Fox Mulder woke to find the pillowcase wet under his chin and reached up
reflexively to wipe his lower lip, meanwhile wondering where the hell he
was and why.

Peering over the top of the comforter, he saw the top of Scully's head in
the other bed and drew his own back down again, the full and entire memory
of his dream and subsequent waking coming back with an adrenaline whallop.

Great.  Just fucking great.  Not only did he drool in his sleep, but he'd
told his partner about his goddamned surreal dream.  And the little problem
he'd suffered during the course of it.

It was the goddamned Cancercaterpillar's fault.  It had to be.  He'd never
had a premature ejaculation in his entire life.  Unless you counted the
time he'd been whacking off in the bathtub at twelve and had his first real
orgasm.  And the only thing premature about that was that he'd been
whacking off at twelve.  If Kinsey was to be believed.

He crept out of bed, holding his breath lest Scully hear him breathing and
wake.  Eew.  His sweatpants were stuck to him.  Thanks a lot, Scully,
Ovaltine before bed and he couldn't stay awake long enough to take a shower
and get cleaned up after his lately lurid dreams.

Sighing, he carefully opened the connecting door, tiptoed into the room he
was supposed to be sharing with Pendrell and retrieved clean clothes. Then,
still walking almost silently, he went into the bathroom and closed the
door, locking it quickly and leaning against the door in despair.

His partner now believed he was a premature ejaculator.  And he'd told her
about the Playboy Bunny suit.  He was an idiot.  He was a loon.  He was a
goddamned moron.

Now in the proper depressive state of mind, Mulder addressed the question
of whether or not his sweatpants were permanently cemented to his body.
After some experimentation, he managed to get them loose without removing
any skin from sensitive body parts.  

His pubic hair, however, was another problem.  "Ouch, ouch, ouch," he
chanted under his breath, wincing each time another follicle was uprooted.
Oh, God, this was soooo humiliating, it was worse than being twelve again.

But when he turned on the hot water, he was reminded again that the person
who had invented the shower should be canonized by the Catholic church.
God, hot water, no wonder Prometheus had stolen fire.  He'd known that
somewhere, somehow, one of his human descendants was going to figure out
plumbing and hot baths and God, showers.

Jesus.  Although maybe he should be taking a cold shower instead.  What the
hell was it about this case that seemed to adjust his libido steadily
upward?  He wished he knew.  "You goddamned fool," he told himself
mournfully and adjusted the water to just short of scalding.  

Stepping in, he morosely considered his options.  Not that he had any,
short of saltpeter, and that seemed excessive.  Ovaltine was bad enough.

Worst of all, now he had to do laundry.  And the snow was too deep to run.
He did his best thinking while running.  He did his best work on guilt
while running.  He could probably even come up with the rest of the
profile, if only he could run.

The water stung and left red splotches on his skin.  It was amazing how
water temperature could affect one's libido.   Too bad it wouldn't wash
away depression.

No wonder Sweden had the highest suicide rate in the world.  

Snow.  Scully.  Sex.  And, of course, serial murder.

Still morose, he scrubbed himself nearly raw and turned off the water to
hear pounding on the door.

"Mulder, unlock this door and let me in!"  Scully sounded pretty agitated.

He wondered what he'd done now.  "Give me just a minute," he told her and
dried himself hastily.

"Mulder, I'm going to count to three, and if this door isn't unlocked, I'm
going to shoot the lock out."  Her voice had gone from shrill to an almost
demonic growl in the space of seconds.

"Just a minute," Mulder called back.  Jesus, did she have PMS or what?  

He heard the deep breath she took on the other side of the door and worked
faster.

When that breath came out, he wasn't going to have much time.

"OneTwoThree," she rattled out, all in one word, "Mulder, I've got my gun!"

He hastily unlocked the door, towel wrapped around his waist for modesty's
sake.  "Jesus, Scully, I'm just taking a shower."

Scully's hair was disheveled and she was wearing those bunny slippers
again.   She had her gun in her hand, just as threatened.  And oh, God, she
had that Fishwife from Sligo look on her face again, he was doomed,
completely doomed, she was going to shoot him if he got an erection now,
especially since she now suspected he wouldn't be able to do her any good.
"Scuuuuullly," he whined, backing into the edge of the sink.  "You're
letting the cold air in."

The door slammed shut.  Unfortunately, she was on this side of it,
breathing like she'd been running.  At least the gun was aimed at the
floor.  "Mulder, you're all blotchy."

Startled, he looked down at himself.  "Um, I took a really hot shower,
Scully, that's all."

Taking a step forward, Scully put out her free hand and pressed a finger
into his skin just below his left nipple.

His left nipple woke up and took notice and he swallowed hard, suddenly
panicky.  "Scully, I'm fine."  His voice rose, thankfully just short of a
squeak.  "Honest."

A long assessing look as her gaze came up to meet his.  After a moment, she
looked back at his chest and pressed his skin again experimentally, this
time above the nipple.  "Mulder, you could have scalded yourself, next time
add a little cold."

Definitely, he thought prayerfully, lots and lots of cold water.  Oh, God,
if you're really out there, puh-lease don't let me get a stiffie now, it
would be worse than the eighth grade in front of Mrs. Kropotnik, his math
teacher.

Scully, fortunately, chose to remove her finger from his chest and turned
back to the door.  "Okay, well, I might have overreacted, Mulder.  Sorry I
interrupted you."

What the hell had she thought he was doing in here?  Mulder tilted his head
and considered that.  "Scully, what did you think I was doing in here?"

"Never mind," she told him brusquely, opened the door and went out.  

Staring at the closed door in bafflement, Mulder finally shrugged and
reached for his shaving kit.



Scully sat down on the bed that should have been Mulder's, if Pendrell
hadn't been a jerk, and sighed.  "Pendrell, you are such an asshole."

"I didn't know, Agent Scully.  He was in there an awfully long time."
Pendrell looked ridiculous in flannel pajamas.  He looked more ridiculous
with that earnest expression and a bad case of bed hair.  And he was
awfully hairy, all that gingery body hair positively bristling at the open
neck of the pajama shirt.  It made her mind drift toward the notion of
testosterone....and she had to jerk it back, appalled. "And he took his
shaving kit in with him, I didn't want to take any chances."

Raking her hair back with one hand, Scully scowled at him.  "Nobody uses
those kind of razor blades anymore, Pendrell.  Jesus Christ, if you ever
wake me up again with that kind of craziness, I'm going to call Skinner and
have *you* sent back in a strait jacket.  I just embarrassed my partner
beyond belief, Pendrell, because you woke me up babbling about suicide
attempts."

Pendrell had the grace to look abashed.  But spoiled it by saying, "I think
you should talk to AD Skinner, Agent Scully.  I think Agent Mulder has a
serious problem."

"Olafsson disagrees with you," Scully told him and got to her feet again.
She wasn't sure why, it had to be the erotic dreams, but she'd never before
gotten weak in the knees seeing Mulder mostly nude.  And knowing that there
was only that thin sheet of motel towel between her and....Hail Mary full
of Grace, the Lord is with Thee--"Pendrell, Mulder's fine.  I'm beginning
to think you're the one with the problem.  Don't give me a reason to send
you back, okay?"

That got an extremely uncharacteristic scowl in return.  Clearly his
relationship with that airhead Inge had led to some increase in confidence.
She'd known that sooner or later she was going to have to shoot that bimbo,
and this only gave her another reason.  Going back to her room, she decided
to take a shower, since they were all up anyway.


"I wish I could run," Mulder told her morosely, over Eggs Benedict at the
Country Kitchen.  "I hate not being able to run.  I hate Minnesota."

"I'm not fond of it myself, Mulder," Scully sighed and bit daintily into
her toast.  "There's got to be somewhere you can run."

"I asked Bergman the other day, he said I could run in the high school gym,
but it was locked up on the weekends."  Mulder stared out the window
gloomily, watching the flat grey of the sky, the clouds that promised more
snow.  "Jesus, I hate snow."

"You grew up with snow," she reminded him.

"Doesn't mean I don't hate it."  Mulder rested his chin on his hand and
sighed, poking at his eggs with the fork.

"Mulder, why don't you see if you can rent some cross-country skis," Scully
suggested, arching an eyebrow.  "It isn't quite running, but it's close.
And I'll bet you'd even like it."

He considered that.  Sighed and poked at his eggs some more.  "Well, it's
got to be better than being cooped up in a motel with Pendrell.  Jesus, did
you see how many cars there were around the park?"

