Angular Momentum, by Kel part 4 Disclaimer, etc., with part 1 = = = = Four o'clock and still no Scully. Mulder could have phoned, but he was hoping for her to walk in by herself. One of the few benefits of being roughed up was Scully's response. She would frown with concern and ask him what happened. Then she'd check him over, gentle fingertips searching for bruises and swelling. Maybe he'd even get a little forehead kiss. He realized he'd been hanging around the office, accomplishing very little, on the chance he could collect his perk. Mulder strained to remember the last time anyone besides Scully had touched him with tenderness. When he did remember, he felt even worse. The best cure for pathos was a long, grueling run, but he was too sore for that. He decided to swim. He locked up the office and headed for the pool. Hardly anyone used the pool, but swimsuits were required. Mulder changed in the locker room and shoved his clothes into a locker. He didn't worry about wrinkling them; his little scuffle in the parking garage had taken care of that. He had company in the pool today, a serious swimmer who was one of the few regulars. It was oddly companionable to join him in the pool, three lanes over, and adopt his pace. Swimming gave Mulder the same release as running. His needs were reduced to one: oxygen. He didn't count the laps and he had no real idea of time. When the other man climbed out of the pool, Mulder was vaguely sorry to see him go. He decided to wear himself out with the butterfly, but about halfway through the next lap, he realized the other swimmer was watching him from the side of the pool. "Mulder?" the man called. It sounded more like a question than a threat. Still, Mulder was keenly aware that he was unarmed and probably at a physical disadvantage. His rhythm was ruined, and he reached the edge of the pool in a few raggedy strokes. He pulled his goggles down around his neck and looked up. "What?" "I have some information for Dana," the man said. Mulder hauled himself out of the pool. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded, and the other man's face twisted in annoyance. "Special Agent Milligan, Antitrust Division," he answered stiffly. "Never mind. I'll call her myself." He turned and walked toward the locker room. "Wait." Still breathing hard from his swim, Mulder followed after him. Milligan looked back with something close to distaste, and Mulder felt like a jerk. "Sorry, man," he added. Milligan seemed appeased. "Regarding Woodrow Gerstbloem," Milligan said. "We were speculating about the manner of his death." "Uh-huh," Mulder panted. It was a name he'd never forget, thanks to his many weeks of servitude preparing transcripts. Back then, Gerstbloem was the chairman of the board at Big Ed. "Dana wondered if it was related to drinking yage," Milligan continued. Mulder snagged his towel as they walked by the bleachers. Why would Scully think that Gerstbloem drank yage? And why wouldn't she tell him? "Gerstbloem was backpacking in Peru when he took ill," Milligan said. "Big Ed launched a medical evacuation team, but they arrived too late. Cause of death was listed as dehydration." "I'll tell Scully," Mulder assured him, rubbing his head with the towel. "They got to Neil Deutsch, didn't they? Some of us are wondering if they got to Mike, too," he said in a low monotone. Milligan had been working with the Ed Hunters too long, Mulder thought. If he cut himself shaving, he probably blamed Big Ed. "Don't put anything past them," Milligan said warningly. "Bad things happen to people they can't control." The muffled ring of a cell phone greeted their arrival in the changing room. Dialing in the combination, Mulder opened his locker in time to get the call. "Agent Mulder? The assistant director's been trying to reach you." It was Kimberly Cook, Skinner's assistant. "Sorry, I was in the pool," Mulder said. "Tell him I'll be there in a minute." "Stay where you are. He says he'll be right down." Mulder closed the phone and hurried to pull on a shirt. His meeting with Skinner would only be more complicated if he had to explain the technicolor bruise on his ribs. "Wonder what I did now," he remarked to Milligan. "Skinner wants to talk to me." "You guys don't know how good you have it," Milligan commented as he dressed. "Dana complains about his 'micro-managing,' but take it from me, you have a lot more slack than most of us." Mulder remembered the management style of Milligan's recently departed ASAC and didn't argue. Skinner entered the locker room with his customary scowl in place, and it only deepened when he saw Agent Milligan. "Interesting place for a meeting, gentlemen," he said. "We like it," Mulder agreed flippantly. "It's a long walk to the golf course, but the pool is right outside." "Agent Milligan, I was not informed of any joint ventures involving your division and the X-Files," Skinner said. "Maybe there should be, sir," Milligan said somewhat defiantly. "A lot of us consider ASAC Hudson's death to be unexplained." "Your concerns have been noted and will be addressed at the appropriate level. It is entirely inappropriate for you to engage in unauthorized operations with Agent Mulder." Skinner's disapproval was not evident in his tone, which was no more surly than his usual speaking voice. "Sir, we were just swimming," Mulder said. He himself liked to rattle Skinner's cage now and then, but this escalation of tension seemed utterly pointless. Skinner turned on him. "What the hell happened to your face?" "Someone was, uh, trying to get my attention," Mulder said. He was habitually protective of his relationship with Senator Matheson and a little embarrassed to tell Skinner the manner in which he'd been summoned. "Maybe this will get your attention," Skinner said. "The Secret Service has a few questions for you. If you can't manage to give me some straight answers, maybe you'd prefer talk to them." "What's going on?" Mulder asked. "You were seen entering Senator Matheson's office shortly before the attack," Skinner said. "He was attacked? How bad?" Mulder asked. "I was going to ask you what you discussed with Senator Matheson, but since you picked this particular day to play Marco Polo with Agent Milligan, I'm going to guess that it had something to do with EdwardStoltz, Inc.," Skinner said. "Where'd they take him, Northwest Georgetown?" Mulder asked urgently. "I have to talk to him." "Brilliant idea, Mulder. I'm sure the officers at his door would be glad to grant you access," Skinner said sarcastically. "Damn it," Mulder said softly, as he realized that Skinner was right. "He was trying to tell me something, and it was about EdwardStoltz." "This is how they operate," Milligan said angrily. "They've got a guy on the side who takes care of things like this." "I need a complete accounting for your time, starting with your meeting with Matheson," Skinner asked Mulder. "Did anyone see you leave?" "Is he under suspicion? You see what they're doing, don't you? This is a diversion," Milligan said. Skinner's glare should have told Milligan to mind his own business and remember that he was talking to an AD, but it was only enough to silence him momentarily. "Sir, I have to follow up on something," Mulder said. "A warning. It's urgent." "Then I suggest you give me what I asked for, unless you'd rather discuss it with the police," Skinner said. Skinner was being generous under the circumstances, Mulder realized. It was lucky that he'd hailed a taxi for the ride back to the Bureau. "I know who did it, sir," Milligan said. "Henry Heinz. Either he did it himself or he made the arrangements. We can pick him up for questioning." About one more minute of Milligan's yapping, Mulder thought, and Skinner would ask for his weapon. Mulder never realized a White Collar guy would be so intense. "I left Matheson's office around one-fifteen," Mulder said. "I took a cab back--Capitol Cab. Didn't get the tag number, but the driver's name was Dov Ben Zion. It'll check out. And I have to go." "Stay away from Matheson, Mulder, that's an order," Skinner said. "Okay." Mulder nodded vigorously, impatient to be on his way, but Skinner turned from him and addressed the other agent. "There's no room for vigilantes on the Matheson task force. Do you think you can handle it?" "Thank you, sir," Milligan said. "I can handle it." "Go see Agent Conner on the fifth floor." Milligan grabbed his jacket and took off. Mulder waited for his own dismissal, but Skinner wasn't through with him. "Drop the lone-wolf act and tell me what you know," he said. Mulder swallowed his impatience. "Matheson implied that Big Ed had found a way to exploit Shamanic ritual," he said. "I need to work it from that angle." Skinner frowned thoughtfully. "Shamanic ritual. How does Scully feel about that?" he asked. "She seems inclined to take it seriously," Mulder said, and Skinner broke into a smile. "Did I say something funny?" Mulder asked. "No. Sorry." Skinner resumed his ordinary mask of perpetual annoyance. "But it does explain why you're swimming laps. Okay. You continue to pursue the paranormal angle, but I will need to know where to find you. I won't let your work interfere with the conventional investigations of the assault or the murder." "Thank you," Mulder said, turning to leave. "Mulder!" Skinner called sharply. "I said I need to know where you're going." Mulder picked a destination. "Neil Deutsch's house," he answered. = = = = Conversation around the dining table began with the mundane. "I love avocados," Scully said, although it was obvious. "The darker ones with the pebbly skin." "The smooth ones are worthless," Lauren agreed. "Absolutely. They don't have that richness," Scully said. "The color is wrong, too," said Lauren. Bob tapped Frohike's shoulder. "She uses all her senses. That's good for the journey," Bob told him. "Excuse me, may I use the phone?" Frohike asked, pushing himself away from the table. "I'm calling Mulder now." Lauren directed him to the kitchen. "Ask him to call Chuck Burks," Scully said. Frohike seemed convinced that she was planning to drink ayahuasca and that Mulder would stop her. She was sure of neither. "I know exactly how he feels," Lauren said when Frohike had left the room. "When Neil began to explore other realities I thought he had lost his mind. When he started talking about a menace in another world, I was sure of it." "Did Neil feel his life was in danger?" Scully asked. "Never, not even when he was wearing a wire for your people," Lauren said. "Neil wasn't afraid of getting killed. He said someone was stealing parts of his soul." She dropped her face to her hands, shoulders hunched in grief. "I thought he was nuts." "I don't know why it's so hard for people to believe in other worlds," Bob said. "The evidence is all around us." "But it isn't, Bob, not for most of us," Lauren said. "It's very subtle usually." She turned back to Scully. "After