


Scully rubbed her forehead and took a sip of her ice water.   She was never
going on one of these backwater murder cases again. 
Dinner was, surprise, surprise, at the Country Kitchen.   The sheriff and
two of his deputies were there, Trask was there, and he and Scully and
Pendrell, all getting a dinner paid for by their favorite butt-fucking
uncle.  Mulder was quiet, staring at walls, at faces, generally reminding
her why he was called "Spooky" in the first place.  And he was all work,
all seriousness, which tended to piss some people off.  It didn't piss
Trask off, but Bergman clearly wasn't happy. 

And it didn't piss Scully or Pendrell off.  So she and Pendrell and Trask
and Mulder all found themselves sitting at one end of the table, discussing
the case while the sheriff and his deputies listened sourly and discussed
what was best on the menu, and did anyone think that Candy Larssen was
going to be the Winter Carnival queen this year.

"Do we get the personal information on the victims?" Mulder asked over his
house salad, shoving spinach leaf into his mouth.  

Trask nodded towards Bergman and his deputies. "Yah, Harald and his men
went out and asked the questions." 

Scully looked down the table.  The younger deputy was shovelling his food
away like there was no tomorrow.  

The older one, Jorgensen, didn't need notes to tell Spooky what he'd found.
"Raintree was a quiet guy.  Had some trouble with the bottle, his wife took
off and left him, moved out west somewhere to North Dakota and remarried.
Kind of a loner.  Even with the drinking, he didn't get into much trouble,
sometimes had to sleep it off in the tank, but not violent at all.  Just
got more and more depressed, seemed like.  No enemies that anyone knows of.
No family in the area.  Didn't swear, just the booze."

"Did he go to AA?" Mulder asked. "Do you have a chapter in town, maybe that
meets at the church?"  

Jorgensen nodded.  "Yah, sure.  Raintree was on again, off again.  He'd
fall off the wagon pretty bad, though, before he'd dry out again.  I don't
know who his sponsor was, pretty confidential.

Mulder frowned. "Somebody would know.  Find out when the meetings are, I
need to drop by." The wheels turned, Scully could almost hear them.  "What
about the two brothers?"  

The younger man looked up, his name was Hammond, bright and shiny on the
name plate on his shirt.  "Umm.  Well, they didn't drink.  But when we went
up to the house we found some--," he stopped, looked at Bergman, who was
stubbing out a cigarette, scowling blackly at the ashtray, "Um, we found
some things up there.  Looks like the brothers never married because they
were, ah, queer."

"Now, Hammond, they call it gay now," Trask told him seriously.

Bergman's scowl increased, but he didn't add anything.  

Mulder nodded, his gaze distant.

Meyers considered his notes. He was incredibly green, Scully realized
suddenly. A kid. Not a brilliant kid like Mulder, to be forgiven faults and
humored. Just a kid who would one day be a good cop. 

Mulder might be shitty to most people, but he was nice to those who had
less seniority, less rights than he did. Sometimes she wondered if other
agents, if other cops would ever see that. 

Of course, he could be hell on wheels to those he considered his equals,
and she wasn't at all sure Mulder ever considered the possibility that
anyone was superior. 

It made her sigh.


Mulder considered his empty salad plate wondering where the greenery had
gotten too. He'd even, somehow, eaten the cherry tomatoes. And he hated
cherry tomatoes. . .  

Bergman lit another cigarette.  "Caroline Timmeson liked a drink now and
then, she could swear like a trooper, and arm wrestle any man she took on,"
he told Mulder wearily.  "She was kind to kids and small animals and her
family loved her, even with her eccentricities.  Along about last fall, she
told them that someone had written her a letter about being unGodly,
unwomanly, and some crap like that."

"Why didn't she report it to you?" Mulder asked, frowning, "And why haven't
they said something before this?"

Bergman frowned. "Caroline Timmeson took care of things her own way.
Somebody came around and gave her a hard time, she's as likely to fill the
seat of his pants with rocksalt from a shotgun.  And her kids didn't think
of it until we started asking around."

Mulder nodded, sighed. "Okay, Raintree had a problem with the bottle, he
kept backsliding.  The brothers--well, someone knew, obviously, and let our
guy find out.  Unless our guy is the only one who knew." His eyes wandered
to the empty glass plate in front of him. He played with his fork a moment,
trying to fit the pieces together.  Caroline Timmeson was an ungodly woman,
unsubmissive and unwomanly.  Okay, that made sense.  "Bergman, see if you
and your guys can find out if anyone else knew about the brothers, ask
around confidentially, give them our assurances that it goes no farther
than your office and our reports." 

Bergman's scowl set itself more deeply, but he nodded.  


To Scully's relief Bergman backed off as dinner continued.  Mulder actually
ordered something other than pancakes, chicken and noodles or something,
and looked as if he were looking forward to eating it.  Ham and yams
weren't the special tonight, for which Scully was devoutly thankful.

St. Jude was going to get a candle at the cathedral when she got back to
DC.

Down at her end of the table, Trask cleared her throat. "Minneapolis
called. I have to put out a press report."  

"Make us all look like we're sticking our dicks in the right holes," Mulder
muttered, putting his fork down, glancing at Bergman's dark beer. "I think
I want one of those," he said easily.  

Scully frowned and glanced at Trask, with whom she'd shared her concerns
about her partner's behavior.  Trask hadn't caught it, she was talking to
Jorgensen.  "Don't think so, Mulder," she said easily. "You're the
designated driver."  

He looked down his nose at her.  "You aren't drinking."  

"Rum and coke," she lied, lifted her glass to her lips.

He studied her for a moment, his brows drawing together, but finally nodded
unhappily, glancing away from her..

"So what shall I tell Minneapolis?" Trask asked.  

"Don't tell them anything, tell them we're still assessing the situation."
Mulder's voice was sharp, his temper had soured.  "I don't want this
asshole to know fuck all about what we're doing and what we may have
figured out."

There was a dreadful silence at the table, and for several tables around.
Scully felt her face heat under the scrutiny of the good Christian folk of
Timmsville and kicked Mulder's ankle under the table.

"Ow!"  Mulder glowered at her.  "What the hell was that for."

She wanted to put her face in her hands.

"Jeez," Jorgensen muttered.

Trask's mouth pressed together.  "Mr. Mulder, we don't care much for that
kind of talk around here."

Mulder's eyes closed briefly.  His lips went tight, then loosened.  "My
apologies, Trooper Trask, I'm afraid I'm tired.  Tell them as little as you
can in terms of actual fact.  Tell them we've gotten some leads, but that
you don't want to detail them until they pan out."

"Yah," Bergman jeered, "Tell 'em the Fibbie wonder went out into the
snowfield and found snowmobile tracks out in the Christmas trees, they
talked to him and told him what happened."

Scully bristled.  "Just a--"

"Harald."  Trask raised a hand.  "He's been right about everything else,
hasn't he?  Didn't you find Caroline Timmeson's innards in her deepfreeze?
All neat and labeled?"

