From: WickdZoot <wickdzoot@aol.comx>
Date: 06 Nov 1999 20:22:03 GMT
Subject: Minnesota 0/45 by Wickdzoot

Author's Notes, Disclaimers, etc....

First of all, I'd like to thank those XAPEN readers who have been kind and
patient about the delay in the conclusion of this story.  I lost a goodly chunk
of the ending to a hard drive problem, and it took a while to summon the energy
to rebuild it.  The conclusion will be premiering on XAPEN, just FYI, this
week, so those on XAPEN who were following it can finally finish it.  WIPS are
problematic sometimes, because some writers never finish them.  I always have,
but seldom with this kind of delay; I want to also thank those who have kindly
written to ask about the conclusion.  

I'd also like to thank Livengoo, who double dog dared me to write a parody of
Oklahoma, and Amperage who kindly gave permission for it.  I'd like to thank
the producer and director and all the performers in Fargo, who only revved up
my inspiration; I happened to finally see it two thirds of the way through
Minnesota and it re-energized my interest and investment in the story.  

None of the characters recognizable to the X-Files belong to me, of course, not
Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Pendrell, Cancerman, or Donnie Pfaster (even though he
only gets one mention).  All the rest are the product of my own demented sense
of humour except, of course, for Ogden Nash, who blighted my childhood and
adolescent with a sense of the absurd and doubtless (with Monty Python)
contributed to my weird sense of humour.  If you haven't read his work beyond
the few pieces of doggerel that everyone knows, go now and do so.  

Hopefully, some of you will enjoy it as much as the lovely XAPEN readers who
sent feedback and LOC.  

zoot


Standard Disclaimer with addendum:  Much thanks to Amperage and Livengoo.  
Amperage gave permission and Livengoo double dog dared me.
Rating:  NC-17 for language, behavior and murder
Category:  Demented
Spoilers:  Probably none, but Pendrell is still alive at this point

Minnesota 

by wickedzoo-@aol.com
     
Fox Mulder, former Crown Prince of Profilers, now FBI court jester and blue 
flamer of the X files--the kind of work that never got any attention, unless 
you were counting tabloids like the National Enquirer, or fringe groups like 
MUFONand NICAP--was almost crashed in his narrow, prop plane seat, with a 
small thread of drool running down his chin to pool in the palm of the hand 
presently supporting his chin. Dana Scully watched him nervously as the small 
plane bounced and wove through the winter clouds. 

"What's with him?" State Trooper Katrina Trask from the seat just beyond. "Is 
he always like this?" Her jaws moved slowly and a small bubble, poisonously 
pink, began to extrude between her lips.

Ignoring this, Scully studied Mulder's profile. "Dramamine, " she told Trask 
and frowned, leaning toward her partner. "Mulder, do you need another 
Dramamine?"

He turned his head slightly, glazed eyes finally locating her. "Scully, 
you've already given me four." His tone was plaintive, almost childishly 
miserable.

She wasn't at all sure that four Dramamine were enough to counter the 
movement of the small plane. Her own gut was queasy, and she had a cast iron 
stomach from years of sailing with her father. "You don't look quite right, 
Mulder. I don't want you to get sick." 

Privately, she was morally certain that if he *did* throw up, everything 
she'd ever eaten, starting from her first breakfast of formula and including 
the stale honey-roasted peanuts she'd eaten on this flight from hell--only 
110 calories a package, a self-satisfied inner voice offered--was going to 
make an encore appearance. "It's all right, you can take a little more, it 
won't hurt you." Much.  

"I'm already higher than this plane," he mumbled and sucked back the thread 
of spit that was taking on a dangerous thickness. "Higher than the fucking 
Space Shuttle. Even the ones that didn't blow up. If I get any higher, I'll 
be an X file myself."

"Too late, Mulder," she told him and the plane jounced her back against the 
seat. Her fingers went white knuckled and Mulder moaned, tilting his head 
back against the headrest.

"Scully, that's my wrist!" 

Hastily, she unclenched one hand, pushed his arm away, and regripped.

"Never met an FBI agent before," Trask commented. "Especially not one drugged 
to the gills."

Scully shrugged. "He has a sensitive stomach anyway, and he's prone to motion 
sickness." 

Don't think about that , Dana Katherine, she told herself, as the bottom fell 
out of the plane. Mulder reeled and fell over with his head in Trask's lap. 
Moaned a little.

Trask considered Mulder's head in dismay. Levered him up and back into his 
seat. "You sure he didn't take anything other than Dramamine?"

"I'm sure."

The plane leveled off again and the pilot looked back to give them a maniacal 
smile. Wondering how long it would take to detox Mulder, Scully turned back 
to the file in her lap, risked putting her glasses on and shoving them back 
hard against the bridge of her nose. 

Four bodies so far. 

One Native American in his late fifties, two white males, both 
bachelor/farmers and well over forty, and an elderly white woman. No apparent 
connection between any of the victims. Except for one thing. No matter how 
they'd died, there had been a bit of poetry left with the body. One in the 
mouth, two in the fishing caps worn by the two white males, and one left in 
the pocket of the flannel quilted jacket worn by Caroline Timmeson, the 
elderly woman. 

She had been the most inexplicable, found eviscerated and stuffed with lime 
Jell-O and marshmallows, and chunks of that Swedish bread everyone ate at 
Christmas. 

Who would want to kill a grandmother, a woman who still went out and chopped 
her own wood, heated her house with a woodburning stove, whose dinner lay 
congealed and icy on the dining room table when her body was found? She 
wanted to ask Mulder, wanted to get some input from him, but he was staring 
again, pupils dilated. 

She hoped to God he wasn't going to be hallucinating on her. Mulder sober was 
hard enough to work with.

Turning back to the file, she read the cold, black and white facts of the 
case. They didn't tell her much. But Caroline Timmeson was waiting for her in 
the Timmsville morgue. And would hopefully tell her more. 

Seventy-three and hale and hearty, from all accounts. Seven grandchildren. 
Five children. She'd once been the mayor of Timmsville, had kept the farm 
after her husband had died thirteen years ago and actually turned it around. 
Thank God it was winter. They hadn't found the body for three days; the 
winter chill after the stove had gone out had kept it moderately well 
preserved. 

Turning back toward the front of the file, she peered at the photocopy of the 
poem that had been found in Caroline Timmeson's jacket pocket.

  "Yes, food, 
  Just any old kind of food. 
  Pheasant is pleasant of course, 
  And terrapin, too, is tasty, 
  Lobster I freely endorse, 
  In pt or patty or pasty. 
  But there's nothing the matter with butter, 
  And nothing the matter with jam, 
  And the warmest of greetings I utter 
  To the ham and the yam and the clam. 
  For they're food, 
  All food, 
  And I think very highly of food. 
  Though I'm broody at times 
  When bothered by rhymes, 
  I brood 
  On food. "

Mulder said it was Ogden Nash. Whoever the hell Ogden Nash was. But if Mulder 
said it was Ogden Nash, it was Ogden Nash. 

She wondered distantly if Timmsville had a library. The first poem, found on 
the Native American male, had been tossed, God only knew why. Maybe the cops 
in Timmsville thought he'd tried to eat it, it was about par for small town 
law enforcment, and made her jaw tense to think about it. 

The second note had been so contaminated by the fish oil that had soaked into 
the cap that the ink had run, they'd never know what it had once said. The 
third was waiting for them in the Medical Examiner's office. In Timmsville, 
that was Dr. Olaffsen. The local family doctor, moonlighting on the side as 
ME.

The plane dipped again. Scully hung on, eyed Trask who was nodding in 
satisfaction.

"We're landing," Trask told her and blew another bubble. Popped it with her 
tongue. She felt Scully's gaze on her and flushed. "I'm trying to give up 
snuff."

Scully shuddered.

Beside her, Mulder smiled sweetly and began to hum. She didn't recognize it 
and was seriously afraid to ask what it was. Turning, she peered back at 
Pendrell's chalky face and gave him an encouraging grin. 

Damn, Pendrell wasn't hanging on any too well, either.  Oh, well, Pendrell 
would survive. Even if Mulder did throw up. 

Leaning down cautiously, she put the file back into her briefcase, leaned 
back up to elbow Mulder in the ribs.

The sweet smile disappeared. He turned his head very slowly, as if he were 
afraid it would fall off, and stared at her. "I don' need any more Dramamine, 
Scully," he slurred and blinked. Wiped his wet hand on the armrest.

"We're here, Mulder," Scully told him gently and elbowed him again. "Wake up, 
Mulder." 

Mulder nodded disorientedly. "I was dreaming." 

Scully sighed. Still out in la-la land. "You weren't asleep, Mulder, your 
eyes were open."  

"Oh?" He gave her a glazed look. "Where are we, Scully? How did we get here?"

The plane chose that moment to bounce off the tarmac and she clutched the 
armrests again, picking up a healthy amount of Fox Mulder's spit on one hand. 
.  

Mulder moaned and closed his eyes, for the first time during the entire 
hellish flight. "Sc-u-u-l-ly."

"Shut up," she told him, panic-stricken. Holy Mary, Mother of God, don't let 
him throw up. Please don't let him throw up. I'll go to church for the rest 
of Advent, and even confession if you don't let him throw up.

The plane bounced again, further terrifying her; Mulder went a peculiar shade 
of green and wrapped both arms around himself. Then, reassuringly, it leveled 
out, tires in contact with the pavement beneath.

"Agent Scully, I don't feel well," Pendrell moaned. 

"Not now, Pendrell," she hissed. Oh, please God, not him, too. She was 
doomed, that's what it was, she was in hell, she'd really died in the 
hospital after her abduction, and had been in hell ever since, the natural 
result of having given up the Church, having an affair with a married man, 
and working with Fox Mulder.

The plane came to an abrupt stop. 

Trask, perhaps feeling as nervous as she did, popped the door and all but 
leapt out. Dammit, Mulder was between her and the door; grappling with him, 
she got his seatbelt off, got him out of the seat--guilt burning her face as 
he whacked his head on the ceiling of the plane, the edge of the door, and 
tripped over the narrow step to fall on his knees on the pavement.

He didn't seem to notice it, much. Just stared out over the winter landscape, 
moving his tongue around his mouth as if he tasted something. Something about 
which he had serious reservations. She hoped it wasn't the contents of his 
stomach. She'd warned him about the peanuts, but he'd eaten Pendrell's and 
his own.

Behind her, she could hear Pendrell gagging and took in deep lungfuls of 
frigid, clean air, easing her own nausea. "Welcome to Minnesota, Mulder."

"Minnesota?" he repeated, his tone vague. "Scully, my legs are cold."

Trask levered him up again and eyed him dubiously. "You need some coffee, 
boy."

Coffee might be just the ticket, Scully thought and nodded agreement as that 
sweet smile formed on Mulder's mouth again. "Coffee," she repeated and put 
her hand in the small of his back, herding him toward the small terminal. She 
didn't even wince when she realized that her hand, still slick with 
Mulder-drool, had frozen to the back of his overcoat.

Pendrell was going to have to fend for himself.

<continued>





Minnesota - Part 2	

by wickedzoot@aol.com

Mulder peered blearily at his image in the water-spotted, age-pitted, mottled 
silver surface of the mirror, and bent to splash water on his face before 
moving aside to the paper towel dispenser. He'd looked better after two day 
binges. Not that he'd ever had one, but he looked worse now than he would 
have, he was sure of it.

At least Pendrell looked worse. Sliding a look at the younger agent, he saw 
him sponging the remaining stains off his suit jacket. The only consolation 
was that he looked better than Pendrell did, even as shitty as he felt. And 
that suit^"God, Sears polyester, the kid had no fashion sense at all.. Poor 
Pendrell. What a way to start his first field assignment, upchucking all over 
the back of the small plane.

"Well, Pendrell," he sighed and dry scrubbed his face with the paper towel. 
He was going to be lucky if he could walk straight. And the four cups of 
coffee Scully had made him drink only made him feel alertly stoned. At least 
he wasn't hallucinating. Yet. "How's it feel to be out of the lab and out in 
the field?"

Poor Pendrell gave him a miserable look: residual nausea, embarrassment, envy 
and hero worship, all compounded by the faintest fragrance of Eau de Airline 
Peanuts. "Oh," faintly, "Great, Agent Mulder."

"Now, just remember, no playing stuff the bunny with the locals," Mulder told 
him, patting his pockets vainly for a comb. God, he looked like shit. "Gotta 
watch that, the city fathers tend to get irritable. And so do the city 
mothers. And no messing with my partner, Pendrell, not on duty."

Pendrell went scarlet. "Agent Mulder, I have the highest respect for Agent 
Scully."

"Sure you do. But are your intentions honorable?" The words were reflexive, 
he didn't even have it in him right now to do a really thorough job of 
tormenting the poor kid. And he had no comb anywhere on him. He did have one 
in his shaving kit. Dammit. "Pendrell, do you have a comb?" 

Mute, Pendrell handed him one. At least the flush was more flattering than 
Pendrell's buttermilk pallor that left those freckles standing out in 3D. 
Mulder eyed the comb before dragging it through his hair. "Yup, when you're 
in the field, it's time to make the re-acquaintance of Rosie and her five 
lovely sisters."

That got him a blank look. He smiled and handed the comb back. "You know, 
Pendrell, spanking the monkey. Banging the bishop. Choking the chicken. 
Strangling the trouser snake?" Pendrell stared at him, uncomprehending. It 
made him a little impatient and he made an unmistakable gesture with his 
curled fingers. "Whacking off? Masturbating, Pendrell? You have heard of it, 
haven't you?" 

Pendrell went scarlet again and ducked his head. "I'm Catholic, Agent 
Mulder," he muttered and finished his ablutions rather hastily, tossing the 
sodden paper towel in the trash as he went past Mulder.

Mulder's brows drew together in a puzzled frown. "What's being Catholic got 
to do with it? You're not allowed to whack off? Scully always told me you 
have to confess something or they get you for pride, isn't that right? 
Whacking off seems pretty harmless, and you don't have any vices, do you?" 

Pendrell muttered something inaudible and fled, yanking the door to the men's 
room open so hard that it banged against the wall.

Mulder looked after him and shrugged. Leaned forward and straightened his 
tie, decided he looked as presentable as he could under the circumstances. 
Not great. Not even anywhere approaching great. Or even good. Good would 
require that his pupils were a normal size, that he didn't have purplish 
crescents under each of his eyes, that his usual mushroom in the basement 
pallor didn't include that greenish tinge. With the hyperawareness of 
caffeine intoxication on top of Dramamine overdose, he noted that he could 
almost see his own pores, not to mention each and every beard follicle. 
Fascinating, he could almost hear the sound of his beard growing^^

Jerking back from that vista, he brushed ineffectually at his trousers. Of 
course, he didn't generally look as though he'd slept in his suits. But 
Scully always swore that the wrinkles would steam out if you hung them in the 
motel bathroom while you took a shower. Besides, women always got this 
nurturing look in their eyes if you were looking a little disheveled. Scully 
didn't, to be sure, unless he added that pout that had always worked so well 
on her. Add the soulful look in the eyes and Scully would probably brush the 
suit out for him^.

He guessed he was glad he was at least nominally Jewish if Catholics weren't 
supposed to whack off. But it did explain Pendrell's terminally fraught 
behavior around Scully. God, if he didn't take care of business himself, he'd 
probably be breathing down her slender neck and getting a mouthful of Scully 
knuckles. Scully wouldn't file a complaint about him, oh, no, she'd just 
break his jaw. And probably emasculate him.

That made him shudder and his testicles tried very hard to crawl up into his 
body. Hell, it felt like they were trying to crawl up under the loosening 
knot of his tie. So he tightened it.

Pulling the men's room door open, he stepped out and nearly mashed Scully's 
Papagallos pumps. "Scully," he yelped, backed into the door as it swung shut. 
"What the hell--the ladies room is down the hall."

"What did you do to Pendrell?" she asked pointedly, looking very tall for a 
short person. 

"Nothing, I just sort of had a man to man talk with him."

Her mouth crimped in that fishwife from Sligo way that made him go weak in 
the knees. In his current condition, he nearly swooned. "He says you made a 
pass at him."

Mulder's jaw dropped. "He what? Pendrell? You gotta be kidding? Jesus, 
Scully, does he look like he'd be my type, even if I *was* gay? Christ, 
Krycek was my partner." He rather thought her eyes were amused. 

Certainly one corner of her mouth lifted and one little Pappagallos clad foot 
tapped on the stained linoleum. "I didn't know Krycek was gay, Mulder."

"Neither did I." he told her quellingly. "All I know, is that he seemed to 
spend a great deal of time watching me in my red Speedos. It didn't seem like 
a good idea to ask him about it." 

Her mouth quirked more. "Well, evidently Pendrell interpreted your man to man 
suggestions that same way."

"I'm gonna kill the little dweeb." Mulder started forward, incredulity giving 
way to bad temper.

"Down boy," Scully told him, one small hand firmly in the center of his 
chest. He was still sufficiently loopy that it was enough. Swaying, he leaned 
back against the door. "I believe you. Just--just be careful about what you 
say to Pendrell. He's really very innocent for someone his age."

Mulder snorted. "Mental or chronological? Innocent is one thing, dumb is 
another. " 

She took his arm and led him back to the coffee shop. "C'mon, let's have 
another cup of coffee. Trask has got a nice four wheel drive vehicle coming 
over from the police station, they're going to let us use it while we're 
here. But it may be a little while, so I thought we could get something to 
eat."

Food. Mmm. Something to replace the rumbly in his tummy. Scully hadn't let 
him eat breakfast after she'd found out how they were getting to Timmsville. 
And it was now nearly 1:00 in the afternoon. "Good idea." He wove a little as 
she led him back to the booth, slid in and regarded his coffee cup with 
dread. 

She'd filled it again.

"Drink up, Mulder. Think of it as easier than detox."

"Huh." He eyed the cup, turned it around in his hands. Trask distracted him 
from this, the growing pink bubble swelling and swelling until it obscured 
her mouth and nose. He had to quell the swift urgent desire to poke his 
finger into it, but looked away guiltily as it popped, adhering to her skin.

Glanced back, saw her calmly pull the wad of bubblegum out of her mouth and 
use it to get all the sticky bubble off her face. And put the wad back in. 

Scully averted her eyes. He couldn't. Awful fascination held him as the 
process began again, and his stomach did a lazy roll that reminded him of the 
flight. 

Scully's elbow distracted him from this. "How about some Swedish pancakes, 
Mulder?"

He swallowed hard and finally nodded. "And sausage, Scully. And eggs." She 
gave him a narrow look. "Scully, I'm starving. Why do you think I ate all 
those peanuts? I haven't eaten since dinner last night." He let his lip poke 
out a bit and widened his eyes just so, the ingenuous look that had kept 
hundreds of women from killing him when he got up and got dressed in the 
middle of the night.

As always, the double barreled whammy worked, and she made no protest when 
the waitress took his order.

"So," Trask put her bubble gum on the edge of her saucer. "What do you think 
of that poem? What's it supposed to say to us?"
Mulder sighed. "First of all, the killer is playing a game with us."
Scully rolled her eyes. "Is this where you tell us what kind of car he 
drives, whether he's right or left handed, and what kind of potato chips he 
favors."

"He's right-handed," Mulder told her reprovingly. "And I don't deal with that 
other crap, Frank Black does. And he's retired."

"Frank Black?" Trask asked, puzzled.

"Yeah, one of the early profilers. Used to dial 1-900 psychic hotlines." 
There was a trace of scorn in his voice. "No, this guy is playing a game with 
us, he wants us to understand his motivations, but at his own speed. He 
doesn't want us to get ahead of him."

Scully looked at him. "All that from Ogden Nash?"

He gave her a cocky grin. "Very good, Scully. I didn't know you studied the 
modern masters of American poetry." 

She snorted. The waitress stopped by with basket of sweet rolls. Mulder 
picked a cinnamon bun and moved his coffee cup out of the saucer. Laid the 
bun on saucer and picked up his knife. "Caroline Timmeson was found relative 
to her refrigerator." Reaching, he moved the pitcher of cream toward the 
saucer. "The bun is Caroline Timmeson." Holding the bun with index finger and 
thumb, he used the knife to neatly bisect it. "After she was killed, her body 
at that point was carefully stuffed with significant substances. Different 
kinds of food that have a meaning to our killer." Biting his lip, he 
hesitated. "Not the individual types of food, exactly, but the symbology 
behind them."

Scully gave him a long, level look. The look she gave him when she thought he 
was out of his fucking mind. He smiled. "No, really." Licking his fingers 
clean, he reached for the file, neatly abstracting the crime scene photos. 
Laid one on each side of the saucer. Picked up a packet of butter and spread 
it down the center. "So, he killed her and laid her body on the floor.  And 
then the killer eviscerated her." He glanced at Trask, pulled out the moist 
buttered center of each half of the bun and popped both pieces into his mouth.

Trask went pale.  "Jeez."

Scully leaned over and picked a stray raisin off the poor, dissected bun and 
gestured with it. "So, what you're saying is that is not merely the killer's 
obsessions--" The raisin went between those luscious, rosebud lips. She 
chewed a moment thoughtfully. "But his attempt to communicate those 
obsessions with us?"

Mulder nodded emphatically.  "Yeah, kind of like spreading a venereal 
disease. He's making out with us, trying to woo us, to win us to his view. 
This is his version of heavy petting."

Trask shifted uneasily in her chair, eyes downcast. "Minnesota is God's 
country, we don't do that sort of thing up here. Unless we're engaged."

Mulder grinned wickedly. "I'm not surprised. If you whipped anything out up 
here, it would freeze off."

Trask gave him a chilly look. "Mr. Mulder, I don't appreciate that kind of 
dirty talk."

Scully smirked at him sidelong. "He's still not himself, Trooper Trask." She 
cast a meaningful look back at poor Pendrell, so mortified he was sitting 
alone in the back of the coffee shop. Trying to pretend that he was fine. 
That he hadn't thrown up everything but his toenails in the airplane.

Trask frowned, but nodded. "Just remember, please. We don't use that kind of 
language up here."

In lieu of anything safer to say, Mulder reached for another packet of butter 
and spread it again on the torn interior of the cinnamon bun's carcass. 
"After we eat, I think we should see the crime scene."

"I need to take a look at the body, Mulder," Scully told him.

"Yeah, and I want to stop at the motel and change clothes. I don't plan on 
charging around in three feet of snow in this suit."

She eyed him with amusement. "Mud, nor blood, nor green go has ever stopped 
you before, Mulder."

He did the soulful thing again. "Yeah, but Scully, I don't wanna get 
frostbitten. I'm not wearing my woollies."

She only smirked.

<continued>


Minnesota - Part 4
by wickdzoot@aol.com

"Right here," Mulder breathed and carefully rose again, holding on to the 
back of a kitchen chair as he studied the table. "Jell-O mold."

"Well, food molds if it's left out," she told him reasonably enough. 

He gave her a look. "No, Scully. She had a Jell-O mold on the table. That's 
where he got the Jell-O."

Oh. And it was probably too cold in here for anything to mold. "What about 
the bread?"

He pointed mutely at the empty breadbasket.

Scully swallowed the taste of acid in the back of her throat. "He used her 
own dinner?"

"Looks that way." Mulder let go of the chair and walked slowly around the 
table, his eyes still resting on it, his eyes haunted. "Food, Just Food, Just 
any old kind of food. Go purloin a sirloin my pet, If you'd win a devotion 
incredible; An asparagus tip vinaigrette, Or anything else that is edible. 
Bring salad or sausage or scrapple, A berry or even a beet. Bring an oyster, 
an egg, or an apple, As long as its something to eat. If it's food, It's 
food; Never mind what kind of food. When I ponder my mind , I consistently 
find, It is glued, On food. "

The rest of the people in the room exchanged looks.

"What the hell is he goin' on about?" Bergman's face was creased in 
bafflement.

"Poetry," Trask intoned.

"The rest of the poem found on the body," Scully added.

"Holy Mother of God," said the deputy, by which Scully assumed he wasn't 
Lutheran. 

"The killer shows an incredible class consciousness in his choice of the 
verse left on the body," Mulder told them softly. "And not merely class 
consciousness, but regional consciousness as well. He shows his contempt for 
the mores of this part of the country, for the food, for the people in 
stuffing Caroline Timmeson with the good, middle class cooking on her table."

"He does?" Bergman asked, bewildered.

Mulder nodded soberly his eyes still on the table. "The choices he made in 
stuffing her body cavity also tell us a lot. For example, the lime 
Jell-O...." He crouched over the table, wearing latex gloves over his leather 
ones. Dipped out a bit of frozen Jell-O, all that was left in the bright 
copper mold. "Green, the color of fertility, the color of gardens, of the 
trees here in this part of the country. Particularly in the Tree of Life. It 
symbolizes the Garden of Eden."

Scully nodded as if that made sense to her.  Spooky Mulder on a roll.  She 
stole a glance at the others.  Trask looked amazed, Bergman only looked more 
irritated.  The deputy's mouth was hanging open.

Mulder sighed, a poignant sound that puffed out white in the bitter chill 
inside the house.  "More, the bitter tartness of celery and lime suggest the 
terrible loss of innocence at being expelled from the Garden of Eden. The 
marshmallows are the sweet nostalgia for more innocent, less knowledgeable 
days. For that purer, nobler self that has been subsumed by his predator's 
instinct." He held his finger up to the rays of light that came, however 
dimly, through the glass window above the sink, just beyond him. Like a 
small, perfect emerald, the bit of Jell-O caught the light. "Jell-O is 
crystal clear," Mulder murmured. "And he sees himself as recapturing that 
clarity, that innocence, that nobility, by purifying Caroline Timmeson with 
her own Jell-O. And yet, the imagery still is more complex than that. The 
Jell-O--" he paused, looked toward Scully grimly. "Scully, didn't the ME's 
report say that it was a Jell-O salad?"

She nodded again, trying to follow where he was going. "Marshmallows, celery, 
peaches, grapes and pineapple."

Mulder nodded again. "Caroline Timmeson willfully corrupted the purity of the 
Garden by adulterating it with other substances. She--she added the fruit of 
the Tree of Life, knowledge, losing her innocence, casting away her true 
nobility, turning away from the Garden deliberately. The Christmas bread--he 
stuffed her with it, showing that no matter how much of it there was, she 
could never hope to attain redemption."

Trask's bubble popped audibly, startling Mulder's audience from its dazed 
condition.

"What the hell are you talking about," Bergman demanded. "That is the biggest 
load of--of moonshine I've ever heard in my entire life."

"Jeez, Harald, he knows what he's doing," Trask hissed. "He's an FBI 
profiler."

Scully looked at her, keeping her own expression impassive.

Sure, it all *sounded* good, but she wasn't at all sure that Mulder *did* 
know what he was doing. After all, four Dramamine and four cups of coffee....

Maybe she shouldn't have insisted he have the last cup. 

Carefully making her way over to him, she put a gloved hand on his sleeve.  
"Mulder," she said gently, "It's freezing in here."

But Mulder moved toward the refrigerator in a sort of skating motion, arms 
out again. 

From this angle, he looked like a tall thin penguin, moving toward the top of 
a slope. She hoped to God he didn't slide down on his ass.

The refrigerator door opened and Mulder put his head in. "Oh, God."  Hollow, 
haunted voice.  He turned away and looked back at them, stricken. "There's a 
ham in here. And yams. Leftovers."

Scully swallowed again. "And?"

Mulder's jaw tightened.  "The killer didn't leave everything on the table. 
Chief, I want your men to see if they can get any prints from inside the 
refrigerator."

Bergman opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, closed it. Finally 
nodded grudgingly. 

Mulder looked at her, his expression like that of a child who has seen his 
dearly beloved puppy run over by the street cleaner.  When he spoke, it was 
in a sepulchral whisper, as if he were afraid the victim's ghost would hear 
him.  "He ate the ham and the yams and put the leftovers away. He used the 
rest to stuff her like a Christmas turkey."

"Thanksgiving," Trask muttered. "We don't eat turkey at Christmas up here."

"Whatever." Mulder rubbed his nose with his parka sleeve and started to skate 
toward the door. "Scully, I'm freezing, let's get out of here."

Scully did, gladly. Her feet were numb to the arch of her foot, now.


The Country Kitchen.  

For a town this size, it wasn't a bad restaurant, small and homey, filled 
with wooden mallards and other North Country kitsch.

Trask evidently was related to the owners here, too, and they greeted her 
with as much warmth as she'd seen here in Timmsville, escorting their small 
group to what was evidently the best table in the house.

