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

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

Minnesota - part 14
by wickdzoot@aol.com


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe for Spooky it was.

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

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

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

The sound of engine got Pendrell moving.


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

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

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

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

Pendrell just stared at him nervously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<continued>

Minnesota - part 15
by wickdzoot@aol.com


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

Pendrell didn't know Mulder very well.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That got a wounded look, but Mulder drove.


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wondered what it would have told Mulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

<continued>


Minnesota - part 16
by wickdzoot@aol.com


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

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

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

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

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

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

Pendrell's tongue flicked across his lips again.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Pendrell let it rest.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After a moment, she nodded.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least he waited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<continued>

Minnesota - part 17
by wickdzoot@aol.com


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bad," the woman intoned, taking the last step to stand face to face with 
Scully's partner.  "You were born bad and bad you remain.  Get down on your 
knees, how dare you stand on your feet, unrepentant, in the house of the 
Lord.  Hold out your hands, sinner, hold them out!"

Mulder obediently did, ignoring Scully's gasp of outrage.  The wooden stick 
came down on his palms and the lights flickered.  His eyes closed and she 
could see tears on his face, shiny in the light.  His voice was haunted, 
hollow, the voice of a ghost.  "The children wept all Christmas Eve, And 
Jabez chortled up his sleeve. No infant dared to hang up his stocking, For 
fear of Jabez' ribald mocking. He sprawled on his untidy bed, Fresh malice 
dancing in his head, When presently with scalp a-tingling, Jabez heard a 
distant jingling;He heard the crunch of sleigh and hoof,  Crisply alighting 
on the roof. "

The stick came down again, harder and harder.  The old woman's breathing was 
like a train whistle, as shrill as her voice.  "If your hand offends God, cut 
it off," she raged and struck again.  And again.

Scully stood frozen, stunned, unable to move, to protest.  Surely he wouldn't 
let her, surely this wasn't happening.....

Mulder's voice rose, rose up, filling the church.  "What good to rise and bar 
the door? A shower of soot was on the floor. What was beheld by Jabez Dawes? 
The fireplace full of Santa Claus! Then Jabez fell upon his knees, With cries 
of 'Don't,' and 'Pretty please.' He howled, 'I don't know where you read it, 
But anyhow, I never said it!' " 

The woman only seemed more enraged.  "Get on your knees, get on your knees 
and ask forgiveness, beg him not to send you to eternal hellfire and 
brimstone.  Beg him not to let the demons flay you alive, beg him!!  Filthy, 
ugly, nasty thing!"  

The stick rose and fell again, but it broke Scully's stasis and she moved 
forward.  "Hey, dammit, leave him--Mulder, for God's sake!"

He fell to his knees and moaned again, his hands still out, and the stick 
struck with a sickening slap on flesh that spattered Mulder's face with 
something wet and red.

Oh, Jesus--she tried to vault the altar rail, but the body fell forward, 
landing against her and making her stagger back, sickened and suddenly scared 
to her bones.

Mulder's voice echoed hollowly in the empty church.  " 'Jabez,' replied the 
angry saint, 'It isn't I, it's you that ain't. Although there is a Santa 
Claus, There isn't any Jabez Dawes!' Said Jabez with impudent vim, 'Oh, yes 
there is; and I am him!, Your magic don't scare me, it doesn't'--And suddenly 
he found he wasn't!"

"Mulder!"  Scully's voice rose in a near-scream.  "Dammit, Mulder, snap out 
of it!"  With a final, panicked shrug, she shoved Marcy Olafsen to the floor 
and pulled herself out, moving fast.

The lights went out, but not before she saw Mulder put his hands up over his 
head to protect it, saw the smear of blood that brushed his temple. 

"Sinner!!!!"  It was a triumphant shriek.

And then there was silence, not even the sound of blows.  

Only Mulder's voice broke it, small and wistful.  "From grimy feet to grimy 
locks, Jabez became a Jack-in-the-box, An ugly toy with springs unsprung, 
Forever sticking out his tongue. The neighbors heard his mournful squeal; 
They searched for him, but not with zeal. No trace was found of Jabez Dawes, 
Which led to thunderous applause, And people drank a loving cup, And went and 
hung their stockings up."

Goddamn motherfucking sonuvabitch.  Swearing, Scully felt her way forward, 
grabbed the altar rail and swung her leg over it.  "Mulder, don't move, 
you're bleeding."

The lights came on again, blinding Scully for a moment.  When she could see 
again, her partner was still kneeling there, his hands raised, head ducked to 
protect it.  And the old woman was gone, just gone, no shuffling gait, no 
sound, no shrieking, just plain gone.

And Mulder looked at her with wide empty eyes, pupils swollen to eat up all 
but the rim of hazel.  "All you who sneer at Santa Claus, Beware the fate of 
Jabez Dawes, The saucy boy who mocked the saint. Donder and Blitzen licked 
off his paint."  And fell face forward, hands flung outward in silent 
supplication.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 18
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Mulder had come around when Sculy slapped him several times, but it was a 
dazed, confused look and she didn't really want him lucid or cognizant until 
she could do something for his hands, both bloody and striped with welts and 
cuts.   Bergman was useless, just useless.  She'd had to run outside, leaving 
her partner's limp form, and across the road to the Carnival, had found 
Bergman exchanging jokes with small town folk and dragged him away with a 
sharp tongue and harsh words.

She'd told the story without embellishing or editing, and people had avoided 
her eye, as if they didn't want to hear it, didn't want to talk about it, 
didn't want to know.  No one wanted to know. No one had wanted to know what 
they'd heard tonight. Hammond was making the sign of the cross again and 
again and again. God, she'd known the green, underaged sonofabitch was 
Catholic. Irish Catholic no doubt.

Marcy Olafsen's body was collected by the good doctor who served as ME.  Also 
named Olafsson  .  She had frozen to death, died of exposure.  Wearing her 
bathing suit, from the way it looked to Scully, not that she'd examined the 
body all that closely.

And then Pendrell brought the car, and she'd gotten Mulder up and they'd run 
through the ice cold wind that cut even through layers of wool and down and 
made Mulder shiver convulsively in the car against her.  She'd held him 
tightly until he went out again, just plain out, and the limp feel of him 
made her heart hammer with worry.

It was snowing again when they pulled into the motel parking lot. Scully  
pinched Mulder's arm cruelly and he woke again.  Stared at Scully, that 
winsome lost and hurt little boy look that made her heart turn over.  

"Come on,  Mulder," she said. "Come on. We're home. Let's get you into bed."  

Only this time, she put him to bed in her room, in the second bed that had to 
be cleared of her paraphenalia before she could strip his boots and coat and 
sweater and jeans off.

He was already wearing his thermal underwear, he let her chivvy him into bed 
without complaint and rolled onto one side, hugging the pillow as she tucked 
the blankets around him.

Scully went back into the next room through the connecting door to strip the 
bedding off the bed Mulder had been using, all the blankets and the 
comforter.  She laid these over him too, his skin had been chilly with shock. 
 Only then did she take a look at his hands.

His eyes gleamed briefly between dark lashes as she checked them.  "'M okay, 
Scully," he murmured. 

There was a nasty pressure cut on one palm, the reason for the blood on his 
temple and face.  "Yeah," she told him.  "Just a cut.  I'm going to get a 
washcloth, Mulder, and get it cleaned up before you go to sleep.  It won't 
take a minute."

His mouth curved sweetly in the smile that generally weakened her knees.  She 
saw it so rarely.  "You worry too much, Scully."

"You're my partner."  Hell if she worried too much.  Sometimes, she didn't 
worry enough.  

He woke again when she wiped the blood spatter from his face and temple.  
Blinked at her and his brows drew together.  

"Shhh," she told him.  "I'm all done.  You wanna be careful with that hand 
the next few days, okay?"

The smile returned and his eyelids fell.  His breathing became even, then 
sped again, he leaned up on one elbow, struggling to wake up, his mouth 
moving soundlessly.

"Shhh," she told him and touched his hair.  "Go to sleep, Mulder."

"How did she die, Scully?"  His eyelids were so heavy that he couldn't open 
them all the way.

"Exposure, Mulder."  By coaxing, she got him to lie down again.  He'd hit his 
head, she didn't want to give him Valium or Dramamine or anything else.  "She 
froze to death in her bathing suit.  I'll run a tox screen tomorrow, see what 
I can figure out.  No indication of a blow to the head or anywhere else, not 
even any bruises.  Although there were ligature marks around her wrists, they 
weren't deep.  She didn't struggle much."

He nodded and let himself be pushed back again.  "Tomorrow," he muttered and 
sank back into sleep.

Scully sat there for a long while, occasionally stroking his hair and 
wondering what monsters lurked in his subconscious.


Waking suddenly in the night, Scully listened to the sound of her own 
heartbeat and swallowed hard.  Bad enough poor Mulder was having these 
bizarre wet dreams, now she was starting to have them, too.  About Mulder.  
Although thankfully, none of hers involved Jurassic Park or a nun's habit.

Mulder, all snuggly wuggly and rosy under the blankets she'd piled as high as 
the snowbanks outside.  Rosy and completely ready to go, waking to give her 
that absurdly sweet smile as she hiked her flannel nightgown up and slid 
down.  

God, she ought to be ashamed. 

Lying there in the dark, Scully listened to Mulder's quiet breathing and said 
the rosary on her fingers, begging forgiveness for--for what?  She didn't 
believe in the God of her childhood anymore.  Didn't believe that prayers 
would bring surcease from pain.  If that had been true, her half-voiced 
prayers for her partner would have worked.  She didn't believe that God 
listened to prayers and answered them.  If that had been true, she would have 
been in the next bed with Mulder.  Although perhaps that was stretching 
things, she wasn't entirely certain God would answer prayers driven by lust.

One of the seven deadly sins.

Sighing, Scully rolled on her side and considered the lump that was Mulder.   
 She hadn't been able to get any answer from anyone about the old woman, no 
one seemed to know who she might have been, and the minister had looked 
openly frightened.  He'd hustled back to the rectory muttering of demons and 
exorcism.  Which surprised her, she hadn't thought that Lutherans went for 
such papist nonsense as exorcism.

And Bergman had merely cleared his throat and changed the subject, while 
Jorgensen had gone quite nervous.

And Hammond kept crossing himself.

Who was the old woman?  And why had Mulder known where to find her?  And why 
had she attacked poor Mulder.

Sure, even Catholic priests weighed in against masturbation, but the poor guy 
couldn't be blamed, he had no time for a life.  Well, maybe that was his 
fault, he insisted on following his quest, on the never ending search for the 
Truth, with a capital T, and his sister.

Sometimes she wondered if it was guilt or grief that drove him.  There had 
been times she would have gladly had her sister abducted.  There were times 
when she wondered if her sister had been an alien.  Maybe Mulder had wanted 
his sister to vanish, too, and when she had, he'd felt horrid, as if he'd had 
something to do with it.

Certainly, his father had blamed him.  So guilt had been layered on guilt and 
now poor Mulder, the FBI poster boy, the man singlehandedly responsible for 
boffing more field office Betties, had no life and was reduced to dreaming 
about her in a Miata and a nun's habit.  

She refused to even speculate about Jurassic Park.

A knock on the connecting door. Hesitant. Soft.  Pendrell? Scully got up, 
padded over to the door, unlocked it. Pendrell.  

She went back to her bed and grabbed her robe, stuffed her feet into her 
slippers and went back to Pendrell's room through the connecting door.

Pendrell sat down on the foot of what had been Mulder's bed.  "What happened 
out there?"  

Scully shrugged.  

Pendrell look at the carpet, at his stockinged feet.  "He's going crazy." 
Scared voice.  Soft voice.  

