CHAPTER 4
LUCK, LIES, TEDDY BEARS, AND PILLOW FIGHTS

Red Sands Casino
Reno Nevada
5:45 a.m.

Texas Bob Harris leaned far out over the green felt, shuffled the dice around
in his closed hand, blew once for good luck and threw the small plastic
squares energetically down the table. "Yes!" he yelled. "Another lucky throw
from the man from Austin!"

The croupier rounded up the dice and deposited them in front of Bob. He
leaned out over the rail to retrieve part of his winnings and place another
bet on the table. Well hidden by his bulk, no one saw him lift a handful of
his neighbor's gaming tokens from the rail and place them with his own chips.

"Here you go, sir," his cocktail waitress said, handing him a cup of coffee.
"Just how you like it."

"Well, thank you little lady," Bob said, placing a $5 chip on her tray.

Sabrina grinned back at him. The guy had been winning all night and still
was, by the looks of things. "You need anything else, honey, you just ask for
Sabrina," she purred. As she left the table, she put a little extra motion
in her hips, knowing that the man's eyes would be on her rear end. Hey, if
it made for good tips and wasn't outlawed, why the hell not?

Texas Bob risked a glance at the gambler next to him. Unlike Bob, this guy
hadn't switched to coffee in the wee small hours of the morning and was about
as sloshed as you could get and still be standing. It made the pickings
easy. But there weren't all that many people left at the table, and one
thing he'd learned was to know when to quit. "Anybody else want to try their
luck?" he asked, holding the dice out to his neighbor. The man slurred his
thanks, then nearly fell over the rail when he made his throw. "You take
care there, pardner," Bob said, patting the guy on the back. "I guess I'll
just have to cash in while I'm still ahead."

At this time of the morning, the casino was pretty much deserted and Texas
Bob didn't have much of a wait while the cashier counted his chips and
transformed them into cold, hard cash. Shit, he thought to himself, I never
thought cheating could be this easy. And to think I learned it all from
watching the fucking Discovery Channel. What a hoot. This had been the
third casino he'd been to and no one had even suspected or questioned him.

Texas Bob was a rail thief, a skill he'd learned by watching a videotape
taken by casino security cameras in one of the new, high-tech Las Vegas
casinos. He'd watched as security had zoomed in on a man stealing chips from
the person next to him on the rail of a craps table, but the guy had been
stupid. He hadn't known about the security camera over his head and hadn't
taken any precautions to cover his actions. But Bob had watched, and watched
closely. Hundreds of times, courtesy of his handy dandy VCR. He'd taught
himself how to duplicate the thief's actions, refining them, and finally he'd
taped himself making the moves from every possible angle until he'd learned
how to sneak his neighbor's chips without being seen from any camera angle.
Sometimes it paid to be big and flabby. All that bulk covered a multitude of
sins.

The next thing Bob had learned was how to spot a mark, someone with a bundle
of cash who was still intent on gambling but too drunk to notice when a few
chips were missing. But that had come easy to him - after all, he'd been
doing that in one form or another for years. First he'd sold insurance door
to door, then gone on to any of a number of get-rich-quick-schemes, and he'd
always been able to spot a mark. It seemed appropriate, somehow, that he'd
ended up as a car salesman, and he'd been good at it. He'd made salesman of
the year more than once, but that was too much like work. This - now this
was the ticket. Easy money. Ten grand in only an hour, he marveled. "Sure
can't beat that with a stick," he remarked while stuffing the cash in the
bulging money belt around his waist.

Silently, electronic eyes watched the big man with the large belly and more
than apparent bad taste in clothes. They had watched him play at the craps
table, had watched him cash in his winnings. Their unique brain calculated
the amount of money he had wagered and won, counted the number of chips he
had cashed in, and had determined that the amounts did not match. The eyes
quietly panned and zoomed to follow him on his way through the casino,
watched him stop at the gift shop for a candy bar and a newspaper, watched as
he dodged waitresses and other patrons on his way to the exit. A silent
electronic alarm was triggered. This was wrong. This was what its
programming interpreted as a perpetrator, an individual it was programmed to
recognize as a cheater. Security must be notified.

Texas Bob paid for his Baby Ruth and the morning paper with another $5 bill,
and told the cashier to keep the change. Strange guy, Bob thought with a
shiver. Awfully pale complexion for someone who lives in the desert. Must
have some albino in his blood somewhere. Come to think of it, the woman
stocking the shelves wasn't much tanner, either. And their eyes were
strange, very dark and sort of blank looking. Bob got another chill. If his
mother had been there, she would have said a goose just walked over his grave
or some other hillbilly nonsense. Hell, he'd probably just been cooped up
inside too long. Maybe he needed something a little more substantial in his
belly than just a candy bar. Low blood sugar, he thought with a laugh. What
a hoot.

Texas Bob left the Red Sands through the doorway next to the gift shop,
exiting into the alleyway between the Red Sands and its neighboring casino.
The sky was just beginning to get light. "Gotta be a Denny's around here
somewhere," he grumbled. Then he remembered - he'd passed one only a few
blocks away. All this successful gambling had made him work up a Texas sized
appetite, and the more he thought about it, the more his stomach was rumbling
for a stack of pancakes smothered in syrup with a couple of eggs over easy on
the side. And hash browns - couldn't forget the hash browns. Sure, there
was a coffee shop in the casino, and the food there was probably just as
good, but it had gotten to be a habit with Bob to go to Denny's after a
successful night at the tables, and he was just superstitious enough not to
want to push his luck.

So Texas Bob turned and headed for the end of the alleyway and the street
beyond. A slight burning sensation suddenly began to permeate his chest.
"Can't be heartburn," the big man rumbled out loud. "All I had was the damn
candy bar." Something was wrong with his eyes. The sky looked suddenly
darker, the neon lights burning brighter - garishly, almost obscenely bright
in the suddenly darkened sky. The slight burning suddenly became a raging
fire, doubling the Texan over in pain as he uselessly grabbed at his chest,
ripping his shirt in the process. The light stabbed at his eyes, and he
could no longer see the street beyond the alley. 'The wages of sin...' a
shadowy voiced whispered inside his tortured brain. Stumbling for several
feet, he screamed in agony as his bulky body collapsed to the pavement,
writhing with convulsive spasms as a sudden flash of light pierced his
twitching flesh then disappeared into the early morning air.

Just exiting from the employee entrance at the other end of the alley, Lily
Morgan dropped her purse and began to scream just as an unidentifiable shadow
melted into the darkness.

Dulles International Airport
10:00 a.m.

The yellow cab screeched to a sudden halt in front of the Delta Airlines
terminal. Frazzled skycaps descended upon their luggage like flies buzzing a
roadkill carcass. Quite possibly the biggest man Mulder had ever seen pushed
his way through the ocean of tan uniforms, lifted both garment bags from
Mulder's shoulder, and hauled Dana's overstuffed suitcase from the trunk of
the cab and onto a rolling cart like it was a bag of groceries. A
lightly-stuffed one at that.

Hauling his own suitcase onto the cart, Mulder stared briefly at the man in
amazement. <This guy has biceps as big as my goddamn thigh> he thought
idly. Bet the bastard bench presses fucking engine blocks in his spare
time for fun and relaxation. Of course, his ego wasn't satisfied with just
that hint of envy. Oh, no, not Fox Mulder's inner voice. It had to remind
him that it had taken him three tries to get the same suitcase into the damn
trunk not less than twenty minutes ago. He didn't know exactly what she'd
packed but whatever the hell it was, it'd nearly given him a hernia. <Hell,
you're still recovering from your injuries,> he rationalized. <Yeah, sure,
whatever,> his inner voice piped up. <Right, Mulder, you wimp. It'd probably
take the entire combined air inventory of every gas station in the District
to pump *you* up.>

Taking note of Dana's admiring glance directed toward Mr. Neanderthal, Fox
decided that he needed to put a little more effort into getting back into
shape.

The skycap checked their tickets and pulled tags for their luggage. "Checking
through to Reno, Sir?" the skycap asked, his voice a deep, rich baritone. He
waited for Mulder's response, pen in hand, but Mulder was staring off into
the ozone. "Sir?" the man repeated, politely tapping Mulder on the shoulder
and bringing his attention back into focus.

"Uh, yes, Reno," Mulder replied, handing the skycap several bills.

The skycap finished tagging their luggage, then smiled at Dana with what
Mulder considered just a little too much generosity and friendliness. He
couldn't believe it when she returned the smile with an open friendly one of
her own.

For her part, Dana couldn't help but notice the slight frown that tugged at
the corners of Mulder's very sensual mouth. Jesus, was he jealous? She
giggled to herself. This one beautiful man could do more for her ego than a
dozen muscle-bound body builders could ever hope for. She'd been feeling a
little pudgy, bloated, and not just a little... well... unattractive until
just now. With one slight downward curve of his lip, Mulder had just managed
to make her feel like the most beautiful woman on earth. Indulging herself,
she purposely prolonged her gaze at Mr. Muscle's retreating derriere as he
moved through the terminal with their bags in tow.

"Ahem." Mulder cleared his throat noisily.

Dana tried, not too successfully, to wipe the smirk from her face before
turning toward him. "What?" she asked, the picture of innocence.

Mulder opened his mouth to comment but was interrupted once again as she
stepped into him and allowed the folds of his trenchcoat to surround her.
"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Sherlock," she snickered playfully. "I
was just looking. Besides, you've got the muscle where it really counts."
While concealed by his coat, Dana reached down, gave him a gentle, yet firm
squeeze, then looked up with delight as his eyes widened in surprise. "I
know what I've got," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Dana! Jesus!" he whispered with controlled urgency. Looking around
nervously, his face deepened to a noticeable crimson hue. "We're in the
middle of an airport... on a case, for crissakes!"

"So?" she questioned him trying to hold back her laughter. For a man who'd
once engaged in a steady diet of adult videos, he could still be down right
shy at times.

"So, our plane leaves in fifteen minutes and I don't want to have to explain
to Skinner that we missed it because you were giving me a handjob in front of
the baggage check," he deadpanned. He grabbed her free hand and lead her
through the concourse. "What have I gotten myself into?" he wondered out
loud.

"Nothing that you can't handle," Dana assured him.

They made it to their departure gate just as the last call for their flight
echoed through the building. In fact, Dana noted, they were the very last
people in line for boarding passes.

"Oh, god, Mulder. We'll probably get stuck on the bulkhead or in the exit
aisle. I'm sorry... you're going to have to be all cramped up again."

"S'okay. I'm used to it. Besides, it's only two hours to Atlanta. What
about you?" he asked with concern.

"Oh, I'll be alright. I'm not the one with morning sickness, remember?"

Mulder groaned. "Thanks. You had to remind me, didn't you?" She snickered
at him, but her eyes were full of good humor and he grinned back at her.
"You know, it's pretty damn ludicrous to have to travel two hours south just
to travel another four hours west."

"It could be worse, you know. At least we're on a commercial airline, not a
military transport. Although I never have been able to figure out how the
airlines plan their schedules."

"I don't think there is any planning involved," Mulder replied. "I bet if
aliens ever did show up in a big way, they'd probably all be routed through
Atlanta first, after of course having their gates changed and their flights
delayed." Mulder looked at the line for boarding passes, and then at the
ticket agent at the gate, and came to a decision. "Listen, you shouldn't have
to be uncomfortable. I don't want you to be uncomfortable. Why don't you
wait here and I'll go see if I can upgrade these tickets to first class.
After all, it's not like I can't afford it."

Dana watched as he quickly walked over to the counter and handed the agent
their tickets. They spoke quietly for a few moments, then he returned to
the line boarding the plane, a puzzled look on his face.

Dana touched his arm. "Mulder, what's wrong? If they can't bump us up, it's
ok. The people in the back of the plane will make it to Reno at the same
time as the people in the front."

"No, that's not it," he mumbled, still in a little bit of confusion.

"Then what is it?" she asked.

"I never took a close look at these things," he informed her while he handed
the tickets to the flight attendant. "These tickets were purchased for Fox
*and* Dana Mulder, and they're first class."

Dana's eyebrows rose in surprise. First class? It was a sure bet Skinner's
assistant hadn't made the reservations.

"Skinner didn't mention anything to me about being undercover on this one,"
Mulder said. "And we both know the Bureau would never approve of first class
seats, not for lowly field agents, anyway. What the hell is going on?" he
asked as they settled down into the wide leather seats, their carry-ons
stored neatly overhead.

Dana shook her head at him. "Mulder, sometimes you ask too many damn
questions. Why can't you just accept our good fortune and enjoy it?"

"Because..." Mulder surveyed the people around them with exaggerated paranoia.
"Our good fortune, as you so aptly put it, usually ends up sneaking around
and biting us in the ass," he whispered in a hoarse, conspiring tone.

Dana found herself snuggling down into the soft leather seat and sighed with
contentment. "Relax, Mulder. This is probably just an early wedding gift
from Skinner, bless him. Perhaps it's his unofficial blessing before he
makes us toe the line."

"In other words..." he gave her one of his goofy smiles, "take it while you
can get it cause there'll be hell to pay soon enough."

"Exactly," she confirmed.

"All right, fine. I'll overlook this minor aberration of Bureau policy and
congenially accept the fact that I can actually stretch out my legs without
fear of having my feet chopped off by the passenger in front of me."

*******************
Reno, Nevada
7:30 a.m.

Lily Morgan's hands were still shaking. Somehow she'd managed to drive home,
although she couldn't remember doing so. She'd been on auto pilot the whole
way, body taking over while her mind replayed the scene over and over again.

God, that poor man. Lily checked the door for the tenth time to make sure
that it was locked, then walking over to the window to peek out the
curtains, certain that this time she would see a police car parked in front
of her apartment building.

The man was dead. After what she'd seen, there was no question that he was
dead. She could still smell the singed flesh, feel the crackle of
electricity that had been in the air. How he'd died, now that was a big
question. She couldn't possibly have seen what she thought she did. That
was just her imagination, it had to be. Things like that just didn't happen
in real life. No way, no how. In the movies, maybe, but not in real life.
She was just tired, seeing things that weren't really there. Too much
caffeine and not enough sleep, and her imagination running overtime, like it
was now.

That was it. It didn't really happen that way. But if it didn't really
happen like that, how did he die? "Think, Lily, think," she muttered to
herself. She saw it, she had to know what really happened. A man died,
right in front of her eyes. Dead, definitely dead. Dead as a doornail.
Dead as Larry....

No, she would not think about that. She absolutely refused to think about
*that*. That part of her life was over and done with, had happened to
another Lily Morgan in another lifetime, not to the Lily Morgan she was
today.

Her studio apartment was small, basically one multipurpose living
room/bedroom/kitchen/dining room rolled into one, with just a small bathroom
off the main area. Lily paced the small space, checking the door lock each
time she passed, pausing before the window. For the first time since she'd
quit smoking, she really wished she had a cigarette.

Lily knew that she shouldn't have left the scene. She should have stayed and
given a statement to the police. But a statement about what? They sure as
hell wouldn't believe her if she told them what she saw. They might start
digging into her past and there was no way she could chance it. And now her
over-active imagination was supplying police cars where there were none,
playing out interrogation scenes that always ended the same way -- with her
in jail for murder.

God, she wanted a cigarette.

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

Dulles International Airport
10:30 a.m.

