By Kel and Michelle Kiefer
ckelll@hotmail.com and msk1024@yahoo.com
 

Category:  Casefile
Spoilers: season 6ish
Rating: R
Archive:  Just ask.
Disclaimer:  Not ours.  Sigh.
Summary:  When an investigation in the
middle of nowhere opens old wounds,
2000 miles away becomes too close to
home.  Can Mulder and Scully unravel the
puzzle before they fall apart?
COMMENTS:  Huge, huge thanks to MaybeAmanda
and Syntax6 for beta.  Thanks to Nell and
Linda for invaluable help along the way.
Our eternal gratitude also to our own
resident veterinarian, the lovely Enigmatic Dr,
for beta and technical advice on all things sheep.

This is a "Beta-in-progress" story.  The story
is complete, and we will post as each part is
pushed and pulled into shape.  We're doing our
best to stick to a once a week (at least)
schedule.  So far, so good!

Bone of Contention (6/15)
 

Mulder lay very still and kept his eyes closed.
His thoughts were marching around his head in
every direction, refusing to line up to let him
understand what was going on.

The sheep-thing with hands.  Floating in a green
tank, so like the clones he'd seen so long ago.
Like Scully, frozen in her aspic coffin.

He had figured out one thing.  Every time he moved
or opened his eyes, someone jabbed him with a sharp
needle and he went back to sleep.

He tried not to let his breathing show his panic.
They had to think he was still asleep.

Someone was in the room with him, a man who hummed
to himself from time to time. When Mulder opened his
eyes or tried to change position, the man rebuked him
with a cluck of the tongue and another shot in the
deltoid.  Other than that, the man seemed perfectly
content to leave Mulder alone.  A door squeaked
open and somebody entered, but Mulder forced himself
to remain still.

"His partner's on her way to pick him up.  Is he
giving you any trouble?" That was the man who had
just walked in.

"No trouble, Mr. Metzger.  I give him medicine to
make him sleep."  That was the guy who'd been sitting
and humming.  His voice sounded thick, and Mulder
wondered if he had a hearing problem.

"Damn it, Roger.  I hope nobody checks him for
needle marks," Mr. Metzger said.

"I take care of him like they said," the thick-voice
protested.  "Make him comfortable."  He pronounced
the word "comforble."

"Well, don't give him any more.  Hit him on the head,
if you have to."

Mulder hoped he was making a bad joke, but the other
man answered him seriously.

"But that would hurt him," the thick-voice complained.
"They told me take care of him."

"You gave him the same medicine you use on the sheep?
How did you know how much to use?" Mr. Metzger asked.

Mulder felt a huge hand clasp his upper arm and squeeze
gently.

"Well fed.  Mostly growed.  He get a regular dose,"
Roger explained.

"Don't poke him.  You'll wake him up," Mr. Metzger
warned.

Mulder's arm was released.

"Sorry," Roger apologized in a loud whisper.

"Give him one for the road, and then leave him alone,"
Mr. Metzger instructed.

Another jab, and Mulder's thoughts dispersed into
jumbles.  Ouch.  Scully.  Sheep.  Sleep.

= = = = =

Revere led Scully to an ordinary door, which opened
into a large room furnished as a lounge.  Mr. Metzger
followed them inside.  Scully's eyes narrowed as she
took in the scene.

Mulder lay stretched out on a couch, apparently asleep.
A giant of a man, dressed in tan coveralls and work
boots, sat on a chair nearby.  The man gave Revere
a big smile.

"Hi, Doc!" he said happily.  "How come you're here at
night?"  Then his gaze shifted to Scully and his eyes
opened wide.

"Wow," he said.

Under other circumstances, Scully might have spared a
kind word for the big, slow man.

"Quiet, Roger," Dr. Revere said.  "Please return to your
regular duties."

Roger picked up a big metal tool, something resembling a
tin-snip, and lumbered out of his chair.

"Pretty," he whispered to himself as he left the room.

Scully leaned over the couch, watching Mulder breathe.

"What happened to him?" she asked, her voice sharp
with concern.

"He was found in a restricted area, Agent Scully.
Perhaps a better question is what was he doing there."

Scully turned back to her partner, smoothing the hair
back from his forehead.  As much as she wanted to press
the issue, the fact was, Mulder had been trespassing.

"Would you excuse us?" she asked.  Mr. Metzger took a
step back, folding his arms across his chest.  Revere
didn't budge.  Scully shrugged and turned back to Mulder.
She wanted to wake him up gently, without company, but
it wasn't her choice. He didn't wake up when she touched
his arm, but when she loosened his tie he jolted awake
and took a swing at her.

"Mulder, it's me," she reassured him, easily blocking
a clumsy left hook.

She saw his fear recede as he recognized her.  He
looked around the room warily, his eyes darting from
one man to the next.

She leaned in closer.

"Mulder, what's wrong?"

He answered in a whisper.

"Scully, in case I haven't made this clear in the
past, I love you," he said.

She turned from him to accuse the others.

"He's been drugged!" she said angrily.

Revere's response was equally aggressive.

"I know what you're trying to do," he challenged.
"Cover up an illegal break-in by going on the offensive.
Forget it.  We're the victims here.  We've done nothing
except rescue this man when he got himself in trouble."

"I know my partner, and I can tell when he's been
drugged," she said staunchly.

"He was running wild in a medical facility.  I wouldn't
be surprised if he helped himself to some goodies,"
Revere said.

"Could have been an accident," Mr. Metzger interjected.
"He knocked over a big glass bottle, back in the sheep
pen.  Maybe he got a whiff of the fumes."

"Where's his gun?" Scully demanded.

Metzger gave her the gun, the clip, and a plastic bag
containing a pocket knife and flashlight.

"We didn't want him to hurt himself, considering the
condition he was in," he said.

There would have been a camera, but it wasn't in the
bag.

"Scully," Mulder hissed her name.  When he saw he had
her attention he continued in a whisper.  "I saw it."

"I don't believe their story about inhaled fumes, Mulder.
It's barbiturates that make you say you love me," she
whispered back.

"You know I love you.  You don't have to make me feel
like a jerk for saying it."  He looked honestly peeved.
"Make them show us the sheep hybrid, then get me the
hell out of here."

He seemed to be in a twilight state, and Scully wondered
if he'd remember any of this the next day.

"Can you walk?" she asked.  He was unusually clingy as
she helped him sit up, and she wanted to rush him back
to the hotel to gather evidence of whatever they'd done
to him.  But she also wanted to see what was hidden
behind the wide doors before Revere forgot his promise
to show her.

Mulder could walk, once they got him to his feet, but
he was weak and off-balance.

"You okay, buddy?" Revere asked, and Scully wanted to
slap him for his false, folksy concern.

"Show us the human sheep," Mulder growled.

"Come with me," Revere said, and Metzger looked
surprised.

"You're conducting experiments on these animals?"
Scully asked.  The memory of the deformed sheep wasn't
far from her mind.  How much worse would the 'human
sheep' be?  Mulder kept his hand on her arm as they
followed Revere down the hallway.

The next area had the barnyard smells and sounds, but
the sheep here looked normal, at least to Scully.

"They're just plain sheep," Mulder complained.

"They're Friesians."  The words came from the large
man in the khaki coveralls who had been sitting with
Mulder in the other room.  He ambled up to them from
the back of the large room, and Scully saw he was
cradling a small lamb.

"Roger's very proud of these sheep," Revere said.
"He takes good care of them."

"Dairy sheep.  They make milk," Roger said.

"They're genetically altered so that they produce
human hormones in their milk.  These are your
'human sheep,' Agent Mulder," Revere said.

"No."  Mulder shook his head vigorously, then winced.
Scully regarded him with concern.

"We found our mutant sheep," she said.  "I think we
can leave now."

Roger stepped closer, as if he was offering the lamb
to her.

"Want to pet him?" he asked.  "He won't hurt you."

His big, open face beseeched her, and it only took a
moment to be kind.

"He's very pretty," Scully said.

"He's a ram lamb," Roger said.

Scully smiled politely and patted the woolly little
head.

"Roger, I believe you have work to do," said Revere
sternly.

Roger's mouth formed a tight frown, but only for a
second.

"Okey-dokey," he said as he carried the lamb back
to the penned area.

"The thing I saw earlier was not a deformed sheep
or a dairy sheep," Mulder said.

"Agent Mulder, I suspect that your exposure to
Halothane is the explanation for whatever you
imagine you saw," Revere said.

"You used Halothane on him?" Scully asked.  She
hadn't noticed any marks on his face from a mask
or its straps.

"He broke a bottle of the stuff when he was charging
around.  We'll add that to our fine, improper
storage of volatile inhalants," Revere said.

Suddenly Scully didn't care about the sheep bone at
all.  She was enraged at what had been done to Mulder
and that Revere was so confident he'd get away with it.

"Let's go," she said.  She expected Mulder to argue
with her or take issue with Revere's stupid story,
but he didn't say anything.  He was standing there,
swaying slightly, looking gray and unfocused.  She
followed his gaze and saw that Roger was sitting on
a low wooden bench at the rear of the enclosure with
the little lamb on his lap.  He held it pressed down
against his knee, one hand gripping its tail, the
other holding a large clamping device that encircled
its testicles.

The lamb bleated as the clamps closed.  Roger held the
tool in place for a few seconds, then opened it, moved
it fractionally, and closed it once again.

Scully wished she hadn't seen it, but she couldn't
force herself to turn away until she heard a soft
thud behind her.

Mulder was on the ground, pale, sweaty, and
unresponsive.

"Halothane," Revere said.

"City boy," Roger pronounced.

= = = = =

Mulder sat on the bed, shoulders hunched, staring
down at his shoes.

"I passed out," he said.