"No, he's not."  Scully lifted her chin.  "He's not, he's just under some 
stress.  And you weren't there, you don't know what happened."

"My father is in one of the most expensive nut houses in San Francisco 
because of Viet Nam, he was a quartermaster and the theft drove him crazy," 
Pendrell said without looking at her. "Don't let them put him in a place like 
that.  Don't let him end up counting imaginary boxes."  

Scully swallowed. Oh God. Oh God.  But Pendrell wasn't right about Mulder, he 
wasn't.  "Pendrell, with all respect to your father, Mulder's never been a 
quartermaster."

Pendrell shuddered.  "Don't let him end up counting EBEs then.  Don't let 
them put him in that kind of place."
 
Pendrell's voice was miserable.  And she didn't know what to say. Mulder 
would have known.  "Pendrell--"

Pendrell shivered. "You know what we should do. You should put him on a plane 
tomorrow and report his behavior bluntly."

Scully did not reply, still searching for words to tell Pendrell that it was 
all right, that Mulder was all right.  That he was just being Mulder.  That 
this was the way her partner got into the heads of killers and brought them 
down.  

Pendrell's voice was low.  "But if you do, there'll be more dead bodies.. 
We'd still be going in circles, trying to find the tracks.  So what do we do?"

"So what do we do?" Scully's voice was sharp, acidic. "You leave him the hell 
alone to find the killer.  He's going to be fine, Pendrell, this is how he 
tracks them.  He gets inside their heads."

He gave her an accusatory look. "Mulder's lost it. Completely and utterly. 
Delusory."  

Cold anger flared in her gut.  "You've seen him reciting Ogden Nash and 
making predictions about the killer. Want to bet that when we wake him he'll 
have a perfectly logical reason for his knowing figured out. Only logical to 
anyone with a 200 IQ, of course, but it will be.  And those predictions have 
been right, he's right on target, dammit, so don't tell me he's lost it, his 
mind is working the way it needs to."  

Pendrell blinked at her, eyes watery.  "Agent Scully, I like Agent Mulder.  I 
respect him.  You've got to get him some help."

Scully thought of Olaffson.  Her mouth crimped with distaste.  "He's just 
high strung, Pendrell, and you weren't there tonight.  That old woman went 
after him.  And he was shocked from finding the body in the church.  We all 
have moments like that, I couldn't handle the necrophiliac in Minneapolis."  

Now that she thought about it, that was even more chilling.  What the hell 
went on up here in the frozen north?  "I want you to keep your mouth shut 
about this, Pendrell.  If I find you've been going around telling people he's 
crazy, I'll have *you* sent back under charges." Scully kept her voice cold. 
Analytical, utterly devoid of emotion, just flat statements of fact. Just 
call her Mr. Fucking Data. 

"He's breaking down, Scully.  If we cover up something like this--That's 
grounds for dismissal." Pendrell's voice wavered.  

Scully felt her muscles turn to stone.  "If you push this--they don't 
understand the way Mulder's mind works, they want a reason to get rid of him. 
 They'll stuff him so full of Thorazine they'll have to show him where to 
take a shit."  Deliberately harsh, deliberately vulgar.  "He'll sit in the 
day room and stare at the sun making patterns on the wall and some 
Occupational Therapist will come by and give him plastic scissors to make 
collages with a big bowl of harmless wheat paste." 

"Shut up!" Pendrell's voice was choked. "Just shut the hell up! Okay?" 

Scully shut the hell up. Oh, yes, she did.  At least until Pendrell got 
himself under control again.  "He'll be all right in the morning."  It hurt 
to breathe, hurt through and up and around her lungs and she regretted 
upsetting Pendrell, and couldn't really think her way past it.  "Yeah. Oh 
yeah. He'll be fine, if I know Mulder."

"All right,"  Pendrell told her tiredly, wiping his face.
  
"I'll take him to Olafsson first thing tomorrow morning."  Another nod from 
Pendrell. Scully got up.  "Try to get some sleep, Pendrell.  We're going to 
have a busy day tomorrow with that autopsy."

Pendrell nodded without looking at her.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 19
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Olafsson was better than Scully had expected.  Not that better meant all that 
much.

And Mulder went along with her with less flak.  Which for Mulder meant he 
only needled her throughout a breakfast that would have killed a lesser man.  
At least it meant he was eating.

And he did roll his eyes when she left him alone with Olafsson   during the 
examination at Olafsson 's insistence.

Olafsson   was probably afraid she'd get an illicit look at something she 
hadn't seen before, she told herself sardonically, settling down in the 
waiting room with snuffly kids and tired mothers.  Her book was in her bag, 
she lifted it out, trying not to think of poor Pendrell doing the forensics 
work inside the church and being asked if he had accepted the Lord Jesus 
Christ as his savior by Reverend Jurgensen.  

She'd been hard on him last night, but she hadn't expected Pendrell to come 
unglued over Mulder, for God's sake.

*Mulder* coming unglued was such a regular occurrence that she'd forgotten 
how it might look to the uninitiated.  But his vomiting still worried her, so 
here they were.

There were wooden ducks on the doctor's waiting room wall.  Mallards, if her 
eyes didn't deceive her.  And the receptionist had proudly told her that 
Doctor had done them himself.

She really hated it when physicians allowed people to call them Doctor as if 
the one word made them God.

But Olafsson   was the only physician in Timmsville.  She'd have to drive 
farther away to get Mulder anywhere else, or take that God forsaken airplane 
back to Minneapolis.  

And someone else might die.

She read steadily through her suspense novel while getting disapproving looks 
from the good wives of Timmsville, drawing her legs aside when a snotty nosed 
toddler tried to rush her.

His mother snatched him back as if Scully were the devil incarnate.  The way 
she felt at the moment, Scully mused, she might really be the devil 
incarnate.  Those ducks staring down at her were making her tense.  And it 
was taking a long time.

Mulder finally emerged, looking disgruntled.  "Come on, Scully, he wants to 
talk to you, too."

The doctor's office was worse than the waiting room.  Stuffed fish hung on 
the walls next to wooden ducks.  Averting her eyes, Scully focused on 
Olafsson  , who regarded her without a great deal of pleasure.

"I understand that you are an MD," he intoned.  "And that you frequently care 
for your partner's medical needs."

"That's true," Scully agreed, wondering if Olafsson   thought she was caring 
for Mulder's other needs as well.  

"I prefer not to prescribe drugs for this vomiting," Olafsson   told her, 
ignoring his patient.  "I would prefer to use a more natural means of 
stimulating his recovery from this.  I find no signs of infection, viral or 
otherwise, and he appears to be in good physical health otherwise."

There was a peculiar stress on the word physical.  Scully frowned.  "Yes, 
that's also true."

"However, it is apparent that he is feeling a great deal of stress.  I did," 
he looked at Mulder accusingly, "Suggest that a visit to Reverend Jurgensen 
for counseling would not be amiss, but Mr. Mulder refused to consider that."

Scully felt the first faint urge to giggle.  "No, he's not Lutheran, he's 
Jewish."

Mulder frowned at her darkly.  "My heritage is Jewish, I don't espouse any 
particular religious faith," he corrected, his tone flat.

Olafsson  stared at him for a moment, eyes shadowed.  "Mr. Mulder, I feel 
strongly that your lack of religious faith is creating more stress for you on 
this case."

Mulder stared back defiantly.  "I don't think you have to be religious to 
feel disturbed over the murder of human beings, Dr. Olafsson  ."

Scully cleared her throat.  "Ruling out religious counseling, Dr. Olafsson  , 
what is your recommendation?"

"Ovaltine."  Olafsson looked back at her, no more pleased than he had been in 
the beginning.  "A large cup of hot Ovaltine at night, before he goes to 
sleep."

Perhaps, Scully thought, she'd misheard him.  "Ovaltine?"

"Ovaltine."

Mulder began to snicker.  "Ovaltine?  I hate Ovaltine."

Olafsson scowled.  "Ovaltine will soothe your nerves, which will help to ease 
or stop the vomiting."  He rose, his expression forbidding.  "And now, if you 
will excuse me, I have other patients waiting."

Scully rose hastily and looked warningly at Mulder, who showed every sign of 
beginning a war of words with the good doctor.  "Ah, well, thank you for 
seeing him on such short notice, Doctor."

"I can speak for myself, Scully."  Mulder scowled at her again.

Just don't, she begged him silently and all but dragged him out of the office.

Halfway down the hall, Mulder began to snicker again.  "Ovaltine.  Jesus, 
these people really are strange.  I think it's the snow, Scully.  All that 
endless white, it's enough to make anyone crazy."

"Shut up," she hissed.  "And it's worth a try.  You hate it when I make you 
take pills, it's certainly worth the effort."

He rolled his eyes, but subsided.

At least until after lunch.


The autopsy had been a disaster.  Perhaps, Scully told herself, disaster was 
too strong a word.  It had provided them with absolutely zip in terms of 
useful or helpful information.  

"She died of exposure," Scully had told Bergman stonily.  "And she appears to 
have been wearing her little red bathing suit at the time.  The cape was 
added later, after death, although abrasions on the victim's scalp suggest 
that she was also wearing the crown when she froze."

Mulder's expression was equally stony.  "She knew him, she must have let him 
in, if Pendrell's right.  No sign of forced entry.  So she let him in and she 
put on her bathing suit to pose for him, and maybe that tacky little crown.  
And he took her down.  But how, Scully?"

"There's no sign of a blow to the face or head, Mulder.  The tox screen will 
tell us more.  Possibly a drug, but she would have had to ingest it.  There's 
no sign of an injection site.  And the only thing I got off the body was a 
few dark green wool fibers and cotton twine.  And something under her nails.  
She was tied, but she must have been pretty far gone, she didn't struggle 
very much."

Mulder was suddenly pale.  "That poor damned woman.  I don't suppose we can 
get a time of death?"

"Pretty iffy."  Scully sighed.  "Sometime in the last twenty-four hours would 
be my guess based on what Jorgensen's come up with on her routine.  She left 
work at the mallard factory at 5:00 on Thursday.  We found her on Friday, and 
this is Saturday."

"And what do we know about Jorgensen's last 48 hours?"  Mulder lifted an 
eyebrow at Bergman.  

Bergman's face darkened.  "Eric Jorgensen's been a deputy since 1992.  He's 
completely trustworthy.  Besides, he liked the damned woman."

"Check out his schedule.  I want to know about any time unaccounted for."  
Mulder stuffed his hands in the pocket of his parka.  

It was Saturday, after all, they were both wearing jeans.

"Agent Scully?"  Pendrell came in looking weary.  "The stuff under her nails 
is shrinkwrap.  She peeled something off with her nails and some of it got 
stuck there."

"Great."  Scully sighed.  "I was hoping maybe we actually got lucky and found 
some tissue samples from the killer."

"Luck doesn't do it, Scully," Mulder muttered and rubbed his forehead.  "I 
need to go back to the motel and see if I can collate some of what we've got 
into a meaningful shape."

Well, it was about time, she thought and bit that thought back.  What was she 
saying?  He never collated anything, he just sat in front of his Ouija 
computer and began to type.  "I'll see you back there," she told him calmly.  
"I want to go back and talk to Olafsson  .  If he's the only physician in 
town, he might just be able to give me some information about Marcy Olafsen."

Already on his way out, Mulder nodded absently, not even noticing that 
Pendrell gave him a wide berth on his way through the door.

Scully's brows drew together.  Had she felt badly for Pendrell?  Well, maybe 
not.  "Pendrell," she said evenly.  "You and I are going back to Marcy 
Olafsen's house.  I want to make sure there isn't anything we've overlooked."

He opened his mouth to protest this, took one look at the gleam in her eyes 
and closed it again.

