From whit@ix.netcom.com Sun Apr 27 09:42:30 1997
Subject: The White Bear (1/4)
From: Whit Edwards <whit@ix.netcom.com>
--------
The White Bear

Whit Edwards

Rating: G

Classification: Story

Summary:  An attempt on Mulder's life drives the partners into hiding,
	but even on the run they can't resist a mystery or two.  This story
does NOT require a familarity with The X-Files to understand (and, I hope,
enjoy) and does provide a fair amount of background, so some readers are
now using it to introduce their friends to 		the show.

Note:  This story is historically set between Avatar and Quagmire and was
written at that point; although that fact is not particularly important,
subsequent developments are not reflected. (Actually, it was originally
intended to take place the summer after Avatar, but then QueeQueg was
killed the next week in Quagmire, and I liked the little guy too much to
write him out of my story.  We all know that Quagmire was set in the
spring, but within the context of this story, just pretend that it didn't
happen until later in the summer, okay?)

Very mild third seaon spoilers, the worst of which you probably just read.
Sorry about that...

All characters and situations are used without permission from Chris Carter
and Ten Thirteen Productions who created them, or from 20th Century Fox to
whom they belong, but the story is written without any profit motive, so
they probably wouldn't care too much, even if they knew about it.

BTW, this was initially intended as a character sketch.  The plot basically
created itself...

The White Bear (1/4)

	The first thing FBI Special Agent Dana Scully noticed when she
entered the basement office she shared with her partner was that the coffee
maker wasn't on.  It wasn't particularly unusual to find the office empty
when she arrived in the morning, but it was a rare day that Fox Mulder
hadn't been there before she came in.  Over the previous four years, they
had fallen into so many of the daily rituals people develop when they live
in close quarters for extended periods of time...  Mulder came in each
morning and started the coffee before heading out on his daily rounds,
gathering the satellite photos, news reports and other information from
which he so often managed to piece together their cases.  By the time
Scully arrived, the coffee was always brewed; she would pour a mug for each
of them and, as often as not, hear about their newest case.  She had, on
occassion, instigated investigations herself, but more often their
assignments came from their immediate superior, FBI Assistant Director
Walter Skinner or from Mulder's uncanny instinct for the inexplicable.
The X-Files, the project to which Mulder and Scully were assigned, was
unlike anything else the FBI did.  Their cases dealt exclusively with
unexplained phenonmenon, from criminals with claimed or apparent psychic
ability to reports of alien abduction.  Needless to say, they didn't all
come from the most conventional of sources...


	So where, she wondered, is Mulder?  When they had parted the night
before, after grabbing dinner at a diner near his apartment, he had planned
to head straight home and go to  -- well, probably actually to crash on the
couch watching either porn videos or old horror flicks, but in any case, he
hadn't intended to do anything different from his usual insomnia-plagued
evening routine.  They had wrapped up their last case two days earlier and
had spent the interim catching up on much overdue paperwork.  It was not
exactly what she had joined the FBI for, and it was absolutely Mulder's
least favorite part of the job.  As a physician with an expertise in
forensic pathology, and again as a graduate of the FBI Academy, Scully at
least, however, had had the need for accurate documentation pounded into
her skull.

	She checked her desk -- neat as always -- no note.  She checked his
-- littered with hundreds of unrelated pieces of paper -- but didn't see
anything that looked new.  Scully paused, pondering her next move.  She'd
be lying if she told anyone that it was unheard of for Mulder to take off
on the spur of the moment without letting her know exactly what was going
on (she'd even coined a mental label for it -- the "Scullyditch") but he'd
always found some way to let her know at least that he was going.  It
wasn't as if either ever went anyplace without a cell phone...

	If SHE didn't know where Mulder was, the one other person who might
was the Assistant Director.  Earlier in their partnership, Mulder would
never have confided in their boss, whose mysterious ties with the secret
consortium dedicated to keeping hidden all that Mulder strove to reveal had
hog-tied them on more than one investigation; but over the past two years,
Skinner had demonstrated his true allegiance, risking first his career and
then his life to protect Mulder, Scully and the X-Files.  When, more
recently, Skinner himself had been accused of murder, Mulder had doggedly
pursued the real killer with utter faith in his superior's innocence; more
faith than even Scully had had. It had demonstrated quite a change from
Mulder's feelings about the Assistant Director when Scully had initially
been assigned to the X-Files, but so much had happened since then...  She
headed up to Skinner's office.

	The AD's secretary hesitated before answering her query.
	"He was here with the door closed when I arrived, but he definitely
has someone in with him.  It might be Agent Mulder.  Should I let him know
that you're here?"  Scully nodded and Margaret buzzed the office.
Skinner's reply was impatient.
	"What is it?"  That he was not to be disturbed was implied in his tone.
	"Agent Scully is here, sir."
	There was a long pause.  Finally, he answered.
	"Send her in."

	With a look clearly conveying that she was glad she wasn't the one
bearding the lion in his den,  Margaret gestured towards the office.
Scully crossed the room and entered the inner office.  Skinner was there,
seated behind his desk, with a thunderous look on his face.  Scully noted
just a hint of cigarette smoke in the air; that odor never boded well, for
it was the subtle trace of a constant nemesis, a man about whom Mulder and
Scully knew next to nothing, except that he seemed to act as a sort of
point man for the consortium and continued to exert some sort of hold over
AD Skinner.  Seated facing Skinner was her partner; the sight of him
stunned her.  He was dressed as he had been the previous evening, in jeans
and a sweatshirt whose sleeves had long since been cut off;  his shirt was
covered with blood.  A cut on his forehead was clotted but hadn't been
cleaned up.

	"What happened to you?"  Scully asked.
	Skinner spoke in response, not answering her question.
	"Have a seat, Agent Scully."  She ignored her boss.
	"Mulder, are you all right?"
	He met her concerned gaze with a familiar quirked eyebrow.
	"Guess it's a good thing you didn't come in with me last night.  I
had company waiting when I got there."  He indicated the seat beside his
and she took it.
	Looking from one man to the other Scully asked, "Do we know what
this is about?"
	Skinner answered.  "Not really, no, but it sounds as if the men who
attacked Agent Mulder may have been government agents."
	"Why do you think that?"
	This time Mulder replied.   "They had government-issue handguns,
Scully, and one of them referred to me as 'Spooky'."

	Scully nodded. Not many people outside of the Bureau would know of
the Academy nickname for the man who, as a young agent in the Violent
Crimes section, made such uncanny leaps of logic (or intuition, or some
even more indescribable combination of the two, aided by his enviable
eidetic memory) while profiling criminals that he both awed and frightened
his colleagues.

	"What did they want?"
	"It isn't clear what they were after, Agent Scully."
	"They stole my computer, Scully, and they smashed the fish tank."
	 "What kind of a truck ran over you?"
	"They started with a baseball bat.  I don't remember much after that."
	"I invited you into this meeting to ask you something, Agent
Scully, not so the two of you can review the story Agent Mulder just spent
nearly an hour relating to me.  You can talk once you leave my office.
Right now I want to make sure that these guys don't have the chance to
finish the job before we get them."
	"What do you have in mind, sir?  Agent Mulder is certainly welcome
to stay with me, but if they know where he lives..."
	"Exactly.  Which is why I want the two of you to go away for awhile."
	"Go away where?"
	"Some place off the beaten track.  Somewhere no one will think of
looking for you.  I don't want to know where you are.  I don't want  anyone
to be able to track your cellulars.  I've written up a voucher for $2,000
and issued  you a company car.  Cash only,  please.  Keep in touch; I'll
let you know when it's safe to come back."

	Scully exchanged a questioning look with Mulder, but it was clear
from his expression that, for once, he didn't know any more about what was
going on than she did.  "Do you really think this is necessary, sir?  We've
both been threatened before."
	"Dana, please, humor me."   The unexpected familiarity of his
lowered voice and use of her first name added emphasis to his words as he
continued.
	  "I don't know what's going on,  but I have a bad feeling about
this one, and I'm tired of visiting my agents in the hospital.  Don't
complain, take a vacation on the department.  Enjoy yourselves, just do it
discreetly.  Oh, and if you want anything from your apartments, let me know
and I'll send an agent for them."  Scully met and held his eyes.   He
returned her gaze steadily, but she sensed that he knew more than he was
saying, more than he could say.  She thought about the faint odor in the
room.
	"Yes, sir.  We'll each make up a list."
	"Agent Mulder, is there anything else about the attack that you
haven't told me?"
	"No, sir, I think I've told you everything.."
	"Then you two had better get out of here and decide where you're
going.  I'll expect you to be on the road by the middle of the day."
	"Yes, sir."

	Out in the hall Scully shot her partner a look that he countered
with a crooked eyebrow which said, "Once we're back in the office," as
clearly as if he had spoken.  On the rare occassions when the partners
worked with fellow agents, Mulder and Scully's silent conversations drove
their colleagues crazy.  Together, they could analyze an entire crime scene
without ever saying a word.

	In their office, he shut the door behind them.
	"You think we're less likely to be overheard here than in the
hallways of FBI headquarters?'
	"I don't know, but I do think someone from the Bureau is involved
in all of this somehow, and Skinner does too, or he wouldn't be telling us
to run."
	"Do you think he knows more than he's telling?"
	"Yes, and I think that he's afraid."
	"So do I."

	By 2:00 pm they were on the road; Scully's Pomeranian, QueeQueg,
snoozing on the back seat, and the overnight cases, which had been packed
by agents sent to their respective apartments by the Assistant Director, in
the trunk.  Mulder had tried to tease Scully about having a male agent
going through her underwear drawers, but his effort was half-hearted and
she only smiled at his quips to make him feel better.  She'd cleaned up his
face as soon as they'd gotten back to the office, and he had showered and
changed into clean clothes the agents had brought, but the previous night
was taking its toll.  He tried to carry on a conversation as his partner
drove, but she was aware of his struggle to keep his eyes open.

	"How're you feeling, Mulder?"
	"Like a speed bump after rush hour."
	"I wish you had let me take you to a doctor before we left D.C."
	"I was planning on taking my personal physician with me on this
trip."  That earned him a real smile.
	"Just so you let me check you over when we stop for the night.  I
wouldn't want to be sued for malpractice after you bleed to death."
	"Is that why you've stuck with me all this time, Scully?  Fear of
lawsuits?"
	"Someone has to watch your back."
	"Who gets to watch yours?"
	"Wouldn't you like to know."
	"Where are we headed, anyway, Scully?"
	"Someplace I went once as a kid.  No one will look for us there.
Take two of these and go to sleep, Mulder.  I'll wake you when we stop for
the night."  She handed him the bottle of pain killers she had grabbed from
her black bag prior to leaving the office.  She had long since learned that
it was always a good idea to carry codeine when Mulder was around.