"That's easily explained by the drugs and the
emotional impact of what you witnessed. It's
nothing to be ashamed of, Mulder," Scully said.

"I was carried out of the building by a ball-busting
bumpkin," he groaned.

"I didn't know what else to do," she said.  She'd
been kneeling next to Mulder, patting his face to
rouse him, when the sheep-tender, Roger, had leaned
down and scooped her partner off the floor.  Revere
had suggested calling an ambulance, but Scully
said she just needed help to get him to the car.

"You had your weapon," Mulder said reproachfully.
Scully's eyes narrowed with confusion until he
explained: "If it happens again, shoot me."

"It's good you were drugged," she asserted.  "Whatever
you saw, we have no evidence.  But I can probably find
proof of what they did to you."

What had Mulder seen?  The crippled sheep with their
useless hind legs were the probable source for the
sheep femur, but Mulder was speaking of a different
mutation, a sheep with human hands.

Revere had argued that Mulder was "unreliable,
overwrought, and undoubtedly under the influence of
some powerful chemicals."  Scully could have asked
him why a company with nothing to hide had filled
her partner with powerful chemicals and stolen his
camera, but she didn't bother.

Then Revere had posed his million-dollar question,
the one that was supposed to make her shut up and
go away:

"A hybridized human?  Why?"

She wondered if Revere himself knew the answer, or
anyone at Weymouth Scientific.  Maybe the only one
who knew was that chain-smoking VIP that Brian told
her about.

Mulder was mired in mortification, or maybe just lost
in thought, and Scully left him to go to her room for
her phlebotomy equipment.  She paused in the doorway,
turning to tell him she'd be right back.  Mulder had
his hand cupped at his groin, taking inventory, she
surmised, so she continued on her way without speaking.

She wanted to run a tox screen on him, and she needed
to keep the blood samples cold until they could be
processed. The ice machine was at the other end of
the hall, and when she returned to Mulder's room,
she found his clothes in a pile on the floor and the
shower running full blast.

Scully slammed open the bathroom door, but it was
too late.

"Mulder!" she rebuked him.

Mulder pulled back the curtain.

"Want to scrub my back?" he asked.

"What if you pass out again?" she asked.

"I told you, shoot me," he said.  "But I won't pass out.
I'm one hundred percent and steady as a rock."

If he was 100 percent and steady as a rock, he wouldn't
be standing in the shower washing trace evidence down
the drain.

Scully sighed and retreated to the bedroom.  Maybe his
clothes would yield some useful evidence.  She was still
picking through his jacket when he emerged from the
bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

"Sit down. I want to draw some blood," she told him.

"Good idea," he yawned, settling onto the bed.  The
procedure would have been smoother if she'd directed him
to the desk chair, but she sat next to him, took his right
arm over her lap, and accomplished the collection.

Mulder pressed a piece of cotton to his arm and watched as
she filled her blood tubes.

"Maybe you should run the precipitin test," he said.  The
precipitin test was a quick way to distinguish human blood
from animal blood.

"To find out if you're turning into a sheep?" she asked.
If he really was delusional, it was temporary, caused by
drugs, she decided.  More likely, it was a joke.

"You know, Scully, it's not that hard to imagine how they
created a sheep-human hybrid.  The real question is why
they would do that,"  he said.

She hadn't yet told him about the smoking man.
Brian's sudden assignment to bring in a gray-haired
bigwig who chain-smoked Morleys has raised her
suspicions, but it wasn't a positive ID.  She couldn't
trust Mulder to make that fine distinction in his
present state.

"To create a better test subject?" she hypothesized.

Of all the dumb "scientific" explanations she'd ever
invented for Mulder, she thought that this one might
be the dumbest, but he seemed willing to give it some
thought.

He walked to the dresser and pulled a pair of boxers from
a drawer.  Scully managed to be looking in another
direction when he dropped the towel and pulled on his
shorts.

"I was going to ask you about that," he said.  "What's
the point of testing something on a genetically altered
test subject?  Doesn't that invalidate your results?"

Scully took a deep breath.  "I have a theory," she said.

"Do you?" he asked.

"They're doing it for practice, to perfect the process.
To prove they can create a viable creature using disparate
genetic material," she said.

"A rehearsal, or perhaps an audition," said Mulder. "The
other sheep are just for camouflage."

"An audition for the real thing," Scully said.  "For a
different human hybrid."

"Well, Scully, who do we know who might be interested in
something like that?" Mulder asked.

*Mulder's intuition.  She used to call it paranoia.*

"Revere made it sounds as if the fix is already in to close
the case," Scully said.  "Weymouth gets off with a fine for
littering, basically, and nobody complains about your
break-in."

"Smug bastard," Mulder said.

"That's just it, Mulder, he didn't sound smug at all.  He
sounded worried," she explained.

"If he's doing business with the devil, he should be
worried,"  Mulder said.  "But we have to get something
solid before the FBI calls us back to Washington.  And
don't take any calls from Skinner until we have something
to show him."

"Roger's a weak link," Scully said.  "I'm going to work
on him."

"That big lug who held me in his arms?  He's mine,
Scully," Mulder said.

"I think he likes me," Scully explained.

"You think he likes you?  You *think* he likes you?"
Mulder gave her one of his "are you for real" looks.
"Stay away from him, Scully."

"He works directly with the sheep.  He must know
something, probably more than Revere gives him credit
for," Scully said.

"Let's see if we can get his address.  I want to drop in
on him tomorrow and thank him for taking such good care
of me," Mulder said.

"I'll dig up an address and whatever else I can find on
him," she said, gathering up the ice bucket and her
supplies.  "You think you can get some rest?"

She hoped for his sake he would.  His breathing, mentation,
and motor function all appeared normal, and if he went to
bed now he could sleep off the remainder of the drug and
feel fine in the morning.  If he stayed awake and tried
to work, he'd probably give himself a hell of a headache.

"You're leaving?" Mulder asked.

Here it comes, she thought.  Maybe he'd ask her to tuck
him in, or some other silly comment about him and her
and bed.

"Do you need me to sing you a lullaby?" she asked.

He gave her a pained smile.

"I wanted to tell you I was sorry for ruining your date,"
he said.

Scully really hadn't expected that.

"You didn't ruin it, Mulder.  We...uh...decided to make
it an early evening."

= = = = =

Bone of Contention (7/15)

This was turning into the longest day of Sage Revere's
life.  A pre-dawn conference call from the backers' group
in New York had persuaded him that charm and bullshit
would solve his FBI problem. For the next eight hours,
he had played gracious host to Agents Scully and Mulder,
smiling until his jaw ached.  Then he'd spent an hour
on the phone with the mysterious Mr. Terranova, who was
clearly unimpressed by his efforts so far.

Next he'd called an emergency meeting of his own staff,
who were close to mutiny over how he hoped to handle the
situation.  Then, just to make his joy complete, there
came the call from the plant.  Agent Fox Mulder had
somehow wormed his way into Room Zero.

The backers' group seemed to feel that Fox Mulder was
a bit of a fool, a bit of a madman.  A flamboyant fellow
who took himself seriously, even though no one else did.
Mr. Terranova painted a different picture; Mulder was
a bulldog, a crusader.  A man who couldn't be appeased
but mustn't be destroyed.

Agent Scully, everyone agreed, was an easy card to play.
Show her a little science plus a plausible rationale,
and she would buy it.  Too late he'd learned there was
an overriding principle: don't mess with Mulder.

But the day wasn't over yet.  Mr. Terranova was flying
in for a face-to-face.  Revere dosed himself with an
extra Ventacort tablet and a couple of puffs from his
inhaler.  He was intensely sensitive to cigarette smoke.

He drove his wife's car to the landing field to meet
the jet.

Revere expected his meeting with Terranova to be
acrimonious, but from the moment the old man
deplaned it was obvious he was feeling expansive
and philosophical.

"Don't feel badly, Dr. Revere," he said.  "You're
hardly the first working stiff to be foiled by
Fox Mulder."

"He hasn't bested us yet," Revere asserted.  He was
quite relieved that Terranova was traveling without
luggage.  A short visit had to be a good sign.

The old man got into the car and lit a cigarette,
and Revere was glad he'd remembered to bring the
Volvo instead of the Mercedes.  He'd remained hopeful
that he could salvage his project until Terranova
spelled out his agenda.

"It's over, doctor, at least for now.  Have your
legal team draft a letter of responsibility, finalize
your settlements with EPA and whatever other
bureaucracy gets a cut, and most important,
destroy your hybrid," he said.

"Is that necessary?"

"The first commandment is 'leave no trace.'  That
commandment has been broken, and now you must clean
up your mess.  You must find your weak link,
Dr. Revere, and eliminate it."

"We're looking into that," Revere answered.

It remained a mystery to him how the incriminating
bone had found its way into the woods, where a hunting
dog could sniff it out and an over-eager sheriff could
decide it belonged to a human child.  Weymouth had
an on-site incinerator where all medical waste,
incriminating or not, was burned thoroughly.

"If you'd been honest enough to warn us about your
breach, we could have contained the investigation
before you had agents knocking at your door,"
Terranova said.

"If you could just take a moment to see how far
we've come," Revere said.  "We've created a biological
entity that's never existed before, a creature whose
shape and character and physiology defy nature itself."

"I'm aware of your successes, and I assure you that
Weymouth will remain in consideration for the final
stage of the project.  But now you must destroy your
achievement and expunge any hint that it ever
existed," Terranova said.

"I'm just not sure destroying the hybrid is necessary,
sir.  We have Mulder's camera, and no one will believe
his story without evidence," Revere said.

"You don't know Agent Mulder," Terranova said.

The old man smiled when he said it, and the effect
was unsettling.

"You seem to know him very well," Revere said.