Wise Pendrell.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 20 

by wickdzoot@aol.com


Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Mulder cracked his knuckles and considered 
the pieces he had.  Leaned back against the pillows and whistled tunelessly 
while he cleared his mind.  A blank slate.  Open to whoever was out there.

Or whatever.

And his fingers poised over the keys and began to type.


At two, Scully found Mulder crashed on his own bed, wrapped up in the 
blankets the maid had retrieved from her bed, one hand outflung like Adam 
reaching up to touch the hand of God.

His laptop was still on, on the corner of the bed.  Shaking her head, Scully 
saved the file and took the laptop into her room.  Moved back up to the top 
of the document.

"He wasn't the oldest, he wasn't the youngest, somewhere in the middle, he 
was the one who was ignored until the first tragedy, until the oldest died, 
paying for sins.  Then they noticed him, his mother especially.  They may 
have suspected that the death of their eldest child was no accident."

Scully's brows drew together.  Where did he get this shit?  From the ethers?  
She was going to start suspecting him of channeling if things didn't change.  
Pressing the Page Down key, she moved through the profile.

"After that, he got singled out.  Second born child?  Took the place of his 
eldest sib, but disappointed them.  Dad didn't have much to say to him, Momma 
punished him a lot, for a multitude of sins.  The Reverend preached hellfire 
and brimstone, the salvation of the elect, the damnation of the wicked.  
Momma was cold, like the frozen winter, no warmth at all, and only judgement, 
no matter how hard he tried.  They caught him playing with himself when he 
was thirteen, his mother whipped him bloody with a willow switch, and his 
father just stood by.  He washes his hands obsessively, regularly, several 
times a day.  He believes in damnation, believes that he can only escape by 
saving other sinners, by Grace granted for his acts of salvation.  He wants 
to bring them back to God, all of them, their deaths aren't murder, he sees 
himself as saving their souls at the expense of their flesh."

Okay, Scully could dance to that, it made sense, even if there was no earthly 
way for Mulder to know what the killer had endured as a child.

"Raintree was a heathen, even though he'd been educated at the church school. 
 Raintree listened to the people on the reservation, didn't follow the 
Christian way once he left school.  And he was weak, an alcoholic, he didn't 
accept his higher power, he didn't accept that God could cure him.  And even 
worse, he polluted the Sabbath with his ice fishing.  But Raintree wasn't the 
first.  He started killing before that, but it somehow escaped notice.  Check 
the death certificates out for the last fifteen years.  Check and see if 
there are any that don't have a good explanation.   The green is the rebirth 
of spring, of Easter.  Cod liver oil is given to children to prevent rickets. 
 It used to be given as a tonic, to keep them healthy, and the twin brothers 
already suffered from spiritual weakness, spiritual disease.  So he cured 
them." 

Pretty final cure, Scully thought and rubbed the bridge of her nose.  She 
still wasn't sure about the Jello salad.   Easter?  She was going to have to 
reserve judgement on that one.

"Caroline Timmeson is the killing which reveals the pathology.  She, like his 
mother, ruled the household, she pulled the farm out of foreclosure and made 
it pay, she was the matriarch of her family and nobody made decisions without 
her.  That in itself might have drawn his attention, but it seems clear that 
without her 'sins' of drink and profanity and poor church attendance, 
Caroline Timmeson might have lived to a ripe old age."

That was the most sensible thing he'd said so far.  If he was right about the 
mother, the killer was expressing pathological resentments toward both 
parents.

"It's dark where he is, he fears the devil coming to get him.  He will kill 
more and more frequently now, and Marcy Olafsen's death fulfilled two goals.  
He saved her from her loose ways, fornication and drink and unwomanly 
behavior, and called attention to the fact that the Winter Carnival is a 
pagan festival, going back to the Scandinavian settlers who came here.  He 
named it for what it was, a tribute to the old gods, the summer god who died 
at Lammas and is reborn at Winter Solstice.  Who lies beyond the celebration 
of Christ's birth.  Green jello for rebirth, for spiritual rebirth, celery 
for the bitterness of the lost Garden, marshmallows for the sweetness of the 
union with God....and the rest?  He took communion at Caroline Timmeson's 
table, ate yams and ham to celebrate the flesh of Christ, drank cider to 
celebrate His Blood, and then tucked her internal organs neatly into the 
freezer.  Waiting for the judgement day."

Scully's gorge rose briefly.  Okay, maybe he was right about the Jello, she'd 
grant him that, but he was going to get an argument on communion at 
Timmeson's table.  Uck.

"He's not a minister, but he yearns to be one, yearns to have all his sins 
forgiven.  He's never married, is probably nearing his fifties, certainly 
over forty.  He's trusted by most of the members of the community.  Above 
average intelligence, with some evidence of compulsive obsessive behavior.  
Note:  Caroline Timmeson's organs had been labeled in black grease pencil, 
neatly wrapped in freezer paper and sealed with waterproof tape.  Marcy 
Olafsen was posed meticulously to match the new Queen's runway attitude.  The 
twin brothers were wrapped together, arms and legs intertwined.  Note:  There 
is also sexual subtext here, a commentary on the sin of Sodom and Gomorrah.  
Raintree was lying with his hands folded on his breast in the Christmas tree 
farm.  Christmas represents the birth of Christ, the savior come again, the 
Messiah's mission to save all men.  Caroline Timmeson, despite the blood and 
viscera, was laid to rest, her hands also folded in prayer.  He believes in 
the Our Father implicitly.  Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy 
name, the kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.  Give 
us this day our daily bread--Caroline Timmeson's fruitbread--and forgive us 
our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not 
into temptation, but deliver us from evil.  For thine is the kingdom and the 
power and the glory forever and ever amen."

There was more space after this.  Almost absently, Scully pressed the Page 
Down key and saw what Mulder had written at the bottom.  

" 'Candy, Is Dandy, But Liquor, Is Quicker.  Check tox screen for alchohol 
consumption.  Also, insulin--he may have injected her with insulin, she may 
have been in a coma.  Can insulin be taken in alchohol?  Is it noticeable, 
and does it breakdown in the gut, rather than having the usual effect?  Does 
he have a medical background?  Or a family history of alcoholism?  He lives 
in the dark, although people think he lives in the light."

And that, she thought closing the file, was what he'd gone to sleep on.

Going back in, she patted his cheek gently to wake him up.  "Hey, Mulder, 
Pendrell is going to meet us for lunch at the Country Kitchen, let's get a 
move on."

He blinked at her blearily.  "I ate this morning," he told her, in the same 
tone she used to tell people collectin for charity, 'I gave at the office.'

"Come on, Ace, your jeans are going to fall off if you lose any more weight." 
 She patted his face again.

Warm skin.  Rosy with sleep.  And she was irresistably reminded of her own 
dream the night before.  Mulder, all warm and snuggly wuggly under the 
blankets, stark naked and raring to go.  No, God, don't think about that, 
Dana Katherine, she told herself firmly, Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is 
with thee.....

"Scully?"  Mulder's eyes flickered.  "Can't you just bring me something?"

"Promise to eat it?"

"Uh huh.  I'm really whipped."  He gave her that winsome look that he was 
soooo good at giving.  If she ever found out it was anything but unconscious, 
she was going to shoot him again, only aim lower.

"Okay.  What do you want?"  For some reason, she was still patting his cheek. 
 

He smiled at her sleepily.  "A cheeseburger and fries and a BLT."

It sounded ambitious.  But what the hell, if he kept it down, he was making 
up for calories lost down the crapper at the Country Kitchen.  "Okay.  But 
remember, you promised."

Another winsome smile.  "Thanks, Scully.  I owe you."

He sure did, she reflected and went back out to the four wheel drive.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 21 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


"How are you feeling, Agent Mulder?"  Pendrell put the styrofoam containers 
on the bed and stood back, eyeing Mulder as if he expected him to start 
foaming at the mouth.

Mulder idly wondered what Pendrell would do if he snapped at him, gnashing 
his teeth like that unlamented man-eating Pomeranian that Scully had owned 
prior to their meeting the alligator.  Nah, the comforter was too warm, and 
the styrofoam was emitting odors that were making his mouth water.  Pushing 
himself up, he opened the large, square container and inhaled gratefully.  A 
cheeseburger the size of the Ritz, and enough french fries to make his 
arteries harden just sniffing them.  And--his tummy rumbled with interest--a 
well packed BLT.  

Thank God Scully had been asleep when he'd crept out of bed this morning.  If 
she'd discovered he was still having wet dreams about her, he would have 
starved this afternoon.  

"How did you guys do at Marcy Olafsen's?" Mulder asked and picked up a couple 
of the fries, biting into them with a little moan of pleasure.  "Find 
anything?"

"Uh huh."  Scully came in and curled up in the chair near the bed.  "Not a 
lot, but we found a highball glass in the sink, an open bottle of vodka and 
another glass in the cupboard without dust, the only one.  There weren't any 
more bottles in her apartment, so I doubt she was chosen because of 
alcoholism.  On the other hand, she had a diaphragm inside her bedside table, 
and a very large supply of spermicidal cream.  From her diary, she was pretty 
active sexually."

Pendrell went scarlet and averted his eyes from Scully.

Mulder considered this.  "So, fornication and murder of the unborn."

Scully's eyes widened.  "Mulder, the pope may not approve of spermicides, but 
that's because he thinks the only sex you ever have should be for 
procreation.  Many other Christian sects do not object to contraception, only 
abortion.  And the autopsy showed she'd never been pregnant." 

Mulder ate three more fries.  "I'm missing something crucial.   Hey, where'd 
my laptop go?"  Alarmed, he started to get out of bed, but Scully held her 
hand up.

"It's okay, Mulder, it's in my room.  I read your profile notes."

Relieved, he sank back and picked up the cheeseburger, took a healthy bite.  
"Great.  Did I say he was obsessive compulsive?"

"Uh huh."  Scully almost looked amused.  "Washing his hands several times a 
day.  Although I need to discuss medical facts with you, Mulder, you can't 
take insulin orally.  The only drugs given orally for diabetes are for adult 
onset."

Mulder nodded and chewed, swallowed and almost moaned again.  God, that was 
good.  God, it was good to be able to eat again.  "Oh, he probably has some 
checking rituals, too, but I think we'll see it most in the area of 
cleanliness.  And he's a visible member of the community.  Did you find 
anything out about the deacons or wannabe deacons?"

Scully nodded and leaned back in her chair.  "Harald Olsen, aged 52, married 
since he was nineteen, has ten children, has a dairy farm outside of town.  
He's clear on the Olafsen murder, he's got a broken ankle and his wife and 
four daughters have been keeping him down while five of the six boys take 
care of the cows.   He's also clear on the Timmeson murder, he and his wife 
were celebrating their 33rd wedding anniversary in full view of the entire 
Olsen clan down in Minneapolis the weekend that Caroline Timmeson was 
murdered.  Like Olafsen, the body was frozen, but since she didn't drop out 
of sight until Friday again, since her cronies missed her on Saturday night, 
we can place her murder sometime during that weekend."  She sighed.  "And 
then there's Jensen Moravec.  Aged 56, he insisted on regaling me with the 
scandal that drove the late Reverend Fulke out of the church, and which led 
to his replacement by Reverend Jurgensen, about eighteen years ago."

Mulder's eyebrows climbed.  He swallowed the fries in his mouth before 
speaking.  "Scully, where is Reverend Fulke now?"

"He hanged himself, Mulder, out in the barn on the family farm after his, ah, 
defrocking.  He's buried in the churchyard."  Scully's mouth curved slightly. 
 "Mulder, I believe you *were* starving to death, I've never seen you wolf 
food down this fast."

