From: msk1024 Date: 12 Mar 2004 08:39:17 -0800 Subject: NEW~~ Bone of Contention by Kel and Michelle Kiefer Source: atxc Title: Bone of Contention Author: Kel and Michelle Kiefer Email: ckelll@hotmail.com msk1024@yahoo.com Category: Casefile Spoilers: season 6ish Rating: R Archive: Just ask. Disclaimer: Not ours. Sigh. Summary: When an investigation in the middle of nowhere opens old wounds, 2000 miles away becomes too close to home. Can Mulder and Scully unravel the puzzle before they fall apart? COMMENTS: Huge, huge thanks to MaybeAmanda and Syntax6 for thorough and speedy beta. Thanks to Nell and Linda for invaluable help along the way. Our eternal gratitude also to our own resident veterinarian, the lovely Enigmatic Dr, for beta and technical advice on all things sheep. Author's Notes: at end. The world's leading authority on female sexuality was a man. Less surprisingly, he was in Sweden. With the six-hour time difference, Mulder had to call him early in the day. When Scully gathered up some papers and announced that she was "going over to physical anthropology to gloat," Mulder had his opportunity. First he locked the door. "More questions, Mulder? You never seem to like my answers," said Dr. Eklund. "You never give me any answers," Mulder reminded him. That had been true from the start. Anders Eklund seemed intrigued by Mulder's inquiries, but he always replied with skepticism and more questions. Mulder sometimes wished that Eklund would speculate, extrapolate, or just plain take a guess, but he never did. Even so, the scientist's approach to the subject and the questions he raised were always thoughtful and frequently helpful. "You're asking me to predict the sequelae for a procedure that does not exist. There is no technique to mature and extract all of a woman's ova," Eklund said airily. He had been hammering on that point since their first conversation. "Work with me, Anders. Hypothetically, if a woman--" Mulder began. "The answer, once again, is that I don't know!" "Hey, you have to let me ask the question," Mulder complained. "You want to know if a woman's fertility could be restored after the harvesting of all her eggs. You want to know if there would be any physical damage that would interfere with her sexual function. You want to know if she could regain a normal libido--as if anyone could define what that might be." "Not this time," Mulder said. He'd asked those questions and others without satisfaction. Dr. Eklund had become his main source because he was clean, not because he had answers. "You understand that any of my answers are speculative, since there is no such thing as superovulation," Dr. Eklund said. "Unfortunately, there is," Mulder said. "So you say. In that case, why don't you ask your questions of that unfortunate hypothetical woman?" Mulder glanced at his watch, then at the door. Scully would be gone until noon, if not longer. Nevertheless he lowered his voice. "I've read of brain damage where a person with profound loss of sensation and function can be ignorant of his deficits," Mulder began. "Even when questioned directly, the victim will invent excuses or simply deny the situation." "That is outside of my expertise," Eklund said. "I've heard that a person who loses his hearing eventually loses the memory of hearing, so that he can't even imagine what sound is like," Mulder began. "I am not a neurologist." "So maybe a person, a woman, who had lost the ability to respond in that way, to feel those feelings . . ." "Hm," said Eklund. "She might not even realize there was anything wrong." "She might be better off if she didn't know," Mulder muttered. When Eklund answered, his voice was distinctly serious. "Obviously you don't want to torment her. She cannot help what she does not have." "That's what I thought," Mulder said. "But you can use observation. I take it this woman is someone you know." Mulder nodded as he re-checked his watch. "I know her." "And you have a frame of reference from behavior before the procedure." "Er..." Mulder began. In truth, there were so many variables to his hypothesis, Eklund would probably laugh his ass off. "It's complicated." "Ah, yes. I understand. You've been protecting her in case she can't respond. Perhaps you should offer her something to respond to," Eklund concluded. "I could try," Mulder said. There was a pause, and then Eklund spoke again. "I don't say this to be cruel, Agent Mulder, but there's another possibility you must consider. Sexuality is so individual, after all. Perhaps you're just not her type." = = = = "The bone specimen does not correlate with any known missing persons for a very good reason," Scully announced. "It's from a sheep." She was presenting her findings to the division of forensic anthropology, more generally known as the "bone boys." She'd seen them perform miracles of identification from mere chips of skulls or vertebrae, but on this occasion, she was the one who had forced the bone to give up its secrets. "Now wait a minute. I've seen sheep bones before," said a blond with a receding hairline. That one was Michael, Scully remembered. Though she'd worked with these people on several occasions, she had to struggle to keep track of the names and faces. "On gross examination, the morphology of the bone is entirely consistent with human anatomy," Scully said. "Under the microscope, the pattern of the osteons indicates an animal source. The tissue, in fact, is ovine." "Dana, you're too good to be running around in the field. Come to Anthropology and rule us as our queen!" proclaimed Craig Leder. Leder was the division chief. It had to be a little awkward, for him and the others, that she had been the first to take a slide of the specimen. Nevertheless, they were welcoming her discovery and offering their congratulations. Scully glowed in their recognition. When it came to forensics, she was the ultimate jack-of-all-trades. She sliced, she diced, she read PET scans, she identified insects. Mulder took it all for granted, but it was . . . unorthodox. Actually, it was insane. The bone had stirred considerable interest when it arrived at the FBI. It looked for all the world like a human thigh bone. The size suggested that its source was a juvenile, but the advanced calcification told a different story. To complicate matters further, a couple of marks near the head of the bone hinted at a surgical intervention, now healed. The bone boys had passed it along to Scully hoping she could identify a disease that would explain the oddities. The last thing they were expecting was what she had found. "Maybe you could give me a few pointers on microscopy," suggested a man in wire-rim glasses. "Looking for a private lesson, Jamie?" someone called to him. Jamie blushed at his co-worker's jibe, and Scully blushed too. Still, it was fun to be the center of attention. The banter and praise continued until Mulder entered the room. Scully assumed he came bearing an important message, most probably a new assignment that couldn't wait. She met his eyes expectantly but saw no urgency. Mulder gave a barely perceptible shrug of the shoulders, then he pulled a chair away from the workbench and took a seat by the wall. The chatter of the bone boys dropped to a hush. An outsider in a suit was a curious event for them. "My partner, Fox Mulder," Scully introduced him. An upward inflection betrayed her own uncertainty regarding Mulder's presence. Mulder flashed one of his charming, easy-going smiles. Unfortunately, he also spoke. "I just dropped in to hear the scoop on your woolly biped." "Is this a joke?" asked Michael. "You know, the sheep that walks like a man." Mulder must have sensed the hostility around him, but it only seemed to egg him on. "A lonely shepherd boy far from home, a soft, cuddly sheep--" Scully felt her spirits drop. "I never implied that the creature was a biped," she said defensively, stung by Mulder's mockery. He'd been distracted and uninterested earlier when she'd told him about the odd-ball discovery, but she hadn't expected him to follow her up to Anthropology to ridicule her in front of her peers. "Maybe you're confusing it with bigfoot," said Michael. "Sorry, Spooky, but we're scientists." Not only Michael, but the whole group had closed ranks, emotionally and spatially. Scully found herself surrounded by forensic anthropologists. Mulder seemed even more the outsider, and he seemed bewildered by the antagonism he'd engendered. "But if the animal had a hip like a human being . . . " He let the question sputter to a halt. "Maybe it didn't walk," offered one of the bone boys. "A crippled individual with a congenital defect . . . " "And yet it survived to adulthood," mused Scully. Mulder had in fact raised a pivotal question. "Where did the specimen come from? Were any other bones included, or other tissue, or maybe soil samples? Who found it?" Mulder asked. Scully could hear the enthusiasm in his rushed monotone. "Time out," snapped Craig Leder. "My budget is barely adequate for our human cases. We all agree this thing's a sheep." He looked around as his colleagues nodded their agreement. "Let it drop, Agent Mulder." "Aren't you curious?" Mulder asked. Leder turned away from him, as if to reject the idea. "Agent Scully, this bone is perfect to stump the panel at our next convention," he said to Scully. "You should be there." Challenging the experts to identify strange specimens was a standard feature whenever forensic professionals gathered. It was more like a party game than a genuine inquiry. The bone boys were inviting her to their party. Meanwhile, Mulder had shoved his chair back by the workbench and he was watching her from the doorway. "I'm really not comfortable . . . " She wanted to be gracious, but Mulder was retreating from the room and it was difficult to keep her focus. "I'm really not comfortable presenting a specimen before I understand it." The group around her seemed to back off. Scully realized how harsh she sounded and softened her tone. "Can we draw any conclusions about how this animal might ambulate?" "Our work is based on measurements gathered from hundreds of specimens," said Jamie. "What you're asking for would be pure speculation." "Understood." She nodded. "Can we speculate?" "I don't really see the point," Leder said. "Maybe if we get a slow day, I'll have one of the boys crank out some possibilities." Scully sighed in resignation. Earthbound, the bone boys could no more speculate than they could fly. "Thanks guys. I'll be in touch." = = = = What Mulder wanted more than anything was to find a two-legged sheep monster so he could bring it back to the slimy creeps in Forensic Anthropology and let it stomp them to death. And he would watch and say, "Tough luck, fellas. I guess it can walk." What a dull bunch they were. Give them a rib and a jaw, and they were perfectly content to sketch it into a whole person. But give them something entirely new, and they backed off. Scully was pissed at him for calling her discovery a woolly biped, but at least he was taking it seriously, which was more than you could say for the bone boys. It seemed like a hell of a coincidence that a sheep would just happen to have a deformity that gave it a human hip bone. Mulder wanted to check it out. So, what did he know about the sheep bone? Not much. He knew it was from Montana. Significance? Unclear. Montana had sheep, after all. Sheep, cows, mountains, trout, right-wing survivalists, big-time drug-smugglers . . . Perhaps he was being unfair, Mulder thought. The bone was discovered by a hunter and his dog. Of course, hunters finding bodies was like UNSUBs turning out to be white males between 20 and 45 years old. The bone was discovered in a sparsely populated part of the state. D-uh. If you took everyone in Montana and put them in one room, you still couldn't call it a crowd. Mulder turned to his computer. Perhaps there was something in Montana besides sheep, trout, and psychos. Now, this was interesting. Weymouth Scientific had a major facility in Montana. In the same sparsely populated corner that had produced the sheep bone. Weymouth Scientific was a name Mulder recognized from the financial pages; the company had rebounded from bankruptcy to become the darling of Wall Street. He was fuzzy on the exact nature of their business; something medical, as he recalled. He needed to learn more about Weymouth and more about sheep. He could poke around on the Internet, but he was reasonably certain he'd find nothing to explain a human's thigh on the body of a sheep. Scully had once expressed admiration for his willingness to sift through files and transmissions that any other agent would just throw in the garbage, but he knew she wouldn't feel that way if she was watching him now. He skipped past NAKED FARM GIRLS LOVE THEIR ANIMALS and thousands of references to the cloning of Dolly the Sheep. A link to a university site seemed worth a click, but when it opened, he saw that it was a poem. Interesting, though. The beginning caught his eye: "Farm boys wild to couple with anything, with soft-wooded trees, with mounds of earth. mounds of pine straw, will keep themselves off animals by legends of their own..." He had to laugh. The last thing he'd expected in a poem about bestiality was humor. Then came the legend, the admonition the farm boys shared: "I have heard tell, that in a museum in Atlanta, way back in a corner somewhere, there's this thing that's only half sheep, like a woolly baby pickled in alcohol, because these things can't live." Aha. Maybe he would forward this to the blockheads in Anthropology. With their stunted imaginations, they would accept it for fact. Probably take a field trip to Atlanta. The poem took another unexpected twist, and the last part was told by the half-sheep itself, dead in a jar: "I am here, in my father's house. I who am half of your world..." Then the poem described the sheep, mother to the sheep-child, seized by something "from another world" and forced to carry within her the creature doomed to die. "Because those things can't live." Mulder remembered another child who was not meant to be. It was probably a clever poem, startling, maybe, but not upsetting. A morality tale to resist a temptation that wasn't a temptation, except in legend. It was about the wild farm boys, not the innocent ewe. The sheep was an object. Mulder found himself nauseous as he reread the poem. Scully. Twice they took her and twice they used her for a container. A fuckin' incubator. Someplace to grow monsters and half-breed babies who had to die. When Scully entered the office he kept his eyes on his monitor. He wasn't ready for conversation. Unfortunately, she was. "Was there a reason for your unexpected visit to Forensic Anthropology?" she challenged him. "The bone," he mumbled in reply, slowly raising his eyes to take in her pale, serious face. Scully frowned. "When I described the specimen this morning, you couldn't have been less interested," she said. "I was busy," he said. "Busy studying the clock," she countered. "Yeah, well, I had to make a phone call. Six-hour time difference," he explained. "Personal call," Scully said. "You were waiting for me to leave." He didn't try to meet her eyes. "Personal," he agreed. She continued her inquiry. "You completed your important personal phone call, and then you decided to follow me to Anthropology so you could ridicule me in front of my peers," she said. Scully, here and now and in his face, was a powerful antidote to the memories of Scully frozen and mute. He pointed his finger at her. "Bullshit," he said. "Woolly biped? Was that a phrase chosen for its scientific accuracy?" she asked. "I don't care what you call it. I just want someone to tell me what it is," he said. "They