Disclaimer: Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and
Ten Thirteen productions created and own the characters you recognize.
My writing is for fun, not money.

Rating: R (Language, Violence, Sex)

Size: 154KB

Thanks: Thanks to all of the fan fiction writers whose bravery
encouraged me to try this. Special thanks to Karen Rasch, whose
graceful prose is a pleasure to re-read and whose web pages point
the way to so much of the best fiction being done. Special thanks
also to Pellinor for her evocative fiction and her invaluable 'Deep
Background'. I also look forward to every opportunity to enter the
worlds created by Jill Selby, Jo-Anne Lassiter, Vicki Moseley, Rebecca
Rusnak, Kipler, Analise, Nascent and others too numerous to name.

Summary: The story is set in fall of 1997 after Redux II and before
Detour. Mulder and Scully have been assigned to a "routine" X-File by
Skinner. They don't believe it will amount to much, but it proves to be
more dangerous than expected. As the case progresses they're reading a
manuscript that was found among Melissa Scully's things, at the request
of Maggie Scully. Melissa believed it was an account of a past life of
someone in the Scully family. It raises personal issues Mulder and
Scully are not prepared to face.

Classification: Story with Humor, Angst, Romance

Spoilers: Numerous references through Redux II, especially "Field
Where I Died"

Distribution: No restrictions on further distribution. Just keep my
name with it please.

Reactions welcome at COMBS-BACHMANN@WORLDNET.ATT.NET
 

***********

        It was so cold now that a thin layer of snow whitened the long
grass and hedges on either side of the path to the manor. The
advantage for the traveller was that the paths that had been all mud
earlier in the fall were frozen as hard as iron. Father Martin found
the walk to the manor house went much more quickly now. He had finally
gotten used to the chilly English weather, and he had a fine wool
cloak that kept out most of the cold.

        He saw that Dangelo's soldiers had a big bonfire going outside
the door to the guard room today. They took frequent turns warming
themselves. They hadn't had time to accustom themselves to this
climate. No doubt they were longing for the milder seasons of Rome.

        Edgar had sent back a short reply to his letter with Young
Matthew. He said he would consider the matter and come up with a
solution. No other word had followed. The sitting of the King's
justices had already been postponed one more month, and Father Martin
moved through his daily life in a sort of waking nightmare of anxiety.

        His daily visits for two months had followed the same routine.
Father Martin spoke to the sergeant, who sent one of his men inside to
find out if Sister Catherine wanted to see a priest. A few minutes
later he would return and tell the sergeant, that no; the prisoner
refused religious comfort. What Father Martin didn't know was that
several weeks ago the men had stopped bothering to inquire what the
prisoner wished. The answer was always the same, so what was the
point?

        Today things went as usual until Father Martin was starting to
turn away. They were all startled when Alan Hobson stuck his head out
the door and called out "The prisoner has changed her mind. She wants
to see Father Martin."

        The sergeant looked uneasy, but had no answer ready to dispute
the claim.

        Father Martin eagerly approached Alan and descended the steps
to the prison cells. Alan stopped him when they reached the area
outside the cells.

        "I need to talk to you. I don't really know if she knows what
she wants anymore. She's very ill, Father.  This priest from the
Vatican must be respected in Rome and London, but I'm heartsick at
what's going on. I think it might be a sin too. Dame Agnes sends meat,
puddings, eggs and delicacies here every other day. She sent several
wool blankets and linens when Sister Catherine was first imprisoned.
But do you know what I have to do? I have to turn all these things
over to Dangelo's soldiers. She sleeps on nothing but straw and gets
nothing but a little bit of the coarsest rye bread and water. He says
it's to mortify her soul, but...I know she's innocent. I've known her
since we were children and she is no witch."

        Alan looked around fearfully, but continued speaking.

        "Two days ago this man arrived at the manor and asked for
Father Dangelo. He had a wagon with a heavy load of metal and wood
tools. The Italian soldiers unloaded these things and took them to an
upstairs room. Father Dangelo had them working all night, and they
took Sister Catherine to that room yesterday. Father, they've started
questioning her on the rack! I heard Father Dangelo cursing the man
who brought the rack for dislocating her shoulder yesterday, on the
very first day they used it. They put the shoulder back into place so
they can put her on the rack again. I don't think they want her to
live long enough to receive the judgment of the King's court. I think
they want a confession at all costs and a convenient death. That
Father Dangelo, I don't see how he can be holy enough to be a priest.
He gets some kind of nasty pleasure out of seeing her suffer."

        Father Martin was struggling to stay on his feet while black
spots appeared and expanded before his eyes. The room seemed to tilt
unsteadily, but he knew that it was his knees starting to buckle. He
grabbed for the table in the center of the room and lowered his head
while he braced himself on it.

        "You couldn't have known, could you?" Alan asked uncertainly,
catching a glimpse of Father Martin's white face.

        "I've got to see her," Father Martin forced out in a hoarse
voice.

        "Yes, yes," Alan said. He was clearly relieved at transferring
some of the responsibility he felt to someone else.

        When Alan first opened the cell door their eyes had to adjust
to the dim light. Father Martin soon saw why Alan felt no uneasiness
about letting him in, possibly against Sister Catherine's wishes. She
lay unconscious, almost swallowed up, in a large heap of straw in the
corner.

        "At least I can give her plenty of clean straw. But it's not
enough to keep her warm," Alan observed mournfully. "It's her left
shoulder that's hurt. I think they just didn't allow for her being so
much thinner and weaker than she used to be."

        Her emaciation and pallor were hitting Father Martin with the
impact of a mace. He went over to where she lay and sank down to his
knees beside her. Behind him Alan went on talking.

        "The kitchen maid told me she had it from one of the soldiers
that she never let out a scream yesterday, or even said a word. He
told her it was uncanny how she seemed to just kind of leave her body,
like no one was home. I said to her 'Who'd want to be home when the
likes of them come calling?' Bea said 'Yes, but I'm thinking she might
be close to deciding not to come back.' But last night she was back
all right. She moaned and sobbed almost all the blessed night. In the
morning when I came in with bread and water she was awake and said
'Alan, I can't eat that anymore. It's too much work to chew.' I said
'I'll get another bowl of water to soak it in first.' I felt so bad.
She said 'No, don't be upset. It's not your fault. I just can't eat
that anymore. Don't worry, this won't go on much longer.' I think
she's right. She's so weak. Even if they don't torture her
anymore...." His voice trailed off. "Now I can't get her to wake up at
all."

        Alan noticed Father Martin touching Sister Catherine's bare
head with a puzzled look.

        "He had them shave her hair off and take her veil the first
week. For penance, he said," Alan explained.

        He saw that Father Martin no longer heard him. The priest's
attitude confirmed everything Alan's wife had confided in him about the
two last summer.

        "I saw Father Martin and Sister Catherine come out of your
father's house this morning, Alan. They were talking about your
father's scrofula and the salve he uses."

        "How are my parents?" he answered, only half listening as he
ate a bowl of soup and a huge piece of bread.

        "They do as well as ever. I took them one of the loaves I had
baked today. Did you ever notice how Father Martin and Sister can
practically finish each other's sentences? And they have all these
little jests that no one else understands. What are they going to do
when they realize what a situation they have gotten themselves into?"

        "What situation is that?' he asked, concentrating on working a
small piece of bone out of his mouth before he swallowed.

        "Why being in love with each other," she answered in a matter-
of-fact voice.

        Alan had scoffed and remarked that summer's fancies often cool
with the weather. His remark had seemed justified when he saw them in
September. There was no sign of anything but courtesy between them
then.

        Now Father Martin's face expressed every forbidden facet of
his feelings for the nun. He didn't even notice when Alan left and
shut the cell door behind him.

        Father Martin removed his cloak and gently pulled Sister
Catherine from the straw to lie against his body, as he leaned back
against the pile of straw. When he had to move her left shoulder she
moaned, but didn't open her eyes. He tucked the cloak around both of
them. It frightened him to feel how cold and still she lay.

        "Catherine, it's Father Martin. I'm going to get you out of
here. Why didn't you let me visit? If we'd known what was happening we
could have protested. We were so sure you'd be free by now. It never
occurred to us that they would treat you this way." He spoke to soothe
himself as much as her. What if she never woke up from this stupor?

        She jerked suddenly in his arms, and cried out in pain at the
movement this caused in her shoulder.

        "Martin, is this all right now? Us, like this? What if someone
sees?" Her eyes were wide with shock and her voice full of alarm.

        "It's all right sweetheart, no one can hurt us now." Father
Martin half sobbed, half laughed with relief. "Don't worry for a
while, just rest. Try to get warm."

        Her body relaxed again. He didn't know if she believed him, or
if her strength had failed her.

        For several hours they lay there.  Sister Catherine drifted in
and out of consciousness and Father Martin formed and rejected plan
after plan for securing her release. Then he heard the door open and
the scathing voice of Father Dangelo.

        "Well this is an edifying sight. Do I have the pleasure of
meeting the priest and his mare?"

        The insult made no impression on Father Martin as he tried to
contain the immense rage that possessed him at the sight of this man.
He knew that self-control would be required to accomplish his goal.
Sister Catherine had snapped awake at the first word from Father
Dangelo. Her face showed bewilderment and naked fear.

        Father Martin lifted her and placed her back on the straw,
carefully covering her with the cloak. He spoke to her in low tones.
"You trust me don't you, Catherine? Remember, I told you no one would
hurt us. I know you haven't confessed anything. Stay quiet for just a
little while longer."

        Then he straightened up and faced Dangelo. "You weren't going
to put her on the rack today," he challenged Dangelo, failing to keep
his voice from trembling a little on the last few words.

        "No, I wasn't. We're interested in getting at the truth, after
all. We don't want her executed before she comes to trial. I judge she
needs a few days to recover from that clumsy first attempt. In fact, I
was going to let her have a little gruel today." Turning to Sister
Catherine he continued smoothly, "Alan tells me your stomach is too
refined for our bread. Perhaps you have a strain of noble blood. Let's
see your father was a....farmer? But maybe your real father wasn't.
And like mother like daughter, I see," He added, looking meaningfully
from Sister Catherine to Father Martin.

        Again he failed to get the reaction he sought from his
audience. They were far past such concerns. Sister Catherine was
scared and confused. She remembered dreaming that Martin had been
holding her in his arms, keeping her warm. If he really had been, what
might they do to him? There seemed to be no limit to Dangelo's cruelty
and power.

        "Alan told me you had asked for spiritual comfort, Sister
Catherine, so he admitted Father Martin. My men tell me that was quite
a while ago. Are you sufficiently comforted?"

        The facts of Sister Catherine's physical condition made his
innuendo appear ridiculous. She waited, still feeling that silence was
safest.

        "We'll assume you are. Allow me, Father Martin."

        He pulled the priest's cloak from Sister Catherine and shook
off the clinging straw.

        "You wouldn't want to suffer from the cold on your walk back
to town."

        Stay calm, Martin told himself. You have to think. Don't feel.
Think.