"It's good," he told her, but since his mouth was full, he wasn't sure she 
caught it.  And it was good, it tasted like a little bit of the real world, 
he was going to have to go in and kiss the cook.  Or maybe not.  Then, once 
he'd swallowed.  "Okay, who else?"

"Ole Knudsen, aged 48, a married man with five children, four girls, and one 
boy.  He was at an ice hockey game in Milwaukee with his wife and daughters, 
watching the oldest boy play."

Mulder flapped a hand.  "Our guy's not married.  He wouldn't function well 
enough to pass without notice in an intimate relationship.  Skip the married 
ones."

She went through the rest.  Harald Ibsen, an attorney.  One insurance 
salesman.  One man who owned a tavern.  "And that's all that Reverend 
Jurgensen marked," she sighed.  "But I asked these men if they could give me 
any ideas about anyone who had maybe wanted to be a deacon, but was refused.  
Or who wanted to, but was too shy or nervous to take it up."

"Good thinking, Scully."  Mulder swallowed the last bite of burger and picked 
up the BLT.  "Anything else at Olafsen's house?"

"Not that we could find.  Except that it had been cleaned recently.  One of 
the things I noticed was that it reeked of furniture polish, Pine-Sol, and 
whatever the hell it is people use on linoleum these days."  Scully waved a 
hand vaguely.  "The toilet and bath and sink were spotless.  I mean, 
spotless.  But Jurgensen says that Marcy wasn't very domestic.  So we went 
back over the entire apartment.  No prints, except for a few smudges that 
could just as easily have been made by rubber gloves."  Her head tilted back 
on the chair.  "And I think I know where she was frozen to death, Mulder.  I 
think she was put into somebody's deep freeze.  We got some of that blue ink 
off her back, just under her left shoulder blade.  You know, the ink they use 
to print store prices?"  

Pendrell had gotten over his embarrassment and was sitting on the foot of his 
bed, taking off his boots.  "Oh, yes, it was very clear.  And I checked with 
the market, did a comparison of their ink.  They don't use the same kind of 
pricing gun.  So I'm going to drive around the local area to some of the 
small towns and see what I can find."

"Well, Zimmer isn't far from here," Scully conceded, when Mulder gave her a 
long look.  "It can't hurt to check.  We can't be absolutely sure, Mulder, 
that our guy lives in Timmsville.  As frightening as it sounds, this is the 
biggest small town for about 200 miles around.  People come here to shop."

"That *is* scary," he mumbled, around a mouthful of the best tasting bacon 
he'd ever eaten.  "God, this is good."

"Don't talk with  your mouth full," Scully chided. "Oh, did Pendrell give you 
your coffee?"

Pendrell hung his head.  "I forgot it, Agent Scully."

There was a crafty gleam in the little twerp's eye that made Mulder uneasy.  
"How can you forget coffee, Pendrell?"

Scully was scowling.  "Pendrell, goddammit, I told you, he lives and thrives 
on caffeine.  It's not going to keep him awake at night."

Mulder's head turned.  He regarded Pendrell with real malice.  "Pendrell, I'm 
going to get you for this."

Pendrell lifted his chin.  "Agent Scully pretends that you're doing just 
great, Agent Mulder.  But I'm not about to share a room with a man who's 
raving because of too much caffeine."

Mulder growled again and pushed the styrofoam aside to lunge at him.  

Scully got there first.  "Pendrell, I think you'd better go down the jail and 
stay with the deputies there," Scully snapped, throwing herself across the 
bed to keep Mulder from snapping the little geek's neck.  "Down, Mulder, you 
can't kill our lab guy, it's his first field assignment, he just doesn't know 
you."

"I'll show you psychotic, you little pencil-necked geek," Mulder growled, but 
subsided to take another bite of his sandwich.  "You better not sleep here 
tonight, Pendrell, you're a dead man."

"I'm not sleeping with a psychotic," Pendrell told him loftily.  "I have 
other places I can go."

Scully sighed, long suffering.  "Okay, Pendrell, you can have this room, I'll 
bunk with the psychotic--er, with Mulder again tonight."

Mulder gave her a narrow look, but decided she had just been replaying 
Pendrell's words.  He took another vicious bite as Scully shooed Pendrell 
back into his winter gear, gave him the keys to the four wheel and slammed 
the door shut on him.

After a long moment, she turned to face him.  "Mulder, don't give him any 
more fuel for the fire, okay?  He's already making noises about how I'm 
covering up a nervous breakdown for you."

Irritation flared into real temper as Mulder took the last bite of his 
sandwich and stuffed another fry into his mouth.  It gave him time to leash 
it before he answered her.  "I'm not giving him fuel for his fire, I've been 
playing very nice with him, I haven't given him a hard time once!  I didn't 
ask him to come into the men's room to hold my head while I tossed everything 
but my toenails!"

Scully leaned back against the door.  "I know," she agreed, "But he's worried 
about your state of mind.  If he gets on the telephone to Skinner, this could 
blow up into a real disaster."

"Fuck Pendrell!"  Mulder scowled at her fiercely.

Her mouth twitched.  "No, thanks."

And then it was all right, they were both laughing and she came back to sit 
with her feet on his bed, still laughing.

Mulder sighed.  "Hey, what did you find out about the old lady last night?"

Her expression changed again.  "Well, that's kind of problematic," she 
admitted.  "I had several people identify her.  They knew who she was right 
away, just from the description."

"What's problematic about that?"  Mulder arched an eyebrow.  

"They've been claiming it's a woman who's been dead for thirty years, 
Mulder."  Scully eyed him.

He stared at her for a long woman.  "Why would a ghost appear in the church 
to terrorize the ungodly?"

Scully's mouth crimped.  God, he loved the way her mouth crimped, it made his 
toes curl.  "Evidently, she discovered the Reverend Fulke humping the choir 
director just behind the altar rail and attacked them both before succumbing 
to a massive stroke."
 
He barely made it to the bathroom before losing everything he'd just eaten.


"Well, it turns out she was a real fire and brimstone kind of believer." 
Scully turned the damp washcloth she'd put on the back of his neck.

Folded over the toilet, Mulder moaned.  "Scuuuuullly.  I have a cut on my 
palm, that was no ghost."

Scully grinned.  "Of course it wasn't, Mulder, I don't believe in ghosts.  It 
was someone like this woman, but who?  I used the identikit to create a 
composite, we have to assume that this woman is a witness--if not an 
accomplice."  At least he'd stopped dry heaving.  If he managed for another 
ten minutes, she was going to start him back on popsicles.  "Anyway, we've 
only got a few small blood spots from where she smacked your hand that last 
time."

Mulder shivered.  "Or the second to last time."

"Whatever."  Scully rubbed his back lightly.  "Anyway, I'm going to go back 
over Olafsen and recheck the tox and blood work.  It looks like she was 
unconscious when she was put into the deep freeze.  No blow to the head, no 
indication  of strangulation, no indication of sedatives.  So, it's something 
easy to overlook, potassium chloride, or maybe insulin, as you suggested.  
There has to be an injection site, Mulder, you don't just wash either of 
those down with a vodka chaser."

He rested his cheek on the arm that braced him.  "I hate throwing up."

She rubbed his back some more and sighed.  "Listen, do you still have any 
popsicles?  No?  I'll walk down to the market then, pick up some more.  Did 
you finish your animal crackers and pears?"  Jesus, it sounded like she was 
talking to a three year old.  Which might be about right.  "Okay, if you can 
keep down a popsicle, you can have some.  Want me to go back and pick up some 
chicken soup for you?"

He gave her a mournful look.  "That's a long way to walk in the cold, Scully. 
 Besides, it's getting dark, I don't want you out there."

"Mulder, I'm a good Catholic, not a recognizable sinner."  Scully eyed him 
back, a little amused.

But his eyes were earnest.  "Yeah, but to a Lutheran, a good Catholic would 
be a sinner.  Honestly, Scully, I don't want you going that far.  In fact, 
I'm not sure you should go at all."

"Mulder, I'll take my gun."  Standing up, Scully ruffled his hair lightly.  
"And I won't be gone long.  Believe me, the last time I got abducted in 
Minnesota really was the LAST time I'll get abducted in Minnesota."

"Be careful," he told her and moaned again.  "I hate throwing up."

Scully arched an eyebrow, cast around in her mind for something to distract 
him.  "Think of anti-gravity, Mulder.  Think of little grey men.  Think of 
liver flukes."  The last was probably an unfortunate choice; when she left, 
he was dry heaving again.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 22 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Walking in the early winter dusk, Scully allowed herself to see Timmsville 
without thinking about a serial killer obsessed with salvation and decided it 
really wasn't such a bad little town.  Just too damned little and too damned 
cold.  

She made her purchases in the market and walked back at a brisk pace, 
stopping off in the office to see the manager.  Trask was presently staying 
with him, having given up her room to the Winter Carnivalites.  She hoped 
that the proverb about guests and fish didn't hold true in Trask's case, and 
that Bjornson was in a kind mood, but his expression was so stolid, it was 
hard to be sure.  

"Hi," she told him cheerfully.  "I'm Agent Scully.  Listen, Dr. Olafsson 
prescribed Ovaltine for my partner's stomach and nerves and I was wondering 
if you had a heavy crockery cup I could borrow."

Bjornson's brows rose.  "Ovaltine?  Having trouble sleeping, is he?"

Scully nodded.  "Well, and having trouble keeping his dinner down."

Bjornson considered.  At least she thought he was considering.  "Yah, I bet 
chasing a murderer ain't all that pleasant.  So Krissie says, anyhow."

Somehow, thinking of Trask as Krissie was going to set Scully's adjustment to 
Timmsville back several days.  Hastily jerking her thoughts away from 
wondering how Trask had gotten such a nickname, Scully nodded.  "Actually, I 
was hoping perhaps you'd lend me a hot plate, if you have such a thing on 
hand.  I could keep it in my room and be very careful with it."

More consideration.  "Yah, I think we could do that.  Let me get you a big 
mug.  You got milk?"

She patted the side of her brown paper sack.  "Uh huh."

"Yah, Ovaltine really helps a man get to sleep."  Bjornson nodded at her with 
more animation than she'd yet seen and vanished through the door behind the 
counter.  Distantly, she could hear a woman's voice raised in question, a low 
rumble of an answer, and Bjornson appeared with a large mug bearing the 
likeness of a mallard duck on one side, and a fish on the other.  And a hot 
plate AND a small tin saucepan.  "Here y'are, Agent Scully.  If that doesn't 
do the trick, tell him that m'wife swears by honeycomb."

"Thanks," she told him sincerely, meanwhile thinking that she'd club Mulder 
into unconsciousness before deliberately feeding him sugar before bedtime.  
"I really appreciate it."

Bjornson just nodded stolidly at her and vanished again.  Back outside, 
Scully trudged down the snowy walk and wondered how she was going to get 
Ovaltine down her partner.  And milk wasn't quite the thing after vomiting, 
or so they'd once taught her in medical school.

On the other hand, she really didn't want to drug him again.  Unless he had 
another sexually ambiguous dream about Skinner, that is.

The only way to do it was to hit him with the gingerale, the popsicles the 
applesauce, and the cinnamon grahams.  He might be grateful enough to drink 
it without doing more than hooting at Olaffsen's prescription.

She devoutly hoped so.  



"What is that?" Mulder asked, aghast, tucking himself into the extra bed in 
Scully's room after his shower.

His partner stood between the beds, holding a steaming cup.   "Hot 
chocolate," she told him sincerely.  "I thought it would soothe your stomach."

Hot chocolate?  The caffeine starved cells in his body sat up and took 
notice.  "Oh.  That was really nice of you, Scully.  Is this the real thing, 
made with milk and everything?"

"Uh huh."  Scully's smile was smug.  "With little marshmallows, too, Mulder."