don't know," she said. "They don't care. They just want it for show and tell at their next convention," Mulder said accusingly. "They have their hands full identifying human remains. An animal specimen takes a lower priority," Scully said. "Leaving us to follow up on your discovery," Mulder said. "That's what I'm doing now." She dropped into her chair, and the confrontation was over. "Don't try to snow me. You're checking out porn," Scully said. Mulder remembered what was on his screen and how slow his computer was. He started the log-out process. "You wanna see? Hot, horny coeds who love to party?" "I'll pass." = = = = = (1/15) The world's leading authority on female sexuality was a man. Less surprisingly, he was in Sweden. With the six-hour time difference, Mulder had to call him early in the day. When Scully gathered up some papers and announced that she was "going over to physical anthropology to gloat," Mulder had his opportunity. First he locked the door. "More questions, Mulder? You never seem to like my answers," said Dr. Eklund. "You never give me any answers," Mulder reminded him. That had been true from the start. Anders Eklund seemed intrigued by Mulder's inquiries, but he always replied with skepticism and more questions. Mulder sometimes wished that Eklund would speculate, extrapolate, or just plain take a guess, but he never did. Even so, the scientist's approach to the subject and the questions he raised were always thoughtful and frequently helpful. "You're asking me to predict the sequelae for a procedure that does not exist. There is no technique to mature and extract all of a woman's ova," Eklund said airily. He had been hammering on that point since their first conversation. "Work with me, Anders. Hypothetically, if a woman--" Mulder began. "The answer, once again, is that I don't know!" "Hey, you have to let me ask the question," Mulder complained. "You want to know if a woman's fertility could be restored after the harvesting of all her eggs. You want to know if there would be any physical damage that would interfere with her sexual function. You want to know if she could regain a normal libido--as if anyone could define what that might be." "Not this time," Mulder said. He'd asked those questions and others without satisfaction. Dr. Eklund had become his main source because he was clean, not because he had answers. "You understand that any of my answers are speculative, since there is no such thing as superovulation," Dr. Eklund said. "Unfortunately, there is," Mulder said. "So you say. In that case, why don't you ask your questions of that unfortunate hypothetical woman?" Mulder glanced at his watch, then at the door. Scully would be gone until noon, if not longer. Nevertheless he lowered his voice. "I've read of brain damage where a person with profound loss of sensation and function can be ignorant of his deficits," Mulder began. "Even when questioned directly, the victim will invent excuses or simply deny the situation." "That is outside of my expertise," Eklund said. "I've heard that a person who loses his hearing eventually loses the memory of hearing, so that he can't even imagine what sound is like," Mulder began. "I am not a neurologist." "So maybe a person, a woman, who had lost the ability to respond in that way, to feel those feelings . . ." "Hm," said Eklund. "She might not even realize there was anything wrong." "She might be better off if she didn't know," Mulder muttered. When Eklund answered, his voice was distinctly serious. "Obviously you don't want to torment her. She cannot help what she does not have." "That's what I thought," Mulder said. "But you can use observation. I take it this woman is someone you know." Mulder nodded as he re-checked his watch. "I know her." "And you have a frame of reference from behavior before the procedure." "Er..." Mulder began. In truth, there were so many variables to his hypothesis, Eklund would probably laugh his ass off. "It's complicated." "Ah, yes. I understand. You've been protecting her in case she can't respond. Perhaps you should offer her something to respond to," Eklund concluded. "I could try," Mulder said. There was a pause, and then Eklund spoke again. "I don't say this to be cruel, Agent Mulder, but there's another possibility you must consider. Sexuality is so individual, after all. Perhaps you're just not her type." = = = = "The bone specimen does not correlate with any known missing persons for a very good reason," Scully announced. "It's from a sheep." She was presenting her findings to the division of forensic anthropology, more generally known as the "bone boys." She'd seen them perform miracles of identification from mere chips of skulls or vertebrae, but on this occasion, she was the one who had forced the bone to give up its secrets. "Now wait a minute. I've seen sheep bones before," said a blond with a receding hairline. That one was Michael, Scully remembered. Though she'd worked with these people on several occasions, she had to struggle to keep track of the names and faces. "On gross examination, the morphology of the bone is entirely consistent with human anatomy," Scully said. "Under the microscope, the pattern of the osteons indicates an animal source. The tissue, in fact, is ovine." "Dana, you're too good to be running around in the field. Come to Anthropology and rule us as our queen!" proclaimed Craig Leder. Leder was the division chief. It had to be a little awkward, for him and the others, that she had been the first to take a slide of the specimen. Nevertheless, they were welcoming her discovery and offering their congratulations. Scully glowed in their recognition. When it came to forensics, she was the ultimate jack-of-all-trades. She sliced, she diced, she read PET scans, she identified insects. Mulder took it all for granted, but it was . . . unorthodox. Actually, it was insane. The bone had stirred considerable interest when it arrived at the FBI. It looked for all the world like a human thigh bone. The size suggested that its source was a juvenile, but the advanced calcification told a different story. To complicate matters further, a couple of marks near the head of the bone hinted at a surgical intervention, now healed. The bone boys had passed it along to Scully hoping she could identify a disease that would explain the oddities. The last thing they were expecting was what she had found. "Maybe you could give me a few pointers on microscopy," suggested a man in wire-rim glasses. "Looking for a private lesson, Jamie?" someone called to him. Jamie blushed at his co-worker's jibe, and Scully blushed too. Still, it was fun to be the center of attention. The banter and praise continued until Mulder entered the room. Scully assumed he came bearing an important message, most probably a new assignment that couldn't wait. She met his eyes expectantly but saw no urgency. Mulder gave a barely perceptible shrug of the shoulders, then he pulled a chair away from the workbench and took a seat by the wall. The chatter of the bone boys dropped to a hush. An outsider in a suit was a curious event for them. "My partner, Fox Mulder," Scully introduced him. An upward inflection betrayed her own uncertainty regarding Mulder's presence. Mulder flashed one of his charming, easy-going smiles. Unfortunately, he also spoke. "I just dropped in to hear the scoop on your woolly biped." "Is this a joke?" asked Michael. "You know, the sheep that walks like a man." Mulder must have sensed the hostility around him, but it only seemed to egg him on. "A lonely shepherd boy far from home, a soft, cuddly sheep--" Scully felt her spirits drop. "I never implied that the creature was a biped," she said defensively, stung by Mulder's mockery. He'd been distracted and uninterested earlier when she'd told him about the odd-ball discovery, but she hadn't expected him to follow her up to Anthropology to ridicule her in front of her peers. "Maybe you're confusing it with bigfoot," said Michael. "Sorry, Spooky, but we're scientists." Not only Michael, but the whole group had closed ranks, emotionally and spatially. Scully found herself surrounded by forensic anthropologists. Mulder seemed even more the outsider, and he seemed bewildered by the antagonism he'd engendered. "But if the animal had a hip like a human being . . . " He let the question sputter to a halt. "Maybe it didn't walk," offered one of the bone boys. "A crippled individual with a congenital defect . . . " "And yet it survived to adulthood," mused Scully. Mulder had in fact raised a pivotal question. "Where did the specimen come from? Were any other bones included, or other tissue, or maybe soil samples? Who found it?" Mulder asked. Scully could hear the enthusiasm in his rushed monotone. "Time out," snapped Craig Leder. "My budget is barely adequate for our human cases. We all agree this thing's a sheep." He looked around as his colleagues nodded their agreement. "Let it drop, Agent Mulder." "Aren't you curious?" Mulder asked. Leder turned away from him, as if to reject the idea. "Agent Scully, this bone is perfect to stump the panel at our next convention," he said to Scully. "You should be there." Challenging the experts to identify strange specimens was a standard feature whenever forensic professionals gathered. It was more like a party game than a genuine inquiry. The bone boys were inviting her to their party. Meanwhile, Mulder had shoved his chair back by the workbench and he was watching her from the doorway. "I'm really not comfortable . . . " She wanted to be gracious, but Mulder was retreating from the room and it was difficult to keep her focus. "I'm really not comfortable presenting a specimen before I understand it." The group around her seemed to back off. Scully realized how harsh she sounded and softened her tone. "Can we draw any conclusions about how this animal might ambulate?" "Our work is based on measurements gathered from hundreds of specimens," said Jamie. "What you're asking for would be pure speculation." "Understood." She nodded. "Can we speculate?" "I don't really see the point," Leder said. "Maybe if we get a slow day, I'll have one of the boys crank out some possibilities." Scully sighed in resignation. Earthbound, the bone boys could no more speculate than they could fly. "Thanks guys. I'll be in touch." = = = = What Mulder wanted more than anything was to find a two-legged sheep monster so he could bring it back to the slimy creeps in Forensic Anthropology and let it stomp them to death. And he would watch and say, "Tough luck, fellas. I guess it can walk." What a dull bunch they were. Give them a rib and a jaw, and they were perfectly content to sketch it into a whole person. But give them something entirely new, and they backed off. Scully was pissed at him for calling her discovery a woolly biped, but at least he was taking it seriously, which was more than you could say for the bone boys. It seemed like a hell of a coincidence that a sheep would just happen to have a deformity that gave it a human hip bone. Mulder wanted to check it out. So, what did he know about the sheep bone? Not much. He knew it was from Montana. Significance? Unclear. Montana had sheep, after all. Sheep, cows, mountains, trout, right-wing survivalists, big-time drug-smugglers . . . Perhaps he was being unfair, Mulder thought. The bone was discovered by a hunter and his dog. Of course, hunters finding bodies was like UNSUBs turning out to be white males between 20 and 45 years old. The bone was discovered in a sparsely populated part of the state. D-uh. If you took everyone in Montana and put them in one room, you still couldn't call it a crowd. Mulder turned to his computer. Perhaps there was something in Montana besides sheep, trout, and psychos. Now, this was interesting. Weymouth Scientific had a major facility in Montana. In the same sparsely populated corner that had produced the sheep bone. Weymouth Scientific was a name Mulder recognized from the financial pages; the company had rebounded from bankruptcy to become the darling of Wall Street. He was fuzzy on the exact nature of their business; something medical, as he recalled. He needed to learn more about Weymouth and more about sheep. He could poke around on the Internet, but he was reasonably certain he'd find nothing to explain a human's thigh on the body of a sheep. Scully had once expressed admiration for his willingness to sift through files and transmissions that any other agent would just throw in the garbage, but he knew she wouldn't feel that way if she was watching him now. He skipped past NAKED FARM GIRLS LOVE THEIR ANIMALS and thousands of references to the cloning of Dolly the Sheep. A link to a university site seemed worth a click, but when it opened, he saw that it was a poem. Interesting, though. The beginning caught his eye: "Farm boys wild to couple with anything, with soft-wooded trees, with mounds of earth. mounds of pine straw, will keep themselves off animals by legends of their own..." He had to laugh. The last thing he'd expected in a poem about bestiality was humor. Then came the legend, the admonition the farm boys shared: "I have heard tell, that in a museum in Atlanta, way back in a corner somewhere, there's this thing that's only half sheep, like a woolly baby pickled in alcohol, because these things can't live." Aha. Maybe he would forward this to the blockheads in Anthropology. With their stunted imaginations, they would accept it for fact. Probably take a field trip to Atlanta. The poem took another unexpected twist, and the last part was told by the half-sheep itself, dead in a jar: "I am here, in my father's house. I who am half of your world..." Then the poem described the sheep, mother to the sheep-child, seized by something "from another world" and forced to carry within her the creature doomed to die. "Because those things can't live." Mulder remembered another child who was not meant to be. It was probably a clever poem, startling, maybe, but not upsetting. A morality tale to resist a temptation that wasn't a temptation, except in legend. It was about the wild farm boys, not the innocent ewe. The sheep was an object. Mulder found himself nauseous as he reread the poem. Scully. Twice they took her and twice they used her for a container. A fuckin' incubator. Someplace to grow monsters and half-breed babies who had to die. When Scully entered the office he kept his eyes on his monitor. He wasn't ready for conversation. Unfortunately, she was. "Was there a reason for your unexpected visit to Forensic Anthropology?" she challenged him. "The bone," he mumbled in reply, slowly raising his eyes to take in her pale, serious face. Scully frowned. "When I described the specimen this morning, you couldn't have been less interested," she said. "I was busy," he said. "Busy studying the clock," she countered. "Yeah, well, I had to make a phone call. Six-hour time difference," he explained. "Personal call," Scully said. "You were waiting for me to leave." He didn't try to meet her eyes. "Personal," he agreed. She continued her inquiry. "You completed your important personal phone call, and then you decided to follow me to Anthropology so you could ridicule me in front of my peers," she said. Scully, here and now and in his face, was a powerful antidote to the memories of Scully frozen and mute. He pointed his finger at her. "Bullshit," he said. "Woolly biped? Was that a phrase chosen for its scientific accuracy?" she asked. "I don't care what you call it. I just want someone to tell me what it is," he said. "They don't know," she said. "They don't care. They just want it for show and tell at their next convention," Mulder said accusingly. "They have their hands full identifying human