TITLE: Fifth Day in Paradise (1/2)
AUTHOR: Kate Rickman


***CHAPTER ONE***


The White Mountains of New Hampshire
Saturday April 1, 2000

The engine chokes, stumbles, then catches again as the car
accelerates up a short rise and around a long curve in the road.
This afternoon the pavement is a black snake twisting through
the snowy countryside, sliding past an occasional small farm,
and winding through tiny hamlets shrouded in white. Tall trees
rise into gray clouds on either side of us as we pass between
tall banks of plowed snow. We're on our way to a small farm
near the town of Ramsey where a local woman channels the spirit
of a child killed almost twenty years ago. We're on our way
because the child, one Megan Cafferty, is about to name her
murderer. At least that's Mulder's take on the situation.

The engine chokes, then resumes its low rumble. Mulder and I
exchange worried looks. The road dips, taking us through a
long meadow, its snowy surface scarred by the twin tracks of
cross-country skis. A sign announces *Meadowlea Bed and
Breakfast, R. Bergen, Prop.*, but I only glimpse a brick
chimney and the edge of a steep gable as we whisk past and
drive into the trees again.

Now the road climbs seriously and the forest closes in around
us. Small hummocks of snow dot the asphalt where wind has
jarred snow from the heavy branches hanging above the roadway.
Mulder slows and drives carefully, the car sliding here and
there, slipping then regaining traction as it struggles up the
steep hill. I sigh, looking at my watch.

Mulder looks over at me. "What?"

"At this rate, the show will be over by the time we arrive in
Ramsey." Pity. In my own twisted little way, I'm sorry to
miss the entertainment.

"The show?" Mulder steers the car onto a switchback and
makes the sharp turn.

"I try to keep an open mind..." I catch the smirk he tries
to hide and immediately protest by swatting him with a
rolled-up map. He is not contrite. "I really do, Mulder.
But I have a gut feeling about this one."

"A *gut* feeling?" Mulder smiles, braking, making another
turn. "I didn't know you had *gut feelings,* Scully."

Wise guy. "My...gut...tells me the only one who will be
talking today is our 'psychic' and that she's either the
murderer, a complete fraud, or both."

"I don't know, Scully. She..." Mulder's voice trails off
as the engine chokes, gasps, then rattles into silence.

The car rolls downhill, the wet hiss of its tires loud
without the sound of the engine in my ears. Mulder twists
the ignition key repeatedly. No luck. He wrestles with the
wheel, sluggish without the aid of power steering. He guides
the car around yet another downhill turn, touching the brakes
carefully. Seamless banks of compressed snow slide past the
windows on both sides.

We negotiate a series of flat curves pressed tightly against
the hillside, the car slowing with each turn. I find myself
leaning forward, willing the car to move on, peering through
the windshield for a safe place to pull off the road.

"There!" I point, but Mulder has already seen the small diner
with its crudely plowed parking lot. We bump into the cleared
area and ease to a stop just a few feet from the road.

"I don't believe this." I stare at the diner, dark, a card
announcing *closed for the season* standing in one window.
Leaning over, I examine the gas gauge. Half full. I sit
back and raise an eyebrow at Mulder.

He twists the ignition key in response. The car whines and
grumbles but does not catch.

"This is an April Fool's joke, right?"

He chuckles - where did he find that, I wonder; my stomach is
twisted in knots - and shakes his head in the negative. He
turns the key again just to show me he's not fooling. "Nope.
It's as dead as a doornail."

I glare at the other April Fool's joke, piled white and high
outside the car. It has been snowing off and on for days, a
late season stretch of bad weather. It is just my bad luck that
Mulder dragged me here in the middle of it, April Fool's on me.
I turn to Mulder and make helpful suggestions, like "Broken
gauge? Bad fuel pump? Clog in the fuel line?" remembering the
informal auto shop conducted almost daily in our garage by my
enthusiastic, oil soaked brothers.

Mulder grumbles, kicks open the door, and climbs from the car.
I make a more graceful exit, joining him as he raises the
hood. We stare together into the indecipherable maze of
hoses and wires and metal parts. Nothing smokes. Nothing is
on fire. No helpful signs saying *fix me* appear under the
hood. The engine ticks stolidly at us as we glare back at it.
Mulder drops the hood with a resonant *thunk* then turns and
leans against the fender. "Well, shit" is his appraisal of the
situation. This time I agree, he's right on the mark.

It's three thirty and already daylight is thin. I find the map
in the car and lay it across the hood. The edges ruffle in
the wind as I hold it there with both hands. The hamlet of
Pemiwisset lies up and over the mountains, maybe three miles
ahead. I shiver as an icy gust blows across the map and into my
face. Many more miles behind us is the village of New
Blandford. I scour the thin red line that snakes between these
two points for some idea of what to do. A fine shower of snow
sifts over my head and splatters across the map. I fold it
carefully and squint at the gray sky.

Mulder grimaces at his cell phone. "No signal," he reports,
squeezing the off button and dropping the useless instrument
back into his pocket. He looks around, fastens on the
deserted diner.

"B and E" I remind him - Breaking and Entering - then add "the
phone's probably turned off for the season anyway."

"You have a better idea?" He stuffs both hands in his
pockets and hunches his back against the wind. "I haven't
seen another car on this road since we left New Blandford."

"What about the Bed and Breakfast place we saw a while back?" I
fold the map and throw it carelessly inside the car, stomping my
feet to warm them. Mulder shrugs. He didn't see it. "It's
down at the bottom of the hill," I explain, waving my hand in a
vague westerly direction.

"It could be closed for the season." He inclines his head
toward the sign in the Diner's window.

"Maybe," I open the trunk and haul out my garment bag,
slinging it over one shoulder, "but I saw a lot of ski
tracks in the area. I'll bet they're open for the winter
crowd." I hand Mulder his duffle bag and slam the trunk
viciously. The boom echoes around the small clearing and fades
away on the wind that snags at the edges of my coat and scours
the bare skin on my face and hands. I pull on my gloves,
flexing my fingers in the fleecy warmth, and look hopefully up
and down the deserted road. Still deserted. I listen carefully
for the sound of an approaching vehicle. I hear nothing but
the moan of wind through the trees. I hitch my bag more
comfortably on my shoulder then walk into the fine veil of
snow that blows sideways in the gray light. Icy snowflakes
pepper my face and I narrow my eyes against them, tucking my
chin more deeply into the warmth of my coat. Mulder falls in
beside me and, for the better part of an hour, we hike along
the road in companionable silence.

Trouble starts on the far side of the hill. Mulder's luck,
which hasn't been running well all day, takes a definite turn
for the worse. Snow blows hard into our faces, making it
difficult to see. The packed surface beneath our feet is
treacherous, slippery in patches; we stumble and slide our way
downhill. Heads down against the wind, we struggle along, side
by side, each helping to steady the other. Then Mulder
suddenly disappears. I am left standing alone on the road
with one of his leather gloves clutched in a numb hand.

"Mulder!"

I scream his name into the swirling whiteness and hear
nothing but the shrill cry of wind in return. A gust batters my
face so I turn my back to it, pulling my collar high around my
neck.

"Mulderrrrr!"

I shout louder this time. Still nothing. I shout again and my
words are hurled back in my face by the wind. When I push ahead
a few steps, one hand raised against the driving snow to protect
my eyes, my foot skates over an icy patch and shoots out from
under me. I slip and hit the road hard on my backside, rolling
over and over, then sliding downhill for a few yards before I
skid to a stop with my garment bag tangled around my feet, my
coat pulled up around my waist, and a thick wedge of snow packed
tight against the small of my back. My knees and elbows and the
soft tissue of my backside all throb painfully.

I struggle to a seated position, wiping the snow from my eyes.
I swat blindly at my lower back to dislodge what's caked there,
too late -- a rivulet of icy water already runs unpleasantly
down the back of my jeans. I look up and down the road as far I
can see in the swirling white, which is about three feet from
the tip of my nose, and see no sign of Mulder, his duffle, or
skid marks that would lead me to him. I unsnarl myself and
cautiously feel my way to the side of the road where I look over
the embankment.

Mulder.