        "Father Dangelo, Sister is so ill. If you don't want her to
die in here before her trial you have to release her right now to
await trial in her convent. That's how imprisonment of a member of a
religious community is usually done in this country anyway. Your
actions here have been extremely unusual: I might even say
unprecedented. If Baron Philip were here he wouldn't have allowed it.
There's something else you should know. The original accuser, Joseph
Thornapple, is retracting his accusation. It's very likely she'll be
found innocent, and it would look bad if you've harmed an innocent
woman while she was in your custody."

        Father Martin congratulated himself on getting these rational
arguments out in a dispassionate manner.

        "First of all, I don't think we can take it upon ourselves to
say what Baron Philip would or would not allow if he were here. His
Chief Steward and the Baroness seem content enough to leave things to
my judgment. Secondly Joseph wasn't the original accuser. It was, what
do you call her, Dark Alison. Oh, heavens, she was supposed to stay a
secret witness," Father Dangelo exclaimed in mock dismay at his
mistake in speaking her name.

        "Oh well, I'm sure the two of you can keep secrets. Alison
wanted to keep her identity hidden due to the compromising nature of
the situation when she found evidence of Sister Catherine's
witchcraft. But that situation is no secret to you, is it Father
Martin? She confessed to her carnal relations with you, and then
showed us the witch charm she found under your mattress. She knew
Sister Catherine had made it to bewitch you because it had her red
hair mixed with some of yours, along with a number of foul substances
added for the spell's purpose."

        Sister Catherine had her gaze fixed on Father Martin's face,
looking for help in understanding the accusations being made. His
stricken look told her that there was enough truth to be dangerous.

        "I believe Joseph was more receptive to Alison's persuasion
than he would have been if his dear wife hadn't passed on some weeks
ago. Alison convinced him that Sister Catherine had done harm to
Lettice and the baby. Then we found a postulant at St. Ursula's who
had kept some suspicious leaves. They were in a pouch that was seen in
Sister Catherine's possession after the death of another postulant was
hushed up. The leaves were identified as a plant used to cause
miscarriages. Sister Adrian was reluctant, but felt it was her duty to
bring the evidence to my attention. Don't be too quick to deny the
charm, Father Martin, because if you aren't under a spell, you can be
charged with choosing to participate in witchcraft. After all you
helped take care of Lettice too. In fact I heard you were at the
convent the night that young nun died."

        He enjoyed watching Father Martin try to maintain an impassive
expression. Father Martin was lecturing himself on what was important
right now. He must not think about the sorry origin of this tragedy,
and instead concentrate on his goal. Remarkably, he succeeded.

        "No matter what the evidence or testimony, it's contrary to
law and custom for you to keep Sister Catherine here in danger of her
life. I intend to protest to Father Walter and to the town councillors
immediately. You may have no idea of the high regard the people of
this town have for Sister Catherine, but I assure you they'll be
outraged to find out she has been treated so cruelly. It would be
better for you if she were back in the convent before I bring a force
of townspeople here to witness her imprisonment."

        Father Dangelo looked at the two inexpressive faces before him
and wondered what he would have to do to get through that reserve and
make progress in breaking them. He hadn't even succeeded in dividing
them with that little revelation about Alison. Suddenly he knew.
Sometimes the simple answer was the best.

        He bent down toward Sister Catherine and took her left hand in
his, as though in a parting gesture. Suddenly he jerked down hard, and
followed this by violently pulling her arm up over her head with a
twisting motion. Sister Catherine could not prevent a scream at this
sudden, unexpected agony.  She writhed in pain for endless seconds
until he released the arm. Tears poured down her cheeks, and she
breathed with sobbing gasps, while she fought to regain her self-
control.

        "What holy purpose did you have for doing that?" Father Martin
asked tightly, as he approached Father Dangelo. A red cloud of anger
was blotting out reason in his turbulent mind.

        "It doesn't always have to have a holy purpose," Dangelo
answered with a foolish giggle. "You don't take on a position like
mine if you don't sometimes enjoy the duties for their own sake."

        Father Martin hit him on the jaw so hard that he was thrown
full-length on the stone floor.
 
        Seconds later two of Dangelo's men had stormed in from the
outer room and immobilized Father Martin with his arms pinned behind
his back. A third helped Father Dangelo to stand up.

        Dangelo touched his already red and swollen jaw. He approached
Father Martin closely and spoke to him.

        "I don't enjoy receiving the kind of attentions I bestow," he
said with a vicious smile, while he ran one finger deliberately down
Father Martin's cheek. "He's accused of attacking a priest and
striking him. Put him in the cell next to this one," he ordered the
soldiers.

        Despite the fog of pain that had enveloped her, Sister
Catherine had missed nothing of these events. Abruptly she spoke up.

        "Father Dangelo, please send for a clerk. I wish to confess to
witchcraft, including the bewitching of Father Martin. I made him come
here today to help me escape, and I made him attack you."

        Father Martin sent her an agonized look and pleaded with her.
"Catherine, don't confess. You're innocent, and the court will find
you innocent if you can survive. If you confess they might..."

        "Get him out of here," Father Dangelo interrupted.

        As they dragged him out he heard Catherine and Dangelo talking.

        "If I confess you must release him. He can't be held
responsible for his actions."

        "We'll see. He does have some protection from friends of his
family."

         Then the two waited without speaking for the scribe. They
listened to Father Martin being pushed into the adjacent cell over
strenuous resistance. He continued to yell over the scuffle.

        "Catherine trust me. Don't confess. Don't lie because you
think it will help me. Dangelo, what if I confessed that I was the
head of the damn coven and told you that she wasn't in it!"

        "Then I would accuse her of bewitching you into making a false
confession," Father Dangelo mused aloud. Then he went to the tiny
barred window in the cell door and ordered the soldiers to tie and gag
Father Martin.

        In the resulting silence Sister Catherine asked rhetorically,
"You never lose do you?" When he shook his head she continued, "Why
has it become so important that I not be found innocent? You were
planning my death in prison to avoid that. Why?"

        "It's nothing personal, Sister," he replied."I'm here to
demonstrate the power of the Pope and the Roman Catholic Church, a
power from which there is no recourse. I needed an example to put fear
in the hearts of these people. I didn't know what kind of accusations
I would get, but the one against you was perfect. There were three
witnesses and physical evidence. The problem is that the testimony
seems to be slipping away. I can't let you be an example of how
someone might escape from the power of the Church if the evidence
wasn't quite good enough. I want people to remember how an ordinary
person, even a nun, could be destroyed by us on a mere accusation. It
will strengthen our control here for years. Truthfully, Sister
Catherine, we're still planning your death, but maybe we don't need
Father Martin's."

        It distressed her to think that Father Martin was blaming
himself for the accusation that had come from Alison. She knew that
Dangelo had planned that revelation to break down their united defense
against him. It hadn't worked. What Dangelo didn't know was that she
knew a deeper truth than jealousy. Her refusal to acknowledge the full
extent of their love, her constant cold deflection of what she knew
were attempts to talk about their bittersweet attachment, had set
Father Martin up for that kind of fall. He had had a temptation that
she had not, and he had succumbed. It didn't alter the nature of their
connection. But Dangelo had won in the end anyway, not by clever
strategy but the simple threat of violence against the other. Neither
of them was proof against that.

        The scribe was shown into the cell to take down her words,
since she was too weak to walk to the outer room and sit at the table.
She confessed to everything they asked her to, but she would not
implicate others. One look into her eyes convinced Dangelo that she
would not yield on this point, not even for the sake of Father Martin.

         After the confession was signed and Dangelo had left, she lay
in the dark and wished she could have thought more clearly. Her
thoughts had been clear during the first weeks. At first she had
prayed for release and expected it to happen. As she was questioned
over and over again, and answered honestly, she couldn't understand
why God didn't reveal the truth to his earthly representatives. She
came to see that these men weren't interested in the truth, but in the
goal of finding her guilty. That was when she stopped talking.

        In the enormous silence that followed she thought a great deal
about the God who selected these torturers to act for Him. She
realized that she had always put her father's face on God when she
prayed, or wrestled with questions of conscience. Her father's face
didn't suit the new God of her imagination. She couldn't find a face
that fit except maybe the blind, blank face of the sky, which rained,
blew, snowed and shone with impartiality across the landscape. This
new God didn't have much influence with her. Her thoughts had become
very hazy after two months of near starvation, but she remembered once
thinking that Father Martin was right after all about religion.

        When imprisonment and starvation didn't result in her
confession, Father Dangelo had tried the whip. He still failed to
get the response he sought. When they finally put her on the rack it
felt like the suffering from some terrible disease or random accident,
whose cause could not be deciphered. Only one thing remained clear to
her--she had to protect Martin from this affliction.

        She had done so. Now there was no need to think anymore.
Gradually she escaped the torment of her newly injured shoulder by
slipping back into unconsciousness.

        Outside the cells Dangelo sent for Alan.

        "Alan, start making arrangements to hang Sister Catherine
tomorrow. She signed a confession to witchcraft," Dangelo ordered

        "Monsignor, only the Royal Court can approve an execution. The
Church Court can't....," Alan stammered, dumbfounded at this sudden
decision.

        "With a signed confession and evidence I'll take the
responsibility. After it's done, Father Martin can be released. I may
be back later tonight to talk to Father Martin about his crime. You
start making arrangements with the manor servants for tomorrow. Is
there a local man who can be trusted to do the hanging quietly and
efficiently?"

        Alan thought of Richard Butcher, whose sister had been brought
through a difficult childbirth by Sister Catherine. He suggested his
name, in hopes that when a strange soldier approached him on the
matter he would raise the hue and cry against Dangelo.

        "Hmm, I'll think about it. She's so light I don't know if any
of my men has the skill to do it quickly. I don't want to waste the
day from dawn to dusk while she strangles. But if the drop is too high
or the weights too heavy, it will be a very messy decapitation."

        Sister did not hear the interchange in the area outside the
cells. Father Martin heard the discussion, as he knew he was meant to.
None of the anxieties that had haunted him previously had been quite
so grim as the reality that was unfolding around him. Should he offer
to pay for an executioner from Nottingham? A master swordsman could
painlessly sever that delicate little neck with one stroke. He was
probably good enough to do it himself. His eyes closed reflexively as
though the action would banish the image from his mind's eye. He
couldn't be sick into his gag. That would make it even more difficult
to concentrate. He had one last strategy to try before their situation
was hopeless.

        He sat trussed up on the floor of the cell all of that
evening, except for one short time when two of the soldiers came in
and untied him so he could use the privy. Dangelo's soldiers seemed to
be ordinary professionals. They didn't appear to share his perverse
enjoyment in making others suffer. When they tied him back up again he
thought they even looked at him with some pity. He was emboldened to
ask them to leave the gag off. He convinced them that he would be
quiet. It would do no good to make noise here anyway.

        Dangelo returned at midnight with a man Father Martin had
never seen before. They entered the cell and set a bag on the floor.
Father Martin concentrated on his strategy.

        "Monsignor Dangelo I can make you a bargain that can help you
to rise high in the Church," he said quietly.

        "And what do you have to offer me?" he responded, sitting down
on the floor next to Father Martin.