remains. An animal specimen takes a lower priority," Scully said. "Leaving us to follow up on your discovery," Mulder said. "That's what I'm doing now." She dropped into her chair, and the confrontation was over. "Don't try to snow me. You're checking out porn," Scully said. Mulder remembered what was on his screen and how slow his computer was. He started the log-out process. "You wanna see? Hot, horny coeds who love to party?" "I'll pass." = = = = = Bone of Contention (2/15) "If the pattern continues, we'll fly the final leg in a crop duster," Mulder said. They had spent the entire day in transit, switching from one plane to another. They awaited their last ride in a primitive airport whose only attempt at entertainment was a pinball machine. "Do we have to talk about airplanes?" Scully asked. Scully's vague anxiety about flying had all but disappeared over their many miles flown, but she still didn't like small planes, especially at night. Mulder was torn between humming "Peggy Sue" and trying to offer some distraction. "I think we should start our investigation at Weymouth Scientific," he said. "Mulder, you're positively fixated on that company. The bone was found in Montana, and Weymouth is in Montana, but that's not exactly a smoking gun," Scully said. "The bone was found less than thirty miles from Weymouth. Thirty miles, Scully, in a part of the country where there are miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles." "And what exactly does that prove? It could be completely coincidental." "Weymouth is a medical research company," Mulder said. "The bone represents a mutation." "We don't know what the bone represents, beyond an odd-looking sheep. It might be a pure coincidence that it resembles a human bone," Scully said. She definitely sounded distracted. "Furthermore, whatever grandiose thing you read on their web site, Weymouth is in the business of making tubes," she continued. "Not clones, not monsters, not woolly bipeds. Tubes." "Tubes?" Mulder echoed. "Catheters, Mulder. For angioplasty, for epidurals, for nephrostomies. They make tubes," she said. "Weymouth was one of the hottest properties on NASDAQ, back in the '80's," Mulder said. "Everything was hot back then," Scully said. "They began to plummet in 1990. Weymouth bought back thousands of shares, successfully avoiding a meltdown. Prices stabilized and recovered," Mulder said. "Do *you* even know where you're going with this?" she asked pointedly. "Here's a company that that narrowly missed bankruptcy. Now, for reasons unknown, they choose to hide their research center on the edge of civilization. And then we have the sheep bone, an inexplicable mix of human form and sheep DNA, and it turns up in the same remote location." "It boggles the mind," Scully said. "Sarcasm is easy, Scully." "No, really. It boggles the mind that Skinner approved this case." "That brings us to my final argument," Mulder said. "Skinner wasn't hooked until I brought up the Weymouth angle." "Interesting. I don't suppose he shared the reason for his interest," she commented. "All I can tell you is that he was his usual irritable, uninterested self until I dropped the name Weymouth." "And then he said, 'Now it all makes sense. Go get 'em, Mulder.'" "Actually, he frowned, sneered, and muttered something that sounded like, 'Look into it.' I thanked him and left before he could change his mind." "And here we sit," Scully said somewhat woefully. Mulder stood and stretched. "I'll see if someone can tell me how much longer we have to wait." = = = = If Skinner knew a reason to investigate Weymouth Scientific, he knew more than Scully; if Mulder knew a reason to investigate Weymouth, he hadn't managed to explain it. Scully hadn't bothered to challenge Mulder when he proposed the case because she was sure Skinner would nix it anyway. The joke was on her, and here they were. She understood Mulder's motive, if not his logic. He was flipping the bird to the forensic anthropologists. They'd lost interest in the sheep bone and Mulder wanted to show them up. He wanted to demonstrate to Scully that he took her findings seriously, even when her colleagues did not. She understood her own motive as well--where Mulder went, she followed. "Women love Mulder," Langly had said once, in a complaining kind of way. He'd said it to Scully, as if she was something other than a woman herself. Scully was a woman. Scully did love Mulder. But it was so much easier for all the other women who loved Mulder, because they didn't have to put up with him. He was a rigid man of strong beliefs that changed suddenly, drastically, and unpredictably. He was articulate and verbose, yet on the whole uncommunicative. He told her she completed him, that he couldn't go on without her. Of course that could be said of his cell phone as well. "You need to get out more," her mother once said. Wonder if Mary Magdalene's mother ever her told her that. "Mary, you need to get out more. What about that nice boy, Peter?" Despite his messiah complex, Mulder was not Jesus Christ. Where Jesus cast out demons, Mulder attracted them. Jesus walked on water and Mulder did the crawl. Jesus multiplied the fishes and Mulder flushed them down the toilet and bought more. But there was one similarity. Neither one of them was the dating type. Scully sighed. It was all very well to complain that Mulder had a messiah complex, but it was her own choice to build her life around him. It wasn't her first choice, but it was the best of all the available options. Mulder filled her life without fulfilling her needs. She couldn't live without him, and he didn't leave room for anyone else. Mulder stood leaning against the counter, talking on a desk phone. He hadn't come back to report on the status of their flight, but he didn't have to. The noise she thought she was imagining grew into a certainty. An aircraft was approaching. Mulder rejoined her. "Good thing I called, or we wouldn't have a car," he said. "Lariat screwed up again." "No, the travel office screwed up. Lariat doesn't have an outlet here, but they booked us anyway." "So we've finally ventured beyond the realm of Lariat. Does that mean we'll find a couple of mules tied to a hitching post?" Scully asked. "Accounting's gonna bust a blood vessel. I booked us with Avis--that's all there is." "We'd better be damn sure to document that when we submit our expenses," Scully said. Of course, she was talking to herself. That would definitely be her task. "Explain about the private jet, too. No scheduled carrier and all that," Mulder said. "Private jet?" He hadn't mentioned that before, and she knew it wasn't an oversight. Commercial aviation maintained a decent safety record, and had for years. General aviation was spottier. Your life really depended on the integrity of the pilot. "Sorry." Mulder's little nod acknowledged that he'd held off on sharing the unwelcome news. "I hate when you do this," Scully said. "You hoard your information until you decide I'm worthy to receive it." "You would have worried about it all day," Mulder said. "Or maybe I would have made different plans. At least I could have checked out the aircraft and the pilot," she said. But that wasn't even the point. Mulder had no business protecting her, if that's what he thought he was doing. He had no business standing between her and the facts. Besides, protecting her was only part of his rationale. Mostly, Mulder didn't want to listen to her complaints. "I said I was sorry." He wasn't off the hook, but this wasn't the time or place. Judging by the noises from outside, their ride was here. Even if the damn thing was a crop duster with a picture of Patsy Cline stenciled on its nose, she was going to have to get in. "We might as well go outside," Scully said. She hoisted the strap from her carry-on over her shoulder as she rose from the bench and set her suitcase on end so it could roll. She looked up to see that a man had entered the building. His weathered Stetson and brown suede jacket made her think of a cowboy, but logic told her he was probably their pilot. "At least he's not wearing a baseball cap," Mulder muttered under his breath. "Evening, folks," the man called. "You must be my passengers." "Rock Creek. Is that where you're headed?" Mulder asked. "You bet. I'm Brian Yates, and I'll be your pilot." He had a long, easy stride, and he reached Scully's side in time to relieve her of her luggage. "Let me help you out, miss," he said, the very picture of Western chivalry. How refreshing, Scully thought. He had sandy blond hair and a mustache a little darker. He should lose the stash, Scully thought. "We'd like to see your maintenance log," Scully said as they started toward the door. "It would be my pleasure to show you," Yates answered. = = = = Rock Creek, Montana, was a strange, strange place. The airport was large enough to accommodate commercial flights, but it didn't seem to get any. No Avis office, either. That was in town, at the Exxon station. Avis was willing to pick them up at the airport, but the pilot said it was on his way anyhow and he could give them a lift. Mulder was about to accept, but Scully beat him to it. "Thank you, Brian," she said. Good thing one of them had remembered his name. Mulder would have probably answered in a John Wayne voice, and he would have said something like, "Much obliged, Slim." Naturally Slim drove a pick-up truck. Mulder tossed his suitcase into the back of the truck, while the pilot did the same for Scully's bag. When the doors to the cab were unlocked, Mulder waited for Scully to climb in first. If the driver was unsavory or lecherous, Mulder would have taken the middle seat, but Brian appeared to be housebroken. Scully took her place in the middle, and Mulder climbed in after her and closed the door. "Whoopi Goldberg," Scully said suddenly. Mulder eyed her quizzically, but she was turned to the pilot. "Oh, yes. Definitely," he agreed. Apparently Mulder had missed something by napping on the plane. They drove along through the rugged, rolling terrain. In places the road climbed high to crest the hills, and elsewhere the rock had been blasted aside, leaving sheer walls of red and gray stone. Old Drummond Road ran two lanes east and two lanes west, but for most of the ride they had all four lanes to themselves. "It's pretty," Scully commented. A few minutes later they passed a sign: Junction 1 Mile, Peyster Road. "That's how you get to Weymouth," the pilot informed them. Mulder wondered if he was passing along some general information or if Scully had mentioned their interest in the company. "Do you ever fly for them?" Mulder asked. "Sure." "Weymouth maintains a small corporate fleet, but mostly it serves the eastern office. Brian picks up a large share of the work from the Rock Creek research center," Scully explained. There was a "yield" sign where Peyster Road crossed Old Drummond Road, but no one to yield to. They drove on. "Sure you have enough gas to make it to the service station?" Mulder asked. Brian laughed. Mulder had called it the edge of civilization, but that didn't do it justice. It was more than the middle of nowhere, it was the essence of nowhere, a paragon of nowhere. "Maybe next time you could set us down a little closer," he complained. "Not in a fixed-wing I can't." "Honestly, Mulder. We'd take at least this long to get home from Dulles," Scully reminded him. She was right, and he'd probably complain about all the traffic. But this was disturbing. When they reached the Exxon at last, Mulder felt actively relieved to see other cars and other people. "We're staying at the Silvermine Inn," Scully said when Brian stopped the truck by the service station office. "Only game in town," Brian said. "It's another eight or nine miles down the road." = = = = Scully slept well through the night but awoke in the morning feeling uneasy. She had an unpleasant task ahead of her, and it had nothing to do with the investigation. She had to tell Mulder. What was so hard about that? Just look him in the eye and say it: "I have a date tonight." It wasn't as if she owed him an explanation. They weren't married. They weren't anything. Really, why make a point of telling him at all? It might never come up. But it would. After they talked to whoever they were going to see at Weymouth Scientific, maybe poked around in the area where the bone was found, and whatever--at the end of the day Mulder would want to get something to eat. He would expect Scully to come along. She didn't want to lie to him, nor was it a practical solution. Omission was one thing, but bald deception was another. Scully reminded herself that she hadn't done anything wrong. She had been invited to dinner by a handsome, charming, intelligent man, and she had accepted. The only reason she felt so peculiar about it was because she was out of practice. She was surprised when Brian Yates asked her out, and even more surprised to hear herself agree. She could barely remember the last time she'd been on a date. It would be fun. Pointless, but fun. She pulled on her robe and walked across the hallway to rap on Mulder's door. Worrying about how to tell Mulder was taking up way too much of her attention; she would just do it and get it over with. All that resolve, and Mulder wasn't even in his room. Scully went back to her own room, determined to stop ruminating about her date and to deal with the investigation ahead. A phone call to Weymouth Scientific secured an appointment with the director of the lab. She dialed again and touched base with Rock Creek's sheriff. Satisfied, she stepped into the shower. She hurried herself along her morning routine. Mulder could return from a run and be cleaned up and ready to go in a matter of minutes, and Scully didn't want to be the one who held them up. Her efforts came to a halt because she didn't have her toothpaste. She knew exactly where it was; at home, in a zippered bag, along with several other essentials. She'd brushed with tap water the previous night, but it wasn't very satisfactory. Toothbrush in hand, she went back across the hall, and this time Mulder opened the door to her knock. "I need to borrow some toothpaste," she announced. "Only if you don't try to return it," he answered, stepping aside to let her into the room. He was buttoning the cuffs of his shirt, and his damp hair was pushed back on his head, except for the few places where clumps of it stood on end. "You sound positively chipper," she said. He'd been such a grouch the night before, mouthing off about the long drive from the airport. "Spectacular place for a run. No traffic." Scully found Mulder's toothpaste by the bathroom sink and squeezed a bit onto her brush. "I found where they're hiding the people," Mulder continued. "If you keep heading east there's a road down into the valley. Mostly newer construction, but some big old houses too." Scully rinsed her mouth. "I reached one of the directors at Weymouth. He'll see us this morning," she told him. "I was expecting more resistance." Mulder sounded disappointed. He was sitting on the bed when she exited the bathroom. "Ready in five minutes?" she asked, and he nodded distractedly. She was all the way to the door when he called to her. "Scully? You look really nice." She didn't even have her make-up on yet. Maybe that was his point. "Thanks," she said uncertainly. Ten minutes later they were in the car, heading to the research center. This time they had to share the road with a scattering of other motorists. Probably people from the houses Mulder had discovered, heading for their jobs at Weymouth Scientific. "Who did you talk to?" Mulder asked. "Dr. Sage Revere, director of research. I told him we were interested in their use of animals, and he invited us for