He lies face down in the snow below me, his right arm twisted at
a strange angle, his duffle bag off to one side. A sick chill
runs through me at the sight. I drop my bag and slip over the
edge, tumbling down the slope after him, ending up on my aching
knees at his side. Heart pounding, my gut twisted, I shake his
left shoulder.

A gust of wind plows through the clearing, clattering bare
branches one against the other. Where it combs through the
thick pines, the trees gives voice to a long, low moan. I
flinch when a puff of snow fluffs into my face and the icy air
finds its way down the back of my coat. I barely feel the pain
in my hands and bruised knees as I lean over Mulder, trying to
shake the life back into him.

"Mulder!" This time I try his right shoulder.

"Scul..." he slurs part of my name into the snow. Thank God.
I start breathing again. "Stop," he gasps, rolling onto his
back, grasping his right shoulder with his left hand. "Shit.
It hurts." Pain strangles his words and my breath catches at
the back of my throat again.

I switch to Doctor Mode, pressing and probing his affected
shoulder, expertly using his elbow to firmly rotate the arm
in its socket. Everything seems fine until I notice the
pained expression on his face. "I'm sorry." I squeeze his
icy hand in apology while my stomach does flip flops. I pluck
his loose glove from my pocket and slide it over his fingers,
pushing it up securely around his wrist.

Mulder's fingers curl around mine. "Thanks," he whispers
into my face, so close the warmth of his breath thaws my icy
cheek for a moment. My breath catches for a third time, for a
different reason. I gather my wits and release his hand,
sitting back on my heels. Looking around - looking at anything
but Mulder - I notice my bag has tumbled downhill with me. I
flounder to my feet and retrieve the bag from where it rolled
under a bush.

"I'll probably be stiff tomorrow." He flexes his shoulder
carefully then turns to look at me with a wicked gleam in his
eye for an injured man. "Massage therapy would probably help me
recover faster, *Doctor* Scully." He emphasizes my professional
title in a very unprofessional tone of voice.

"In your dreams," I snap back at him, smiling. I know this
game.

"Yeah," he says softly, "in my dreams."

I feel the familiar heat swell deep inside me. Damn it. He's
done it again. I wish I'd stop melting every time Mulder
flashes those bedroom eyes or uses that seductive tone of voice
on me. It slides right under my shields and grabs me by the
heart before I can defend myself against it. I slip my head and
one arm through the strap on my bag, slinging it across my back.
"Come on," I kick him gently with my toe. I don't need this
complication in my life and, heaven knows, neither does Mulder.
We have enough things that trouble us these days.

I step back to a safe distance as he struggles to his feet,
his right arm held protectively against his waist. I keep
my arms crossed safely against my chest when he stumbles.
When he almost falls, I turn my face into the pelting snow.
"Let's traverse out of here and get back to the road at the
bottom of the hill" I advise as he moves up beside me. I
lead the way through the trees and hear him thrashing through
the snow behind me.

After a few minutes' struggle through drifted snow, slipping
and falling (me), with livid cursing (Mulder), we come to the
bottom of the hill and stumble out of the trees. From the edge
of what I remember to be a long meadow, I see an artificial
light shining a not-so-distant welcome through the snow and the
deepening twilight.

It seems we've cleverly taken a short cut.

We skate across some frozen water in a ditch and back onto the
road where the going is easier. While the snow has eased for
the moment, the wind is still strong -- the cold air needles the
inside of my nose and throat and I don't even want to think
about the minus two digit wind chill while I'm still out here in
it. Head down into the wind, my chin tucked deep inside my
collar, I slog along the snowy pavement at Mulder's side. The
beacon winks on and off through the trees lining the west side
of the road and we push in that direction.

After a few minutes, the tang of wood smoke has grown strong in
the air. Our beacon is clearly a porch light and I'm relieved
to see lighted windows arranged dimly around it. We turn off
the road and stomp the short distance to the covered front porch
of Meadowlea Bed and Breakfast. I lever the brass knocker a few
times then wait.

Warm air spiced with cinnamon and apples blows over us as the
door opens. A tiny woman wearing L.L. Bean from head to toe
stands just inside with one hand on the door and the other
hand holding an embroidery hoop. Her salt and pepper hair is
cropped short and combed neatly into a sensible style.
Diamond earrings soften the look. "Hello, dear. Oh you look
cold. Please come in." We're enveloped by two kinds of
warmth when the door closes behind us. Our unnamed hostess
clucks over Mulder's obviously injured shoulder as she
divests us of our outerwear. She piles the luggage neatly in
a corner of the hall before leading us into the parlor.
Another woman, almost twin to our hostess in age and style,
sits near the fire.

"This is my sister, Maggie Lisbie. I'm Sarah Morgan, by the
way."

"Dana Scully," I remove my glove and offer my hand. Maggie's
hair is more pepper than salt, combed in a softer style than her
sister's. Pearl-leashed reading glasses hang like a necklace
against her deep rose twin set, matching the delicate pearl
studs in her ears. A book lays open in her lap.

"Oh my dear Dana," she tsks as she takes my cold hand in her
warm one. "You're frozen. Sit...sit." She waves me to the
empty settee on the other side of the fireplace. I sink into the
warmth gratefully, holding my frozen hands against the heat of
the flames.

The room is Early American with a twist. Fine maple
furniture, some of it antique, is mixed with sleek wrought
iron lamps, modern art, and woven floor coverings that add
warmth and depth to the lustrous hardwood floors.

"Fox Mulder," my partner introduces himself as he sits at my
side.

"Dana and Fox." Sarah Morgan smiles down at us. "Such a
cute couple."

"Ah, we're not...." I start to explain our complicated
relationship but Mulder interrupts me.

"Do you have a telephone we can use?" He explains about the
car.

"Oh, I'll have to ask the owner. We're just guests here,
Maggie and I," Sarah smiles happily. "From Wisconsin," she
adds.

I make a mental note that it's Land's End from head to toe
instead of Bean.

"Just warm yourselves. I'll get her." Sarah pads across the
room and through swinging doors that reveal a slice of
kitchen before they swing back again.

After a moment, a tall woman in folksy overalls strides
across the room, wiping her hands on a checked towel. She
moves confidently, her eyes friendly, her demeanor open. Her
hair is blonde, streaked with a few wispy strands of gray
that escape a loosely coiled bun at the base of her neck.
"Welcome." She extends her hand in greeting, first to me,
then to Mulder, who stands like a gentleman. "I'm Rebecca
Bergen. Rebecca for short." The familiar cadences of Long
Island flavor her speech.

I smile, liking her already. I explain about our car and ask
about the telephone.

"You'll stay with us," Rebecca decides. "Our last set of
guests just canceled because of the weather. They had such a
lovely room at the back of the house. There's a fireplace
and a nice view of the meadow...when it isn't snowing. Very
romantic. You'll love it."

Romantic? Oh, no. Not for Mulder and me. I rush to correct
her. "Actually, we'd like two rooms if you have them, Ms.
Bergen."

"Rebecca. Please. We all go by first names at Meadowlea."
Rebecca looks from me to Mulder and back again. "Two rooms?
Really? We only have one room available, and it has a nice,
big bed..."

"But, we're just..."

"...and you can each have your own side...if that's what you
really want," she concludes skeptically.

"...partners," I finish my protest but it sounds strange, an
odd word that hangs in the air with nobody hearing it but me.
We haven't been *just partners* for a long time and I'm still
coming to grips with it.

"We'll take it," Mulder decides for us. Then in an aside to
me, he whispers "I'll sleep on the floor if that's what you
want, Scully."

Now I feel childish. I turn to the fire, scowling at myself
as much as I scowl at the situation we've gotten ourselves
into this time. I watch the fire flicker in the grate as
Mulder follows Rebecca to her office.

"Having a fight, dear?" Maggie Lisbie interrupts my reverie.
She touches me gently on the arm, a mother's touch. It
comforts me and I feel my self directed anger drain away.

"No, Maggie, we're not." I'm the only one fighting here.
Mulder has been open about his feelings for me for the past
two years. He does not push me but he often gently reminds
me that the door between us is open. He leaves it up to me
to decide when I can step through.