        "Information. You can use it against somebody or for somebody.
I'm sure you could think of an infinite number of ways to make it pay
for you." Martin tried to slide away from Dangelo. "When you release
Sister Catherine I'll give you the details. I'll wager when you hear
them you'll think it's worth your while to let me go too."

        "How do I know it's worth my while to let her go?" Dangelo
asked leaning in closer to him. "You don't even really care if I let
you go, do you?"

        "I'll give you some of the facts now. There was a murder four
years ago, in the highest court. I can tell you who in the Church
ordered it to be done, how it was done, and the person in England who
carried it out."

        "King John! You know who the people were behind that?" Dangelo
exclaimed in real surprise. "No wonder you have a reputation for being
a suspicious person. I'm surprised you've lived this long. But I can't
make a deal with you. Even for that information I can't let her go. It
would make me look weak.  Besides, I have a feeling knowing those
details would be more dangerous than useful."

        "You miserable bastard. I hope you and your ambition end up in
the Tiber like the rest of the sewage." Father Martin finally stopped
trying to be conciliatory.

        Father Dangelo raised his hand over Father Martin, who ducked
away from the expected blow. Instead Dangelo just gripped his jaw with
that hand and grinned while he forced Martin to look him in the eyes.

        "I'll let you go, but I'll make you regret hitting me first."

        "You think I can regret anything more than I do already?"
Martin almost laughed.

        "We'll see, won't we."

******      ******      ******      ******     ******      ******

        Scully didn't know if she should be pleased or upset that
Mulder could joke about her predicament. He rarely lost his ability to
find the humor in a situation, no matter how grave. She had to admit
that his final irreverent comments had raised her spirits by
emphasizing the absurdity of the accusation against her. There would
be ample opportunities for paybacks.

        Sheriff Reynolds escorted her upstairs. The upstairs had been
remodeled about ninety years ago to install cells. The stairs led to a
hallway on the left. Originally four bedrooms had opened into the
hallway. Now there were two enclosed areas on opposite sides of the
hall, each with its own door. Inside the door on the right was a room
containing two barred cells, like cages, side by side and separated by
a five feet of space. Each cell had a mattress on a metal frame bolted
to the floor against the bars, which were set against the wall at the
back of the cell. The bars were old, but sturdy. Sheriff took out a
huge key off his belt for the correspondingly huge lock on the cell
door. Scully was relieved to see modern plumbing--a sink and toilet-
in each cell.

        "Did this town have to hold very many hardened criminals when
these were built," she asked curiously.

        "Oh yes, during the silver strikes there were arrests of some
big-time highway and bank robbers. Sometimes those boys had gangs that
would try to storm the sheriff's office and break their buddies out.
They never succeeded here though."

        "We don't have a matron, Agent Scully," he continued, with
some embarrassment. "I'll knock before entering the outer door and
wait for an answer."

        "Sheriff Reynolds I have a request."

        He looked at her silently, expecting a wish he couldn't grant

        "I'd like a really big breakfast from Marge's Kitchen. It's
almost noon now and I didn't get any dinner last night."

        He couldn't help grinning at that.

        "That we can do something about. I'll give Marge a call."

        He left, returning in half an hour with a tray of eggs,
sausage, pancakes and coffee. Scully almost forgave him for arresting
her on the spot.

        Time dragged after breakfast. Scully had nothing to read and
nothing new to put into a report. She was bored enough to wish that
she had Melissa's unsettling manuscript to read. They had hauled her
off to jail this morning before she even had a chance to call Mullins
about the results of the date testing.

        She sighed and decided that as long as she was in jail she
might as well be tortured further. She took out her notebook and began
outlining her five-year career plan and self-assessment of her job
performance for the past year. Skinner had been nagging them to file
these documents so he could complete their performance review
paperwork. Scully had to admit that Skinner had the worst of it. She
shuddered at the thought of preparing a performance review for Mulder
that had to incorporate his own notes. She was always careful to
indicate that she was not interested in the administrative career
ladder.

        Scully began writing:
                Five year goals   1. Survive
                                  2. Prevent an unknown cabal from
                                     taking over the earth
                                  3. Get a life
                                  4. Persuade my partner to follow
                                     procedure.

        Get serious she scolded herself. Scratch number four. Limit
yourself to attainable goals so your evaluations will look better.

        She was glad of an excuse to stop working at two o'clock when
the Sheriff discreetly knocked and waited for her answer to enter the
cell.

        The sheriff entered on hearing her "Come in." Scully tried not
to stare as he brought a wizened, old woman into the cell area. Her
gray hair stood out in spikes. She exuded an air of belligerence that
was almost palpable. The sheriff spoke soothingly to her as he opened
the cell door, but insisted on taking her purse before he locked her
in.

        "We can't have you smoking in here, now. It wouldn't be safe."

         "Safe!" she answered with a snort. "I'm sixty-seven and
haven't lived safe yet. D'you think I'm going to start now?"

        "What about your roommate? She might insist on her right to a
smoke free environment."

        It was only then that the woman noticed Scully sitting on the
bed in her cell.

        "First time I ever remember having a roommate," the woman
muttered.

        "I'm sure you'll get along just fine," the sheriff asserted
with confidence. "I'll see you ladies later."

        "Drunk and disorderly," the old woman barked suddenly. "What
about you?"

        Startled, Scully answered shortly, "Murder."

        The woman's bushy eyebrows went up at that.

        "I had you figured for drugs or shoplifting."

        "I didn't do it."

        "Was it Tim Hargity, or did the sheriff just stop you for
speeding and find out there was a warrant out for you?"

        Scully was beginning to wonder why this woman was here. She
didn't seem drunk.

        "It was Hargity. Did you know him?"

        "Nobody knew Hargity very well. He liked his privacy. A lot of
us do. My name is TJ by the way, for Thelma Jean."

        "TJ, is Sheriff Reynolds so hard up for work that he locks up
a mature woman for having a few drinks?"

        "What's your name?"

        "Dana."

        "Dana, it's true I'm not very drunk. But I'm a mean drunk when
I get a real skinful. Sheriff Reynolds believes in preventive jail for
me when I get started."

        "You realize he's violating your constitutional rights, don't
you?"

        "We get along all right with Sheriff Reynolds in this town.
Anyway this time he had cause."

        As TJ spoke, she was reaching into an inside pocket of her
gray polyester suit jacket. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a
lighter with a satisfied smile.

        "You don't mind, do you?" she asked, not waiting for an answer
to light up. She took a long drag and began coughing lustily. "Can you
believe I found a twenty dollar bill on our front porch this
afternoon? I went to let the dogs in for the afternoon feeding, like
always, and there it was, stuck between two boards. Emmie (that's my
sister) never lets me have any money. She even buys my cigarettes. It
just about kills her to do it, but I'm about as mean without my smokes
as I am with a few beers. I call her Emmie for Mabel Ethelyne, that's
her given name. Anyway, I tucked that bill away and went for a walk to
Kelly's this afternoon. I always tell myself I'll keep it under
control this time. But somebody always says something to put me over
the edge."

        "What did they say this time?"

        "Pete said 'I can't serve you anymore, TJ.' So I picked me up
an empty and threw it at him. Didn't hit him though. He sent somebody
for the sheriff and here I am. I don't feel so mean now. Last time I
broke the big TV in the bar. Emmie had a hard time getting over that
one. I went short on cigarettes quite a while so we could save up to
replace it."

        "Where do you and Emmie live?"

        "We live right across the street. We're Mae's Home for Strays.
It's a disgrace how many people drive up north this way to dump off
pets they're bored with. But God that place stinks. Still, it's
Emmie's place. She's good to let me stay there or I'd be one of those
homeless ladies with a shopping cart somewhere."

        "We've come down a long way in the world," TJ sighed. "Our
Daddy was J.R. Young, direct descendant of Brigham Young in Salt Lake.
When he got to be a man he didn't get along too well with those clean-
living Mormons. He came up to Idaho during a silver rush and made a
bundle. When he got married Momma's family had money too. They bought
a ranch and Daddy made it a big success. It was the Bar J."

        "It still is the Bar J, isn't it?"  Scully exclaimed.

        "I guess they never bothered hanging up a new sign, but it
doesn't have much to do with ranching now. We don't have any
transportation so I haven't seen it in years. It was wonderful once-
miles of cattle and horses with the forest and mountains around it.
They walled off the world. Emmie and I rode bareback, like Shoshone
braves, right along with Daddy. Momma didn't like it, of course,
especially when we got older. She wanted us to get married. That never
seemed as exciting as being with Daddy. He was a beautiful man."

        She stopped talking and flushed her cigarette butt down the
toilet.

        "So the Bar J isn't a ranch anymore?" Scully urged gently.

        "We sold it to a speculator back in the seventies. It didn't
stay in anybody's hands long. Then some corporation bought it two
years ago and closed it down tight. I heard from a friend who works in
the cattle trade that the Bar J hasn't sold any cattle in two years.
They've got some animals, and they're doing some kind of breeding
experiments, but they're not raising a product. I know a guy who picks
up odd jobs that helped transfer one of their deliveries from a
commercial truck to one of their own trucks in Rexburg. He said they
were getting two hundred beehives! On a ranch! With no crops to
pollinate? I ask you!"

        Scully felt her anxiety increase as TJ spoke, and she put this
information together with what she had learned yesterday. There was a
lot of money, expensive high tech equipment, a remote area, serious
security, and an anonymous corporation. Most damning of all there were
bees. And Mulder was loose alone in this highly suggestive landscape.

        "TJ, I'm in Digger because I'm an agent with the FBI. This
murder accusation is ridiculous. I should be released tomorrow, after
they test my gun. In the meantime I'm going to write down what you
said, and I'd like to ask you a few more questions."

        "Sure, write it down. But what for? It's a free country to not
sell cattle in and to keep bees for a hobby if you want to."

        "Yes, but this may tie in to what we're here to investigate.
Zeb Smith reported finding steer carcasses that were mutilated. He
thinks aliens from UFOs are responsible, but we want to eliminate the
more obvious possibilities first."

        Scully got her notebook out of her bag and began to record
TJ's information. She reflected that the same lax procedures that
allowed her to keep her plastic bag had allowed TJ to keep her
cigarettes and lighter. I guess they don't believe I'll suffocate
myself in despair over one night in jail for a crime I didn't commit,
she reflected wryly.

        TJ sat silently smoking another cigarette while Scully wrote.
When Scully finally looked up again from her writing, TJ had drifted
off to sleep sitting on her bed and leaning against the wall. This new
information made it even more frustrating to be mewed up in here. She
longed to go back out and push Dr. Anthony a lot harder on the nature
of Bio-Gro's work

        In the absence of other activities she started wondering what
Marge would send over for dinner. This question was answered at six
thirty when a knock at the door was followed by the sheriff and
deputy, each carrying a tray. TJ woke up at their entrance.

        "I'll be leaving for home in about half an hour. Deputy Hansen
will be staying downstairs all night," Sheriff Reynolds informed them.

