Title - Kinesthesia (1/12) Author - amy (Spookey247) Feedback- Always yummy. spookey247@yahoo.com Archive - No Ephemeral, I'll do it myself. Anyone else, I'd prefer if you'd link to the story at my site. Rating - NC-17 for all the stuff that makes mothers worry. Kids please read something else! Classification/Keywords - MSR, Casefile, M/S Undercover Disclaimers - Mulder and Scully don't belong to me. I just wanted to take away the business suits and feed them junk food. The rest of the characters in the story are mine. Spoilers/Timeline: Early season six. Spoils FTF just a little. Suggested Listening: Robert Plant, "Dreamland" Thanks - to Amanda, for beta waaaaay beyond the call of duty (I am not kidding here, you have no idea.) Also to Sybil, for beta and poking and cheering, to Leogirl for test-driving, and to Syntax, for making helpful suggestions and PMing me a pep-talk when I really, really needed one. More praising and profuse thanking of these ladies in the notes at the end. :-) Check out the Mystic Mulder Ranch for more fic by amy (created and maintained by the many-armed fic goddess, MaybeAmanda): www.geocities.com/spookey_247 Notes and assorted ramblings at the end of the story. Summary - As members of a domestic terrorism task force, Mulder and Scully investigate a series of bombings linked to a traveling carnival show. Set early season six. The Wheel of Dharma The wheel is an ancient Indian symbol of creation, sovereignty, and protection, which represents motion and change. Buddhism adopted the wheel to symbolize the Buddha's teachings, the wheel being identified as 'dharmachakra' or wheel of law. In Tibetan this means 'the wheel of transformation' or spiritual change, and can represent the overcoming of all obstacles and illusions. Prologue RANSOM COUNTY FAIRGROUNDS, LISBON, NORTH DAKOTA AUGUST 2, 1998 9:25 AM The sun had been up for hours, but the fairground was just beginning to stir, bleary as a drunk after a three-day bender. Hunks of midway littered the concrete lot like a spilled box of toys. Trucks and campers had been pulling in from Billings all night - now there were scattered shouts, isolated crashes. Some of the larger rides were already coming off the trucks. "Hey, Brenda." Tim Frye paused by a row of freshly unloaded bumper cars. "Before you go up to the office - you got your real name on your I.D.?" "Sure." Scully shrugged, trying to get the shirt she'd borrowed from Mulder to stop bunching around her shoulders. "Why?" "There's a warrant check, okay?" "Warrant check?" Scully shrugged the shirt into place again, noticing a strong smell in the air around her. It was a bad smell, like the inside of a gym bag, or maybe a wet dog, or... Oh. It was her. Vaguely mortified, Scully stepped to one side, putting a little extra space between herself and Frye. Getting dirty in the line of duty was, obviously, nothing new, but this particular undercover assignment was pushing the limits of her tolerance. Alien goo was one thing; carnival dirt, she'd discovered, was really another. Perching on the end of a bumper car, Frye reached out and gave her hand a friendly tug. "You can use a fake name, you know, if you're worried about that asshole husband coming after you. You wouldn't be the first - just say you don't have a license. They're hip to that." Scully took another whiff of herself, frowned. Her head was starting to itch. "No, it's okay. I'll use my real name. Screw him." He gave her a lazy smile. "Fair enough." Scully couldn't help smiling back. Oddly, Timothy Lee Frye had turned out to be one of the nicest guys she'd ever met. There were times when she almost forgot he was a potential suspect. Frye smoothed his handlebar mustache with a square, grease-stained hand. According to the file, he was 44 years old, but he seemed so weathered she really had to wonder. His features were deeply lined and brown as shoe leather and his hair, while showing no signs of thinning, had been faded by age and sun to an odd shade of brownish-gray. "That's the office over there. Tell the old man it was me that sent you. If nobody's there, just hang around 'til somebody shows up." "Tim-bo! You ready, man?" An old guy with an impressive beer gut approached them, waving a wrench. He stopped, leered at Scully. "Baby needs milk, right, big guy?" Frye rolled his eyes. "Gotta go to work. Look me up later, okay?" "Okay." Scully hefted her purse, a cheap, faded thing she'd picked up in a thrift store. "Thanks." She watched him follow the fat guy up the midway, coffee in hand, gait unhurried. Frye hadn't been a hard man to locate - everyone who worked for Peake Amusements seemed to count him as a friend. She'd found him the very first night of the assignment, flirted with him over the counter at a baseball- throwing game where he'd been filling in for a buddy. He'd bought her story about being a battered wife hook, line, and sinker, taken her enthusiastically under his brawny wing. She'd been hanging out with him for the last two days. Scully started toward the carnival office. Someone had started grilling something, somewhere nearby - souvlaki or bacon or Polish sausage or some other species of mystery meat. Her stomach responded to the smell with a weird, growling lurch. Was she hungry, she wondered, or was she finally succumbing to salmonella poisoning? In four weeks, when her posting was over, she was going to OD on tofu and brown rice. Sighing, she marched dutifully toward the carnival office. The side of the office trailer was painted with a herd of clowns so colorful they made her eyes hurt. The door was closed. No one answered her knock. "Great." She sat down on the steps and dropped her head into her hands. 'If only this case were more cut-and-dried,' she thought. Then they could just round up the short list of suspects and be done with it. After all, the carnival's management had been fairly cooperative, handing over their payroll records with a minimum of fuss. Unfortunately, things were rarely simple when it came to domestic terrorism cases. Still, she supposed she should be thankful. This assignment was a step up in the world, right? At least this week she wasn't investigating dung heaps. There had been five explosions in the last eight weeks - two near Eugene, Oregon, one in Boise, Idaho, two near Tacoma, Washington. In each case, the bomber's M.O. had been identical; a pipe bomb dropped into a public mailbox and accompanied by a mysterious message in a plain legal-sized envelope. Thus far, two mail carriers had been seriously wounded and a pedestrian maimed. The incidents had garnered more than their share of media coverage, and, unsurprisingly, this had led A.D. Kersh to pull all available agents in on the case. Her orders were uncomplicated: get in, get friendly, get answers. Pronto. Simple as that, she thought, stifling an enormous yawn. It wasn't enough that Peake Amusements had been operating in the vicinity of each of the targeted mailboxes, or that several workable suspects had been identified within the ranks of its staff. Lead investigators believed the bombings had been the work of some kind of conspiracy: the messages left at the scenes had contained a strange circular symbol that suggested, to some, a cult or some other kind of organized militant group. Scully wound her fingers around the strap of her bag, thought about Mulder. Right now he was probably just arriving at the Hoover Building, showered and well- rested and ready to shoot the breeze with the other members of the task force. She hoped he was enjoying himself. It was nice to think one of them was. "What you doin' on my steps, little girl?" "Excuse me?" Scully looked up and found herself staring at a grizzly black snout and a row of sharp, yellow teeth. "Oh my god!" Dropping her bag, she leaped up and stumbled backwards. Straining on its leash, the Rottweiler sniffed the abandoned purse and growled. "Easy, Mike. Good boy." If it hadn't been for his neat clothing and expensive jewelry, Scully would have thought the dog's owner was one of those homeless men who begs for money at traffic intersections. His skin was sallow, his front teeth stuck out, and what little hair he had left was the color of dishwater and badly cut. He had a proprietary air, though, that told her he was the man in charge: Shelby Parker Peake, owner and general manager of Peake Amusements. The old man took a step toward her. "If talking's your thing, get busy." Scully took a deep breath, wondering how, exactly, one went about asking for a job at a carnival. Keeping one eye on the dog, she gave what she hoped was a shy, hesitant smile. "Tim Frye - um, you know, he runs the Thunder Bolt - he said this is where I get an application." "Frye's a good man. Been with me eighteen years." When Shelby Peake smiled, his buckteeth protruded even further, upper lip disappearing under the tip of his bulbous nose. His shocking blue eyes glinted. "You an agent?" Scully's stomach twisted into a hard knot. "Um..." Was the old guy psychic? Could he tell just by looking? His smile hardened. "So, if you're not an agent, what do you do?" "Do?" She hadn't imagined she'd need to *do* anything to get this job. "I don't..." she stuttered, as her mind stubbornly insisted on showing her what she'd look like as a bearded lady. "I mean, I haven't got any talent..." He gave a contemptuous snort. "Talent? She felt herself flush. "I mean, I don't know how to..." "Little girl, you're green as grass. Come back when you can make me an offer." Whistling to the dog, the old man started up the steps. The Rottweiler, however, refused to budge. "Mike." He pulled the leash. The dog ogled Scully, licked its chops, whined. As if in response, the old man immediately wet his upper lip. Then he grimaced as if he'd just had some kind of intense gastro-intestinal pang. "Well, what's your name?" "Brenda Kelly." The lie slipped out smoothly. She'd had plenty of practice over the last two days. "You a townie?" "No, Tim Frye gave me a ride from Billings." Peake peered at her, nodded. "Yeah, I bet he did." Then he sighed, passing his gloved hand across his forehead. In the space of a moment, he seemed to have lost all his energy. "Got a driver's license?" She nodded. He tilted his head toward the door of the trailer. "Might as well come on in then. Let's see what we've got for you." The inside of the trailer smelled like cigarette smoke. Scully followed the old man through a tiny kitchenette and into a room that was so crammed with desks and other furniture that there was barely any space to walk. "Lay down, boy." Peake released the dog from its leash and turned toward one of the desks. Instead of following orders, the dog parked itself about two feet from Scully, craning its thick neck and sniffing the air around her suspiciously. She turned to one side, shielding her body with her purse. It probably wasn't thick enough to fend off a mauling, but it was all she had. A woman - wiry frame, thirties, glasses - hunched over another desk, cell phone clapped to her right ear, index finger stuck firmly in her left. "What do you mean you can't get anybody here this morning? We have a standing contract with you people. It's not like this is a surprise." She paused. "Yes, I'll hold." She lowered the phone, extracting her finger from her ear and jabbing it at the enormous color television blaring in one corner of the room. "Shelby, since when are we running a daycare in here?" Turning in her chair, the woman glared at the sofa by the front wall. A young blonde in very short shorts and a pink tank-top sat there, deeply engrossed in the act of painting her toenails. The old man frowned. "Honey, you know April likes to watch Jerry in the morning." "I've still got the books from Saturday to finish and the phone company says they can't get here 'til tomorrow. I mean, *maybe* that's what they said. I can barely hear myself think over that noise." Peake lifted a heap of papers off the desk. His hands quivered noticeably as he set it aside. "April, baby," he said wearily, raising his voice over the television, "can you turn that down a little?" The young woman aimed the remote, set it back down. Scully noticed no change in the television's volume. The woman at the desk had opened a file and was busy digging through it. "Yes, three months ago," she snapped into the cell. "I've got the confirmation in front of me - August 29, right here in black and white. Check your calendar." "Mandy's the real boss around here," Peake told Scully. He opened a desk drawer, rummaged through it. "Right, Mandy?" The woman at the desk ignored him. "No! You're not hearing me. Let me say it again. The fair opens Wednesday night. We have a set-up to do and we must have a phone on site. We put an order in for three lines three months ago and you *will* produce a technician *this morning* or we *will* sue you." "Mandy." "What?!" "I got a little girl here who needs an application." The woman barely glanced Scully's way. "She an agent?" "She don't know." The woman crammed her finger back in her ear and returned to her conversation. "Hello? Listen, let me talk to your supervisor." The old man sat down heavily in his chair. "April, get me my Pepto, baby." On the television, the studio audience jeered and hooted. Setting her nail polish on an end table, the young woman on the sofa hoisted herself and tottered, toes-up, into the kitchenette. Peake closed the drawer, opened another. "Where's them damned applications? Hey there, you know anything about filing?" Scully took a step toward the desk. The dog shadowed her movement, edging closer. "A little," she answered, trying not to sound nervous. If only someone would get Mike a Milk Bone, she thought. If only Jerry Springer would shut the hell up. "Um, I used to -" "I'm sick to death of this goddamned mess," Peake muttered, still rummaging in the desk. "Can't get no decent help - we been shorthanded in here all season. And my damned ulcer kicking up again - hang on." Mandy had shifted tactics and was plastering a pleasant expression on her face. "Hi. What's your name, sir? Paul? Okay, Paul, this is Mandy Zin calling from Peake Amusements at the Ransom County Fairgrounds..." The woman turned her back to the room, pressing the phone against her ear as if trying to become one with it. April returned with an economy-sized bottle of Pepto Bismol and a plastic cup. After opening the bottle for the old man, she flopped back onto the sofa, propped her feet up on a cushion and wriggled around in an effort to make herself comfortable. Pouring himself a hefty dose of medicine, the old man gave April an appreciative leer. "You know," he said, pausing to drain the cup and wipe the pink off his upper lip, "I oughta charge admission when she paints them toes." April rolled her eyes. "Pervert." The old man's wrinkled face flushed, but he didn't seem very displeased by April's comment. "That little girl needs to learn some respect for her elders. What do you think, um...what'd you say your name was again?" "Brenda," Scully murmured. She was starting to feel distinctly nauseous. "Wendy?" "No, *Brenda.*" "Linda?" "BREN-DA!" The old man stared out the front window. "April, where's Rob?" "How should I know? You don't pay me to keep nobody's schedule." She winked at him. "I'm just in charge of your blow jobs, right, baby?" He chuckled. Scully suppressed the urge to whimper and sink to the floor. "You know," she said, taking a step towards the door, "you seem to be really busy this morning..." The dog followed her, still sniffing intently. "... so maybe I should come back later." "Cool your jets, honey." Peake opened another drawer. "I know I got some applications around here somewhere." The office door opened and an athletic-looking guy, probably in his mid-twenties, bounded through it, heading for the small refrigerator without so much as a glance into the office. "Rob, where's them damned applications?" The young man came to the office door with a bottle of orange juice in his hand. "There aren't any, remember? Copier died." He took a long drink, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His gaze strayed toward Scully, lingered for a moment. Scully looked away, focused shyly on the floor. 'Ah yes,' she thought, 'Rob, aka Robert Aaron Peake.' She recognized him from his mug shot. The information she'd read hadn't detailed his relationship to the old man, but he must be a grandson, maybe a nephew. The younger Peake didn't have the old man's bucked teeth or sallow skin, but his eyes were the same unnerving shade of blue. "Take a look at this little girl," Shelby Peake snapped. "She's green as all get-out, but she's got a helluva face. You know if Buck's got anything entry-level open?" Scully looked up. She had opened her mouth to say hello and comment about her qualifications, but instead Mike stuck his nose in her crotch and she had to clamp her legs together and twist to get away. Rob Peake smiled. "Maybe," he said. "We'll see what we can do." End Prologue (1/12) ONE ~~~~ CENTRAL WYOMING FAIRGROUNDS, CASPER, WYOMING SATURDAY, AUGUST 30, 1998 10:47 PM "Step right up, ma'am," Scully muttered into the microphone. "Weight, age, or birth month?" It was nearly closing time. By now, most patrons had been parted from their money and were wisely on the way home. "Weight." The diehard who stood before her was a plump woman in a sequined square-dancing outfit. Her male companion was equally plump, and clutched a giant Scooby-Doo. Pink cheeks squeezed up in a knowing smile, the woman stepped up next to the scales and paid her money. "I stump everyone 'cause I'm a dancer," she said, smugly. "Muscle weighs more than fat, you know." She smelled like beer. Scully slipped the two dollars into her apron. She'd learned a lot about human nature in the four weeks she'd spent as a carny, the most important thing being that people gave themselves too much credit. They all believed they were too smart to be taken, and that was precisely what made them easy to take. Scully raised the microphone. Her voice echoed down the mostly-empty lane. "You're tricky, huh? Let me take a look." Frowning, she pretended to study the woman, just as she'd been taught. The 'mark,' as Scully had learned to refer to her customers, flounced her petticoats and turned in a circle, ostensibly so Scully could get a better look at her body. "It's okay," Scully murmured into the mic. "You don't have to do that. Really." "You go, Stormy! Whoo-hoo!" The boyfriend gave a wolf-whistle and waved. 'Stormy' giggled and waved back. "Think she'll guess me, baby? What prize do you want?" The boyfriend swayed from side to side. It was possible that his Scooby-Doo was the only thing holding him up. "Get me one of them giant baseball bats," he slurred. "Then we'll go home and play some giant baseball." Stormy shrieked, delighted, no doubt, by the fine sense of humor her date displayed. While she was doubled over laughing, Scully gave the round body a nonchalant once-over, estimating its height and quickly adding up the average weight in grams of its various organs, bones, and fat deposits. Then she added a gram or two for sequins, converted from metric to Imperial in her head and shot the woman a look that told her, Scully hoped, that it was high time she got serious about getting her weight guessed. Tears in her eyes, the woman gasped "Oh my," and lurched to one side. Then she recovered herself, glared at Scully, and snapped "Hurry up, sweetie." Scully had been told repeatedly by her supervisor that guessing the mark's actual weight was simply not the point of the weight-guessing game. The point of the weight-guessing game was to let the mark win a prize. That would make them greedier - soften them up for the other games. There was nothing wrong with an occasional lucky guess - after all, it gave the game credibility, but unless lots of people were standing around, there was nothing to be gained by being right. At her supervisor's urging she had taken to subtracting five pounds from every guess, but there was something about Stormy that aroused her innate need for accuracy. "One seventy-nine," she dead-panned "Oh," Stormy answered. Seeming just a fraction less giddy than she had a moment before, she climbed up onto the scale. 179. Scully maintained her poker face. Stormy and her boyfriend staggered away. "That right there's a cryin' shame." Tim Frye had appeared at her elbow, grinning like the redneck version of the Cheshire Cat. He watched the Scooby-Doo and the spangles disappear down the midway. "Look, they're so disappointed they can hardly walk." Scully stretched. "No one calls me 'sweetie' and gets away with it." He chuckled. "Honey, you play all the marks that strong and Buck's gonna move you up to one of the big games." "Huh?" "You're a natural, girl." She grinned. "Is that a compliment?" Frye returned the smile. "You bet it is." He held out an ear of roasted corn, slathered in some sort of buttery substance, wrapped in a paper towel. "Here, don't say I never gave you nothin'." In her pre-carny days, Scully probably would have politely declined, but it was amazing how hungry a person could get while pretending to scrutinize body fat ten hours a day. She laid hold of the hot ear with a grateful smile, sank her teeth into it, burned her gums, took a huge bite anyway. Frye gave a low whistle. "Wow. Hungry?" Hungry? Hell, yes, she was hungry. Regular meals weren't really a part of her life these days. Scully slurped at the corn, so absorbed in its I-can't- believe-it's-not buttery goodness that she temporarily forgot Frye was standing next to her. He touched her arm. "Hey, Bren -" "Did you bring me a napkin?" she interrupted, leaning over to keep drips from staining her clothes and gnawing at the kernels. "No, but I want you to meet somebody," he said. "He's new on my crew and I'm showing him around." "Oh, sorry." Scully lowered the corn and, having no other choice, licked her lips and swiped her mouth across her sleeve. "Duke, this is Brenda, the greenest and meanest weight-guesser this show ever saw. Brenda, this is Duke. He's learning to jock the Thunder Bolt." Scully raised her face from her sleeve, expecting to see yet another guy who looked like an older or younger version of Frye. Instead, her mouth fell open in surprise. Mulder extended a grease-stained hand. "That corn looks pretty good," he said, grinning smugly under the brim of his ball cap. Buttery substance met Thunder Bolt lube. "Yeah, it is." She withdrew from the handshake and composed herself, hoping Frye hadn't picked up on her reaction. Of course, she'd known her replacement was coming - when she'd spoken to her contact the previous Tuesday he'd told her to expect someone within the week. But Capocelli hadn't told her the replacement would be Mulder. Mulder scratched the stubble on his chin. Scully tried not to gawk: greasy jeans, work-boots, wife-beater undershirt and - oh brother, she thought - a cartoon alien tattooed on one bicep. He was utterly filthy. It looked like he'd spent the day *under* the Thunder Bolt, not learning to run it. Scully suddenly imagined herself scrawling 'Wash Me' across his bare chest with her index finger, and, unnerved by this thought, dropped her gaze to the gravel. "There's a cook joint across from the Carousel that stays open late, Duke. You should try it out." She looked up. "Good hamburgers." He licked his lips and nodded. "Maybe I will." See you there, his gaze told her. He reeked of sweat and dirt and was obviously having the time of his life. Scully felt a trickle of warmth inside, like a swallow of brandy on a cold night. She hadn't realized it until this moment, but she'd missed him. Really missed him. Heart racing, she turned away. Frye had flopped down in her camp chair and was absently diddling the scale with his foot. "Hey," he said, watching the red cartoon needle swing back and forth, "did that room at Betty's work out?" Scully frowned. "Somebody beat me to it. Looks like I'm still stuck in the bunkhouse." Carnies without their own trailer-homes could rent a room in a partitioned semi trailer called the bunkhouse. Scully guessed The Salvation Army would probably be safer and more restful. "Don't tell me you want to move out of the bunkhouse." Mulder gave another smug grin. "That's where all the action is." She couldn't argue with that. The walls were thin as cardboard and 'privacy' was a non-issue, simply because there wasn't any. "All I can say is, some people have no shame." Mulder lifted a brow. "Yeah? And here I thought all that noise was rats or something." Frye laughed out loud, then stood. "Well, darlin', when you get over being shy, or whatever it is, you know my offer stands." Scully glanced toward Mulder. He was studying one of the giant plastic baseball bats, turning it slowly on the rack. "I know," she told Frye, "But your place is really small, and I don't want to - " "Aw, c'mon Brenda." Frye moved close to her, his expression more intent than usual - uncomfortably so. "We're friends, right? You can have the bed, and I'll - " Mulder snared a giant bat off the rack and swung it, smacking Frye in the torso. "Oh, sorry, man," he said, arching an eyebrow Scully's way. "Didn't see you standing there." Shaking his head, Frye turned to Scully again. "Listen, honey, I'm there if you need me." Scully nodded. "Yeah, Tim, I know." "Good. Don't you forget. Hey, I want to take you somewhere special tonight, okay?" "Sounds good," Scully answered. She glanced at Mulder. He was engrossed in the prizes once more. 11:20 PM Scully arrived at the company cook joint a few minutes before closing time. The cashier glared at her, but she got in line anyway, and stood behind two women who were both so leggy and muscular that they could have easily been retired from careers with the NFL. Known around PA as the Price sisters, Shirley and her younger sister Juanita operated a profitable bingo game in a very choice location on the midway. Scully had heard all sorts of wild rumors about them. Her favorite was that they'd made their bankroll back in the day by pulling tractor-trailers with their teeth. The one most likely to be true, however, was that Shirley Price had once been married to Tim Frye. She strained to hear their conversation over the classic rock blaring out of the cook's radio. Shirley Price was clearly irate about something. "... don't know why she won't just give the whole thing up. She's been pouting about it all season. I mean, Lord Jesus." Juanita snorted. "These things take time, girl, and you know it. It ain't like she can just flip a switch and quit bein' in love." The elder Price sister put her hands on her hips and frowned. "I told her there ain't a man on earth worth going to hell for. But she won't listen to her mama, 'course. Guess she figures that'd be the end of the world." "She start speakin' to her dad again?" "I don't know." Having come to the front of the line, she addressed the stocky little man behind the grill. "Hey there, Dale. Double cheese and fries." "Make it two," her sister said. The cook slapped pre-pressed patties on the grill. The two women moved to the cash register, where the cashier was pouring iced tea. Scully shifted her weight from one weary leg to the other, trying to keep tabs on their conversation. Frye *did* have a teenage daughter. According to what he'd told her, the girl had lived with him until they'd had a falling out. Now she lived with