From: WickdZoot <wickdzoot@aol.comx>
Date: 11 Nov 1999 14:00:07 GMT
Subject: Minnesota 27/45 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 27 
by wickdzoo-@aol.com


That evening, Mulder eyed the Ovaltine with open rebellion.  "It didn't do me 
any good last night, Scully."

"Sure it did, Mulder.  You went right back to sleep after your usual two am 
nightmare and haven't thrown up all day."  Scully held the cup out toward 
him.  "And I added extra marshmallows, Mulder.  I remembered that you like 
them."

He frowned, but her eyes were so hopeful, and she wasn't entirely wrong, he'd 
eaten heartily all day without so much as a quiver from his digestive system. 
 And since Inge was at the Winter Carnival festivities, the waitress had 
actually brought Scully her entire meal.

It didn't seem possible that all this had come from one lousy cup of 
Ovaltine.  It might just as easily have been the cross-country skiing.  

On the other hand, he wasn't sure he wanted to take the chance of another day 
spent worshipping the Porcelain God, as Scully had called it.

"Okay, Scully," he finally agreed and accepted the mug.   It tasted just as 
awful this time, and only the marshmallows made it even remotely palatable.  
The residue was grainy, he didn't bother with the marshmallows this time, but 
rinsed the taste out his mouth with water.  "Scully, that was even worse than 
last night," he grumbled.  "Are you sure that milk is all right?"

She took the cup and flashed him a grin.  "Sure, Mulder.  I left it outside 
the bathroom window, along with your popsicles."

"Oh, great, I got milk that had to be thawed."  Sprawling on the bed, Mulder 
clicked on the remote.

By the time Scully emerged from the bathroom wearing those absurd slippers, 
his eyelids had already drooped to half-mast, and she retrieved the remote 
from unresisting fingers.  "You look tired, Mulder.  Must be all that skiing 
and fresh air.  Good thing you're in shape or you'd be as sore as Pendrell."

It was really hard to answer her.  "Umm," he managed and yawned hugely.  
"I'll have to try it again tomorrow."  Only with effort did he push himself 
upright, the last pair of clean sweatpants from his suitcase--he really was 
going to have to hit the laundromat tomorrow--and pad into the bathroom.

By the time he'd changed, he was yawning again.  He left Scully the remote 
and dived into the bed next to hers, once again feeling a fugitive sense of 
wicked glee over the fact that Pendrell had ended up with the colder room.

If Pendrell's growing fascination with Inge was any indication, Pendrell 
needed it.


Mulder was out ten minutes after climbing under the blankets.  Smiling 
smugly, Scully leaned against the headboard and watched Terms of Endearment 
to the end without having to listen to any sardonic comments from her partner.

By the time she turned off the light, she was filled with a sense of 
self-justification and righteousness.  Mulder had gone one entire day without 
losing his cookies, and had further managed to transcend embarrassment over 
his dream the night before, or her interruption of his morning ablutions.

While some might say that sneaking a half a Valium into his Ovaltine was 
immoral, they hadn't seen Spooky Mulder in hyperdrive on a murder case.  She 
was doing the right thing, she assured herself and closed her eyes.....


Scully found herself in Skinner's office, sitting in the chair before the 
desk.  

Skinner was looking at her partner, wearing the classic 
you're-about-to-be-reamed scowl.  "Agent Mulder," he growled, "You're an 
idiot.  Look at her--"  His hand rose, a finger pointed at Scully and she 
looked down at herself involuntarily.

She wasn't exactly clad in classic G-woman attire.  A black lace bustier, 
black lace garter belt, and black seamed stockings.  And no panties.   Oh, 
God, Skinner had found a way to blame *this* on Mulder?  She wished she 
could.  Holding her thighs close together and folding her hands in her lap, 
she hoped she could disguise her lack of panties until they got up to leave.

Maybe she could get Mulder to block Skinner's view.  Or borrow his suit coat.

"I'm sorry, sir."  Mulder's voice was uncharacteristically subdued.  "I 
didn't think it would be right to violate the sacred nature of our 
partnership with my illicit lust."

Illicit lust?  Scully's head turned again briefly and her jaw dropped.  
Illicit lust?  She looked back at Skinner, hoping she hadn't heard what she 
thought she had.

"Agent Mulder, I repeat, you are an idiot."  Skinner's scowl deepened.  "Are 
you going to do your duty by your partner, or do I have to assign someone 
else to do it for you?"

Scully's head swiveled to the right again to see Mulder, who had somehow shed 
his Armani and was now sitting there in nothing but Marvin the Martian silk 
shorts.  "But what about our partnership?" Mulder whined.

Scully closed her mouth with an almost audible snap.  And what the hell did 
Skinner mean, do his duty by his partner?

Skinner rose slowly, majestically.  Oddly, he was wearing tight jeans and a 
sweater that clearly showed the outlines of each and every muscle.  Oh, God, 
just watching him made her squirm in her chair.  "Agent Mulder, if you don't 
do your duty by your partner, you're going to have to watch someone else do 
it."

"In that case," Mulder told him, abruptly brightening.  "I will.  Just don't 
let that cigarette smoking bastard come in."

"I'll lock the door myself," Skinner assured him and came around the desk to 
help Scully to her feet.  

It took a moment for her to figure that out and give him her hand.  "Too bad 
you aren't a natural redhead," Skinner told her, in a stage whisper.  "But I 
think he'll do just fine anyway."

Only as she rose did Scully notice she was wearing red fuck-me spike heels.  

Mulder was eyeing her with obvious delight.  And Marvin's visage was 
distorted by the shape beneath the silk.

Scully didn't get much of a chance to stare at it, Skinner was escorting her 
to the conference table.

"Sir," she began, then squeaked as Skinner bent and lifted her to the table, 
pausing only to tweak one bare nipple before he stood back to allow Mulder to 
take his place at the edge of the table.

Mulder had that bright-eyed excited look he usually wore when talking about 
EBEs.  Or UFOs.  Or government conspiracies.  Or the MJ files.  Or....never 
mind, she'd just never seen it on his face at any time that might be 
considered carnal, perhaps she could be forgiven for associating it with the 
other subjects.

The shorts slid to the floor.  Oooh, she'd seen him naked in the Arctic, but 
that hadn't told her much, of course he hadn't looked well endowed then.  
Certainly not as well-endowed as he was at the moment.

Reaching up, she yanked him down by the shoulders, sealing her mouth to his 
and putting her tongue down her partner's throat.

"That's better," Skinner approved from the sidelines.

Oh, indeed it was, and Mulder was definitely showing enthusiasm.  A great 
deal of enthusiasm.  As much as he usually showed for EBEs and UFOs 
and....never mind, she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth, she 
was just going to go with it and count it as good luck.

Mulder's enthusiasm was increasing exponentially, and he also showed a lot 
more finesse than she'd have expected from a man who only got excited 
over....maybe it was Phoebe's training, and for once Scully found herself 
grateful to Phoebe.

"Agent Mulder," Skinner warned, "You're stalling."

"No, I'm not," Mulder protested, raising his head from her breasts.  "I'm 
giving Agent Scully the attention she deserves."

About time the big idiot recognized that, Scully thought distantly and pulled 
him onto the table with her....oooooh, he definitely knew what he was doing 
and her body said hello with a great deal of matching energy as Marvin's 
friend slid into her warm, silky, wetness, oooh, that felt soooooo good, he 
filled her up just right, her heels settled into his buttocks, urging him on, 
and she tilted her head back to moan in pleasure and happiness.

Four years of slogging after him over crop circles, werewolves, haunted rest 
homes, and facing morphing aliens, green blooded clones, and Duane Barry.  

Four years of ruining heels, ruining hose, and ruining fingernails, not to 
mention nearly getting her head chopped off by homicidal cannibals.  

Four years of putting up with temper tantrums, a partner who dressed better 
than she did, eating dreadful fast food, and staying in worse motels.  

Oh, God, she was going to forgive him all of it after this....little shrieks 
of delight escaped her, she dug her heels into him, setting the perfect 
rhythm and rode him back just as hard and oh, God, she was going to come, she 
was coming any minute, oh, God, she was......

Awake in her bed in Minnesota, breathing hard, her nipples chafed by the 
flannel nightshirt as she did unspeakable things to the pillow between her 
legs.

How humiliating.

Raising her head, Scully tried to catch her breath.  If Mulder had woken up 
during any of this, she was never going to hear the end of it, and besides, 
he was eventually going to need a way to pay her back and prevent blackmail.

On the other hand, he was having his own dreams like clockwork and it wasn't 
two am yet, and maybe she could take advantage of Valium intoxication to make 
him think it had all been a dream.

He might be lying there with his face in the pillow, but he could be hard as 
a rock right now.

The very notion made her mouth, among other things, water.  Creeping 
carefully out of bed, she lifted his comforter and slid stealthily into bed 
beside him, one hand delicately traveling over the curve of his hip and then 
across his belly---shit, there was a wet spot already.  She'd missed it.

Sighing, Scully rolled onto her back, listening to Mulder's breathing, deep 
and regular.  On the other hand, at least he hadn't screamed this time.  
Maybe it had been somewhat normal.

All she knew is that she was going to have a helluva time going back to sleep.


"Morning, Scully," Mulder told Scully cheerfully, sitting down on the edge of 
her bed.  "I brought you some coffee from the restaurant.  Pendrell's not mad 
at me anymore."

Peering at him through disheveled hair, Scully raised her head.  "What time 
is it?"

"About quarter after eight," he told her and sipped from his styrofoam cup.  
"They aren't environmentally aware here, I guess," he added, eyeing the 
styrofoam.  "Anyway, Bergman should be into his office soon, and the night 
deputy said you could get back into the mortuary about nine.  I thought you 
might want to get up."

Taking the cup, Scully sipped at it, pushed herself upright against the 
headboard.  He looked, as always, impeccable, every inch the professional, 
impenetrable asshole, Spooky Mulder.

She could kill him.  On the other hand, the coffee *was* pretty good.

"I got up early and went skiing again, Scully.  You were right, it's great, 
it works just like a run."  Mulder gave her a guileless smile.  "I even 
dropped my laundry off at the twenty-four hour laundromat, I need to pick it 
up this afternoon."

She stared at him over the rim of the cup.  His laundry?  Oh, his laundry.  
She had to take another sip to keep from grinning at that, and he got up from 
the bed, going to retrieve a styrofoam container from the dresser.

"I brought you some breakfast, Scully.  Pancakes."

Oh, Lord, she'd had enough pancakes already just eating his leftovers.  On 
the other hand, he was trying to be sweet, that much was obvious.  

"I'm going to walk over to the police station, see if I can get them to run 
me over to the county courthouse."  Mulder was shrugging into his overcoat.  
"I thought I'd leave the four wheel drive for you and Pendrell."

"How'd you sleep last night, Mulder?" Scully asked, unable to keep the smile 
completely hidden.

She thought she saw his shoulders twitch, but his back was to her and she 
couldn't see his expression.  "Fine, Scully," he told her heartily, "That 
Ovaltine really does the trick."

It was all she could do not to snicker, but her disappointment at finding 
that he'd, ah, reached the climax of his dream before she'd awakened helped.  
Maybe only a quarter tablet in the Ovaltine tonight.  Heh.

He was already heading toward the door.  "How about if we meet around noon at 
the restaurant," he suggested, still without looking at her.

"Sounds good to me."  Aw, he'd gotten her several little containers of syrup, 
to make sure she'd had a choice.  "See you then, Mulder.  Try not to get into 
any trouble at the courthouse, okay?"  The door closed without any answer.  
She smiled.  It really could be a lot of fun to yank Mulder's chain.

<continued>


Minnesota - part 28 
by wickdzoo-@aol.com

It was nearly eleven thirty before Mulder turned the light off on the 
microfiche machine in the courthouse.  It really was amazing how large 
families had been up in this part of the country forty years ago.  And even 
more amazing how many families had lost children before adulthood.  Farm 
accidents, accidents while ice fishing, summertime drownings, and grass fires.

It was depressing as hell, and the stolid folk who lived up here buried them 
and went on.  It was more than depressing, it was suspicious.   He'd come up 
with fifteen deaths that looked suspicious, where the death had taken place 
unwitnessed.  

Out of curiosity, he'd kept scrolling, giving himself Excedrin Headache 3215 
from the image on the microfiche screen.  The deaths had started 38 years 
ago.   The first had been Gus Olafsson Junior, aged sixteen, who had fallen 
off a hayloft onto the harrowing blades of his father's tractor.  Following 
that trail backward, Mulder had found that Gus Senior and Mrs. Gus Senior had 
been married hastily during the depression, with Gus Junior making his 
appearance an indecently short period of time after the wedding day.  Their 
daughters had been born two and six years after, respectively, and the last 
child, Eric, had come four years after that.  A surprisingly small family for 
this area, but it was during the depression, perhaps the Olafsson family 
hadn't been as well off financially as their neighbors.

Then, two years after that, the Johannsen twins, aged twelve, had drowned 
while apparently ice fishing.  A year later, Harley Hargrove, aged nine, had 
drowned during a hot July at the local swimming hole.  Why a nine year old 
had been swimming unattended was a question Mulder noted on his pad, but 
there had been no witnesses.

A gap of three years and then Jan Ericsen had died after putting his arm into 
an unattended threshing machine early in the summer, before anyone was 
threshing.  Ericsen had been seventeen.  Thirteen year old Jamie Landry had 
died six months later in a freak accident on the ice while ice skating.

Almost a year later, fourteen year old Helge Olson died while taking out 
supper to her father, who had been ice fishing.  Fell through the ice, the 
report said, not unlike the unfortunate Johannsen twins.

The death toll went on for twelve years, and then accidental deaths seemed 
to, he thought grimly, just stop.  More or less.  

And that was it.  No other pattern, other than the strangeness of the 
unattended 'accidental deaths'.  Closing his notepad, he took his glasses off 
and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

He was going to have to find out if any of the family members were still in 
the area and what they could tell him about the deaths.  Maybe something that 
would give him something more to go on, some arcane or vague hint that would 
set him directly onto the murderer's trail.

But first, he was going to have lunch with Scully and see what she had found 
going over the bodies again.



"First things first," Scully told him, sitting down at the table across from 
Mulder, her cheeks pink with the cold.  The temperature had dropped again and 
Mulder regretted wearing a suit instead of thermal underwear and jeans.  "We 
found something sewn into her bathing suit, Mulder.  I can't think how we 
missed it before."  She looked over in Pendrell's direction.  

The younger agent was sitting at a separate table, beaming at the bosomy 
Inge, evidently taking a break from Carnivaling.  Or Queening.  Whichever.

Scully handed a plastic bag over to him.  It held a narrow piece of paper and 
Mulder flinched.  "It's the Miranda poem," Scully told him dryly.  "The one 
you quoted the other day."

At the end of the table, Bergman snorted.  "He's got his own goddamned 
Psychic Hotline," he growled.

Trask, sitting next to him, gave him a severe look.  "Harald, watch your 
language."

Scully flicked Trask a faint smile before looking back at Mulder.  Mulder, 
she was injected with something, I found the injection site.  And I had the 
lab check specifically for a variety of things.  Insulin.  I ought to choke 
you, but you haven't told me how you guess these things yet."

Peering through the plastic, Mulder shuddered.

"Unwillingly Miranda wakes, 
Feels the sun with terror, 
One unwilling step she takes, 
Shuddering to the mirror.

Miranda in Miranda's sight, 
Is old and gray and dirty; 
Twenty-nine she was last night; 
This morning she is thirty."

"Marcy Olafsen turned thirty on Friday."  Scully's voice was very soft.

The table was silent for several moments before the waitress arrived to take 
Scully's order.

Mulder sighed and bit into an oversized bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich, 
trying not to think about Ogden Nash, Caroline Timmeson and her freezer, or 
Marcy Olafsen in the church. 

Trask leaned back in her chair, having already polished off the lunch 
special, thankfully not yams and ham.  Bergman was sullenly chain smoking and 
working through the latest in an apparently unlimited supply of coffee 
refills.

"And Caroline Timmeson had traces of potassium chloride in her system."  

Mulder glanced up again to see Scully victorious--the very sheen on her face 
made him shift on his chair uncomfortably.  Last night's dream, at least, 
hadn't been anything too out of the ordinary, if you didn't count the 
handcuffs and the spanking.

Of course, Scully had only been wearing a black leather bustier and high 
heeled black boots that came up to the middle of her thigh while she was 
spanking him, and seeing her breasts bob entrancingly in the mirror had been 
excruciatingly arousing.

At least it hadn't made him scream himself awake, and no one from the Bureau 
had made a surprise appearance, it had been just him and Scully and the black 
leather paddle.  

He squirmed again in his chair, putting the images out of his mind by 
concentrating on the notes he'd made at the courthouse.  "Okay, so we can 
make a guess that he's making the death itself as painless as possible for 
the women.  Somehow, drowning in cod liver oil doesn't seem like it would be 
terribly painless."

Scully grimaced and Bergman shuddered.

Mulder arched an eyebrow at Trask.  "You grew up around here?"

Trask nodded and slowly blew a large pink bubble.

God, he'd forgotten about that in the last few days.  Fascinated, Mulder 
watched it growing and growing until....until....until she sucked it back 
into her mouth.   "Um, did you know the Gus Olafsson family?"

Trask blinked.  "Doc Olafsson's family?  Sure.  After Gus Senior died, Mrs. 
Olafsson was a real mainstay of the church here in town."

Bergman coughed on his coffee, waving Trask away when she would have patted 
his back helpfully.  "Oh, yeah," he finally managed hoarsely, "A real 
mainstay.  She drove her son-in-law to suicide."

Mulder's ears came to a point.  "Her son-in-law?"

"The Reverend Fulke," Trask agreed.  "That was a gosh-darned shame, doncha 
know."

"The Reverend Fulke," Mulder repeated, frowning.  A little chill snaked its 
way down the back of his neck.  Scully was giving him a meaningful look.

"Yeah," Bergman told him nastily, "You know, his mother-in-law's ghost 
appeared to you in the church."

Trask gave Bergman an irritated look.  "Agent Mulder never said he saw Gerda 
Olafsson's ghost, Harald."

"I saw it, too, Sheriff."  Scully's voice was cool.  "And that was no ghost, 
ghosts don't generally wield straight edged rulers with that much force."

Mulder eyed the bandage on his palm thoughtfully.  "Well, that's true," he 
began, "Although--ow!"  Scully had kicked him.  Hard.  "Sorry, we're getting 
off track," he muttered, glaring at her.  "So, Gerda Olafsson was Gus' 
mother?"

"Yah," Trask nodded.  "Only Hilde and Doc Olafsson are still  in the area."

He wasn't up to facing the good doctor at this particular moment in time.  He 
wasn't sure he wanted to admit that the Ovaltine really did seem to be 
helping.  Not to Scully or to Olafsson  .  Maybe he could manage to have a 
corker of a nightmare again tonight to prove to her that it didn't work...."I 
think I'd like to have a talk with Mrs. Fulke.  Where is she living now?"

"I'll drive you out there," Trask offered, giving Bergman a warning look.

"She's as crazy as you are," Bergman muttered anyway.  "Woman's just short of 
bayin' at the moon."

"There isn't a thing wrong with Hilde Fulke."  Trask scowled at the sheriff.  
"She's just made her adjustment to her losses."

Mulder's ears came to a point again.  "Losses?"

Trask nodded vehemently.  "Poor woman, lost her only boy when he was about 
sixteen.  Of course, she had all the girls to lean on, but it broke her heart 
that Reverend Fulke's name wasn't going to be carried on."

"How did she lose him?"  Mulder's mouth was suddenly dry.  

"Oh, it was sad, it was one of those gosh-darned farm equipment accidents, 
doncha know."  Trask sighed mournfully.  "She managed to carry on, though I 
don't know what she'd have done without Doc Olafsson and the girls."

Mulder leaned back to let the waitress, a middle aged woman with greying 
blonde hair who looked him eye to eye, put his bowl of tomato soup and his 
grilled cheese and tomato and bacon sandwich down in front of him.  Scully 
regarded his meal with faint repugnance, although he wasn't sure why.  "Sure 
are a lot of farm accidents around here," he muttered and picked up his 
sandwich.

"Yah," Trask agreed and sighed again.  "Farming's no easy life, I'm afraid."

Bergman snorted and leaned back to let the waitress pour yet another refill 
of coffee.  

Taking a bite of his sandwich, Mulder found himself wondering if that was 
what passed for graft in Timmsville.

It didn't seem to be a good moment to ask.


<continued>


Minnesota - part 29 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


The widow Fulke was another one of those tall, greying blondes.  The house 
was spotless, full of Victorian furniture, and colder than hell with the 
fires out.  Mulder kept his coat on during the entire interview; after a 
brief trial, Scully slipped hers back on, although the widow and Trask seemed 
to be perfectly comfortable.

The cold must be something you got used to up here, Mulder thought and sighed 
as Trask explained the reason for their visit.

"Yah, I remember when Gus died," Hilde poured tea into fragile china cups and 
Trask passed them out, her large hands drawfing the cup and saucer and making 
Mulder acutely aware of how small Scully's hands were when she accepted hers. 
 "Poor Gus, he always was a little wild, didn't always pay attention to what 
he was doing.  I think he probably just wasn't looking where he was going and 
fell over the edge of the loft."  

"Did Gus have any trouble with any other kids, Mrs. Fulke?" Mulder asked and 
took a sip of the watery tea.  "Perhaps his own age, perhaps younger?"

"Yah," Mrs. Fulke agreed, leaning back in her rocker to sip at her own tea.  
"Gus was a terrible bully, doncha know.  He was hardest on the younger kids, 
of course, and he was as tall as Papa.  No one wanted to take Gus on.  Best 
thing in the world was when he discovered girls, because I told him that if 
he picked on me and Greta anymore, we'd tell all the other girls terrible 
things about him.  I don't think you can find a person alive who remembers 
Gus fondly."