To Scully's horror, the special was ham with red gravy, mashed yams, and 
green beans.

Mulder blanched and ordered pancakes again. No meat. Especially not pork.

That eased her mind somewhat. 

Trask sighed. "So you think this is someone from out of town? Not local."

Mulder gazed gloomily at the salt and pepper shakers, shaped like two skiers, 
one female, the other male. 

His thumb moved unconsciously over the endowments of the female salt shaker 
until Scully wanted to slap him. "No, he's local. It's just that he has 
complete contempt for his own heritage. He wants to be something he's not. A 
New Englander--the mention of oysters and lobster--or a Southerner. He 
probably reads Faulkner or Hawthorne, probably showed an unnatural affinity 
for them during his college courses. His contempt is expressed by using 
symbols of his heritage, of regional favorites peculiar to this part of the 
country, to destroy his neighbors. The scene is organized, carefully arranged 
for our benefit, no signs of killing frenzy or visible psychosis. He probably 
appears quite normal, quite sane, when he's not gripped by his need to kill. 
And he's older, white, possibly in his late forties to early fifties. He 
probably began by tormenting his siblings."

Scully cleared her throat. "Mulder, everyone torments their siblings."

He gave her a grim look. "I didn't."

She cleared her throat again. "What about the time you tied Sam to her 
headboard so she'd leave you alone while you read Starship Troopers."

He went ashen. "I didn't torment her, I just kept her in one place. This 
man--he probably didn't content himself with just tying them up. Wedgies, 
Scully. Short sheeting their beds. Live reptiles in their shoes. Maybe worse. 
He might even have murdered their pets. Put their turtles into bowls of 
ammonia instead of water. Shoved firecrackers into their dogs' rectums. Fed 
their cats Ex-Lax."

She stared at him in horror. "Oh, God, Mulder."

He nodded. "The development of a serial killer is a terrifying thing, Scully. 
He would have dropped cigarettes into their fishbowls. And fished them out 
again so that no one would know. But he wasn't born this way, Scully. More 
killers are made then born. And his parents..." He shuddered, rubbed his face 
with both hands, mercifully abandoning the salt shaker. "I don't even want to 
think about it, Scully."

If he didn't want to think about it, given what *he'd* gone through as a 
child, she certainly didn't.

The waitress brought the tray with their food. Mulder gazed wanly at the 
plate of pancakes and the little cruet of lingonberry syrup. Picked up his 
fork and poked at the stack, as if he were afraid it would get up off the 
plate and bite him.

Trask leaned back to let the waitress put the plate in front of her. Scully 
hadn't paid attention during the ordering process, she'd been watching 
Mulder. And now, when he went even paler, she looked back to find that Trask 
had ordered the special.

Oh, God, what was Mulder going to do? 

Apparently nothing, because he picked up his fork and took a bite of 
pancakes, staining his mouth purple with the syrup. Chewed slowly, staring at 
his plate. Took another bite, grimacing as if it were perfectly horrid 
medicine. Chewed and swallowed, all the while his gaze rested just past 
Trask's shoulder. 

Relieved, Scully turned to her own: meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy and 
succotash. Canned, no doubt. She suddenly doubted her own wisdom in ordering 
this, but she'd been preoccupied with her partner. Surely, she thought, she'd 
ordered fish. "I'm sorry, I thought I'd ordered the fish." 

The waitress, a stunning blonde in her early twenties, blinked at her and 
then looked down at the tray, frowning. "Oh, sorry, wrong order." Whisked the 
plate out from under her, leaving her to sit and watch Trask dig into ham and 
yams. She shuddered, glanced back to Mulder, who was manfully taking another 
bite of his pancakes.

<continued>


Minnesota - part 5

by wickedzoot@aol.com
     
Pendrell came in then, looking around forlornly as if he expected he'd been 
abandoned. Scully called his name, earning several surprised looks and a 
scowl from other diners, but he saw them and trotted over, brightening 
visibly.

"Agent Scully, Agent Mulder." He stood while Trask slid over in the booth and 
rearranged her dinner, then sat down beside her. "Oh, you've ordered already."

"I'm still waiting for mine," Scully told him, suddenly feeling guilty. But 
it had seemed important to get food into Mulder again, she wasn't sure why.

The waitress, having spotted a new arrival, appeared almost magically with a 
cup of coffee to refresh their cups and handed Pendrell a menu.

Pendrell blinked and looked at Trask's plate. "That's okay, I'll have the 
same as Trooper Trask."

The girl beamed at him, Nordic blue gaze fixed on Pendrell's brown, puppy dog 
eyes. "I'll have it for you in just a minute, sir. What would you like to 
drink?"

Pendrell blushed under the heat of that look. "Do you by any chance have any 
Ovaltine?"

Mulder shuddered.

"Coming right up," the girl--whose name tag proclaimed her to be 
Inge--snatched the menu back and hurried toward the kitchen.

God, Scully thought, amazed, she was flirting with Pendrell. Mulder hadn't 
garnered so much as a smile, and the girl was flirting with Pendrell. There 
was no accounting for taste, obviously. "Did you come up with anything new, 
Pendrell?"

"Yes, Agent Scully. Significant amounts of fiber and hair--although it looks 
more like animal hair. I sent off some samples to the lab in DC. Hopefully 
we'll hear back sometime the day after tomorrow."

"Good." Scully took a sip of her tea and sighed. "I'll be going over the body 
tomorrow morning, Pendrell. If I find anything else--I'd like you on hand."

Inge reappeared, bringing Pendrell's Ovaltine and his dinner order.

"Excuse me." Scully kept her tone polite. Pendrell was positively beaming 
back at the young woman. "Excuse me, where's my fish?"

"Oh, sorry." Inge managed to tear her eyes away from Pendrell long enough to 
offer Scully an apologetic look. "I'll go check on it."

"I'd rather have you bring it," Scully muttered and looked sidelong at 
Mulder's pancakes. They were beginning to look good, despite the amount of 
purple syrup he'd poured over them.

Pendrell took a sip of his Ovaltine, sighed in pleasure, and dug into the 
ham, pushing a forkful of the pink, succulent meat around to coat it in red 
gravy.

Next to her, Mulder made a small noise in his throat, not quite a moan, not 
quite anything else. 

Scully eyed him nervously, noticed that he was watching Pendrell, and reached 
for a package of melba toast from the basket in the center of the table.  
"Mulder," she began, hoping to distract him, "You said he was white. But the 
first victim was Native American. And his latest victim was a woman. Don't 
serial killers generally stick to one race and one gender?"

Mulder started and looked at her, eyes wide. "Um. Oh, yeah, usually. But they 
had some things in common, Scully. Despite having been baptized Lutheran, 
they never went to church. They liked to ice fish. They took part in the 
Winter Festival every year."

She blinked. "So, which do you think is the relevant link?"

"Given the clear symbols of purity and innocence lost, I'd have to guess it 
was the Winter Festival, Scully."

Scully frowned.  "Not their lack of church attendance?"

Mulder shook his head, took another bite of his pancakes. "I don't think so, 
Scully. But Winter Festivals--like Christmas, they mark a time when the earth 
is fallow, when everything lies sleeping under a blanket of snow. The 
Festival is about the promise of rebirth in the spring."

Scully considered that dubiously. "Maybe. But I think I'll check out the 
local minister anyway, Mulder."

He nodded wearily and glanced back at Pendrell, just now putting an enormous, 
red gravy-drenched bite of ham in his mouth. She heard Mulder take in a shaky 
breath, heard the faintly muttered, "Oh, God," and he was gone, rocking the 
table enough to slosh tea and Ovaltine across the Formica surface of the 
table.

Scully shook her head at Trask and went after him, no easy task when big 
burly types of either gender kept stepping into her path--one of them stopped 
her at the door to the men's room.

"You can't go in there, Miss," a deep baritone voice told her sternly. "Men 
only."

She looked up into a face that matched the voice. Max Von Sydow with fewer 
wrinkles and blond, slightly greying hair. And a mustache. Reaching into her 
pocket, she pulled out her FBI badge and ID, flashed them. "He's my partner."

"I don't care if he's your partner or your legally wedded husband," the man 
told her firmly. "You can't go in there."

Scully blinked and scowled. "He's my FBI partner," she told him shortly.

Pendrell came up, panting, behind her. "Is Agent Mulder all right?"

The man's eyebrows rose. "Oh, you're the FBI agents Katrina brought up." He 
nodded at Pendrell. "Better go in and check on him, son, make the lady happy."

Lady? Scully restrained the urge to viciously kick him in the shins. "Dr. 
Scully," she told him sweetly, holding out her hand. "I'm a pathologist. And 
you are?"

"Dr. Eric Olafsson  ." He took her hand limply.

Her father had always told her not to trust men who had dead fish handshakes, 
she told herself and nudged Pendrell forward. "Stay with him until he's 
feeling better, then bring him back out."

Pendrell's eyes widened with a hint of panic. "Is he throwing up?"

"Probably." Scully smiled poisonously at Dr. Olafsson  . "Serial cases 
sometimes affect him this way."

Olafsson   nodded glumly. "A terrible thing."

The door closed on Pendrell. Nodding politely at Olafsson  , Scully returned 
to the table, where Trask was stolidly munching her way through the last of 
her ham and yams.

Still no fish and the waitress was busy chatting up another table. Sighing, 
Scully considered what was left of Mulder's pancakes. No sense in letting 
them go to waste, she told herself, and pulled the plate toward her.


Pendrell was hovering behind him, probably turning that peculiar pale shade 
of green again. 

It was terrible to puke purple, Mulder reflected hollowly, leaning his 
forehead on the arm he'd braced over the toilet seat. Purple was enough to 
make your stomach roil and heave all over again, and as if hearing his 
thoughts, his stomach did.

The killer had calmly eaten ham and yams and put the leftovers away, all 
after killing, eviscerating, and stuffing Caroline Timmeson. He was morbidly 
certain that they would find her organs in the snow somewhere, frozen rock 
solid. 

He hoped they didn't find them in the freezer. He hadn't thought of it then, 
hadn't suggested they check there. Raising his head, he gasped for air. 
"Pendrell? Tell Scully to have the police check Caroline Timmeson's deep 
freeze for her internal organs. The killer had to do something with them, and 
we need to know if he took them with him."

There was a faint sound behind him. God, if Pendrell puked--well, thank God, 
there were two stalls in here.

Pendrell's hands fluttered like birds over his head, the movement just 
visible in the surface of the water.  "Agent Mulder, are you all right?"

Of course I'm all right, he thought dully. An overdose of Dramamine, too much 
coffee, Ogden Nash, and eviscerated old ladies. Why wouldn't he be all right? 
"I'm fine," he managed to say, before another wave of nausea twisted his gut, 
forcing the last of his supper out. Great. Now all he had left was lunch. 
Nope, that looked like sausage, he'd lost lunch, too. 

And just noticing that made him heave again.  Reaching up, he flushed, 
closing his eyes to avoid watching the water whirl away what he'd just 
vomited.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw more fluttering.  "Agent Mulder, would 
you like a wet paper towel?"

Resting his forehead against his wrist, Mulder considered that. "Can you get 
me a glass of water?" he asked faintly, closing his eyes as another spasm 
racked his gut.   Without opening his eyes again, he fumbled until he found 
the handle, flushed again. If he couldn't see it, it couldn't make him throw 
up again.  Could it?

The men's room door opened and closed again. Pendrell went out and someone 
came in. Someone who went to stand at the urinal.

Mulder took in a shallow breath.  Hams and yams. Ham drenched in red gravy. 
In Caroline Timmeson's blood. Under the ice that covered the floor, he'd seen 
the blood soaked carpet, seen the delicate trails of blood frozen in the ice. 
She'd bled a lot.

His stomach roiled again and he tried to think determinedly of something 
else. Of the Redskins. Of EBEs. Of anything but grandmothers carved open and 
stuffed with their own supper.

Opening his eyes, he stared into the toilet.  The water was very hard up here 
in Timmsville. There was a mineral deposit forming a ring in the toilet bowl. 
And someone hadn't been using their favorite toilet bowl cleaner 
exceptionally well, either. His stomach rolled threateningly.

The sound of pissing trailed off and he heard a zipper. "You doin' okay, 
Mister?"

Mulder turned his head. 

Addressing him was a kid, a boy surely no more than eighteen or nineteen. 
"Um, there's a short red-head out in the dining room, sitting with Trooper 
Katrina Trask. Can you tell her I need something for my stomach?"

The boy nodded sympathetically. "You have the meatloaf? I try to warn people, 
but they think it sounds good." Backing away, he went to the door.

Mulder's stomach roiled again. "Thanks," he muttered faintly and leaned over 
to throw up, Christ, it had to be the peanuts, he didn't have anything else 
left.

When that spasm passed, he became aware that someone was tapping his 
shoulder. "Agent Mulder?" Pendrell's voice was anxious. "Here, I brought you 
some water. And some soda. Agent Scully says you should try to get some of 
the soda down after you rinse out your mouth."

The wet paper towel was there, too. Mulder took the first glass, took a 
mouthful and vigorously swished it around his mouth. Spat and repeated. Twice 
more. "Are my lips purple?"

Pendrell blinked at him stupidly. "No. Should they be?"

Mulder closed his eyes briefly. God, give me strength, he petitioned and 
sighed, accepting the wet paper towel. "Pendrell, you're okay, I take back 
everything I've ever said about you."

Pendrell blinked again, frowned slightly. "What have you been saying about 
me?"

"Nothing much." Mulder pushed himself up shakily, made it to the sink and 
splashed cold, iron-scented water on his face. With nothing left in it, his 
stomach was making peaceful overtures. The soda might be worth the risk. 
"Just--Pendrell, don't order ham and yams again, okay? Or sit at another 
table if you do."

The poor kid's expression was baffled. "You don't like ham and yams?"

Would he eat them in a box? With a Fox? In the rain? On a train?  Mulder 
shuddered. "The killer likes ham and yams."

Pendrell blanched. Mulder took the glass of soda, sipping delicately. Ah, a 
fine vintage of lemon-lime soda. Not Seven-Up. One of those tacky little 
generics. Shasta. Food Club. But it stayed down when he swallowed 
experimentally, and showed no inclination to come back up. 

Sipping slowly under Pendrell's embarrassed gaze, he managed to get the 
entire glass down. Sighed in relief and straightened. "Let's go back out."

"Are you sure you're all right, Agent Mulder? You still don't look too good."

Mulder peered at himself in the soap-spotted mirror over the sink. He still 
had that faintly radioactive Dramamine and coffee glow left over from the 
flight up and Scully's detox method, now compounded by the pallor left from 
heaving his entire day's food supply into a toilet bowl. He looked like a 
liver fluke in disguise.  "Yeah, well, I'm as okay as I'm going to be. Let's 
go back and face the music, Pendrell."  He dried off his face, tossed the 
balled up towel in the trash, and reached for the door handle.

"Music?"  Behind him, Pendrell sounded puzzled.

Rolling his eyes, Mulder left him to think about it and made his way back 
through the diningroom to the table.

Curious eyes darted his way; he felt himself flush as he avoided them, kept 
his gaze fixed on Scully, who was already pulling her coat on, reaching for 
her bag and sliding out of the booth.

Relieved, he grabbed his parka and zipped it up

Scully nodded at Trask. "I'm going to take him back to the motel. Tell 
Pendrell to put dinner on his card, okay?"

Trask nodded. Mulder's eyes fell to her dish without volition and he braced 
himself.  No, god, at least the hams and yams were gone. Now she was eating 
what looked like hot apple pie with vanilla ice cream. A nice non-regional 
favorite.

Scully tipped him a narrow look on their way to the door. "How are you 
feeling?"

"Hollow." He managed a threadbare smile. "Other than that, mostly 
embarrassed."

She walked out ahead of him, clearly on the warpath with someone or something.

<continued>


Minnesota - Part 6	

by wickedzoot@aol.com

The motel was just down the street from the restaurant.  On the way there, 
Scully dragged him into the local market and picked up soda crackers and 
gingerale while Mulder wandered the narrow aisles, trying to decide if there 
was anything on any of the shelves he wanted, anything he thought he could 
keep down.

In the end, he grabbed a package of popsicles, poisonous food coloring and 
lots of corn syrup. Scully looked askance at these. "Where are you going to 
put those? We don't have freezers in our rooms."

Mulder rolled his eyes. "Outside my door, Scully. It's colder outside than in 
a refrigerator freezer."

"Oh, right. I'm sure they'll be there in the morning, too." She snorted, 
handed the clerk some bills to pay for everything.

"Scully, are you suggesting that Timmsville is at the mercy of a gang of 
roving popsicle thieves?" The clerk looked up at him, expression dour, a lean 
man in his thirties with habitual frown lines. When they were outside again, 
he snickered. "I always thought Swedes were happy people, you know, cheery 
and a lot of fun."

Scully tightened her hood and slanted him a look. "Mulder, they live close 
enough to the Arctic circle that the winter days practically don't exist. And 
the suicide rate is horrendous."

He looked around. "So they emigrated to Minnesota? Why not someplace sunnier?"

"The Spanish and English got all the good parts." But her mouth quirked. 
"Come on, Ace, I want you to take some Pepto for that stomach of yours, and 
try some gingerale and crackers."

He rolled his eyes again. "Yes, Mom."


Mulder was half-afraid, half-hoping that Scully was going to continue to 
hover.  But there was no hovering back in the room, which had thankfully 
warmed enough he couldn't see his breath anymore. 

She did stand and watch while he grimaced and drank the proffered dose of 
Pepto--yuck, that was enough to make him want to hurl all over again, 
wintergreen pink with a tinny aftertaste--but then left him to go through the 
connecting door to her room. Closed it behind her.

The motel had advertised cable, which in Timmsville consisted of a couple of 
stations from Minneapolis, one from Chicago, and a movie channel that, 
thankfully, had some of the sleaziest B movies he'd seen in many a day.

Curling up on his side--the one thing the motel did have was fabulous feather 
pillows, two woolen blankets and a thick, quilted comforter--he pulled the 
bedclothes over himself and watched, growing increasingly drowsy, as nubile 
blondes bounced their breasts and cried out in horror or terror or simulated 
pleasure.

Drowsy and horny. What a combination.

But he was too aware of Scully's presence in the next room to do anything 
about the latter, so he let the former take control of him.


It wasn't so much that Mickey Mouse was standing next to a Tyrannosaurus Rex 
under the leafy palm trees of Southern California.  Or somewhere close to it. 
 It wasn't the raptors jumping merrily across the road.  After all, he'd 
dreamt of Jurassic Park more than once.

It wasn't the Red Miata, either, although the passenger seat had been pushed 
back as far as possible and his legs still felt somewhat cramped.

It was the fact that his partner was driving and while driving, wore nothing 
more than a scrap of lace garter belt, black stockings, fuck me pumps and a 
nun's wimple and veil.  She'd evidently been wearing the entire habit, but 
had earlier shed it, it lay like a discarded skin behind and under her.

"Sc-scully?"  Startled.

She gave him a brief, preoccupied smile and pulled to the side of the road in 
the shadow of the Tyrannosaurus Rex.  "There, Mulder."  Put the parking brake 
on before turning to him.

His eyes were drawn immediately to her breasts.  Perky breasts, with the 
kinds of pale nipples that made him go weak at the knees.  They bobbed 
slightly as she shifted, hooking one stocking'd leg behind his back, the 
other over his knee.  It gave him a very good view.  Reddish brown curls met 
his gaze, and there was a brief flash of pink between her legs that made him 
go dizzy.  "Uh, Scully?"  He had no idea what he was going to say.

Or why she was wearing the wimple and veil.  

Scully leaned forward, brushing her lips over his.  He might be crazy, but he 
wasn't stupid, he kissed her back, making little whimpering noises in his 
throat as he touched warm, silken skin, felt her nipples wake up and say 
hello to him.

And the warm flesh between her legs, God, she shifted again, letting him part 
the puffy lower lips, find the wetness inside and begin to stroke it outward, 
spreading the slickness.  Her kiss became hungrier.

God, he'd dreamt about this day for damned near ever, pulled back from the 
kiss and took a very grateful nipple into his mouth, rolling it over his 
tongue, between his lips.  Still stroking her with his fingers, finding her 
clitoris and giving it his best two fingered salute.  Sliding those fingers 
back inside her with each stroke, to keep her slippery.

She got wetter, of course, and his jeans felt like the zipper was about to 
burst.  He moaned and released the nipple, paid homage to the other one, 
moving his free hand to the abandoned breast.  Small nub against his palm and 
Oh, God, she was hot and squirming and silky wet and he would have just 
pounced and driven into her if the Miata hadn't been so....

Cramped.

She began to sing.

"How do you solve a problem like Marita,
How do you catch a spy and pin her down,
How do you find a word that means Marita?
A bad Mata Hari, a gullible fool, a clown?"
Many a gun you'd like to show her,
Many a time you'd like to read her brain!
But how do you make her say,
The secrets you need today,
How do make her feel the massive pain?
Oh, how do you solve a problem like Marita?
How do you kill her off without arrest!"

The lines didn't scan well, and he dimly remembered the tune from the Sound 
of Music.  Scary, but his body was ignoring the song until the last night 
went up almost frighteningly in pitch and Scully's body stiffened, Scully's 
fingers in his hair tightened almost painfully and she shrieked in pleasure.

God, he felt smug.  

Leaning back, he surveyed her flushed face, kissed the lush mouth. 

"Oh, that was very good, Mulder," Scully approved, her tone languid.  "Now 
it's my turn."

He was not at all averse to that notion.  Whimpered when her hands started at 
his waistband and ubuttoned his jeans.  Moaned when she squeezed him through 
his shorts.  Groaned as she freed him and bent to close that luscious pair of 
lips around him.

A blow job.  

Oh, God, Scully was giving him a blow job, in the front seat of a Miata, with 
Mickey Mouse watching.  Wearing a nun's wimple and veil.

And apparently humming My Favorite Things.

He waved weakly at Mickey, his brain cells rapidly turning to sludge.  Did he 
care that he was getting blown in front of Mickey Mouse?  He did not. If it 
was okay with Mickey, it was okay with him. 

Something huge blocked the sun from the front window, he realized that the T. 
Rex was also watching, a big, unblinking eye.

Scully was up to the verse about the dog biting and he closed his eyes, a 
little unnerved by the eye.

Her tongue flicked all around the crown of his cock, skillfully probing the 
tip, teasing the rim and he thought he was going to faint.

Groaned for her.......

Just please let her not sing.

Please.

Oh, God, that gorgeous mouth was hot and lush and Christ, he was going to 
come, and he tried to warn her, tried to tug her up, but all she did was 
intensify the humming.  Girls in white dresses, he thought dimly, adding the 
words in his head, and suddenly, the pleasure at the base of his spine 
uncoiled and he, too, cried out, trying hard not to thrust up too hard, too 
deeply.

Only when he opened his eyes, Scully was suddenly fully attired in full habit 
again, Mickey Mouse was taking a picture, and oh, my, god, there was a line 
of tourists doing likewise.

He shrieked outright in horror--

--And found he was in the motel in Minnesota, his cock still throbbing and 
sticky and sweats sticking to him....and Scully shaking him awake.

<continued>

Minnesota - Part 7	

by wickedzoot@aol.com

Scully glanced at her travel alarm when she heard the first faint sounds from 
the next room.  Shit, Mulder was having a nightmare again. Good thing she'd 
brought her handy dandy traveling Mulder pharmacy in from the car. 

Getting out of bed, she shrugged into her plush robe. Her toes curled away 
from the draft at ankle height and she fumbled for her bunny slippers. The 
bag was on the desk and she padded over to it, sighing under her breath as 
she heard another muffled cry. 

Rummaging through it--let's see, what did she have? Seconal? Hmmm, a 
possibility, though it might be a bit more than was required. Very tempting, 
but given the way the poor man zoned on Dramamine, this might knock him out 
for days. She tried to remember if there was a limit on how much Dramamine 
she could give him within a 24 hour period. Finally shrugged and poured two 
tablets out into her palm.

The sounds were increasing in volume by the time she got the warped 
connecting door to give way. God, poor Mulder's room was chillier than hers. 
Wincing at that, she made her way to the edge of the bed, not wanting to 
startle him awake with the light.

"Mulder," she murmured, and bumped into the edge of the bed, "Mulder, it's 
okay, it's just a dream."

The moaning went up another notch in decibel level. She patted his back and 
rubbed between his shoulder blades, but it didn't do any good, he kept 
moaning, sounding terrified and distraught. 

Suddenly, frighteningly, he cried out wordlessly and jackknifed in bed, 
nearly knocking her off.  Okay, enough was enough--Scully reached for the 
lamp and clicked it on.

He squinted and blinked rapidly, his dazed expression was heart-rending. It 
must have been the one about his sister. 

It occurred to her that it was strange that she, his partner, should know the 
repertoire of his dreams. "It's okay," she told him softly and pulled the 
covers back to slide closer to him on the bed.

And stopped suddenly, puzzled, to see a large damp spot on the front of his 
sweat pants. "Mulder?"

Abruptly, Mulder's face crumpled and he scrambled away from her, sliding out 
of bed on his knees and backing up under the counter and sink before she 
caught up with him again. "No, don't touch me. Please, just go away, Scully, 
I'm fine." He fended her off with eyes wide and panicky, hands rising to ward 
her away.

"No, you're not." She reached out and made little patting motions in the air. 
"It's okay, Mulder. You were having a nightmare. Anybody might wet their 
pants at that."

His expression became even more miserable, even more panicky and a tear 
rolled down one cheek. She was abruptly aware of the faintest aroma. 
Something she recognized--whoops, not urine. She knew that smell. 

And she blushed deeply.

Mulder buried his head in his arms. "Oh,God," he wept, "I've never been this 
mortified. Not even when you came in and found Detective White molesting me. 
Oh, God, Scully, I can't ever look you in the eye again."

She swallowed. Jesus, just when you decided he was as insensitive as a rock, 
he went all to pieces on you. "Mulder, wet dreams are perfectly normal." 
Well, they were normal for fourteen year old boys, at least. Although, 
considering Mulder's emotional age, that might be just about right.

He raised a tear-stained face, his expression agonized. "Not like this! I was 
dreaming about Mickey Mouse, Jurassic Park, you, me, and a Miata! And you 
were wearing a nun's habit, for God's sake. And singing. Or humming." He 
wiped at his eyes and hiccoughed. "I'm not even Catholic, Scully!"

Scully blushed again. A nun's habit? A Miata? Well, dreams were just dreams, 
she guessed, but Mickey Mouse and Jurassic Park were a little frightening. 
"Well, dreams are just dreams, Mulder." Jurassic Park? A little frightening?  
Jesus, he was sicker than she thought.

"We were taking a tour." He sniffled and gave her an imploring look.

A tour. Desperately, she sought for something to say to ease the atmosphere. 
Not easy to when her mind kept trying to reproduce the images from his dream 
and fit them together.  She was wearing what? A nun's habit? And humming--oh, 
never mind, she understood that.  If he weren't clearly so humiliated and 
miserable, she'd shoot him again. Finally, "Mulder, look, at least you're not 
impotent."

He sniffled again, gave her a wrathful look. "That's supposed to make me feel 
better?" he demanded and shivered, knees drawn up against his chest, arms 
wrapped tight around them.

The other connecting door opened with the shriek of warped wood and Trask 
lumbered in.  Scully put a hand lightly on Mulder's arm and felt him shudder 
as she turned to look over her shoulder. 

Oh, God, she didn't blame him, she had to fight not to shudder herself. 

Trask had pink curlers in her hair. Cold cream on her face. And a set of 
those nasal bands across her nose. If that weren't enough, she was wearing an 
enormous red flannel nightgown. Well, she reasoned, it had to be enormous, 
Trask was a pretty big woman. As tall as Mulder and twice as broad. 
Especially across the shoulders and hips.

"What the gosh-darn heck is going on in here?" Trask's expression was 
suspicious. Judgemental. Obviously, Scully thought, Trask believe there was 
some form of hanky panky taking place. With both of them fully dressed. 

Of course, if Trask got a whiff of Mulder, she might be certain of it. It was 
time to take control of the situation again.

Mulder whimpered, burying his face in his arms again, tucking his knees up 
against his chest.

"Trooper Trask--" Scully steadied her voice. Kept it crisp. No nonsense. 
"Could you please get me a glass from the dresser." She backed upwind away 
from Mulder, praying that the Arctic draft didn't switch directions anytime 
soon.

Mulder shuddered again.