Little marshmallows.  His mother never would allow him to drink hot chocolate 
with little marshmallows.  She'd always said his nose was going to be 
expensive enough, she didn't want to risk his teeth.   Moved, Mulder blinked. 
 "That really *was* nice of you, Scully.  Thanks."

One sip and he knew.  With betrayal in  his eyes, he stared at her over the 
rim of the cup and spit the mouthful back into it.  "Scully," he told her, 
stunned and hurt, "This isn't hot chocolate, this is Ovaltine."

Scully's expression changed, she sat down on the side of  his bed.  "I know, 
Mulder, I was desperate.  I don't want to drug you, I don't want to open my 
little case over there and pick and choose among the rainbow of controlled 
substances I keep with me, but you need some rest.  And maybe Ovaltine will 
work.  My dad always swore by it."

Great.  He was paying the price for Dana Scully's unresolved Electra complex. 
 No, wait, that was older women yearning after their sons.  Oedipal then?  
Whatever.  He was paying for it.  "But Scully, I hate Ovaltine."

Her expression was so sincerely worried that he leaned back, trying to 
protect himself.  Would it work to put his fingers up in a cross?  Probably 
not.  

"Mulder, you need the rest, you need your stomach to settle down.  Come on, 
you know that.  Pendrell's almost convinced that you've gone completely 
around the bend, that you're delusional.  If he calls Skinner, you know what 
will happen."  Without changing her expression, Scully drew one finger across 
her throat.  "And once Skinner believes him, he's going to have you sent 
back, he's going to arrange for a nice, cozy padded cell.  Skinner believes 
in investigation by the book, he's not going to like the way you get these 
things."

Mulder regarded her doubtfully.  "Skinner wouldn't do that to me," he finally 
told her, "He likes me.  I think.  In a way.  Why wouldn't he?  Our 
resolution rate is well above the Bureau average."

Scully sighed, managed to look heartwrung.  "Mulder, Mulder, Mulder, when 
will you learn.  Even if Skinner was madly in love with you--"  Mulder 
flinched.  "Even if he worshipped at your feet, he wouldn't have a lot of 
choice.  That cigarette smoking weasel would have you committed faster than 
you could say Max Fenig."

Blink.  Blink.  Blink.  "Oh, all right," he said testily, "It's not worth 
making a scene about.  But it was lousy to lie to  me, Scully, I'm your 
partner.  If you start lying to me, how am I ever going to trust you?"

She took his hand.  Had she been reading self-help books?  That expression 
was so sincere it was scary.  "You're right, Mulder, and I apologize for 
that.  I wasn't sure that reason was going to work."

He drank a mouthful, shuddered and swallowed it quick before it could rest 
too long on his tastebuds.  "God, that's awful."

"Keep drinking," she coaxed.

He did.  Drained the cup to the nasty dregs and then spent another moment 
using his finger to retrieve the melted marshmallows from the side of the 
cup.  "Gah.  The marshmallows are the only redeemable thing about this, 
Scully."  

"That's why I got them, Mulder."  A sweet, Pieta Madonna smile and she took 
the cup from him, carried it into the bathroom.

Lying down, Mulder pulled the blankets up.  Oddly, it seemed warmer in 
Scully's room.  Heh.  Pendrell was going to have to keep the cold room, he 
was in here, warm and cozy, with his partner.  The partner with the cupid's 
bow lips.  The partner who had been the subject of many a daytime fantasy and 
wank.  Which would lead to him being stripped naked and covered in honey over 
a fire ant colony if ever she discovered it.

Not that *he* was going to tell her.

Sleep nibbled at the edge of his consciousness as he listened to her rinse 
out the cup.  The door closed briefly and she emerged after a while with her 
face scrubbed pink, wearing her flannel pajamas and--oh, god, dare he say it, 
even to himself, bunny slippers.  How in the world had he missed them since 
their arrival?  And they were pink.

It was a major effort to keep his face from revealing his inner hilarity.   
Instead, he gave her the single whammy, the slightly loopy smile that seemed 
to thaw women's hearts and loosen their thighs the world around.  

Glancing at him, she smiled back reflexively.  "Try to get a decent night's 
sleep, Mulder," she told him and got into her own bed.   Taking the remote, 
she thumbed the TV to life, the volume down low.

Aw, that was so damned sweet of her, he thought, suddenly feeling maudlin.  
Even considering the Ovaltine, a man couldn't have asked for a better 
partner.  A more considerate partner.  A more scrumptious partner.

And sleep was definitely wiping out his brain's ability to function 
rationally.  Blinking, he pulled the blankets up and curled on his side 
around one pillow, staring at the screen as Xena demolished another bad guy.  

"Night, Mulder," Scully told him and and lay down, pulled her own comforter 
up around her ears.  

"Night, Scully," he answered drowsily and blinked.  Blinked again, more 
slowly.  And finally closed his eyes.

Falling straight down the rabbit hole.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 23 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Fox Mulder blinked.

His partner, Dana Scully, stood in front of him, wearing a bunny suit.  

Not a bunny suit as in rabbit, but a bunny suit as in Playboy Bunny.  And 
Mulder had to admit, she looked fetching in it, despite the large, 
surrealistic pocket watch that she kept pulling out from between her breasts. 
 

He wondered how in the hell she got it there, but she looked up and gave him 
a worried look.  "I'm late," she squeaked, in most un-Scully like tones, "I'm 
late, I'm late, for a very important date, no time to say hello, goodbye, I'm 
late, I'm late, I'm late...."

She kept repeating it as she teetered off down the path in dangerously high 
heels.  But man, oh, man, she had nice legs from this angle.  And a really 
cute little....never mind, he told himself and gave chase.

Despite the fact that his legs were longer, he lost her in the trees.  
"Damn," he said and sighed, slowing down.  Maybe she was hiding.  Maybe she 
knew how that bunny suit was affecting him.

Looking down at the effect, he was stunned to note he was wearing an Alice in 
Wonderland dress.  White anklets.  And black Mary Janes.  How revolting.  

Sitting down on the grass, he took off the shoes and socks, relieved to 
notice that his legs hadn't been shaved.  The dress was tougher, but he 
finally managed the hooks and eyes and pulled it over his head.  To reveal 
that he was wearing a red Speedo.  And that Scully's effect had faded in his 
consternation over his attire.  

Well, that was fine, he'd find her again.  And when he found her.....

A large cat wearing glasses was sitting up on a branch watching him with a 
steely look.  

"I'm hunting wabbits," he told it, "Be vewy, vewy quiet."

"Agent Mulder," the cat intoned, in an awfully familiar voice.  "I insist 
that you go by the book.  Put those things back on at once."

"Hah," Mulder sneered, "I'm Spooky Mulder, I don't have to go by the book, I 
just have to tap into the universal consciousness, spout a lot of poetry and 
then, zap, I make a bust."

"By the book," the Skinner cat repeated, more irascibly this time, and 
bringing its eyebrows together.  "This isn't the Spooky Mulder show, this is 
Alice in Wonderland, Agent Mulder, and I'll thank you to remember it."

"You're just jealous since you don't look as good in a Speedo as I do," 
Mulder taunted.

The Skinner cat merely arched one eyebrow.  "Nonsense, if I wore a Speedo, 
Agent Mulder, women would faint and men would shoot themselves in envy."

Mulling that over, Mulder narrowed his eyes.  "Oh, yeah?  Easy for a cat to 
say, no one makes Speedos for cats."

Abruptly, the Skinner cat vanished, leaving only the faintest trace of an 
outline in the air.  An outline that suddenly shapeshifted into a very large 
man, wearing a very narrow Speedo and solidified into his supervisor, Walter 
Skinner.  Skinner smiled smugly at Mulder and gestured to the Speedo, which 
was very snugly packed.

Mulder's jaw dropped and he looked down at himself, feeling suddenly forlorn. 
 When he glanced up again, Skinner was fading, fading, slowly disappearing 
until all that was left was the relevant part of his anatomy.

The corners of Mulder's mouth drew down.  It was a good thing he didn't have 
his gun.  And now that he thought about it, it was a good thing that Scully 
hadn't seen Skinner in his Speedo.

That spurred him forward again, carefully picking his way along the 
increasingly difficult to discern path.  

The forest grew darker, more redolent of the smell of green growing things 
and rot, and he stepped more carefully, pausing to listen for any rustling 
sounds caused by Scully's bunny tail brushing foliage, for any click click of 
spike heels, for any sound that might be her bunny ears waggling as she 
hurried.....

Following the path around an extremely large tree, he came to a doorway in a 
wall that seemed to stretch out for miles on either side.  A very small 
doorway.  "Oh, no," he told the door, "I know about you.  And in this dream, 
I don't wanna see what's in the Eat Me box, or in the Drink Me bottle.  So 
just forget it.

Obligingly, the door grew to his height and opened, tantalizing him with the 
smell of cheeseburgers and fries.  He hesitated, one bare foot over the 
threshold.

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you," said an all too familiar voice.  

Turning, Mulder saw a giant caterpillar seated upon an even larger mushroom.  
The caterpillar was smoking a Morley cigarette.  "What are you doing here?" 
he demanded and stomped one foot.  "This is my dream, it was bad enough to 
have Skinner show up!"

"You don't want to go in there, Agent Mulder.  The consequences would be--"  
A long puff and the Cancercaterpillar blew a series of smoke rings, 
"difficult, to say the least."

"You always want to cover up the Truth," Mulder told him and stomped his foot 
again.  "Well, you don't belong in my dream, so get the hell out."

"Can't."  Another long puff, this time resulting in a lovely, hourglassed 
shape houri in a Playboy Bunny suit.  "I suppose you're looking for your 
partner again.  You always are."

Now, in spite of Skinner, he wished he had his gun.  Pointing his finger, 
Mulder said, "Bang."

A low, raspy chuckle.  "You'll sacrifice anything to the Truth, won't you, 
Mulder.  And remember, you can't scare me, I've watched presidents die."

"Probably helped 'em," Mulder sulked and turned to look inside the door.  It 
was shadowy, hard to make out, but it suddenly seemed more alluring than 
ever.  "Did--did Scully go in here?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out."  The Cancercaterpillar took 
another deep drag and stubbed the Morley out on the tree beside him.  One of 
his many arms handed another cigarette up, the white cylinder passing through 
several hands before it reached the bastard's mouth.  A lighter was likewise 
passed up and its flame flared as the Cancercaterpillar held it to his lips.

"Yeah, well," Mulder kept his chin up, but wavered indecisively.  Then--"What 
the hell, if you want it covered up, it must be the Truth.  I'm going in."

"On your own head be it," the Cancercaterpillar intoned, but his voice faded 
when Mulder stepped across the threshold.  

It was the Lone Gunmen's office.  Hell, Mulder didn't want to be here in a 
Speedo, but since Frohicke had frequently expressed lust for Scully, he felt 
it was only right that he try to find her and defend her.

So, he made his way through the crowded office and down the stairs, and out 
the door of the building to a Victorian Garden, with a hedge maze as the 
entrance.

The scene he emerged to see made him stop in his tracks.was wearing a bizarre 
hat.   Frohicke was in the teapot upside down.  Byers was reading aloud from 
the Lone Gunmen.  Scully was sitting at one end of the table, legs crossed 
demurely.  And Skinner, thankfully clad in more than a Speedo, sat at the 
other end, his gaze burning, regarding them all with contempt.

"Um.  Hi."  He kept his voice bright.  "Mind if I join you?"

With her arms crossed like that, Scully's breasts teetered on the verge of 
falling out of her costume.  Maybe that's why Skinner was doing the 
stonefaced, silent routine.  He was waiting for them to fall out.