"I'm glad." Maggie sits back and looks around her. "This is
such a happy house. My late husband and I came here for several
years before he passed on. His memory is strong in this
place. Now my sister comes with me." Her voice grows faint
as she drifts into the memory and we sit quietly, each looking
into the fire, each occupied with her own thoughts.

Suddenly, the front door bursts open to admit a rush of cold
air and a gale of laughter. After much giggling and thumping
in the hallway, a young couple enters the room. She is
petite and blonde; he is tall with red hair. Both have pink
cheeks and noses. "Maggie..." the young woman starts to say,
then cuts herself short when she sees me sitting there. I
introduce myself, smiling, feeling my face bend in all the right
places for a third time tonight. It must be my all-time record
since I joined the X- Files.

"I'm Donna and this is Rob..."

"MacGowan."

"Newlyweds," Maggie adds in a loud whisper.

Donna blushes. The new yellow band on her finger flashes
brightly in the firelight as she looks down at my boots. I
follow her gaze and see water pooling around them on the
hardwood floor. "You know, Rebecca keeps a basket of
moccasins by the door for guests to wear while they're in the
house. I can get some for you. What size do you wear?"

"Six," I murmur, leaning down to take off my wet boots. I
trade them for a pair of soft moccasins then use the towel
that suddenly appears with Sarah Morgan to swab the polished
floor. In the middle of my work, Mulder clomps back into the
room and stops in front of me. A rivulet of water runs down
the side of his boot and pools on the dry, polished wood.

"Good new and bad news" he says over my head as if I'm not
kneeling at his feet. "The guy at Kelly's Garage - the only
garage around, by the way - says he'll pick up the car from
the diner parking lot tomorrow and have a look at it." I tug
at one boot and he lets me slip it from his foot. I hand it
to Donna as he continues. "The people at the Lariat Rent-a-
Car say that if he can't fix it, they'll have another one up
here by tomorrow night." Now I have the second boot in my
hand and Mulder stands in stocking feet amid the dribble on
the floor.

I mouth *size twelve* to Donna, then climb onto the settee
and look at Mulder from a more convenient elevation. "Then
we'll miss Megan Cafferty's big moment."

"Megan Cafferty?" A new voice. I swivel in my seat to see a
slight, dark-haired man enter from the dining room. He walks
with a marked limp and carries a steaming mug in one hand. "You
mean that so-called ghost over in Ramsey?"

Mulder nods and the man continues. "Yeah, I heard about it
so I went over this afternoon. Nothing better to do." He
divides his words between Mulder and me, his long curly hair
bouncing with each turn of his head. "I'm Harold Steinberg,
a feature writer for the Jacksonville Times-Gazette."

"And?" Mulder asks eagerly.

"It seems like *Megan* got shy at the last minute and said
nothing." Harold sits in a wing chair by the front window and
sips his coffee.

"So we..." A soft pattering sound distracts us all. An
elderly Asian couple enter the room in their slippers. They
smile and bow slightly at the waist. The man, barely taller
than his tiny wife, bows again in my direction. "We are
Koichi and Cheiko Nakamura." His English is slow but
precise.

I resist the urge to bow as I introduce myself. Donna hands
Mulder a pair of Rebecca's moccasins and joins her husband
where he leans against the mantle, studying the fire. Mulder
looks at the moccasins and his feet in socks on the wet
floor. I throw the damp towel at his chest.

The Nakamuras bow again and patter into the dining room.

I'm turning back to Maggie Lisbie when a muffled crash and a
shriek come from the kitchen. It's clearly not an 'I dropped
the gravy' type of shriek; the shock and the fear in it raises
the hair on the back of my neck. Mulder and I jump reflexively
from our seats. I reach under the back of my sweater and pull
out my weapon, thumbing the safety as I run into the kitchen on
Mulder's heels. Rebecca stands, wide-eyed, staring down at
something on the floor.

At her feet lays a woman with a large butcher knife stabbed
crudely into her chest.

Blood is everywhere.


***CHAPTER TWO***


"Mary," Rebecca whispers to the corpse. The corpse stares back,
its eyes wide open and pupils dilated.

The other guests pile up in the doorway, their gasps and nervous
whispers filling the air even though the center island blocks
most of the scene from their view.

"You'll need to stay out of the kitchen." I turn and push
gently at the others, easing them back into the parlor. "We
need to preserve the crime scene."

"What do you know about crime scenes?" Harold challenges me.

"Mulder and I, we're FBI."

"FBI!" Donna squeaks, emotions conflicting on her face.

"Yes." Again I push gently but this time the group responds to
my authority - or the gun in my hand - and retreats nervously to
the parlor. I sheathe the weapon, pulling my sweater discretely
over the bulge. Maggie and Sarah perch on the edge of a settee,
each gripping the other's hands. Rob MacGowan turns away and
his wife burrows her face into the front of his sweater. The
Nakamuras stand quietly near the front window, watching, clearly
frightened. Harold Steinberg retreats to the wing chair again
and crosses his knees at me. Five pairs of eyes bore holes
through the side of my neck as I find the crime scene kit in my
luggage and carry it back to the kitchen.

Aside from the blood spatter and the dead body on the floor, the
kitchen is a pleasant room, good for both cooking and gathering.
The cabinets are maple, a recurring theme in this house, with
glass fronts; neatly stacked dishes - service for a horde, it
seems - fill two cabinets on the wall near the living room door,
another cabinet stretches floor to ceiling with a different
style of drinking glass on every shelf. The counters and the
island in the center of the room are tiled in rich cream, the
walls - where they aren't papered or splattered with blood - are
a pleasing sage green. A row of lacquered stools rings the
outside of the island, where people can sit and chat while
Rebecca cooks. A chrome utility cart with a butcher block top
lays at the dead woman's feet, between her and the dining room
door. The floor - except around the corpse - is a medium terra
cotta. It should be easy to clean away the pooled blood or
blend it in if it stains, I find myself thinking. A real Martha
Stewart to the criminal set, I am.

I turn around. There are three doors to the room. A swinging
door divides the kitchen from the front parlor; it's propped
open now. There's a dining room through an identical door on
the left -- I see a table behind Mulder when he pushes through
it with his elbow, pulling gloves over his hands. There's also
an exterior door with a window on top that shows nothing but the
deep gray velvet of almost-night, minus the snow and wind.

Rebecca is on the phone with the Deputy Sheriff, ashen, grimly
nodding, speaking in monosyllables. She replaces the receiver
as if it were glass and informs me the Deputy will come, soon.

I catalog the crime scene, making notes as I go. "Middle-aged
woman named Mary..." Pen poised, I look at Rebecca for the name
of the deceased.

"Kelly. Mary Kelly." Rebecca presses her lips around the name.
"She lives in town and helps me out with the cooking and some of
the cleaning."

I record the name and crouch next to the body that was Mary
Kelly, touching her gently with one gloved hand. "Two wounds
are apparent on the clothed body, one to the left chest and the
other in the midline. A large kitchen knife protrudes from
wound number two." I resist touching the knife, even with a
gloved finger, not wanting to disturb the crime scene before the
Deputy arrives. I look around, tracing the pattern of
splattered blood up the wall and across the ceiling. "From the
distribution of blood spatter it looks like she was at the
counter when her attacker stabbed her. And she's still warm,"
I look up at Mulder.

Mulder looks around me to the counter. "A large cooling roast,
uncarved, on a pewter platter. A small salad decorated with
chopped vegetables and eggs. An apple pie on a cooling rack. A
pot of diced potatoes," he sticks a gloved finger in the water
and snatches it back quickly, "still hot."

"I don't understand," Rebecca's voice wavers on the question,
"why didn't somebody hear something?" Why couldn't we have done
something? Her questions hang in the air.

Where was I when Mary Kelly lost her life? In the next room,
idly chatting with the other guests around the fire? I cast
back through my memory, trying to isolate an odd thump or a
scrape, perhaps a short cry that could have been fear, from the
cheery sounds in the parlor this afternoon. All I hear is the
crackle of the fire, the voices of Sarah and Maggie, Rob and
Donna, and the rush of cold wind around the house. I turn to
Rebecca's question, the simple one. "The first blow, to the
left chest, probably sliced her aorta. She would have lost
consciousness almost immediately, then bled out very rapidly
after that."