Mulder felt a familiar light-headed euphoria as the plane lifted from the
runway and climbed to its allotted cruising altitude. As usual, they'd been
delayed on the ground waiting for their turn to be cleared for take-off. All
that rushing around the terminal, only to sit on the tarmac for a half hour.
And since everything had to be stored for takeoff, he couldn't even use the
time to review the casefile with Dana. Instead, he'd settled for quietly
holding hands with his bride-to-be. Mulder smiled to himself - at least it
hadn't been a total loss.

When the plane had steadied to where he felt comfortable, Mulder lowered his
tray-table and set his briefcase on top. "Time for a little work," he
commented in what Dana recognized as his all business, no fooling around
tone.

She nodded in agreement. Although this trip had turned into something
monumentally important in her personal life - hers and Mulder's - they still
had a case to work on. Time to put her personal life on the back burner and
concentrate on the case. She retrieved a black nylon case from under the
seat in front of her, and as Mulder pulled out a thick jacket of case files
from his briefcase, she pulled out her laptop computer.

As she powered up the computer, Dana was struck once again by the difference
in their investigative styles, and she wondered how two people who were so
different could possibly have come together as completely as she and Mulder
had. Dana preferred keeping her field notes on computer, and although she
knew for a fact that Mulder kept some notes on his computer, the bulk of his
research had always been documented in the handwritten journals that he'd
kept for many years. She'd always been fascinated by his eccentric
preference of hard copy over computer screen and floppy disk. At first,
early in their relationship, she'd treated this as just another Spooky Mulder
idiosyncrasy until she'd accidentally come across a journal in the office one
day at the end of their first year together.

Mulder had gone home for the evening and in his preoccupation with another
matter, had left the book out on his desk. Initially, telling herself she was
just curious and only intended to browse the contents, she picked up the book
and opened it, trying to ignore the annoying voice of her conscience that was
insisting she was invading her partner's privacy. But three hours later, the
internal
voice of her conscience long forgotten, she'd still found herself immersed in
and enthralled by the handwritten words of probably the most brilliant,
intuitive, and empathic human being that
she'd ever know.

The emotion and insight that flowed from pen to paper revealed to her the
passion and sensitivity that her partner so expertly controlled and hid from
those around him. The force of the script accentuated his anger, it's
intermittent powerful strokes underlined his frustration, and the occasional
blurred ink betrayed the presence of tears shed from a seemingly inconsolable
pain that at the time she had not yet understood.

She'd conceded then that, for him, Mulder had been right in his choice of
medium for recording his thoughts. The cold, hard, sterile fonts of a
computer screen could never have accurately conveyed the raging passions or
the gentle intensity of spirit that was and is the enigmatic man who now sat
next to her, so engrossed in his work that he hadn't even noticed the liquid
from his plastic cup leaking steadily onto his leg.

Dana smiled to herself. That single journal had changed the way she'd viewed
her partner forever and partly because of that, their relationship had also
changed.

She'd often wondered why he'd written anything down at all. He certainly
didn't need to. He could call up details on command from memory faster than
her computer. Then it had occurred to her one day in a moment of insight.
The journals hadn't been for him. Somehow she sensed in this quiet, solitary
man a fear of leaving this world without anyone ever knowing who and what he
was. His writings were not just his cases, they were the essence of his
heart and soul as well. They would be his legacy should no one ever care
enough to really know him during his lifetime.

Dana reached over, patted his arm and smiled as she placed a part of her
blanket over his leg. She removed the defective cup from his tray and handed
it to the flight attendant, who quickly replaced Mulder's drink with a fresh
one. Flight attendants were certainly more attentive in first class.

"Thanks," he said softly. "Guess I was a little preoccupied." Grinning
sheepishly, he shrugged his shoulders and gently patted her small hand,
noticing that the large diamond was on her finger where it belonged, not on
a chain around her neck. He sent a mental 'thank you' to Skinner for
booking them as husband and wife before diving back into the file he'd been
perusing.

Dana turned back to her computer, bringing up another file on her laptop.
The Reno Police Department had modemed the autopsy protocols to the FBI and
she'd downloaded them into her computer before they left. She became more
and more intrigued as she delved deeper into the information that flashed
across her screen. This case made absolutely no sense at all. With a quick
look at her partner, she saw her own thoughts reflected by the stern look of
consternation that had etched itself upon his features. She knew, from long
experience, that he would be reviewing the preliminary police reports and
crime scene photographs, leaving the analysis of the medical findings to her.
Those reports must be just as confusing as the ones she had been reading. She
could almost visualize theory after theory presenting itself for review and
being compared and dismissed by both his intellect and intuition as
unacceptable.

Vaguely acknowledging the 'prepare for landing' announcement, Mulder
straightened his seat and table to their pre-flight positions. Absently he
dropped the case files onto his lap, still deep in thought, contemplating the
facts he'd gleaned from them over the last couple of hours.

The jolt of the landing gear contacting the runway and the forward momentum
of their bodies as the plane's engines reversed their thrust took them both
by surprise. "Rough landing," someone behind them commented, like everyone
hadn't already figured that out. As if to drive home the point, the files
in Mulder's lap bounced once and tumbled to the floor beneath the seat in
front of him before he could catch them. Unfastened papers scattered on the
floor and into the aisle. Swiftly removing his seat belt, Mulder scrambled
to the floor in a frantic attempt to salvage the documents before they
became public knowledge to everyone on board.

<Don't laugh.> Oh, this wasn't going to be easy, Dana thought with dismay.
She closed her eyes against the sight of Mulder's comical efforts at paper
retrieval, took a deep breath, held if for a ten count, then released it with
an exaggerated sigh. <Keep your eyes closed and you'll be fine.> OK, maybe
not, her brain teased. A warm tickle simultaneously inched its way up the
back of her throat and into her nose when a long string of muffled expletive
deletives managed to float up from the space between their seats and into her
not quite virgin ears. 'Goddamn it' and 'son of a bitch' she could make out
quite clearly; however, after that she lost track.

Of course he hadn't noticed that while collecting his papers, the plane had
stopped. Scrabbling over the floor of first class after his documents,
Mulder was doing a very good job of holding up all the passengers in coach
who'd lined up, carry-on baggage in hand, impatiently waiting to get off the
plane. The throng of departing passengers were now being treated to the
pleasant, albeit inconvenient view of a very handsome young man with his
equally attractive butt in the air and his head under a seat.

"Mulder!" she whispered in a strained voice. "Mulder, you're blocking the
aisle."

"Huh?" came a muffled reply.

"I said," she raised her voice slightly, still resisting the urge to cackle
loudly, "you're blocking the aisle and unless you want to become the victim
of a mob lynching, you better move... sometime in this century."

"Oh, damn," an irritated voice retorted. Mulder gingerly scooted back out
from under the seat but not before catching the back of his head on the
armrest on the way up. "Shit!" Finally standing up, clutching the thick
remains of jumbled papers in both hands, he turned to face an impatient
crowd. "Sorry," he smiled weakly. "I, um... lost my papers."

He turned to Dana for a little sympathy just as an attractive blond stuffed a
dollar bill in his back pocket. "That's ok, hon," the blonde purred. "It
was worth the wait."

It was too much. Dana lost her battle to maintain any semblance of decorum,
snorting loudly into her hand as unencumbered laughter escaped from between
her fingers.

Mulder's brow rose as if in challenge. <Go ahead - let's hear it.>

Dana was not someone who ignored a good challenge. "Admit it, Mulder," she
managed to choke out in between her laughter. "Computers do have their good
points." She deftly clicked the top down on her laptop and slid it easily
into her carry on while Mulder tried hopelessly to wrestle a stack of unruly
papers back into his briefcase. By the time he managed to arrange everything
so that he could at least get his briefcase closed, everyone else had already
gotten off the plane and the flight attendants were staring pointedly at
their two remaining passengers.

"Can't take you anywhere," Dana muttered, grabbing her overcoat. "Come on,
let's go before we miss our connecting flight."

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

Reno, Nevada
9:00 a.m.

Bright yellow tape cordoned off the alleyway next to the Red Sands Casino.
Black lettering on the tape proclaimed that the area was a crime scene and
no one was to pass. That didn't stop the curious from lining up on the
other side of the tape, craning their necks to get a glimpse of whatever was
beyond the barrier. Most of them only saw the backs of blue police
uniforms, and the occasional flash of the police photographer's camera as it
recorded the crime scene on 35mm color film.

Officer Harold Johnson had lived in Reno all his life. He'd grown up in one
of the few predominantly black neighborhoods that had existed in the Reno of
the 60's. His parents had moved to Reno from Los Angeles, seeking refuge
from the racial strife that had existed in Southern California even in those
days. But there was no refuge from violence, not even here. The body lying
under the clean white sheet was a silent testament to the fact that no place
was completely safe.

As a child, Harold had struggled to understand his parents' anger over the
death of Martin Luther King, an event that had caused his school to close
early as officials fretted over an outbreak of racial violence that never
happened. He also remembered having a quiet Thanksgiving holiday
interrupted by the news that someone had driven her car down the sidewalks
of casino row, killing tourists and locals alike. These two seemingly
random events coalesced in Harold's mind. He'd been struck by the injustice
of it all, how you could be a good and decent person and some bad guy could
still come along and blow you away or run you down with a car without a
second thought. If he had to pinpoint the exact things that had made him
decide to be a cop, Harold Johnson would have pointed to those two events.
Harold wanted to stop the bad guys before good, decent, innocent people died.

But this time Officer Harold Johnson had been too late. By the time he'd
received the call of a woman screaming in the vicinity of the Red Sands
Casino, the victim was already dead. The Red Sands was on his beat, and
Officer Johnson was beginning to dread radio calls instructing him to
respond to trouble there. This was the fifth body he'd discovered in as many
weeks. Even though the detectives in charge weren't using the term serial
killer yet, he expected to read it in the newspapers or hear it on the local
news any day now.

Although if this was the work of a serial killer, Officer Johnson had a hard
time understanding the killer's motive. If the killer had meant to rob his
victim, he'd done a lousy job. The guy was still wearing a money belt
around his waist, and from just a cursory examination he'd seen more money
in that belt than he'd made all year so far. There'd been no mutilation of
the body, nothing to indicate that the attack had been sexually motivated.
And he knew that the detectives had been unable to find any connection
between the previous victims, other than their patronage of the Red Sands
Casino.

Officer Johnson watched as an unmarked police car pulled into the entrance
of the alley. Many of the spectators had moved on, and the few that were
left made room for the car to get through. He studied each of the faces
remaining in the crowd. Officer Johnson was trying for his own detective's
gold shield, and he had learned that many killers returned to the scene of
the crime, feeding a need to continue to be involved in the case. However,
none of the faces were familiar from the other crime scenes. Still, when he
wrote up his report later, he would describe as many people in the crowd as he
could. He wondered what the spectators would think if they knew that just by
hanging around the scene they were included in the police report. Two
detectives got out of the car. The larger of the two squinted up at the
morning light, sipping from a steaming 7-11 refillable coffee mug.

"That stuff's gonna kill you someday," his partner said.

"Yeah, if some creep doesn't get me first," he said, grimacing at the taste
of the coffee. He walked up to Officer Johnson. "What have we got, Harold?"

"White male, late forties. I.D. says his name is Robert Harris from Austin,
Texas. No obvious cause of death."

"Robbery?" the smaller detective asked.

Officer Johnson shook his head. "Nope. The guy's got a money belt stuffed
full of 100's and 20's. I'd say he just had a pretty good night at the tables."

"Must be his lucky day." The larger detective peered at the crowd. "We get
shots of those people?"

"Yeah, along with shots of the body and the general area, but there's not
much here to take pictures of."

"Just like the other ones." Above their heads, a neon sign flickered and
sputtered. "They make enough money in these places you'd think they could
afford to fix the damn signs," the detective grumbled. Setting his coffee
mug on the asphalt, he squatted down next to the body and briefly lifted the
sheet. The patrol officer was right - no obvious cause of death. The
victim's faced was frozen in a grimace of pain, and it appeared he was
clutching his chest when he fell to the pavement. If it hadn't been for the
others, they would be inclined to write this off as death by natural causes.
But the city fathers got nervous when tourists started dropping like flies
outside the casinos, and the word had come down from on high that every
death near a casino was to be considered suspicious until proven otherwise.
This town would dry up and blow away if the tourists quit dropping money in
the clubs.

He let the sheet fall back over the victim's face. "Let's get the coroner
going on this one pronto."

"I don't suppose there were any witness?" his partner asked.

"We have reports of a woman screaming, but no one's admitted to seeing
anything," Officer Johnson replied.

"Great, just great," the first detective said. "The elusive screaming woman,
just what I need to start my day." He blew out a deep breath and ran one hand
through his thinning hair. "Ok. Here's the plan. We need to get some people
inside interviewing dealers, cocktail waitresses, pit bosses, anybody who might
remember our victim here and anybody who was a little too interested in his
winning streak. Tony, you and I are gonna pay a visit to the security office
and see if they caught this guy on tape." The sign sputtered once more and
finally went out, darkening the O and T of the Red Sands Hotel Casino sign above
the alleyway "And somebody tell maintenance that they have another sign on the
fritz. I don't think they
want to advertise that they're the Hel Casino."

"Any more people die here and that's gonna be appropriate," Detective Tony
Goldman commented.

"Yeah," his partner replied, draining the last of his coffee from the mug.
"Tell me again, Tony, why I gave up retirement."

"You're crazy, man. But then again, I think all New Yorkers are crazy, and
you gotta be crazy to do this stuff for a living."

"So how long do I have to live here until I'm not a New Yorker anymore?"

"Oh, about 20 or 30 years," Tony said.

"I'll be dead by then."

"That's the general idea, my man. You get buried here, then you're a local."

Officer Johnson listened to the two detectives' banter until they
disappeared into the casino. He'd be back on his regular beat by this
afternoon, but he knew the case was just beginning for the detective squad.
Even though he wanted more than anything to be a detective, he was glad the
responsibility for this particular case wasn't resting on his shoulders.
Unsolved cases didn't look good for anyone - not the town, the casinos, nor
the police department. And by the looks of things, this one was going to be
a bitch to solve.

Airport
Atlanta, GA
***************

A somewhat subdued Fox Mulder followed Dana Scully from the plane, down the
ramp, and into the crowded Atlanta terminal, heading toward their next
departure gate. She just had to rub it in, didn't she? he thought crankily.
<Okay pal, calm down. You're in pain and your blood sugar's probably at
ground zero by now since you didn't eat that simply scrumptious gourmet meal
they'd served on the plane. Don't be a jerk and take it out on Dana. It's
not her fault you can't eat because your face feels like someone smacked you
upside the head with a fucking two-by-four.> He felt a tentative tug on his
sleeve and looked down at Dana's upturned face.

"Mulder, " she prodded him insistently with her voice. He had a feeling
she'd said it more than once but he just hadn't been paying attention.
"Reticula to Mulder - come in Spooky," she teased.

"Hmm?" he replied lazily.

"I said, 'Mulder, we have an hour layover and the next gate's right over there,
so let's go grab something to eat.' You're starting to zone out on me,
Sherlock. You definitely need food."

"They served food during the flight," he reminded her.

"Which you didn't eat," Dana retorted. "And don't give me that look and try
to convince me otherwise," she embellished while jabbing him in the chest
with an accusing forefinger.

Mulder tried for the innocent, 'who, me?' look, but Dana had already turned
her back on him, heading off down the concourse at a smart rate. Amazing how
fast she could walk on those short little legs when she wanted to. He
finally caught up to her only to have her put on the brakes in front of a
place called 'Cheers Pub 'n Grill.' She turned on him with an evil grin.