her mother, he'd said. Scully saw the girl several times a week, mostly at parties, but hadn't spent any real time with her. Juanita yawned and scratched behind her ear. "Don't you think you 'n him should at least sit down and talk about the whole thing?" Shirley slapped a five on the counter. "Aw, we done all the talkin' we need to do about this." Juanita picked up the two styrofoam cups. "Be fair, now." Scully waited eagerly for Shirley to answer her sister, but the cook grunted and gave her an expectant look. "Regular burger, plain, and a diet Pepsi," she told him quickly, drifting toward the cash register, where the Price sisters were getting their change. "Deluxe with bacon, onion rings, and a Dr. Pepper." Scully turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Mulder shoved his hands in his pockets and gave her a sidelong glance. "Hey there. It's Brenda, right?" he asked, raising his voice enough for anyone in earshot to hear. Scully handed her money to the cashier. "Mm-hm. Sorry, I forgot your name." "Duke," he answered. "Call me Duke." "I'll try," she said, rolling her eyes. "By the way, classy tattoo." He smiled. "Thanks. So, you're a weight guesser, huh?" "Among other things. Everybody around here wears at least two hats." Scully pocketed her change and waited while he paid for his food. "I hear you're good. You're all my boss talks about." "That so?" She took a sip of her soda. He shrugged and made a show of looking around. "You here by yourself?" "Yeah. You?" "All alone. Mind if I sit with you?" "Well, I've only got a minute, but sure." "Oh, that's right," he said, his gaze dropping. "You've got a date." This was much weirder than she ever could have imagined. Mulder followed her to a picnic table on the far side of the dining area. When they were settled, he took a big sip of his drink. "How are you?" he asked in a low voice. She gave a quick glance around the tent. No one was paying them any attention. "Well, my arches will never recover, but I'm all right." She dropped her voice. "How the hell did you talk them into sending you out here? Weren't you supposed to be working on the profile?" He gave an enigmatic smile. "I was temperamental. The SAC was dying to get rid of me." "I can imagine," she said. God, it was good to see him. She looked down, picked at a splinter on the table. "So how do you like being a ride jock?" "It's a hoot." He raised an imaginary mic to his mouth: "Hey kids, who wants to go *faster*?" She stifled a laugh, felt herself relax a little. "When did you - ?" "Got hired last night. I would have shown up Thursday, but they wanted me to wait until forensics came back with some information." "Oh, yeah." She pretended to gaze out at the lane that ran by the tent. "About the bomb in Spokane?" "I see you talked to Cap already." "Yeah, he told me when I called in Tuesday night." "Yep. I was supposed to be relieving you, Scully, but given the circumstances they've decided they need us both on the inside." He nudged his carton of onion rings toward her. "Ring?" Scully shook her head. "The bomb didn't detonate, right?" He stretched, glanced at the empty tables around them. "Right," he said, lowering his voice. "Timer failed. Letter carrier called 911. Same MO - apparently a pretty standard type of device - sixteen-ounce juice bottle filled with gunpowder and four-penny nails. Travel alarm, nine-volt battery, same brand as usual." "Note?" "Legal pad, Bic pen, picture of a Ferris wheel drawn by a right-handed person. No prints, no hairs, no fibers, same as the other ones." He devoured an onion ring, then another. "Smudge of something on the paper this time. The lab says axle grease." "Well, there's plenty of that around here." She took another long pull at her soda. "I've been thinking about that symbol. I'm not sure it's a Ferris wheel. It looks almost nautical, like a ship's wheel." Mulder shook his head and swallowed. "The thing in the center, the three loops, like flower petals? That makes me think it's a Dharma Wheel." Scully lifted a brow. "A which?" "The Wheel of Law - a Buddhist symbol. It's derived from an ancient Indian symbol - transformation, birth and rebirth, among other things." "So, you think the bomber is what? A Buddhist?" He shifted in his seat, gave the area another casual check. "Maybe." "Blowing up mailboxes doesn't seem very Buddhist." Mulder shrugged. The cook waved in their direction, holding up two wrapped hamburgers. Mulder got up and went to collect them. When he came back, he took his time opening the foil and salting and peppering his food. Scully lowered her gaze to the table and chewed her burger without speaking. After a few moments, Mulder spoke again. "So, anything new on our prime suspect?" "Frye? Well, like I told Capocelli on Tuesday, I've come to the conclusion that we're barking up the wrong tree." Mulder's face was deliberately blank, but his gaze was intense. "Yeah, he mentioned. What makes you think that, exactly?" "Well, I stayed with Tim for a few days when I first came on the road, and since then I've been hanging out with him a lot..." Mulder grimaced. "Yeah, I got that." "Take the incident this week. I was with him most of the day Sunday. He gave me a ride here from Spokane - we left early Monday and drove all day. If he'd taken a break to plant a bomb, I would have noticed." "True, but nobody thinks this bomber is acting alone anymore." Scully sighed. Background checks on the PA staff had revealed that Timothy Lee Frye had been convicted in 1971 of planting a pipe bomb in his high school ROTC office. He'd been released from prison on his twenty-first birthday. Since that time, he'd been convicted of two drug-related felonies, and had served two years of a five-year sentence for the second offense. After that, he'd kept his nose clean. There had been no new additions to his record in almost twenty years. "Lots of young people did radical things in the early seventies, and his other arrests don't really count - selling marijuana is hardly a terrorist activity. I think the fact that the bombs match is coincidental." "But, Scully - " "Really, Mulder. Nothing else about him fits the profile. He works fifteen-hour days and goes out partying every night. He seems content with his life, never mentions politics or religion or anything else controversial. He's popular, always in the middle of a group, always seems to have someone staying at his place - frankly, I don't know how he'd find time to make a bomb. Or why he'd want to." The Price sisters got up from their table on the other end of the tent and made their way out. Except for the cashier, who was counting her drawer, and the cook, who was busy scraping the grill, they were now alone. "What about Shelby Peake?" She shook her head. "I don't think he's a viable suspect either. I know he's got the military background, and I've heard plenty of anti-government rhetoric come out of his mouth, but that's mostly about taxes. He's an old man - forgetful, disorganized. His hands shake - some kind of palsy, Parkinson's maybe, and he lives on Pepto bismol. His operations manager, Mandy Zin, handles most of his day-to-day affairs, right down to putting the cream in his coffee. I can't see him making a pipe bomb. He'd blow his own head off before he ever got to the mailbox." "But he could be working with someone." She nodded. "I'm keeping an eye on him, but I don't think he's our man, or even one of our men." "What about Robert Peake?" "I haven't found out much about him yet. He's around the office a lot, but he's pretty cagey. I'm working on it." She wadded up the rest of her burger. "Speaking of work, I have to go." "I know," Mulder said softly, looking vaguely wounded. "I'll wait up for you at the bunkhouse, okay?" Scully found herself bristling, though she wasn't sure why. "There's no need for that." "It won't blow our cover for me to make sure you get back safely." She pulled away. "This is nothing new, Mulder. I go out with Tim almost every night - it's why I'm here, remember?" Scowling, Mulder grabbed his drink, jabbed his straw into the leftover ice. "Look, I just worked all day with him. You know how many women he invites into that little control booth? How many he can actually fit in there all at once? Kind of reminded me of a VW full of circus midgets." Scully felt her cheeks getting hot. Six months ago she might have been intrigued, comforted, even flattered to see Mulder act this way, but things were different now, and they both knew it. Trying not to let her annoyance show, she swung her legs over the picnic bench and stood up. "Good night, *Duke*. I'll see you tomorrow." There was a long silence. "Yeah. Night." End 02/12 Two ~~~~ SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 5 12:14 AM Mulder walked alone, watching as game by game, ride by ride, the colors of the midway winked out, leaving behind nothing but the skeletons of the big rides, black and stark against the clear night sky. When he was a kid, he'd been fascinated by carnivals and circuses. This was probably the result of a steady diet of late-late movies, like his favorite, "The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies," a musical in which a carnival fortuneteller kept a menagerie of acid-scarred zombies to do her evil bidding. What was not to love? Tortured by curiosity, he'd begged his mother to take him and Samantha to the county fair every fall, but she'd always refused. "Carnivals are crass," she'd said. Being seen at one was simply out of the question. It was easy to see how that interest had contributed to his future choice of career - if Hollywood was to be believed, every carnival was an X-file waiting to happen. Mulder passed the Thunder Bolt, where he'd just spent the better part of fourteen hours getting a crash-course in hydraulics and making sure all the kids with tickets were tall enough to ride. Girls and grandmothers alike had flirted with him; one bare-midriffed teen diva had even grabbed his ass and handed him her phone number, offering to meet him after closing time. He grinned and reached for the wallet attached to his belt. Borrowed from evidence, it was a real trophy - gold Harley insignia stamped into worn black leather. Hey, I'm a wallet-on-a-chain guy now, he thought. If that wasn't crass, he didn't know what was. His mom would be so proud. He took out the matchbook with girl's number and tossed it in a nearby trash can, congratulating himself on a smooth transition into his new undercover role. Now that he was doing the jail-bait thing, an address in a trailer park couldn't be far behind. It felt good to sink his teeth into a real investigation after so many months of brainless grunt work. His only regret was that the-powers-that-be had sent Scully in on this assignment alone. He'd all but begged to be allowed to go in her place, but they'd felt that in a largely male environment, an unattached woman would be able to gather information more efficiently. They were probably right, but that hadn't given him much comfort. This was the first time Scully had been on her own in the field since her ordeal in Antarctica. As usual, she'd insisted she was 'fine' and could handle whatever came her way, but it had been damned near impossible for him to let her out of his sight. He hadn't had a good night's sleep since he'd last seen her. He wished he understood what was going on with her now. She'd seemed - well, he didn't think the word 'enthusiastic' would exactly apply, but she definitely seemed to be getting into her work. Dirty jeans, a cash apron wrapped around her waist, face sunburned underneath a film of dust. She'd taken that woman's money like an old hand, laughed about it afterwards. And for god's sake, her lips had been wrapped around that ear of corn like... Mulder suddenly felt nauseous. His hands balled into fists. There was a darkened basketball game a few yards up the midway - Hoop Shoot, the sign said. He made his way toward it with a frustrated sigh. Basketballs lined the counter like a row of melons. Picking one up, Mulder reminded himself that Scully was his partner and that the complications involved in deepening their relationship would more than likely mean the end of it. Then he found himself thinking about Scully and the corn again. Imagined her lips nuzzling the steaming cob... "Jesus," he muttered, shooting and missing. He should put his attention elsewhere. Work harder. Get a life. Maybe *date*. His thoughts roaming along their habitual path, he remembered that night three months ago, when he'd gotten desperate enough to try to kiss her. Then he completed the ritual by dying a thousand deaths from the embarrassment of it all. Whether she knew it or not, whether she wanted it or not, Scully *had* him. It was love. The slow-onset, haunt-your-every-waking-moment, stomach-ache kind of love, as mature as a Saturday night trip to the mall and about three times more nerve-wracking. And now Scully was out on a date with Tim Frye. "Goddammit." Mulder shook himself, aimed the ball at the basket, took a shot. It bounced off the backboard and landed in a trap at the bottom of the game. "I was robbed!" He rammed the jealousy back down into his gut, picked up another ball, took aim. Frowning, he let the ball fly. It skirted the rim and rolled off to one side. Unlike most carnies, their supposed number one suspect had all his teeth. Frye was broad- shouldered, charismatic in a Sam-Eliot-in-Mask sort of way. He'd called Scully things like 'honey' and 'darlin',' offered her an ear of roasted corn like it was a bouquet of roses. Scully seemed to enjoy the attention. Right now, Tim Frye probably thought he was the luckiest carny alive. Mulder wondered what he and Scully were doing tonight. Tequila shots? Line dancing? Demolition derby? The ball sped toward its goal again, bounced hard, landed in the trap. "Shit!" "It's gaffed." "Huh?" He turned. "Rigged. They're too big for the rim." A girl stood to his left. She was tall, her face expressionless, a little pimply. She shoved a faded ball toward him. "Use this one, it's smaller." "Thanks." Mulder took the ball and made it swish neatly through the basket. Somehow, it didn't make him feel any better. The girl dropped a loaded tool belt and a bottle- shaped brown paper sack onto the counter. She was young, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen. Her arms were pale and bony, decorated with tattoos and woven bracelets. She hopped into the game booth and retrieved the smaller ball. "You're the new guy on the ride crew?" "Yep. Do I know you from somewhere?" "Nah." She handed the ball across the counter. "Your name's Duke, right?" He shot. "Maybe." She retrieved the ball again. "I'm Gwen. I was working across from you on and off all day - fixing the Whack-a-Mole joint over there." Mulder looked. "Where?" "Right there." She pointed with an oil-stained finger, handed him the ball. Mulder swished the ball through the hoop. "When you say fix - do you mean 'fix' or, you know, *fix*?" "If I told you, I'd have to kill you." Curling up on the counter, she wrapped an arm around her knees and stared absently out at the darkened midway. Mulder wondered if she was waiting for someone. Or avoiding someone. "Today it was just the moles wouldn't come out of the holes." Mulder reached for another basketball, trying to choose carefully. "Who can blame them?" "Stupid moles. They need a good whackin'." She bit her lip. "You like your job so far?" Mulder took another shot. The ball hit the backboard and bounced. "Don't know. It's noisy as hell. And I hate that song they keep playing. The singer sounds like someone's squeezing his nuts. It's making me crazy." She gave an odd, tight-lipped smile. "Take my advice - don't fight it." She hoisted the paper bag. "I'm gonna go sit somewhere and drink this. You wanna help?" "You *old* enough to drink that?" She smiled. "In some states, maybe. Don't be a granny." Would this be considered 'contributing to the delinquency of a minor' or 'acquiring a new informant'? he wondered. "How do you know I'm not, like, a rapist or something?" Gwen hopped off the counter, jingling as she landed. The pockets of her baggy jeans were stuffed to bulging. "I just do, that's all." Mulder tossed one of the newer basketballs toward the goal. It circled the rim twice, then fell to the floor. "Damn, it really is rigged." "Yep." She frowned and shoved one hand in her pocket. "It's gaffed, all right. Just like everything else 'round here." Then she headed off into the shadows. Intrigued, Mulder followed. 12:31 AM Scully pulled her jacket closed. "Wherever we're going, I hope it's warm." Frye looked over his shoulder. "It will be." He led the way toward the outskirts of the company trailer park and stopped at a long travel trailer parked a few yards from the fairground's outer fence. The trailer looked brand-new and fairly expensive. Rock music throbbed inside its walls. Frye rapped on the screen door. After a few seconds, it opened. "How's it going, man?" Framed in the door was Robert Aaron Peake, the young man she'd met in the office when she'd applied for her job about a month before. Because of his less-than-stellar military background - he'd spent time at Fort Knox, been dishonorably discharged for desertion - the FBI considered him a possible suspect in the bombings. She knew Peake supervised the maintenance crew and she'd seen him in the office on a number of occasions. So far she hadn't had a chance to get to know him. Stepping back, Peake waved them inside. He was dressed in gray sweats and a t-shirt. The stem of a plastic wine goblet was tucked between the fingers of one hand; an unlit cigarette dangled from the other. "It's cold as shit," Frye said, as he and Scully stepped into a dimly lit kitchenette. "You got something to warm us up?" Peake tucked the cigarette behind a silver-studded ear, ran his hand through his shaggy black hair. "Dude. Wait'll you taste what I scored last night." Frye gestured toward Scully. "Rob, you know Brenda, right?" Turning to Scully, Peake offered his hand. "Hi." His blue eyes were guarded, a little bloodshot. If he recognized her from the office, he chose not to show it. "Hi," she murmured, meeting the handshake and noting thick, grease-stained fingers, a spider-web tattoo stretching from elbow to knuckles, a nasty scar just below his thumb. "Want a drink?" he asked. "I'll get it," Frye said, opening the refrigerator. Rob waved toward the living room. "Come on in." The living room was smoky and lit only by candles. Ponderous music wafted through the room. It was more comfortable than what she had come to expect in a camper - the armchairs and sofa looked plush and the carpet under her feet was damned near luxurious. Scully noticed April, Shelby Peake's girlfriend or whatever she was, lounging on a big cushion in the middle of the floor, attended by a man Scully recognized as the "talker" (never "barker," she'd been told) from the Haunted House. Another young man - Lee, from the skee-ball joint - sat on the sofa, passing a shiny glass water-pipe to a woman sitting at the other end. He was wiping his eyes, apparently weak from laughter. "Go on," he said. "Show us." The woman on the sofa rose to her knees, put her glasses down beside her, and wound her fingers around the black cylinder of the water pipe. "Watch and learn," she said. Bending over, she rested the base of the pipe on the futon, wrapped her lips around the glass and went down on it like a professional, sliding her lips slowly toward the bowl. There was an appreciative laugh from the others in the room. With a provocative wiggle of her hips, the woman lit the bowl, sucked all the smoke out of the chamber, and allowed her lips to slide back to the top. The man who was sitting with April whistled. Peake crossed his arms, watching. "Wait," he said softly, "that's not the best part." Hearing his words, the woman turned to face him. It was then that Scully realized who she was. Flushed from holding the smoke in her lungs, and looking like she was about to burst out laughing, Mandy Zin, the show's operations manager, made her red lips into an 'O' and blew a perfect smoke ring about three inches in diameter. "Yeah!" Lee collapsed over its arm, shaking with laughter. "Damn, girl!" The man from the Haunted House gave another loud whistle. "When you gonna come party with *me*?" "Maybe never." Mandy wagged her eyebrows at Peake and put her glasses back on. Frye appeared at Scully's side. "Shit, not that old trick again." He handed her a plastic cup. She took a cautious sip. Vodka and orange juice. "Timothy Lee Frye is a jealous dog." Mandy wriggled over to the spot where Peake was settling onto the sofa. She snuggled up to him, putting her bare feet in his lap. Frye ignored her. "You guys know Brenda?" "Brenda!" Mandy waved. "How's it going?" Normally Mandy favored khaki skirts and loafers, her short hair and dark-rimmed glasses giving her a somewhat masculine air. Scully had found her to be a ruthless and much-feared businesswoman with a personal goon squad at her beck and call. If setup was slow, if cash or inventory were missing, there was very little discussion. Heads simply began to roll. Now here she was, curled up next to a man some ten years her junior, wearing a skimpy nylon dress and shamelessly rubbing her bare feet against his crotch. The contrast was shocking. Frye gave Scully a nudge. "Pull up a chair, honey. Tonight we're just gonna kick back and *relax*." 1:17 AM They'd settled on a picnic table under a security light near the bunkhouse. "Yeeeeeeeeeeeee-haaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!" Male voices echoed inside the big container, first one, then another, calling and answering like packs of wild dogs on opposing hillsides. Gwen didn't seem to notice the noise. "...so she's like," - she paused to take another swig of vodka, then raised her voice into a thin whine, imitating her mother - "'Gwennnnny, I just wanna help you bay- beeee.'" She dropped back into her natural register and grimaced. "But what the fuck? They act like I ain't got the sense God gave a cat. Nevermind I been working full-time since I was fourteen. Know how to tear down every ride in this fucking show. Set'em back up again, too." "Really?" "Shit, grow up around this crap like me, you'll see. Gets in your blood. Anyway, Mama never gave a shit what I did 'til her and Chuck got saved, then it was all 'Get saved, Gwenny, Jesus loves you, Gwenny.' But, Duke - them two get to fucking and you oughta hear how they talk about Jesus then." She offered Mulder the bottle. The vodka burned his throat. "Why don't you just move out, then?" Gwen sighed. "I don't make enough to get my own place and I sure as hell ain't moving in there." She jerked her thumb toward the bunkhouse. "I used to stay with my dad until - well, what the fuck. He'd probably let me come back, but his place is really small and me 'n him got our own things to fight about. And..." Her voice trailed off. She looked down, stroked one of the woven bracelets on her wrist. "And what?" She turned the bracelet thoughtfully as she spoke. "Well, there's a guy, see, and what I really like is being at his place. I know it sounds weird, but sometimes I think it'd be cool to be shacked up like that. Like a regular sucker, cooking and stuff." An odd look came over her face. Shifting, she tucked her arm against her belly and leaned over it, hiding the bracelets from view. "Yeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaa!" Mulder turned on the bench, craning his neck to see who was doing the shouting. "How does anybody get any sleep around here?" She grinned, lifted the vodka skyward. "Cheers." "I get it." Mulder belched, tasted booze. She was right. A few more shots and he'd have no trouble sleeping. "Anyhow, at least you got a roof over your head. That shows character, Duke. Really. Lotta the jocks spend their money on dope and just sleep on the rides." She set the bottle down and gave him a look that was probably meant to be deep and meaningful. "You n' me's friends, right, Duke?" "Yeah," he said. The night was cold, but Mulder was warm. In fact, the tops of his ears were burning. "Of course we are." She shoved the vodka his way. "Good. You don't mind if I ask you a question, then." Mulder picked the bottle up and examined it. Jesus, it was half-empty, and he'd only had four or five swallows. "Shoot." Gwen tucked her arm more tightly against her abdomen, rubbing her shoulder. "You're cute. You got a girlfriend?" "Um, sort of." "Sort of? Dude. Don't shit me. I know how it is." "You do?" "Totally. I can tell from the look on your face." "You can?" "Yeah. Don't give up, though." Mulder decided to play along. "I think she loves me, sometimes, but shit, she's - " Gwen wagged her head from side to side. "Uh-uh, Duke. That's where you're goin' wrong. Don't make it about love. See, love's a freak-show thing, like a two-headed snake or eleven fingers and toes." She chuckled softly. "Forget love. There's things more important than that." "Like what?" "Like being what you are, even if what you are is scared shitless. Like standing up for what's real, calling a grift when you see it. Honor, Duke. Remember that." Mulder shrugged. On some weird level, he knew exactly what Gwen was talking about. He wasn't sure why, or what that said about him, but... Maybe it was just the booze. Suddenly a tear drizzled out of the corner of Gwen's eye. "Be a warrior," she whispered. "Don't take 'no.'" End 03/12 THREE 2:39 AM "No man, I'm serious. If I couldn't stay where I was, then I didn't care. Santa Fe, Helena, Fort Knox, whatever." Peake sat in lotus position on the sofa with Mandy astride him. "Hang on, baby. Let me get a hit." She shifted while he lit a small pipe and passed it to Frye, who was lounging in an armchair next to him. "I mean, how they show the army on TV. Jump outta bed, grab your gun, be a hero. I might've bought that shit when I was seventeen, but damn, I found out better." Frye smoked. "Shit. They'll just have to shoot me. I won't ever go back to prison again." "Dude," Peake grunted, holding his smoke while Mandy re-settled herself and began kissing his neck. She'd been in his lap for at least the last half-hour. "I hear you about that. Three-time loser. We'd have to kick ass and drive to Mexico." Mandy's dress had begun riding up her torso, exposing pale, round buttocks and red thong underwear. She was apparently so absorbed in the taste of Peake's neck that she didn't notice she was exposing herself to the rest of the room. Scully shifted in her armchair. "You never told me you'd been to prison, Tim." "Well, it was a while back, darlin'. I've put it pretty far behind me." "All that shit's the same, see," Peake continued. "School, sucker job, army, prison. You got the man in charge, you got all those suckers trying to fuck you." "Everything's the same," Mandy murmured into his neck. "Yeah, baby," he answered, his voice dropping lower. "I hear you." Scully finished her drink. How many had she had, by now? Frye stretched. "You two are a riot." Peake closed his eyes so Mandy could kiss his lids. "Yeah?" "You are so wasted." "You think?" The younger man's eyes were still closed. He grinned, raised his voice. "Are we wasted, Donnie?" "Not me, man." The man from the Haunted House was straddling April in the middle of the floor. She'd taken her top off and he was massaging her, making slow circles