"Yeah."  Scully sipped at her tea.  "These people up here are nuts, Mulder.
Categorically and undeniably nuts."

"There's going to be another murder," Mulder told her and looked back out
the window.

"Do I have to feed you, Mulder?  May I remind you about last night, you had
popsicles and cinnamon grahams and that's it."

"Actually, I had a cheeseburger, most of a BLT and a lot of fries," he
sighed and shook his head.  "Okay, okay, don't be a nag.  I'll eat it."
Manfully, he scooped up a piece of egg and took a bite.  It was
surprisingly good.  He was definitely going to have to send the cook a
thank you note.  And have one of those luscious cheeseburgers at lunch. And
the more he thought about it, cross-country skiing didn't sound too bad.
"I wonder where I could rent skis?"

"I'll ask the motel manager," Scully told him aimably.  "Don't stay out too
long, Mulder, it's cold out there."

Rolling his eyes, he tried another bite of the eggs and was pleased to see
that they tasted just as good on the second attempt.  "This is good,
Scully."

Her mouth curved slightly.  "Especially while it's still hot, I'd imagine."

Mulder eyed her.  She always got soooo smug when she was right.  Even when
she didn't say, "I told you so," she said it with her eyes.  And instead of
upsetting him, that just made him remember her in the Playboy Bunny suit
and the way it pushed up her breasts.

No, he told himself firmly, don't think about that.  Especially not now.



"I think we should follow him in the car," Pendrell hissed, watching
through the window as Mulder put on the skis as instructed.

"If you're so worried, Pendrell, go with him."  Scully lounged on her bed,
studying Mulder's notes.

"He doesn't listen to me, what if he tries to do something dangerous?"  

Scully didn't look up.  Pendrell's outrage was really ridiculous.  On the
other hand, Mulder had a tendency to leap before looking, and Pendrell was
right, he wasn't going to listen to Pendrell.  "Go out and get some skis,"
she told him suddenly.  "I'll follow you in the fourwheel.  Or rather, I'll
sort of follow you in the four wheel, okay?"

Pendrell scowled and began to get back into his winter clothes.

Pulling on her boots again, Scully sighed.  Mulder really wasn't going to
like this, and she hated to sic Pendrell on him again, but Pendrell clearly
wasn't going to let her get any intelligent thought in and she still needed
to go over Mulder's profile with him.

Zipping up his parka, the object of her displeasure gave her a sullen look
and went outside, slamming the door behind him.

Rolling her eyes, Scully emerged just in time to hear Mulder's response.

"I don't need a fucking nursemaid, Pendrell, and if I did, it wouldn't be
you."

"Agent Mulder," Pendrell began.

"Oh, come on, Mulder, Pendrell's never gone cross country skiing before, he
said he'd like to try it."  Scully tried her very best placatory smile.

Pendrell gave her a long look and suddenly nodded emphatically.  "Agent
Mulder, I won't even talk to you.  I'll just ski along in silence."

Mulder's scowl could have melted the wintry wastes around them, it was that
intense.

Scully edged closer, turning so Pendrell couldn't see her face.  "C'mon,
Mulder, please?  I need to go over my pathology notes again and he's
driving me crazy."  Very soft voice, only audible to Mulder, with what she
hoped was a winsome expression.

Mulder's mouth crimped in that highly irritated, I'm-only-doing-this-for-
you-Scully way that made her toes curl everytime.  

In her current condition, after two nights of torrid dreams, after finding
out he'd dreamed about her in a Playboy Bunny suit--and that his
subconscious thought she'd look sensational in one--it was oh, so hard not
to grab him by the front of his parka and pulled him down to--no, no, Dana
Katherine, she told herself, appalled and took a subtle half step backward.

"Oh, all right," Mulder growled.  "Hurry up and get yourself outfitted,
Pendrell.  It's cold out here and I want to get going, work up a sweat."

Pendrell gave him a look, gave Scully a longer one, and trudged over to the
manager's office.

"You're the best, partner," Scully told him, fascinated by the way his
lower lip protruded when he was in a bad temper.  Or depressed.  Or looking
soulful.  Don't think about it, Dana, she told herself again, a little more
urgently, but it was hard to resist the urge to squirm.

"Just remember this, Scully," he told her, innocent of what was going on
behind her calm expression.  "You really owe me one."

One what, she thought and smiled brightly.  "You bet, Mulder."  Oh, boy,
she was going to have to think pure thoughts or end up in real trouble.

And with that, she took refuge in the room, waiting until the two of them
started off across the street and toward the edge of town.


Naturally, cross country skiing entailed crossing country, but Scully found
that enough of the county roads crisscrossed the area that she could track
them by the direction they went.  Seeing them vanish over a hill, she could
take the next left and see them coming across the fields.

Mulder's arms were moving briskly and he, despite his inherent clumsiness,
was athletic, his movements were smooth and well coordinated.  Too bad he
couldn't carry that into real life.

Pendrell, on the other hand, seemed to be struggling after a while. After
due thought, Scully pulled the four wheel drive where they could see it,
dreading the expression she'd soon see on her partner's face.

She never got the chance to see it.  Pendrell was clearly faltering as the
crested the hill above her.  Mulder paused, seemed to look directly at her,
and suddenly wheeled and went back down the hill, vanishing in a scattering
of loose snow as Pendrell fell face forward and rolled down the hill.

Getting out of the vehicle, Scully found she was in snow past her knees
once she stepped off the road.  Sonuvabitch.  Pendrell was howling
inarticulately as he kept rolling, so she stopped struggling and just
waited for him to reach her.

When he did, the impetus of his trip down the hill knocked her flat on her
ass.  In snow that was almost hip deep.

"Pendrell," Scully told him, her teeth clenched.  "I'm beginning to think
about shooting you."

"Agent Scully, it wasn't my fault, I think he pushed me!"  Pendrell was red
face and sweaty and breathing like a bellows.  

Pushing herself to her feet, Scully managed to pop the skis off Pendrell's
boots and levered him to his feet.  "You are such an idiot, Pendrell.  How
can anyone not be able to cross country ski?  You can walk and breathe at
the same time, can't you?"

"Agent Scully, if you keep talking to me like that, I'm going to file a
harassment complaint with the AD."  Pendrell's face puckered up as if he
were going to cry.

Yes, she was definitely beginning to think about shooting him.  "There,
there," she told him, still through gritted teeth, "I'm sorry, it's not
your fault.  That Mulder is a tricky devil."

And since Pendrell wasn't, apart from his admittedly superior skill in
forensics, that meant she was going to be lucky not to have to put out an
all points bulletin.  On her partner.

Pendrell, naturally, sulked all the way back to the motel.


Mulder was waiting for them in the motel, of course.  The jerk.  Scully
helped the rapidly stiffening Pendrell from the four wheel drive and into
the room.  Pendrell stopped and scowled.  "I'm not staying in the same room
with him."

Scully sighed wearily.  

Mulder looked up from his laptop and grinned.  "Feeling a little stiff,
Pendrell?  You need to get away from your microscope more often."

"Mulder--"  Pendrell took in an outraged breath.  "You really suck!"  With
that, he moved slowly toward the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

Scully blinked at him, then rubbed her face.  "You suck?"

"He wishes," Mulder scoffed, continuing to type.  "So, Scully, you wanna
have me as roomie, or is Pendrell more your type."

It didn't take long to think that one over.  "You don't snore," she told
him quellingly.  "Get your stuff together, Mulder, I'm not lifting or
carrying one thing.  You brought this on yourself."

Snickering, Mulder picked up the laptop and carried it into the next room.


After that, it was blessed silence, except for the tap-tap of their
computer keys as they separately worked on laptops.  

After about an hour, Mulder looked up at her, arched an eyebrow.  "Wanna
trade so you can give me more shit about how insulin can't be ingested?"

Scully eyed him.  "No.  If I could get into the mortuary today, I'd be down
rechecking Olafsen for injection sites.  The more I look at the tox screen,
the more sure I am that your intuition might be on the mark.  But she
didn't drink it."

He grinned.  "Scully, that's kinky, spending your Sunday afternoon
examining dead bodies."

"Yeah, right."  She typed more, pursed her lips.  "Why don't you take a
ride down to the Country Kitchen and get us something to eat.  Since you're
actually on your feet and not worshipping the Porcelain God."