The waitress came by then with a huge tray bearing someone else's dinner.
God knew, Scully hadn't gotten hers yet.  The smell of steak drifted over
to her and she inhaled wistfully.

At least she'd gotten her salad. Mulder smelled the sizzling meat and went
chalky pale, he pushed away from the table, jarring cups of coffee and
glasses of water, moving fast enough that Bergman blinked in startlement.

"Pendrell," Scully hissed, and he stopped making sheep's eyes at Inge long
enough to follow.

Mulder didn't even shut the door, just knelt and vomited his two cups of
coffee and crackers and spinach and lettuce and cucumber and squash and
cherry tomatoes and black olives and croutons into the toilet, heaving,
chest rolling with the brute force behind his vomit. And then it was over. 

Mulder just knelt on the grey, worn linoleum, staring into the toilet and
at the remains of his dinner.  Folding one arm on the seat, he rested his
head on it.  "He's killed before Raintree," he told Pendrell hollowly. "And
he's going to kill again.  We can't give him any ideas about what we've
figured out, we've got to keep things quiet."

"How do you know he's killed before," Pendrell asked, honestly curious.
"Raintree was the first body.  You think he might have killed some
transient?"

"No."  Turning his head, Mulder heaved again, dry heaves.  This was getting
old fast.  "No, farther back.  A family member.  Dammit to hell, we're
missing something key.  Something we need to know.  I need that list of
church members."

"You want some more soda?" Pendrell boosted himself up on the counter.  

Mulder's response was to shoot him the finger, which garnered a wounded
look.  He waited a few more moments, straightened and went over to the
counter, shoved his entire face under the faucet, drank water, spat, drank
water, spat, dried himself with the double ply paper towels.  "Go finish
your dinner, Pendrell, I don't need anyone to hold my head for me.."
Pendrell frowned. "Mulder, you gotta eat, you've thrown up everything but
breakfast."

Mulder shook his head. "I'm going to go get something from the market
before it closes.  I don't think I'm up to company at the table." 
Pendrell eyed him.  "If you don't come back, they're going to say worse
things," he ventured, "Bergman thinks your a nutcase."

Grimacing at himself in the mirror, Mulder shrugged wearily.  "Oh, what the
fuck do I care?"  

"If you don't go back, I can't go back." Pendrell frowned. "Agent Scully
would have my head."  

Mulder smiled at that thought and raked a hand through his hair.  It had
been easier when he kept it so short it never really looked all that messy,
even when it was.  

On the way back, Pendrell managed to get the attention of their waitress.
"What kind of soup do you have, Inge?  Agent Mulder's stomach's a little
upset..  We'll pay for his dinner if it's already on the table." 

Inge gave Pendrell a coy look up from under blonde lashes and reeled off a
list.

"Could I have some tomato soup?" Mulder asked, giving her the Look.

It didn't seem to affect her, but she took pity.  "Jeez, that's too bad,"
she told Pendrell and offered Mulder a bright smile.  "You go sit down and
I'll bring some out to you."

Returning to the table, Mulder slumped in his seat.  Miserable.  His
stomach muscles were starting to ache from all the vomiting.

From Scully's look, he gathered that the town cops had been gossiping about
his poetry quoting and repeated sudden departures from the table.  

Inge came out and picked up his dinner plate with the chicken and noodles,
replaced it with a bowl of tomato soup and those little oyster crackers.
Mulder thanked her softly, then stared at the food.  

Scully stared at him, no doubt resisting the urge to feed it to him.

The others were staring, no doubt getting more than enough gossip for the
mill. It was enough to continue fixing Mulder's eccentricities.  


Scully ate Mulder's cold chicken and noodles from the styrofoam container,
sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed.  Mulder, sucking on a
fluorescent red popsicle, leaned against the headboard, his expression
morose.

"Our fathers claimed, by obvious madness moved, Man's innocent until his
guilt is proved. They would have known, had they not been confused, He's
innocent until he is accused."  Mulder's voice was soft, his tone hollow.

Tilting her head back, Scully studied him.  "Mulder, how's your stomach."

Mulder stared at her fork. "I'm fine, Scully. I think I just want to go to
bed."

It was only nine fifteen.  Go to bed and do what? Sit up screaming in the
middle of the night?  At least Pendrell was out, no doubt slavering over
the beauteous Inge.  

"Okay." Scully sighed and closed the styrofoam container, taking it with
her.  The beauteous Inge was going to end up in a body cast if Scully
missed one more meal.  Chicken and noodles didn't improve when cold, and
she was tired of eating Mulder's leftovers.

From her room, she heard the TV go on. Heard Mulder getting ready for bed.
Sitting on her bed, she re-opened the container and took another bite,
reached out and booted up her laptop, bringing up Pendrell's report.  But
her mind kept going back to her partner's pallor, the nasty fact that he'd
thrown up almost every meal he'd had in this godforsaken town.

After a while, she heard the keys flying on Mulder's laptop as he worked on
his profile. The big dummy would probably spend two hours on it and have
something that looked better than anyone else's twelve hours. Life was
unfair. Just fucking unfair. 

Sighing, she remembered his "help" on the Tooms case, way back during their
first year of partnership.  His profiles were elegant, masterpieces of
obfuscation, designed to show trails of logical thought that didn't exist.
There had to be some reason for him to come up with these things, but he
couldn't explain them.  So he lied, outright.  And if you didn't know him,
hadn't seen him work, you'd never know it.

There were times she wanted to choke the living shit out of him.  And he
had the nerve to speak scornfully of Frank Black's psychic flashes, whoever
the hell Frank Black was.  Or had been.  Whatever.


Mulder went to bed a good twenty minutes after Scully's light went out.
Scully, sweet, succulent Scully, who would undoubtedly blow out his brains
if she could see the visions dancing behind his eyes.  Pendrell,
thankfully, was out, indulging in some heavy petting with the blonde who
had nearly emasculated Mulder with hot coffee earlier in the day.

Scully in a nun's habit.  Scully in a Miata.  Scully in those silly flannel
pajamas, the top two buttons of the shirt unbuttoned to keep from binding
at night.  The sweet swell of her breasts, just visible through the
flannel.

Sweet Scully.  Mulder lay back, head against the pillow, comforter pulled
up to his chin, tried not to think about what lay under the flannel, the
swell of breast, the curve of waist and hip and the red triangle that lay
at the base of her belly.  Biting back a moan, he rolled on his side and
squinched his eyes shut.  Think about the murders, asshole, think about the
good Christian soldier who is avenging God's will.  Who would be next?  So
far, he'd gotten people who drank, who cursed, whose sexuality was
nonstandard.  A woman who violated his notion of what proper Christian
womanhood should be.  What next?  Who was going to be the next victim if he
didn't pull his head out of his ass and think.  Although the exact location
of his head was probably closer to his cock than his ass. 