tonight, though, it might not be that subtle." "What do you mean?" Scully asked. "My husband was not the first. Each victory increases his power," she said. "Who?" Scully asked. "The Thorn," Bob answered matter-of-factly. "He's got Neil trapped." "Lauren, listen to me. Your husband is not coming back," Scully said firmly. She had held his cold heart in her hands, but she was glad Lauren didn't know that. "I understand he's dead. He needs to complete his journey," Lauren said. "You may not believe in that, but believe this: If the menace isn't stopped, many more people will die." Frohike returned from the kitchen. "Mulder's on his way," he announced. "He said don't do anything until he gets here." "Mulder, that's the dude I told you about," Bob informed Lauren. "Dude who called me back with the drum. He's had heavy training, too." "Mulder's a shaman too?" Frohike asked Bob. "You are a cuckoo bird." Frohike still seemed to think he'd been tattling on her, but Scully was only too glad to have Mulder along for this one. Her habitual skepticism had abandoned her and she was questioning her own judgment. When her cell phone rang, she expected to hear Mulder's voice, but it was the AD. "I'm trusting you to help Mulder obey a direct order," he said. "Senator Matheson was assaulted in his office. He's under guard now at Northwest Georgetown." "Oh my God," said Scully. "What happened?" "I want Mulder to stay away from him. If he tries to talk to him or investigate on his own, I will have his badge. That's a promise." Skinner was playing his "baby-sit Mulder" card again, and he wasn't even willing to answer her questions. "Will that be all?" she asked a little tartly. = = = = Mulder didn't have Chuck Burks on speed dial, but he didn't have to look up the number. He keyed it in as he drove. "I was wondering about your call this morning," Burks said when he heard Mulder's voice. "Is there any particular reason you needed to know about Shamanism?" "Yeah, there is," Mulder answered, grateful that Burks was as "out-there" as he was himself. "Someone's using Shamanic journeying to kill people." He expected some degree of argument; Burks was "out-there," but he usually wanted some facts to work with. "That explains a lot," Burks answered. "I think we need to talk." "Start talking," Mulder said. "I'll be there in about twenty minutes." "I just heard some very bad news. A friend of mine died yesterday, a professor from GWU. His assistant found a letter among his papers, to be opened in the event of his death. I want you to see it." = = = = = "We've got to find Bob," Langly said again. He and Byers had driven back to their own office and then to Bob's apartment without finding him or Frohike or any sign of the rusted-out Pinto. They had tried to reach Mulder and Scully at their home and office numbers. The endeavor was doubly problematic because of their distaste for cell phones and their van. Finally Langly had to give in and call Mulder's cellular, from a pay phone, of course. He got back in the van on the passenger side, since Byers had moved over to goose the accelerator. The van was idling rough and low, and if it stalled, someone would have to crawl underneath to rap on the solenoid. "I got him," Langly reported. "He's heading for Neil's place, and Bob's there now." "What does Mulder think of your theory?" Byers asked. "The deceased CEO of EdwardStoltz is on the rampage in another world." "He thinks it's his theory," Langly said. Byers looked doubtful, but nonetheless he drove toward Clearbrook. "I have major misgivings," he said. "I think what you're planning is dangerous." Byers was watching the road as he spoke, and Langly was staring out the side window. There was no eye contact. "I can't think of another way," Langly said. "Bob's in no shape to go back, and no one else has any experience." "What if you're wrong? What if there's no threat from your 'other world,' and you're playing with a dangerous hallucinogen for no good reason?" Byers asked. "If there's no threat from the other world, then the journey isn't dangerous," Langly said. "On that we disagree," said Byers with a sigh of resignation. = = = = Back in the Deutsch's ordinary living room, Frohike sat on a beige couch, arms folded across his chest, and listened with growing horror to a discussion he would have found positively thrilling if the circumstances had been different. "Totally naked?" Scully was asking. "It's just more natural," answered Bob, sitting cross-legged on the floor. "I mean, you wouldn't wear something to sleep, would you?" "I would," Lauren said. "It gets cold. I think it would be very uncomfortable to be naked when everyone else was wearing clothes." "We could all get naked," Bob offered generously. "Do you sleep in the nude?" Lauren asked Frohike conversationally. "No," he answered shortly. "Okay," said Bob, shrugging his shoulders at the absurdity. "She can wear whatever she likes. No synthetics, though. Wool or hemp." "Cotton?" suggested Lauren practically, and again Bob shrugged his bemused consent. This is going too far, Frohike thought. Scully looked at him, and he saw her apprehension. He knew she had made her decision. "Can you lend me something?" she asked Lauren. "In case I decide to do it?" "Please wait for Mulder," Frohike begged. "He's on his way." But Scully and Lauren walked out together. "She's been there before," Bob said. "You don't have to worry about her." "You are so full of shit," Frohike answered, now that they were alone. "You're some new-age burned out hippie and just because you're tripping on a jungle vine instead of LSD you think you're a shaman." "I'm not a shaman, I never said that," Bob protested. "If your goddamn journeys are so safe, why is Neil dead?" Frohike demanded. "That's what we're trying to tell you, dude. The Thorn. A powerful menace in the lower world," he explained again. "And that's where you're sending her," Frohike said accusingly. "Dude, don't you get it? Lower world, middle world, upper world. He can find you anyplace." Bob put his palms together, then folded his hands. "Power like hers, he's gonna know it. He'll come get her right here." Scully came out looking quite ridiculous in an oversized caftan the color of oatmeal. She sat on the couch by Frohike, and Lauren took the armchair. Bob surveyed the outfit and said, "Well, you can always take it off later." Engine noises and squeaky brakes announced the arrival of a vehicle outside. Frohike knew those sounds all too well. Lauren readied herself by the door. As before, Frohike could hear her. "Agent Mulder? And you must be Professor Burks," she greeted the two arrivals. "Uh, no, ma'am, I'm John Byers, and this is Richard Langly. May we come in?" "Of course," she said uncertainly. "The drummer," Bob explained to Scully. "One of the best." Byers and Langly seated themselves on the love seat. Byers cleared his throat. "I must admit, this all seems a little crazy," he said. "Just a little crazy?" Frohike asked him. He'd expected Byers to help him put a stop to this madness. "I don't know, Frohike," Byers said. "The evidence offers significant support." "Save your breath," Langly said. "We've been through all the arguments and he knows this is something I have to do." "You're going to do it?" Frohike asked. Maybe that would be better. Langly used that yage crap anyway. What difference would it make if he drank it one more time? "He's not the one," Bob objected. "Besides, we need him as the drummer." "Scully's never done it," Langly argued. "Why are you pressuring her?" "Hello," Scully said. "I think I have something to say about this." "You promised me!" Frohike reminded her heatedly. "You said you wouldn't do anything stupid." "Quiet!" Lauren said harshly. "We need unity, not squabbling. I'm not a shaman, but I know that much." = = = = "There's just one thing I find troubling," Mulder said, glancing over at his passenger. "Just one?" Burks asked with a sharp laugh. "The dead executive comes back as a shaman and starts killing people, and there's only one thing that bothers you?" Mulder didn't smile. "Yeah. Just one. Senator Matheson." "Well, I don't see anything mysterious about that. Somebody beat him up," Burks said. "Nothing shamanic there." Mulder didn't pursue it. As soon as he could, he'd take it up with Scully. "What did you bring?" Mulder asked, pointing to the briefcase Burks held across his lap. "I've got Professor York's final letter, with his suspicions about Woodrow Gerstbloem. The rest is general information about the ayahuasca ritual," Burks answered. "I appreciate it," Mulder said. "I'll need all the help I can get." "What about Scully? Do you think you'll convince her to go along with this?" Burks asked. Frohike's phone call made it sound as if Scully was set on drinking yage herself. Medicine that makes you sick. Scully should never have to face that again. "Maybe not," Mulder said. "Maybe she'll talk me out of it and neither of us will do it." "Ah." Burks nodded. "Yin and yang. The sacred balance." "She's my partner, Chuck. I value her opinion," Mulder said. "She completes you." "Don't push it," Mulder said. "I'm only paraphrasing what you've told me," Burks answered mildly. "But seriously, Scully believes that Woodrow Gerstbloem is doing these things?" "I don't know," said Mulder. "We haven't talked about it." He made the turn for the Longridge Condominiums and angle-parked next to the Gunmen's van. The door at number twelve opened, and a willowy blond woman watched as Mulder and Burks approached. "Are you Agent Mulder?" she asked. "I'm Lauren Deutsch." They completed their introductions and proceeded to the living room, where Langly and Bob were still debating. Byers and Frohike were exchanging words as well, quietly and urgently, but Mulder barely saw them. Scully and her exotic caftan absorbed all his attention. "Going somewhere, Scully?" he asked. Scully turned to their hostess. "We'll need a minute," she said. Lauren directed them to an upstairs bedroom, apparently a guest room. Finally, alone and away from the din in the living room, Mulder and Scully were able to talk. "What happened to you?" Scully asked. Mulder went through the motions of trying to wave her off, but then he sat on the bed so she could study the bruise on his jaw and push back his hair to check for further damage. Mulder realized his face must look a lot worse than it felt. "A calling card from Senator Matheson," he said. "And now it seems I was the last person seen with him before the attack." "Why was he attacked? Was anything taken?" Scully asked. She hiked her big robe up to mid-calf and sat down next to him on the bed. She seemed unselfconscious about her bizarre attire. "His office was ransacked, but apparently nothing is missing," Mulder said. He was impatient to learn what Scully knew, but it was useless to try to pump her until he answered her questions. "What did he want from you, Mulder?" Scully