"I've known him since he was a small boy," said
Terranova.  He said it with such tenderness and pride
that Revere half expected him to start pulling out
snapshots and old diplomas.

"Does he work for you?" Revere asked.

Terranova's featured hardened.

"No, Dr. Revere, Agent Mulder is not in my employ."
he said.

"Agent Mulder seems to be a threat to your
organization, sir.   Wouldn't it be safer to eliminate
him?" Revere asked.  He knew that the backers' group
was not subtle.  He'd expected that Terranova's visit
would include plans for Mulder's removal, but now
it appeared that the old man had some weird emotional
attachment to the agent.

"Unfortunately, Mulder is not expendable."  The old man
took a long drag on his cigarette, blowing out smoke
from between pursed lips like a wheezing dragon.
"He's necessary to the project."

"Perhaps you could scare him off, then."

"I'm afraid Agent Mulder doesn't frighten very easily.
In fact, I don't think anything scares him."  Again,
the strange expression of pride crossed the old man's
craggy features before disappearing in the next puff
of smoke.

"With all due respect, sir, I think everyone is afraid
of something.  You just need to find the trigger point."

The old man nodded sagely, placing the cigarette between
his thin lips and inhaling deeply.  "You may be right,
Dr. Revere.  Yes, I think you may be correct."

As Revere turned the Volvo into Weymouth's parking lot,
Terranova stubbed out the remains of his cigarette in
the car's ash tray.  Almost immediately, the tall man
was patting down his pockets in search of another
cigarette.

"Oh, by the way, I'm going to need a vehicle while
I'm in town.  Something large, with cargo capacity."

Revere's hopes for a short visit were squashed like
Terranova's cigarette butt.  "I can make Weymouth's
company car available to you, Mr. Terranova.  I
think you'll find our Navigator sufficient for
your needs."

"Perhaps, Weymouth would have been better served
by tightening up security, instead of acquiring
an overpriced luxury truck."

Revere wondered how much of Weymouth's precious
funds would be spent on fumigating the Navigator
after Terranova had defiled it with his filthy
cigarettes.  Damn, Revere thought.  He loved that
vehicle.  It would be weeks before he could use
it without wheezing up a storm.

"I assure you, we make excellent use of all our
resources," Revere sputtered, releasing the door
locks.

"I hope so, doctor.  Our organization frowns on
waste."  The old man unfolded himself from the
car.  "By the way, I'll require a few items
while I'm here."

= = = = =

Scully hoped Mulder wasn't underestimating Roger.
He'd gotten up early so he could be waiting outside
Roger's house in the morning.  He hadn't planned
beyond that, but Mulder was good at improvising.

Scully was going to arrange to have Mulder's blood
samples shipped and analyzed, and then she was
going to contact Dr. Revere for x-rays of his
mutant sheep.  It was eight AM, but she was still
in bed, trying to convince herself she wanted to
run a couple of miles before breakfast.

Her phone rang, but it wasn't Mulder; it was
Brian Yates.

"Normally I'd wait a few days, but I know you
won't be in town long," he said.

"That's okay," said Scully.

"Well, then, have you had breakfast?" he asked.
"Your hotel does the best biscuits north of
Atlanta."

Scully didn't want her association with Brian to
come to the attention of Revere or the others.

"How about someplace less public?" she asked.

He didn't answer for a while.

"Do you want to come here?" he asked tentatively.

She wrote down the directions he gave her, then
called the FBI to fax a photo of the smoking man
to the hotel.  She wanted to ask Brian if that was
his passenger last night.  It took her ten minutes
to get dressed, but it was another fifteen minutes
and two more phone calls before she had her
picture.  The drive to Brian's took about half
an hour.

Brian lived in an ordinary ranch house, not a log
cabin or a cottage.

"Private enough for you?" he asked.

She realized belatedly that she'd been sending
the man a slew of mixed messages, and he was
receiving her with as much caution as warmth.

"I just thought it would be better if we weren't
seen together," she explained.

It was a nice house, very neat with loads of books.

"Oliver Sacks, Stephen Jay Gould... I have those
too," she said, looking over his shelves with
more curiosity than decorum.

"I even have the one by that wheelchair guy,"
Brian said.  "But I'll have to beef up my
astronomy collection.  What were you telling
me about? Betelgeuse and Rigel?"

He showed her his Picasso, a black-on-white
lithograph that was lively and vibrant even
without colors.  Then he offered to cook for
her, but it turned out they shared an appreciation
for shredded wheat.  Brian served up fresh-brewed
coffee with real cream, and he even had her brand
of orange juice.  It was Mulder's brand too,
these days.  She'd converted him.

Unfortunately Scully's growing interest in Brian
was matched by his increasing wariness.

"Maybe I'm way off base, and maybe there's another
explanation for the way you've been acting, but I
have to ask," he said.  "Are you married?"

Scully was thunderstruck.

"Do I act married?" she asked.  Did she?  Sure, she
was committed to Mulder.  She might as well be
married for all the impact he had on her life, but
she was floored by the idea that this was detectable
to anyone but her.

"That's an interesting answer," he said, pushing
his bowl away half-unfinished.

"I'm not married," she hurried to assure him.  "I
think you may be misreading my concern and
commitment to Mulder for something different."

"Mulder?  Is he the reason you don't want to be
seen in public with me?" Brian asked.

"No, not at all."   She shook her head at the idea
of stepping out on Mulder.  "I'm investigating the
company you work for, and it could get awkward for
you if they know you're talking to me," she said.
She realized she had been gripping her spoon, and
she laid it down carefully on her saucer.

"I don't work for them, Dana. It's a contractual
arrangement.  If you thought I had the inside
scoop on Weymouth Scientific, you're going to
be very disappointed," he said.

She wanted to protest that her motivation was
entirely personal, at least at first.  Instead,
she took out the picture of the smoking man.

"Do you know him?" she asked.

"Mr. Terranova, the human ash tray," he said,
looking up from the photo.

She slowly released a breath.  So it was CSM
after all.  This just confirmed what she'd
suspected since Brian mentioned his mysterious
passenger.

"I guess you'll be leaving now," Brian said.

"I'd really like to get to know you," she said
sincerely.

"Maybe after you've finished this case," he said.
He rose from the table and started to clear the
abandoned breakfast.

"That would be nice," Scully said.  But a voice
in her head whispered, "Mulder, Mulder," and
it sounded like her voice.

= = = = =

"Hotcakes *or* toast," Roger insisted, following
the words with his finger as he read from the
menu.

"Leave it to me," said Mulder.

"Wow." Roger was impressed.

Roger wanted steak, eggs, hotcakes, *and* toast,
and Mulder made it happen.  He had expected that
someone would have warned Roger not to talk to
him, but it didn't seem to be the case.  Roger
didn't hesitate to accept breakfast, and once
the dilemma or hotcakes versus toast was out
of the way, he was ready to shoot the breeze.

"I want to thank you for helping me out yesterday,"
Mulder said.

Roger used his index finger to collect a drop of
pancake syrup from the table, then licked it off
with a big slurping sound.

"That's okay.  You're not heavy and you didn't
fight," he said.

"Did you think I was looking for a fight?" Mulder
asked in surprise.

"A ram as big as you, he would fight me," Roger
said.

"A ram as big as me..."  Mulder couldn't follow
Roger's stream of thought.  "How big is a ram?"
he asked.

"Real big one, maybe three hundred pounds.  One
your size would be big enough to breed, even if
he wasn't full-growed," Roger supplied helpfully.

"Do you breed them?" Mulder asked.

"Doc takes care of that.  AI and stuff," Roger
said.

"Artificial insemination?  Do all the rams get
castrated?" Mulder asked.

"You didn't like it when I clamped the ram lamb,"
Roger remembered.  "Got to be done, though.
Can't breed them all."

If Mulder could keep Roger talking about the
sheep, he'd have to get around to the hybrid
in the green tank.

"All in a day's work for you," Mulder said.

"Uh-huh.  Baby lamb like that, he don't even
feel it very long.  Not like a big ram,"  Roger
said.

"I guess that would be more difficult," Mulder
said.

"Uh-huh.  Ram your size, I'd have to tie his
legs," Roger explained.  "Wouldn't clamp him,
either.  Just slit the sac and cut 'em out."

It was a little like interrogating a serial
killer, Mulder thought.  He had to sound
interested and sympathetic despite his distaste.
It wasn't a fair comparison, though.  Roger
was just a guy who took pride in his work.

"What's the hardest thing you have to do?"
Mulder asked.

Roger's open face clouded into a frown, and
he answered in a low, conspiratorial tone.

"I don't like to burn them up," he said.

"When do you have to do that?" Mulder asked.

"The dead ones gotta go in the incinerator,"
Roger said.  'Cause they are biological waste."

Mulder thought about the sheep bone found in
the woods.

"Do you always burn them?" he asked.

Roger looked around guiltily.

"I won't tell," Mulder assured him.  "You won't
get into any trouble."

It was lucky Scully wasn't there, he thought.
Her face would have signaled his lie, maybe
even to Roger.  Or maybe not.  They'd both
become loose with their promises of protection,
their assurances that the system would
work.  Maybe she would have lied right along
with him.

"Sometimes I bury them in the woods," Roger
said furtively.  "For respect."

"Could you show me where?" Mulder asked,
keeping his question casual.

Roger chewed his steak and considered.

"Maybe I could show the lady," he offered,
tilting his head and glancing up and sideways
into Mulder's face.  Mulder wasn't sure if
Roger was being shy or sly with him.

"Agent Scully?  She could come with us," Mulder
said.