Rolling onto his belly, Mulder resolutely quashed visions of Scully and
replaced them with the freezer wrapped parcels of Caroline Timmeson's
internal organs.  It made the tomato soup lie uneasily on his stomach, but
it certainly doused his libido.

He considered the soft sweetness of hotel pillows with the soft mattress
pad and the flat sheets made taut with perfect hospital corners.  The next
victim was still alive.  Another woman.  It was time for another woman. The
killer had veered from punishing members of his own gender, and besides,
there was a certain logic to it.  He'd killed Raintree for drinking and
violating the Sabbath, Raintree was male.  To the killer's way of thinking,
the brothers were less than male, but not female.  Caroline Timmeson was
female, but not properly female, she'd usurped male prerogatives.  So,
next?  Another woman, this one more feminine than Caroline Timmeson.
Younger?  Yeah, younger.  

He could hear Scully's breathing from the next room, sound asleep, sweet
Scully, sleeping the sleep of the clear of conscience.  Unlike him.  Mulder
waited a few minutes more for Scully to fall into a deeper sleep, waited to
be sure she was really out, deeply under, got up, pulled on his blue jeans,
sweater and coat.  Careful not to jingle them, he grabbed his room key and
the keys to the four wheel drive, lately given into his custody.

He was at the door when Pendrell opened it, looking tousled, even in a
parka.  Pendrell smelt of cheap perfume, something girlish and young, and
there were lipstick smears on his jawline.

"Where you headed, Mulder?"  Pendrell asked alertly, his smile almost sly.

Mulder hated people who smiled slyly.  "Ice," he said on impulse.  

Pendrell glanced at his hands.  "Where's the ice bucket."  

Mulder sighed.  "Okay, cold drinks."

"Caffeine'll keep you up at night," Pendrell replied, closing the door
behind him and leaning against it.

"Sprite?" Mulder questioned.  He was slowly developing the suspicion that
Scully had set this dweeb to watch him.  

"Where're the car keys?" Pendrell asked, narrowing those puppy dog brown
eyes.  

Mulder frowned. 

Pendrell held out his hand, a triumphant glint in his eye.  "I don't think
you'll be going anywhere tonight, Mulder." 

Mulder opened his mouth and closed it again.  She *had* set Pendrell to
watch him, he was going to kill her for real.  The next arrest was going to
be Trask arresting him for the murder of his own partner.  But in order to
avoid the humiliation of scuffling with Pendrell, he handed the keys over
and scowled.  Turned back toward the bed and threw his parka on the chair.
"Dammit, Pendrell, I don't need a goddamn nursemaid."

"I know you believe that." Pendrell's boyish face was serious.  "But Agent
Scully knows what she's doing.  And you haven't been well, Mulder."

"Oh, fuck off, Pendrell."  Mulder stared darkly at the younger agent.  

Pendrell only looked smug.  "Okay. Get some sleep. I can get some pills
from Scully if you're having trouble."  

It was difficult to convey how deeply angry you were when stripping back to
thermal underwear, but Mulder tried.  "I'll be fine," he snarled and got
back into bed, pulling the blankets over his head to shut out the sight of
Pendrell's expression.


The screams were sharp and painful and expected this time.  Scully stumbled
out of bed, disoriented in the dark, snapped on the lamp and grabbed her
traveling Mulder pharmacy without hesitation.

Pendrell was already up, trying to untangle Mulder from the bedclothes
without much success.  In the faint light from her room, Scully saw his
ineffectual movements and snarled.  "Get the hell out of the way,
Pendrell."

Working quickly, she unrolled the mummified Mulder and freed his face.  He
recognized neither one of them, though his eyes were open and crazily
dilated.  

"Oh my God," Pendrell breathed.  

Scully stood a long moment, breathing hard from her struggle with the
blankets and sheets.  Mulder stared at them, breathing hard, his hair damp
with sweat, even in the chill that fought the room's heater.  How had he
gotten away with this for so long? How, in God's name, had it gone on
without anyone catching it? Saint Jude help him, please, he's so frightened
and the world is so cruel, Scully prayed unconsciously. 

After a moment, she knelt on bed and reached out a hand to her partner's
face.  At her approach, Mulder shrank back further into his cocoon, making
a thin, whining noise.  God, how many nights had it been like this? Mulder
too terrified to move. Just screaming and screaming and then curled up in
the dark, terrified until exhaustion or the daylight came and he stumbled
up, put on a clean suit and made snide comments and drank a lot of bad
coffee and made his scary predictions.  

She made a move closer and suddenly Mulder was scrambling like a rabbit
trapped by a predator, clawing at the blankets until he got free and rolled
off the bed, huddled by the side, dark gleam of his eyes as he stared at
her.

"Careful, Scully." Pendrell's voice at her back instilled the sweet, savage
urge to slap him. 
They waited.  And waited.  For Mulder to snap out. For Mulder to calm down
and know them.  His breathing was shallow and panicked.

For the fear to ease out of his eyes.  

"Go through my back and find the Dramamine," she ordered Pendrell, "And get
a glass of water."

And finally, long after Pendrell had handed her the pills, long after he'd
set the water glass on the nightstand, finally Mulder stared at Scully,
blinked with some sense in his eyes. "Scully?" he asked softly. "Is it
really you?" 

Pendrell gave her a worried look.  

"Yes, Mulder," she told him soothingly, "It's really me.  That was a bad
one, wasn't it?"

Mulder stared at her, confused, frightened. "It's really you, you aren't
going to turn into anyone else." 
"It's really me.  And who would I turn into, Mulder?"  She dared inch a
little closer to him, hunkered down to sit eye to eye.  The draft here on
the floor was ferocious and--oops, another wet dream.  She was going to
have to ignore this one, he was too shattered to deal with it.  "I'm just
me."

His hand came up in the air, made little motions as if he wanted to touch
her, but was afraid to.  "You won't change?"  His voice choked with tears.
"You're really Scully?." 

"I'm really me," she told him gently and his hand found her hair, tugged
almost painfully hard.  "Ow, Mulder, that hurts!"

But abruptly, he was sobbing into his knees, arms wrapped over his head,
rocking back and forth. 
Jesus, if this was the effect wet dreams had on him, she never wanted to
see him after sex.  Talk about post coital tristesse.  "Shhh, Mulder, I
know, it's all right, I need you to take some pills, okay?"  Turning toward
Pendrell, she hissed, "Get me a Valium instead, put these back."

Pendrell's fingers, sweaty with nerves, fumbled the Dramamine out of her
hand.  She heard him rummaging frantically through her bag.  "Come on,
Mulder, it's me, you know who I am."  Her scalp still stung faintly from
the lock of hair he'd pulled.  "It was just a bad dream."  She kept her
voice soft, soothing, hoping to pull him out of whatever had frightened him
awake.  Could you be frightened awake by a wet dream?  After his confession
about Jurassic Park and the Miata, she wasn't sure she really wanted to
find out.  Inching closer again, she put an arm around him, he was
shivering.