a tour," Scully said. "Snow job," Mulder predicted. "You're just disappointed that you don't have an excuse to break in." "What does that mean?" She'd intended her statement as a joke, but Mulder's tone had that snotty edge that meant he was offended. Too bad; she had no intention of backing down. "If he'd refused to see us you'd say he had something to hide. He agreed to let us in, so you're sure it's a snow job. Why do we need to talk to him at all? You have it all figured out." "I'll explain it to you." He couldn't have sounded more pedantic. "We'll follow along on his orchestrated tour and hang on every word he says. There's nothing more seductive than an attentive audience. If he has something to hide, he'll slip." Mulder was so damn sure of himself. So positive that Revere was going to lie to them. Maybe Revere would take them directly to his lab to meet with Woolly the Wondersheep. "Don't tell him you're a doctor. Don't say anything smart. Just smile and nod." "Do you want me to flirt with him?" she asked acidly. "Don't be ridiculous," he answered, appearing to be vaguely amused at the concept. Scully had to restrain herself from punching him. Dr. Sage Revere turned out to be as smooth and elegant as his name and diction. He greeted them with a mixture of cordiality and bemusement. He was the host who was too well-bred to mention that he hadn't invited you. "Perhaps you could share the reason for this visit," he said, but Scully sidestepped, and he didn't push for an answer. "I crewed with a Chuck Mulder at Dartmouth. From Chappaqua," he told Mulder expectantly. "The Chappaqua Mulders." Mulder nodded knowingly. "Yes." Revere's smile froze. "Well then," he said. "Let's begin our tour." The scientist removed his suit coat and folded it over the back of his chair. He took a white lab coat from a coatrack and donned it. Scully had worked with researchers who took pride in their ragged, stained lab coats. Revere was from the other school; his lab coat was impeccably white, with a colorful crest on the shoulder bearing the "Weymouth Scientific" logo. She and Mulder followed him into the elevator, then through a heavy door into a room with rows of small glass tanks. "We're very proud of these fellows," Dr. Revere said fondly as he lifted the top off one of the tanks. Mulder pushed closer, seemingly fascinated. Scully wondered if he expected Revere to pull a sheep out of the tank. Revere opened a pack of latex gloves and put them on carefully. "Have a look," he said. He reached into the tank and drew out a flat brown worm. "Leeches. Used medically to enhance perfusion." "You're kidding!" Mulder *was* good. Anyone would think he adored bloodsucking worms. Meanwhile, Scully was biting back a yawn. There was nothing revolutionary about applying leeches to reverse venous congestion after certain surgeries or injuries. "Can I hold it, or will it bite me?" Mulder asked. Revere pointed to the box of gloves, and Mulder turned the art of putting on gloves into a display of clumsiness. Mulder the naive science groupie. *Don't be afraid, Mr. Scientist. I'm just a buffoon.* For the rest of the morning, Scully kept her eyes open and her mouth shut while Mulder peppered the lab director with questions. He sounded like a ten-year-old on speed, Scully thought. What do you feed the mice? Can we go in there? Do you have any monkeys? What's behind that door? Can I pet the cow? The questions were meant to sound pointless, but Scully knew what he was doing. Gradually his oblique approach was revealing the shadows in the landscape, the subjects and locations that were discouraged or forbidden. Scully couldn't bring herself to join in on Mulder's chorus of wows and gee-whizzes, but neither did she point out that Weymouth's idea of research seemed to be a rehash of well-established technology. The Weymouth employees went about their business quietly, glancing up from clipboards or monitors only long enough to note the presence of the lab director and the two strangers. A team of security guards in blue blazers followed them along at a respectful distance. Around noon, Revere glanced at his watch, gave a tight, humorless smile, and announced that regrettably he had an important meeting to attend. "Okay if we poke around on our own?" Mulder asked innocently. "That would be neither safe nor appropriate," Revere said. The two guards moved closer until they were at his side. "Perhaps we can continue the tour later?" Scully suggested. It was almost the first time she'd spoken. "I've been more than generous with my time," Revere said. "You've been less than candid regarding your purpose here." It was a strangely civilized confrontation, because everyone, including the guards, continued to smile. "We're interested in your work with sheep," Scully injected hurriedly. "Sheep," Revere echoed. "A very unusual sheep," Mulder said. The guards had advanced until they were flanking Mulder and Scully. "We have some information that we'd like to share. And some questions. We can have this cleared up in a matter of minutes," Scully said. Revere seemed to consider. "Two o'clock. I'll hear what you have to say." = = = = = = Bone of Contention (3/15) It was a number he rarely called, but Sage Revere knew it by heart. A Chicago area code, although he didn't believe the party was really in Chicago. It didn't matter; the phone would ring unanswered, and minutes later, someone would call him back. When Revere was approached by the shadowy investors' group almost a decade ago, he'd asked many questions and received very few answers. In the end, he'd accepted their offer of a financial bail-out despite his misgivings. In exchange for their dollars and their demonstrated political clout, he agreed to use his knowledge and his company to pursue certain pet projects. Revere's biggest mistake had been in believing that Weymouth Scientific represented the syndicate's only investment in the biomedical research sector. Weymouth was one of many medical and pharmaceutical companies that the investors controlled, and it was far from the largest. Weymouth's big project, which seemed so audacious to Revere, was really only a little training exercise. The investors had no stake in the outcome, except as a test. Success would give Weymouth--and Revere--a chance to be part of the real work. Success at the trial project would prove his competence. It would also prove his capacity to expand his personal morality past the conventional limitations. It was a painful process, but once begun, it couldn't be abandoned. Revere's call-back was prompt, as always, but the voice on the phone was a new one. "Good afternoon, Dr. Revere." The voice seemed very young. Revere surmised that the investors' group inevitably assigned the Weymouth account to their most junior employee. "I have visitors from the FBI asking about sheep. Your organization is supposed to spare me that kind of annoyance." He shaded his accusation with an undertone of arrogance. The syndicate might be huge and mighty, and Weymouth might be their merest pawn, but Revere himself was a man of distinction, and the man on the phone sounded more like a boy. "You have safeguards in place, doctor." Young or not, he sounded self-assured and disinterested. "Safeguards?" Revere echoed. He knew of no safeguards, beyond the protection of the investors' group. "Hold on, please." After a couple of minutes of silence, the young man got back on the line. "Project Zero is to be isolated at all costs." "I'm aware of that," Revere said. "The rest of your work is expendable." Revere felt his chest tighten. The investors' syndicate had pledged to shield his company from poking and prying by the government. He was not going to be brushed aside by a lackey. "I want to talk to Mr. Terranova," Revere demanded. Terranova, the top man at the syndicate. Revere saw him a few tense and nervewracking times a year when he came out to inspect the program. "He's unavailable. Look, Dr. Revere, there's really no problem. They're asking about sheep. You have sheep to show them." "Show them the sheep? Just give them up?" Revere asked. "Appease them. Your secondary experiments were chosen for that purpose." Revere saw considerable potential in those experiments and significant grief if he shared them with government investigators. "There will be consequences," he said. "Our problem, not yours. It will be handled." "Why wasn't I forewarned? More to the point, why wasn't the investigation quashed at the source?" "Since you've somehow caught the attention of the FBI, you should be asking yourself where your own security has failed. Look to yourself, doctor, and those around you. Either someone's been careless or you've been betrayed." = = = = = "He's hiding something, Scully." Mulder unwrapped his ham and cheese on slightly stale white bread and took a bite. Pickings in Rock Creek were somewhat slim, so lunch was courtesy of the Exxon Mini-mart, brought back to Weymouth Scientific's parking lot where Mulder positioned them stakeout style with a view of the front door. "I agree," she said, reaching into the paper bag on the seat between them. "I'm just not sure he's hiding what you think he's hiding." Scully sighed as she spread the paper napkin over her lap with exaggerated care and unwrapping her turkey on wheat. He knew she hated eating meals in the car. Mulder wasn't unsympathetic, but for him, this was a step up from eating dinner standing over his sink. "If it isn't 'Ovis Erectus,' what is Revere trying to conceal?" "Medical research is a cut-throat business, Mulder. Scientists guard their work like a shepherd does his flock." At Mulder's grimace of disbelief, she went on. "Revere could be hiding a dozen things that the scientific community would consider heinous and none of them are necessarily a tap-dancing sheep." "Baaaaa," he bleated, leaning close enough to smell the light citrus scent of her shampoo. She pushed him firmly back into his own airspace. Scully bit into her sandwich, grimacing slightly as she reached for her coffee. Mulder smiled in sympathy; his sandwich was pretty dry too, distinguished only by its utter tastelessness. He washed another bite down with a gulp of barely cold soda. Mulder rolled down his window allowing a blast of crisp, autumn air to flood the car. "Ahhh," he said, taking a deep breath. "Gotta love that fall smell." Scully shot him an annoyed look as she pulled her jacket closer around her. Shivering, she cradled her coffee cup between her palms. "Mulder, it's 50 degrees out there." "Bracing, isn't it? Reminds me of fall back East. Bonfires, football games, making out under the bleachers. Those were the days." "Reliving your youth?" "To be honest, it wasn't much fun the first time. But I do miss some things," he said, wistfully. He fidgeted with the plastic wrap from his sandwich. If you want to go fishing, he thought, you have to cast out your line. "So, Scully...did you date a lot in school?" "What?" she asked, turning sharply to face him. "Where did *that* come from?" "Just trying to pass the time. So, did you? Date, I mean." "In high school? Not much," she said, shaking her head. "I was a bit of a bookworm." "Me either. I was awkward around girls--six feet tall, one hundred fifty pounds worth of teenage insecurities. Ate, slept and breathed basketball." His mouth was already dry when he swallowed the last of his sandwich. "I didn't come into my own until college. How about you?" "Still on the dating thing?" she asked, shooting him a curious glance. At his 'go on' gesture, she continued. "Okay. I went out more often in college and med school. But by the time I was in my residency, what I craved wasn't a man, but a full night's sleep." And now she lived like a nun. With a gun. Might as well reel in the fishing line. "What do you miss about it?" "Mulder," she said, her expression becoming more unsettled. She stalled for time, taking a sip of coffee. "What's up with you today?" "I told you, just passing the time. Go on--what do you miss?" Scully placed her cup in the car's plastic holder and sat back, arms folded across her chest. "I don't know...getting dressed up, I guess." "*That's* what you miss?" "Yeah. I used to really enjoy getting ready to go out for the evening--taking time with my hair and makeup, choosing what outfit I'd wear, pulling out special clothes I couldn't wear to work." Mulder pictured a fishing line pulled out of a cool, blue lake, swinging empty in the bright sunlight. He had no clearer picture of pre-abduction Scully as a sexual being than he had before his fishing expedition. Maybe if he took a different approach--asked a more specific question. A simple direct question about her sexuality. That's what he needed. *By the way, Scully, how often do you masturbate?* Yeah, right. Mulder cleared his throat. "Scully--" he began. "It's two o'clock," she said, stuffing her half-eaten sandwich back in the paper bag. "Let's go look for your sheep." = = = = "Research today is about politics as well as science. It's not enough to gain knowledge; you have to win the hearts and minds of the public," Revere said. "People who don't think twice about eating a hamburger burst into tears over a fur coat," Mulder commented. "It's sentimentality without logic," Revere said. Revere and Mulder were walking ahead, and Scully felt as if she was scampering to keep up. "You said you could explain the bone specimen," she said, mostly to assert her presence. "The sheep bone." Revere sounded polite and cultured, with no trace of his earlier irritation. "We do use sheep in some of our work." "Why sheep?" Scully asked. Pigs and cows were fairly common as research subjects, but sheep were not. "The femoral artery is the same size in man and sheep," Revere answered, "which presents certain opportunities when it comes to the development of medical devices to be used in humans. The artery is superficial in humans, making it relatively straightforward as an entry point to other arteries, or the heart. In standard sheep, it is considerably deeper." "Standard sheep," Mulder repeated, and Scully knew he was thinking about Ovis Erectus. "I'm going to show you something that might look startling, or even cruel," the scientist said. "I want to explain that the first of these sheep resulted from a spontaneous mutation. Weymouth's role was not to create these animals, but only to recognize their potential for use in medical research." And to breed more of them, Scully thought. Revere had brought them to a large door. Black stenciled letters declared "Restricted Access," and a keypad lock reinforced the point. Revere paused before he opened it. "How you felt about animal testing in general?" he asked. "Hey, if you're the dominant species, go ahead and flaunt it," Mulder said. "Animal testing is justified when there are no adequate alternatives and it is conducted humanely," Scully said. "Which is also our philosophy at Weymouth Scientific. Now, these sheep may look peculiar, but there's nothing to suggest that they're not as happy and healthy as any other sheep," Revere said. He opened the door. There was straw on the ground, and the bleating of sheep in the air. "It's necessary to use some ingenuity to duplicate the conditions we'd find in human use," Revere explained. Scully was riveted by what she saw, and she barely registered his words. There were eleven of them, these mutated sheep. Four were on the ground, three with their back legs stretched out behind them as they supported themselves on their forelegs. The fourth was actually sitting, its legs splayed in front of it. When one of the sheep took a few steps, its rear legs dragging uselessly as it walked. Three of the sheep were hanging from harnesses, munching contentedly from a rack of