"Now wait just a damn minute," he protested as she drug him into the darkly
lit restaurant. "I ate some of it. I did... honest."

"Don't play games with me, Fox Mulder. You pushed the food around on your
plate, took two bites of lukewarm mashed potatoes, and hid the chicken under
your napkin. Believe me, I know the routine. I've caught Matt and Meredith
pulling that crap often enough and they're much better at it than you are."

Mulder winced. "Geez, Scully,. What are you, the freaking food police? What
if I told you that I'm just not hungry?" he ventured experimentally as she
picked out a booth in a dark corner of the room.

"Then I'd say you were lying through your proverbial teeth. Your stomach's
been growling louder than a pride of hungry lions for the last two hours so
don't hand me that line of bull. I know for a fact that your tooth is
killing you, so don't go macho on me either. Fox, put the goop on it and
I'll try and order something that you can eat. Just pick your seat and sit
down."

"Which hand do you want me to use?" he grumbled while reaching for his butt.

Dana merely gave him a dirty look that more or less said, 'behave yourself or
else' and picked up her fork to make sure it was clean.

Mulder frowned in resignation, his shoulders engaging in a noticeable droop
when she'd refused to take the bait. He tried in vain to fit comfortably into
the small booth. "I'm not trying to be macho. I just don't like dentists."

"Oh, so you're going to keep putting it off until it really gets serious, is
that it, Mulder? Now that makes a whole hell of a lot of sense," she
remarked facetiously. "Face it. Either way you're going to end up at the
dentist's office. Whether it's under your own power - or someone else's -
depends on you."

"Scully, is that a threat?" Mulder peeked over the top of his menu, his eyes
wide with exaggerated surprise.

"No, it's only a foregone conclusion based on the inevitable outcome of the
situation," she said smugly.

He hated it when she was right. Enduring one kind of pain to avoid another
kind of pain that would eventually eliminate the first kind of pain was
basically... well, stupid. Intellectually, he understood the absurdity of
his actions. But for some reason he just couldn't seem to get past a
deep-seated primitive fear of anyone messing with his teeth. Stupid. He was
a grown man, he'd faced down mutants, aliens, and man-sized fluke worms, but
dentists? The very thought made him shudder. As a trained psychologist, he
recognized that the source of his fear must be lingering just beyond the
realm of his conscious memory, but that didn't help. The truth was he just
had this unwarranted panic that seized him every time he even thought about
someone probing, cutting or drilling in his mouth.

Even in the dimly lit restaurant, Dana noticed his countenance darken. She
hardly recognized the small, childlike voice that addressed her in a tone she
could only describe a shame-filled.

"Dana..." Mulder paused indecisively. Fumbling with his napkin, he
inadvertently flipped his fork to the floor. She watched his hands tremble.
"Shit!" He bent over to pick up the fork, and when he straightened up, he
refused to meet her eyes. "I'm afraid," he finally admitted with acute
embarrassment. "Your soon to be husband and father of your child is scared
shitless of getting into a fucking dentist's chair," he whispered softly with
self loathing.

Christ Almighty, this really bothered him... so much so, that he wouldn't
even look her in the eye. Dana reached out and took his hand. "Good God,
Mulder, you're a psychologist. Surely you know you're far from alone with
respect to your phobia concerning dental science."

"Still love me?" he asked meekly.

In the background they suddenly picked out the melodic strains of a
Pretenders' song echoing through the dining room.

'Nothing you confess,
Would make me love you less,
I'll stand by you,
I'll stand by you,
Won't let nobody hurt you...'

She sang along softly with the music, squeezing his hand during the last
line. He smiled, and she laughed softly in return.

"Come on, Mulder. Let's see what we can find to feed you." Dana ran her
finger down the menu. "Hmm... how about beef stew? It's warm, filling, and
the veggies are soft."

"Don't eat beef," he informed her.

"Since when?" she asked, "and why not?"

"Since yesterday... hormones, chemicals, and a whole lot of other things that I
don't even wasnt to think about in the meat. All I can see anymore when I look
at a steak is 'purity control'."

Dana made a face. She hadn't thought of that. All of a sudden steak didn't
sound so appetizing. "Okay, stew's out," she commented patiently. "What
about baked fish? Nutritious, easy to chew."

Mulder shook his head 'no.' "Flukies," he spat out, making a face.

Dana pressed her fingertips to her forehead and massaged her temples with her
thumbs. This was getting ridiculous. "Fox, you know heat kills flukes."

"Can't help it," he replied with a doleful expression. "I see fish, I think
'Flukies'."

"Ok, ok." She smiled. The old standby then. "Chicken soup?"

He nearly gagged and stared at her like she was nuts. "Christ, Dana, you
*really* don't know what could be in that. Cannibals," he reminded her
softly.

Dana blew out a heavy sigh. Jesus, this was going to be more difficult than
she'd thought. She knew Mulder better than anyone, and he'd never given much
thought to what he put in his stomach. At least not before today. "Why the
sudden change in eating habits, Mulder?" she asked curiously.

A shadow of a smile briefly shone in his eyes, wistfully caressing his lips
as he spoke. "I did a lot of thinking and I decided there were some changes
that I needed to make in my life."

"Changes?" she asked, slightly alarmed.

Mulder waved her concern aside with a small gesture of his hand. "Don't go
ballistic. It's nothing major, just some small things that were way overdue
and neglected for far too long. Like what I eat. You've bugged me about
this, so you can't start complaining now. 'Mulder, your body might as well
be a garbage can for all the crap you stuff into it,' " he mimicked her.

Dana shook her head slowly, a self-conscious grin spreading across her face.
His damn memory was something she'd never get used to. She especially hated
it when he quoted her verbatim. "What am I going to do with you, Mulder?"
she muttered.

"It's just that I'm not alone anymore," he explained. "I have you, and I
have a future, one that I thought would never exist for me. I want to grow
old with you. I want to be around to watch my kids grow up--to be there to
tell them that it's ok to cry, that I'm proud of them no matter what they
decide to be, and that they're important and loved. The odds of surviving in
this line of work are bad enough without me consciously stacking the deck
against myself."

"Any more than you already do," she interrupted.

"Ok, any more than I already do," he agreed with a grin. "I'm going to try to
be good, but I can guarantee I'm going to need a lot of help. Old habits are
hard to break."

A tall, dark-haired waitress appeared by their table, ending the moment.
Dana watched as she covertly assessed Mulder out of the corner of her eye.
From the pin above her right pocket, Dana deduced that her name was Jenny,
she liked smiley faces, and more than likely was duty bound to tell her
customers to have a nice day. Jenny smiled at Dana, a friendly but studied
professional smile, but the one she beamed at Fox was hot enough to melt
rock. The overture was lost on him, however. He was too busy staring at the
menu, a decidedly perplexed expression creasing the corners of his eyes.

Dana stifled a snicker. God help her if he ever realized the effect he had
on women. For some reason that she couldn't fathom, he apparently didn't
think he was that attractive. Hell, that unassuming attitude in itself was
enough to send most females into a human version of a feeding frenzy. She
didn't think there was a truly conceited bone in Mulder's entire, beautifully
well-made body. He didn't have time for that kind of nonsense and women, as
a rule, usually picked up on that type of quality. Whether or not Mulder
knew it, he was prime.

"Ready to order?" the woman finally had the presence of mind to ask.

Dana knew Mulder would take forever trying to decide what he could, should,
or wanted to eat. She solved the problem by taking the menu from his hand
and handing it to their waitress. "Do you have fruit salad?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Got a blender?" she asked as an idea popped into her head.

"Certainly."

"Good, he wants a fruit salad. Throw it in a blender and put it in a glass.
Give him a side order of applesauce if you have it. I'll take a chef's salad
with Italian dressing."

"Sure thing," Jenny acknowledged while jotting down the order. Must be one of
those health nuts, she thought while swaying her hips a little over zealously
on her trip back to the kitchen.

"You know," Dana said, turning her attention back to Mulder, "if you stick
with this new eating plan of yours, we'll have to order ahead every time just
to make sure we go somewhere where you can eat."

He just shrugged his shoulders. By God, he was serious about this. Amazing
what impending fatherhood can do to some people. Catching a whiff of mocha
from behind the bar, Dana thought about her own absent cup of coffee and
rubbed her stomach. Maybe that should be impending parenthood, she thought.

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

Reno, Nevada
11:10 a.m.

Lily Morgan sat up in bed with a start, the blood racing in her veins. She'd
been in the middle of a nasty nightmare and had been jerked back to reality
by the sharp knock on her front door. Only cops knock like that. Cops or
landlords, and she wasn't behind on her rent.

The knock sounded again -- two sharp raps, this time accompanied by a male
voice calling her name. Definitely the cops.

"Just a minute," she called out. Breathe in, breathe out, deep slow breaths,
she told herself. Calm down. She smoothed her hair down with one hand,
pleased to see that it wasn't shaking. With any luck she'd be able to get
through this and go on with her life.

She slept in an over-sized football jersey that hung half-way down to her
knees. She thought about pulling on some jeans, but decided they would have
to take her as she was. She didn't want to leave them out in the hall any
longer than necessary or they'd begin to get suspicious. Thank God she no
longer had any marks on her legs. At least none that were easily visible to
a casual observer.

"Sorry, I was sleeping," she mumbled as she answered the door. Two
plainclothes cops stood in the hallway. Both showed her IDs that identified
them as Detectives with the Reno Police Department.

"Lily Morgan?" asked the shorter of the two. She nodded in reply. "We need
to ask you a few questions. Do you mind if we come in?"

She opened the door and stepped out of the way to let them in. "What's this
about?" she asked, feigning a yawn.

"You're employed at the Red Sands, right?" said the other detective, ignoring
her question. She nodded. "Graveyard shift in the coffee shop?" Another
nod. "See anything unusual when you left work this morning?"

"Nope. Just another sunrise. You never said what this was all about." she
reminded them.

"Did you leave work by the employee exit?" asked the shorter detective. They
were tag-teaming her, she decided, and they still weren't answering her
question. Not that she needed them to - she already knew why they were here.
At least she hoped she did.

"Just like a good little worker bee," she said, trying hard for a little
self-righteous indignation. An innocent person would begin to be a little
upset right about now. She needed to be upset. "Why are you here? Am I in
trouble?"

Until now the two detectives had been asking her questions without really
looking at her, preferring instead to evaluate her by scrutinizing her
surroundings, not that there was all that much to see. The larger of the two
men put down a paperback he'd picked up off the coffee table next to her day
bed. "Why would you think you were in trouble, Ms. Morgan?" he asked,
looking directly into her eyes.

Lily forced herself to return his gaze, even though her insides were shaking
so badly she was sure it must be reflected in her eyes. "You got me out of
bed in what is the middle of the night for me, and you won't tell me what
this is all about. Under the circumstances, I think it's normal to be a
little paranoid."

"And what circumstances would that be, exactly?" he asked.

Lily noticed an accent - New York, maybe. He was certainly New York rude.
This time she didn't have to work so hard to appear indignant. "I just told
you. Now why don't you tell me something? Or is that too much to ask?"

She glared at him for a moment, waiting for an answer. When one wasn't
forthcoming, she broke eye contact, turning to see what his partner was up
to. With her back to him, she didn't see him run his gaze over her body,
looking for anything out of the ordinary. His brows drew down into a frown
as he spotted the old scars on the backs of her legs. He noticed another one
on her shoulder, half-hidden by the oversized t-shirt. No fresh bruises
though, he noted.

"You live here all alone, Ms. Morgan?" he asked.

Lily turned back to face him. "Not exactly a whole lot of space here for a
roommate," she said, not even having to work hard at the sarcasm this time.
Cops - they were the same everywhere. Jerks, the whole lot of them. But as
comforting as the anger was, she couldn't let it get out of hand or she'd say
the wrong thing - not smart. You gotta be smart, Lily, she told herself.
She sighed. "I'm sorry. Yes, I live alone. Yes, I work at the Red Sands in
the coffee shop, graveyard shift. I left by the employee exit. I didn't see
anything out of the ordinary. I guess I'm a little cranky on two hours'
sleep."

"So are we all, Ms. Morgan." He questioned his partner with a glance over
the woman's shoulder and got a slight nod in return. "Okay. To answer your
question, a man died in the alleyway outside the Red Sands this morning,
right about the time you got off work and right in front of the employee
exit. We're just questioning everyone who might have been in the area and
might have seen something."

"Oh, God, not another one," Lily breathed. She let a little of her
nervousness show through, hoping that it would come across as shock. "I...
I'm sorry, but I didn't see anything."

"You remember a big guy, Texas accent, bad clothes, in the coffee shop
anytime last night? He was winning big, might have left you a good tip."

Lily shook her head no. "I don't get many big tippers. I would have
remembered him."

The detective took a card from his pocket and handed it to her. "Well, if
you remember anything you think might help, give me a call." He paused and
caught her gaze again, leaning in a little closer. "Or if you need help with
anything else, you call me."

She took the card from him, cursing at herself when she noticed that her hand
was shaking, just a little. "Thank you," she said in a small voice.

If the detective noticed the tremor in her hand, he didn't mention it. He
just collected his partner and left. Lily bolted the door behind them and
sagged against it, her knees threatening to give out. She almost tossed the
card in the trash, but on second thought tucked it underneath her bedside
phone. She climbed back in under the covers, knees drawn up halfway to her
chest, but it was a long time before she was able to fall back asleep.

"Hey, Jake. What was that all about?" Tony Goldman hadn't been teamed with
his partner all that long so he didn't know all the man's nuances yet, but he
was sure something besides just questioning a possible witness had happened
in that apartment.

"Aw, shit, Tony," Jake replied, settling his bulk behind the wheel of their
unmarked police car. "Some asshole's been beating the crap out of that
woman." He turned the key and the car roared to life. "My guess is that she
finally got up the guts to leave the guy and she's scared shitless that he's
gonna find her."

"She did seem damn nervous, but I figured it was just because we got her out
of bed to question her."

"Yeah, I thought the same thing until I saw the scars on the backs of her
legs. Healed over now, but still visible if you know what you're looking at.
I've seen more of that shit in one lifetime than I ever wanted to. Hers were
probably made by a leather belt. She's got another one up by her shoulder,
and I bet there's more hidden under that t-shirt of hers. You know how hard
you gotta hit someone with a belt to leave permanent scars?"

"Pretty fucking hard," Tony replied. Domestic violence was a way of life
with some people, and Reno seemed to have more than its share. Every now and
then there'd be some article in the paper about the rising rate of domestic
crime, usually after another poor kid was abused or killed by her parents.
Psychologists blamed it on the Reno lifestyle - the stress of living in a
24-hour town where most of the residents worked for minimum wage in
surroundings that promoted alcohol and gambling. Addiction, of all kinds,
was common place here, and addicts were not stable citizens.

"Well, that asshole just better hope I never find him," Jake growled as he
pulled out into traffic. Beating a pretty lady like that, turning her into a
scared little mouse hiding out in her tiny apartment. He'd seen a little
spirit in those eyes, so he knew she wasn't completely broken yet. Never
would be if he could help it.

"Think she'd actually call for help?" Tony asked.

"Hope so, partner," Jake replied. "I sure hope so.