"Here, Scully," Pendrell's stage whisper jarred her nerves.  He pressed a
pill into her free hand.  "Valium."

"Mulder, I need you to take this," she murmured and looked at Pendrell for
the water.

Nervously, Pendrell brought the water glass over, hunkered behind her.

Mulder sobbed harder.  "Make him go away, Scully, please."

Nodding at Pendrell, Scully motioned for him to set the glass down.  "Go
on, Pendrell, you can nap in the other bed in my room.  Get some sleep,
we'll need it tomorrow."  Turning back to Mulder, she tightened the arm
around his shoulders.  "Come on, partner, I need you to take this."

"I don't want any pills." His voice went up into hysteria and his face was
wet when he tilted it up again.  

"I won't turn into anyone else if you take the pill," Scully soothed,
stroking the hair at the nape of his neck.  Soft, silky Mulder hair.  

He moaned and buried his face "No, you will, just like you did before."

"When did I change before?"

"In Skinner's office.  You were there, we were waiting for Skinner and...."
He hitched in a breath, rubbed his face on his knees.  "Oh, God, it was
terrible.  You took off your clothes and got up on Skinner's desk and...."
Another hitching breath, "And then, right in the middle, your hair came
off, Scully, you were bald, and when I looked at your face, you'd turned
into Skinner."  He shuddered under her arm convulsively.  "Oh, God, and the
worst part was that I, oh, God."  More sobbing.

She knelt in the draft and tried to think that one through.  "Um, we were,
um, in the middle of sex when I changed?"

Another moan.  "Into Skinner."  His tone was desperate.  "Right there on
the desk."

She considered that.  "While we, um, were having sex."

"Right in the middle of it," he moaned and rubbed his face on his knees
again.  "Oh, God, it was horrible, I kissed you.  Him.  Whatever."  Another
convulsive shudder.  "And he told me to fuck him harder."

Oh, boy.  Her imagination reeled at the images that produced.  Mulder and
Skinner, on Skinner's desk.   Mother of God, she ought to be ashamed of
her, she was actually feeling a little thrill of interest in that one.  And
this would make great blackmail material for the future.  "Did you?"

Another despairing moan.  "Ye-e-e-s."

Scully absently stroked that silky hair again.  When he was in his right
mind again, he was going to be horrified that he'd confessed this to her.
"And you're afraid you secretly want to get into Skinner's pants?"

He shuddered again, moaned.  

Patting his back, she made her voice crisp, no-nonsense.  "Mulder, come on,
you're a psychologist.  You know better than that, it's perfectly obvious
what that was about.  Skinner's our boss, you're always joking about him
calling you up and telling you to grab your ankles, this is simply turning
the tables.  It's not about sex at all."

After a moment, he lifted his head again, his expression wanly hopeful.
"It's not?"

"Of course not, it's about power and control."  Skinner and Mulder.  What
an image.  Skinner was built like a brick--well, he was built, anyway, and
Mulder had that sleekly muscular build from running and swimming.  The very
image of both men naked at the same time was enough to make her respiration
rate increase.  "You don't want Skinner as an object of sexual
gratification, you want power over him.  You want to tell him to grab his
ankles."  More patting as he thought this over, his eyes widening.  Jesus,
and he was the one who'd gone to Oxford. 
"Oh."  Small voice, he was still considering that, but it was clear that he
wanted to believe.  Hell, he always wanted to believe.

Mulder was soooo easy sometimes, it was like shooting fish in a barrel.

But fucking Skinner.  Mulder was gone, way gone. Call the men with the long
white jackets that tie in the back. Call in the beard strokers. Fox Mulder
had slipped around the bend.  

Scully took her arm away and reached for the glass of water.  "It's just
one pill, Mudler.  I know you're upset, but you need to get some rest.
You're going to collapse if you don't get rest and food, and I'm really
worried about you.  You don't need to be any more upset, okay?  It won't
knock you out, it's just going to help you sleep." 
Mulder took in a shaky breath and held out a trembling hand.  Scully handed
him the Valium, then the water glass.  And Mulder took it.  And then she
levered him up and back into bed, tucking the blankets back around in a
cocoon less confining.  

Skinner and Mulder.  Mulder and Skinner.  She stared down at him, he looked
so young and essentially innocent when he slept.  Sometimes she wondered
how much of his sanity was really sanity, and how much was a carefully
built facade that let him pass for sane.  

Ah, she thought wearily, despite the faint spark of amusement and lust
inspired by his confession.  Here's what Special Agents look like when they
crack up. We take their guns and their dicks and give them seventy percent
of their salary so they can huddle in a hospital waiting for night and the
shadows and wet dreams of fucking the boss because we did this to them.  

It wasn't Skinner's fault.  It was that smoking bastard's fault.  Now that
was a dream she'd like to see him have, although the fallout would be
hideous.

She went back to her own room and rousted Pendrell out.  Slipped back under
the covers and considered the images again, letting them soothe her into
sleep.


The bed was shaking, and things slammed and it was the Big One, oh god, the
Big One, and Pendrell was going to die all alone with Inge lost forever to
him in Minneapolis and....He slammed his eyes open, to see when the ceiling
fell in on him, and Spooky-goddamn-Mulder smiled at him and kicked the bed
again. 

Pendrell scrambled back against the headboard, staring like he'd seen a
ghost. Or a Spook. 

Mulder just gave him that shit-eating grin, with his teeth gritted behind
it.  "Time to get up, Pendrell. We gotta go out and figure out how to stay
one or two steps ahead of this sick bastard."

"Jesus, Mulder... " What the hell do you say when somebody rises from the
dead, or near as?  Pendrell just sat there, feeling the testicles crawl up
into his body, watching Spooky turn on the TV to look for a news station.
The clock on top of the set read eight-thirty, and the morning news was in
full swing.  

Mulder watched it, wearing a grin that was nothing like a smile, watching
Bergman talk to a local reporter about things he knew nothing about.  "What
an asshole."  Pendrell watched him, the suit hanging in perfect creases,
the poster boy looks in place, overcoat over his arm and not a hair out of
place.  On the other bed, he could see the wadded up thermals Mulder had
discarded, smelled the faintest aroma of toothpaste and shaving cream and
bad motel coffee.  

Scully appeared in the connecting doorway, dressed in a tailored pantsuit,
crisp and official.  She eyed them both, offered Pendrell a disapproving
look and went back into her room.  Pendrell looked back to Spooky, arms
crossed, snarling at the TV, and felt superstitious dread make his bowels
go to ice water.  

He hadn't dreamed it. He knew he had NOT dreamed it. Scully had been here.
The water glass was there on the nightstand between the beds, Scully's bag
of nostrums was still on the floor between them.  Damn it, Pendrell had not
dreamed that Spooky Mulder was curled in a corner last night, screaming and
totally out of his head. 