	He slept peacefully as Scully drove west out of DC, studying the
rear view mirror for any possible tail, following a barely-remembered
memory to a place she had been more than twenty years earlier, a place she
hadn't thought of in more than a decade, a place where she instinctively
knew she would feel safe.  As she drove, she also kept a watchful eye on
the man who had so unexpectedly become such an important part of her life
four years before.  If anyone had ever told her that the person she would
be closest to in the world would be a man with whom she would share a
platonic, professional relationship, a man so ravaged by the world that he
saw conspiracy around every corner, a man who would drag her all over the
country, and beyond, chasing extraterrestrials, ghosts and other
unexplained phenomena, a man for whom she would be willing to give up any
and every thing -- her job, her sense of reality, even her sister, she
would have thought he was insane.  But that was before Mulder had welcomed
her into his office, the realm of the FBI's "most unwanted" and asked who
she had ticked off to get the assignment of spying on him.  It was before
she had run, half-naked, terrified that mosquito bites on her back were
evidence of an alien abduction, into his motel room and heard the story of
his eight-year-old sister Samantha's disappearance when Mulder was twelve;
before they had risked their lives together countless times, before they
had set themselves up as the last bastion of the truth.  And it was before
he had, when Scully was being held prisoner, willingly traded a woman he
believed to be the adult Samantha for her.  Before she knew him.  He was
her partner, her best friend and when it came right down to it, the only
person, except maybe for her mother, she trusted without reservation.  And
if sometimes she felt more than that, if her gaze lingered for a moment on
his lanky form, or met his warm brown eyes a for longer than might be
decorous, if she reveled in the moments when his hand rested in the small
of her back as he ushered her from a room, well, it wasn't worth the risk
of losing what they had to find out what else it could become.  Their
partnership was something she was unwilling to give up.  Even shutting down
the X-Files and reassigning both of them hadn't divided them; she certainly
wasn't about to chance destroying it now.  Not for anything.  Which didn't
keep her eyes from wandering from the road to his sleeping form.  Sleep did
not come easily to Mulder, but when he did succumb, the strain of the last
few years fled his face, and he looked young and innocent.  Scully had to
still her hand to keep from brushing his hair from his eyes.

	She stopped for the night a few hours east of Columbus, Ohio,
finding a small motel just off Interstate-70.

	"This place is right up Mulder's alley," she said, under her breath
as she pulled up in front of the office.  The motel was indistiguishable
from any one of the infinite number of slightly seedy places he had booked
them into over the course of their partnership.  Mulder slept, undisturbed
by their stopping, and she left him in the car while she went in and
registered, taking two adjacent rooms.  The night manager raised his
eyebrows suggestively when Scully asked for a connecting door but rapidly
retreated when faced by Scully's icy expression.  Since her own abduction
and more than four-month absence two years earlier, she had suffered from
nightmares and would sleep more easily if she could hear her partner's
steady breathing.  He, in turn, slept far better when she was around.  In a
moment of unusual vulnerability, he had once told her that she made him
feel safe.  Besides, Queequeg had to be able to protect them both or he
would worry.  Wordlessly, Scully filled the registration card out with one
set of the names Skinner had provided them, handed over the cash and took
the keys.  She put a hand on her partner's arm after pulling up in front of
the rooms.

	"Come on, sleepy head.  Let's get you inside."  He roused and
looked into her face, smiling.
	"I hope you're going to tell me that all they have left is one room
with a double bed."
	"Sorry, partner.  Adjoining rooms.  Better luck next time."
	"Who's the dog going to sleep with?"
	"I think that's up to him.  If you can make it to your bed, I'll
bring in your stuff.  How are the bruises?  You can have a couple more of
the pain pills if you'd like them."
	"Thanks.  Sorry I haven't been much help with the driving."
	"So you owe me."
	"I'm good for it."
	"I know you are, Mulder."

	The rooms were generic cheap motel from anywhere USA, but they
seemed clean and the air conditioning worked.  Most importantly, there were
beds in them.  Scully brought in both bags, walking around her partner who
stood a little unsteadily in the middle of his room, and moved to turn down
his bed.

	"Come on, you.  Into bed."
	"Sure you don't want to join me?"
	"You might get lucky and be able to spend the night with the dog."
	"Say it isn't so!"

	Mulder slowly pulled off his sweatshirt.  The sight of his bruised
torso made Scully wince.  Attempting to make Mulder feel at home, she
clicked on the tv and flipped channels until she found an old horror movie.
Setting the sound low, she turned to her partner.

	"All right, truth time.  How are you feeling?"
	"Battered, but I'll live."
	"Show me where it hurts the most..."

	With Mulder's cooperation, Scully checked him over, determining
that with the possible exception of some cracked ribs, his diagnosis was
relatively accurate.  Somehow he seemed, for once, to have avoided serious
injury.

	"You were lucky."
	"Easy for you to say."
	"Take these and go to sleep, Mulder.  I'll be next door if you need
me."
	He took her hand as she moved past him.  She paused, looking back
at him.
	"Thanks, Scully."  Her smile contained all the answer he was
looking for.

	In the morning, Scully was awakened by the sound of Mulder's
shower.   She stretched, disturbing Queequeg, who had deigned to come sleep
with her only after being abandoned by Mulder.

	"Fickle thing," Scully murmured affectionately, scratching the
dog's head.  As she cast her gaze around the room, it fell on the styrofoam
cup of steaming coffee her partner had left on her bedside table: cream, no
sugar.  Some days that man was just about perfect.  The night's sleep
appeared to have done Mulder a world of good.  When he stuck his head
through the doorway into Scully's room, he seemed almost himself, except
for the fact that he moved a little gingerly.

	"Morning."
	"Morning.  How are you feeling?"
	"A little stiff and sore, but otherwise all right.  The goose egg
on my head is still a little tender.  Do you know that the dog snores?"
	"Mulder, I sleep with him every night.  Of course I know he snores."
	"I've never had a dog."
	"Neither had I, until I brought him home."
	"It would be nice to have someone to come home to every night."
	Scully eyed him, trying unsuccessfully to discern any underlying
significance to his words.
	"I like it.  I'm surprised how much."

	Mulder stood watching his partner and her small pooch, and a
comfortable silence filled the room.  After a moment, he changed the
subject.
	"So, when are you going to let me in on the big secret?  Where are
we going?"
	"Be a little patient. Mulder.  First things first."
	"And those are?"
	"First we get breakfast."
	"And then?"
	"And then we buy some gear. Just in case there isn't any room in
the inn..."

	It was late morning before they were back on the road, heading
north toward State Route 23, the trunk now packed  with a tent, two
sleeping bags, cooking equipment and other assorted camping gear. Mulder's
zeal for the shopping expedition, once it started, had surprised and
pleased Scully.  Watching him play with all of the gadgets in the huge
sporting goods center reminded her of how infrequently she actually saw him
relax.  While one part of her was angry at Skinner for clearly hiding
something from them, another part felt like getting away for a week or two
was the best thing that could have happened to either of them.  They'd
recently had a couple of very tough cases and could really use a break.
God knew Mulder would never take a vacation unless he was forced to.

	She let him take the first shift behind the wheel, figuring that he
would probably tire quickly, requiring her to take over;  at least that way
she'd get a little break from driving.  He followed her instructions "23 to
15 to 75, then straight on until morning," without comment.  They swapped
drivers just across the Michigan line.

	Scully broke their companionable silence as 23 merged with 75
south of Flint.
	"One summer,when my dad was stationed in Chicago, we headed up to
the upper peninsula of Michigan for a week's vacation.  We rented a little
cabin on the lake and an outboard, and spent the entire week either in or
on the water.  It was the prettiest place I've ever been.  That's where
we're heading."
	"Why'd you pick that spot, Scully?"
	"I don't know, Mulder.  When Skinner said we should get away, an
image of it popped into my head.  Until then I hadn't thought of it in
years.  I just figure that it is so peripherally related to either of our
lives that no one would ever think of looking for us there.  I don't think
it would occur even to my mother."
	"And once we get there?"
	"We're either going to have to find a cabin or a place to camp."




From whit@ix.netcom.com Sun Apr 27 09:59:18 1997
Subject: The White Bear (2/4)
From: Whit Edwards <whit@ix.netcom.com>
--------
The White Bear (2/4)

All disclaimers, etc., can be found at the beginning of the first section.

	Mulder watched Scully as she drove.  She did that as she did
virtually everything: competently, gracefully, with a minimum of extraneous
effort.  For the millionth time he thanked whatever lucky star had been
shining the day the cigarette-smoking "Cancerman" and his cronies had
assigned Scully to the X-Files.  He'd learned a lot from her and her
devotion to the scientific method over the course of the last four years.
He'd learned that even some of the most bizarre things had rational and
earthly explanations, that patience is a virtue when investigating cases,
and that two reasonable people with the same goal of uncovering the truth
could interpret the exact same data very differently.  He'd also learned to
trust and to feel.  Scully's abduction and eventual return, in a comatose
state and apparently dying nearly five months later, made him feel as if
he'd had his guts kicked out, but most of the time the changes Scully had
wrought in him made the world a brighter place than it had been for quite
some time.   Knowing that there was someone with whom he could share his
ideas without her being either intimidated by his intelligence or
dismissive of his theories, that there was someone who wasn't afraid to
follow him into some pretty hairy situations, someone he could count on,
someone he could trust, had changed his life.  Sometimes he worried about
what it had cost Scully to join him on his quest, but it was her quest too
now, and he had enough respect for her not to try to second guess her
decisions.

	Scully was asleep when, late in the morning on their third day of
travel, having spent another peaceful night in a motel in Grayling, Mulder
pulled into the village of Cedarville.  As he entered the town, he noticed
a small building off to the right with a sign identifying it as  "Tourist
Information" and he pulled into the gravel lot.  Although it was midday,
the building was shut up tightly.  Reluctantly, he reached out and brushed
his partner's bangs from her eyes.

	"Wake up, sleepy head," he murmured.  She stirred slightly, then
opened her eyes.  Sitting up, she looked around alertly.  It always amazed
him how quickly she was able to go from being totally asleep to totally
awake.

	"We're here?"

	"Yes, but the Chamber of Commerce is closed.  There's a Comfort Inn
just up the road; somehow I have the feeling that wasn't quite what you had
in mind..."

	Scully smiled, thinking about Mulder's general choice of lodgings,
appreciating his indulgence of her rare bout of nostalgia.

	"You're right.  I remember a lot of little resort cottages..."

	"I just passed a road that had signs to a lot of resorts."

	"I can't imagine any of them will have vacancies in July..."

	"Well, the Comfort Inn does, so we could always come back here."

	"And there's sure to be a tent space available somewhere.  I seem
to remember several camp grounds just east of town."