Mulder didn't blame him.  Taking the chair next to Scully, he smiled 
engagingly at Langley.  "You don't mind if I join you, do you?"

"Of course not, " Langley told him absently, trying to stuff more of Frohicke 
into the teapot.  "I wouldn't have the tea, though.  You might have one of 
those cakes."

The cakes, predictably, had Eat Me writting in white icing on the top.  
Shrugging, Mulder took one and nibbled at the corner.  Oooh, it was 
fantastic, rich and dark and sweet and chocolate.  Much better than goddamned 
Ovaltine.

"Hi, Scully," he told her, between bites, "I like your outfit."

That got a sultry smile.  "Do you, Mulder?  I like yours, too."  Reaching out 
with one hand--which had the disadvantage of letting her breast settle back 
into place--Scully snapped the waistband of his Speedo.  "I've been waiting 
for you, big boy," she purred in a decidedly sultry voice.

"Off with his clothes, off with his clothes," piped up Byers, pounding on the 
table with what looked like a rolled up copy of The Lone Gunmen magazine.

Scully tugged at the waistband of the Speedo again.  "C'mon, Mulder, don't be 
shy.  Why even Skinner's loosened up, look."

Hardly daring to, he looked, and saw Skinner standing at the foot of the 
table.  "Agent Scully, don't waste time," Skinner growled.  "Get him up on 
the table and do him like he needs to be done."

Mulder stared.  Mulder flinched.  "Hey, wait a minute," he began, but Langley 
approached on his other side and obligingly helped him up onto the table.  
Against his will.  And Scully came with him, standing over him with a spike 
heel on each side of his body.  

"Ooooh, Mulder, is that your gun, or are you just glad to see me?" Scully 
purred and bent to squeeze his crotch through the silky nylon of his Speedo.  

"Uh uh," Mulder glanced nervously back to see Skinner standing with folded 
arms.  

Oh. My. God.  Skinner was nodding in approval as Scully began an impromptu 
striptease, kicking off her feels and raising one leg to peel off the fishnet 
stocking.

He'd always thought that Bunnies wore tights.

The other stocking came off.  Langley was shrilling in time with Byers, "Off 
with their clothes, off with their clothes."   Skinner's deep voice suddenly 
joined them.

"Uh, Scully," he began nervously, "Couldn't we go somewhere more private?"

She blinked at him fetchingly and walked her fingers up to her cleavage.  
"Don't be ridiculous, Mulder, we need to do it in public, it's the only way.  
It will make so many people happy,. you can't imagine."  Her hands went 
behind her back to unzip the Bunny suit.  It came down slowly, revealing 
Scully in Venus de Milo splendor.  Except Scully had arms.

It would certainly make him happy to do it with her at all.  But in front of 
Skinner?   Oooh, white shoulders and lovely breasts with coral nipples 
and...she leaned over him, her nipples brushing his chest and kissed him 
soulfully, her tongue halfway down his throat.

He no longer cared if Janet Reno or Louis Freeh joined the chorus of "Off 
with their clothes," he was just glad that Scully took instructions literally.

Kissing her back enthusiastically, he put both arms around her slender, 
satiny body and wiggled her the rest of the way out of the Bunny suit.  He 
was getting more and more excited, and when he discovered there was another 
Bunny suit under the first one, it seemed a minor obstacle. 

By the time he got to the third one, he was starting to get annoyed, but his 
arousal was so intense that he felt a little faint.  

Skinner's voice was sounding a little irritable.  "Off with her clothes, 
dammit, Mulder.  Can't you do anything right?"

"That's why we like you, Mulder.  You're the only one who has less luck with 
women than we do," Byers jeered.

"Ooooh," said Frohicke from the depths of the teapot, "She's hot, Mulder.  
Too tasty to wait.  Want me to show you how?"

He most assuredly did not, he told Frohicke silently, peeling the third suit 
off with frantic speed.  And Scully's lips and fingertips and tongue were 
teasing him beyond endurance.

The fourth and fifth suits came off in shreds, he no longer cared.  The sixth 
one made him whimper, and the seventh nearly made him weep in frustration and 
desire.

But after the seventh, Scully was as bare as the day she was born, and when 
he touched her, she was wet and slick and ready and the minute he started to 
guide himself inside her.......

<continued>


Minnesota - part 24 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Scully woke with her ears ringing from an agonized scream torn from Mulder's 
throat.

Rolling out of bed, she cursed Olafsson and her own credulity in trying the 
Ovaltine, peering in the faint light from the test pattern on the television 
set to find her partner huddled against the wall.  No longer screaming, thank 
God, but with his arms locked around his knees, rocking back and forth, his 
t-shirt soaked with sweat.  The redolent odor of semen told her what soaked 
his sweatpants.

God, the poor man really needed to get a life, she sighed inwardly and 
climbed over both beds to sink down beside him.  "Mulder, it's okay, it was 
just a bad dream."

Only Mulder could have bad erotic dreams.

He wept into his knees, rocking steadily.  "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God."
"It's okay, partner, it's just another nightmare."

"I was soooo close," he wept, "So close, and then, wham.  Just like that."

"Wham, what?"  She stroked sweat-damp hair and kept her tone pitched to 
soothe.  "Tell me, Mulder, what happened.  You'll feel better."

That got an incredulous and wide-eyed look.  "Better?  How can I feel better. 
 Scully," a more earnest tone.  "I've never suffered from premature 
ejaculation in my life.  Never."  But he put his face back into his knees and 
wept.

She rubbed his shoulders patiently.  "Was it Skinner again?"

"Skinner?"  Mulder raised his head.  "Oh, God, no, but he was there.  
Watching.  And Frohicke, Langley and Byers were, too.  And they were all 
watching.  And laughing, Scully, they were laughing."

Considering that, Scully decided to risk asking.  "Watching, um, what?"

"Watching me make love to you," he told her and moaned despairingly.  "You 
were wearing a Playboy Bunny outfit, Scully.  Well, actually, you were 
wearing several.  And I'd just gotten the last one off when..."  He 
hiccoughed and rubbed his eyes like a child.  "Oh, God, the humiliation."

A Playboy Bunny outfit.  

Bemused, Scully patted him again.  If he weren't obviously in distress, she'd 
hurt him.  How dare he dream about her in a Playboy Bunny outfit.  Besides, 
her breasts weren't large enough to wear the damned thing.  "Mulder," she 
soothed, "Mulder, it was just a dream.  It was just a dream."

More heartbroken sobbing.  

"Mulder," she offered, stricken by inspiration, "Have you considered that 
maybe it was performance anxiety?  I mean, with all those people watching.  
That would be enough to throw anyone off."

The sobbing ebbed.  Stopped.  And he lifted his head hopefully.  "You think?"

"Certainly," she told him firmly.  "I don't think I could perform normally 
under those circumstances."

A long, woebegone sniff.  "Maybe that was it," he whimpered.

"I'm sure of it," she told him and turned her head as the connecting door 
opened.  "Pendrell, that better not be you, I'm not in the mood for you right 
now."

The door shut again hastily.  "Do you need any help with him?" Pendrell 
asked, in sepulchral tones.

"He's fine, he just had another nightmare."  Levering Mulder up by main 
force, Scully pushed him back into bed.  The hell with the shower.  He'd have 
to get one in the morning anyway.  "He's back in bed, and he's awake and he's 
fine now, Pendrell.  Go back to sleep."

There was the faintest grumble, not quite audible, and presumably Pendrell 
did exactly that.  Scully slid across Mulder's bed and bent to tuck him back 
in.  Jesus, his mother must have had fun during puberty.  Loud screams at 
night.  Sticky pajamas and sheets in the morning.  What a treat.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he told her earnestly, "I want you to know that I've 
never once considered what you might look like in the Playboy Bunny suit."

"Good."  Scully considered that.  "How did I look, Mulder?"

The half a Valium she'd added to his Ovaltine was pulling him back under 
pretty rapidly.  "Hmm?"

"How did I look, Mulder?" she repeated, a little more urgently.  Dammit, he'd 
better not go back to sleep before answering.

His mouth curved, even as his eyelids slid down.  "Sensational."

Well, at least there was that, Scully told herself and got back into her own 
bed.



Fox Mulder woke to find the pillowcase wet under his chin and reached up 
reflexively to wipe his lower lip, meanwhile wondering where the hell he was 
and why.

Peering over the top of the comforter, he saw the top of Scully's head in the 
other bed and drew his own back down again, the full and entire memory of his 
dream and subsequent waking coming back with an adrenaline whallop.

Great.  Just fucking great.  Not only did he drool in his sleep, but he'd 
told his partner about his goddamned surreal dream.  And the little problem 
he'd suffered during the course of it.

It was the goddamned Cancercaterpillar's fault.  It had to be.  He'd never 
had a premature ejaculation in his entire life.  Unless you counted the time 
he'd been whacking off in the bathtub at twelve and had his first real 
orgasm.  And the only thing premature about that was that he'd been whacking 
off at twelve.  If Kinsey was to be believed.

He crept out of bed, holding his breath lest Scully hear him breathing and 
wake.  Eew.  His sweatpants were stuck to him.  Thanks a lot, Scully, 
Ovaltine before bed and he couldn't stay awake long enough to take a shower 
and get cleaned up after his lately lurid dreams.

Sighing, he carefully opened the connecting door, tiptoed into the room he 
was supposed to be sharing with Pendrell and retrieved clean clothes.  Then, 
still walking almost silently, he went into the bathroom and closed the door, 
locking it quickly and leaning against the door in despair.

His partner now believed he was a premature ejaculator.  And he'd told her 
about the Playboy Bunny suit.  He was an idiot.  He was a loon.  He was a 
goddamned moron.

Now in the proper depressive state of mind, Mulder addressed the question of 
whether or not his sweatpants were permanently cemented to his body.  After 
some experimentation, he managed to get them loose without removing any skin 
from sensitive body parts.  

His pubic hair, however, was another problem.  "Ouch, ouch, ouch," he chanted 
under his breath, wincing each time another follicle was uprooted.  Oh, God, 
this was soooo humiliating, it was worse than being twelve again.

But when he turned on the hot water, he was reminded again that the person 
who had invented the shower should be canonized by the Catholic church.  God, 
hot water, no wonder Prometheus had stolen fire.  He'd known that somewhere, 
somehow, one of his human descendants was going to figure out plumbing and 
hot baths and God, showers.

Jesus.  Although maybe he should be taking a cold shower instead.  What the 
hell was it about this case that seemed to adjust his libido steadily upward? 
 He wished he knew.  "You goddamned fool," he told himself mournfully and 
adjusted the water to just short of scalding.  

Stepping in, he morosely considered his options.  Not that he had any, short 
of saltpeter, and that seemed excessive.  Ovaltine was bad enough.

Worst of all, now he had to do laundry.  And the snow was too deep to run.  
He did his best thinking while running.  He did his best work on guilt while 
running.  He could probably even come up with the rest of the profile, if 
only he could run.

The water stung and left red splotches on his skin.  It was amazing how water 
temperature could affect one's libido.   Too bad it wouldn't wash away 
depression.

No wonder Sweden had the highest suicide rate in the world.  

Snow.  Scully.  Sex.  And, of course, serial murder.

Still morose, he scrubbed himself nearly raw and turned off the water to hear 
pounding on the door.

"Mulder, unlock this door and let me in!"  Scully sounded pretty agitated.

He wondered what he'd done now.  "Give me just a minute," he told her and 
dried himself hastily.

"Mulder, I'm going to count to three, and if this door isn't unlocked, I'm 
going to shoot the lock out."  Her voice had gone from shrill to an almost 
demonic growl in the space of seconds.

"Just a minute," Mulder called back.  Jesus, did she have PMS or what?  