So how the hell did he end up standing there, , dressed to the FBI nines,
watching Bergman make an ass out of himself.  Mulder shouldn't even be
making sense this morning.  Pendrell had gone to bed, knowing Scully would
have to send her partner back with a handholder from the Minneapolis bureau
and a head full of tranqs. He'd dreamed about medical review boards and
hearings for permanent psychiatric disability. Was ashamed to know that he
felt faintly vindicated by that.  And Mulder was still standing there, real
as shit, calling Bergman things he'd never learned at Oxford. 

On the whole, the Big One might not have been as scary.  

Mulder glanced up at him. "Look at this prick-licker, dancing the two-step
with the pussies at the press. He's going to give away everything we've got
and tomorrow or the next day, we'll find another body in the snow, or in
some lonely house miles down the road.  What an asshole." Mulder shook his
head and stalked out of the room, going into Scully's to talk to her in a
low voice.

If this was field work, Pendrell wasn't sure he wanted it.  Except for
Inge.

He swallowed hard, wiped the sweat off his palms onto his sheets and
crawled out of bed.  Shaking hands pulled a suit out of the closet, turned
the water on in the shower. 

The only reason he didn't cut his throat shaving was because he used an
electric. If he'd used a razor, he'd have bled to death before he ever
finished. Mulder was out there on the phone, calling Bergman and his
deputies, coordinating them and giving them what he wanted them to do.
Where he wanted them to look. How the sam hill he thought he knew where to
look sent Pendrell back to the bathroom with nervous incontinence.  

And that damned Spooky Mulder was pounding on the door and telling him to
hurry his ass up before he was done.  Pendrell took a last look in the
mirror, seeing skin almost as pale as Mulder's, his eyes bloodshot, one
eyelid twitching with nerves, teeth he just couldn't...get...to unclench
for more than a moment.  He had to put his hands in his pockets, they were
shaking so hard when he walked out the door and looked at Spooky Mulder,
who should have been huddled in his bed drooling and who, instead, was
impatiently eyeing his watch and rocking his briefcase back and forth
between his hands while he waited for Pendrell to finish having his
breakdown.

How the hell did Scully handle it?  Was he always this crazy?  

Scully pulled on her coat and smiled at Pendrell, making him more nervous.
Why wasn't she worried about her partner?  Oh, she was, but not as much as
she should have been.  She acted like throwing up at every meal was normal,
like waking up screaming was normal.

Maybe for Spooky it was.

Pendrell was beginning to understand where the name had come from.

Mulder stared at him as he fumbled with his coat.  "What the fuck is wrong
with you, Pendrell?" Angry, snarling, still seething after Bergman had
spilled details he hadn't wanted spilled. "We have coffee to drink and a
killer to start looking for.  Our boy's going to work right now, he knows
we're onto him, and he should have another finished work for us sometime
between now and tomorrow at six."  

Pendrell pushed his arm into a sleeve and stared at Scully, wanting some
answer.  She nodded grimly at Mulder and headed for the door.  Mulder beat
her to it, going out without gloves and muttering under his breath as
Scully followed him out.

The sound of engine got Pendrell moving.


Mulder sat down in a corner booth, drumming his spoon on the table staring
at Pendrell.  "What the hell is with you this morning?"  Pendrell was
watching him like he'd grown horns and a tail.  Surely Scully hadn't passed
on any of the details of his unfortunate confession.  The very thought made
his skin crawl.  God, if Pendrell knew that--he could just hear the rumours
that would make the rounds of the Bureau, Skinner would have him scrubbing
out toilets with his toothbrush if it ever got back to the AD's office.

Scully sat next to him, caging him back into the corner of the booth. Which
was embarrassing, because he didn't quite have the heart to look her in the
eye this morning, covered it with snappy repartee and bad temper over
Bergman.

Thank God the blonde waitress wasn't here in the mornings, Mulder waved for
three cups of coffee and a basket of breakfast rolls, grabbed one and tore
it apart, wolfed it down like he was starving.  Hell, he was starving, he
hadn't kept anything down but a cup of coffee and toast with jelly the day
before.  Well, and the soup and crackers and popsicles.  

Scully shoved the basket over in front of him, daintily taking a honey bun
and putting it on her plate.  No butter, she just cut it in quarters and
nibbled it as she sipped her coffee.

Pendrell just stared at him nervously.

He glared at the younger man. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Pendrell?"
He kept his voice low this time, mindful of the stares he'd gotten the
night before. "You think something is funny? We don't have enough clowns
with Bergman on this team?" 

Pendrell jumped in his seat, reached for a sticky bun with a shaky hand.  

Mulder worked the bite of breakfast roll from one side of his jaw to the
other. "I don't know what you're playing at, Pendrell, but we have real
work to do today. We can't stop the bastard from killing again yet, but the
more we get, the faster we find his next victim, the more we'll learn. Or
do you figure Inge's gonna let you get a glimpse of Paradise because we got
on the news?" 

Pendrell stared at him, his Adam's apple working in his throat.  Scully
kicked Mulder's ankle hard enough to bruise, drawing him back from the edge
of a real outburst.  

The Valium had dried his mouth out.  He gave her an angry look and drank
more coffee, took another vicious bite out of the bun.  His own partner
drugged him senseless, kept giving him shit until he was loopy enough to
actually tell her about that freaking weird nightmare.  Quelling a shudder
at the memory, he stared out the window at the white landscape.  Christ, he
hated winter, hated these cases out in the middle of nowhere.  Why couldn't
they ever get a case in Honolulu?  

"Okay," he muttered and pulled a notepad out of his briefcase, careful not
to get the sticky, sugary icing on it.  "First things first.  Scully and I
are going to talk to the minister.  Pendrell, I want you on the crime
scenes.  See if there's anything they missed, just go out there and check
everything, I don't want us to miss a gnat's ass, you got it?"

Pendrell nodded silently, finally took a bite from his sticky bun. Mulder's
nerves jittered and jived, he waved for a refill on the coffee and the
greying waitress with the matronly figure brought the pot, chatting about
the weather and that they were going to get another cold snap.

Scully darted an incredulous look at her, but only nodded.

"We need to get the names of everyone in his congregation.  Surely they
have records, aren't the members of the church supposed to tithe?  I
imagine he has to keep track of who gives what so they can claim it on
their taxes."  Mulder picked up his knife, buttered the roll and took
another vicious bite.  "Okay, Pendrell, here are the sites--"  He reached
for his map, laid it out on the table, weighting the corners with the salt
and pepper shakers, with bottles of flavored syrups, using his pen to make
an X on each site.

Pendrell opened his mouth to ask another question, but Scully caught his
eye, shook his head.  Mulder let that go by, his mood improving as his
blood sugar rose again.  He made his way through another three of the
rolls, reviewing review every dump site.  Scully sipped her coffee and kept
nibbling, while Pendrell just stared at him as if he were the goddamned
burning bush....