Rapidly. I wrinkle my nose. I can almost smell the killer in
the room, he was here so recently. Little prickles work the
back of my neck even though I seriously doubt he's hiding in
Rebecca's pantry, waiting to slash again. Besides, he's unarmed
now -- he left his weapon behind in Mary Kelly's chest. Making
appropriate notations in my book, I look back at the dead woman.
There are no other obvious signs of injury except for a
yellowing bruise along one cheekbone. "Do you recognize the
knife, Rebecca?"

"Yes, it's one of my Henckels." She points to a butcher block
with one empty space.

"An opportunistic killing. Not premeditated." Mulder makes a
notation.

I sit back on my heels. "So it looks like we have a killer who
comes into the kitchen and surprises Mary Kelly. Then he grabs
a knife from the counter and stabs her."

"He? How do you know that, Scully?"

"It's a calculated assumption." I turn and look up at him.
"First, the knife has been embedded deeply into her chest
through the sternum. It would take a great deal of strength to
drive a blade through bone. Second, she appears to have been
struck by a taller person, since the knife enters on a downward
angle." I look back and measure the corpse with my eyes.
"Since Mary Kelly is close to 6 feet tall herself, that would
make her attacker at least that tall or taller yet. Further,
the attacker is right-handed since the knife not only enters her
chest from a superior position but also angles to the left." I
shift my pen in the palm of my right hand, gripping it tip
downward, and chop the air experimentally, showing Mulder how
the blade would naturally angle to the left.

"So the murderer is most likely a right-handed male, over six
feet tall," Mulder summarizes my conclusions, "who surprised...
no, wait -- that can't be it."

"What do you mean?"

"If Mary Kelly was facing the counter when she was stabbed, then
the killer had to be standing between her and the counter. It's
possible that *she* surprised *him.*"

"I see what you mean," I rise and both knees crack loudly.
"Surprised him doing what?"

"Carving the roast?" Mulder suggests, shrugging. "I don't know.
Maybe they struggled a bit, turning so that the killer was
between Mary Kelly and the counter when he struck."

"Possibly. Then again, nobody heard anything. So there
couldn't have been *too* much of a struggle." I lean back
against the far counter, away from the body and the splattered
blood. "So what do we have?"

"A tall man killed Mary Kelly with one of Rebecca's carving
knives," Mulder recites promptly, then points to the blood
spatter, "and he's very likely covered with Mary Kelly's
blood."

"Mary's husband is tall." Rebecca finds her voice.

I catalog Suspect Number One. "Would Mr. Kelly have any reason
to kill his wife?"

"He's...strange. Troubled." Rebecca bites her lip. "And
there's been trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" Mulder asks.

"He...hits her. I've called the Deputy on him a couple of
times." Rebecca thought for a moment. "But he couldn't have
done it."

"Why not?" I think of the old bruise on her cheekbone.

"He runs the local garage. Fox spoke to him on the telephone
just a few minutes ago. In this weather there's no way he could
gotten here...or back...and...uh, killed...Mary in that amount
of time."

"I don't know for a fact that I spoke with Richard Kelly,"
Mulder points out. "Someone picked up the phone, said 'Kelly's
Garage,' and made arrangements to pick up the car tomorrow. It
could have been anyone."

"Call again, let Rebecca speak to him...ah..." I'm distracted
when the lights flicker "...she'll recognize the voice."

Rebecca nods, picks up the receiver, and listens for a moment
before replacing it in the cradle and pronouncing it dead.

Mulder and I exchange glances. The lights flicker again. The
storm, gaining strength, gnaws at the eaves. I peel off my
gloves and shove them into a convenient pocket, find my cell
phone, and study the display hopefully. No service there,
either - not that I expected it. "When was the last time anyone
saw Mary alive?" I call into the parlor.

The answers vary from 'this morning' to just a few minutes ago
when Sarah called Rebecca from the kitchen to meet us. Rebecca.
She's tall. I catalog Suspect Number Two then add Rob MacGowan
as an extremely tentative number three. Technically speaking,
Mulder is Suspect Number Four although I doubt he could raise
his right arm above his chest right now. Maggie and Sarah are
too short to be serious contenders as are Harold and the
Nakamuras. And me.

For the next few minutes, I help Mulder dust for prints -- on
the knife, the knife block, the counter, the back door knob --
leaving a trail of black smudges behind us. Prints are lifted
and carefully transferred to cards for analysis. Before long,
the sound of a laboring vehicle rises over the moan of the wind
and headlights flare against the kitchen window. Three bright
flashes, spaced over a minute or two, precede the Deputy into
the room. He blows into the house on a gust of wind, waving
three Polaroids in one hand, snowflakes frosting his salt-and-
pepper hair. A large duffle bag hits the floor with a thump
"It's nasty out there. Snow's picked up again. I barely
made it up the hill," he announces to everyone, blowing on the
photographs, ruffling his hair with the other hand, scattering
snow everywhere.

I flash my badge, introducing myself and Mulder.

"I'm John Monroe," the Deputy nods, shaking our hands in turn.
He's late middle-aged, with a strong grip and broad shoulders
beneath his thick jacket. He squats by the victim for a moment,
running his eyes over the body then around the room before
standing again. "I'm so sorry about this Rebecca," he turns to
our hostess before shrugging off his jacket and hanging it
carefully on the set of knobs by the door. It promptly begins
to drip on the tiles.

Rebecca nods stiffly and knocks a tear from the corner of one
eye with her knuckle. She stands well to one side of the crime
scene, turned half away. White faces follow us from the other
room.

"What have you found?" Mulder gestures at the Polaroids.

Monroe lays the pictures across the clean counter. "Partially
drifted footprints from the back steps that lead to the covered
walkway," he points to the first two with a gnarled finger. A
large shoe shaped depression shows black against white snow. "I
followed to the end of the walkway but, out past the buildings,
the wind's scoured everything clean." The last picture shows
nothing but smooth white snow.

"What's out there?" Mulder taps the black background in the last
picture, looking to Rebecca for an answer.

The lights burn gold then brown then bright white. Everyone
stops, staring at the ceiling fixture where all four bulbs glow
steadily again.

Rebecca clears her throat. "It goes into the garden, dead and
buried in snow this time of year. Oh." She freezes at the
sound of her chosen words. She dampens her tongue and
continues. "Beyond that is a trail that leads down to the lake.
On the other side is an open meadow, our barn, some other
outbuildings."

"Did you see anyone driving down as you drove up?"

"Like Richard Kelly?" Monroe shakes his head, he obviously knows
the story. "Nope. I was looking for him. Lights were on at
the garage when I drove past."

"He could have skied down, across the lake, and cut through the
fields." Mulder turns to Rebecca. "Does Kelly ski?"

"I don't know, but most everyone around here does."

"It was still pretty much daylight," Monroe checks his
wristwatch, "and Kelly knows the area like the back of his hand.
I'd say it's possible. At any rate, I can question him when I
go talk to him about his wife's...passing." He fiddles with his
coat for a moment, shrugging it on, mating the zipper and
pulling it up. "We need to check the outbuildings. Agent
Mulder?"

"I'm game, but I don't have much of a right shoulder to speak
of," Mulder winces as he confirms my suspicion that he can't
raise his right arm higher than his chest.

"I have a gun," the Deputy reminds him, a smile creasing his
weathered face and filling his sun-bleached eyes, "and I know
how to use it."

"So do I, but I'm right handed," Mulder wiggles his fingers
against his chest.

"You stay here, Mulder," I offer. "I'll go."

"No, I'll go," he brushes aside my offer, "blood and dead bodies
are more your line than mine, Scully."

They are. I'm at home with the dead; Mulder is at home with the
undead and the supernatural. "Go on, then. Go get Sasquatch."

He quickly retrieves his boots from the front entry and puts
them on, tying them awkwardly with one and a half hands before
following Deputy Monroe outside. A mixture of snow and sleet
skitters across the tiles before the door closes with a thump
behind them. After a moment, lights flare and bob off into the
night.

"Well, then," I turn to Rebecca," let's see what..."

The inside lights fail, plunging the house into sudden darkness.

A scream, loud and short, pierces the darkness then only the
whine of wind around the eaves fills the room.