He'd warned Scully to keep her distance from
Roger, who clearly found her fascinating.  He
was childlike in some ways, but he was
physically powerful, and it made for a dangerous
combination.  Meanwhile, Scully had warned
Mulder that Roger might be shrewder than he
appeared, which was starting to
look like a good bet.

"Just the lady agent," Roger said stubbornly.

"That's not going to happen," Mulder said
firmly.

Roger's switched from defiance to wheedling:

'Cause maybe you would faint again.  So I
should take just the lady," he said.

"She doesn't like the woods," Mulder said.

"The woods are nice.  I could show her,"
Roger said.

"She doesn't like the woods, Roger," Mulder
repeated more forcefully.  "But she does
want to see the special sheep."

He felt like a pimp.  I'll give you Scully
if you show us the sheep.

"The cripple sheep with the bad legs," Roger
said eagerly.  "I could show her."

"Not those.  The one in the green tank,"
Mulder said.

Roger frowned.

"She's sick," he said.  "You should leave
her alone."

"The lady agent is a doctor," Mulder said.
"She could help."

"Ah," said Roger slowly.

His transparent face was a parody of someone
deep in thought.  His mouth dropped open, and
his eyes moved up and leftward, as if he was
trying to remember something.  Mulder knew he
had scored a point.

"A pretty lady doctor," Roger murmured.

= = = = =
 

Bone of Contention (8/15)
 

Roger was late to work after his big breakfast with
Agent Mulder.  He hurried to Room Zero to check on
Cindy.  Cindy was always sick, but some days were
worse than others.

Roger walked to the back of the support module and
climbed up the steps so he could see inside. Roger
wasn't sure what the green stuff in the big tank
was, but Doc said it made Cindy get well.  Sometimes
Roger thought Cindy would feel better if she could
get out into the fresh air and sunshine instead
of being cooped up in the lab.

"How you feeling?" he asked.  Of course Cindy didn't
answer, but she turned toward the sound of his voice
and she gave him the V-sign, like he'd taught her.
Roger smiled proudly as he returned the salute.

"Roger."

Dr. Revere's voice startled him.  The doc was sitting
behind one of the computers, and Roger hadn't realized
he was in the room.

"Sorry I am late," Roger said.  "I ate a big breakfast."

The doc sighed.

"I envy you, Roger.  A simple man with simple dreams,"
he said.

He sounded so sad.

"Did you have a bad dream?" Roger asked sympathetically
as he climbed down the steps.  "Did you not sleep good?"

"What happens to a dream deferred?" asked Dr. Revere.

Roger looked at Dr. Revere in confusion.  Sometimes the
doc said weird things.

"A dream that won't come true," Dr. Revere explained.

"Oh."  Roger nodded; he understood that just fine.
"I going to feed Cindy," he said.

"No."  Dr. Revere shook his head.

Roger could see that Cindy was weak and gasping, but
he could always coax her to take a few swallows.

"She'll eat for me," he promised.

"It's all over.  I'm sorry," Revere said.

Roger knew a day would come when nothing anyone did
would make a difference, but he didn't think today
was that day.  The doc was in a bad, bad mood, so
everything looked bad to him.  He thought of something
that would cheer him up.

"I almost forgot to tell you the good news," Roger said.
"Agent Scully is a doctor!  She can help us."

"Agent Scully isn't the problem.  It's the other one,
Agent Mulder," Revere said bitterly.

"He is who told me," Roger argued.

"Cindy's been sick for a long time, Roger.  You know
what we do when an animal is so sick that it can't get
better," Revere said.

Roger thought back about that guessing game, where
everything is animal, vegetable, or mineral.  Outside
of that, it seemed plain wrong to call Cindy an animal.
Also, she'd been sick like this before and got better.
Maybe Dr. Revere didn't remember.

"Don't give up," he said.

"We can't let Agent Mulder capture her.  That's the main
thing," Revere said.

"Capture her?  For what?" Roger asked.

"We can't let him take her.  It would be terrible."

"I won't let him do terrible things," Roger said
staunchly.  He wished he was good with words so he
could make the doc listen to him.

"You won't be able to stop him," Revere said.

Roger didn't know why Dr. Revere would say that.  Mulder
was easy to stop with the mask and the sleeping medicine.

"What about last night?" Roger asked.  "We stopped him
good."

"He'll just keep coming back," Revere answered angrily.

"That's not Cindy's fault!" Roger said.

"Damn it," Revere said in a voice that made Roger remember
his pa.  "I don't want this any more than you do, Roger,
but it has to be done."

"You said take care of her," Roger whispered.  He hoped
Doc wouldn't yell at him.  He hoped if Doc yelled at
him he wouldn't cry.

"Roger," Doc began, seeming to calm down.  "Killing
Cindy would be the kindest thing we could do."

"How could that be kind?" Roger asked, fighting tears.

"There's something you deserve to know," he said.  "Do you
remember when Cindy was just a baby?  Do you remember that
question you asked?"

Roger blushed.  It was a hard question and a bad question,
and worst of all, Dr. Revere had laughed at him, and even
told it to Mr. Metzger, like it was a joke.

"I'm a dummy," Roger said.

"When you saw what Cindy was, you asked about her daddy,"
Revere said.

"But you explained it to me, how science made her," Roger
reminded him. "And Mr. Metzger called me a dumb bubba."

"I lied to you, Roger.  It wasn't science," Revere said.
"It happened exactly the way you thought."

Roger shook his head emphatically.

"That's just stories," he said.

"Somebody did a bad thing, Roger, exactly as you suspected,"
Revere said. "Now he wants to do the same bad thing to
Cindy."

"It's just stories," Roger repeated.

Kids used to say that about Ronnie Favors, how his
pa caught him at it early one morning, and said he'd
clamp him just like a sheep if he ever did it again.

"Why do *you* think Agent Mulder is so interested in
Cindy?" Revere asked.

It was ugly talk, and it was hard for Roger to think
about it to figure out if it was true.  His stomach
felt funny when he thought how he'd had breakfast
with Mulder.

"Do you want that to happen to Cindy, sick as she is?
Is that how you want it to end for her?"  Revere asked.

"I won't let him," Roger said.

Revere stood up and came out from behind the long counter.

"You've been a good, loyal friend," he said.  He clapped
Roger on the arm.

Roger knew that people sometimes told you nice things
before they asked you for a favor. He'd better explain
that he didn't really mean it.

"I don't kill people," Roger said, in case that's what
the doc was thinking.  It wasn't fair to kill Cindy when
it was Mulder who wanted to do terrible things, but he
knew that killing Mulder would only make more trouble.

"For God's sake, I don't want you to kill him.  Even if
you did, they'd send other agents," Revere explained.
He patted Roger's arm again.  "I know how you feel
about this sheep.  Take a few minutes to say good-bye,
and then do what you have to do."

Doc walked away, and the heavy door locked shut behind
him.  If he really understood how Roger felt, he wouldn't
have called her a sheep.

Roger thought again about Agent Scully, the pretty
doctor.  Maybe if she knew that Agent Mulder wanted
to do terrible things to Cindy, she could stop him.
Maybe if Agent Mulder saw how sick Cindy was he would
leave her alone.  Or maybe if he knew she was a virgin.

= = = = =
 

Scully's phone rang as she started the car.  Mulder
needed a lift. It was just as well that Brian had
cut their breakfast short.

What was she thinking, trying to start a relationship
while she was on a case?  She knew better.  But she was
always on a case, and Brian had seemed so perfect.
What fun it might have been to have a boyfriend like
that, somebody smart and dashing who would fly in every
couple of weeks and sweep her off her feet.

An out-of-town relationship that wouldn't interfere with
her work.  A long-distance lover who wouldn't complain
about Mulder.

Mulder wasn't her boyfriend, but he filled her thoughts
and took all her attention until nothing was left for
anyone else.  As if she was hemoglobin, and he was her
carbon monoxide. The hemoglobin should be looking for
some nice oxygen to carry through the bloodstream, but
if it meets up with a carbon monoxide molecule, it
grabs on and won't let go.

Mulder probably had the same problem, but he didn't
seem to care.  He should have been on the prowl for
one of those tall, leggy bitch-women that rang his
stupid chimes, but instead he spent his days with
a dowdy redhead and his nights with his video
collection.

She loved him, whatever love was.  When Scully was a
college junior, she'd spent a series of weekends with
her roommate, Rachel Perlmutter's, family.  She used
to think it was funny to hear Rachel's grandmother
talk about love.  "You young people make things so
complicated these days.  It's simple.  I cook the
food, he eats the food," Grandma said. "He makes the
money, I spend the money."  It was something like that
with her and Mulder, but the currency exchanged was
vision and proof, peril and rescue.  They hadn't
chosen one another, but then again, neither had
Rachel's grandparents.

Mulder loved her too, at least when he was drugged.
In Valium, veritas?

Well, something good had come out of her breakfast
date.  The anonymous smoker had a name.  She would
have been more excited by the discovery if she wasn't
so certain that it was an alias, and probably one of
many.

Mulder was waiting for her in a place called Amy Beth's
Cafe.  Scully would have been glad of another chance at
breakfast, but Mulder had been sitting there an hour
and the staff was starting to get curious.  She helped
herself to some breath mints on her way out.

In the car, Mulder put on quite a display of adjusting
his seat.  She wondered if he was really that inept or
if it was his way of griping about being stuck in the
passenger seat.  She decided to head for the gas station.
Mulder could prove his manly worth by pumping gas, and
she could pop into the mini-mart and grab a yogurt.

"Terranova.  Mean anything to you?" she asked as she pulled
away from the curb.

"There's a software company, I think.  Also an after-hour's
club in Arlington," said Mulder.

"Cancer man is using the name," she told him.

"Really?" His face split in a huge grin. "Go, Scully!"