asked. "I didn't hang around long enough for him to tell me," Mulder admitted. "Something about EdwardStoltz and their involvement with Shamanism." Scully shook her head and looked at him sadly. "Yeah, I know. I should have let him finish," Mulder said, watching her face to see if he'd guessed what was on her mind. She sighed audibly. "You're an FBI agent, Mulder. He's a U.S. Senator. I've never understood why the two of you play these games." "The attack on Senator Matheson breaks the pattern," Mulder said, unwilling to explore the question Scully had raised. "The technique was decidedly ordinary and he isn't dead." "Pattern," Scully repeated. "One death doesn't form a pattern. You're counting ASAC Hudson as another victim." "For the sake of argument. And possibly one more, Edwin York. A professor who studied and wrote about Shamanism," Mulder said. "Edwin York? Oh my God," said Scully. "He wasn't just an authority on Shamanism, Mulder, he was the reluctant teacher of a man named Woodrow Gerstbloem." "Dear departed chairman of EdwardStoltz," Mulder said. "I think that settles it, Scully. There is a connection." "The killing won't stop unless we make it stop," Scully said. "This is a different kind of a killer, even for us." "Scully, Frohike told me what you're planning to do," Mulder said. "He has to be stopped," Scully insisted. "He's only getting stronger." "I agree," Mulder said, looking down at his hands, "but you're not the one to do it." "There's something I've never told you. I've done this before. I've been to the lower world," she said. "Nice try, but I have a hard time picturing you sucking down a cup of yage," he responded. "After my abduction," she said quietly. "I was in a boat on a lake, and I had to decide which way to go. I had a guide, someone to help me." He looked away, abashed. "Don't you believe me?" she asked. "You're talking about a time you almost died," he said. "Maybe that's not the best argument to convince me." "I don't have to convince you," she said gently. "It's not your decision. I have the qualifications, and you don't." "The Call? Is that what you mean? You know I've had that too." He was wondering if this would turn into the talk he'd imagined earlier... Remember those times when I almost died. "I know I almost lost you," she said. "I know I don't want to go through it again. Mulder, what are you doing?" "Chuck says you have to be barefoot," he said, untying his shoes and slipping them off. "This morning you didn't even believe in the lower world," Scully reminded him. "You know, Scully, that might have been a helpful time to tell me about your own experience," he said, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair. "Perhaps I should have," she agreed. "Oh my God, Mulder, that must hurt." He'd already collected on his punishing encounter with Matheson's messengers, but unbuttoning his shirt had brought him a dividend. He let Scully pull the shirt from his shoulders and groaned dramatically when she pressed on his ribs. She smiled but continued to palpate, which was painful but failed to produce any ominous grinding noises. "You're lucky they didn't take down a lung. And you are most definitely not doing any journeying with a bruise like that," she said with great finality. Mulder unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly. "Can we discuss this?" Scully asked as he stood to lower his trousers. The door to the room opened, but Mulder continued to undress. "Hey." It was Langly. "Whatever you have in mind, Mulder, I'm here to take your place." "Thanks, but I don't think you can," Mulder said. "Remember? The Call?" He kicked his pants aside and reached for the waistband of his boxers. "You don't have to get naked, you know. That's just Bob," Langly offered. "Unless you want to." Without warning or explanation, Scully grabbed the back of Mulder's shorts and turned down the elastic. "Pure silk," she read off the label. "I guess you can keep them." "Jesus, Scully, you could have just asked him," said Langly. Mulder smiled. "Or felt them." "All dressed up and nowhere to go," Scully said. "We still haven't agreed on who's making the journey." "According to Bob, I was called and chosen," Mulder said. "Well, I'm a high-power chick," Scully said, "and I have done the journey." "Guys, Bob's kind of a flake. Maybe you should let Chuck decide," Langly suggested. = = = = Angular Momentum, by Kel part 5 Disclaimer, etc., with part 1 = = = = "This would make an awesome game show," Bob said. Frohike didn't react. Bob couldn't help being simple-minded. The real outrage was that otherwise normal people were in fact participating in Choose Your Shaman, with your host, Chuck Burks. Mulder had found a way to upstage Scully in her weird cassock; he was wearing blue silk boxers and a large blue-black bruise. The only promising note was that Scully seemed destined for a parting gift. "Avocados are a high in tyramine," Burks said. "Didn't you know that?" Scully glanced over to Bob, who had sat at the table with her and never mentioned it. "No, dude, I didn't know," he said apologetically. "Are they really that bad?" "I'm not sure about that," Burks admitted. "I don't think they're in the same category as red wine or smoked sausage. How much did you eat, Scully?" Frohike answered for her. "She had a about a dozen," he said sarcastically. "Isn't that right, Lauren?" Lauren Deutsch looked distressed and embarrassed. "Not literally," she said. "But, uh, yes, it was kind of an avocado-binge." "This is where you're supposed to tell everyone you had a wonderful time," Mulder prompted Scully. "I have an idea, Chuck," Scully said. "Maybe I could use medication to block the effect of the tyramine. A beta-adrenergic antagonist." "Scully, don't be a sore loser," Mulder said. "On to the next round," said Bob. "My money's on Mulder." "Hey, I didn't eat any avocados either," said Langly. "Dude, you know where you're gonna wash out," Bob said. "You've got that purity issue." "Okay, purity," Burks said. "No sex in the past week. Or at least the last few days. Is that a problem?" "Maybe you'd better define 'sex,'" Scully suggested snidely. "Let me help you out," snapped Frohike. "When two people love each other very much, and when they both feel ready--" "Two people," Mulder interrupted. "Okay, not a problem." "Oh, shit," said Langly. "I'm out." "You're never gonna progress on the spiritual path until you can take control of your bodily urges," Bob counseled him. "Give it a rest, man," Langly said. "She was from Texas." Bob nodded sympathetically, and then explained. "That's one of his trigger states." "Let's get started," Mulder said. Frohike thought he sounded nervous. "Where's the stuff I'm supposed to drink?" "We're going to use the den. Bob says it's more earthen," said Lauren. "And the carpet's older," Bob added helpfully. "Neil didn't want anyone puking up here in the living room." = = = = By reputation the White Collar guys were supposed to be a bunch of nerds, but Brent Milligan thought his fellow agents on the Matheson task force were tame and cautious, compared to his regular crew. The task force was set up in a conference room. Phone lines and computers covered the big table, and bulletin boards displayed diagrams of the Senator's office building, with the exits highlighted. Milligan presented his plan--pick up Henry Heinz and make him sweat. The agent in charge wasn't going for it, not without some hard evidence. All they were doing was giving Heinz more time to construct an alibi or disappear. You couldn't catch guys like him by coloring inside the lines. You had to stay ahead of them, guess their next move. Milligan was supposed to be crosschecking a handwritten telephone log against its electronic equivalent, but in fact he was trying to puzzle out Heinz's next move. Heinz's name was on the log twice, which didn't surprise Milligan at all. If Heinz had found what he was looking for, the game was over. Heinz would be out of circulation or untouchable. But if he hadn't found it, he was still looking. It wasn't overly large, whatever it was. Heinz wouldn't have ripped the upholstery off the chairs unless he was looking for something small enough to hide there. How would I keep something safe, if I was Senator Matheson? Milligan asked himself. The Senator had called for Mulder. Mulder was the last person seen with him. That had to be it. Milligan picked up his jacket from the back of his chair. "I'm taking a break," he informed the head of the operation as he left the room. The guy only nodded. It felt funny to Milligan. Old Hudson would have told him to piss on his own time. = = = = Mulder felt perfectly normal. Way too normal to be lying on the floor in his underwear with his hands folded over his stomach while Langly tapped his monotonous rhythm and everyone sat around watching. "Don't cross your legs," Bob said. "Let the energy flow." "Your chakra's a little lower," Chuck instructed him. "But don't lace your fingers." "Nothing's happening," Lauren said impatiently. "He needs more brew." "Sh," Scully warned everyone. "Do you see a path?" Bob asked. "Something like that?" Through it all, the cadence of the drum, as boring and insistent and meaningless as a staff meeting. "Shouldn't you be checking his pulse or something?" Frohike asked Scully. "Sh," Scully said again. "He's good." Scully's oat-colored robe hung in the corner of his vision, like a splat of sunlight breaking through foliage. Langly's drumming seemed to change, and in it Mulder heard witty phrases and surprises. Scully's robe. Very friendly and safe, like sunlight or cream. Patches of sunlight on the sandy forest floor. His feet touching down on the warm sandy soil, feeling the soft loam and the cool dry leaves. Touching down on the soft ground and then pushing away, launching him into a long, easy loping stride. Not running, not dancing, but something in between. A crazy running hopping dance as clever as the drumming. The earth below grew harsher as he ran, pebbled and hard. Each buoyant step propelled him upward, but his footfalls were heavy as the earth called him back. A leaden weight gathered in him, dark and bitter, and he could not shake it off. "Right here," Scully whispered. He turned his head and let it go, freed himself of a torrent of sorrow and hurt and humiliation. Scully held a bag to his mouth and wiped his lips when he had finished. "Holy Moly," said Burks. "Did you two rehearse that?" Lighter now, as light as a leaf. He wasn't dancing to the drumbeat, he was dancing to some underlying rhythm that commanded his steps as well as the drum. The sandy soil gifted him with its warm power, sending energy surging up through the soles of his feet. "He sees something," Byers said. "Look at his face." Broad green leaves, shiny and thick. Lobed waxy leaves. A green that should be wet, and he touched the leaves, expecting his finger to sink below the surface. He wanted