A little baffled, Trask brought her one of the usual plastic cups with the 
sanitary seal. 

Unfortunately, there was lipstick on the rim. 

Scully ran hot water and cleaned it thoroughly before filling it with cold 
water. She waved Trask back and knelt again beside her partner. "Here, 
Mulder, I want you to take these. These will you sleep."

Finally, he raised his head, blinked at the pills. "Scully, I don't need any 
more Dramamine, we're on the ground now." 

She gave him a stern look, ignoring the pathetic way his lower lip trembled. 
Glanced back at Trask. Finally, reluctantly, he reached for the tablets. 
Swallowed them with the water and grimaced at the characteristic taste of 
iron rich water.

"Better call the Culligan man, Scully." he growled, took another quick taste 
to get the Dramamine bitterness of his tongue.

"He's fine," Scully told Trask. "Go on back to bed."

Still huddled under the sink, Mulder gazed at her. "You go back to bed, too, 
Scully."

Trask's door closed. "Get up and take a shower," she told him, "I'll dig up 
some clean sweats from your suitcase."

Blink.  Blink.  "I can take a shower by myself."  

Conciliatory, hesitant tone, but it only made Scully cross.  "Oh, get over 
it, Mulder. I've seen you naked more times than I care to remember."  Nope 
that was a mistake, she could have found a more tactful way of saying that, 
his face fell further. "Oh, go on."

He dragged himself out from under the counter, avoiding her gaze. Went into 
the small bathroom and closed the door.

Damn, she really was hoping to get another peek at him.


<continued>


Minnesota - Part 8	

by wickedzoot@aol.com

Mulder swallowed, tried to get his mouth to work up some moisture. His lips 
were dry, gluey, nastily sticky. And his tongue felt like the Sahara. The 
pillowcase under his cheek felt sticky, too--evidently, he'd used up all his 
spit in drooling. Again. And the light was wrong, too bright. 

He blinked, found that his eyelashes were crusty. Pushed himself up, 
wondering why he felt so damned groggy. Oh, shit. Dramamine. His eyes closed 
tightly as he remembered suddenly. Remembered his dream. Remembered Scully 
coming in, making him take the little pills. 

Oh God. The next time, she wouldn't be content with Dramamine. She'd give him 
Valium. Or Seconal. She'd call Skinner, who would summon him back to DC in 
his partner's care, who would make him stand on the rug in front of Skinner's 
desk and give him the old talk, the "step back from it for a while" talk, the 
"why not take a vacation and get some rest" talk. And that cigarette smoking 
fucker would be capering gleefully that a sick, twisted killer had finally 
managed what four years of terrorism and dirty tricks had not.

They might even reassign him to something less stressful. They might force 
him to take medical leave. Lots of crocodile tears over how hard he'd worked, 
over how good an agent he was, how sorry they'd be to lose him, even for a 
short time.....putting his face in the pillow, he moaned.

An icy glass of gingerale appeared from out of nowhere. Mulder took it, 
leaned up and drank greedily. Scully sat on the edge of his bed.

Mulder swallowed, wished he'd feigned sleep.  

Scully smiled at him, that old, let me see where it hurts, partner, smile. 
"How're you feeling?"  

"I'm okay," Mulder managed to avoid thinking about last night. About the 
realization in her eyes. God, and she'd thought he'd pissed the bed. He 
couldn't decide which was worse. 

Her mouth pursed. He watched in fascination, unable to dispel the image of 
her in a nun's habit, her lips wrapped around his--don't go there, he 
gibbered silently, oh, please, don't go there. 

Scully's voice was soft. "How long has this been going on?"  

He gulped. Wet dreams about his partner? Well, usually he took care of them 
with fantasies before he went to bed. "Not long." And felt his face heat up.

"Are they this bad?"  

He tried to interpret "bad". Did she mean Jurassic Park? The Miata and nun's 
habit? Or did she just want to know if they were this intense? He decided on 
the latter. "Not usually."  

Another silence. "How often?"  

Mulder frowned, considered Scully. He couldn't very well tell her that he 
whacked off imagining her in a cranberry silk bustier. "Um. I don't know. Not 
often. It's not the work, Scully. And it's not you, I know that's what it 
must look like. But it's not."  

She nodded, eyeing him from behind a lock of hair. He suppressed a shiver. 
"You want to tell me what then?"  

Mulder swallowed, trying to formulate an explanation that left out what was 
real and that would simultaneously get him off the hook. For some reason, she 
hadn't shot him right off. She was giving him a chance. "Well, you know, 
we've been pretty busy, Scully. My, uh, social life has kind of suffered. 
And," hard swallow, "You're a very attractive woman, so I guess my psyche is 
just, um, using your image in these things."  

Scully sighed heavily. "Yeah, I can understand that."

His ears almost swiveled forward at the sigh and her tone. "You can?"

She nodded again, avoiding his eye.  Her cheeks were slightly flushed.

Mulder stared, glanced away, then stared again.  Did women have the 
equivalent of wet dreams? He thought they did, but couldn't remember for 
sure. And had never had the guts to ask one. Was she dreaming about him? 
Fantasizing?

Without looking at him directly, Scully sighed, almost mournfully. "Mulder, 
I'm worried about you."

"I'm okay." He looked up, couldn't prevent himself from noticing the lacy 
outline of her bra beneath her shirt. Christ, he was going to dream about 
that, too, if he wasn't careful. Jesus, she'd been humming songs from the 
Sound of Music while she--no, no, don't go there, Mulder. "I'm not crazy, 
Scully. I'm not coming apart. Not yet. I can finish this case up. Don't make 
me go back."  

Scully frowned, a line between her brows. "Can you, Mulder? You couldn't keep 
your supper down last night?"  

Mulder nodded. "It was just the ham and yams, Scully. I hate yams anyway--and 
it made me think of him, sitting there while Caroline Timmeson's body cooled, 
chowing down."  

She nodded again, pushed her hair back behind her ears. "Okay. I want your 
word that when this is over you'll go to psych services and get some help."  

Mulder nodded. "I will. Thank you." He looked away from her, if only to keep 
from thinking about those lips again. Oh, God, he was in real trouble here. 
Thinking of his partner in sexual terms. But, God, that garter belt under the 
nun's habit. And her mouth....he didn't dare look back at her.

"Okay. Why don't you shower and dress, we'll go and get some breakfast." 
Scully rose and went to the connecting door, leaving him to sag back against 
the pillows in relief.

He was going to have to deal with this ruthlessly. And if that meant spanking 
the monkey everytime he felt that unresolved sexual tension between them, he 
was going to spend a lot of time in men's rooms.


"You know what's going to happen? I'll tell you what." Bergman hawked noisily 
and spat. 

Trask watched the ugly glob of slightly greenish phlegm freeze atop the 
snowbank. A testament to the state of Bergman's sinuses. 

Bergman's scowl was no less ugly. "The Fibbie wunderkind over there will wave 
his magic wand, make a few more asinine pronouncements about the killer's 
taste in cuisine for the press, and then go back to our nation's great 
capital, leaving us with the final clean up and the hard work. Jerk."  

Trask sighed. She wasn't crazy about Mulder--the man was just too damned 
weird. And nightmares--Heavenly Father, what a mess. Her sunglasses reflected 
Bergman, his deputies, and Mulder, presently standing knee deep in the snowy 
field where the first victim had been found. She wasn't sure what he hoped to 
find here. "Is that what you think is going on, Harald?" 

Bergman spat again. "Sure. I've heard about this guy, Katrina. They give him 
the hard to prove cases, let him come in and razzle dazzle the locals, write 
up some piece of moonshine about the killer and then bring in some poor son 
of a gun who fits his profile. He thinks somebody local did this. I've grown 
up here, Katrina, I've been here most of my life, except for seven years in 
Minneapolis. And I know our people like I know my wife and family." He 
snorted. "They call him Spooky Mulder. Ain't that something? They send us a 
Fibbie named Spooky. And even if his profile is wrong, he's gonna get the 
credit when we bag some city boy sicko, never mind he wanted to pin it on a 
hometowner." Bergman wrinkled his nose, pitted with blackheads. Blinked 
behind those Smoky and the Bear mirrored sunglasses. Stomped his feet to keep 
them warm. 

She looked back at the field, saw the rows and rows of young Christmas trees. 
And Mulder just stood out there, up to his knees in the snow, turning in 
circles like a little kid and muttering to himself. White spume from his 
breath told her that, even if Bergman's disgusted mutterings had not.  

She'd tried to tune Harald out. She didn't much like Harald, too many years 
in Minneapolis had soured him, left him with the vocabulary of a hell-bound 
Marine. He was married to her fourth cousin Tilda, and he wasn't really a bad 
cop. But he'd taken a dislike to Mulder yesterday in the Timmeson house. 

Mulder's little performance had unnerved Harald, and Harald was one of those 
big macho types that had to be in charge anyway. He'd been carping at the FBI 
profiler since joining them for a late breakfast. Agent Scully had tried to 
shut him up, but Harald didn't pay much attention to what a little bitty city 
girl had to say. She'd had to finally shut Harald down, earning herself a 
look that promised her a ranting from Tilda. She wondered, not for the first 
time, why Harald had ever left Minneapolis.

Out in the field, Mulder had stopped suddenly, bent over and peered at the 
snow, digging with gloved hands. He crouched and sort of sighted, like a 
surveyor would, then he was up and off across the field at a half-lope--or as 
close an imitation was possible in this much snow.  

"Shit," muttered Bergman. "Off his rocker." 

Ignoring him, Trask followed Mulder, trying to step in his footsteps in case 
Mulder had really found something. Ahead of her, Mulder had reached the rows 
of young trees and was stepping carefully between rows, looking before every 
step. 

She caught up with him easily enough.  "You got something we missed?"  

"I have no idea." Mulder sounded absent, though. And Trask, though she hadn't 
admitted it to Harald, and wouldn't, had read about this guy. Had read about 
his arrest rate, even in his current flaky division. Little grey men--she 
wished some of them would come and give Harald a proctological exam, might 
shut him up a little.  

"The killer--" Mulder was struggling to put words together, his mind racing 
underneath the seemingly distant look. "Um. The killer didn't come from the 
main road." Mulder's head turned, his sunglasses aimed back to target 
Bergman, stomping his feet hard as he walked around the four wheel drive 
vehicle and spat into the snow again. "Um, he came in through here." 

Trask bent to examine a flattened seedling, caught her breath in recognition. 
Tipping her head back, she eyed Mulder. "How?"

Mulder frowned, the lines visible above his sunglasses. "Skis? No, the first 
victim was a big man, he'd have to have dragged him." He walked further, 
struggling with the snow that wanted to hold his feet captive. "I don't know 
what this is," he admitted, pointing.

Trask's mouth drew down into a flat line. "Snowmobile. He brought the body in 
on a snowmobile. Dumped it over there. Covered his tracks, at least to here."

Once they knew what they were looking for, the path was simple to find. A 
crusted, flat trail through the Christmas tree seedlings, some of them 
ruined, rendered little more than green shoots coming up from under the snow. 

Broken baby trees, lying frozen and sere, no long alive and growing. Snow and 
ice and the flatness of the trail, down into the hollow behind the hill, out 
of Bergman's sight. Their breath white smoke as they hurried, following it 
back, farther and farther until--until they reached the farmer's access road, 
where the trail ended. 

No food here. But then, they weren't sure what the first poem had said. It 
might not have had anything to do with food. The killer had shared his 
fantasy, but they'd missed the piece of the puzzle he'd wanted them to have. 
It had been thrown away. 

When they returned and showed Bergman, he loudly pronounced it useless. 
"Snowmobiles are thicker than trees in the woods around here," he snarled at 
Mulder. "We don't even know those tracks were there when we found the body."

"Nope," Trask intervened. "You don't. But you didn't look, Harald. Your boys 
didn't look. I'm calling the state labs, I want them to go over this scene 
again."

She swung behind the wheel of the truck, turned on the ignition and flipped 
the lever for the heat to high. Bergman allowed Mulder to climb in back, 
climbed in beside her without another word.

"We might find something else," she told Bergman firmly. "Something that will 
help us catch this guy before he kills again."

Behind her, she sensed movement. Looked up in the rearview mirror to see 
Mulder turn his head and look out the window.

Shivered as she heard his voice, faint and low from the back seat. 

"Belinda lived in a little white house, With a little black kitten and a 
little gray mouse, And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon, And a 
realio, trulio, little pet dragon."

"What the hell is that? More poetry?" Bergman turned and scowled at Mulder. 

Mulder's answering grin was wide, manic. "Ogden Nash. Let's drive around a 
little." 

Trask looked in the rearview mirror. "Looking for what?" 

"For..." Mulder's voice trailed off, he shrugged. 

Trask shivered, despite the thermal underwear, despite the heat that was 
beginning to thaw the interior of the vehicle. "Yah. Okay, you'll know what 
you're looking for..."  

"When I see it." Mulder finished and leaned forward to look out the window 
again.  


<continued>


Minnesota - Part 9	

by wickedzoot@aol.com

The covered bridge head was narrow, rickety and picturesque. There was only 
room for one vehicle at a time, Trask had to pull off to wait for the elderly 
Studebaker to go through. Mulder heard her sigh, but his attention was 
elsewhere. Watching the endless procession of snowbanks. Looking down at the 
frozen surface of the creek, all that life locked away until spring. 

Ice. Wintry waste all around him. And his thoughts kept nudging him, kept 
pulling out more Nash, as if it would lead him to the killer. "Now the name 
of the little black kitten was Ink, And the little gray mouse, she called her 
Blink, And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard, But the dragon was a 
coward, and she called him Custard.  Stop the car!"

"What?" Bergman's tone was sharp. 

But Mulder was out the door before the sharpness had died. Trask flicked off 
the key, threw her door open and followed.

Good cops work on instincts, but Mulder was well beyond that. Well beyond it. 
He was down, now, nearly under the bridge--"Mulder, watch out on the ice, 
there was a thaw last week!"

Mulder was oblivious to the danger. "Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth, 
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath, Mouth like a fireplace, 
chimney for a nose, And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes. " He turned his 
head, the sunglasses reflecting Trask's image back at her. "He presents a 
fearsome image, but only he knows that he's always afraid. He has to resolve 
the fear." His gloved hand pointed toward a scar in the ice. "He found the 
man here, this is where he caught him. No sign of a struggle, he was a 
familiar face. Someone who wasn't feared. The victim was fishing."

Squinting, Trask saw the spidery line, already frozen into the surface of the 
creek. The thaw, then more snow and refreezing. "Lord Above."

Mulder's breath came in white puffs.  "It was early morning. When no one was 
about. Maybe--maybe Sunday? When everyone might be getting ready for church? 
Scully might be right." Mulder's words seemed tangled, as if he were going in 
several directions at once. "I need to see the autopsy report again on that 
one. I need to see what he did with him." Paused, speculatively, took off his 
sunglasses and peered into the shadows under the bridge. "Belinda was a brave 
as a barrel full of bears, And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs, 
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage, But Custard cried for a nice safe 
cage." Another pause. "He was afraid of his parents. Afraid of everyone. He 
might have been the youngest. Or the middle child. And they ran riot over 
him. And his parents--he was afraid. Always afraid, he wanted to be safe. And 
he found his safety in the Garden. In God's bosom."

Trask frowned, wondered at this. Realized that Mulder was imagining the 
encounter on the ice. 

He went on, so fast that his words were staccato, almost excited.  "He gets 
enraged when people don't see the safety that God provides. He wants 
to--damn, Scully's right. It's the church attendance. We need to see the 
church attendance. He's a member of the parish. Probably someone very 
involved with the church."

"Mister Mulder," Bergman's voice was scornful. "In a town this size, 
*everyone's* involved with the church."

"Could be the minister," Mulder murmured, still staring at the scar in the 
ice. "Even the minister."

Trask swallowed hard, grabbed Bergman's arm when he moved as if to grab 
Mulder. Glared at him silently.

And Mulder turned, picking his way across the uncertain ice as daintily as a 
cat. Back to the heat of the car he went, his words floating over his 
shoulder in the crisp chill of the air. "Belinda tickled him, she tickled him 
unmerciful, Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called in Percival, They all 
sat laughing in the little red wagon, At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon."


"Time of death could have been on Sunday," Scully agreed, when she joined up 
with them again at the Country Kitchen restaurant. 

Mulder was leaning back in his chair at the end of the table, the booth 
wasn't big enough for all of them. Heels kicked out flat against the floor, 
expression brooding. Eyes distant. Sitting down beside him, she heard him 
murmuring to himself, tilted her head to listen closely.

"Belinda giggled till she shook the house, And Blink said Week!, which is 
giggling for a mouse, Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age, When Custard 
cried for a nice safe cage."

"Mulder," she said, suddenly worried again. He was awfully pale, and he 
shivered when she touched his arm. "What does it tell you?"

"He's God's soldier, Scully." Leaning forward, Mulder took the cup of coffee 
and held it between his hands, as if warming his fingers. "That's how he sees 
himself. I think you might be right about the minister. Or--what do they call 
them? Deacons. We need to talk to the minister, check out the congregation."

"Sure." Scully patted his arm again. "Trask said you found something at the 
first site."

"Snowmobile tracks," he told her gloomily. "And the place where he took the 
first victim. I know it, Scully. Only forensics will tell us for sure, but I 
know it."

She nodded. Trask believed it, too, whatever Bergman thought. "I believe you, 
Mulder. We can talk to the minister this afternoon. Trask says she can get us 
an appointment."

He murmured again. "Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound, And Mustard 
growled, and they all looked around. Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried 
Belinda, For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda. Pistol in his left 
hand, pistol in his right, And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright, His 
beard was black, one leg was wood; It was clear that the pirate meant no 
good." Mulder sighed. "He's very afraid, Scully. Only his belief in his God 
allows him to do this. He's not going to be a very aggressive individual, 
probably very soft-spoken, people probably think of him as weak. But he has 
his own kind of strength." 

He brooded in silence for a moment and Scully glanced over at Trask and 
Bergman.  Bergman was watching Mulder in horrified fascination. She wanted to 
ask him what he was looking at.

Mulder took another sip of coffee, still staring at nothing. "Belinda paled, 
and she cried, Help! Help! But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp, Ink 
trickled down to the bottom of the household, And little mouse Blink was 
strategically mouseholed. But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine, 
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon, With a clatter and a clank ad a 
jangling squirm He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm. The pirate 
gaped at Belinda's dragon, And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon, He 
fired two bullets but they didn't hit, And Custard gobbled him, every bit."  
His voice had ridden steadily and people were starting to stare at their 
table.

Scully shivered. Where the hell was Mulder pulling this stuff from? None of 
this had been found on the bodies. "Mulder," she began, but he looked up at 
her as if really seeing her at last.

His expression was serious.  "I think he's hoping to prove himself to the 
people he's feared for so long. To prove that God is on his side. That he's 
serving God so much better than they could." He blinked, eyes wide and dark 
pupil swallowing the iris, diving into his private hell. "Belinda embraced 
him, Mustard licked him, No one mourned for his pirate victim, Ink and Blink 
in glee did gyrate, Around the dragon that ate the pyrate. " He blinked again 
and his pupils contracted. "This is such a fucking mess, Scully."

Scully silently agreed. 

The waitress--oh, God, not Inge again--came up and beamed at Pendrell, who 
blushed and beamed back. The stories from VCS suggested that Mulder had 
scored plenty on his travels as a profiler. She wondered if it had kept him 
sane. He didn't even seem to see the pretty blonde as she refilled his coffee 
cup, but when she missed and splashed coffee in his lap, he yelped.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Inge told him absently and went back to Pendrell.

Scowling, Scully grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the dispenser to mop 
Mulder up, but his hand caught her wrist gently.

"It's okay, Scully, I've got it." His eyes were frightened again, but he 
managed a smart ass grin and a mock leer. "Unless you really feel it needs 
your medical attention, Dr. Scully."

"All right." Bergman's voice was rough. "What do we know? For real," he 
added, giving Mulder a jaundiced look. 

"The first victim was discovered in Jacob Bronson's Christmas tree field," 
Trask read through her notes. "On a Tuesday morning. Frozen stiff. He'd 
suffocated on the live bait stuffed into his throat and nose. There was a 
note found on the body, but it was inadvertently discarded."

Scully picked up a folder, choosing to bypass that admission. "The second and 
third victims were found together. Brothers. Both bachelors, both in their 
sixties, both farmers, found naked except fore the thermal underwear, their 
bodies entwined in the ice-fishing shack they kept on the lake. Both of them 
drowned in cod liver oil. Their lungs were full of it."

"He wanted to be sure that no one read the message wrong," Mulder muttered. 
"That it wasn't a sexual statement, that's why he left them in their thermal 
underwear, he didn't want people to think he'd molested them." Reaching, he 
pulled back clear, plastic evidence bag, held it up to the light and went 
even paler.  "That's what I was afraid of." 

"What?" Bergman sounded irascible. "Things that go bump in the night? Green 
Jell-O?"

Trask elbowed him.  "Jeez, Harald."

Yams and ham, Scully thought and studied her partner worriedly.

Mulder took a pencil from the table and pointed at the last line, of which 
she could only make out a few words, so sodden was the paper in fish oil. 
"See that, Scully? I recognize that. 'I'd call me Us.'"

She nodded encouragingly. "And?"

With a cough, Mulder cleared his throat. "Tell me, O Octopus, I begs, Is 
those things arms, or is they legs? I marvel at thee, Octopus; If I were 
thou, I'd call me Us." He tossed the pencil and the evidence bag and sighed 
wearily. "More Nash. The brothers were close, they'd lived and worked 
together since they'd inherited the farm, more than thirty years." His head 
came up and he eyed Bergman. "Were they church goers?"

After a moment, Bergman's lips tightened. He shook his head, almost 
reluctantly.

Mulder rubbed his forehead. "I thought that might be the case. He killed them 
together, as they lived. The poem just tells us that they were both equal in 
their sin, they were joined spiritually, and thus required the same 
punishment--or cleansing. Cod liver oil. The tonic given to children to 
strengthen them, to prevent rickets. But they already suffered from spiritual 
rickets, and the killer gave them the cure." His voice was hushed, sorrowful.

"So how does he know?" Pendrell asked of the room in general. All eyes turned 
towards Mulder. 

"I don't know for sure," Mulder sighed, closed his eyes. "He's involved with 
the church. A deacon, or a minister. But there's something missing. There's a 
body we haven't found, somebody who hasn't been reported missing yet. His 
first kill. He's getting more and more creative, he started simply. And we 
haven't found that yet."  

Trask swallowed audibly, her bubblegum tucked into her cheek like a nut held 
in the mouth of a chipmunk. "First body?"  

Mulder's eyes snapped open. "Yeah. He's an intelligent fellow, our murderer. 
I think he wasn't quite sure what he wanted out of this, there at the first, 
but now he knows. He hid the first body. Or it was just bad luck that it 
wasn't discovered. Now he wants everyone to know. Wants his work to be 
obvious, wants the sinners to know what he's doing. And maybe, he knows just 
exactly who's coming to dinner. Us. He wants us to understand why he does 
it." Mulder's grin was manic and somehow demonic and Scully shuddered. 

The wind howled outside the windows of the Country Kitchen, but it was warm 
and safe inside. Not that you could tell, looking at the white faces around 
the table. 

Well, except for Pendrell, who was holding a whispered flirtation with the 
waitress while he decided what to order. Except for that, they were all 
silent, and Mulder closed his eyes, leaned back again, long legs stretched 
out.

Scully shuddered again. No more gargoyle cases, she told him silently, I 
don't know where you go when you do this, someplace where monsters live under 
the bed and try and yank you under--but I'm not going to let you fall down 
that hole, Wabbit, so just hang tough for me.

Inge finally tore herself away from Pendrell and poised her pencil over her 
pad. "Is everyone ready to order?" she asked brightly.

<continued>


Minnesota - Part 10	

by wickedzoot@aol.com

Mulder was sitting in his hotel room, having ducked out on the team on the 
excuse that he got more paperwork done in still and quiet--and in full view 
of a television set, although this part of it was unstated. 

Scully had agreed, but insisted Pendrell go with him. Mulder imagined raised 
brows at that one, Spooky Mulder needs a babysitter, the lab geek from DC. 

He'd wanted to raise his own, but losing his lunch again had weakened his 
case before he tried it. 

Mulder hated throwing up anyway.  And pancakes, despite their essentially 
bland and innocent nature, were fast losing their appeal after upchucking two 
plates of them. Sucking on one of his popsicles, he sat down cross-legged on 
the bed he'd chosen, his laptop in front of him. 

Pendrell stood against the door looking nervous. "Agent Mulder, can I talk to 
you a minute?"

Looking up, Mulder swallowed poisonously green lime sweetness and nodded. 
"Sure, Pendrell. What's on your mind."

Pendrell blushed and stammered for a moment. "Um, that is, you said something 
about not, um, seeing the local girls, that it caused trouble. Were you 
serious, sir, or were you just pulling my leg."

Mulder gazed at him blankly. "I'd never pull your leg, Pendrell. It can cause 
trouble unless, of course, you're someplace where there's a Bureau office and 
the local girl is working there. Well, it can still cause trouble then," he 
added, smiling nostalgically as he remembered a night he'd had to climb out a 
window stark naked, his clothes stuffed under his arm. "If she has brothers 
bigger than you are." 

But, oh, it had been worth it. His toes curled in his socks, just remembering 
it, his first experience with the old adage, Catholic girls give the best 
head. That thought led inexorably to the only other Catholic girl with whom 
he was presently acquainted, which led back to the Miata, the garter belt, 
damp red curls, and pouty lips wrapped around his--"Anyway," he said hastily, 
"Pendrell, you can flirt all you want, but when it comes to stronger stuff, 
take care of business yourself."

Looking crestfallen, Pendrell nodded and sighed. "I suppose you're right. It 
wouldn't do any harm, though, to take in a movie, would it?"

Mulder's eyes narrowed. "Ah, the little waitress. Inge. No, I suppose it 
wouldn't, just don't let Scully see you with her. Wouldn't want her to get 
jealous." 

Aside from the fact that Scully had sworn she was going to shoot the waitress 
if they got saddled with her again. She'd had to finish his pancakes again, 
never having gotten her own lunch order.

Pendrell's face was crimson and peculiarly earnest. "I don't think she'd be 
jealous, would she?"

"Maybe not. But Irish girls are pretty hot blooded. I mean, she shot me once, 
and it wasn't even out of jealousy." Unless she'd been jealous he was about 
to shoot Krycek, but he somehow doubted it.  Krycek hadn't killed her sister 
yet.

Nodding worriedly, Pendrell inched back toward the door. "Oh, that's right, I 
forgot. Well, thanks, Agent Mulder. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention 
this to Agent Scully."

Mulder smiled beatifically at Pendrell. "Of course not, Pendrell. This is 
just between us." And snickered when the door closed. What a dweeb. 

Of course, Pendrell was an intelligent dweeb, which meant that might be hope 
for him yet. But he had other things to do right now than worry about 
Pendrell.

He had the killer.

The way the killer picked his victims was obvious. Too obvious. Caroline 
Timmeson *had*, it turned out, been a somewhat irregular church goer. Which 
meant that either the killer was extremely rigid in how he defined regular 
attendance, or that he was looking at the wrong indicator. 

His mind worried that nut while he turned on the television and settled down 
to another wonderful grade Z movie with lots of bouncing boobs and scanty 
apparel. 


Scully got back from the morgue, opened the connecting door to see Mulder 
riffling through papers, spreading the contents of the files around the bed 
with his notes. He glanced up at her briefly, went back to rifling his own 
notes.

"Shit, Scully, I'm missing something. It can't be that easy, it can't just be 
the church attendance. It's more than that." Lunging for the phone, he 
punched in numbers, gave her a manic grin as he waited. "Yeah, this is Agent 
Mulder, can you get Bergman for me?"

"He doesn't like you," Scully told him mildly, resting a hip against the door 
jamb. "Mulder, you look like hell, why don't you get some sleep?"

Mulder grinned again, flipped her off without pausing in his conversation. 
"Yeah, Bergman, Mulder. I need you guys to dig up everything about the 
victims you know. Not just the public stuff. Personal quirks. Did they use 
bad language, did they enjoy a nip or two on a snowy evening. How did they 
treat their kids, their pets. Have your guys talk to family members." He 
scowled suddenly. "Yeah, well, I want to know what he's tracking besides 
church attendance, Bergman. Caroline Timmeson went to church." He rolled his 
eyes at her. "Yeah, I know she didn't go all the time, but she was a member 
of the church. I want to find out what else he's tracking, okay. Yeah, 
thanks." The phone went down with a slam and Mulder scowled again. "Stupid 
asshole."