She was proud herself, but she hadn't known what to expect
from Mulder. She should have told him before they got in
the car.  It would have earned her at least a high-five.

"I'm sure it's not his only name," she said modestly.

"It's the first one we've ever learned," Mulder said.  "Is
he definitely involved here?"

"He flew in last night, spur of the moment," she said.

"He flew in," Mulder repeated.  "We're on to something,
Scully.  This is big--I can feel it."

"If this is as big as you think, Mulder, they'll go to
any lengths to protect it."

"We've got to get back inside Weymouth."  Her partner
was practically glowing with intensity with the
knowledge that their nemesis was in town.

Mulder hadn't asked her how long she'd known about the
cigarette man, and she was grateful for that.  She
couldn't predict how he'd react knowing that she had
kept the information to herself until she could confirm
it.  He'd been so edgy about her relationship with Brian.

Scully wondered if he was jealous, but then she chided
herself.  Most likely Mulder's concerns were entirely
professional, and he'd share them when he was ready.
Any other speculation would just set her up for a major
disappointment.

"We have to be careful," she said.

"There is a hybrid sheep, Scully.  I saw it, and Roger
confirmed it," Mulder said.

"We need a search warrant," Scully said.  She waited for a
response, finally turning in time to catch Mulder's tight-lipped
exasperation.

"Why don't you work on that," he suggested sharply.

"Forget it," she said, acknowledging his unspoken objections.
"Instead, we go back to Weymouth.  You demand to see Revere
and the brass.  Argue with them, aggravate them, do anything
to keep them occupied.  That will give me a chance to make
nice to little boy blue."

"Roger's not a little boy, in case you haven't noticed,"
Mulder said. "Don't make the same mistake Revere made.
Roger's not as dumb or passive as everyone thinks."

"I told you that from the beginning," Scully reminded him.

"Anyway, you'll do a better job than me of keeping Revere
out of the way.  You can trade laundry tips for brighter,
whiter lab coats," Mulder said.

= = = = =

Scully went in to pay for the gas, and when she returned to
the car she took the passenger seat.  Mulder filled the
tank, glad to see she'd relinquished the wheel.

He was very disturbed when he realized she was eating a
yogurt.

Mulder knew she'd met with Brian Yates that morning,
because the malodorous flyboy had to be the one who had
ID'd the smoking man for her.  Whatever they'd done, it
hadn't included breakfast, or Scully wouldn't be scarfing
down the Dannon's. Mulder decided to believe in the
simplest explanation.  Scully had met with Yates to
show him a picture of the smoking man.  Period.

Any disturbing visions of Scully's stack-heeled shoes
mingling with Yates's cowboy boots was Mulder's own damn
problem and utterly unfair to Scully.

The seat on the driver's side was all the way forward,
and Mulder could barely get in to release the catch.
He looked over to see if Scully was the least bit
apologetic, but she seemed to be highly entertained
by his suffering.

"I'm sorry, Mulder.  Would you rather I drove?" she
asked.

"Enjoy your yogurt.  You can drive on the way back,"
he said.  Then he could watch while she struggled to
haul the seat far enough forward that she could reach
the gas pedal.

He finished adjusting the seat, but then had to open
the door to unsnag the shoulder belt.  Finally they
were underway.

"What do you plan to do while I'm discussing sodium
hypochlorite with Dr. Revere?" Scully asked.

"Roger has an emotional investment in his animals,"
Mulder said.
"I'm going to use that to my advantage."

"You're going to sing him the Whiffenpoof Song?"
Scully asked.

"Something like that.  You just worry about Dr.
Moreau," he said.

Their arrival at Weymouth Scientific was greeted with
open hostility.  The guard at the gate kept them waiting
while he called his superior for instructions, and when
Dr. Revere appeared at last, his face was like granite.

"You may never understand the damage you've caused.
You've proved nothing, but the board of directors has
chosen to bow before the pressure of your overgrown,
overfunded bureaucracy," Revere said.

Bureaucracy, the "B" in FBI, thought Mulder, but he
resisted the urge to share his wit.

"We're hardly to blame if your research couldn't
withstand the critical scrutiny of your own
organization," Scully said.

No, Scully, don't piss him off, Mulder thought.  She
was supposed to settle people down--getting in their
face was his job.

"Come with me," Revere said.

He conducted them to the elevator and up to the
restricted level.  Angry glares followed them at
every step.

Revere led them to the holding area for the malformed
sheep.

The bone fragment that had sparked their investigation
was almost certainly from a sheep of this kind, but
Mulder no longer found them interesting.

"These harmless animals helped save human lives," Revere
said.  "Would you like to see them once more before
they're destroyed?"

"You can't destroy these sheep--" Scully said, but
Revere interrupted her.

"I know that.  I can't do anything until and unless
I'm instructed by our lawyers.  Our lawyers are
talking to your lawyers, and the writs are flying
back and forth," he said.  "But I have no doubt this
will end with the sacrifice of these sheep, and the
milk sheep as well.  So congratulations!  Science
has been stopped in its tracks, and all because you
couldn't give me a chance to explain."

Pompous jack-ass, Mulder thought.

"That was quite an outburst, doctor," Scully said.
"Unfortunately you have yet to convince me that more
animal study is needed in the now well-established
field of inserting medical devices via the femoral
artery.  In fact, I'm quite baffled as to the
significance of any study that relies on a creature
that has no existence outside of your laboratory."

Revere was speechless, and Mulder realized a bit
belatedly that he was the good cop.

"Destroyed?  You mean killed?" he asked.  "Even
the lambs?"

Scully gave a barely audible huff that Mulder read
as a critique of his acting.  Revere, he hoped, would
interpret it as impatience with his sentimentality.

"I know you showed us last night, but I wasn't able
to take it all in," Mulder said.  It didn't matter
what he said, because clearly there was something
Revere wanted them to see.

"I'll still need those x-rays you promised," Scully
said.

Revere didn't deign to answer, but he opened the door
to his personal freak show.

Even by the light of day with his head clear, Mulder
saw it as a demented nursery rhyme.  Twelve lame sheep,
see how they crawl, or something like that.  Mulder's
own skepticism about the scientific usefulness of such
aberrant animals had been confirmed by Scully's rant.
Revere had been careful to explain that the crippled
sheep had resulted from a spontaneous mutation, but
that didn't excuse whoever had propagated them and
destined them to their regimented existence.  Sprawl
on the floor, hang from a hook, or march in place.

No part of it was in the service of knowledge.  It was
all for show.

"If you're ready, we can move on to the dairy sheep."
Revere addressed himself to Mulder. "I don't believe
you'll encounter any distressing procedures today."

Distressing procedure was an adequate description,
Mulder thought.

Scully had tried to reassure him that it wasn't as
bad as it looked.  She'd even drawn him a picture.
"See, Mulder, Roger wasn't actually 'smashing its
nuts.'  The clamp crushes the spermatic cord,
interrupting the blood supply as well as the
flow of sperm.  The testes shrink and die from
lack of nourishment and eventually just fall off."

Mulder had thanked her for the clarification and
announced how relieved he was, but only to shut
her up.  She'd wanted to explain and illustrate
all the other methods of castration.

The dairy sheep were a soothing sight after the
deformed animals.  They munched contentedly and
paid their visitors no heed.  Mulder looked over
the lambs but couldn't pick out the one from last
night.  None of them were walking funny.

"This is all too fascinating, but we're ready to
see your crowning achievement," Scully said.

Jeeze, Scully, turn it down, Mulder wanted to tell
her.  It's one thing to be assertive or even
aggressive, but Scully was acting like a jerk.

"There's nothing more to show," Revere said.  "I'm
aware that Agent Mulder believes he saw something
else, but he himself admits he was not operating at
full capacity."

"Humor me.  Show us the room at the end of the hall,"
Scully said.

Revere shrugged.

"Very well," he said.

Now Mulder knew the real purpose of the tour.  The
hybrid sheep was gone and the room would look perfectly
normal.  Instead of a coffin-sized aquarium and banks of
life-support machines, they would see desks and chairs
and shelves.  Revere had erased every trace of his
forbidden accomplishment, and he wanted Mulder and
Scully as witnesses.

Mulder was sure that Scully had figured it out as well.
She could look for signs of recent redecorating, and
she wouldn't need his help to find them.

"Excuse me, is there a bathroom?" Mulder asked.

Scully probably wanted to strangle him, but her obvious
displeasure worked in his favor.  Revere took in the
tableau and granted Mulder's request without suspicion.

"In the data room, other end of the hall," he said.

"Thanks.  I'll catch up with you in a minute," Mulder
said.

Once he made it into the hall, Mulder weighed the
possibilities.  Revere had plenty of time to dispose
of the evidence.  The chances of finding even a trace
of the sheep with hands or any of the equipment were
just about nonexistent.

Revere would have undoubtedly left the cleanup to
Roger.  Probably thought the big lug didn't have an
independent thought in his head, but Roger was a lot
stronger willed than Revere gave him credit for.

Roger was the key.  Mulder wondered if he was still in
the facility and decided to check the parking lot for
Roger's pride and joy--his beat up old van.  Scanning
the parking lot, adrenaline circulated through his veins.
His breath caught as he spotted Roger's van pulling
out onto Peyster Road.

Breaking into a run, Mulder fished in his pocket for the car
keys.  Scully was going to kill him, he thought, as he slid
into the front seat.  She'd be furious when she realized he'd
stranded her, but ultimately, she'd understand that he had
to follow their only lead.

= = = = =
 

Bone of Contention (9/15)
 

Even before Revere pushed open the heavy door to
usher her into the room, Scully knew what she
would find.  Nothing.

Mulder's absence only aggravated her frustration,
because she had to pull a fast 180 and take on the
"good cop" role that should have been his.