"Low blow, Scully," he told her, but rolled off the bed and fumbled around
on the floor for his boots.  "I'm really looking forward to a hearty lunch.
I think I'm going to give the cheeseburger another try.  And about a pound
of really salty fries."

"I can hear your arteries hardening even as we speak."

Another grin before he shrugged into his parka, picked the keys up from the
dresser and went out the door.

After a moment, Scully got off the bed and went to look at the screen of
his laptop.

"Indications are that the killer is of the organized type.  His victims are
not sexually molested, not mutilated, and the crime scenes are
orchestrated.  He evidently does not fear discovery, for all of the victims
were arranged carefully, the scenes showing an almost obsessive attention
to detail.  Ritualistic attention to detail.  The ritual itself may include
whatever pose or ruse the murderer uses to gain access to his victims.  A
study of the crime scenes suggests that the victims trust their killer,
whether because they know him, or because he presents himself as
unthreatening. "

It sounded sane and thoughtful. By God, maybe Mulder was right, maybe he
had to be in motion for his brain to fire on all cylinders.  Impressed,
Scully, scrolled down, continuing to read.

"The killings themselves fulfill two conditions.  First, they are part of
the downward spiral, which may have begun when the killer was as young as
eight or nine.  Second, they send a message to us, the sinners.  They are a
form of morality play, with an internal purpose and methodology that can be
interpreted if properly studied."

Well, he'd already hit on that, between Jello and the Pagan Queen of the
Solstice, Scully told herself and rested her chin on one hand, braced the
elbow against her knee as she used her free hand to keep tapping the Down
Arrow.

"Each killing had a theme and each victim performed as an archetypal symbol
to the killer.  However, instead of killing his mother over and over again,
this man is killing sin.  Each time he is confronted with behavior that
falls outside the strictly defined limits of his religious belief, he makes
the decision to punish the sin.  But even more than that, he is redeeming
the victims.  Cleansing them of sin and bringing them home to Jesus."

Ritual and the reliance on totemic objects can be observed in most, normal
healthy children.  Even healthy adults may have some reliance on an object
which symbolizes luck or happiness.  However, in adulthood, these objects
have become intellectualized.  They no longer have power over us
emotionally."

Scully thought of Mulder's Knicks shirt and grinned.  Nice touch, she
thought and chuckled.    

"The killer's reliance on totemic objects became internalized.  For him,
every object involved in his ritual has power over him.  The cod liver oil
used to drown the brothers--frequently used in an earlier era, not only to
prevent rickets, but to discipline children who had misbehaved.   The
jello, the hams and yams, the crown and red bathing suit--red, the color
associated with the Whore of Babylon and sin--all have power that imbue his
ritual with meaning."

This man is an integral part of the community, a professional, above
average intelligence.  His educational background will exceed the norm for
this community.  His outward behavior is normal, socially rewarded.  His
concern about acting morally or properly may make him appear to be
hypervigilant in correcting his own behavior, as well as that of others.
And he is likely to have very well honed manipulative skills.  The part of
his personality that still needs approval, acceptance and achievement is
his mask of sanity, it hides the terrors that lurk beneath."

Despite this mask of sanity, there will be telling cracks.  Compulsive
obsessive behavior will be an outstanding feature of the killer's
personality.  Compulsive cleanliness, constant showering, constant hand
washing.  He may obsessively catalog details about his victims in an effort
to rationalize his decision to make them atone through death."

Noise from the next room made her look up.  She heard Mulder's voice, then
Pendrell's voice, still shrill, gradually took on normal tones.  Mulder
responded in a tone she recognized as humorous, mending fences.  Good,
they'd need Pendrell again some day.  Looking back at the screen, Scully
continued reading.

"He may fear memory disorders, and thus obsessively catalog the way his day
is spent, rely on calendars inordinately, be obsessed with time.  There may
be some paranoid elements, and at some time, he will have considered
suicide, perhaps even attempted it.  There may be some deviant sexual
behavior as well, although the strong religious element in these murders
also suggest that this will be strongly repressed. " 

There certainly hadn't been any sexual molestation or mutilation of any of
the victims.  Aside from the subtle comment on the sexual orientation of
the dead twins, there was very little overt sexual content to any of the
killer's presentations.

"As a child, the killer was a victim of physical and emotional abuse.  At
this point, I would suggest that the father was passive in the face of the
mother's cruelty, that the killer was the victim of his mother's
frustration and rage with her husband's passivity.  He was not the eldest
child, although he is likely to have been the result of an unwanted
pregnancy.  The mother's pregnancy was difficult, perhaps medically
dangerous.  After his birth, the mother-child bond never formed
appropriately due to her rejection of the infant.  Consequently, the killer
is likely to have been deprived of the ability to learn how to be happy, to
feel pleasure.  He does not truly understand happiness or joy.  He cannot
feel it as others do."

Yeah, yeah, she scrolled this impatiently, pausing only to read Mulder's
assertion that the killer was not the eldest child.  

"As a result of these early experiences, his first real experience of
strong emotion, of what he perceives as joy and satisfaction, would have
come through killing things.  At first, he may have been startled by the
reaction to killing an animal, perhaps a farm animal or a pet.  (A chicken?
A dog?)  But gradual experimentation showed him that torturing animals to
death brought emotional satisfaction, perhaps the first he had experienced
in his life.  I believe it is probable that one or more of his siblings was
also used as a subject for experimentation.  Since he was seen as unwanted
and weak, they would not have feared him until it was too late.  One of the
wanted children, who had not been rejected by the mother, undoubtedly died
in what was determined to be an accident, but which was almost certainly
the killer's first taste of power over another human being."

Frowning, she leaned back against the headboard, thinking about that.  It
should be easy, in a community this size, to check and see if there were
any fortyish or fiftyish men who had lost siblings to accidental death.
*That*, at least, gave them something more to go on then Mulder's haunted
quotes.

"There may have likewise been some experimentation and fascination with
flame, but I think it unlikely.  It's doubtful that in a tightly knit
community, arson as a youthful preoccupation would be forgotten or forgiven
enough to enable the killer to achieve positive social recognition.  The
sexual component of these murders is so deeply buried in the psyche of the
killer that it suggests hyposexuality.  Although almost certain in his late
forties or early fifties, he is unlikely to have married or to have had a
long term sexual relationship.  He may have difficulty sleeping, and almost
certainly showed nighttime incontinence as a child."

She nodded again, heard the key in the door and glanced up as Mulder came
in.  He grinned at her, his arms full of styrofoam containers, and set them
all on top of the dresser.  "Scully, I brought you food.  No more waiting
on that dip Inge."

She was already reading again, this time aloud.  " 'He may also have been
subject to migraines, with the relief of the migraine coming after his
choice of a victim.  He will see this as God's reward for taking action
against the sinners.'  Mulder, where do you get this business of the
headaches?"

Taking off his parka, he stared at her, his mouth quirking as he thought
about it.  "It just came to me?"

Scully rolled her eyes.  "I think you've got some really good stuff here,
Mulder.  It should be relatively easy to check the death records for thirty
to forty years ago and find out which families lost kids to accidental
death, like drowning."

"Or in a fire," he agreed, "Or in a farm accident.  This is a farm kid,
Scully.  That's why he came back to this little town.  I also want to find
out where all our professionals here are from.  And the ones originally
from Timmsville, I want to check where they went to school and whether or
not there were any murders with similar signatures in the area while they
were at school."

She really was impressed.  He might be having dreams whackier than the
PeeWee Herman show, but he still had it.  "So, what did you bring me,
Mulder?"

Mulder waggled his eyebrows at her.  "A lot.  Baked whitefish with potatoes
in a creamy sauce with chives.  A nice green salad with lots and lots of
veggies in it and low fat dressing.  A nice apple cobbler--I figured we'd
leave the ice cream off, by the time you get through the salad and the
fish, it would have melted anyway."

Unable to help herself, Scully snickered.  "Mulder, I take back every
snarly thing I've said to you here.  I just needed you to look alive to
actually get a decent meal."

A soulful look and he came over to hand her three containers, two large and
one small.  That left two large and one small for him.  She arched an
eyebrow as he collected his own and sprawled belly down on the other bed.
"What did you get?"

He grinned.  "I told you, Scully.  A nice cheeseburger and fries, a nice
BLT just stuffed with the B and the T, and my own helping of apple cobbler.
I'm starving to death."

"No wonder."  She smiled and opened the salad.  Oh, God, he had outdone
himself.  "Mulder, I'm feeling dangerously soft on you right now."