"That's an insult to assholes." Scully kept her tone mild. "Mulder, I want 
you to get some rest, okay?" That got a dark look. Moving into his room, she 
swiftly gathered up the scattered papers and files and backed away from him 
when he leaned forward. "You look like shit, you still haven't recovered from 
yesterday, and you threw up your lunch."

Another dark look. "I'm fine."

"Sure." She nodded patiently. "I'd like you to stay fine, Mulder." Retreating 
to her room, she dumped the files and returned with the Pepto. "You can't 
live on popsicles, Mulder," she told him, glancing at the pile of discarded 
sticks in the room's ashtray. 

"Scully, I hate that shit." He poked out his lower lip. 

Had she said his emotional age was fourteen? That was being generous. At 
moments like this, she'd guess closer to three or four. "It'll help settle 
your stomach."

"My stomach is settled," he growled, ducking away from her. 

She set the bottle on the nightstand and sat down, put a hand to his 
forehead. "No fever," she sighed. "Get some rest. I'll wake you up in a 
couple of hours, okay?"

Deep scowl, lines forming between his brows. With the pouty mouth, he really 
resembled nothing so much as her four year old nephew in a snit. Biting back 
a smile, she went to the door again, gave him a stern look, the one she'd 
practiced since becoming an aunt. "Sleep."

"Arf," he told her, but pulled the covers back and slid between them.

Smiling a little, she pulled the door partly shut and went into her own room. 
Opened up her laptop and brought up her file, sighed as she considered what 
else needed to be added. Needed to be addressed. 

Instead, she closed it and opened her field journal.


Mulder leaned up and sighed, wishing Scully hadn't left the door partly open. 
Slid out of bed and tiptoed into the bathroom, pausing only to grab one of 
his magazines from his carryon. Locked the bathroom door--hell, she couldn't 
exactly bitch at him for taking a shit, could she? 

Although, knowing Scully, she'd tell him he should have gone earlier. 

But that damned dream kept haunting him everytime he closed his eyes. And 
when his eyes were open. When she'd touched his forehead, he'd flashed on her 
humming again, gone almost painfully erect and had to wait until she'd walked 
back out to loosen his zipper and adjust himself. Which, naturally, had led 
to this notion.

Instead of looking at the admittedly delightful visions of female pulchritude 
in his magazine, he leaned back on the closed toilet seat, jeans around his 
knees, eyelids drooping to half-mast as the images from his dream came back. 

Creamy, satiny skin, sweetly rounded, all hidden under that damned nun's 
habit. Carmine lips, puffy and just as sweet, working their magic--his fist 
worked, a hypnotic rhythm that kept him focused on his dream. On his 
fantasies. Those damp red curls, puffy flesh opening to his touch, black 
garter belt and seamed stockings, spike heels out of place with the demure 
black and white. 

He'd dreamed he'd had his fingers inside that slippery flesh, there wasn't 
room in the Miata to just throw her down and fuck her, so he'd explored that 
while she sang those ridiculous Sound of Music songs and lowered that 
luscious mouth over his throbbing shaft and oh, God, he was going to come, he 
was coming, he was coming--and a long moan escaped him, despite his best 
intentions, even as he came into the strategically placed hand towel, even as 
he bit his lips to keep from crying out.

Sagging back, he took in a shaky breath and heard her open the connecting 
door. 

Oh, shit, now it's time to panic, genius--wiping himself off, he hastily 
tucked himself back into his shorts, yanked his jeans up, nearly causing 
himself permanent damage with the zipper. 

"Mulder?" There was a tap at the bathroom door. "Mulder, are you all right?"

Frantically looking around, he tossed the wadded up towel in the corner, 
stuffed the magazine into the trash can, took a look in the mirror--his eyes 
were suspiciously bright and he was awfully flushed--and turned to unlock and 
open the door. "I'm fine, Scully. Can't a man use the bathroom in peace?"

"I heard you, um, make a sound, I thought you were throwing up again." Her 
eyes studied him closely. "Were you?"

"No." Inspiration struck. "Stomach cramps, Scully. That's all." He didn't 
have to try to look embarrassed, it came naturally. Which would explain his 
flushed appearance to anyone but Agent Dr. Dana Katherine Scully, the woman 
with the X-ray intuition.

Frowning, Scully put her hand on his forehead again. "You're sweaty," she 
pronounced and herded him back toward the bed. 

There was no escaping the Pepto this time, and the water he washed it down 
with tasted strongly of iron. Oh, what the hell, go with it, 
Mulder--"Scully," he said piteously, "Could you get me some bottled water? 
That stuff really makes my stomach hurt."

"Of course I will," she told him kindly and pulled the blankets up to his 
chin. 

He nestled into the pillows. "And some animal crackers?"

She stopped on her way to the door and gave him an odd look. "Animal 
crackers?"

"They're nice and bland," he told her, suddenly drowsy, all curled up in the 
nest of blankets. "And maybe some of those little lunch pack cans of pears?"

Scully nodded again, her brows drawing together. "Anything else?" Her tone 
was a little dry.

He strove for terminal cuteness, the double whammy, wide eyes, lower lip 
pushed out a little. "No, that would be great, thanks, Scully. You're a 
partner in a million."

Which worked, thankfully, because she sighed, stopped eyeing him that way and 
went back to her room. After a few moments, he heard her zipping her 
parka--over those nice, round, little breasts, his inner voice announced, 
making him squirm--heard the outer door open and close and the crunch of her 
boots outside on the walk.

Closing his eyes, he smiled happily and let sleep tug him gradually under.

<continued>


Minnesota - part 11
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Fox Mulder woke up, face down in his own spit. He wiped the drool off his 
cheek, and felt like a five year old, groaned and rolled onto his back. There 
was some inane fishing show in the background. He stared at the ceiling, 
trying to remember where he was this time. Wyoming? No, there hadn't been 
stains on that ceiling. And he could hear an electric razor like it was in 
the same room? Mulder sat up, startled. It was in the same room.  Or rather, 
it was in his bathroom, and Pendrell's suitcase was at the foot of the second 
bed.

Right.  Pendrell.  Winter.  1996.  Minnesota.  Pendrell.  And Scully.

He took in the open connecting door, the sound of Scully in the room over 
next door. He felt a profound relief, suddenly, to have awakened lying there, 
quietly, instead of lying curled in the wet spot.  He ran a hand over his 
face to clear the last cobwebs away.  God, his mouth tasted awful.  Lime 
popsicles might taste great going down, but Pepto on top of it left a kind of 
greenish black slime on his tongue. He worked his shoulders, his neck. The 
razor in the bathroom stopped. He could hear Pendrell moving around. 

Mulder pulled himself to his feet, taking in the clock and the darkness 
outside, feeling oddly dislocated from the nap in the middle of the day.  
Jesus, it was almost six-thirty. The phone rang next door, Scully kept her 
voice down when she answered. 

Mulder caught one or two words, nothing much and padded to the open door to 
lean in the door frame, raking a hand through his hair as he yawned.  "What's 
going on?"  

Scully spun, her shirt still only half-buttoned, crisp though, fresher 
looking than Mulder by several degrees, and knowing it. "Hey, it lives. We'll 
be down in around forty-five minutes, Mulder just decided to return to the 
living. . .uh huh. Right." Hung up. "We're meeting the team for dinner, 
Mulder. You have forty-five. Go get ready."  

He could see a small patch of bare tummy as she turned toward her suitcase 
and continued buttoning the shirt.  Oh, not good, his mouth went dry and that 
was unpleasant on top of lime-Pepto slime.  

Fortunately, he didn't end up with a stiffie, just the faintest twitch as he 
hastily turned back into his own room.  "Hey, why is Pendrell in my room?"

"Winter Carnival, Mulder, the owner had Pendrell's room already reserved, he 
didn't expect us to be here that long."  

Mulder heard the sound of her zipper and glanced back to see her jeans 
upzipped as she tucked the shirt in.  A tiny moan escaped his throat at the 
sight of black lace panties, just visible as she tucked white cotton down 
over. 

Black lace.  Shit, now he was really in trouble.

Pounding on the door, he let himself growl.  "Hurry up, Pendrell, I'd like to 
get something to eat that I might be able to keep down, okay?"

Flurried sound, and Pendrell's voice was faintly breathless.  "Sure, just 
give me a few minutes, sir."

Mulder stared at the door, considered his advice to Pendrell and the 
breathless voice.  Eeew, Pendrell was beating off in *his* bathroom.  

Backing away, he shook his head in disgust, moved toward his suitcase and 
retrieved a clean shirt and sweater.  The jeans would do, jeans always tended 
to look slept in.  Especially his.  Probably because he usually did.


Scully rubbed her forehead and took a sip of her ice water.   She was never 
going on one of these backwater murder cases again.
 
Dinner was, surprise, surprise, at the Country Kitchen.   The sheriff and two 
of his deputies were there, Trask was there, and he and Scully and Pendrell, 
all getting a dinner paid for by their favorite butt-fucking uncle.  Mulder 
was quiet, staring at walls, at faces, generally reminding her why he was 
called "Spooky" in the first place.  And he was all work, all seriousness, 
which tended to piss some people off.  It didn't piss Trask off, but Bergman 
clearly wasn't happy. 

And it didn't piss Scully or Pendrell off.  So she and Pendrell and Trask and 
Mulder all found themselves sitting at one end of the table, discussing the 
case while the sheriff and his deputies listened sourly and discussed what 
was best on the menu, and did anyone think that Candy Larssen was going to be 
the Winter Carnival queen this year.

"Do we get the personal information on the victims?" Mulder asked over his 
house salad, shoving spinach leaf into his mouth.  

Trask nodded towards Bergman and his deputies. "Yah, Harald and his men went 
out and asked the questions." 

Scully looked down the table.  The younger deputy was shovelling his food 
away like there was no tomorrow.  

The older one, Jorgensen, didn't need notes to tell Spooky what he'd found.  
"Raintree was a quiet guy.  Had some trouble with the bottle, his wife took 
off and left him, moved out west somewhere to North Dakota and remarried.  
Kind of a loner.  Even with the drinking, he didn't get into much trouble, 
sometimes had to sleep it off in the tank, but not violent at all.  Just got 
more and more depressed, seemed like.  No enemies that anyone knows of.  No 
family in the area.  Didn't swear, just the booze."

"Did he go to AA?" Mulder asked. "Do you have a chapter in town, maybe that 
meets at the church?"  

Jorgensen nodded.  "Yah, sure.  Raintree was on again, off again.  He'd fall 
off the wagon pretty bad, though, before he'd dry out again.  I don't know 
who his sponsor was, pretty confidential.

Mulder frowned. "Somebody would know.  Find out when the meetings are, I need 
to drop by." The wheels turned, Scully could almost hear them.  "What about 
the two brothers?"  

The younger man looked up, his name was Hammond, bright and shiny on the name 
plate on his shirt.  "Umm.  Well, they didn't drink.  But when we went up to 
the house we found some--," he stopped, looked at Bergman, who was stubbing 
out a cigarette, scowling blackly at the ashtray, "Um, we found some things 
up there.  Looks like the brothers never married because they were, ah, 
queer."

"Now, Hammond, they call it gay now," Trask told him seriously.

Bergman's scowl increased, but he didn't add anything.  

Mulder nodded, his gaze distant.

Pendrell  considered his notes. He was incredibly green, Scully realized 
suddenly. A kid. Not a brilliant kid like Mulder, to be forgiven faults and 
humored. Just a kid who would one day be a good cop. 

Mulder might be shitty to most people, but he was nice to those who had less 
seniority, less rights than he did. Sometimes she wondered if other agents, 
if other cops would ever see that. 

Of course, he could be hell on wheels to those he considered his equals, and 
she wasn't at all sure Mulder ever considered the possibility that anyone was 
superior. 

It made her sigh.


Mulder considered his empty salad plate wondering where the greenery had 
gotten too. He'd even, somehow, eaten the cherry tomatoes. And he hated 
cherry tomatoes. . .  

Bergman lit another cigarette.  "Caroline Timmeson liked a drink now and 
then, she could swear like a trooper, and arm wrestle any man she took on," 
he told Mulder wearily.  "She was kind to kids and small animals and her 
family loved her, even with her eccentricities.  Along about last fall, she 
told them that someone had written her a letter about being unGodly, 
unwomanly, and some crap like that."

"Why didn't she report it to you?" Mulder asked, frowning, "And why haven't 
they said something before this?"

Bergman frowned. "Caroline Timmeson took care of things her own way.  
Somebody came around and gave her a hard time, she's as likely to fill the 
seat of his pants with rocksalt from a shotgun.  And her kids didn't think of 
it until we started asking around."

Mulder nodded, sighed. "Okay, Raintree had a problem with the bottle, he kept 
backsliding.  The brothers--well, someone knew, obviously, and let our guy 
find out.  Unless our guy is the only one who knew." His eyes wandered to the 
empty glass plate in front of him. He played with his fork a moment, trying 
to fit the pieces together.  Caroline Timmeson was an ungodly woman, 
unsubmissive and unwomanly.  Okay, that made sense.  "Bergman, see if you and 
your guys can find out if anyone else knew about the brothers, ask around 
confidentially, give them our assurances that it goes no farther than your 
office and our reports." 

Bergman's scowl set itself more deeply, but he nodded.  


To Scully's relief Bergman backed off as dinner continued.  Mulder actually 
ordered something other than pancakes, chicken and noodles or something, and 
looked as if he were looking forward to eating it.  Ham and yams weren't the 
special tonight, for which Scully was devoutly thankful.

St. Jude was going to get a candle at the cathedral when she got back to DC.

Down at her end of the table, Trask cleared her throat. "Minneapolis called. 
I have to put out a press report."  

"Make us all look like we're sticking our dicks in the right holes," Mulder 
muttered, putting his fork down, glancing at Bergman's dark beer. "I think I 
want one of those," he said easily.  

Scully frowned and glanced at Trask, with whom she'd shared her concerns 
about her partner's behavior.  Trask hadn't caught it, she was talking to 
Jorgensen.  "Don't think so, Mulder," she said easily. "You're the designated 
driver."  

He looked down his nose at her.  "You aren't drinking."  

"Rum and coke," she lied, lifted her glass to her lips.

He studied her for a moment, his brows drawing together, but finally nodded 
unhappily, glancing away from her..

"So what shall I tell Minneapolis?" Trask asked.  

"Don't tell them anything, tell them we're still assessing the situation."  
Mulder's voice was sharp, his temper had soured.  "I don't want this asshole 
to know fuck all about what we're doing and what we may have figured out."

There was a dreadful silence at the table, and for several tables around.  
Scully felt her face heat under the scrutiny of the good Christian folk of 
Timmsville and kicked Mulder's ankle under the table.

"Ow!"  Mulder glowered at her.  "What the hell was that for."

She wanted to put her face in her hands.

"Jeez," Jorgensen muttered.

Trask's mouth pressed together.  "Mr. Mulder, we don't care much for that 
kind of talk around here."

Mulder's eyes closed briefly.  His lips went tight, then loosened.  "My 
apologies, Trooper Trask, I'm afraid I'm tired.  Tell them as little as you 
can in terms of actual fact.  Tell them we've gotten some leads, but that you 
don't want to detail them until they pan out."

"Yah," Bergman jeered, "Tell 'em the Fibbie wonder went out into the 
snowfield and found snowmobile tracks out in the Christmas trees, they talked 
to him and told him what happened."

Scully bristled.  "Just a--"

"Harald."  Trask raised a hand.  "He's been right about everything else, 
hasn't he?  Didn't you find Caroline Timmeson's innards in her deepfreeze?  
All neat and labeled?"

The waitress came by then with a huge tray bearing someone else's dinner.  
God knew, Scully hadn't gotten hers yet.  The smell of steak drifted over to 
her and she inhaled wistfully.

At least she'd gotten her salad.

Mulder smelled the sizzling meat and went chalky pale, he pushed away from 
the table, jarring cups of coffee and glasses of water, moving fast enough 
that Bergman blinked in startlement.

"Pendrell," Scully hissed, and he stopped making sheep's eyes at Inge long 
enough to follow.


<continued>

Minnesota - part 12
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Mulder didn't even shut the door, just knelt and vomited his two cups of 
coffee and crackers and spinach and lettuce and cucumber and squash and 
cherry tomatoes and black olives and croutons into the toilet, heaving, chest 
rolling with the brute force behind his vomit. And then it was over. 

Mulder just knelt on the grey, worn linoleum, staring into the toilet and at 
the remains of his dinner.  Folding one arm on the seat, he rested his head 
on it.  "He's killed before Raintree," he told Pendrell hollowly.  "And he's 
going to kill again.  We can't give him any ideas about what we've figured 
out, we've got to keep things quiet."

"How do you know he's killed before," Pendrell asked, honestly curious.  
"Raintree was the first body.  You think he might have killed some transient?"

"No."  Turning his head, Mulder heaved again, dry heaves.  This was getting 
old fast.  "No, farther back.  A family member.  Dammit to hell, we're 
missing something key.  Something we need to know.  I need that list of 
church members."

"You want some more soda?" Pendrell boosted himself up on the counter.  

Mulder's response was to shoot him the finger, which garnered a wounded look. 
 He waited a few more moments, straightened and went over to the counter, 
shoved his entire face under the faucet, drank water, spat, drank water, 
spat, dried himself with the double ply paper towels.  "Go finish your 
dinner, Pendrell, I don't need anyone to hold my head for me.

Pendrell frowned. "Mulder, you gotta eat, you've thrown up everything but 
breakfast."

Mulder shook his head. "I'm going to go get something from the market before 
it closes.  I don't think I'm up to company at the table."
  
Pendrell eyed him.  "If you don't come back, they're going to say worse 
things," he ventured, "Bergman thinks your a nutcase."

Grimacing at himself in the mirror, Mulder shrugged wearily.  "Oh, what the 
fuck do I care?"  

"If you don't go back, I can't go back." Pendrell frowned. "Agent Scully 
would have my head."  

Mulder smiled at that thought and raked a hand through his hair.  It had been 
easier when he kept it so short it never really looked all that messy, even 
when it was.  

On the way back, Pendrell managed to get the attention of their waitress. 
"What kind of soup do you have, Inge?  Agent Mulder's stomach's a little 
upset..  We'll pay for his dinner if it's already on the table." 

Inge gave Pendrell a coy look up from under blonde lashes and reeled off a 
list.

"Could I have some tomato soup?" Mulder asked, giving her the Look.

It didn't seem to affect her, but she took pity.  "Jeez, that's too bad," she 
told Pendrell and offered Mulder a bright smile.  "You go sit down and I'll 
bring some out to you."

Returning to the table, Mulder slumped in his seat.  Miserable.  His stomach 
muscles were starting to ache from all the vomiting.

From Scully's look, he gathered that the town cops had been gossiping about 
his poetry quoting and repeated sudden departures from the table.  

Inge came out and picked up his dinner plate with the chicken and noodles, 
replaced it with a bowl of tomato soup and those little oyster crackers.  
Mulder thanked her softly, then stared at the food.  

Scully stared at him, no doubt resisting the urge to feed it to him.

The others were staring, no doubt getting more than enough gossip for the 
mill. It was enough to continue fixing Mulder's eccentricities.  



Scully ate Mulder's cold chicken and noodles from the styrofoam container, 
sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed.  Mulder, sucking on a 
fluorescent red popsicle, leaned against the headboard, his expression morose.

"Our fathers claimed, by obvious madness moved, Man's innocent until his 
guilt is proved. They would have known, had they not been confused, He's 
innocent until he is accused."  Mulder's voice was soft, his tone hollow.

Tilting her head back, Scully studied him.  "Mulder, how's your stomach."

Mulder stared at her fork. "I'm fine, Scully. I think I just want to go to 
bed."

It was only nine fifteen.  Go to bed and do what? Sit up screaming in the 
middle of the night?  At least Pendrell was out, no doubt slavering over the 
beauteous Inge.  

"Okay." Scully sighed and closed the styrofoam container, taking it with her. 
 The beauteous Inge was going to end up in a body cast if Scully missed one 
more meal.  Chicken and noodles didn't improve when cold, and she was tired 
of eating Mulder's leftovers.

From her room, she heard the TV go on. Heard Mulder getting ready for bed.  
Sitting on her bed, she re-opened the container and took another bite, 
reached out and booted up her laptop, bringing up Pendrell's report.  But her 
mind kept going back to her partner's pallor, the nasty fact that he'd thrown 
up almost every meal he'd had in this godforsaken town.

After a while, she heard the keys flying on Mulder's laptop as he worked on 
his profile. The big dummy would probably spend two hours on it and have 
something that looked better than anyone else's twelve hours. Life was 
unfair. Just fucking unfair. 

Sighing, she remembered his "help" on the Tooms case, way back during their 
first year of partnership.  His profiles were elegant, masterpieces of 
obfuscation, designed to show trails of logical thought that didn't exist.  
There had to be some reason for him to come up with these things, but he 
couldn't explain them.  So he lied, outright.  And if you didn't know him, 
hadn't seen him work, you'd never know it.

There were times she wanted to choke the living shit out of him.  And he had 
the nerve to speak scornfully of Frank Black's psychic flashes, whoever the 
hell Frank Black was.  Or had been.  Whatever.


Mulder went to bed a good twenty minutes after Scully's light went out.  
Scully, sweet, succulent Scully, who would undoubtedly blow out his brains if 
she could see the visions dancing behind his eyes.  Pendrell, thankfully, was 
out, indulging in some heavy petting with the blonde who had nearly 
emasculated Mulder with hot coffee earlier in the day.

Scully in a nun's habit.  Scully in a Miata.  Scully in those silly flannel 
pajamas, the top two buttons of the shirt unbuttoned to keep from binding at 
night.  The sweet swell of her breasts, just visible through the flannel.

Sweet Scully.  Mulder lay back, head against the pillow, comforter pulled up 
to his chin, tried not to think about what lay under the flannel, the swell 
of breast, the curve of waist and hip and the red triangle that lay at the 
base of her belly.  Biting back a moan, he rolled on his side and squinched 
his eyes shut.  Think about the murders, asshole, think about the good 
Christian soldier who is avenging God's will.  Who would be next?  So far, 
he'd gotten people who drank, who cursed, whose sexuality was nonstandard.  A 
woman who violated his notion of what proper Christian womanhood should be.  
What next?  Who was going to be the next victim if he didn't pull his head 
out of his ass and think.  Although the exact location of his head was 
probably closer to his cock than his ass. 

Rolling onto his belly, Mulder resolutely quashed visions of Scully and 
replaced them with the freezer wrapped parcels of Caroline Timmeson's 
internal organs.  It made the tomato soup lie uneasily on his stomach, but it 
certainly doused his libido.

He considered the soft sweetness of hotel pillows with the soft mattress pad 
and the flat sheets made taut with perfect hospital corners.  The next victim 
was still alive.  Another woman.  It was time for another woman.  The killer 
had veered from punishing members of his own gender, and besides, there was a 
certain logic to it.  He'd killed Raintree for drinking and violating the 
Sabbath, Raintree was male.  To the killer's way of thinking, the brothers 
were less than male, but not female.  Caroline Timmeson was female, but not 
properly female, she'd usurped male prerogatives.  So, next?  Another woman, 
this one more feminine than Caroline Timmeson.  Younger?  Yeah, younger.  

He could hear Scully's breathing from the next room, sound asleep, sweet 
Scully, sleeping the sleep of the clear of conscience.  Unlike him.  Mulder 
waited a few minutes more for Scully to fall into a deeper sleep, waited to 
be sure she was really out, deeply under, got up, pulled on his blue jeans, 
sweater and coat.  Careful not to jingle them, he grabbed his room key and 
the keys to the four wheel drive, lately given into his custody.

He was at the door when Pendrell opened it, looking tousled, even in a parka. 
 Pendrell smelt of cheap perfume, something girlish and young, and there were 
lipstick smears on his jawline.

"Where you headed, Mulder?"  Pendrell asked alertly, his smile almost sly.

Mulder hated people who smiled slyly.  "Ice," he said on impulse.  

Pendrell glanced at his hands.  "Where's the ice bucket."  

Mulder sighed.  "Okay, cold drinks."

"Caffeine'll keep you up at night," Pendrell replied, closing the door behind 
him and leaning against it.

"Sprite?" Mulder questioned.  He was slowly developing the suspicion that 
Scully had set this dweeb to watch him.  

"Where're the car keys?" Pendrell asked, narrowing those puppy dog brown 
eyes.  

Mulder frowned. 

Pendrell held out his hand, a triumphant glint in his eye.  "I don't think 
you'll be going anywhere tonight, Mulder." 

Mulder opened his mouth and closed it again.  She *had* set Pendrell to watch 
him, he was going to kill her for real.  The next arrest was going to be 
Trask arresting him for the murder of his own partner.  But in order to avoid 
the humiliation of scuffling with Pendrell, he handed the keys over and 
scowled.  Turned back toward the bed and threw his parka on the chair.  
"Dammit, Pendrell, I don't need a goddamn nursemaid."

"I know you believe that." Pendrell's boyish face was serious.  "But Agent 
Scully knows what she's doing.  And you haven't been well, Mulder."

"Oh, fuck off, Pendrell."  Mulder stared darkly at the younger agent.  

Pendrell only looked smug.  "Okay. Get some sleep. I can get some pills from 
Scully if you're having trouble."  

It was difficult to convey how deeply angry you were when stripping back to 
thermal underwear, but Mulder tried.  "I'll be fine," he snarled and got back 
into bed, pulling the blankets over his head to shut out the sight of 
Pendrell's expression.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 13
by wickdzoot@aol.com


The screams were sharp and painful and expected this time.  Scully stumbled 
out of bed, disoriented in the dark, snapped on the lamp and grabbed her 
traveling Mulder pharmacy without hesitation.

Pendrell was already up, trying to untangle Mulder from the bedclothes 
without much success.  In the faint light from her room, Scully batted at him 
and snarled.  "Get the hell out of the way, Pendrell."

Working quickly, she unrolled the mummified Mulder and freed his face.  He 
recognized neither one of them, though his eyes were open and crazily 
dilated.  

"Oh my God," Pendrell breathed.  

Scully stood a long moment, breathing hard from her struggle with the 
blankets and sheets.  Mulder stared at them, breathing hard, his hair damp 
with sweat, even in the chill that fought the room's heater.  How had he 
gotten away with this for so long? How, in God's name, had it gone on without 
anyone catching it? Saint Jude help him, please, he's so frightened and the 
world is so cruel, Scully prayed unconsciously. 

After a moment, she knelt on bed and reached out a hand to her partner's 
face.  At her approach, Mulder shrank back further into his cocoon, making a 
thin, whining noise.  God, how many nights had it been like this? Mulder too 
terrified to move. Just screaming and screaming and then curled up in the 
dark, terrified until exhaustion or the daylight came and he stumbled up, put 
on a clean suit and made snide comments and drank a lot of bad coffee and 
made his scary predictions.  

She made a move closer and suddenly Mulder was scrambling like a rabbit 
trapped by a predator, clawing at the blankets until he got free and rolled 
off the bed, huddled by the side, dark gleam of his eyes as he stared at her.

"Careful, Scully." Pendrell's voice at her back instilled the sweet, savage 
urge to slap him.
  
They waited.  And waited.  For Mulder to snap out. For Mulder to calm down 
and know them.  His breathing was shallow and panicked.

For the fear to ease out of his eyes.  

"Go through my back and find the Dramamine," she ordered Pendrell, "And get a 
glass of water."

And finally, long after Pendrell had handed her the pills, long after he'd 
set the water glass on the nightstand, finally Mulder stared at Scully, 
blinked with some sense in his eyes. "Scully?" he asked softly. "Is it really 
you?" 

Pendrell gave her a worried look.  

"Yes, Mulder," she told him soothingly, "It's really me.  That was a bad one, 
wasn't it?"

Mulder stared at her, confused, frightened. "It's really you, you aren't 
going to turn into anyone else."
 
"It's really me.  And who would I turn into, Mulder?"  She dared inch a 
little closer to him, hunkered down to sit eye to eye.  The draft here on the 
floor was ferocious and--oops, another wet dream.  She was going to have to 
ignore this one, he was too shattered to deal with it.  "I'm just me."

His hand came up in the air, made little motions as if he wanted to touch 
her, but was afraid to.  "You won't change?"  His voice choked with tears. 
"You're really Scully?." 