He heard the deep breath she took on the other side of the door and worked 
faster.

When that breath came out, he wasn't going to have much time.

"OneTwoThree," she rattled out, all in one word, "Mulder, I've got my gun!"

He hastily unlocked the door, towel wrapped around his waist for modesty's 
sake.  "Jesus, Scully, I'm just taking a shower."

Scully's hair was disheveled and she was wearing those bunny slippers again.  
 She had her gun in her hand, just as threatened.  And oh, God, she had that 
Fishwife from Sligo look on her face again, he was doomed, completely doomed, 
she was going to shoot him if he got an erection now, especially since she 
now suspected he wouldn't be able to do her any good.  "Scuuuuullly," he 
whined, backing into the edge of the sink.  "You're letting the cold air in."

The door slammed shut.  Unfortunately, she was on this side of it, breathing 
like she'd been running.  At least the gun was aimed at the floor.  "Mulder, 
you're all blotchy."

Startled, he looked down at himself.  "Um, I took a really hot shower, 
Scully, that's all."

Taking a step forward, Scully put out her free hand and pressed a finger into 
his skin just below his left nipple.

His left nipple woke up and took notice and he swallowed hard, suddenly 
panicky.  "Scully, I'm fine."  His voice rose, thankfully just short of a 
squeak.  "Honest."

A long assessing look as her gaze came up to meet his.  After a moment, she 
looked back at his chest and pressed his skin again experimentally, this time 
above the nipple.  "Mulder, you could have scalded yourself, next time add a 
little cold."

Definitely, he thought prayerfully, lots and lots of cold water.  Oh, God, if 
you're really out there, puh-lease don't let me get a stiffie now, it would 
be worse than the eighth grade in front of Mrs. Kropotnik, his math teacher.

Scully, fortunately, chose to remove her finger from his chest and turned 
back to the door.  "Okay, well, I might have overreacted, Mulder.  Sorry I 
interrupted you."

What the hell had she thought he was doing in here?  Mulder tilted his head 
and considered that.  "Scully, what did you think I was doing in here?"

"Never mind," she told him brusquely, opened the door and went out.  

Staring at the closed door in bafflement, Mulder finally shrugged and reached 
for his shaving kit.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 25 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


Scully sat down on the bed that should have been Mulder's and sighed.  
"Pendrell, you are such an asshole."

"I didn't know, Agent Scully.  He was in there an awfully long time."  
Pendrell looked ridiculous in flannel pajamas, earnest expression and a tuft 
of chest hair positively bristling at the open neck of the pajama shirt.  It 
made her mind drift toward the notion of testosterone....and she had to jerk 
it back, appalled. "And he took his shaving kit in with him, I didn't want to 
take any chances."

Raking her hair back with one hand, Scully scowled at him.  "Nobody uses 
those kind of razor blades anymore, Pendrell.  If you ever wake me up again 
with that kind of craziness, I'm going to call Skinner and have *you* sent 
back in a strait jacket.  I just embarrassed my partner beyond belief, 
Pendrell, because you woke me up babbling about suicide attempts."

Pendrell had the grace to look abashed.  But spoiled it by saying, "I think 
you should talk to AD Skinner, Agent Scully.  I think Agent Mulder has a 
serious problem."

"Olafsson disagrees with you," Scully told him and got to her feet again.  
She wasn't sure why, it had to be the erotic dreams, but she'd gotten weak in 
the knees seeing Mulder mostly nude, knowing that there was only that thin 
sheet of motel towel between her and....Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is 
with Thee--"Pendrell, Mulder's fine.  I'm beginning to think you're the one 
with the problem.  Don't give me a reason to send you back?"

That got an uncharacteristic scowl in return.  Clearly his relationship with 
that airhead Inge had led to an increase in confidence.  She'd known that 
sooner or later she was going to have to shoot that bimbo.

Returning to her room, she decided to take a shower, since they were all up 
anyway.  Besides, there were things you could do with that Shower 
Massage....and Mulder had looked pretty delicious, even scalded pink.


"I wish I could run," Mulder told Scully over Eggs Benedict at the Country 
Kitchen.  "I hate not being able to run.  I hate Minnesota."

"I'm not fond of it myself, Mulder," Scully sighed and bit daintily into her 
toast.  "There's got to be somewhere you can run."

"I asked Bergman the other day, he said I could run in the high school gym, 
but it was locked up on the weekends."  He stared out the window gloomily, 
watching the flat grey of the sky, the clouds that promised more snow.  
"Jesus, I hate snow."

"You grew up with snow," Scully reminded him.

"Doesn't mean I don't hate it."  He rested his chin on his hand and sighed, 
poking at his eggs with the fork.

"Mulder, why don't you see if you can rent some cross-country skis," Scully 
suggested, arching an eyebrow.  "It isn't quite running, but it's close.  And 
I'll bet you'd even like it."

He considered that.  Sighed and poked at his eggs some more.  "Well, it's got 
to be better than cooped up in a motel with Pendrell.  Did you see how many 
cars there were in town already?"

"Yeah."  Scully sipped at her tea.  "These people up here are categorically 
and undeniably nuts, Mulder."

"There's going to be another murder," he told her gloomily and looked back 
out the window.

"Do I have to feed you, Mulder?  Last night, you had popsicles and cinnamon 
grahams and that's it."

"Actually, I had a cheeseburger, most of a BLT and a lot of fries," he sighed 
and shook his head.  "Okay, okay, I'll eat it."  Manfully, he scooped up a 
piece of egg and took a bite.  It was surprisingly good.  He was definitely 
going to have to send the cook a thank you note.  And have one of those 
cheeseburgers at lunch.  And the more he thought about it, cross-country 
skiing didn't sound too bad.  "I wonder where I could rent skis?"

"I'll ask Bjornson," Scully told him aimably.  "Don't stay out too long, 
Mulder, it's cold out there."

Rolling his eyes, he tried another bite of the eggs and was pleased to see 
that they tasted just as good on the second attempt.  "This is good, Scully."

Her mouth curved slightly.  "Especially while it's still hot, I'd imagine."

Mulder eyed her.  She always got soooo smug when she was right.  Even when 
she didn't say, "I told you so," she said it with her eyes.  And instead of 
upsetting him, that just made him remember her in the Playboy Bunny suit and 
the way it pushed up her breasts......

No, he told himself firmly, don't think about that.  Especially not now.


"I think we should follow him in the car," Pendrell hissed, watching through 
the window as Mulder put on the skis.

"If you're so worried, Pendrell, go with him."  Scully lounged on her bed, 
studying Mulder's notes.

"He doesn't listen to me, what if he tries to do something dangerous?"  

Pendrell's outrage was really ridiculous.  On the other hand, Mulder had a 
tendency to leap before looking, and Pendrell was right, he wasn't going to 
listen to Pendrell.  "Go out and get some skis," she told him suddenly.  
"I'll follow you in the fourwheel.  Or rather, I'll sort of follow you in the 
four wheel, okay?"

Pendrell scowled and began to get back into his winter clothes.

Pulling on her boots again, she sighed.  Mulder really wasn't going to like 
this, and she hated to sic Pendrell on him again, but Pendrell clearly wasn't 
going to let her get any work done and she still needed to go over Mulder's 
profile.

Zipping up his parka, the object of her displeasure gave her a sullen look 
and went outside, slamming the door behind him.

Rolling her eyes, she emerged just in time to hear Mulder's response.

"I don't need a fucking nursemaid, Pendrell, and if I did, it wouldn't be 
you."

"Agent Mulder," Pendrell began.

"Oh, come on, Mulder, Pendrell's never gone cross country skiing before, he 
said he'd like to try it."  She tried her very best placatory smile.

Pendrell gave her a long look and suddenly nodded emphatically.  "Agent 
Mulder, I won't even talk to you.  I'll just ski along in silence."

Mulder's scowl could have melted the wintry wastes around them, it was that 
intense.

She edged closer, turning so Pendrell couldn't see her face.  "C'mon, Mulder, 
please?  I need to go over my pathology notes again and he's driving me 
crazy."  Very soft voice, only audible to Mulder, with what she hoped was a 
winsome expression.

Mulder's mouth crimped in that highly irritated, 
I'm-only-doing-this-for-you-Scully way that made her toes curl everytime.  

In her current condition, after two nights of torrid dreams, after finding 
out he'd dreamed about her in a Playboy Bunny suit--and that his subconscious 
thought she'd look sensational in one--it was oh, so hard not to grab him by 
the front of his parka and pulled him down to--no, no, Dana Katherine, she 
told herself, appalled and took a subtle half step backward.

"Oh, all right," Mulder growled.  "Hurry up and get yourself outfitted, 
Pendrell.  It's cold out here and I want to get going, work up a sweat."

Pendrell gave Mulder a look, gave her a longer one, and trudged over to the 
manager's office.

"You're the best, Mulder," she told him, fascinated by the way his lower lip 
protruded when he was in a bad temper.  Or depressed.  Or looking soulful.  
Don't think about it, Dana, she told herself again, a little more urgently, 
but it was hard to resist the urge to squirm.

"Just remember this, Scully," he told her, innocent of what was going on 
behind her calm expression.  "You really owe me one."

One what, she thought and smiled brightly.  "You bet, Mulder."  And with 
that, she took refuge in the room, waiting until the two of them started off 
across the street and toward the edge of town.

Naturally, cross country skiing entailed crossing country, but Scully found 
that enough of the county roads crisscrossed the area that she could track 
them by the direction they went.  Seeing them vanish over a hill, she could 
take the next left and see them coming across the fields.

Mulder's arms were moving briskly and he, despite his inherent clumsiness, 
was athletic, his movements were smooth and well coordinated.  Too bad he 
couldn't carry that into real life.
Pendrell, on the other hand, seemed to be struggling after a while.    After 
due thought, Scully pulled the four wheel drive where they could see it, 
dreading the expression she'd soon see on her partner's face.

She never got the chance to see it.  Pendrell was clearly faltering as the 
crested the hill above her.  Mulder paused, seemed to look directly at her, 
and suddenly wheeled and went back down the hill, vanishing in a scattering 
of loose snow as Pendrell fell face forward and rolled down the hill.

Getting out of the vehicle, Scully found she was in snow past her knees once 
she stepped off the road.  Sonuvabitch.  

Pendrell was howling inarticulately as he kept rolling, so she stopped 
struggling and just waited for him to reach her.

When he did, the impetus of his trip down the hill knocked her flat on her 
ass.  In snow that was almost hip deep.   "Pendrell," Scully told him, her 
teeth clenched.  "I'm beginning to think about shooting you."

"Agent Scully, it wasn't my fault, I think he pushed me!"  Pendrell was red 
face and sweaty and breathing like a bellows.  

Pushing herself to her feet, Scully managed to pop the skis off Pendrell's 
boots and levered him to his feet.  "You are such an idiot, Pendrell.  How 
can anyone not be able to cross country ski?  You can walk and breathe at the 
same time, can't you?"

"Agent Scully, if you keep talking to me like that, I'm going to file a 
harassment complaint with the AD."  Pendrell's face puckered up as if he were 
going to cry.

Yes, she was definitely beginning to think about shooting him.  "There, 
there," she told him, still through gritted teeth, "I'm sorry, it's not your 
fault.  That Mulder is a tricky devil."

And since Pendrell wasn't, apart from his admittedly superior skill in 
forensics, that meant she was going to be lucky not to have to put out an all 
points bulletin.  On her partner.

Pendrell, naturally, sulked all the way back to the motel.

Mulder was waiting for them in the motel, of course.  The jerk.  Scully 
helped the rapidly stiffening Pendrell from the four wheel drive and into the 
room.  Pendrell stopped and scowled.  "I'm not staying in the same room with 
him."  