"Damn." A piece of furniture - the kitchen footstool, I think -
bites me in the shin when I turn. I hobble forward, pulling my
gun in the darkness, letting it lead the way. "Hello," I call
ahead, "where is everybody?"

A heavy thump shakes the floor, followed by a long scraping
sound.

My gun bobbles in my grip. "Maggie? Sarah?" I call to the
sisters. Somebody answer me. I slide forward, skating my feet
cautiously along the hardwood floor. I walk into something soft
that yowls like an outraged cat before it melts away in the
darkness. "Maggie!"

"Over here, dear." The voice comes faintly from my right. I can
almost hear her heart pounding in the words.

I breathe again. My grip tightens on my weapon, still pointed
steadily in the direction of the thump.

An orange light explodes in front of me and I turn away,
blinking painfully, recoiling from acrid fumes that burn my
nose. When I re-open my eyes, the glow from a newly lit
candle puddles around an end table laying on its side amid a
pile of books. Purple dots dance over Donna MacGowan's feet
where they are tangled with the books and the polished mahogany
table legs. She's completely limp, supported by her husband
with one hand beneath each of her arms.

OhmyGod, I stumble forward, looking for blood and the wound.

"It's OK. It's just Donna," fond amusement colors Rob's voice.

"Is she...?"

"She's okay. She's terrified of the dark," Rob drags Donna to
her feet and she stands, swaying a bit, before turning her face
into her husband's sweater, "really terrified."

"Jeez," my goose bumps pop one by one, like bubbles, down my
back. My skin tingles where they stood. "You scared me to
death."

"You could have shot us to death," Harold points a finger at my
gun. The candle wavers in his other hand.

I'm swayed by the temptation but I tuck the gun in its holster
at the small of my back instead. Red embers glimmer weakly in
the hearth and I see the unmistakable outlines of Sarah and
Maggie, huddled against the warmth and light. Rebecca clunks
around in the kitchen - away from the crime scene, I hope -
while the candle in Howard's hand etches deep lines across his
glowering face. Something flutters at my elbow.

"God!" I invoke the Almighty and land two feet from where I
stood before, snatching at the gun behind my back.

"Sorry." Mr. Nakamura backs away, head down, his wife backing
behind him.

"No. I'm sorry," my heart thunders in my chest. "Please," I
reach out to them, "it's OK. Why don't we all," I turn, my
gesture including the MacGowans and Harold Steinberg, "sit by
the fire where it's warm. And relatively light. I need to take
your statements while your memories are still fresh."

I work to catch my breath as Rob MacGowan helpfully piles logs
onto the fire and urges it back to a low crackle and a warm
glow. Rebecca gathers candles while we collect in front of the
fireplace. Soon the room is pioneer bright. Cozy. I start
asking questions and taking notes.

The MacGowans had been outside in the snow all afternoon, each
providing an alibi for the other. They arrived the day before
yesterday, from Boston, on a week-long honeymoon. They have a
nodding acquaintance with Mary Kelly, but didn't know her name.
Donna, recovered from her fright, is noticeably pale, even in
thin candlelight. Her eyes avoid contact with mine and slide
back to Rob after each of my questions. She defers to her new
husband for most answers.

Sarah and Maggie had been in the parlor all afternoon, each
providing an alibi for the other. Except, as Maggie points out
helpfully, "for that time you went back to your room, Sarah, to
get the extra embroidery thread." Duly noted. Both sisters had
known Mary Kelly for years, and knew her story.

Harold Steinberg had been in the library, working on his
computer as he had for the past three days, except for the brief
period this afternoon when he'd run over to Ramsey. No one had
seen him go out or come back. In fact, no one had seen him for
hours. No alibi. In the movies, he'd be cast as the villain of
this piece, case closed. I resist temptation to cuff him on the
spot. His crime? Irritating the living crap out of me.

The Nakamuras had been in their room, each providing an alibi
for the other unless they did it together. Granted, they were
both out of sight in the dining room when Rebecca discovered the
body but they are low on my list of suspects. They lack the
physical strength to do it, even with a step stool and a mallet
to drive the knife in.

Finally, there is Rebecca, apparently the last person - before
the murderer - to see Mary Kelly alive. She's obviously
distraught but you never know - her anguish could be over the
crime she's committed rather than for the loss of a friend. She
remains, unfortunately, a secondary suspect, without an apparent
motive.

Then there's Mulder and me, each providing an alibi for the
other and, since I know for a fact that *I* didn't murder Mrs.
Kelly, I also know for a fact that Mulder didn't, those few
minutes when he went alone to Rebecca's office to call the
garage notwithstanding. Strike two FBI agents from the list.
From *my* list, anyway. Mulder will need to remain on the
official one, despite his obvious disability.

Oh, and finally, there's Sasquatch. Maybe it's a snow monster.
Maybe it's Richard Kelly. Maybe it's an unsub - unknown subject
- but we'll see what the Deputy and Mulder drag in.

I'm disoriented by a sudden flare of light and a clutter of
strange noises that swell over the crackling fire. Then I get
it. The refrigerator hums again. Somewhere beneath my feet the
forced air heating system has kicked on. The exhaust fan over
the stove winds up to a steady rush of air. The smoke detector
chirps loudly as it's re-electified. My pupils contract,
painfully pulling the room into focus around me.

"Dana!" There's a sharp edge to Rebecca's voice. "Come look at
this."

I lead the crowd to the kitchen, turning at the door, reminding
them to stay back.

Rebecca leans over a cabinet near the crime area. Inside a
drawer I can see neat rows of white candles. On its edge, a
small piece of red and black fabric has been skewered by a sharp
corner of the cabinetry. Finding my kit, fishing the gloves out
of my pocket and pulling them on again, I use forceps to unhook
it, dropping the shred into the safety of an evidence bag. I
smooth it through the plastic, holding it up to the light.
"Plaid wool," I show it to Rebecca. It reminds me of the
Pendleton shirts my father used to wear in the winter.

"Everyone has one of those in these mountains," Harold announces
from the doorway. "It's the local uniform."

"Well, somebody's uniform has a piece missing," I remind him.
And I wish it were yours, I continue under my breath, still
disappointed I didn't find blood speckles on his face or wet
hair - evidence of a recent shower - on his head. I use the
Deputy's camera to flash Mary Kelly from multiple angles then
lay the photographs on the uncontaminated counter to develop and
dry. I find what I'm looking for next - a neatly folded black
vinyl body bag - in the Deputy's duffle. I lay it on the floor
next to the body, unzipping it, turning the flaps aside. I'm
thankful the counter rises between me and the other guests as I
pull Mary Kelly's feet then her shoulders then her torso in line
over the opening in the bag. It takes a bit of finesse to close
the zipper over the knife handle but I manage; it tents the
vinyl strangely over the chest region.

By the time I finish processing the scene, the boys have
returned empty-handed from their Sasquatch hunt. I carefully
tear the relevant pages from my notebook and combine them with
Mulder's notes, the evidence bags, the photographs and the
fingerprint cards. Three swabs for DNA blood type analysis -
one from inside the victim's chest wound, one from the counter,
and one from high up the wall behind the counter - are each
tucked into their own little bag, labeled, then bagged together
with my business card in case the Deputy needs my help with the
test.

While I'm working, the Deputy shifts from foot to foot at the
door, glancing at the white flurry outside every few seconds,
finally saying "I'd better get going before all of us get snowed
in up here."

I tuck the note and the evidence bags neatly into a one quart
freezer bag courtesy of Rebecca's pantry, zip the lock, and hand
it to Deputy Monroe. "Here are all our notes, the evidence,
fingerprint cards...everything we collected."

He takes it with thanks.

"We'll drop by and see you on our way out of town tomorrow," I
tell him, peeling off the sweaty latex and tossing the well-used
gloves in the trash this time, "touch base on the case, let you
know anything more we find out between now and then."

"Thanks for all your help, Agent Scully, Mulder. It was pretty
remarkable, you just stumbling in here, right on top of a
murder."

It was, wasn't it? The serendipity is a bit creepy. No April
Fool's joke intended. I force a smile.

"Can you help me out to the car with the...bod...uh, he glances
at Rebecca, who turns away with a hand over her mouth, "...Mary,
Agent Mulder?"