        They had meatloaf with two vegetables and pie for dessert. TJ
picked at hers with little enthusiasm, but Scully ate everything she
got. Deputy Hansen returned alone at seven-thirty to pick up the
trays, and to release TJ from custody. No charges would be pressed.
They appeared to be following a familiar routine, with TJ helping
Hansen by carrying her own tray downstairs, and him remonstrating that
she should have eaten more of her vegetables.

        "Good-bye Dana. I hope you get out soon and get back to your
investigating," TJ called on her way out.

        About fifteen minutes later Hansen came back up and fussed
around in a housewifely manner in TJ's cell. He cleaned the toilet and
sink, and aligned the blankets on the bed to within a millimeter of
symmetry.

        "I won't be back up tonight unless you call me," Hansen told
Scully.

        When he left Scully took advantage of the solitude to see to
her personal needs. Afterward she at on the bed and had nothing to do
once more. It felt like those last afternoons and evenings in the
hospital when everyone was sure she was getting better. She had no
monitors or IVs that required checking. Her doctors had gone home, and
the nurses had no attention to spare for non-critical patients. Her
visitors had gone back to their regular schedules, anticipating her
return home any day. Sometimes it seemed as though the world was going
on without her, just as if she had died instead of recovered. Doubts
about how long her remission might continue would begin to intrude on
her thoughts.

        Then Mulder would slip in with a shy smile at seeing her
cheeks pinker every day. He would tell her about the horrible
surveillance job he had done that day as ongoing penance for maverick
behavior. He had been right about Blevins, but a mole at the highest
levels of the FBI didn't excuse an agent from following procedures.
She would sympathize and pass on family gossip, or something funny she
had overheard the nurses' station. He never hesitated to offer her the
comfort of a good-bye hug. It would be nice to have a visit like that
right about now.

        She lay down and tried to think about tomorrow. The light was
still on in the cell area, but she decided not to call Hansen to turn
it off. If she woke up in the night, she might want the light.

        She woke up with a jolt two hours later. The first thing she
noticed was that the smell of cigarette smoke was stronger now than
when TJ left. When she looked up she detected a haze gathered at the
ceiling. She looked over at the other cell and could barely detect a
wisp of smoke rising from the mattress. Her first dazed reaction was
to wonder what the penalty was for omitting fire alarms in the cell
area. What if she had slept straight on through smoke inhalation to
death? Her family could have brought a wrongful death suit against the
county. Or maybe you couldn't sue them because they were government.
Then she came to her senses and took action.

        "Deputy Hansen, there's a fire! Fire! Fire!" she yelled. She
took off her shoes and banged on the bars as hard as possible. Nothing
else was loose in the cell to use as a noisemaker.

        After five minutes of this her anxiety increased. Hansen must
have heard her calls. Could smoke have drifted through the ventilation
system and overcome him already? She saw only one opening on the floor
of the cell area. Smoke would rise, not sink. There was no window in
the room containing the two cells. The bed was bolted to the floor. All
she could do was attempt to dismantle the bed and use the metal
framework to pry at the door, or at least to make more noise.

        She kept her fears at bay for half an hour by working on this
project, not forgetting to yell for Hansen at intervals. Damn TJ and
her damn cigarettes. Damn the sheriff for not confiscating them. Damn
me for not making a fuss and forcing them to take her cigarettes away.
These refrains repeated themselves in her head while she kicked,
pulled and twisted at the bed. She actually succeeded at freeing the
pipe that formed the head of the bed. It was pitifully flimsy compared
to the tempered steel of the bars. It bent when she applied it as a
lever between the door and frame. So she took it and made the bars
ring until her ears rang painfully too. If Hansen didn't come now it
was because he was dead or gone.

        He wasn't coming. It finally sank in and Scully realized it
was going to happen. This kind of fire could smoulder for hours and
then suddenly blaze up and consume the whole room in a matter of
minutes. She might or might not die from the smoke before this
happened. Methodically she looked around for the means to prolong her
survival until a possible rescue, however small the chance that rescue
would come. She took the two blankets off the bed and soaked them
thoroughly at the sink. Choosing a spot accessible to the cell door,
but against the wall and as far as possible from the other cell, she
set the soggy blankets down. Soon she would have to place her head at
floor level to minimize lung damage. She took her notebook and tore
out the pages containing TJ's information. These she put into her
plastic bag. It might survive under her body if the place was not
entirely consumed.

        She couldn't prevent herself, finally, from looking over at
the other cell again. Although she had tried to prepare herself
mentally for the worst; she couldn't stop a choked exclamation when
she saw that the wisp had become a swift stream of smoke. Teasing
little flames occasionally leapt up high enough above the mattress to
be seen. The wall behind the bars and mattress had already been
breached.

        It was so close already. It was really going to happen. She
tried to control her breathing to avoid total panic. OK it was going
to happen. Was there anything else she could do? Painful as it was,
she forced herself to consider her family and her partner. Her
brothers had their own lives. They would have survived her death of
cancer, and they would survive this. Her mother had her faith and
would soon have her third grandchild. Tragic as the loss of her other
daughter would be, she did not see her mother defeated or in despair.
But Mulder? She almost cried out again when she compelled herself to
picture the aftermath for him of her death in this fire.

        Right now he would be doing the meaningless little things one
did when trying to beguile the boring hours of a stakeout. What would
it be like for him to realize later that he was searching for a radio
sports talk show while she was dying in this jail cell? More than once
she had smiled a little at the knowledge that Mulder was cooling his
heels in jail as a consequence of taking some insane risk. "At least,"
she would think, "he'll be kept out of trouble for a while." Then she
would go bail him out and deliver the standard lecture with a slightly
condescending air. He had to be enjoying this turnabout just a little.
The memory of that enjoyment would twist in his guts like a knife
after she was gone.

        To make it even worse, fire was one of his greatest fears. Her
death would be one of his worst nightmares come true. And he would
live it over and over again in his imagination, because he would
torture himself endlessly with alternative scenarios. In his head he
would do something differently and she would escape danger, or he
would do the same things again, and this horror would result. In his
own mind, he would be the cause. Except that he had not caused this
horror. This was a dreadful accident growing out of many
inconsequential factors, a completely unpredictable event.

        How would he deal with it? She supposed that his risk-taking
would escalate to heights that would make "suicide" the only truthful
cause of death on the certificate that would not be long in coming.
The contemplation of it was unbearable.

        She made up her mind and tore blank pages out of her notebook.
Her pen shook, but the words came easily. There was a lot to say, and
this was the very last chance to say it. Maybe she could leave him
with enough comfort and reassurance to pull him through the first
shocking impact of grief. When she finished she added these pages to
those in the plastic bag, and tucked it into her waistband. Lying
prone on the floor she pulled the wet blankets up over herself. Then
she readjusted by pulling her legs up under her. It wasn't dignified,
but it was as close as she could get to the comfort of curling herself
into a ball.

************

        What a dickhead that Father Martin was, letting two months go
by before he checked out the actual conditions of Sister Catherine's
imprisonment. Mulder had begun by enjoying his role as a swashbuckling
priest in Melissa's saga. Out of curiosity he had taken fencing
lessons while he lived at Oxford. He had shown a natural aptitude.
There was nothing wrong with being a babe magnet either, except it
didn't seem to happen in this life. Now only boredom drove him to read
on. He had a bad feeling about the eventual fates of the priest and
nun. Their faults irritated him disproportionately because he
suspected they reflected some of his and his partner's real life
failings. Had Melissa seen him as a useless bungler during the months
of Scully's abduction? He didn't want to think about what her
portrayal of Scully meant.

        Mulder glanced at his watch. It was 11:30 P.M. Zeb Smith's son
ought to be home now, so he could take the first step in tracing the
progress of Zeb's original packet of information from the Leaning Z to
A.D. Skinner's office in Washington D.C. He dialed the Pocatello
number and asked for Aaron Smith.

        "Speaking."

        "Mr. Smith, I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI on
assignment in Digger. I need some information from you concerning a
packet you mailed to the FBI for your father. He sent the local office
an envelope of pictures and information last summer concerning cattle
mutilation."

        "Oh, right. My dad already called me. He's very proud to be in
an FBI investigation. Me, I wonder what you guys are thinking."

        "One thing we're thinking is that the package he gave you to
mail in Idaho Falls was tampered with somewhere between here and
Washington. Could you by any chance have lost some of the contents of
that envelope by accident?"

        "He told me you were going to ask me that, and I racked my
brains. He gives me an envelope like this to mail about every six
months, so I didn't want to get the occasions mixed up. What happened
was I looked in on Sheriff Reynolds on my way back through Digger. I
wanted to talk about whether the sheriff thought my Dad was getting a
little too fanciful and needed more overseeing. Sheriff didn't think
so. As I was leaving Deputy Hansen got up and walked out the door with
me. He told me he was going to Boise with some quarterly paperwork for
reporting crime statistics. He said he'd be happy to drop the packet
off at the FBI regional office. The envelope was sealed all the time I
had it, so I know I didn't lose anything out of it. I wasn't curious.
Dad had showed me every single thing in it--twice!" Aaron laughed
fondly and continued "Dad is really something isn't he?"

        "Yes, your Dad is one of a kind. Thanks for the details. They
could be very helpful. Good night, Mr. Smith."
 
        Mulder's memory held a clear image of the original envelope on
Skinner's desk. It had been postmarked in Idaho Falls.

        Deputy Hansen must have taken the packet from Aaron to drop
off in person, and then mailed it from Idaho Falls instead. He had a
perfect opportunity to remove any of its contents first. Deputy Hansen
found the body of Timothy Hargity. Deputy Hansen had strong opinions
about disposing of dead animals right away. Deputy Hansen seemed
awfully anxious to get Mulder away from the body to be autopsied. He
failed. Now, while Mulder zealously stood guard over a dead cow,
Deputy Hansen had total access to the other necessary element for that
autopsy.

        "Scully." Mulder finished his thoughts out loud.

        He ran to the car. A voice in his head never ceased. Mulder,
you dickhead. Won't you ever learn? Not in a thousand years?

        He had to drive with deliberate speed or risk losing his way on
the unlit and unmarked two lane roads. His attempts to reach someone at
the jail on his cell phone were useless. A recorded message asked him to
hold the line, but the connection was broken each time before anyone
answered.

        While he drove he tried to convince himself that he was
overreacting. Instead he only felt that he was way too late. The voice
in his head taunted him with reminders of what happened to Sam Hartley
during his one night in jail. How could he have been smug enough to
actually enjoy the thought of Scully locked up under undeniably odd circumstances?

        Ten minutes away his heart rate went into overdrive when he
saw a column of flames and smoke reaching up to the sky from the town.
It wasn't until he reached the main street itself that he could see
the building that was on fire. It was Mae's Home for Strays. He told
himself to relax, but the inner voice responded with an obscenity. He
grabbed his overcoat from the back seat and threw it on over his flannel
shirt and jeans. Sheriff Reynolds stood among the men directing fire
fighting efforts and the rescue of strays from the house. There were
at last ten people standing around, anxious to provide assistance to
animals in distress. Others were dousing the flames with a fire house,
but they were not wearing fire fighting equipment.

        "Sheriff, is everything under control here?" Mulder inquired
perfunctorily.

        "The people are out, and almost all the animals. The fire
truck from Dubois won't be here for another half hour."