	He pulled out of the lot and drove back a quarter mile before
turning left.  They passed  an overgrown cemetery with crumbling headstones
and then the entrance to a golf course before the trees opened up revealing
a hillside covered with rental cottages overlooking the lake.  Despite the
warm summer sun, the resort appeared nearly deserted.  No children played
on the beach, no fishermen stood casting from the dock, no boats were out
on the water, and the 'vacancy' sign was hung, swinging slightly in the
light breeze.

	"Here?"

	"This is really odd.  It's the height of the tourist season!  Keep
driving down the road a little.  Let's see if the other resorts look as
empty."

	They drove the mile-long strip of little resorts which stretched
along the lake front; all appeared equally deserted.

	"Well," Scully said, in response to Mulder's raised eyebrow, "at
least it doesn't look like we're going to have to stay at the Comfort Inn."


	They chose 'Johnson's Landing', a collection of neat cottages
scattered over a wooded property.  Mulder parked the car by the sign
reading "office". A tall, silver haired man in his sixties, his face a
leathery tan from a lifetime of living out in the elements, emerged from
the building.

	"I figured you'd be here sooner or later.  Took you long enough,
though.  I thought you'd be here last week, actually," he greeted them.

	Scully blinked.

	"I beg your pardon?"

	"Aren't you reporters?"

	"No," she replied, startled by the query.

	"Why would you think we were reporters?" Mulder questioned.

	"I figured reporters would get here sooner or later.  No one else's
been coming, that's for sure."

	"Why?  What's going on around here?  We came up on the spur of the
moment and didn't really expect anyone to have vacancies, but this place
looks deserted..."

	Johnson looked Mulder right in the eye.

	"It's the damn bear."

	Scully broke in, "We haven't heard anything about a bear attack on
the radio..."

	"No, ma'am.  Not an attack.  It's just the fact that it's here.
You see, it's a white bear."

	"You mean a polar bear?"

	"No, ma'am.  It's an ordinary enough bear, except that it's white."

	"Sometimes black bears can be a light blonde," Mulder injected mildly.

	"And that's a fact.  I've lived here all of my life, and I thought
I had seen every color black bears came in, until now."

	"Is it an albino?"  Scully asked.

	"Brown eyes,  black nose,  black paws.  'Never seen an albino like
that."

	"Mr. Johnson," Scully stated, "maybe you'd better start at the
beginning..."

	A crafty look stole into the older man's eyes.

	"You going to rent a cottage?"

	They exchanged a glance.

	"Yes," Mulder told him.

	"Then why don't we get that taken care of.  You can get settled in,
I'll rustle up a couple of cold ones; we can sit down by the dock and I'll
tell you about the bear."

	Scully glanced again at her partner, descerning how much his
nonchalance and the appearance of well-being was costing him from the
stress-lines around his eyes and mouth.

	"Which cabins can we chose from?" she asked.

	"Any except the one there by the dock.  The Carters come every year
and they're planning on finishing out the week, bear or no bear."

	"How about that one?"  She pointed to a little cottage nestled in
trees by the water's edge.  It was set somewhat off by itself and appeared
to offer the greatest privacy.  It also sported a wide veranda overlooking
the lake, and she knew Mulder loved big front porches.

	"Sure.  Let me get the key and the paperwork."

	Scully met her partner's brown eyes.

	"Why don't you take the key and QueeQueg, and go on down to the
cabin?  I'll check us in and bring the car when I'm done."  He nodded his
assent.  Johnson went inside and brought a key back out.  Wordlessly, he
handed it to Mulder who let the dog out of the car and started off down the
cedar path with him, unable to move easily, despite his best effort.

	"What's wrong with him?" Johnson asked, eyeing the limping man.

	"He was injured in a car accident.  We're lucky he survived.
That's why we got the impromtu vacation.  He still tires easily."  Scully
made a mental note to share the story with Mulder.

	She followed Johnson back into his house, into a little room which
served as the business office.  She filled out the paperwork using the
second set of identification Skinner had provided for their covers, this
time registering as husband and wife, and then paid the deposit and a
week's rent in cash.  She collected a second key and moved the car around
behind the little lakeside cabin.  Carrying in both bags, she found Mulder
already sound asleep on the couch, QueeQueg curled up at his feet.  With a
sigh, she deposited one bag in each bedroom.  Deciding to go ahead and meet
Johnson on her own, she pulled a small dictaphone out of Mulder's stuff.
At least her partner would be able to listen to the story later.  Feeling
only a bit guilty, she set the recorder to its 'voice activated' mode and
slipped it into her shirt pocket.  Stepping out of the cabin, she spotted
Johnson already seated on a bench near the dock, waiting.

	"Where's your husband?" he asked politely as she drew near.

	"Resting.  I told him I'd pass on the story you tell me."  She
thought about mentioning the tape recorder but feared both that it might
inhibit his story telling and arouse his suspicions.  Casual travelers did
not generally go around tape recording each other's tales, no matter how
grand.

	Her host handed her a cold can of Busch, took a long drink of his
own beer and began to talk.

	"They say that there's an old Chippewa legend about a white bear.
Now I've lived among Chippewas my whole life, worked with 'em,  gone to
school with 'em,  Before I met my wife I even dated a few back when that
wasn't done, but I'd never heard of this legend until a couple of weeks
ago.  Some people are saying that the white bear is a Huron legend, but
most folks seem to agree that it's Chippewa.  Most people except Joe
Blackfeather, that is.  He's a local Chippewa activist who claims that
someone is making this all up.  I've always liked Joe, but he's in prison,
which doesn't make him seem very credible right now.  Anyhow, the
appearance of this great white bear is supposed to foretell the coming of a
drought and famine.  Some kids saw this bear over behind Rock Island about
three weeks ago, and since then no one has caught a single fish in these
islands.  Not one tomato has ripened on the vine, and we haven't gotten any
rain, other than a few sprinkles."

	Taking a sip of her beer, Scully looked around. "The grass seems
green."

	"Cause of the lake.  It still ought to be raining once in awhile."


	"Has anyone seen the bear since the kids did?"

	"Hell, yes.  We've all seen him.  I'll take you and your husband
out to see him. The damn thing comes when you call him."

	"And as a result of this, all of the tourists have left?"

	"Pretty near.  All of the fishermen are long gone.  An awful lot of
the people who come up here come to fish.  Others have left because they
say they've been having bad luck at the casinos in Hessel, and some have
gone saying that this place feels like a ghost town.  I guess WHY doesn't
matter to me as much as the fact that they're gone."

	Scully rolled the icy can between her hands for a moment before
asking her next question.

	"How long can you keep going if it stays like this?"

	"Well, the place is paid off, if that's what you mean, and my wife
and I have a little winter place in Florida, but we count on the income
from this place to pay our expenses for the year.  We don't need much,
but...  I suspect that if things don't change by the end of summer, I'll
probably have to sell the place, if I can get anything for it.  Now, mind,
I'm in a lot better shape financially than some of these guys.  There are
more than a few pinched faces in town these days."

	"I appreciate your candor, Mr. Johnson, and when my husband gets
up, we'd like to take you up on your offer to go and see the bear."

	"Just let me know when.  My wife went to the Sault today, and
things aren't exactly hopping here, so..."

	"Thanks.  And thanks for the beer.  We'll see you later this
afternoon."

	Walking back down the little cedar chip path to the cabin,
half-full beer can in her hand, Scully took in a deep breath of the warm,
fresh air.  It smelled of green grass, cedar trees and the lake -- just the
way it did in her memory.  She thought of places she and Mulder had been
that had an almost tangeable fetidness to the air.  Those places SMELLED as
if something evil was at work there.  "This doesn't feel that way," she
thought.  This felt just as it had so many years ago during the most
perfect summer of her life.  A little more developed perhaps, but the place
was basically unchanged from when she had visited as a child.  If she had
learned anything during her four years assigned to the X-Files, it was that
even the most bizarre events had some kind of logical explanation, if only
one could figure it out.  She was determined to get to the bottom of
whatever was going on.

	Mulder was still sleeping when she got back, so she left him the
dictaphone and a note, and, after asking Mr. Johnson for directions, headed
for the grocery store.

	The Red Owl of her childhood memories had been replaced by a newer,
shinier grocery next door to it.  Her initial reaction was an irrational
wave of dislike.  The new store might be bigger and cleaner, with more
variety, but the old one was the only place where she could ever remember
grocery shopping with her father.  Even he had been able to unwind in
Cedarville.  She suddenly saw an image of him eating an enoromous ice cream
concoction, and hurried through the rest of her shopping, determined to
discover whether or not one could still purchase a Jersey Mud in
Cedarville.  That was sure to make Mulder feel better, even if nothing else
could.

	When she got back to the cottage, Mulder was sitting on the couch,
listening to the tape, his skin only moderately green-tinged.

	"Here."  Scully thrust one of the cups from the Bon Aire ice cream
parlor into his hands.  He stopped the tape.

	"What is it?"

	"A Jersey Mud.  It'll fix what ails you, especially if you take
this with it."  She shook 800 mg of Motrin out into his hand.  He grimaced
but swallowed the four pills.

	"No more codeine?"

	"I have it if the non-steroidals don't cut it.  The ibuprofen every
eight hours ought to have you feeling okay, though."

	"Plus the ice cream."

	"Absolutely.  As I recall, there isn't any situation that a Jersey
Mud can't make better."

	"Scully, the last time you had one, you were eight..."

	"Mulder, shut up and eat before it melts."

	Obediently, he took a big spoonful of the sundae and brought it to
his mouth.  His eyes widened in appreciation and he quickly dug in.  Scully
started on hers as well, and found the combination of vanilla ice cream,
chocolate sauce, chocolate ice cream, marshmellow sauce, malt and a cherry
just as amazing as she remembered.

	After scraping the bottom of his cup, Mulder looked over at Scully,
who was still finishing hers.

	"That was great!  I can't believe it's taken you this long to come
back here, Scully."

	"I honestly hadn't thought of this area in years, until Skinner
started talking about us getting away.  Since then I've been flooded with
memories...  How far have you gotten listening to the tape?"

	"I think I'm almost done.  Pretty intriguing, wouldn't you say?"

	"I'd love to talk to Joe Blackfeather, but it's going to seem a
little odd if a young couple on vacation starts visiting strangers in
prison.  Incidently, I told Johnson that you were injured in a serious car
accident and are off work because of it.  That's why we were able to get
away on the spur of the moment."

	"Okay."

	"So, when do you want to go and see this bear?"

	"Why don't I whip something up for us to eat while you put the
groceries away, and then we'll go find Johnson after we've finished."

	Scully started to object; as a survivor of many Mulder-cooked
meals, she nearly volunteered to do the honors, but then she decided that
there wasn't much that she'd bought which he could damage.

	"Sounds like a plan."