to swirl the warm wet green, but the leaves were solid. Only the color was thick and wet. The leaves hummed for him, a rushing sound. Big flat leaves, bigger than his hand, but a thin sound without resonance. The leaves whispered and he strained to make out their message, but heard only their sound. He rubbed a big waxy leaf between his hands and felt his palms touch. When at last the leaves gave up their secret, it was the sound of his own breathing. Mulder thanked the broad-leafed tree that breathed with him, and then he walked on. The trees grew thicker around him and the forest floor was soft with old pine needles. When he asked the drum for a direction it told him only to move on. He eased his way through the foliage, slipping past boughs and branches. A cricket on the ground roared petulantly for his attention, and Mulder sat down to watch. Marching along like a little tank, six stiff legs. Mulder smiled, but he didn't want to walk like that. A little brown toad hopped into view. "Dude, you gotta use all your senses," it told him. "Show me," Mulder implored him, but the toad hopped out of sight. It was too hard to struggle through the dense growth with no idea of which way to go. He should have asked the cricket, but it was gone. The brush rustled, close by. Mulder focused, searching for direction, but the wind saw his furrowed face and laughed at him. It fluttered the trees and sent birds into flight, and with noises all around him Mulder lost the rustle from the undergrowth. The drumming grew sinuous and teasing too. Frustrated but stubborn, Mulder hugged his knees to his chest and waited. The wind relented and brought him something raw and strong. A musky odor caught his nose, earthy and stubborn. Someone else was finding his way through the forest, a brother to Mulder, at least in one sense. Another mammal. He was close now, too close for the wind to hide him. Mulder called to him and waited. The smell and the noise grew louder, and Mulder could wait no more. He pushed his way through the forest to find him. The leafy branches parted as Mulder brushed by, making way for him with little grudging sighs. The drum gave him a jaunty beat and the forest let him jog, and he felt the other mammal running away from him but calling him to follow. "Slow down, let me see you," Mulder called silently, and at last he broke into a clearing and the beast was in sight. A hippo? No, too small and too fast. A sweaty wild pig. Mulder's mind fumbled until his memory supplied a photo from an encyclopedia. It was a peccary. The animal faced him with curiosity, marveling at his long hoofless feet and nearly hairless hide, but most of all at his height. Too tall, it told him, won't fit, can't follow. I'll follow. Show me the way, Mulder answered. Stubborn naked monkey, it answered. Let's go. It was easier to run this way, bounding along low to the ground. The dirt was filled with threats and promises. Warnings from other animals; tasty caterpillars and acorns. He licked his lips, remembering the juicy, strutting cricket. Yeah, baby, yelled the drum. Go, go, go! It was cooler down here, and that was good. He ran and ran, dodging past trunks, swerving around rocks. The vegetation thinned and Mulder smelled a sweet pond up ahead. When it drew into view, he trotted up to the water's edge and lowered his head for a drink. The water was cold on his throat and into his stomach. When he'd had his fill, he shook off his head to dry his muzzle. He turned from the pond and viewed the landscape again. He'd arrived at a barren place, with dusty rock for miles ahead. He looked longingly back at the forest and thanked it for his passage. Then he trotted ahead to meet the setting sun. = = = = When Senator Matheson opened his eyes and spoke his first words since his attack, two things happened. First, his condition was upgraded to "guarded." Second, the police put out an APB for Fox Mulder. It was another half an hour until the Senator could make his meaning clear. His assailant was not Mulder but a man he knew only as "Henry." Mulder was in danger because he had what Henry was looking for. Matheson napped and drifted. The question of what Henry was looking for remained unanswered. = = = = Mulder liked the gray rock with its shiny bits that glinted in the moonlight. He rubbed against its roughness and savored the feeling as it rubbed him back. Then he rolled in the sand to leave his scent. He heard the echoes from inside the rock, so he knew where the passageway opened out to him, although he could not see it. He rooted about with his great snout and smelled trickling water. It was cold in the rock and it would be very dark. The drumming swelled to fortify his courage and to promise him a road back home. Mulder nosed his way inside, his hooves clicking against the hard floor. He smelled neither comrades nor competitors nor anything to eat. The water trickled down the craggy stone walls, and when a bit of spray hit his coarse fur, he skittered aside. He grunted nervously, looking left and right but seeing only shadows as he trotted down the passageway. He remembered the wet rich green of the big waxy leaves and he hoped there would be colors again when the rocks let him out. He hoped they would let him out soon. The fragrance of rotting wood reached his nostrils and quickened his steps, because it smelled like outside. Besides, rotting wood held the promise of termites. Some pale light joined the wood-smell to pull him along, and when he finally emerged, the silver moon welcomed him. Mulder raised his head to greet the moon and strut for her. He sniffed the air and amid the dry grasses he found the rotting wood, and he followed the scent to the stump of a tree. He couldn't help calling for his herd to join in the snack, although he knew he was alone. More bugs for me, he told himself as he probed, but perhaps the dead tree was offended by his selfishness. Angry red ants poured from the wood, stinging his mouth and tongue and nose. His mane bristled and he clacked his teeth angrily as he ran away, so that the tree would know he was not afraid. He snorted and shook his head and rubbed his forelegs against his snout, and finally he lay on his side panting and shuddering. The drum throbbed with sympathy, and Mulder realized he wasn't alone. He jerked to his feet. Too chastened to trot, he walked on, with his back to the drumming and the silver moon overhead. He sniffed the air, hoping for some cold sweet water to help the hurt in his mouth. The tall dry grass whispered a warning to Mulder: Don't drink from the stream that holds the spirits. He thanked the grass, but when he came to a stream the water sparkled clear and bright. Don't drink, the grass reminded him, but the water looked pure and Mulder drank. The water was cold but it tasted like smoke and pricked his mouth and stabbed his stomach. He retched forcefully and painfully. The tall grass swayed with knowing sorrow, and a wisp of moonlight passed across his forehead to soothe him. Mulder continued on his way, thirstier than before. He followed the bank of the stream. The treacherous water still sang and sparkled but he wasn't deceived. I know you now, foul noxious stream, Mulder told it. You will be mine, pig, said the stream. Your thirst will grow and you'll be mine. Mulder didn't answer, not even in his thoughts. He was following the nasty, tainted stream because he was looking for something nasty and tainted. The stream taunted him now and then, singing to him of pure cold water. But sometimes he heard other voices in the stream. Without the drum for company, he could not have borne it, so bleak and lost were they. He walked with his head held low, but he did not turn back and he did not stop. Look, the grass whispered. Mulder looked up, and what he saw was both familiar and foreign. Rocks gathered by design and formed into a structure. Wood forced into planks and attached into shapes. A building. It squatted by the stream and held a wheel out in the water. A building. A man made this, Mulder said. He saw how the wheel turned in the water, but the part of him that understood what he saw was unable to explain it in the language of grass and pigs. It makes the water bad, the grass told him. Mulder wanted a closer look, but the grass hung back, afraid. Mulder walked the last few hundred feet over bare hard red soil. As he drew closer to the building, the voices grew louder. The stream cackled and challenged him, and the voices of the lost cried out their warnings. The building was the key. Mulder listened soberly as the drum wept with the lost spirits, sad and afraid. But when the drum regained its purpose Mulder found his own fortitude and together they advanced. A metal vine surrounded the building and its wheel. Mulder sniffed inquisitively and it jabbed his snout. He stepped away, blinking, and then trotted back to inspect the vine a few feet away. He saw shiny thorns on the vine and he understood their purpose. The house with the wheel is afraid of me, he thought with satisfaction. The thorns are there to tear my skin and keep me out. He clacked his teeth and pawed the ground, and then he hurled himself against the wire vine. The thorns caught his ears and tangled in his fur but the pain only enraged him. Mulder shoved his bleeding body against the vine until the strands parted and let him through, and he landed on the ground in a heap. He scrambled to his feet at once and ran to face the wheel of wood. He wanted to command the wheel to stop, but a closer look showed him that the wheel was without spirit, for the tree had fled. He turned his attention to the water, stepping closer to the edge of the bank. Foul acrid stream, he mocked. Yoked to the wheel like an ox. Drink me, pig, it sneered. Then he saw something in the water, and he understood he was looking at the voices of the lost. Float free, he told them, because they looked like little clouds. Go back to the sky. He saw no metal vine of thorns to hold them; they had only to rise. They wailed back to him in wordless grief, drifting and intermingling in the water. One of them gathered itself with a little whirling motion and began to surge to the surface. Mulder watched as it rose from the water in a little white plume, but before he could bark his encouragement the water crackled with sparks and the cloud was sucked back with a hiss. They cannot float free, the water said. They are mine forever. Only while the wheel turns, one of the voices answered. The water would turn the wheel forever, as far as Mulder could tell, and the turning wheel held tight to the spirits. But what about the house? He could not feel its thoughts, for its stones were as dead as the wood of the wheel. But it had raised a vine of thorns against him, and he knew that it must be afraid. He was afraid too. He looked up at the moon, who had followed him the length of his journey. She'd be lost to him inside the