        "Sheriff, I need to see my partner."

        "Why Agent Mulder, Deputy Hansen called me at home at six-
thirty to tell me that he got a call from the FBI Boise office. Their
ballistics testing had exonerated Agent Scully. He asked me if he
should release her, and I said yes."

        "She would have called me," Mulder said disbelieving. "She
didn't have a car."

        "Probably Bob gave her a ride back to where you're staying,"
the Sheriff offered. "He told me you were staying at the clinic, so
you wouldn't know if she were back at the motor court."

        "She would have called me," Mulder insisted.

        Ten feet away from them stood a spike-haired woman in a chewed-up bathrobe. She appeared to be about seventy years old, but a cigarette
hung rakishly from the corner of her mouth. She watched the burning
house with a resigned expression while she openly listened in on their
conversation.

        The woman interrupted them without apology. "Sheriff, that
little redhead was still in the jail at seven-thirty when I was
released. Hansen didn't say a word to her about getting out."

        "I have to get in there right now," Mulder said frantically.
Hansen and Scully could be anywhere by now, but he had to start
somewhere.

        "The offices are locked up and empty. Keep your shirt on.
First let me make sure no one gets hurt here."

        Mulder couldn't wait and sprinted for the office alone.

        When he reached the building he saw that entry would not be a
problem. They had no more than a conventional lock on the front door.
The last time he had limped in to visit with Frohike after kicking a
door down, his friend had helpfully presented him with a small,
elegant set of lock-picks. After a short but intense course in their
use, Frohike pronounced him ready to deal with the average door.

        "Really Mulder, when you know what you're doing, it works even
faster than a foot."

        Now Mulder invoked Frohike's name like that of a saint, and
had the door open in seconds. He learned instantly that they were in
deep trouble. The lights he flipped on showed him what he already
knew--lack smoke swirled down the stairs into the office. He ran up
the stairs two at a time, following the arrows helpfully labeled "Jail
Cells", yelling "Scully" all the way.

        At the top of the stairs there was a left turn into a hallway
with a window at the far end. To slow his momentum he pressed a hand
against the wall at the landing. He was alarmed to find the wall was
hot to the touch. Each side of the hall had a door leading to a cell
area. The one on the left was open and dark. The one on the right was
closed, but smoke was drifting out from under the door. This door
Mulder immediately threw open, and finally heard an answer to his
calls.

        "Over here, Mulder," Scully rasped, her voice almost gone from
previous shouting and the smoke filling the room.

        It was hard to see. Mulder noted that the cells were like two
cages placed inside a room. As he turned toward Scully's voice, the
source of the fire was clearly to his right in the other cell. He
checked the empty cell's door and found it locked. He went up to the
bars of Scully's cell. Pushing blankets aside, she approached him from
the far wall and stood on the opposite side of the bars.

        "Mulder, how did you know?" Scully asked.

        He was rattling the heavy door of bars that confined her to
the cell. His mind was working on the problem, but his body screamed
run, run, run at him, always with greater urgency. It worried him that
his body might mutiny and take over the decision-making from that
stubborn brain. His fears increased when he took in the size of the
huge old-fashioned lock on the door. His delicate lock picks would
break off and jam a lock this size.

        There had to be a way out of this. He couldn't have gotten
here just to watch helplessly while Scully was, Oh my God, burned to
death. Don't think about it.

        "Scully, where are the keys?" he asked in what he hoped was a
calm voice.

        "The sheriff and deputy carry them on their belts," she choked
out painfully. "Deputy Hansen is supposed to be downstairs. Why isn't
he there?"

        There was no time to spin theories. "I don't know. Scully,
I've got to go across the street to get the keys from Sheriff
Reynolds."

        They both looked at the fire burning busily in the mattress
fifteen feet away. The wall behind it had begun to char from within.
The fire had found its way into the building's structure, and now
burned between the inner and outer walls. At any minute the entire
house could be ablaze. It fairly hummed with the energy of the heat.

        They looked at each other and saw realization of what was
going to happen register in each other's faces simultaneously. Surely
hell itself couldn't offer the damned a moment of keener agony.

        "Here, put this in your pocket. It's my report. Don't try to
come back in. Please. Don't," Scully said, thrusting a plastic bag with
papers in it through the bars and into Mulder's hands. He stuffed it
into his pocket mechanically. Looking away from him she asked in a
hoarse voice, "Mulder, can I have your gun?"

        "No, Scully, I'll be back in time. I swear;" he yelled back,
already running for the stairs.

        Scully resumed her position on the floor next to the far wall.
She looked one more time at the door, and saw a new orange light pulse
from the direction of the landing. Mulder wouldn't be able to force
himself past that conflagration on the stairs, although she believed
he would try. She hoped he escaped dying in the attempt. If only he had
been willing to leave her his gun. Scully had assisted in treating burn
victims, and she had a clear picture of might await her in the next
minutes. She turned her face to the wall and shut her eyes.

        Mulder raced across the street. He would have given Scully his
gun, if only to give her some slight sense of control over her fate.
Never mind his own terror that she would use it prematurely. But what
if he needed it to get the keys from Sheriff Reynolds? He and Hansen
could both be involved in the plot to stop their investigation. He
didn't intend to waste one second in discussion of any kind.

        Mulder was covering Reynolds with the gun from inside his
overcoat pocket as he approached him, but he didn't need it. One look
at Mulder's haggard sooty face brought the sheriff trotting to him
while he fumbled for keys, and the words "The jail's on fire and she's
in it" were enough to galvanize the man into a run.

        They came through the front door at full speed, but the
sheriff recoiled instantly when he saw the flames at the top of the
stairs. They were both coughing uncontrollably from the smoke. Mulder
tried to pull the sheriff up the stairs with him, but Reynolds
resisted strongly.

        "The fire may be under the stairs right now," Reynolds choked
out.

        With that Mulder grabbed the keys held by the sheriff and
pulled his overcoat up over his head. He ran up the stairs past flames
licking at the landing wall resolutely refusing to have an
imagination, or even reason. Only a machine could do this.

        At the top of the stairs he let the overcoat drop back down to
his shoulders and entered the outer cell area. This time there was no
response to his strangled, "Scully?"

        He hurriedly tried each key on the ring and succeeded in
gaining entry with the third. By now he could no longer hold his
streaming eyes open. He crawled to where he had seen Scully and felt
around on the floor for her.  She lay prone under the damp blankets
against the wall with her legs drawn up under her, like a child hiding
in bed from closet monsters. Lifting her dead (no he corrected himself
mentally, her unconscious weight) with the blankets and overcoat to
contend with, seemed impossible at first, but desperation produced the
adrenaline he needed.

        Mulder staggered to where he thought the doors were. He was
almost right, banging his own shoulder into the bars, and Scully's
head into the frame of the outer door. The hall was momentarily
clearer than the cell area, but he saw that the landing was now
entirely engulfed, and that flames were swiftly moving down the hall
toward them. With seconds to act he stumbled as quickly as he could to
the end of the hall, pulled a piece of the blanket over his own head
and simply threw himself and Scully backwards through the window.

        His sensations were pain and a sickening dizziness. Together
they were rolling uncontrolled down the sloped roof of the side porch,
tangled in blankets and coat. He tried to protect his limp partner by
embracing her and shielding her head with his hand. He took the brunt
of the impacts with own arms and legs. He didn't see it, but
spectators told him afterward that a huge burst of flame had roared
out of the window immediately after them, hungry for the oxygen now
available through the broken window.

        Then, abruptly, they were in the air. Mulder tried to twist so
that Scully would land on him, but he wasn't sure which way was up or
down. More by luck than art, she did land on him with what felt like a
great deal too much weight for one small person. Mulder was vaguely
aware of excited people around them, but his chief concern was that he
was never going to breathe normally again. The wind had been knocked
out of him so thoroughly he thought he wouldn't ever stop sucking air
in long enough to exhale.

************

        He didn't resist the paramedics who had just arrived on the
scene from Dubois. They loaded both Scully and him into the ambulance
and set out for the community hospital in Rexburg. The medics called
the doctor on duty there and relayed the details of Scully's
condition. He instructed them to continue to the Idaho Falls General
Hospital.

        Mulder was coherent by this time, and he made the mistake of
asking why they had to go to a bigger hospital since neither of them
were burned. The medics proceeded to scare him properly with a full
description of the cascading lung failure known as ARDS. It could
require the patient to spend extended time on a ventilator and to
receive heavy-duty drugs which would have to be monitored very
precisely. The syndrome manifested itself within 48 hours after an
exposure similar to Miss Scully's. She might not have that much
damage, they assured him cheerfully, and anyway half of the patients
survived.

        The hefty dark haired woman who was driving urged him not to
worry. The other medic was an African-American who hummed golden
oldies as he continued to take Scully's vital signs at frequent
intervals. Occasionally one of them would glance at Mulder with a kind
of awe. He paid no attention--he was used to receiving strange looks
from the medical community.

        Scully started to regain consciousness during the trip. Mulder
had already surreptitiously removed the strap that held him on the
stretcher. He rolled painfully off of it and crossed over to kneel by
her so she would see his face first. Experience had taught him how
comforting a trusted face and voice were when you were disoriented
after an injury. Hell, he would appreciate that kind of reassurance
one out of two nights when he woke from nightmares.

        "Mulder, we made it?" she gasped out between coughs.

        "We made it. You're not burned. They're going to treat you for
smoke inhalation." He left it at that. She probably knew more about
ARDS than he did anyway.

        Her return to consciousness raised the spirits of the medics
to greater heights. After the next vitals check, they high-fived each
other, and of course Mulder. By the time they arrived at the emergency
room Mulder was beginning to quite like them.

        Scully was taken away for blood gas and respiratory function
testing. Mulder went to radiology after a routine blood battery. X-
rays showed that he although he was bruised and abraded in numerous
places, there were no fractures.  The radiologist gave him a set of
scrubs to wear so he wouldn't have to put his smoke permeated clothes
back on. When he left radiology and reported to the emergency room for
processing out, he was pleased to find that Scully's condition had
been upgraded from fair to good. She had a regular room where he could
go to see her. When he met Dr. Apesos outside of the door to her room,
she assured him that Scully's prognosis was excellent. She wanted to
keep the patient for 48 hours of observation to be on the safe side.

        Since he was prepared to enter and celebrate good news he was
all the more horrified to find her lying down and attempting to stop a
flow of blood from her nose. When Scully saw his expression she was
quick to reassure him.

        "Don't worry, Mulder. It's just a bloody nose. Apparently my
nose banged against something when you were getting me out. When I sat
up the clot came loose."

        Remembering all the banging and bumps they both received,
Mulder didn't find a bloody nose hard to explain. He tried to
dissociate the bleeding from past despair and take it as lightly as
it deserved. This attempt somehow resulted in his ingloriously burying
his face in the mattress and gripping its edge as hard as he could to
avoid making a sound. What the sound would be he didn't know, but he
was sure he could never stop making it if he once started. Scully
stroked his hair until his shuddering subsided.  Then she started
talking quietly.