feed. The final four sheep were also held in harnesses, but their hind limbs were locked in braces. A clunking machine forced them to march in place. Scully took it all in, trying to imagine what a life like this would mean to an animal. At the same time, she felt a reasonable certainty that she'd found the source of the peculiar bone. These crippled sheep might very well have humanoid femurs. "We rotate them through the three phases. That maintains them and also mimics, at least roughly, the human experience," Revere said. "What are you testing?" Scully asked. "As I explained, these are useful for anything that is inserted via the femoral artery," Revere said. "It's solid, responsible work, but it looks cruel and bizarre." "I suspect an x-ray of those sheep would prove a match with our bone specimen," she said flatly. "I'll save you the trouble," Revere said. "We are prepared to accept full legal and financial responsibility for violating government regulations." "We have more questions," Mulder said hurriedly. "I have some of my own," Revere replied. "I expect a full account of where the bone was found, and by whom, and of how it made its way to the FBI. By our own policy, medical waste should be burned completely in our on-site incinerator. I need to learn how and why our policy was breached." "Dr. Revere, I understand your desire to bring this matter to a close--" Scully began, but he interrupted her with a preemptive wave of the hand. "If you check with your superiors, you'll find that arrangements are already in place. We've offered a generous settlement and the FBI will make available the information we need to repair the obvious flaws in our waste disposal plan." He was probably telling the truth, Scully thought. It wouldn't be the first time Mulder and she had been undercut by their own agency. "Hey, how about those leeches? Think we could see them once more?" Mulder asked. Good try, she thought. Stall for time and maybe he'd miraculously stumble on old Ovis Erectus pouring herself a cup of coffee in the break room. "Let's go, Mulder." Her partner nodded in agreement, and Scully felt uneasy. Logically, their work was done. They had found the source of the puzzling thigh bone, and they even had an admission of wrongdoing from the medical company. "I guess there's nothing left to do but write up the reports," she offered tentatively. "Well, as long as we're here, Scully..." Mulder began. "Yes?" "We might as well have a look at the spot where the bone turned up." "I talked to the sheriff this morning. It's kind of out of the way," she said. "I don't really see the point, Mulder." "Nice walk in the woods? I bet it's beautiful. Wild, unspoiled..." "I suppose I could call Sheriff Morris again and ask him to meet us," Scully said. "That's okay. I took care of it." "Thanks for letting me know," she said sourly. "I did let you know. Just now." Wonderful. If only he'd let her know earlier, she could have brought a change of shoes. Her low-heeled boots looked casual enough for a walk in the woods, but the soft leather would be ruined. They'd probably be hiking around the wilderness right up until dinner time, and there was still the matter of her date. She still hadn't mentioned it to Mulder. If she put it off much longer, Mulder would get the news from Brian himself. = = = = = Tom Morris turned out to be a suit-and-tie sheriff, older and more citified than Mulder expected from their brief phone conversation. He drove them out of Rock Creek along the ubiquitous Peyster Road, past Weymouth Scientific finally turning off onto a dirt road. Actually, "road" was a rather ambitious term. It was more of a dirt path, a scrabbled-out track, a furrow. Morris' cruiser bumped along the ruts until Mulder was sure the fillings in his teeth had come loose. "We'll have to go the rest of the way on foot," Morris said, stopping the car. The path had deteriorated into nothing but rocks and vegetation. They got out of the car, and Mulder hoped Scully was wearing shoes that were suitable for hiking. He'd certainly hear about springing this on her if she turned an ankle in high heels. Scully glared at him as they picked their way along behind the sheriff as he moved through the brush. He chanced a look down at her feet. Low heels. He was safe. "Fella was out here from California hunting deer, when his dog started rooting around in that clearing ahead." Sheriff Morris led them beneath a bower of branches to a spot where the sunlight poured down on a floor of ferns and small rocks. "County coroner thought it was a child's bone at first, but it couldn't have been because we don't have any children missing around here." Mulder knew Scully would bust if he didn't challenge the sheriff's logic. "The victim wouldn't have to be a local child," he said mildly. "Of course, of course. But we're over an hour to the interstate, further still to the rail line. When there's a stranger in town, I know about it," Morris said. "So you contacted the FBI?" "Yeah. Just to be on the safe side. I honestly didn't think I'd hear back on it. So, you said the bone was from a sheep." "You find that surprising?" Mulder asked, watching Scully out of the corner of his eye. "Well, yeah. This is cattle country. You don't find many people raising sheep in this part of the state." = = = = = Bone of Contention (4/15) "Getting ready for your big date?" Mulder asked. He was lounging on the bed in Scully's hotel room while she finished applying her makeup in the bathroom. "You do have your own room, don't you, Mulder?" she called back through the open door. Half an hour ago, he'd poked his head into her hotel room to ask her where she wanted to eat. She'd answered casually that she had plans. Very, very casually. He must have looked like an idiot with his mouth wide open. "You have plans?" he'd asked. "I have plans," she'd answered. "And may I ask with whom?" "Brian Yates." He'd almost laughed then, which would have been a huge mistake. Scully had watched him with some curiosity, waiting for a reaction. Mulder would be damned if he gave her one; he'd kept his expression as neutral as possible. Scully was a lousy liar. Couldn't con her way into a kid's party, much less a government facility. No, she always let him do the talking because she was as transparent as a pane of glass. What the hell was she up to, trying to pump a suspect for information? She was always protesting that *his* techniques were unorthodox, unethical, and unprofessional. Not that she didn't reap the benefits when he bluffed his way past the various gatekeepers and guards. Not that Yates was a suspect. He didn't work for Weymouth Scientific, but he flew for them often. He'd know who came and went around the facility. Scully had obviously gotten to know him pretty well while Mulder had caught up on his sleep. Stupid, stupid nap. He should have seen the signs. Scully, smiling as she handed her suitcase to that over-grown Ken doll in a Stetson--the woman who prided herself on carrying her own weight letting the big, strong man take over. Where the hell was her pride? And then there was the flirting. Scully didn't flirt. That was one thing he could bank on. Mulder'd been oblivious at the time, but thinking back, there was a considerable amount of sidelong glances and breathy laughter. Mulder looked down at his shoes. Scully would yell at him for putting them on her bedspread. He frowned. It wasn't like they were muddy or anything. "I wanted to discuss the case with you. We asked simple questions, and instead of giving us an answer, they tried to dazzle us with bullshit," he said, picking at a loose thread on her bedspread. What we could have talked about over dinner. If she wasn't going out with that damn flyboy. "What? I can't hear you," she called back over the sound of the water running in the sink. Mulder was too lazy to get up off the bed, but he raised his voice. "They're trying to con us with fancy footwork and decoy sheep." "Decoy sheep?" she asked, leaning around the bathroom door. She looked different, somehow. Her eyes were sparkling. He didn't like that one bit. "Now that's a phrase you don't hear every day." "They didn't show us everything, Scully." She retreated into the bathroom again. Mulder pulled at the thread, watching as a hole developed in the spread. "I don't doubt that, Mulder," she called out. "I told you before, scientists are very protective of their work." "What do you think you're going to find out from Yates?" he asked. "What are you talking about, Mulder?" Scully had left the bathroom, hands on her hips. She wore a white blouse and black skirt. Clothes he'd seen dozens of times before, but somehow, tonight, they looked different. Softer. "I know what you're planning. You'll ply him with liquor until he spills his secrets," Mulder said. "Just remember, he's looking to do the same thing to you." "You do have your own room, don't you? Or maybe you could go sit in the lobby," she asked, sounding distinctly unamused. "Be careful, that's all. I won't be more than a couple of minutes away," he said. "Get that right out of your mind, Mulder. You're not going to follow me," Scully said. "You need backup, Scully. I don't know where you got this idea in the first place. You're not exactly Mata Hari material." "What the hell are you talking about, Mulder?" she asked, her voice sharp and raised in anger. When she continued, her voice was lower, but the anger unmistakably remained. "It's not a mission. It's a date. Nothing more, nothing less. Dinner between consenting adults." Scully on a date. Damn it, they didn't date. Wasn't that in the Mulder and Scully rule book? On the same page as suggested activities to pass the time while you sit by your partner's hospital bed and how to check for surveillance equipment. Apparently, Scully had tossed out the rule book at the sight of Brian Yates striding through the airport. Tall, tan, and reassuring. Confidence in a cowboy hat. "Hi there, folks. I'm Brian Yates." And all of a sudden Ms. "I'd Like to See Your Maintenance Log" had no problem getting in that tiny little plane. Like a fool, Mulder had used the flight to catch up on his sleep. "It's a real date? Not part of the investigation?" he asked, still reeling from the news. "Cause you--we--don't really date that much." "I've noticed," she said, turning to face him. "What happened to your face?" Mulder asked haltingly. "You don't like it?" she asked. "Do you did want my honest opinion?" he asked. He wanted to scrub the smooth matte finish right off her skin to expose the dusting of golden freckles. "No," Scully said. She picked up her necklace from the dresser, the cross glinting in the light, and held it around her neck. "Can you close it for me?" she asked. Hands shaking slightly, he leaned down, almost touching his nose to her neck. "Drakkar," he said. "That's mine." "I didn't pack any cologne," she said apologetically. "Do you mind?" The clasp caught, and he stepped away. "Have a good time," he said. = = = = Mulder had nothing to worry about, he told himself. Brian Yates was a pilot, and Scully really didn't like airplanes. Brian Yates lived in Montana, and Scully lived in DC. Brian Yates suffered from halitosis, impotence, and uncontrollable flatulence. Most likely. But it was really okay, Mulder decided. Nothing more than a wake-up call. If Scully wanted to keep company with a man, that was fine. Mulder'd just have to find a way to remind her that he himself was a man. He'd half convinced himself she'd closed that part of herself off--or that it had become closed off because of the things they'd done to her. His nightmares offered him the choicest images of violation: her belly distended obscenely, the whirring drill piercing her; red hair floating in aspic as her eyes stared unblinking and her body incubated a monster. He refused to contemplate what this date meant. Instead of watching the clock and wondering when Scully would get back, he would use his time productively, digging the dirt on Weymouth Scientific. Breaking and entering usually called for the basic black get-up that Scully referred to as his suicidal-jogger look, but today he stuck with a suit and tie. He armed himself with the customary gun, flashlight, utility-knife combo, then added a camera and a key card, which had conveniently found its way into his possession during the official tour. More than half the access codes in the world are 1-2-3-4, but not this one. He'd watched carefully as the crafty crew at Weymouth punched in 2-3-4-1. The parking lot was almost a quarter full although it was eight o'clock. His car would not attract unwanted attention. The key card opened the front entrance and he proceeded to the elevator bank without interference. The elevator indicators showed some activity at the upper levels, but almost nothing in the lower half. Because Mulder had been patient and alert, listening for nuance and fact amid Revere's overblown PR, he had a destination: Level three. The elevator made the stop but didn't open. A keyhole next to the button told the story. Mulder rode the elevator up another floor. The fourth floor was quiet and dark. He found the exit to the fire stairs protected by an alarm bar. The other doors along the corridor were locked. When he heard an elevator stop and slide open, he ducked against a doorway, holding his breath as a woman emerged, dragging along a cart with a bucket and mop. She opened one of the locked offices and rolled her cart inside. At the sound of water hitting the floor, he edged toward the room to have a look. Maybe there was a way to snag her elevator keys. The woman had pushed her cart to the far corner of the room to begin her cleaning. If that's where she kept her keys, he was out of luck. Instead, he returned to the elevator. Much better luck here. The elevator car remained in place with the door open. Inside he found a ring of little keys hanging from a lock in the button panel. Mulder stepped into the car, turned the key, and took it down to level three. A different key released the door. He pocketed the whole set before exiting into an area that smelled like a barn. Using his key card to open a heavy door, Mulder was greeted by a noisy hum of clanks and rumbles. The corridor was wide, and the doors on either side were wide as well. He pushed on a door, startling a white-haired man in a lab coat who had been engrossed in the display on his computer monitor. "Restricted area," he barked indignantly. "Are you talking to me?" Mulder asked. He had made a career of entering places he didn't belong, and his instincts told him that this man would respond to a bully. "This area is supposed to be off limits," the technician said apologetically. "And yet here I am. Doesn't that tell you something?" Mulder asked arrogantly. "It'll only take a sec for me to check back with security," the man said, reaching for the phone. "Usually somebody lets me know in advance." "Your injured feelings don't concern me," Mulder said. "You're supposed to be ready at all times." "It's not that--" the man started to explain, but Mulder cut him off. "So far you haven't impressed me," he said, and the man shrugged helplessly. "Gray door at the end of the hall," he said. "Do you want me to go with you?" Mulder gave a small sneer as he shook his head. = = = = The gray door wasn't locked, but it was unexpectedly heavy. Mulder put on some vinyl gloves before he pushed it open and entered a large, dim room full of equipment. Long fluorescent tubes glowed on the ceiling, but most of the light flickered from monitors and digital displays. The room was full of electronic gadgets, with one wall taken up entirely by what appeared to be a series of computer terminals and television screens. Near the center of the room was a large rectangular tank resting on a platform. The machinery closest to the tank seemed different in character from the other equipment. The noises from these machines were not the artificial pings and hums of electronic devices but the clunks and whirs of moving parts. Rhythms melded and clashed. The tank dominated the scene like the coffin at a wake. Mulder fished his camera from his pocket as he approached it. Thick hoses and bundles of wires snaked over the top of the tank connecting with the machines surrounding it-- An aquarium run amok. He got an impression of green gel inside, but maybe the walls of the tank were green. He was close enough to touch the tank, and the smooth warm surface clinked like glass when he tapped on it. He could see there was something moving inside. The thing in the tank might be a sheep, but Mulder really couldn't see it well enough to decide. It could be a goat; it could be a dog. If the tank was open on top, he'd have a better view from above. He could probably get enough of a toe-hold on the platform to hoist himself up. He stuffed the camera back in his pocket in preparation, but he wasn't keen on making the climb. Stalling, he wiped the glass with his gloved hand, vainly hoping for a clearer view. He heard a scuffling noise from inside the tank, followed by a phlegmy gurgle. The form in the tank pressed up against the glass and then retreated. Something pressed against the glass, matching itself to where Mulder's hand was pressed. Matching itself finger to finger, its hand against his. The thing in the tank had hands. When Mulder heard the heavy door open he realized that he hadn't photographed his discovery. He should have done that right away, and he should have instructed the white-haired technician to remain at his station. "I'll need your name for my report," Mulder said curtly as he raised his camera to his eye. When he felt a hand on his shoulder he knew it was not the white-haired technician. "Wait for me outside," Mulder said imperiously, but it didn't work. *Shit, Whitey must have called security after all.