around her vertebrae with his thumbs. The other young man lay on a cushion nearby, kibitzing the action with a lazy smile. Frye offered the pipe to Scully. She shook her head. He set it on the table. "I'm serious, man. You should hear yourself." Peake slipped his tongue between Mandy's lips before he answered. "Dude. I'm not just running my mouth. The point is there's no such thing as 'better' or 'worse.'" He rubbed the tip of his nose against hers. "People are suckers, though." Here he paused to kiss her again. "They get hung up thinking good/bad, black/white." He sucked her lower lip. "But all that stuff's a grift." "Yeah," Mandy purred. "A grift." "What I'm saying," Peake continued, lips brushing Mandy's throat, "is that, like, good and bad, clean and dirty are opposite sides of the same damned thing." He raised his head from her cleavage and smiled. "Truth isn't what you think it is. When you figure that out, you're free." "Truth." Shaking his head, Frye watched them for a moment, then glanced at the dregs in his plastic cup. "Well, dirty, clean, clean, dirty - whatever. My mama always taught me you take your licks and clean up your own messes." He got to his feet, picked up his cup and the ashtray. "You want another one, Bren?" Scully offered up her cup. "I better not." Frye's socks made swishing sounds on the carpet. Scully sank into her chair, watching Mandy's ass move up and down. Too tired to be mortified any more, she yawned. When she got to the office tomorrow, she thought, she would check around, see if she could find out more about Rob Peake. Stretching wearily, she looked longingly toward the door. Suddenly Frye's face appeared, hanging inches from her own. She had not noticed his return. "You're tired," he rumbled, squatting down in front of her chair. The smell of alcohol was overpowering. "Yeah, I am," she answered. "Come here," he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her out of her seat. "Sit down here." "Why?" She knelt on the floor next to him. He settled himself around her, then, one leg on either side of her body. "Let me work some of the kinks out." "Um, I think I - " "Timothy Frye has got fabulous hands." Mandy's voice was muffled. "Warm you up on a cold night." Frye snorted. "Not warm enough, though. Ain't me she's over there rubbing on, is it?" "You had your chance," Mandy giggled, and went back to kissing Peake. Scully knew she should say no, but Frye's fingertips were trailing across her shoulders. They were squeezing. They were kneading. "Oh," she heard herself say. "Oh." "Yeah, I know," Frye said. "It's been a long day." Working his hands lower, he slipped his thumbs under the waistband of her jeans and rotated them in her sciatic region, gradually liberating an astonishing collection of knots. Scully sighed in spite of herself. Mandy was right. His hands were incredibly warm. "Tomorrow's gonna be crazy," he said, in a soothing voice. "Circus jump." He snaked his hand under her t-shirt and worked the heel up her spine, one vertebrae at a time. Scully moaned softly. She hated to admit it, but he *was* good. Really good. "What's that?" she asked. She was so sleepy. "They need us open Monday night in Pueblo. So we got to tear down right after closing tomorrow, drive to Pueblo, set up and open the show. Straight shot, no sleep." Frye's voice seemed to be floating somewhere just inside her forehead. It sounded sweet. She trusted it. "Mmmm," she heard her voice say. "See? You're more relaxed already." Frye's fingers feathered down her forearms, once, twice, then three times, the motion slower and softer each time he repeated it. Caressing. He was caressing her. "Baby, open your eyes," he murmured. "Look at April over there." Scully looked. "She's...wow." "Doesn't she look happy?" At the office, Scully often thought April looked a lot like a lizard on a rock, one eye perpetually open, always poised to catch the next meal. Tonight, though, something seemed to have changed. Donnie had stopped rubbing April's back and rolled her over. Lee joined them, began kissing April's breasts, his tongue circling first one pink nipple, then the other. April exclaimed softly, buried her fingers in his hair, pulled him closer. Her face was glowing. Scully experienced a surge of adrenaline as Donnie unzipped April's jeans and peeled them away. She felt her heart beat faster as he began to lap gently at one of April's newly bare thighs. She felt heat between her own legs, then, and fought back a sudden wave of nausea. She should be ashamed of herself for watching this. Frye reached up and drew a callused finger down her cheek, turning her face toward his. His gaze was soft. "I can make you smile like that, Bren, if you'll let me." Oh Holy Christ. "Um..." She made herself look away from Frye and saw that Peake had fallen back on the couch, Mandy draped over him. She was dry-humping him like an over-sexed chimpanzee. The room took a slow quarter-turn. Suddenly it occurred to Scully that her drink could have been drugged. She closed her eyes, fighting the nausea. Frye's finger traced her lower lip. "Let me, baby," he breathed. He bent, then, and followed the same path with the tip of his tongue. His mustache tickled her nose. "Oh my god..." Horrified, Scully realized she was actually getting turned on. How? Why? God, she had to get away. "Tim, no." He nuzzled her cheek. "Your man treats you bad, but I know how to make you happy." "My man?" The room revolved. She struggled to keep her eyes open. Before she knew what was happening, a second pair of hands began to touch her. Starting, she looked around and found Mandy hovering behind her. Mandy's fingertips followed the line of Scully's shoulders, stroked down her spinal column and back up again, tracing a capital 'T.' "Wait..." she murmured, but Mandy kept stroking. Peake had left the sofa and now he dropped to his knees beside them, his gaze like a shadow, cool and dark. "They call it Sthula Maithuna," he murmured. "Want to learn a thing or two, guys?" "Let's use the bedroom," Mandy whispered. Scully felt a rush of heat to her sex. Then it seemed someone had taken her by the hands and pulled her to her feet. She was walking, drifting, with bodies in front of her, bodies behind her, a pair of male arms slipping around her, lifting her to a bed, rolling her out like a bolt of silk. Then she found her head pillowed in Peake's lap and he was touching her forehead, tracing a tiny circle just above the bridge of her nose. She felt herself spreading, warm as a tropical sea. Then a half-clad body was above her, the flesh hot, solid. Frye brushed his lips against hers, lapped at her earlobe, whispered something that she couldn't understand. "Slow down," she heard Peake say. "This is all about taking your time, big guy. And it's going to change you - you won't fucking believe it." "Touching is everything," Mandy whispered in her ear. "It's all you need, hon." What the hell did they mean? Fingers traced the curve of her inner thigh. She burned inside her jeans. Warm breath crept through her shirt, soaked into her bra, raised her nipples against the cotton. Frye nuzzled her hair, pressed his long sex against her loins. She heard herself moan. "Please..." Frye's mouth was on hers, his tongue nudging her lips apart. She could taste the vodka, the orange juice. Hands tugged at her t-shirt, began to peel it up. And she was smiling. Why the hell was she smiling? "Wait," she said. Frye's eyes flew open. "Hm - ?" "I don't feel well," she murmured. "Huh?" "Tim, stop. I don't feel well..." Pulling away from Mandy, she placed her hands against Frye's chest and pushed. "Please, I have to go..." Frye moved aside, looking bewildered. Mandy cooed sympathetically. "Brenda, honey. Try to relax..." "No. I have to go back." Peake helped her sit. "Give her a minute," he said calmly. "I...I don't..." Why did she feel this way, like she'd failed some kind of test? "I can't do this." She rose swiftly, unsteadily, headed for the door. Frye jumped up and followed, caught her somewhere between the bedroom and the kitchen. "Honey, I don't mean to hurt you. Stay." "I can't." He put his arms around her. "Baby, let me help you be happy." "Tim - " "You think I can't see how much you been hurt?" Scully resisted the urge to sag against him, willed her eyes dry. "You're a good friend," she said, in a puny voice, trying to pull away. "Listen, we can leave. We can - " "No." "Jesus, Brenda, I - " "I said 'no'." After a long pause, he released her. "I'll walk you back." "No, it's okay." Crossing the kitchenette, she opened the door. Cool air washed over her. "Please, can you do one thing for me?" "What?" She waved toward the living room, trying not to notice what Donnie and Lee were doing to April in the middle of the floor. "My jacket and my bag - in there somewhere." A moment later he was back. "Here you go." He handed over her things, stepped toward her. She backed away. "Good night." Before she knew what was happening he was kissing her again, holding her with such sincerity that for a moment she was unable to resist him. Then she got mad, furious, cursed and shoved him away. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she flew like a gunshot across the darkened fairground, gulping down breath after chilly breath and trying to reassure herself that alcohol had simply overwhelmed her judgment. No matter what Tim Frye and his friends might believe, she was *not* some homeless bimbo with no self-control. She was a Federal Agent, a doctor. An educated woman. She just needed to breathe, to walk a little faster. Her grip on reality would quickly return. But the ache between her legs refused to go away. It wasn't much farther to the bunkhouse, now. Turning a corner, she increased her pace, all but charging down the center of the gravel lane. The big trailer had just reeled into her line of vision when she remembered that Mulder had said he'd wait up for her there. She stopped. "Oh my god." Her hand flew to her mouth. "My god." She knew she was drunk, possibly even drugged. Worse yet, she was thoroughly, shamelessly horny. She eased out of the light and toward the edge of the lane, then crept forward in the square shadows cast by the row of motor homes. She wondered if she could make it to her cubicle without attracting Mulder's attention. It was then that she noticed two figures, sitting on a picnic table in the shadows not far from the semi. A girl was raising her t-shirt, baring her bra-less chest to a carny sitting next to her. The carny swayed a little as he stared, like the moonlit breasts had hypnotic powers and he had fallen under their spell. Then she realized the carny was Mulder. "You - " Her hands flew forward, trying to choke him from afar. She jerked them back, clapped them over her mouth, bit her finger so she wouldn't cry out. The girl lowered her top. Mulder reached over and stroked her arm. Scully's hands started shaking. She reminded herself that she was Special Agent Dana Scully, FBI, working undercover at the Central Wyoming Fairgrounds. The man on the picnic bench was her partner, and as such, he had a right to gaze wherever he pleased. Right? Wrong. She started forward, frantic voices cutting through the roar of blood in her head, jabbering on about things like professionalism, warning her not to botch the investigation. The girl on the picnic table had folded over, laying her head on her knee. Mulder leaned close to her, whispering something. Then he began gently stroking the girl's back. Scully felt herself crumple, like she'd just taken a fist to the gut. "Oh god." Not tears. Not now, not here. "Shit, shit..." Scully reeled away from the bunkhouse, wiping her eyes and trying to breathe. If she stayed, she was going to blow her cover, upset the careful balance, tell Mulder things she didn't know if he wanted or was ready to hear. The thought was unbearable. She stumbled toward the midway. 3:10 AM "Don't say things like that, Gwen. Of course you're pretty." Mulder yawned. The hooting in the bunkhouse had subsided a good half-hour before. He was more than ready to say good-night. He glanced down the darkened lane leading away from the semi. Scully hadn't come back yet. He was getting really worried. "You're just saying that to be nice." Sitting on the picnic table next to him, Gwen wiped her mascara- striped cheeks with the hem of her t-shirt, appearing not to care that she was flashing her breasts at him. "I'm tall and I carry a wrench. Guys are scared of me." Mulder rested his chin on his hand. "I'm not scared of you," he said, taking in the rosy mounds and pale brown nipples. Then he stopped, felt his eyes go wide. "Nice tattoo," he said. The tattoo circled her navel. Eight spokes, three petals. Gwen suddenly realized where he was looking. Instead of covering herself, though, she joined him in his study, lifting her shirt higher so they both could see. "Like my ink, there?" "Yeah, that's really different. What's it supposed to be?" Gwen drew a quivering breath and lowered her top. "It don't matter now." She'd started crying again. "Duke, he thinks he's in love. But not with me. What the fuck?" Mulder reached out and stroked her forearm, trying to comfort her. "I'm sorry." "No one else ever made me feel like he did." Gwen flopped over, dropping her arms between her legs and laying her head on her knee. "And he...aw, shit. I can'even tell it all. You'd never b'lieeme anyway." Mulder leaned close. "You should try me. I'm pretty open-minded." She sniffed loudly and closed her eyes. "It don' matter now." Expecting her to pass out, Mulder put his hand on her back, ready to catch her if she pitched face-forward off the picnic table. Instead, Gwen began to shudder with heartbroken sobs, her face bunching up like a wad of wet newspaper. "He neeeeeeds meeeeee," she wailed, her speech becoming more incoherent by the second. "An' he don' even gimme a chansh. Duke, why don' he gimme a chansh?" "Hey, uh..." Mulder stroked the girl's bony back. The night was taking on a grainy, film-noir quality, as if Sam Spade might wander by any second and ask him for a light. He'd had a little too much to drink, he realized, considering he was technically on duty. "That guy's an asshole," he told Gwen. "Forget about him. Someone else will come along." A dog started barking nearby. "Hey! You there!" Mulder jerked his hand away from Gwen. "Huh?" "Quiet, Mike." Shelby Peake stood several yards away with a very large Rottweiler straining on its leash. "You - who's over there?" Mulder scooted away from Gwen, heart thrumming. "Can I help you?" "I'm looking for a little girl - blonde, dresses nice. Mike, shut up." Holding the dog back, the old man squinted into the shadows. Who's that over there? Gwen?" Gwen sat up, shoved the bottle behind her back. "Yessir." "Girl, you go home right now. What the hell you doing out so late?" "Yessir. I'm going." "You know where April went? I can't find her nowhere. She's got no business being anywhere but my bed." "Dunno, Mr. Peake." Gwen smiled and lurched forward. Mulder reached out and caught her by the arm. "What?" "She said she doesn't know," Mulder called. "You there." Turning to go, the old man addressed Mulder. "Leave that little girl alone or I'll kick your ass myself. Jesus, some of you people got no shame." He took his dog and stalked away. When he was gone, Gwen reeled to her feet, turned and lurched forward, steadying herself against Mulder's shoulders. "I told that old man a lie," she said. "Never let'em know what you're up to, Duke." "Oooo-kay," Mulder murmured. "Gwen, maybe we should call it a night..." "Gwen Marie!" Mulder looked over Gwen's shoulder. A tall figure was standing in the shadows near the bunkhouse. Gwen closed her eyes. "He used to call me that when I was a kid," she choked. "Fuck. Nevermind." "Gwen, come here, I want to talk to you." "'Kay, Daddy." Gwen turned, shoved a hand into a pocket, staggered toward the man. He reached out and caught her with a disapproving murmur, then took a step toward Mulder. Gwen protested, pulled on his hand. After a moment of staring accusingly over his shoulder, he steered the girl away. Mulder whistled. "Well I'll be..." Gwen's father was Timothy Lee Frye. But where the hell was Scully? End 04/12 Four ~~~~ 3:20 AM Scully left the trailer park and plunged into the darkness of the fairgrounds beyond. After a moment she found herself winding aimlessly down a deserted lane. This is stupid, she told herself. This is unsafe. You need to go home. But she didn't have a home. And there was no turning back now. She could barely see. She kept moving, though, because she had important things to think about and she knew walking would clear her head. She would calm herself, weigh all the issues, come up with a rational plan. Figure out how she and Mulder could work as partners after all that had - She swallowed a sob, shuddered, dragged her forearm across her face. They'd come home from Antarctica three months ago. Her memories of that time were still fragmentary: the agony of ice against her naked skin, the miracle of Mulder's arms, the sound of the chopper. At the hospital in the Falklands, someone had put a hot water bottle against her feet, as if she had nothing more serious than a slight case of the flu. She remembered shivering, closing her eyes, willing Mulder to come for her, as he had before, and take the chill away. Then the memories got sharper: a scratchy blanket pulled up to her chin, the echo of the night nurse's footsteps, Mulder standing in her doorway, wearing pajamas, looking furtive. "Hi," he'd whispered, perching on the chair beside her bed. "How you feeling?" "Fi- I mean, much better. You?" "I'm okay. They're releasing me tomorrow morning." There had been an uncomfortable silence, then, his form a motionless, gazing silhouette. With the light from the hallway behind him, she'd realized, Mulder was able to see her much more clearly than she could see him. She hadn't liked that, so she'd propped herself on her elbow to get a better look at his face. All it had done, though, was make her shoulder ache. His features had remained in shadow. After a long moment, he'd murmured, "I'm sorry, Scully." "It's okay," she'd said, offering her free hand. She'd assumed that, as usual, he was blaming himself for the terrible things that had just happened. "It wasn't your fault." He'd hesitated, then put his hand awkwardly in hers. "Um, I mean, well, yeah, I'm sorry for that, too. I'm sorry for *everything,* but..." She'd waited. "But?" He'd heaved a frustrated sigh. "I mean, um, the other night." Of course she'd understood immediately which night he meant. That night in his hallway, when he'd put his arms around her and they'd nearly - "You mean, at your place, before I..." "Yeah." The word fell flat. "Oh." His tone had instantly confused her. What had happened between them was a good thing, right? Not the ideal way to move forward with a relationship, but better than the standoff that had existed before. She wondered if there was something about that night she was forgetting. "What - what about it?" He'd set her hand abruptly on the bed, given it a clumsy pat. "It's okay, Scully. Try to get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow." Then he'd risen and gone resolutely out the door and - damn her - she'd sat like a lump and watched him go. They'd stayed at that hospital for another day, but he hadn't come to see her again. At the airport, he'd cracked a lot of jokes, then he'd let A.D. Skinner take the seat next to hers. His 'good-bye' at Dulles had been brief, impersonal. Damn him, too, she thought, stumbling on her own toes. Back in Washington, she remembered, she'd put her ass on the line for him. She'd marched into the hearing room and called it the way she'd seen it, handing the S.O.B's another excuse to grind out her career under the collective heel. Mulder had thanked her for this loyalty by begging her to go away. After that, after everything, shouldn't she have listened? But she'd been at death's door. He'd crossed a hemisphere to find her. 'Save yourself, go be a doctor' was a statement that simply didn't gel with the facts. Scully stopped walking. Her head was spinning - where the hell was she? Barn-shaped buildings loomed all around her, a single dim security light bathing them in somber shadow. "Oh god." She felt her knees buckling. There was the scrape of gravel against her palms. Then nothing. Forever came. Went away again. Then there was a voice. "Scully, wake up. Open your eyes. Scully." Mulder. His hand was on her forehead. He sounded panicked. "Scully, come on. Scully, please." "Damn you," she muttered, pushing his hand away. "Can't you see I'm busy right now? Leave me the hell alone." "This is very unprofess'nal, Mulder." "Yep." "Put me down." "Uh-uh." Scully smelled like she'd been smoking pot and drinking. Her body seemed far lighter than the last time he'd carried her in his arms this way. The carnival, it seemed, was ruining her health at least as efficiently as the Consortium ever had. Moonlight poured onto the booths and buildings around them. Trying to get his bearings, Mulder started in the direction of what he thought was the south parking lot, where a rusted-out pickup truck was waiting. At least this time his vehicle had a full tank of gas. Scully buried her face against his neck and closed her eyes. "Where're we going?" "You need a doctor," he told her. She struggled. "I don't need a doctor. I *am* a doctor." "You passed out. You're exhausted. I'm officially relieving you of this assignment." "Tha's not your call. I just need a li'l rest..." "You can nap all you want while they're giving you fluids." The employee parking area was just beyond the livestock displays, so Mulder followed his nose, choosing a path that led between two corrugated metal barns. Scully sniffed noisily. "Smells like shit." He couldn't help chuckling. "A keen investigator." She gave a weak kick. "Don't patr'nize me. Put me down, you're blowin' my cover." He kept walking. "Right. I'm sure the cows will never trust you again." She kicked harder. "Fuck you." To avoid dropping her, he set her down. Once her feet were on the ground, she turned and smacked him in the chest. "...like a fuckin' caveman sometimes..." she muttered, pressing her hand to her forehead and swaying. Mulder reached for her. "Scully - " She shoved him back. "I'm not your girlfriend, stupid!" Mulder stopped. So there it was. They watched each other for a long moment. "Now," Scully said, pronouncing each word slowly and deliberately. "We are both following orders now. I am going back to the bunkhouse. I am going to bed." She turned, took two steps and swooned. "Goddamn it, Scully." He stepped forward and caught her. "You have no idea what this is doing to my back." "No doctor," she protested, as he hauled her up, off her feet, and into his arms. "But, Scully..." "No doctor!" "Okay, no doctor." "I wanna go back to the bunkhouse..." "Not until you can walk." Hoping for something like privacy, he headed for the nearest barn. "At least it's warm in here." His voice echoed. Animals stirred in their pens. "My hero." Her voice was thick with sarcasm. "Just let me, um..." A few feet away there was an empty pen lined with bales of hay. He headed toward it. "Hello?" A male voice floated toward them. Mulder froze. "Who's there?" There was a scuffling sound, feet crossing the straw-covered concrete. Scully made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Scully, shhh, someone's coming." A flashlight beam hit them. "Who's there? Speak up or I'm calling security." Mulder turned toward the voice. There was a stocky figure standing just beyond the row of pens. He paused for a moment, trying to decide on a story. An animal - goat? sheep? - bleated. What the hell, he thought. Here goes. "My girlfriend's sick," he said. "Do you have any water?" Scully's fist slammed into him. "I said I'm not your girlfriend, asshole." "What the hell were you thinking, smoking weed with that guy?" "I didn't." "Oh, come on. You smell like a weenie roast at the DEA." "Very funny." "Shh." Mulder looked nervously over his shoulder. He'd managed to talk the rancher out of calling security and into giving them some bottled water and a blanket. The big man had gone back to his cot on the far side of the barn - Mulder wasn't particularly interested in waking him again. The room was stuffy, lit by a single dim bulb. He'd made a bed for Scully on a bale of hay. Now she lay on her side, eyes closed, brow furrowed. He prodded her. "Here, drink some water." "I don't want any. Go away." "You have to take care of yourself on an assignment like this. Have you been going out drinking every night?" "Substance abuse is like a national pastime for these people." She opened her eyes, gave him a pointed stare. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed." Sighing, he set the water bottle down. "Whatever. I'm not the one who passed out." "Shut up. Stop being smug." "I'm not being smug. What did you eat today, besides roasted corn and half a burger?" She rolled over, turned her back on him. "I don't remember." "What about yesterday?" "Like you care." In all those carnival movies, Mulder thought, the villain always dragged the heroine to the Tunnel-O- Love to face some heinous torment or other. Then the hero rescued her in a thrilling climax. Afterwards, the heroine was supposed to throw herself into the hero's arms with grateful sobs. Cut. Print. Tack on happily-ever-after epilogue. Mulder put the lid on the water bottle and set it on the floor. Now that he came to think of it, they'd actually done that whole heinous-torment-thrilling- climax scene just a few months ago. Scully hadn't thrown herself sobbing into his arms then, so he didn't know why he was expecting her to now. Still, a little less ire, a little more gratitude - it wasn't so much to ask, was it? Dejected, he peered at the back of her head and sighed. He'd known this day would come. He'd been dreading it ever since they'd come home from Antarctica. At first, he'd wanted to apologize, to explain, to throw himself on her mercy and confess what a selfish, manipulating asshole he'd been. Determined to get it over with, he'd gone to her before they'd even returned to Washington. He'd managed the apology, but when it came to the explaining and confessing part, the right words had somehow eluded him. Back in Washington, he'd tried again, but the same thing had happened. After a week or so of kicking himself, he'd realized something important: When he'd said he was sorry, he'd been lying through his teeth. It had been a hard thing to swallow, at first, that what he felt for Scully wasn't just friendship. Fueled by the idea, his imagination had gone off like a rocket, taking him places he hadn't really been prepared to go. And there was no way to tell her that. Attempting to fit those feelings into something as limited as language would be like trying to force a sandwich through a drinking straw. So he'd ended up pretending nothing had happened at all - a less-than-ideal solution, but the only workable one that had presented itself. It was getting less workable by the minute. He took a deep breath. "You want to tell me what's up?" She gave a soft chuff, but didn't answer. "I'd really like to know." She kept her back to him. "Would you, now?" Mulder's stomach knotted. "He didn't hurt you, did he? If he did..." "If he did, what?" Her voice dropped into a hiss. "Mulder, we're on assignment. Get a grip." "I need to know." There was a hitch in her voice. "Why?" "Just...because." He touched her shoulder. She pulled away. "I'm your friend, okay? I care about you." He gritted his teeth. "Please." Scully rolled over. "You're my *friend*?" The intensity in her voice made him want to back away. He nodded. "You *care* about me?" "Yeah," he answered, gingerly. "I do." She sat up, all in one motion, clapping both hands to her head for support. "You care about me the same way you care about that bitch with the magic boobs?" His mouth fell open. "What?" "That girl." "What the hell are you talking about?" "I was there, I saw the whole thing." "Saw what whole thing?" Her hands moved from her head to her face. "Nothing. Never mind." "Scully, why are you so angry at me?" "I'm not angry," she snapped. "I'm fine." Mulder felt his fingers curl. "Why do you always say you're fine when it's obvious you're not?" "Shut up. You're drunk." She was crying. "So are you. Look, maybe we should..." She slammed her hands into her lap. "Did you fuck her?" His mouth dropped open. "What?" "You heard me. Did you fuck her?" "Scully, what the hell are you - " "You were looking at her tits, Mulder. So tell me if you fucked her!" The words 'tits' and 'fucked' bounced off the corrugated ceiling and went swirling off into the depths of the barn. "Scully, shhh. That guy's going to call security - " "I don't care." Her voice was raw. All at once Mulder realized why. "You're jealous," he said. Scully buried her face in her hands, shook her head vehemently. It didn't take a degree in psychology to understand what that meant. His smile started out big and got bigger. This didn't really solve anything. It was entirely possible Scully wouldn't remember this conversation tomorrow, and even if she did, it was entirely possible she wouldn't be interested in acknowledging it had happened. But, still. There it was. Scully was jealous. He settled in beside her and patted her back while she cried. End 05/12 Five ~~~~ SUNDAY, AUGUST 31, 1998 9:14 AM Shivering on the front steps of the office trailer, Scully took a scalding sip of bad coffee and told herself she really needed a break from her stupid job. At this point, however, she wasn't sure which job she meant - things were getting a little confusing. When she'd awakened in the bunk-house, some twenty minutes before, she'd taken one look at the chilly steel walls and envisioned herself kidnapped, drugged, and stuffed into a freezer. After a moment of panic, though, her brain had produced a string of blurry images from the previous evening and she'd remembered where she was and why her mouth tasted so horrible. In comparison, cold storage had seemed very appealing. Her last clear memory was of Mandy's red-thonged ass. Then things got fuzzy. Tim had come on to her, and - Wait. *Everyone* had come on to her. And then - And then things got fuzzier. It was scary on a number of levels. So scary she could barely stand to think about it. Scully gave herself a shake, sipped her coffee, tried to turn her attention to the day's agenda. Tonight the show was making a 'circus jump', and she'd been told to be on hand to help as the receipts came in. She had no idea how long she'd be stuck in the office today. She reached for the handle on the storm door, then - Shit. Had she been going around topless, last night? She remembered someone- Oh, April, she thought, with relief. They were taking her clothes off and she was wriggling around like... She opened the storm door. Wait. Not April, someone else. A girl. And Mulder... Mulder? Shit. The door swung open. "Morning, Brenda!" She started, stepped back. "Rob. Hi." "Come in from the cold, sister." Grinning, Peake swung the door wide. "You're just in time." "For what?" He closed the door, locked it. "How you feeling this morning? Better?" There was something taunting in his voice, and when she turned to look at him his smile was unmistakably smug. So, a slow death from embarrassment was also on the agenda today. Cold storage was looking better and better. Scully went into the office, set her cup on a desk. "Mike, no." Pushing the dog's nose away from her crotch, she shrugged out of her jacket. "Mike!" Peake snapped his fingers. Whining, Mike flattened his ears for a moment, then turned and lumbered away. Usually, each day began with a peal of canned laughter and a blast of cigarette smoke, but this morning nothing assailed Scully's senses but the hum of computers and a slight whiff of something that smelled like cinnamon. Potpourri, maybe. Or some exotic perfume. "What's going on?" she asked, sniffing and looking around. "Where's - " "Shhhh." Ear to the wall by her desk, Mandy put a talon-like finger to her lips. "Shelby's giving April hell." Scully listened. The old man's voice was a muffled boom in the back office of the trailer. "Shit, is she eighty-sixed?" Rob raised his arms above his head and stretched. Scully noticed that he was wearing a clean sky-blue shirt, dark slacks, shiny dress shoes. He was freshly shaven and a tie dangled un-tied around his neck. If it hadn't been for the pierced ears and the black tattoos creeping out of his shirt collar, he could have been mistaken for a Young Republican heading for work. "Can't tell," Mandy whispered. Scully noted that Mandy had abandoned her khakis in favor of a flowing, pearl-colored dress. It was more conservative than the one she'd been wearing the night before, but fitted and quite low-cut. "She won't tell him where she was last night." Scully sat down in front of her computer. The old man's jumbo Pepto-Bismol bottle was sitting open on the mouse pad. "So," Peake said softly, checking his watch, "what you want to do? He's- " "Go in and get him." Mandy still had her ear pressed to the wall. Peake rolled his eyes. "Are you kidding? Hell, I walk in that door right now he'll probably blow my head off. You know he's been waiting for an excuse all summer." Mandy scowled. "This sucks. You know I wanted - " "I know - " Peake shrugged "- but it's probably better this way, babe." Scully wondered what the hell they were talking about. "Think Mr. Peake will mind if I put this away?" She reached toward the medicine bottle. "Oh." Mandy rose from her chair and came around the desk, wobbling on four-inch heels. "I'll take that." She gave a little smile and twisted the cap on firmly. "That man would lose his dick if it wasn't glued on." Peake snorted and watched Mandy's ass wiggle its way into the kitchenette. Scully gave him a quick glance. "What's up this morning, Rob?" "Really big, important shit." He grinned. Mandy came back and went to her desk. "Be a sweetie, Brenda," she said, "and watch the store for me for a couple hours, okay?" She plucked a glittery shawl from the back of a chair. Whoa, Scully thought. "You guys are all dressed up. Where you going?" Peake sidled up to Mandy and helped her with the shawl, then wrapped his arms around her and gave a proprietary squeeze. "Today's the day, Brenda. Next time you see us, we'll be man and wife." "What?" Scully stared in disbelief. "I - wow. Well, congratulations, you guys." "Thanks." Mandy's smiled the biggest smile Scully had ever seen on her. "Honey, if a guy named Tom Sealy calls, be very, very nice to him - he's the bag-man from Pueblo. Tell him I'll call him back this afternoon. Whatever you do, don't let Shelby talk to that guy. He'll make promises we can't keep. Okay?" "Okay. And, um, if Mr. Peake gets, well, finished with what he's doing, should I tell him to - " "If he's in a decent mood, send him down to the Bingo joint," Mandy said. "Tell him we got a little surprise for him there." 9:20 AM "HELLO DARLIN', NICE TO SEE YOU. IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME..." For the assignment, they'd issued him a 1979 GMC Sierra with a hole in the floorboard the size of a softball. Thanks, Kersh, Mulder thought. Love you, too. "...YER JUST AS LOVELY AS YEW USED TO BEEEEE..." To avoid carbon monoxide poisoning, Mulder had rolled both windows all the way down, now he rocked back and forth as he drove, trying to keep warm by singing along with the radio. He could barely hear the song over the wind and the roaring of the engine, but he remembered it well from the television commercials of his childhood - according to RONCO, hadn't Conway Twitty sold more records than the Beatles and Elvis combined? "HELLO DARLIN', HOW'S YER NEW LOVE, HOPE YER DOIN' FINE, JUST TO KNOW IT MEANS SOOOOOO MUCH TO ME..." It was all okay, though, the truck, the floorboard, the bad country music. Today, *everything* was A-Ok. "WHAT'S THAT DARLIN', HOW'M I DOIN', I'M DOIN' ALL RIGHT..." He'd had a really good breakfast - corned beef hash, scrambled eggs, decent coffee. Capocelli had been right on time. He'd sat next to Mulder at the counter, jotted a few things on a napkin. When Mulder had requested that Scully be relieved of the assignment ASAP, Cap had nodded thoughtfully at his home fries and said he'd discuss the matter with the SAC. "BLAH BLAH BLAH-BLAH, BLAH-BLAH CRY ALL NIGHT TIL DAWN..." Mulder pulled onto the exit ramp and turned left at the end of the ramp, reaching over to keep the plastic takeout box on the seat next to him from sliding onto the floor. After a couple of minutes the song ended and the DJ chattered about the cold snap and the early frost and the fact that the weather was supposed to warm up - mid-seventies by mid-afternoon. It was going to be a beautiful day. He'd been told they'd be working straight through until sometime tomorrow night, breaking down and loading the rides, driving them to Pueblo, setting them up again. He hoped he could catch Scully before they both started work today. She'd been pretty out of it when he'd helped her to bed early this morning - he was anxious to see if she was feeling all right. Probably not, he figured, but at least there was an end in sight. If things went well, she'd stay in Casper tonight and he'd make the jump without her. Given the nature of their conversation the night before, he had no idea how to approach the subject of her going back to Washington. He knew her too well to think she was going to bow out willingly, and there was something that told him she'd take anything he said the wrong way. It was frustrating, having to maintain a cover at a time like this. He wished he could call a time out, take her someplace nice, buy her a glass of wine, a plate of roasted duck, broiled salmon, fillet of tofu; anything she wanted, as long as it came with sauce and had some grilled vegetables artfully arranged next to it. After dinner, when she was full and happy and looking even more gorgeous than usual, he would take her hand and tell her. Just tell her everything. No holds barred. Today all he had to offer her was a take-out fruit plate in a plastic box. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. The fair didn't open until eleven but the midway had already come to life for the day. Agents were in their stands, packing up prizes in anticipation of the jump to Pueblo; food vendors were filling the air with smells: wood-smoke, charred meat, caramel, coffee. The sun had sucked the frost off the patchy grass and the air was warming up, fast. "Yo! Como se llama, man?" A ride jock was headed his way, extending a hand in greeting. "Call me Duke," Mulder answered, meeting the handshake. "Duke, yeah. Ramon Solera. Everybody call me Solly." "Yeah, we met yesterday." "Frye say just you-me today. I run, you load." "Oh yeah? All day?" Mulder shifted his takeout box from right hand to left, unzipped his jacket. It was getting hot already. "And where the hell is he planning on being?" Solera flashed a gap-toothed smile. "Es Domingo, man. You the boss, sometime you get the day off, too." "Lucky bastard. He always have Sunday off?" Solera nodded. "He - " Closing his eyes, he threw his head back and faked a snore. "All day? Really?" "Like bear in cave. He come to work after we close the spot later." Solera reached up and clapped Mulder on the shoulder. "Hey, mas chicas for you, dude! You look like Richard Gere, you get lotsa pussy!" "Er..." The sun beat down. "We're working all night, though, right? Do we get a break?" Solera laughed. "No break. But I make it easy for you. You come one o'clock, okay?" Mulder nodded. "Sure." Turning, he headed for the bunkhouse. He found Scully's cubicle unlocked and unoccupied. A cracked American Tourister sat open on her cot, looking like it had been attacked by a swarm of crazed customs agents. She'd dressed in a hurry, then forgotten to lock up, he guessed. She'd probably overslept, probably had a hangover, no shower, no breakfast. It was probably a pretty miserable way to start the day. Holding the fruit plate, Mulder stared forlornly at the open suitcase. A pair of white cotton panties dangled from the clasp in its lid. He missed her so much. Before he knew what he was doing, he had slipped into her cubicle. Setting the plastic box on the bed just in case she came back, he started hastily shoving the scattered garments back where they belonged. It was stupid, he knew, to chance a blown cover or an arrest for attempted larceny just to protect a lot of crap that would probably go straight back to Goodwill the minute the assignment was done. Still, for now, at least, these were Scully's things, and if this was the only thing he could do to help, then so be it. He snatched up the underpants and dropped them on top of the pile, trying not to wonder how Scully might look in them or if white cotton would even be her actual preference, were she to find herself unfettered in a Victoria's Secret somewhere. "Shut up. Just shut up." There were voices outside. Mulder shut the suitcase, put it and the folded sleeping bag neatly against the wall. He dashed to his cubicle, sat on the edge of his cot, and listened. "What do you - you can't - come back here! Hey..." Two people, voices raised in anger. One of them sounded familiar. He went to the tiny window of his cubicle and peered outside. A woman was moving down the lane in front of the bunkhouse, backing away from a squat, middle-aged man who was advancing on her with outstretched hands. "Honey, you don't mean that," the man wheedled. "Your mama just wants you to come to church." "Chuck, if I told you once, I told you a million times. I don't set foot in that fucking bingo joint unless I'm playing fucking bingo." Mulder couldn't see Gwen's face, but the jet-black hair and bulging pockets were a dead giveaway. "You little bitch!" The man lost his temper, lunged, grabbed her by both arms. "Where the hell were you last night? You better tell me or I swear I'll take you home and make you wish you *was* at church." "I was at my daddy's. Okay?" Her voice was hoarse, reedy. She tried to pull away. "Ask him, okay?" He gave her a shake. "Now you listen, you. You ain't gonna start sucking up to that drunk again - " "He ain't a drunk. You shut up." "You think we don't know what he's up to? You think we don't know what you're up to, too? You're sixteen years-" "I'm seventeen!" Gwen declared, loudly. "And you ain't my daddy, so you can-" "Will you two fucking stop it?" A voice rang out from one of the nearby motor homes. "We're trying to sleep over here!" Gwen wrenched away from the man and turned in the direction of the voice. "Sorry, Sybil. Tell Billy I'm sorry, too. I know everybody's sick of the same fucking thing *every goddamned Sunday morning*." As she spoke she turned and glared at her stepfather. Chuck stood huffing. "Gwen, I'm tellin' you - " "You better not push me." Shoving one hand in her pocket, Gwen stalked toward the picnic table and perched on its edge, facing Mulder's window. Chuck took a step forward, pointing a finger. "Service starts in five minutes. Now, I told your mama - " "Fuck, I'll jump routes - I got nothin' to lose. Nobody 'round here'll ever see me again." Chuck seemed to freeze solid, then, open mouth, jutting index finger, ugly snarl and all. A moment later, he turned and stomped away. For a moment, Mulder watched to see what Gwen would do next. He thought she might break down and cry, but she just jammed her right hand deeper into her pocket and stared at the ground, her pale body still as marble in the hot sun. He thought he ought to go talk to her, see if she was all right. Maybe she'd open up to him again. By the time he made it through the door of the bunkhouse, though, she'd taken off. He couldn't tell which way she'd gone. Six ~~~~ 10:28 AM Mike stood looking toward the old man's office, ears pricked, tail-stub twitching. The argument had been grinding along for at least twenty minutes without a pause. "You tell me where you were at," Shelby Peake would wheedle. "Fuck you, you don't own me," April would answer. "You better pipe up if you know what's good for you," he'd counter. "Why should I?" she'd snarl. "You tell me," he'd bark. "Tell me right now!" "It's none of your damn business!" she'd sneer. Then they would start the routine all over again, with the old man adding random accusations of ingratitude and freeloading to the mix, and April taking every opportunity to insult the old man's intelligence and virility. The dog huffed, whined, trotted back to his bed. Slipping behind Mandy's desk, Scully opened the top drawer of a filing cabinet. The drawer contained a forbidding row of labeled folders - invoices, service contracts - nothing promising. In the next drawer, though, she found current income tax records for the corporation. With a quick glance at the office door, she pulled the paperwork for the second quarter and tried to digest the neatly typed numbers. She was no accountant, but it looked like the show was well in the black. Hardly surprising, given the amount of money she saw changing hands every night. Even with a high overhead, the profit margin must be pretty big. She'd just shut the file drawer when Mike started whining again and the door of the old man's office burst open. Scully stepped back to her desk and tried to look busy. April was sobbing. The old man would have looked comical - hair standing on end, white face, bright red patch on each cheek - if his expression hadn't been so full of wrath. "Shut up, Mike," he snapped. "Mandy!" He didn't seem to notice that Scully was in the room. "They went out," she ventured. "They told me to tell you - " "They?" "Mandy and Rob, they went to - " "Goddammit!" He stalked toward her. "You - what's your name again?" "Brenda." "Linda?" "BRENDA." He scowled, rubbed his forehead. "Well listen, I gotta go." He crammed his hand into his pocket. Producing a set of keys, he dangled them in her direction. She wasn't sure what he wanted. "I'm sorry, Mr. Peake, I don't - " He thrust the keys toward her. "Take 'em, go on." Scully realized that the thin leather gloves the old man usually wore were missing. There was an odd, pinkish appendage sticking out by his right thumb, just above the dangling key ring. Resisting the urge to lean closer and peer, she took the keys. The old man stepped back into the hallway. "Let's go, woman!" He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Now!" "No!" "The hell you say!" Peake punched the flimsy wall for emphasis. This seemed to throw him off balance - he reeled for a moment, looking green. "Get out here!" There was a shuffling sound as April came down the hall. Scully tried again to deliver the message about the wedding. "Mr. Peake, Mandy said - " He ignored her. "Hurry up!" April appeared. "Pack your bag and be ready to go in five minutes!" Tearstained, she pushed past him and headed for the office door. When April had gone, the elder Peake stood for a moment, breathing so heavily Scully was afraid he was having some kind of attack. "Get me my Pepto, little girl," he choked. "That bitch has got my ulcer burning something fierce." Shaking her head, Scully went into the kitchenette and rummaged through cabinets stuffed with ticket rolls, paper towels, plastic cups, spray cleaner, ant traps, rat baits, stacks of flyers, office supplies: everything, it seemed, except the medicine. After a minute or two, she found the Pepto Bismol bottle shoved behind a jug of wine in the refrigerator. The old man snatched it without a word of thanks and turned to go. Scully cleared her throat. "Um, Mr. Peake - " His head snapped toward her. "What?" His expression was nothing short of psychotic. Scully took a step back and showed him the key ring. "What should I do with these?" "Oh." He fell silent. "Sir? Are you all right?" He shook his head slowly, as if trying to clear a fog. "You're a good little girl, ain't you. Yeah, yeah. You are. Listen, drive the Country Coach to Pueblo for me. Dog food's under the kitchen sink." He walked unsteadily toward the door, smoothing his hair and adjusting his rumpled clothing as he went. "Me, I'm going to Vegas. Gotta take this chippy back and get me a new one." The dog sprang to his heels. He reached down and patted its massive head. "No, Mike. Daddy's gotta go. You stay with Wendy, there." Then he left the office, slamming the door behind him. "What the hell?" Scully muttered. She took a deep breath. There was something very worrying about the old man's behavior - making mountains out of molehills, threatening an off-the-cuff trip across state lines. It was possible, she supposed, that he might be in the first stages of Alzheimer's, or some other form of senile dementia - he certainly seemed confused and forgetful enough. Maybe this kind of thing happened all the time - surely someone would stop him before he left the fairgrounds. At any rate, she'd better call it in, along with the news about Rob's wedding, just to be safe. She looked down at the ring of keys in her hand. Before she called Capocelli, she'd have a quick look in the old man's office. The room was no different from the rest of the trailer - faded paneling, shabby carpet, office furniture that looked like it had been salvaged from a third-world government. Besides the desk and chair, there were a filing cabinet and a credenza with half the veneer peeled away. Two rifles were racked on the wall behind the desk, and the wall opposite was covered top to bottom with photographs and newspaper clippings in various states of decay. She quickly checked the credenza and each of the desk drawers, saw nothing that made her immediately suspicious. The first drawer of the file cabinet was a musty, dog-eared catastrophe. She was just starting to close it when she spied the name 'Robert,' written in blue ink on a thick folder that looked newer than the ones around it. Pulling the file free, she laid it out on top of the drawer. There were all sorts of things inside it: birth certificate, immunization records, letters from social workers and school counselors. At the top of the stack were five or six notices on US government letterhead, none of which had been in the 'official' files that had come from the FBI. Someone had obviously pulled a lot of strings - and probably paid a lot of money - to have these excised from the official record. "Wow," she muttered, flipping through them. "Oh, wow." Finally, a real lead. She looked around for a notepad or a scrap of paper, anything so she could jot down some of the names on the letters in the file. She would call and report this ASAP; hopefully they'd have the full details before the show left town. Carrying one of the letters to the old man's desk, she grabbed a yellow legal pad and a pencil and started making some notes. Within moments, though, she paused, staring at what she had written with a puzzled frown. The pencil was dull. Her letters were pale gray and fuzzy, and they revealed some heavy indentations on the page. It looked like someone had been drawing something on the previous page, a page that was now torn away. So she turned the pencil. Swept the side of the lead over the page, one pass, then two, then more. Mouth dropping, she stared. A wheel. Eight spokes. Three petals. 11:05 AM Mulder leaned against the trailer that served as PA's company store. Feigning boredom, he squinted in the sunlight, sipped the dregs of his Pepsi. A woman was leaving the store with a quart of milk, and he gave her a friendly nod. He'd taken a spin through the inside of the place, noted with interest that orange juice was for sale in the same brand, same 16-ounce bottle the bomber favored. There was only one brand of nine-volt battery available. That was the bomber's favorite brand, too. Mulder checked his watch. 11:05 - exactly five minutes later than the last time he'd checked. He shifted his weight off the leg that was going to sleep and on to the one that was only slightly stiff. Tim Frye's tiny camper was about sixty feet away, and he'd found if he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned just so, it was possible to keep an inconspicuous eye on its side door while still paying attention to the women who kept trying to chat with him. Thus far, the camper door had seen no action. Gwen hadn't made an appearance, and Frye was either asleep, as Solera had predicted, or he wasn't home. Then Mulder straightened. "What the - ?" Scully was walking by, head down. For a moment, Mulder thought she might be headed to Frye's place, but she passed by it without giving it a second glance. Mulder checked the area for obvious spectators. Seeing no one, he tossed his Pepsi can in the trash and ran to catch up with her. "Yo, Brenda," he called, coming up behind her. "How's it going?" She stopped and turned toward him, eyes darting from side to side. "Oh, hi. Duke, wasn't it?" "That's what they call me." He moved in close and gave the gravel a little kick. "I don't think anyone's watching," he murmured. "Where are you going?" "Come on." She turned her back abruptly and started walking again. Mulder threw his arms out and shrugged, hoping to give the appearance of a man who'd been rudely rebuffed and wondering if, in fact, that was actually what had just happened. When Scully had gotten a comfortable distance away, he took a deep breath and followed her. "Hey, Brenda, come on. . ." After a minute, she turned down a lane and disappeared from view. Mulder increased his pace, turned where she had turned, and found himself skirting the edge of the trailer park, where motor homes and campers hugged the fence at odd intervals. "Hey, Brenda." For a moment, he couldn't figure out where Scully had gone, but then he saw her, standing with her back to him on the steps of the most far-flung travel trailer of all. As he hurried to join her, she produced a ring of keys, tried one in the lock, then another. After a moment she managed to unlock the door and disappeared inside. Mulder turned as he walked, checking, once more, for possible onlookers. His line of sight was clear in all directions. The curtains at the nearest trailers were still - no one appeared to be watching. As he approached the door of the trailer, Scully reappeared and waved him in. "Hurry," she said, in a low voice. "We shouldn't stay more than a couple of minutes." The door shut behind him. Mulder noted, with a twinge of anxiety, that she was incredibly pale. "Scully, what the hell are we doing?" "You'll never guess what I found. Rob Peake, the maintenance supervisor? He's isn't Shelby Peake's nephew. He's his *son*." Mulder frowned. "That wasn't in the file." "No it wasn't. A lot of stuff wasn't." She held out a key ring. "This is Rob Peake's place. Guess what? He's getting married this morning, to Mandy Zin, the operations manager." She shoved the ring in her left-hand pocket, then pulled a pair of latex gloves from the other and offered a glove to Mulder. "Really?" He snapped the glove on. "Really. Also, I'm pretty sure Peake Senior is losing his mind. Senile dementia, maybe. And you know how he's always wearing gloves? I found out why. Polydactyly." She opened a kitchen cabinet, glanced through it. "He's got six fingers on his right hand." Mulder grinned. "So the circus owner is also a circus freak?" "So it would appear. Rob has a scar in the same spot. I saw it last night. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but I bet he had an extra finger, too, and it was removed." She paused for a breath, opened another cabinet. "Look for four-penny nails, Mulder." "Right." He opened a drawer, poked through its contents. "What makes you think the old man is losing his mind?" "I don't know what he was like before, but since I've been here he's been getting more disoriented every day. This morning he had a very loud fight with his girlfriend - said he was taking her to Las Vegas, threatened to trade her in like a used car." Mulder opened another drawer. "Interesting." "He tossed me his keys, ordered me to drive his motor home to Pueblo, and told me to take care of his dog." She turned, went up a couple of steps and into a bedroom. Mulder followed. "You mean, that big-ass dog?" "Yup. Someone in Washington owes me a big- ass bonus." She opened a drawer and started rummaging through it. "I called it in, along with some other things I just found out." An unmade bed occupied most of the center of the room. Mulder glanced down at the twisted bedclothes, trying not to notice the pungent aroma of sex rising from them. Suddenly nervous, he picked up a pillow. "What else did you find?" Scully closed the drawer, opened another one. "The message, Mulder, the Ferris wheel shape the bomber leaves at the scene. I made a rubbing on a legal pad I found in the office and there it was. I had my hands all over it, unfortunately, but they might be able to get some prints." Mulder flashed on Gwen's tattoo. "Gwen." "Who?" "The girl I met last night - she has a tattoo in that shape." "Gwen Frye?" Scully frowned, then continued, seeming to address the inside of the drawer she was rifling. "In the old man's files I found letters from Military Police in Seoul." "Saying?" "Rob went AWOL while on leave in Hong Kong." "Right. That was in the file." "Well, nearly a year after he disappeared, he was arrested in a remote village near the Tibetan border. In a monastery." "Whoa." "Yeah. Apparently some local official had to go to the monastery on business and was concerned when he spotted an 'unregistered western monk'. The officer who wrote Rob's father suspected some kind of brainwashing; said Rob chanted mantras every time they tried to question him. You said you thought the symbol on the note was Buddhist, right? There may be a connection here." Mulder threw the pillow back and stepped away from the bed. For some reason, his palms were starting to sweat. "Probably." She slammed the drawer and, kicking off her sneakers, climbed onto the bed, headed for a row of cupboards set into the wall above it. "I know I said I didn't think the old man could be involved, but the legal pad I found was sitting on his desk. The two of them could be working together. I wonder if there's anyone else in on it." "Like Gwen, for instance?" He scanned a bookshelf on his side of the room. Maybe he'd get lucky and find Peake's secret copy of 'The Anarchist's Cookbook.' "Oh my god." Mulder turned. "Scully?" "Look." Inside one of the cupboards, a shelf had been made into a shrine. Sitting in the midst of candles, dried flowers, and other religious bric-a-brac was a grinning human skull. Hammered metal had been affixed to the rounded bone, the gleaming surfaces ornately carved. Red stones filled the empty eye- sockets, staring like they were made of flesh, not stone. It looked very, very old. "Wow." Mulder skirted the end of the bed and stood on tiptoe, trying to see. "Looks authentic, too." Scully took a step back. "What is it?" "It's a kapala." "A what?" "A tantric skull." "A tantric what?" Scully shut the cupboard and sat down on the bed, pulling on her shoes. "Tibetan tantrics use human bone for all kinds of ritual items. That would be used as a ceremonial vessel, or sometimes as a medium for prophecy." "Prophecy?" Scully tied her laces. "I thought tantra was all about delaying orgasm as a way of achieving enlightenment." Orgasm. Right. Mulder took a deep breath. "That's a western misconception, Scully." Suddenly all the depth had gone out of his voice. "In, um, esoteric Buddhism, tantrism is more than just a sexual form of meditation." "Uh-huh." Scully folded her arms and stared at him from the rumpled bed, lips parted, face unreadable. God, she looked gorgeous. A bead of sweat rolled down his back. "It's really about opening the kundalini chakra. Some texts recommend sexual rituals, but not all of them." Scully suddenly became very interested in a bump on one of her gloves. "Fascinating." Then her eyes went wide. A key was rattling in the door. "Shit!" Mulder's heart went into his throat. They'd let down their guard, forgotten themselves. What the hell had they been thinking? He slid the closet door to one side. "Scully, here." Stumbling over a pair of boots, he crammed himself into the narrow space and pulled her in after him. She slid the door closed, falling against him just as the outer door burst open. "God, that was such a kick." It was a woman's voice. Mandy Zin, Mulder assumed. They came into the bedroom. Peake was laughing. "Shit, did you see their faces?" "'Shocked' doesn't really cover it, does it?" There was the sound of heavy breathing; slurping noises; the dull thump of bodies bumping into some piece of furniture. Mulder pulled Scully close; she looped her arms around him. She was trembling. "Fuck me, baby." Mulder felt himself jerk, but Christ, it was Mandy who'd said it. Where the hell was his head? "We're already late for work - " Peake was practically growling in anticipation. There were thumps as someone kicked off their shoes, one by one. "Fuck work," Mandy said. "After what we just did? I'll be creaming my panties all day." There was a low thud, as if someone had just dropped to his or her knees. "Come here, baby," Peake murmured. "Let me taste that." Oh god, the guy wasn't about to... There was a long silence. "Do that again, yeah, mmmmmmmmm..." Okay, yes, he was. He really was. Mulder felt Scully's heart beat faster. Mandy let out a series of sounds, first a choke, then a gasp, then what sounded like a laugh, followed by a sigh. There were guttural moans, feral sucking noises. Scully's breath started coming in little silent hiccups. Mulder tightened his arms around her. God, it was hot. Scully was hot, so hot, and so close to him. "Baby, now," Mandy grunted. There was a burst of noise, some kind of violent snuffling sound, and what the hell, Mulder thought, are they trying to inhale each other? Stop, he told his body, but it didn't do any good. "The socks, mister." Mandy's voice was commanding. "Not sexy." "Yes, ma'am." After that, time seemed to stand still. The profound silence outside the closet door made even the most shallow breath seem deafening. Mulder tried to breathe with Scully, thinking if he matched his inhalations to hers, it wouldn't be so noisy... In, out. In, out. "Goddess," Peake murmured. Scully stirred. Christ, had she moaned? You're nuts, Mulder told himself. The tension is making you hallucinate. He knew he should come up with a plan, decide what he would do if they were discovered, but all he could think about was the hot flesh in his arms: Scully's flesh, her breath, her trembling. In, out. In, out. Scully's face was hidden against his chest, her body rigid as molded plastic. She had to know what was happening to him. There was no way to hide it. Peake began whispering, chanting words in a foreign language. The bed started to creak, just a little, at first, then harder as the lovers moaned in rhythm. English epithets began creeping into the chant. With each squeak Scully's body grew ever more rigid, and little by little she began to pull away from Mulder. The motion was subtle but deliberate. Mulder grimaced, suppressing a moan of mortification. Peake cried out - "Oh baby...yeah, yeah..." - then Mandy's voice went up like a rocket, squealing more noisily than any porn queen. This went on for several minutes, then everything got quiet again. After a long moment filled with lots of slurping, Peake spoke. "That was incredible." "Mmmmmmm," Mandy answered. "Yeah." "Damn, girl, I could do you all day." She laughed. "I know you could, stud. When the jump's over I'm gonna lock you in here and fuck you 'til you drop." "Flat store, baby. Bet you twenty you go down first." Someone got out of bed. Mulder shut his eyes and prayed they didn't need anything from the closet and would hurry up and go the hell back to work. He was afraid he and Scully were going to suffocate. A drawer opened and closed. "You seen my brush? Damn, it was here this morning." Go, Mulder thought. Just go, please, go... She answered from somewhere on the other side of the room. "Oh. On the floor over there." "Okay - that's weird. I left it right here." "Stoner Bob," she teased. He laughed. "No shit. Think Sealy called?" "Who knows. I mean, I had my cell off during the service, but hopefully our girl Brenda passed the message along." Peake laughed. "Our girl Brenda." "She's cute, isn't she?" "She's green." "Green is sexy." Someone sat on the bed. "You got a thing for suckers now?" "Don't be mean. She's a natural, not a sucker." Mandy laughed again. "But Timothy Frye is *not* her type." Peake snorted. "And you are?" "Shit. That girl is begging for it. Trust me." They seemed to be heading for the door. "Okay," Peake said, "I'll give you that. She definitely needs to get laid." There was a pause, more heavy breathing. "I know," Mandy murmured. "Why don't *you* bag her?" "Huh?" "She was giving you the eye last night. Go ahead. You'll share, right?" "Don't I always?" The door closed behind them. "Dammit!" Scully let go, shoved the closet door to one side, practically fell out. She circled the bed, heading for the window. "What the hell was she - ?" Mulder was still trying to catch his breath. "I mean - " He wondered if he would ever be able to bring himself to come out of this closet. "I don't want to talk about it." Scully didn't sound like herself at all. "They're turning the corner. It's safe. Let's get out of here." Safe. What a laugh. Jesus Christ, he just wanted to die. Scully gripped the windowsill. What the hell had just happened? The 'wood' under her fingertips was, of course, plastic. She gripped harder, imagined herself steaming, liquefying, taking the sill with her. "We can't be seen leaving together," she managed to say. Mulder's answer was muffled. She turned. He was still in the closet. "Mulder?" "What?" "We should go." "Yeah." She waited. He finally stepped out, quickly turning his back on her and pushing the closet door closed. After a long moment he faced her again, and then she understood, or, rather, *saw* just why he'd been so reluctant to come out into the open. She quickly turned away, looking back out the window. "You'll need to lock up," Mulder rasped. "I'll leave first." "Okay," she tried to say, but the word came out as a kind of squeak. Neither of them moved. Scully realized that her extremities were...well, 'tingling all over' wasn't just some meaningless cliche, was it? It was a struggle, but she turned, forced herself to meet his gaze. "We better get out of here." He pushed past her and went into the kitchen. She followed. "Mulder, I - " Cracking the door, he gave the area outside it a quick check. "Give me a couple of minutes to get out of sight before you leave," he said, gruffly. "But Mulder, what about - " "I'll find you later." Without waiting for her to answer, he hurried down the steps and out of her view. "Mulder!" She hissed his name, but he either didn't hear her or was pretending he couldn't. Within seconds he'd dashed around a corner and out of her sight. Sighing, Scully stepped out into the bright sunshine and turned to lock the door. She could hear music and voices drifting up from the midway, the tinny sound of one of her fellow weight-guessers haranguing a mark. She wasn't sure why, but that sound gave her an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. Just your average garden-variety dread, she supposed. She really didn't want to do this anymore. Turning, she looked around her. No one in sight. She started walking. After a few moments, though, she slowed. She thought she'd heard a light jingle behind her, and the sound of footsteps crunching along on the gravel. She stopped, glanced back, saw no one. Within a few moments of resuming her pace she heard the footsteps again. Not wanting to seem overly paranoid, she did not turn again. Instead she walked a little faster, turned down a lane near the company store. The jingle got louder, kept pace. Someone had seen her leave Peake's trailer. Damn it. Turning right, she broke into a kind of half-jog, heading toward the office on a narrow path that ran between some of the campers. As she walked, she pulled the old man's key ring from her pocket, let it fall, stopped short, turned abruptly around. At the head of the path was a teenage girl in baggy jeans and a tool belt. Caught, she took two steps back and fled, but not before Scully noted wild black hair, black-rimmed eyes, pale, skinny arms. Gwen Frye. The knot of dread in her stomach began to blossom. Scully plucked the keys from the gravel and hurried back to work. End 07/12 Seven ~~~~ 12:09 PM Mulder stepped around a gang of children, pushed his way past a cowboy carrying a giant hot-pink monkey. Three laps around the midway and his blood pressure was still in the red zone. You're a fucking degenerate, he told himself. He passed the Haunted House, Mouse Trap, Himalayan; dodged a pond full of plastic guppies; skirted the end of the line for the Super Slide. Turned left at the Scrambler. Started the circuit again. What the hell had he been thinking back there? They'd been in a dangerous situation and he'd responded by getting a boner. It was bad form. Very, very bad form. A spinning claw swung over his head, trailing dangling legs like a fistful of seaweed. Mulder stared up at the riders. They didn't look like they were having much fun. Next to the Gravitron there was a dunk tank, complete with trap door and foul-tempered clown. Maybe, Mulder thought, hurling things would help. "Balls." He slapped a five-spot on the counter. The barker was a bony little guy with enormous mutton-chop sideburns. "Sorry, man. Technical difficulties." The clown was clinging to the edge of his cage, shouting and waving his arm at someone just past Mulder. "Where the fuck you been, girl?" Mulder glanced over his shoulder. Gwen. "Don't get your panties in a knot." She climbed over the counter, trudged down the bullpen. Mulder left his five where it was. "I was taking a swim all last night," the clown complained. He was an enormous man, at least 6'4", 250, Mulder guessed. For all his size, he really was a comical figure, gobs of red, white, and blue makeup smeared haphazardly over a three-day growth of beard. "Fix it so it *stays* fixed this time." Gwen squatted under the target, staring absently at some mechanism or other. "If you weren't such a lard- ass it *woulda* stayed fixed." "Oh yeah? Well I - " "We're still waiting for that part." Rising, she turned to go. The barker laughed. "Take your time, honey. Lard- ass ain't had this many baths all season." Gwen climbed back over the counter. "Watch your mouth, Blinky." The clown latched his fingers in the chain link around his cage and gave it a menacing rattle. "Gwen, when you coming back? Gwen!" Gwen didn't answer. She didn't seem to be in the mood to laugh. Eyes down, she shoved her right hand in her pocket and muttered, "Be right back," to the barker, then turned, stared at Mulder for a moment, and started away. "Hey, Gwen." Mulder pocketed his fiver and followed, pulling up beside her. She didn't look at him. "Hey, Duke." Her eyes were bloodshot. Her face was streaked as if she'd been scrubbing it with a shop rag. "You okay?" Mulder dodged a couple of patrons, trying to stay by her side. "Who wants to know?" "Hey, look, we drank a lot last night, and I just thought - " "Gotta get some wire," she muttered. Mulder walked a little faster, trying to head her off. "What do you need the wire for?" She ignored him, kept walking. "Want something to eat?" She stopped. "Huh?" "It's on me," he said. Gwen lifted the brim of her ball cap, pushed a tangled strand of hair off her face. Her expression was guarded, mistrustful, maybe. After a moment, though, she shrugged, nodded. Mulder steered her toward the concession area. "You ever been married, Duke?" she asked him, half a bottle of orange juice later. Mulder stretched and looked at his watch. He still had half an hour until he had to report for work. "Nope." "It's a flat store." "It's a what?" "Flat store. No way to win." She pushed her untouched sausage biscuit to one side. "You ever seen Tarzan?" He frowned, not sure what the Lord of the Apes had to do with anything. "Uh-huh." "You know those traps they make - they dig a hole and cover it up." Eyes brightening with some as-yet- unspecified emotion, she waved her grease-stained hands in the air, miming digging and covering. "And it looks just like normal jungle, but the minute you walk over it, you're cannibal hash." For a moment, Mulder stared. Gwen had a terrible scar on one side of her right hand. He'd never noticed it before. She glared at him. "Something wrong?" He shrugged, looked down. "Nope." Turning abruptly, she swung her legs over the picnic bench and planted her boots in the gravel. "Gotta fix the drop joint, Duke. You can come with me if you need something to do." Mulder rose. "Okay." "'Fix it so it stays fixed.' Frickin' moron. What, does he think I carry a spare spring trigger in my ass or something?" Gwen threw open the back of a rusty panel truck parked in a sloping lot just past the midway fence. The interior was dark. She hefted herself up and climbed inside. Mulder followed. "I mean, shit." Pausing to yawn, she flipped the switch on what he assumed was a battery-operated light. "Not only does nobody even have a part for some of this stuff, when we *do* find one they take for-fucking-ever to get to us." "Why's that?" The interior of the truck reeked of motor oil. Everywhere Mulder looked there were heaps of half-spent tires, boxes of greasy parts, canisters of lubricant and hydraulic fluid. Fan belts and lengths of chain hung on hooks, trimming the walls like industrial lace. "Cuz we keep moving around. Parts get sent some place and we're already long gone. They have to chase us down." Gwen started digging in a box. "So we get good at just making it up. Like, Rob," - here she straightened, frowned at him again - "you know him, right?" Mulder shrugged. "Kinda." "He's a freakin' wizard. He can fix anything." Gwen turned back to the box and stuck her hands inside it. Instead of continuing to rummage, though, she stood still, staring down as if transfixed by junk. Mulder kicked at some coiled rope on the floor. "Gwen?" Seeming to recover, she dug for a second, then dragged a length of heavy wire out of the box. Switching it quickly from right hand to left, she held it out to him. "That look rusty to you?" "Maybe a little." "Good enough for the bozo, then." "Gwen! You in there?" A tool belt clattered onto the dusty floor near the entrance. Gwen turned with a poker-faced stare, watched her father climb into the truck. "All rested up?" she asked, her voice sharper than Mulder had ever heard it. Tim Frye got to his feet. "Um, I had to - " His eyes locked onto hers. "Well, shit. I see you heard." She stiffened. "Yeah." "Honey, I didn't know until this mor - " Noticing Mulder, he stopped short, reached down and picked up his tool belt. "Duke," he said, with a slight nod. Mulder flashed on Scully, looking small next to Frye in the weight-guess joint. It wouldn't have been hard for Frye to overpower her, if she'd had too much to drink and he'd caught her off-guard. The thought, inappropriate as it was, made Mulder's blood pressure climb several notches. "Morning, Tim." "What you doing in here? You ain't authorized." "I was-" "He's just giving me a hand, Daddy." "Is he, now?" Gwen shot Mulder a glance, then a sneer. "You don't have to worry about him. He's harmless." "He better be." Mulder lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Absolutely, Boss." Gwen scowled down into the box. "Anyway, Gwenny, I'm real sorry. I - " She spun and went to another box. "Yeah, whatever." Frye looked lost for a moment, then shrugged. He turned toward Mulder. "You supposed to be working?" "Um, what's his name - Solly? He said to come in at one." For a moment, Frye's stare did not waver. Then he turned abruptly and slung his tools onto the narrow workbench that lined one side of the truck. "It's almost one now." The clatter of the tools drew Mulder's attention to the workbench long enough for him to notice that there was a square red carton sitting there, not far from where the tools had landed. Mulder was no carpenter, but he'd been in Home Depot enough times since getting sent to domestic terrorism to recognize a box of nails when he saw it. Trying not to stare, he took a step toward the bench. "Right, Boss," he said, moving past the bench, toward the back of the truck. Frye stepped back to let him pass. Then he pretended to stumble, knocked the carton over with his elbow. Small nails spilled onto the work surface; a few fell to the floor. "Oh shit, sorry..." He bent, scooped them up. "Just leave it," Frye said. "Yeah, okay." Mulder righted the carton, dropped most of the nails in his hand back inside. "See you around, Gwen." "Take it easy, Duke." When he was on the ground and out of sight of the entrance, he shoved the nails into his pocket and lurked for a moment, listening. "What's the wire for?" "Trying to rig the drop joint." "Same fix as last week? The one I showed you?" "Yeah, it didn't hold. Bozo's too fat." "You want me to come on up there?" "It's okay. I got it covered." There was a silence. "I wish you'd let me help you, baby." "I don't need no help." After a few seconds, Frye spoke again. "Girl, I know it's hard to see on a day like today, but Christ, listen. One day you're gonna understand why I made you get away from him." "Oh, I understand, all right." "Honey - " "Shut up. I ain't six." "I never said you were. Look, just between you and me, I'm not too happy about what happened this morning, either." Gwen's voice softened. "Yeah, I bet I know why. I thought you and Mandy were - " Tim snorted. "Oh, hell no. That ain't it. That ain't it *at all.*" "Whatever. Look, I gotta go." Frye sounded resigned. "Yeah. Okay." 6:31 PM Mike wandered into the back office, circled the desk, made his way back out again. Scully heard him whine, scratch the outer door. "Just a minute, boy," she said. Outside, the tear-down was in full swing. Mandy had gone to the fairground office a few minutes before, saying she'd be back in half an hour. Scully hadn't seen Peake for hours. She studied the jumble of clippings and photos on the old man's office wall. One newspaper article was much like another - the same human interest story about carnies over and over - and she wondered why the old man still bothered tacking them up. The photos were more interesting, though, some clearly as old as the show itself. Rob Peake's picture was all over the place: in his military uniform, as a shirtless teenage ride jock, even, she was fairly certain, as a toddler, shown several times posing in the arms of a leggy young blonde who never seemed to be more than half-dressed. She recognized other faces in the collection - Tim Frye; Richard, the old man who ran the carousel; Dale, the manager of the company cook joint. An immensely fat man with full lips and bushy eyebrows appeared in many of the older pictures - he was always shown wearing a squashed white fedora and sometimes had a wiry, hawk-nosed woman on his arm. She was the Laurel to his Hardy, and Scully thought she looked familiar, but wasn't sure why. Then she saw the fedora-topped face at the head of a newspaper article and realized she was looking at the man's obituary: 'James Dalton Smith, aged 63. Mr. Smith was co-owner and general manager of Peake and Smith Amusements, a local carnival company. He is survived by his wife, Rachel Kaufman Smith, his daughter and one grandchild.' So there had been a partner, at one time. Interesting, but not particularly helpful. And odd that that hadn't been in any of the background information. She was beginning to wonder about how much was *not* in the official files, and why. Sighing, Scully turned toward the nightmare of a filing cabinet and stared at it. The idea of the Peakes causing trouble so close to home just didn't make sense. Not when the show was clearly making a substantial profit. What did either of them stand to gain? She opened the top drawer. She just needed something, *anything* to establish a motive, however tenuous. Then search warrants could be obtained; suspects brought in for questioning, and, most importantly, she and Mulder could go home. Mulder. Her stomach knotted. How many lame jokes would he tell in the airport this time? What kind of stupid 'apology' would come popping out of his mouth next? Mike whined at the door, toenails excitedly clicking the linoleum. The outer door rattled. Scully shut the drawer, made a hasty exit from the office, hoping no one would notice she'd left it unlocked. Dropping into her chair, she picked up the payroll spreadsheet Mandy had given her. A key turned in the lock. "Hey, Mikey," she heard Peake say. Scully stared at her monitor and took a calming breath. "How's it going out there?" "Hot as hell. Mandy here?" Peake was filthy, his work-shirt and jeans caked with dust. She smelled axle grease, sweat, caught a faint whiff of marijuana smoke. "Um - " She tapped some keys, gave the spreadsheet a studied frown. "She went to the main office." Peake frowned. "I was just up there. Must've missed her. She say what's up?" Scully turned to answer, but his gaze was so penetrating that for a moment she forgot what she was going to say. "Um - " Memory filling with all she'd heard in his bedroom earlier, she tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to maintain a light-hearted tone. "She said she had to settle a beef." "Oh. Okay." Still watching her, he gave a glassy-eyed smile. He headed toward the kitchen. "You want something to drink?" "I'm all right." She heard the refrigerator open. "You weren't here when we got back this afternoon. Everything okay?" Scully grabbed the first lie that popped into her head. "I was out looking for Mr. Peake. I got worried about him." Peake laughed. "Oh, that. Vegas. I heard." "You think it's funny? Mandy freaked when I told her. At first I didn't think he was serious about going, then - " "Shit, he's *always* serious about Vegas." "It's just - he seemed