        "Everything is OK, Mulder. I'm going to be all right. In fact
I don't think I'm going to give them 48 hours of observation. 24
should be enough"

        "You know all of the nurses are talking about you," she went
on. "Shirley and Greg, the paramedics who brought us here, have been
spreading the story all over the hospital. They saw you go into the
sheriff's office. Nobody expected you to come out when the sheriff
turned back and said it was too late to rescue me. Everyone was amazed
when we came bursting out of the upstairs window with the flames behind
us. Shirley is telling everyone it was like seeing an Indiana Jones
movie."

        This made Mulder laugh, as she had hoped.

        "More like Barney Fife. I was so scared I couldn't let myself
think about how scared you must be. But what scared me most was
thinking that I wouldn't be able to force myself to go back into that
building the second time. Bill called me a sorry son-of-a-bitch at the
hospital, Scully, but he was wrong. I'm a very lucky son-of-a-bitch
who didn't quite kill you this time either."

        "Mulder, I don't understand. How is it your fault that my
cellmate was a careless smoker and the county sheriff is lax on
searching prisoners and observing safety precautions?" Scully asked.

        Mulder practiced deep breathing to help him regain his self
control and explained what he believed to Scully.

        "That fire wasn't accidental. It was meant to stop you from
performing that autopsy. The evidence was staring me in the face and I
didn't put it together."

        Scully looked skeptical.

        "You probably haven't thought about it yet," he continued,
"but those paramedics were there because they had already been called
when Mae's Home for Strays caught on fire. Don't you think two
accidental fires in one night in a town the size of Digger is
stretching coincidence a little too far? I think everyone was meant to
concentrate on saving the animals and preventing the first fire from
spreading. People would assume that any smoke or smell of burning came
from there. Meanwhile the jail would burn up from the inside out, and
even when the fire was noticed, everyone would believe the place was
empty."

        "I know who did it too. Remember how Deputy Hansen found
Hargity's body? What if he killed Hargity and broke in himself? The
only tire tracks would be yours and his. Once you were in jail I was
expected to lose my cool and drop everything to run around trying to
prove your innocence, so Hansen could do what he wanted with the
dead steer. He was probably expecting me to be gone already when he
got there earlier today. He could have gotten on with the disposal
right away. Then he tried to goad me into action. When that didn't work
he told me I was required to abandon our investigation and come to
Digger to make a statement. Unfortunately I knew my rights. So he was
left with his fallback position--make it impossible for you to do that
autopsy. He knew they couldn't keep you for long, so he had to
arrange an accident fast."

        "But we don't have any evidence," Scully protested.

        "Hear me out, Scully. What finally got through to me was
hearing from Aaron Smith, Zeb's son. He turned that packet of photos
over to Hansen to hand carry to the Boise office. But the envelope was
postmarked from Idaho Falls. Hansen just wanted a chance to edit the
evidence Zeb was sending. I'm seeing Hansen everywhere. There may be
evidence now that we know what to look for. He must have had the gun
that killed Hargity. There'll be signs of arson in both buildings. And
Hansen not only deserted his post last night, he called the sheriff
and told him a deliberate lie. He asked if he could release you
because of a call from the FBI that cleared you. The sheriff said
fine, Hansen set the fire, locked up the office, and left you to be
burned alive," Mulder ended on a shaky breath.

        He looked down at the floor so Scully couldn't see his eyes.
He was wishing desperately that he could erase the image of his
partner hiding under the blankets from the fire monster.

        "He must have been planning to blame the fires on TJ's
smoking. That twenty dollar bill she found--he must have planted that
too!" Scully agreed, as her memory of the afternoon in jail became
clearer.

        "I'm going to start making some phone calls. I don't know if
he intends to try to live down the lies or if he's already made a run
for it. I'm not going to take any chances on leaving you here until I
know more about what's going on. We still don't have a clue here to
that elusive and supposedly unnecessary puzzle piece--his motive."

        "Wait a minute, Mulder. Yesterday afternoon is still a little
hazy to me, but I need to see what I wrote on that report I gave you.
Remember? You put it in your overcoat pocket," she prompted as Mulder
continued to look blank.

        "My overcoat is in a plastic bag in a locker because no one
can stand the smoky smell. Can you remember anything you wrote?"

        Scully thought a moment about what she now remembered writing
all too well, but she also began to recall what TJ had said about the
Bar J.

        "My cellmate at the jail was TJ Young. Her family used to own
the Bar J. She follows the gossip about the place. She heard they
haven't offered any cattle on the market for two years. And two years
ago they had at least two hundred bee hives beehives delivered to
their compound."

        "Beehives," Mulder muttered, his mind racing. "Is beekeeping a
big industry here?"

        "I don't know, but two hundred hives isn't enough for a
commercial enterprise and it's too much for someone's hobby. It's a
ranch, not a farm, so they didn't want them for cross-pollination. Why
would they combine ranching and raising bees?"

        "Scully did we walk blindly into the middle of experiments in
biological warfare? They could be continuing those experiments in using
bees as disease vectors."

        "The last time, in Canada and North Carolina, they were using
smallpox. You described premature decay of the body as another effect
of the strain they developed. That's been happening here too. Mulder,
what if they were cutting up these carcasses to remove signs of
smallpox pustules? I would have seen them on the internal mucus
membranes during an autopsy. Then I would have known exactly what
tests to have the Boise office run on the samples I took."

        "They preferred to have the bodies found, so the ranchers
could make insurance claims. Otherwise there would have been a lot of
curiosity every time a full grown steer disappeared mysteriously."
Mulder picked up on Scully's train of thought. "Anyone but Zeb would
have shrugged and figured the coyotes were learning better table
manners. Probably Hansen is on Bio-Gro's payroll to follow up on
disposal of the bodies. "

        "Hansen might have thought killing Hargity would earn him
extra points with Bio-Gro. I heard the sheriff say that they were
interested in buying Hargity's land, but he didn't think Hargity would
ever sell. I wonder what all this damage control tells us about the
success or failure of the experiments. Did they expect to have so many
animals from outside the ranch affected?" Scully wondered aloud.

        "I'm going down the hall and make a call from the pay phone.
Then I'll come back here and make some calls from the room phone,"
Mulder informed her.

        Scully knew that meant he was going to call "The Boys" as she
thought of them, or the Lone Gunman, as they styled themselves.

        "Say 'Hi' from me," she ordered him.

        Mulder bent down and hugged her before he left. He could do
that here. The smells and sounds of the hospital, as always, acted as
a highly effective anaphrodisiac.

        He wasn't gone for very long, explaining when he returned
that they wanted him to call back after they had had time to gather
some information. They would look into the backgrounds of Bio-Gro and
Bob Hansen.

        The other calls required some thought. They were safer if no
one knew their theory, so his inquiries would have to be indirect.
First he planned to find out the fate of the steer's body. He still
had the key to the outbuilding in his pocket, but he didn't think that
would stop the forces at work here.

        "Doctor Sharp, this is Agent Mulder. Have you heard about the
incidents in Digger last night?

        "Yes, about 3 A.M. this morning Jay called and asked me to
meet him here to treat a dog from Mae's for burns. He told me there
were two fires there last night and your partner had a close call. Is
she going to live?" he asked in a milder voice than usual.

        "Actually she's doing quite well. She'll probably be released
tomorrow."

        "That's strange. Deputy Hansen came out here shortly after
Jay did, and said he had word from the hospital that she probably wasn't
going to make it. If she did she'd be hospitalized for weeks. That was
why he ordered me to cremate that steer carcass you brought here. He
said there couldn't be an autopsy now, and it would be too dangerous
to keep the body around. That was one nasty job, Agent Mulder. I
figure the feds owe me one," he said in his habitual abrasive manner.

        "I'm afraid they'll just add it to their tab. Thanks for the
use of your shed."

        The account only confirmed what he already believed. The
decision to stay with his partner here in the hospital would have been
much harder to make, if he hadn't already been convinced that the
steer had been barbecued to ashes hours ago.

        Next he called the FBI office in Boise and learned without
surprise that the forensic evidence cleared Scully in Hargity's
murder. He found that they had finally gotten through to Sheriff
Reynolds at his home, after repeatedly failing to reach him at the
jail. They passed on the forensic data and got the story of the fire
from him. The sheriff had already contacted the hospital and was able
to reassure them as to the safety of their agents. They were eager for
details from Mulder, but he assured them that everything would be in
his report. He saw Scully roll her eyes heavenward as he said this.

        "Well that's one problem solved. You're no longer a known
felon, Scully."

        Then he called Sheriff Reynolds at his home and asked if he
knew the whereabouts of Deputy Hansen.

        "No, Agent Mulder. I haven't been able to locate him. You're
not the only one looking for him," he answered wearily. "The county
Fire Marshall is here with a team of investigators. They're going
through the debris. They have some questions they'd like to ask him.
They haven't told me what they think about the fires."

        "What do you think, Sheriff?"

        "Well, Hansen was keener than I was to arrest Agent Scully. He
was so insistent that Hargity would never let a fed inside his house.
I didn't know Hargity that well. There was an incident a few years
back that made me think he would bear watching."

        "A young woman hitchhiker came to my office and complained
that Hargity wouldn't let her out of his truck after he gave her a
lift from Rexburg to Digger. He told her his dogs would attack her if
she tried to open the door. She had no ties to anyone or any place.
She was bumming rides to get to the Alaskan highway, for no particular
reason, I guess. Anyway, Hargity kept her in the truck for three hours
trying to convince her to stay with him. She finally agreed, but told
him she had to go to the bathroom at the cafe before they started the
drive out to his place. She told Marge what was going on, and Marge
just escorted her right over here. Hargity was gone when I came out.
When the girl heard what a commitment it would be to press charges,
she was gone too."

        "Ever since I've been kind of worried that Hargity might come
up with a little more aggressive plan. Agent Scully might have looked
to him like a woman who was vulnerable, although she doesn't strike me
that way. I could believe that he let her in with some plan in mind
and then decided not try anything. So I didn't have that much trouble
with her story."

        "So you believe Hansen tried to frame Scully and then tried to
kill her in that fire?"

        "I think he must have, but why? He didn't know her, and your
investigation had nothing to do with him."

        "We're looking for leads right now. In the meantime I suggest
that you get a warrant for Hansen's arrest. And consider him extremely
dangerous."

        "Done already, and I've requested a temporary deputy." The
sheriff gave a deep sigh. "I've known Bob Hansen for years. How could I
miss seeing that he was that evil? This is the worst thing that ever
happened under my jurisdiction," the sheriff observed dejectedly.

        "I'm sorry, sheriff. Believe it or not, I know how you feel.
But this guy was pretty slick. I think he had a lot of help."

        When Mulder hung up he had a disgusted scowl on his face.
Scully had come to recognize it as his expression of self-loathing at
something he saw as a failure on his part.

        "It turns out that Hargity had some kinks that the sheriff
thought were worth keeping an eye on. There was an incident a couple
of years ago but no charges were brought. Reynolds was able to believe
your story because he thought Hargity might have thought about
kidnapping you."