That seemed pretty sad.  Mulder took another sip of tea.  "Was he alone in 
the barn that day?"

Mrs. Fulke adjusted her bifocals, peering owlishly at him through the lenses. 
 "Well, yah, I think so.  Papa used to wonder about that, seemed like one of 
the hired men shoulda been there, but Gus was so darn snippity, they all 
found other things to do, even if it was something nasty on the other side of 
the farm."

"Hired men?"  Mulder considered that.  "Was your family well off, Mrs. Fulke."

"Oh, yah, Papa was one of the richest farmers in the county back then.  Not 
that Mama would have it any other way.  She didn't want people thinking she'd 
made a bad choice."  Mrs. Fulke rocked,sipping her tea for another moment.  
"Mama wasn't what you'd call a nice woman, Agent Mulder."

Trask looked at the older woman, genuinely shocked.  "Hilde!"

Mrs. Fulke smiled at her.  "You were just a young one yourself, Kristina 
Trask.  You didn't know that woman.  Why, she hated Max from the moment she 
laid eyes on him, said he was too soft to replace the Reverend Scheinholz, 
that horrible old man.  And after what happened in the church after choir 
practice, I think her ghost drove my poor Max to go outside in that barn and 
hang himself.  She wasn't a Christian woman at all.  I used to wonder, but 
Max showed me that what Mama was about had nothing to do with Christ.  Oh, 
and when Max got to preaching, he stirred up powerful feelings.  Especially 
among the womenfolk."  Her voice was faintly prideful.  

Mulder looked at Scully wide-eyed.  She looked back, giving him an 
unmistakable warning that if he said the wrong word, he was going to be sorry 
his grandparents had ever met.  Swallowing hard, he turned back to Mrs. 
Fulke, who was continuing, her tone faintly bitter.

"And then poor Minne Gerdstrom never could live it down, after Mama shrieking 
her way out of the vestibule, telling the whole town about fornication."

Trask's jaws tested their flexibility.  "But Hilde--"

"I know, everybody says she died in the church, but she was on her way out 
when I came runnin' from the rectory and shoved her back inside.  I didn't 
want her shrieking like that out on the street, but the Gundersen woman was 
across the way and you know how her tongue flaps."  Mrs. Fulke looked at 
Mulder.  "Poor Minnie was in there just trying to cover herself with her 
choir robe, and Max was as just as white as the altar cloth.  I pushed the 
horrible old cow back in and she started shrieking at me, telling me that 
she'd warned me that Max was no good, that he was a sinner."  Her mouth 
twisted.  "That evil old crow, she was always sucking the joy out of 
everything.  So I slapped her.  She fell down in the pew, holding her face 
and screaming at the top of her lungs.  And then she just stopped screaming 
and made this gurgling sound.  The stroke."  Mrs. Fulke gave Mulder a serene 
smile.  "I've always felt that it was God's way of punishing her, myself."

Trask's mouth closed with a snap.

Mulder cleared his throat.  "So, to get back to Gus--you don't know of anyone 
specifically who might have given him some help falling out of the loft."

"Unless it was one of God's holy angels," Mrs Fulke sighed, "I sure don't.  
You really think somebody killed Gus?"

"I think it's possible," Mulder told her and coughed.  God's holy angels?  
"There were some other accidental deaths in the years after Gus died, Mrs. 
Fulke."  Looking down at his pad, he turned to the page he was seeking.  "The 
Johannsen twins, Harley Hargrove, Helge Olson.  Any of those names ring a 
bell with you?"

Mrs. Fulke frowned, her eyes gazing distantly into the past.  "Yah, the 
Johannsen twins ran around with Helge Olson's big brother, they weren't as 
bad as Gus, but they teased the younger kids something fierce.  
Harley--Harley was just bad, pure and simple.  He was the only child and 
spoiled just rotten.  Got so his parents couldn't find anyone to babysit him, 
he was so bad.  I took Eric there one time to keep him out of Mama's way.  
I'll never forget the way Harley cursed his mama and papa for leaving him to 
go ice-fishing.  And Eric's eyes got just like saucers, I had to cover his 
ears."  She sighed and looked back at Mulder.  "Helge?  I didn't remember 
about Helge.  Yah, she was just a year or two ahead of Eric in school, I 
think, and pretty full of herself.  She was a pretty thing, very vain, the 
only girl in all those Olson boys."  She sighed again, mournfully, perhaps 
thinking of her only son among all the girls.  "But nobody ever seemed to 
think any of those were anything but terrible accidents, Agent Mulder."

"They may have been," he agreed and closed the pad.  "They just strike me as 
suspicious, Mrs. Fulke.  There were no witnesses and a lot of supposition 
about what led to the deaths."

She rocked and gazed at him.  "But you think someone murdered them.  The same 
person committing these terrible killings."

After a moment, Mulder nodded.  "Was this the family farm, Mrs. Fulke?"

"Yah, it sure was.  Mama had fought with Minnie, and she never did like Eric, 
so I was in her will anyway.  And poor Eric--well, he didn't want the house 
anyway, and it sure was a God-send after poor Max lost the church."  Faded 
blue eyes blinked rapidly behind the bifocals.  "At least until Max went out 
to the barn."

Mulder found himself wondering if Max, too, had been helped to his death.  
Rising, he nodded at Trask and advanced to offer his hand to Mrs. Fulke.  
Hers nearly swallowed his up, but when she rose, she stood as tall as 
Skinner.  God, the people up here were mutants, he wondered if Scully would 
mind having two cases at the same time, an X file along with the serial 
murder case.....

No, she'd gut him and filet him, he was sure of it.  "Mrs. Fulke, is that 
barn the same barn your brother died in?"

"Oh, yah, but gosh, that was a long time ago, Agent Mulder.  You won't be 
able to find any evidence, will you?  The farm equipment is all gone these 
days."

"I just like to see the scene, get a feel for it," Mulder told her and 
glanced back to see a patient, long-suffering look settle over Scully's 
features.  "I won't be long."

"I'll go with you," Scully told him.

Trask stared at them as if they were both insane.  "I'll wait here," she 
muttered and took another sip of the tea.

<continued>


Minnesota - part 30 
by wickdzoo-@aol.com


The wind cut through Mulder's overcoat and suit jacket the minute they 
stepped out onto the back porch.

"Mulder, is this really necessary?"  Scully asked, through clenched teeth.  
"Jesus, we've got to solve this and get the hell someplace warmer."

Turning his collar up against the wind, Mulder nodded and started off down 
the packed snow of the path to the barn.  Once inside, out of the wind, he 
held the door for Scully and fought to keep the wind from tearing it out of 
his hands.  "Jesus, I hate winter!"

"Me, too," Scully muttered and looked up.  "Well, Mulder, it looks like a 
barn."

"I wonder if the Reverend Fulke really did hang himself, Scully, or if 
somebody helped him to it."  Mulder peered up at the loft, then down at the 
packed earth of the floor.  The temperature was surely colder than Caroline 
Timmeson's deep freeze.  He could feel the chill through the soles of his 
shoes and through the gloves and blew out a puff of winter breath.  "Christ, 
it's cold in here."

"At least there's no wind."  Scully advanced into the gloom.  "God, they left 
the rope up."  Her tone was thick with horror.

"A memorial, maybe."  Mulder shrugged and moved forward, past her.  Finding 
the ladder to the loft, he went up carefully, pulled himself onto the loft 
floor.  Bare of hay or straw or whatever the hell they kept up here, it 
seemed bleak.  God, they'd even left the noose in it.  But something didn't 
seem quite right.  "Scully, was the Reverend Fulke as big as Mrs. Fulke?"

Scully's face was a pale oval, peering up at him.  "How the hell do I know, 
Mulder?  He's been dead eighteen years, no one has asked me to autopsy him."

Mulder sighed.  "Okay, I just thought maybe you'd know, since you knew all 
the rest of the story."  He walked toward the noose and reached up to touch 
it, to set the rope swinging.  It just didn't seem right.  If Fulke was as 
tall as Mrs. Fulke, or taller, the rope should still be lower.  "I mean, if 
you were going to hang yourself by stepping off the loft," he reasoned aloud, 
"Wouldn't you have to have the rope far enough down to slip the noose over 
your head?  But if you were lifted into position--"

"Sinner!"  The hiss was almost serpentine.  Whirling, Mulder teetered on the 
edge of the loft, heard Scully's frantic, "Mulder!" before getting his 
balance.  There was no one behind him.

"Scully?"  His mouth was dry.  "Did you hear that?"

"I didn't hear anything."  He heard her ragged inhalation.  "I did, however, 
see my partner nearly break his neck."

Mulder's heart hammered against his ribs almost painfully.  "I heard 
something," he muttered and shivered.  "God."  Turning back to the rope, he 
took a prudent step away from the edge of the loft.  "Scully, I'm not sure 
that Fulke actually killed himself."

"Mulder, that's eighteen years ago.  We can't go re-opening every suspicious 
death way back to the thirties."

"Sinner!"  This time, the hiss was a little louder, and when Mulder whirled, 
he saw something take shape out of the shadows of the loft.  An unreasoning 
terror snaked down his spine and between his legs and headed toward his 
balls.  They made a very serious attempt to crawl up into his body.  

He could feel them rising to his throat as the old woman advanced on him.  
She seemed more gaunt this time, more haglike, more threatening.  Even though 
she wasn't, thankfully, carrying a ruler. 

"Sinner," it came again, the accusation, fingers like talons pointed toward 
him.  "I see your heart, I see the filth there.  You're just like the others, 
filthy, dirty beasts wallowing in the sins of the flesh."

He couldn't seem to move.  "Scully?"  His voice came out as little more than 
a whisper.  "Can you come up here?"

"What?"  Scully's voice was irritable.

The woman came closer.  Oh, God, she had a veritable grey mustache on her 
upper lip.  And the black dress had a faintly, phospherescent green glow.  
And didn't her breasts hang more slackly, didn't those hands more closely 
resemble claws than they had last time?  

Worst of all, Mulder had nowhere to go, the old woman was between him and the 
ladder.

"Vile, depraved swine," the hiss was just as sibilant, raising hairs on the 
back of his neck.  "Filthy, filthy, thinking only with what God put between 
your legs for the creation of children.  But that's not good enough for you, 
is it?  No, you want the pleasure of it, you want to wallow in the filth like 
the animals.  Poking that thing into any woman you see, lusting after them 
with every breath you take.  Filthy, dirty beast!"

"Scully?"  Mulder managed a little more volume this time, even though his 
teeth were chattering.  "Scully, can you come up here, please?"

"Of course, you want her up here," the old hag shrilled suddenly, making him 
flinch.  "You want here up her so you can stick your dirty, filthy thing into 
her.  So you can make the beast with two backs.  Filthy, dirty sinner, get 
down on your knees."

Scully's head appeared above the edge of the loft.  He spared a brief, 
panicky look at her before turning back to watch the woman.

She kept advancing on him, he had to take a half-step backward, that much 
closer to the edge of the loft.

"Mulder," Scully's voice rose in alarm.  "Dammit, Mulder, watch what you're 
doing!"

The old harridan came closer.  

Mulder forced himself not to moan and was glad he'd used the bathroom before 
they'd left.  And that he'd only taken a sip or two of the tea.  

Why wasn't Scully doing anything, why wasn't she arresting her?  For that 
matter, asked a little voice in his head, why wasn't he?

He could feel the edge of the loft under his heel.  As the long, gnarled 
finger came toward his chest, he reached up and caught the rope, too overcome 
with horror to let that finger touch him.

"Mulder!!"  Scully screamed, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Make her stop," he gibbered, ready to jump if he had to.

"Make who stop?"  Scully came toward him and so did the hag.  

He swung out over the empty space, holding onto the noose with a death grip.  
"Scuuuuuullllyyy, don't let her touch you."

Scully stood at the edge of the loft and stared at him completely oblivious 
to the hag's shrieking cackle.  

"Mulder," she said softly, "It's okay, there's nobody here now but me.  See 
if you can just swing back here."

Mulder closed his eyes.  Opened them again to see Scully standing alone on 
the wooden floor of the loft.  Oh.  Shit.  "I don't think I can, Scully."  He 
looked down.  Well, maybe it was a long way to jump.  "I really don't think I 
can."

Scully blinked.   "Great.  We'll have to call the fucking fire department."

Mulder looked up and down again, feeling vaguely dizzy at the distance below 
him.  Maybe he could try to swing over, he decided and gave it his best shot. 
 After all, that little wimp Douglas Fairbanks Jr. had always managed, and he 
was just an actor.

Scully closed her eyes as he picked up momentum, but Mulder had to admit, she 
was there for him when he tumbled back to the floor of the loft, reaching 
down to help him to his feet.

Standing face to face, she looked up at him.  "Mulder," she told him quietly, 
"I think you've gone over the edge."


Mulder was silent, slumped in the back seat on their way back to the motel.  
Scully kept glancing back at him, trying not to remember the panic on his 
face as he grabbed that damned noose and swung out over the floor of the 
barn. 

Jesus, he wasn't Sylvester Stallone or whoever the hell else was performing 
feats of derring do these days in the world of cinema.  

He was an FBI agent, a psychologist, for God's sake, a man who carried two 
guns because he kept losing one.

And although he had insisted again and again that the old woman from the 
church was there in the loft, he had finally gone silent on her when she had 
shown him the dust on the loft floor, unmarked by footprints.

Now he was sitting in the back seat, head tilted back, eyes closed.  Maybe 
Pendrell was right, maybe she was taking his behavior for granted.  Maybe 
Mulder was over the edge.

"What happened back there?"  Trask finally risked asking.  "In the barn."

"Agent Mulder--he saw something that bothered him."  Scully looked out the 
passenger window.  "Trask, is there a psychologist in Timmsville?"  She felt, 
rather than saw, Trask's sidelong look.

"There's one in Zimmer," Trask finally told her.  "My cousin Frank.  But he's 
an animal psychologist these days, we don't get much call for psychologists 
in this county."

Scully couldn't imagine why not.  Just staying here for the last four days 
had been enough to drive Mulder over the edge.  And she was getting pretty 
close herself, only for vastly different reasons.  "Could you give him a 
call?  I think I'd like Agent Mulder to talk to him."

There was a brief silence.  "Does he always take it this personal?" Trask 
eyed her again.

"Only if it's murder," Scully told her morosely.  "And then--yeah, always."

They drove the rest of the way in silence.



Dinner was a treat.  Sitting in the booth, Mulder looked hemmed in by both 
Pendrell and Trask, pale and tired and not just a little unhappy.

Scully wished she'd gotten to the booth faster, she'd have gotten next to 
him.  "What are you going to have, Mulder?" she asked, with false cheer.

"I dunno."  Mulder was staring at the menu.  She could almost hear the wheels 
turning in his head.  "Maybe a cheeseburger."
"Cheeseburger's good," Trask agreed thoughtfully.  "But I think I'll have the 
lutefisk."

Mulder shuddered.  Scully didn't blame him.  "Pendrell," she said pointedly, 
"Would you mind grabbing a chair, I think you're all a little crowded."

Mulder's grateful look nearly undid her.  

He'd been silent and miserable since they'd left the barn together, as badly 
shaken as she'd ever seen him.  He kept insisting that the old woman had been 
there, that she'd harangued him about his sins, and that he'd been so 
repulsed by the idea of her touching him that he'd taken that flying leap on 
the Reverend Fulke's noose.  

Despite this apparent flight from lucid thought, he was still making sense 
about the Reverend Fulke's death.  Unless the Reverend Fulke had been 
freakishly tall, it seemed unlikely that he had gone to his eternal reward 
unaided.

Pendrell scowled.  "Agent Scully, I think it's time for some tough talk here. 
 Agent Mulder needs help."

Mulder's head turned slowly, but he didn't respond.  Instead, he looked even 
more morose.

"He's fine," Scully snapped, giving Trask a warning look.  Trask, who had 
opened her mouth to speak, immediately closed it.  "Pendrell, either get 
another chair or get another table."

Still scowling, Pendrell got another chair.  Scully tried to smile 
reassuringly at her partner.

"Scully," he said, offering her a wan smile in return.  "I'm really not very 
hungry right now.  I'd like to get into a hot shower and see if I can get 
warm again."  He slid out of the booth and pulled his coat around him.  "I'll 
walk, it's just a few blocks, Scully.  But you could maybe bring me some 
tomato soup back?  Maybe by that time I'll feel a little more like eating."

Scully bit her lip and nodded.  

<continued>


Minnesota - part 31
by wickdzoo-@aol.com


The moment the door of the Country Kitchen closed behind Mulder, Trask leaned 
forward.  "I called my cousin, Agent Scully.  He can see you tomorrow 
afternoon.  He's got a session with Olsen's cows in the morning."

Resting her forehead in her hands, Scully considered her options.  She could 
take her partner to a shrink presently serving the livestock and pets of the 
county, or she could ship him home, or she could drug him out of his mind.  
Of the three options, the latter was looking more and more attractive, except 
that drugged out of his mind, she couldn't have her way with him.  If he was 
in a straitjacket, she couldn't have her way with him.  Or rather, she could, 
but only if the orderlies left him alone and unattended long enough.  

And taking him to the animal shrink..."Trask, has your cousin ever treated a 
human being?"

"Yah, he used to have an office down in the Twin Cities, doncha know."  Trask 
nodded helpfully.  "But he got sick of city life and came up here.  Kinda got 
into helping animals by accident, since he didn't have too many patients up 
here."

At least this guy had a real degree.  She hoped.  "Okay, tell him we'll be 
there."

Pendrell looked from one to the other.  "You're taking Agent Mulder to 
another doctor?"

Trask got another warning look and closed her mouth in time.  Scully looked 
at Pendrell for a long moment in silence.  "Yes, Pendrell, I am."

Pendrell stared back.  "To a veterinarian?" he asked, his tone incredulous.  
"I know he's crazy, but a veterinarian?"

"He's not a veterinarian.  He lives in Zimmer, he just treats animals because 
he doesn't have enough human patients."

When Pendrell's gave moved to Trask, who was listening to this with 
amazement, the big trooper had the sense to nod emphatically.  "Yah, he had a 
busy practice in the Twin Cities."

Pendrell continued to look suspicious.  "What's wrong with him."

Great.  Scully licked her lips and lifted her chin.  "I think he has an inner 
ear infection, it's affecting his sense of balance.  Trask's cousin is an 
ENT.  Doctor Olafsen is a general practitioner and I think Mulder needs to be 
seen by a specialist."  

God was going to punish her someday for lying to cover Mulder's ass.   If he 
didn't decide to punish her for lusting after him.  She could see it now, an 
eternity in hell spent dressed in the black lace merry widow and no panties, 
with Mulder attractively posed in the nude just out of arm's reach.  

Doomed.  She was doomed.  Her mother was right, she needed to get back to the 
church and start earning those plenary indulgences.  With any luck, she could 
get by with purgatory.

It was a pity that the Church no longer sold the damned things, she'd cash in 
her retirement investment program and buy all they had.



Mulder was so morose he didn't even have the heart to choke the chicken in 
the shower, even though the hot water felt wonderfully sensuous against skin 
that was chilled inside and out.  

Just thinking about old woman brought gooseflesh back, even when he was under 
the blankets and thick down comforter and pulled them all up to his ears.  
Closing his eyes, he could see that contorted face, hideous with thwarted 
rage.  Gerde Olafsson.   Not so lamented mother of the widow Fulke.  He 
wondered how Dr. Olafsson felt about her and felt another chill creep up his 
spine and down again.

He was missing something.  He'd let himself be frightened and he'd missed 
something key, something vital.  

The door opened and Scully came in and slammed it shut, stomping her feet and 
swearing under her breath.

He pulled the covers up farther, he really didn't want to talk to her alone.  
Not about the old woman, not about swinging out over the yawning distance 
between the noose and the barn floor.  Not about what the old woman had said 
to him.

"Mulder."  Scully's voice sounded irritable.  "I brought you your soup, don't 
play possum, I know you're awake, I saw the gleam of those foxy little eyes 
before you decided to play dead."

Foxy little eyes?  Sheer indignation replaced depression and he sat straight 
up.  "Scully, you know how I feel about--oh, thanks."  He took the styrofoam 
bowl from her and popped the lid, busying himself in that to keep from 
discussing anything else.  "I'm still cold.  Thanks, Scully."

Scully shed her coat and sat down on the edge of the other bed.  "Mulder, we 
need to talk about this." 

"No, we don't."  Mulder dipped the spoon into the bowl and took a bite.  "Mm. 
 That's good, Scully."

"I don't think it's Campbells, Mulder."  She sighed, the sound of 
exasperation.  "Mulder, you think you saw a ghost."

"So, you thought you saw a ghost a couple of times," he defended.  "No big 
deal, Scully.  It was my turn."

For a moment, he was afraid she was going to smack him.  But Dana Scully was 
the rational one.  Instead, she leaned back and surveyed him without a great 
deal of pleasure.  "Mulder, you nearly killed yourself, swinging out like 
that."

"Scully, I didn't just jump off the edge of the loft, I made sure I had a 
good grip on the rope."  Mulder took another bite.  "You didn't bring any 
crackers, did you?"

Another exasperated sigh.  She was good at that.  He wondered if Catholic 
schools had training in passive-aggressive behavior for young Catholic women. 
 Or if it was an Irish thing.  

Or both.

Getting up, she went to her coat, rifled in the pockets and returned with a 
handful of those packages with the little oyster crackers to toss them in his 
lap before she sat down on the bed again.