"I'm really me," she told him gently and his hand found her hair, tugged 
almost painfully hard.  "Ow, Mulder, that hurts!"

But abruptly, he was sobbing into his knees, arms wrapped over his head, 
rocking back and forth.
 
Jesus, if this was the effect wet dreams had on him, she never wanted to see 
him after sex.  Talk about post coital tristesse.  "Shhh, Mulder, I know, 
it's all right, I need you to take some pills, okay?"  Turning toward 
Pendrell, she hissed, "Get me a Valium instead, put these back."

Pendrell's fingers, sweaty with nerves, fumbled the Dramamine out of her 
hand.  She heard him rummaging frantically through her bag.  "Come on, 
Mulder, it's me, you know who I am."  Her scalp still stung faintly from the 
lock of hair he'd pulled.  "It was just a bad dream."  She kept her voice 
soft, soothing, hoping to pull him out of whatever had frightened him awake.  
Could you be frightened awake by a wet dream?  After his confession about 
Jurassic Park and the Miata, she wasn't sure she really wanted to find out.  
Inching closer again, she put an arm around him, he was shivering.

"Here, Scully," Pendrell's stage whisper jarred her nerves.  He pressed a 
pill into her free hand.  "Valium."

"Mulder, I need you to take this," she murmured and looked at Pendrell for 
the water.

Nervously, Pendrell brought the water glass over, hunkered behind her.

Mulder sobbed harder.  "Make him go away, Scully, please."

Nodding at Pendrell, Scully motioned for him to set the glass down.  "Go on, 
Pendrell, you can nap in the other bed in my room.  Get some sleep, we'll 
need it tomorrow."  Turning back to Mulder, she tightened the arm around his 
shoulders.  "Come on, partner, I need you to take this."

"I don't want any pills." His voice went up into hysteria and his face was 
wet when he tilted it up again.  

"I won't turn into anyone else if you take the pill," Scully soothed, 
stroking the hair at the nape of his neck.  Soft, silky Mulder hair.  

He moaned and buried his face "No, you will, just like you did before."

"When did I change before?"

"In Skinner's office.  You were there, we were waiting for Skinner and...."  
He hitched in a breath, rubbed his face on his knees.  "Oh, God, it was 
terrible.  You took off your clothes and got up on Skinner's desk and...."  
Another hitching breath, "And then, right in the middle, your hair came off, 
Scully, you were bald, and when I looked at your face, you'd turned into 
Skinner."  He shuddered under her arm convulsively.  "Oh, God, and the worst 
part was that I, oh, God."  More sobbing.

She knelt in the draft and tried to think that one through.  "Um, we were, 
um, in the middle of sex when I changed?"

Another moan.  "Into Skinner."  His tone was desperate.  "Right there on the 
desk."

She considered that.  "While we, um, were having sex."

"Right in the middle of it," he moaned and rubbed his face on his knees 
again.  "Oh, God, it was horrible, I kissed you.  Him.  Whatever."  Another 
convulsive shudder.  "And he told me to fuck him harder."

Oh, boy.  Her imagination reeled at the images that produced.  Mulder and 
Skinner, on Skinner's desk.   Mother of God, she ought to be ashamed of her, 
she was actually feeling a little thrill of interest in that one.  And this 
would make great blackmail material for the future.  "Did you?"

Another despairing moan.  "Ye-e-e-s."

Scully absently stroked that silky hair again.  When he was in his right mind 
again, he was going to be horrified that he'd confessed this to her.  "And 
you're afraid you secretly want to get into Skinner's pants?"

He shuddered again, moaned.  

Patting his back, she made her voice crisp, no-nonsense.  "Mulder, come on, 
you're a psychologist.  You know better than that, it's perfectly obvious 
what that was about.  Skinner's our boss, you're always joking about him 
calling you up and telling you to grab your ankles, this is simply turning 
the tables.  It's not about sex at all."

After a moment, he lifted his head again, his expression wanly hopeful.  
"It's not?"

"Of course not, it's about power and control."  Skinner and Mulder.  What an 
image.  Skinner was built like a brick--well, he was built, anyway, and 
Mulder had that sleekly muscular build from running and swimming.  The very 
image of both men naked at the same time was enough to make her respiration 
rate increase.  "You don't want Skinner as an object of sexual gratification, 
you want power over him.  You want to tell him to grab his ankles."  More 
patting as he thought this over, his eyes widening.  Jesus, and he was the 
one who'd gone to Oxford.
 
"Oh."  Small voice, he was still considering that, but it was clear that he 
wanted to believe.  Hell, he always wanted to believe.

Mulder was soooo easy sometimes, it was like shooting fish in a barrel.

But fucking Skinner.  Mulder was gone, way gone. Call the men with the long 
white jackets that tie in the back. Call in the beard strokers. Fox Mulder 
had slipped around the bend.  

Scully took her arm away and reached for the glass of water.  "It's just one 
pill, Mudler.  I know you're upset, but you need to get some rest.  You're 
going to collapse if you don't get rest and food, and I'm really worried 
about you.  You don't need to be any more upset, okay?  It won't knock you 
out, it's just going to help you sleep." 
 
Mulder took in a shaky breath and held out a trembling hand.  Scully handed 
him the Valium, then the water glass.  And Mulder took it.  And then she 
levered him up and back into bed, tucking the blankets back around in a 
cocoon less confining.  

Skinner and Mulder.  Mulder and Skinner.  She stared down at him, he looked 
so young and essentially innocent when he slept.  Sometimes she wondered how 
much of his sanity was really sanity, and how much was a carefully built 
facade that let him pass for sane.  

Ah, she thought wearily, despite the faint spark of amusement and lust 
inspired by his confession.  Here's what Special Agents look like when they 
crack up. We take their guns and their dicks and give them seventy percent of 
their salary so they can huddle in a hospital waiting for night and the 
shadows and wet dreams of fucking the boss because we did this to them.  

It wasn't Skinner's fault.  It was that smoking bastard's fault.  Now that 
was a dream she'd like to see him have, although the fallout would be hideous.

She went back to her own room and rousted Pendrell out.  Slipped back under 
the covers and considered the images again, letting them soothe her into 
sleep.

<continued>

"...[It's] a simply Gothic little place consisting of three of borderline
personalities, a trailer park sophist, a dyslexic and two old dykes struggling
not to pop out of their bondage gear..."  Marquise De Lean

From: WickdZoot <wickdzoot@aol.comx>
Date: 08 Nov 1999 13:49:35 GMT
Subject: Minnesota 14/45 by Wickdzoot

Standard Disclaimer with addendum:  Much thanks to Amperage and Livengoo.  
Amperage gave permission and Livengoo double dog dared me.
Rating:  NC-17 for language, behavior and murder
Category:  Demented
Spoilers:  Probably none, but Pendrell is still alive at this point

Minnesota - part 14
by wickdzoot@aol.com


The bed was shaking, and things slammed and it was the Big One, oh god, the 
Big One, and Pendrell was going to die all alone with Inge lost forever to 
him in Minneapolis and....He slammed his eyes open, to see when the ceiling 
fell in on him, and Spooky-goddamn-Mulder smiled at him and kicked the bed 
again. 

Pendrell scrambled back against the headboard, staring like he'd seen a 
ghost. Or a Spook. 

Mulder just gave him that shit-eating grin, with his teeth gritted behind it. 
 "Time to get up, Pendrell. We gotta go out and figure out how to stay one or 
two steps ahead of this sick bastard."

"Jesus, Mulder... " What the hell do you say when somebody rises from the 
dead, or near as?  Pendrell just sat there, feeling the testicles crawl up 
into his body, watching Spooky turn on the TV to look for a news station. The 
clock on top of the set read eight-thirty, and the morning news was in full 
swing.  

Mulder watched it, wearing a grin that was nothing like a smile, watching 
Bergman talk to a local reporter about things he knew nothing about.  "What 
an asshole."  Pendrell watched him, the suit hanging in perfect creases, the 
poster boy looks in place, overcoat over his arm and not a hair out of place. 
 On the other bed, he could see the wadded up thermals Mulder had discarded, 
smelled the faintest aroma of toothpaste and shaving cream and bad motel 
coffee.  

Scully appeared in the connecting doorway, dressed in a tailored pantsuit, 
crisp and official.  She eyed them both, offered Pendrell a disapproving look 
and went back into her room.  Pendrell looked back to Spooky, arms crossed, 
snarling at the TV, and felt superstitious dread make his bowels go to ice 
water.  

He hadn't dreamed it. He knew he had NOT dreamed it. Scully had been here. 
The water glass was there on the nightstand between the beds, Scully's bag of 
nostrums was still on the floor between them.  Damn it, Pendrell had not 
dreamed that Spooky Mulder was curled in a corner last night, screaming and 
totally out of his head. 

So how the hell did he end up standing there, , dressed to the FBI nines, 
watching Bergman make an ass out of himself.  Mulder shouldn't even be making 
sense this morning.  Pendrell had gone to bed, knowing Scully would have to 
send her partner back with a handholder from the Minneapolis bureau and a 
head full of tranqs. He'd dreamed about medical review boards and hearings 
for permanent psychiatric disability. Was ashamed to know that he felt 
faintly vindicated by that.  And Mulder was still standing there, real as 
shit, calling Bergman things he'd never learned at Oxford. 

On the whole, the Big One might not have been as scary.  

Mulder glanced up at him. "Look at this prick-licker, dancing the two-step 
with the pussies at the press. He's going to give away everything we've got 
and tomorrow or the next day, we'll find another body in the snow, or in some 
lonely house miles down the road.  What an asshole." Mulder shook his head 
and stalked out of the room, going into Scully's to talk to her in a low 
voice.

If this was field work, Pendrell wasn't sure he wanted it.  Except for Inge.

He swallowed hard, wiped the sweat off his palms onto his sheets and crawled 
out of bed.  Shaking hands pulled a suit out of the closet, turned the water 
on in the shower. 

The only reason he didn't cut his throat shaving was because he used an 
electric. If he'd used a razor, he'd have bled to death before he ever 
finished. Mulder was out there on the phone, calling Bergman and his 
deputies, coordinating them and giving them what he wanted them to do. Where 
he wanted them to look. How the sam hill he thought he knew where to look 
sent Pendrell back to the bathroom with nervous incontinence.  

And that damned Spooky Mulder was pounding on the door and telling him to 
hurry his ass up before he was done.  Pendrell took a last look in the 
mirror, seeing skin almost as pale as Mulder's, his eyes bloodshot, one 
eyelid twitching with nerves, teeth he just couldn't...get...to unclench for 
more than a moment.  He had to put his hands in his pockets, they were 
shaking so hard when he walked out the door and looked at Spooky Mulder, who 
should have been huddled in his bed drooling and who, instead, was 
impatiently eyeing his watch and rocking his briefcase back and forth between 
his hands while he waited for Pendrell to finish having his breakdown.

How the hell did Scully handle it?  Was he always this crazy?  

Scully pulled on her coat and smiled at Pendrell, making him more nervous.  
Why wasn't she worried about her partner?  Oh, she was, but not as much as 
she should have been.  She acted like throwing up at every meal was normal, 
like waking up screaming was normal.

Maybe for Spooky it was.

Pendrell was beginning to understand where the name had come from.

Mulder stared at him as he fumbled with his coat.  "What the fuck is wrong 
with you, Pendrell?" Angry, snarling, still seething after Bergman had 
spilled details he hadn't wanted spilled. "We have coffee to drink and a 
killer to start looking for.  Our boy's going to work right now, he knows 
we're onto him, and he should have another finished work for us sometime 
between now and tomorrow at six."  

Pendrell pushed his arm into a sleeve and stared at Scully, wanting some 
answer.  She nodded grimly at Mulder and headed for the door.  Mulder beat 
her to it, going out without gloves and muttering under his breath as Scully 
followed him out.

The sound of engine got Pendrell moving.


Mulder sat down in a corner booth, drumming his spoon on the table staring at 
Pendrell.  "What the hell is with you this morning?"  Pendrell was watching 
him like he'd grown horns and a tail.  Surely Scully hadn't passed on any of 
the details of his unfortunate confession.  The very thought made his skin 
crawl.  God, if Pendrell knew that--he could just hear the rumours that would 
make the rounds of the Bureau, Skinner would have him scrubbing out toilets 
with his toothbrush if it ever got back to the AD's office.

Scully sat next to him, caging him back into the corner of the booth.  Which 
was embarrassing, because he didn't quite have the heart to look her in the 
eye this morning, covered it with snappy repartee and bad temper over Bergman.

Thank God the blonde waitress wasn't here in the mornings, Mulder waved for 
three cups of coffee and a basket of breakfast rolls, grabbed one and tore it 
apart, wolfed it down like he was starving.  Hell, he was starving, he hadn't 
kept anything down but a cup of coffee and toast with jelly the day before.  
Well, and the soup and crackers and popsicles.  

Scully shoved the basket over in front of him, daintily taking a honey bun 
and putting it on her plate.  No butter, she just cut it in quarters and 
nibbled it as she sipped her coffee.

Pendrell just stared at him nervously.

He glared at the younger man. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Pendrell?"  
He kept his voice low this time, mindful of the stares he'd gotten the night 
before. "You think something is funny? We don't have enough clowns with 
Bergman on this team?" 

Pendrell jumped in his seat, reached for a sticky bun with a shaky hand.  

Mulder worked the bite of breakfast roll from one side of his jaw to the 
other. "I don't know what you're playing at, Pendrell, but we have real work 
to do today. We can't stop the bastard from killing again yet, but the more 
we get, the faster we find his next victim, the more we'll learn. Or do you 
figure Inge's gonna let you get a glimpse of Paradise because we got on the 
news?" 

Pendrell stared at him, his Adam's apple working in his throat.  Scully 
kicked Mulder's ankle hard enough to bruise, drawing him back from the edge 
of a real outburst.  

The Valium had dried his mouth out.  He gave her an angry look and drank more 
coffee, took another vicious bite out of the bun.  His own partner drugged 
him senseless, kept giving him shit until he was loopy enough to actually 
tell her about that freaking weird nightmare.  Quelling a shudder at the 
memory, he stared out the window at the white landscape.  Christ, he hated 
winter, hated these cases out in the middle of nowhere.  Why couldn't they 
ever get a case in Honolulu?  

"Okay," he muttered and pulled a notepad out of his briefcase, careful not to 
get the sticky, sugary icing on it.  "First things first.  Scully and I are 
going to talk to the minister.  Pendrell, I want you on the crime scenes.  
See if there's anything they missed, just go out there and check everything, 
I don't want us to miss a gnat's ass, you got it?"

Pendrell nodded silently, finally took a bite from his sticky bun.  Mulder's 
nerves jittered and jived, he waved for a refill on the coffee and the 
greying waitress with the matronly figure brought the pot, chatting about the 
weather and that they were going to get another cold snap.

Scully darted an incredulous look at her, but only nodded.

"We need to get the names of everyone in his congregation.  Surely they have 
records, aren't the members of the church supposed to tithe?  I imagine he 
has to keep track of who gives what so they can claim it on their taxes."  
Mulder picked up his knife, buttered the roll and took another vicious bite.  
"Okay, Pendrell, here are the sites--"  He reached for his map, laid it out 
on the table, weighting the corners with the salt and pepper shakers, with 
bottles of flavored syrups, using his pen to make an X on each site.

Pendrell opened his mouth to ask another question, but Scully caught his eye, 
shook his head.  Mulder let that go by, his mood improving as his blood sugar 
rose again.  He made his way through another three of the rolls, reviewing 
review every dump site.  Scully sipped her coffee and kept nibbling, while 
Pendrell just stared at him as if he were the goddamned burning bush....

He could tell from Pendrell's expression that the younger agent thought this 
was full Spooky fifth gear today.  Probably had him figured for a head case, 
that Scully would send him back.  Pendrell didn't know jack shit outside of 
his lab, and most days that would have made Mulder smile pityingly.  Today it 
just made him irritable, put a snap and an edge in his voice that kept 
Scully's shoes banging against his ankle.

"He'll have picked out the next one by now, targeted even before he did 
Timmeson."  Mulder chewed again, thinking, letting the insights rise up from 
the muddy bottom of his unconscious mind.  "He might be moving in.  72 hours 
at the most, we'll have another one, but God knows if we'll find her right 
away."

"Her?"  Scully did that eyebrow thing again that drove him crazy and he 
looked away, back out at the whiteout of snow.  

"Her.  It'll be a woman next time.  Someone more obviously feminine than 
Timmeson.  We need that asshole Bergman to give us some details on the 
locals, see if he can pick out someone.  Maybe someone who drinks with the 
guys, a party girl.  I don't think she'll be young, maybe in her thirties or 
forties.  Likes to party and isn't too picky."

Scully looked askance at this, but nodded.  "This is a small enough town, 
Bergman might be able to pick some people out.  And if he can't, Trask has 
contacts, they might be able to suggest some names."  

Mulder stared at his notes, blinked.  "Yeah."  Freezer wrapped parcels danced 
at the edge of his consciousness.  No way, no way was he going to think about 
those.  Think about something else, think about Nash, think about winter, 
think about the goddamned Winter Carnival that had driven Pendrell into his 
room.  He opened his mouth to say something, he wasn't sure what.  
"Unwillingly Miranda wakes, Feels the sun with terror, One unwilling step she 
takes, Shuddering to the mirror."  

His heart was hammering hard, abruptly, as if he'd plugged into something 
powerful, as if he were on the right track, and adrenaline made him 
lightheaded, the junkie's rush.  Scully was watching him, wide-eyed, a faint 
line between her brows, and Pendrell had gone pale.  But he couldn't stop.  
"Miranda in Miranda's sight, Is old and gray and dirty; Twenty-nine she was 
last night; This morning she is thirty."  He leaned forward, studied the pad. 
 "This is going to be a woman who feels youth slipping away, someone who is 
trying to hold back time, to continue on as she always has.  She might not be 
more than thirty, but she feels as if she's caught in the cycle of decay.  So 
she parties harder, breaks the rules a little, and our guy is watching.  He 
judges her.  He's the representative of his God, scouring the world of the 
sinful and seeking perfection."

"Wh-wh-what?"  Pendrell's voice trembled, he slid to the edge of the booth.  
"Ex-excuse me, Agent Mulder, I need to use the men's room."

Mulder frowned, watching him go.  "What did I say this time?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Scully told him drily and opened the menu.  
"Let's get something decent for breakfast while Inge's off duty."

Still watching Pendrell's back as he fled, Mulder nodded absently.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 15
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Scully ordered for all three of them.  Mulder barely noticed. When the food 
came he was still going full tilt, and a cheese omelet went down with barely 
a break.  Pendrell was clearly shaken this morning, but was taking it in, 
listening and trying to comment, trying to get past his obvious judgement 
that Mulder should be curled in his bed, watching shows not listed in TV 
Guide and drooling on his pillow.  

Pendrell didn't know Mulder very well.


The sheriff wasn't at his office, he was out at the site of the Winter 
Carnival, supervising things, signing permits, making sure that nothing 
slipped past his lawful eye.  So that's where they went to get him.

Huddled in her coat, Scully wished she'd worn more clothes.  If this was a 
warm spell, she hoped to God they'd finish up and be out of town before the 
cold snap hit.  

Mulder played nice at first with Bergman, asking him about likely targets, 
giving his rationale and explaining it politely.

Until Bergman made the mistake of telling him it was all bullshit.

Standing in the snow, her toes turning into little chunks of ice, Scully 
watched Mulder turn the man into little, quivering chunks of raw meat.  Ice 
cold voice, just hammering in the details of each murder, of how Bergman was 
supposed to know his people, supposed to know this town, Caroline Timmeson, a 
nice woman who'd never hurt anyone, who loved her life and loved living it, 
laid out on her kitchen floor stuffed wtih her own dinner, her liver and 
spleen and lungs and heart all wrapped up in brown freezer paper, black 
greasepaint labeling each organ and dating the package.  . No mercy, just 
starting to hammer in the details of murder after murder, victim after 
victim, what it might be like when the next one turned up. All the rage he 
hadn't let go over the television interview, he just flayed that Bergman 
alive, stripping down to sinew and bone.
 
One of the deputies, the younger one, was standing nearby--Hammond, that was 
his name--and had turned pale green, as if he was going to vomit.  They all 
watched, horrified, while Mulder leaned in nose to nose with Bergman, asking 
where else you'd find a woman with the label this guy shopped for, his breath 
forming white clouds in Bergman's face. 

Scully felt her guts churn as Mulder did that fucking thing again, quoting 
Nash.  "Shining like the morning star, Like the twilight shining, Haunted by 
a calendar, Miranda sits a-pining."

Bergman stammered that he'd ask around and Mulder stalked toward Scully, 
nodded at her shortly and trudged through the snow to the car.

"Yah, I can give you the names," Reverend Martin Jurgensen--no relation to 
Jorgensen, evidently--nodded seriously.

Why, Scully wondered, did all the men over fifty look like Max von Sydow.  At 
least the Reverend had a decent handshake, and despite his cadaverous looks, 
was muscular.  Muscular Christianity.

They followed him through the narrow, dark halls of the rectory to his office.

The atmosphere was right out of Ibsen, Scully decided, perching on the 
horsehair, straightbacked armchair near the desk.  Mulder stood, his 
expression mordantly amused, as the Reverend sat down at his computer and 
booted it up.

Modern religion.  She supposed even Catholic priests utilized technology 
these days, but it was disconcerting anyway when the Dangerous Animals 
wallpaper showed on the Reverend's screen.

Click, click and the file was open, the laser printer hummed and spit out two 
sheets of paper.

Scully cleared her throat.  "Reverend, do you have deacons?"  

Mulder hovered like a vulture over the printer, snatched up the pages and 
studied them.  

Reverend Jurgensen nodded at her and smiled.  "Why, yes, we have several 
members of the church who alternate as deacons, Agent Scully.  Good men, 
stable and solid in their belief, they help me immensely."

"Would you mind marking those names for us?"  She gave him a smile in return 
and yanked the papers from Mulder's hands.  "That would be a tremendous help. 
 And if there's anyone who wanted to be a deacon, or even anyone who 
considered the ministry."

"Over forty," Mulder muttered.  "Only those over forty."

Jurgensen gave him a mild look and bent over the pages, making neat check 
marks with a felt tip pen.  "Certainly, Agent Scully."  

The pen moved through the column of names, Jurgensen moved to the second page 
and marked a few more names.  "There you are.  But I don't think you'll find 
your murderer in my congregation, Agent Scully.  These are good men."

For a moment, she was afraid Mulder would sneer.  But his face smoothed out 
again when he caught her eye.  "I'm sure they are, Reverend.  But they may 
know something they're not aware of, and any information that can help us 
stop this man....they may have some essential bit of knowledge that can help 
us prevent another murder."

"I'll pray that they can help you," Jurgensen told her and reached out to pat 
her hand.  

Mulder snatched the sheets back with a muttered thanks and headed back out 
and down the hall.  Embarrassed, Scully rose.  "Thank you again, Reverend."

Jurgensen cocked his head a bit.  "Your partner is a troubled man."

Reverend, she thought, you don't know the half of it.  "He's a profiler, 
Reverend.  They see things...well, that are very disturbing."

"Nothing can be disturbing with God's comfort," he told her and rose with her 
to escort her back down the hall.  "I'd be happy to counsel him.  See if you 
can talk to him, Agent Scully, see if you can suggest that he talk with me.  
There is no wound that God cannot heal."

And no heel that God cannot wound, she thought, hilarity rising unbidden.  
She pinched the inside of her wrist hard to keep a straight face.  "I'll 
suggest it to him, Reverend.  But he's not much on religion.  And he's 
Jewish."

Shock widened the Reverend's eyes.  "Oh, my.  All the more reason, Agent 
Scully.  If he can accept Jesus as his savior--"

"Yes, well, thank you, Reverend."  Moving faster, Scully moved down the hall, 
caught the door on Mulder's backswing and followered her partner out, biting 
her lip hard enough to leave a permanent indentation.

Out in the car, Mulder gave her an irritable look.  "What were you and the 
good Reverend discussing?"

Tilting her head back, Scully let go, laughing until her sides hurt.  "Your 
salvation, Mulder.  No, no, I can't, just drive, okay?"

That got a wounded look, but Mulder drove.


They got back to the motel around four-thirty.  Scully changed and went out 
to the market, came back with fruit juice to find Mulder in his bathroom, 
crouched over the iron-stained toilet bowl, arm braced against the lid.  He 
was pale and wasted from dry heaves, they hadn't taken time for lunch, he had 
nothing to throw up, except the tea one of their interviewees had given them. 

Scully leaned against the wall, her fingertips grazing the back of her 
partner's neck.  No fever.  Just Mulder.  Getting the murder bug, finding his 
way into the mind of a twisted killer.  

The sound was making her own gorge rise.  She swallowed against nausea and 
listened to Mulder's dazed voice quote Nash.  Again. And knew they had 
another one out there, waiting for them.  They hadn't been quite fast enough, 
and Bergman had shot his mouth off on the local morning news.

"Silly girl, silver girl, Draw the mirror toward you; Time who makes the 
years to whirl, Adorned as he adorned you.  Time is timelessness for for you; 
Calendars for the human; What's a year, or thirty, to, Loveliness made woman?"


Outdoors, it was dark, the gathering clouds hiding what little winter sun was 
there.  Pendrell had gotten a ride from one of the deputies, he hadn't had to 
trudge back through the icy chill of the Timmsville warm spell.  

Mulder slept restlessly in his bed, tucked under the comforter wearing jeans 
and a sweater.  Scully sat in the chair in his room and read, nothing of 
autopsies and forensic evidence, just a mindless novel.  She'd gotten some 
juice and animal crackers down him, and some of the pears she'd gotten him 
the day before.  Those had stayed down long enough for him to doze off.  

Nights like the last one and days like the days before.  How long was he 
going to last, running on broken sleep and almost nothing to eat?  Scully was 
going to have to be sure they broke for lunch, carry small snacks to keep his 
stomach from going sour on him.  Even if he fought her.

He'd been exhausted when he'd finally finished dry-heaving.  He'd followed 
her instructions without protest or complaint, kicking off his shoes and 
getting clothes out of his suitcase to change out of his suit.  Clicked on 
the TV to zone out watching bouncing babes on the sand.

Malibu Barbie does Santa Rosa, Scully thought drily, watching another bikini 
clad bimbo defy the laws of gravity.

Pendrell eyed Mulder's unconscious self and put his coat on a hanger.  
Careful, neat Pendrell.  Unlike Mulder, whose overcoat lay across the foot of 
his bed.  She'd hung his suit up for him when he emerged from the bathroom.

Even without the reports he should have been writing, her mind was working 
like his, back in the room in the mortuary that served as morgue.  Four dead 
bodies and she was the only one to do a decent autopsy. 

Well, there were toxicologicals on the second and third bodies, the brothers, 
that was something.  Scully frowned, remembering the crabbed handwriting of 
Raintree's ME.  And they'd thrown away the poem, thinking it was nothing.

She wondered what it would have told Mulder.

Pendrell shifted from foot to foot, looked at her and pointed at the 
connecting door.  

Sighing, she rose, led the way into her room.

"How's Agent Mulder?" Pendrell asked nervously, his voice hushed.
  
Scully considered.  "Not so hot.  When we got back, he vomited and recited 
more Nash."  She put her hands into the sleeves of her sweater and shook her 
head.  "I think we've got another one, we just haven't found her.  And we 
didn't get much of anywhere with the interviews today.  The Spooky-meter 
didn't go off, I think they're clean.  Did Bergman come up with any names for 
you?"

Pendrell nodded and reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.  
"Yeah, a couple."  He handed her a crumpled piece of paper.

Scully peered at them.  "Marcy Olafsen." she read aloud.  "Ingrid Ibsen.  
Hilde Bronson."  No addresses.  She gave Pendrell a dark look and headed for 
the slim phone book under the telephone.  "Okay, let's call these women, 
Pendrell.  Use this one, I'll use my cell phone."

Pendrell nodded, watched her look up the names and numbers and accepted the 
paper back as she dialed up the first one.

<continued>


Minnesota - part 16
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Marcy Olafsen didn't answer.  Ingrid Ibsen was at home, doing very well and 
shocked that she might be considered a murderer's target.  Hilde Bronson had 
already had a few too many and told Scully where to stick her worries in a 
raspy, whisky voice.

Bergman wearily agreed to have his deputies go by and check the houses when 
she called him.  Said he'd be at the Winter Carnival festivities if they 
needed him.