        "I had that feeling too, Mulder, while I was there. He was
watching me and trying to make up his mind about something. But he
never said or did anything threatening. After I left I figured it must
have been all in my head. While I was in there I was just hoping that,
if he did take me hostage, the BATF wouldn't go in with flame
throwers," she joked.

        When he didn't respond she took his hand and reminded him,
"Hey, I'm a trained agent, just like you told Zeb, remember? I learned
how to communicate with an armed subject under heavy stress. They even
taught me how to get through to a guilt-ridden, unresponsive partner."

        "The ultimate challenge, I guess," he sighed; now looking
remote and depressed. "Even Father Martin had enough sense to worry
about Sister Catherine in the woods alone," he said, remembering his
light-hearted question to Zeb about mercenaries.

        "What? Oh, Melissa's manuscript," she remembered.

        "If I'd gone with you on those interviews none of this would
have happened."

        "We don't know what might have happened. You know they would
have come up with some scheme to stop the autopsy, and we might never
have made the connection to Hansen and bees as biological weapons.
Isn't it about time to call the Boys again?" she prompted, anxious to
distract Mulder from dwelling on a trivial decision that had had
totally unpredictable consequences.

        Mulder raised himself slowly from the visitor's chair. It was
only now that Scully noticed how carefully he moved across the room,
avoiding any sudden changes in position.

        "Hey, are you sure you're all right?" she asked. She was
ashamed the she hadn't inquired further into how he felt, after she
learned that he didn't require further treatment.

        "They tell me I don't have any broken bones. Some of them feel
kind of bent, though," he answered. "I'll be fine in a few days."

        "Thank you for saving my life, Mulder, " Scully said
seriously.

        "You're welcome. But I'm not proud of my performance so far.
The score is them, three, and me, zero. I was wrong about Hargity,
wrong about Hansen and I still lost the steer."

        If he hadn't already gone Scully would have asked "Don't
you get even one point for not losing me?"

************

        This time Mulder was away longer than previously. When he returned he was absorbed in a new plan.

        "They found us a contact here, in Idaho Falls, who can give us
a ride back to Digger this afternoon," Mulder told her. "There's a
militia leader named Jimmy Flynn living in a cabin out in the mountains
who helped out Langley and Byers with information in the past. They say
there's a lot more to him than the usual militia type. I called him at
his job and he offered to meet us here. He's going to fill us in on the backgrounds the Loan Gunman dug up."

        "I don't know, Mulder. Do you think militia members tend to be
stable enough, and, well, smart enough to be helpful?"

        "I know what you're thinking, but can you guess what his job
is?"

        "He's the minister of the Church of Elvis, the King of Kings."

        "No, Scully. I think you're guilty of stereotyping. He's a
loan officer at the Idaho State bank."

        "What's his background?"

        "Military. Special Forces. After that, in the eighties, he went
on one of those doomed trips to Laos to find American POWs. He
couldn't have been more than twenty-five then. When he left the
military he earned his MBA at University of Pittsburgh and came out
here to live. He tells the people in his group they'll still need MBAs
after the Tribulation. His group is the Joshuas, by the way. Their
motto is "Let the walls come tumbling down."

        "Do you think there might be a song in that?" Scully asked
with a resigned smile.

        "I'm going to rescue our clothes from their lockers and wash
them. They've got washers and dryers for visitors. Flynn will pick us
up at four and drive us back to Digger."

        "It's probably just as well we're leaving soon. One of the
nurses told me the paramedics are talking about nominating you for the
Congressional Medal of Honor."

        At this news Mulder stared at Scully with a truly appalled
expression. He headed for the door and looked both ways before he
exited, as though he feared being stalked.

        When the attending doctor stopped by shortly after this,
Scully persuaded her to sign a release form for that afternoon.
Mulder returned with the freshly laundered clothes, carrying his
overcoat in a sealed bag. They took turns changing in Scully's
bathroom, and were standing in the main lobby at four o'clock.

        In spite of showers and clean clothes they felt like refugees
from a natural disaster. Both of them were wearing the clothes they
had intended to wear at the autopsy. Mulder's were borrowed from Jack,
and hung and clung in all the wrong places. Their shirts and jeans
were dingy with indelible soot marks, and they still smelled smoky.
Scully's hair was pulled back into a ponytail with a rubber band.
Mulder hadn't been able to shave. They were freezing in the blasts of
cold air coming in through the constantly busy automatic doors.
Presumably Scully's coat was in ashes under the burned ruins of the
sheriff's office. Mulder's was unwearable because of smoke, burns
where hot ashes had landed, and rips cut by shards of window glass.
Both of them moved like elderly arthritics, trying to protect bruises
and pulled muscles from sudden stress. The sight of Jimmy Flynn did
nothing to improve their self-esteem.

        He jumped gracefully from his four by four, and walked right
up to them. Scully wondered what Mulder's description of them had been
like. Flynn looked as though he should be auditioning for the lead in
the next James Bond movie. He had black hair, and eyes the color of
bachelor's buttons. His features were finely cut and complimented by a
long, straight patrician nose, a type which turns up with some
regularity in families with an Irish heritage. His tall, trim body
made the pseudo-military fatigues he wore look like an outfit featured
in GQ. He flashed white teeth and began to introduce himself.

        "It's a pleasure to meet you Agent Mulder, Agent Scully. I
know you think you're going to find out we've done something illegal,
but I assure you I'm a law-abiding patriot. Let me tell you about our
organization, and you'll see for yourself."

        He indicated his vehicle with a flourish. Flynn carefully
helped Scully into the front seat while Mulder pulled himself
painfully into the back seat.

        "You look a little the worse for wear, Agent Mulder. I heard
about your escapade last night. Very exciting."

        "No, Mr. Flynn, exciting is a seat for a Knick's game. I call
last night terrifying," Mulder said brusquely.

        "Mr. Flynn," Scully broke in hastily. "What did you mean about
us investigating you? You know we're not here about the Joshuas."

        Flynn turned his attention back to Scully.

        "That was for the benefit of any surveillance at the hospital. I
don't want anyone to know what areas I'm really interested in exposing.
Some of my own guys aren't sophisticated enough to grasp the complexity
of the threat we face. That friends and enemies can be found within any
group."

        "That fire you were in last night, Agent Scully, reminded me of
an incident in the jungle back in 1985. It was in Laos, and we were
looking for...."

        In the back seat Mulder drifted off into uneasy sleep. A tight
curve taken slightly too fast disturbed his balance and woke him up
half an hour later. They were somewhere on the two-lane road between
Dubois and Digger. The sun had set, and the mountains were deep purple
on the horizon. Scully and Flynn were still talking.

        "Your dad must have been a great guy to serve under. What a
story!" Flynn was saying enthusiastically. Scully looked pleased and
animated at his appreciation.

        Flynn told another story that caused Scully to laugh softly.

        Scully looked back over her shoulder to see if Mulder was still
sleeping. She was surprised to find him awake and sitting quietly,
with a look so haunted that she assumed he must have had a nightmare.
She didn't want to ask him about it in front of Flynn.

        "Mulder, are you feeling all right?"

        "Sure, I'm OK Scully," he replied, lapsing uncharacteristically
back into silence.

        "Now that you're awake, let's make some plans for getting more
information on Bio-Gro."

        Mulder was puzzled at the eagerness in Scully's voice. Perhaps
Flynn's conversation hadn't been as riveting as he thought.

        Scully kept looking at him expectantly, and she saw some of the
bleakness leave his expression.

        Mulder sat forward and addressed Flynn.

        "I understood from Byers that you've been observing Bio-Gro's
activities since they bought the Bar J. We'd like to know what you've
already come up with, but first, do you know of any way we can get
into their compound to get hard evidence?"

        "A lot of things happened pretty quickly since you made your
plans to take that steer to Doc Sharp's. My observers noted unusually
heavy truck traffic in and out of the ranch starting Tuesday night.
That was the night after Jack Chambers found that steer. I have a
contact who reported helicopter landings in the northeast corner of
the property on Wednesday night. That was the night of the fires. But
I'm told there's been no sign of life in the place since that time. I
have a friend who did a high flyover this morning with some good
equipment, and he says there are no longer any people or animals on
the property."

        "They've sanitized it already. Why did it take so long for me
to make the connections?" Mulder asked rhetorically.

        "Until the fires and the information I got from TJ our only
connection was that dead steer. You can't connect one dot. Nobody did
any background for us on the people and institutions in the immediate
area because they didn't take it seriously enough," Scully observed
sensibly.

        "Yeah, and neither did I until it was almost too late. In fact
it probably is too late to prove anything," Mulder said disgustedly.

        "If anyone had done background they wouldn't have sent us,"
Scully added.

        "It seems as though they were exposed because no one was doing
Cancerman's job," Mulder said quietly.

        "Whatever Beltway concerns you may have, we need to act
quickly here if we're going to salvage something in the way of
knowledge or evidence," Flynn broke in.

        "What you call 'Beltway concerns' we've found have tremendous
impact in places you wouldn't expect," Mulder replied with asperity.

        "Sure, sure. I'm trusting you because of Byers and because you
both came within about thirty seconds of being murdered by a law
enforcement officer. From what Byers told me I believe Hansen set both
fires. He was taking a chance that the fire truck called from Dubois
during the first fire might arrive in time to rescue Dana."

        Mulder's head came up at the use of Scully's first name, but
he said nothing.

        "The timing had to be perfect, and it was. Byers found out
that Hansen worked some twenty years back in Mitchell, South Dakota as
a fire fighter. Before he left that job he had his picture in the
paper a few times as the chief investigator into several different
mysterious fires. He got a lot of praise for pursuing his
investigations more vigorously and persistently than usual.
Unfortunately the cases were never solved. But when he left the
department they didn't have any more mysterious fires in the area.
Since then he's worked in law enforcement with no incidents traceable
to him. I'd like some hard evidence of arson, but his background along
with the circumstantial evidence convince me that he's the guilty
party."

        "Here's the pattern we've seen in five different places, all
in western states or Canadian provinces. A wealthy corporation buys up
a lot of land. Their name is new and if you look behind it you find a
series of shell companies, with no genuine history. The trail ends
with a company that has government top secret security reasons for
concealing everything about itself. Or sometimes it ends with a
foreign company located in a country with no disclosure requirements.
The corporation installs state of the art security and then brings in
expensive lab equipment and computers. We once validated a report of a
Cray computer on the premises. The latest three examples, including
this one, have associated mortality among the cattle on the
neighboring properties with unusual signs of predation. After one and
half to three years the people running the places disappear with no
incidents. We have observations of beehives reported, no but
information on how they are related to other activities. The ranches,
or farms, whichever they call themselves, never offer any produce or
animal products on the market."

        Mulder couldn't help whistling admiringly. "Your people are a
lot better than the FBI at detecting these enterprises."

        "Who knows what information you never see, Agent Mulder."

        Mulder then told Flynn about his experience with bees carrying
a smallpox virus. He described the exceptionally sudden death in
humans that resulted from the infection, and the accelerated rate of
tissue decay it caused.

        "Tissue decay, yes," Flynn said thoughtfully. "But we haven't
heard a word about human deaths or disappearances connected with these
experiments, or whatever they are."