"Oh, good, I love these, they're my favorites."  Mulder happily opened two of 
the packages and dumped them into the soup.  "Thanks, Scully.  You're the 
best."

Scully's eyes closed briefly.  "Okay, Mulder.  Have it your way.  We won't 
talk about it.  I'm going to get ready for bed.  These early nights are 
starting to wear on me."

"Me, too," he agreed, though he suspected that his night life had something 
to do with it.  At least last night he'd had a more or less normal dream.  
Thinking about it now made him tingle a little, much better than thinking 
about that old harridan in the black dress.

The soup warmed him enough that he sat back and cheerfully made comments on 
Independence Day as Scully dourly watched.  By the time she made him the 
goddamned Ovaltine, though, she'd cheered considerably, and even put in extra 
marshmallows for him.

It still tasted like shit.  "Gah, Scully, is this stuff getting worse, or 
what.  Are you sure that milk's still good?"

Scully gave him that Pieta Madonna look again.  "Of course, Mulder, I tasted 
it myself.  Besides, it's been mostly frozen for the last two days, it's 
fine."

He licked the marshmallows out of the cup and grimaced.  "Maybe I'm just 
developing a distaste for it."

"Very funny.  But you're sleeping better, Mulder.  It's working.  And you 
haven't thrown up for a while."

He had to admit that much was true.  Except for the Playboy Bunny dream, he 
had been.  And he'd certainly not had any return of the nausea.  He nodded 
grudgingly and rinsed out the cup himself, shivering a little in the draft 
that danced along the bathroom floor, even in Scully's room.

"You know, Scully," he told her, climbing back into his bed, "I could get 
used to sleeping in a real bed if I had a comforter like this one."

"You don't need a comforter like this in DC," she told him wearily and turned 
out the light.  "You'd roast, Mulder."

"Yeah, but I'd roast happily."  He mashed the pillows into a pleasing shape 
and buried himself in them, already starting to feel sleepy.  Either he was 
behaving like Pavlov's dog or he owed Olafsson an apology.  

This shit really worked.


Lying awake, Scully listened with satisfaction to her partner's snores.  A 
half a Valium and no complaints.  He'd get a good night's sleep and hopefully 
be more compliant in the morning when she explained to him that he was going 
to see an animal psychologist.

<continued>


Minnesota - part 32 
by wickdzoo-@aol.com


Scully was wearing black leather again, not that Mulder was complaining.  The 
dungeon was a little unnerving, as was the Catherine Wheel he was presently 
bound to, but she didn't have any little cauldrons with red hot coals, or 
pincers or whips.  

She did, however, have a demure smile on her face.  This outfit was a little 
different than last night's.  A sort of leather Playboy Bunny suit, only she 
wasn't wearing hose this time.  Just those luscious high heeled boots that 
came up to her thighs.  And she sashayed toward him carrying that leather 
paddle.

"You've been a bad boy, Foxy," she purred.

Foxy?  On the other hand, her breasts did bob enticingly above the leather.  
Licking his lips, he shook his head.  "I didn't mean to be bad."

"But you are anyway, aren't you, Foxy."  Another few steps closer and she 
slapped the leather paddle against her palm.  "You just can't help yourself."

He licked his lips again and glanced down.  No more Catherine Wheel, he 
seemed to be suspended by his wrists now.  And, damn, he was wearing that 
stupid red Speedo again.  Why couldn't his subconscious at least provide some 
of those slick leather jeans?  

"I can't help myself," he agreed, because the evidence was unmistakable.  One 
thing about the Speedo, you couldn't miss if he was feeling, um, any response 
to Scully.

"You're very, very, very bad," she purred and came a little closer, drawing 
the paddle down the inside of one thigh. and up the inside of the other.

He whimpered.   "Scully, I'm sorry, I do try to be good."

"But you just can't seem to manage it."  She smacked her palm with the paddle 
again, eyeing him with a curious smile.  "You ditch me repeatedly, make short 
jokes, tell me I have no life, and that my feet are too tiny to reach the 
pedals."

"I'm sorry," he said humbly.  Very humbly, with his eyes cast down.  For some 
reason, he was wearing motorcycle boots.  At least it wasn't mary janes again.

"You have wet dreams about me--I'll bet you even fantasize about me while 
you're wanking off, don't you?"

"Yes," he confessed.  "I do."

"I thought as much."  She walked around behind him, which made the back of 
his neck tingle with a mixture of dread and arousal.   The paddle struck 
without warning, hard across his ass several times.

"Ow, ow, Scully--" It was hard to say if he wanted her to smack him again or 
to stop.  His body was certainly confused about it.

A slim hand reached around the front and tweaked the bulge in the Speedo.  He 
whimpered again, whimpered and arched into--


Scully woke from a confused dream about body painting her partner with 
chocolate Cool Whip to hear Mulder whine suggestively in his sleep.  Heart 
pounding, she slipped out of bed and leaned over him, carefully peeling the 
blankets back and sliding under them.

It was warm there, a protected cavern of warmth and Mulder and, oh, my, 
wasn't he just having a lovely dream?  Oh, he was, he was.

Sliding the flannel pajama bottoms off, she kicked them to the bottom of 
Mulder's bed and leaned up to nuzzle his throat.  Another whimper.  
Cautiously--after all, it wouldn't do to precipitate anything untimely, now 
would it?--she slid her hand down the front of the sweatpants.  

Oh, God, the Promised Land and he was hot in her hand.

He arched his hips up abruptly and gasped.

"Don't you dare," she muttered and stared into the gleam of dark eyes wide 
and shocked.  "Oh, hi, Mulder."  Swinging a leg over him, she pushed the 
sweat pants down his hips.

"Sc-Sc-Scully?"  His voice was breathy and startled.  "What--what are you 
doing?"

"I think that's pretty evident, Mulder.  You're the one who believes in 
extreme possibilities," she told him and couldn't resist just rubbing her 
body against him.

He moaned and pushed his hips up again.  "I'm not sure this is a good idea," 
he gasped.  "Oh, God, Scully, do that again."

She did, leaned down and did what she'd been wanting to do for a while--she 
nipped his lower lip and sucked on it gently, reached down to better aim him 
and started to slide down.

"Oh, God," he whimpered, a lot louder than she wanted him to.  "Oh, God, oh, 
God, oh, God."

Oh, God was right.  His hands came up to hold her hips and Scully closed her 
eyes, biting her lip to keep from chanting like Mulder.  Oh, yes, oh, yes, 
she knew her memory of sex couldn't be that far from the truth.  Only this 
was better......

"Agent Scully?  Do you need some help with him?"  Pendrell's voice was sharp. 
 

Goddammit, maybe there really wasn't a God.  Or maybe she had been right on 
the flight up, she'd died after her abduction and was now in hell.   "No, 
Pendrell, I can handle him just fine."  The hysterical urge to giggle waxed 
and waned, thankfully without one single snicker.

But Mulder's reaction to Pendrell's was instantaneous.  

He deflated.  In all respects.  

She felt it happening and disappointment almost made her shriek.  But she 
tried hard to stay calm.  "Mulder, it's okay, he's not going to come in," she 
whispered, a little urgently.

"Oh, Jesus," Mulder moaned, "Just my luck, after four years of watching you, 
Pendrell interrupts."

"Mulder, it's not the end of the world, we can, um, pick up where we left 
off."  She kissed him lingeringly, but all he did was lie there limply--and 
she did mean limply--and moan.  And not in passion, in misery.

"It's no use, Scully.  Just thinking about Pendrell makes my balls crawl."  
He gave her a tragic look.

Scully briefly considered shooting him.  

Then, with more cause, she considered shooting Pendrell.  "All right," she 
said wearily.  "But I expect a rematch, Mulder.  You've been teasing me for 
four years with those trousers low on your hips, that pouty mouth of yours, 
and that beaten puppy look."

His eyes widened slightly and his lips moved without a sound.  Finally, in a 
strangled voice.  "Okay, Scully."

"Good."  Feeling slightly miffed, she fished her pajama bottoms out of the 
bottom of the bed and got out, stopping to pull them on before she got back 
into her own.

Mulder leaned up.  "Scully?"  His tone was plaintive.  "You could sleep here."

She sighed.  He looked so sweet with that beaten puppy look.  He looked so 
winsome.  So sexy.  So--so--so molestible.  "I don't think that would be 
appropriate, Mulder.  Sex is one thing, but sleeping together is entirely 
different.  Besides, if I slept there tonight, you wouldn't get any sleep 
until I got what I wanted."

His head fell back onto the pillow and she heard another whimper.

It nearly changed her mind, but it was better this way.  Give him a chance to 
sleep off the Valium, and tomorrow night he was getting plain old Ovaltine.  
Assuming the shrink didn't decide he needed Thorazine.

But as long as he wasn't actively delusional, she could overrule the shrink.

<continued>


Minnesota - part 33 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


"This really fucks the duck." Fox Mulder stood outside the Country Kitchen, 
rolling a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, and glaring at 
the flat, steel grey of the Minnesota winter sky. His suit was GQ perfect, 
creases all in place beneath the overcoat with the lining.  Pendrell, his 
face chapped with cold, shivering with the lack of adequate clothing, stood 
and watched him as if waiting for the sky to fall.

Trask was still settling the bill when Scully joined them. Mulder tossed the 
toothpick into the smallest snow drift left by the last snowfall. "Can we 
finally get this cluster fuck on the road? We've got people to find, places 
to do." 

Bergman walked out, knocking loose a cigarette from a fresh package, ignoring 
the disgusted looks both Mulder and Scully gave him.  Trask said he'd been 
trying to quit. He certainly wasn't trying this morning.  

Mulder glared around him, taking in the nervous looks, the jumpy, startled 
movements every time one of them caught him looking at them, any time he made 
a sudden move. 

Even Scully, for Christ's sake, was jumpy as hell this morning, and Mulder'd 
had about enough of this shit. 

Jurgensen and Trask fled to the safety of Bergman's car, leaving Mulder with 
Scully and Pendrell   Pendrell, unfortunately, showed no signs of going away. 
He jittered along behind them as they headed to the four wheel drive.

"So," Mulder dropped into step next to Scully, "you've got the Three Stooges 
checking into Reverend Fulke's death?"
  
"Yeah. I think you had a good lead going there, and I want it checked top to 
bottom."  Scully somehow had  kept the keys from last night, she unlocked the 
driver's door, and hit the override to unlock all the doors. Pendrell grabbed 
the front passenger seat fast, before Mulder could get it, trying to ignore 
the poisonous look Mulder turned on him. 

Mulder slung himself into the back, then startled as Scully hit the override 
again, locking all the doors. Childproof locks, he noted, and he wouldn't be 
able to unlock them unless Scully hit the switch. 

She'd thought he was hallucinating.  Mulder swallowed and waited, licking his 
lips, a slow, deliberate motion as he collected his temper and leaned 
forward.  

"Why don't you lean back and put the seatbelt on?"  Scully's tone was mild.

Mulder frowned.  "We need to get out and talk to that choir director.  I've 
got a bad feeling about her, Scully, and we haven't talked to her yet."

Scully pulled back, out of the parking lot and down the main street, taking a 
left at the sign for Zimmer.  Mulder sat bolt upright and stared around him 
at the road.  "We're going the wrong way." His voice was soft, definite.  
"She lives south of town."

Pendrell twitched. Mulder leaned in between the front seats again, feeling an 
old terror grip his belly.  Trying to stay calm.   "Turn around, Scully. 
We're going the wrong way."  

"I don't think so, Mulder."   Scully's voice was still calm, ignoring his 
sudden, angry frown, his intentional control of temper. 

"Scully, I'm telling you. She's back the other way. We need to go get her, 
now, before we lose any more time.  I'm worried, I think she might be the 
next victim." Mulder was keeping his voice steady and reasonable, even though 
his fingers were digging into the cloth of Scully's seat back. 

Pendrell was trying not to cringe away from him.  

"We've got plenty of time, Mulder," Scully told him soothingly, glancing up 
into the rearview mirror.  "We'll go see her, we will, but we've got an 
appointment in Zimmer first."  

Mulder's jaw flexed as his teeth ground together hard. His knuckles went 
white. "Scully, there's another blizzard blowing in. If we don't get to her 
in time, we might be too late." .She wasn't listening.  He kept his voice 
controlled, a low grind that felt like he was pulling it out of his guts. 

"Agent Mulder." He looked around at Pendrell's pale, tense face. "We have 
time. We'll just go to Zimmer first. . . " 

Mulder felt his face twist itself into a smile that held no humor, bitter, 
angry and so, so alone.   Before Scully, he'd been that alone.  "You don't 
believe me. You think I'm. . . " Mulder swallowed, stared as Pendrell's face 
told the truth his tongue could choke. 

And his smile was gone, a crafty, calm look in its place.   Behave 
rationally, he told himself.

Scully's eyes were flickering from the mirror to the road. Pendrell's eyes 
rolled all the way over to watch without turning.   Mulder pulled his knees 
around, half-turned to stare into Pendrell's wide eyes. "All right, you think 
I'm out of my mind. I can live with that." He smiled, careful and under 
control, his pale color the only thing that betrayed that calm, rational 
expression. "I've been quoting Nash, I've been seeing a woman that half the 
town identifies as having died eighteen years ago.  Mind, I make no claims 
that the woman I saw was the Olafsson woman.  Other people are telling you.  
And I'm telling you, we're missing a chance. We've been two steps behind the 
killer since we got here, but we've got a chance to head him or her off, we 
can't afford to lose any time on this one. But you don't believe me. All 
right. What don't you believe? That I know that the choir director is next?"
 
Scully glanced up into the mirror again.  "Mulder, we have time," she 
repeated.

But he couldn't stop, couldn't just shut up and let her do it her way.  
Couldn't stop.  "Either way, you don't believe. So what harm is there in 
going to talk to her, to making sure she's okay? We can talk to her, maybe 
make sure that jackass Bergman keeps somebody watching her, and I go with 
you. We do whatever it is you want me to do. I won't argue."

"That doesn't make a whole lot of sense from where I sit, Mulder." Scully's 
voice was brisk and cool in the front seat. "I can use the cell phone to talk 
to Bergman from here.  He can send someone out to check on her, whereas we'd 
just be wasting time and we're going to see a busy man."  

Mulder sank back, feeling bitterness as acid in the back of his throat.  "A 
shrink." No question, a flat statement of fact instead.  Scully finally 
believed that he was crazy.  

"You have to admit, yesterday was a little weird, Mulder."
 
Mulder even smiled at Scully's gentle comment.  "I'll be glad to admit just 
that, if you do what I want. I don't give two shits what you think of me, all 
I care about is making sure that woman is alive and well and safe.  He was 
leaned forward again, ignoring the way Pendrell cringed from him. "It's a 
win-win situation, Scully." He pitched his voice to coax, a lilt that held 
humor and calm precariously like a shield.  "We spend just a little while, a 
detour. If she's okay, we'll get Bergman's men on it and I'll be glad to go 
calmly to talk with your shrink. No problem. Be glad to.  She wins, I win and 
you win."

"And you still go to the shrink? After we check her out?" Scully's tone was 
still mild.  

"Sure. Whatever you want. I'll go jump through his hoops."  

He saw Scully lick her lips.  "And what if I say 'no', Mulder? What if I just 
drive us in to Zimmer?" 

Mulder worked one shoulder past the bottle-neck of the seats and was watching 
the road and wheel as steadily as Scully.  He was doomed, damned forever to 
have to prove his sanity to people when he couldn't explain where he came up 
with things out of the ether.  When he couldn't explain how he could tap into 
the sick mind of a killer who quoted Nash. 

Pendrell was hyperventilating.  

"If you decide to drive in to Zimmer," Mulder's voice was calm, and rational 
and confident, "then you will need whatever it is that you've got in your 
hand to get me there.  And you had better pray it works fast."   

Pendrell started to lunge back, but Mulder was in motion and suddenly had one 
hand, steady and hard on the wheel.  Pendrell's shriek and Scully's curse 
together didn't cover his soft laugh. "It's okay, I'm not taking us off the 
road." 

Pendrell flattened himself against the seat and closed his eyes. 

The car had barely twitched.  "Just one detour. I don't care who you send me 
to after that." Not so easy to stay calm now.  Not begging, but asking so 
hard.  "Please, Scully. Please. I didn't want to do this. . . we can't let 
him. . . Scully, I can't let you throw her life away like that because you 
want me to go see some shrink this morning. The shrink can wait. Please turn 
around. I can tell you exactly where to go."  

Pendrell's hands pushed against the dashboard.  The world flashed by far 
faster than it should have, although Scully clearly had lifted her foot, the 
vehicle was starting to slow.

Mulder sprawled between the seats, the storage box gouging his ribs, but his 
hand was steady and he watched the road and waited for Scully to decide what 
her next move was going to be.  

Finally, slowly, she nodded and started to tap the brake, pull over to a 
U-turn, pulling over onto the shoulder of the narrow county road.

Mulder let himself collapse in relief between the seats, breathing hard with 
the tension he'd let go. He stayed there until they had turned and were going 
back, then pulled himself back into the back seat. 

Pendrell stared back at him, shocked and numb. 

Mulder curled into a corner of the back seat and watched the back of Scully's 
head, feeling the loss of trust and hope burn like the flames he'd always 
feared.


They were nearly to Minne Gerdstrom's house when Mulder began to speak again. 
  Sepulchral tones that made the hair on the back of Scully's neck rise, that 
made her shiver despite the fact that she had the heat cranked up on high.

"Love is a word that is constantly heard, Hate is a word that is not.  Love, 
I am told, is more precious than gold.  Love, I have read, is hot.  But hate 
is the verb that to me is superb,  And Love but a drug on the mart.  Any 
kiddie in school can love like a fool, But Hating, my boy, is an Art."

When she glanced back at him, his eyes were dark, the pupil swallowing up the 
iris, as shiny as onyx and about as lifeless.  "We're too late," he added and 
hunched his shoulders inside the overcoat.  "She's dead."

Of course, he was right.

<continued>


Minnesota - part 34 
by wickdzoo-@aol.com


Minne Gerdstrom, perhaps a few years younger than the good Widow Fulke, had 
been done up like someone's conception of a hooker in the fifties.  She sat 
stiffly in the recliner in front of her television, one side of her short 
skirt hiked up to reveal thighs that had definitely seen better days.

Hands in his pockets, Mulder stared gloomily at the body.  "The Scarlet A," 
he muttered and closed his eyes for a moment.  

The woman had been made up deliberately garishly, dark red rouge and scarlet 
lipstick, one eye open and the other closed in a caricature of a dissolute 
wink.  Scully swallowed hard and reached out to close the open eye, but it 
wouldn't close.  Frowning, she leaned forward and swallowed hard again.  
"Mulder, I think this eye has been glued open somehow."

"Hardly surprising."  Mulder's voice was ghostly in the room's dimness, his 
breath puffed white.  There was no heat.  The killer had turned the furnace 
off, evidently.

On the television screen, couples writhed and twisted in faked ecstasy.  She 
supposed it was a measure of Mulder's gloom that he didn't even notice.  "You 
were right," she admitted.  "But you're still going to the shrink, Mulder."

"I told you I would."  Mulder looked away from her.  "I think you'll find 
that the note has been inserted into her....."  His voice trailed off in 
uncharacteristic avoidance.

Bending, Scully peered.  "We'll have to find out at the morgue."  

Pendrell was outside, throwing up into the snowdrifts that covered the 
shrubbery.  Bergman and Trask were on their way.

And the minute they got there, she was putting Pendrell to work and taking 
Mulder to Trask's cousin.  No more delays.

If she didn't want him to end up in a rubber room, she had to act now.


It was a strip mall of four stores.  The two on the end were respectively pet 
and livestock supplies, the third and fourth had been combined into one 
office.

Linoleum floor and the office smelled like a vet's office.

Mulder gave her a sharp look as a fresh-faced blonde teenager came out with a 
man who resembled Trask to an alarming degree.  The teenager was carrying an 
overweight pug dog that Scully immediately disliked.

"Just play the tapes for him every night," the man told the girl, "We'll 
break this food addiction, Myrna, never fear."

"An animal psychologist?" Mulder hissed in her ear.  "Jesus Christ, Scully, 
you're my goddamned partner!  I expected better from you."

Dr. Sondheim turned toward them.  "Can I help you?"he asked, smiling 
beatifically.

"I'm Agent Scully, this is Agent Mulder, we have an appointment."  Scully 
found she was nearly babbling, holding on to Mulder's arm and leaning all her 
weight into it in case he decided to bolt.

"Ah, yes."  Sondheim actually rubbed his hands together.  "It's really rather 
exciting, having a human patient again.  After all, that's what I trained 
for.  It's just that the church seems to take over my role up in these parts. 
 Come right this way, Agent Mulder.  Er, Agent Scully, I'll have to ask you 
to wait outside."

Scully sighed, wondered whether or not she should warn Sondheim that Mulder 
might bolt.  A glance at his face persuaded her to keep her mouth shut.

"Ingrid will give you the paperwork," Sondheim continued, still smiling.  

It was such a nice change, after all the dour Strindbergian characters they'd 
been meeting, that Scully smiled back.

Mulder turned his head and gave her such a furious look that her smile 
evaporated almost immediately.

But he let Sondheim lead him back anyway.


Mulder stood by the window looking out.  He did not stop his perusal of the 
snow covered countryside while Sondheim stepped back out.  He heard 
Sondheim's voice, then Scully's in counterpoint.

The door opened again.  Footsteps.  This room was carpeted and the carpeting 
muffled them.  

The hand on his shoulder was gentle.  Mulder did not turn.  

"I like watching the hills," the voice behind him said.  Mulder said nothing. 
 "Agent Mulder, please come and sit down."  