Pendrell sat unhappily on the second bed in her room and stared at his shoes. 
 "Agent Scully, I think Agent Mulder's...."  He licked his lips.  "I think 
he's falling apart."

"He's not," Scully told him quellingly.  "He's just had a few setbacks.  You 
should understand that, you tossed your cookies in the plane up."

Pendrell flinched.  "Yeah, but--he looks terrible, and I've never seen him so 
short-tempered."

"Yeah, well, welcome to the real world, Pendrell.  Murder pisses Mulder off."

Pendrell's tongue flicked across his lips again.  

A vast irritation filled Scully.  This was a little man.  A frightened little 
man.  If he'd seen half of what Mulder had seen, he'd be gibbering in a 
strait jacket somewhere.  

"Agent Scully, I'm afraid he's losing it.  I think--I think you should call 
DC, talk to AD Skinner about sending him home."

Scully's brows drew together dangerously.  "Are you making a professional 
judgement, Pendrell?  I wasn't aware you had previous field experience with 
Agent Mulder."

Pendrell flushed and his eyes were downcast.  "What's *your* professional 
judgement, Agent Scully?"

"He's had a couple of rough days.  Hell, I've had a couple of rough days, 
Pendrell, and if your little girlfriend doesn't start bringing me my meals, 
she's going to end up having a rough day, too."

Pendrell flushed again, going an unattractive shade of scarlet.  "I think 
Agent Mulder needs medical attention."

"I'm a doctor, Pendrell."  Scully rose and stood over him threateningly. 

"But you're a pathologist, Agent Scully.  Your patients are usually dead."

She pinched the bridge of her nose hard to keep from slapping him.  "And if 
you don't give it a rest, Pendrell, you'll be one of them.  I know Mulder one 
helluva lot better than you do, he's fine, he's just had a couple of bad 
days, things will settle down."

"And if they don't?"  Pendrell gave her a worried look, flinched back when 
she raised her hand again to her nose.

"Then we'll get him to a doctor," she told him reluctantly.  "Maybe he's just 
got some kind of stomach flu."

Pendrell's expression doubted it.  For that matter, she knew better.  But 
there wasn't anyone better to catch this guy.  Mulder was tuned in to the 
killer in a way that she couldn't touch.  

But Pendrell let it rest.



Mulder was sitting on the bed, staring drowsily at the screen when she went 
back in, not completely awake, but coming out of the fog. "What? They found 
out about my credit card? I swear I haven't used it for personal purchases," 
he teased, flicking the tv off. 

Scully sat beside him on the bed and sighed.  "Pendrell's freaking out about 
you."

"What?" Mulder gave her a worried look.  "About what?"

"Well, last night, for one thing.  I didn't tell him about the dream, 
Mulder."  Or the one the night before.  The last thing she wanted was 
Pendrell sharing Mulder's depraved fantasy life.  The very thought made the 
hair on the back of her neck rise.  "And the vomiting has him worried."

Mulder closed his eyes.  "Oh, fuck.  Another fucking do-gooder.  Jesus, 
Scully, you gave me enough Dramamine on the flight up to OD, my stomach's 
been chancy ever since.  And this isn't the easiest kind of work."

"I know."  She sighed and patted his arm.  "But if it keeps up, Mulder, you 
aren't going to be worth anything.  I don't want to give you barbituates.  
You think if you leave the television set on that will work with the 
nightmares?  Pendrell turned it off when he came in last night."

"He's going to bitch about it," Mulder brooded.

"Screw that.  It's better than drugging you to sleep at night.  Screwing with 
your REM sleep is only going to make matters worse.  But I admit, the 
vomiting has me worried, too."  She looked at him, letting him see it.  
"Mulder, you generally eat twice your weight in food a day, and you burn it 
off.  I don't know what the hell you're burning now, because you haven't 
managed to make it through more than two meals since we got here.  And those 
weren't even consecutive meals, Mulder."

He frowned at his hands, laced the fingers together.  "It--it happens 
sometimes, Scully.  It used to happen in VCS all the time.  And when I was 
working for that prick Patterson.  I'll get by, honestly."  Wide eyes, 
sincere as hell.  Trying to convince her.

The muscles of his arm had tightened under her palm.  "Okay.  But if it keeps 
happening, Mulder, I want you to see a doctor.  If you have some kind of bug, 
I don't want you dehydrating the hell out of yourself and throwing your 
system out of kilter.  If you fuck with your potassium enough, Mulder, you 
could develop some serious heart problems, you could even have heart failure."

That got an almost amused look.  "Scully, I don't have a heart, remember?  
I'm Spooky."

Snorting, Scully shook her head.  "Don't give me that shit, Mulder, I'll cuff 
you and take you in, even if you're dragging your heels."

"Thanks, Mom."  But his smile took the edge out of it.  "I'll be fine, 
Scully, I promise.  Can we go get something to eat?  I'd like to try 
something new, see if I can short circuit this thing."

After a moment, she nodded.



Scully huddled inside her parka and cursed the good luck that had let her 
partner get through a meal without throwing it up.  Because of it, they were 
out here at the Winter Carnival, garish lights casting an unearthly glow on 
snow packed hard and deep.

Ahead of her, Bergman and her partner were talking, white puffs of breath 
coming and dissipating with depressing rapidity while Mulder's hands moved, 
dark wings in the night.

It wasn't good.  Bergman was stonewalling, and Marcy Olafsen hadn't been 
located.  Bergman kept telling Mulder that Marcy Olafsen was thirty years 
old, if she wanted to pick up and get out of town for the weekend, there was 
no one to say her nay.  No reason to get their underwear in a knot.  Subtext 
was that Mulder had his underwear in a knot for no good reason, but Bergman's 
face was worried anyway.

And she noticed that he wasn't telling Mulder they wouldn't look, just giving 
Mulder reasons why it was foolish to do so.

That made the hackles on her neck rise, or they would have if she'd left any 
room for it under the scarf and parka.  Jesus Christ, it was colder than the 
ashes of love, a pithy phrase her father had picked up from an XO from 
Tennesee.  She knew what it meant now.

Taking a step forward, she discovered that her toes were starting to go numb 
again.  

"Jesus, Mulder, just try and relax," Bergman finally growled, "We'll find 
her, and she'll be fine, wondering what's wrong with us.  Go and get 
something to eat, there's a lot of good food out here on the midway."  One 
mittened paw gestured and Scully looked involuntarily, stunned to see how 
many people were actually out in this weather.

Probably the entire population of Timmsville and the surrounding rural area.  
These people were really crazy.

On the other hand, with that many people, maybe their body heat warmed things 
up.  

"I already ate."  But Mulder gazed at the winter-garbed figures under the 
lights.  'Maybe Marcy Olafsen is out here already."

"That's a possibility, I've got Jorgensen watching for her, they keep company 
sometimes."  Bergman nodded and pulled the earflaps down on his hat, turned 
and trudged away from them.

Mulder looked after him, the garish colors making him look like something out 
of an acid flashback.  "Keeping company," he muttered, "A quaint Minnesota 
euphemism for fucking like mink."

Scully whacked him on the arm with her fist.  "Stop that, Mulder, they 
already thing you're off the wall.  I swear, the people in the restaurant 
stared at us the entire time we were in there, they must have been making 
bets on whether or not you'd manage to keep your dinner down."

"Small town life."  Mulder's breath puffed out in irritation.  "All right, 
we've got a picture of Olafsen, let's go see what we can find."

"Mulder, get real, how would we recognize anyone under five layers of wool 
and down-stuffed nylon?"

He didn't dignify that with an answer, just turned and trudged through the 
snow, his boots breaking ground for her to follow.

Yeah, except his legs were long than hers and she hadn't ever been a 
cheerleader, Melissa had.  So doing the splits in the snow wasn't her idea of 
a good time.  "Slow down, dammit," she snapped at him and he turned, offering 
her one of those vaguely apologetic Mulder looks that she occasionally got 
from him.

Once in a blue moon, or when she barged into his room in her underwear, 
whichever came first.

At least he waited.

The organizers of the Festival had set up wooden walkways on the midway, 
which was a blessing.  Scully's feet didn't thaw, but they stopped freezing 
any worse, and she actually found the entire thing quite amusing.

Right up until the crowning of the Winter Queen, which thankfully took place 
in a big pavilion.  Mulder broke ground again, tugging at her gloved hand and 
squeezing through the crowd until they ended up at the walkway that was 
covered in tacky red, indoor/outdoor carpet.

Holly and ivy decorated the little stage and Scully realized that it was an 
open air bandshell in the summer.  

Talk about pagan remnants, said the voice in her head that was still that 
little Catholic girl in parochial school.  These people really were crazy, 
the Queen, young and blonde and buxom, stood up in a bathing suit and fur 
coat while she was being crowned.

Mulder stared up at the bounteous blonde display and whistled under the noise 
of the crowd, leaned down and said, "Is she cold, do you think, or is she 
just glad to see me?"

Scully whacked him again, this time in the stomach, not that he could feel it 
through his parka, but it got a wicked Mulder grin, the first she'd seen 
since arriving in this God-forsaken part of the world.

Then, "Marcy Olafsen was Winter Queen when she was nineteen, Scully, keep 
your eyes open."

Right.  Like she was going to be able to recognize Marcy Olafsen under a knit 
cap, or with a parka hood pulled close around her face.  But dutifully, she 
looked, looked hard.  

Looked until the young blonde Queen walked down the walkway and she 
recognized Inge.  Her jaw dropped open as Inge sashayed past, waving 
to--Pendrell.  Pendrell was clapping like a maniac, his face just visible 
under a layer of wool.

Poor kid, he was from California, this climate was as hard on him as it was 
on her.  At least Mulder was originally from Massachusetts, it got damned 
cold there.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 17
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Suddenly, Mulder was off like a shot, racing back out of the pavilion, still 
holding her hand.

"Excuse me," she gasped, to the stout matron she nearly knocked over before 
disengaging from his grip.  Then, "Excuse me again," to the matron's husband, 
when she stepped on his feet, trying to catch up with Mulder.

She lost him at first, that thin form disappearing among the thicker ones 
that streamed toward the pavilion to see the new Queen.  Passing a couple of 
giggling teenage girls, she stopped, gasping for air, the cold air as sharp 
as ice splinters in her lungs.  "'Scuse me," she panted, "Have you see a tall 
man, dark hair, no hat, dark blue parka with," more panting, "fur around the 
hood?"

The girls giggled.  "Yah, sure.  He went that way, toward the Yule tent.  But 
it's closed now, they stop serving beer after the crowning."

Head down, hands against her knees, Scully nodded thanks, straightened again 
and ran, the chill sparking pain in each lung.  Damn him anyway, he got on a 
trail and just went fucking nuts.  She was going to get Skinner for letting 
VCS borrow them on this one, just see if she didn't.  He was the profiler, 
for God's sake, he wasn't supposed to be out tracking down the killer 
himself, but she was damned if she could ever get him to see the difference.  

A chill that had nothing to do with the weather snaked down her spine and she 
ran harder, went the wrong direction and got steered back on track by an old 
man wearing one of those damned hats with the ear flaps.  Goddammit, she was 
going to kill him, she really was going to kill him when she found him, 
tackle him down in the snow and stuff a half-ton of it down his neck, that'd 
teach him to ditch his partner.

He was standing at the dark entrance of a tent, having pulled the ties away.  
Staring into the darkness.  Nothing there that she could see when she caught 
up to him.

And she'd barely done so when he took off again, long legs carrying him out 
of the park and onto the slick street, precarious slide and he caught his 
balance again, elbows pumping.

"Mulder, goddammit," she shrieked and took off again, cursing the day she'd 
ever set eyes on Blevins, the day she'd gone down to the basement and met 
smart ass, arrogant asshole Spooky Mulder.  A four wheel drive full of 
raucous drunks made her wait to cross the street, but she cut across the 
residential yards, he was following the street and she'd seen him turn.

The icy air was going to kill her, the cramp in her side was going to kill 
her, and boy, was he going to pay for it.

The street was dark except for the streetlights, most houses dark, the 
occupants where they'd just been, at the Carnival.  Mulder pelted up ahead of 
her toward the small Lutheran church, she was close enough to hear his 
breathing.  It gave her a vicious spark of satisfaction to hear that he 
sounded worse than she did.

Too much time in the basement, she told him silently and cursed again when he 
went up the stone stairs to the church door.  

Oh, please, let the door be locked, Scully thought, then took it back.  If 
the door was locked, he might shoot the lock out, she could see the 
Minneapolis-St. Paul headlines, Deranged FBI Agent Shoots Way Into Church.

But the door was unlocked, she saw him slam it open as she reached the 
sidewalk.  He staggered in, leaving the door to be caught by the wind.  
Throwing herself up the stairs, Scully caught it, leaned heavily on it, 
gasping like she was dying.  Hell, maybe she was, it certainly felt like it.

There were no lights on, but Mulder found a switch and they flared to life, 
making Scully blink.

"Oh, God."  It was a whisper.  Pulling the door shut behind her, she stumbled 
her way up to him and leaned on him just as heavily as she had on the door.  
Mulder stumbled back a step, his eyes wide and shocked and dark.

Scully's head turned, but she already knew what she'd see, the chill snaked 
back up her spine and made her shudder.  Carefully posed at the altar rail, a 
woman wearing a faded red one piece bathing suit stood in high heels.  A well 
worn and motheaten velvent cloak trailed down her white shoulders, and a 
faded gilt crown was jammed onto her head. 

"The Queen is dead," Mulder breathed, "Long live the Queen."

Scully shuddered.  Marcy Olafsen had once again been crowned Winter Carnival 
Queen.

Mulder shook her off, Scully caught the nearest pew to steady herself.  "He's 
telling us that the Carnival is a pagan ritual.  That holding to pagan ways 
is death, death to the soul, death to salvation.  Marcy Olafsen is a soiled 
queen, symbol of the Winter Solstice, symbol of the consequences of rejecting 
Christ's will."  He approached carefully and stood before the posed body.

Scully wondered what was holding it up, then shuddered, caught her breath and 
walked shakily up the aisle to stand beside him.

His breathing was still rough, shaken.  "In Baltimore there lived a boy, He 
wasn't anybody's joy. Although his name was Jabez Dawes, His character was 
full of flaws. In school he never led his classes, He hid old ladies' reading 
glasses, His mouth was open when he chewed, And elbows to the table glued."

Oh, God, not more Nash, please let it not be Nash.

"Sinner!!!"  The shrill voice turned Scully's head, raised gooseflesh under 
the layers of parka, sweater and thermal underwear.  

A woman stood in the vestry, gaunt and haggard, wearing a black dress that 
would have gone out of fashion before either of them were ever born, her 
white hair pulled back so tightly that it looked painful.  "Sinner!!" she 
shrilled and waved what looked like a wooden stick at them. 

Mulder moaned and closed his eyes.  "He stole the milk of hungry kittens, And 
walked through doors marked No Admittance. He said he acted thus because, 
There wasn't any Santa Claus. Another trick that tickled Jabez, Was crying 
"Boo!" at little babies. He brushed his teeth, they said in town, Sideways 
instead of up and down."

"Sinner!!  I know your heart, you can't hide from me."  The old woman came 
closer, leaning on a walking stick.  "You can't hide your sins, Jesus knows 
them all!  You're going to burn in hell, Sinner."

Scully frowned.  Who in the hell was the woman talking to?  Surely not 
Mulder.  Absolutely not her.  Although the woman was old enough that her 
vision might have suffered, perhaps she was addressing the inappropriately 
dressed corpse of Marcia Olafsen.

Mulder whimpered.  "I'm not a sinner," he whispered, too low to be audible to 
anyone but Scully.  Then:  "Yet people pardoned every sin, And viewed his 
antics with a grin, Till they were told by Jabez Dawes, 'There isn't any 
Santa Claus!', Deploring how he did behave, His parents swiftly sought their 
grave.  They hurried through the portals pearly, And Jabez left the funeral 
early. "
 
The old lady grinned like an evil jack o'lantern, approaching them with a 
shuffling step that was nonetheless relentless.  "Repent, Sinner.  I know 
about the dirty things you do, I know about your dirty filthy thoughts.  Look 
at you, you make me sick.  God will crush you like a bug, like the filthy 
dirty cockroach that you are.  Get down on your knees!!"  Her voice rose to a 
lunatic shout.  "Get down on your knees and ask his forgiveness for your 
sins!  Ask him to forgive the nasty things you do.  Cut off your hand lest it 
offend!"

Mulder shivered convulsively.  "Like whooping cough, from child to child, He 
sped to spread the rumor wild: "Sure as my name is Jabez Dawes, There isn't 
any Santa Claus!" Slunk like a weasel or a marten Through nursery and 
kindergarten, Whispering low to every tot, 'There isn't any, no there's not!' 
"  He was chanting it like a prayer, warding off evil.  Scully shivered 
again, snatched after him fruitlessly as he took the step up behind the altar 
rail, stepped toward the hag with her venomous railing and her wooden stick.

"Bad," the woman intoned, taking the last step to stand face to face with 
Scully's partner.  "You were born bad and bad you remain.  Get down on your 
knees, how dare you stand on your feet, unrepentant, in the house of the 
Lord.  Hold out your hands, sinner, hold them out!"

Mulder obediently did, ignoring Scully's gasp of outrage.  The wooden stick 
came down on his palms and the lights flickered.  His eyes closed and she 
could see tears on his face, shiny in the light.  His voice was haunted, 
hollow, the voice of a ghost.  "The children wept all Christmas Eve, And 
Jabez chortled up his sleeve. No infant dared to hang up his stocking, For 
fear of Jabez' ribald mocking. He sprawled on his untidy bed, Fresh malice 
dancing in his head, When presently with scalp a-tingling, Jabez heard a 
distant jingling;He heard the crunch of sleigh and hoof,  Crisply alighting 
on the roof. "

The stick came down again, harder and harder.  The old woman's breathing was 
like a train whistle, as shrill as her voice.  "If your hand offends God, cut 
it off," she raged and struck again.  And again.

Scully stood frozen, stunned, unable to move, to protest.  Surely he wouldn't 
let her, surely this wasn't happening.....

Mulder's voice rose, rose up, filling the church.  "What good to rise and bar 
the door? A shower of soot was on the floor. What was beheld by Jabez Dawes? 
The fireplace full of Santa Claus! Then Jabez fell upon his knees, With cries 
of 'Don't,' and 'Pretty please.' He howled, 'I don't know where you read it, 
But anyhow, I never said it!' " 

The woman only seemed more enraged.  "Get on your knees, get on your knees 
and ask forgiveness, beg him not to send you to eternal hellfire and 
brimstone.  Beg him not to let the demons flay you alive, beg him!!  Filthy, 
ugly, nasty thing!"  

The stick rose and fell again, but it broke Scully's stasis and she moved 
forward.  "Hey, dammit, leave him--Mulder, for God's sake!"

He fell to his knees and moaned again, his hands still out, and the stick 
struck with a sickening slap on flesh that spattered Mulder's face with 
something wet and red.

Oh, Jesus--she tried to vault the altar rail, but the body fell forward, 
landing against her and making her stagger back, sickened and suddenly scared 
to her bones.

Mulder's voice echoed hollowly in the empty church.  " 'Jabez,' replied the 
angry saint, 'It isn't I, it's you that ain't. Although there is a Santa 
Claus, There isn't any Jabez Dawes!' Said Jabez with impudent vim, 'Oh, yes 
there is; and I am him!, Your magic don't scare me, it doesn't'--And suddenly 
he found he wasn't!"

"Mulder!"  Scully's voice rose in a near-scream.  "Dammit, Mulder, snap out 
of it!"  With a final, panicked shrug, she shoved Marcy Olafsen to the floor 
and pulled herself out, moving fast.

The lights went out, but not before she saw Mulder put his hands up over his 
head to protect it, saw the smear of blood that brushed his temple. 

"Sinner!!!!"  It was a triumphant shriek.

And then there was silence, not even the sound of blows.  

Only Mulder's voice broke it, small and wistful.  "From grimy feet to grimy 
locks, Jabez became a Jack-in-the-box, An ugly toy with springs unsprung, 
Forever sticking out his tongue. The neighbors heard his mournful squeal; 
They searched for him, but not with zeal. No trace was found of Jabez Dawes, 
Which led to thunderous applause, And people drank a loving cup, And went and 
hung their stockings up."

Goddamn motherfucking sonuvabitch.  Swearing, Scully felt her way forward, 
grabbed the altar rail and swung her leg over it.  "Mulder, don't move, 
you're bleeding."

The lights came on again, blinding Scully for a moment.  When she could see 
again, her partner was still kneeling there, his hands raised, head ducked to 
protect it.  And the old woman was gone, just gone, no shuffling gait, no 
sound, no shrieking, just plain gone.

And Mulder looked at her with wide empty eyes, pupils swollen to eat up all 
but the rim of hazel.  "All you who sneer at Santa Claus, Beware the fate of 
Jabez Dawes, The saucy boy who mocked the saint. Donder and Blitzen licked 
off his paint."  And fell face forward, hands flung outward in silent 
supplication.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 18
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Mulder had come around when Sculy slapped him several times, but it was a 
dazed, confused look and she didn't really want him lucid or cognizant until 
she could do something for his hands, both bloody and striped with welts and 
cuts.   Bergman was useless, just useless.  She'd had to run outside, leaving 
her partner's limp form, and across the road to the Carnival, had found 
Bergman exchanging jokes with small town folk and dragged him away with a 
sharp tongue and harsh words.

She'd told the story without embellishing or editing, and people had avoided 
her eye, as if they didn't want to hear it, didn't want to talk about it, 
didn't want to know.  No one wanted to know. No one had wanted to know what 
they'd heard tonight. Hammond was making the sign of the cross again and 
again and again. God, she'd known the green, underaged sonofabitch was 
Catholic. Irish Catholic no doubt.

Marcy Olafsen's body was collected by the good doctor who served as ME.  Also 
named Olafsson  .  She had frozen to death, died of exposure.  Wearing her 
bathing suit, from the way it looked to Scully, not that she'd examined the 
body all that closely.

And then Pendrell brought the car, and she'd gotten Mulder up and they'd run 
through the ice cold wind that cut even through layers of wool and down and 
made Mulder shiver convulsively in the car against her.  She'd held him 
tightly until he went out again, just plain out, and the limp feel of him 
made her heart hammer with worry.

It was snowing again when they pulled into the motel parking lot. Scully  
pinched Mulder's arm cruelly and he woke again.  Stared at Scully, that 
winsome lost and hurt little boy look that made her heart turn over.  

"Come on,  Mulder," she said. "Come on. We're home. Let's get you into bed."  

Only this time, she put him to bed in her room, in the second bed that had to 
be cleared of her paraphenalia before she could strip his boots and coat and 
sweater and jeans off.

He was already wearing his thermal underwear, he let her chivvy him into bed 
without complaint and rolled onto one side, hugging the pillow as she tucked 
the blankets around him.

Scully went back into the next room through the connecting door to strip the 
bedding off the bed Mulder had been using, all the blankets and the 
comforter.  She laid these over him too, his skin had been chilly with shock. 
 Only then did she take a look at his hands.

His eyes gleamed briefly between dark lashes as she checked them.  "'M okay, 
Scully," he murmured. 

There was a nasty pressure cut on one palm, the reason for the blood on his 
temple and face.  "Yeah," she told him.  "Just a cut.  I'm going to get a 
washcloth, Mulder, and get it cleaned up before you go to sleep.  It won't 
take a minute."

His mouth curved sweetly in the smile that generally weakened her knees.  She 
saw it so rarely.  "You worry too much, Scully."

"You're my partner."  Hell if she worried too much.  Sometimes, she didn't 
worry enough.  

He woke again when she wiped the blood spatter from his face and temple.  
Blinked at her and his brows drew together.  

"Shhh," she told him.  "I'm all done.  You wanna be careful with that hand 
the next few days, okay?"

The smile returned and his eyelids fell.  His breathing became even, then 
sped again, he leaned up on one elbow, struggling to wake up, his mouth 
moving soundlessly.

"Shhh," she told him and touched his hair.  "Go to sleep, Mulder."

"How did she die, Scully?"  His eyelids were so heavy that he couldn't open 
them all the way.

"Exposure, Mulder."  By coaxing, she got him to lie down again.  He'd hit his 
head, she didn't want to give him Valium or Dramamine or anything else.  "She 
froze to death in her bathing suit.  I'll run a tox screen tomorrow, see what 
I can figure out.  No indication of a blow to the head or anywhere else, not 
even any bruises.  Although there were ligature marks around her wrists, they 
weren't deep.  She didn't struggle much."

He nodded and let himself be pushed back again.  "Tomorrow," he muttered and 
sank back into sleep.

Scully sat there for a long while, occasionally stroking his hair and 
wondering what monsters lurked in his subconscious.


Waking suddenly in the night, Scully listened to the sound of her own 
heartbeat and swallowed hard.  Bad enough poor Mulder was having these 
bizarre wet dreams, now she was starting to have them, too.  About Mulder.  
Although thankfully, none of hers involved Jurassic Park or a nun's habit.

Mulder, all snuggly wuggly and rosy under the blankets she'd piled as high as 
the snowbanks outside.  Rosy and completely ready to go, waking to give her 
that absurdly sweet smile as she hiked her flannel nightgown up and slid 
down.  

God, she ought to be ashamed. 

Lying there in the dark, Scully listened to Mulder's quiet breathing and said 
the rosary on her fingers, begging forgiveness for--for what?  She didn't 
believe in the God of her childhood anymore.  Didn't believe that prayers 
would bring surcease from pain.  If that had been true, her half-voiced 
prayers for her partner would have worked.  She didn't believe that God 
listened to prayers and answered them.  If that had been true, she would have 
been in the next bed with Mulder.  Although perhaps that was stretching 
things, she wasn't entirely certain God would answer prayers driven by lust.

One of the seven deadly sins.

Sighing, Scully rolled on her side and considered the lump that was Mulder.   
 She hadn't been able to get any answer from anyone about the old woman, no 
one seemed to know who she might have been, and the minister had looked 
openly frightened.  He'd hustled back to the rectory muttering of demons and 
exorcism.  Which surprised her, she hadn't thought that Lutherans went for 
such papist nonsense as exorcism.

And Bergman had merely cleared his throat and changed the subject, while 
Jorgensen had gone quite nervous.

And Hammond kept crossing himself.

Who was the old woman?  And why had Mulder known where to find her?  And why 
had she attacked poor Mulder.

Sure, even Catholic priests weighed in against masturbation, but the poor guy 
couldn't be blamed, he had no time for a life.  Well, maybe that was his 
fault, he insisted on following his quest, on the never ending search for the 
Truth, with a capital T, and his sister.

Sometimes she wondered if it was guilt or grief that drove him.  There had 
been times she would have gladly had her sister abducted.  There were times 
when she wondered if her sister had been an alien.  Maybe Mulder had wanted 
his sister to vanish, too, and when she had, he'd felt horrid, as if he'd had 
something to do with it.

Certainly, his father had blamed him.  So guilt had been layered on guilt and 
now poor Mulder, the FBI poster boy, the man singlehandedly responsible for 
boffing more field office Betties, had no life and was reduced to dreaming 
about her in a Miata and a nun's habit.  

She refused to even speculate about Jurassic Park.

A knock on the connecting door. Hesitant. Soft.  Pendrell? Scully got up, 
padded over to the door, unlocked it. Pendrell.  

She went back to her bed and grabbed her robe, stuffed her feet into her 
slippers and went back to Pendrell's room through the connecting door.

Pendrell sat down on the foot of what had been Mulder's bed.  "What happened 
out there?"  

Scully shrugged.  

Pendrell look at the carpet, at his stockinged feet.  "He's going crazy." 
Scared voice.  Soft voice.  

"No, he's not."  Scully lifted her chin.  "He's not, he's just under some 
stress.  And you weren't there, you don't know what happened."

"My father is in one of the most expensive nut houses in San Francisco 
because of Viet Nam, he was a quartermaster and the theft drove him crazy," 
Pendrell said without looking at her. "Don't let them put him in a place like 
that.  Don't let him end up counting imaginary boxes."  

Scully swallowed. Oh God. Oh God.  But Pendrell wasn't right about Mulder, he 
wasn't.  "Pendrell, with all respect to your father, Mulder's never been a 
quartermaster."

Pendrell shuddered.  "Don't let him end up counting EBEs then.  Don't let 
them put him in that kind of place."
 