* Hands gripped him from behind and a soft mask pressed against his face. The vague shape in the tank, with its hand against the glass, blurred and doubled until blackness washed over everything. = = = = Bone of Contention (5/15) Maybe Scully had sworn herself to chastity, somewhere along the line, and she just didn't remember. It wasn't as stupid as it sounded, she decided. Maybe under torture by government doctors. Or how about one of the times she thought Mulder might be dead. She could have thought or uttered something along those lines--*God, just let this turn out okay, and I'll never have sex again.* Or maybe it was Mulder who had struck the bargain. Or maybe she was just another silly girl with a crush on a mentor who couldn't or wouldn't return her feelings. Scully had certainly noticed the rugged pilot who flew her and Mulder on the last leg of their trip. He was good-looking, ringless, and the right age. She'd sized him up casually and automatically, the way she might admire a coat in a shop window as she walked by. She was astonished when Brian Yates asked her out, and just as surprised to hear herself accept. She didn't go out much. Hardly anyone asked her. It was pretty clear Mulder no longer saw her as a woman. Somewhere along the line, she'd become a neutral being in his eyes. Maybe it happened at the same time she took her vow of chastity. She remembered being vaguely pleased that Mulder didn't treat her differently from male agents. His propensity for holding doors and guiding her around were vestiges of his up-bringing. When push came to shove, he knew she could do the job; he was gender-blind in a way. For a woman who had worked so hard to be taken seriously in a man's world, this was an amazing, wonderful thing. But apparently, she'd sacrificed something vital by keeping her femininity under wraps. While she saw Mulder as the man she loved in all respects, he had ceased being able to make the leap. She was Scully. Friend, partner, agent. Nothing more. Maybe that's what threw her about Brian. He saw her as a woman. Not that Mulder wasn't possessive. He hadn't been happy to find out this was a real date. It upset the status quo. She was supposed to be there, in lock step with him, a fixed point in the chaos of his life. But that wasn't the same as being interested in her as a woman. Or being in love with her. Now Scully sipped her after-dinner coffee as Brian told her about the time his little niece decided to surprise him by decorating his new pick-up. "See, I always tell her how much I love her pictures, and she thought I'd be happy," he said. "I wish I could get it repainted but I'm afraid to hurt her feelings." "Maybe she's the next Picasso," Scully suggested. "It could be worth a lot of money one day." "Do you like art?" Brian asked. "I own a real Picasso. A lithograph, but it's signed and numbered." "You're a cultured cowboy," Scully noted. "Hey, just because I like to live out where you can see the stars at night doesn't mean I don't know my way around the galleries," he said. "Tell you what. I'm flying to Amsterdam next week. Take a few days and I'll show you the Stedelijk museum." "Brian, I don't think so," she said, although she found herself tempted. "Yeah, I know. You only want to see the Van Goghs," he said with an exaggerated sigh. Scully wondered if she might suggest something more local. The Freer, perhaps. Would that be too forward? Not after the guy offered to fly her to Europe. "I never take out my passport until at least the third date," she said. "I'm in Baltimore a couple of times a month," he said. "Baltimore," said Scully. "Well, well, well." = = = = = Roger liked working the late shift 'cause no one was around. He could do things at his own pace, without anybody calling him slowpoke. He could talk to the animals without anyone snickering about it or saying things to make him feel stupid. Roger knew about animals, but at Weymouth Scientific he had to do things the way he was told. He showed Mr. Metzger how easy it was to kill a white mouse by rapping its head hard against a countertop, but Mr. Metzger said that was wrong. Snap the neck like this, with your thumb. Roger liked to use his big knife for castration. Slit the sack, twist, and cut. But Mr. Metzger said to use the Burdizzo. Roger filled his pocket with alfalfa cubes before he went to settle the cripple sheep for the night. He liked it when they took their treats right from his hands. Pamela used to do that, too, he thought with a sigh, but now she was gone. Roger knew a lot about tending sick animals, but nothing was any use. Dr. Revere was there when she died, and he said, "You did everything you could." Dr. Revere was the boss of everybody, even Mr. Metzger, but he was a nice man. He didn't say "shit" and "fuck" and "bugger" like Mr. Metzger did. Dead animals were supposed to get burned in the incinerator, but when he picked Pamela up, he felt her legs dangle down like a person's would do. It just felt wrong to burn her like trash. Nobody saw him take her out to his van. Nobody saw when he buried her in the woods, but it was a pretty spot that a sheep would like. She was named for Pamela Anderson, 'cause that was a pretty name. It wasn't like Roger thought she was a real girl. Roger was in with the cripple sheep, making sure the place was clean and everybody was comfortable, when Mr. Metzger came in to get him. "Got a job for you," he said. It was a different kind of job, that was for sure. Roger knew all about animals, but they wanted him to take care of a person. The man was sleeping on the couch in the staff lounge, with a security guard sitting next to him. The guard got up to leave, once Roger was there to take his place. "What should I do?" Roger asked. The guard shrugged. "Keep him comfortable. Keep him asleep until Dr. Revere gets here." "Okey-dokey," Roger said, settling into the chair that the guard had vacated. For a while he just sat and watched. The man looked comfortable just the way he was, but that didn't mean he would stay sleeping. Roger had the medicine that made the sheep go to sleep, for when they got their experiments. The man looked big enough that he could have some too. Roger was afraid he'd wake up when he took the fancy city jacket off him, but the man was sleeping hard, so hard that Roger figured he'd had a shot already. He pulled the man forward until he was sitting, his head lolling drunkenly as Roger pulled first one jacket sleeve and then the other off. The man's arms flopped around like over-cooked noodles. Roger dropped him back onto the couch and stood looking down on the sleeping man. It was hard to tell if the man was breathing, so Roger placed his hand on his chest. He only relaxed a little when he felt the chest rise and fall. The medicine was a little creepy. It wasn't natural for a sheep to sleep so hard, or a person either. But the way Doc had explained things, it was good medicine, and as long as everyone kept breathing, it was okay to give as much as you need. = = = = = = If this was her date for the year, at least it was a good one, Scully thought. There were awkward moments but there were also long stretches of comfortable conversation. Brian invited her to his place to see his Picasso, then babbled in embarrassment to assure her that it wasn't a line. It was Scully herself who suggested a drive up the mountain for some star-gazing. "You don't have the light pollution we have back home, and the elevation must give you a fantastic view," she said. "It sounds like a line to me," Brian said, but he agreed to take her. She was going to reply with a quip about getting him drunk, but she held off in case he would take it as a reproach. Brian couldn't drink because he was on stand-by, and Scully had abstained as well, despite his insistence that it wasn't necessary. Scully's social skills were not as rusty as she had feared. She was able to talk intelligently about things unrelated to aliens, insects, or Mulder. Mulder was very much on her mind, however. She felt slightly disloyal about leaving him on his own. She hoped he found a good game on TV. Even when she wasn't thinking about Mulder directly, she was using him as a standard for comparison. She found herself surprised when Brian put cream in his coffee, because Mulder drank it black. He drives like Mulder, she thought approvingly as he guided the car up the empty, climbing highway. "Can you talk about the case you're working?" Brian asked, and Scully saw no harm in sharing the basic facts. "It started with a specimen sent to the FBI for identification," she began. "Local law enforcement assumed the bone was from a child, because of the size, and they feared foul play." "Oh, God," said Brian, and Scully realized again that most people didn't deal with crime every day of their lives. "It wasn't from a child," she hurried to explain. "We knew that almost immediately, because of the degree of calcification." "A small adult, then," Brian concluded. "A sheep, actually. Under the microscope, the arrangement of the osteons clearly showed that the bone wasn't human," Scully said. "Let's hear it for the osteons," Brian said. "But I can't believe you traveled all this way to find out who had lamb chops for dinner." "This wasn't from anyone's dinner," she said. "The reason everyone thought the bone was from a human child was because of the shape. It looked like a human hip bone." "Okay," Brian said, drawing out the syllables. "But, um, so what?" Mulder's reaction had been nearly identical when she'd first brought the weird bone to his attention. She'd asked him pointedly why his fuzzy photos could justify spur-of-the-moment jaunts to any damn place he wanted to go, while her duly documented and processed specimen was only good for a "so what?" Mulder saw the bone as a way to top the geeks in Forensic Anthropology and here they were. "An abnormal specimen like that raises some interesting questions," she told Brian. "Oh, I'm not complaining," Brian said. "I'm glad you're here." "So, tell me about your work," Scully said. "I get by," he said modestly. "My contract with Weymouth Scientific gives me a nice chunk of change with a lot of flexibility, and that's what I like." He slowed the car and drove it onto the shoulder of the road. "Where are we?" Scully asked. "Good spot for star-watching," he explained and he got out of the car. They were near the summit, and it was easy to imagine that they stood at the edge of the world. Scully knew that beyond the peak lay a valley, and no doubt another mountain beyond, but she couldn't see them. "There's Orion," Brian said, pointing at the sky. "That's an easy one," said Scully. "The Big Dipper," he continued. "Okay, now I'm impressed," Scully laughed. He didn't answer, but laid his arm across her shoulder. She took a small step away from him. "See that very bright star that forms Orion's shoulder? That's Betelgeuse," she said. "So, you really like stars," said Brian, putting his hands in his pockets. "Down on the right, that other bright star is Rigel," she said. "They all have names, huh?" he asked. He sounded amused. "Actually, no. There's one... I can't really see it now, but it's by Alnitak. They just call it HR 1988," she said. "You seem nervous," Brian said. "A little," Scully admitted. "Maybe this wasn't a great idea." "It was a wonderful idea," he said. "Tell me the rest of the stars." "You're making fun of me," she said. "Dana, I'm trying very hard to behave myself. Work with me here," Brian answered. "Right." She turned away from him and back to the stars. "The middle star in Orion's belt, that's Alnijam." "Does that mean something?" he asked. His voice was so close that he had to be leaning down to talk to her. "Mulder would know," Scully said, aware of the slip as she made it. "Sounds Arabic," Brian commented, unperturbed. She looked up into his eyes, noting that they were blue. Denim blue. Why did she find it surprising that they weren't hazel? Brian stood so close she could smell his aftershave. Or maybe it was hers. Brian's face seemed to be moving closer to her, and she wondered if he was going to kiss her. She wondered if she was going to let him. Before her muddled brain could decide what to do, the sound of a cell phone cut through the night. "Damn it," said Brian as he flipped his phone open. If he'd turned away or lowered his voice, Scully would have gotten into the car to give him some privacy, but he seemed comfortable to take the call in her presence. "Yeah, I'm on it. You have lousy timing, that's all," he said. "And I want that jet fumigated afterwards." "Going somewhere?" Scully asked when he closed the phone. "I have to pick up the human ashtray," he said. "What?" Scully asked in surprise. Prickles of curiosity traveled through her. "Mr. Terranova. He smokes like a chimney," Brian explained. "Maybe we can finish my astronomy lesson another time." "That would be nice," Scully said, but her mind was elsewhere. There were thousands of chain smokers, she told herself. "If it was anyone else I'd invite you along for the ride," Brian said apologetically. "This guy is not someone you want to meet if you don't have to." "How often does he come out here?" Scully asked. "Couple of times a year, but it's always been pre-scheduled. That's the trouble with being on-call. Sometimes they call you." "What does he look like," Scully asked. "The ashtray?" He smiled a goofy smile as he opened Scully's door for her. "Now that I think of it, he *looks* like an ashtray." "Older man, gray hair, drooping features--" Scully prompted him. It had to be him. He *did* look like an ashtray, cold and flat and gray. She had to call Mulder. They