"Uh," Mulder shrugs his shoulder and winces. "Maybe Rob...?"
his voice trails off.

Rob MacGowan stands to the rear of the pack clotted around the
kitchen door. At the sound of his name, he drifts backward a
few steps.

"Rob?" I give him the double eyebrow treatment.

He freezes then scuffs forward, dragging his moccasins slowly
across the hardwood floor. The crowd at the door parts to let
him through. "I need to get my boots," he motions back to the
other room.

"Here, wear mine," Mulder offers, bending to undo the laces. He
freezes, sucking air between his teeth with a loud hiss. He
wobbles to a standing position and leans back against the wall,
holding the palm of his left hand hard against the front of his
right shoulder. He's pale and his eyes are unfocused, staring
into the middle distance.

"Mulder!" I cover the short distance in two steps, pulling up
with my arms already around him. I cup his forehead in one
palm, knowing full well that it's his shoulder that's hurt.

He fits me under one arm, leaning on me. I stagger a little but
take his weight. "It's just the strain, Scully. Don't worry.
It's tightening up, just a spasm. Hurts like bloody hell,
though."

I'll bet it does; it's killing me.

"You want me to drive you down the hill to the hospital, Agent
Mulder? I'm going that way..." the Deputy offers. "...only I
can't guarantee I'll bring you back before the roads are plowed
in the morning."

"I've got some Motrin in my bag. That should help." I answer
the Deputy quickly, not taking my eyes away from Mulder's pale
face. I stroke the hair out of his eyes. "Let me get it for
you."

He nods, hissing again as the movement jars his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry." For the second time today, I'm sick to my
stomach.

"For what, Scully? You didn't knock my feet out from under me
and push me down the hill, did you?"

Of course not. I want to say I feel terrible that you're hurt
and I wish I could bear your pain for you, but I don't. I think
these things but never say them to anyone, not even Mulder.
Instead, I steer him to a stool and leave him balanced there
while I retrieve the bag with my medicines in it.

When I return, the Rob and the Deputy have disappeared with the
body bag. Mulder has a glass of water in his hand, ready for
the pill. I shake a 600 milligram tablet into my palm and offer
it to him. "You need to eat with that," I remind him as he
swallows it down and hands the glass to me.

"Eat?" Mulder laughs at me, his eyes drifting around the carnage
in the room.

"No, seriously," I insist , "Motrin..."

"Where are the Wellses?" Sarah asks suddenly. Everyone turns
and stares at the verbal rabbit dangling over her proverbial
hat.


***CHAPTER THREE***


"What is or who are the Wells?" Mulder asks, wiping his lips
with the back of his hand.

"Grace and Davis Wells, from Atlanta," Rebecca fills in the gap.
"They're staying in the apartment above the garage." She lifts
the curtain and cranes her neck to see through the trees.

I follow her eyes to a light patch in the swirling show. It
looks like the Wellses are home.

"Did you speak to them, Mulder?"

"No. We knocked and no one answered, the door was locked, and
the lights were out."

"Well, they're on now."

Rob struggles through the door, only a thin strip with his eyes
Showing between the band of his knit cap and the zipped up
collar of his parka. Before he can close the door on the storm,
I turn him around and push him back into it. "Bring the Wellses
please," I shout over the wind. It sounds a little like 'fetch,
boy' to my ears, so I add an "if you don't mind" to the end of
it.

The door and windows rattle in their frames as a gust batters
the house. I peer through the curtains, half expecting to see
Rob plastered against the window like a cartoon character, his
face spread across the glass. Nothing. It's black out there
except for the square of white light, high and on the right,
still diffused like the glow through a bathroom window.

"Is it okay to come in there, now?" Maggie Lisbie stands at the
kitchen door, her sister behind her.

"Yes, the scene has been documented."

Maggie consults her sister briefly. "We'd like to clean it up
for Rebecca...before the bloodstains set and ruin the
wallpaper...it's so lovely with those sprigs of herbs and
flowers..."

Sarah eyes the drying bloodstains from behind her sister's
shoulder, each hand washing at the other.

"Sure," I dig around in my kit, finding two pairs of gloves and
offering them to Sarah. The rust of dried blood might
add an interesting accent to the light sage background of the
wallpaper...or not. "You might want to wear these."

The gloves dangle from the tips of Sarah's fingers. "Thank
y...oh!"

The kitchen door pops open with a bang, bouncing off the wall.

Three people blow into the room. With a gust of snow, the wind
sweeps things off counters and sends them tumbling, crashing and
clattering, across the tiles. Some bounce off the shins of the
gallery jammed into the kitchen doorway. Mulder launches
himself at the door, pushing hard against it with his bad
shoulder, forcing it back into the frame with a loud thump.
Everyone blinks at everyone else for a moment. The kitchen
temperature has dropped at least 20 degrees.

Davis Wells, tall, dark, and handsome, appears to be unruffled
by the storm he just walked through to get here. I look down,
surprised to see snow boots instead of polished loafers on his
feet. Where Mr. Wells is tall and dark his wife Grace is
petite and blonde. She's bundled to the cheekbones in an
expensive sheepskin jacket, the kind turned inside out with a
thick layer of creamy fleece on the inside. Rob stands behind
them, dripping, just inside the door.

Davis shrugs out of his jacket and slips it over a peg on the
wall, smoothing his short cropped hair with both hands. "I
understand there's been a problem?" he asks Rebecca. I find
myself drawn to his grace, his refinement, the timbre of his
voice, and the rich glow of his caramel skin.

Rebecca chokes up again. Everyone stares at the rusty spatter.

"Mary Kelly was murdered this afternoon. Stabbed to death with
one of Rebecca's kitchen knives." I watch the Wellses closely.

Davis surveys the mess systematically, looking at the mess on
the floor, following the blood spatter across the counter and
up the wall. Grace blanches, her hand going to her mouth.
"Who..." her eyes skip from Rebecca to Harold to Rob MacGowan.

"We don't know," I step in. "The Deputy is going to question
her husband."

"Rich..." Grace bites the name in two.

"Richard Kelly, yes." Suspect Number One. I note that Davis is
well over six feet and add him to my list as Suspect Number
Five. "Where have you been for the past hour or two?"

"In our apartment. Over the garage." Grace answers for both of
them, rushing the words together, coming out more like a breathy
inourapartmentoverthegarage, before turning to her husband for
confirmation.

"We were taking a nap," Davis explains, whisking some unseen
lint from both sleeves of his sweater.

"I was taking a nap." Grace shrugs out of her jacket and hurls
it at an empty peg. It catches and hangs there, one arm
dangling toward the floor. "You were making noise."

"I was *reading.*" He barely flicks a glance in her direction.

"Well, you were turning the pages loudly. And banging drawers
in the bathroom downstairs." Grace's nasal whine doesn't sound
like Atlanta but I can't quite place the faint accent.

"For Christ's sake, Grace..."

"Shut up, Davis. People don't need to hear this."

Davis knits his lips together and glares.

Grace shrugs and pushes her way past him, into the dining room,
throwing "I'm hungry" over her shoulder as she leaves.

Eight jaws drop as the swinging doors rock back and forth behind
her.

Without comment, Davis pushes through the doors after her,
bouncing the one off the dining room wall with a solid thump.
We flinch as a group and hold our collective breath until
Rebecca speaks. "I guess we should eat something," she sighs,
turning away from the blood-splattered food. "I have sandwich
things in the refrigerator."

Maggie wedges a large bucket into the sink and turns on the
water. "You go ahead and eat, Rebecca..."

"I don't think I could eat a thing," the refrigerator muffles
her voice.

"Try, dear. You need to get a little something down, just to
balance the shock you've had." She throws a sponge into the
suds, wrestling the heavy bucket out of the sink and onto the
floor.

I make a mental note to find that sponge and throw it away when
Maggie's done cleaning. I don't want it touching anything I'm
going to eat from.

She kneels, wringing the sponge, and starts wiping the
cabinetry, meticulously turning the sponge through each curve in
the wood. "You go on ahead and eat," she senses our eyes on her
back.