"Why? So you can tell her that I'm experiencing severe PTSD? That I 
hallucinate and get angry easily? That I'm having fucking flashbacks?"  

"Is that what's happening?"  Sondheim's voice was honestly curious.

Mulder put a hand to the window, pressed against it. "No. But that's not what 
you'll tell them."  

"You don't know me. You don't know what I'll say." The voice was intelligent 
and educated, but it carried a trace of the northern twang in its deep 
baritone lilt.   Not quite "Doncha know."

"I know what you'll say."  

"Because you're a psychologist and you know what categories your behavior 
falls into?"  Gentle voice.

Mulder gritted his teeth."Yes."  

"You probably find this more frightening than an untrained person."  

Mulder did not respond. It was an opening. Too deliberate. Too easy for 
Sondheim to get the answers he sought.  

"If you want to stay there and look at the snow for a while, all right. I'll 
wait until you want to talk." Sondheim went away, or at least fell silent.  

Mulder looked at the snow, studying the way the snow weighted tree branches, 
turned everything white and pure.  Sinless and stainless.  He lost track of 
the time, staring out at the endless white, watching the way the wind skirled 
across the surface, raising little snow devils, small cyclones of white.  It 
kept him from thinking of Minne Gerdstrom and Gerda Olafsson  .  He replayed 
and replayed the morning's events, trying to find some way he could have 
saved her, something he could have said.  Tried to find some way that let him 
know his partner didn't believe he was crazy.  Certifiable.

After a while, he heard the knock at the door, heard Sondheim talking to 
someone in a low voice.  Recognized Scully's mumur.  The door closed again 
and Scully went away, leaving him to blink hard against the feeling of being 
alone and betrayed.  He realized that he must have been standing in front of 
the window for nearly an hour.  Realized what this meant.  He turned. "You 
cleared your schedule for me?"  

Sondheim shrugged. "Like I said, it's exciting to have a human in this office 
again." 
 
Mulder stared at him. "You shouldn't do that."  

Sondheim arched an eyebrow.  "Why not?"  

"I'm just one patient."  

That beatific smile again.  "But you're the patient who needs me right now."  

Mulder's chin came up.  "I don't need you."  

Sondheim nodded. He wasn't going to fight. "Your partner is worried about 
you."  

Mulder turned back to the snow, abandoned it after a few minutes more. He 
kept seeing the snow glare when he turned back to face the room.  "Scully was 
born worried," he said and rubbed his face with both hands.

"Would you like to sit down?"  

"All the seats are lower than your chair."  

"Never take a psychologist as a patient." Sondheim was a big man, not fat, 
just tall and big muscled, with a blond neatly trimmed beard over his round 
face, and reading glasses that sat halfway down his nose. He picked up his 
pad of paper, a thin folder, and a tape recorder, moved from his seat in a 
desk chair to the love seat, spread himself out it. "They know all the 
tricks. There? Satisfied, Mr. Mulder?"
  
Mulder turned and sat down on the loveseat across from Sondheim. There was a 
small slurry of melting snow where he had stood, like what a ghost might 
leave in a story you tell your kids on Halloween. 

Sondheim smiled at him again.  "Have you ever been in therapy?"  

Mulder licked his lips.  "I. . .when I was a kid, and then a couple of times 
when policy mandated it."  

Sondheim nodded, turned the tape recorder on.  

Mulder swallowed.  It was all happening again, only this time it was the one 
person he trusted above all.  "Can we come to an understanding?"  

Sondheim considered him. "I don't know. Can we?"  

"If I tell you some things, you won't lock me away. I know what reality is. 
I'm not psychotic. I'm not going to hurt myself or hurt anyone else, I 
promise you that." He leaned forward. Cursing himself for wanting to tell 
anything, almost leaping out of his skin at wanting to tell someone and have 
them listen, listen and understand what it felt like, what he felt like, what 
seeing that body that hadn't been there yesterday had done to him.  

"I can't promise you that," Sondheim's voice was gentle.  "I can tell you 
that if you tell me things I won't tell anyone, not even your friend."
  
Mulder rubbed his eyes. "That's not good enough." Never mind. He would go 
through the spiel. Make this short. Give the good explanations that would get 
him back in the field. It didn't matter. It really didn't matter. Tell the 
lies that made everyone happy with him.  

"But at the moment, I don't see any reason to lock you away, despite your 
partner's assertion that you hallucinated yesterday.  I know you're under 
stress, I want you talk to me and tell me the truth, but I can't make 
promises like that. I know you're hurting. And it's obvious to me from the 
way you came in here and just stood there, staring at the city that 
whatever's going on it's hitting pretty deep." 

Jesus, for a man who counseled pug dogs about overeating, this guy wasn't 
bad.  Mulder shrank back against the arm of the loveseat. "I'm not. . .I'm 
okay."  

"Tell me the truth. I'm not the overworked MSWs the FBI hires. I'm not some 
sweet kiddie psychologist like whatever ones your parents sent you to.  Don't 
underestimate me, Mr. Mulder, just because I chose to work out my own issues 
with workaholism up here in the piney woods.  I've worked with disturbed 
adults before, and I'm not going to accept any lies."  Sondheim's face was 
grave, but his voice stayed gentle.

Mulder wrapped his arms around his chest, nodded, closed his eyes. The lies 
wouldn't work.  In some strange, almost masochistic way he nearly welcomed 
it, even as he felt panic bursting in his chest and the warning that this man 
could destroy him, destroy everything. And he would never be allowed to find 
the truth.  "Okay.  I don't know what she told you.  We--we went out to the 
Fulke farm yesterday and spoke with Mrs. Fulke.  It used to be the Olafsson 
farm.  We went out to the barn to see where her brother had died, where her 
husband killed himself.  I, uh, I saw this old woman, she'd been at the 
church when we found Marcy Olafsen's body there.  She called me a sinner 
and--well, Scully saw her, too, that time, I wasn't hallucinating.  And she 
cut my hand."  He pulled one hand free and showed the cut to Sondheim, who 
nodded gravely.

"She did tell me about that."

Somehow, that was comforting.  "Yesterday--when I saw her...she vanished like 
she did at the church, about that quickly, but Scully didn't see her."

"Tall scarecrow of a woman, black dress?"  Sondheim arched an eyebrow in 
question.

Mulder nodded.  

"And you saw her in the loft?  No surprise there, the loft is haunted, 
everyone within two hundred miles knows that.  That's why they don't use the 
barn anymore."  Sondheim smiled reassuringly.  "What other hallucinations 
have you had?"

Mulder's jaw had dropped and was presently testing its flexibility.  "Um," he 
finally managed and leaned forward again.  "None.  That was the only one.  
Although I've been having some really weird dreams."

"Dreams?"  Sondheim clicked the pen.  "Tell me about them."

Licking his lips, Mulder considered.  "Well, the first night," he began, "I 
dreamt I was with my partner in Universal Studio's theme park, in the 
Jurassic Park section.  In a Miata."

"And what were you doing there," Sondheim encouraged.

A slow smile spread across Mulder's face.  "Fooling around."

Another arched eyebrow.  "Tell me all about it," Sondheim murmured and leaned 
forward.

Mulder did.

<continued>


Minnesota - part 35 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Scully hated medical forms.  With a passion.  And why she always seemed to be 
filling out Mulder's, she wasn't sure....

God, they'd been in there nearly two hours at this point.  Her stomach 
tightened uneasily as she glanced at the clock.  Maybe she should have called 
Skinner about this.  Maybe she was crazier than Mulder, taking him to an 
animal psychologist.

She shuddered, thinking about Skinner's reaction to *that* piece of news.  
Pendrell, that little suckup, was bound to tell him, while virtuously 
pointing out that he, Pendrell, had advised calling Skinner at the first sign 
of erratic behavior from Mulder.

She certainly hoped that Sondheim was doing Mulder some good.

It was starting to get dusky outside already, the consequence of being 
halfway to fucking Canada.  And she didn't like the thought of having to 
drive back in full dark, not with those hairpin turns on the county highway.

On the other hand, Mulder's life had been so fraught, they'd probably taken 
this long to get to the day he left for Oxford.

Sighing, she leaned back again and picked up her book to reread the same page 
for the fourth time.

If only she hadn't been raised Catholic.  Guilt really sucked.


"Actually," Sondheim was saying, leaning back comfortably with a shot glass 
of schnapps, "The differences between human and animal behavior aren't as 
striking as you might think.  Your dreams, for example.  Most animals dream 
of hunting.  Humans, in this case you, dream of sex with a willing and 
attractive partner.  The nun's habit probably signifies your earlier feeling 
that she was unavailable, taboo.  But clearly, you're coming around to see 
her as a receptive partner.  The bunny suit--well, you went to Oxford, I only 
went to Northwestern, that's so obvious it's amusing."

Mulder sipped at his own glass and nodded thoughtfully.  "Fuck like a bunny," 
he murmured and leaned his head back against the back of the loveseat.  "You 
know, I hadn't thought about the similarities between animal behavior and 
human behavior, but I suppose it's true.  Humans have their own types of 
territorial displays, just like animals."

Sondheim grinned.  "True, but it doesn't generally involve pissing on someone 
or something.  On the other hand, I've speculated that the golden showers 
enthusiasts are responding to animal instinct to own or be owned."

Mulder grimaced.  "Eeeew."

Sondheim nodded.  "Speaking of pissing, human behavior in that arena is 
pretty interesting, too.  Do you know that the Dutch, I believe, have found 
that if the human male is given a focus, he manages to aim more accurately 
and give the women in his life less to bitch about when cleaning the 
bathroom?"

"A focus?"  The schnapps was making the tip of Mulder's nose numb.  "What 
kind of focus?  A target?"  He slid sideways into the corner of the loveseat, 
snickering.

"Exactly!"  Sondheim's voice was delighted.  "They've painted a fly in each 
urinal and toilet.  And the public restrooms stay much cleaner."

"Cheerios," Mulder chortled, remembering his own toilet training.  "My mother 
put Cheerios in the toilet bowl and had me aim for them."

Sondheim belly-laughed at that one.  "So, you see, we aren't that removed 
from our cousins in the animal kingdom."

"Boy, I'll say."  Draining the shot glass, Mulder set it aside and stood up, 
just a little unsteadily.  "Doc, it's been great shooting the breeze with 
you, but I've got a murderer to catch."

Sondheim rose with him, reached out and steadied him with a benign smile.  
"Just remember what I told you.  Repressing all that unresolved sexual 
tension is only going to increase your stress, Mr. Mulder.  If your partner's 
as willing as it appears, just go for it."

Mulder nodded, unable to keep from snickering again.  "Willing?  Heck, she 
practically molested me last night.  And then that jerk Pendrell...."  His 
smile faded.  "I oughta shoot that little worm."

"Now, now, don't get mad, get even.  Bring him by tomorrow and I'll check him 
out."  Sondheim's eyes twinkled.

The door seemed farther away than Mulder remembered, but he made it out into 
the waiting room under his own power and gave Scully a broad grin.  

God, she gave him that fishwife from Sligo look again, he nearly moaned in 
pleasure.

"Mulder, you're drunk!"

"He needed a little relaxation," Sondheim agreed and winked at Mulder.  "Mr. 
Mulder, if you'd just wait a moment, I'll have a word with your partner and 
give her my recommendations."

Mulder began snickering again, tried unsuccessfully to smother it and 
teetered into a chair.  Boy, the world wouldn't stop moving, it was making 
him a little dizzy....


Scully followed Sondheim into his office.  "What did you give him?"

"Just a few shots of schnapps."  Sondheim patted her shoulder in an avuncular 
way.  "He'll be fine, Agent Scully.  You have nothing to worry about."

"So he's not crazy," Scully demanded, and bit her lip, wishing she'd phrased 
it more diplomatically.

"Oh, my, I didn't say that, he's as crazy as a junkyard rat," Sondheim 
disagreed cheerfully, "But he's functional, which is really all that matters 
these days.  He's not delusional, he's in touch with reality, he doesn't need 
to be hospitalized or tranquilized."

Scully's mouth fell open.  Closed again without comment.  "So," she finally 
said carefully, "In your opinion, he's fit to work."

"Absolutely," Sondheim told her happily.  "And he's quite good at it.  I'm 
very impressed with him."

Sondheim was crazy, Scully decided.  The lunatics were running the asylum.  
"Thank you for seeing him on such short notice," she told the psychologist 
and backed toward the door.  "I'll call you if we have any more trouble."

"Certainly, certainly.  Although that young pathologist, what was his name?  
Pendrell?  I think he needs some counseling on sexuality.  You might bring 
him by if he's free."  Sondheim nodded, still affable.

It certainly would be justice, Scully thought darkly and made her escape 
before hearing any more about the character assassination Mulder had 
doubtless performed on Pendrell.

Once in the car, Mulder pushed the seat back and cheerfully leaned against 
the window, humming off key and occasionally giggling until he either fell 
asleep or passed out, depending on how you preferred to view it.

It had better, by God, be sleep, because she had plans for him later.


"He's drunk!" Pendrell accused at the motel, while helping her to get the 
semi-conscious Mulder into her room.

"Dr. Sondheim fed him schnapps," she snapped, "Just help me get him into bed."

Pendrell obeyed, grumbling under his breath as Mulder tried to find his feet 
and mumbled incoherencies about women in black and straight edge rulers.

Once they'd gotten him on the bed, Scully chivvied Pendrell into helping her 
further, stripping Mulder down to his thermal underwear.

Only a man, she thought resentfully, could wear thermal underwear under a 
suit and have the suit hang right at the same time.

Mulder gave her a childlike smile and immediately curled around one of his 
pillows, eyes sliding closed almost at once.

"Mulder," she told him irritably, "You're a goddamned cheap drunk, that's all 
I can say.  Two shot glasses of schnapps isn't enough to put *me* out."

Pendrell sniffed disdainfully.  "Drinking on duty," he began and Scully 
whirled to face him, her expression dangerous.  He thought better of whatever 
regulation he was going to quote and gave her a cowed look.  "Would you like 
to have dinner now, Agent Scully?"

"Yes," she growled.  "And I want a lot of it.  You'd better hope Inge's not 
back on duty, lab-boy, or you're a dead man."

Sexual frustration, she mused a moment later, watching Pendrell rabbit for 
the phone, could really make a person irritable.



"I need the autopsy reports." Mulder's voice emerged from behind the bathroom 
door when Scully came after dinner, carrying a couple of styrofoam containers 
for him.  She heard him pee, heard the toilet flush. "I need to know if I was 
right about the note for Minne Gerdstrom.  I need to look at all the photos 
from the crime scenes."  He stepped out from the bathroom, eyes blood shot, 
still in silk thermal underwear.

No wonder his goddamned suits hung right.  His step was indecently springy.  
And the dead will rise on that day and speak again.  

"How are you feeling?" Scully asked, resisting the urge to smack him. 

He gave her the standard boyish, self-deprecating Mulder grin.  "I'm okay. 
Schnapps on an empty stomach, though..." A shrug, accepting his own faults 
and that wide-eyed, egg sucking look that always made her knees turn to 
water.  He ran a hand through his hair. "I smell food."  

Scully nodded. "Why don't you come eat, and leave the work alone." It was a 
patented calming voice and Mulder turned to her, stared at her, eyes 
narrowing.  

And evidently decided it wasn't worth it.  "I'll eat in a minute."   He 
stalked over to his bag, grabbed a clean henley and a pair of jeans, pulled 
them on over the long underwear.  "I haven't written any psych stuff in a 
couple days.  They'll have my butt back at Quantico."  

The laptop settled on the bed just as the telephone rang.  She was closer, 
she picked it up.

"Scully," she told the phone.

"Tell your goddamned poetry spouting wonder that now we've got two dead 
kids."  Bergman's voice was a rasp, he broke off and began coughing.  
"Thirteen and fifteen, both boys.  Down at Swenson's Lake.  I suppose one of 
you can read a map, can't you?"

Scully sighed.  "Yeah.  We'll be down there shortly, Sheriff."

Mulder looked up from his investigation of the styrofoam boxes, put a french 
fry into his mouth and arched an eyebrow in question.

"Another murder," she told him and felt guilty when his expression closed in 
on itself.  "Get into your parka, Mulder, it's down at Swenson's Lake."  
Picking her map up from the desk, she spread it out and studied it.

"Swenson's Lake," Mulder told her gloomily, "Off country road 15,  about 
thirty miles north of town."  figured, she told herself and counted to ten.  
"Alcohol's a depressant, Mulder," she muttered and pointed at the large 
styrofoam cup of coffee.  "Drink some."

He didn't answer, but he did pick it up after zipping his coat.  

"Here, Mr. Eidetic Memory," she told him, holding out the keys.  "Since you 
seem to know where we're going, you drive."

"Uh uh.  I'm going to try and eat my cheeseburger before we get there.  With 
any luck, I'm on a winning streak and I won't throw it up."  He tugged on one 
glove with his teeth, switched the cup to that hand and opened the door.

Oh, right, she thought, usually, you had to pry the keys out of his hands, 
suppressing the urge to make them cold, dead hands, and now he'd had a change 
of heart.  "Certainly," she told him sweetly and went out ahead of him.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 36 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


The blizzard that Mulder had predicted was still only a light snowfall on the 
drive to the lake.   In between wolfing the double cheeseburger and french 
fries, Mulder gave her directions, then finally sank back into gloomy silence 
after the last turn and, "Straight on from here, Scully."

At least until they reached the ambulance and police cruisers, their red and 
blue lights casting a lurid glow on the scene.

Then, like the dead rising again, Mulder spoke.  "Children aren't happy 
without something to ignore, And that's what parents were created for."

She glanced over at him and pulled in next to the first cruiser.  "What?"

"These kids were probably a problem for their parents."  Mulder glanced back, 
popped the door open.  "And our killer decided to just turn his hand to 
avenging them."

How did he know these things?  "How do you know these things?" she asked, 
exasperated.  "Does the Serial Killer Fairy come and whisper in your ear at 
night?"

He shuddered visibly.  "Don't even joke about that, Scully."  The door 
slammed.

Muttering under her breath, Scully got out and followed him to the edge of 
the lake where Bergman stood with Jurgensen, Trask and Dr. Olafsson  .

"...a terrible thing," Olafsson was saying mournfully.

"Yes, it is," Mulder agreed.  "What happened?"

Bergman took a drag off a cigarette and gave Mulder a truculent look.  "While 
you were off having a chat with my lame brain cousin by marriage, the psycho 
decided to drown a couple of kids."

"You're sure it wasn't an accident?"  Scully stuffed her hands in her 
pockets.  She never wanted to see snow again.  Ever.  Not even on Christmas 
cards.

"Oh, I'm sure, all right.  Go have a look at their bodies, Agent Scully."  
Bergman's tone was scornful, he used the hand holding the cigarette to 
gesture to the blanket shrouded shaped on the ground.

"Say, Sheriff?"  A burly man wearing one of those ridiculous hats with the 
ear muffs came over, clapping his hands together.  "Can I take these boys to 
the funeral home yet?"

"Not yet, Lars.  We gotta wait for the FBI to give their opinion."  Bergman 
took another drag.  

Mulder bent and pulled the blanket back from the first shape.  Flinched when 
he saw the naked body, the words written in fluorescent and waterproof marker 
on the boy's chest and belly.  "And that's what parents were created for," he 
murmured.

Scully knelt, frowning.  "There's something wrong with his mouth," she 
murmured and bent to look more closely.

"Yeah, you could say that.  The bastard cut the kids' tongues out."  Bergman 
flicked the cigarette into the snow and crouched down beside her.  "The other 
one says, 'Children aren't happy without something to ignore'.  Mean anything 
to you, Spooky?"

A quick glance and Mulder shrugged.  "What do you know about these boys."

"They're a handful, "Jurgensen offered, giving Bergman a wary glance.  "Their 
mama and dad have a lot of trouble with them."

"That's what I thought."  Mulder let the blanket fall.  "Go ahead, take them 
in.  You found them in the water?"

"No, we found them in the fishing hut."  Jurgensen pointed.  "Got a call from 
their folks, said they hadn't come home, we find them out here a lot.  
Smoking pot and fishing and drinking with their buddies.  But they were the 
only two there today.  Just like that.  Big damned hole in the ice, looks 
like somebody dropped 'em in on a fishing line and let them drown."

"Hypothermia would certainly have killed them," Scully murmured.  "We'll know 
more after the autopsies.  Here," she handed Mulder the keys.  "You take the 
car back, I'll ride in to the funeral home with the bodies."

Lars gave her an uncertain look, but nodded when Bergman grunted affirmation. 
 "Okay, Miss.  You'll want to ride in front, though.  It's warmer, doncha 
know."

"I'll go roust Pendrell," Mulder told her wearily.  "He's escalating.  The 
intervals between murders are getting shorter and shorter."

"Uh huh."  Bergman sounded tired, too.  "I'll see you folks in the morning.  
I've got to go and tell their folks."

There didn't seem to be anything to say to that.  After a moment, Scully 
followed Lars to the front seat of the ambulance.


Mulder sent a decidedly unhappy Pendrell to the morgue; he suspected that the 
buxom Inge was lurking behind the door of the room that had once been his, 
but was feeling too dispirited himself to even rib Pendrell about it.

He didn't go to the morgue.  He went to see the parents.  Bergman was already 
there, introduced him to Mr. and Mrs. Ivar Larssen, both red-eyed and dumb 
with grief.  It appeared that Mrs. Larssen had already been given a sedative 
by Dr. Olafsson  , who hung over her like a gargoyle, his long face even 
longer.  There were other adults, not introduced, and another woman who 
helped Mrs. Larssen up from the couch and into the back bedroom.  An elderly 
woman hung back in the corner, watching with her lips pursed.