He leered at her playfully, the first sign of mental health she'd seen on
this trip.  "Oooh, Scully, talk dirty to me."

"Heh."  Digging in, she pushed the laptop toward him.  "First thing in the
morning, you go over to the county courthouse and check the death records.
I'm going to go over Olafsen's body and call the good doctor to see if he
can tell me anything about her medical records.  I think his nose might be
out of joint because I've taken over the autopsies."

Mulder said something unintelligible around a mouthful of cheeseburger,
then swallowed and coughed.  "God, Scully, send him to the good Reverend
for spiritual counseling.  Now tell me, how could a man avoid having people
notice obsessive compulsive cleanliness rituals?  And how would he avoid
having chapped hands?  He can't possibly put anything on them, he can't
stand having anything oily on his skin."

"There are a lot of non-greasy preparations on the market, Mulder," Scully
told him.  "Some of them used in hospitals to rub patients down.  But
you're right, his skin would still have to be pretty dry." 

"Are they available to the general public?"  Mulder arched one eyebrow at
her.  "Yeah?  Well, that won't necessarily help us.  What kind of people
could get away with that kind of obsessive behavior without anyone taking
note of it?"

"Well, farmers, veternarians, doctors, dentists."  Scully tilted her head
back and considered.  "Cooks."

"If it's the one at the Country Kitchen, I'm going to get him a good
attorney," Mulder muttered.  "This is sooo good."

"Mulder!"  Shocked, she poked him in the ribs with her foot.  "That's a
terrible thing to say."  But giggling as she said it diluted the reprimand.

Unrepentant, he took another bite, chewing happily.

Not that she could really blame him.  Now that she actually got a chance to
eat something more than Mulder's left over pancakes or cold chicken and
noodles, she could sort of see his point.


That evening, Mulder eyed the Ovaltine with something approaching open
rebellion.  "It didn't do me any good last night, Scully."

"Sure it did, Mulder.  You went right back to sleep after your usual two am
nightmare and haven't thrown up all day."  Scully held the cup out toward
him.  "And I added extra marshmallows, Mulder.  I remembered that you like
them."

He frowned, but her eyes were so hopeful, and she wasn't entirely wrong,
he'd eaten heartily all day without so much as a quiver from his digestive
system.  And since Inge was riding high on the Winter Carnival festivities,
her temporary replacement had actually brought Scully her entire meal.

It didn't seem possible that all this had come from one lousy cup of
Ovaltine.  It might just as easily have been the cross-country skiing.  

On the other hand, he wasn't sure he wanted to take the chance of another
day spent worshipping the Porcelain God, as Scully had called it.

"Okay, Scully," he finally agreed and accepted the mug.   It tasted just as
awful this time, and only the marshmallows made it even remotely palatable.
The residue was grainy, he didn't bother with the marshmallows this time,
but rinsed the taste out his mouth with the iron-flavored water.  "Scully,
that was even worse than last night," he grumbled.  "Are you sure that milk
is all right?"

She took the cup and flashed him a grin.  "Sure, Mulder.  I left it outside
the bathroom window, along with your popsicles."

"Oh, great, I got milk that had to be thawed."  Sprawling on the bed,
Mulder clicked on the remote.

By the time Scully emerged from the bathroom wearing those absurd slippers,
his eyelids had already drooped to half-mast, and she retrieved the remote
from unresisting fingers.

"You look tired, Mulder.  Must be all that skiing and fresh air.  Good
thing you're in shape or you'd be as sore as Pendrell."

It was really hard to answer her.  "Umm," he managed and yawned hugely.
"I'll have to try it again tomorrow."  Only with effort did he push himself
upright, the last pair of clean sweatpants from his suitcase--he really was
going to have to hit the laundromat tomorrow--and pad into the bathroom.

By the time he'd changed, he was yawning again.  He left Scully the remote
and dived into the bed next to hers, once again feeling a fugitive sense of
wicked glee over the fact that Pendrell had ended up with the colder room.

If Pendrell's growing fascination with Inge was any indication, Pendrell
needed it.



Mulder was gone within ten minutes after climbing under the blankets.
Smiling smugly, Scully leaned against the headboard and watched Terms of
Endearment to the end without having to listen to any sardonic comments
from her partner.

By the time she turned off the light, she was filled with a sense of self-
justification and righteousness.  Mulder had gone one entire day without
losing his cookies, and had further managed to transcend whatever
embarrassment he might have felt over his dream the night before, or her
interruption of his morning ablutions.

While some might say that sneaking a half a Valium into his Ovaltine was
immoral, they hadn't seen Spooky Mulder in hyperdrive on a murder case.

She was doing the right thing, she assured herself and closed her eyes.....


Scully found herself in Skinner's office, sitting in the chair before the
desk.  

Skinner was looking at her partner, wearing the classic Skinner, you're-
about-to-be-reamed scowl.  "Agent Mulder," he growled, "You're an idiot.
Look at her--"  His hand rose, a finger pointing accusingly at Scully and
she looked down at herself involuntarily.

She wasn't exactly clad in classic G-woman attire.  A black lace bustier,
black lace garter belt, and black seamed stockings.  And no panties.   Oh,
God, she was in real trouble now, and somehow Skinner had found a way to
blame it on Mulder.

She wished she could.  Holding her thighs close together and folding her
hands in her lap, she hoped she could disguise her lack of panties until
they got up to leave.

And maybe she could get Mulder to block Skinner's view.  Or borrow his suit
coat.

"I'm sorry, sir."  Mulder's voice was uncharacteristically subdued.  "I
didn't think it would be right to violate the sacred nature of our
partnership with my illicit lust."

Illicit lust?  Scully's head turned again briefly and her jaw dropped.
Illicit lust?  She looked back at Skinner, hoping she hadn't heard what she
thought she had.

"Agent Mulder, I repeat, you are an idiot."  Skinner's scowl deepened. "Are
you going to do your duty by your partner, or do I have to assign someone
else to do it for you?"

Scully's head swiveled to the right again to see Mulder, who had somehow
managed to shed his Armani and was now sitting there with Marvin the
Martian silk shorts.  "But what about our sacred partnership?" Mulder
whined.

Sacred partnership?  Scully closed her mouth with an almost audible snap.
And what the hell did Skinner mean, do his duty by his partner?

Skinner rose slowly, majestically.  Oddly, he was wearing tight jeans and a
sweater that clearly showed the outlines of each and every muscle.  Oh,
God, just watching him made her squirm in her chair.  "Agent Mulder, if you
don't do your duty by your partner, you're going to have to watch someone
else do it."

"In that case," Mulder told him, abruptly brightening.  "I will.  Just
don't let that cigarette smoking bastard come in."

"I'll lock the door myself," Skinner assured him and came around the desk
to help Scully to her feet.  

It took a moment for her to figure that out and give him her hand.  "Too
bad you aren't a natural redhead," Skinner told her, in a stage whisper.
"But I think he'll do just fine anyway."

Only as she rose did Scully notice she was wearing red fuck-me spike heels.  

Mulder was eyeing her with obvious delight.  And Marvin's visage was
distorted by the shape beneath the silk.

Scully didn't get much of a chance to stare at it, Skinner was escorting
her to the conference table.

"Sir," she began, then squeaked as Skinner bent and lifted her to the
table, pausing only to tweak one bare nipple before he stood back to allow
Mulder to take his place at the edge of the table.

Mulder had that bright-eyed excited look he usually wore when talking about
EBEs.  Or UFOs.  Or government conspiracies.  Or the MJ files.  Or....never
mind, she'd just never seen it on his face at any time that might be
considered carnal, perhaps she could be forgiven for associating it with
the other subjects.

The shorts slid to the floor.  Oooh, she'd seen him naked in the Arctic,
but that hadn't told her much.  My God, the man had been almost been frozen
to death, of course he hadn't looked well endowed then.  Certainly not as
well-endowed as he was at the moment.

Reaching up, she yanked him down by the shoulders, sealing her mouth to his
and putting her tongue down her partner's throat.

"That's better," Skinner approved from the sidelines.

Oh, indeed it was, and Mulder was definitely showing enthusiasm.  A great
deal of enthusiasm.  As much as he usually showed for EBEs and UFOs
and....never mind, she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth, she
was just going to go with it and count it as good luck.

Mulder's enthusiasm was increasing exponentially, and he also showed a lot
more finesse than she'd have expected from a man who only got excited
over....never mind, maybe it was Phoebe's training, but for once Scully
found herself grateful to Phoebe.