house. No moon, no sky, and perhaps no drum. He shuddered. He thought of something else and he shuddered again. This house was made by hand of man. Where was the man? The man must be smart and powerful and evil. Mulder walked all the way around the house, sniffing and thinking. I know nothing of walls and doors, the pig said. I will take my leave. Mulder found himself upright again, and he kneeled on the ground beside the pig who had guided him. Do you have to go? he asked. There is nothing here to eat or drink. I will return to my herd. Chuck Burks hadn't taught him how to say good-bye to your spirit guide so Mulder had to improvise. Good luck, he said. Sorry about the barbed wire. You're bleeding too, the pig observed. Farewell. He walked to the fence and ran alongside it until he found the place where it was breached. Then gingerly he picked his way through the opening and trotted away. Mulder found he could think more clearly in his customary form. The location and mechanism of the door were quite evident. He would enter the mill and find a way to sabotage the machinery. He didn't expect to find a grindstone or saw blades inside; he was reasonably sure he would find a generator. One nice thing about the lower world; nobody would bug him about a search warrant. And the crude latch on the door wouldn't require him to pick the lock. He walked around the enclosure, looking for a rock or some other implement of destruction, but there was nothing of the kind. Maybe he'd find something inside. Next time he journeyed he'd bring a flashlight and a tool kit. With a shrug of his shoulder and a nod to the moon, he reached for the heavy hasp of the door. Liquid fire surged through his body, from his hand up his arm to his brain. Electricity. Enough to kill him? He didn't know. The current held him for long seconds until at last he dropped to the ground, stunned and breathless. When at last he could fill his lungs he opened his mouth and screamed with all his might. "Scully!" = = = = The den was too hot, the drumming was too loud, and Mulder kept vomiting. "It's like a singles bar," Frohike complained to Byers. "Go out and get some air," Byers whispered. Frohike shook his head adamantly. "I'm not leaving him alone with these guys." Almost an hour ago, Mulder's face had taken on a look of wonder. His mouth agape, he'd stared in astonishment at nothing at all, and Frohike was sure he was faking. Since then he'd twitched and vomited and whimpered and vomited, and Frohike would have given up his biker gloves if it would turn out this was all an elaborate prank. "I'm here," Byers reminded him. "Scully's here too." Frohike was not reassured. "You two are just as bananas as the rest of them," he said. "Look at her." Scully was sitting on the floor next to Mulder, legs folded beneath her. She seemed unperturbed by his thrashing or his sightless eyes or the unpredictable bouts of vomiting. "Go get a drink of water or something," Byers urged him. "You're getting worked up." "How long are we going to let this go on?" Frohike demanded loudly, addressing the entire group. "Chill, Frohike," Langly hissed without dropping the beat. They were hopeless, all of them. Frohike lowered himself to the floor, next to Scully. "Are you sure he's okay?" he asked her quietly. As she turned to answer him, Mulder arched his back and let out a blood-curdling scream: "Scully!" Frohike watched in horror as Scully's eyes rolled up and her body went limp. He had just enough time to stretch out his arms and catch her before she thumped to the floor. = = = = Angular Momentum, by Kel part 6 Disclaimer, etc., with part 1 = = = = The peaceful place, with the lake in the forest. I've been here before, Scully thought, but in the daytime. Even by moonlight it was pretty and green. Scully was pretty too, pretty and prim in her coat in the boat, but she didn't feel peaceful. She felt restless and edgy. "Mulder?" she called tentatively. She felt constrained not to shatter the soft murmur of forest sounds, and her voice was barely above conversational level. The water was as still as glass and the boat barely bobbed, although it was untethered. She folded her hands and waited. "What am I supposed to do?" she wondered impatiently. Nothing was happening. "Mulder!" she called, forcing herself to fracture the quiet around her. "Mulder! Can you hear me?" Damn him, she thought. Another ditch. "Mulder!" she yelled as loud as she could, and then she folded her arms across her chest, feeling angry and useless. "You're making quite a racket," a voice commented calmly. Not Mulder; a woman. Scully couldn't see the source of the voice, and that annoyed her too. "What am I supposed to do?" she asked petulantly. "Why did you come?" "I was brought here," Scully answered. "Are you sure, Dana? Are you sure you didn't come here on purpose, for a reason?" the voice prodded her. "I'm stuck in the middle of this lake," Scully said. "Why would I do that on purpose?" "You were not brought here, Dana, and you are not stuck," the voice instructed her. "If you choose to sit in that boat as if you're posing for a portrait..." "Excuse me, whoever you are! I don't have a paddle!" Scully's voice rose in volume and pitch. The voice didn't answer. "You have to help me," Scully said. "I have to get to Mulder." Maybe the voice had taken offense. "Please help me.... Nurse Owens." Scully had a knack for pleasing people, and she tried to guess what the voice was waiting to hear. "It's not just for Mulder. There are lives at stake," she said, but still there was no answer. "There's an evil force at work--I would think you would want to stop it." Scully sat and waited. "You helped me last time," she reminded the voice, but apparently it had abandoned her. "You don't expect me to swim, do you? I'm wearing a coat!" I can't swim because I'm wearing a coat. She weighed the idea and found it wanting. She fumbled to unbutton her coat but it was impossible. "It won't come off," she called to the voice. "I'm trying, but I can't take it off." She groped clumsily without success. "All right. I'll keep it on," she said out loud. She slid herself to the side of the boat and surveyed the water. The lake glared back, trying to impress her with its obsidian mystery. If it held secrets in its depth she could not see them. I'll swim along the surface, she thought, just skim across the water without delving below. Rather than strike her as odd, the plan seemed practical. She drew her head back up to study and memorize some landmarks, but now they were gone. No shore, no dock; even the moon was hazy and distorted. How maddening, she thought. Which way should she go? She listened for a clue. Very odd; she heard nothing at all. No gentle lapping of the water against the boat, no rustling sound, although she could feel a breeze against her face. Her hearing had fled more thoroughly than her sight. Damned inconvenient. She strained against the silence until she became aware of a low throb. That way, she thought. She raised her head and tasted the warm air. A scattering of lizards, she decided, and something pungent and warm-blooded off in the distance. She slithered over the side of the boat and into the water. Her body slipped below the surface as she entered the water, but it was easy to extend her head into the air, and when she began to swim, whipping her long body side to side, she was able to skim across the lake as she had planned. Swimming this way took a lot of energy but gave her unusual speed. Hearing nothing and seeing little, she followed the throb. The odor of musk grew stronger, and she noted idly that the source was undoubtedly too big to eat. In any case, she wasn't hungry. She found herself little troubled that she couldn't hear, but the blurry vision was a nuisance, as was the sodden coat. When her nose poked into the soft mucky bank, she surged out of the water and onto the land. She slithered into the underbrush, pausing so that she could sample the air again. The scent of mammal persisted, but it was joined by a new odor, something harsh and unpleasant, familiar and yet unnameable. Every scale on her body recoiled from the smell, but the low vibration of the drum continued and she knew she had to travel on. Dana, wait. The words slipped into her brain without sound, startling her into a hiss before she could regain her thoughts. It's okay, she told herself. It's Nurse Owens. You can't go on, Dana. You're not ready, the voice said, still without sound. I'm ready, she replied earnestly. I can swim and climb and burrow, and I can feel the way. Your eyes are clouded, dear. Slough your skin. Yes, thought Scully. She poked around, exploring, seeking out a stone or tree trunk, something hard and rough to help her start her shed. There is little more satisfying than a good shed, she reflected. The opaque spectacles leave your eyes and your vision returns with dazzling clarity. Your new skin is beautifully shiny and supple, and your vigor and appetites are strengthened and renewed. Her rostral scales caught on a bit of bark, and she wriggled forward slowly and carefully, so that her old skin would slide off as a single sheath. She flicked her tongue again; the mammal heat was still there, but not as funky. Why, it's Mulder, she thought. And I'm Scully. She had to hold on to both her selves, she realized, serpent and human. Think, she commanded herself. The furry animal scent was Mulder, she confirmed. The other odor puzzled her because it seemed so ordinary and yet so alarming. It smelled like... a machine. Wires and oil and ozone. Something she smelled every day of her life--but what was it doing here? As for the throbbing, that was easy. Langly's drum. She remembered that snakes lacked auditory structures, but fortunately she could feel the vibrations vividly. She rubbed her nose against the rough tree and the scales peeled away from her face, flooding her lidless eyes with light. After she slipped away from her old skin, she would shimmy up a tree and figure out where she had to go. She savored the sleek economy of her efficient body as she circled away from her sloughing scales, until something startled her and made her lunge for cover. The drumming had stopped. She pressed against the ground, trying without success to call back the vibrations. She flicked her tongue nervously, sensing the air until she found Mulder's odor and heat. Reassured, she slinked back to her tree to finish shedding. She had lost the drum, but she could use Mulder's scent to guide her. = = = = Nothing in Chuck Burks's crash course on Shamanism had prepared Mulder to be attacked by an electric door. The Thorn was breaking the rules, bringing middle world technology into the lower world. He lay on the ground, stunned and shivering. I should have let Langly make the journey, Mulder thought. He would have trashed this machine by now. Mulder felt shaky and homesick and, most of all, thirsty. He