I help Rebecca work on a small table at the far side of the
kitchen. We lay sliced meats and cheese on an attractive
platter and pile a tray with extras like lettuce, tomato,
pickles, and sprouts. I carry the veggies in one hand and a
caddy filled with jars of mustard, mayonnaise, and a pot of
butter in the other, following Rebecca through the door into the
dining room. Mulder brings up the rear with baskets of bread
and rolls. The other guests are there waiting for us.

"No, no, no," Grace waves away the cold cuts, "I'm a vegetarian,
you know that. I want a salad."

I think of the blood-splattered salad still sitting on the
counter and am tempted to serve her that one -- there'd be extra
protein in it. Vegetarians always need to be watchful to get
enough protein, right? My imagination is cut short by Davis
Wells's practical solution to the problem. "Look Grace, here's
some nice cheddar and tomato and lettuce. That will make a good
sandwich for you." His voice, deep and smooth, seems to quell
her peevishness for the moment. He starts putting it together
on her plate.

I turn and find Mulder has assembled a nice turkey on rye,
putting it, open faced, on my plate with lettuce and tomato.
One handed. "Mulder, thank you," I nearly blush at his
kindness. I'm the one that should be tending to him. He's
injured and I'm not.

"You call him *Mulder*? How preppy." A bit of Donna's vitality
has come back with the color in her cheeks. She takes a bite of
her sandwich and retreats again.

This time I feel the heat creeping across my face. I fold my
sandwich together, taking a studious bite. Why do I call him
Mulder? It's part of the boys club I've joined. Why not Fox?
It's intimate. Fox. It's something to breathe in a moment of
passion. It's another wall we've built between us. In fact,
Mulder erected that one, himself, years ago. Now he knocks
bricks out of that wall from time to time, calling me Dana. I
resolutely call him Mulder in turn.

Conversation is terse and distracted at the dining table. Davis
and Grace hurl angry glances at each other. Donna hides behind
her roast beef on rye while Rob fascinates himself with Donna.
The Nakamuras eat quietly, whispering in rapid-fire Japanese. I
consciously avert my eyes from Harold's smug face; there's
something in his eyes - the smug twinkle there - that makes me
want to hurl the pot of mustard at him. Rebecca drifts between
dining room and kitchen, tearing at the edge of a sandwich with
her teeth. Mulder has polished off a ham on whole wheat and is
working his way through a turkey on white with lettuce and mayo;
nothing much disturbs Mulder's digestion. Mulder indulges in
conversational interrogation of the Wellses, discovering that
they are a husband-wife team of investment bankers who manage a
variety of investment funds for a private firm they founded
several years ago in Atlanta. Other than that, the occasional
verbal foray draws the group out of their thoughts and into
conversation but dies quickly and, by the end of our meal,
nobody is saying much of anything to anyone.

The wind has fallen to a gentle murmur by the time I drag my
feet down the short hallway behind Mulder and Rebecca, hauling
both my bag and Mulder's. The precipitation now is more sleet
than snow if the irregular tapping against the windows is any
indication. Double doors at the very end of the hall open into
a cozy room lit by firelight and the glow from a small Tiffany
lamp with a ruby red shade. In the middle stands a four poster
bed - mahogany this time - covered with a Battenburg lace
comforter. In the middle of the white lace lays a gray Siamese
cat, curled, unworried by the entrance of strangers into her
room. Rebecca introduces her. "This is Princess Mia. She
comes with the room although, if you like, I can take her for
the night."

Princess Mia stretches sensuously, blinking at us with sleepy
blue eyes. A huge yawn stretches over her face, pulling her
eyes open then bouncing them shut again. She licks a paw and
begins to wash herself idly.

Rebecca shows us the attached bathroom then excuses herself for
the night. We find our jammies and pull them on, each taking a
turn in privacy of the bathroom. We do our teeth and wash our
faces together, each expertly dodging the other in the small
space. We've shared a bathroom hundreds of times on the road,
particularly when staying in small towns and country inns. It's
the other part, the getting into bed together, where we lack
depth of experience.

Mulder winces, rotating his arm gingerly at the shoulder. "I
think you should give up your side of the bed to the Princess."
The cat's stretched long on the edge of the bed warmed by the
fire.

"Oh, really? That's my side, is it?" I slip beneath the
blankets from the cooler side and creep over, careful not to
disturb the cat where she lays with her tummy turned to the
warmth.

Mia barely flicks an ear as I crawl in behind her.

I hold the covers for Mulder, who awkwardly follows me in, his
right arm tight across his chest to avoid pulling at his
shoulder when he moves. I pull the comforter up to his chin and
he snuggles into it. His left hand tugs at my shoulder and I
agree, rolling against his side; his good arm gathers me against
him. His shoulder makes an excellent pillow. We lie together,
listening to the crackle of the fire, the gentle sigh of the
wind, and the tick of sleet against glass. The little red
Tiffany lamp flickers then goes out.

I listen to the crackle of the fire for a moment. It throws
golden shadows into the room from behind a fine brass grate.
"There goes the power again."

"I don't need light to sleep."

"It will get cold when the fire dies down."

"Then we'd better snuggle, don't you think?"

"Mulder," his name rumbles in the back of my throat like a purr.
I cough - where did that come from? - and start over. "Go to
sleep, Mulder."

He doesn't reply.

"Mulder?"

He's asleep. I wish he did what I asked so easily every time.
I fidget within the constraint of his arm. Something tickles at
the back of my mind, something I saw or heard tonight that
wasn't quite right. I try to put my finger on it but it slips
away every time, a greasy eel of a memory, just out of reach.
The fire burns to red embers before sleep finally takes me to
join Mulder in dreams.


Sunday April 2, 2000


The gentle touch of gray light draws me from my sleep. Turning
my head to the window I see snow sifting from the sky, drifting
groundward, undisturbed in the still air. I stretch and yawn,
turning toward Mulder who's pressed against my back.

Correction. It's Princess Mia I feel, lying between Mulder and
me, stretched long like a weenie in a warm bun. She lifts an
eyelid at the disturbance, eyeing me thoughtfully. I stroke the
length of her softness, from ears to tail, and she stretches so
hard she shudders with the effort, rolling onto her back. Her
soft gray paws dangle oddly in air and a soft rumble rises from
her throat.

"Ah, to be a cat," Mulder whispers above my head. When he
tickles her pale belly she rejects him with a sharp kick from a
hind leg.

I giggle into my pillow, stroking her tummy with my fingertips.
Mia relaxes into my caress. "Obviously I rate and you don't."

"Well then, I'll give you girls some privacy and take a shower,"
he slides from the bed, working his right arm in its socket.
His range of movement, though forced, is better than
yesterday's. Mia chirps at me, drawing my attention back to her
itchy spots. I scratch dutifully and am rewarded with loud
purring.

An hour later, rested and washed, we return ownership of the big
room to the Princess. The aroma of toast and bacon draws us
directly to the kitchen where I'm amazed at the transformation
in the room. Everything is neat and clean. No bloodstains mark
the floor, cabinets, or herbal wallpaper. There is no evidence
of the sooty powder we dusted over everything to raise
fingerprints, even in the tan grout that crisscrosses the
countertops. Rebecca's haggard expression is the only
indication that something terrible happened here recently.

I push through her palpable waves of grief and offer a "good
morning."

"Morning," Rebecca stops chopping fruit and looks up, using the
back of one hand to brush wisps of hair out of her face. Today
her bun is carelessly knotted, already coming undone, with
hairpins slipping out of the twist. One has caught on the
oversized sweater that droops long over the jeans she wears.
She forces a thin smile that vanishes before it rises to her
eyes. "Did Princess Mia bother you last night?"

"No," Mulder lays his right hand on my shoulder, responding for
both of us, "we were effortlessly manipulated into being Mia's
own personal heated cat bed."

"That sounds like my Mia," dry leaves rustle in the back of
Rebecca's throat. "John...Deputy Monroe called this morning.
He asked that everyone go down to headquarters and give their
fingerprints for comparison to the prints you found in the
kitchen."

"And?" I sense there is more, trying not to squirm beneath the
unaccustomed weight of Mulder's hand. I want it there, really.