She sighed wearily.  

Mulder looked up from his laptop and grinned.  "Feeling a little stiff, 
Pendrell?  You need to get away from your microscope more often."

"Mulder--"  Pendrell took in an outraged breath.  "You really suck!"  With 
that, he moved slowly toward the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

Scully blinked at him, then rubbed her face.  "You suck?"

"He wishes," Mulder scoffed, continuing to type.  "So, Scully, you wanna have 
me as roomie, or is Pendrell more your type."

It didn't take long to think that one over.  "You don't snore," she told him 
quellingly.  "Get your stuff together, Mulder."  Snickering, Mulder picked up 
the laptop and carried it into the next room.  After that, it was blessed 
silence, except for the tap-tap of their computer keys as they worked.  

After about an hour, Mulder looked up at her, arched an eyebrow.  "Wanna 
trade so you can give me more shit about how insulin can't be ingested?"

Scully eyed him.  "No.  If I could get into the mortuary today, I'd be down 
rechecking Olafsen for injection sites.  The more I look at the tox screen, 
the more sure I am that your intuition might be on the mark."

He grinned.  "Scully, that's kinky, spending your Sunday afternoon examining 
dead bodies."

"Yeah, right."  She typed more, pursed her lips.  "Why don't you get us 
something to eat.  Since you're actually on your feet and not worshipping the 
Porcelain God."

"Low blow, Scully," he told her, but rolled off the bed and fumbled around on 
the floor for his boots.  "I'm really looking forward to a hearty lunch."

"I can hear your arteries hardening even as we speak."

Another grin before he shrugged into his parka, picked the keys up from the 
dresser and went out the door.

<continued>

Minnesota - part 26 
by wickdzoot@aol.com


After a moment, Scully got off the bed and went to look at the screen of his 
laptop.

"Indications are that the killer is of the organized type.  His victims are 
not sexually molested, not mutilated, and the crime scenes are orchestrated.  
He evidently does not fear discovery, for all of the victims were arranged 
carefully, the scenes showing an almost obsessive attention to detail.  
Ritualistic attention to detail.  The ritual itself may include whatever pose 
or ruse the murderer uses to gain access to his victims.  A study of the 
crime scenes suggests that the victims trust their killer, whether because 
they know him, or because he presents himself as unthreatening. "

It sounded sane and thoughtful. By God, maybe Mulder was right, maybe he had 
to be in motion for his brain to fire on all cylinders.  Impressed, Scully, 
scrolled down, continuing to read.

"The killings themselves fulfill two conditions.  First, they are part of the 
downward spiral, which may have begun when the killer was as young as eight 
or nine.  Second, they send a message to us, the sinners.  They are a form of 
morality play, with an internal purpose and methodology that can be 
interpreted if properly studied."

Well, he'd already hit on that, between Jello and the Pagan Queen of the 
Solstice, Scully told herself and rested her chin on one hand, braced the 
elbow against her knee as she used her free hand to keep tapping the Down 
Arrow.

"Each killing had a theme and each victim performed as an archetypal symbol 
to the killer.  However, instead of killing his mother over and over again, 
this man is killing sin.  Each time he is confronted with behavior that falls 
outside the strictly defined limits of his religious belief, he makes the 
decision to punish the sin.  But even more than that, he is redeeming the 
victims.  Cleansing them of sin and bringing them home to Jesus."

Ritual and the reliance on totemic objects can be observed in most, normal 
healthy children.  Even healthy adults may have some reliance on an object 
which symbolizes luck or happiness.  However, in adulthood, these objects 
have become intellectualized.  They no longer have power over us emotionally."

Scully thought of Mulder's Knicks shirt and grinned.  

"The killer's reliance on totemic objects became internalized.  For him, 
every object involved in his ritual has power over him.  The cod liver oil  
used to drown the brothers--frequently used in an earlier era, not only to 
prevent rickets, but to discipline children who had misbehaved.   The jello, 
the hams and yams, the crown and red bathing suit--red, the color associated 
with the Whore of Babylon and sin--all have power that imbue his ritual with 
meaning."

This man is an integral part of the community, a professional, above average 
intelligence.  His educational background will exceed the norm for this 
community.  His outward behavior is normal, socially rewarded.  His concern 
about acting morally or properly may make him appear to be hypervigilant in 
correcting his own behavior, as well as that of others.  And he is likely to 
have very well honed manipulative skills.  The part of his personality that 
still needs approval, acceptance and achievement is his mask of sanity, it 
hides the terrors that lurk beneath."

Despite this mask of sanity, there will be telling cracks.  Compulsive 
obsessive behavior will be an outstanding feature of the killer's 
personality.  Compulsive cleanliness, constant showering, constant hand 
washing.  He may obsessively catalog details about his victims in an effort 
to rationalize his decision to make them atone through death."

Noise from the next room made her look up.  She heard Mulder's voice, then 
Pendrell's voice, still shrill, gradually took on normal tones.  Mulder 
responded in a tone she recognized as humorous, mending fences.  Good, they'd 
need Pendrell again some day.  Looking back at the screen, Scully continued 
reading.

"He may fear memory disorders, and thus obsessively catalog the way his day 
is spent, rely on calendars inordinately, be obsessed with time.  There may 
be some paranoid elements, and at some time, he will have considered suicide, 
perhaps even attempted it.  There may be some deviant sexual behavior as 
well, although the strong religious element in these murders also suggest 
that this will be strongly repressed. " 

There certainly hadn't been any sexual molestation or mutilation of any of 
the victims.  Aside from the subtle comment on the sexual orientation of the 
dead twins, there was very little overt sexual content to any of the killer's 
presentations.

"As a child, the killer was a victim of physical and emotional abuse.  At 
this point, I would suggest that the father was passive in the face of the 
mother's cruelty, that the killer was the victim of his mother's frustration 
and rage with her husband's passivity.  He was not the eldest child, although 
he is likely to have been the result of an unwanted pregnancy.  The mother's 
pregnancy was difficult, perhaps medically dangerous.  After his birth, the 
mother-child bond never formed appropriately due to her rejection of the 
infant.  Consequently, the killer is likely to have been deprived of the 
ability to learn how to be happy, to feel pleasure.  He does not truly 
understand happiness or joy.  He cannot feel it as others do."

Yeah, yeah, she scrolled this impatiently, pausing only to read Mulder's 
assertion that the killer was not the eldest child.  

"As a result of these early experiences, his first real experience of strong 
emotion, of what he perceives as joy and satisfaction, would have come 
through killing things.  At first, he may have been startled by the reaction 
to killing an animal, perhaps a farm animal or a pet.  (A chicken?  A dog?)  
But gradual experimentation showed him that torturing animals to death 
brought emotional satisfaction, perhaps the first he had experienced in his 
life.  I believe it is probable that one or more of his siblings was also 
used as a subject for experimentation.  Since he was seen as unwanted and 
weak, they would not have feared him until it was too late.  One of the 
wanted children, who had not been rejected by the mother, undoubtedly died in 
what was determined to be an accident, but which was almost certainly the 
killer's first taste of power over another human being."

Frowning, she leaned back against the headboard, thinking about that.  It 
should be easy, in a community this size, to check and see if there were any 
fortyish or fiftyish men who had lost siblings to accidental death.  *That*, 
at least, gave them something more to go on then Mulder's haunted quotes.

"There may have likewise been some experimentation and fascination with 
flame, but I think it unlikely.  It's doubtful that in a tightly knit 
community, arson as a youthful preoccupation would be forgotten or forgiven 
enough to enable the killer to achieve positive social recognition.  The 
sexual component of these murders is so deeply buried in the psyche of the 
killer that it suggests hyposexuality.  Although almost certain in his late 
forties or early fifties, he is unlikely to have married or to have had a 
long term sexual relationship.  He may have difficulty sleeping, and almost 
certainly showed nighttime incontinence as a child."

She nodded again, heard the key in the door and glanced up as Mulder came in. 
 He grinned at her, his arms full of styrofoam containers, and set them all 
on top of the dresser.  "Scully, I have food."

She was already reading again, this time aloud.  " 'He may also have been 
subject to migraines, with the relief of the migraine coming after his choice 
of a victim.  He will see this as God's reward for taking action against the 
sinners.'  Mulder, where do you get this business of the headaches?"

Taking off his parka, he stared at her, his mouth quirking as he thought 
about it.  "It just came to me?"

Scully rolled her eyes.  "I think you've got some really good stuff here, 
Mulder.  It should be relatively easy to check the death records for thirty 
to forty years ago and find out which families lost kids to accidental death, 
like drowning."

"Or in a fire," he agreed, "Or in a farm accident.  This is a farm kid, 
Scully.  That's why he came back to this little town.  I want to check where 
our local professionals went to school and whether or not there were any 
murders with similar signatures in the area while they were at school."

She really was impressed.  He might be having dreams whackier than the PeeWee 
Herman show, but he still had it.  "So, what did you bring me, Mulder?"

Mulder waggled his eyebrows at her.  "A lot.  Baked whitefish with potatoes 
in a creamy sauce with chives.  A nice green salad with lots and lots of 
veggies in it and low fat dressing.  A nice apple cobbler--I figured we'd 
leave the ice cream off, by the time you get through the salad and the fish, 
it would have melted anyway."

Unable to help herself, Scully snickered.  "Mulder, I take back every snarly 
thing I've said to you here.  I just needed you to look alive to actually get 
a decent meal."

A soulful look and he came over to hand her three containers, two large and 
one small.  That left two large and one small for him.  She arched an eyebrow 
as he collected his own and sprawled belly down on the other bed.  "What did 
you get?"

He grinned.  "I told you, Scully.  A nice cheeseburger and fries, a nice BLT 
just stuffed with the B and the T, and my own helping of apple cobbler.  I'm 
starving to death."

"No wonder."  She smiled and opened the salad.  Oh, God, he had outdone 
himself.  "Mulder, I'm feeling dangerously soft on you right now."

He leered at her playfully, the first sign of mental health she'd seen on 
this trip.  "Oooh, Scully, talk dirty to me."

"Heh."  Digging in, she pushed the laptop toward him.  "First thing in the 
morning, you go over to the county courthouse and check the death records.  
I'm going to check Olafsen for injection sites and talk to Dr. Olafsson about 
checking her medical records.  I think his nose is out of joint because I've 
taken over the autopsies."

Mulder said something unintelligible around a mouthful of cheeseburger, then 
swallowed and coughed.  "God, Scully, send him to the good Reverend for 
spiritual counseling.  Now tell me, how could a man avoid having people 
notice obsessive compulsive cleanliness rituals?  And how would he avoid 
having chapped hands?  He can't possibly put anything on them, he can't stand 
having anything oily on his skin."

"There are a lot of non-greasy preparations on the market, Mulder," Scully 
told him.  "Some of them used in hospitals to rub patients down.  But you're 
right, his skin would still have to be pretty dry." 

"Are they available to the general public?"  Mulder arched one eyebrow at 
her.  "Yeah?  Well, that won't necessarily help us.  What kind of people 
could get away with that kind of obsessive behavior without anyone taking 
note of it?"

"Well, farmers, veternarians, doctors, dentists."  Scully tilted her head 
back and considered.  "Cooks."

"If it's the one at the Country Kitchen, I'm going to get him a good 
attorney," Mulder muttered.  "This is sooo good."

"Mulder!"  Shocked, she poked him in the ribs with her foot.  "That's a 
terrible thing to say."  But giggling as she said it diluted the reprimand.

Unrepentant, he took another bite, chewing happily.  She couldn't really 
blame him.  Now that she actually got a chance to eat something more than 
Mulder's left over pancakes or cold chicken and noodles, she could sort of 
see his point.

<continued>


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