"Agent Mulder," Skinner warned, "You're stalling."

"No, I'm not," Mulder protested, raising his head from her breasts.  "I'm
giving Agent Scully the attention she deserves."

About time the big idiot recognized that, Scully thought distantly and
pulled him onto the table with her....oooooh, he definitely knew what he
was doing and her body said hello with a great deal of matching energy as
Marvin's friend slid into her warm, silky, wetness, oooh, that felt soooooo
good, he filled her up just right, her heels settled into his buttocks,
urging him on, and she tilted her head back to moan in pleasure and
happiness.

Four years of slogging after him over crop circles, werewolves, haunted
rest homes, and facing morphing aliens, green blooded clones, and Duane
Barry.  

Four years of ruining heels, ruining hose, and ruining fingernails, not to
mention nearly getting her head chopped off by homicidal cannibals.  

Four years of putting up with temper tantrums, a partner who dressed better
than she did, eating dreadful fast food, and staying in worse motels.  

Oh, God, she was going to forgive him all of it after this....little
shrieks of delight escaped her, she dug her heels into him, setting the
perfect rhythm and rode him back just as hard and oh, God, she was going to
come, she was coming any minute, oh, God, she was......

Awake in her bed in Minnesota, breathing hard, her nipples chafed by the
flannel nightshirt as she did unspeakable things to the pillow between her
legs.

How humiliating.

Raising her head, Scully tried to catch her breath.  If Mulder had woken up
during any of this, she was never going to hear the end of it, and besides,
he was eventually going to need a way to pay her back for knowing something
that intimate about him.

On the other hand, he was having his own dreams like clockwork and it
wasn't two am yet, and maybe she could take advantage of Valium
intoxication to make him think it had all been a dream.

He might be lying there with his face in the pillow, but he could be hard
as a rock right now.

The very notion made her mouth, among other things, water.  Creeping
carefully out of bed, she lifted his comforter and slid stealthily into bed
beside him, one hand delicately traveling over the curve of his hip and
then across his belly---shit, there was a wet spot already.  She'd missed
it.

Sighing, Scully rolled onto her back, listening to Mulder's breathing, deep
and regular.  On the other hand, at least he hadn't screamed this time.
Maybe it had been somewhat normal.

All she knew is that she was going to have a helluva time going back to
sleep.



"Morning, Scully," Mulder told Scully cheerfully, sitting down on the edge
of her bed.  "I brought you some coffee from the restaurant.  And
Pendrell's not mad at me anymore."

Peering at him through disheveled hair, Scully raised her head.  "What time
is it?"

"About quarter after eight," he told her and sipped at his styrofoam cup.
"They aren't environmentally aware here, I guess," he added, eyeing the
styrofoam.  "Anyway, Bergman should be into his office soon, and the night
deputy said you could get back into the mortuary about nine.  I thought you
might want to get up."

Taking the cup, Scully sipped at it, pushed herself upright against the
headboard.  He looked, as always, impeccable in his suit, every inch the
professional, impenetrable asshole, Spooky Mulder.

She was going to kill him.  On the other hand, the coffee *was* pretty
good.

"I got up early and went skiing again, Scully.  You were right, it's great,
it works just like a run."  Mulder gave her a guileless smile.  "I even
dropped my laundry off at the twenty-four hour laundromat, I need to pick
it up this afternoon."

She stared at him over the rim of the cup.  His laundry?  Oh, his laundry.
She had to take another sip to keep from grinning at that, and he got up
from the bed, going to retrieve a styrofoam container from the dresser.

"I brought you some breakfast, Scully.  Pancakes."

Oh, Lord, she'd had enough pancakes already just eating his leftovers.  On
the other hand, he was trying to be sweet, that much was obvious.  She'd
just have to manage, she told herself, and manufactured a smile as she
accepted it.

"I'm going to walk over to the police station, see if I can get them to run
me over to the county courthouse."  Mulder was shrugging into his overcoat.
"I thought I'd leave the four wheel drive for you and Pendrell."

"How'd you sleep last night, Mulder?" Scully asked, unable to keep the
smile completely hidden.

She thought she saw his shoulders twitch, but his back was to her and she
couldn't see his expression.  "Fine, Scully," he told her heartily, "That
Ovaltine really does the trick."

It was all she could do not to snicker, but remembering her own
disappointment at finding that he'd, ah, already reached the climax of his
dream before she'd slipped into his bed helped.  Maybe she'd only give him
a quarter tablet in the Ovaltine tonight.  Heh.

He was already heading toward the door.  "How about if we meet around noon
at the restaurant," he suggested, still without looking at her.

"Sounds good to me."  Aw, he'd even gotten her several little containers of
syrup, to make sure she'd had a choice.  "See you then, Mulder.  Try not to
get into any trouble at the courthouse, okay?"

The door closed without any answer.

Picking up the plastic fork, she smiled.  It really could be a lot of fun
to yank Mulder's chain.



It was nearly eleven thirty before Mulder turned the light off on the
microfiche machine in the courthouse.  It really was amazing how large
families had been up in this part of the country forty years ago.  And even
more amazing how many families had lost children before adulthood.  Farm
accidents, accidents while ice fishing, summertime drownings, and grass
fires.

It was depressing as hell, and the stolid folk who lived up here buried
them and went on.  It was more than depressing, it was suspicious.   He'd
come up with fifteen deaths that looked suspicious, where the death had
taken place unwitnessed.  

Out of curiosity, he'd kept scrolling, giving himself Excedrin Headache
3215 from the image on the microfiche screen.  The deaths had started 38
years ago.   The first had been Gus Olafsson Junior, aged sixteen, who had
fallen off a hayloft onto the harrowing blades of his father's tractor.
Following that trail backward, Mulder had found that Gus Senior and Mrs.
Gus Senior had been married hastily during the depression, with Gus Junior
making his appearance an indecently short period of time after the wedding
day.  Their daughters had been born two and six years after, respectively,
and the last child, Eric, had come four years after that.  A surprisingly
small family for this area, but it was during the depression, perhaps the
Olafsson family hadn't been as well off financially as their n

Then, two years after that, the Johannsen twins, aged twelve, had drowned
while apparently ice fishing.  A year later, Harley Hargrove, aged nine,
had drowned during a hot July at the local swimming hole.  Why a nine year
old had been swimming unattended was a question Mulder noted on his pad,
but there had been no witnesses.

A gap of t into an unattended threshing machine early in the summer, before
anyone was threshing.  Ericsen had been seventeen.  Thirteen year old Jamie
Landry had died six months later in a freak accident on the ice while ice
skating.

Almost a year later, fourteen year old Helge Olson died while taking out
supper to her father, who had been ice fishing.  Fell through the ice, the
report said, not unlike the unfortunate Johannsen twins.

The death toll went on for twelve years, and then accidental deaths seemed
to, he thought grimly, just stop.  More or less.  

And that was it.  No other pattern, other than the strangeness of the
unattended 'accidental deaths'.  Closing his notepad, he took his glasses
off and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

He was going to have to find out if any of the family members were still in
the area and what they could tell him about the deaths.  Maybe something
that would give him something more to go on, some arcane or vague hint that
would set him directly onto the murderer's trail.

But first, he was going to have lunch with Scully and see what she had
found going over the bodies again.



"First things first," Scully told him, sitting down at the table across
from Mulder, her cheeks pink with the cold.  The temperature had dropped
again and Mulder regretted wearing a suit instead of thermal underwear and
jeans.  "We found something sewn into her bathing suit, Mulder.  I can't
think how we missed it before."  She looked over in Pendrell's direction.  

The younger agent was sitting at a separate table, beaming at the bosomy
Inge, evidently taking a break from Carnivaling.  Or Queening.  Whichever.

Scully handed a plastic bag over to him.  It held a narrow piece of paper
and Mulder flinched.  "It's the Miranda poem," Scully told him dryly.  "The
one you quoted the other day."

At the end of the table, Bergman snorted.  "He's got his own goddamned
Psychic Hotline," he growled.

Trask, sitting next to him, gave him a severe look.  "Harald, watch your
language."

Scully flicked Trask a faint smile before looking back at Mulder.  Mulder,
she was injected with something, I found the injection site.  And I had the
lab check specifically for a variety of things.  Insulin.  I ought to choke
you, but you haven't told me how you guess these things yet."

Peering through the plastic, Mulder shuddered.