Larssen sat on the couch, staring at his hands.  "They were good kids," he 
mourned.

Olafsson's mouth crimped.  He put a hand on the bereaved father's shoulder.  
"Now, Ivar, you can't blame yourself." Consolingly, but his expression was 
somehow--judgemental.

'I know," said Larssen and laced thick fingers together.  "I know you said 
spare the rod and spoil the child, Doc.  But you know, I'd get home tired, 
and Matty just didn't have the steel to be firm enough with the boys."

"I know, Ivar.  It's not your fault."  A pat on the shoulder again.  Mulder's 
eyes narrowed, he focused in on the doctor's hand.  A bit reddened, but 
doctors had to wash their hands a lot.  Even in this era of thin latex gloves.

Still, it made his skin prickle.

"Mr. Larssen."  He pitched his voice low.

"Yah, they snuck out the window.  After they was supposed to be in bed, 
doncha know."  Larssen didn't appear to hear him.

The elderly woman in the corner gave Mulder a stern look, shaking her head.  
Beckoning him.  At least she wasn't dressed in black and didn't resemble the 
harridan at the Church or the Fulke barn.  He let himself be led into the 
kitchen, stood near the back door.

"Young man, don't you be bothering those folks in their time of sorrow.  
Those boys were both as bad as any bad seed, they were born bad and they died 
bad."   That disapproving look again.  "Matty Larssen spoilt those boys 
something awful, and Ivar wasn't any better, doncha know."

He blinked.  "Who do you think did this?"  

"That's for you to find out, young man."  Tartly.  "But I'll tell you 
something, a lot of people wish those boys had been drowned like unwanted 
puppies."

He wondered if she was one of them.  "A lot of people?"

She snorted and folded her arms across her rather impressive bosom.  "Young 
man, those boys tormented small animals, small children, they stole, they 
lied, they caused trouble at school.  Why, even Gus Olafsson  , who isn't any 
better than he should be, wouldn't see them any more, although he was 
treating Ivar for high blood pressure, and had Matty on Ovaltine."

Ovaltine again.  He didn't like Olafsson particularly, and the Ovaltine 
connection was driving him up the wall, but.....he nodded blankly at the 
elderly woman.  Turned and walked back out into the livingroom where Bergman 
gave him an odd look.  Christ, he'd forgotten to get the woman's name, he 
really ought to have that, he turned on his heel and went back.

But there was no one there.  At all.  He flicked on the light, stood there 
with his mouth hanging open for a moment. 

"Agent Mulder?"  Bergman's voice over his shoulder, gruff and perplexed.  "Is 
there something you want to examine in the kitchen?"

Mulder turned to look at him.  "Uh, no.  No, thanks."  Turned off the light.  
Stood looking into the darkened kitchen for several minutes.  A Loki, a 
trickster.....again?

He shivered and went back to the livingroom, Bergman watching him like he was 
cracking up.

Bizarre dreams aside, he didn't think he was.

But he wouldn't bet the rent.  So he went back to the morgue to see what 
Scully had to offer in the way of information.


The night was cold and clear when they finally left the morgue.  Mulder 
relaxed back into the seat, closed his eyes.  Scully turned the ignition and 
debated locking the doors, but decided not to add insult to injury.  He'd 
come back to the morgue with his eyes even more haunted, but he hadn't said 
or done anything to cause her concern.  They drove through the frozen night 
streets, the snow and ice gleaming and glittering in the headlights, the 
desolation of winter, reminding her of the old fairy tale about the Ice Queen.

Timmsville wasn't that big, but the driving was tricky, Scully focused on 
staying on the road.  The silence had gone on a long time when Mulder's voice 
startled Scully from the boredom of the drive out to the motel.  "Scully, you 
actually believe in God, don't you."  It might have been a question.  It 
might not.  

Scully paused, long and long, wondered at it, finally nodded.  "Yes.  I don't 
believe in God the way I was taught, but I believe there is a God."

"I'm afraid to believe in God."  The voice was a pale whisper, dry as the 
subzero chill in the air.  Scully waited, half-hoped for more, but the 
silence held and only the engine spoke, until finally they pulled in, and 
even that fell quiet.  Mulder seemed to shake himself back from wherever he'd 
been as Scully got out of the car.  He moved slowly, carefully, as though 
things wouldn't stay where he thought they were and she wondered if the 
schnapps was still affecting him now that the adrenaline rush of the crime 
scene was done.  He jumped when Scully slammed her car door, closed his own 
so softly it barely caught.

The cool dark of the rooms was a haven, and Mulder seemed half-asleep 
already.  Scully  paused to see if he'd pull his own jacket off, not wanting 
to have to treat Mulder like a child.  Breathed a sigh when Mulder stripped 
off his coat and outer clothing, down to the long johns, and kicked off his 
shoes. He didn't sprawl in sleep, relaxed and comfortable.  He pulled into 
the center of the bed, lying on his side with knees drawn up and arms crossed 
over his chest, a huddle under the blankets.   Scully watched until his 
breathing had settled into an even rhythm, and his face smoothed into enigma.

Damn.  She'd really been hoping....don't go there Dana Katherine, she told 
herself ruefully and dug her own pajamas out of her bag.    The night was 
still young, maybe he'd have another dream.  

Or maybe not.  She hadn't liked his silence, thought irritably about the 
schnapps again.

Thought about Mulder.  When they'd arrived, he'd gone to the center of the 
bed and tucked himself fetal.  This morning, Mulder's look, throwing himself 
forward, taking over the steering wheel.   His expression at the lake.

She sighed, went into the bathroom to put on her pajamas, sensible flannel, 
linking her to a world as sensible and solid as the unalluring flannel.

What world was this?

It was the world of ice and snow, the world of Odin and Loki and Freya, of 
sacrifice and death.  An older world than her Christian world, the safe world 
of the crucifix.  Clad in her flannel, she left the bathroom and looked at 
the two beds, got into bed instead with her partner, spooning behind him, her 
arm over him, hugging him.  She didn't like this world, but if anyone could 
decipher the symbols of the murderer, it was Mulder.  Cracking up or not, it 
was Mulder.  He was haunted by the power of those ancient gods, he didn't 
believe in the God she'd known from childhood.  

Mulder made tiny smacking noises in his sleep; she tightened her arm and 
closed her eyes.  It was her job to hold him together, wasn't it?  She was 
his partner and his friend and whatever the hell else they were to each 
other.  She was his lifeline back to reality, to the safe world.

Besides, if she was ever going to get a taste of that luscious mouth, she'd 
have to be.

And on that thought, she let herself relax, let the weariness draw her under 
into sleep.

<continued>


Minnesota - part 37 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Mulder was lying on his couch, head tilted back over the arm, hand in his 
shorts, eyes half-closed as he considered Scully in that cranberry bustier.  
Frohike had understated the matter, Scully wasn't merely tasty, she 
was.....beyond tasty.  He stroked himself and whimpered, froze suddenly at 
his partner's voice.

"Mulder, stop that!"

He yanked his hand free, sat bolt upright, staring wildly around the room.  
No Scully.

"Muuuuulder, don't be a moron, look at the screen."

Ooooh, the fishwife tone that turned him on.  He looked at the television 
screen and discovered that the writhing couples had been replaced by Dana 
Scully.  Not in a cranberry silk bustier, but in a dark green lace bustier.  
Dark green garter belt.  Stockings.  Spike heels.  No panties.  Arms folded 
under those entrancing breasts, the barest edge of nipples peeking over the 
dark green lace.  The pursed set of her mouth softened back into a cupid's 
bow.  "That's better, Mulder."  Approvingly.

My God, she looked delectable.  He whimpered.  "Scully, what are you doing in 
there?"

"Trying to get your attention."  Scully rolled her eyes.  "Jesus, how dense 
are men, anyway, Mulder?"  She leaned forward and suddenly, her head popped 
through the screen, she climbed out of the television, those delicious little 
breasts almost popping free of the bustier as she did.

He bit the heel of his hand, nearly swooning.

"About damned time," Scully grumbled and straightened one stocking.  "There." 
 And she offered him one of her rare, genuine, delighted smiles.

He was turning to a puddle.  Or something.  Certainly, all the blood that 
usually fed his brain was below his waist.  "Uuuuh."

She sashayed over to him, still with that smile.  Oh, God, and he'd thought 
the pursed lips were sexy, this was unreal.   This was.....a dream come true, 
a fantasy gone one step better.  "Uuhh."

"Now, we just have to get rid of these," she murmured and snapped her 
fingers; he was suddenly naked, rampantly erect, and when she straddled him, 
he gave himself up for dead.  

He had to be dead.  Maybe there was heaven after all.  Oh, God, she felt so 
good, she radiated heat as she reached down for him, to guide him and he 
whimpered again, all capacity for coherent speech gone. 

At least until the pounding on the door began.

Actually, he was able to ignore that, mesmerized by the way Scully licked her 
lips as she prepared to slide down, but the eldritch shriek of "Sinner!" 
completely unmanned him.

He whimpered again, this time in despair.

The door burst apart, splintering wood almost as shrill a sound as the voice 
of the hag who had used an axe on it.  "Sinner!!!"  Long bony finger pointed 
at him. "Look at you, rutting like an animal!"

But he wasn't.  And Scully popped into invisibility like the damned genie of 
the lamp, leaving him naked and alone and he hastily put his hand over his 
deflating erection.  "I'm alone," he yelped.  

It was an awfully big axe.

"Yah, that Gus, he never would listen to Mama one bit."    The new voice made 
him turn his head briefly, to see the widow Fulke sitting in his arm chair, 
knitting.  "But Eric, he was always a good boy, he'd spend time in the 
kitchen with Mama, he'd listen to her read to him from the Good Book."  

His skin prickled with embarrassment as well as terror, but when he looked, 
the harridan was gone.   And he was no longer naked, but wearing a t-shirt 
and sweatpants.  Socks.   "Who do you think killed your brother Gus, Mrs. 
Fulke?"

"The Good Lord delivered us," she told him comfortably and suddenly leaned 
forward to grab his crotch gently.  "Gus never was any good, doncha know."

He yelped again....

...and woke up in the motel room in bed with a warm shape at his back and a 
hand inside his thermal underwear.  Small hand.  Warm hand.  Scully.

She was asleep, his dick was asleep--must have been the axe.  He took in a 
slow, deep breath, wondering what had awakened him.  That dream, the good 
widow Fulke--he needed to talk to the woman again, ask some more questions.  
Dr. Eric Olafsson needed a closer look.

Olafsson.

Olafsson was definitely looking better and better to Mulder, and he was 
damned if he were going to argue with his subconscious.  Well, maybe about 
the axe.

If he didn't have any good evidence to suspect Olafsson, Scully was going to 
drag his ass back to Sondheim.

As if that resolution had released him, Mulder gently removed Scully's hand, 
tucked it under his own and slipped back into sleep.  


Scully woke to the smell of coffee, opened her eyes to the sight of Mulder 
sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, waving a styrofoam cup near 
her.  "Coffee," he crooned, "C'mon, Scully, coffee."

Damn, they'd both slept through the night.  It must have been the combination 
of the schnapps and the crime scene.    Ah, well, she'd been tired, too.   
And he was being sweet.  "Thanks, Mulder."  She pushed herself up on one 
elbow, accepted the cup.

He gave her that bone melting smile.  "I want to talk to the widow Fulke 
again, Scully."

She didn't like *that* idea particularly, but it explained the coffee and the 
sweet smile.  "Why?"  Warily and she sat up against the headboard, bracing 
herself for the explanation.

He offered her that smile again and laid a map across her knees.  "I went 
back and marked the actual locations of the mysterious deaths, Scully.  And 
the site of the Olafsson family farm.  Now, remember, we're talking about an 
UNSUB who actually started killing very young, so their mobility would have 
been somewhat limited, except when he was with his parents."

She took another sip of coffee, her eyes on the map.   He hadn't done connect 
the dots and yet.....and yet...."Jesus, Mulder."  Seeing the barely 
discernible pattern.

He beamed at her.  "Yeah.  Anyway, I want to see what else the good widow 
might remember about her childhood."

Taking another sip of the coffee, Scully stared at the map.  "Give me enough 
time to take a shower, Mulder.  We'll head out there." 

He beamed even more brightly.  "I'll go get you some breakfast, Scully, while 
you're doing that."

She nodded again, glanced at her watch.  Not even seven-thirty.  "How long 
have you been up, Mulder?"

"Five thirty," he told her happily.  "I worked in the bathroom, didn't want 
to wake you up."  He rose, moved toward the door, shrugging into his 
overcoat.  "Any requests."

Scully sighed, swallowed more coffee.  "Surprise me."

"You got it."  He went out the door, letting in a icy draft.

Sinking back down under the comforter and blankets, Scully considered the 
map.   Even when you thought he was losing it, Mulder was brilliant.  The 
best guess was that he'd put the pieces together in his unconscious mind and 
awakened at 5:30 to start documenting it. 

There were days she could cheerfully kill him, she decided, if only for that 
arcane and eerie ability, but this morning wasn't one of them.  A good cup of 
coffee, a good night's sleep....now if he managed not to throw up or have 
ghostly visitations again, they could both get very, very lucky tonight.

Very lucky.

She certainly hoped that fate smiled on them today.  Because she wasn't going 
to ask God, she wasn't quite depraved enough to petition the Almighty for the 
opportunity to fornicate with her partner.

And she hadn't quite sunk to the level of petitioning the devil.

Yet.

<continued>


Minnesota - part 38 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


"Pets?"  Mrs. Fulke had offered them tea again.  It felt like it was the only 
heat in the room, Mulder thought, but he knew that wasn't true.  For one 
thing, his breath didn't show.  "Yah, we lost some pets.  But this is farm 
country, doncha know, and you lose pets.  Sure, there were kittens and cats 
out here, but not in the house, Mama wouldn't have animals in the house, she 
set great store by having a spotless house."  She took a sip of tea.  "Yah, 
she'd have us scrubbing from dawn to dusk every day during the summertime, we 
looked forward to going back to school."

Mulder nodded encouragingly, even though she'd spent the last forty-five 
minutes regaling them with stories about her childhood that seemed to bear 
little relationship to any question asked.  "Can you remember any specific 
pet?  Anything you might have thought was an odd death?"

She gave him a curious look.  "Well, yah, there was those kittens that Eric 
drowned once, but doncha know, he'd heard Mama talking about it.  Papa took a 
strap to him."

His ears almost came to a point.  "How old was Eric?"

Mrs. Fulke waved vaguely.  "Six or seven?"

Aha.  Mulder looked at Scully, who looked back at him, her eyes widening 
slightly.   Scully cleared her throat.  "Mrs. Fulke, it's beginning to look 
as if your husband may have been murdered.  Did your husband have enemies?"

Mrs. Fulke blinked in dismay.  "Murdered?  Max didn't have a mean bone in his 
body, doncha know, who would ever want to murder him?"

Mulder swallowed hard.  "How did your brother Eric feel about Max?"

There was a moment of silence, and Mrs. Fulke's eyes filled with tears.  
"They never did see eye to eye."  

Whatever that meant.  


"Look, Mulder, I don't like Olafsson much either, but we've got to have more 
evidence that your profile before we go after him."  Scully frowned at the 
snowy landscape instead of at him, which was reassuring.

"I know.  I wonder if he has a deep freeze."  Mulder was glad of his 
sunglasses, the sun gleamed diamond sharp off the snowbanks, it was enough to 
blind a man.  "He certainly has insulin.  I haven't been thinking, Scully, we 
need to find out where anyone would get enough castor oil to drown two men."

Her lips pursed.  He eyed her sidelong, nearly whimpered.  God, that mouth.  
The Miata of his dream was beginning to look really, really good.  Oh, yeah.  
Hastily, he jerked his eyes back off those lips to focus on the road. "Um.  
I'd like to find out if there was anyone Dr. Olafsson kept company with at 
any time.  He's never married, but he may have tried to simulate a normal 
relationship to keep from attracting attention."

"Bergman and Trask might be able to point us in the right direction," Scully 
sighed.  "We really do *not* have enough physical evidence."

He nodded.   "I know.  And he's definitely escalating....I don't want anyone 
else to die."    Another quick glance.  "We need a break, Scully."

She nodded, not looking at him, her mouth pursed thoughtfully again.

They rode the rest of the way back to town in silence.


Bergman and Trask didn't know much about Olafsson's private life.  

Sitting behind his desk, Bergman lit a cigarette, scowled at the blotter.  "I 
suppose if anyone does, it would be Ingrid Ibsen.  That old biddy, I swear, 
she and her brother have dirt on everyone in town, back three generations."

Mulder grinned.  "A gossip?"

"Yeah."  Bergman nodded grudgingly.  "Both of 'em, really, although he only 
tells Ingrid and she tells everyone else.  He's too damned much of--what's 
that word?--yeah, too damned much of a workaholic."

In Timmsville?  How much legal work could there be in Timmsville, Mulder 
wondered, then remembered what Scully had said about Timmsville being a 
metropolitan center for the small townships nearby.  

Frightening thought.

"I had her on my list to talk to anyway," Scully mused, holding her coffee 
between both hands.  "It can't hurt."

"It won't hurt anything but your ears," Bergman told them and took a drag off 
the cigarette.  


Bergman hadn't been kidding, Mulder thought blearily and propped his chin on 
his hand, tried to focus on the drone of Ingrid Ibsen's voice.  Scully was 
still managing to nod and look interested, but he suspected that she was 
somewhere far away and warm.   A beach.  Maybe wearing a bikini.  A very 
teeny weeny bikini, he hoped distantly and realized he was staring at his 
partner's breasts, well defined under the cashmere turtleneck she wore under 
her suit jacket.

Was she wearing a Wonderbra?  He started, sanity returning and tried again to 
focus on Ingrid Ibsen, who was now up to the last generation's follies and 
sins.  Anything he needed to know?  Nope, she hadn't gotten to the Olafssons 
yet.  

His eyes drifted back to Scully.  She really did have perky little breasts.  
He let himself think about the abortive, er, episode two nights before.   Her 
skin had been sooooo soft, so silky and he had to stop thinking about that 
now or he was going to embarrass himself.

And give Ingrid Ibsen something else to talk about.  

There *was*, to be sure, a certain demented pleasure in considering that he'd 
be part of the Timmsville lore, but not under these circumstances.

"....Olafsson wasn't any better than she ought to be, doncha know."  Ingrid 
Ibsen nodded at Scully.

He snapped to attention.  "Gerde?"  Hopefully.

"Oh, yes.  They say she pranced around like a holy maiden, but she was lying 
down in the barn with Gus Olafsson and they'd barely even met!"  Ingrid 
turned to him, nodding emphatically again.

Mulder nodded back involuntarily.  "What was she like?"

"She was mighty full of herself, doncha know, she had to be just perfect, and 
so darn holy, and she pretended that Gus Junior was premature, and that child 
weighed ten pounds if he weighed an ounce, my Mama told me."

To Mulder's bemusement, Scully's head was bobbing in time with Ingrid's, just 
as his was.  They were never going to make it back to DC sane if he didn't 
cut to the chase.  "So, what about Gus Junior's death?" he interrupted, 
forcing himself to stop nodding.

Ingrid nodded again, her lips pursed.  "A terrible accident.  What a shame, 
and he was so young, too."

"I would imagine that Dr. Olafsson was upset over losing his older brother," 
Scully put in.

"Hmmph.  Eric Olafsson is a cold fish.  Yah, you'd think a little boy would 
be heartbroken, but he just carried on as if not a darn thing had happened."  
Ingrid nodded to herself again, touched her hair.  "He's always been like 
that, never married, doncha know, never even kept company with anyone for 
very long.  He asked me out a few years ago, doncha know, and when I went, I 
had to pay for everything myself!  And all we did was go to dinner and a 
church service."  

Aha, they'd struck a nerve, Mulder leaned forward.  "So he's never been 
married?"

"No, and it's no wonder, he's so tight he squeaks."  Righteous annoyance.  
"He *said* he'd had a bad romance down to Minneapolis, when he was at medical 
school, but if that's what soured that man, I'd be surprised.  He was sour in 
high school, my sister told me, and he was sour when he came back with his 
medical degree.  And doncha know, he was furious when his sister married 
Reverend Fulke.  You woulda thought *he* was the head of the family, and not 
his Mama."  A brief pause and Ingrid pursed her lips again.  "Yah, and his 
mama didn't much like it, but after all....."  Her voice trailed off.  

Mulder briefly debated the merits of pressing her for more information, but 
they'd been there almost three hours as it was, it was getting dark and it 
was starting to snow again.

And he was hungry.

Scully intercepted his gaze, nodded and rose.  "Thank you, Miss Ibsen, we'll 
be back in touch with you if we need anything else."  Her tone suggested she 
hoped that wouldn't be necessarily, a sentiment with which Mulder devoutly 
concurred.

Ingrid walked them to the door, still talking.  Mulder let himself run on 
automatic, hoped that Scully was catching anything that might be important, 
focused on escape and one of the cheeseburgers from the Country Kitchen.

"And you know, that Inge Larsen, works at the Country Kitchen, she's no 
better than she ought to be, either.  Why, she's carrying on with that young 
man who came up here with you two!"

Mulder nodded reflexively.  Evidently, Pendrell was ignoring his advice.  
With any luck, he wouldn't end up at the wrong end of a shotgun.

Once in the car, Scully tipped her head back on the headrest.  "Oh, my God."  
Wearily.

He doubted God had anything to do with it.  Felt something come rolling out 
of the underpart of his mind.  "A lot of people go around determined not to 
hear and not to see and not to speak any evil// And I say 'Pooh for them, are 
you a man or a mouse, are you a woman or a weevil?'// And I also say 'Pooh 
for sweetness and light,' //
And if you want to get the most out of life why the thing to do is be a 
gossiper by day and a gossipee by night."  When he glanced sidelong at 
Scully, she was giving him a gimlet eye, faintly alarmed.  "I'm fine, Scully, 
but if anyone fits that, it's Ingrid Ibsen."