	As she started to unload the bags, Mulder pawed through them like a
pirate going through his booty.  The look of delight on his face when he
pulled out the canned ravioli nearly made up for the fact that Scully was
going to have to eat some of it.

	"Chef Boyardee!!  My favorite!"  A little more digging and he had
assembled a salad for two, the ravioli and a loaf of garlic bread.  By the
time the rest of the purchases were put away, the pasta was bubbling
merrily on top of the stove, scents of the bread and garlic were wafting
from the oven and the small kitchen table was set for two, the salad in the
middle.  Despite having just devoured a Jersey Mud, Scully was suddenly
hungry.  Mulder's eyes lit up at her obvious approval.

	"Stick with me, kiddo.  I won't let you starve."

	She thought of Mulder's usual eating habits and shuddered.  Seeing
her, he continued,  "Die of arteriosclerosis maybe, but not starve."

	After eating and making sure that Queequeg was settled in the
cabin, Mulder grabbed his camera and telephoto lens.  He and Scully went in
search of Johnson.  He was easy to find, sitting on his porch in the warm
afternoon sun.

	"I'll bet the two of you 'd like to go see the bear."

	"Yes, sir, we would,"  Mulder agreed.

	"Follow me."

	By-passing the aluminum outboards he rented out, Johnson led them
to a fairly new 18' Boston Whaler.  Tossing three life jackets and an equal
number of cushions into the boat, he motioned towards it.

	"Go ahead, get in.  I'll get the lines."  With the familiarity of
someone who has grown up with boats, Scully hopped nimbly in, then turned
to assist her more slowly moving partner.  By the time Mulder was settled,
Johnson was seated and had the engine gently purring and the lines cast
off.  He started slowly off down the channel, allowing Scully and Mulder a
good look at the many nearly-abandoned resorts.  As they pulled out into
the bay, however, more activity was obvious.  Several sailboats dotted the
water and a lone water skier skimmed the surface in the lee of one of the
islands.  A few boats ranging from aluminum outboards to mahogany runabouts
zoomed across the bay on errands of their own.  No one was fishing.
Surprised to see the vacationers after her earlier conversation with
Johnson, Scully looked at him questioningly.

	"Summer folks,"  he told her.  "Some of them have owned these
places for five or six generations.  They've been here longer than a lot of
the local families.  Some fish, but it isn't what they come for.  They love
this place.  It'll take more than an odd bear and a couple of weeks of bad
fishing to keep them away.  Not like the renters."

	He rounded a point of land and seemed to head straight for shore.
Not until they were nearly upon it did Scully see the narrow strip of water
cutting between two islands.

	"Bosley's Channel," Johnson told them.

	The channel opened onto a protected little harbor, separated from
the open lake by a curving rock peninisula.  Johnson nosed his boat up on
to shore at the closest end.

	"We call this Rock Island.  During low water years like this one,
you can walk right around to LaSalle without getting your feet wet.  High
water years the whole island damn near disappears."

	Mulder looked around, awed by the tall cedars, the silvery birch
trees, the clear fresh water of the open lake and the utter silence broken
only by the sound of lapping waves.

	"Beautiful," he whispered softly.

	Johnson glanced at him, a look of understanding on his face.

	"I know, son.  I've been coming to this spot, watching the lake and
the animals and the trees for more than seventy years now, and it still
strikes me just like that every time.  Now, if you're ready to see
something bizarre..."  Pursing his lips, he whistled as if he were calling
a dog.  Mulder readied the camera.  After a moment or two, they heard
something crashing through the woods.

	Scully looked at Mulder and he was sure she was about to comment
when suddenly, on the opposite shore, there appeared a white bear.  Scully
saw instantly that Johnson was right.  This was no polar bear dropped off
on a remote Michigan island.  Except for the color of his fur, he was a
normal appearing black bear.  As Mulder shot exposure after exposure, the
bear ambled to the edge of the water, looking around calmly, then rose on
his hind legs and emitted a soft roar as he pawed the air.  After a moment,
he paused, went back down on all fours and disappeared into the woods as
casually as he had arrived.

	"As if on cue..." Scully murmured to herself.

	"Hmm?" her partner asked,  lowering the camera.

	"Umm -- nothing.  Just an idea..."  Her expression said "later" and
he left it at that.

	"Mr. Johnson, where's the nearest one hour photo processing?"

	"That'd be in Sault Ste. Marie -- about 45 miles up M 129.
Straight north from the blinking light.  Veer right when you reach a dead
end.  You'll see the photo place on the left as you drive into town.  And
while you're waiting, " he continued with a smile, "you can go and see the
Locks."

	On the way back to the resort, Johnson took them around the outside
of Little La Salle.  Though the bay had been calm and the day was clear and
still, two-to-three foot swells caused the boat to pound.

	"It's just like the ocean," Mulder commented, watching the water
which stretched to the horizon.

	"'Except you can drink it, and there aren't any sharks," Johnson
replied, deadpan.  Mulder glanced at Scully who was sitting on the seat
ahead of him to gauge her response, but she appeared not to have heard.  He
becames increasingly anxious to get back to the cabin and learn what she
was pondering.  In the meantime, he contented himself with studying the
wooded shores of the lake.  These gently forested islands basked in warm
yellow sun lacked the sinister chill of the inexplicable that Mulder had
experienced in so many fog enshrouded forests over the past few years.
Could an evil foretold by an ancient Indian legend truly be at work here?

	"Mr. Johnson," Scully asked suddenly, as they secured the Whaler's
mooring lines to the dock, "how has business been the past few years,
before the white bear appeared?"

	"Busy.  More than busy, actually.  Besides the summer folks, the
fishermen and the hunters who have always come, there's a whole new group
coming year 'round to gamble at the casinos.  And the area's becoming
better known.  Plus skiers and snowmobilers are joining the ice fishermen
in the winter.  It's gotten so you need reservations way in advance if you
want to be able to count on having a place to stay."

	"And what kind of margin do most of these places run on?  How long
can they stay shut?"

	"Well, the one's who've been modernizing, putting in pools and
saunas, redoing the cabins and such -- they're in the worst shape.  I'm
probably in the best shape, and like I said earlier, I don't think I could
survive more than one bad season before putting the place on the market."
Scully looked even more thoughtful.

	"Well," Mulder quickly broke the silence, drawing Johnson's
attention away from his partner, "we certainly appreciate your taking us to
see the bear."

	"Had nothing better to do.  Let me know if I can get you anything."

	"Thanks, I'm sure we'll be fine," and Mulder guided his still
musing partner up the cedar path to their cabin.  Scully spoke as soon as
the door shut behind them.

	"Mulder, did you notice anything about the birds?"

	He thought back.

	"I don't remember seeing any birds, Scully."

	"Doesn't that strike you as odd?  I remember this area as being
full of birds -- sea gulls, ducks, geese, herons, egrets, swans, loons and
even bald eagles.  The docks and boat house roofs are covered with guano,
and yet we didn't see any birds.  I asked Johnson in the boat on the way
back, and he said that he hadn't seen many birds since the bear first
appeared."

	"So the bear put the whammy on the birds too?"

	"Mulder, what would drive away both fish and birds?  Probably small
mammals too, although that wouldn't be as noticeable."

	"I don't know, Scully.  What?"

	"What about ultrasonics?"

	Mulder thought about the bear and the dogs he'd seeen lounging on
docks that afternoon, and he eyed Scully's dog who was happily snoozing on
the couch.

	"Wouldn't ultrasonic noise bother the bigger mammals too?"

	"It would depend on the frequency.  They make ultrasonic pest
devices that repel insects and rodents but are inaudible to cats and dogs."

	"Boy, if you're right, that could be the ultimate sales gimmick!"

	"What do you mean?"

	"A lakefront vacation without mosquitos?  Come on, Scully, you'd
make a fortune!"

	"Well, mosquitos or no mosquitos, someone is sure going to clean up."

	He quirked an eyebrow, waiting for the rest.

	"Mulder, property values here have just started to take off.  These
resorts may be rustic and quaint, but if someone owned ALL of this land and
had the means to put in a modern resort that would appeal to the gamblers,
he or she'd be sitting on a gold mine.  You heard Johnson, if you could
drive the tourists and fishermen away for a season, you could snap up these
places at a fraction of what they're worth..."

	"So you dig up some old Chippewa legend..."

	"Or invent one..."

	"And drive away the fish..."

	"Add a trained white bear..."

	"Why white?  And how?"

	"Well, there are enough bears around here, I doubt a black bear
would arouse too much attention.  I don't know how you'd turn a bear white.
Bleach?  Dye?  Paint?"

	"So how do you explain the tomatoes that don't ripen, the rain
which doesn't fall?"

	She paused, pondering.

	"I don't know -- perhaps just the power of suggestion?  We haven't
seen anything to suggest that plants have actually stopped growing, and Mr.
Johnson did say that it has sprinkled a few times during the last three
weeks.  Maybe there's been a static high pressure system hanging over this
area."

	"Scully, suddenly I have a burning desire to talk to Joe Blackfeather."

	"And to get Skinner to send us an audio tech with recorders and
underwater mikes."

	"And to get those photos printed."  He looked ready to head out the
door.  Scully eyed the tension lines in his face, and glanced at her watch.

	"In the morning, Mulder.  After you've had a good night's sleep."




From whit@ix.netcom.com Sun Apr 27 10:25:28 1997
Subject: The White Bear (3/4)
From: Whit Edwards <whit@ix.netcom.com>
--------
The White Bear (3/4)

All comments and disclaimers can be found at the beginning of the story

	Mulder's first thought upon awakening with the morning sun shining
in his eyes, was that he had just slept well, and in a bed, for the third
night in a row.  The little Pomeranian, nestled against him, stirred at his
awakening, jumped down from the bed, and trotted off in search of his
mistress who appeared a moment later with a steaming cup of coffee in one
hand and ibuprofen in the other.

	"Morning, sleepyhead," she grinned at him.  "A new world record!"

	He smiled back at her.  "Three nights.  I was just thinking the
same thing."  He had slept so soundly that, had it been prepared by anyone
other than Scully, he would have suspected his dinner had been drugged.
While his partner might resort to extreme measures, however -- even to the
extent of shooting him , "for his own good", of course -- she would never
be underhanded about it.  As far as her dealings with him, at least, were
concerned, what you saw was what you got.  It occurred to him that before
she had been assigned to the X-Files "what you see is what you get" almost
certainly would have characterized ALL of Scully's interactions, not just
her relationship with the person she was closest to, and the thought
momentarily saddened him.  She had given up so very much to join his quest.
Again he wondered what made it worth it for her...

	"Why so sad, Sherlock?" she probed gently, after watching the
myriad of emotions flit across his familiar face.  She was continually
amazed that some people thought his features inscrutable -- she found him
so expressive.

	"Nothing.  Just a leprechaun dancing on my grave."

	"In that case, what do you want for breakfast?"