wondered about trying a small sip of water. What had been unpalatable to him as a wild pig might be acceptable now. He lurched to his feet and walked to the bank of the stream. It was a slow, meandering stream, he noticed. The water that turned the wheel was carried there directly by a wooden flume. The sharp incline of the riverbank suggested that the current had been stronger once, and the water level higher. Mulder wanted to drink the water, which was clear as crystal, but he knew better. One of the cloud-spirits drifted toward the bank, as if to remind him of the river's curse. It spoke to him in a voice he could recognize. Still hangin' out by the water cooler when you're supposed to be doin' your work, said the cloud. Oh, come on, thought Mulder. This is going beyond extreme possibilities. You know who I am, the cloud insisted. Last time you slacked off on me I had to call Reggie Purdue in to chew your lazy ass. Now quit daydreaming and get us out of here. Aye-aye, Captain Bligh, Mulder told him. Uh, don't suppose you have any suggestions how I might do that? He didn't expect an answer. ASAC Hudson had always been more interested in barking orders than figuring out how they could be accomplished. But there had to be a dozen ways to disrupt the system. The water turned the wheel, the wheel ran a generator, the generator powered the electrical field that trapped the clouds and protected the mill. A wooden chute fed water directly to the top of the wheel. Maybe he could interrupt the flow. He tossed a pebble at the chute, hoping to learn if it was electrified like the door to the mill. The pebble bounced off the wood with no sign of a spark or crackle, but Mulder remained cautious. The water itself might be deadly here, so close to the source of its malevolence. Standing on the bank he reached tentatively for the chute. His fingers touched the wood and the air exploded into a cacophony of ear-bursting sound, a painful symphony of shattering booms and screams and sirens. He snatched his hand away and jumped back a step The noise continued, but when no one responded to the alarm, Mulder shrugged his shoulders and decided to try again. He tapped at the chute and tugged on it feebly, too distant and too low to be able to apply real force. Maybe he'd have to take a chance on wading into the water. Before he could decide, the blast of noises stopped, but Mulder's relief was short-lived. The drumming was gone as well. Uneasily he stepped back from the water's edge and looked over toward the mountain. = = = = "Come on, that's our car," Frohike called to Byers. Something had triggered the alarm in their old van. There was no mistaking the overwrought ear-splitting blare for anything else; it represented Langly's idea of the loudest, most threatening noises a machine could make. Others might question the need for such a sophisticated system in such an old rustbucket, but the gunmen did not. The van had many interesting non-market features. Fortunately, the alarm was "smart" enough not to trigger at every passing semi or every nostalgic boomer who came to admire it. When the alarm sounded, it meant business. "I wonder if they can hear it," Burks mused, looking down at the floor. Whereas Mulder seemed especially twitchy and uneasy, Scully's face showed a bland indifference. As Byers and Frohike hurried outside to investigate, Langly shoved the drum at Bob. "Gotta go," he said, running after the others. "Ringo, no," Bob called. "You know I suck at this." He started to tap on the drum, looking rather desperate and overwhelmed. "Somebody help me out here!" he called. "Let me try," said Lauren, and Bob passed her the drum as if it was on fire. She started to drum, succeeding, at least, in setting a steady if prosaic rhythm. "I guess it's harder than it looks," Burks said. "Maybe we can use Mulder's recording. Do you have a CD player?" Focused on the drum, Lauren answered him haltingly. "There. The computer." The alarm had stopped, but even the voices talking outside were enough to overwhelm her feeble drumming. "Okay." Burks rose from the couch and backed his way to the workstation, afraid to take his eyes from the two figures on the floor. The computer was agonizingly slow to boot up, and Lauren's drumming seemed only a bit better than Bob's. Finally Burks put the CD in the tray and shoved it in place. "Can I stop now?" Lauren asked as the intricate rhythms swelled from the little speakers. "I guess so," Burks said. "I wonder what's happening outside?" "Outside, inside, all is the same," observed Bob sagaciously. "Whoa, that computer's got a good beat." = = = = Her muscular body was well-suited for climbing, but by habit she was a burrowing snake, and she had to remind herself to keep her grip on the tree as she ascended. The tree swayed indulgently and made her a pathway and a perch. Constricting carefully, she surveyed the landscape. There's the boat, she said. She could see the placid little lake below, and the stream that fed it. A little boat, the tree replied, no harm was taken. Looking further, she understood, for elsewhere the hand of man had wrought considerable harm. A clearing in the forest showed a stand of stumps, not rough and jagged, but clean-hewn. It was not time or decay that took down these trees, but stone forced to metal and formed in a wedge. She hugged the tree a little tighter, to share his sadness. Near the stark clearing, Scully saw that the water too had been forced into service. A wall of stones with a wooden gate held back much of the flow. More wood was used to form a flume, so that some of the water rode swiftly, but not free. The flume held the water and it could not wander but had to run straight. I must follow the water, Scully said, and the tree shivered. That way lies evil, he warned her. Seek it and it will find you. The water did not seek it, nor the trees, she replied. Perhaps you are more than you seem, said the tree. What you need you may take freely, and be on your way. Scully descended carefully but quickly, letting herself drop the last few feet into the soft leaves on the forest floor. The drumming had returned, but it did not throb as before and it was harder to feel. She made her way to the edge of the lake, noting now that the water level was unnaturally high, submerging growth that longed for dryer soil. The water itself clung to the land, for it hated the tyranny of the dam and the sluice. But Scully slithered on, strong and purposeful, until the dam was beside her. She addressed the dam, inquiring to know its purpose, but the stones and wood had lost their quickness. You are wise and yet foolish, said a large rock behind her. Like all your kind. Do you know my kind? Scully asked. The rock sounded a bit condescending, but not hostile. I grappled with another traveler, and you see that I won, for he could not add me to his wall. Scully regarded the rock with raw admiration, for her words were clearly true. Have you wisdom for me? she asked. I too would defeat the traveler. Handiwork is undone by hands, said the rock. Consider that, limbless one. Who will speak to me if I take my human form? Scully asked. I need your words. We will speak, but perhaps you will not hear, the rock conceded. But your task demands the wisdom of your own kind, and the cunning of hands. But what is it that I need to do? Scully asked. Not do, but undo, said the rock. Scully understood, but feared to resume her ordinary form. The smell and heat of Mulder were a comfort and a guide she was loath to lose, for the drumming was faint and she mistrusted the flow of water. She left the rock to follow the stream, and Mulder's scent grew stronger. = = = = "What do you think it means?" Lauren asked Chuck Burks. She sat on the floor by her two unresponsive guests, but since both seemed calm at the moment and Mulder hadn't vomited in quite a while, she had let her attention wander to the monitor of the computer. A stream of gibberish crawled across the screen. "Someone burned it on that disc on purpose," he answered. "There must be a reason." He stood by the screen, watching the crawl. "Looks like random characters, but it has to mean something." "I'm worried about her," Lauren said, smoothing Scully's hair back from her face. "She didn't even drink the yage." "He needed her and she went to him," Bob explained. "Kind of sweet, isn't it?" = = = = The alien evil of the machinery repelled her, and she approached the manmade enclosure with care. The mill did not surprise her; once she'd understood the purpose of the dam and the sluice, she had known what to expect. She passed easily under the barbed-wire fence. Mulder's scent was all over, but the turning gears and their hot oil were overpowering, and she could not find him by smell. No rats, either, which was disappointing and unnatural. A proper mill is ripe with rodents. She saw first his feet, which terrified her even more than the mill. They were huge and careless, ready to ambush her accidentally, so that he would be as frightened as she was. For a million years, his kind had stomped on hers and then recoiled in terror. Her transformation to human form was timely but unintended. The snake was gone, the scent of Mulder lost, but her hearing returned, and the drums, and some clattering noise from the water wheel. "Scully?" He sounded a little surprised. "Give me a hand here." She clambered to her feet and delicately picked her way across the pebbly ground to where Mulder stood by the turning wheel. "The shaft is made of iron," Mulder said. "I can't get enough leverage to dislodge the sluice. The only way is to break the wheel." He'd been jamming branches between the blades of the wheel without the hoped-for result. The branches had snapped and the wheel kept turning. "The drumming. It sounds different," Scully said. "Before it was like a heart." He looked away from the wheel to smile at her. "It's got a beat and it's easy to dance to," he said. "Anyway, I'm glad you're here. Help me get some more stuff to stick in the wheel." "No, that's not the way," she said. "We have to go upstream to stop the flow." = = = = "Sorry, guys. I had one of these babies way back," the man shouted. Crewcut and bull-necked, it was hard to imagine him as a flower child. Nevertheless, when the gunmen burst from Lauren Deutsch's condo in response to the old van's burglar alarm, they'd discovered this apparently nonlarcenous figure innocently admiring the vehicle. Langly turned off the noise, and normal conversation became possible. "Really?" asked Byers in a friendly tone. "You must have gotten quite a start when that alarm went off." "I was kind of wiggling the door handle," he admitted sheepishly. "Just remembering the good old days, you know." That would never have set off the alarm, but the gunmen continued to play along. "Hey, we know you weren't trying to steal it," Langly said. "Not with this nice new car parked right here next to