Cheers Pub 'N Grill
Atlanta airport terminal

While they were waiting for lunch, Dana decided that now was as good a time
as any to get a little work done. She pulled out her laptop and punched up
her notes on the files she'd read on the flight from D.C. "Mulder, this case
is just plain weird. No wonder the VCS called us in." She took a sip of
water, still pining for the coffee she had purposely not ordered. "I've gone
over these files several times and the only connection I can find is the
location of the murders, and I use that term loosely. They all occurred in a
three block section of the downtown casino area. The biggest casinos in that
section of town are the Red Sands, the El Dorado, and the Riverboat. A
couple of smaller casinos and bars managed to squeeze in between the big
hotel/casinos, along with a few small businesses, the largest of which is a
pawn shop."

She stopped to watch information scroll across her screen. Mulder might have
this all down in that photographic memory of his, but occasionally she needed
to refer to her notes. "Here we go," she muttered under her breath. "There
have been five suspicious deaths in the last two weeks, maybe more. Local
police seem to think that the deaths are related but from the reports, I
can't find anything other than location to connect them."

Mulder had drifted away from her. The far away look in his eyes confirmed
that his mind was focused on the problem at hand from probably a totally
different perception than anyone else had even envisioned. As intriguing as
she sometimes found it, this mental state that she often found him in during
a case could also be very annoying. He seemed to forget that she was even
around.

"Mulder?" No answer. "Mulder?!" Still no answer. She finally reached across
the table and flicked his ear.

"Hey, ow!!" he squawked as his attention jerked back to her rather abruptly.
"What'd you do that for?"

"You know it's bad manners to ignore your significant other and not share
your thoughts," she razzed him.

"I'm sorry. I was just thinking."

"I could tell. Care to share?"

"Dana, I don't think these deaths were the result of a serial killer. I
can't explain it yet but it just doesn't feel right. It doesn't make sense."

"Since when do serial killers make sense, Sherlock?"

"Even serial killers follow their own grotesque kind of logic, Scully. As
absurd and eschewed as that logic may seem to the rest of us, it usually makes
perfect sense to the perverse and demented mind that employs it." He
stopped, raising one eyebrow mischievously. "That's how I catch the
bastards, you know," he whispered seductively, leaning toward her so that
only she could hear his words. "I become perverse and demented," he told her
with a wink, before he straightened back up. "Every killer has a motive;
it's just not easy to find and often not what you expected. I never told you
exactly why I left VCS or why Skinner approved my appointment to the X-Files,
did I?" His mood had turned serious, so different from the playful banter of
just a moment earlier.

"No, you never did... and you don't have to," she assured him.

"I know that. I want to tell you and you need to know."

Dana spotted their waitress headed back toward their table, tray loaded with
a plate full of lettuce and something vaguely pink in a tall fountain glass.
"Tell you what. Why don't you eat your lunch first, then you can tell me the
rest of the story."

Jenny with the smiley face set their food in front of them, nearly swishing
a hip into Fox's face as she turned to leave. Even he couldn't have missed
that blatantly obvious come on, Dana fumed. Then again, maybe he could have.
It seemed that her illustrious partner was more annoyed at having his
conversation with her interrupted than he was turned on by a provocative
waitress.

Mulder obediently sucked down his lunch while Scully crunched down her salad.
She was right again, of course. His mouth still hurt, but at least his
stomach had stopped growling, he wasn't as nearly as cranky as he was just a
few minutes ago, and overall he did feel better. Damn, but the timing had
been terrible. He'd wanted to talk to Dana about his time with the VCS and
why he preferred not to work on cases dealing with serial killers. All of a
sudden he felt an overwhelming need explain some things, about his work and
about himself. He needed her to know why he was "Spooky Mulder" and why
Skinner let him leave the section even though his success rate was
unparalleled. He needed her to know exactly what she was - hell, *had* -
gotten herself into. Now it was getting late and if they didn't leave soon,
they'd miss their connecting flight. Shit!

Lunch finished, they got up slowly from the table and were making their way
toward the cashier when Dana firmly squeezed his hand. "We'll talk about it
on the plane," she promised.

God, he loved her. Sometimes she amazed even him.

"Go on ahead," she grinned broadly. "I'll get it this time." She pulled her
credit card from her purse to pay the bill while Mulder walked outside to
wait impatiently.

Jenny felt a light tapping on her shoulder. Turning around, she looked down
to find the little red-head who'd been sitting with the cute guy at table
six. "Nice try, Sweetie," the tiny woman said casually. "He's taken." Dana
started to turn then stopped. "Oh, by the way," she added, pulling something
from her pocket with one hand and placing it into the waitress's palm. Dana
smiled sweetly. "I almost forgot your tip."

Jenny stared down at the two shiny pennies in her hand along with the napkin
bearing her own name and phone number that she'd stealthily (she thought)
left next to the man's plate.

Dana Katherine turned and slowly walked away, swishing her own hips just a
little more than necessary as she slinked her way out the door. She didn't
have to see the look on Jenny's face - she could imagine it just fine, thank
you, and she doubted it had any correlation to the smiley face on Jenny's
uniform. It took a lot of self-control to keep her giggles buried underneath
an impassive face.

"Problem?" Mulder asked when she finally came out and hooked her arm
possessively through his.

"No problem. Why would you think there was a problem? I just forgot to tip
the waitress, that's all." Dana favored him with a radiant smile and a look
of questioning innocence.

Uh oh, the denial was too quick and the look too overdone. He knew that
combination and it wasn't good news for somebody. He only hoped that the
'somebody' wasn't him. In any case, where Dana was concerned, he prided
himself on knowing when to shut the fuck up. So he decided that for now,
discretion was indeed the better part of valor, and judiciously dropped the
subject just in case it was his butt that was under the knife.

Red Sands Casino
Reno, Nevada

Scott Simons slammed the door of his office shut behind him, taking refuge
behind the solid oak doors. Not every casino exec, and certainly not mere
heads of security, had an office like Scott's. But he'd managed to parlay
the uniqueness of his security system into quite a few perks for himself.
This office was just one such perk. The new Porsche sitting in his parking
stall in the casino's garage was another. It was about time Scott Simons got
used to the finer things in life.

All of which would come to an abrupt halt if he didn't figure out what the
fuck was going on, and soon. There'd been another death this morning, right
outside the casino. He didn't need a memo or a fax or a freaking e mail to
tell him that management was getting nervous. He could read it in the faces
of his office staff. And management didn't like being nervous. It was bad
for business, and that was very, very bad for the people who pulled *their*
strings.

The cops had been upstairs again this morning, reviewing security tapes with
his staff. Thank God the dead guy, Harris, didn't appear to be a cheater, at
least not to human eyes. His blubber had covered a good deal of table space,
but even the security expert his boss had transferred up here from Las Vegas
had given the dead guy a clean bill of health, so to speak.

This particular security expert gave Scott nightmares. By reputation he was
responsible for more than half the names in the casino's black book, and
Scott was sure that most of the names listed in that infamous record of
casino cheaters were permanently lost in the Nevada desert -- along with a
few casino executives who couldn't deliver what they'd promised. Scott
didn't want to end up among that exclusive crowd.

He sank into his heavily padded executive chair, hoping the smooth feel of
the leather would help him relax. A very 'here and now' person, Scott had
always found that life's little luxuries made him feel better. Today it
wasn't working. Resigning himself to the fact that this was just going to be
another screwed up day, no matter what, he decided he might as well try to
get some of the mundane work done.

Scott glanced at his in-box, stacked high with papers thrown in haphazardly.
He was a creator -- a scientist, for Chrissake -- but they still expected him
to dutifully review all the paperwork that crossed his desk. He picked up a
few off the top, grateful that the bimbo of a secretary they'd stuck him with
at least remembered which box was 'in' and which was 'out'. Scott was sure
she was related to, or sleeping with, someone of importance in the
organization. Nepotism was apparently alive and well in this line of work.

The first few pieces of paper held no interest for Scott - memos about a
spring softball league, another cautioning employees about the proper use of
their timecards, another asking for help in catching the vandals who were
ruining the casino's signs. But one memo - addressed only to management
level employees - caught his eye. Apparently power usage was up 250% over
the same time last year, and all managers were requested to address power
conservation within their departments. Shit! Scott had a sinking feeling he
knew where all that extra juice was going. He just wished he knew for sure
what the brain was using it for.

He glared at the computer terminal on his desk. "What the hell is going on?"
he growled at it. "I know you know, but for some reason you're not telling
me." The terminal just stared back at him, not that he really expected an
answer. That would have to wait until tonight, when he could be alone with
the brains of his system. He'd run a few more tests on it, see if his latest
theories about its morphing abilities were right. Maybe it would talk to him
this time
or, show him things like it used to in the beginning. Maybe it would help
him understand why casino patrons were dropping like flies.

Maybe it would show him how to get out of this mess with his skin in one
piece.

*************************
*************************
United Airlines Flight 1552
Atlanta to Reno

They'd barely made their flight with only four minutes to spare, no thanks
to him, Dana thought belligerently. Before she met this scheduling nightmare
of a man, she was seldom rushed and hardly ever late for anything, something
she'd always prided herself on. Now it was a blasted miracle that she was
ever on time, especially when Mulder was involved. < That man's sense of time
is just about as unreliable as his sense of direction>

Dana snapped her seat belt together around her waist and pulled up the slack
with a little more force than necessary, all under the watchful eye of their
flight attendant. They'd been the last to board and had barely stowed their
carryon bags before the plane began moving away from the terminal.
"Mulder," Dana hissed, "try a little restraint next time, all right? I
can't believe we nearly missed our flight because of a stuffed bear."

"Ah come on, Scully," he pleaded soulfully. Holding the bear up next to his
face, he mimicked its playful expression. "How could you resist this face,
huh?"

Despite her annoyance, she had to grin at him. Mulder with a stuffed animal,
who would have thought? "Which one?" she chuckled.

"The bear's, of course," he pouted. "I already know you can't resist mine."
She reached out for a quick jab at his ribs, but he moved an elbow and
intercepted her, clearly proud of himself that he'd anticipated her move.
"Hey, Dana, you know the kid's gonna love this. See, lookee here. It's
cute, fuzzy, and cuddly. Just like me." Dana couldn't believe what she was
seeing. Fox Mulder, FBI agent extraordinaire, experimentally squeezing the
plush-covered tummy of a teddy bear with an apparent glee she'd always
associated with young children.

"Well in that case, he's bound to be a hit." Jeez Louise, you'd think the
man had never owned a stuffed teddy before. A distressing thought suddenly
struck her. It was entirely possible that he hadn't.

It was at times like these that she could almost see the love ooze from
every pore in his body. How anyone could've ever mistreated him was beyond
her. She watched with amusement as he tenderly stroked the chubby little
body one last time before carefully placing the bear in the bag under his
seat. She blinked rapidly as a surge of emotions brought sudden tears to
her eyes. Hormones - gotta love 'em, she thought as she patted her stomach.

He looked up just in time to see her giving him the 'eye.'

"What?" he gulped.

"Mulder, you've got to get a handle on this toy buying binge," she scolded
with a sterness she really didn't feel. "It's getting way out of hand when
you can't go by a toy store without buying something. You're going to spoil
the kid and its not even here yet."

"Hey, it's my kid and I can spoil it if I want to." He stuck out his bottom
lip defiantly.

"Our kid," she reminded him.

Mulder's expression melted into a repentant visage. "Geez, Dana," he
wheedled. "Let me have my fun... please??? Don't make a grown man beg."

"Oh, cut the wounded puppy look, you win. But I'm telling you right now
that if the 'dark powers that be' ever crash your humble abode again and
discover your spare room is filled from floor to ceiling with stuffed
animals, Fisher Price, and Little Tykes -- your reputation will most
certainly be shot to hell.

"Scully," his voice rose in pitch with mock surprise. "My reputation's
already shot to hell. Has been for years."

"Point taken," she agreed with a grin. She leaned back as the plane
accelerated down the runway, feeling the familiar push of the seat against
her spine as its wheels left the ground. Mulder reached over and took her
hand in his as the plane soared through the sky. This was becoming a habit.
She squeezed his hand in return. A very good habit.

Once the plane reached cruising altitude and the seat belt sign had been
turned off, Dana dug out her laptop computer and powered it up. "Can we
possibly get back to business now?" she asked. "You were saying that you
didn't believe we're dealing with a serial killer. Why do you say that when
the local PD as well as the VCS believe that we are?"

"A feeling?" he offered. "Just call it an intimate understanding of how a
deranged mind like that works, and those," he gestured at the list of files
currently occupying her computer screen, "just don't fit the bill."

"How intimate an understanding?" she asked, eyeing him with concern.

Mulder bowed his head and restlessly studied his hands that lay folded
loosely in his lap. "I got too close and it got to be just too much to
handle." He raised his head to look in her eyes. "I nearly lost it, Dana,"
he whispered in a broken voice.

Mulder's gaze moved past her to stare out the window of the plane, but Dana
knew he wasn't watching the fluffy white clouds passing underneath them. He
was looking into the past. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to,"
she said.

"It's ok," he replied with a wan smile. "You need to know who you're
marrying. I want you to know."

He took a deep breath, but when he started talking, his voice was quiet and
calm, almost as if he was talking about someone else. "When I was first
recruited by the Bureau," he began, "I felt that maybe this was my means to
an end. I thought it would provide me with the resources to find Samantha
and at the same time do something positive to prevent whatever might have
happened to my sister from happening to someone else. With my degree in
psychology, I was assigned to Violent Crimes almost immediately after the
academy. I accepted the assignment without hesitation. I thought I could
make a difference."

Mulder paused while their flight attendant passed out sodas and honey roasted
peanuts. He handed his pack of peanuts to Dana and continued the story as
soon as the flight attendant was out of earshot.

"At first I tried to stick to known psychological models, applying these
creatures' actions to what I'd learned, and to a certain degree it worked.
In fact, it worked well enough to get me a certain amount of notoriety in the
VCS. At that time there really was nothing 'spooky' about what I could do.
When you have eidetic memory and can replay a crime scene repeatedly in your
mind without variation, it only stands to reason that you'd be able to pick
out things that other agents failed to notice. Unfortunately I was young,
green, and not very mindful of the veteran agents' egos."

"You stepped on a few toes, I imagine," Dana said.

"More than just a few," he admitted. "The 'spooky' nickname started with
them and just escalated after Skinner appointed me to head a task force
assigned to capture a serial killer who specialized in victimizing and
murdering eight and nine year old girls. I guess you can imagine how bad I
wanted to nail this monster. I wanted him so bad that nothing else mattered
except getting this inhuman bastard off the streets. But he was elusive and
didn't fit into any preconceived mold. One night after a frustrating sixteen
hour day that ended with the discovery of another dead kid, I was so fucking
angry and felt so helpless that I threw a goddamn tantrum in the middle of
the bullpen. Every piece of shit that wasn't nailed down ended up on the
floor or as a permanent fixture on the wall."

Mulder's hand tightened around the soda can on his tray. He could still
remember the anger as if it happened yesterday, not at the beginning of his
career. Of course, in a way he had relived the horror of this case not that
long ago. He forced himself to calm down, but he couldn't keep the
bitterness out of his voice. "I heard the snickers and laughs the older
agents made at my expense, not quite behind my back. They wanted me to fail.
Damn it -- children were dying and they still wanted me to fail! I took a
long walk to the Lincoln Memorial, sat on a bench and cried. After I was
done, I came to the conclusion that what worked before wasn't going to work
this time, that if I wanted to solve this case and stop the killing I'd have
to come up with a new way of looking at it."

"And you did," Dana murmured.