confused. When he said he was going today I thought he must be kidding. I mean, in the middle of a jump - " "No big." He came back into the office, a bottle of Budweiser in each hand. "It's not like he has any real responsibilities - Mandy's the one who runs the show." She watched him drain the first beer in four gulps. "It doesn't bother you that he didn't make it to your wedding?" "Nope." Opening the second bottle, he settled near her, leaning against the edge of the desk with his legs thrust out. "Pops thinks marriage is for suckers. The whole idea makes him mad. Mandy wouldn't hear about anything else but him being there, but shit, it would've been so fucking funny. Me standing up saying all the vows and him three feet away cussing me out." Scully shifted in her chair, set her spreadsheet down. She'd never had a chance to talk to Peake alone and she intended to make the most of it. "I couldn't believe it when you guys told me what you were doing this morning. I mean, from what you said last night - isn't marriage just another one of those bullshit things you were talking about?" He regarded her evenly, took a long drink of beer. "Well, having to go get a piece of paper that says you're married, the part that's just about your money and your stuff - yeah, that part's bullshit. It's another way for the man to control you, make stew off you. But the part about standing up in front of your friends and saying 'I do' - I think that's worth doing. I mean, most people are too selfish to *really* do it, if you know what I mean. To be married not just on paper, but here," - he tapped his forehead, " - and here." He tapped his chest. "And you and Mandy are different?" "Yeah. I mean, we aren't scared, the way most people are. Shit - that's my old man's problem, if you ask me. Takes guts to really be with somebody. That's why he sticks to the working girls. They're just in it for the take. He can relate to that." "What about your mother?" Peake laughed. "My *who*?" Shaking his head, he pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket, stuck it behind his ear. "You mean - ?" "Pops says Smitty picked her up in Reno. I don't really remember her." "So your dad raised you by himself?" "More or less." He sipped his beer. "I mean, you know him. I always had a really hot babysitter." Scully checked Peake's face for signs that he was kidding, found none. "Who's Smitty?" "You never heard about Smitty?" "No." "Oh damn, those are some good stories. Smitty was my dad's partner, back in the day. He went out horizontal - guess only the old-timers remember him." She smiled at him. "You're an old-timer?" "Hell yeah." He raised his arms above his head, stretched like a tomcat. His shirt, which was unbuttoned, swung open. "Oh - " Scully stared, caught off-guard. There was a crude but familiar design tattooed in black across Peake's sternum. She quickly dropped her gaze, hoping he hadn't noticed her looking. But he had. "Cool ink, huh?" Swallowing, she looked back up at him, gave what she hoped was a flirtatious smile. "Um, yeah. What is that, a Ferris wheel?" He chuckled. "No. I got it when I was in China. Where I was staying, you get a tattoo to mark all the big events in your life." Sweeping his shirt aside, he tapped his chest with his index finger. "It's called 'dharmachakra.' Go ahead - take a look, if you want." Having been invited, Scully leaned closer, peered at the design. It was virtually identical to the symbol left behind at the crime scenes. Her heart began to race. She swallowed hard. "That's interesting. What does it mean?" Suddenly his expression was dead serious. "Lots of things," he said. "I got it so I'd remember. Like when they ring the bell in the temple. Brings you back to reality." His eyes were glowing. She'd never seen him so sincere about anything. Before she knew what she was doing, she'd put her hand on his knee. "I'd love to hear more about it." It was a bold move, she knew, and its effect was instantaneous. Peake gave her an intent look, reached out and, very deliberately, drew a small circle just above the bridge of her nose. "You shoulda stayed last night, Brenda." An unwelcome shiver shot down Scully's spine. Mike barked, scratching the door. "I gotta take him out," she murmured. Peake looked over at the dog. "When you gotta go," he said softly, "you gotta go. Right, Mike?" Mike trotted along on his leash. Peake walked beside her, drinking another beer out of a plastic cup. Evening was coming on, filled with crashes and shouts. Scully had been completely disoriented when they'd stepped outside the office - in the space of a few hours, everything she'd grown used to seeing had been disassembled. The Ferris Wheel still stood, though, on the far side of the midway. They headed toward it. "Hey, Rob!" A ride jock passed by, socked Peake in the shoulder. "I just heard the news, you son-of-a- bitch. 'Bout shit a brick. What the hell?" Peake laughed. "Just keeping you on your toes, Purty. Having fun. No big deal." The guy kept walking. "You got a pretty fucked up idea of fun, boy." Mike surged ahead. Scully struggled to keep her balance. "I always wanted to travel," she said, hoping he'd open up some more about the monastery. "Tell me about China. How'd you end up there?" "I was on leave in Hong Kong when I met this girl, see." He grinned, drained the beer, tossed the cup in a trash can. The dog paused at a light pole, lifted his leg. They waited. Peake's arm brushed against hers. "A girl, huh?" She leaned against him, just a little, looked up. "That girl have anything to do with you going to the stockade?" "Sort of," he said. Turning his back on the hubbub around them, he took a step closer, changed the subject. "So, Brenda - how long you been a carny now? A month?" "That sounds about right." His voice dropped a little lower. "Havin' fun yet?" "Uh-huh." "I heard the old man told you to drive his tank to Pueblo." She smiled. "Wow, word travels fast around here." "So it's true?" He shook his head. "Jesus. Well, welcome to the family, I guess." "What do you mean?" He drew his index finger across her forehead, brushed aside a lock of hair. "Nevermind. Listen, Mandy's gotta tow her place, I've gotta tow mine. How about we caravan and all stop for a drink somewhere?" Before she could answer, Mike jerked the leash and pulled her toward a cluster of Whack-a-Mole units waiting to be loaded on a panel truck. Someone moved into her line of vision, standing hands-in-pockets in the middle of a sea of purple mole heads. Gwen again. For a moment their eyes met, and the girl scowled, leaving Scully with a most unsettling feeling. "Rob!" Tim Frye was coming toward them. He was red-faced. A streak of black grease crossed his chest like a sash. "Looks like we're on schedule," he told Peake, lifting his ball cap and dragging a sweaty forearm across his brow. "Where you been, man?" For a split second, he glanced at Gwen, who turned her back and stalked away. Then his eyes traveled very deliberately from Peake to Scully and back to Peake again. The tips of his mustache drooped lower. "How's it going, Tim? Those new guys working out?" "Huh?" Frye looked over his shoulder at the Thunder Bolt, which stood nearby. "Mostly. That one kid they hired don't know a C-wrench from an O-ring. But, um, that other one - " He gave a vague gesture. "What's-his-name - Duke. He's keeping up, I guess." "Rob! There you are!" Mandy came ambling toward them, smiling broadly. "Hey, baby," Peake said, reaching out with one arm and latching on to her. "You square it?" "Huh?" "You settle that beef?" "Oh, that." Giving Scully a quick glance, Mandy waved her hand. "Yeah. I talked, they listened." Peake's arms went around her waist; her fingers wound into his hair. Within moments they were lip-locked, every carny in the vicinity cheering them on. Frye stepped away from them, rolling his eyes. "Christ, next thing they'll sell tickets." Mike circled. Scully followed Frye, switching the leash from one hand to the other. "You know, before last night I didn't even know they were together." He shook his head, turned his back on the newlyweds. "One thing I'll say for Mandy," he said, in a low voice, "she sees something she wants, she takes it. As for Rob, well shit. He's been home about seven months, and he was smart for the first four or five. Don't know what happened after that." "Did *you* know about the wedding?" He sighed. "This morning Rob woke me up, says 'put on a clean shirt and go up to the bingo joint.' Next thing I know, I'm the damned best man. Donnie went with'em to get the license one day last week - " There was a crash of metal and Mike was off again, nearly jerking Scully's arm from its socket. She gave Frye an apologetic wave as she was yanked away, following the dog through the crowd of purple Whack- a-Mole games, past the back of the panel truck where Gwen stood stock-still, staring at Rob and Mandy. Dragging Scully close to the Thunder Bolt, Mike sniffed his way alongside a trailer, then stuck his nose into a discarded paper bag near one of its back tires. Stopping short, Scully heard voices: "Duke! You can finish those panels now!" She craned her neck, peeked around the back of the trailer. Mulder was standing about forty feet away, stripped to the waist, tool belt slung low, holding a very large drill. "Hey, Brenda." "Wha-?" she looked over her shoulder, startled. Frye had followed, now he stepped in front of her. "Can we talk? About last night, I mean?" "It's okay," she murmured, eyes wandering back toward the Thunder Bolt. Mulder lifted his ball cap, mopped his sweaty brow with a sweaty forearm, then flipped the cap backward on his head and hefted the drill. "You mad at me?" Frye touched her arm. "'Course not," she said, trying to smile. "We were a little drunk, I guess. It's okay." Over Frye's shoulder, she saw Mulder set the drill in place. His shoulder and bicep went rigid as the bit began to spin. Legs planted wide, he braced his free arm against the ride's steel skirting. A screw dropped into the dust. Frye kept talking. "Good. 'Cause I'd never. . ." He said more, but the words barely registered. Scully was too busy watching Mulder. He manhandled a panel off the ride, flung it onto a stack several feet away. She'd seen Mulder's body in action many times before, of course. But this was different. "Brenda." Frye took hold of her hand. "Aren't you gonna answer me?" She started. She had no idea what he had just asked her. "Sorry, Tim, I-" Frye, still holding her free hand, turned toward the ride. "What are you - ?" "Oh, noth - " she began, embarrassed at having been caught staring. Frye dropped her hand. "Shit, no," he muttered. "Duke! Hey, don't - aw, shit!" Scully spun just in time to see the huge metal pole fall. Her heart went into her throat. "Mu -" Mulder glanced up. For a split second it looked like he'd get away, but the end of a falling brace swung wide and struck him. He dropped into the dirt. One gasp later she was running, dragging the dog, following Frye toward Mulder's prone form. "Purty, goddammit!" Frye shouted at one of the other carnies. He knelt next to Mulder, who was trying to sit up. "What the hell - " Mulder muttered, rubbing his head. Blood was dripping from a cut along his hairline. Frye helped him sit. "Hang on, Duke, you're bleeding." "I'm okay. I just - what happened?" "Dude, that piece you moved is structural. You loosened it up too soon. Which Purty should have been fucking telling you. Where the fuck is he?" A small crowd had begun to form around them. Scully hovered at its edge, eyes darting from Mulder's dripping cut to the downed pole that was lying nearby. Peake pushed past a couple of onlookers. "Tom!" A boy stepped forward. "Yeah?" "Get the kit and some ice." "Okay." Kit? Ice? Scully thought. There was no way Mulder could have escaped a concussion. Frye was peering at Mulder's head. "Doesn't look too bad," he said. "Think you got lucky, bud." The man who'd been joking with Peake only moments before was now apologizing profusely. "Rob, I'm sorry, man. We was taking a smoke break and - " Peake's voice was harsh. "He's green, you bastard, you're supposed to be watching him." "It's my fault," Frye said. "You're damned right," Peake fumed. "Dead carny's bad for business. We'll have OSHA nosing around. Get 86'd from the spot." Mulder looked up at Peake and scowled. "Do I look dead to you?" Frye clapped Mulder on the shoulder. "We'll patch it up, man. Hang on a sec." Before Scully knew what she was doing, she'd handed Mike's leash to the carny next to her and knelt next to Mulder on the ground. "Anybody have a flashlight?" Frye shot her a puzzled look. "Used to volunteer with the Red Cross," she told him with a shrug. It was a lame excuse, but she didn't care. "He got hit pretty hard. He might need more than just ice." Someone put a small Mag-light in her hand and she shone it into each of Mulder's eyes. His pupils looked even. "You dizzy, Duke?" "I'm fine," he said softly, wiping blood with the back of his hand. "Head wounds bleed a lot," she said, examining the wound. "Feel like you're gonna throw up?" "No." "Did you pass out?" "No." Their eyes met. "I think I'm okay, Brenda. Really." "If you say so," she said, with what she hoped looked like a disinterested shrug. In truth, the last thing she wanted to do was get up and walk away from him. "If you start to feel dizzy, you should go to the emergency room, okay?" Mulder nodded, then winced. "Duke?" "I'm okay," he said, waving her off. "Okay, people," Peake called to the crowd. "Show's over. Back to work!" End 08/12 Eight ~~~~ 10:23 PM That night the office was busier than Scully had ever seen it. Mandy's goon squad had been in and out all evening: bags of tickets had been weighed; stacks of cash counted and re-counted; deposits prepared. It wouldn't be long, Mandy had said, before they'd be done for the night. The lock on the exterior door rattled and pudgy Buck Taylor, who supervised the gaming, stepped in. Mike got up, wandered toward him. "Payroll ready?" Taylor asked, as if this was a brand-new question that no other supervisor had thought to ask in the last ten minutes. "Shelby took off again," Mandy said, barely looking up. "So we're a little behind. But it'll be ready when I said it'd be ready." Mike stuck his nose into Taylor's crotch. Taylor grimaced and pushed him away. "Yeah, whatever." The door banged shut. "Brenda?" Scully looked up from the pile of twenties she was counting. "Hm?" "You sure Shelby didn't mention the name of a hotel or anything?" Scully shook her head. "I'm so sorry. I really didn't think he would - " "It's okay, hon. Believe me, I know how it is." Reaching for her key ring, Mandy singled out a key and handed the ring to Scully. "Here, go in Shelby's office - there's a file cabinet. I'm not sure what drawer, but there should be something somewhere with his expense receipts. We'll just call his regular spots." Scully got up and pretended to unlock the old man's office door. "He's done this before?" "Once or twice." She returned the keys. "Are you worried? I mean, Rob said it was no big deal." "Oh, it's a big deal, all right." Mandy frowned. "He's not a well man. He's got ulcers, gout, high blood pressure. His memory's going. I mean, lately he's - I don't know." "Oh." Scully paused in the doorway, waiting for the other woman to elaborate. "And he's got a business to run, here. He can't just take off on these dirty little field trips whenever he wants." "Right," Scully agreed. Mandy sighed. "He's more than my boss now. He's family." She bit her bottom lip. Scully cleared her throat. "I'll just look for that file, then." "Thanks." Scully opened the old man's file cabinet and gazed at the cryptic scribblings that were supposed to pass for labels. If asked, the old man would no doubt be able to pluck the file in question straight out of the drawer. For anyone else, though, it was probably a lost cause. She began picking her way from file to file. A file labeled 'Cty Cch' contained the title and specs to the old man's RV. 'HIB' was full of health insurance statements. God, at the rate she was going, she would still be standing in front of this file cabinet when they hauled the office into Pueblo. She heard Mandy's cell phone chirp. There was a murmur as Mandy answered, then, still in conversation, Mandy got up and went into the kitchen. A second later, Scully heard the outer door open, close. Mandy had, apparently, stepped out. Scully continued flipping through the files. "'Lawyer'," she read on one label, and paused to look. The file contained some registered letters and a court summons: "Rachel K. Smith versus Shelby P. Peake and Peake and Smith Amusements, Inc.," she read. "...the plaintiff named above has filed a lawsuit against you in the state of New Mexico...the complaint attached to this summons states..." She flipped to the next page. "Misdirected funds..." she murmured. "Wow. Plaintiff alleges the defendant misrepresented corporate losses over a period of ten years...plaintiff subsequently forced into bankruptcy." Apparently James Smith's widow had at one time felt she was owed a great deal of money. From the thickness of the file, it seemed Shelby Peake had spent a comparable fortune making sure she didn't get it. "Hm." She tucked the info away in her brain and moved on. 'Weee,' one file appeared to read. "Weee?" She peeked inside. "Oh. 'Will.'" She pulled the file out and laid it across the drawer. Unlike most of the other folders she'd seen, this one was un-dog-eared and free of coffee stains. The sheets inside were Xerox copies of something recently notarized - June 2, about three months before. Hearing the outer door open, she shoved the file back. Mandy appeared in the door. "Hey Brenda - " "I don't see anything with receipts so far, but - " "Screw it. We need to finish the payroll. We're behind schedule." "It *is* getting late," Scully observed, resuming her former place. "Yeah." Mandy picked up the payroll roster and held it for a moment, staring at it as if she'd suddenly forgotten how to read. "I just hope that damned old man doesn't get himself into any trouble." They worked diligently, Mandy calling out numbers to Scully, Scully stuffing wads of cash in envelopes and scribbling names. After a while, Scully cleared her throat and said, in the most non-committal tone she could muster: "Was it nice, today?" Mandy looked up. "What?" "The wedding." A brief smile: "Oh - yeah. Really romantic." "Everyone seems kind of surprised." Mandy looked down at the money on the table. "I guess they should be. I've known Rob since he was a kid - never thought much about him until he disappeared a couple of years ago - I don't know if you heard all about that." "Yeah," Scully said. "Rob told me about it." "I mean, we'd always worked together and we were always friends but we'd never really - " She gave a little smile. "After they found him and sent him home, I took a good long look at him and just knew." "He changed a lot while he was gone?" Mandy shrugged. "Yeah. I guess so. He grew up, you know? Matured." Scully nodded, but 'mature' was just about the last word she'd have used to describe Rob Peake. It was hard to imagine what the 'immature' Rob must have been like. They stuffed envelopes until there was a tall, finished stack sitting on the desk between them. Mandy stood, stretching. "Okay, go tell those bastards they can come and get it. Then take Mike back to the Country Coach; get a shower or a nap or something." She glanced at her watch. "It's almost midnight now, so there isn't much chance of us getting out of here before two, maybe a little after. After we shut down the office, Rob'll come take care of the connections for you. 'Kay?" "A nap sounds good." Scully picked up Mike's leash and patted her thigh. "Come on, boy." The Country Coach was a spacious vehicle; far too spacious, Scully thought, for a single old man and one Rottweiler, with or without the bonus teenage prostitute living in. The luxurious interior smelled of cheap potpourri and stale cigar smoke, but it was otherwise spotless, something she'd grown unaccustomed to over the last month. She took a quick shower, changed clothes, fed Mike. A nap really did sound like a good idea, but she was starving. She found a container of yogurt in the 'fridge - it had a picture of a rabbit on the front and pink and green swirls inside. Kid yogurt, she thought, peeling back the foil and giving its underside a test-lick. Sweet enough to induce a diabetic coma. Probably April's. There was a light tap at the door. Mike looked up from his Gravy Train and growled as she swung it open. "Tim," she said, surprised. "I need a favor, Bren," Frye said, gesturing to his left. Mulder was propped next to the door. His eyes were closed. "Is he okay?" she asked, fighting her urge to go to him. "Are you okay, Duke? "Been better," Mulder answered softly. He looked terrible - a crust of dried blood on one side of his face, head-wound clumsily dressed and still oozing. "I hate to bother you, honey," Frye said, "but we have to stay on schedule and we got a truck down. Mandy said you were all done in the office, and this guy says he's seeing double." Scully stepped back. "Come in." "The bunkhouse's already gone," Frye continued apologetically, as they urged Mulder up the steps, "or I'd just dump him there." "Shouldn't we take him to the emergency room or something?" "Says he doesn't want to go." "I'm fine," Mulder mumbled as he dropped onto the sofa. "Nice set up you got here, Brenda." Tim stared at Mulder with a slight scowl. "Just watch him for me, would you? Let him lie down somewhere." "Of course." "Great. Gotta go - they're waiting for me." Frye turned in the doorway, gave her his most winning smile. "I owe you, darlin'. Thanks." Then he swung the door closed and was gone. Back in the living room, she found Mulder sprawled across the sofa, his hand over his eyes. "You look like hell," she said, kneeling next to him. "Gee, thanks." Mulder took his hand from his eyes, squinted up at the ceiling. "A chandelier? What is this, Liberace's tour bus?" "God, Mulder, who bandaged this?" She plucked the dirty gauze away. The flesh around the wound was red and swollen, the edges of the laceration dusted with tiny, multi-colored shards. "Your buddy, Tim," Mulder murmured. "Is he gone?" "Yes." He brightened as if by magic, sat up. "Good. I need to talk to you." "Mulder, don't - " He waved her off. "I was faking it. I mean, I *do* have a slight headache. I just played it up a little." Scully frowned. "Only a little?" Mulder nodded. "Really. I've had worse." "Still," she said, straightening up, "that wound is going to get infected." "Don't you want to hear what I found out today?" "Of course I do. But I want to clean that cut, too. Come into the bathroom so I can see what I'm doing and you can tell me all about it." The bathroom was almost too small for both of them to fit. "Sit there." She gestured toward the closed toilet lid. Swabbing a pair of tweezers with an alcohol pad, she planted her feet on either side of his right leg, positioning herself so that she had a clear shot at the wound without blocking the light from the florescent over the sink. "Hold still." Belly pressed against his arm, she snagged a paint chip from the wound, rinsed it into the sink. "So what did you want to tell me?" He grimaced as she lifted a shard out of the wound. "I overheard Frye talking to Gwen. Apparently, she's in love with Rob Peake. She was out of her mind about the wedding. She seems to think Frye went out of his way to break her and Rob up." "Interesting," Scully murmured. "That explains a lot, actually." "Yeah. And I was trying to tell you earlier - Gwen has a tattoo. It's the symbol from the notes." "Really?" She froze, tweezers poised. "Rob Peake has the same thing tattooed on his chest." Mulder stiffened and tried to pull away. "Does he?" "Yes, he does," she replied. She had to shift forward to get at the wound. "Sit still, Mulder." "I am sit- OW!" "Sorry." She frowned. "Good thing your Tetanus is up to date. I'd hate to lose you to a little cut." "You would?" "Yes, I - hmm. I'm going to have to - can you scoot forward a little? I have to get to this side, and- " He obliged with a sigh. She straddled him, tilting to one side to preserve her light. "Sorry if I'm in your face. I'll just be a minute." "We have to stop meeting like this," he muttered, his voice muffled by her t-shirt. Scully chuckled. Bracing her hips against Mulder's torso, she snared rust flakes and paint chips one by one, swinging back to the sink to rinse them away. Mulder kept his eyes closed, seeming to measure every breath. "Almost done." The only remaining debris was a shiny sliver of metal that was clinging to the top edge of the wound as if it were consciously trying to avoid capture. Widening her stance, she bent her knees, dropped down a little more. She wanted to avoid stabbing him, but she couldn't seem to get under the sliver at the right angle. "Scully - " "Hang on a second." Maybe if she braced her elbow on his shoulder... Suddenly Mulder jerked away, knocking her off- balance. Before she knew it, she found herself sitting in his lap, her belly pressed against his, their faces mere inches apart. And then she understood why Mulder had seemed so uncomfortable. He wasn't being uncooperative. He was aroused. *Very* aroused. "Oh," she said, unable to move. Mulder was making the panic face. He seemed to be holding his breath. "I'm sorry," he muttered, at last. "It's okay," she said. But, no, it really wasn't. And she wasn't, either. "Mulder - " He grimaced. "Scully, I..." He trailed off, lips parting in a most tantalizing way. 'This is a bad idea,' she told herself. 