"Unwillingly Miranda wakes, Feels the sun with terror, One unwilling step
she takes, Shuddering to the mirror.

Miranda in Miranda's sight, Is old and gray and dirty; Twenty-nine she was
last night; This morning she is thirty."

"Marcy Olafsen turned thirty on Friday."  Scully's voice was very soft.

The table was silent for several moments before the waitress arrived to
take Scully's order.

Mulder sighed and bit into an oversized bacon, lettuce, and tomato
sandwich, trying not to think about Ogden Nash, Caroline Timmeson and her
freezer, or Marcy Olafsen in the church. 

Trask leaned back in her chair, having already polished off the lunch
special, thankfully not yams and ham.  Bergman was sullenly chain smoking
and working through the latest in an apparently unlimited supply of coffee
refills.

"And Caroline Timmeson had traces of potassium chloride in her system."  

Mulder glanced up again to see Scully victorious--the very sheen on her
face made him shift on his chair uncomfortably.  Last night's dream, at
least, hadn't been anything too out of the ordinary, if you didn't count
the handcuffs and the spanking.

Of course, Scully had only been wearing a black leather bustier and high
heeled black boots that came up to the middle of her thigh while she was
spanking him, and seeing her breasts bob entrancingly in the mirror had
been excruciatingly arousing.

At least it hadn't made him scream himself awake, and no one from the
Bureau had made a surprise appearance, it had been just him and Scully and
the black leather paddle.  

He squirmed again in his chair, putting the images out of his mind by
concentrating on the notes he'd made at the courthouse.  "Okay, so we can
make a guess that he's making the death itself as painless as possible for
the women.  Somehow, drowning in cod liver oil doesn't seem like it would
be terribly painless."

Scully grimaced and Bergman shuddered.

Mulder arched an eyebrow at Trask.  "You grew up around here?"

Trask nodded and slowly blew a large pink bubble.

God, he'd forgotten about that in the last few days.  Fascinated, Mulder
watched it growing and growing until....until....until she sucked it back
into her mouth.   "Um, did you know the Gus Olafsson family?"

Trask blinked.  "Doc Olafsson's family?  Sure.  After Gus Senior died, Mrs.
Olafsson was a real mainstay of the church here in town."

Bergman coughed on his coffee, waving Trask away when she would have patted
his back helpfully.  "Oh, yeah," he finally managed hoarsely, "A real
mainstay.  She drove her son-in-law to suicide."

Mulder's ears came to a point.  "Her son-in-law?"

"The Reverend Fulke," Trask agreed.  "That was a gosh-darned shame, doncha
know."

"The Reverend Fulke," Mulder repeated, frowning.  A little chill snaked its
way down the back of his neck.  Scully was giving him a meaningful look.

"Yeah," Bergman told him nastily, "You know, his mother-in-law's ghost
appeared to you in the church."

Trask gave Bergman an irritated look.  "Agent Mulder never said he saw
Gerda Olafsson's ghost, Harald."

"I saw it, too, Sheriff."  Scully's voice was cool.  "And that was no
ghost, ghosts don't generally wield straight edged rulers with that much
force."

Mulder eyed the bandage on his palm thoughtfully.  "Well, that's true," he
began, "Although--ow!"  Scully had kicked him.  Hard.  "Sorry, we're
getting off track," he muttered, glaring at her.  "So, Gerda Olafsson was
Gus' mother?"

"Yah," Trask nodded.  "Only Hilde and Doc Olafsson are still  in the area."

He wasn't up to facing the good doctor at this particular moment in time.
He wasn't sure he wanted to admit that the Ovaltine really did seem to be
helping.  Not to Scully or to Olafsson  .  Maybe he could manage to have a
corker of a nightmare again tonight to prove to her that it didn't
work...."I think I'd like to have a talk with Mrs. Fulke.  Where is she
living now?"

"I'll drive you out there," Trask offered, giving Bergman a warning look.

"She's as crazy as you are," Bergman muttered anyway.  "Woman's just short
of bayin' at the moon."

"There isn't a thing wrong with Hilde Fulke."  Trask scowled at the
sheriff.  "She's just made her adjustment to her losses."

Mulder's ears came to a point again.  "Losses?"

Trask nodded vehemently.  "Poor woman, lost her only boy when he was about
sixteen.  Of course, she had all the girls to lean on, but it broke her
heart that Reverend Fulke's name wasn't going to be carried on."

"How did she lose him?"  Mulder's mouth was suddenly dry.  

"Oh, it was sad, it was one of those gosh-darned farm equipment accidents,
doncha know."  Trask sighed mournfully.  "She managed to carry on, though I
don't know what she'd have done without Doc Olafsson and the girls."

Mulder leaned back to let the waitress, a middle aged woman with greying
blonde hair who looked him eye to eye, put his bowl of tomato soup and his
grilled cheese and tomato and bacon sandwich down in front of him.  Scully
regarded his meal with faint repugnance, although he wasn't sure why. "Sure
are a lot of farm accidents around here," he muttered and picked up his
sandwich.

"Yah," Trask agreed and sighed again.  "Farming's no easy life, I'm
afraid."

Bergman snorted and leaned back to let the waitress pour yet another refill
of coffee.  

Taking a bite of his sandwich, Mulder found himself wondering if that was
what passed for graft in Timmsville.

It didn't seem to be a good moment to ask.


The widow Fulke was another one of those tall, greying blondes.  The house
was spotless, full of Victorian furniture, and colder than hell with the
fires out.  Mulder kept his coat on during the entire interview; after a
brief trial, Scully slipped hers back on, although the widow and Trask
seemed to be perfectly comfortable.

The cold must be something you got used to up here, Mulder thought and
sighed as Trask explained the reason for their visit.

"Yah, I remember when Gus died," Hilde poured tea into fragile china cups
and Trask passed them out, her large hands drawfing the cup and saucer and
making Mulder acutely aware of how small Scully's hands were when she
accepted hers.  "Poor Gus, he always was a little wild, didn't always pay
attention to what he was doing.  I think he probably just wasn't looking
where he was going and fell over the edge of the loft."  

"Did Gus have any trouble with any other kids, Mrs. Fulke?" Mulder asked
and took a sip of the watery tea.  "Perhaps his own age, perhaps younger?"

"Yah," Mrs. Fulke agreed, leaning back in her rocker to sip at her own tea.
"Gus was a terrible bully, doncha know.  He was hardest on the younger
kids, of course, and he was as tall as Papa.  No one wanted to take Gus on.
Best thing in the world was when he discovered girls, because I told him
that if he picked on me and Greta anymore, we'd tell all the other girls
terrible things about him.  I don't think you can find a person alive who
remembers Gus fondly."

That seemed pretty sad.  Mulder took another sip of tea.  "Was he alone in
the barn that day?"

Mrs. Fulke adjusted her bifocals, peering owlishly at him through the
lenses.  "Well, yah, I think so.  Papa used to wonder about that, seemed
like one of the hired men shoulda been there, but Gus was so darn snippity,
they all found other things to do, even if it was something nasty on the
other side of the farm."

"Hired men?"  Mulder considered that.  "Was your family well off, Mrs.
Fulke."

"Oh, yah, Papa was one of the richest farmers in the county back then.  Not
that Mama would have it any other way.  She didn't want people thinking
she'd made a bad choice."  Mrs. Fulke rocked,sipping her tea for another
moment.  "Mama wasn't what you'd call a nice woman, Agent Mulder."

Trask looked at the older woman, genuinely shocked.  "Hilde!"

Mrs. Fulke smiled at her.  "You were just a young one yourself, Kristina
Trask.  You didn't know that woman.  Why, she hated Max from the moment she
laid eyes on him, said he was too soft to replace the Reverend Scheinholz,
that horrible old man.  And after what happened in the church after choir
practice, I think her ghost drove my poor Max to go outside in that barn
and hang himself.  She wasn't a Christian woman at all.  I used to wonder,
but Max showed me that what Mama was about had nothing to do with Christ.
Oh, and when Max got to preaching, he stirred up powerful feelings.
Especially among the womenfolk."  Her voice was faintly prideful.  

Mulder looked at Scully wide-eyed.  She looked back, giving him an
unmistakable warning that if he said the wrong word, he was going to be
sorry his grandparents had ever met.  Swallowing hard, he turned back to
Mrs. Fulke, who was continuing, her tone faintly bitter.