Mulder nodded. "You know the credo as well as I do from your own medical
training. Doctors are trained to be observers, always standing outside,
never getting involved with their patients -- or subjects -- on a personal
level. Never identifying with them as human beings, never empathizing with
their thoughts and feelings. And I'd been doing what I'd been taught --
always approaching my profiles from the outside as a good little trained
observer is supposed to. But in this case, for some reason I just knew that
the only way to catch this maggot was from the inside. So I went back to my
desk, spread all the photos of the crime scenes and victims out around me,
and just drank it all in. And bit by bit I put myself inside the nightmare,
shifted myself inside his head, saw through his eyes, felt his rage. I
became this horror until I knew his moves before he did. I couldn't eat,
couldn't sleep, and what he forced me to see in my mind made me physically
ill, but I caught him. Damn it, I caught him and he would never hurt another
child ever again so I figured the price I paid hadn't been too high."

Mulder stopped to take a sip of his drink, and looking at him, Dana wondered
about the price he paid for his insight. He might have caught the killer,
but what had been the cost to his soul?

"I began to use this method on every case for one simple reason," he
continued. "It worked. It was draining, physically and emotionally
debilitating, but it fucking worked. The higher ups didn't care how I caught
the bastards just so long as the case solved ratio climbed. Old Spooky
Mulder made everybody look good, and they were willing to overlook the way I
did my job as long as I kept getting results. There was just one problem.
After a while it became harder and harder to separate myself from the cases.
Serial killers are among the most vile human beings on the face of the earth,
Dana, and the abominations they inflicted on their victims haunted my mind
weeks after each case was solved, and their physical manifestations followed
me home." He took a deep breath as even now the memories haunted him. "I
threw up for six hours straight one night at the realization that I could
even *think* like the slime I'd captured. That was the Jordan Chambers
case." Mulder shuddered at his most recent Jordan Chambers memory.

Dana had her own nightmares of Jordan Chambers, and she couldn't even begin
to imagine what Mulder had put himself through to think as that bastard did.
Maybe now that particular demon had been exorcised.

"You know, Skinner had actually come by my apartment to congratulate me for
solving the Chambers case and making him look good." Mulder grinned at the
memory of a younger Skinner at his door, complete with more hair and much
less experience with his agent's spooky habits. "Guess I must have been in
pretty bad shape because two days later he reassigned me to the X-Files that
I'd requested the month before."

"Where you promptly set about living up to your nickname," Dana said.
Although her tone was light, Dana knew she would never again hear the term
'Spooky' Mulder without thinking of all the horror Mulder had lived with to
earn that title. Damn right he was Spooky Mulder, and just how many people
were alive now because of it? They might mean it as a put-down, but it was
something to be proud of.

"And now turning to the case before us," Mulder said, taking a deep breath as
he changed mental gears. "I know the work of a serial killer when I see one.
And although theses deaths seem to qualify for that dubious honor, they also
seem to have been committed without the usual malice that normally accompanies
such a crime."

"Mulder!" Dana exclaimed. "These people were killed for chrissakes. You
can't get more malicious than that."

"Yes, I know, but in each instance the MO is cold, logical, swift, and
lethally efficient. There's no staging involved, no trophies were taken
from the victims, no obvious motives. Serial killers do what they do for a
reason - control, sexual gratification, misdirected anger - there's always a
reason. There's always a pattern, a ritual that has to be followed in order
to get satisfaction from killing. Identifying the ritual identifies the
needs being met, and helps identify the killer. There's no ritual involved
in these killings."

"Maybe there's a ritual we just haven't spotted yet, something that happens
while the killer is observing his victim before the crime," Dana suggested.

"I don't think so," Mulder replied. "Control is a big factor in serial
killings, and in order to achieve control, the victim has to know they're
helpless. Serial killers get off on the fear of their victims. These murders
all happened too swiftly - no time for fear, no satisfaction for the killer."

"Then these killings were random? Mulder, that means we could be looking for
five different murderers. Five separate murders committed in such a small
area by five different people in a town the size of Reno... " she began.

"The odds would be almost astronomical," he finished. "In the last ten years
there have only been 17 unsolved murders in the metropolitan Reno area out of
a total of 154. That's an average of 15 murders a year, and most of those are
the result of domestic violence or gang activities."

"So what are we looking at here?"

"I admit the evidence so far is confusing, but I think these murders are
related somehow, and so do the local authorities."

"I thought you just said it wasn't a serial killer," Dana commented. "So
what then, an overzealous security guard?"

Mulder shook his head. "Even though the cause of death is different in each
case, which would tend to indicate five separate murderers, they're tied
together somehow and not just by location. Each victim was killed in a
decidedly bizarre fashion. Even your most psychotic security guard wouldn't
have been able to pull off these murders." Mulder ran a hand through his
hair, as if the action could order the facts in his brain to let him see
everything clearly and find the one piece of evidence that would solve the
mystery. "It's just so damn incongruous," he finally said. "On one hand the
evidence would seem to indicate that each murder is an unrelated incident for
no two individuals showed any similarities in the cause of death. They were
all just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yet there's something else
going on here, Scully, I just know it. In some strange, unexplained way,
they all have a similar, familiar feel." Mulder shuddered visibly.

"Serial killings," Dana muttered. They were back to serial killings. Damn.
After what he'd just told her about his experience in the VCU, she hoped he
wasn't headed down that road again.

"If it is a serial killer, it's a new breed," Mulder said. "These deaths are
too clean and I don't perceive any emotion from viewing the crime scene
photographs. There's no rage, no hatred, no control, no gratification --
nothing. It's almost as if the life taken was insignificant and that's
what's so terrifying about these crimes. The indifference. Whoever or
whatever did this has no more regard for the taking of a human life than you
do when you squash a cockroach. They were all too precise and impersonal.
Serial killers are anything but impersonal. These people were exterminated
without emotion and with logical precision, with no witnesses, murder
weapons, or apparent struggles. I'm not certain I know how to get into this
one. I'm not sure that I even want to. What if I get inside this
nightmare," he said heavily while tapping his forefinger lightly against his
temple, "and I can't get out?"

Mulder shifted in his seat, lowering his eyes, hoping to hide the unspoken
terror he knew she'd recognize if she were allowed to see them. "I'm getting
a very bad feeling about this, Dana. You know the old saying, 'something's
rotten in Denmark'? Well, it looks like something is really rancid in Reno.
I can't afford mistakes, I can't kill myself anymore getting into worm-eaten,
maggot filled minds. Risking everything never mattered that much to me
before because I didn't think I had anything to lose."

He looked pleadingly up into Dana's eyes with uncertainty and not just a
little confusion, then lovingly laid a caressing hand across the gentle
bulge of her belly. "Now there's so goddamn much at stake that I'm afraid
that maybe I've lost the edge necessary to survive this macabre game. I find
myself thinking that I don't want you and the baby in the line of fire." He
laid a finger across her lips to stop a heated reply, needing to explain
himself just a little before she blasted him. "I'm sorry, but I can't help
it. I want you home, safe, and away from this. God, I'm a fucking male
chauvinist pig. My mind tells me you're a trained professional and can take
care of yourself and our child, but my heart screams bloody murder and tells
my brain that it doesn't know what the fuck its talking about. That's when I
act like an asshole and get your 'enlightened male' lecture," he sighed
tiredly.

Dana surprised him by leaning over gently kissing his lips. She knew he'd
been at odds with himself over this issue for quite some time and her present
condition just brought everything to a head. What he was feeling wasn't
unusual and in a normal profession with a normal life, it would have been
accepted a normal reaction. Their not so normal job, however, naturally
amplified his anxieties and she could see that the resulting stress was not
healthy. She had been thinking about this very subject quite a bit herself,
lately. It was a given that Skinner would have to separate them, at least
officially. She would, however, still find a way to work with her husband in
one way or another, helping him unravel the puzzles in his search for the
truth. <You've got to make him see that what he feels isn't one sided.>

Dana smiled radiantly. "Well, if you're a 'fucking male chauvinist pig,' then
I must be the female version," she chuckled. "I can't say that I'm exactly
overjoyed when you get yourself shot, poisoned, beat up, blown up, folded,
spindled, and mutilated. And as for losing your edge? Knowing that you'll
think a little more before jumping into the fire pleases me to no end. You
always were too damn reckless. You know, Mulder, if I knew this was all it
would take to make you more responsible, I would have gotten knocked up a
long time ago," she snorted sardonically.

Mulder nearly swallowed his tongue. She never ceased to amaze him. "Hell,
if I'd have known you felt that way, I would have tried harder," he managed
to choke out.

"You're impossible," she growled and without thinking, playfully smacked him
in the face with the small airline pillow that she'd pulled from the overhead
compartment along with the thin, blue blanket.

An explosion of agony ripped through Mulder's cheek, traveling down his
jawline and back up again. It burned through his skull into his nasal
cavity, making his eyes water and causing an unexpected whimper to escape
through the tightly clenched grimace of pain that gripped his mouth like an
iron hand.

Dana, belatedly realizing what she'd done, cried out in sympathy.
"Ohmygod... I'm so sorry. Fox, are you okay?" Her fingers fluttered
nervously near his face, wanting desperately to touch him but refraining from
the action, fearing that the contact, however slight, would cause him even
more pain.

Over the initial shock, Mulder's pain edged into a dull, constantly throbbing
ache with only an occasional twinge lancing through his mouth. "S'all
right," he slurred, unconvincingly trying to minimize an outward display of
what he really felt. After all, he knew that she hadn't meant to hurt him
and he could see in her eyes how worried she was.

He should have anticipated the pillow in the face as a natural response to
his smart remark. They often resorted to juvenile horseplay which to his
delight often ended up in some pretty imaginative adult foreplay. The
infamous water pistol incident immediately came to mind and he found himself
fighting off a chuckle that he knew would hurt if he gave into it.

Dana stared at him with a puzzled, worried look, and the sight of her serious
expression over such a dumb accident sent him right over the edge. Mulder
simply couldn't dispel the comical image of a headline news announcer: 'dit
dit dit dit dit dit...Newsflash!!!! Special Agent, Fox Mulder, seeker of
truth, slayer of liver-eating mutant serial killers and six foot sewer
flukies was beaten into submission today by a small, pregnant female wielding
an eight ounce airline pillow... News at eleven....'

"Mulder, are you all right? Mulder???" She was really worried now. He
didn't appear to hear her and the stupid look on his face was at odds with
the pain she knew he must be feeling.

Shoulders shaking, he finally nodded his head 'yes' as small incoherent
sounds escaped past his tightly pursed lips. Mulder made a serious effort
not to laugh which was a big mistake. The more he tried to control it the
worse the urge became until the sound broke free and burst forth accompanied
by a fine spray of moisture that spewed unerringly over Dana's features.

"Oh, yuck!" she yelped. "You spit on me! I swear, Mulder, I'm gonna get you
for this." Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she waited patiently
for an explanation for this sudden uncharacteristic outburst.

"Oh, God. I'm sorry," he croaked, alternately gasping with pain and
hiccuping with laughter. Way to go, buttmunch, he thought to himself.
Spraying spit all over the place is *not* the way to endear yourself to loved
ones, family, and friends. A naughty thought quickly came to mind, something
that seemed to be occurring a lot lately, he mused. While his better
judgment tried in vain to talk him out of actually saying what he was
thinking, it accidentally slipped out before common sense could override the
impulse. "It's just that having my bodily fluids on your face never bothered
you before," he replied sweetly. <Oh shit... damn... think, Mulder. What do
you want on your gravestone? Please, God -- tell me I didn't actually say
that?>

Too late. The sharp feel of a tiny foot impacting with his shin convinced
him that he actually had said what he'd hoped he hadn't. At least he didn't
have to kick himself around the block. Scully seemed more than willing to do
that for him. Mulder bent over and gingerly rubbed the bruise he knew was
forming on his leg and did the only thing he could do without getting himself
in any deeper -- smile sheepishly and grovel if necessary.

"Ok, now that we have established a little control here, do you mind telling
me what was so funny?" she asked with a glare she couldn't maintain. Her
expression softened and a smile crept up to her lips to replace the previous
thin line of annoyance.

Mulder wiped the tears from his eyes, took a deep breath to calm himself, and
attempted to describe the mental picture that had caused him to lose it in
the first place. "Oh, by the way," he added when he'd finished. "I also had
this brief flashback of the water pistol war."

Dana acknowledged that memory with a self-satisfied grin her own. They'd
been in the office after a fun-filled weekend of watching his cousin's kids
from hell. The case load had been light and all in all it had been an
uneventful boring day of reviewing files and typing reports. She'd been in
the middle of one particularly uninteresting case file when she suddenly felt
a sensation of wetness spreading over her right breast. Sure enough, a
downward glance confirmed that the white silk of her blouse was clinging
transparently to her skin. A quick look up also revealed a very studious
looking Fox Mulder hunched over a file on his desk. She'd checked the
ceiling, half expecting to see a leak, and finding none, slid her chair over
to one side just in case before forcing her attention back into the file. A
few minutes later the sensation had returned only this time it'd been over
her left breast. She'd looked up again, trying to find a source for the
water and noted that Mulder was still seated innocently at his desk,
apparently oblivious to anything save the file he was reading. This pattern
had continued for several minutes until the entire front of her blouse was
stuck seductively to her chest. She'd decided early on that if this had been
the result of a 'leak,' it was awfully damn selective on where it fell.
She'd also had her suspicions on who and what had been responsible but hadn't
been able to catch him in the act. When they'd gotten up to leave he'd
actually had the balls to raise both eyebrows in mock surprise and with a
glint in his eyes, asked her if she'd purchased a new bra. She'd ignored the
question, covered herself with her jacket, and took the ornery imp home with
her where she'd finally caught him with his cousin's water gun.

Well, she'd had occasions to babysit too, only her relatives went in for the
'big guns.' He'd been so smug, zapping her as she ran into the kitchen until
she'd returned with a PP2000 Super Soaker Water Rifle aimed in his direction.
Realizing that he was hopelessly outgunned, he'd ducked behind her couch and
an all out water war had erupted in her living room. Mulder had eventually
been forced into terms of surrender when he'd run out of ammo, and she'd
spent the remainder of the evening enforcing said terms and shamelessly
having her way with him.

With that very pleasant thought freshly replayed in her memory, Dana leaned
into Mulder and snuggled her head against his chest. Mulder covered them
both with the thin blanket while draping his arm over her shoulder. She felt
the heat radiating from his body and noted that he was probably running a low
grade fever. That's it, she decided sleepily. When they got to Reno, he was
going to the damn dentist even if she had to handcuff him and drag him in by
his nuts.

Mulder's arm draped over Dana's shoulder, his hand rested comfortably over
one firm, luscious, and very *huge* breast. His fingers absently traced lazy
circles around a rock hard point that just begged for attention. "Titty
fairy's arrived," he mumbled happily while gently fondling her beneath the
soft, blue blanket. "Not that they weren't big enough before," he whispered
in her ear as exhaustion took over and he began to slip into welcomed
slumber, his lingering smile matching the one gracing the lips of the
sleeping woman that he now held tenderly in his arms.

Sheila Tyler had been a flight attendant for over eight years and prided
herself on being able to read just about any passenger they could throw at
her. She stared at the young couple in seats 4A and 4B and had to admit --
she'd been stumped. When they'd first boarded, she pegged them as siblings
because of the way they'd argued and teased. Then after overhearing snatches
of their conversation, she'd had to amend her original opinion to perhaps
friends or partners. But it wasn't until he'd laid his hand on her stomach
and she'd kissed him that she suspected they might be lovers.
Now as she contemplated waking them to prepare for landing, she noticed a
strategically placed hand possessively covering a part of the young woman's
anatomy, something that had, until recently, been covered by the blanket.
They must have shifted it off during their sleep.