Pendrell's voice was miserable.  And she didn't know what to say. Mulder 
would have known.  "Pendrell--"

Pendrell shivered. "You know what we should do. You should put him on a plane 
tomorrow and report his behavior bluntly."

Scully did not reply, still searching for words to tell Pendrell that it was 
all right, that Mulder was all right.  That he was just being Mulder.  That 
this was the way her partner got into the heads of killers and brought them 
down.  

Pendrell's voice was low.  "But if you do, there'll be more dead bodies.. 
We'd still be going in circles, trying to find the tracks.  So what do we do?"

"So what do we do?" Scully's voice was sharp, acidic. "You leave him the hell 
alone to find the killer.  He's going to be fine, Pendrell, this is how he 
tracks them.  He gets inside their heads."

He gave her an accusatory look. "Mulder's lost it. Completely and utterly. 
Delusory."  

Cold anger flared in her gut.  "You've seen him reciting Ogden Nash and 
making predictions about the killer. Want to bet that when we wake him he'll 
have a perfectly logical reason for his knowing figured out. Only logical to 
anyone with a 200 IQ, of course, but it will be.  And those predictions have 
been right, he's right on target, dammit, so don't tell me he's lost it, his 
mind is working the way it needs to."  

Pendrell blinked at her, eyes watery.  "Agent Scully, I like Agent Mulder.  I 
respect him.  You've got to get him some help."

Scully thought of Olaffson.  Her mouth crimped with distaste.  "He's just 
high strung, Pendrell, and you weren't there tonight.  That old woman went 
after him.  And he was shocked from finding the body in the church.  We all 
have moments like that, I couldn't handle the necrophiliac in Minneapolis."  

Now that she thought about it, that was even more chilling.  What the hell 
went on up here in the frozen north?  "I want you to keep your mouth shut 
about this, Pendrell.  If I find you've been going around telling people he's 
crazy, I'll have *you* sent back under charges." Scully kept her voice cold. 
Analytical, utterly devoid of emotion, just flat statements of fact. Just 
call her Mr. Fucking Data. 

"He's breaking down, Scully.  If we cover up something like this--That's 
grounds for dismissal." Pendrell's voice wavered.  

Scully felt her muscles turn to stone.  "If you push this--they don't 
understand the way Mulder's mind works, they want a reason to get rid of him. 
 They'll stuff him so full of Thorazine they'll have to show him where to 
take a shit."  Deliberately harsh, deliberately vulgar.  "He'll sit in the 
day room and stare at the sun making patterns on the wall and some 
Occupational Therapist will come by and give him plastic scissors to make 
collages with a big bowl of harmless wheat paste." 

"Shut up!" Pendrell's voice was choked. "Just shut the hell up! Okay?" 

Scully shut the hell up. Oh, yes, she did.  At least until Pendrell got 
himself under control again.  "He'll be all right in the morning."  It hurt 
to breathe, hurt through and up and around her lungs and she regretted 
upsetting Pendrell, and couldn't really think her way past it.  "Yeah. Oh 
yeah. He'll be fine, if I know Mulder."

"All right,"  Pendrell told her tiredly, wiping his face.
  
"I'll take him to Olafsson first thing tomorrow morning."  Another nod from 
Pendrell. Scully got up.  "Try to get some sleep, Pendrell.  We're going to 
have a busy day tomorrow with that autopsy."

Pendrell nodded without looking at her.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 19
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Olafsson was better than Scully had expected.  Not that better meant all that 
much.

And Mulder went along with her with less flak.  Which for Mulder meant he 
only needled her throughout a breakfast that would have killed a lesser man.  
At least it meant he was eating.

And he did roll his eyes when she left him alone with Olafsson   during the 
examination at Olafsson 's insistence.

Olafsson   was probably afraid she'd get an illicit look at something she 
hadn't seen before, she told herself sardonically, settling down in the 
waiting room with snuffly kids and tired mothers.  Her book was in her bag, 
she lifted it out, trying not to think of poor Pendrell doing the forensics 
work inside the church and being asked if he had accepted the Lord Jesus 
Christ as his savior by Reverend Jurgensen.  

She'd been hard on him last night, but she hadn't expected Pendrell to come 
unglued over Mulder, for God's sake.

*Mulder* coming unglued was such a regular occurrence that she'd forgotten 
how it might look to the uninitiated.  But his vomiting still worried her, so 
here they were.

There were wooden ducks on the doctor's waiting room wall.  Mallards, if her 
eyes didn't deceive her.  And the receptionist had proudly told her that 
Doctor had done them himself.

She really hated it when physicians allowed people to call them Doctor as if 
the one word made them God.

But Olafsson   was the only physician in Timmsville.  She'd have to drive 
farther away to get Mulder anywhere else, or take that God forsaken airplane 
back to Minneapolis.  

And someone else might die.

She read steadily through her suspense novel while getting disapproving looks 
from the good wives of Timmsville, drawing her legs aside when a snotty nosed 
toddler tried to rush her.

His mother snatched him back as if Scully were the devil incarnate.  The way 
she felt at the moment, Scully mused, she might really be the devil 
incarnate.  Those ducks staring down at her were making her tense.  And it 
was taking a long time.

Mulder finally emerged, looking disgruntled.  "Come on, Scully, he wants to 
talk to you, too."

The doctor's office was worse than the waiting room.  Stuffed fish hung on 
the walls next to wooden ducks.  Averting her eyes, Scully focused on 
Olafsson  , who regarded her without a great deal of pleasure.

"I understand that you are an MD," he intoned.  "And that you frequently care 
for your partner's medical needs."

"That's true," Scully agreed, wondering if Olafsson   thought she was caring 
for Mulder's other needs as well.  

"I prefer not to prescribe drugs for this vomiting," Olafsson   told her, 
ignoring his patient.  "I would prefer to use a more natural means of 
stimulating his recovery from this.  I find no signs of infection, viral or 
otherwise, and he appears to be in good physical health otherwise."

There was a peculiar stress on the word physical.  Scully frowned.  "Yes, 
that's also true."

"However, it is apparent that he is feeling a great deal of stress.  I did," 
he looked at Mulder accusingly, "Suggest that a visit to Reverend Jurgensen 
for counseling would not be amiss, but Mr. Mulder refused to consider that."

Scully felt the first faint urge to giggle.  "No, he's not Lutheran, he's 
Jewish."

Mulder frowned at her darkly.  "My heritage is Jewish, I don't espouse any 
particular religious faith," he corrected, his tone flat.

Olafsson  stared at him for a moment, eyes shadowed.  "Mr. Mulder, I feel 
strongly that your lack of religious faith is creating more stress for you on 
this case."

Mulder stared back defiantly.  "I don't think you have to be religious to 
feel disturbed over the murder of human beings, Dr. Olafsson  ."

Scully cleared her throat.  "Ruling out religious counseling, Dr. Olafsson  , 
what is your recommendation?"

"Ovaltine."  Olafsson looked back at her, no more pleased than he had been in 
the beginning.  "A large cup of hot Ovaltine at night, before he goes to 
sleep."

Perhaps, Scully thought, she'd misheard him.  "Ovaltine?"

"Ovaltine."

Mulder began to snicker.  "Ovaltine?  I hate Ovaltine."

Olafsson scowled.  "Ovaltine will soothe your nerves, which will help to ease 
or stop the vomiting."  He rose, his expression forbidding.  "And now, if you 
will excuse me, I have other patients waiting."

Scully rose hastily and looked warningly at Mulder, who showed every sign of 
beginning a war of words with the good doctor.  "Ah, well, thank you for 
seeing him on such short notice, Doctor."

"I can speak for myself, Scully."  Mulder scowled at her again.

Just don't, she begged him silently and all but dragged him out of the office.

Halfway down the hall, Mulder began to snicker again.  "Ovaltine.  Jesus, 
these people really are strange.  I think it's the snow, Scully.  All that 
endless white, it's enough to make anyone crazy."

"Shut up," she hissed.  "And it's worth a try.  You hate it when I make you 
take pills, it's certainly worth the effort."

He rolled his eyes, but subsided.

At least until after lunch.


The autopsy had been a disaster.  Perhaps, Scully told herself, disaster was 
too strong a word.  It had provided them with absolutely zip in terms of 
useful or helpful information.  

"She died of exposure," Scully had told Bergman stonily.  "And she appears to 
have been wearing her little red bathing suit at the time.  The cape was 
added later, after death, although abrasions on the victim's scalp suggest 
that she was also wearing the crown when she froze."

Mulder's expression was equally stony.  "She knew him, she must have let him 
in, if Pendrell's right.  No sign of forced entry.  So she let him in and she 
put on her bathing suit to pose for him, and maybe that tacky little crown.  
And he took her down.  But how, Scully?"

"There's no sign of a blow to the face or head, Mulder.  The tox screen will 
tell us more.  Possibly a drug, but she would have had to ingest it.  There's 
no sign of an injection site.  And the only thing I got off the body was a 
few dark green wool fibers and cotton twine.  And something under her nails.  
She was tied, but she must have been pretty far gone, she didn't struggle 
very much."

Mulder was suddenly pale.  "That poor damned woman.  I don't suppose we can 
get a time of death?"

"Pretty iffy."  Scully sighed.  "Sometime in the last twenty-four hours would 
be my guess based on what Jorgensen's come up with on her routine.  She left 
work at the mallard factory at 5:00 on Thursday.  We found her on Friday, and 
this is Saturday."

"And what do we know about Jorgensen's last 48 hours?"  Mulder lifted an 
eyebrow at Bergman.  

Bergman's face darkened.  "Eric Jorgensen's been a deputy since 1992.  He's 
completely trustworthy.  Besides, he liked the damned woman."

"Check out his schedule.  I want to know about any time unaccounted for."  
Mulder stuffed his hands in the pocket of his parka.  

It was Saturday, after all, they were both wearing jeans.

"Agent Scully?"  Pendrell came in looking weary.  "The stuff under her nails 
is shrinkwrap.  She peeled something off with her nails and some of it got 
stuck there."

"Great."  Scully sighed.  "I was hoping maybe we actually got lucky and found 
some tissue samples from the killer."

"Luck doesn't do it, Scully," Mulder muttered and rubbed his forehead.  "I 
need to go back to the motel and see if I can collate some of what we've got 
into a meaningful shape."

Well, it was about time, she thought and bit that thought back.  What was she 
saying?  He never collated anything, he just sat in front of his Ouija 
computer and began to type.  "I'll see you back there," she told him calmly.  
"I want to go back and talk to Olafsson  .  If he's the only physician in 
town, he might just be able to give me some information about Marcy Olafsen."

Already on his way out, Mulder nodded absently, not even noticing that 
Pendrell gave him a wide berth on his way through the door.

Scully's brows drew together.  Had she felt badly for Pendrell?  Well, maybe 
not.  "Pendrell," she said evenly.  "You and I are going back to Marcy 
Olafsen's house.  I want to make sure there isn't anything we've overlooked."

He opened his mouth to protest this, took one look at the gleam in her eyes 
and closed it again.

Wise Pendrell.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 20 

by wickdzoot@aol.com


Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Mulder cracked his knuckles and considered 
the pieces he had.  Leaned back against the pillows and whistled tunelessly 
while he cleared his mind.  A blank slate.  Open to whoever was out there.

Or whatever.

And his fingers poised over the keys and began to type.


At two, Scully found Mulder crashed on his own bed, wrapped up in the 
blankets the maid had retrieved from her bed, one hand outflung like Adam 
reaching up to touch the hand of God.

His laptop was still on, on the corner of the bed.  Shaking her head, Scully 
saved the file and took the laptop into her room.  Moved back up to the top 
of the document.

"He wasn't the oldest, he wasn't the youngest, somewhere in the middle, he 
was the one who was ignored until the first tragedy, until the oldest died, 
paying for sins.  Then they noticed him, his mother especially.  They may 
have suspected that the death of their eldest child was no accident."

Scully's brows drew together.  Where did he get this shit?  From the ethers?  
She was going to start suspecting him of channeling if things didn't change.  
Pressing the Page Down key, she moved through the profile.

"After that, he got singled out.  Second born child?  Took the place of his 
eldest sib, but disappointed them.  Dad didn't have much to say to him, Momma 
punished him a lot, for a multitude of sins.  The Reverend preached hellfire 
and brimstone, the salvation of the elect, the damnation of the wicked.  
Momma was cold, like the frozen winter, no warmth at all, and only judgement, 
no matter how hard he tried.  They caught him playing with himself when he 
was thirteen, his mother whipped him bloody with a willow switch, and his 
father just stood by.  He washes his hands obsessively, regularly, several 
times a day.  He believes in damnation, believes that he can only escape by 
saving other sinners, by Grace granted for his acts of salvation.  He wants 
to bring them back to God, all of them, their deaths aren't murder, he sees 
himself as saving their souls at the expense of their flesh."

Okay, Scully could dance to that, it made sense, even if there was no earthly 
way for Mulder to know what the killer had endured as a child.

"Raintree was a heathen, even though he'd been educated at the church school. 
 Raintree listened to the people on the reservation, didn't follow the 
Christian way once he left school.  And he was weak, an alcoholic, he didn't 
accept his higher power, he didn't accept that God could cure him.  And even 
worse, he polluted the Sabbath with his ice fishing.  But Raintree wasn't the 
first.  He started killing before that, but it somehow escaped notice.  Check 
the death certificates out for the last fifteen years.  Check and see if 
there are any that don't have a good explanation.   The green is the rebirth 
of spring, of Easter.  Cod liver oil is given to children to prevent rickets. 
 It used to be given as a tonic, to keep them healthy, and the twin brothers 
already suffered from spiritual weakness, spiritual disease.  So he cured 
them." 

Pretty final cure, Scully thought and rubbed the bridge of her nose.  She 
still wasn't sure about the Jello salad.   Easter?  She was going to have to 
reserve judgement on that one.

"Caroline Timmeson is the killing which reveals the pathology.  She, like his 
mother, ruled the household, she pulled the farm out of foreclosure and made 
it pay, she was the matriarch of her family and nobody made decisions without 
her.  That in itself might have drawn his attention, but it seems clear that 
without her 'sins' of drink and profanity and poor church attendance, 
Caroline Timmeson might have lived to a ripe old age."

That was the most sensible thing he'd said so far.  If he was right about the 
mother, the killer was expressing pathological resentments toward both 
parents.

"It's dark where he is, he fears the devil coming to get him.  He will kill 
more and more frequently now, and Marcy Olafsen's death fulfilled two goals.  
He saved her from her loose ways, fornication and drink and unwomanly 
behavior, and called attention to the fact that the Winter Carnival is a 
pagan festival, going back to the Scandinavian settlers who came here.  He 
named it for what it was, a tribute to the old gods, the summer god who died 
at Lammas and is reborn at Winter Solstice.  Who lies beyond the celebration 
of Christ's birth.  Green jello for rebirth, for spiritual rebirth, celery 
for the bitterness of the lost Garden, marshmallows for the sweetness of the 
union with God....and the rest?  He took communion at Caroline Timmeson's 
table, ate yams and ham to celebrate the flesh of Christ, drank cider to 
celebrate His Blood, and then tucked her internal organs neatly into the 
freezer.  Waiting for the judgement day."

Scully's gorge rose briefly.  Okay, maybe he was right about the Jello, she'd 
grant him that, but he was going to get an argument on communion at 
Timmeson's table.  Uck.

"He's not a minister, but he yearns to be one, yearns to have all his sins 
forgiven.  He's never married, is probably nearing his fifties, certainly 
over forty.  He's trusted by most of the members of the community.  Above 
average intelligence, with some evidence of compulsive obsessive behavior.  
Note:  Caroline Timmeson's organs had been labeled in black grease pencil, 
neatly wrapped in freezer paper and sealed with waterproof tape.  Marcy 
Olafsen was posed meticulously to match the new Queen's runway attitude.  The 
twin brothers were wrapped together, arms and legs intertwined.  Note:  There 
is also sexual subtext here, a commentary on the sin of Sodom and Gomorrah.  
Raintree was lying with his hands folded on his breast in the Christmas tree 
farm.  Christmas represents the birth of Christ, the savior come again, the 
Messiah's mission to save all men.  Caroline Timmeson, despite the blood and 
viscera, was laid to rest, her hands also folded in prayer.  He believes in 
the Our Father implicitly.  Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy 
name, the kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.  Give 
us this day our daily bread--Caroline Timmeson's fruitbread--and forgive us 
our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not 
into temptation, but deliver us from evil.  For thine is the kingdom and the 
power and the glory forever and ever amen."

There was more space after this.  Almost absently, Scully pressed the Page 
Down key and saw what Mulder had written at the bottom.  

" 'Candy, Is Dandy, But Liquor, Is Quicker.  Check tox screen for alchohol 
consumption.  Also, insulin--he may have injected her with insulin, she may 
have been in a coma.  Can insulin be taken in alchohol?  Is it noticeable, 
and does it breakdown in the gut, rather than having the usual effect?  Does 
he have a medical background?  Or a family history of alcoholism?  He lives 
in the dark, although people think he lives in the light."

And that, she thought closing the file, was what he'd gone to sleep on.

Going back in, she patted his cheek gently to wake him up.  "Hey, Mulder, 
Pendrell is going to meet us for lunch at the Country Kitchen, let's get a 
move on."

He blinked at her blearily.  "I ate this morning," he told her, in the same 
tone she used to tell people collectin for charity, 'I gave at the office.'

"Come on, Ace, your jeans are going to fall off if you lose any more weight." 
 She patted his face again.

Warm skin.  Rosy with sleep.  And she was irresistably reminded of her own 
dream the night before.  Mulder, all warm and snuggly wuggly under the 
blankets, stark naked and raring to go.  No, God, don't think about that, 
Dana Katherine, she told herself firmly, Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is 
with thee.....

"Scully?"  Mulder's eyes flickered.  "Can't you just bring me something?"

"Promise to eat it?"

"Uh huh.  I'm really whipped."  He gave her that winsome look that he was 
soooo good at giving.  If she ever found out it was anything but unconscious, 
she was going to shoot him again, only aim lower.

"Okay.  What do you want?"  For some reason, she was still patting his cheek. 
 

He smiled at her sleepily.  "A cheeseburger and fries and a BLT."

It sounded ambitious.  But what the hell, if he kept it down, he was making 
up for calories lost down the crapper at the Country Kitchen.  "Okay.  But 
remember, you promised."

Another winsome smile.  "Thanks, Scully.  I owe you."

He sure did, she reflected and went back out to the four wheel drive.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 21 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


"How are you feeling, Agent Mulder?"  Pendrell put the styrofoam containers 
on the bed and stood back, eyeing Mulder as if he expected him to start 
foaming at the mouth.

Mulder idly wondered what Pendrell would do if he snapped at him, gnashing 
his teeth like that unlamented man-eating Pomeranian that Scully had owned 
prior to their meeting the alligator.  Nah, the comforter was too warm, and 
the styrofoam was emitting odors that were making his mouth water.  Pushing 
himself up, he opened the large, square container and inhaled gratefully.  A 
cheeseburger the size of the Ritz, and enough french fries to make his 
arteries harden just sniffing them.  And--his tummy rumbled with interest--a 
well packed BLT.  

Thank God Scully had been asleep when he'd crept out of bed this morning.  If 
she'd discovered he was still having wet dreams about her, he would have 
starved this afternoon.  

"How did you guys do at Marcy Olafsen's?" Mulder asked and picked up a couple 
of the fries, biting into them with a little moan of pleasure.  "Find 
anything?"

"Uh huh."  Scully came in and curled up in the chair near the bed.  "Not a 
lot, but we found a highball glass in the sink, an open bottle of vodka and 
another glass in the cupboard without dust, the only one.  There weren't any 
more bottles in her apartment, so I doubt she was chosen because of 
alcoholism.  On the other hand, she had a diaphragm inside her bedside table, 
and a very large supply of spermicidal cream.  From her diary, she was pretty 
active sexually."

Pendrell went scarlet and averted his eyes from Scully.

Mulder considered this.  "So, fornication and murder of the unborn."

Scully's eyes widened.  "Mulder, the pope may not approve of spermicides, but 
that's because he thinks the only sex you ever have should be for 
procreation.  Many other Christian sects do not object to contraception, only 
abortion.  And the autopsy showed she'd never been pregnant." 

Mulder ate three more fries.  "I'm missing something crucial.   Hey, where'd 
my laptop go?"  Alarmed, he started to get out of bed, but Scully held her 
hand up.

"It's okay, Mulder, it's in my room.  I read your profile notes."

Relieved, he sank back and picked up the cheeseburger, took a healthy bite.  
"Great.  Did I say he was obsessive compulsive?"

"Uh huh."  Scully almost looked amused.  "Washing his hands several times a 
day.  Although I need to discuss medical facts with you, Mulder, you can't 
take insulin orally.  The only drugs given orally for diabetes are for adult 
onset."

Mulder nodded and chewed, swallowed and almost moaned again.  God, that was 
good.  God, it was good to be able to eat again.  "Oh, he probably has some 
checking rituals, too, but I think we'll see it most in the area of 
cleanliness.  And he's a visible member of the community.  Did you find 
anything out about the deacons or wannabe deacons?"

Scully nodded and leaned back in her chair.  "Harald Olsen, aged 52, married 
since he was nineteen, has ten children, has a dairy farm outside of town.  
He's clear on the Olafsen murder, he's got a broken ankle and his wife and 
four daughters have been keeping him down while five of the six boys take 
care of the cows.   He's also clear on the Timmeson murder, he and his wife 
were celebrating their 33rd wedding anniversary in full view of the entire 
Olsen clan down in Minneapolis the weekend that Caroline Timmeson was 
murdered.  Like Olafsen, the body was frozen, but since she didn't drop out 
of sight until Friday again, since her cronies missed her on Saturday night, 
we can place her murder sometime during that weekend."  She sighed.  "And 
then there's Jensen Moravec.  Aged 56, he insisted on regaling me with the 
scandal that drove the late Reverend Fulke out of the church, and which led 
to his replacement by Reverend Jurgensen, about eighteen years ago."

Mulder's eyebrows climbed.  He swallowed the fries in his mouth before 
speaking.  "Scully, where is Reverend Fulke now?"

"He hanged himself, Mulder, out in the barn on the family farm after his, ah, 
defrocking.  He's buried in the churchyard."  Scully's mouth curved slightly. 
 "Mulder, I believe you *were* starving to death, I've never seen you wolf 
food down this fast."

"It's good," he told her, but since his mouth was full, he wasn't sure she 
caught it.  And it was good, it tasted like a little bit of the real world, 
he was going to have to go in and kiss the cook.  Or maybe not.  Then, once 
he'd swallowed.  "Okay, who else?"

"Ole Knudsen, aged 48, a married man with five children, four girls, and one 
boy.  He was at an ice hockey game in Milwaukee with his wife and daughters, 
watching the oldest boy play."

Mulder flapped a hand.  "Our guy's not married.  He wouldn't function well 
enough to pass without notice in an intimate relationship.  Skip the married 
ones."

She went through the rest.  Harald Ibsen, an attorney.  One insurance 
salesman.  One man who owned a tavern.  "And that's all that Reverend 
Jurgensen marked," she sighed.  "But I asked these men if they could give me 
any ideas about anyone who had maybe wanted to be a deacon, but was refused.  
Or who wanted to, but was too shy or nervous to take it up."

"Good thinking, Scully."  Mulder swallowed the last bite of burger and picked 
up the BLT.  "Anything else at Olafsen's house?"

"Not that we could find.  Except that it had been cleaned recently.  One of 
the things I noticed was that it reeked of furniture polish, Pine-Sol, and 
whatever the hell it is people use on linoleum these days."  Scully waved a 
hand vaguely.  "The toilet and bath and sink were spotless.  I mean, 
spotless.  But Jurgensen says that Marcy wasn't very domestic.  So we went 
back over the entire apartment.  No prints, except for a few smudges that 
could just as easily have been made by rubber gloves."  Her head tilted back 
on the chair.  "And I think I know where she was frozen to death, Mulder.  I 
think she was put into somebody's deep freeze.  We got some of that blue ink 
off her back, just under her left shoulder blade.  You know, the ink they use 
to print store prices?"  

Pendrell had gotten over his embarrassment and was sitting on the foot of his 
bed, taking off his boots.  "Oh, yes, it was very clear.  And I checked with 
the market, did a comparison of their ink.  They don't use the same kind of 
pricing gun.  So I'm going to drive around the local area to some of the 
small towns and see what I can find."

"Well, Zimmer isn't far from here," Scully conceded, when Mulder gave her a 
long look.  "It can't hurt to check.  We can't be absolutely sure, Mulder, 
that our guy lives in Timmsville.  As frightening as it sounds, this is the 
biggest small town for about 200 miles around.  People come here to shop."

"That *is* scary," he mumbled, around a mouthful of the best tasting bacon 
he'd ever eaten.  "God, this is good."

"Don't talk with  your mouth full," Scully chided. "Oh, did Pendrell give you 
your coffee?"

Pendrell hung his head.  "I forgot it, Agent Scully."

There was a crafty gleam in the little twerp's eye that made Mulder uneasy.  
"How can you forget coffee, Pendrell?"

Scully was scowling.  "Pendrell, goddammit, I told you, he lives and thrives 
on caffeine.  It's not going to keep him awake at night."

Mulder's head turned.  He regarded Pendrell with real malice.  "Pendrell, I'm 
going to get you for this."

Pendrell lifted his chin.  "Agent Scully pretends that you're doing just 
great, Agent Mulder.  But I'm not about to share a room with a man who's 
raving because of too much caffeine."

Mulder growled again and pushed the styrofoam aside to lunge at him.  

Scully got there first.  "Pendrell, I think you'd better go down the jail and 
stay with the deputies there," Scully snapped, throwing herself across the 
bed to keep Mulder from snapping the little geek's neck.  "Down, Mulder, you 
can't kill our lab guy, it's his first field assignment, he just doesn't know 
you."

"I'll show you psychotic, you little pencil-necked geek," Mulder growled, but 
subsided to take another bite of his sandwich.  "You better not sleep here 
tonight, Pendrell, you're a dead man."

"I'm not sleeping with a psychotic," Pendrell told him loftily.  "I have 
other places I can go."

Scully sighed, long suffering.  "Okay, Pendrell, you can have this room, I'll 
bunk with the psychotic--er, with Mulder again tonight."

Mulder gave her a narrow look, but decided she had just been replaying 
Pendrell's words.  He took another vicious bite as Scully shooed Pendrell 
back into his winter gear, gave him the keys to the four wheel and slammed 
the door shut on him.

After a long moment, she turned to face him.  "Mulder, don't give him any 
more fuel for the fire, okay?  He's already making noises about how I'm 
covering up a nervous breakdown for you."

Irritation flared into real temper as Mulder took the last bite of his 
sandwich and stuffed another fry into his mouth.  It gave him time to leash 
it before he answered her.  "I'm not giving him fuel for his fire, I've been 
playing very nice with him, I haven't given him a hard time once!  I didn't 
ask him to come into the men's room to hold my head while I tossed everything 
but my toenails!"

Scully leaned back against the door.  "I know," she agreed, "But he's worried 
about your state of mind.  If he gets on the telephone to Skinner, this could 
blow up into a real disaster."

"Fuck Pendrell!"  Mulder scowled at her fiercely.

Her mouth twitched.  "No, thanks."

And then it was all right, they were both laughing and she came back to sit 
with her feet on his bed, still laughing.

Mulder sighed.  "Hey, what did you find out about the old lady last night?"

Her expression changed again.  "Well, that's kind of problematic," she 
admitted.  "I had several people identify her.  They knew who she was right 
away, just from the description."

"What's problematic about that?"  Mulder arched an eyebrow.  

"They've been claiming it's a woman who's been dead for thirty years, 
Mulder."  Scully eyed him.

He stared at her for a long woman.  "Why would a ghost appear in the church 
to terrorize the ungodly?"

Scully's mouth crimped.  God, he loved the way her mouth crimped, it made his 
toes curl.  "Evidently, she discovered the Reverend Fulke humping the choir 
director just behind the altar rail and attacked them both before succumbing 
to a massive stroke."
 
He barely made it to the bathroom before losing everything he'd just eaten.


"Well, it turns out she was a real fire and brimstone kind of believer." 
Scully turned the damp washcloth she'd put on the back of his neck.

Folded over the toilet, Mulder moaned.  "Scuuuuullly.  I have a cut on my 
palm, that was no ghost."