        "So what grudge did they suddenly get against cows?" Mulder
wondered.

        In Digger they pulled up next to the rental car Mulder had
left in the street last night. Mulder and Scully avoided looking at
what was left of the sheriff's office. There was nothing but a charred
foundation scattered with blackened timbers and gray ashes. The
lingering smell of the smoke alone brought last night's terror back too
vividly. There was little more left of Mae's place.

        The sight of Marge's Kitchen suddenly reminded Mulder that
they hadn't eaten since yesterday. Neither of them had felt like
eating at the hospital. He was surprised Scully hadn't protested
before this.

        "What do you say, Scully, are you ready for some of Marge's
pot roast?" he suggested.

        "No, I'm not really hungry right now," she answered absently.

        When she saw how crestfallen he appeared at this, she changed
her mind, and observed that she would have something after all.

        When Marge came to take their orders Flynn and Mulder ordered
the roast beef plate. Scully asked for the salad plate with crackers
instead of chips. She was puzzled to see that Mulder looked
disappointed again when she gave her order.

        "You look depressed Mulder. Is anything bothering you?" she
asked, while Flynn was in the men's room.

        "Well, Scully, I was just wondering if you feel OK. I mean
recently you've had a healthier appetite."

        She considered this for moment.

        "You know you're right. I was so relaxed after I got well, and
food tasted so good. Since last night I don't feel the same way. That
feeling of relaxation is gone. I'm not sick," she assured him hastily.
"I'll get hungry and eat, but I can't focus on just the pleasure of
eating anymore."

        They looked at each other sadly, realizing how many of the
simple pleasures of life had slipped away from them during the last
few years.

        When Flynn returned he and Scully had a lively discussion of
colorful places they had eaten. Finally it was Scully who again turned
the conversation to the problem at hand.

        "Mulder, do you still think we should consider going out to
the Bar J?"

        "It's the one and only thing we can do. Is there any chance
the virus could be isolated in the bodies of dead bees, or in manure?"

        "The classical smallpox virus isn't shed in feces, but I don't
know about dead bees," Scully answered.

        They both looked at Flynn.

        "OK, I can arrange for some of my men to get us into the
property, and get through their security, if any of it is still
operational. But I won't take any risks for you, and that includes any
risk of exposure, arrest or legal entanglements. What I'm doing is too
important to endanger for any one person, or mission."

        "Understood," Mulder assured him.

        They agreed to meet at eleven o'clock that night at a point
along the Bio-Gro security fence that was partially screened from the
road. There they would enter and separate into groups to examine the
main house and outbuildings for possible evidence.

        As they watched Flynn drive away, Mulder remarked, "We've got
to find Sheriff Reynolds at home." At Scully's questioning look he
added "He should be glad to lend you a replacement for your gun.
Hansen is still at large, and you were his last target. I don't think
he has any motive to kill you anymore, but I'd feel better if you were
armed."

        Scully felt sorry for the harried sheriff. He was making
statements for several different investigative agencies. At intervals
he used his radio to talk the temporary deputy through an abbreviated
patrol of the county. Scully's presence made him uncomfortable. His
expression combined guilt, concern and embarrassment. He couldn't meet
their request for the loan of a handgun quickly enough.

        On the drive back to the Nighty-nite Mulder was still
strangely quiet.

        "Mulder did you have a nightmare when you dozed off in Jimmy's
car?"

        "Yeah, it was a nightmare."

        "Do you want to talk about it?"

        "No. Jimmy's a good talker isn't he?"

        "Yes," Scully laughed. "He reminds me of my cousin Ryan. Mom
used to say that he must not have stopped at kissing the Blarney
Stone; he bit a piece off and swallowed it! At St. Anthony' High School
he charmed A's out of Sister Griselda Marie, without actually doing any
work to speak of. It was amazing. The kids called her 'Grizzly Bear'
behind her back because of her temper. He fascinated the bras off half
the girls in the school by the time he was a senior, according to Bill."

        Mulder looked over at Scully and raised his eyebrows.

        "No, not me. I was a skinny fifth grade twerp who knew that
boys were the most obnoxious creatures on earth."

        "So, today he's in politics, screwing his constituents in a
charming manner," Mulder suggested sardonically.

        "No. He cheated on three wives, and ran two businesses into
the ground. His mother invited him back to live with her, and he ended
up working in a neighborhood bar. He was killed a couple years ago
driving home drunk one night."

        "Sorry Scully, I didn't mean to insult a dead relative of
yours."

        "I was never close to him. If he had ever been forced to be
around me, he would have charmed me too. He couldn't help it, anymore
than he could help breathing. That kind of charm doesn't mean anything
special. My dad used to use him as a horrible example of what happened
to you when everything came too easy. I always remember Ryan when I
meet someone like Jimmy."

        This perspective on Jimmy Flynn left Mulder feeling absurdly
pleased. He told himself that he was reassured to find his partner's
judgment was not impaired by surface charisma.

        "I must admit, I find it hard to like a man who has his
fatigues tailored," Mulder said.

        "Oh, he doesn't," Scully said with mock horror.

        Mulder nodded knowingly.

        Scully was glad to find that her story had distracted him from
his nightmare.

        They pulled up in front of their cabins and agreed to rest for
a while before meeting at ten to start for the Bar J.

        "Scully do you want your manuscript back? I got through to
where your relative and her unhappy friend are about to meet their
fate. I bought some newspapers and magazines at the hospital gift
shop, if you'd rather have some of those."

        "No thanks, I'll take the manuscript. I promised Mom I'd read
it."

        An hour later Scully had showered and changed again, and her
reading had reached the place she thought Mulder was referring to. The
lack of self-knowledge on Sister Catherine's part, and the
impulsiveness of Father Martin exasperated her. She found herself
wanting to shake them both and help them make better decisions. Then
she remembered the notes she wanted to retrieve from Mulder's coat
pocket. Feelings you didn't want to die without expressing weren't
necessarily feelings you wanted to express before that time came.

        She went over to his cabin and knocked softly, so that she
wouldn't disturb him if he were sleeping. As she had expected he
opened the door immediately. It dismayed her a little to see him
putting his overcoat back into the bag provided by the hospital.

        "I was just checking to see if it was a total loss. It is," he
said resignedly.

        "Can I have my notes back so I can enter them into the laptop?
Of course they may not even be legible anymore," she remarked with a
weak laugh.

        Mulder made no comment. He reached into the correct pocket
with no hesitation and pulled out her plastic bag. She tried to read
his expression as he handed it to her. His face revealed nothing
unusual.

        "So what do you think of Sister Catherine's and Father
Martin's predicament?" he inquired in a neutral voice.

        "They irritate me, Mulder. But I understand them," she added,
surprising herself, since she hadn't realized that fact until she said
it. "I'll be back in an hour, ready to go. Since we don't have coats
be sure to wear a lot of layers," she advised him. "It's going to be
below freezing tonight."

        He nodded and closed the door after her.

        Scully tried to remember how she had folded the papers to
determine if they had been re-folded differently. She found she could
not recall the moment. Probably it had been an automatic action on her
part. There was just time to enter the report data into the laptop
before she had to start dressing. Afterwards she held the papers
uncertainly for a moment, trying to decide what to do with them.
Should she shred them thoroughly and dispose of them, or should she
keep them? Decisively she folded them up again and inserted them into
the innermost pocket of her briefcase. They represented the truth of
her, distilled of the elements required for daily survival. Normally
its translucence had to be colored and clouded to maintain the surface
tension of everyday relationships. She knew this was a record of
what ultimately mattered in her life.

        She proceeded to layer her remaining blouses and sweaters on
top of the blouse she had on. Her pajama bottoms under her jeans
served in place of long underwear. When she emerged into the cold dark
night, she wished she had more layers to add on. Mulder was lucky
enough to have brought a deliciously thick and wooly-looking zip up
sweater.

        They saw Flynn's men in three dark pick-up trucks at the
meeting place. Only a few of the men had left the trucks when they
arrived at the fence where they would enter. These men carried
electrician's tools and fence cutters. They came back and reported
that the power to the fences was off when they arrived, and that they
had cut an opening in it. Now everyone but a few sentries left the
trucks and assembled just inside the fence. Flynn made a quick speech
describing how the operation was going to work.

        "As I explained to you earlier, Mr. Doe and Miss Roe are
looking for biological agents in this compound. Some of you have been
assigned to find bee hives and bring back any dead bees you can find.
Others will search outbuildings and other areas for stored chemicals
or substances of any kind. Miss Roe will accompany a group of you to
the laboratory and you'll follow her instructions. I'll accompany Mr.
Doe to the main house and its outbuildings, where we'll search. No one
is to turn on any lights. Use only the flash lights you were issued.
We'll meet at the laboratory no later than fifteen hundred. You all
know what your assignments are. Remember that the first rule is to
take no risk of exposure. Our greatest strength is our invisibility.
Don't take a chance on revealing our group's true goals."

        The various groups soon realized that their searches would be
relatively short and fruitless. One of the men looking for bee corpses
jokingly suggested that they must have gone over the hives and the
ground around them with an industrial strength vacuum cleaner. His
group leader agreed seriously that that was probably precisely what
was done. The laboratory had been stripped clean and hosed down with
a chlorine solution, judging from the smell. The generator had been
left running, but there was nothing else to be found in the building.

        Mulder and Flynn found no furniture, no papers, and no sign of
any biological substances of any kind. Mulder descended to the
basement, which had been swept clean. He began checking for hidden
panels around the furnace or cracks in the cement that might be
closely fitted openings to storage cupboards. Flynn was performing the
same type of search upstairs. After concluding these inspections with
no results, they considered the two outbuildings.

        "Do you know what that building is?" Mulder asked, pointing to a
concrete block building located about 1,000 feet down the road that
led on to the laboratory.

        "Our surveillance reports don't have anything on its function.
The other one, on the side road over there is described as a barn used
to store heavy ranch equipment and vehicles," Flynn replied.

        "I'd like to take that one while you do the barn. Is that OK?"
Mulder asked perfunctorily, as he started down the road.

        "Certainly. I'm only in charge of this expedition. Why ask me?"
Flynn murmured. Mulder was too far away to hear.

        When Mulder arrived at the black square of the doorway he
stopped and shone his flashlight inside. The beam revealed one
cavernous room with a few gaping holes in the floor where large
rectangular objects had been removed. There were channels built into
the cement floors leading to large drains. The room smelled strongly
of chlorine. Despite what was obviously a thorough cleaning, reddish
stains remained on the concrete. He concluded it must have been a
killing floor--small, but big enough for the infrequent needs of the
research project. The place had an unpleasant feel, but he forced
himself to step though the doorway into the building. Then a soft
feminine voice behind him startled him into a quick half turn.

        "None of us ever came here. We lied to ourselves everyday about
the scientific purpose of our research and worked like fools to create
lethal new viruses. But, dudes to the end, we couldn't stomach seeing
our test subjects butchered."

        During her quiet speech Mulder saw that the woman had him
covered with a handgun. He also noted that she was standing much too
close to him and was more focused on her memories than on his
movements. He had her gun in his hand after one feint and a quick blow
to her wrist.