"And then poor Minne Gerdstrom never could live it down, after Mama
shrieking her way out of the vestibule, telling the whole town about
fornication."

Trask's jaws tested their flexibility.  "But Hilde--"

"I know, everybody says she died in the church, but she was on her way out
when I came runnin' from the rectory and shoved her back inside.  I didn't
want her shrieking like that out on the street, but the Gundersen woman was
across the way and you know how her tongue flaps."  Mrs. Fulke looked at
Mulder.  "Poor Minnie was in there just trying to cover herself with her
choir robe, and Max was as just as white as the altar cloth.  I pushed the
horrible old cow back in and she started shrieking at me, telling me that
she'd warned me that Max was no good, that he was a sinner."  Her mouth
twisted.  "That evil old crow, she was always sucking the joy out of
everything.  So I slapped her.  She fell down in the pew, holding her face
and screaming at the top of her lungs.  And then she just stopped screaming
and made this gurgling sound.  The stroke."  Mrs. Fulke gave Mulder a
serene smile.  "I've always felt that it was God's way of punishing her,
myself."

Trask's mouth closed with a snap.

Mulder cleared his throat.  "So, to get back to Gus--you don't know of
anyone specifically who might have given him some help falling out of the
loft."

"Unless it was one of God's holy angels," Mrs Fulke sighed, "I sure don't.
You really think somebody killed Gus?"

"I think it's possible," Mulder told her and coughed.  God's holy angels?
"There were some other accidental deaths in the years after Gus died, Mrs.
Fulke."  Looking down at his pad, he turned to the page he was seeking.
"The Johannsen twins, Harley Hargrove, Helge Olson.  Any of those names
ring a bell with you?"

Mrs. Fulke frowned, her eyes gazing distantly into the past.  "Yah, the
Johannsen twins ran around with Helge Olson's big brother, they weren't as
bad as Gus, but they teased the younger kids something fierce.  Harley--
Harley was just bad, pure and simple.  He was the only child and spoiled
just rotten.  Got so his parents couldn't find anyone to babysit him, he
was so bad.  I took Eric there one time to keep him out of Mama's way. I'll
never forget the way Harley cursed his mama and papa for leaving him to go
ice-fishing.  And Eric's eyes got just like saucers, I had to cover his
ears."  She sighed and looked back at Mulder.  "Helge?  I didn't remember
about Helge.  Yah, she was just a year or two ahead of Eric in school, I
think, and pretty full of herself.  She was a pretty thing, very vain, the
only girl in all those Olson boys."  She sighed again, mournfully, perhaps
thinking of her only son among all the girls.  "But nobody ever seemed to
think any of those were anything but terrible accidents, Agent Mulder."

"They may have been," he agreed and closed the pad.  "They just strike me
as suspicious, Mrs. Fulke.  There were no witnesses and a lot of
supposition about what led to the deaths."

She rocked and gazed at him.  "But you think someone murdered them.  The
same person committing these terrible killings."

After a moment, Mulder nodded.  "Was this the family farm, Mrs. Fulke?"

"Yah, it sure was.  Mama had fought with Minnie, and she never did like
Eric, so I was in her will anyway.  And poor Eric--well, he didn't want the
house anyway, and it sure was a God-send after poor Max lost the church."
Faded blue eyes blinked rapidly behind the bifocals.  "At least until Max
went out to the barn."

Mulder found himself wondering if Max, too, had been helped to his death.
Rising, he nodded at Trask and advanced to offer his hand to Mrs. Fulke.
Hers nearly swallowed his up, but when she rose, she stood as tall as
Skinner.  God, the people up here were mutants, he wondered if Scully would
mind having two cases at the same time, an X file along with the serial
murder case.....

No, she'd gut him and filet him, he was sure of it.  "Mrs. Fulke, is that
barn the same barn your brother died in?"

"Oh, yah, but gosh, that was a long time ago, Agent Mulder.  You won't be
able to find any evidence, will you?  The farm equipment is all gone these
days."

"I just like to see the scene, get a feel for it," Mulder told her and
glanced back to see a patient, long-suffering look settle over Scully's
features.  "I won't be long."

"I'll go with you," Scully told him.

Trask stared at them as if they were both insane.  "I'll wait here," she
muttered and took another sip of the tea.



The wind cut through Mulder's overcoat and suit jacket the minute they
stepped out onto the back porch.

"Mulder, is this really necessary?"  Scully asked, through clenched teeth.
"Jesus, we've got to solve this and get the hell someplace warmer."

Turning his collar up against the wind, Mulder nodded and started off down
the packed snow of the path to the barn.  Once inside, out of the wind, he
held the door for Scully and fought to keep the wind from tearing it out of
his hands.  "Jesus, I hate winter!"

"Me, too," Scully muttered and looked up.  "Well, Mulder, it looks like a
barn."

"I wonder if the Reverend Fulke really did hang himself, Scully, or if
somebody helped him to it."  Mulder peered up at the loft, then down at the
packed earth of the floor.  The temperature was surely colder than Caroline
Timmeson's deep freeze.  He could feel the chill through the soles of his
shoes and through the gloves and blew out a puff of winter breath. "Christ,
it's cold in here."

"At least there's no wind."  Scully advanced into the gloom.  "God, they
left the rope up."  Her tone was thick with horror.

"A memorial, maybe."  Mulder shrugged and moved forward, past her.  Finding
the ladder to the loft, he went up carefully, pulled himself onto the loft
floor.  Bare of hay or straw or whatever the hell they kept up here, it
seemed bleak.  God, they'd even left the noose in it.  But something didn't
seem quite right.  "Scully, was the Reverend Fulke as big as Mrs. Fulke?"

Scully's face was a pale oval, peering up at him.  "How the hell do I know,
Mulder?  He's been dead eighteen years, no one has asked me to autopsy
him."

Mulder sighed.  "Okay, I just thought maybe you'd know, since you knew all
the rest of the story."  He walked toward the noose and reached up to touch
it, to set the rope swinging.  It just didn't seem right.  If Fulke was as
tall as Mrs. Fulke, or taller, the rope should still be lower.  "I mean, if
you were going to hang yourself by stepping off the loft," he reasoned
aloud, "Wouldn't you have to have the rope far enough down to slip the
noose over your head?  But if you were lifted into position--"

"Sinner!"  The hiss was almost serpentine.  Whirling, Mulder teetered on
the edge of the loft, heard Scully's frantic, "Mulder!" before getting his
balance.  There was no one behind him.

"Scully?"  His mouth was dry.  "Did you hear that?"

"I didn't hear anything."  He heard her ragged inhalation.  "I did,
however, see my partner nearly break his neck."

Mulder's heart hammered against his ribs almost painfully.  "I heard
something," he muttered and shivered.  "God."  Turning back to the rope, he
took a prudent step away from the edge of the loft.  "Scully, I'm not sure
that Fulke actually killed himself."

"Mulder, that's eighteen years ago.  We can't go re-opening every
suspicious death way back to the thirties."

"Sinner!"  This time, the hiss was a little louder, and when Mulder
whirled, he saw something take shape out of the shadows of the loft.  An
unreasoning terror snaked down his spine and between his legs and headed
toward his balls.  They made a very serious attempt to crawl up into his
body.  

He could feel them rising to his throat as the old woman advanced on him.
She seemed more gaunt this time, more haglike, more threatening.  Even
though she wasn't, thankfully, carrying a ruler. 

"Sinner," it came again, the accusation, fingers like talons pointed toward
him.  "I see your heart, I see the filth there.  You're just like the
others, filthy, dirty beasts wallowing in the sins of the flesh."

He couldn't seem to move.  "Scully?"  His voice came out as little more
than a whisper.  "Can you come up here?"

"What?"  Scully's voice was irritable.

The woman came closer.  Oh, God, she had a veritable grey mustache on her
upper lip.  And the black dress had a faintly, phospherescent green glow.
And didn't her breasts hang more slackly, didn't those hands more closely
resemble claws than they had last time?  

Worst of all, Mulder had nowhere to go, the old woman was between him and
the ladder.

"Vile, depraved swine," the hiss was just as sibilant, raising hairs on the
back of his neck.  "Filthy, filthy, thinking only with what God put between
your legs for the creation of children.  But that's not good enough for
you, is it?  No, you want the pleasure of it, you want to wallow in the
filth like the animals.  Poking that thing into any woman you see, lusting
after them with every breath you take.  Filthy, dirty beast!"