More alarm.  "You think she's next?"

He sounded himself subjectively.  Felt a small quiver in his midsection, but 
wasn't sure if it was hunger or foresight.  "It can't hurt to have Bergman 
put someone on her," he said doubtfully. "I'm not...maybe."

Scully took out her cellphone, dialed the police station and spoke quietly.  
Disconnected and sighed.  "How's your appetite?" 

"I'm ravenous."  He looked sidelong again as she tucked the cellphone back, 
saw her lift her chin, the curve of her throat and was suddenly spitted again 
on a shaft of lust so sharp that he nearly drove into a snowbank.  
Suppressing a whimper, he righted the steering wheel, guided the car back 
into a safer ride.

"Mulder?"  Worriedly.

"'s okay, Scully, just hit an icy patch." Oh, God, if only, if only she 
hadn't done what she'd done, he'd be safer if he didn't actually *know*, if 
he was still going on fantasy.

At least it had been dark.  If he'd actually seen that pale, soft skin, he'd 
be driving off the road for real.

"Country Kitchen's that way."  She didn't seem entirely reassured.  

"Oh, yeah."  He slowed, turned, fantasies of cheeseburgers now regrettably 
interspersed with a nun's habit and a garter belt and stockings.

But at least she usually wore pant suits.  That meant the garter belt was 
out, he didn't have to strain his eyes trying to see the edge of her 
stockings....

Cheeseburgers.  Definitely think about cheeseburgers.

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

Some hours later, replete, he lay on his bed in Scully's room, watching her 
go over notes.  A little sleepy, they'd had a broken and late night the night 
before.  "...if you want to get the most out of life why the thing to do is 
be a gossiper by day and a gossipee by night," he murmured and grinned when 
she glanced at him.  "Hey, Scully, wanna come over here and keep warm?"

That gimlet look again. It wounded him a little, after all, she'd been in his 
bed the last two nights, by invitation or not.  

"I'm working, Mulder.  And it's almost time for your Ovaltine."

He grimaced.  "Scully, I slept okay last night.  And I've been eating fine 
again."

Long look.  "Let's keep that trend going."  

Something had put her knickers in a twist.  He wondered if it had been Ingrid 
Ibsen.  Sat up suddenly.  "Scully, are you upset about Pendrell and Inge?"

She scowled at him.  "Don't be ridiculous, Mulder," primly, "What Pendrell 
does in his off time is his own business."

Whoa.  He wondered if it stung to have your adoring fan turn to another 
taller, blonder, more buxom babe.  "Inge is an airhead," he told her.

Her mouth pursed even more.  "Mulder, I am not upset about Pendrell and 
Inge."  Quellingly.

She was.  He might not be the world's expert on women, but he could see that.

No chance of getting lucky tonight, he thought mournfully.  Another black 
mark to add to the growing list of Pendrell's sins.  

Although, as he curled around the pillow to watch Baywatch, he found he felt 
a sneaking sympathy and pride for their labboy.   After all, Inge was a 
beautiful girl, and a head taller than Inge.  Go, Pendrell, he thought. It 
wasn't quite enough to make him forgive Pendrell for treating him like an 
escaped lunatic, or deliberately forgetting his coffee, but what the hell.  

Male solidarity was important, after all.  At least one of them was getting 
lucky.  

He just wished it was him.

<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: 13 Nov 1999 17:06:23 GMT
Subject: Minnesota 39/45 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 39 
by wickdzoot@aol.com



By the time Scully repented of her disgruntlement over Pendrell, it was too 
late. Mulder had fallen asleep without benefit of Ovaltine or anything else.

That left more disgruntlement in its wake, and she got into her own bed, 
thoroughly out of sorts, dug her book out of her purse and turned off the 
television with an unkind sort of satisfaction before climbing under the 
comforter.

Mulder made a small sound in his throat, but when she glanced over that way, 
he was quiet, face slack in sleep.  Probably drooling, she thought sulkily 
and focused on her book until her eyes felt gritty and she heard Pendrell 
come in.  Hmmph, nearly two am, she was going to have to have a word with 
Pendrell in the morning, she rather thought.

And on that note, she turned out the light and snuggled up in her flannel 
pajamas, hoping for another dream of chocolate Cool Whip.


Mulder was unaccountably standing in Ingrid Ibsen's bedroom in his long 
underwear.   He wasn't sure why, and it was even more alarming to see a 
dreadfully familiar figure standing across the room in the shadows.

Ingrid Ibsen in sleep was frightening enough.  Old fashioned bristling pink 
hair curlers and a net cap, a chaste, red flannel nightgown buttoned up to 
her chin, and a series of alarming snorting noises drove him back toward the 
door.

But it was the old woman in the black dress who really scared him.   Standing 
there in the shadows at the corner of the bedroom, only he couldn't figure 
out where the light was coming from at all.

"A lot of people go around determined not to hear and not to see and not to 
speak any evil// And I say 'Pooh for them, are you a man or a mouse, are you 
a woman or a weevil?'// And I also say 'Pooh for sweetness and light,' //And 
if you want to get the most out of life why the thing to do is be a gossiper 
by day and a gossipee by night."  The voice was a low, dangerous hiss.  
"Gossip is a sin, a sin, a sin."  Sing song voice, husky and androgynous.  
The old woman's skirt made a swishing sound as she moved toward the bed, 
lifting something in her hand.

His balls made a serious attempt to draw up inside his body.  "Who are you?" 
he asked, trying to steady his voice.

"I am Vengeance!" the old woman crowed and raised whatever she held up over 
her head, leaned over Ingrid like a striking harpy and pulled her jaw down, 
brought down the upraised arm.  Something glittered in the light, Ingrid 
slept on, oblivious, and Mulder nearly shrieked as he realized it was a 
scalpel.

Goddammit it, where was his gun?  He leapt back toward the bed, wrapped his 
fingers around the old woman's wrist, vainly trying to hold the scalpel back.

The old woman pulled Ingrid's tongue out with the fingers of her free hand, 
cackled at him.  "Vengeance!  A viper's tongue!"

The scalpel turned, nicked his wrist, Mulder yelped and struggled, the 
goddamned woman had all the strength of a man half her age, or perhaps merely 
the strength of the dangerously insane.  "Drop it!"

"Sinner," the old woman hissed and nicked at him again.  "You will be 
punished, you will forego all your generations, you will lose everything." 

A shove and Mulder fell backwards on the floor.  A little dazed, he shook his 
head to clear it, pushed himself back up.  "Nooooo!" as the bright blood 
splashed on the pillow.

A crow of victory.  "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live," the harpy 
shrilled at him and held up the bloody tongue.

He shuddered and made it to his feet, the harpy advanced on him and he 
discovered he was frozen.

"Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord," she told him with relish and pointed the 
scalpel at his groin.  "You are next, sinner."

He glanced down at himself and was horrified to find that he was no longer 
standing in Ingrid Ibsen's bedroom in his thermal underwear.  He was standing 
in Ingrid Ibsen's bedroom stark naked.

Paralyzed in place.  Standing there watching his nemesis advance on him.  The 
scalpel still bloody from removing Ingrid Ibsen's tongue, and he knew what 
was going to be removed next.

He did the only thing left to him.

He shrieked Scully's name......

....and found himself tumbled out of bed, lying between the bed and the wall 
while Scully, above him on the bed, patted the air above the narrow space, 
calling his name.

"Mulder, it's okay, it's okay, it's just another nightmare."

Was dreaming about castration better than dreaming of premature ejaculation?

In his present condition, he couldn't decide.  "Scully, Ingrid Ibsen!"  He 
was gasping for breath, sweaty beneath his sweats and t-shirt.  "Call 
Bergman.  She's going to bleed to death if we don't get to her."

No answer, but the light clicked on, and he had to squint, squeezing his eyes 
nearly closed, pawed at the edge of the bed to pull himself up.

He heard Scully gasp. "Mulder, what did you do to yourself?"

"Call Bergman," he told her frantically, "Quick, Scully, there's no time."

"Mulder, you're bleeding," but she obeyed, grabbed the telephone and punched 
in numbers, told Bergman someone needed to check on Ingrid Ibsen.

Hung up again and came toward him, grabbed his wrist as he pulled himself up. 
 "Mulder, what the hell did you do to yourself?"

A knocking on the connecting door.  "Agent Scully, everything all right in 
there?"

"No," she snapped, "It's not, get in here, Pendrell, I need your help."

Mulder stared at the wrist she held, which was, in fact, bleeding.  The wrist 
nicked by the harpy.  The sharp coppery smell reminded him of Ingrid Ibsen's 
bedroom and he jerked his wrist free, barely making it to the bathroom in 
time to throw up whatever remained in his stomach after seven hours.


"How did you do this, Mulder?" Very soft, gentle voice.  Her finger carefully 
skimmed over the surprisingly deep, paper thin slices on Mulder's wrist.  
Deep, livid red, and Mulder flinched when she touched them.

 "Don't make me go to sleep, Scully.  Please.  I don't want to go back 
there."  Rational, calm.  Then much more softly.  "I'm afraid."

Scully stared back up at him.  "Where did you get these?"  

Hazel eyes gazed back at her.  "The old woman did it with a scalpel, when I 
tried to stop her from hurting Ingrid Ibsen."

"Mulder. . . "  Scully leaned over and turned on the light to look more 
closely.  The cuts were still there.  Three on his wrist.  If he'd done this 
with a pocket knife, they'd be messier, more ragged.  but there hadn't been 
any blood in the bed.

She left Mulder and went to look at it, knelt between the bed and the wall 
and searched the floor with her hands, crouched lower and peered under the 
bed.  Nothing. 

This didn't make sense.

Mulder was standing behind her.  He had his robe around him now, and was 
still shivering.  Slowly and deliberately, he reached out, holding his wrist 
to her.  "I didn't do this, Scully.  I don't have a knife, or anything sharp. 
 I didn't hurt myself.  I was in Ingrid Ibsen's apartment."

"Mulder, you weren't there."  but her voice was half-hearted.

Ingrid Ibsen was in the hospital down the road in Zimmer, while a surgeon 
tried to reattach her tongue.   If Mulder hadn't told her, hadn't 
insisted--she pushed the thought from her mind.  "Mulder, you were in bed, 
you weren't in Ingrid Ibsen's bedroom."

She was definitely going to drug him again.  Valium.  For sure.  He was going 
to sleep while she and Pendrell checked out Ingrid Ibsen's house.  

He didn't want to take the pill.

"Mulder.  It's okay, you're safe here, there's nobody here but us."  Scully 
could
hear the frustration crackle in her voice, the fear of what she'd hear.

Mulder smiled, brittle.  "There was in Ingrid Ibsen's house.  I tried to tell 
you.  The old woman cut out her tongue.  She would have died.  And he'll take 
the next one tomorrow. . . or maybe the day after. Soon. I was there. There's 
a black velvet painting of a mallard on her bedroom wall."

"Mulder--" Scully ran her hands through her hair, bit back a curse and a sob 
and a plea to let her do what she needed to do.  "Mulder. I need sleep. You 
need sleep. . ." God, Francis was backing away, face pale even though he 
wasn't shivering any more. 

"Please, Scully. . . .please. Please don't make me sleep again. I don't want 
to go back." He had the bed between them.

Scully swallowed, felt the ache in her throat, the pain in her shoulders when 
she pulled 
herself upright. "Listen to me. I want you to take this pill. . . " 

Mulder's face twisted, teeth showing on his lower lip, eyes shut tight then 
snapped 
open as though he couldn't stand that much dark. 

"You'll sleep hard," she said desperately, "you won't dream as much. . . " 

"If I go to sleep I'll go back."  Voice a desperate whisper.  "Don't make me 
go back.  I don't want to fight you and I don't want to run. But he saw me 
tonight."

That was it.  She was too conscious of Pendrell's ears on the other side of 
the connecting door.  "You were asleep, it was a goddamned nightmare!"  She 
could see that Mulder startled at the shout.  Drew a shaky breath and balled 
her fists.

She supposed that a nightmare of impending castration would shake her, too, 
if she were male.  And she was damned if she was going to let anything happen 
to him.  Not when he gave her that damned puppydog look that made her knees 
go weak and made her want to yank him down into a liplock.

Screw Pendrell, let Pendrell have fun with Inge.

Mulder was her concern at the moment.

"Come on, Mulder, take it."  Looked at the nightstand where the pill and the 
glass of water sat.  "Take it.  And then get back in bed."  Gently, and he 
obeyed, his eyes shadowed.

She sighed, took her clothes to the bathroom to get dressed, came back out to 
find him curled up around a pillow, lids already heavy.  

"'M okay, Scully."  Drowsily.

She patted his cheek, smoothed his hair.  "Yeah, I know it."  It took a few 
more minutes for him to drift off, and then she grabbed her coat, met 
Pendrell at the connecting door.  

Pendrell looked rather sleepy himself, and there was an unmistakable hickey 
on his throat, just under his ear.  He was also fully dressed in jeans and a 
ski sweater, his parka unzipped, and his case under his arm. "Ready?"

"Yeah."  She glanced back at Mulder, moved back to the door to lock it and 
stood there restlessly.  "He shouldn't wake up until well after we're back."

Pendrell frowned, but didn't say anything.  Wisely.

<continued>


Minnesota - part 40 by Wickdzoot@aol.com


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

They drove to Ingrid Ibsen's house in near silence except for directions;
Scully let Pendrell drive, she was thinking hard, thinking about Mulder's
profile, about their shared suspicion that Dr. Olafsson wasn't quite all he
appeared to be.  

Plenty of possible links, but not one shred of real evidence, and it was
driving her nuts.

Mulder had said it was the old woman in his nightmare, which was even more
baffling.  Had Mulder's experience in the church bent something in his
mind--well, more than usual, anyway.  Had he come to associate Olafsson with an
aged harpy, after having heard the stories of the good doctor's mother?

Sighing, she began to talk, going over the profile with Pendrell, mentioning
their growing sense that Olafsson was involved.  "But I don't understand the
old woman."  She scowled.  "I saw her in the church.  But I didn't see her in
the loft, Pendrell."

He pursed his lips briefly.  "The old woman," he repeated, his tone thoughtful.
 "In the loft--Agent Mulder hadn't been doing too well up to that point, Agent
Scully.  It could have been stress."

She briefly felt the urge to shoot him.  "Yes, I know that," she muttered, "But
I wasn't stressed and I saw her in the church."

He was silent for a few moments longer, then whistled.  "Norman Bates."

Startled, Scully stared at his profile.  Really, he was rather cute in a
fair-skinned, redheaded sort of lab scientist way, said the little voice inside
of her head.  She hushed it, writing it off to extreme sexual frustration. 
"Norman Bates?"  Incredulously.

He nodded.  "Norman Bates, Agent Scully.  Didn't you ever see Psycho?"

"No, I didn't, my parents wouldn't let us watch it, and by the time I got out
of high school, I wasn't interested any more."

"Norman Bates was, of course, completely insane.  He dressed up like his
mother."

She waited, a little impatient, and when nothing else was forthcoming, "Your
point, Pendrell?"

"Agent Mulder talked about an oppressive religious theme in his profile, Agent
Scully.  Perpetrated on an innocent child."  He glanced at her, his eyes
a-gleam in the thin grey light of early dawn.  "It sounds to me like the UNSUB
is dressing up as his mother."

She stared at him for a moment, unaware that her jaw had dropped.  "My God,
Pendrell, you're right!"

He smiled smugly.  "Now we just have to find the evidence, Agent Scully. 
Because no way do we have enough to justify a warrant, all we have is a
theory."

Still stunned, she nodded.  "That's brilliant, Pendrell."  With difficulty.

"Thank you, Agent Scully."  Primly.  "But you and Agent Mulder did the
groundwork."

She really was going to kill him.  Brilliant deductions, humility, and he was
getting laid and she wasn't.  But in spite of herself, she was impressed.

Now, if they could only come up with something useful before Mulder woke up and
she had to try and decide how his hand had gotten cut when there wasn't a knife
anywhere around....

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

It was cozy under the big comforter, and Scully's skin was soft, her mouth
tasting of strawberries, her hair faintly scented with perfume.  She was atop
him, riding him, and wooooo, boy, she was hot and wet and wild, and god, she
felt incredible, pink-coral nipples standing up proudly, and those perky little
breasts bouncing each time she sank back down on him.

Mulder had no idea, no memory of how this had happened, but he was damned well
smart enough not to look a gift horse in the mouth or anywhere else, and he
thrust upward, sliding into that lovely slippery molten heat, moaning, hands
sliding up Scully's little rounded hips to her narrow little waist, further up
to the underslope of those tantalizing, drive-me crazy breasts and he finally
raised his eyes and saw her, her face taut with effort and desire.

Ooooh, boy, he wasn't going to ruin it now, he was going to show Scully the
good time she deserved, and by God, the good time *he* deserved after four
years of working next to this succulent, delicious, desirable--and yes, Frohike
was right--tasty morsel of a woman.  One hand slid back down, thumb seeking and
finding the little man in the boat, and oh, boy, she bucked on him in reward,
her inner flesh clasping him more tightly and he thought he was going to simply
implode, that the top of his skull was going to come off.  Pulling her down, he
kissed her mouth, tongues stroking together and oh, her lips were warm and soft
and even her mouth tasted good, and he pulled away, ducked to take a nipple
between his lips, suckled it....

Only it wasn't perky any more.  He tipped his eyes up, still intent on his
task, and--holy shit, withered breasts, wrinkled skin, and grey hair drawn up
tightly into a bun.

The hag's face twisted in triumph.  "Sinner!"  

Eldritch shriek and it was his and he was out of bed between the wall again,
shrieking again and again and again, and Jesus, this was worth than Skinner,
and he'd *kissed* her, never mind where his dick had been.

Blinked and she was gone, completely and utterly gone, but there was a man
standing there, wearing an heavy winter parka, a grey haired, Max Von Sydowish
sort of man who looked vaguely familiar and who clicked his tongue.  "I told
her Ovaltine," murmured the man.  "Yah, sure, it's all right, Mr. Mulder, I'll
take care of you."

The nice man would take care of him.  He clutched at the nice man's ankle. 
"D-d-d-did you see her?"  

"See who, Mr. Mulder."  Flash of something shiny and his t-shirt sleeve was
pushed up, he flinched at the needle's sting, felt something burn and sniveled
pitifully.

"That old woman?"

The nice man frowned, looked around the room.  "There isn't an old woman here,
Mr. Mulder.  Doncha know, we're the only ones in the room."

That was tremendously reassuring.  "Okay.  Thank you."  But he still held on to
the nice man's ankle until the nice man helped him to his feet.

Helped him put his snowsuit on, and his boots and his hat.  "Are we going to
play in the snow?"

The nice man smiled.  "Something like that."  He guided Mulder toward the door,
opened it.  

The sun wasn't up yet, but there was a pink glow to the sky in the east. 
"Pretty," Mulder told him happily and let himself be carefully placed on the
back of the nice man's snowmobile.  "Where are we going?"

"We're going to see Jesus, Mr. Mulder."  The nice man smiled again.

Mulder frowned.  "I don't believe in Jesus."

The nice man patted his head.  "Yah, I know, Mr. Mulder.  But he believes in
you."

He puzzled over that while the nice man sat down in front of him.  Puzzled over
the fact that his hands somehow had gotten fastened to the seat and he couldn't
move them.

Puzzled over the pretty metal bracelets that held his hands there until, after
a few moments of puzzling, he fell face first into the nice man's back, fell
into a pit of sleep and knew no more.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 41 by wickdzoot@aol.com


"Got him," Pendrell said triumphantly, holding up a strip of clear 
cellophane, upon which could clearly be seen three very sharp fingerprints.

Scully turned off her cellphone, turned back to him.  "Are you sure they 
aren't Ingrid's?"  Wearily.

"Yup."  He beamed at her.

She longed to slap him, but repressed it, it was just that she was short of 
sleep.  And sex.  Not necessarily in that order.  "Okay, well, that was 
Bergman.  Ingrid Ibsen is in recovery now, she should be ready to talk--er, 
write, in a few hours."

"How did the surgery go?"  Pendrell's tone was absent, he was carefully 
placing the cellophane on a white card, wrapping tape around it to secure it. 
 "There, that should do it.   Now, we need to see if we can get a warrant for 
Olafsson's office."

She stared at him.  "How are we going to do that?"

"I know Judge Gunderson," said Trask's voice from the door.  Her broad face 
was sagging with sorrow.  "I'll talk to him.  You really think it's Doc 
Olafsson?  I never did like that old buzzard."

"We'll know for sure in a little while," Pendrell told her smartly.

Inge was definitely having an effect on his confidence, Scully thought 
darkly.  She was beginning to think she liked him more deferential herself.

"Okay, why don't you and I go get the warrant, then," she told Trask dourly.  
"I want to check on Mulder on the way back.  Pendrell, do you need anything?"

"Nope, just going to finish up the trace, and I'll meet you back at the 
morgue."   He was already starting to pack up.

Scully sniffed, turned toward Trask, followed the trooper out to the car.  

"What's wrong with Agent Mulder," Trask wanted to know.

Scully gave her a startled look, shook her head.  "He's had trouble sleeping, 
I had him take something."  

That got a disbelieving look, but Trask didn't question her.

Thank God.

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

It took an hour to get the warrant, and by that time, Scully was anxious to 
find out what else Pendrell might have come up with, she had Trask take her 
directly to the morgue, suppressing a qualm about Mulder, sleeping the sleep 
of the heavily sedated.