'We're working. We shouldn't.' But she kissed him anyway. And kissed him. And kissed him. How, Mulder wondered, had he ended up naked? How had Scully ended up naked? How had they ended up naked, the two of them, in this tiny bathroom, doing things they should not, no way, no how, be doing, even if they were fully clothed and somewhere, anywhere else, and oh god oh - Lips crushed together. Two sets of moans, indistinguishable. "Jesus, Scully..." He'd perched her on the edge of the sink and she'd spread her legs and the shaft of his too-hard cock was rubbing against her, hot-wet-slick then tangled- curly, waves of so-good, so-good, and a matching gasp from her every time he thrust forward. He was deep in her mouth, her little red wet mouth oh god like there was any chance he was ready to handle this and now she was sucking his tongue and he was dizzy, his brain was a useless meaty thing now, filled with her. Filled. And the sighs this morning in the closet - those had been for him, too. And Scully sucking him now, like roasted corn, like he was buttered and golden and, oh god, three months ago in his hallway, her face had looked like this, just like this, and she had wanted him, then, too, and stupid Mulder, stupid, and oh god - "You okay?" she rasped, pulling back. He blinked at her, trying to process the question. Was he what? "Okay?" "Mulder?" She shifted, peered at him, and oh Jesus, no, he was not okay... He kissed her jaw, ear, shoulder, sternum. Rolled one sweet nipple like a pearl between his teeth. Her fingernails raked his scalp. "Let's get out of here," she was moaning, "let's..." "Yeah." His voice was in there somewhere. "Yeah, let's - " He tried to pull away from her, but he was locked in tight, barreling like a rollercoaster on the down stroke, and the best he could do was heave back, pulling her with him and hoping he didn't send them both crashing backward over the commode. "Oh god." Her tongue was in his ear, now, her breath swirling, her voice moaning. Her hand found his cock, stroked, squeezed and Scully was, oh god, Scully was *Scully,* and she was leading him forward, actually leading him by his cock, and he was actually following. She could have been taking him over the edge of a precipice and he would have just closed his eyes and gone along behind her until he ended up nothing but a smear on a rock. A short trip to the bedroom. An even shorter trip to the bed. He eased on top of her, kissed her gently. "Scully - " he whispered. She looked up at him, all eyes. "Yeah?" "I - I -" Oh christ, if he told her how much he loved her, he'd come. He was that close. " - I don't have a condom." Way to go, Mulder. That was really romantic. She wrapped her legs around his waist, scissor-hold, pinned him. "You don't need one," she purred. Hand reached for his cock again. Long fingernails. Ow. Mini-gasms. After a second his breathing resumed. "No - nothing?" "No nothing." He could see that she meant it, too. "Oh." "Oh." She pulled him in, then, one thrust, and so tight, so wet, and he could smell her soft clean scent mixing with the stink of his own body, he could smell them swirled together and - hold on, hold on - he had to choke himself back - oh holy shit. He'd been waiting so long to feel her shudder underneath him, hoping against hope for this, this moving and sighing and Mulder Mulder Mulder, dreaming of her head thrown back and his sweat splattered like raindrops on her body. Faster, faster - no, slow, slow. Scully first, you asshole. Think of Scully. Scully. "You feel...so good," he managed, dipping down to find her mouth. "Is this - Am I -?" "Oh yeah." She attacked his lips like a mad thing, a mad attacking thing that attacked things, madly, and oh god oh god, there were no words left in his head, no good words, nothing useful, nothing. . . "Oh my god, Mulder." He thrust hard. " - want you to-" "Oh!" "I want - " Panting, he shifted some of his weight back onto his knees and tried to move in something approaching a steady rhythm. "How do you want - " Thank god she understood what he was getting at. "Here," she rasped, seizing his hand, guiding it. She gasped when he made circles with his index finger, gasped harder when he used his thumb. He upped the pressure, circled and soothed while he kept on fucking her, steady, like they were climbing a hill together, steady, steady, then faster, faster, and oh god she was writhing, thrusting against him and she looked gorgeous. He'd always suspected it, expected it, but to see her like this, oh god. For a moment he thought he heard his voice say her name. Then his ears shut down and his mouth froze open and he forgot how to speak entirely. End 09/12 Nine ~~~~ MONDAY SEPTEMBER 1 12:45 AM "If this is a whack-on-the-head-induced hallucination," Mulder panted, "I'm gonna be so pissed." He rolled off her and onto the bed, arms still wrapped loosely around her body. "Oh my god," Scully gasped. "Oh my god. Oh my god!" She wondered if these were the only words she had left. Maybe the rest were vacationing somewhere further south. "You, ah, you - " Mulder was pie-eyed. "I mean you did, right?" She nodded. Yes. More than once, if memory served. Then she started giggling. "That's funny?" Mulder asked. "Oh my god," she answered, and yes, yes indeed, those were the only words she had left. This was certainly the last thing they should have done, she thought. It was unprofessional and irresponsible and a very bad idea and she was surprised to realize she didn't give a damn. She stroked Mulder's stubbled cheek, realized her own face was burning, chafed. Beard burn, she thought, dissolved by a fresh wave of laughter. "Scully?" Mulder searched her face, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "So this is the effect I have on you?" "I'm...I'm just..." New vocabulary, she thought. How encouraging. "I'm just...Oh my god." "It's a good laugh, then?" Mulder's tone was joking, but his arms had stiffened a little and there was an edge to his voice. "You're laughing with me and not at me?" "Yeah." She nodded vigorously. "Good laugh." He smiled. Enough words for now, she thought. Snaking her fingers into his hair, she snared his lower lip between her teeth, began teasing it with the tip of her tongue. When she reached for his cock, it was sticky and already half-hard. She stroked. He moaned. "Damn," Mulder whispered, kissing her lips, her brow, her cheekbone. "God, Scully, I - Jesus!" Face distorting, his body jerked to one side. "Mulder?" Was he having some kind of seizure? Oh Christ, what the hell had she been thinking, seducing a man with a head injury? "Are you - " Then she saw Mike standing by the bed and realized the dog had just stuck his cold, wet nose right between Mulder's - "Mike! Down, boy!" She pushed Mike away, trying to sound stern and failing. "Are you okay, Mulder? I'm so sorry." "Don't be." He kissed one cheek, then the other. "I don't want you sorry about anything right now." Nuzzling her ear, he started working his way lower. This is heaven, she thought. Then something thudded outside. The bed trembled. "What - " Mulder paused, sat up, blinking. "Did you hear-?" Another explosion rocked the trailer. "What the - " Their eyes locked for a split second. Then they rolled off the bed and rushed to find their clothes. A thick, black plume rose toward the stars. "That's the back lot," Scully said, pointing towards it. They were standing in the lane behind the Country Coach. She pulled on her jacket. "That's where they had the rides parked." Mulder was crouched down, tying his boot. "Call Capocelli. Tell him we'll - " He was interrupted by a series of rapid-fire explosions. "Shit." Scully watched the plume of smoke get much fatter and much blacker. "I'll get the first aid kit." "Good idea." Mulder started away, but she grabbed his hand. "Your head. Are you-?" "I'm fine," he assured her. "Call 911 too, just in case no one else has." Mulder ran across the half-empty trailer park, eased himself through a gap in the midway fence. As he drew closer, he could see flames clawing the sky, but disassembled rides blocked his view of the fire's source. He could hear calls for help, the wail of sirens in the distance, the neighing and stamping of horses trapped in a trailer not far from the fire. He tore around a corner, passed a parked truck with its hood up - "Shit." The fire was in the maintenance truck. He'd been standing there with Gwen and Frye only this morning. Now a noxious, black cloud was pouring from its open back. There were, Mulder knew, probably enough petro-chemicals inside to send them all to the moon. A grimy security guard emerged from the smoke, shielding his mouth and nose with his shirt and dragging an unmoving body behind him. Mulder ran toward them. "Anyone else inside?" he shouted over the roar of the flames and the din of sirens and voices. The guard, bent double and coughing, shook his head 'no.' Mulder looked down at the soot-covered body. "Oh shit." He dropped to his knees. Gwen's face was bloody and her t-shirt was singed. He reached for her right arm, planning to check for a pulse, but her flesh was badly burned. Heart racing, he gingerly pressed two fingers to the side of her neck. Her pulse was weak, but steady. "Ay, what happened?" Solera stood over them. "Jesus, Gwen." "We need a blanket or a sheet or something, Solly." Mulder pulled his jackknife out of his pocket, began gently cutting away Gwen's shirt. "See if you can find something." Solera turned to one of the other carnies, rattled off something in Spanish, then turned back to Mulder. "Duke, you seen Frye, man?" Mulder shook his head. A chunk of shrapnel glistened in Gwen's sternum. A dozen tiny wounds were bleeding all around it. There was another explosion inside the truck, a series of pops like spray cans going up one by one. Then he heard a voice behind him. "ROOOOOOOOOOOOOB!" Mulder froze at the sound, looked over his shoulder. Sobbing hysterically, the operations manager was running toward the burning truck. "Somebody stop her!" He started to his feet. "Mandy, NO!" Scully was running after Mandy, gaining with every step. "ROOOOOOOOOOOOB!" Mandy wailed. "Scu - Brenda, wait!" Scully launched herself at the other woman. Both fell to the ground. There was another deafening roar; Mulder arched over Gwen, trying to protect her. A shower of ash and debris rained down on them. "Rooooooooooooooooooooob!" Mandy kicked and bucked in Scully's grip. "Let me go, let me go!" Fire trucks and emergency vehicles had begun arriving. The other carnies were already being pushed back, herded toward the fairground fence. The panel truck was barely visible in the midst of searing flames. A uniformed EMT suddenly filled Mulder's field of vision. "Sir, you'll have to move so we can help the patient." Mulder pushed himself to standing, headed toward Scully and Mandy. Mandy had gone limp, apparently oblivious to her surroundings. "He's dead," she moaned, "Oh god, oh god..." Two more fire trucks arrived on the scene. Mulder lifted the sobbing woman to her feet and practically dragged her across the field. "Brenda, come on!" Mandy sagged against him, clutching his t-shirt. "I can't believe he's gone," she wailed. "Rob, baby, oh my god..." Mulder looped his arms awkwardly around her and shot Scully a look. They passed under a security light. He stiffened. "Um, Brenda, are you okay? Your nose is bleeding." "What?" Scully drew her finger beneath her nose. "Oh," she said, looking at her bloody fingers. She pulled a wadded Kleenex from her pocket and daubed at the blood. "I'm fine, it's just a bump. Who was that you were - ?" A group of ride jocks had been pushed back by the police and were milling around by the fence. "Holy fuck," a guy from Billy's crew said. "Did anybody see what happened?" There were shrugs and murmurs. "We was shutting down the office," one said. "I was up on the front end," someone else chimed in. "I ran down here when I smelled the smoke." Solera frowned, shook his head. "Anybody seen Frye? I no can find him." "I ain't seen him either," someone said. "And where's Rob?" "Rob lock maintenance one o'clock," Solera muttered. He looked extremely worried. "Shit, it's quarter after one, man." A pair of firemen passed. Mandy broke away from Mulder and grabbed one of them by the sleeve. "My husband! He was in that truck! Please, help me, please!" "We don't know that for sure." Scully took Mandy firmly by the arm and pulled her back. "Just let them do their job." Two more police cars arrived. An officer approached the group. Mulder turned and put his hand on Solera's shoulder. "We better tell the cops what we know, Solly." Solera cradled his forehead in his palm and shook his head. "Ay, mi dios, homes. It's gonna be a fuckin' long night." WYOMING MEDICAL CENTER 2:22 AM "Your x-ray's clear; no sign of concussion." The intern, who did not look old enough to be in med school, let alone actually practicing medicine, scribbled a note on a prescription slip. "You're lucky." Scully thought about Gwen, tried to wrap her brain around the idea that Frye and Peake were dead. Yeah, she thought. Lucky. "Take some Ibuprofen for any soreness and come back in if you start to feel dizzy or nauseated." "Thanks." Flashing a blinding grin, the doctor slid the cubicle curtain aside and stepped out. A moment later, the admitting nurse stuck her head in. "Miss? There's a detective here who'd like to talk to you." Scully leaned wearily against the exam table. She hadn't had much time to think about it, so she hadn't come up with a story for the local police. She had a feeling that 'At the time of the explosion, I was screwing my partner, so I really don't know what happened,' wasn't going to cut it, though. What the hell had she been thinking? "Miss?" The nurse was waiting. "Tell him to come in." A slender, dark-haired man pushed his way past the curtain, glanced from side to side. "Agent Scully?" he asked very quietly. Scully recognized the voice. "Oh. Agent Capocelli," she said, surprised to suddenly come face-to-face with their contact. She'd called him as Mulder had suggested, but she hadn't expected him to actually come to the hospital. Capocelli looked out through the curtain for a moment. Seeming satisfied no one was listening, he asked, "Agent Mulder's here too?" "Yes," Scully replied. "Is he injured?" "Not from the explosion, no. Neither of us was near the truck when it went up." Which was the truth, if not the whole truth, she thought. "He suffered a head injury earlier in the day, and they're probably running him through X-Ray, just in case." "Good," Capocelli nodded. "Casper PD has given us all the details they have about what happened out there at the fairgrounds." He pulled a small notebook from his pocket. "Last I heard, it was still too hot to get anyone inside the truck, but the fire is under control. Definitely deliberate, though, and from the preliminary spray pattern of nails and debris, clearly a pipe bomb similar to those we've been investigating." Scully nodded. "Two of our best suspects, Robert Peake and Timothy Frye, are missing and presumed dead. According to witnesses, they were last seen in and around the truck about 10 minutes before the explosion, though accounts differ slightly on the timing. Gwen Frye was severely injured and is listed in critical condition. She's also our prime suspect, now." "What? Gwen? You're kidding." "No, I'm not. Based on the information Mulder gathered about her apparent 'obsession' with Robert Peake, we believe he was her intended victim." "That doesn't fit with the earlier bombings. They all occurred after the show had left town." "Diversionary tactic," Capocelli explained. "We think the girl was trying to set Peake up. According to Mulder's notes, there was some bad blood between the two of them." "But - " "We have two witnesses who say she asked Peake to give her a hand with a repair in the truck about 20 minutes before the explosion. We have another witness who actually saw the three - Gwen, Peake, and Frye - go into the truck. Something must have gone wrong." "You think she was trying to kill her father, too?" Capocelli shook his head. "No, and we don't think her father was involved, either, but he knew how to build a pipe bomb, and we assume he probably taught her how. We think she was trying to make it look accidental, like Peake had blown himself sky-high on one of his own bombs." Scully frowned. "Gwen didn't strike me as a criminal mastermind, Agent Capocelli. And I don't understand why she'd deliberately lure her father into such a dangerous situation." "Well, you've both said Gwen and her father were having problems - " "Yes, they had problems, but I didn't see anything that would suggest Gwen wanted Tim dead." Capocelli shrugged. "Obviously things didn't go as planned. Unless she was suicidal. At any rate, we've got this." He reached into his pocket and produced a zip-lock evidence bag. "When they were moving the girl, it fell out of her pocket." "Oh." Scully took the bag. Inside was a white envelope and a yellow sheet of legal paper with the circular symbol drawn on it. "We have other evidence, as well. It's all circumstantial, but - " Scully stared at the bag, then handed it back. "But - the rubbing I made. As far as I know, Gwen Frye has no access to the office. It's locked at all times. Only supervisory staff and management have keys." "She's a mechanic, right? You think she couldn't pick a lock?" "I suppose. But - " Capocelli waved her off. "You know what they say about the simplest explanation, Agent Scully. There's still a lot of evidence to collect, but we're - " His belt chirped. "Let me get this." Clapping the cell phone to his ear, he swung the curtain aside. Scully stepped out of the cubicle right behind him, watched as he strode across to the nurses' station, where a man in a drab gray suit immediately tried to get his attention. Brow furrowed, Capocelli turned back, gave her a quick but significant glance. Something had obviously just come up. Someone touched her arm. "You okay, Brenda?" Mulder had appeared beside her. His head was neatly bandaged and his expression was grim. "Fine. They said I'm fine." "Good." Mulder leaned in close and dropped his voice. "Can I talk to you a minute?" The curtains of a nearby cubicle stirred. Scully walked past Mulder, headed for a deserted bank of pay phones on the far side of the ER. "You got any change, Duke? I don't have my bag." Mulder followed her, digging in his pocket. "Don't worry, I think everyone's out there." He inclined his head toward the reception area, handing her some coins. He leaned against the wall and lowered his voice. "They think Gwen did it." Scully picked up the phone book, pretended to flip through it. "You don't?" Mulder shook his head. "She's messed up, but not that messed up. And there's no way she drew the wheel on that note. She's left handed." Scully popped some coins into the phone, dialed a bogus phone number. "Maybe she's ambidextrous." Mulder shook his head. "She has this big puckered scar on her right hand," he said, pointing to the fleshy knob just below the thumb. "She's really self-conscious about it. When she isn't wearing work gloves, she keeps that hand in her pocket." "Where did you say the scar was?" Mulder pointed again. "Why?" "That's where Shelby Peake's extra thumb was." Mulder blinked. "Yeah? You think they're related?" "Not a lot about the Peake family tree would surprise me at this point. But, if Gwen wasn't involved, why did she have that note in her pocket?" "Dunno." Mulder's brow creased. "Maybe she found it in the truck. Maybe she saw it on the ground somewhere. Or maybe someone gave it to her - " "- trying to implicate her. Of course." "Exactly," Mulder said. "So, someone with access to the office. Someone who knew how Gwen felt about Rob, and who knew about their matching tattoos. Someone who knew about Frye's past, too, and knew how to make the same type of pipe bomb he'd used. Someone with something to gain, too, or some axe to grind." Scully hung up the phone. "That leaves who? Shelby Peake?" "Maybe his doddering idiot act is just that - an act." "Maybe," Scully replied. "But why? What's his motive?" "I don't know yet." Mulder shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around. "But he would have known Rob closed up the maintenance truck at about the same time every night, no matter where the show was. He could easily have planted that bomb days, hell, maybe weeks in advance. Then he just had to slip Gwen that note before he took off with the girlfriend he'd had a fairly public fight with just hours before. I wouldn't be surprised to find there's a whole lot of money missing from the office safe. If I could talk to Gwen - " "Capocelli said she's critical." "Shit." Mulder winced. He closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face, and Scully noticed how truly exhausted he looked. A fresh wave of guilt swept through her. "Look, I'll go back to the fairground and see if I can get into the office," she said. "I haven't finished going through Peake's files yet, so I'll do that. There may be something there that'll help establish either guilt or motive, maybe both." "Good idea. I'll hang around here for awhile and see if Gwen makes a statement." With a furtive glance toward the nurses' station, Mulder headed toward a set of double doors and slipped off down a hallway. End 10/12 Ten ~~~~ CENTRAL WYOMING FAIRGROUNDS 3:09 AM The trailer sat under a security light, just a lonely metal box now, its windows dark, its external wiring and underpinnings stripped away. Scully slipped from the shadows and up the metal stairway, fumbled with the old man's keys. The door swung open. Inside, the air was stale and eerily silent. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves, muted her flashlight with her fingers. Job one: evidence. She unlocked the door of the back office and went to the file cabinet. Shoving her flashlight between her chin and shoulder, she located the file that contained copies of the old man's will. The document was neither long nor complicated. Shelby Parker Peake's estate, including Peake Amusements, a house and acreage in New Mexico, and a considerable stock portfolio, was to be held in trust with the proceeds from a two million-dollar life insurance settlement. When Mr. Peake's heirs reached the age of 25, each would receive half of the assets, provided they maintained their employment within the family business. Each? There was more than one heir? She flipped thorough the pages that followed, reached the end of the document, stared. The file contained a copy of a birth certificate and the results of not one, not two, but three separate paternity tests. There could be no mistake. Shelby Peake was Gwen Frye's father. Which made Robert Peake her brother. "Wow," she heard herself say. Scully read the documents again, shaking her head. How the hell had Shirley Price explained Gwen's extra digit to Frye? Tim clearly believed he was Gwen's father. Or did he? Was this why he'd tried so hard to keep Rob and Gwen apart? Scully shone her flashlight on the old man's wall of photos, let the beam come to rest on one of Rob Peake's baby pictures. Right next to it was one of a pre-pubescent Gwen Frye. Two smiles, identically lopsided. The same twinkle in the same blue eyes. But - why would the old man want to kill his children? If Shelby Peake was responsible for the bombings, what could his motive have been? It didn't make any kind of sense. She stared at the wall of photos, trying to puzzle it out. Who would benefit if all of Peake Senior's heirs were out of the picture? There were no other acknowledged heirs, no parents, no brothers or sisters, no widow, no - Widow? Something that had been niggling at the back of Scully's mind all day now leapt to the front of her consciousness. She sent her flashlight beam rippling across the wall. Finding a snapshot of the old man's former partner, she stared at the pinched woman on the big man's arm, the woman who'd seemed so familiar when she'd studied the photo that morning. Yes. The resemblance was unmistakable. Heart pounding, she stuffed the will back in the file drawer, grabbed the file on the legal battle with James Smith's widow. Pulling it free, she noticed the tip of a yellowed newspaper clipping tucked into some papers near the back of the folder. Loosening the fragile newsprint from the sheaf of documents, she focused her light and read: 'The victim was found by her eleven-year-old granddaughter when the child returned from school. Local authorities have ruled the death a suicide. A note left at the scene indicates the victim was despondent about the pending loss of her home through foreclosure...' "Of course," Scully said. "James Smith's granddaughter." "Smart lady." The voice came from somewhere behind her. "Now close the drawer and put your hands where I can see them." 3:16 AM Mulder found the door of Shelby Peake's Country Coach unlocked. "Brenda?" He stepped up into the vehicle. "Hey, Brenda, it's me, Duke. Can I talk to you for a minute?" At the hospital, Gwen had regained consciousness for a short time. Disoriented and in pain, she'd nevertheless insisted on talking to the police. Capocelli and a Wyoming State trooper had taken her statement, while Mulder had hovered beyond the curtain, eavesdropping. Her dad had been working on Billy's truck. Rob had just helped her rig a part for The Bobsled. She was looking for a piece of tubing when she found the bomb. Yes, she'd known it was a bomb - she wasn't stupid. She'd been trying to warn the others when it exploded. She'd passed out before she could be questioned further. As far as Mulder was concerned, this let Gwen off the hook and further implicated Shelby Peake. Capocelli hadn't been so sure, but at least he'd agreed that it was a possibility that needed further investigation. "Brenda?" The bathroom was empty. Mulder snared a Kleenex from a box on the counter and used it to open the medicine chest: toothpaste, shaving cream, razors, Band-aids. Prescription bottles lined the second shelf - Prevacid, Zantac, Tagamet, Nexium, Biaxin and Amoxil, all of which appeared to be prescribed for an ulcer, Tylenol-3 with Codeine, and - ugh - Viagra. A triangle of pink residue marked the spot where a bottle or jar was missing - Pepto Bismol, probably. He closed the cabinet. "Brenda?" A small lamp burned on the dresser in the bedroom. Several boxes had been pulled out of the old man's closet and were sitting open by the side of the bed. Mulder got an uneasy feeling, one that had nothing to do with the mess, both literal and metaphorical, that they'd made in this room just a few hours before. Something was very wrong. "Brenda? Yo, Brenda?" The only answer he got was a growl. "What the - " Mulder looked down. Teeth bared, Mike the Rottweiler stood glaring about three feet away. "Shit," Mulder said. The dog took a step forward. "Good boy," he told it softly. "Good Mike." He reached slowly inside his jacket, freed his weapon. "Remember me? I'm your buddy with the irresistible cajones - " Mike lunged. Mulder backed up fast, falling over one of the boxes and ripping his gun from its holster. He took aim as he hit the mattress, prepared to shoot if he had to, but instead of going for Mulder's throat, the dog stopped, crouched at Mulder's feet and began to whine. Mulder frowned, rolled to sitting. "What's the problem, Mike? You need out? You need a walk?" Mike nudged Mulder's leg, glanced toward the door, nudged again. It almost seemed like there was something the dog wanted him to know. Yeah, right, Mulder thought as he stood and re- holstered his weapon. What is this, a very special episode of 'Lassie'? His phone beeped. "Scully?" "Agent Mulder? It's Capocelli. Where are you?" "Back at the fairgrounds, in Shelby Peake's RV. Someone's been going through his papers, but I wouldn't exactly say they tossed the place. More like they knew what they were looking for. Maybe Peake and his girlfriend doubled back - " "Not likely. The agents we had following them called in - the old man and the girl had a layover in Salt Lake City. Peake collapsed, had to be rushed to hospital." Mike started whining again in earnest, so Mulder moved out of the bedroom. Still whining, the dog followed. "What happened? Heart attack?" Mulder tore a sheet of paper towel from a roll on the kitchen counter and began opening and closing cupboards. "No. Agent Jensen said Peake started hacking up blood. Guess that lets your prime suspect off the hook." Mike kept whining. "Not necessarily," Mulder answered, opening a drawer. Forks, knives, spoons, bottle opener - nothing unusual. "He has an ulcer, remember." "So Agent Scully has said. They're running a tox screen, but - " Mike yipped and began an agitated dance in front of the door. "Hang on, boy," Mulder told him. "I'll let you out in a minute." "Excuse me?" "Sorry, Cap, I'm talking to this mutt." The yipping intensified into full-fledged barking. Mulder raised his voice. "What was that about a tox screen?" "The doctor suggested some sort of poisoning." "Poisoning?" The cupboard under the sink held dish soap, some bottles of cleaner, a box of b-Gon rat killer, and a new package of sponges. Mulder picked up the box of rat killer, shook it. Half-empty. "Huh." "They're holding his girlfriend, April Raynes, for questioning. Nice name, huh? April Raynes." "His girlfriend?" Mulder snorted. "Christ, Cap, from what I understand April's no rocket scientist - " He stared at the box in his hand with a puzzled frown. "Cap, can you think of any reason why someone living in an RV would need rat poison?" "Why? What did you find?" "B-Gon rat killer. And with a dog running around here - " Mulder flipped the box over, read the list of active ingredients. "Tell them to check the old man's blood for Warfarin." "You got something?" "Just a hunch." "Okay, I'll mention it to Jensen. Have you spoken to Agent Scully?" Mulder shut the cupboard. "No. She hasn't reported in?" "I tried her before I called you. Left a message on her voice mail." "She didn't pick up?" He did his best to keep the concern from his voice. That uneasy feeling had returned, full force. "I'm sure she's fine, Mulder." "Yeah," Mulder replied. Mike's barking had escalated into a constant stream of noise. He clapped a hand over his free ear and headed for the door. "Um, Agent Capocelli, I'm going to have to call you back." "What's going on, Agent?" "I'm not sure," Mulder answered. "If you don't hear from me or Scully in the next ten minutes, send backup, okay?" "Seriously?" "Seriously." Sticking the phone in his jacket pocket, he reached past Mike and opened the door. Mike took off down the steps, but instead of disappearing into the night, he stopped, giving Mulder what must have been the Rottweiler version of a pointed look. Waiting to see what Mike would do next, Mulder slowly stepped out of the RV and onto the gravel. All their suspects had turned into victims, it seemed. Who was left? Maybe Mike knew. The dog turned and ran off toward the empty midway. Feeling vaguely foolish, Mulder followed. 