"Scully?"  Mulder managed a little more volume this time, even though his
teeth were chattering.  "Scully, can you come up here, please?"

"Of course, you want her up here," the old hag shrilled suddenly, making
him flinch.  "You want here up her so you can stick your dirty, filthy
thing into her.  So you can make the beast with two backs.  Filthy, dirty
sinner, get down on your knees."

Scully's head appeared above the edge of the loft.  He spared a brief,
panicky look at her before turning back to watch the woman.

She kept advancing on him, he had to take a half-step backward, that much
closer to the edge of the loft.

"Mulder," Scully's voice rose in alarm.  "Dammit, Mulder, watch what you're
doing!"

The old harridan came closer.  

Mulder forced himself not to moan and was glad he'd used the bathroom
before they'd left.  And that he'd only taken a sip or two of the tea.  

Why wasn't Scully doing anything, why wasn't she arresting her?  For that
matter, asked a little voice in his head, why wasn't he?

He could feel the edge of the loft under his heel.  As the long, gnarled
finger came toward his chest, he reached up and caught the rope, too
overcome with horror to let that finger touch him.

"Mulder!!"  Scully screamed, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Make her stop," he gibbered, ready to jump if he had to.

"Make who stop?"  Scully came toward him and so did the hag.  

He swung out over the empty space, holding onto the noose with a death
grip.  "Scuuuuuullllyyy, don't let her touch you."

Scully stood at the edge of the loft and stared at him completely oblivious
to the hag's shrieking cackle.  

"Mulder," she said softly, "It's okay, there's nobody here now but me.  See
if you can just swing back here."

Mulder closed his eyes.  Opened them again to see Scully standing alone on
the wooden floor of the loft.  Oh.  Shit.  "I don't think I can, Scully."
He looked down.  Well, maybe it was a long way to jump.  "I really don't
think I can."

Scully blinked.   "Great.  We'll have to call the fucking fire department."

Mulder looked up and down again, feeling vaguely dizzy at the distance
below him.  Maybe he could try to swing over, he decided and gave it his
best shot.  After all, that little wimp Douglas Fairbanks Jr. had always
managed, and he was just an actor.

Scully closed her eyes as he picked up momentum, but Mulder had to admit,
she was there for him when he tumbled back to the floor of the loft,
reaching down to help him to his feet.

Standing face to face, she looked up at him.  "Mulder," she told him
quietly, "I think you've gone over the edge."


Mulder was silent, slumped in the back seat on their way back to the motel.
Scully kept glancing back at him, trying not to remember the panic on his
face as he grabbed that damned noose and swung out over the floor of the
barn. 

Jesus, he wasn't Sylvester Stallone or whoever the hell else was performing
feats of derring do these days in the world of cinema.  

He was an FBI agent, a psychologist, for God's sake, a man who carried two
guns because he kept losing one.

And although he had insisted again and again that the old woman from the
church was there in the loft, he had finally gone silent on her when she
had shown him the dust on the loft floor, unmarked by footprints.

Now he was sitting in the back seat, head tilted back, eyes closed.  Maybe
Pendrell was right, maybe she was taking his behavior for granted.  Maybe
Mulder was over the edge.

"What happened back there?"  Trask finally risked asking.  "In the barn."

"Agent Mulder--he saw something that bothered him."  Scully looked out the
passenger window.  "Trask, is there a psychologist in Timmsville?"  She
felt, rather than saw, Trask's sidelong look.

"There's one in Zimmer," Trask finally told her.  "My cousin Frank.  But
he's an animal psychologist these days, we don't get much call for
psychologists in this county."

Scully couldn't imagine why not.  Just staying here for the last four days
had been enough to drive Mulder over the edge.  And she was getting pretty
close herself, only for vastly different reasons.  "Could you give him a
call?  I think I'd like Agent Mulder to talk to him."

There was a brief silence.  "Does he always take it this personal?" Trask
eyed her again.

"Only if it's murder," Scully told her morosely.  "And then--yeah, always."

They drove the rest of the way in silence.


Dinner was a treat.  Sitting in the booth, Mulder looked hemmed in by both
Pendrell and Trask, pale and tired and not just a little unhappy.

Scully wished she'd gotten to the booth faster, she'd have gotten next to
him.  "What are you going to have, Mulder?" she asked, with false cheer.

"I dunno."  Mulder was staring at the menu.  She could almost hear the
wheels turning in his head.  "Maybe a cheeseburger.""Cheeseburger's good,"
Trask agreed thoughtfully.  "But I think I'll have the lutefisk."

Mulder shuddered.  Scully didn't blame him.  "Pendrell," she said
pointedly, "Would you mind grabbing a chair, I think you're all a little
crowded."

Mulder's grateful look nearly undid her.  

He'd been silent and miserable since they'd left the barn together, as
badly shaken as she'd ever seen him.  He kept insisting that the old woman
had been there, that she'd harangued him about his sins, and that he'd been
so repulsed by the idea of her touching him that he'd taken that flying
leap on the Reverend Fulke's noose.  

Despite this apparent flight from lucid thought, he was still making sense
about the Reverend Fulke's death.  Unless the Reverend Fulke had been
freakishly tall, it seemed unlikely that he had gone to his eternal reward
unaided.

Pendrell scowled.  "Agent Scully, I think it's time for some tough talk
here.  Agent Mulder needs help."

Mulder's head turned slowly, but he didn't respond.  Instead, he looked
even more morose.

"He's fine," Scully snapped, giving Trask a warning look.  Trask, who had
opened her mouth to speak, immediately closed it.  "Pendrell, either get
another chair or get another table."

Still scowling, Pendrell got another chair.  Scully tried to smile
reassuringly at her partner.

"Scully," he said, offering her a wan smile in return.  "I'm really not
very hungry right now.  I'd like to get into a hot shower and see if I can
get warm again."  He slid out of the booth and pulled his coat around him.
"I'll walk, it's just a few blocks, Scully.  But you could maybe bring me
some tomato soup back?  Maybe by that time I'll feel a little more like
eating."

Scully bit her lip and nodded.  

The moment the door of the Country Kitchen closed behind Mulder, Trask
leaned forward.  "I called my cousin, Agent Scully.  He can see you
tomorrow afternoon.  He's got a session with Olsen's cows in the morning."

Resting her forehead in her hands, Scully considered her options.  She
could take her partner to a shrink presently serving the livestock and pets
of the county, or she could ship him home, or she could drug him out of his
mind.  Of the three options, the latter was looking more and more
attractive, except that drugged out of his mind, she couldn't have her way
with him.  If he was in a straitjacket, she couldn't have her way with him.
Or rather, she could, but only if the orderlies left him alone and
unattended long enough.  

And taking him to the animal shrink..."Trask, has your cousin ever treated
a human being?"

"Yah, he used to have an office down in the Twin Cities, doncha know."
Trask nodded helpfully.  "But he got sick of city life and came up here.
Kinda got into helping animals by accident, since he didn't have too many
patients up here."

At least this guy had a real degree.  She hoped.  "Okay, tell him we'll be
there."

Pendrell looked from one to the other.  "You're taking Agent Mulder to
another doctor?"

Trask got another warning look and closed her mouth in time.  Scully looked
at Pendrell for a long moment in silence.  "Yes, Pendrell, I am."

Pendrell stared back.  "To a veternarian?" he asked, his tone incredulous.
"I know he's crazy, but a veternarian?"

"He's not a veternarian.  He lives in Zimmer, he just treats animals
because he doesn't have enough human patients."

When Pendrell's gave moved to Trask, who was listening to this with
amazement, the big trooper had the sense to nod emphatically.  "Yah, he had
a busy practice in the Twin Cities."

Pendrell continued to look suspicious.  "What's wrong with him."

Great.  Scully licked her lips and lifted her chin.  "I think he has an
inner ear infection, it's affecting his sense of balance.  Trask's cousin
is an ENT.  Doctor Olafsen is a general practitioner and I think Mulder
needs to be seen by a specialist."  

God was going to punish her someday for lying to cover Mulder's ass.   If
he didn't decide to punish her for lusting after him.  She could see it
now, an eternity in hell spent dressed in the black lace merry widow and no
panties, with Mulder attractively posed in the nude just out of arm's
reach.  

Doomed.  She was doomed.  Her mother was right, she needed to get back to
the church and start earning those plenary indulgences.  With any luck, she
could get by with purgatory.

It was a pity that the Church no longer sold the damned things, she'd cash
in her retirement investment program and buy all they had.