Sheila giggled. Yes, these two were definitely complicated and special. She
sensed something rare and beautiful between them that defied definition.
Sheila loudly cleared her throat, making sure they heard her before
approaching them to ask that they return their seats to an upright position.
If she'd learned anything in those eight years, it was discretion.

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

CHAPTER 5
MALE BONDING FOR BEGINNERS AND OTHER FRIGHTENING RITUALS

Reno Police Dept.
Homicide Division

Jake Moorehouse glared at his computer terminal. E mail - freaking e mail.
At least in the old days when he got bad news, he had a piece of paper to
scrunch up and take his frustration out on. Now it was just words on a fancy
monitor, and captains frowned on their detectives trashing expensive computer
equipment. Especially when budgets were tight, and these days budgets were
always tight.

He pushed his chair forcefully away from his desk and stood up, growling like
a wounded grizzly bear. He didn't need this kind of aggravation, he really
didn't. If this case wasn't frustrating enough already, now he was gonna
have to contend with a couple of smug, know it all, preppie Fibbies on top of
everything else.

"I gave up my retirement in sunny Florida for this?" he shouted through a
bullhorn he'd picked up on shelf by the door. "I didn't ask for no goddamn
assistance," he bellowed, carelessly throwing the bull horn into the chair by
his partner's desk.

"Come on, man. Give it a rest, Jake," Tony Goldman said, looking up from the
numerous files that cluttered his otherwise spotless desk.

Jake glared around the bullpen, noticing that the other cops in the room were
studiously ignoring him. "The FBI," he snorted, flopping back into his
chair. "You ever had any experience with the 'FBI'?" he asked his partner.

"Not much," Tony admitted.

"Well, I have," Jake said. "Can't tell you how much fun it was, partner.
You're gonna just love it," he grumbled, turning back to his computer screen.

Sometimes Tony just couldn't figure his partner out. Ok, so the guy had a
good twenty years on him, but it was more than just a generation thing.
From all accounts Jake Moorehouse was set for life. He didn't need to work,
in fact had retired to Florida with a healthy nestegg. Most cops Tony knew
lived for the day they could afford to retire, and counted themselves lucky
when they retired with all their limbs intact. But here Jake was, right back
in the line of fire, putting himself through all this aggravation.

"Look, maybe it won't be so bad," Tony said. "The guy the FBI is sending us
is supposed to be an expert in weirdness. And right now, partner, it looks
like the only way we're gonna stop this crazy bastard is by sicking another
crazy bastard on his ass."

Jake snorted loudly. "Yeah, but a goddamn 'Fibbie' for pete sake? The
craziest thing those namby-pamby pretty boys do is rearrange their underwear
drawers. FBI my ass," he complained. "More like Fucking Bumbling Idiots if
you ask me."

Jake pecked out a few commands on his computer terminal, taking his
frustration out on the keyboard while he continued muttering under his
breath. He didn't see the look of embarrassment that began covering Tony's
face. Concentrating on the information on the screen, he didn't turn around
when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Whoever it was could just wait a
goddamn minute. The second tap really annoyed him. "Yeah, who is it and
what the hell do you want?"

"Head Fucking Bumbling Idiot in charge, on assignment to assist with your
on-going murder investigation," replied a voice that Jake found vaguely
familiar.

Detective Moorehouse spun around just as Mulder continued in an amused tone,
"and I have *never* rearranged my underwear drawers. Does rearranging Agent
Scully's drawers count?" he asked with a sly grin.

That dangerous remark earned him a poke in the ribs from Scully and a loud
guffaw from Jake.
"Only if you sniff em', kid... only if you sniff 'em," Jake said, slapping
Mulder on the back. Tony sat back in his chair, amazed at his partner's
sudden change in demeanor. It seemed like there was at least one Fibbie who
wasn't in the Fucking Bumbling Idiot section.

Scully flashed them both a warning glare. "This conversation is quickly
engaging in a downward slide into the sewer," she hissed while adopting her
most intimidating stance. "May I suggest that for now you two can the locker
room humor and concentrate on solving this case?"

Whoa!! Jake smiled in spite of himself. He'd forgotten what a feisty broad
this little redhead could be. It was just like her to remind him. "Nice to
see you, too, red," he quipped. Turning away from the obstinate woman who
was impatiently tapping one foot on the stained, broken tiles that constituted
the homicide department's floor, Jake noticed that Mulder had adopted a full
blown pout in response to his partner's rebuke. Jake swore he'd never met
anyone who could look so damn pitiful when the situation called for it.
Right now Mulder's puss kinda reminded him of one of those Arctic baby seals
they'd plastered all over those National Geographics... just before the
hunters pounded on their tiny little heads.

Though the kid certainly looked better than the last time he'd seen him, Jake
still had the impression that he wasn't quite up to snuff yet. Of course it
could be his imagination, but Mulder looked a bit flushed and a little out of
it. "So," Jake broke the temporary silence. "How you feelin', you pain in
the ass Fibbie? Last time we parted company you were so much dog meat," he
baited him quietly.

"I'm fine," Mulder answered with the expected social response.

"No, he's not," Scully said. "He's got an abscessed tooth, he's running a
fever, and he's cranky as hell. Moorehouse, I would appreciate it if you
could do me the favor of knocking some sense into that thick skull of his."

"I just happen to know a great dentist who opens early and closes late.
After all, Reno is a 24 hour town. Bet I could get you in later tonight.
Whaddaya say?"

"Can't," Mulder hedged. "I've got an hour for you to brief us on whatever
you've got on this case, then I've got a wedding to got to at seven." He
risked a side glance at his partner. Dana smiled and her disposition
softened noticeably.

"Who's the poor bastard who's fallin' into that pit of legal slavery?"
Moorehouse asked with a snicker.

"Me," Mulder mumbled with a shrug.

"Okay, this is probably a stupid question, but who are you marryin'?"

Mulder hesitated. He'd said too much and was unsure of whether or not he
could trust Jake to keep things low key. "Um...," Mulder stuttered.

"Me," Dana jumped in, making his decision for him.

"Isn't there some kind of rule against that sort of thing in the Bureau?"
asked Tony, speaking for the first time.

Jake, realizing that he'd committed a major social goof, hastily introduced
his partner.

"Ah, sorry. I forgot. This is my partner, Tony Goldman, proverbial wet
blanket. These two," he motioned toward the two suits in front of him, "are
the FBI's most unwanted -- Fox Mulder and Dana Scully."

Tony shook hands with both of them. "Actually, Detective Goldman, it's not
exactly against the rules," Scully said, releasing his hand. "But then again
relationships between partners are not that well received either, so we would
appreciate your discretion until we're ready to explain our situation to our
superiors."

Tony looked at Jake's approving smile. He'd never seen his gruff partner so
openly soppy with anyone, especially with Feds, of all people. From the
first day on the job, Jake had always been adamant of his complete disregard,
distrust, and dislike for Feds in general, yet here he stood facing two of
the FBI's finest with obvious respect and genuine affection. These guys must
indeed be something special to get this kind of reception from Jake 'Feds are
assholes' Moorehouse.

"Haven't heard a thing," Tony mumbled with a bemused smile.

Jake made his way over to Dana and embraced her in a warm, friendly hug. His
brain registered that she'd put on a few pounds while another more
animalistic part of his mind told him that she was still drop dead gorgeous.
"You really gonna marry that walking wreck?" he teased, motioning toward
Mulder.

Dana's eyes sparkled with laughter. "Can't help it, Jake. I have to marry
him."

Jakes eyes widened briefly as the corners of his mouth pulled back into a
toothy grin. Well, I'll be damned, he thought to himself as his gaze drifted
back to Mulder. This kid was just full of surprises.

Taking Mulder's hand in a firm grip, he pounded on Mulder's back with
affection. "Congrats, kid. But didn't nobody ever tell you not to go muff
divin' without a wetsuit? Playin' hide the salami is one thing, but unless
you learn to wear a party hat before you take the plunge, that gorgeous dame
over there is gonna forget what her freakin' toes look like."

"Jesus, Jake," Tony breathed. Sometimes Moorehouse could embarrass even him,
and that was bad. Tony'd been taught that you didn't talk like that in front
of a lady, especially not a colleague.

"S'ok, Tony. They know I don't mean nothing by it, dontcha', red?"
Actually, she didn't look convinced, but she didn't look like she was going
to belt him either, so he guessed he was safe so far. Of course, he couldn't
leave well enough alone. "But as far as the kid here goes, it looks like big
Jake is gonna have to give you a few pointers. Didn't your daddy teach you
nothin'?"

Mulder stammered and stared at an unidentifiable spot on the floor.
"Actually, uh... no, he didn't," came the soft reply. Mulder broke the
silence that followed by clearing his throat.

Jake used that cue to cut in with another remark to lighten up an unexpected
reaction that had turned into something a little more serious than he'd
intended. "Well, then, I guess we're gonna have to do somethin' about your
education."

Raising his head up to look Jake in the eye, Mulder also raised his voice in
mock annoyance. "Moorehouse, you have got to be the most tactless, crude,
and crass son of a bitch on the face of the fucking earth." He paused for
effect. "So when do we start?"

Jake snorted with approval, reminded of just why in the hell he liked this
kid.

No, no, oh no, no... Dana panicked. Fox Mulder getting sex education tips
from the likes of Jake Moorhouse made about as much sense as tits on a boar.
She'd have to nip this in the bud right now. Mulder was far from virginal.
She could attest to that fact first hand. He needed no help from Jake or
anyone else in that respect in any way, shape, or form. She better do
something and fast before Dectective Moorehouse screwed up what, in her
opinion, was pure perfection. Mulder, in spite of his worldliness, could
still be as impressionable as a three year old, and Jake was one individual
she *didn't* want as a role model for Mulder to emulate.

"You know, I hate to break up this little episode of male bonding," Scully
interrupted. "But don't you guys think we should review the case before we
have to go?"

"What's the matter, Red?" Jake baited her. "Afraid I'll corrupt the man?"

Dana smiled dangerously. "Actually Jake, I think there is very little you
could possibly teach him. However, if you come across something you think
I'd like, he's got photographic memory. Let him watch."

Woo hoo!!! Man this was one dame he wished wasn't taken. Even now he still
found it hard to believe these two kids were Feds. Life was just so much
more interesting when they were around.

****************
******************
Undisclosed location
3:00 p.m.

A thick cloud of smoke hung heavily in the small, featureless room. Blank,
unadorned walls faded into shadows as the smoke swirled around the sole
source of light, a small desk lamp sitting on a large, empty desk. The
source of the smoke sat in a government issue chair behind the desk; the
chair in front of the desk was empty, but that didn't mean the smoker was
alone. Far from it. The smoker's cold, red-rimmed eyes peered through the
haze to settle unflinchingly upon a tall dark figure concealed within one
shadowed corner.

"The retrieval team located the wreckage, but they have yet to find the
onboard intelligence and guidance system," the voice from the darkness
reported without inflection. "We are forced to assume that either 1) the
others have recovered the equipment and are reneging on their agreement, 2)
the collective has retrieved its property, in which case the technology will
be lost to you since they are unwilling to share, or 3) a third party
witnessed the accident and removed the items out of curiosity or personal
gain."

The smoker knew without even looking that each of these points had been
ticked off on slightly elongated fingers. He had learned long along to
anticipate the actions and responses of others, even this one. Especially
this one.

"I highly doubt that the others would compromise their position with us after
all these years," his visitor continued. "And I know for a fact that the
collective is still frantically searching for its property. That only leaves
only the third, and most unsavory alternative -- chance discovery by an
individual or individuals. Such an unexpected variable in the equation makes
this situation highly unstable. Since there are very few human beings who
would be capable of identifying let alone discerning the object's function,
we may assume that it is more than likely taking up residence on a mantle
somewhere as a tourist's souvenir of their trip to the desert. We are,
however, monitoring all communications for any references to the artifact."

The dark silhouette stepped away from his position against the wall to stand
menacingly above the smoking man, who worked hard to repress a shudder.
There was a reason his visitor usually stayed in the shadows. "I shouldn't
have to remind you that this item must be recovered at all costs. There will
be no reprieve for whoever is responsible for its disappearance." The tall,
unnaturally thin figure walked toward the door, then turned as if he'd
forgotten something. "Oh, by the way, sources have informed me of the
presence of Agent Mulder in the immediate vicinity. Is he involved in this
debacle?"

The man Agent Mulder knew only as Cancerman squashed his cigarette butt in
the ashtray with practiced abandonment and slowly blew out the smoke from his
last drag in a billowing cloud. "Not to my knowledge," he answered in a
breathy voice, secretly enjoying his visitor's obvious discomfort as the
smoke swirled around his head. The discomfort his smoking caused others was
just another reason he'd never given it up. "Agent Mulder was assigned to
investigate a series of murders in the downtown area, nothing more. His
presence here is coincidental and is not, at the moment, related to our
little problem."

His visitor being raised a warning digit and spoke with authority. "Then you
will not mind if we continue to monitor his movements. Fox Mulder's unique
heritage unerringly draws him toward what he perceives as truth. His
propensity for interference with us is unmatched, and I have no doubts that
before this matter is resolved, he will become a nuisance to us in one way or
another. If he becomes a problem, he will be dealt with accordingly."

"He won't become a problem. I'll see to it."

"I hope you do. For now, the others have requested that he be left to his
own resources on the outside chance that in his present search, he might
unknowingly stumble upon the prototype. There is a slight possibility that
the prototype may recognize in him a familiar brain pattern, respond
favorably and initiate contact. If we can use him...we will. Perhaps
letting this one live has finally -- as you say -- paid off. However, the
collective may also attempt to use his natural gifts. This must not be
allowed. Is that understood?"

Cancerman lit up another cigarette, took a deep drag, and flicked the ashes
nonchalantly to the floor. He nodded imperceptibly and watched with wary
eyes as his visitor left the room. His promise to Bill Mulder was becoming
harder and harder to keep.

He'd come into this game willingly, enjoying the power it gave him, but not
Bill Mulder. Bill Mulder had joined up for the knowledge. In those days
exciting things had been happening, new ideas were being discovered daily,
but only a select few knew about them. Bill had been one of the purists,
willing to overlook the power plays and political intrigue as long as he was
allowed to continue his work. And he'd managed to hold out for a very long
time, but in the end he'd had no choice. He'd been forced to sell out only
in a last ditch effort to try and keep what was left of his family. They'd
bought his silence for twenty-three years, but what had he gotten in return?
He'd lost it all. The guilt had eaten at Bill like maggots in rotting flesh,
and when he could no longer accept what he'd done, he'd transferred that
guilt and rage onto the boy he'd made his old colleague swear to protect.

Fox Mulder had inherited more than he knew from his father. Bill Mulder had
had Fox's integrity once, but it had cost him dearly. His daughter had been
taken as insurance that he keep his mouth shut; his son was left as a
reminder of what could still happen. Instead of cherishing what remained,
Bill could only agonize over the decision he'd had to make and mourn for what
was lost. After all, he knew that the boy had been touched by the
experiments they'd conducted, and that thought became an excuse for his
cruelty. Cancerman watched his friend's son suffer both physical and mental
abuse and had done nothing. His promise hadn't included protecting the boy
from his own father.