3:27 AM You're a sucker, Scully told herself. Rob was right about you, after all. "Left, 22. Circle right all the way once, then stop at 39. Back left to twelve." It was dark in the office, and Scully was working in a tiny, unsteady pool of light. It took a couple of tries, but she finally got the lock on the floor safe to click open. "Okay. What now?" Something thumped to the floor at her side. "There's three bank deposit bags in the safe. Put them in that bag." Scully reached into the safe and found an oblong vinyl bag, fat with cash. She unzipped the gym bag at her side. "Seems like you're all packed to go," she noted, glancing over her shoulder at her captor. "Rob's dead, Shelby's out of town. That was a smart plan you had, Mandy." "It's still a smart plan." Mandy gave a soft, bitter laugh. "Just gotta make sure I dot all my 'i's', if you know what I mean." There was an edge in Mandy's voice that told Scully she should consider herself an un-dotted 'i'. "Keep moving," Mandy snapped. Heart pounding, Scully turned back to the safe, found a second bag. "Nice of the old man to keep so much money around, don't you think?" Mandy sneered. "A little pre-tax bonus. One of his many bad habits. But I guess you read all about that while you were snooping around." "You've got enough evidence on Shelby Peake to have the IRS on his ass for the rest of his life. Why didn't you just blow the whistle on him?" "How's that help me?" The flashlight beam jumped. "You're missing the point, lady. Shelby Peake has hurt people. He has to pay." Scully groped for the third deposit bag, latched on to it. "People like your grandmother, you mean?" Mandy snorted. "Her and plenty of others." Recalling her hostage negotiation training, Scully tried for a sympathetic tone. "That must have been horrible for you," she said. "Finding her the way you did." For a moment, the only sound was Mandy's slow intake of breath. Then the hard edge returned to her voice. "He destroyed my family. I'm just returning the favor. Hurry up." Stall, Scully told herself. She pushed the deposit bag in her hand as far back into the safe as she could. "That's it. It's empty." "No it isn't. There's another one." The flashlight beam stretched across the wall behind the safe. Scully looked to her right. The shadow of Mandy's pistol crept toward her. "I put them there myself." Scully reached into the safe. "There's nothing else in here, Mandy. Maybe Shelby took one when he left." The shadow of the gun advanced, growing bulbous, distorted. Scully looked to her left. She could see the outline of Mandy's body, cast against the wall by the security light outside the window. She could see her own shadow, too, even judge the distance between the two of them. "He's not that smart." Mandy was right behind her, leaning down. "That money's here somewhere. You need to - " Suddenly Scully grabbed Mandy's right arm and yanked with all her might. Mandy cried out, fell forward. The flashlight hit the floor. Scully scrambled away, fell over the gym bag, snatched it and hurled it up into Mandy's face. Objects clattered across the floor; Scully rolled to the desk, levered up, drove her heel into Mandy's belly, then charged and grabbed Mandy by the forearms, forcing the gun barrel toward the ceiling, twisting her wrist with all her strength. Mandy yelped and cursed. Scully tightened her grip, pulled Mandy's arm behind her back. "DROP IT!" she shouted, twisting harder and giving Mandy's body a shake. "Drop it, Mandy! It's over! IT'S OVER!" The gun fell to the floor just as the door of the office banged open. "Freeze, I'm armed!" a familiar voice growled. There was a sudden, blinding flash from the high-intensity security lamp outside, but Scully held on tight. "Whoever the hell you are," the voice said, "I've got a .35 on you. Don't move." "Rob?" Mandy gasped, after a moment. "Mandy!?" "Jesus Christ. Rob baby, oh god, you're alive!" "What the hell? Of course I'm alive - me and Tim went into town and when we got back there was all this crazy shit going - Christ, what the fuck?" "Brenda tried - " Mandy began, trying to twist away from Scully. "I'm a federal officer - " Scully said at the same time, maintaining her grip. "Both of you shut up!" Peake ordered. "Brenda? What the hell is going on?" "She came in here trying to rip us off, baby," Mandy said. "She has a gun. She was - " "She's lying, Rob," Scully countered. "She's trying to - " Peake picked up the fallen flashlight and shone it on them both like a spotlight. "Let go of her, Brenda." "No," Scully answered, squinting against the glare. "I'm a Federal officer. She's - " "Oh right," Mandy laughed. "Our girl Brenda's a Fed. All hundred and two pounds dripping wet of her. She's trying take the money - ow!" Scully pulled tighter. Mandy broke off with a hiss. "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully. Rob, Mandy tried to kill you tonight. She's responsible for the bombings - " "Bombings? Now I know you're lying. Let her go, now." "She's Smitty's granddaughter. It's all been an act. She wants to punish your father. She tried to kill you." "She made me open the safe," Mandy pleaded desperately. "She said she'd killed you and she'd kill me, too. I thought you were dead, baby - god, I was so scared." Scully heard the unmistakable click-click of a gun safety being released and the hammer being pulled back. "Let go of her, Brenda." She was in a no-win situation, and she knew it. She turned Mandy, using her as a human shield, trying to buy some time. "Mandy has my service revolver in her hip pocket, Rob. If I let go of her, she'll kill us both. You have to believe me." "That's crazy," Mandy wheedled. "I'd never hurt you, baby. You know that." Scully jerked Mandy's arm again. "Gwen Frye is in the hospital in Casper. Mandy was trying to kill you and pin it on Gwen so *she'd* be the only one left to inherit." "Inherit? Inherit what?" "The show, Rob. Your father's money. You and Gwen are his only beneficiaries." "Bullshit. Why would Gwen be in Pops' will?" "Because she's your half-sister." His voice dropped low. "My *what*?" "Look in your father's files, Rob. There were paternity tests. There's a birth certificate." "It's a scam," Mandy hissed. "Take her down, baby. Now!" A flashlight beam cut through the darkness. "Federal Agent! I'm armed! Drop it!" Mulder was standing in the door. Peake turned his head. "Duke?" "Drop it, Rob. Now." "He's no cop," Mandy cried. "They're working together!" "My name is Fox Mulder, I'm with the FBI." Mulder stepped forward, leveling his weapon. "And I said drop it." "Mandy, what the fuck?" Peake cried. "Just do something!" she shrilled back at him. "Why the fuck are you just standing there?" "Drop the gun!" Mulder shouted. "Rob wasn't involved," Scully said quickly. "He doesn't know what's going on. Rob, listen to Agent Mulder." His gun still pointed toward Scully, Peake looked wildly around the room, shining his flashlight from person to person. "Mandy," he murmured in complete bewilderment. "Baby. What the fuck?" "You gutless fucking piece of shit!" Mandy was writhing in Scully's arms. "Shoot her, goddammit! SHOOT HER!" Before Scully knew what was happening, Mandy had brought her heel down sharply on her instep and was twisting away, a gun glinting in her hand. "MULDER, LOOK OUT!" Scully dropped to the floor. A shot rang out. "MULDER!!" She heard something clatter to the floor. A flashlight rolled toward the wall. There was a brief moment of total silence, then Mulder's voice drifted toward her. "Scully?" "I'm okay." Mulder recovered his light. "Drop the gun, Rob." Scully rose to her knees. Peake was motionless, clutching his pistol in one outstretched hand, Scully's flashlight still trembling in the other. Mandy swayed in the circle of light, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging open. A bright red stain was spreading slowly across her blouse. "DROP IT!" Mulder ordered. His face a horrified blank, Peake lowered the pistol and let it fall. Mandy sank to her knees before him. "You shot - " she gasped, looking up at him with a pleading expression. "Baby, how could - " Her expression hardened, then, turned into something ugly and chilling. Staring at her husband's silhouette, she slumped slowly to the floor. "Oh god," Peake rasped. "She came at me. I - Oh Jesus." He sank into the chair behind the desk and covered his face with his hands. "Oh god." "Mulder, call 911." Scully scrambled across the floor. Mandy lay very still, her eyes wide, her breathing labored. The smell of blood wafted up, humid, pungent. Mulder barked orders to the emergency dispatcher. Scully snatched up some items of clothing that had fallen from Mandy's gym bag and tried to staunch the flow of blood. The bullet had entered Mandy's upper chest; sucking sounds told her a lung had been punctured. "Bren - " Mandy wheezed. She grasped the sleeve of Scully's jacket. Scully shook her head. "Don't talk. We're going to get you to the hospital." "Agent Mulder?! Agent Scully?!" Someone was shouting outside. Scully recognized Capocelli's voice. "In here!" Mulder shouted back. Scully heard a siren in the distance. Mandy's breathing was growing more labored by the second. "Brenda," she choked. "It's a flat store, girl. All of it. Everythi - " Blood gurgled in her throat, the noise like a rusty hinge swinging closed. A moment later her grip on Scully's sleeve went slack. Two uniformed men appeared in the doorway. "Put the light over there," one said. There was a metallic thud. A bright light filled the room. "Step back, ma'am," someone said. "We need to get at the patient." Scully looked up. The EMTs had arrived. Easing away from Mandy, she got to her feet. Mulder was standing by the desk. Peake was still curled up in the chair behind it. Scully squinted down at her hands. They were crimson. She took a deep breath. Be fine, she told herself. Mulder gave her a questioning look. She shook her head. No, she didn't think Mandy was going to make it. Mulder nodded. He took Peake by the shoulder. "Come on, Rob," he said gently. "The police are going to want to ask you some questions." Peake took his hands away from his face and stared at the uniformed men bending over his wife. "Oh my god," he murmured, as if he'd just realized what was happening. Suddenly he rose from the chair and started toward them. "Mandy - " Mulder stopped him. "They're doing all they can," he said. "It's over, Rob. Come with us." 4:03 AM "I told Agent Capocelli we'd give our statements first thing in the morning," Mulder said. Scully watched a state trooper lead Rob Peake to a waiting police vehicle. "Rob and Tim ran out to Walmart," she said. "Turns out Billy's truck needed a battery." Mulder nodded. He'd just finished briefing Capocelli on the situation. "They've already sent someone to the hospital to question Frye. I get the impression he was involved with Mandy at some point in the past." "Tim had nothing to do with this." Scully's mouth was dry. Her head was pounding. The wave of adrenaline she'd been riding all night had crested; now exhaustion was overtaking her. "You okay?" "I'm worried about Rob," she muttered. "He said some things when they were questioning him that made me think he might try to hurt himself. Where's Capocelli? They need to keep an eye on him - " "That's not what I mean," Mulder interrupted. "And Mike," she continued. "There's no one to look after him. We should - " "I'm not talking about Mike. I'm talking about you." She looked up into Mulder's face and saw real worry etched there. The lump in her throat tightened. "I - " she began, then stopped. She looked down at the rust-colored stains on her hands. "I - I need to wash up..." Mulder laid his hand in the small of her back. "You need food. You need sleep. I'm taking you out of here." "But Mulder, there are so many things left to do - " His tone was gentle, but firm. "Someone else can take care of them. You've done enough." She closed her eyes for a moment, let the warmth of his touch steady her. He was right, of course. She had the answers she'd been sent to find. Now it was time to leave the fairgrounds behind. End 11/12 Epilogue ~~~~ WASHINGTON DC THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 4 4:49 PM They were creeping through Georgetown in rush hour traffic when Mulder's cell phone beeped, breaking the silence. "Mulder," he said. "Agent Capocelli, hi. Oh, they did? Huh." Scully checked Mulder's face for signs of bad news. There certainly shouldn't have been any at this point: the search warrants had been served; evidence bagged; witness statements duly recorded. The body of the perpetrator was in line for an autopsy at the Natrona county morgue and the possibility of any conspiracy had been thoroughly investigated and summarily dismissed. The wrap-up had gone so smoothly, in fact, that the SAC had sent both of them home ahead of schedule. Cell phone pressed to his ear, Mulder moved the car forward, then hit the brakes with a grimace. "Yeah?" he said again, in response to whatever Capocelli was telling him. "Oh. Okay." Scully kept her eyes on Mulder's face. She wasn't quite sure what to make of his behavior since they'd left the fairgrounds Monday morning. While he certainly hadn't been avoiding her, he'd seemed unusually quiet and reserved as they'd gone about their duties. They'd had no time alone, no opportunity to exchange more than a few words. Even the flight home had been spent in the company of two fellow agents. Mulder thanked Capocelli for keeping them up-to-speed and set the phone on the dash. "Cap's back in Denver," he said. "So I gathered." Scully suppressed a shiver. The sky outside was a misty gray. "Nothing left to do in Casper?" "Nope. After he saw our statements the DA decided not to charge Rob Peake. Even let him leave town - by the way, the old man's expected to live." Scully shook her head. "I still can't believe she was poisoning his Pepto right under my nose - " "I hope you're not blaming yourself." She shrugged. "No, but I feel just as stupid as everyone else who believed Mandy's act. She'd been working for the old man for almost seven years. Gives the word 'premeditation' a whole new meaning." Mulder braked for a stoplight. "Cap said they finally got a match on the prints." "Oh?" "Her real name was Amanda Zinzer. She'd been arrested a few times under a couple different aliases - check fraud, some other scams, no convictions. Santa Fe PD confirmed she was James Smith's granddaughter. Her mother was one Hannah Zinzer, late of the state mental hospital outside Albuquerque. No word on a father. Seems Mandy was the last surviving member of the family." Scully shook her head again. "The whole thing is just sad." Mulder kept his eyes on the street. "Yeah." "Tim told me he remembers sketching a rough diagram of a pipe bomb on a bar napkin one night. He thinks she palmed it when he wasn't looking and figured the rest out for herself. Imagine." "Oh, Cap said they took Gwen off the critical list this afternoon." Scully nodded. "I saw Tim at the hospital. He said things were looking up for Gwen." "Did he?" "It's going to be a long recovery period - they'll have to be off the road awhile. But I don't think that's an entirely bad thing for either one of them." Mulder's brow creased. "What?" "Damned nice of you to stop by," Mulder muttered. "Bet Tim thinks you clean up pretty good, huh?" "I suppose." She folded her arms across her chest to warm them. "I figured after everything the least I could do was say good-bye. And by the way, he told me to thank you for the card you left for Gwen." Mulder looked over at her. "You warm enough?" His gaze lingered. "Sure." She returned the look. "Bet you're glad to be back," he said. The way he was looking at her made her insides flutter. "Bet you are, too." The driver behind them laid on his horn. "Shit." Mulder glanced into the rearview, eased the Taurus through the light. A few minutes later, he pulled into a parking space half a block from her front door. "You got an umbrella?" he asked. Being a good urban dweller, of course the answer was 'yes.' She always carried one in her shoulder bag. After a moment's consideration, though, she shrugged and gave him a little smile. "No." His eyebrows lifted. "I, um..." Rummaging in a side compartment, he produced a battered black collapsible. "I'll walk you in, then." "Thanks." The drizzle was turning into a shower. Mulder opened the umbrella and got her bag out of the trunk, then shielded her gallantly as she stepped out onto the curb. Huddling together, they hurried along the sidewalk. The umbrella, as it turned out, was the size of a large-ish postage stamp. "It came with my 'Post' subscription," Mulder told her apologetically, slipping his arm around her waist and guiding her around a puddle. "It stubbornly refuses to be lost." She laughed. "You're getting wet." "We better hurry up before I melt, then." Mulder set her suitcase down in the vestibule. Scully reached into her shoulder bag, searching for her keys. "God, I've been away so long..." She freed the ring from a tangle at the bottom of the bag. "Dropped something." Mulder bent down and scooped the something up. "Hey, I never would have pegged you for a Scooby-Doo fan, Scully." Scully smiled. "Saved it from my weight-guess joint." "Souvenir of past glories, huh?" She unlocked the front door. "You could say that." "Nice to have a career to fall back on." Mulder shifted his weight from one foot to the other, echoed the motion with the stuffed dog in his hand. Scully rattled her keys. "You're coming up, right?" They stared at each other. "Absolutely," he said. "God, it's stuffy in here." Scully tossed her jacket over a chair and made for the nearest window. "You know," she said, as she threw it open to the rain, "I don't mind this weather at all. It's a nice change." Mulder didn't answer. "Not that it was really hot in Wyoming," she continued, heading across the room and opening a second window. "It's just I've been spending so much time outside that it's nice to have an excuse to just curl up on the sofa. And I'm starving. We could order something, if you want. Do you want something to drink? I probably have some sodas in the 'fridge, but they might all be diet..." Suddenly aware that she was babbling, Scully turned away from the window and forced herself to pause. Mulder was still standing by the door with his wet hair and his wet trench coat and the Scooby-Doo sitting on his open palm like he was preparing to release it back into the wild. He was also, she noticed, making the panic face again. She swallowed hard. "Mulder?" "Yeah?" "Food?" "Sure. Pizza, maybe?" God, he was gazing. At her. Again. "Pizza sounds good," she said. "Whose pizza do you like best? I usually call Pizza King - they aren't the fastest, but they're a lot better than Dominoes." "Sounds good." "You're soaked. Here, let me hang up your coat." Mulder put down the Scooby Doo and shrugged out of his trench coat. He handed it to her. "Do you want a towel?" He nodded. "Come on." She headed down the hallway that led to her bedroom. Mulder followed her to the linen closet. She threw him a towel. "Thanks." He rubbed his head vigorously. Emerging, he threw the towel over his shoulder. "Nice hair." Scully grinned at him. "Looks like a chopper just flew over your head." He chuckled. "This is something new?" "Come here," she said, reaching out. He stepped closer, bent down. She smoothed his damp hair back into place. God, she'd give anything to have hair this thick. She raked her fingers along his scalp. "That feels good," he murmured. Suddenly her insides were in an uproar. She lowered her hand. "That's better," she managed to say. Mulder straightened. "Thanks." "No problem." Their eyes locked. Then he spoke in a hush. "I've been thinking a lot about what happened out there, Scully." The closet door was at her back. She steadied herself against it. "Me, too." "I think we lost our heads a little." She squeezed the doorknob. Please, not this again. "But - " "But I'm not sorry," he said quickly. He took a step closer. He smelled like the rain. "Me, either," she said. "I mean, it's not - I loved it, Scully. Being with you, I mean. I just wish our first time together could have been - " His body was close now. It warmed her like a roaring fire. "Because I've been waiting so long, and - " The depth of emotion in his voice surprised her. She reached out impulsively, took his hand. "You've been waiting for me?" "A long time. A very long time." She nodded, unable to speak. "And since Sunday I've been so - " He squeezed her fingers and sighed, closing his eyes, " - so scared you don't want - " "Mulder - " His eyes flew open again. They were shining. "Do you, Scully?" She answered without hesitation. "Yes." His voice rose. "I've been trying to tell you for months now - " "Mulder, yes," she said. She had a lump in her throat. He didn't seem to have heard her. " - but I just keep screwing it up and - " "Mulder!" He stopped talking. Stared at her. "I said 'yes'," she said softly. "Oh," he said. His mouth twitched up in just a hint of a smile. "Oh. Okay." She laid her palm against his cheek. "Show me, Mulder." "Show you?" "Show me how it should have been." Mulder's eyes got much wider. He slipped his arm around her waist. "I've been waiting forever to show you," he rasped. "I don't think you know what you're asking, Scully." "I - " Her voice caught in her throat. "I think I do." Then an impish gleam came into his eye. "So you know I'm going to kiss you, right?" "Mu - " His gaze made her ache. She could barely breathe. "And I mean every bit of you, starting here," - he lifted her fingertips to his lips - "and working my way down." He lowered their joined hands. "How's that sound?" "Good," she answered. "And by the time I'm finished," he continued, pulling her closer, "you'll know exactly how I feel. What do you think?" "Sounds like a plan," she answered, wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing his mouth toward hers. "A really good plan." "So we better get started right away?" "Yeah," she murmured, kissing him softly. "There's not a moment to lose." End 12/12 End 'Kinesthesia' Feedback makes my day! spookey247@yahoo.com Author's Notes: I am astonished that this story is finally finished! When I started it, one year, one month, and nine days ago, all I knew was that I wanted to write an undercover casefile. Why, you may ask? I have no idea! One thing's for sure - I had no idea what I was getting myself into. This stuff is hard work! My hat is off to all those writers who make it look so easy. There were many, many times when I almost shelved this story. That I'm finally posting it is almost entirely due to the work of one person, my way- beyond-amazing beta, Amanda. I am the kind of writer who always has too much going on - too many ideas, too many storylines, too many words. In the early stages she listened to lots of rants and read lots of drafts (many that were going nowhere) and helped me narrow my topic and organize my ideas. In later stages she slashed and hacked and re-worked and added and helped me make this mess into a story I could be happy with and that people might enjoy reading. She is a brilliant editor, brave enough to tell me 'these pages have to go!' even when she knows I'm going to pitch a tantrum. In every way, this is her story as well as mine, and I will never be able to thank her enough for all her time and effort. Thanks, A. You're the best in the business. And my bud Sybil stuck with me through this whole thing too, reading the same drafts and rewrites and cheering me on and poking me to finish both in public and in private. She has a great knack for seeing what I want to do with the plot even when I'm not aware myself! And there were times when poking from Sybil was the only thing keeping me writing. Syntax and Leogirl were my test-drivers, who gave fresh brains and insights to the project as we got close to posting. I really appreciate the time these ladies spent on the story. I was getting tired and discouraged and they helped me make it to the finish line. Thanks everybody! As Sybil would say, you're the bestest. Thanks to everyone who read along during posting and put comments up and Haven and sent me mail. I hope you've enjoyed! To learn more about the story, try these URLs! Photos of Carnival Workers by John Decker: http://www.intac.com/~jdeck/carnies/index.html Glossary of Carny Lingo: http://myweb.ecomplanet.com/WYAN4220/mycustompage0003 .htm Amusement Ride Accidents and News: http://members.aol.com/rides911/accidents.htm Amusement Link One Source: http://members.aol.com/parklinks/links.htm To hear Conway Twitty sing "Hello Darlin'": http://www.conwaytwitty.net/ To see Mulder's truck: http://www.classicpickups.com/cgi- perl/folio/imageFolio.cgi?action=view&link=GMC/1970s& image=1979_sierra_k15_short_box_4x4_rod_bonwell.JPG&i mg=8&tt=img To learn about the physics of Amusement Rides: http://www.learner.org/exhibits/parkphysics/ To see a cool Dharmachakra: http://www.karmapa.org.nz/prayers/teach/symbols.html A fascinating travelogue in rural China: http://www.cogsci.uiuc.edu/~daniel/china.htm To see a really freaky Tantric Skull: http://www.tiger- tiger.com/catalog/ritualitems/ts102.jpg Miscellaneous Human Interest Articles about Carnies: http://www.freep.com/news/nw/ecarnies2_20020702.htm http://www.ardemgaz.com/prev/fair/index.asp http://www.pacificnews.org/jinn/stories/3.17/970814- carny.html