must be very close to something if the smoking man was here. "Dana, I have a better question," Brian said. "What does tomorrow look like? The stars will still be here." = = = = Bone of Contention (6/15) Mulder lay very still and kept his eyes closed. His thoughts were marching around his head in every direction, refusing to line up to let him understand what was going on. The sheep-thing with hands. Floating in a green tank, so like the clones he'd seen so long ago. Like Scully, frozen in her aspic coffin. He had figured out one thing. Every time he moved or opened his eyes, someone jabbed him with a sharp needle and he went back to sleep. He tried not to let his breathing show his panic. They had to think he was still asleep. Someone was in the room with him, a man who hummed to himself from time to time. When Mulder opened his eyes or tried to change position, the man rebuked him with a cluck of the tongue and another shot in the deltoid. Other than that, the man seemed perfectly content to leave Mulder alone. A door squeaked open and somebody entered, but Mulder forced himself to remain still. "His partner's on her way to pick him up. Is he giving you any trouble?" That was the man who had just walked in. "No trouble, Mr. Metzger. I give him medicine to make him sleep." That was the guy who'd been sitting and humming. His voice sounded thick, and Mulder wondered if he had a hearing problem. "Damn it, Roger. I hope nobody checks him for needle marks," Mr. Metzger said. "I take care of him like they said," the thick-voice protested. "Make him comfortable." He pronounced the word "comforble." "Well, don't give him any more. Hit him on the head, if you have to." Mulder hoped he was making a bad joke, but the other man answered him seriously. "But that would hurt him," the thick-voice complained. "They told me take care of him." "You gave him the same medicine you use on the sheep? How did you know how much to use?" Mr. Metzger asked. Mulder felt a huge hand clasp his upper arm and squeeze gently. "Well fed. Mostly growed. He get a regular dose," Roger explained. "Don't poke him. You'll wake him up," Mr. Metzger warned. Mulder's arm was released. "Sorry," Roger apologized in a loud whisper. "Give him one for the road, and then leave him alone," Mr. Metzger instructed. Another jab, and Mulder's thoughts dispersed into jumbles. Ouch. Scully. Sheep. Sleep. = = = Revere led Scully to an ordinary door, which opened into a large room furnished as a lounge. Mr. Metzger followed them inside. Scully's eyes narrowed as she took in the scene. Mulder lay stretched out on a couch, apparently asleep. A giant of a man, dressed in tan coveralls and work boots, sat on a chair nearby. The man gave Revere a big smile. "Hi, Doc!" he said happily. "How come you're here at night?" Then his gaze shifted to Scully and his eyes opened wide. "Wow," he said. Under other circumstances, Scully might have spared a kind word for the big, slow man. "Quiet, Roger," Dr. Revere said. "Please return to your regular duties." Roger picked up a big metal tool, something resembling a tin-snip, and lumbered out of his chair. "Pretty," he whispered to himself as he left the room. Scully leaned over the couch, watching Mulder breathe. "What happened to him?" she asked, her voice sharp with concern. "He was found in a restricted area, Agent Scully. Perhaps a better question is what was he doing there." Scully turned back to her partner, smoothing the hair back from his forehead. As much as she wanted to press the issue, the fact was, Mulder had been trespassing. "Would you excuse us?" she asked. Mr. Metzger took a step back, folding his arms across his chest. Revere didn't budge. Scully shrugged and turned back to Mulder. She wanted to wake him up gently, without company, but it wasn't her choice. He didn't wake up when she touched his arm, but when she loosened his tie he jolted awake and took a swing at her. "Mulder, it's me," she reassured him, easily blocking a clumsy left hook. She saw his fear recede as he recognized her. He looked around the room warily, his eyes darting from one man to the next. She leaned in closer. "Mulder, what's wrong?" He answered in a whisper. "Scully, in case I haven't made this clear in the past, I love you," he said. She turned from him to accuse the others. "He's been drugged!" she said angrily. Revere's response was equally aggressive. "I know what you're trying to do," he challenged. "Cover up an illegal break-in by going on the offensive. Forget it. We're the victims here. We've done nothing except rescue this man when he got himself in trouble." "I know my partner, and I can tell when he's been drugged," she said staunchly. "He was running wild in a medical facility. I wouldn't be surprised if he helped himself to some goodies," Revere said. "Could have been an accident," Mr. Metzger interjected. "He knocked over a big glass bottle, back in the sheep pen. Maybe he got a whiff of the fumes." "Where's his gun?" Scully demanded. Metzger gave her the gun, the clip, and a plastic bag containing a pocket knife and flashlight. "We didn't want him to hurt himself, considering the condition he was in," he said. There would have been a camera, but it wasn't in the bag. "Scully," Mulder hissed her name. When he saw he had her attention he continued in a whisper. "I saw it." "I don't believe their story about inhaled fumes, Mulder. It's barbiturates that make you say you love me," she whispered back. "You know I love you. You don't have to make me feel like a jerk for saying it." He looked honestly peeved. "Make them show us the sheep hybrid, then get me the hell out of here." He seemed to be in a twilight state, and Scully wondered if he'd remember any of this the next day. "Can you walk?" she asked. He was unusually clingy as she helped him sit up, and she wanted to rush him back to the hotel to gather evidence of whatever they'd done to him. But she also wanted to see what was hidden behind the wide doors before Revere forgot his promise to show her. Mulder could walk, once they got him to his feet, but he was weak and off-balance. "You okay, buddy?" Revere asked, and Scully wanted to slap him for his false, folksy concern. "Show us the human sheep," Mulder growled. "Come with me," Revere said, and Metzger looked surprised. "You're conducting experiments on these animals?" Scully asked. The memory of the deformed sheep wasn't far from her mind. How much worse would the 'human sheep' be? Mulder kept his hand on her arm as they followed Revere down the hallway. The next area had the barnyard smells and sounds, but the sheep here looked normal, at least to Scully. "They're just plain sheep," Mulder complained. "They're Friesians." The words came from the large man in the khaki coveralls who had been sitting with Mulder in the other room. He ambled up to them from the back of the large room, and Scully saw he was cradling a small lamb. "Roger's very proud of these sheep," Revere said. "He takes good care of them." "Dairy sheep. They make milk," Roger said. "They're genetically altered so that they produce human hormones in their milk. These are your 'human sheep,' Agent Mulder," Revere said. "No." Mulder shook his head vigorously, then winced. Scully regarded him with concern. "We found our mutant sheep," she said. "I think we can leave now." Roger stepped closer, as if he was offering the lamb to her. "Want to pet him?" he asked. "He won't hurt you." His big, open face beseeched her, and it only took a moment to be kind. "He's very pretty," Scully said. "He's a ram lamb," Roger said. Scully smiled politely and patted the woolly little head. "Roger, I believe you have work to do," said Revere sternly. Roger's mouth formed a tight frown, but only for a second. "Okey-dokey," he said as he carried the lamb back to the penned area. "The thing I saw earlier was not a deformed sheep or a dairy sheep," Mulder said. "Agent Mulder, I suspect that your exposure to Halothane is the explanation for whatever you imagine you saw," Revere said. "You used Halothane on him?" Scully asked. She hadn't noticed any marks on his face from a mask or its straps. "He broke a bottle of the stuff when he was charging around. We'll add that to our fine, improper storage of volatile inhalants," Revere said. Suddenly Scully didn't care about the sheep bone at all. She was enraged at what had been done to Mulder and that Revere was so confident he'd get away with it. "Let's go," she said. She expected Mulder to argue with her or take issue with Revere's stupid story, but he didn't say anything. He was standing there, swaying slightly, looking gray and unfocused. She followed his gaze and saw that Roger was sitting on a low wooden bench at the rear of the enclosure with the little lamb on his lap. He held it pressed down against his knee, one hand gripping its tail, the other holding a large clamping device that encircled its testicles. The lamb bleated as the clamps closed. Roger held the tool in place for a few seconds, then opened it, moved it fractionally, and closed it once again. Scully wished she hadn't seen it, but she couldn't force herself to turn away until she heard a soft thud behind her. Mulder was on the ground, pale, sweaty, and unresponsive. "Halothane," Revere said. "City boy," Roger pronounced. = = = Mulder sat on the bed, shoulders hunched, staring down at his shoes. "I passed out," he said. "That's easily explained by the drugs and the emotional impact of what you witnessed. It's nothing to be ashamed of, Mulder," Scully said. "I was carried out of the building by a ball-busting bumpkin," he groaned. "I didn't know what else to do," she said. She'd been kneeling next to Mulder, patting his face to rouse him, when the sheep-tender, Roger, had leaned down and scooped her partner off the floor. Revere had suggested calling an ambulance, but Scully said she just needed help to get him to the car. "You had your weapon," Mulder said reproachfully. Scully's eyes narrowed with confusion until he explained: "If it happens again, shoot me." "It's good you were drugged," she asserted. "Whatever you saw, we have no evidence. But I can probably find proof of what they did to you." What had Mulder seen? The crippled sheep with their useless hind legs were the probable source for the sheep femur, but Mulder was speaking of a different mutation, a sheep with human hands. Revere had argued that Mulder was "unreliable, overwrought, and undoubtedly under the influence of some powerful chemicals." Scully could have asked him why a company with nothing to hide had filled her partner with powerful chemicals and stolen his camera, but she didn't bother. Then Revere had posed his million-dollar question, the one that was supposed to make her shut up and go away: "A hybridized human? Why?" She wondered if Revere himself knew the answer, or anyone at Weymouth Scientific. Maybe the only one who knew was that chain-smoking VIP that Brian told her about. Mulder was mired in mortification, or maybe just lost in thought, and Scully left him to go to her room for her phlebotomy equipment. She paused in the doorway, turning to tell him she'd be right back. Mulder had his hand cupped at his groin, taking inventory, she surmised, so she continued on her way without speaking. She wanted to run a tox screen on him, and she needed to keep the blood samples cold until they could be processed. The ice machine was at the other end of the hall, and when she returned to Mulder's room, she found his clothes in a pile on the floor and the shower running full blast. Scully slammed open the bathroom door, but it was too late. "Mulder!" she rebuked him. Mulder pulled back the curtain. "Want to scrub my back?" he asked. "What if you pass out again?" she asked. "I told you, shoot me," he said. "But I won't pass out. I'm one hundred percent and steady as a rock." If he was 100 percent and steady as a rock, he wouldn't be standing in the shower washing trace evidence down the drain. Scully sighed and retreated to the bedroom. Maybe his clothes would yield some useful evidence. She was still picking through his jacket when he emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. "Sit down. I want to draw some blood," she told him. "Good idea," he yawned, settling onto the bed. The procedure would have been smoother if she'd directed him to the desk chair, but she sat next to him, took his right arm over her lap, and accomplished the collection. Mulder pressed a piece of cotton to his arm and watched as she filled her blood tubes. "Maybe you should run the precipitin test," he said. The precipitin test was a quick way to distinguish human blood from animal blood. "To find out if you're turning into a sheep?" she asked. If he really was delusional, it was temporary, caused by drugs, she decided. More likely, it was a joke. "You know, Scully, it's not that hard to imagine how they created a sheep-human hybrid. The real question is why they would do that," he said. She hadn't yet told him about the smoking man. Brian's sudden assignment to bring in a gray-haired bigwig who chain-smoked Morleys has raised her suspicions, but it wasn't a positive ID. She couldn't trust Mulder to make that fine distinction in his present state. "To create a better test subject?" she hypothesized. Of all the dumb "scientific" explanations she'd ever invented for Mulder, she thought that this one might be the dumbest, but he seemed willing to give it some thought. He walked to the dresser and pulled a pair of boxers from a drawer. Scully managed to be looking in another direction when he dropped the towel and pulled on his shorts. "I was going to ask you about that," he said. "What's the point of testing something on a genetically altered test subject? Doesn't that invalidate your results?" Scully took a deep breath. "I have a theory," she said. "Do you?" he asked. "They're doing it for practice, to perfect the process. To prove they can create a viable creature using disparate genetic material," she said. "A rehearsal, or perhaps an audition," said Mulder. "The other sheep are just for camouflage." "An audition for the real thing," Scully said. "For a different human hybrid." "Well, Scully, who do we know who might be interested in something like that?" Mulder asked. *Mulder's intuition. She used to call it paranoia.