He could tell from Pendrell's expression that the younger agent thought
this was full Spooky fifth gear today.  Probably had him figured for a head
case, that Scully would send him back.  Pendrell didn't know jack shit
outside of his lab, and most days that would have made Mulder smile
pityingly.  Today it just made him irritable, put a snap and an edge in his
voice that kept Scully's shoes banging against his ankle.

"He'll have picked out the next one by now, targeted even before he did
Timmeson."  Mulder chewed again, thinking, letting the insights rise up
from the muddy bottom of his unconscious mind.  "He might be moving in.  72
hours at the most, we'll have another one, but God knows if we'll find her
right away."

"Her?"  Scully did that eyebrow thing again that drove him crazy and he
looked away, back out at the whiteout of snow.  

"Her.  It'll be a woman next time.  Someone more obviously feminine than
Timmeson.  We need that asshole Bergman to give us some details on the
locals, see if he can pick out someone.  Maybe someone who drinks with the
guys, a party girl.  I don't think she'll be young, maybe in her thirties
or forties.  Likes to party and isn't too picky."

Scully looked askance at this, but nodded.  "This is a small enough town,
Bergman might be able to pick some people out.  And if he can't, Trask has
contacts, they might be able to suggest some names."  

Mulder stared at his notes, blinked.  "Yeah."  Freezer wrapped parcels
danced at the edge of his consciousness.  No way, no way was he going to
think about those.  Think about something else, think about Nash, think
about winter, think about the goddamned Winter Carnival that had driven
Pendrell into his room.  He opened his mouth to say something, he wasn't
sure what.  "Unwillingly Miranda wakes, Feels the sun with terror, One
unwilling step she takes, Shuddering to the mirror."  

His heart was hammering hard, abruptly, as if he'd plugged into something
powerful, as if he were on the right track, and adrenaline made him
lightheaded, the junkie's rush.  Scully was watching him, wide-eyed, a
faint line between her brows, and Pendrell had gone pale.  But he couldn't
stop.  "Miranda in Miranda's sight, Is old and gray and dirty; Twenty-nine
she was last night; This morning she is thirty."  He leaned forward,
studied the pad.  "This is going to be a woman who feels youth slipping
away, someone who is trying to hold back time, to continue on as she always
has.  She might not be more than thirty, but she feels as if she's caught
in the cycle of decay.  So she parties harder, breaks the rules a little,
and our guy is watching.  He judges her.  He's the representative of his
God, scouring the world of the sinful and seeking perfection."

"Wh-wh-what?"  Pendrell's voice trembled, he slid to the edge of the booth.
"Ex-excuse me, Agent Mulder, I need to use the men's room."

Mulder frowned, watching him go.  "What did I say this time?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Scully told him drily and opened the menu.
"Let's get something decent for breakfast while Inge's off duty."

Still watching Pendrell's back as he fled, Mulder nodded absently.


Scully ordered for all three of them.  Mulder barely noticed. When the food
came he was still going full tilt, and a cheese omelet went down with
barely a break.  Pendrell was clearly shaken this morning, but was taking
it in, listening and trying to comment, trying to get past his obvious
judgement that Mulder should be curled in his bed, watching shows not
listed in TV Guide and drooling on his pillow.  

Pendrell didn't know Mulder very well.


The sheriff wasn't at his office, he was out at the site of the Winter
Carnival, supervising things, signing permits, making sure that nothing
slipped past his lawful eye.  So that's where they went to get him.

Huddled in her coat, Scully wished she'd worn more clothes.  If this was a
warm spell, she hoped to God they'd finish up and be out of town before the
cold snap hit.  

Mulder played nice at first with Bergman, asking him about likely targets,
giving his rationale and explaining it politely.

Until Bergman made the mistake of telling him it was all bullshit.

Standing in the snow, her toes turning into little chunks of ice, Scully
watched Mulder turn the man into little, quivering chunks of raw meat.  Ice
cold voice, just hammering in the details of each murder, of how Bergman
was supposed to know his people, supposed to know this town, Caroline
Timmeson, a nice woman who'd never hurt anyone, who loved her life and
loved living it, laid out on her kitchen floor stuffed wtih her own dinner,
her liver and spleen and lungs and heart all wrapped up in brown freezer
paper, black greasepaint labeling each organ and dating the package.  . No
mercy, just starting to hammer in the details of murder after murder,
victim after victim, what it might be like when the next one turned up. All
the rage he hadn't let go over the television interview, he just flayed
that Bergman alive, stripping down to sinew and bone. 
One of the deputies, the younger one, was standing nearby--Hammond, that
was his name--and had turned pale green, as if he was going to vomit.  They
all watched, horrified, while Mulder leaned in nose to nose with Bergman,
asking where else you'd find a woman with the label this guy shopped for,
his breath forming white clouds in Bergman's face. 

Scully felt her guts churn as Mulder did that fucking thing again, quoting
Nash.  "Shining like the morning star, Like the twilight shining, Haunted
by a calendar, Miranda sits a-pining."

Bergman stammered that he'd ask around and Mulder stalked toward Scully,
nodded at her shortly and trudged through the snow to the car.

"Yah, I can give you the names," Reverend Martin Jurgensen--no relation to
Jorgensen, evidently--nodded seriously.

Why, Scully wondered, did all the men over fifty look like Max von Sydow.
At least the Reverend had a decent handshake, and despite his cadaverous
looks, was muscular.  Muscular Christianity.

They followed him through the narrow, dark halls of the rectory to his
office.

The atmosphere was right out of Ibsen, Scully decided, perching on the
horsehair, straightbacked armchair near the desk.  Mulder stood, his
expression mordantly amused, as the Reverend sat down at his computer and
booted it up.

Modern religion.  She supposed even Catholic priests utilized technology
these days, but it was disconcerting anyway when the Dangerous Animals
wallpaper showed on the Reverend's screen.

Click, click and the file was open, the laser printer hummed and spit out
two sheets of paper.

Scully cleared her throat.  "Reverend, do you have deacons?"  

Mulder hovered like a vulture over the printer, snatched up the pages and
studied them.  

Reverend Jurgensen nodded at her and smiled.  "Why, yes, we have several
members of the church who alternate as deacons, Agent Scully.  Good men,
stable and solid in their belief, they help me immensely."

"Would you mind marking those names for us?"  She gave him a smile in
return and yanked the papers from Mulder's hands.  "That would be a
tremendous help.  And if there's anyone who wanted to be a deacon, or even
anyone who considered the ministry."

"Over forty," Mulder muttered.  "Only those over forty."

Jurgensen gave him a mild look and bent over the pages, making neat check
marks with a felt tip pen.  "Certainly, Agent Scully."  

The pen moved through the column of names, Jurgensen moved to the second
page and marked a few more names.  "There you are.  But I don't think
you'll find your murderer in my congregation, Agent Scully.  These are good
men."