He'd be fine, he'd be lucky if he woke up before late afternoon, she told 
herself.

Pendrell fairly pounced on the warrant.  "Great."

"What else did you find?"  Scully asked, eyeing him.

He was already shrugging into his coat.  "Some trace fibers.  Nothing 
especially useful until we do some work at the office.  Except for some wig 
hairs, fairly cheap wig, sort of bluish silver."  His eyes held a glint.  
"Which may confirm our suspicion about the cross-dressing."

Trask blanched.  "Cross-dressing?"

"Dr. Olafsson," Scully told her impatiently.  "Norman Bates."

Trask went paler.  "Norman Bates?  You mean, Doc Olafsson is dressing up like 
his mother?"

"That's our suspicion," Pendrell confirmed and picked up his lab case.  
"Let's go, people, daylight's burning."

Scully opened her mouth, closed it.  Frowned.  Finally let it go and followed 
Pendrell back out to the car.

She really did like him better deferential.

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

By eleven am, Pendrell looked up from his microscope.  "It's him," he told 
the room at large.  "We've got him."

The door to the station opened and Bergman came in, his face drawn with 
weariness.  "Well, we sorta got a statement from Ingrid Ibsen, folks.  She 
says the late Mrs. Olafsson came to see her last night, at least that's who 
she remembers.  Said there was a terrible pain in her mouth and when she 
opened her eyes, there was old lady Olafsson standing there."  His tone was 
disgusted.  "Some help that is."

"Actually, Sheriff," Pendrell told him coolly, "That's a great deal of help.  
Agent Scully, would you like to tell him?"

And she'd thought *Mulder* could be overbearing on a case.  Scully 
nevertheless obliged, already picking up her coat and moving toward the door. 
"I'm going to wake up Mulder," she told Bergman.

Bergman scowled.  "He's *asleep*?"

Scully stopped dead, trying to think of a logical explanation.  "He hasn't 
been sleeping well."  Lamely.

Bergman stared at her, she could sense another black mark going down next to 
Mulder's name.  Blue jeans, poetry, profanity, vomiting, and now sleep. 

Shit.  Skinner was probably going to get an earful and pass it on to Mulder.  
Sighing inwardly, she put on her coat, pushed open the door.  She'd deal with 
it later.  "I'll be back shortly."

She hoped.  

It would probably be a good idea to get some coffee from the Country Kitchen 
before going to the motel.  Short of amphetamines, she wasn't sure Mulder was 
going to be any too clear-headed otherwise.

Lots and lots of coffee.

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

Mulder woke to find his face pressed against the slick nylon of someone's 
parka.  Worse, he found his lower lip was frozen to it, and he had to let 
himself drool a little more to loosen the adhesion.

His head felt thick, stuffed with cotton wool, his mouth tasted like the 
better part of the Russian and American Armies (and maybe the Brits, too) had 
marched through it, and he felt woozy.

And cold.  Despite the....snowmobile suit?  He was cuffed to a snowmobile.  
That was moving.  Slowly.   "Uh, hey," groggily.  "Where are we?"

The snowmobile stopped.  The person in front of him was tall and broad and 
when dismounted, oh, shit, it was Dr. Eric Olafsson.  

Oh, shit.

He felt his eyes widen, felt the sting of the wind.  "Um, what's going on?"  
His voice stronger, but still in control, despite the fact that his heart was 
hammering ninety to nothing.  "Dr. Olafsson?  Um, I'm sorry, I don't remember 
how I got here."

Olafsson reached into one pocket of his parka, drew out a leather case the 
size of a small Day-Timer.  Unzipped it and peeled off a glove.  Not 
speaking.  Not acknowledging Mulder's presence in the least.

Oh, boy, now he was scared.  "Dr. Olafsson?"  Voice cracking.  Shit, oh, 
dear, he was in major, deep, fucking shit now.  "Dr. Olafsson, did we have an 
appointment?"  Fuck, that was stupid, that was really stupid, but he had to 
get Olafsson to acknowledge him as human, not an object.  "I'm sorry, I 
didn't remember."

Olafsson took a syringe out of the case, uncapped it, squirted the fluid 
inside experimentally and smiled.  "There is one thing that ought to be 
taught in all the colleges,// Which is that people ought to be taught not to 
go around always making apologies.// I don't mean the kind of apologies 
people make when they run over you or borrow five dollars or step on your 
feet,//Because I think that is sort of sweet;// No, I object to one kind of 
apology alone,//Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing 
for everything they own.//You go to their house for a meal,//And they 
apologize because the anchovies aren't caviar or the partridge is veal;//They 
apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests,//And they 
apologzie publicly for their wife's housekeeping or their husband's 
jests;//If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn't by 
Scott,//And if they take you to the theater, they apologize for the acting 
and the dialogue and the plot;//They contain more milk of human kindness than 
the most capacious diary can,//But if you are from out of town they apologize 
for everything local and if you are a foreigner they apologize for everything 
American.//I dread these apologizers even as I am depicting them,//I shudder 
as I think of the hours that must be spend in contradicting them,//Because 
you are very rude if you let them emerge from an argument victorious,//And 
when they say something of theirs is awful, it is your duty to convince them 
politely that it is magnificent and glorious,//And what particularly bores me 
with them,//Is that half the time you have to politely contradict them when 
you rudely agree with them,//So I think there is one rule every host and 
hostess ought to keep with the comb and nail file and bicarbonate and 
aromatic spirits on a handy shelf,//Which is don't spoil the denouement by 
telling the guests everything is terrible, but let them have the thrill of 
finding it out for themselves."

Transfixed, Mulder watched the needle approach, could only gape as Olafsson 
unzipped his snowmobile suit and reached inside, pulled down one side and 
jabbed him in the arm.  "What?"  Stupidly.

Thin smile.  "Go back to sleep, Mr. Mulder."

He didn't have a lot of choice.

So he did.

<continued>


Minnesota - part 42 by wickdzoot@aol.com



Mulder wasn't in bed.  Scully gaped at the room for a moment, standing stock 
still in the door.  His boots were gone, but his coat was still hanging on 
the rack next to the bathroom.  "Mulder?"

No answer, naturally enough.  Pendrell pushed past her, frowned.  "Don't 
touch anything," he told her, his tone authoritative.  "Trooper Trask, I 
think we have a problem."

Trask, still outside, came to the door.  "What?"  Politely.

Pulling a latex glove over his right hand, Pendrell strode to the connecting 
door, opened it to peer into his room.    "I'm afraid Agent Mulder appears to 
have been abducted."

Trask's jaw dropped and she wheeled, went back out to her radio car.

"Abducted?"  Scully blinked.  "He could just as easily taken off on his own, 
Pendrell, he does *that* all the time."

"Not without his coat."  Pendrell's jaw was set.  

"His boots are gone," Scully pointed out, more because Pendrell was unnerving 
her than because she disagreed.

Pendrell frowned.  "True.  But it's far more probable that he was abducted, 
Agent Scully.  You drugged him.  I somehow can't see him weaving down the 
main street of Timmsville in his nightwear without the police being called."

She had to admit that the image of Mulder walking drunkenly down the street 
seemed unlikely to go unnoticed in Timmsville.

"Besides," Pendrell added, going to the door and peering at the snowy 
sidewalk.  "His boots have a distinctive cross hatch pattern on the soles, 
and the footprints move out this way and then disappear, right here where the 
snowmobile tracks appear."  He reached out and pointed, frowned again and 
went out to talk to Trask.

Her jaw dropped again.  Shaking her head, Scully  moved to the doorway, 
peering at the snow.   She could barely see the cross-hatch pattern of 
Mulder's soles, followed them out, carefully stepping around them, right up 
to the flat pattern of snowmobile tracks.  "How did you do that?" she 
demanded of Pendrell, who had come to stand at her side.

Sober look.  "Elementary, Agent Scully. When you eliminate the improbable, 
the remaining explanation that fits all the known data is what remains.  
Trask just put out an APB for Olafsson and his snowmobile."

She closed her mouth, feeling woolyheaded and confused.  "Why would--never 
mind."   It was beginning to sink in, but slowly.  She wondered if sexual 
frustration could make you stupid, shook her head.  It made perfect sense 
then that Pendrell should be on top of things.  He was getting boinked 
regularly by the beauteous Inge.  Suppressing the urge to slap him, she 
nodded, felt a wave of panic superseding the irritation.  "Oh, my God, Mulder 
has been kidnapped!"

Pendrell patted her shoulder.  "Don't worry, Agent Scully, we'll find him." 
Firmly.

"We've got to track this snowmobile, Pendrell!"  She stepped carefully 
forward, her eyes on the tracks.  "There's no telling what he'll do to 
Mulder!"  Mulder's nightmare came back to her, the fear of castration.  Oh, 
please, God, anything but that, she prayed, torture him if you must, but not 
castration!    She promised a novena to St. Jude on the spot, should Mulder 
be returned in one piece. More or less.

She wouldn't quibble about a few bruises or cuts or gunshot wounds, so long 
as a) none of them were fatal and b) none of them were below the waist.  The 
bargain made her feel better, and St. Jude was certainly appropriate.  In 
many ways, Mulder was a lost cause.  Or nearly lost.

Pendrell was still patting her shoulder.  "Not to worry, Trask is contacting 
Fish and Game, they've got snowmobiles."

"Right."  She took in a deep breath.  "Let's go."

"We will, Agent Scully," Soothingly.  "But we need the proper equipment, 
snowmobiles, snowmobile suits, the usual.  We'll find him, never fear."  

"Snowmobile suits?"  She turned to look at him, baffled.  "What the hell--oh, 
those snowsuit thingies."

"Absolutely necessary in this windchill, Agent Scully."  He nodded, beamed at 
her.
 
She wanted to kill him.  She'd looked like a cabbage at the age of six 
wearing a goddamned one piece snowsuit, and somehow, she didn't think she was 
going to look any better at the age of thirty-three.  But it was for Mulder, 
she reminded herself, and swiftly promised another novena to St. Philomena.  
Just in case. 
 
"Why don't you wait in the room, Agent Scully.  Trooper Trask has a tracker 
who is going to come in and see what we can find of this particular 
snowmobile's tracks before traffic gets too heavy in town."  He patted her 
again, his expression consoling.

For a moment, she considered decking him the next time he patted her, but the 
reality was simply too upsetting.

She didn't brighten up until suddenly she realized something.

She was rescuing Mulder, instead of the other way around.

Another novena, this one to the Blessed Mother, she decided, almost happily.  
Just to say thanks.

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

Mulder woke again to find himself tied down to an ancient and sagging bed, to 
the wrought iron posts at each corner.  However, care had been taken for his 
comfort, and there were some nice, warm blankets over him.  "Hullo," he told 
Olafsson groggily.  "Where are we?"

Seated in a dilapidated armchair near the bed, Olafsson looked at him, 
frowned.  "That's not important, Mr. Mulder.  I noticed that there were two 
beds in that room and that both had been slept in.  Does that mean that I've 
been wrong in assuming that you and your partner are fornicating?"

"I'm afraid not."  Mulder blinked, licked dry lips and reflected that just 
once, his bad luck might contribute to saving his life.  "We're just very 
good friends, Dr. Olafsson."

Olafsson approached the bed, folded his arms.  "Yah, I'm sure."  Drily.  "So, 
are you a pervert?"

Mulder blinked again.  Well, according to some people...."A pervert?"  
Nervously.

"Yah, you know, do you fornicate with men?"

Holy shit.  "No," Mulder told him strongly, rapidly suppressing the memory of 
Tim during high school, Alan at Oxford, and Alex Krycek a couple of times 
prior to the Duane Barry mess.  "I don't."

Olafsson's expression was troubled.   Thick, iron-grey eyebrows drew close 
together, the doctor moved back to the chair and picked up a thick black 
book.  "Mother's never been wrong before," almost inaudibly.

Holy shit, his nightmare had almost come true.  Closing his eyes, Mulder 
silently thanked Scully's patron saints that she'd been in a pissy mood the 
night before.  He wondered if it were too late for a nonpracticing Jew to 
convert to Catholicism. 

Olafsson stared back at him.  Blinked.  And suddenly thundered, "Do not mock 
God, Mr. Mulder!"

Mulder's fingers twitched reflexively and he hadn't even been taught by nuns. 
 "I'm not," he told Olafsson plaintively.  "Honestly."

Olafsson's expression eased.  "You truly are a heathen, aren't you?"

Mulder felt some small degree of offense.  "Well, actually, I'm Jewish.  On 
my mother's side.  My father didn't go to church, and when my mother took us, 
she took us to the Unitarian church."  

Olafsson sniffed in disdain.  Opened the black book.  With a start, Mulder 
realized it was a bible.  "Have you ever read the bible, Mr. Mulder?"

"Not for a while," Mulder told him.  Hoping against hope.  Yes, he exulted, 
he could sit through Genesis if that's what it took to give Scully enough 
time to find him.  Hell, he could sit through Leviticus, although those were 
arguably among the most tedious texts in the Old Testament.  He could sit 
through the book of the Apocalypse, which idea actually appealed to him.

Olafsson studied him.  "Yah, I don't think you're beyond hope, Mr. Mulder.  I 
pray that I can open your heart to God's Holy Word."

Mulder put on what he hoped was a beatifically hopeful look of his own.  "Me, 
too."  

And with that, Olafsson, as he'd hoped, began to read.  "In the beginning God 
created the heaven and the earth.  And the earth was without form, and void; 
and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon 
the face of the waters.  And God said, Let there be light: and there was 
light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light 
from the darkness...." 

<continued>



Minnesota - part 43 by wickdzoot@aol.com 




Olaffsen at least had fed him, he was feeling better, clearer-headed, 
stronger, and just as stuck as he had been earlier.


Which was a good thing, since Olafssen had vanished, leaving him to think  hard
about his situation.  The sound of running water suggested that Olaffsen  was
washing up their dishes; after a while, brooding on certain death lost  appeal
and he dozed a bit, woke with a start when Olaffsen returned.


Only it wasn't Olaffsen, God help him, it was Mama. 


"Sinner," accused the hag-like figure, dressed in in black again. 


Without the adrenalin rush of finding a body nearby, he studied Olaffsen.  
Makeup to cover beard stubble--not well, either--and the wig was slightly 
askew.  Olaffsen was breaking down under the stress of all the murders, he 
thought and that made his balls draw right back up into his body, possibly  all
the way to his lungs.  "Yes," he said meekly, "I am."


It wasn't what Mama had been expecting, clearly, she looked affronted  somehow.
 Two long strides toward the bed and, oh, God, she was holding a  scalpel
again, please, please, please, no, don't let this be happening, but  it was,
and she unbuttoned his jeans again.  "What are you going to do about  it?" Mama
hissed.


What was he going to do about it?  Christ, he didn't know.  "Repent?" he 
suggested, his voice wobbly.


Mama drew back, frowning.  "Repentance must be sincere."  Severely, and she 
reached inside his thermal underwear.  Same cold hands, alas, and he was glad 
of shrinkage.


"It is sincere," he told her sincerely, "Believe me, it is sincere." 


Mama, clearly, was confused.  Dark grey eyebrows drew together, ice cold eyes 
surveyed him.  "Repentance alone is not enough."  Finally, forbiddingly.


His mind darted hither and yon, seeking an escape from this trap.  He 
whimpered, stared into the harpy's gaze.  "I know."  Where the hell was 
Scully?  Where was that little geek Pendrell?   Hell, he'd settle for Bergman 
at this point, he'd settle for Trask and her pink bubblegum, he'd embrace 
Inge, he'd kiss the Country Kitchen cook!   "I," he gasped, struggling  against
his bonds again, saw the flash of light that reflected off the  unforgiving
steel of the scalpel.  "I accept Jesus Christ into my heart as my  personal
savior!  Hallelujah!"  All but screamed it.


A sort of peace settled over him then.  He watched as Mama frowned more 
forbiddingly, sighed slightly as her fingers released him and carefully  tucked
him back into his thermals.  The scalpel flashed again the in  lamplight as
Mama turned and paced around the room.  "True repentance," he  heard her say,
her voice puzzled and irritated at the same time.  "True  repentance, Lord,
what do I do now?"


He kept his mouth firmly shut, but then he didn't feel the urge to say 
anything.  He felt sleepy, rather than alarmed.  Blinked when Mama turned  back
to study him and smiled beatifically at her.  "Praise the Lord."


"Praise the Lord," she echoed, and scowled again.  More pacing, and then she 
vanished through the doorway.


He yawned, let his eyes close again.  Opened them at the sound of footsteps 
some unknowable stretch of time later and saw Olaffsen standing over him, as 
perplexed as Mama had been.  


He smiled again.  "Hello." 


The scowl deepened.  "Someone's coming, Mr. Mulder, we have to leave." 


"All right."  He lay still while Olaffsen freed his wrists, rubbed them to 
relieve the ache.


Olaffsen caught one and examined it, still frowning.  "Hmmm, those are rubbed 
raw.  I should do something about that." 


Mulder studied his wrists.  His mind was definitely getting fuzzy, he thought 
distantly, not at all alarmed.  "Oh, I think they're all right."  Mildly.  
"Where are we going?"


Another long look.  "We'll see when we get there." 


Mulder nodded happily, held out his arm when Olaffsen brought the coat over  to
him.  "Okay."


He wasn't sure why, but Olafssen looked troubled when he replaced the cuffs, 
this time over Mulder's sleeves.  


The cold air struck him like a blow, he must have made some sound, because 
Olaffsen turned around and solicitously tightened the hood, produced a woolen 
scarf from out of nowhere and tied it around Mulder's face.  "There, that's 
better."  Softly.  "We've got to hurry, I can feel them coming."


He wondered distantly who was coming, and obediently got on the snowmobile 
behind Olaffsen.  


The insectile hum of the motor lulled him somehow; he leaned forward against 
Olaffsen's back, felt a wave of comradely affection and closed his eyes.


Thus, he didn't see the shapes emerging from the woods behind them, or hear 
the cries demanding that Olaffsen stop.


After all, he was Saved. 




--------------------------------------------------------------------------
------


"Goddammit!"  Scully lowered her gun, peering through the dark in the 
direction Olaffsen's snowmobile had gone.  "Now what?"  Resisting the urge to 
pistolwhip Bergman was no easy task, but he was on the radio already, 
muttering into it.


"Now we wait for the helicopter," Pendrell told her helpfully.  "The State 
Troopers are bringing one in to track the bastard."


Now, she thought wrathfully, after a day of cold and snow and death-defying 
leaps over snowbanks, now they bring in a helicopter.  Minnesota was a  lunatic
asylum.  "May I ask," she began, her tone icily courteous, "Where  this
goddamned motherfucking cocksucking helicopter was all day today?"


Pendrell stared at her as if she were possessed.  Hell, maybe she was 
possessed.  By Mulder.  No, don't think that way, she told herself, he wasn't 
dead, she'd just seen him on the back of the snowmobile.  "Uh, working  traffic
down in the Twin Cities?"  He backed away a step.


She saw red. Literally.  Pinched the bridge of her nose hard.  "I'm going to 
kill someone, Pendrell.  You'd better hope it's Olaffsen."


His gulp was audible. 


When she checked her weapon, he took another few steps backward.  "I'd better 
talk to Bergman," he told her hastily.


"Yes," she told him sweetly, "You do that." 


There was something satisfying in watching Pendrell scamper away in snowshoes. 


But she still wanted to kill someone.   Or something. 




--------------------------------------------------------------------------
------


It was so comfortable, leaning against that kind Dr. Olaffsen.  Dr. Olaffsen, 
who might have been wrong about the Ovaltine, but who was right about Jesus.   
Why, he could even accept his sister's disappearance, she was safe in Jesus'
arms, or she was with the aliens, and who was he to say that the aliens  
weren't all a part of God's wonderful plan.


Maybe even Cancerman was, although if anything symbolized the devil better 
than Cancerman, he wasn't aware of it.


The snowmobile veered and dove and he nearly lost his balance, yelped in 
surprise and shock.  


Olaffsen brought it to a halt immediately, turned to look at him worriedly.  
"We'd better take those off so you can hold on, Mr. Mulder."


He nodded shakily.  "Okay."  Then smiled again.  "I trust you, Dr. Olaffsen, 
and I trust that Jesus will watch over me."


Long look, and then an answering smile.  "I was wrong about you, Mr. Mulder, 
and I ask your forgiveness."


"Of course!"  Mulder's smile was blissful.  "And you weren't wrong, Dr. 
Olaffsen.  I was a sinner.  With God's help...."  Oh, the world spread out 
before him, pregnant with possibility.  A wife, children, that white picket 
fence.....


"All it takes is repentance, Mr. Mulder."  Olaffsen freed his wrists, patted 
his shoulder.  "Now hold on, they're awfully close."


He wondered who They were, decided it didn't matter.  He was content.  He  held
on to Olaffsen as the snowmobile leapt forward and thought dreamily  about his
future.




--------------------------------------------------------------------------
------


"They're heading toward the lake,"  Bergman said grimly.  "Looks like the doc 
is planning on going over it, heading for Canada."


"We can alert the Canadians," Scully growled.  "And I want that fucking 
helicopter to land right now and pick us up."  She offered Bergman a menacing 
scowl and meaningfully checked her weapon.


"Already arranged it, but we've got to the get to the clearing ahead before 
they can land."  He scowled back at her, clearly unimpressed.  Maybe his 
weapon was bigger, she thought disgruntled, and wasn't that just like a man?


"Then let's get moving," she snarled in return. 


Pendrell's expression was wary.  "Lead on, Agent Scully." 


She sniffed disdainfully and did just that.  Maybe he was afraid to have her 
behind him with a loaded weapon.  Too bad Inge wasn't here; in her present 
psychotic state, she'd have been more than happy to rid the world of the  buxom
blonde bimbo.