* "Revere made it sounds as if the fix is already in to close the case," Scully said. "Weymouth gets off with a fine for littering, basically, and nobody complains about your break-in." "Smug bastard," Mulder said. "That's just it, Mulder, he didn't sound smug at all. He sounded worried," she explained. "If he's doing business with the devil, he should be worried," Mulder said. "But we have to get something solid before the FBI calls us back to Washington. And don't take any calls from Skinner until we have something to show him." "Roger's a weak link," Scully said. "I'm going to work on him." "That big lug who held me in his arms? He's mine, Scully," Mulder said. "I think he likes me," Scully explained. "You think he likes you? You *think* he likes you?" Mulder gave her one of his "are you for real" looks. "Stay away from him, Scully." "He works directly with the sheep. He must know something, probably more than Revere gives him credit for," Scully said. "Let's see if we can get his address. I want to drop in on him tomorrow and thank him for taking such good care of me," Mulder said. "I'll dig up an address and whatever else I can find on him," she said, gathering up the ice bucket and her supplies. "You think you can get some rest?" She hoped for his sake he would. His breathing, mentation, and motor function all appeared normal, and if he went to bed now he could sleep off the remainder of the drug and feel fine in the morning. If he stayed awake and tried to work, he'd probably give himself a hell of a headache. "You're leaving?" Mulder asked. Here it comes, she thought. Maybe he'd ask her to tuck him in, or some other silly comment about him and her and bed. "Do you need me to sing you a lullaby?" she asked. He gave her a pained smile. "I wanted to tell you I was sorry for ruining your date," he said. Scully really hadn't expected that. "You didn't ruin it, Mulder. We...uh...decided to make it an early evening." = = = Bone of Contention (7/15) This was turning into the longest day of Sage Revere's life. A pre-dawn conference call from the backers' group in New York had persuaded him that charm and bullshit would solve his FBI problem. For the next eight hours, he had played gracious host to Agents Scully and Mulder, smiling until his jaw ached. Then he'd spent an hour on the phone with the mysterious Mr. Terranova, who was clearly unimpressed by his efforts so far. Next he'd called an emergency meeting of his own staff, who were close to mutiny over how he hoped to handle the situation. Then, just to make his joy complete, there came the call from the plant. Agent Fox Mulder had somehow wormed his way into Room Zero. The backers' group seemed to feel that Fox Mulder was a bit of a fool, a bit of a madman. A flamboyant fellow who took himself seriously, even though no one else did. Mr. Terranova painted a different picture; Mulder was a bulldog, a crusader. A man who couldn't be appeased but mustn't be destroyed. Agent Scully, everyone agreed, was an easy card to play. Show her a little science plus a plausible rationale, and she would buy it. Too late he'd learned there was an overriding principle: don't mess with Mulder. But the day wasn't over yet. Mr. Terranova was flying in for a face-to-face. Revere dosed himself with an extra Ventacort tablet and a couple of puffs from his inhaler. He was intensely sensitive to cigarette smoke. He drove his wife's car to the landing field to meet the jet. Revere expected his meeting with Terranova to be acrimonious, but from the moment the old man deplaned it was obvious he was feeling expansive and philosophical. "Don't feel badly, Dr. Revere," he said. "You're hardly the first working stiff to be foiled by Fox Mulder." "He hasn't bested us yet," Revere asserted. He was quite relieved that Terranova was traveling without luggage. A short visit had to be a good sign. The old man got into the car and lit a cigarette, and Revere was glad he'd remembered to bring the Volvo instead of the Mercedes. He'd remained hopeful that he could salvage his project until Terranova spelled out his agenda. "It's over, doctor, at least for now. Have your legal team draft a letter of responsibility, finalize your settlements with EPA and whatever other bureaucracy gets a cut, and most important, destroy your hybrid," he said. "Is that necessary?" "The first commandment is 'leave no trace.' That commandment has been broken, and now you must clean up your mess. You must find your weak link, Dr. Revere, and eliminate it." "We're looking into that," Revere answered. It remained a mystery to him how the incriminating bone had found its way into the woods, where a hunting dog could sniff it out and an over-eager sheriff could decide it belonged to a human child. Weymouth had an on-site incinerator where all medical waste, incriminating or not, was burned thoroughly. "If you'd been honest enough to warn us about your breach, we could have contained the investigation before you had agents knocking at your door," Terranova said. "If you could just take a moment to see how far we've come," Revere said. "We've created a biological entity that's never existed before, a creature whose shape and character and physiology defy nature itself." "I'm aware of your successes, and I assure you that Weymouth will remain in consideration for the final stage of the project. But now you must destroy your achievement and expunge any hint that it ever existed," Terranova said. "I'm just not sure destroying the hybrid is necessary, sir. We have Mulder's camera, and no one will believe his story without evidence," Revere said. "You don't know Agent Mulder," Terranova said. The old man smiled when he said it, and the effect was unsettling. "You seem to know him very well," Revere said. "I've known him since he was a small boy," said Terranova. He said it with such tenderness and pride that Revere half expected him to start pulling out snapshots and old diplomas. "Does he work for you?" Revere asked. Terranova's featured hardened. "No, Dr. Revere, Agent Mulder is not in my employ." he said. "Agent Mulder seems to be a threat to your organization, sir. Wouldn't it be safer to eliminate him?" Revere asked. He knew that the backers' group was not subtle. He'd expected that Terranova's visit would include plans for Mulder's removal, but now it appeared that the old man had some weird emotional attachment to the agent. "Unfortunately, Mulder is not expendable." The old man took a long drag on his cigarette, blowing out smoke from between pursed lips like a wheezing dragon. "He's necessary to the project." "Perhaps you could scare him off, then." "I'm afraid Agent Mulder doesn't frighten very easily. In fact, I don't think anything scares him." Again, the strange expression of pride crossed the old man's craggy features before disappearing in the next puff of smoke. "With all due respect, sir, I think everyone is afraid of something. You just need to find the trigger point." The old man nodded sagely, placing the cigarette between his thin lips and inhaling deeply. "You may be right, Dr. Revere. Yes, I think you may be correct." As Revere turned the Volvo into Weymouth's parking lot, Terranova stubbed out the remains of his cigarette in the car's ash tray. Almost immediately, the tall man was patting down his pockets in search of another cigarette. "Oh, by the way, I'm going to need a vehicle while I'm in town. Something large, with cargo capacity." Revere's hopes for a short visit were squashed like Terranova's cigarette butt. "I can make Weymouth's company car available to you, Mr. Terranova. I think you'll find our Navigator sufficient for your needs." "Perhaps, Weymouth would have been better served by tightening up security, instead of acquiring an overpriced luxury truck." Revere wondered how much of Weymouth's precious funds would be spent on fumigating the Navigator after Terranova had defiled it with his filthy cigarettes. Damn, Revere thought. He loved that vehicle. It would be weeks before he could use it without wheezing up a storm. "I assure you, we make excellent use of all our resources," Revere sputtered, releasing the door locks. "I hope so, doctor. Our organization frowns on waste." The old man unfolded himself from the car. "By the way, I'll require a few items while I'm here." = = = Scully hoped Mulder wasn't underestimating Roger. He'd gotten up early so he could be waiting outside Roger's house in the morning. He hadn't planned beyond that, but Mulder was good at improvising. Scully was going to arrange to have Mulder's blood samples shipped and analyzed, and then she was going to contact Dr. Revere for x-rays of his mutant sheep. It was eight AM, but she was still in bed, trying to convince herself she wanted to run a couple of miles before breakfast. Her phone rang, but it wasn't Mulder; it was Brian Yates. "Normally I'd wait a few days, but I know you won't be in town long," he said. "That's okay," said Scully. "Well, then, have you had breakfast?" he asked. "Your hotel does the best biscuits north of Atlanta." Scully didn't want her association with Brian to come to the attention of Revere or the others. "How about someplace less public?" she asked. He didn't answer for a while. "Do you want to come here?" he asked tentatively. She wrote down the directions he gave her, then called the FBI to fax a photo of the smoking man to the hotel. She wanted to ask Brian if that was his passenger last night. It took her ten minutes to get dressed, but it was another fifteen minutes and two more phone calls before she had her picture. The drive to Brian's took about half an hour. Brian lived in an ordinary ranch house, not a log cabin or a cottage. "Private enough for you?" he asked. She realized belatedly that she'd been sending the man a slew of mixed messages, and he was receiving her with as much caution as warmth. "I just thought it would be better if we weren't seen together," she explained. It was a nice house, very neat with loads of books. "Oliver Sacks, Stephen Jay Gould... I have those too," she said, looking over his shelves with more curiosity than decorum. "I even have the one by that wheelchair guy," Brian said. "But I'll have to beef up my astronomy collection. What were you telling me about? Betelgeuse and Rigel?" He showed her his Picasso, a black-on-white lithograph that was lively and vibrant even without colors. Then he offered to cook for her, but it turned out they shared an appreciation for shredded wheat. Brian served up fresh-brewed coffee with real cream, and he even had her brand of orange juice. It was Mulder's brand too, these days. She'd converted him. Unfortunately Scully's growing interest in Brian was matched by his increasing wariness. "Maybe I'm way off base, and maybe there's another explanation for the way you've been acting, but I have to ask," he said. "Are you married?" Scully was thunderstruck. "Do I act married?" she asked. Did she? Sure, she was committed to Mulder. She might as well be married for all the impact he had on her life, but she was floored by the idea that this was detectable to anyone but her. "That's an interesting answer," he said, pushing his bowl away half-unfinished. "I'm not married," she hurried to assure him. "I think you may be misreading my concern and commitment to Mulder for something different." "Mulder? Is he the reason you don't want to be seen in public with me?" Brian asked. "No, not at all." She shook her head at the idea of stepping out on Mulder. "I'm investigating the company you work for, and it could get awkward for you if they know you're talking to me," she said. She realized she had been gripping her spoon, and she laid it down carefully on her saucer. "I don't work for them, Dana. It's a contractual arrangement. If you thought I had the inside scoop on Weymouth Scientific, you're going to be very disappointed," he said. She wanted to protest that her motivation was entirely personal, at least at first. Instead, she took out the picture of the smoking man. "Do you know him?" she asked. "Mr. Terranova, the human ash tray," he said, looking up from the photo. She slowly released a breath. So it was CSM after all. This just confirmed what she'd suspected since Brian mentioned his mysterious passenger. "I guess you'll be leaving now," Brian said. "I'd really like to get to know you," she said sincerely. "Maybe after you've finished this case," he said. He rose from the table and started to clear the abandoned breakfast. "That would be nice," Scully said. But a voice in her head whispered, "Mulder, Mulder," and it sounded like her voice. = = = "Hotcakes *or* toast," Roger insisted, following the words with his finger as he read from the menu. "Leave it to me," said Mulder. "Wow." Roger was impressed. Roger wanted steak, eggs, hotcakes, *and* toast, and Mulder made it happen. He had expected that someone would have warned Roger not to talk to him, but it didn't seem to be the case. Roger didn't hesitate to accept breakfast, and once the dilemma or hotcakes versus toast was out of the way, he was ready to shoot the breeze. "I want to thank you for helping me out yesterday," Mulder said. Roger used his index finger to collect a drop of pancake syrup from the table, then licked it off with a big slurping sound. "That's okay. You're not heavy and you didn't fight," he said. "Did you think I was looking for a fight?" Mulder asked in surprise. "A ram as big as you, he would fight me," Roger said. "A ram as big as me..." Mulder couldn't follow Roger's stream of thought. "How big is a ram?" he asked. "Real big one, maybe three hundred pounds. One your size would be big enough to breed, even if he wasn't full-growed," Roger supplied helpfully. "Do you breed them?" Mulder asked. "Doc takes care of that. AI and stuff," Roger said. "Artificial insemination? Do all the rams get castrated?" Mulder asked. "You didn't like it when I clamped the ram lamb," Roger remembered. "Got to be done, though. Can't breed them all." If Mulder could keep Roger talking about the sheep, he'd have to get around to the hybrid in the green tank. "All in a day's work for you," Mulder said. "Uh-huh. Baby lamb like that, he don't even feel it very long. Not like a big ram," Roger said. "I guess that would be more difficult," Mulder said. "Uh-huh. Ram your size, I'd have to tie his legs," Roger explained. "Wouldn't clamp him, either. Just slit the sac and cut 'em out." It was a little like interrogating a serial killer, Mulder thought. He had to sound interested and sympathetic despite his distaste. It wasn't a fair comparison, though. Roger was just a guy who took pride in his work. "What's the hardest thing you have to do?" Mulder asked. Roger's open face clouded into a frown, and he answered in a low, conspiratorial tone. "I don't like to burn them up," he said. "When do you have to do that?" Mulder asked. "The dead ones gotta go in the incinerator," Roger said. 'Cause they are biological waste." Mulder thought about the sheep bone found in the woods. "Do you always burn them?" he asked. Roger looked around guiltily. "I won't tell," Mulder assured him. "You won't get into any trouble." It was lucky Scully wasn't there, he thought. Her face would have signaled his lie, maybe even to Roger. Or maybe not. They'd both become loose with their promises of protection, their assurances that the system would work. Maybe she would have lied right along with him. "Sometimes I bury them in the woods," Roger said furtively. "For respect." "Could you show me where?" Mulder asked, keeping his question casual. Roger chewed his steak and considered. "Maybe I could show the lady," he offered, tilting his head and glancing up and sideways into Mulder's face. Mulder wasn't sure if Roger was being shy or sly with him. "Agent Scully? She could come with us," Mulder said. He'd warned Scully to keep her distance from Roger, who clearly found her fascinating. He was childlike in some ways, but he was physically powerful, and it made for a dangerous combination. Meanwhile, Scully had warned Mulder that Roger might be shrewder than he appeared, which was starting to look like a good bet. "Just the lady agent," Roger said stubbornly. "That's not going to happen," Mulder said firmly. Roger's switched from defiance to wheedling: 'Cause maybe you would faint again. So I should take just the lady," he said. "She doesn't like the woods," Mulder said. "The woods are nice. I could show her," Roger said. "She doesn't like the woods, Roger," Mulder repeated more forcefully. "But she does want to see the special sheep." He felt like a pimp. I'll give you Scully if you show us the sheep. "The cripple sheep with the bad legs," Roger said eagerly. "I could show her." "Not those. The one in the green tank," Mulder said. Roger frowned. "She's sick," he said. "You should leave her alone." "The lady agent is a doctor," Mulder said. "She could help." "Ah," said Roger slowly. His transparent face was a parody of someone deep in thought. His mouth dropped open, and his eyes moved up and leftward, as if he was trying to remember something. Mulder knew he had scored a point. "A pretty lady doctor," Roger murmured. = = =