	"What are my options?" he asked her with a smile.

	Scully made blueberry pancakes and, after Mulder did the breakfast
dishes, they piled into the car with QueeQueg and headed for Sault Ste.
Marie and the one hour photo shop.

	The road from Cedarville ran straight north, stretching from
horizon to horizon.  There was virtually no traffic and they saw a herd of
six deer grazing beside the road.  Once in the Sault, they dropped off the
film, found a parking place near the water and took the dog for a walk
along the Locks, where they watched enormous freighters transported safely
from Lake Superior to the lower waters of Lake Huron and back.

	"So, Scully, how are we going to get in touch with Skinner without
giving away our location?"

	She smiled at him mysteriously.

	"I have a plan that should slow down the trace.  This is something
I came up with when I hauled you out to New Mexico."  Even now, nearly a
year later, the memory of that desperate drive sent a shiver down her
spine; Mulder feverish and unconscious on the seat beside her, a bullet
wound from her gun in his shoulder, his father's blood staining his
clothes, a murder charge pending and a suspension from the Bureau hanging
over his head.  And hers.

	From her pocket she pulled a credit card and a floppy disk.

	Mulder looked at the disk.  It was one of the insidious "free 15
hour trial" America On Line floppies.  He glanced at the credit card.  It
was in the name of Jack Willis.  When he saw the name of the former FBI
Academy instructor who had been Scully's lover, Mulder raised an eyebrow;
she shrugged.

	"Jack and I were out one day, just before we stopped seeing each
other, when I saw a piece of furniture I liked at an antique store.  I
didn't have my wallet.  He put it on his credit card.  I was making the
payments.  There was still a small balance on it when he died, so I changed
the billing address and kept paying.  I never bothered to cancel it.  When
they renewed the card, they sent the new one to my house."

	"And then you came up with this plan..."

	"And I realized that I would need the card."

	He watched mildly amused as she hooked her laptop up to a pay
phone, inserted the AOL disk and logged on, opening an account under the
name of Jack Willis.  Within minutes she had access to e-mail.  Quickly,
she typed in a message.

	"Who are you contacting?"

	"My brother's childhood best friend."

	He quirked an eyebrow.

	"When I came up with this idea last year, I set this up with him."

	"What's your message?"

	"I've asked him to invite Walter Skinner to dinner tomorrow night."

	In response to Margaret's buzz, the Assistant Director punched his
intercom irritably.

	"What?"  he snapped.

	On the other end, Margaret winced.  Skinner had been like a bear
with a thorn in his paw for days now.

	"Sir, there's a Mr. Sam Greene on the line.  He's quite insistent
about talking to you.  He won't state his business, except to say that it's
personal."  She paused, waiting for her boss to refuse to talk to the
caller, but he surprised her.  With two of his agents on the run without
conventional means of communication, he couldn't afford not to take
personal calls from total strangers.

	"Sam Greene, eh?  Put him through."

	His phone buzzed and he picked it up.

	"Skinner."

	"Walt, old boy!"  Skinner had never heard the ebullient voice before.

	"Sam, how are you?"

	"Oh, doing fine, you know.  Listen, Dana and I were just talking
about how long it's been since we saw you, and we'd love for you to come to
dinner.  Tomorrow.  To see the new house."

	"Bingo," Skinner thought to himself.  "Contact."

	"I'd be delighted.  How do I get to the new place?"  After getting
directions and a time, Skinner hung up, feeling better than he had in days.
So far Mulder and Scully were fine.  He just had to figure out how to make
it safe for them to come back home...

	While Scully paid for the photos, Mulder ripped the packet open and
flipped through them impatiently.

	"How long would it take to get 8"x10" prints of all of these?"

	"We could have them done in two days."

	"Here."  Keeping the prints, he handed the negatives back.  "Please
get them done as quickly as you can."  Writing down the number of Johnson's
Landing, he asked the tech to give him a call when the photos were ready.
She readily agreed.

	Outside, Scully took the prints from him.  Looking through them,
she asked, "Did you see anything?"

	"Not on my first pass.  Anything strike you?"

	"Nothing yet.  I'll look through them carefully when we get home,
but my guess is that we're going to need the enlargements if we're going to
see anything we didn't spot while we were there."

	"Yeah.  Probably."

	When the nightmare came, it was unusual in that it wasn't about her
abduction.  Generally memories that she could not recall during her waking
hours flooded into her mind while she slept.  This night, however, took her
back to the moment when she had burst through that open doorway and saw
Mulder sitting opposite Robert Modell, the man who called himself "Pusher"
because of his brain-tumor powered ability to influence the actions of
others. To the heartbreaking eternity when Mulder, an unwilling participant
in a game of Russian roulette, had put the weapon to his head and then --
unbelieveably -- pulled the trigger; to the endless seconds when he had
held his gun on her, his eyes initially blank and unreachable, and then
pleading.

	Her cry of "Mulder" woke her partner who had again been sleeping
soundly in the next room. He was at her bedside, his gun drawn, before he
was fully awake, relieved to see Scully in no physical danger, but pained
by her distress as she thrashed under the bed sheets.

	Setting his gun on the night table, he sat beside her on the bed
and took her by the shoulders.  Her eyes opened, flitting wildly until they
lit on him, and then she let out a shuttering sigh and relaxed against him,
her cheeks wet with tears.

	"Shh.  It's all right.  I'm here.  You're okay."  They were quiet
for a moment, then he continued.

	"Want to talk about it?"

	"I said I wasn't going to let him take another minute of our time,"
she whispered into his shoulder.

	"Pusher?"  She nodded against him.

	"I just remember you pointing that gun at your head, Mulder, and
pulling the trigger.  I've never been so scared.  And then you pointed it
at me, and I knew that he could make you shoot me too..."

	He shuddered this time, remembering his feeling of utter
helplessness and self-loathing as he had shakily held the gun on Scully,
the sickness in his stomach when, after shooting Pusher he realized that
there had been a bullet in the chamber...

	"I have dreams about him too.  But he's dead, Scully.  Two months
dead and buried.  He can't hurt anyone any more."

	"I know.  It's just that I came so close to losing you that day..."
And her tone made it clear that she couldn't bear the thought of that
either.  "You seemed so ready to pull the trigger when you had the gun
against your temple, Mulder."

	"There was only one bullet, Scully.  Better it end up in me than in
you."

	She loooked at him, shocked.

	"Were you really thinking that?"

	He returned her gaze evenly.  "Of course I was.  I know what life
is like without you.  I don't want to try it again.  I could never have
lived with myself if I had killed you."

	"It wasn't you, Mulder.  It was him."

	"But the finger on the trigger was still mine."

	"And all this time I've been afraid that you pulled that trigger
because -- maybe because it was something that you'd thought about doing,
or at least that it was an idea that wasn't totally abhorrent to you."

	He pulled back enough to look at her, smiling warmly down into her
face.  "I'd be lying if I said that there hadn't been times in my life when
that was true, but not now, Scully.  Not for a long time.  We still have
too much to do.  Still so much to learn.  And I don't want to leave you any
more than I want you to leave me.  Okay?"

	"I'm going to hold you to that."

	"Good.  Now, are you going to be able to go back to sleep?"

	"I think so, but--"

	"But what?"

	"Would you mind staying, just for a little while?  Just to make sure?"

	He smiled again.  "It would be my pleasure."

	Walter Skinner left his office, as was his practice, precisely at
6:45, being careful to go through his entire normal evening routine.  He
paused, as he often did these days, at the flower seller's cart outside of
the Hoover Building, and picked up some irises for Sharon.  Listening to
All Things Considered, he started for home.  He kept an eye out for a tail
throughout the drive, but knew that his failure to spot anyone did not mean
that he wasn't being followed.  He pulled into the garage beside his wife's
car, and shut the garage door.  Sharon met him with a kiss as he entered
the house, exclaiming over the flowers, and he felt a stab of regret that
he wouldn't be able to spend the evening with her.  He gave her a
questioning look and she responded with "thumbs up".

	"Dinner will be ready in about half an hour.  Why don't you take a
shower while I finish up in the kitchen?"  Sharon indicated the stereo and
he saw that the tape they had made last night was in place and cued up.

	"Sounds like a good idea."  It would give her half an hour before
she had to start the tape.  He only hoped that if someone was in fact
listening in, either it was someone different from the day before, or that
he wasn't paying enough attention to recognize the inane conversation they
had recorded.  He handed his wife the dictaphone on which he had recorded
some comments to alter the conversation, kissed her again, and headed out
the back door.  The car his sister-in-law had rented was exactly where it
was supposed to be, in the alley behind the house.

	Skinner had carefully planned out his route during the day,
including enough twists and turns to give him a good shot at spotting any
tails, but he reached his destination without seeing anyone in his wake.
He was greeted at the door by a tall man with graying hair and a wide grin.

	"Walt!  It's so good to see you!"

	"Likewise,  Sammy.  How've you been?  I haven't seen you in ages."
He entered the house, and his host closed the door firmly behind him.
Greene gave Skinner a questioning look,  clearly wondering if it was all
right to talk freely.

	"Mr. Greene, if anyone has gone to so much trouble that they are
now listening in, there isn't anything we can do about that.  I'm not sure
what your connection is to our mutual friends, but on behalf of the FBI,
I'd like to thank you for your help."

	Greene opened his mouth to explain his relationship to Scully, but
Skinner held up his hand.

	"I don't know and I don't want to know.  It's safer for everyone
that way."

	"Fine.  Would you like something to eat?  My wife has dinner ready
and we have about twenty minutes before --"

	"That sounds great.  Thank you."

	Mrs. Greene was just serving coffee when the phone rang.  Sam
picked up the phone with a tense "hello".  He relaxed visibly as the caller
spoke.

	"Oh, hi, Sissy.  A friend of yours dropped by for dinner...  What?
Sure, you can talk to him.  Listen, are you okay?  If you need money or
anything--  All right, but you let me know.  Here he is."

	He handed the phone to Skinner.

	"Are you both all right?"

	"Hello, sir.  Yes, we're fine.  We've stumbled onto a bit of a
mystery here, though, and we were wondering whether you might be able to
spare Mitch Alexander and his toys for a few days."

	"Is this anything you need to tell me about?  Any way I can help
other than by sending Mitch?"

	"I don't think so, sir.  Just a little bit of a puzzle.  We'll tell
you all about it when we get back.  How are things on your end?"

	"I've been digging.  The men the other night were definitely sent
by our smoking friend, but I haven't been able to identify them yet.  I do
have a theory about their identities.  If I'm right, their motivation was
very different from that of their leader.  I suspect these guys didn't take
too much convincing.  It's amazing how many people your friend has managed
to really piss off over the years."

	"So you really think these guys are colleagues?"

	"It looks that way.  I should know more tomorrow.  Now, how am I
going to get Mitch to you?"