For a moment, she was afraid Mulder would sneer.  But his face smoothed out
again when he caught her eye.  "I'm sure they are, Reverend.  But they may
know something they're not aware of, and any information that can help us
stop this man....they may have some essential bit of knowledge that can
help us prevent another murder."

"I'll pray that they can help you," Jurgensen told her and reached out to
pat her hand.  

Mulder snatched the sheets back with a muttered thanks and headed back out
and down the hall.  Embarrassed, Scully rose.  "Thank you again, Reverend."

Jurgensen cocked his head a bit.  "Your partner is a troubled man."

Reverend, she thought, you don't know the half of it.  "He's a profiler,
Reverend.  They see things...well, that are very disturbing."

"Nothing can be disturbing with God's comfort," he told her and rose with
her to escort her back down the hall.  "I'd be happy to counsel him.  See
if you can talk to him, Agent Scully, see if you can suggest that he talk
with me.  There is no wound that God cannot heal."

And no heel that God cannot wound, she thought, hilarity rising unbidden.
She pinched the inside of her wrist hard to keep a straight face.  "I'll
suggest it to him, Reverend.  But he's not much on religion.  And he's
Jewish."

Shock widened the Reverend's eyes.  "Oh, my.  All the more reason, Agent
Scully.  If he can accept Jesus as his savior--"

"Yes, well, thank you, Reverend."  Moving faster, Scully moved down the
hall, caught the door on Mulder's backswing and followered her partner out,
biting her lip hard enough to leave a permanent indentation.

Out in the car, Mulder gave her an irritable look.  "What were you and the
good Reverend discussing?"

Tilting her head back, Scully let go, laughing until her sides hurt.  "Your
salvation, Mulder.  No, no, I can't, just drive, okay?"

That got a wounded look, but Mulder drove.



They got back to the motel around four-thirty.  Scully changed and went out
to the market, came back with fruit juice to find Mulder in his bathroom,
crouched over the iron-stained toilet bowl, arm braced against the lid.  He
was pale and wasted from dry heaves, they hadn't taken time for lunch, he
had nothing to throw up, except the tea one of their interviewees had given
them. 

Scully leaned against the wall, her fingertips grazing the back of her
partner's neck.  No fever.  Just Mulder.  Getting the murder bug, finding
his way into the mind of a twisted killer.  

The sound was making her own gorge rise.  She swallowed against nausea and
listened to Mulder's dazed voice quote Nash.  Again. And knew they had
another one out there, waiting for them.  They hadn't been quite fast
enough, and Bergman had shot his mouth off on the local morning news.

"Silly girl, silver girl, Draw the mirror toward you; Time who makes the
years to whirl, Adorned as he adorned you.  Time is timelessness for for
you; Calendars for the human; What's a year, or thirty, to, Loveliness made
woman?"



Outdoors, it was dark, the gathering clouds hiding what little winter sun
was there.  Pendrell had gotten a ride from one of the deputies, he hadn't
had to trudge back through the icy chill of the Timmsville warm spell.  

Mulder slept restlessly in his bed, tucked under the comforter wearing
jeans and a sweater.  Scully sat in the chair in his room and read, nothing
of autopsies and forensic evidence, just a mindless novel.  She'd gotten
some juice and animal crackers down him, and some of the pears she'd gotten
him the day before.  Those had stayed down long enough for him to doze off.  

Nights like the last one and days like the days before.  How long was he
going to last, running on broken sleep and almost nothing to eat?  Scully
was going to have to be sure they broke for lunch, carry small snacks to
keep his stomach from going sour on him.  Even if he fought her.

He'd been exhausted when he'd finally finished dry-heaving.  He'd followed
her instructions without protest or complaint, kicking off his shoes and
getting clothes out of his suitcase to change out of his suit.  Clicked on
the TV to zone out watching bouncing babes on the sand.

Malibu Barbie does Santa Rosa, Scully thought drily, watching another
bikini clad bimbo defy the laws of gravity.

Pendrell eyed Mulder's unconscious self and put his coat on a hanger.
Careful, neat Pendrell.  Unlike Mulder, whose overcoat lay across the foot
of his bed.  She'd hung his suit up for him when he emerged from the
bathroom.

Even without the reports he should have been writing, her mind was working
like his, back in the room in the mortuary that served as morgue.  Four
dead bodies and she was the only one to do a decent autopsy. 

Well, there were toxicologicals on the second and third bodies, the
brothers, that was something.  Scully frowned, remembering the crabbed
handwriting of Raintree's ME.  And they'd thrown away the poem, thinking it
was nothing.

She wondered what it would have told Mulder.

Pendrell shifted from foot to foot, looked at her and pointed at the
connecting door.  

Sighing, she rose, led the way into her room.

"How's Agent Mulder?" Pendrell asked nervously, his voice hushed. 
Scully considered.  "Not so hot.  When we got back, he vomited and recited
more Nash."  She put her hands into the sleeves of her sweater and shook
her head.  "I think we've got another one, we just haven't found her.  And
we didn't get much of anywhere with the interviews today.  The Spooky-meter
didn't go off, I think they're clean.  Did Bergman come up with any names
for you?"

Pendrell nodded and reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
"Yeah, a couple."  He handed her a crumpled piece of paper.

Scully peered at them.  "Marcy Olafsen." she read aloud.  "Ingrid Ibsen.
Hilde Bronson."  No addresses.  She gave Pendrell a dark look and headed
for the slim phone book under the telephone.  "Okay, let's call these
women, Pendrell.  Use this one, I'll use my cell phone."

Pendrell nodded, watched her look up the names and numbers and accepted the
paper back as she dialed up the first one.



Marcy Olafsen didn't answer.  Ingrid Ibsen was at home, doing very well and
shocked that she might be considered a murderer's target.  Hilde Bronson
had already had a few too many and told Scully where to stick her worries
in a raspy, whisky voice.

Bergman wearily agreed to have his deputies go by and check the houses when
she called him.  Said he'd be at the Winter Carnival festivities if they
needed him.

Pendrell sat unhappily on the second bed in her room and stared at his
shoes.  "Agent Scully, I think Agent Mulder's...."  He licked his lips.  "I
think he's falling apart."

"He's not," Scully told him quellingly.  "He's just had a few setbacks. You
should understand that, you tossed your cookies in the plane up."

Pendrell flinched.  "Yeah, but--he looks terrible, and I've never seen him
so short-tempered."

"Yeah, well, welcome to the real world, Pendrell.  Murder pisses Mulder
off."

Pendrell's tongue flicked across his lips again.  

A vast irritation filled Scully.  This was a little man.  A frightened
little man.  If he'd seen half of what Mulder had seen, he'd be gibbering
in a strait jacket somewhere.  

"Agent Scully, I'm afraid he's losing it.  I think--I think you should call
DC, talk to AD Skinner about sending him home."