"We use this room for clerical functions.  As you
can see, it's entirely unsuited to housing animals,"
Revere said.

Scully saw the scrape marks on the floor and smelled
the wet paint, probably disguising any animal odor
from earlier.   She couldn't quite force herself
to apologize for thinking Revere might be trying
to hide something.

"Is Roger around?  I'd like to thank him for his
help yesterday," she said.

"Roger?"  Revere seemed surprised.  "I'd be glad to
convey your appreciation."

"I want to thank him personally," she said.

"Very kind of you," said Revere, "but really, it's
best not to disrupt his normal routine."

Scully could have pushed harder, but she didn't think
she'd get anywhere.  Furthermore, Mulder might have
located Roger himself.  If Mulder was bonding with
the good shepherd, she didn't want to sabotage his
efforts.

There was another matter.  She'd drawn blood last
night to prove that Mulder had been drugged, and
the Vacutainers were back at the hotel, floating
around in a bucket of melted ice.  If she didn't
deal with them promptly, they'd be useless.

"In that case, I believe my business here is complete,"
Scully said.

Revere was only too happy to be rid of her.  On their
way out he asked one of the security officers to locate
Agent Mulder, but the man explained that he had
already left.

"Poor guy said he had a problem with his colostomy bag,
had to run out in a hurry," he said.

Recently Mulder had been experimenting with the theory
that the most personal and distasteful explanations were
the best, because nobody wanted to question them.
Ringworm, flatulence, seasonal hemorrhoids,
genital warts--he'd had a good deal of success.

She didn't miss a beat.

"I hate when that happens," she said.  "He's probably
waiting for me in the car."

He wasn't, of course.  The car was gone and Scully was
effectively stranded.  For a second she thought about
calling Brian Yates for a ride, and then she phoned
her hotel and asked if they could send a car.

= = = = =

Animals were born to die.  That was one of the lessons
Roger learned growing up on a farm.

Only Cindy wasn't an animal.

Roger had been lambing since his youngest years.  He'd
seen lambs you had to turn to deliver them, and lambs
born dead, and once even a lamb all wrong with its
brains in a sac on top of its head.  Things happen
sometimes, sad things.

But when Cindy was born, he knew he was looking at
something that shouldn't be.

Not like a lamb, but more like a lamb than like
any other thing.  Blue eyes.  Hands.

It was wrong, more wrong than locking the keys in
the car or leaving the oven on all night. It was
wrong like kicking over a gravestone or touching
yourself in the shower.

Roger had heard it could happen, but he thought
it was only stories.  Lies like people tell kids
so they won't make their eyes cross or run with
scissors.

The doc was all proud, like the monster baby was
something good.

Roger wondered about the baby sheep-thing a long
time before he figured out a way to ask, and even
after he got an answer it didn't make sense to him.

There had to be a father.  Everybody has a father.

Roger used to think the doc was the one who had
done it, even if he wasn't the father, purely
speaking.  Now Doc had finally told him the
truth and it was more awful than Roger could
have ever imagined.  It was wrong on top of
wrong on top of wrong.

Best would have been if she never was born, and
many times she was fixing to die.  It was all
the work it took to keep her alive that made
him end up so he loved her.

All those nights of sitting up with her, all
the nasty medicines he coaxed down her
throat, and now she had to die to keep her
safe from Agent Mulder.  How could that be
right?  But Doc was smart in ways Roger couldn't
understand.  If he killed Cindy she'd go to
heaven, where people don't have bodies and
she would be a beautiful angel, but Roger
couldn't do it.

He wanted to take Cindy someplace safe where no
one would find her. He thought and thought about
what to do.  How could he keep her warm and feed
her?

Roger wrapped her up in canvas like a big bundle
and carried her out to his van.  It was a pure
miracle that no one stopped him.

He couldn't take her home, 'cause the landlady
didn't even allow cats.  Pa sold the farm years
ago.  There was only one place he could think of,
and it wasn't great.

The woods.  It was pretty there, like he'd told
Agent Mulder, but he couldn't choose a pretty part.
He had to go somewhere he could drive the van.
It was too cold out for Cindy, and he'd have to
leave her in his van, at least until he could
build her a shelter.

Some people used the woods for the town dump,
and he drove along the tire tracks until they
ended next to an ugly hill of mattresses and
other household debris.  He could use some of
those things and build her a little hut.  It
wouldn't do for long, but maybe by then he
could think of something better.

He put the van into park and left the motor to
run.

"How are you, girl?" he asked.  Cindy's thumb
and forefinger formed an "O," as she gave him
her sign for "okay."

This wasn't the way Roger had pictured it.  He
thought Cindy would get weaker without her special
chamber.  He thought his job was to be her
comfort in her final hours.

Now she looked better than she had for days.  Even
her breathing was better--less phlemmy.  Her eyes
were clearer too, not as gummy as they'd been
before.   He should have been happy, but this
created a whole new bunch of problems.   Roger
couldn't care for her and keep her away from Agent
Mulder forever.  It wasn't possible.

Roger thought about what Mulder had done, and he
grimaced in disgust.  Back home when they said what
little Ronnie did in the meadow, well Ronnie was
short, and pimply, and scared of girls.  Agent Mulder
was a growed-up man from a city.  He didn't have
cause to do it even once, and here he was looking
to do it again, even after he saw what had happened
from the first time.  Plus, this meant Agent Mulder
was Cindy's pa and what he wanted to do was even
more terrible.

Evil.  Stubborn.  Tricky.

Yesterday, when he was guarding Agent Mulder, Mr.
Metzger said he should hit him on the head.  He
wished he had done it.  Hit him as hard as he could,
and Mulder would die, and it would be Mr. Metzger's
fault.

Killing Mulder was the right thing to do.  Even if
Roger could keep Cindy safe, what about the other
sheep?  Other sheep to make other babies like Cindy.
Killing Mulder was the right thing to do, but it
would only bring more trouble.  Roger knew he was
too selfish to do it.

If only he knew where to find the pretty lady doctor,
to stop Agent Mulder from what he was doing.

But what if Dr. Revere was wrong?  What if he was
lying, and Agent Mulder hadn't done what he said.
Or maybe he had done it, but he was sorry and he
wasn't looking to do it again?

Roger had got himself snarled up like a ball of
yarn, and unless everything happened just right,
he was never going to find the loose end.
Sighing unhappily, he got out of the car to start
a fire.  He needed hot water to fix Cindy's meal.
She didn't have the right teeth for regular feed.

That's how it happened that he was outside the van,
watching the flames, when the car pulled up.  Roger
remembered carrying Mulder last night and putting
him in that same car, and doing it gently because
he didn't know he was carrying a monster.

Mulder got out of his car and looked Roger's way,
but he went over to the van and tried to open the
door.  When he couldn't do that, he tried staring
in the window, but that wouldn't let him see the
back of the van.

"You saved her," Mulder said, walking toward Roger.
He sounded happy and friendly.

"I'm making a fire," said Roger.  He eyed Agent
Mulder warily.

"Dr. Revere ordered you to destroy her, but you
wouldn't do it," Mulder said.  His voice was gentle,
as if he admired Roger for being smart and strong.
Roger knew better than to believe him.

Roger kicked at the ancient ash around the base of
the fire.  There had been other fires here before,
lots of them.

"You came for her," he said.

Mulder didn't even try to lie.

"Yeah.  I have to get her out of here before Revere
figures it out," he said.

"You can't have her," Roger said, a catch in his voice.

"Can I see her?" Mulder asked quietly.

He sounded nice, but a nice man wouldn't keep coming
after Cindy.

"I'll show her to Agent Scully," Roger said.  He looked
right into Mulder's eyes, to show he could be stubborn
too.

"Roger, try to understand.  If I call Agent Scully now,
Dr. Revere will know where we are.  He'll follow us
here," Mulder said.

"Then you go get her yourself," Roger said.  "Me and
Cindy will wait."

Mulder shook his head, and he folded his arms across
his chest.  He didn't say anything for a while, but
then he pushed his hair back from his forehead and
he tried again to get his way.

"Cindy.  That's a pretty name.  But we need to take
her someplace where we can get some back-up," he said.
"I'll tell Agent Scully where to meet us."

Roger couldn't follow what Mulder was trying to say.
He understood that they were sitting pretty much in
the doc's backyard, and it would be easy for Doc to
get Cindy back if he showed up with enough help.
But where could they run to that would be any different?
Yellowstone, maybe, where the rangers might help them?

But it was just too far.  Everything was too far,
especially if Mulder thought he could ride in the
back of the van with Cindy.  It was true that Revere
wanted her dead, but Mulder wanted something even
worse.

A big, snarled-up ball of yarn, and no way to get it
untangled.  Roger wondered if there was any way to
make things okay again.  He should have listened to
Doc and sent Cindy to heaven when he had the chance.
He should have listened to Mr. Metzger and sent Mulder
to hell.

He reminded himself that Mulder had a gun.  He was
small, but he had a gun.

"Okey-dokey.  We'll do it your way," Roger said.

"Thank you," said Mulder.

As they walked back to the van, Roger looked around
for something to hit with, but he didn't see anything
he liked much, and he probably wouldn't need it.

Mulder reached the back of the van, then turned.

Roger took out his key.  The big set of keys was
hanging in the ignition, but he had a key that
opened the doors.

Roger thought about the people who came early and
had to wait for the Wal-mart to open.  That's the
way Mulder was looking at him, fidgety and impatient.

Slowly Roger put the key in the lock.

"She's up near the front.  You'll have to climb
inside to get a look," he said.

"Thanks," said Mulder.

If only Mulder was a little closer, Roger might be
able to smack him in the face with the gate as he
swung it up.  Only he wasn't.