She wanted her Mulder back and she wanted him now. 


So she trudged through the snow as fast as the snowshoes would allow, peering 
ahead for the clearing.


The sound of the 'copter alerted her before she broke free of the trees.   It 
was just setting down when she emerged into a large clearing that stretched 
out toward the lakeshore.


Shielding her eyes against the rotor driven bits of snow and ice, she ducked 
her head and ran clumsily for the cabin.  "Agent Dana Scully," she shouted, 
and the pilot and the state trooper nodded, made room for her.


She waited impatiently for the others, shifting to make room for Pendrell; in 
the snowmobile suits, they had to squeeze in uncomfortably close, and when 
Bergman lumbered aboard--she wasn't going to think about throwing Pendrell  and
Bergman out of the helicopter once they were off the ground, no she  wasn't,
she was going to focus on finding her partner and rescuing his sorry  ass from
that maniac Olaffsen. 


And once she had done so, she was going cuff him to her side to prevent this 
from happening again.


Once he'd calmed down, *then* she'd molest him. 


The 'copter lifted off,  rising above the trees surrounding the clearing; the 
wind was stronger and buffeted the craft, she could hear the pilot muttering 
in Swedish as he kept the helicopter on course and ignored this, peering down 
through the night to follow the white arc of searchlight.


"He was heading due north," the state trooper's voice was thin, attentuated  by
the noise of the copter. 


Looking around, she found a headset, put it on, gave the state trooper a 
thumbs up as she adjusted the volume.


Bergman gave her a sour look and she considered throwing him out again.  They 
were over the lake now, an almost featureless expanse of white, even beyond 
the searchlight.


"We had that thaw last week, I hope he's not aiming to cut straight across  the
middle."  Conversational tone in her ear.  "Doncha know, this time of  year is
sometimes tricky, lose a lotta ice-boaters and fishermen to weak  spots in the
ice."


Oh, lovely, she thought and peered down intently again, as if the ferocity of 
her intention could save Mulder from that eventuality.


Maybe it couldn't, but there were always more novenas.  And maybe a visit to 
Rome.  A donation to the Church.  She could always borrow against her 401K.


Mulder better be worth it. 




--------------------------------------------------------------------------
------


The wind was bitter out on the lake, and Mulder kept his face pressed against 
Olaffsen's back, still content if not comfortable.


He wondered where they were going.  Olaffsen had shouted something about 
making sure he was safe from further temptation, but he wasn't sure what that 
meant, and wasn't sufficiently worried about it to ask.


He who had trusted no one, now trusted God and Dr. Olaffsen, in that order.   


The snowmobile slowed, came to a stop.  "I'm going to have to risk going 
across the middle, Mr. Mulder." Shouted against the wind.


He nodded against Olaffsen's coat.  "Okay, Dr. Olaffsen.  Whatever you think 
is best."


A big gloved hand patted his, and the machine started up again.  It was  nearly
full dark now, and if he had cared to risk the burn of the winter wind  there
was nothing to be seen but the narrow bit of landscape illuminated by  the
snowmobile's headlamp.  So he kept his face pressed against Olaffsen's  back,
happily considering what he was going to do on his return to Washington  DC.


First thing, he was going to throw out all his videos and his magazines.  No 
more temptation.  No more sin.  He felt peaceful now, considering his  partner,
smiled at the thought of her.  She was so beautiful.  So pure.  It  was up to
him to protect her from temptation, too, no more of this sharing a  room or
wandering in and out of each other's rooms.  He was going to treat  her with
respect, stop thinking about her in that nun's habit.  God was going  to help
him, yes indeed, for didn't God love the sinner and hate the sin?


He was going to get his act straightened out.  No more of this X-Files crap, 
no indeed.  He was going to accept all things as the will of his Creator, of 
his Savior, he was going to become the model FBI agent and do his part for  the
right, for justice, and for law.


Skinner was going to be amazed, but he would explain it to him.  Maybe he 
could even help Skinner; after that hooker business, it was clear that  Skinner
suffered from his own temptations.


Thinking about that made him feel all warm and fuzzy.  Skinner was a friend, 
he just needed to be led toward the Light.


A rending, cracking sound interrupted these meditations, particularly since  it
could be heard over the hum of the engine.  He blinked in surprise, lifted  his
head, listening, and heard another sound, the sound of helicopter rotors 
battling the wind.


Looking up and back, he saw a single light in the sky, aimed downward, stared 
in amazement as it approached; Olaffsen pushed the snowmobile harder and he 
tightened his hold.  


The cracking sound grew louder, more frightening, he clutched at Olaffsen and 
looked down, saw the jagged crack beneath the snowmobile widen.  As 
comprehension came, he found the space to be blissfully happy that if he was 
going to drown, he was going to drown clean of sin.


All washed in the Blood of the Lamb, and what more could anyone ask? 


The ice gave way, he heard Olaffsen scream in terror and wanted to comfort 
him, but the icy water robbed him of breath.  It's all right, he thought 
happily, sinking into dark water, you saved me, Dr. Olaffsen, whatever else 
you've done, God will forgive you.  


Then, as his consciousness began to wink out, he thought of his parter with 
affection.


He hoped someone else could help her with temptation, since he wasn't going  to
be able to.


The last of the air left his straining lungs and he sank down, down, into 
darkness and cold, surrendering to it.......

<continued>


Minnesota - part 44 by Wickdzoot@aol.com



Scully shrieked like an Irish banshee when the snowmobile tipped downward and
began to sink, taking both Olaffsen and her partner with it.  Midnight black
water, and it swallowed them both whole and the helicopter dipped and swerved,
retreating.

Drawing her gun, she held it to the pilot's back.  "Take us down!!!"

"Not here," the state trooper stared at her as if she'd gone mad.  "The ice
won't hold us!"

Pendrell, for once, backed her.  "Don't land, just go low enough I can jump."

"You're insane!"  The state trooper stared at Pendrell.

"Do it!"  Bergman shouted.  "And get a team ready,  blankets and medics."

After a moment, the trooper tapped the pilot and the helicopter went down,
hovering above the ice.

"Look," Pendrell pointed at a dark shape.  "Ice hut.  We'll get him out and
take him in there, there's bound to be some blankets in there."

She nodded.

Leaping out of a hovering helicopter was a job for superheroes, not FBI Special
Agents, she decided a moment later, lying on the ice with the wind knocked out
of her.

Pendrell, she was annoyed to see, had tucked and rolled and was struggling out
of his snowmobile suit as he ran for the gaping hole in the ice.

Show off.

Resentfully, she gathered herself up, dragging air in with some difficulty;
once on her feet, she lumbered after Pendrell, who was followed by Bergman
already.

God, it was cold, and Pendrell finally kicked free of boots and suit and dove
into the dark water.

She had to admit, even if she wanted to shoot him, he was a brave little son of
a bitch.  Crossing herself, she began to say a rosary, counting the decades on
her fingers for a fearfully long time.  Could Pendrell really hold his breath
that long?  Holy Mary, Mother of God, let Pendrell find Mulder and get them
both out, please, please, please, please. Yes, not only would she go to Rome,
she'd go to Lourdes if God would let them both surface in the next moment.

And after that one had passed--okay, in the *next* moment.

It seemed an eternity before Pendrell surfaced, his breath like steam in the
frigid night, holding on to someone's collar.  The hair was seal sleek and
dark, it was Mulder and she helped Bergman fumble Mulder out of the water,
helped Pendrell climb out on to the ice.

Somehow, they got both men into the ice hut, heard the 'copter return.   There
were rough wool blankets on a cot in the ice hut; she busied herself with
Mulder while Bergman attended to Pendrell.   Somehow, the journey over the ice
to the hut had gotten him breathing again, although she had to turn him on his
side to let him cough and vomit up the lake water.

He was nearly blue, in the faint light of the lantern that Bergman lit and hung
up on the wall.  She stripped him, finally tearing off her gloves in a frenzy
of impatience and terror.  Don't you dare die, she told him, and took one of
the musty wool blankets, began rubbing him down just as Bergman was rubbing
Pendrell down.  

The lab tech's head emerged from the folds of the blanket.  "Is he breathing?" 
A little breathlessly himself.

"Yes," she told him shortly.  Mulder wasn't even shivering, a very bad sign. 
With Bergman's help, she levered him up on the cot and continued with the
blanket; pallid flesh began slowly to respond, to turn faintly pink, and his
lips were no longer dark blue.   "Is there a heater in here?"

Bergman paused in the act of holding up Pendrell's suit for him. "No, I looked.
 Just the lantern."  Gruffly.

She glanced that way, saw Pendrell's sodden clothing.  "Good, get him into his
suit, that will at least keep him warm."

"Sheriff," Pendrell murmured, "Do you think your suit would go on Mulder?"

"We've got to get him warm first," Scully snapped and suddenly thought of
something.  "Turn your backs, please."

Bergman blinked, his eyes widened.  "Oh, yah."  Nodded understanding and turned
Pendrell away before helping him back into his snowmobile suit.

Rising, Scully snatched after another blanket before stripping her own off. 
Hesitated for a moment and stripped down to bra and panties, pulling the
blankets over both of them on the cot.  Musty and itchy and Mulder's skin was
as cold as the ice underneath them, and she shivered, wrapped her arms around
him.

Sound of a zipper and something heavier covered them both, Bergman's suit,
which provided a little more protection from the cold.  "Pendrell's going to
flag down the 'copter," he told her, still gruff.  "They'll have some of those
heating blankets, those space age things."

She was freezing now herself, wriggled to get more comfortable.  "Good, tell
them to hurry."  Faintly.  

Mulder's eyelids fluttered, he made a sound in his throat, coughed again,
wretched raw sound, but it was life and movement.

She rubbed her hands over his flanks, bumped her hips against his.  "Come on,
Mulder," she murmured.  "You can do it, I know you can."

Hell, hadn't the goddamn Nazis done experiments just like this, she told him
silently, wriggling again.  Hmmmm, now that she thought about it--she let her
hands wander, shifted again to give them free rein.  Allowing for the shrinkage
of frigid water, it was the same territory she'd mapped the other night, albeit
quiescent; Bergman thoughtfully kept his back turned and she let her hands grow
bolder.

Ah, he was definitely still alive, the skin beneath her was warming, and he
wasn't quite so quiescent now, just the slightest stirring from the stimulation
of touch.  She put her lips in the hollow of his throat, tasted lake water and
Mulder, and nearly wept in gratitude at the pulse she felt there.  Yes, yes, he
was going to live and she was going to beat him senseless.

But later.  

And didn't he feel just lovely now that he was warming up again.  Thank God for
Pendrell, she'd offer a mass for the little lab geek, maybe get him something
nice for his birthday, whenever that was.

Mulder made another sound, coughed again, and his eyelids rose to half-mast. 
"S-s-s-scully."  Dazed voice.   "I thought I was dead."

"Not on my watch, Mulder," she told him and stroked the thickening shaft in her
grip.  "How does that feel?"

His eyes widened.  "Scully, no!"

No?  No??  After everything she'd done to get him back?  "Don't be silly, 
Mulder, this is for medical purposes."  Smugly, and yes, he was warming up
quite nicely indeed.  His lips might say No, but his dick was saying Yes, and
in a big way.   Hmmm, too bad she'd left her panties on, but perhaps she could
shimmy out of them, Bergman might never be the wiser, and what was she
thinking?

She was thinking of how long she'd waited, that's what she was thinking, she
told herself and made a very determined effort to slide those panties down.

"Scully, this is wrong!"  Mulder sounded desperate now.  Funny, terror seemed
to be doing more to bring him back to consciousness than desire, which was
decidedly annoying.  "We can't, you've got to stop, it's wrong."

"What's wrong?" she asked, a little perplexed at the way he was deflating in
her grasp.  What the hell was wrong with Mr. Adult Video News now?  From
premature ejaculation to impotence? She was going to have to shoot him, that
was all there was to it.

"It's fornication," he hissed, struggling to get out from under her.  "It's a
sin, Scully."

Sitting up abruptly, Scully stared at him, oblivious to the chill in the air. 
Maybe he'd hit his head.  Maybe it was Stockholm Syndrome.  "You don't believe
in sin," she told him accusingly.

Bergman cleared his throat.  "Here they come."

Damn.  Damn and double damn and triple damn and he was giving her that sweet,
wounded, beaten puppy dog look again that made her want to damn the torpedos
and go ahead full speed.  "I do now,"  he told her mournfully.  "It's wrong."

Definitely Stockholm Syndrome, Scully decided and got up, swiftly dragging her
clothes back on before she froze.  Although fury might keep her warm, she
doubted it would help Mulder, and tucked all the blankets around him.  She put
her boots back on, shrugged back into the bulky snowmobile suit and stalked
past Bergman, whose expression went utterly impassive on her.  "Where are you
going?"  he asked.

"I'm going to get Olaffsen out of that water and shoot him," she snarled and
went out into the cold.

Someone, she thought, someone had to pay for this.
And if she shot Mulder, she'd never get laid.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------

They were airlifted to the small hospital in Zimmer.   While Pendrell was
pronounced in good health and uninjured, Mulder was admitted for observation;
Scully stood with her arms folded in the hospital room, sourly watching as
Bergman and Trask and other Timmsville denizens, including the motel owner,
came to pay their respects.

The worst shock came when the Reverend Jurgenson came.   Mulder took his hand,
that whipped puppy earnest expression on his face and said, "Reverend, would
you baptize me?"

Oh, God, he was in worse shape than she'd thought.  Taking two steps forward,
she put her hand on the beaming minister's arm.  "He's not quite in his right
mind, Reverend," she murmured.

"Yes, I am," Mulder insisted.  "I want to be baptized."

"No, you aren't," she snapped, "You're suffering Stockholm Syndrome, dammit,
and I'm not letting you do something you will regret."

He gave her that damned look again.  "But Scully, I have accepted Jesus Christ
as my savior, I want to be baptized.  I can't tell you what it means to me."

Her head began to ache.  Only Mulder.  Only her demented,
out-beyond-the-edge-of-the-solar-system partner.  She could accept his belief
in little grey men far more easily than this alleged conversion, and goddammit,
if he was going to suddenly go religious on her, what the hell was wrong with
Catholicism?

If she fucked him senseless, he could always go to confession and be absolved,
but no, he had to ask the Lutheran minister.  "Mulder, if you want me to, I'll
ask Father when we get home, I'll ask him about giving you instruction if you
like."

They both glared at her.  "I want to be baptized NOW, Scully, and I didn't say
I wanted to be Catholic."  

Reverend Jurgensen made a suspiciously smug sound.  "Agent Scully, I believe
that Sheriff Bergman is looking for you.  I believe they've located Dr.
Olaffsen's body."

She hung fire, caught between needing to protect Mulder from his own insanity
and doing her job.  "Mulder, don't agree to anything," she finally growled,
"I'll be back as soon as I can."

Deceptively mild smile, oh, she was familiar with that one, the Yes, Scully,
don't worry about it, but I'm going to turn right around and do what I want
smile.  

Her head ached.  She pointed a finger at Jurgensen.  "Don't you *dare* take
advantage of his mental condition, Reverend.  I'll report you the Council of
Churches."  If anybody got Mulder, it was going to be the Catholic Church, she
told herself, and stalked out of the room.

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

"Oh, yah, looks like Doc was as crazy as an outhouse rat," Bergman told her
somberly.  "Found a diary, and his Ma's old clothes.  Dressing up as his ma, he
was, doncha know.  Must have been that woman you two saw at the church when you
found Marcy Olafsen's body."

She nodded, looking at the cardboard boxes of evidence.  "What's in the diary?"

"Details of every alleged sin committed by his patients and his neighbors," 
Pendrell told her with relish.  "Along with his 'mother's' account of how the
guilty were punished.  The man was completely insane."

Like Mulder, she thought sourly.  "Where's the body?"

"The usual place."  Bergman jerked a thumb in the direction of the funeral
home.  "How's Mulder."

"He's fine, really.  They're going to watch him for pneumonia, of course, but
his core temperature is nearly normal again."  She sighed, pinched the bridge
of her nose.  "He wants to be baptized."  The words escaped her before she
could call them back.

Pendrell arched an eyebrow.  "Really?  Hmm, sometimes a close brush with death
will make a man re-evaluate his priorities."

"And the state of his soul,"  Bergman told her, but his mouth twitched.  "Looks
like Doc did one good thing, eh?"

She briefly wondered if she could claim temporary insanity if she shot and
killed both men.  "Maybe."  

Pendrell seemed to suspect of homicidal impulses.  He patted her shoulder.  "It
will probably pass, knowing Agent Mulder, don't be too worried about it."

She could only hope.  Shrugging back into her coat, she sighed.  "Let's go get
this over with, Pendrell.  I need to save Mulder from his own need for
redemption."

He almost smiled, and wisely decided not to; Bergman, on the other hand, was
still laughing when they got into the elevator.

"Look at it this way," Pendrell told her, "We're almost finished, nobody else
died except the perp, and we can go home."  He smiled at her happily. "And, I'm
getting married."

She stared at him. "Married?"

"Oh, yes.  Inge and I are engaged.   Her father knows the Senator from
Minnesota, so I might even get a boost to my career, along with my Inge."  He
beamed at her.

Inge.  In DC.

She pinched the bridge of her nose and said an Act of Contrition.

Only God could save her now.  Maybe Mulder had the right idea.

<continued>


Minnesota - part 45 by Wickdzoot@aol.com

Being in Skinner's office was like coming home, Scully thought, sitting in the
usual place.  Skinner gazed at both of them, looking more nonplussed than she
had ever seen him.  "I have here several letters commending all three of you,
including one from Agent Mulder commending you, Agent Pendrell."

Scully glanced sidelong, tried not to grind her teeth at Pendrell's happy puppy
wriggle.  "Yes, sir, I told him that wasn't at all necessary, I was just doing
my job, but he insisted."

Scully closed her eyes briefly.  Pendrell and Mulder were suddenly the best of
pals, hanging out together, going to basketball games together, and the little
labgeek had already asked Mulder to be his best man.  Her eyelid twitched and
she put a finger up to it; she'd developed a nervous tic since returning to
Washington, and damned if it wasn't Mulder's fault.

Skinner nodded, clearly bemused, and picked up another letter.  "I have here
another letter from Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, recommending that the X files
division be closed down because, and I quote, 'many things under the sun are
explainable only by faith in God and will not surrender their secrets to the
investigations of ordinary men and women.' "  His eyebrows drew together.  "Can
you explain *that* to me?"

Her eyelid twitched again.  "Agent Mulder was severely traumatized in
Minnesota, sir."  Firmly.  "He appears to have undergone some type of religious
conversion."

Skinner stared at her in disbelief.  "Agent Mulder?"  Incredulously.

She nodded and pressed her finger against the twitch.  "Yes, sir.  Agent
Mulder.  He had himself baptized a Lutheran in Timmsville before left."  She
gave Pendrell a venomous look.  He had counseled her to simply accept Mulder's
new mania as the result of his trauma; however, on their return to DC, he and
Mulder had gone to Promise Keepers, bible study meetings, and it looked very
much as if Pendrell were going to end up Lutheran as well.

Just as well, mixed marriages were not always successful, her mother had said
philosophically, and "At least Fox has found some kind of faith."

She'd briefly considered slapping her own mother, and the priest who had heard
her confession that Saturday had been shocked.

"Where *is* Agent Mulder," Skinner growled.

"Oh, he took a personal day of leave, sir."  Pendrell beamed again.  "A men's
retreat in Virginia."

Skinner's eyelid twitched.  Scully almost wept in gratitude; it wasn't just
her, then.  Skinner, too, found this distressing.  "Agent Mulder," he mused and
looked back at the letter. "I'm not going to close the X files, Agent Scully. 
I suggest you give this back to your partner.  He's going to have to respect
earthly authority a while longer."

She nearly got up and flung herself at him in tearful relief.  "Yes, sir." 
Rising, she took the letter from him and then reseated herself.  Really, now
that she thought about it, Skinner really was built well; she wondered if he
had any religious fixations.

"In the meantime, I'll inform the Deputy Director of these letters, and
recommend that you, Agent Pendrell, be given an official commendation for your
part in closing the case and saving Agent Mulder's life."  He looked at the
letters again, perplexed.  "A retreat."

"Yes, sir."  Pendrell beamed at him again.  "He's a changed man, I think."

Skinner gave him a quelling look.  "Evidently."  He rose, a sign of dismissal,
and Scully once again noticed that fine narrow waist, the torso that strained
against those tailored starched shirts.  "Very well.  Agent Scully, inform
Agent Mulder that I'd like to see him when he comes in tomorrow."

"Yes, sir."  That firm, high ass, she found herself thinking and mentally shook
herself.

Still, as she walked to the door behind Pendrell, she found herself putting a
little extra swing into it, letting her hips move just a bit more than usual.  

Mulder was lost to her, firmly in the clutches of religion and the idea of sin.
 But Skinner....

She turned.  "Sir?"

He glanced up at her.  "Yes, Agent Scully."

"Do you know who Ogden Nash is?"

He blinked.  "Some poet, isn't he?"

Good, he wasn't liable to quote Nash at inopportune moments.  "Yes, sir."  She
smiled at him, putting every bit of seductive skill into play.  "You aren't a
churchgoing man, are you?"

He looked mildly affronted.  "No, I'm not, Agent Scully, and if that's all--"

She dimpled at him, saw him blink again. "Just wondering sir."  Turning, she
left the office, humming softly under her breath.

A heathen still, she thought.  

There was always the chance he could be converted to Catholicism.  She wondered
how he felt about cranberry silk bustiers and garterbelts.......she could feel
her panties getting wet just thinking about it.

<the end>


"...[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