	"Get him on the early morning Delta flight to Chicago.  Have him
check for a message at the counter when he arrives.  We'll take it from
there."

	"And if he's followed?"

	"Then our smoking friend will know where we are.  Any idea WHY this
latest campaign, sir?"

	"My best guess is that it has something to do with the reappearance
of Alex Krycek.  He was alone with your partner for some time.  Maybe our
smoking friend thinks that he passed on some information that he shouldn't
have...  But that's just speculation so far."

	"Understood, sir."

	"How's Mulder doing?  He was pretty banged up when I saw him last."

	Scully paused, surprised by what sounded like genuine concern on
the part of her usually emotionless boss.

	"He's still a little sore, but he'll be all right.  Our little
mystery has gotten his attention, I think."

	"Can't the two of you even go on a week's vacation without landing
in the middle of something?"

	"Apparently not, sir."

	"And when will I be hearing from you again?"

	"I think it would be a good idea if you found someone to play
racquet ball with at lunch time on Friday, sir.  A regular exercise program
is important for all of us."

	"Understood.  I'll see to it that Mitch catches that plane in the
morning, and hopefully the next time we talk I'll be telling you to come on
home."

	"Not too soon, sir.  We really are having a great time.  Give Sam
my love."

	"Will do."

	"Goodbye, sir."

	Across the border in Ontario, Canada, Scully hung up the phone and
turned to her partner.

	"He thinks that Cancerman arranged the hit out of concern that
Krycek might have shared something with you on your trip back from Hong
Kong."

	Mulder snorted in surprise.  The possibility that this situation
had something to do with his recent run-in with his former partner, a
consortium spy turned national traitor, had never occurred to him.

	"I only wish he had, the little weasel.  He knew I'd kill him once
I found out where the tape was..."  Scully thought back to her own moment
of truth, holding a gun on the man who had killed her sister Melissa,
willing her finger to pull the trigger but unable to make it obey.  Her own
experience told her that it hadn't been only the location of the stolen DAT
tape, which contained the encoded government files on all alien contacts,
that had later stayed Mulder's finger when he confronted Krycek.

	"No you wouldn't have.  You would have wanted to, but you wouldn't
have done it."

	"Well, maybe not, but he doesn't know me as well as you do.  In any
case, he didn't tell me anything, at least not anything useful."

	Climbing into the car, Scully paused and looked at him
thoughtfully.  "What not-useful things did he tell you, Mulder?  Maybe
there's something of greater importance than you realize..."

	"I've been over every word a zillion times in my head, Scully.  If
there was something valuable in what he said, surely I would have
recognized it by now."

	"Mulder, humor me.  What did he say to you?  Tell me as much as you
can remember.  After all, we've got a good hour's drive home."

	In the car, Mulder went over as much as he could remember of
Krycek's rambling conversation.

	"He told me that Cancerman had double-crossed him.  He said that he
hadn't killed my father.  He told me where he had hidden the DAT tape, but
it wasn't where he told me he'd left it.  He talked about how his career
hadn't exactly followed the course he had imagined when he joined the Feds.
Mostly he rambled, Scully, as if it was important to him that I understand
why he's done the things he's done."

	"And do you?"

	He looked at her in amazement.

	"Scully, he helped killed your sister and he murdered my father; he
was at least partially involved in your abduction.  He's tried to kill me,
and he's a traitor to our country.  What do you think the chances are that
I was an open-minded audience?"

	"Don't you ever wonder how that awkward, earnest young agent who
was partnered with you turned into a traitor?"

	"Scully, he was working for the Cancer Man from the beginning.  He
had to have been."

	"You're probably right, but how did he get from there to where he
is now?"

	"They tried to kill him."

	"What?!  Who?"

	"He told me that the consortium wired his get-away car after he
stole the DAT tape from Skinner.  His partner was killed, but he managed to
get out with the tape before the bomb went off.  At that point, he couldn't
go to the FBI, and he couldn't go to the consortium.  He needed money, and
he had something valuable..."

	"How did he translate the tape?"

	"Apparently you aren't the only one who recognizes Navajo.  He
hitchiked to New Mexico and found another surviving code talker, but his
interest was only in the files with commercial value."

	"Mulder, we may be on to something here.  At the very least we know
that the consortium's interest was solely in keeping the tape out of our
hands, not in recovering the information, and that destroying it was worth
the lives of at least two of their men.."

	"How does that help us?"

	"I don't know yet, but I'm sure it's important somehow.  We just
need a few more pieces of the puzzle..."

	They drove on in silence, both considering what they knew,
pondering possible motives, wondering what critical connection they were
failing to make.  Scully spoke as they drove back into Cedarville.

	"Why do you suppose they were willing to kill Krycek, destroy the
tape and kill his partner?  As far as I know, Krycek had never been less
than loyal to that Black-lung bastard."

	"Maybe he knew too much -- maybe the risk of his revealing what he
had learned was worth more than any future value he might have had."

	"Or maybe they just wanted to destroy the tape and didn't care
about anything else..."

	"I don't know.  Krycek had been a valuable tool."

	"But a large part of his value was his job with the FBI.  Since the
night your father died..."

	"I don't know, Scully.  There just has to be something more.
Something we're still missing."

	"Didn't he say ANYTHING else that could help us?"

	"Don't you think I've gone back over and over every word?"

	"I know.  It's just..."

	"Yeah, me too."

	In the morning they turned their attention to the local mystery,
putting the question of what Krycek might have said on the back burner, at
least temporarily.  With Mulder at the wheel, they drove the half hour
north to Kinross, allowing enough time to stop at the prison and talk to
Joe Blackfeather before meeting Mitch Alexander's plane at the nearby
airfield.  Their FBI credentials got them easy access to the man who they
found was doing time for killing a man in a drunked brawl.  The warden told
them that Blackfeather was actively involved in AA and had been sober for
nearly six months.  Blackfeather was a tall, athletic looking man in his
mid-thirties who came into the interview room curious and cooperative.

	"Deputy says you have some questions about the white bear."

	"Yes, Mr. Blackfeather.  I'm Special Agent Dana Scully and this is
Special Agent Fox Mulder.  We're with the FBI.  We've heard that you could
tell us something regarding the Chippewa legend about the bear."

	"The only thing I can tell you is that there is no such legend."

	"Are you sure of that?" Mulder asked.

	"I was raised in the oral tradition of my people.  My father was a
religious man, what many call a medicine man.  I know all of our legends
and there's never been a legend about a white bear."

	"So where do you think this story came from?" inquired Scully.

	"Well, news gets in here a little slowly, but the first time I
heard anything about it was a little less than a month ago when I saw an
item in the local paper about some kids seeing a white bear over in Les
Cheneaux.  The article referred to the legend.  Every article since has
referred to the legend.  Everyone is talking about the legend.  Only
problem is that there is no such legend.   But..."

	"But, what, Mr. Blackfeather?" Scully urged him on.

	"When I first read the story, I thought that it seemed like, well,
the kind of story someone non-native might think SOUNDED like an Indian
legend.  You know, 'The Great White Bear'..."  Mulder nodded his
understanding as Scully continued her questioning.

	"Any idea why anyone might invent a false Chippewa legend, Mr.
Blackfeather?"

	"I've beeen trying to figure that out since I first saw the story,
Agent Scully.  If you figure it out, you let me know, okay?"

	"You've got a deal.  Thanks for your help."

	Mitch Alexander's plane was on time and they barely made it to the
gate in time to watch him disembark.  Standing at the edge of the window,
both Scully and Mulder scanned the dozen passengers exiting the little
commuter plane, searching for anyone who looked out of place, anyone whose
gaze cast about a little too sharply, anyone familiar.  They exchanged a
glance as the sound man passed through the door into the tiny terminal,
each confirming that the other had seen nothing out of place.  Moving as
one, they approached their colleague.

	"Mitch, welcome to God's country."

	"Hey!  Great to see you!"

	His eyes were full of questions, but he didn't voice them, instead
making small talk as they waited for his luggage.

	"Yeah, I saw the girls last weekend.  It's still hard, but we've
really made an effort to spend quality time together, and it has paid off.
I'm sure that our relationship would be very different if Susie and I were
still together, but I wouldn't give up the one we have for anything..."

	After loading the trunk with innocuous looking cases filled with
highly sophisticated surveillance equipment, a tired Mulder took the wheel,
leaving Scully the more arduous task of briefing Alexander on the mystery
they had stumbled across, and their theory.

	"So you want me to figure out just what is chasing all of the
animals away?"

	"Without letting anyone suspect that you're here for anything other
than the fishing."

	Mulder drove the car north to the Sault to pick up the
enlargements, and a second rental car for Alexander, and then switched
places with Scully so that he could look at the photos while she guided
their car back to their cottage.  The audio man followed them back to
Cedarville, stopping at the grocery both to pick up supplies.  Following
Scully's hand drawn map, he made his way to Johnson's Landing and arranged
to rent the cottage closest to Mulder and Scully's, and a small outboard.
He spent the rest of the day getting settled in and preparing for the next
day's fishing expedition.  After dark, he slipped across the grounds to the
agents' cabin for a planning session.

	Indulging in the vacation atmosphere, the near-tee-totalling Mulder
poured a round of brandies, realizing for the first time just how much he
had enjoyed working with Mitch Alexander.  At the time, the loss of the
X-Files had been a fresh wound, leaving him angry and feeling betrayed.
Having Scully wrenched from his side had made him lonelier and more
isolated than he had known was possible.  It had hardly been the time to
appreciate the few pleasures his new assignment granted him.  Sure, he'd
been aware that Mitch was a brilliant audio tech, and one of the few people
who never exhibited any discomfort about having to work with "Spooky"
Mulder, but he hadn't been in the market for a new best buddy.  Then Scully
had disappeared... the X-Files had been re-enstated... and finally Scully
had been returned to him.  Except for trying to decipher the motives of his
former partner Alex Krycek, he'd never looked back.  He was suddenly aware
that he'd never even said goodbye to Mitch.

	"It's a good thing that as well as being a first rate audio tech, I
also happen to be a primo fisherman.  With the exception of being the only
fool on the water when the fish aren't biting, I can make this look good.
Trolling should give me the opportunity to cover the area.  First, though,
I thought we might want to play with this."  He pulled out a little black
box with a couple of dials.

	"It picks up sounds and changes the frequency.  I've set it so that
if we hit a band of ultrasonic sound, it will bring it down into our
audible range.  Knowing what frequency they're using will make it easier
for me to pinpoint the source."

	He flipped a switch, and then started playing with the dials.
After a few minutes, a soft hum filled the room. awakening QueeQueg, who
had been snoozing by the fire.  Scully raised an eyebrow and Mitch sat
back, a satisfied look on his face.