"Stand back, so the gate don't hit you," Roger said,
and he waited, refusing to open the van until Mulder
took a step back.  Even after he had the back open,
he held his ground a second.

"It's a big step.  I'll help you up," he said.

"I'm fine," Mulder said, and Roger moved aside just
a little.  He waited until Mulder had one foot up
on the van.

"I will help you," he said.

He tried to make it look like an accident, muttering,
"Sorry, clumsy," as he pushed Mulder's face against
the floor.  Mulder didn't seem to get it until Roger
was sitting on top of him, and then he said,  "Roger,
cut it out."

"Gimme the rope," he called to Cindy, and she tossed
it to him.

"Roger!" Mulder yelled.

Mulder was smaller than a ram, and all in all he was
easier to tie. Roger took away his gun and remembered
to remove the bullets.  He put both in his pocket,
thinking he might return them to Agent
Scully when it was all over.

"Not gonna let you hurt her," Roger said, adjusting
the rope around Mulder's wrists.  He didn't want to
cut off the blood.  At least not there.  "No sir.
Not gonna let you do it."

========
 

Bone of Contention (10/15)

"What the hell is the matter with you, Roger?" Mulder
shouted as Roger belly-flopped him deeper into the van.
His chin whacked against the gritty floor, jarring his
teeth and causing an impressive set of fireworks
behind his eyes.

"Don't do no good yellin', Mr. Mulder.  Nobody can hear
you out here."

With one last mighty heave on his belt, Roger shoved
Mulder ahead a few feet until only his ankles remained
outside the van.  The floor was rough against his cheek,
and his shin was going to have a lovely bruise from the
doorway.

Drawing a long breath of stale, musty air, Mulder forced
himself to slow his frantic breathing.  He had to keep his
wits together.  Roger might be dumb as mud but the man was
incredibly determined about whatever he'd gotten into that
thick skull.

The van smelled of rust and something vaguely animal-like
underlaid with a strange medicinal smell.  Mulder could
think of no good reason for that smell.

Roger loosened the rope at Mulder's wrists, but unfortunately,
only enough to ease the pins and needles sensation in his
hands.

"Roger, you need to untie me.  I'm trying to help you!"

"I know all about you.  I know the bad things you did, and I
won't let you do them anymore."

He cast his mind back over the brief conversation he'd had
with Roger before the big man had overpowered him.  Mulder
grimaced, hearing Scully's voice in his head.  *Don't
underestimate him, huh Mulder?  Isn't that what you
told me?*

What bad things was Roger referring to, anyway?  Mulder
tried to think.  His contact with the big guy had been
extremely limited.  What on earth could have set Roger off?

How fucking humiliating, he thought.  Trussed up like a
prize pig--outsmarted by a man who had to read the
instructions on a bottle of shampoo.  Scully was going
to have a field day with this one.  That is, if she ever
FUCKING GOT HERE TO RESCUE HIM!

Damn, why the hell had he gone and stranded her at
Weymouth? Oh sure, it sounded like a good idea at the time.
Scully must have been furious when she got out to the
parking lot and found he'd hared off after Roger.  She'd
probably rip him a new one if she were here.  That is, after
she stopped laughing at his predicament.

He'd gladly face any comments by Scully--any humiliation
at all--just to have her show up.  He had a very bad
feeling about this.

"Damn it, Roger, that's enough.  Let me go!"

Mulder felt Roger's bulk shift over him as the man grabbed
him by the shoulders and flipped him onto his back.  One
of his wrists was bent the wrong way, and it hurt like hell.
Mulder let loose with every swear word he could remember.

"Fuck, Roger--that hurts," he said, finally running out of
epithets.

"Don't talk like that," Roger said, darkly.  "'Specially in
front of a lady."

Mulder's gaze ricocheted around the interior of the van,
taking in the torn ceiling fabric, a ragged hole in one
of the seat backs.  The overhead light cast shadows in
the corners, but Mulder could see two rows of bench seats
and a large red and white plastic box.

Over the scuffed vinyl seatback, a tangle of dirty white
curls appeared.  Mulder was riveted as a pair of blue eyes
peered over the edge.  Clearly, whatever it was, this
creature was terrified.  Mulder couldn't remember ever
seeing such a tragic gaze.

Delicate, human hands gripped the back of the seat, the
finger nails smooth and gently curved.  The face was odd,
not quite sheep-like, not quite human.  The wool on the face
was sparse, showing pink skin beneath.  The nose wasn't as
long as the sheep Mulder had seen at Weymouth; the ears were
folded more closely against the head.

He couldn't see its mouth, but wheezing, frightened sounds
echoed through the van.

"It's okay, Cindy.  He can't hurt you.  I'm gonna fix it
so he can't ever hurt anyone again."  Roger's voice was
soothing as he spoke gently to the creature.

"Roger, don't do it!" Mulder pleaded.  His only defense
was his words, and Roger was a tough audience.  "I'm a
federal agent.  Do you know what happens to people who
kill a federal agent?  The electric chair, Roger.
They'll fry you in the fucking chair, and maybe Cindy
too, for being your helper."

"Dirty-mouth dummy," Roger said disdainfully, looking
him right in the eye.  Mulder tried to twist away as
he felt Roger's hands on his belt buckle.

"What the hell are you doing?  Stop that!" he ordered,
trying  to sound commanding instead of terrified and
helpless as Roger opened his trousers and jerked them
roughly down to his knees.

"Dirty-mouth dummy," Roger said again.

= = = = = =

"I'm glad you called.  Sorry about being such a jerk," Brian
said.

His calm, friendly voice on the phone was a relief.  Scully
was hesitant about asking him for a favor, after their
chilly parting that morning, but she needed a lift and the
hotel car wouldn't be available for another hour.

"Don't be glad yet.  I'm going to ask you to do something
for me,"  Scully warned him.

"As long as it isn't illegal," Brian said.

"I need a ride," she told him.  "I'm over at Weymouth
Scientific without a car."

"So it's nothing personal.  You're just using me again,"
he said cheerfully.

"I'm afraid so," she answered, marveling that he could be so
easy-going.

"Favors are my specialty.  At least you'll get used to
having me around," he said.

Scully hung up and tried Mulder's phone again.  The wind
had picked up and Scully shivered a bit as she waited
outside the door.  No matter how cold it was, she had no
intention of going back inside.  By the time Brian pulled
into the parking lot, she had tried Mulder's line two more
times, without success.

"I was way out of line," Brian said when she got into his
car.  "I know you're working, and I'm in no position to
put demands on your time or attention."

"But you had a valid point," she said.  "Let's put on the
brakes, at least until this case is over."

"Exactly.  We'll just let things take their own course."
He gave her a jaunty smile, and she thought how rarely
she'd seen Mulder smile that way.

They drove to her hotel, where Scully picked up the
tubes with Mulder's blood.  The ice had completely melted,
but the water was still very cold when she shook the last
droplets off the vials.

"Now I have to find out about shipping," she said.

"The Fed Ex office is all the way to Banner Falls.
Maybe you could have the hotel take care of the
arrangements," Brian suggested as she pulled the
hotel room door shut behind her.

"Fed Ex," she said decisively.  "I can pick up a rental
car at the Exxon."

The service station, besides its mini mart, contained a
branch of a car rental company.  Accounting would freak
out when they saw that she and Mulder had rented a
second car.

"I'll drive you to Fed Ex," he said.  "Remember, I'm
the favor-man."

"I could never ask you to do that," she said, shaking
her head.

"You didn't ask.  Let's go," he said.

Brian's hand was at her back as they left the hotel.
Scully drew in a sharp breath at the familiarity of
the gesture.

= = = = =

Agent Mulder never took his eyes off Roger.  He couldn't
talk or holler anymore, but his eyes were enough to show
he was scared.

"You had no cause to raise such a racket.  You're hardly
gonna feel it," Roger said.  "I'm not fixing to kill you."

At first Mulder had tried to talk to him, stating all the
reasons to let him go.  But then, when Roger had his
pants open and dragged down to his knees, Mulder had
put up enough of a fuss that Cindy started to whimper.
He wouldn't shut his mouth so Roger shut it for him,
using the wide silk tape to do the job.

"You're only gonna be better off for it.  You won't be
thinking wickedness all the time," Roger said.  He tore
off an extra length of the tape to hold Mulder's penis up
against his stomach.  Keep it out of the way.  Mulder
writhed like a fish on the hook as he tried to move away
from Roger.  Hoarse, muffled sounds came from behind the
tape across Mulder's mouth.

Roger was working as fast as he could, and Mulder's panic
was getting him rattled.  He took a vial from the medicine
kit; it was the sleep medication he'd used the day before.

"You shouldn't even need this," he said reproachfully as
he pulled some up into a syringe.

One of the reasons Roger didn't like working with horses
was that they'd get into a panic and stare at you with their
great big rolling eyes, and that's what Mulder was doing to
him.

"Settle down now," Roger said as he jabbed the needle into
Mulder's thigh.  "Go to sleep."

Cindy's curiosity was starting to get the better of her
shyness, and she crawled over to see what was going on.
Roger was fixing to shoo her away, except it turned out
she was helpful.  She gave Mulder something else to look
at with his big, scared eyes, instead of staring at Roger.

Roger loaded a second syringe with Xylocaine, and he took
his smallest needle for the injection, but Mulder was bucking
and thrashing from the moment Roger touched his sac, even
before the shot.

"That's it.  That's the last it's gonna hurt," Roger said
as he withdrew the needle.

Xylocaine needs a few minutes to work.  In the meantime,
Roger got the rest of his stuff ready. Scalpel, couple of
clamps, and some stitches.

"You won't hardly bleed, either," he said.

Hogs are hard.  Sheep are easy.  He figured Mulder would
be somewhere in between.