He told himself that he'd kept his word the best that he could, even when the
young man's brilliance, curiosity, and determination made it difficult. When
the dark ones demanded retribution, didn't he sacrifice his only friend?
When they'd screamed for a life, hadn't he given them Agent Scully instead?
That, he recalled with perfect hindsight, had been a major mistake. In his
effort to save Mulder, he'd nearly lost him. With that single act, he'd
unknowingly taken from Mulder a part of his soul that had enabled him to
survive. He'd watched Mulder deteriorate so rapidly that he'd feared for the
young man's life. He'd had to pull some major strings to get Scully returned
to him. Even then, he'd almost been too late and it had nearly cost him his
life at Mulder's very own hand. He remembered being momentarily uncertain as
to whether or not Mulder would actually pull the trigger and had wondering
briefly if he'd finally made a fatal miscalculation.

But Fox Mulder was his mother's son. Her gentleness and nobility was inbred
too deeply to allow him to kill in cold blood. That fact had most certainly
saved his chain-smoking ass that night. His colleagues regarded those
attributes as exploitable weaknesses, and if Mulder wasn't careful, the same
qualities that kept the agent from pumping a bullet into his enemy's head
that night would be Mulder's downfall. In this game there was precious
little tolerance for honor or mercy. He'd actually been quite serious when
he'd told Mulder that he liked him. Mulder was a straight shooter,
uncompromising in his beliefs, and brutally honest. Cancerman allowed
himself a smile. He admired that in a man... too bad those things wouldn't
keep Mulder alive Contrary to Mulder's belief, he had no desire to be the
instrument of the young man's demise.

Squashing another half-smoked cigarette into an already overflowing ashtray,
the 'friendless man with some power' pulled his cellular phone from his
pocket. A few phone calls later, he'd hassled the appropriate contacts and
arranged to confiscate certain military recon footage shot over the area on
the night the craft went down. If there was anyone in the vicinity, he'd
know about it by morning.

******************
Reno Police Dept.
Detective Bureau
4:30 p.m.

The four of them had taken nearly two hours in reviewing the files, including
the color originals of each crime scene. Dana had to admit that they didn't
look much different than the black and white copies they had in their files.
Nothing new had jumped out at either of them by looking at the originals.
Sometimes it happened and sometimes it didn't. Maybe they'd spot something
when they actually visited the scenes tomorrow. They'd talked about going
over to the casino today, but it was getting late and jet lag was starting to
get to her. Better to do the site work tomorrow with a clear head.
Tomorrow... Dana blew out a breath as a sudden case of nerves hit her.
Tomorrow she would be a married woman.

She glanced over at her husband-to-be. If he had a case of pre-wedding
jitters, it sure didn't show. Completely absorbed in thought, Mulder sat
with his chair tipped back against the wall. Dana noticed that he'd
completely chewed the eraser off the pencil he'd been nibbling on during his
speculative introspection and was now gnawing absently on the wood. Tony had
gone for more coffee, an offer Dana had declined, and she was trying to
combat her fatigue by pacing. Maybe moving around would get her energy level
up. The worst part of her pregnancy so far had been the constant drain on
her energy.

Dana jumped when a frustrated Moorehouse slammed his copies of the case files
down on his desk with a loud pop. Well, that woke me up, she thought. It
also sent a startled and precariously perched Mulder crashing to the floor
with a thud.

"What the hell did you do that for, Moorehouse?" Mulder grunted while
attempting to regain his seat. "I could have broken something important," he
growled with a grin.

"And if that had happened, you would've had to answer to me, Jake," Dana
warned with a glare.

"All right, all right. Gee, can't a guy blow off a little steam?" Jake
grumbled. "Let's go over this one more time. Similarities??" he asked for
the umpteenth time.

"They were all males and had been gambling at the Red Sands," Dana rattled
off by rote.

"And winning," Tony added returning to the group and handing his partner a
cup of what passed for coffee but more closely resembled motor oil. Dirty
motor oil.

"And considering the odds are stacked in favor of the house, that's unusual
but doesn't seem to be a motive here since they all still had their loot,"
Jake finished. "Robbery's not a motive."

"There were no weapons found at the scene, no known witnesses, and no signs
of obvious struggle," Dana continued. "In fact, the only thing out of the
ordinary that I can see in any of these reports are the brownouts that
occurred around the time of two of the crimes. I wouldn't even mention it
except several casino employees noticed it. And I can't see how that would
tie into the investigation."

"How often do brownouts happen around here, Tony?" Jake asked his partner.
He remembered them being pretty common back east, but he couldn't remember
experiencing any since he's moved to Reno.

Tony shrugged. "Usually only happens during fire season, when a main supply
line from California gets interrupted by a wildfire and they have to switch
over to a new main line, or when lightening knocks out a transformer."

Jake frowned. "I don't remember any thunderstorms or fires." Winter weather
in Nevada was pretty fucking weird as far as he was concerned. In the 70's
in December, snowed like hell in January, and now at the end of February they
were being deluged with rain and the locals were worried that the river which
ran through town was going to flood. This was supposed to be a desert for
Chrissakes.

"Me, either," Tony agreed. "Too wet for fires, and we usually don't start
getting thunderstorms until April or May. I'll find out what the power
company has to say about it."

"Hell, it's probably nothing," Jake grumbled as his partner left to make the
call. "We're just grasping at straws here."

Dana sat on one corner of the desk that Mulder had confiscated, awaiting his
input. They might be grasping at straws, but she'd bet Mulder was onto
something. He'd been uncharacteristically quiet except for the little wheels
she could almost hear turning inside his brain. He leaned forward, pressing
his fingers into a loose pyramid near his chin.

Dana giggled to herself. When he took this reflective pose, he sort of
reminded her of Mr. Spock. As if reading her thoughts, he lifted one eyebrow
in a questioning motion which made her laugh and nearly caused her to slide
off the desk. Quickly catching herself before she landed on the floor, Dana
somehow managed to keep a straight face.

"Dana?" he asked tentatively. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm just great, Sherlock, just... great. I lost my balance for a
moment, that's all," she lied.

"You sure?" he prodded insistently.

"Yes, I'm sure," she said, adding an annoyed edge to her voice for effect
while attempting to change the subject. "Ok, we've ruled out serial killers
and simple robbery. So what's left? Ritualistic cult murders? I mean, each
victim was killed in a way that could only be termed as bizarre. We've
already determined that each cause of death was as different as the MO, so I
would be forced to assume that there was more than one perpetrator involved.
Could this be the result of several individuals acting together with a common
purpose -- such as it was with the Manson family murders?"

"No." Mulder's reply was succinct and uttered with a conviction as steadfast
as his belief in truth. And was a flat dismissal of her idea.

"No? What do you mean, no? Aren't you at least willing to listen to what I
have to say?" she argued, eyes flashing with fire. Her idea had merit. It
was simple, straightforward, and with the known information, the most
plausible solution she could come up with, so of course Mulder wouldn't go
for it. Oh, no - as far as he was concerned, everything always had to have
some convoluted explanation. Why did Mulder feel that every case that they
took had to have conspiracies, aliens, or unexplained phenomena? No, that
wasn't true, she told herself guiltily. He was more than willing to except a
normal explanation when it was warranted, which lately wasn't often enough.
What did she expect, anyway? They didn't get normal cases so how could she
hope for normal answers? The sole reason they were on this case in the first
place was the undeniable fact that the authorities deemed this situation
decidedly 'not normal.'

But that still didn't soothe her hurt feelings. Dana looked across the room
to Jake, hoping for some support in curbing Mulder's tendency toward wild
speculation only to find him staring at her partner with an intrigued rather
than skeptical expression. Oh god, now Mulder's going to get him going, too.
She at least thought she could count on the no nonsense sensibilities of the
gruff, ex-New York cop to help keep Mulder in line, but she knew that once
that familiar light appeared in his eyes, Mulder's enthusiasm and dedication
were difficult to resist. Now it was too late to cut him off at the pass.

As much as she loved him, he could be so damn frustrating at times like this.
What was he thinking? What had become so clear to him that no one else,
including her, could see? And how did she know that his theories, whatever
they were would be something she'd never even have considered, ideas that
would probably stretch her imagination and test her precarious beliefs in
extreme possibilities?

And why the hell wouldn't he put some faith in her ideas?

"Dana... " Mulder began. "You know I'll always listen to what you have to
say, but I don't think that this is the work of several people acting for a
common purpose."

"And why not?" She wasn't about to back down, not just yet.

Jake stood up and stretched, his neck and back crackling loudly as he moved.
It had been a long day and he wasn't as young as he used to be. He hated to
see these two fight, even though they were so good at it. But they shouldn't
be fighting on their wedding day. "Hey, I kinda liked Red's idea. You got
somethin' better, smart guy?" he asked with a wink aimed in Dana's direction.

And Moorehouse honestly wanted to hear Mulder's theories on this case. He
liked hearing the kid's thoughts no matter how far-fetched they seemed to be.
After what had happened aboard the cruise ship back when he'd first met these
two, he'd become a little more open-minded about things. That didn't mean
he'd accept everything that poured from the kid's mouth as gospel, but at
least he'd listen. Contrary to what most people thought, Mulder was far from
being a nutcase. Sure the kid might have a few loose screws here and there,
but the rest of his brain seemed to be torqued into place well enough. He
just had an uncanny ability to make sense out of what would appear to be a
chaotic mess of unexplained events. Maybe, just maybe, he could make some
sense out of this shit. He knew he sure hated having to go over the same
crap over and over again, and the fact that it hadn't gotten anywhere them
anywhere was wearing his colleagues a little thin, too. The room was tense.

Mulder smiled, welcoming a little help in easing the tension. "Maybe not
better ideas, just... different."

"How did I know you were gonna say somethin' like that?" Jake groaned.

"Psychic?" Mulder asked, raising both eyebrows and tilting his head slightly
to one side as he shot off a rubber band, tagging Moorehouse's left earlobe.
"Nah, guess not or you would have seen that coming, huh?"

"Ow!!! You little Fibbie... piece of shit... motherfucker...son of a bitch!!"

For some reason, the sight of the big, tough New York City/Reno cop jumping
up and down railing him with obscenities and rubbing his ear struck Mulder as
tremendously funny and he found himself laughing harder than he had in a long
time. It's more than likely some kind of stress release mechanism, the
psychologist part of his mind analyzed. Bullshit, the little boy in him
asserted. You just needed a good laugh.

"Oh, so you thinks that's funny, do you?" Jake grinned evilly. "You won't be
laughin' so hard when I shove this night stick up your scrawny little ass,
now will you?"

"Scully?!!" Mulder intoned with surprise. "Oooo, isn't that nice. Jake
wants me to come out and play. I think he likes me," he whispered
confidentially.

Dana raised her hand to her mouth and coughed lightly to cover a small
chuckle that was threatening to escape. "Agent Mulder," she addressed him
formally, reminding him of his 8th grade history teacher, Mrs. Zimmerman.
"Are two finished with this unfortunate display of unprofessional behavior?"

The two men stared at her with innocent surprise written all over their
faces. "Whatever are you talking about, Agent Scully?" Mulder inquired with
the naivet‚ of a two year old.

Smiling, in spite of herself, she tried to regain some tone of
professionalism. Somebody had to bring this conversation back to earth and
as usual, it had to be her. "Ok, flukie bait," she asked with an exaggerated
sigh. "Are you going to tell us your thoughts on this thing or keep us in
suspense? I'm ready, let's hear it."

Well, now that he had their undivided attention and there was a marked
decrease in the tension level in the room, he could review some of his
impressions regarding this case. Granted, he had no real evidence <since
when did that ever stop you?> to back up what he was about to say, and Scully
would undoubtedly be the first one to remind him of that fact. All he truly
had, for the most part, was speculation and a feeling.

Intuition and instinct always fought against fact and reason for dominance in
his brain, and it was a struggle he'd had to deal with his whole life. A
quiet voice lived inside him, guiding him, and over the years he'd learned to
respect that voice. It wasn't something readily explainable. He didn't know
how he knew certain things -- he just did. Just like he knew right now that
Dana was finally ready to listen to his unproven leaps in logic by the look
of patient tolerance that settled over her delicate features. Hell, maybe he
was 'spooky' after all.

Mulder took a deep breath and ventured onto one of his most frequented and
familiar perches -- out on a limb. "All the murders are similar.
Theoretically, there are no major differences in the way these people were
killed. There is only one someone or something responsible for these
deaths." Oh boy, he could already see the look of disbelief warring with the
carefully cultivated appearance of open-minded objectivity displayed on her
face. Disbelief won.

"Mulder, how can you possibly say that?!?" She picked up the coroner's
reports off her desk, although she already knew the findings by heart.
"According to the county coroner, victim number one was decapitated. Number
two died of a blockage of the main arteries to the left and right ventricles,
number three died of asphyxiation, and number four had an apparent fatal
gunshot wound to the head. The fifth victim, I'm told, more than likely
expired as a result of a heart attack. The second and last victims are only
included in this case because of where they died, considering that what they
died of are basically natural causes. What makes you think that *all* of
these are the work of one individual -- if in fact all five were victims of
foul play at all?"

"You said it yourself, Scully, back on the plane," Mulder reminded her. "The
odds against something like this happening randomly are astronomical. I
think if we dig deeper, we're going to find out that the second and fifth
victims died of decidedly unnatural causes."

Dana threw her hands up in the air and muttered some comment about Mulder's
obsessive pigheadedness. "Okay, I admit that these reports aren't as
thorough as I'd like. Hopefully when I examine the bodies, they'll tell me
more than the reports could." Dana noticed Jake shifting his weight
uncomfortably as he cleared his throat. "What is your problem?" she asked,
aggravation nearly getting the best of her.

Jake shifted his position once again and spoke reluctantly. "Ah... there's
only one body at the morgue."

"One body?!? What the hell happened to the others?" Dana asked harshly.

"Hey, remember short stuff, you were a late comer to this case. *MY* case."
Damn pushy broad, grilling him in his own bullpen. "You gotta understand,
Red. These deaths happened over a five week period, and we didn't connect
any of them until the third stiff showed up outside the same casino. Like
you pointed out, number two just looked like a case of high cholesterol. The
county coroner performed the autopsies on each victim, reported his findings,
and released the stiffs to their respective families so they could torch or
bury the poor shmucks. Life goes on, Agent Scully," he commented dully.

"Not for the poor shmucks," she uttered in a voice heavily laden with irony.
"I'm sorry, Jake," she apologized. "But how am I supposed to solve this
puzzle when practically all the pieces are missing? What if the county
coroner missed something? I'm sure he's competent, but maybe he wouldn't
know what to look for. We've seen things that would curl your toes and make
Ripley's Believe it or Not pass‚' by comparison."

Moorehouse stood his ground. "Look, I can't help you with the other corpses,
but at least you've got one left that you can dig into tomorrow morning. If
you find something unusual, we can get a court order to exhume the others,
provided they weren't cremated."

Their voices had risen in volume as the disagreement picked up momentum and
things didn't look like they were going to improve in the near future.

Mulder held up one hand in supplication. Ignored, he brought two fingers to
his mouth with the other and whistled loudly, startling both combatants into
silence. <So much for having their undivided attention.> "Whoa, take it
easy. I'm sure the coroner did a more than adequate job," he said,
diplomatically trying to smooth things over. The last thing he needed was to
be at odds with the local law enforcement that he was sent here to assist.
Even Jake Moorehouse had his limits.