	"Well, Agent Scully, you pegged this one.  It's ultrasonic, all
right.  Well out of the human hearing range, and that of larger mammals.
I'll bet you haven't seen any bats since you got here though."  He looked
at Mulder.  "Now those are what you REALLY want if you're trying to provide
a bug free environment."

	Mitch went on expounding on the benefits of bats.  Mulder let the
words flow around him, becoming inexorably blended with the heat from the
crackling fire and the effects of the brandy settling into his system as he
looked over at his partner.

	He had introduced Scully once to Mitch but only briefly, in
passing, and he was enjoying watching his two friends getting to know each
other.  Scully was seated in an armchair nearest the fire, and the
highlights in her hair shone in the reflected flames.  She listened to
Mitch with rapt attention although Mulder suspected that her steel-trap of
a mind probably held at least as much information about the aerial mammals
as did the sound man's.  She looked relaxed and comfortable, as if the
overwhelming sensation of peace and well-being which flowed through Mulder
enveloped her as well.

	She turned her head, meeting his gaze for just a moment, and the
warmth he felt from her made him catch his breath.  Idly he wondered what
their relationship would be like if they had met under other circumstances.
It was a question he often pondered.

	Scully looked at Mulder and smiled.  She hadn't been aware of
Mulder's regard for Mitch when the two men were working together -- she'd
only met the sound man once briefly then -- but tonight she was enjoying
watching her partner relax in a way he normally did only if the two of them
were alone, and even then rarely.  The warmth of the fire seeped into her
bones, making her feel lazy and safe.  Maybe there was something to this
vacation thing after all, as long as Mulder was along for the ride...

	Mitch stood and stretched, pretending to be oblivious to the
connectedness which flowed so strongly between his companions.  In all the
time he'd worked with Mulder, he'd never seen the man anything but
agitated, driven, irritable, suspicious (actually totally paranoid) and
overly sensitive.  It suddenly occurred to him that the man he had worked
with had been an agent out of kilter, missing half of himself.  Here with
Scully Mulder was a different man; relaxed, funny, secure.  Mitch didn't
care what any of the other agents had to say: there was more going on here
than a simple affair.  These two were partners in every sense of the word.

	"I'm hitting the sack.  By the time you two are up in the morning,
I should be able to tell you a lot more about what's been going on around
here.  It's good to be working with you again Mulder, and to meet you
again, Agent Scully.  I'll see you tomorrow."




From whit@ix.netcom.com Sun Apr 27 10:39:06 1997
Subject: The White Bear (4/4)
From: Whit Edwards <whit@ix.netcom.com>
--------
The White Bear (4/4)

Disclaimers are located in the first section of this story...

	When Scully awoke, the first thing she was aware of was the smell
of coffee brewing.  Mulder was obviously up.  The second thing that she was
aware of was that it was still early.  Really early.  Practically dark out.
Putting on her robe, she made her way sleepily to the kitchen.  It was
empty; the old fashioned percolator bubbled merrily on the stove.  She
poured herself a cup, added a little milk, and went in search of her
partner.  She found him standing at the edge of the wide front porch,
looking out at the misty dawn.

	"Hey," she greeted him softly.

	"Scully!  I didn't mean to wake you."

	"You didn't.  How about you?  How did you sleep?"

	He grinned at her.

	"Must be the fresh air, Scully.  Four in a row.  I just got up to
make coffee for Mitch.  Hope it's okay -- he took QueeQueg with him for
company."

	"No, of course, that's fine."

	"I was sure you wouldn't mind.  You should have seen the little guy
riding off, standing at the bow, his nose in the wind with his ears
flapping.  It was pretty funny."

	"Well, no one has ever told him he's supposed to be a lap dog."

	"Guess not."  Mulder had a fleeting memory of finding the
dog-chewed remains of QueeQueg's former mistress and stifled a shudder.
Scully had inherited the little beast afterwards -- the poor dog had been
locked in the apartment with no food, except for the corpse, for days
before being found, so you couldn't really blame him for his actions, but
still...

	"Mulder, where are those 8x10s?"

	"On the kitchen table,  Why?  Have you thought of something?"

	"There's just -- something about them has been bothering me, but I
can't quite put my finger on it.  I thought if I went through them again --"

	"You look and I'll fix breakfast.  Scrambled eggs okay?"

	"Sure," she answered distractedly, her thoughts already on the
pictures.

	Breakfast was nearly ready when Scully sat back suddenly, almost
knocking the chair over.

	"Well?" Mulder demanded.

	"Come look at this."  With the magnifying glass she showed him one
section of one of the photos.  He looked at it blankly.

	"What, Scully?  I don't see it."

	"Look at the bear's fur, there on it's neck.  See the pattern?"

	"Yeah?  So?"

	"You can see it in several of the shots."

	"I still don't --"

	"QueeQueg looks like that after his baths.  There's an indentation
in his fur, just like that -- from where his collar rubs."

	Mitch returned from his fishing expedition less than an hour later,
The little dog bouncing at his heels, clearly full of himself following his
outdoorsman's expedition.

	"Piece o' cake," the sound man told the two agents.  "I've
pinpointed the location on this chart."  Scully and Mulder showed him the
pictures and explained their significance.

	"Mitch," Mulder told him, "I'm sorry to make this such a short
trip, but I think we have enough for you to take to the local authorities.
You can probably meet with them today and head back tomorrow."

	"What about the two of you?"

	"You haven't seen us since we worked together doing wire taps,"
Mulder answered.  "The Bureau sent you here to follow up on an anonymous
tip."

	"Gotcha.  When will you be back in town?"

	"Hopefully soon."

	"Call me.  The three of us can go up and take in an Orioles game."

	Scully returned his smile.

	"Mitch, you've got a date."

	The man behind the front desk at the gym looked up as the Assistant
Director entered.

	"Mr. Skinner.  I noticed you reserved a court for yourself only
today.  Are you looking for an opponent?"

	"Thanks, Brett, but no.  I just thought I'd hit the ball and drive
some of the cobwebs from my head."

	"Fine.  Well, have a good workout."

	Skinner had changed and been playing hard for more than half an
hour when he heard his name paged overhead.  Grabbing a towel to wipe his
face and arms, he strode to the nearest phone.  Curtly he identified
himself, and moments later the call came through.

	"Afternoon, sir."

	"Afternoon."

	"We're sending back what we borrowed.  Thank you."

	"He was able to help?"

	"Yes.  Thank you.  That matter is now in the hands of the local
sheriff's office.  I believe they've made an arrest.  It seems a
less-than-honest developer from Detroit figured he'd make a quick million
by  opening the hottest resort this side of Mackinac Island."

	"And the bear?"

	"Is headed to the Detroit Zoo where they're trying to figure the
safest way to get the white paint off.  She had been purchased illegally
from a less than ethical carnival side-show."  She paused.  "Sir?  How do
you know about the bear?"

	Skinner chuckled.

	"Tell Mulder that I can read the Weekly World News too.  I just
picked the weirdest story and figured you must be in the middle of it.
Apparently I was right."

	"Apparently.  So, how are things on your end?"

	"We have identified the five men involved in the attack.  Of the
five, two were agents.  One was found dead of a self-inflicted gunshot
yesterday.  The other is confirmed to have left the country.  We have two
of the three others in custody, but they're just hired guns.  I need to
establish that this is not part of an on going vendetta.  It would still
help to know what information Krycek might have passed on..."

	"I know, sir.  We're working on it."

	Mulder and Scully spent ten days unsuccessfully brainstorming about
Mulder's former partner, swimming and sailing, playing with the dog,
sitting in the sun.  The absent birds returned within a few days and the
few fishermen who had stayed around started to pull in bass, perch and pike
again.  Scully began to feel more relaxed than she had in years.  Mulder
continued to find a deep and easy sleep.  And then the breakthrough came...

	"Come on, Mulder, THINK!"

	They were walking along a wide, white beach just northeast of town.
Except for QueeQueg dashing madly back and forth chasing imaginary rabbits,
they had the place to themselves.

	"Scully, we've HAD this conversation already.  If Krycek said
something worth killing us over, I don't remember it.  Mainly he just --
talked, rambled..."

	"You've said that before, Mulder, but you haven't told me exactly
what he said.  Do you remember?"

	"Sure.  He said we should be allies because we share the same
enemies.  He said that we needed him if we wanted to know where to look to
find the truth.  He said that, like him, we shouldn't be too sure who are
friends are."

	Scully stared at him.

	"That's more or less what the man from the consortium said."

	"What man?  When?"

	"At your father's funeral.  After you disappeared following the
explosion in New Mexico.  I went to the service to tell your mother that I
knew you'd be okay. He was there, almost as if he had been waiting for me.
He told me that my life was as much at risk as yours had been and that
they'd come after me one of two ways.  One way was by using someone I
trusted."

	Scully watched Mulder as his mind processed that information and
could tell the minute something clicked into place.

	"That's why you were holding a gun on Skinner."  Mulder remembered
getting home after nearly being killed in an explosion ordered by Cancerman
to find his front door open and his boss and partner pointing guns at each
other.  Without giving it a thought, he had instantly leveled own gun at
the Assistant Director.

	She nodded.

	"I thought he'd come to kill me."

	"I always meant to ask..."

	Scully had thought it a strong declaration of trust that he hadn't
needed to.
	"Could this all be over something so simple?  Could they be afraid
that we knew the identity of one of their agents?  Someone still in place
in the Bureau, for instance?"

	"Someone they have long term plans for.  Unlike the disposable
Agent Krycek."  Mulder paused, then continued.  "If this is what it's all
about, they're certainly right about one thing."

	Scully raised a questioning eyebrow.

	"We ought to be able to figure out who it is."

	"Why do you say that, Mulder?"

	"Come on, Scully.  Someone we trust?  The list just isn't that long."

	They sat down with a pencil and paper.

	"Let's begin with the obvious," Scully began.  "It isn't you and it
isn't me."

	"Well, at least it isn't me."

	Scully shot him a look and Mulder grinned back.

	"And it isn't Skinner," he stated positively.  "He's proven whose
side he's on."

	"Agreed."

	"It isn't your mother."

	Scully's head jerked up and she stared at him.

	"Come on, Scully.  We've got to start close to home.  No one is too
trustworthy to be mentioned."

	"What about your mother?" she countered, not seriously proposing
anything, just trying to get a rise out of him.  Instead, Mulder looked
thoughtful and answered slowly.

	"I don't trust my mother the way I do yours, but I can't believe
she would deliberately do something to hurt me -- certainly not kill me."

	Not for the first time, Scully's heart ached at the thought of
young Fox Mulder growing up alone, shuttling between two love-less houses,
houses occupied with too much of their own grief, guilt and shame to
recognize, much less salve the pain and loneliness of an innocent little
boy unwittingly caught up in the tragedies and intrigues of adults.