= = = = =

Bone of Contention (11/15)
 
 
"Quit looking at me like that," Roger said.  "See, you
won't even feel it."  He gave a tap, to show he had
everything all numbed up, but Mulder was still staring,
all bug-eyed and crazy.

"Serves you right," Roger said, but he couldn't work this
way.  He took out the vial of medicine that had knocked
Mulder out just fine the day before.  "I don't know why
you won't go to sleep.  You can have one more shot, and
then I'm getting you done right no matter how hard you
stare."

Even all tied up, Mulder tried to get away from him.
It made the needle go in funny, and Roger was annoyed.

"See, you made it hurt more.  Dummy," he said.

Then they both heard it; a car approaching on the rutted,
unpaved ground.  Cindy heard it too.

"Eh?" she asked.

They heard a door creak open, and footsteps, and then
Mulder really went wacko, thrashing, even banging his
head on the floor to make noise.  Roger couldn't
remember if he'd locked the rear of the van.

The handle turned.

Roger held his breath.  He was in trouble now for sure,
whoever it was.

He pushed Cindy up toward the front of the van and down
between the seats, in case it was Doc Revere.  Maybe he
wouldn't see her.  Maybe he'd just see Mulder, and let
Roger finish his work.

The gate swung open.  The man outside was older than Mulder,
older than the doc.  His face was deeply creased, and his
hair was gray.  He was smoking a cigarette.

"Well, Fox.  You've gotten yourself in quite a fix,
haven't you?" he asked.

The man was nice and friendly, and the way Mulder looked at
him, all hateful and mad, convinced Roger that he was a
good man.

"That's a mighty sharp knife you have there," the smoking
man said to Roger.  He took a long slow drag off his
cigarette, nodding as he released the stream of smoke.

"Got to be," Roger explained.

"What's your name?" the man asked, and Roger told him.
"Well, Roger, you've given me the best laugh I've had in
a long time.  Or don't you agree, Mr. Mulder?"

Mulder moved his head like he was trying to say something.

"He's stubborn," Roger commented.

The smoker sat down on the tailgate.  Roger hoped Cindy
wouldn't get too cold with the back of the van open, but
he didn't want to upset the friendly visitor.

"He always has been.  Perhaps he'll be less stubborn once
you complete your operation," the man said.

"That's how it goes," Roger agreed.  "Makes 'em calm and
happy."

"Calm and happy.  You'll like that, won't you, Fox?  It
will be a such a relief after a life so full of turmoil
and unhappiness," the smoker said.

If looks could kill, like Pa used to say.  Mulder didn't
look like a frightened horse any more; he looked like a
crazy bull.

"He don't believe it," Roger said, and the smoker laughed.

"How odd.  I've heard he'll believe almost anything," he
said.

The old man was having a lot of fun, but Roger didn't want
to waste any more time.  The air in the van was now thick
and gray with smoke.   Cindy coughed quietly, and Roger's
heart started to pound, but luckily the smoker didn't hear
her.

"Okay if I cut him now?" Roger asked, and waited for an
answer.

"We'll let Mr. Mulder decide.  Take the tape off his mouth,"
the smoker said at last.

"He'll holler up a storm," Roger warned him.

"We have to ask him if he wants this operation," the smoking
man said.

Roger didn't answer.  He didn't see why Mulder had to agree
to anything, since he was all tied up.  Animals didn't know
what was best for them.  You had to do things they didn't
want because you knew they needed it, and Mulder needed this.

Roger thought maybe the smoking man was trying to rile him,
just like he was trying to rile Agent Mulder.  He shrugged,
as if he really didn't care, and ripped the tape from Mulder's
mouth.  Mulder flinched and made a hissing noise.

Roger was closer to him, but Mulder tried to pick up his
head enough to talk to the smoking man.

"Let me go, you bastard," he said.  His voice sounded funny,
as if he was drunk.  Roger had never noticed that effect
before because the other animals couldn't talk.

"Very well," the smoking man said.  "It's his choice."

Roger was disappointed but not surprised.

"We'll use the other agent for our plan," the smoker added.

Roger was confused because the other agent was Agent Scully,
and he couldn't do to her what he was doing to Mulder.
Surgery like that you need a vet.  It sounded like the man
thought he and Roger had a plan, but Roger had never seen
the smoker before.  How could there be a plan?  Roger was
used to being confused when other people talked, but he
wasn't confused about this.

"What are you talking about?" Mulder rasped.

"I thought you'd be more chivalrous, Mr. Mulder.  After
all, Agent Scully has already endured more than her fair
share," the smoker said.  "However, either one of you will
serve our current purpose."

"If you cut off my balls, you'll leave her alone?  Why the
hell should I believe you?" Mulder asked.

"You can believe whatever you like," said the smoker.
"Roger, find his phone, please."

The phone was right in his jacket pocket.  Roger held it
up like a trophy.

"Dial up his partner," the smoker instructed.  "After he
tells her how to get here, you can cut him loose."

"What is her number?" Roger asked.

"Push the number 'one,' and then 'send,'" the smoking man
said.  "Now hold it so he can talk to her."

He had some trouble pushing the tiny buttons with his big
finger, but he managed at last and brought the phone to
Mulder's face.

"Scully, I need you to get over here.  I'm in the woods just
south of Weymouth Scientific, about a quarter mile off the
road," Mulder said.  "And hurry."

Roger folded the phone and reached to untie the cord around
Mulder's ankles, but the smoking man stopped him.

"So number one is her home phone," the smoker said.  "Try
it again, Roger, only this time press the number 'two.'"

"I did what you said," Mulder protested.

"Then do it again," said the smoker.  "To her cell phone."

"Fuck you," said Mulder.

"Does that mean you've changed your mind?" the smoker asked.

"I'll kill you," Mulder said angrily.

"You've never been calm and happy before.  Perhaps you'll
thank me," the smoker said.

The smoker was getting on Roger's nerves, not just because
of the cigarettes, but because he talked as if everything
was a joke that only he understood. Also, he was making it
take too long.  Cindy hadn't had her breakfast, and Mulder
was going to need another shot soon.

Cindy coughed again, and this time everyone heard it.

The smoker gave Roger a harsh look and said, "Bring it out."

"Huh?" Roger asked.

"Bring the test animal out where I can see it."

Roger knew he had to obey.  As he climbed into the van, the
smoker turned around and tossed a rag so that it fell over
Mulder's face.

"You've seen quite enough already, Mr. Mulder," he said.

= = = = = = =

The radio was set to "easy listening," and the bland music
filled in the gaps in the conversation.  Instead of driving
to Banner Falls, seventy miles away, Brian was taking
Scully to rent a car.

"Separation anxiety," Brian pronounced after a long silence.

"Uh-huh," Scully answered absently.

"You needed a ride to the Fed Ex office, I offered you a
ride, and now you won't go because you can't get your partner
on the phone," he continued.

She registered his irritation more than the specifics of his
complaint, but her thoughts were elsewhere.  He was driving
her to the Exxon station where she'd get a car of her own,
and that was all that mattered to her.

"I'm his back-up," she explained.

"My sister went through this, when her youngest started
kindergarten," Brian informed her.  "Justin was fine.  It
was Mommy who couldn't let go."

"I'm sure he's fine," Scully answered.

"You did want to get your evidence shipped out, remember?
Or was that my imagination?" Brian asked.

"I changed my mind," Scully said.

"All because Agent Mulder won't pick up his phone," he
said.

"I have to be available," she said without expecting him
to understand.

Brian kept his thoughts to himself until his phone rang.
Flipping it open, he took the call with no attempt to
conceal the conversation.

"It's okay, I wasn't doing anything anyway," he said into
the phone.   "A dog?  Shouldn't be a problem, especially
if it's riding in a carrier."

"What was that about?" Scully asked when he closed his
phone.  She wouldn't have been surprised if he'd given
her the cold shoulder, but he turned to answer her.

"Mr. Terranova's leaving town with his new companion,"
Brian laughed.  "I never figured him for an animal-lover."

"A large dog?  Traveling in a closed carrier?" Scully asked.
This time he didn't answer.  "Brian?  What time are you
meeting him?"

He adjusted his Stetson and turned up the volume on the
radio, and when he spoke, his jaw was set.

"About a mile more to the service station," he said.

"Thanks.  I was just wondering."  She was trying to
pose her questions in casual language, but his expression
told her to give up.  Brian thought she was playing games
or using him, and maybe she was.  In any case, she didn't
have time to work at changing his mind.

She wanted to try Mulder's number once more, but she forced
herself to wait.  No one spoke until Brian pulled into the
Exxon station.

"Thanks," Scully said as she got out of his car.  He nodded
slightly, and then he drove away.

Scully had to stand by the service desk until the manager was
free, because he was the only one who could access the computer
for the rental company.  He tried valiantly to sell her on an
upgrade, but she held her ground and he backed down.  Finally
she had her car.

With no clear destination, she decided to drive back to Weymouth
and see if she could pick up Mulder's trail from there.  Before
she could turn the key, her phone rang and she flipped it open.

"Mulder, where are you?" she snapped.  Thanks to his tired old
disappearing act, she'd pissed off the only normal man on earth
who found her attractive.

"Ah, you're wondering where Agent Mulder might be," said a
familiar voice.

Her gut clenched, but she held back her fear and let out her
anger.

"Where is he?" she barked.

"I remember when Mulder was outstanding in his field," the
voice said. "Now, I'm afraid, he's out lying in the woods."

"What have you done to him?" she demanded.

"When you find him, tell him he owes me one.  Two, really."

"I don't know what kind of game you think you're playing--"

"Don't take too long.  The nights are cold here, and Agent
Mulder is somewhat less durable than the proverbial brass
monkey."

= = = = = = =