Scully grinned.  "Of course it wasn't, Mulder, I don't believe in ghosts.  It 
was someone like this woman, but who?  I used the identikit to create a 
composite, we have to assume that this woman is a witness--if not an 
accomplice."  At least he'd stopped dry heaving.  If he managed for another 
ten minutes, she was going to start him back on popsicles.  "Anyway, we've 
only got a few small blood spots from where she smacked your hand that last 
time."

Mulder shivered.  "Or the second to last time."

"Whatever."  Scully rubbed his back lightly.  "Anyway, I'm going to go back 
over Olafsen and recheck the tox and blood work.  It looks like she was 
unconscious when she was put into the deep freeze.  No blow to the head, no 
indication  of strangulation, no indication of sedatives.  So, it's something 
easy to overlook, potassium chloride, or maybe insulin, as you suggested.  
There has to be an injection site, Mulder, you don't just wash either of 
those down with a vodka chaser."

He rested his cheek on the arm that braced him.  "I hate throwing up."

She rubbed his back some more and sighed.  "Listen, do you still have any 
popsicles?  No?  I'll walk down to the market then, pick up some more.  Did 
you finish your animal crackers and pears?"  Jesus, it sounded like she was 
talking to a three year old.  Which might be about right.  "Okay, if you can 
keep down a popsicle, you can have some.  Want me to go back and pick up some 
chicken soup for you?"

He gave her a mournful look.  "That's a long way to walk in the cold, Scully. 
 Besides, it's getting dark, I don't want you out there."

"Mulder, I'm a good Catholic, not a recognizable sinner."  Scully eyed him 
back, a little amused.

But his eyes were earnest.  "Yeah, but to a Lutheran, a good Catholic would 
be a sinner.  Honestly, Scully, I don't want you going that far.  In fact, 
I'm not sure you should go at all."

"Mulder, I'll take my gun."  Standing up, Scully ruffled his hair lightly.  
"And I won't be gone long.  Believe me, the last time I got abducted in 
Minnesota really was the LAST time I'll get abducted in Minnesota."

"Be careful," he told her and moaned again.  "I hate throwing up."

Scully arched an eyebrow, cast around in her mind for something to distract 
him.  "Think of anti-gravity, Mulder.  Think of little grey men.  Think of 
liver flukes."  The last was probably an unfortunate choice; when she left, 
he was dry heaving again.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 22 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Walking in the early winter dusk, Scully allowed herself to see Timmsville 
without thinking about a serial killer obsessed with salvation and decided it 
really wasn't such a bad little town.  Just too damned little and too damned 
cold.  

She made her purchases in the market and walked back at a brisk pace, 
stopping off in the office to see the manager.  Trask was presently staying 
with him, having given up her room to the Winter Carnivalites.  She hoped 
that the proverb about guests and fish didn't hold true in Trask's case, and 
that Bjornson was in a kind mood, but his expression was so stolid, it was 
hard to be sure.  

"Hi," she told him cheerfully.  "I'm Agent Scully.  Listen, Dr. Olafsson 
prescribed Ovaltine for my partner's stomach and nerves and I was wondering 
if you had a heavy crockery cup I could borrow."

Bjornson's brows rose.  "Ovaltine?  Having trouble sleeping, is he?"

Scully nodded.  "Well, and having trouble keeping his dinner down."

Bjornson considered.  At least she thought he was considering.  "Yah, I bet 
chasing a murderer ain't all that pleasant.  So Krissie says, anyhow."

Somehow, thinking of Trask as Krissie was going to set Scully's adjustment to 
Timmsville back several days.  Hastily jerking her thoughts away from 
wondering how Trask had gotten such a nickname, Scully nodded.  "Actually, I 
was hoping perhaps you'd lend me a hot plate, if you have such a thing on 
hand.  I could keep it in my room and be very careful with it."

More consideration.  "Yah, I think we could do that.  Let me get you a big 
mug.  You got milk?"

She patted the side of her brown paper sack.  "Uh huh."

"Yah, Ovaltine really helps a man get to sleep."  Bjornson nodded at her with 
more animation than she'd yet seen and vanished through the door behind the 
counter.  Distantly, she could hear a woman's voice raised in question, a low 
rumble of an answer, and Bjornson appeared with a large mug bearing the 
likeness of a mallard duck on one side, and a fish on the other.  And a hot 
plate AND a small tin saucepan.  "Here y'are, Agent Scully.  If that doesn't 
do the trick, tell him that m'wife swears by honeycomb."

"Thanks," she told him sincerely, meanwhile thinking that she'd club Mulder 
into unconsciousness before deliberately feeding him sugar before bedtime.  
"I really appreciate it."

Bjornson just nodded stolidly at her and vanished again.  Back outside, 
Scully trudged down the snowy walk and wondered how she was going to get 
Ovaltine down her partner.  And milk wasn't quite the thing after vomiting, 
or so they'd once taught her in medical school.

On the other hand, she really didn't want to drug him again.  Unless he had 
another sexually ambiguous dream about Skinner, that is.

The only way to do it was to hit him with the gingerale, the popsicles the 
applesauce, and the cinnamon grahams.  He might be grateful enough to drink 
it without doing more than hooting at Olaffsen's prescription.

She devoutly hoped so.  



"What is that?" Mulder asked, aghast, tucking himself into the extra bed in 
Scully's room after his shower.

His partner stood between the beds, holding a steaming cup.   "Hot 
chocolate," she told him sincerely.  "I thought it would soothe your stomach."

Hot chocolate?  The caffeine starved cells in his body sat up and took 
notice.  "Oh.  That was really nice of you, Scully.  Is this the real thing, 
made with milk and everything?"

"Uh huh."  Scully's smile was smug.  "With little marshmallows, too, Mulder."

Little marshmallows.  His mother never would allow him to drink hot chocolate 
with little marshmallows.  She'd always said his nose was going to be 
expensive enough, she didn't want to risk his teeth.   Moved, Mulder blinked. 
 "That really *was* nice of you, Scully.  Thanks."

One sip and he knew.  With betrayal in  his eyes, he stared at her over the 
rim of the cup and spit the mouthful back into it.  "Scully," he told her, 
stunned and hurt, "This isn't hot chocolate, this is Ovaltine."

Scully's expression changed, she sat down on the side of  his bed.  "I know, 
Mulder, I was desperate.  I don't want to drug you, I don't want to open my 
little case over there and pick and choose among the rainbow of controlled 
substances I keep with me, but you need some rest.  And maybe Ovaltine will 
work.  My dad always swore by it."

Great.  He was paying the price for Dana Scully's unresolved Electra complex. 
 No, wait, that was older women yearning after their sons.  Oedipal then?  
Whatever.  He was paying for it.  "But Scully, I hate Ovaltine."

Her expression was so sincerely worried that he leaned back, trying to 
protect himself.  Would it work to put his fingers up in a cross?  Probably 
not.  

"Mulder, you need the rest, you need your stomach to settle down.  Come on, 
you know that.  Pendrell's almost convinced that you've gone completely 
around the bend, that you're delusional.  If he calls Skinner, you know what 
will happen."  Without changing her expression, Scully drew one finger across 
her throat.  "And once Skinner believes him, he's going to have you sent 
back, he's going to arrange for a nice, cozy padded cell.  Skinner believes 
in investigation by the book, he's not going to like the way you get these 
things."

Mulder regarded her doubtfully.  "Skinner wouldn't do that to me," he finally 
told her, "He likes me.  I think.  In a way.  Why wouldn't he?  Our 
resolution rate is well above the Bureau average."

Scully sighed, managed to look heartwrung.  "Mulder, Mulder, Mulder, when 
will you learn.  Even if Skinner was madly in love with you--"  Mulder 
flinched.  "Even if he worshipped at your feet, he wouldn't have a lot of 
choice.  That cigarette smoking weasel would have you committed faster than 
you could say Max Fenig."

Blink.  Blink.  Blink.  "Oh, all right," he said testily, "It's not worth 
making a scene about.  But it was lousy to lie to  me, Scully, I'm your 
partner.  If you start lying to me, how am I ever going to trust you?"

She took his hand.  Had she been reading self-help books?  That expression 
was so sincere it was scary.  "You're right, Mulder, and I apologize for 
that.  I wasn't sure that reason was going to work."

He drank a mouthful, shuddered and swallowed it quick before it could rest 
too long on his tastebuds.  "God, that's awful."

"Keep drinking," she coaxed.

He did.  Drained the cup to the nasty dregs and then spent another moment 
using his finger to retrieve the melted marshmallows from the side of the 
cup.  "Gah.  The marshmallows are the only redeemable thing about this, 
Scully."  

"That's why I got them, Mulder."  A sweet, Pieta Madonna smile and she took 
the cup from him, carried it into the bathroom.

Lying down, Mulder pulled the blankets up.  Oddly, it seemed warmer in 
Scully's room.  Heh.  Pendrell was going to have to keep the cold room, he 
was in here, warm and cozy, with his partner.  The partner with the cupid's 
bow lips.  The partner who had been the subject of many a daytime fantasy and 
wank.  Which would lead to him being stripped naked and covered in honey over 
a fire ant colony if ever she discovered it.

Not that *he* was going to tell her.

Sleep nibbled at the edge of his consciousness as he listened to her rinse 
out the cup.  The door closed briefly and she emerged after a while with her 
face scrubbed pink, wearing her flannel pajamas and--oh, god, dare he say it, 
even to himself, bunny slippers.  How in the world had he missed them since 
their arrival?  And they were pink.

It was a major effort to keep his face from revealing his inner hilarity.   
Instead, he gave her the single whammy, the slightly loopy smile that seemed 
to thaw women's hearts and loosen their thighs the world around.  

Glancing at him, she smiled back reflexively.  "Try to get a decent night's 
sleep, Mulder," she told him and got into her own bed.   Taking the remote, 
she thumbed the TV to life, the volume down low.

Aw, that was so damned sweet of her, he thought, suddenly feeling maudlin.  
Even considering the Ovaltine, a man couldn't have asked for a better 
partner.  A more considerate partner.  A more scrumptious partner.

And sleep was definitely wiping out his brain's ability to function 
rationally.  Blinking, he pulled the blankets up and curled on his side 
around one pillow, staring at the screen as Xena demolished another bad guy.  

"Night, Mulder," Scully told him and and lay down, pulled her own comforter 
up around her ears.  

"Night, Scully," he answered drowsily and blinked.  Blinked again, more 
slowly.  And finally closed his eyes.

Falling straight down the rabbit hole.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 23 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Fox Mulder blinked.

His partner, Dana Scully, stood in front of him, wearing a bunny suit.  

Not a bunny suit as in rabbit, but a bunny suit as in Playboy Bunny.  And 
Mulder had to admit, she looked fetching in it, despite the large, 
surrealistic pocket watch that she kept pulling out from between her breasts. 
 

He wondered how in the hell she got it there, but she looked up and gave him 
a worried look.  "I'm late," she squeaked, in most un-Scully like tones, "I'm 
late, I'm late, for a very important date, no time to say hello, goodbye, I'm 
late, I'm late, I'm late...."

She kept repeating it as she teetered off down the path in dangerously high 
heels.  But man, oh, man, she had nice legs from this angle.  And a really 
cute little....never mind, he told himself and gave chase.

Despite the fact that his legs were longer, he lost her in the trees.  
"Damn," he said and sighed, slowing down.  Maybe she was hiding.  Maybe she 
knew how that bunny suit was affecting him.

Looking down at the effect, he was stunned to note he was wearing an Alice in 
Wonderland dress.  White anklets.  And black Mary Janes.  How revolting.  

Sitting down on the grass, he took off the shoes and socks, relieved to 
notice that his legs hadn't been shaved.  The dress was tougher, but he 
finally managed the hooks and eyes and pulled it over his head.  To reveal 
that he was wearing a red Speedo.  And that Scully's effect had faded in his 
consternation over his attire.  

Well, that was fine, he'd find her again.  And when he found her.....

A large cat wearing glasses was sitting up on a branch watching him with a 
steely look.  

"I'm hunting wabbits," he told it, "Be vewy, vewy quiet."

"Agent Mulder," the cat intoned, in an awfully familiar voice.  "I insist 
that you go by the book.  Put those things back on at once."

"Hah," Mulder sneered, "I'm Spooky Mulder, I don't have to go by the book, I 
just have to tap into the universal consciousness, spout a lot of poetry and 
then, zap, I make a bust."

"By the book," the Skinner cat repeated, more irascibly this time, and 
bringing its eyebrows together.  "This isn't the Spooky Mulder show, this is 
Alice in Wonderland, Agent Mulder, and I'll thank you to remember it."

"You're just jealous since you don't look as good in a Speedo as I do," 
Mulder taunted.

The Skinner cat merely arched one eyebrow.  "Nonsense, if I wore a Speedo, 
Agent Mulder, women would faint and men would shoot themselves in envy."

Mulling that over, Mulder narrowed his eyes.  "Oh, yeah?  Easy for a cat to 
say, no one makes Speedos for cats."

Abruptly, the Skinner cat vanished, leaving only the faintest trace of an 
outline in the air.  An outline that suddenly shapeshifted into a very large 
man, wearing a very narrow Speedo and solidified into his supervisor, Walter 
Skinner.  Skinner smiled smugly at Mulder and gestured to the Speedo, which 
was very snugly packed.

Mulder's jaw dropped and he looked down at himself, feeling suddenly forlorn. 
 When he glanced up again, Skinner was fading, fading, slowly disappearing 
until all that was left was the relevant part of his anatomy.

The corners of Mulder's mouth drew down.  It was a good thing he didn't have 
his gun.  And now that he thought about it, it was a good thing that Scully 
hadn't seen Skinner in his Speedo.

That spurred him forward again, carefully picking his way along the 
increasingly difficult to discern path.  

The forest grew darker, more redolent of the smell of green growing things 
and rot, and he stepped more carefully, pausing to listen for any rustling 
sounds caused by Scully's bunny tail brushing foliage, for any click click of 
spike heels, for any sound that might be her bunny ears waggling as she 
hurried.....

Following the path around an extremely large tree, he came to a doorway in a 
wall that seemed to stretch out for miles on either side.  A very small 
doorway.  "Oh, no," he told the door, "I know about you.  And in this dream, 
I don't wanna see what's in the Eat Me box, or in the Drink Me bottle.  So 
just forget it.

Obligingly, the door grew to his height and opened, tantalizing him with the 
smell of cheeseburgers and fries.  He hesitated, one bare foot over the 
threshold.

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you," said an all too familiar voice.  

Turning, Mulder saw a giant caterpillar seated upon an even larger mushroom.  
The caterpillar was smoking a Morley cigarette.  "What are you doing here?" 
he demanded and stomped one foot.  "This is my dream, it was bad enough to 
have Skinner show up!"

"You don't want to go in there, Agent Mulder.  The consequences would be--"  
A long puff and the Cancercaterpillar blew a series of smoke rings, 
"difficult, to say the least."

"You always want to cover up the Truth," Mulder told him and stomped his foot 
again.  "Well, you don't belong in my dream, so get the hell out."

"Can't."  Another long puff, this time resulting in a lovely, hourglassed 
shape houri in a Playboy Bunny suit.  "I suppose you're looking for your 
partner again.  You always are."

Now, in spite of Skinner, he wished he had his gun.  Pointing his finger, 
Mulder said, "Bang."

A low, raspy chuckle.  "You'll sacrifice anything to the Truth, won't you, 
Mulder.  And remember, you can't scare me, I've watched presidents die."

"Probably helped 'em," Mulder sulked and turned to look inside the door.  It 
was shadowy, hard to make out, but it suddenly seemed more alluring than 
ever.  "Did--did Scully go in here?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out."  The Cancercaterpillar took 
another deep drag and stubbed the Morley out on the tree beside him.  One of 
his many arms handed another cigarette up, the white cylinder passing through 
several hands before it reached the bastard's mouth.  A lighter was likewise 
passed up and its flame flared as the Cancercaterpillar held it to his lips.

"Yeah, well," Mulder kept his chin up, but wavered indecisively.  Then--"What 
the hell, if you want it covered up, it must be the Truth.  I'm going in."

"On your own head be it," the Cancercaterpillar intoned, but his voice faded 
when Mulder stepped across the threshold.  

It was the Lone Gunmen's office.  Hell, Mulder didn't want to be here in a 
Speedo, but since Frohicke had frequently expressed lust for Scully, he felt 
it was only right that he try to find her and defend her.

So, he made his way through the crowded office and down the stairs, and out 
the door of the building to a Victorian Garden, with a hedge maze as the 
entrance.

The scene he emerged to see made him stop in his tracks.was wearing a bizarre 
hat.   Frohicke was in the teapot upside down.  Byers was reading aloud from 
the Lone Gunmen.  Scully was sitting at one end of the table, legs crossed 
demurely.  And Skinner, thankfully clad in more than a Speedo, sat at the 
other end, his gaze burning, regarding them all with contempt.

"Um.  Hi."  He kept his voice bright.  "Mind if I join you?"

With her arms crossed like that, Scully's breasts teetered on the verge of 
falling out of her costume.  Maybe that's why Skinner was doing the 
stonefaced, silent routine.  He was waiting for them to fall out.

Mulder didn't blame him.  Taking the chair next to Scully, he smiled 
engagingly at Langley.  "You don't mind if I join you, do you?"

"Of course not, " Langley told him absently, trying to stuff more of Frohicke 
into the teapot.  "I wouldn't have the tea, though.  You might have one of 
those cakes."

The cakes, predictably, had Eat Me writting in white icing on the top.  
Shrugging, Mulder took one and nibbled at the corner.  Oooh, it was 
fantastic, rich and dark and sweet and chocolate.  Much better than goddamned 
Ovaltine.

"Hi, Scully," he told her, between bites, "I like your outfit."

That got a sultry smile.  "Do you, Mulder?  I like yours, too."  Reaching out 
with one hand--which had the disadvantage of letting her breast settle back 
into place--Scully snapped the waistband of his Speedo.  "I've been waiting 
for you, big boy," she purred in a decidedly sultry voice.

"Off with his clothes, off with his clothes," piped up Byers, pounding on the 
table with what looked like a rolled up copy of The Lone Gunmen magazine.

Scully tugged at the waistband of the Speedo again.  "C'mon, Mulder, don't be 
shy.  Why even Skinner's loosened up, look."

Hardly daring to, he looked, and saw Skinner standing at the foot of the 
table.  "Agent Scully, don't waste time," Skinner growled.  "Get him up on 
the table and do him like he needs to be done."

Mulder stared.  Mulder flinched.  "Hey, wait a minute," he began, but Langley 
approached on his other side and obligingly helped him up onto the table.  
Against his will.  And Scully came with him, standing over him with a spike 
heel on each side of his body.  

"Ooooh, Mulder, is that your gun, or are you just glad to see me?" Scully 
purred and bent to squeeze his crotch through the silky nylon of his Speedo.  

"Uh uh," Mulder glanced nervously back to see Skinner standing with folded 
arms.  

Oh. My. God.  Skinner was nodding in approval as Scully began an impromptu 
striptease, kicking off her feels and raising one leg to peel off the fishnet 
stocking.

He'd always thought that Bunnies wore tights.

The other stocking came off.  Langley was shrilling in time with Byers, "Off 
with their clothes, off with their clothes."   Skinner's deep voice suddenly 
joined them.

"Uh, Scully," he began nervously, "Couldn't we go somewhere more private?"

She blinked at him fetchingly and walked her fingers up to her cleavage.  
"Don't be ridiculous, Mulder, we need to do it in public, it's the only way.  
It will make so many people happy,. you can't imagine."  Her hands went 
behind her back to unzip the Bunny suit.  It came down slowly, revealing 
Scully in Venus de Milo splendor.  Except Scully had arms.

It would certainly make him happy to do it with her at all.  But in front of 
Skinner?   Oooh, white shoulders and lovely breasts with coral nipples 
and...she leaned over him, her nipples brushing his chest and kissed him 
soulfully, her tongue halfway down his throat.

He no longer cared if Janet Reno or Louis Freeh joined the chorus of "Off 
with their clothes," he was just glad that Scully took instructions literally.

Kissing her back enthusiastically, he put both arms around her slender, 
satiny body and wiggled her the rest of the way out of the Bunny suit.  He 
was getting more and more excited, and when he discovered there was another 
Bunny suit under the first one, it seemed a minor obstacle. 

By the time he got to the third one, he was starting to get annoyed, but his 
arousal was so intense that he felt a little faint.  

Skinner's voice was sounding a little irritable.  "Off with her clothes, 
dammit, Mulder.  Can't you do anything right?"

"That's why we like you, Mulder.  You're the only one who has less luck with 
women than we do," Byers jeered.

"Ooooh," said Frohicke from the depths of the teapot, "She's hot, Mulder.  
Too tasty to wait.  Want me to show you how?"

He most assuredly did not, he told Frohicke silently, peeling the third suit 
off with frantic speed.  And Scully's lips and fingertips and tongue were 
teasing him beyond endurance.

The fourth and fifth suits came off in shreds, he no longer cared.  The sixth 
one made him whimper, and the seventh nearly made him weep in frustration and 
desire.

But after the seventh, Scully was as bare as the day she was born, and when 
he touched her, she was wet and slick and ready and the minute he started to 
guide himself inside her.......

<continued>


Minnesota - part 24 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Scully woke with her ears ringing from an agonized scream torn from Mulder's 
throat.

Rolling out of bed, she cursed Olafsson and her own credulity in trying the 
Ovaltine, peering in the faint light from the test pattern on the television 
set to find her partner huddled against the wall.  No longer screaming, thank 
God, but with his arms locked around his knees, rocking back and forth, his 
t-shirt soaked with sweat.  The redolent odor of semen told her what soaked 
his sweatpants.

God, the poor man really needed to get a life, she sighed inwardly and 
climbed over both beds to sink down beside him.  "Mulder, it's okay, it was 
just a bad dream."

Only Mulder could have bad erotic dreams.

He wept into his knees, rocking steadily.  "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God."
"It's okay, partner, it's just another nightmare."

"I was soooo close," he wept, "So close, and then, wham.  Just like that."

"Wham, what?"  She stroked sweat-damp hair and kept her tone pitched to 
soothe.  "Tell me, Mulder, what happened.  You'll feel better."

That got an incredulous and wide-eyed look.  "Better?  How can I feel better. 
 Scully," a more earnest tone.  "I've never suffered from premature 
ejaculation in my life.  Never."  But he put his face back into his knees and 
wept.

She rubbed his shoulders patiently.  "Was it Skinner again?"

"Skinner?"  Mulder raised his head.  "Oh, God, no, but he was there.  
Watching.  And Frohicke, Langley and Byers were, too.  And they were all 
watching.  And laughing, Scully, they were laughing."

Considering that, Scully decided to risk asking.  "Watching, um, what?"

"Watching me make love to you," he told her and moaned despairingly.  "You 
were wearing a Playboy Bunny outfit, Scully.  Well, actually, you were 
wearing several.  And I'd just gotten the last one off when..."  He 
hiccoughed and rubbed his eyes like a child.  "Oh, God, the humiliation."

A Playboy Bunny outfit.  

Bemused, Scully patted him again.  If he weren't obviously in distress, she'd 
hurt him.  How dare he dream about her in a Playboy Bunny outfit.  Besides, 
her breasts weren't large enough to wear the damned thing.  "Mulder," she 
soothed, "Mulder, it was just a dream.  It was just a dream."

More heartbroken sobbing.  

"Mulder," she offered, stricken by inspiration, "Have you considered that 
maybe it was performance anxiety?  I mean, with all those people watching.  
That would be enough to throw anyone off."

The sobbing ebbed.  Stopped.  And he lifted his head hopefully.  "You think?"

"Certainly," she told him firmly.  "I don't think I could perform normally 
under those circumstances."

A long, woebegone sniff.  "Maybe that was it," he whimpered.

"I'm sure of it," she told him and turned her head as the connecting door 
opened.  "Pendrell, that better not be you, I'm not in the mood for you right 
now."

The door shut again hastily.  "Do you need any help with him?" Pendrell 
asked, in sepulchral tones.

"He's fine, he just had another nightmare."  Levering Mulder up by main 
force, Scully pushed him back into bed.  The hell with the shower.  He'd have 
to get one in the morning anyway.  "He's back in bed, and he's awake and he's 
fine now, Pendrell.  Go back to sleep."

There was the faintest grumble, not quite audible, and presumably Pendrell 
did exactly that.  Scully slid across Mulder's bed and bent to tuck him back 
in.  Jesus, his mother must have had fun during puberty.  Loud screams at 
night.  Sticky pajamas and sheets in the morning.  What a treat.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he told her earnestly, "I want you to know that I've 
never once considered what you might look like in the Playboy Bunny suit."

"Good."  Scully considered that.  "How did I look, Mulder?"

The half a Valium she'd added to his Ovaltine was pulling him back under 
pretty rapidly.  "Hmm?"

"How did I look, Mulder?" she repeated, a little more urgently.  Dammit, he'd 
better not go back to sleep before answering.

His mouth curved, even as his eyelids slid down.  "Sensational."

Well, at least there was that, Scully told herself and got back into her own 
bed.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<continued>

Minnesota - part 25 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Scully sat down on the bed that should have been Mulder's and sighed.  
"Pendrell, you are such an asshole."

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

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

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

"Olafsson disagrees with you," Scully told him and got to her feet again.  
She wasn't sure why, it had to be the erotic dreams, but she'd gotten weak in 
the knees seeing Mulder mostly nude, knowing that there was only that thin 
sheet of motel towel between her and....Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is 
with Thee--"Pendrell, Mulder's fine.  I'm beginning to think you're the one 
with the problem.  Don't give me a reason to send you back?"

That got an uncharacteristic scowl in return.  Clearly his relationship with 
that airhead Inge had led to an increase in confidence.  She'd known that 
sooner or later she was going to have to shoot that bimbo.

Returning to her room, she decided to take a shower, since they were all up 
anyway.  Besides, there were things you could do with that Shower 
Massage....and Mulder had looked pretty delicious, even scalded pink.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Agent Mulder," Pendrell began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One what, she thought and smiled brightly.  "You bet, Mulder."  And with 
that, she took refuge in the room, waiting until the two of them started off 
across the street and toward the edge of town.

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

Mulder's arms were moving briskly and he, despite his inherent clumsiness, 
was athletic, his movements were smooth and well coordinated.  Too bad he 
couldn't carry that into real life.
Pendrell, on the other hand, seemed to be struggling after a while.    After 
due thought, Scully pulled the four wheel drive where they could see it, 
dreading the expression she'd soon see on her partner's face.

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

Getting out of the vehicle, Scully found she was in snow past her knees once 
she stepped off the road.  Sonuvabitch.  

Pendrell was howling inarticulately as he kept rolling, so she stopped 
struggling and just waited for him to reach her.

When he did, the impetus of his trip down the hill knocked her flat on her 
ass.  In snow that was almost hip deep.   "Pendrell," Scully told him, her 
teeth clenched.  "I'm beginning to think about shooting you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She sighed wearily.  

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

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

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

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

It didn't take long to think that one over.  "You don't snore," she told him 
quellingly.  "Get your stuff together, Mulder."  Snickering, Mulder picked up 
the laptop and carried it into the next room.  After that, it was blessed 
silence, except for the tap-tap of their computer keys as they worked.  

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

Scully eyed him.  "No.  If I could get into the mortuary today, I'd be down 
rechecking Olafsen for injection sites.  The more I look at the tox screen, 
the more sure I am that your intuition might be on the mark."

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

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

"Low blow, Scully," he told her, but rolled off the bed and fumbled around on 
the floor for his boots.  "I'm really looking forward to a hearty lunch."

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

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

<continued>

Minnesota - part 26 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scully thought of Mulder's Knicks shirt and grinned.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded again, heard the key in the door and glanced up as Mulder came in. 
 He grinned at her, his arms full of styrofoam containers, and set them all 
on top of the dresser.  "Scully, I have food."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Heh."  Digging in, she pushed the laptop toward him.  "First thing in the 
morning, you go over to the county courthouse and check the death records.  
I'm going to check Olafsen for injection sites and talk to Dr. Olafsson about 
checking her medical records.  I think his nose is out of joint because I've 
taken over the autopsies."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unrepentant, he took another bite, chewing happily.  She couldn't really 
blame him.  Now that she actually got a chance to eat something more than 
Mulder's left over pancakes or cold chicken and noodles, she could sort of 
see his point.

<continued>


"...[It's] a simply Gothic little place consisting of three of borderline
personalities, a trailer park sophist, a dyslexic and two old dykes struggling
not to pop out of their bondage gear..."  Marquise De Lean