	"I think we can eliminate my brothers," Scully responded.  "They're
too removed from all of this, and neither of them would deliberately hurt
me."

	Mulder knew that, like him, Scully used the word 'deliberately' in
an attempt to be precise.  The combination of both brothers moving their
families out of the DC area and their uncertainty about how to deal with
their little sister being an FBI agent had weakened their relationships
with her.  They had made it back for their father's funeral, but hadn't
managed to find the time to come home when Scully was in intensive care,
not even when her mother and sister were making the decision to remove her
from life support.  No matter how much he might want to, it was just one
more pain Mulder was unable to spare her.

	"Okay, then.  What about the Lone Gunmen?"

	Mulder thought, considering Byers, Langly and Frohicke, the trio of
computer hackers who published the underground conspiracy magazine The Lone
Gunmen.  Although they had once claimed that the reason they liked Mulder
was that his ideas were even weirder than their own, Mulder knew that he
was the paranoid group's biggest hero -- because he was the one FBI agent
who actually investigated the cases they only wrote about.  And they loved
his partner almost as much as he did.  When Scully lay dying, it was The
Lone Gunmen who had scoured the internet for information on the bizarre
proteins found in her blood, providing Mulder with the only information he
got from any source.

	"I can't see it," he answered finally.  "I can't believe any of
them could be putting on an act good enough to fool not only me for all of
these years, but the other two as well.  They're too paranoid.  Besides,
they've had plenty of opportunities to hurt our cause if they were so
inclined, and they've always helped."

	"You used them to recover the DAT tape from Krycek's drop, and all
they brought you was the empty case."

	"I just don't believe it, Scully."

	Scully thought of Mulder's description of Frohicke bringing her
flowers at the hospital, decked out in a jacket and bow tie, while she was
comatose following her abduction.  She let out a breath.

	"Okay.  I don't see it either."

	She thought some more.  Mulder wasn't kidding about it being a
short list.

	"There are lots of people, I suppose, like Agent Pendrell or
Margaret or Holly, who we see every day, or pass in the corridors.  People
we don't specifically trust, but who we aren't suspicious of either."

	"No," Mulder replied thoughtfully, "if it was someone like that
they wouldn't be so worried about us figuring it out.  There are just too
many people who fall into that category.  We could guess for years and
never get it right.  And none of them would be able to get close enough to
put us in danger."

	"What if they think Krycek identified the person?"

	"We've had months.  Why wouldn't we have fingered this person by
now, if we knew who he was?"

	"I don't know."

	"Mulder, what about your source?"

	"My source?"

	"The 'X' man.  Deep Throat's successor."

	When Mulder had first begun investigating the X-Files cases, he had
received help and information from a mysterious but fatherly man who had
guided and protected him.  "Deep Throat" had been shot and killed
exchanging apparent evidence of the existence of aliens for the kidnapped
Mulder.  Shortly after Deep Throat's death, Mulder had been approached by a
new and far more enigmatic individual, who clearly knew about the
relationship with Deep Throat and who was determined not to pay the same
price.

	"You're MY tool!" he'd told Mulder, making his position eminently
clear.

	"He's never made a secret of the fact that his agenda is his own,
Scully."

	"His own, yes.  But the consortium's?  Who is he, Mulder?  He's
obviously highly placed.  What if it were revealed that he was in league
with the Smoking Man?"

	"If he were, Scully, why help us at all?  What kind of game is he
playing?"

	"Does he help us, really?  Some of his tips have gotten us in a lot
of trouble, Mulder."

	"But why would he be involved with them?  As you said, he must hold
a position of some power himself."

	"If it were obvious, Mulder, it wouldn't be worth killing us just
on the chance Krycek let something slip."

	"We'd better talk to Skinner.  Maybe he'll have some idea whether
or not we could be on the right track."

	The memo was sitting on Skinner's desk when he arrived back from
lunch.  Sam Greene had called.  He had four tickets to see the Orioles play
the Tigers that night.  Would Walt and Sharon like to join the Greenes?
Relieved by the contact after the long silence from his agents, Skinner had
Margaret call and accept.  Sam told her they'd meet the Skinners at the
will-call windows a half-hour before game time.  Maybe they could get dogs
at the game and drop by the house afterwards for dessert.  Skinner's
secretary told Sam she'd let the Assistant Director know of the invitation.
Skinner asked Margaret to call Sharon and see if she minded meeting him at
the office so that they could head to Baltimore straight from work.

	And so it was that less than an hour after watching the Orioles
lose the game on a 9th inning grand slam home run by Alan Trammell, ("They
shouldn't LET men that old play," Greene had protested)  Skinner again
found himself sitting and chatting in Sam Greene's comfortable den.  The
women had gone into the sunroom to look at some flowering something or
other, and it occurred to Skinner that he could easily be visiting with an
old friend, not waiting anxiously for a phone to ring.  He wondered if Sam
Greene played racquetball.

	Finally, the phone did ring.

	"Hello?  Oh, Sissy!  Hi,  You'll never guess who's sitting here.
Yes, I'm sure he'd like to talk with you too."  He handed the phone to
Skinner and left the room.
	"What's up?  Are you both all right?"

	"Fine.  We have an ideas about what might be behind this, but --"

	"Tell me your theory."

	"My friend thinks that it may stem from a conversation he had
recently with a former partner, as you suggested."

	"Yes?"

	"We've been over and over their conversation, and the only thing we
can think might have made our other friends nervous was the suggestion that
we might trust someone we shouldn't and that his former partner could know
who that person might be."

	"I seem to recall ending up on the wrong end of a couple of
revolvers the last time someone said something like that to you."

	"Well, sir, the problem then as now is that the list of
possibilities is very short."

	She could hear his smile over the line.

	"I can only imagine."

	"But we think we may have narrowed it down."

	"To how many?"

	"A list of one."

	"I see."

	"We may be totally wrong."

	"But you may not."

	"We don't know his name or what he does," she paused, then
continued, "but we think you may."

	He waited.

	"We -- I -- think that you may have seen him once.  You were coming
to see me.  Mulder had gone to Alaska by himself.  You arrived just after
this man left.  A tall, handsome, well-dressed black man.  I though you
might --"  She pictured Skinner as he had arrived at the door, looking a
bit battered and bruised, Mulder's flight information in hand.  He had
provided the information Mr. X had denied her, the information which
subsequently allowed her to save Mulder's life.

	"I saw him.  I know who you mean.  What I don't know is what the
hell he could have to do with our smoking friend."

	"Well, sir, what if they did have some sort of unholy alliance?
Would they kill Krycek -- and us -- to keep it a secret?"

	"You know," he said slowly, "I think you've just provided me with
the missing piece of the puzzle.  Give me twenty-four hours, and then start
home."

	"Thank you, sir."

	"I'll look forward to seeing you both."

	"And we you, sir."

	The Viet Nam memorial was deserted at 3 am, but the two men in
trench coats approached it cautiously, keeping to the shadows
none-the-less.  The black man spoke first.

	"Once again, you have overstepped your bounds, allowing your
personal animosity to prevail over our mission."

	The other took a puff from his cigarette before replying.

	"The man and woman remain a threat.  Sooner or later they must be
eliminated."

	"Perhaps.  But not now.  And how many attempts will you make before
you realize that they are more clever than your assassins?  How may assets
will you waste?  Krycek and Cardinale were bad enough, but this latest
endevour has cost us five more good men and put me at risk."

	"The purpose of the operation was to protect your position."

	"Perhaps you can convince others of that.  I know better."

	There was a long silence.

	"So where do we go from here?" asked the Smoking Man defiantly.

	"Call off your dogs.  I'm holding you personally responsible for
the safety of the two agents.  Your unfortunate activities have postponed
our pursuing the next objective indefinitely."

	"And if I do not do as you say?"

	"Then you too are expendable.  If cancer doesn't kill you first."

	The two men met in a parking garage at 2:30 in the morning.  The
black man spoke first.

	"Do not think that I will appear at your bidding, Mr. Skinner."

	"This time you owe me."

	"Perhaps."

	"The attack on my agents?"

	"The result of -- a misunderstanding."

	"And now?"

	"It has been cleared up."

	"And my people?"

	"Need not fear a repeat of the -- incidents."

	"I have your word?"

	"I have answered your question."  He paused, hesitating, and then
faded into the shadows and was gone.

	"Dana!  Long time, no see!"

	Halfway through the cafeteria line in the Hoover Building lunch
room, Scully looked up from her tray to see Scott Castle, one of her
classmates from Quantico.

	"Hi, Scotty.  How are you?"

	"Doing well.  How about you?  Where have you been?"

	Scully thought about the weeks in Cedarville.

	"Mulder and I were in Michigan working on a land-fraud thing."

	Castle didn't need to express his disbelief.  His face showed that
land-fraud sounded far too legitimate to be a case for "Spooky" Mulder.
Scully refrained from pointing out that she and Mulder dealt with more
murders and abductions than virtually anyone else in the Bureau, and that
despite the bizarre nature of their cases, their solution rate was far
better than the FBI's average.

	"Pretty run of the mill," she added when he didn't respond.

	"Yeah, I'll bet.  Say, Dana, you interested in grabbing a bite to
eat tomorrow night?"

	She looked at him assessingly.  Scott had been widely regarded as
the biggest catch in the class, and although she had been involved with
Jack Willis at the time, she had hardly been immune from his charms.
Looking at him, pondering the prospects, Scully felt anything but
interested.

	"Funny," she thought, "I wonder what about him has changed?"
Superficially he seemed the same, same sandy, sunstreaked blonde hair, same
sincere, smiling blue eyes, same open friendly attitude, same strong broad
shoulders...  Finally it occurred to her that maybe he wasn't the one who
was different.  In any case the answer was easy.

	"Thanks, Scott, but no thanks."

	"What?  You got a hot date?"

	"No. just planning a quiet weekend at home with my dog."

	He looked at her pityingly.

	"Dana, you've got to get out more.  When was the last time you had
company on a Friday night?"

	Quickly, Dana ran through the last several Fridays in her mind.
The last three were easy.  She and Mulder had been on the run.  The one
before that she'd gone out to dinner with Mulder.  The week before that
they'd  gone bowling.  Before that they'd been at her mother's.  Before
that, pizza and a movie on her couch.  Mulder had fallen asleep and spent
the night.  Before that, an Oriole's game...  Frankly, Scully couldn't
remember the last Friday night she's spent alone.

	"I do all right, Scott. I just don't date co-workers."

	"So I guess there's nothing to those rumors."

	"Rumors?"

	"About you and old 'Spooky'."

	"I haven't heard them, but Mulder and I are partners.  That's all."
All, she thought, as if there could be more than that.  And adding a
package of sunflower seeds, a pastrami sandwich, an ice tea and a piece of
chocolate cake to her tray, she headed to the basement where Mulder was
waiting.  As if there could be more than that.

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