Pushing himself up from the chair, Mulder began pacing a path between their
two desks. He thought better when he paced. Hell, he actually thought better
when he was watching a good skin flick. Dana was one of the few people who
understood that it wasn't sexual gratification he was after when he viewed
this stuff, so much as the meaningless distraction it provided. Something
about these monotonous movies relaxed him, allowing his mind to disengage and
wander freely, unfettered by the constant buzz of interpreting, categorizing,
and filing his brain had to employ to cope with a memory that couldn't forget
and a mind that refused to shut down. Sherlock Holmes had his Strat violin
-- Fox Mulder had 'Debbie Does Dallas.' Seemed like a fair comparison, and
he'd decided long along that he'd definitely gotten the better deal in the
Doctor Watson department.

Finally, Mulder stopped in front of Dana. "Scully, look, I know there are
other tests you would have run if you'd been here, but this isn't Quantico.
You can run all the tests you want on Mr. Harris, and if anything strange
shows up, we can dig up the others." He glanced over at Jake. "And the
county coroner did note some interesting details in his reports. These
people did *not* die of natural causes or anything close to normal foul play.
If you two will just can it for a few minutes, I'll try to explain the
anomalies rationally, although you both will probably think I'm just a little
over the edge of insanity."

Jake and Dana glared at each other for a moment long, then sat back down,
looking for all the world like mismatched boxers heading toward their
respective corners.

"Scully, you were absolutely right. Mr. Bledsoe was without a doubt
decapitated. But the manner in which he was decapitated is definitely
unusual. According to the coroner, the man's head was pinched off, the way a
naughty child would squeeze the head off a fly."

Moorehouse winced at the descriptive comparison and Dana paled a bit as well,
remembering how close she'd come to loosing her own head to a town full of
cannibals.

"The impressions left in the neck tissue suggest some sort of flat, jagged
instrument," Mulder continued. "The jagged edges, however, were not pointed
toward the flesh like say, the edge of a serrated knife, but were laid flat
against the skin and pulled tight, like a giant-sized self-locking garbage
bag tie. Whatever was used to kill this man passed entirely through muscle,
flesh, and bone, popping the victim's head off his body. Now I may not be
the strongest man in the world, but I doubt even Mr. Universe has the muscle
to pull a noose that tight, that quickly."

Mulder turned his attention back to Jake. "At first glance it does appear
that the second victim died of natural causes and I can see why you didn't
connect the two deaths at first. But that's not the case. Although the
second victim did technically die from blockages of the main arteries to his
heart, when the good doc opened him up, instead of finding arteries blocked
with cholesterol, he found normal, healthy tissue. The blood had backed up
in his arteries for no apparent reason - it just couldn't get to his heart.
In fact, there was no blood at all in the heart muscle or surrounding
tissues. None."

Mulder moved on to victim number three. "Mr. Gardener died from lack of
oxygen to the brain. He strangled, Scully, from what was initially thought
to be an obstructed windpipe. Once again, however, when the autopsy was
performed, all the man's airways were clear. No bruising or other evidence
that suggests external pressure was applied to obstruct the windpipe, and no
internal obstruction was found - he just couldn't breathe."

Scully saw a pattern between the second and third victims, now that Mulder
laid it out this way. But what about victims one and four? Something had
ripped victim one's head from his body, and something had definitely been
shot into victim number four. She arched an eyebrow at Mulder, daring him to
explain the next death.

Mulder paced back over to the desk, plopped himself down next to Scully, and
gazed at her stubbornly. "The last report tells us that victim number four
died of a bullet wound to the head, but guess what, Dr. Scully? Despite the
existing evidence of damage and trauma from a bullet wound, there was no exit
wound yet *no* bullet was found in the victim... nothing, nada, zilch, zip.
Now that is a true magic bullet."

Dana remembered another case from another time, a time when she and Mulder
hadn't been working together, a case where the power of suggestion had been
decidedly deadly. "You're not suggesting someone controlled the victims'
minds, made them believe they were being shot, decapitated, smothered, or
suffering from heart attacks, are you?"

Mulder shook his head. "I don't think even Preacher could make someone lose
their head like that. This is something else entirely." He leaned in to
argue his point home. "But I do submit, Agent Scully, that it is the
uniqueness of each of these crimes that bind these cases together. In being
so uniquely different, they're ultimately the same. They are all identical
in their implausibility."

Dana narrowed her eyes and stuck out her chin in controlled defiance. "Fox
Mulder, don't you dare start handing out that intellectual gobbly-gook to me
because I'm not ready to bite -- not just yet anyway."

Jake watched their heated exchange with rapt fascination. These two had been
locking horns over their perspective theories for nearly an hour with neither
side showing any signs of concession. Now they stood nearly touching,
obstinately facing one another while silently sharing an unyielding stare.
How this young couple, so at odds with each other, could be work partners,
let alone life partners, was a mystery to him. If he hadn't witnessed this
behavior before on the ship, he wouldn't have given them even half a chance
of surviving each other. However, he knew from experience that whatever
their differences, nothing would ever separate them. Sooner or later one
would concede or both would compromise, and life would go on. Hell, maybe if
he'd disagreed more openly with his ex-wife, had been able to get stuff off
his chest and blow off a little steam once in a while, maybe she'd still be
with him.

Looking up into the intensity of Mulder's piercing eyes, Dana saw the
determination of her own eyes reflected in his dark iris'. She couldn't help
but admire his strength and willingness to fight for what he believed to be
true -- even when he was wrong, she added with a mental growl. In any case,
this was getting them no where fast so it was about time for a change in
tactics.

Damn, Mulder brooded. Maybe he did jump to conclusions a little too often,
but he didn't think this was one of those times. No, this time he was right,
he knew it. How he knew, he wasn't sure, but he was right. No matter what
she said, he respected her opinion and admired her tenacity -- even if she
was wrong. Still, he should at least consider her point of view... only, of
course, if she considered his. Well, someone had to start, and it might as
well be him. "Scully," he began. "I'll concede that..." The sentence was
left unfinished as hot, sensuously wet lips pressed themselves demandingly
over his and practically sucked the air right out of his lungs.

Damn, Jake thought with amusement as he watched what was clearly the end of
this round of the discussion. He sure admired the way this dame argued.
Judging from the lip-lock she had on the kid, it was a wonder his skull
didn't implode from the vacuum. Chances are Mulder wouldn't have known it if
it had since any rational thoughts he might have had were now scrambling for
cover, and the ones that remained were engaging in a swift southward march
that would have made Grant proud, to take up residence in his crotch.

Women could be downright devious, Moorehouse noted. Then again, most men
were more than willing to be dissuaded by a woman's appeal to their baser
instincts. Serves us right I guess, he chuckled to himself. Good thing the
bullpen was empty at the moment. He didn't give a rat's ass what they did.
In fact they could do the horizontal bump on his desk for all he cared, but
there was always some asshole who'd make a big deal about it. Better break
up this wrestling match post haste before Tony came back from his call to the
power company.

"Quittin' time," Jake yelled looking at his watch. "Past quittin' time." No
reaction - so much for being subtle. "Hey... knock it off!" Jesus, these
guys were single minded. "Yo!!" he yelled as he walked over and tugged on
Mulder's shoulders. "Aren't you guys supposed to get married in a couple of
hours? It's 5:30 now."

Mulder pulled away reluctantly. "Oh shit, he's right. Damn it Dana, that's
not fair. I forgot what I was going to say. You did that on purpose, didn't
you? I can't think when you do that," he added with exasperation.

"I know," she grinned impishly.

"We'll finish this discussion later," Mulder promised, "but now we've got to
go see Reverend Collins."

"Is that what you're going to wear to our wedding?" she asked, eyeing his
rumpled suit.

He looked at himself and back up to her, mischief playing about the corners
of his eyes. "What's wrong with my suit? It's an Armani."

"But it's soiled and sweaty," she observed, pulling at his sleeves.

He leaned over and whispered in her ear, his warm breath tickling her neck.
"Of course it's soiled and sweaty. It's been through three airports and
traveled over a couple thousand miles. Anyway, I thought you liked slightly
soiled and sweaty things," he snickered.

Dana pushed him away with one finger. "Not in a suit."

He waggled an eyebrow at her. "We could always take care of that."

She marveled at the fact that even though his jaw and cheek seemed to be
swelling to the point of exploding, he didn't appear to be in that much pain
at the moment. And that was an awfully goofy grin spreading across his face.
Something odd was going on here. It was then she noticed the empty tube of
gum goop on the desk, right next to an empty prescription bottle. She had a
bad feeling about this. Picking up the small plastic container only
confirmed her suspicions - pain killers prescribed for someone who was
definitely *not* Fox Mulder. Perks... for crissakes, he was on perks, and at
a strength prescribed for someone nearly twice his size.

"Moorehouse!" she bellowed at the top of her lungs.

Jake sighed. Well, he'd almost made it out the door. He should have known
she'd figure it out sooner or later. One thing this dame was not was dumb,
and not much got past her.

"What's the big deal?" he asked. "I was just tryin' to help. You don't want
the poor guy doubling over in the middle of the ceremony do you? He sure
wasn't gonna make it on aspirin."

Dana knew he meant well, but goddamn it, you just didn't give perks to
people. Mulder had such a weird medical history, who knew how he'd react to
the damn things? That was why he usually refused drugs if he had a choice.
His tooth must really be giving him fits if he resorted to sneaking drugs
behind her back. "Mulder, are you all right?"

"I feel just fucking great," he beamed with a carefree smile. "But we really
do need to get to the church on time..." A light bulb went off in his head
and he couldn't get that damn song out of his mind.

"Oh that's just wonderful," she sighed with a glare focused on Jake. "Now
I'm going to have to listen to at least fifty renditions of 'I'm Getting
Married in the Morning.' I'm gonna kill whoever took him to see My Fair
Lady. Come on, Mulder."

"Can I drive?" he asked eagerly.

"No!" was her only reply.

Mulder openly pouted as she led him from the room, down the hall and out the
door. <There's no law against driving with a toothache.> It still hurt but
he just didn't care. He was getting married.

****************
6:00 p.m.

Lily Morgan leafed through the photo album on her lap. Why in the world
she'd gotten this old thing out was beyond her. But the TV hadn't held her
interest, the suspense novel she'd been reading had suddenly lost its appeal,
and she was way too nervous to leave her apartment. For all she knew the
police could be watching her. The police, or someone else.

The glossy photos had faded a little with age. You'd think after what her
parents dished out for the photographer, he'd have at least used decent
quality stock to print the pictures. Page after page of a smiling young
woman in a lacy white dress. Hard to believe that had been her.

And there was Larry. In those days he had been handsome, even in that
dreadful blue tux he'd insisted on renting. He thought it made him look
cool, but it really made him look like a bad Elvis impersonator straight out
of one of those cheesy beach bimbo movies. But Larry couldn't carry a tune to
save his life; about the only way he took after Elvis was the booze and the
drugs. And those had made him mean.

Of course, as a kid of 18, fresh out of high school, Lily hadn't been smart
enough to spot Larry's problems. She'd been swept off her feet, all caught
up in her love affair with an older man of 25. She hadn't listened when her
parents pointed out that Larry'd dropped out of college and had a dead-end
job at the sawmill. Larry said he loved her, wanted to marry her and take
care of her for the rest of her life. And she'd listened to him, ignoring
her worried friends and family. God help her, she'd listened only to him.

Turning the pages, she came to the photos of her wedding reception. They'd
had a party the night before while they decorated the park. Beer kegs and
hot dogs, climbing the trees to hang balloons and streamers. They'd all
gotten pretty blitzed, and some of Larry's friends had gone a little
overboard with the decorations. She wondered if her parents had figured out
that some of the balloons had come from little foil packages instead of the
party supply store.

There she was stuffing cake in Larry's face, their expressions frozen for all
time. Thankfully the photographer had managed to miss the mess Larry had
made rubbing icing all over her face. The next shot showed the happy couple
toasting each other. Larry with a drink. It had become a familiar sight.

Not that their marriage had been all bad, at least not right away. She'd
gone to college part time, with a day job as a waitress to help earn a little
extra money. They were saving for a house and kids and every little bit
helped. Larry picked her up from the restaurant every day, showering her
with attention, and got drunk every night. The first time he hit her was
when she suggested that maybe he might be drinking just a tad too much.

No one had ever hit her in anger before, and she had been stunned. And
ashamed, thinking that maybe she'd deserved it somehow. She'd actually
apologized to him, he'd cried and said he was sorry, and things went back to
normal for a while. Until the sawmill shut down and Larry lost his job.

It was an ages old argument in all Northern California mill towns -
environmentalists versus the lumber industry. All the old-timers said it was
just a temporary setback, that the liberals out to save the environment would
get bored, take up some new cause and leave, and then things could go back to
normal. But tempers still ran high, including Larry's. Frustrated and bored
out of his skull, not only did his drinking increase, but he'd found a new
bad habit in drugs. Lily'd had to quit school and go to work full time just
to keep them one step away from bankruptcy.

Lily wanted to leave, to try their luck somewhere else, but Larry wouldn't
hear of it. He'd been born in McCloud, lived his whole life there, and he'd
be damned if some piddly-assed pansy from Washington was going to run him out
of his home town. At first Lily had fought with him, but each fight ended
the same way with Larry beating the crap out of her. After a while she just
didn't have it in her anymore.

She turned the page in the photo album, the wedding section over.
Interspersed with pictures of friends and relatives and the occasional pet
she'd had was a picture that always made her heart break. Nothing so
special, really - just a picture of her and Larry and Rick and his wife Judy,
taken on a houseboat at Mt. Shasta. That was the weekend she'd gotten
pregnant.

She'd been so scared to tell him, but the news of his impending fatherhood
seemed to straighten Larry out. He actually cut down on the beer and made
plans with her for the baby's room. The sawmill was running a partial crew
again, and Larry was working a few days a week. She'd been dumb enough to
think that things were actually getting better.

Of course it didn't last. The pressure of acting like a dutiful husband and
father was too much for Larry, and the next time he took it out on her she
landed in the hospital. She lost the baby and Larry spent a week in jail.
They both made it back home about the same time. Larry was sentenced to an
anger management course and fined $1,500 that they didn't have. Lily
suffered a life-long verdict - her insides had been damaged so badly that she
couldn't have anymore children.

Now that she was damaged goods, Larry really took his rage out on her. So
much for anger management. Lily gradually realized that if she stayed he
would end up killing her, and she made plans to leave. Unfortunately Larry
found out before she managed to make it out the door.

Things got hazy after that. Lily remembered fighting back, for the first
time in her life, which had enraged Larry even further. She remembered
grabbing the softball bat and striking out with it, and she remembered Larry
lying still on their living room floor. The next thing she remembered, she
was on a bus headed out of Susanville toward Reno with no memory of how she
gotten to Susanville in the first place. That had been five years ago.

Lily rubbed her stomach, grieving once again for the child she had lost.
Larry had murdered her child, and in turn she had killed her child's father.
Sooner or later it was bound to catch up with her, and she was so tired of
running and hiding, tired of lying. So tired of the whole damn thing.

She closed the album with a snap and set in on her bedside table. There,
tucked under her phone, was the cop's card. Lily picked it up and stared
hard at it for a long moment, then picked up the phone and dialed the number
on the card. It took her two tries before she could make her stiff lips
pronounce the detective's name, only to find out that he was off duty for the
rest of the night. She hung up the phone without leaving a message. Maybe
tonight wasn't quite the right time after all.

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