it." "Yeah, a car thief would go for that newer model," Frohike agreed amicably, and glanced over at Mulder's car. Mulder's car. What happened in there? The headliner hung down in tatters and the instrument panel showed gaping holes and dangling wires. Frohike gulped and looked back at the thick-necked stranger, working hard to keep the friendly smile fixed firmly on his face. "Truth is, I have a weakness for these old buses," the stranger said. "Ever think of selling it?" "Oh, never," Langly said. "Not for a million dollars." The others nodded seriously. The man shrugged, "Oh, I couldn't offer you that much anyway. But seriously, I'd give you ten g's, right here on the spot." "Ten g's? You know, I've put a lot of modifications on this baby. She's a lot smoother than she looks," Langly said. "Well, I'm a sucker for a vintage bus," the man said. "How about twenty?" Langly spent a minute in furrowed concentration. "Hold on, I better talk this over with my wife," he said at last, then hurried back into the condo. "His wife," Frohike explained. "She loves this old van." = = = = "Damn," Scully said. The sharp gravel cut into her feet as she walked along the millstream. "Hooves are highly underrated," Mulder said sympathetically. He was having the same problem. "Feet are highly overrated," Scully said. "So Scully, did you ever think it would come to this? You and I pursuing a perp into the land of the spirits?" he asked jauntily. "I'd say it was meant to be," she said, "even if you did try to ditch me. I will admit, though, that when I thought about you tilting at mills, it was always a windmill." The comment seemed to drop like a stone between them Mulder didn't answer, but he picked up the pace, and Scully found it difficult to keep up with him. "Mulder, slow down," she called after him. He stopped in his tracks and turned to face her. "I keep forgetting, Scully, that I'm silly and ridiculous, and that your only role in life is to keep me from killing myself," he said. "Sometimes I have to remind myself that you have no interest in the work we do, it's only that you've signed on as valet to a madman." "You're not ridiculous, Mulder, and I don't think you're silly." She caught up to where he stood. "It's a habit." She looked up at him earnestly. "A bad habit." "Is this an apology?" he asked in surprise. "An apology? As in, I'm sorry I hurt your feelings? No." She took a step away from him. She wanted to look him in the eye, and he was just too tall to make that comfortable up close. "I do believe in the work. It's worthwhile, it's important, and..." He waited, his eyebrows rising in expectation. "I love it," she declared. "You love it?" he asked with open disbelief. "I love it," she confirmed. "I can't imagine doing anything else." They stared at one another until he dropped his eyes and broke the contact. "Journeying... it's supposed to help you learn about yourself," he said. "Scully, I learned something too." She waited for him to continue. And waited. Finally she had to prompt him. "You said you learned something, Mulder," she said. "Let's go." He reached for her hand and pulled her along, purposeful again despite the rough gravel. "What did you learn?" she asked, eyes down in a hopeless effort to avoid the worst of the pebbles. "I have some habits too," he mumbled. They walked on, slower now, silent except for the occasional gasp when plantar surface encountered sharp stone. "We're pathetic, aren't we?" Scully asked. They were nearing the dam, and the sound of tinkling water grew louder. "Only taken individually," he answered. "Scully, look at that. Odd, isn't it?" She followed his finger to where the wooden chute drained water from the lake, before running the length from the dam to the mill. Wooden posts held the chute above the stream. "What's odd?" Scully asked. She was much better able to understand the mechanics of the chute and the dam now that she could see it from above the level of the ground. "The head gate is mostly closed," he said. "And the spillway is open." She raised her eyebrows. "I know I didn't see a control gate. I was looking," Mulder said. "You know what, Scully? I don't think we should stop the flow at all. I think we should turn it up." "Turn it up," she repeated thoughtfully. "More flow to make the wheel turn faster. But why?" "Just a hunch," he answered, but Scully gave him a stern, disapproving look. "That's a bad habit," she reproached him. "Okay. Do you know how a mill works?" he asked. "Basically. The water turns the wheel, the wheel turns the grindstone," she answered. "Right. But you don't want the stones grinding when there isn't any grain," Mulder said. "So at night, or when the miller's away, the mill stops. Either the headwater is diverted so the wheel doesn't turn, or a slip cog is used to disengage the lay shaft." Scully gawked, but didn't interrupt. "This mill runs all the time," Mulder said. "It has to, to power the defense system." "I didn't see any defenses, beyond the barbed wire," Scully said. "The door to the mill is electrified," Mulder said. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "There's something else. A containment field that traps the spirits in the water," Mulder said. "So if we could break the field, the spirits could complete their journeys?" Scully asked. Mulder grinned. "I was afraid you were going to make some disparaging allusion to "Ghostbusters.'" "I was just wondering if Neil's spirit is trapped there," she said. "However, I am curious about your past life as a miller, unless there's a more scientific explanation for your arcane knowledge." "You're familiar with Jung's concept of racial memory?" he asked. "'Mulder.' It's the Dutch word for miller." "Oh, I like that," Scully said. "Or maybe it's from that summer I was a guide at Old Sturbridge Village," Mulder added. "All part of the same rich pattern," Scully said. "But back to your plan. Something about slipping a cog and laying a shaft." "Simpler than that. We close the spillway and open the sluice gate. Put the mill into overdrive and see what happens." = = = = Mulder was unavailable by cell phone and so was Scully. Perhaps Skinner knew where they were, but if Milligan inquired, the AD might ask a few questions of his own. It was situations like this that made Danny the most popular man in the FBI. He turned up the last locations of calls to each of their phones, and Milligan was able to pick a destination. Clearbrook, Maryland. The drive took him right past the corporate headquarters of Big Ed, but that was one spot that Heinz would surely avoid today. Milligan had never been to Neil's house, although he knew the address. They had always set their meetings in neutral, public locations with large parking lots. Neil was the rarest kind of cooperating witness; a decent guy who wasn't just trying to save his own butt. You don't want to compromise any CW, but especially not a guy like that. Milligan took the turn for the Longridge Condominiums, scanning for number twelve. He got a jolt when he spotted it, because there was a police prowler parked outside. Maybe he was too late. Maybe running off on his own had cost Mulder his life. He drove past the cop car and parked. The Clearbrook officer had Heinz in cuffs, and he was talking to a man in a suit and two seedy-looking guys. He pulled out his creds as he approached the group. "Special Agent Milligan, FBI," he told the cop. "What's going on?" "FBI? Maybe you guys should open a field office here," the cop answered wearily. "Attempted auto theft, possession of burglary tools, vandalism. You guys into that these days?" Milligan couldn't help breaking into a broad smile. "You've got a nice collar, officer. You caught a bigger fish than you know," he said. = = = = Angular Momentum, by Kel part 7 Disclaimer, etc., with part 1 = = = = "Is it working?" Scully asked. She and Mulder stood by the side of the river, near the mill but beyond the fence. She couldn't be sure from this angle if the water wheel was turning faster than before. "The water's lower," Mulder said, That much was evident. The river had receded from the banks and the little clouds seemed to crowd together in their shrinking space. "I can see that," Scully agreed. "And the flow from the sluice is definitely faster and heavier. But nothing's happening." They watched in silence for a while. "This isn't working," Mulder said at last. "We'll have to go back and do it the other way. Shut off the flow of headwater to make the wheel stop." Scully frowned thoughtfully. "But what happens when we leave here?" she asked. "The Thorn just opens the gate and starts it back up." "Where is that guy, anyway?" Mulder asked. "Why's he hiding from us?" The answer came from one of the cloud-spirits in the river. "He isn't hiding from you, young man. He must spend most of his time in the middle world," said a refined voice with the trace of a British accent. "Spell it out for him, Professor. He's a slow study," said the spirit voice of ASAC Hudson. "He is not dead, and so his time here is limited. It's this infernal device that extends his power," the refined voice explained. "But where--" Mulder's question was interrupted by a snapping sound from within the mill, followed by a sharp odor. "Something's happening," Scully said hopefully. Another snap, and then a thin stream of smoke, trickling from around the door. The water wheel turned smooth and fast, but within the building the increased speed was taking its toll. An arc of sparks crackled across the surface of the stream. "Mulder, let's get out of here," Scully said. "Not yet," Mulder said. "We have to be sure." He stood fixed, staring at the mill as a huge arc of current bridged from the door to the fence, scribbling a blue trail through the air. "We're too close," Scully said, grabbing his arm to pull him away from the mill, back toward the lake. "Not that way, Scully. We have to go back the way we came," he said. He pointed downstream. "We have to go around the fence this time." He didn't take his eyes off the mill, wide-eyed as sparks flew and the building itself seemed to groan and crack. "Scully, come on!" She was straining to retreat toward the lake, but Mulder resisted and tried to pull her around the side of the mill so that they could head back toward the mountain. "That's not the way we came!" she shouted. With a rolling boom and a sharp, loud crack, flames burst from the roof of the mill. "This way!" Mulder shouted. Scully's thoughts came faster than she could express them. The air around them seemed to tingle, and her skin crawled with goose bumps. She couldn't hear the drum or feel its vibrations, but the ground itself rumbled a deep, bass resonance that made her stomach churn with fear and anticipation. He was too close to the danger and he wouldn't retreat with her, and the tension between them and around them escalated unbearably. "Mulder!" she shouted, and hurled herself at him in a