Scully's brows drew together dangerously.  "Are you making a professional
judgement, Pendrell?  I wasn't aware you had previous field experience with
Agent Mulder."

Pendrell flushed and his eyes were downcast.  "What's *your* professional
judgement, Agent Scully?"

"He's had a couple of rough days.  Hell, I've had a couple of rough days,
Pendrell, and if your little girlfriend doesn't start bringing me my meals,
she's going to end up having a rough day, too."

Pendrell flushed again, going an unattractive shade of scarlet.  "I think
Agent Mulder needs medical attention."

"I'm a doctor, Pendrell."  Scully rose and stood over him threateningly. 

"But you're a pathologist, Agent Scully.  Your patients are usually dead."

She pinched the bridge of her nose hard to keep from slapping him.  "And if
you don't give it a rest, Pendrell, you'll be one of them.  I know Mulder
one helluva lot better than you do, he's fine, he's just had a couple of
bad days, things will settle down."

"And if they don't?"  Pendrell gave her a worried look, flinched back when
she raised her hand again to her nose.

"Then we'll get him to a doctor," she told him reluctantly.  "Maybe he's
just got some kind of stomach flu."

Pendrell's expression doubted it.  For that matter, she knew better.  But
there wasn't anyone better to catch this guy.  Mulder was tuned in to the
killer in a way that she couldn't touch.  

But Pendrell let it rest.



Mulder was sitting on the bed, staring drowsily at the screen when she went
back in, not completely awake, but coming out of the fog. "What? They found
out about my credit card? I swear I haven't used it for personal
purchases," he teased, flicking the tv off. 

Scully sat beside him on the bed and sighed.  "Pendrell's freaking out
about you.""What?" Mulder gave her a worried look.  "About what?"

"Well, last night, for one thing.  I didn't tell him about the dream,
Mulder."  Or the one the night before.  The last thing she wanted was
Pendrell sharing Mulder's depraved fantasy life.  The very thought made the
hair on the back of her neck rise.  "And the vomiting has him worried."

Mulder closed his eyes.  "Oh, fuck.  Another fucking do-gooder.  Jesus,
Scully, you gave me enough Dramamine on the flight up to OD, my stomach's
been chancy ever since.  And this isn't the easiest kind of work."

"I know."  She sighed and patted his arm.  "But if it keeps up, Mulder, you
aren't going to be worth anything.  I don't want to give you barbituates.
You think if you leave the television set on that will work with the
nightmares?  Pendrell turned it off when he came in last night."

"He's going to bitch about it," Mulder brooded.

"Screw that.  It's better than drugging you to sleep at night.  Screwing
with your REM sleep is only going to make matters worse.  But I admit, the
vomiting has me worried, too."  She looked at him, letting him see it.
"Mulder, you generally eat twice your weight in food a day, and you burn it
off.  I don't know what the hell you're burning now, because you haven't
managed to make it through more than two meals since we got here.  And
those weren't even consecutive meals, Mulder."

He frowned at his hands, laced the fingers together.  "It--it happens
sometimes, Scully.  It used to happen in VCS all the time.  And when I was
working for that prick Patterson.  I'll get by, honestly."  Wide eyes,
sincere as hell.  Trying to convince her.

The muscles of his arm had tightened under her palm.  "Okay.  But if it
keeps happening, Mulder, I want you to see a doctor.  If you have some kind
of bug, I don't want you dehydrating the hell out of yourself and throwing
your system out of kilter.  If you fuck with your potassium enough, Mulder,
you could develop some serious heart problems, you could even have heart
failure."

That got an almost amused look.  "Scully, I don't have a heart, remember?
I'm Spooky."

Snorting, Scully shook her head.  "Don't give me that shit, Mulder, I'll
cuff you and take you in, even if you're dragging your heels."

"Thanks, Mom."  But his smile took the edge out of it.  "I'll be fine,
Scully, I promise.  Can we go get something to eat?  I'd like to try
something new, see if I can short circuit this thing."

After a moment, she nodded.



Scully huddled inside her parka and cursed the good luck that had let her
partner get through a meal without throwing it up.  Because of it, they
were out here at the Winter Carnival, garish lights casting an unearthly
glow on snow packed hard and deep.

Ahead of her, Bergman and her partner were talking, white puffs of breath
coming and dissipating with depressing rapidity while Mulder's hands moved,
dark wings in the night.

It wasn't good.  Bergman was stonewalling, and Marcy Olafsen hadn't been
located.  Bergman kept telling Mulder that Marcy Olafsen was thirty years
old, if she wanted to pick up and get out of town for the weekend, there
was no one to say her nay.  No reason to get their underwear in a knot.
Subtext was that Mu
Bergman's face was worried anyway.

And she noticed that he wasn't telling Mulder they wouldn't look, just
giving Mulder reasons why it was foolish to do so.

That made the hackles on her neck rise, or they would have if she'd left
any room for it under the scarf and parka.  Jesus Christ, it was colder
than the ashes of love, a pithy phrase her father had picked up from an XO
from Tennesee.  She knew what it meant now.

Taking a step forward, she discovered t numb again.  

"Jesus, Mulder, just try and relax," Bergman finally growled, "We'll find
her, and she'll be fine, wondering what's wrong with us.  Go and get
something to eat, there's a lot of good food out here on the midway."  One
mittened paw gestured and Scully looked involuntarily, stunned to see how
many people were actually out in this weather.

Probably the entire population of Timmsville and the surrounding rural
area.  These people were really crazy.

On the other hand, with that many people, maybe their body heat warmed
things up.  

"I already ate."  But Mulder gazed at the winter-garbed figures under the
lights.  'Maybe Marcy Olafsen is out here already."

"That's a possibility, I've got Jorgensen watching for her, they keep
company sometimes."  Bergman nodded and pulled the earflaps down on his
hat, turned and trudged away from them.

Mulder looked after him, the garish colors making him look like something
out of an acid flashback.  "Keeping company," he muttered, "A quaint
Minnesota euphemism for fucking like mink."

Scully whacked him on the arm with her fist.  "Stop that, Mulder, they
already thing you're off the wall.  I swear, the people in the restaurant
stared at us the entire time we were in there, they must have been making
bets on whether or not you'd manage to keep your dinner down."

"Small town life."  Mulder's breath puffed out in irritation.  "All right,
we've got a picture of Olafsen, let's go see what we can find."

"Mulder, get real, how would we recognize anyone under five layers of wool
and down-stuffed nylon?"

He didn't dignify that with an answer, just turned and trudged through the
snow, his boots breaking ground for her to follow.

Yeah, except his legs were long than hers and she hadn't ever been a
cheerleader, Melissa had.  So doing the splits in the snow wasn't her idea
of a good time.  "Slow down, dammit," she snapped at him and he turned,
offering her one of those vaguely apologetic Mulder looks that she
occasionally got from him.

Once in a blue moon, or when she barged into his room in her underwear,
whichever came first.

At least he waited.