desperate attempt to shield him from the explosion and conflagration she was sure were imminent. "Scully!" She came hurtling at him, and then they were both airborne, blasted back by the detonation and whipped by the debris. He grabbed her and held on desperately as the world around them erupted with sound and strobed with blinding brightness. = = = = Six men fit comfortably in the large office. Tecumseh Jones of the Clearbrook Police, two federal agents, and three strange fellows who aroused Jones's curiosity and perhaps his suspicions. Detective Jones stretched and yawned. It was his office, but he was perfectly content to let the man from the FBI run the meeting. "A simple announcement for now, just something to say that an arrest has been made in the brutal attack on Senator Matheson," Skinner was saying. "Fine by me," Jones agreed. He stole a glance at his watch. One AM. "We'll call a press conference in the morning, if that's all right with you, Detective," Skinner continued. "I still have some questions, Mr. Skinner," Jones said. He glanced over at the lone gunmen. "If you gentlemen could step outside for a minute." He didn't trust those guys and he hoped Skinner would back him up. "Step outside so you can bury the truth," Langly challenged him. The blond one with the big mouth. The younger FBI man jumped to his feet, making his chair screech on the linoleum floor. "Yeah, boys, we all heard about what great pals you are with Mulder. We'd like to confirm that with Mulder, but you're the ones who won't let us in the house," Milligan barked. "Actually, it's Mrs. Deutsch who is refusing you admission," said the one with the beard. "I assure you that Agent Mulder is unharmed." "Sit down, Milligan," Skinner said quietly. "I've checked them before and they come out clean." "Then where's Mulder?" Milligan demanded, but Skinner gave him another frown and he sat down. "If you were really concerned, you would have gotten in." Jones could tell Skinner was trying to keep the conversation private. "Don't ask me to believe you'd wait for a warrant if you thought there was an agent down." "Mr. Skinner, they may be as clean as you say, but are you aware that their organization covered the legal fees for Bob Adkiss?" Jones asked mildly. "Perhaps they perform other services for EdwardStoltz." "We don't work for Big Ed!" Langly exclaimed. "We're trying to get those bastards put away." "Enough," Skinner snapped. "Detective, they have the information we need. I see little point in continuing without them." "It's your show, Mr. Skinner. I just wanted you to have all the facts," Jones said. He didn't like the idea, but he wanted this meeting to end so he could catch some sleep before morning. Skinner turned to Milligan. "Let's start with you, Agent. You began your work with the Matheson Task Force late this afternoon, correct?" "Yes, sir," Milligan said. "From the beginning I suspected that Henry Heinz had a hand in the attack, a suspicion that was confirmed when I saw that he'd been in contact with the Senator by telephone." X called Y on the phone, therefore X assaulted Y. Jones smiled inwardly. He had officers like that on the force. He had no doubt that AD Skinner would find the time to help Agent Milligan adjust his attitude sometime soon. "A suspicion that was confirmed by Senator Matheson, when he was able to speak," Skinner added. "I figured if Matheson knew Heinz was after something he had, maybe he slipped it to Mulder." Milligan glanced over to Jones to clarify. "Mulder was the last person seen with the Senator before the attack." "So you followed Mulder over to Neil Deutsch's place, where we had Heinz in custody," Langly said. "Or, more properly, where one of my patrolmen had Heinz in custody," Jones corrected him. "After you, very properly, placed a nine-one-one call to report the attempted break-in." "Hey, just for the record, Heinz had no trouble trashing Mulder's car without triggering the alarm," Langly said defensively. "Your boy would have walked away if I didn't have my own system up protecting the van." "Very nice," Jones agreed. "Perhaps you should patent it." "You wish," Langly sneered. "I informed the patrolman that Henry Heinz was a suspect in the attack on Senator Matheson," Milligan said, raising his voice to regain everyone's attention. Jones caught Skinner's eye. Agent Milligan had good instincts as a manhunter, but he'd be a hell of a liability on the witness stand. "Others on the task force were able to establish the facts as described by Agent Milligan using more conventional investigative techniques," Skinner said with a little nod to Jones. "You have Henry Heinz and you have evidence linking him to the assault," Frohike said. "You have nothing on Big Ed." "I know who keeps Heinz's pockets full. Everyone does," Milligan said. "Then you wouldn't be interested in actual evidence," Byers said. The sarcasm in his message was not expressed in his voice. "What have you got?" Skinner asked. Jones refrained from asking his own question: Where did you get it? "Little of this, little of that," Langly answered. "About seven gigabytes of this and that." He was by far the most irritating of the trio, Jones decided. "We have documentation relating to tax evasion, violation of patent, price fixing, product adulteration, illegal campaign contributions, and pay-offs to various inspectors and auditors," Byers said. "Probably more. We haven't had time to run through it all." "And just like Cracker Jacks, there's a surprise in the bottom of the box," Frohike added. "Woodrow Gerstbloem is alive and well. The son of a bitch has an apartment in the Watergate, for Christ's sake." "Alive and well and rich as hell," Langly quipped. Skinner exchanged glances with Milligan. "I knew it," Milligan said angrily. "This is what Heinz was looking for," Skinner concluded. "And all along Mulder had it?" "That's right," Byers confirmed, "but I don't think he knew. It was on a music CD." "A music CD with encrypted files out the ying yang," Frohike explained. "An RSA encryption in perl script. I broke the code like that." Langly snapped his fingers. "And Mulder thought it was just a pretty song," Frohike marveled. "Is there some reason we can't ask Mulder what he thought?" Skinner asked pointedly. "Or Scully, for that matter?" "Yeah, do you think you could might convince your friend Lauren Deutsch to let us in the house?" Milligan whined. "Fellas, be reasonable," Frohike said. "It's almost two in the morning." = = = = Mulder opened his eyes and stretched sleepily. It hurt, sort of like a mild sunburn. He couldn't identify where he was, but it was definitely someplace normal, somewhere in the middle world. He disentangled his hand from Scully's to check his watch, but found he wasn't wearing one. Scully's hand? Scully? Slowly Mulder turned his head. That was Scully, all right. "Scully?" he said, and she stirred and opened her eyes. "Mulder, you're safe," she said gratefully, moving closer to him. Then she noticed where they were. "Mulder! What are you doing here?" she asked in surprise. "This must be Lauren Deutsch's bedroom," Mulder said. "This must be Lauren's bed," Scully said. A knock at the door brought a halt to their uncertain reorientation process, and Chuck Burks entered the room. "Good, you're awake," he said. "Some guys from the FBI are here. They've been asking to talk to you since last night." Scully looked shocked, but Mulder grinned. "What do you say, Scully, should we let them in?" She gaped for a moment, but she collected herself enough to zing him back. "By all means, Mulder. I'll find a way to hide my crushing frustration and disappointment from last night," she said. "They're outside the house, but if you're ready Lauren will let them wait for you in the living room," Burks explained. "Might as well face the music," said Mulder. Chuck retreated toward the door, but Scully called him back. "I hate to be obvious, but is there some reason we're, uh, here... together?" she asked him. Burks hemmed and hawed, but then he explained: "You were pretty beat after your journey. Lauren thought you'd be more comfortable in bed." "I'm very comfortable," Mulder agreed. "She has a fold-out couch in the living room, and she had it all made up for him." Burks addressed his answer to Scully. "She was going to give you the guest room up here." "She's so thoughtful," Scully said. "Especially considering everything she's been through." "She is," Burks agreed. "I think she's one of those naturally kind people. Anyway, Mulder was still a bit out of it, but she got him to stumble his way to the bed, and she had him tucked in nice and everything...." "I hope I got my milk and cookies first," Mulder said. "Scully was in similar shape," Burks said. "Well, maybe a little better. So Lauren got her halfway up the stairs...." "Oh my God!" Scully said suddenly. "Please, Chuck, please tell me that the gunmen weren't around for this part." "Oh, no," he assured her. "They were at the police station." "What?" asked Mulder and Scully together. "Anyway, Scully, Lauren was trying to get you up to bed, but then your partner here started making noises and you went off the wall," Burks said. "Noises?" Mulder asked. "What kind of noises?" Chuck scrunched his face as he searched for the right words. "Well, whimpering at first. Then some kind of howling. And then, well, sort of like sobbing," he said. Scully reached for Mulder's hand, her face filled with nothing but sympathy. "I did not sob," Mulder insisted indignantly, although he didn't really remember. "Well, whatever you want to call it," Burks said. "Sort of like 'boo-hoo-hoo.'" "There is no way," Mulder said stubbornly. "Look, it doesn't matter," Burks said. "You were fine once you had Scully with you." "I suppose nobody cared that I was crying," Scully said. "Um... you weren't crying," Burks said. "You were hollering. Mulder! Mulder! Wouldn't shut up until we brought him to you. Then you just wrapped yourself around him like a hungry anaconda and you both fell asleep." "Excuse me?" Scully sounded highly affronted. Chuck nodded to himself. "Soul mates," he said, quietly enough that everyone could pretend that they hadn't heard him. "Tell you what, I'll tell your friends from the FBI you'll be ready for them in an hour." He left the room, closing the door behind him. "You heard him," Mulder said glibly. "Like a hungry anaconda." "Boo-hoo-hoo," Scully retorted. "Pressing against me, tighter and tighter..." Mulder teased. "Mulder, I mean this in the nicest possible way," Scully said, turning on her side to look him in the eye. "You're a pig." the end = = = = Close your eyes and take a deep breath. Let it go. Feel your muscles relax. Concentrate on the intense urge, that overwhelming desire to send feedback. Feedback, feedback... Every cell in your being wants to send feedback. It's irresistible... Feedback to ckelll@hotmail.com There. You feel so much better now.