"This has met with an interesting mix of reactions," Rebecca
drops a handful of chopped apples into a bowl and pours a bag of
walnuts onto the board. She levers the chef's knife across the
nuts in short, quick strokes. "The Wellses agreed immediately.
They decided to ski into town and left an hour ago, after a
quick breakfast. The Nakamuras also agreed to have their prints
taken. However, they - respectfully - asked to be released from
the remainder of their reserved time at Meadowlea. If Deputy
Morgan approves, they'll be returning to Osaka this afternoon.
Apparently Chieko is unnerved by the...uh...events."

"Well, who wouldn't be?" Harold enters behind us, sporting a red
and black wool shirt.

There's obviously nothing wrong with Harold Steinberg's nerve.
I regret leaving my weapon locked in the suitcase upstairs.

Harold senses my antagonism and flaps his untucked shirt in my
direction. "See? No missing pieces."

I take advantage of the situation and scrupulously examine his
shirt, all the way around. No rips or tears, not even a loose
thread inside the hem. Damn. I have a pair of cuffs in my room
with his name on them.

Rebecca tells Harold about the fingerprint request, dumping the
chopped nuts into the bowl with the apples.

Harold nods slowly, pouring himself a cup of coffee and browsing
through several muffins before selecting one from the basket on
the counter. "I'll do it this afternoon, after the roads are
cleared. Neither me nor my Miata are very good in the snow, I'm
afraid. For now, I'm off to work."

"What are you working on?" Mulder asks.

"A Pulitzer," he replies simply, pushing through the swinging
doors into the parlor.

A Pulitzer. The doors flap back and forth in my face. Mulder
draws me back to the conversation with a light touch on my elbow
then tucks the hand into his jeans pocket, leaving an empty spot
on my shoulder.

"So everyone has been cooperative about the fingerprinting?"
Mulder draws Rebecca back to her tale.

"Not actually," she washes several stalks of celery then groups
them on the cutting board and begins slicing from one end.
"Surprisingly, Rob and Donna MacGowan were evasive about when
they'd go down and have it done. I offered to give them a ride
when I go with Sarah and Maggie this afternoon but they
declined, said they'd go...whenever. It was not at all clear
when that would be." She tips the cutting board and the celery
slices tumble on top of the apples and nuts.

"But they're still here, they haven't run off," I clarify the
situation.

"Oh yes. Their car and their things are here. They've gone off
skiing again." Rebecca pulls a large red grape from its cluster
and slices it in half, tossing the halves into the bowl with the
rest of the salad. "They took sandwiches, though. I don't
expect to see them before dinner time."

I busy myself plucking grapes for Rebecca who slices them up as
fast as I pile them on the cutting board. "My prints and
Mulder's are on file in the national database, so we don't need
to go down today."

"That's what John said," she twists the lid off a jar and spoons
a generous heap of mayonnaise on top of the fruit, folding it
in. In the mid-fold, she chuckles -- a hollow sound, humorless.
"I came up here after my divorce, with my share of our assets,
and bought this place. I bought it because it was a refuge in
the middle of paradise even though it was a bit run down...just
like me at the time."

She abandons the salad, wiping her hands on a cloth, leaning
back against the counter. "I opened Meadlowlea to guests in the
winter of '88, advertised it as a rustic retreat, a hunting
lodge sort of place. Even so, you'd be surprised at how little
trouble I've had. We had a drunken fight once, between husband
and wife, in the library. They took out a few rows of books
and a vintage lamp I really liked. A couple of years after
that, I found a guest had unbolted one of the more attractive
light fixtures in his room and taken it with him. One
guest accidentally fired his hunting rifle into the ceiling --
fortunately his room was on the top floor and it only took out
part of the roof. Odds and ends of silverware, ashtrays, and
small decorative items have disappeared over the years, nothing
really big, nothing that I couldn't cope with.

"Then my ex-husband died and, much to my surprise, the rat left
me the rest of our community assets. I used it to renovate the
entire property, put in the garage apartment where there'd just
been a loft, and began to attract a whole new class of
clientele. I could afford Mary..." she chokes up for a moment,
then continues,"...and people like Maggie and Sarah starting
coming. Repeat customers I'd see year after year. Friends
almost.

"*This* was never supposed to happen here." Her lips are tight.
Her eyes, rolled to the ceiling, puddle with tears. After a
long moment when we all consider how things like *this* end up
happening, she straightens, visibly gathering herself. She
rummages beneath the counter and produces a roll of plastic
wrap. "Why don't you spend the day outside? They won't be able
to tow your car until the road's plowed and the roads up here
aren't usually plowed until later in the day. If you leave your
keys on the table in the front hall, Richard will pick them up
when he goes by. He can call you later with the damages."

"Richard Kelly? After all this, are you sure he'll be by?" I'm
surprised. "He isn't too distraught?"

"Or in jail?" Mulder adds his two cents' worth.

"He's holding up. I spoke with him this morning." She applies
a thin drum of the wrap to the top of the bowl and puts it
in the refrigerator. "He'll come."

Wow. I wouldn't be so cool if it were Mulder in the morgue with
a Henkels in his chest. I exchange a look with Mulder that says
he feels the same way, then tear myself away from the emotion,
crossing to the window.

"I wouldn't mind having a look around in daylight," I press my
nose to the fogged windowpane, rubbing steam away with the cuff
of my shirt. There's a garage nearby with the red dome of a
barn rising behind it. Snow has drifted in heaps against the
side and front of the garage, nearly up to the bottom of the
first floor window. To the left is a covered walkway sided in
glass that extends from the glass-in part of the back porch. It
disappears around the side of the garage without a break in the
glass for a door or other opening. Pine trees, heavy with snow,
fringe the sky in the distance.

"I've got quite a collection of cross-country skis and boots in
the cellar. Something had ought to fit the two of you."

"Uh...I don't really ski," Mulder hesitates.

He doesn't ski at all is my interpretation of the funny look on
his face.

"We've got snowshoes as well. They're not as popular with our
guests but they'll get you around on this snow."

"That's right, Scully. You'll be buried to the hips if you try
to walk around in this." With his long legs he'd be stepping
through the drifts like a Lipizzan stallion.

I'm game. We forage through the warmers in the dining room,
collecting eggs and bacon and buttered toast for a hurried
breakfast before I run upstairs to get a few more bits of
outerwear - and my weapon; I might find the opportunity to plug
Harold this afternoon and don't want to miss the moment - while
Mulder goes to the cellar with Rebecca. The Princess is passed
out in the middle of the comforter as if we never disturbed her.
One ear tracks me like a radar dish as I move around the room,
collecting our gloves and scarves and hats.

Mulder waves two sets of fancy aluminum snowshoes at me when I
join him back in the kitchen. "Just our sizes, Scully. It's
fate."

Great. We bundle ourselves, wrapping heads and necks and hands
against the cold, slipping into our parkas and zipping them up.
Rebecca steps outside when we do, showing us how to fasten the
straps to our boots and how to use the ski poles to assist in
our walking. Mulder and I thump experimentally around the back
porch, our snowshoes punching through the thin layer of
drifted snow to clank against the cement.

"I think you're set," Rebecca slaps her mittened hands together,
spraying us with ice crystals. "You've got water and your
lunch," she nods at Mulder; I see he has a small day pack slung
over one shoulder.

"And my cell phone..."

"...not that it's been very useful up here so far," I remind
him.

"Yeah, but I feel naked without it." He does; I know. I feel
funny without mine, too. It's zipped in my jacket pocket.

"There's an emergency aid kit in the bottom of the pack with
some chemical hand warmers and mylar wraps. Heaven forbid you
might need them."

"We'll stay on the main trails," Mulder promises her, clanking
off into the covered walkway.

I clump along in his wake until we reach the snowdrift at the
walkway's end. From there, a narrow path punched through the
snow winds around the back of the garage to a covered stairway.
The rest of the yard and meadow lays trackless in the weak
morning light.

I follow Mulder onto the snow and find myself walking over a
cloud. A few steps way from the garage, we're in the woods and
I hear nothing but the sound of wind in the trees and the whump,
whump, whump of our snowshoes churning the snow. Snow, still
falling, mists the landscape like a Hallmark card.

I work foot and pole into a secure rhythm, breathing deeply of
pine scent as we move through the wooded area at the top of the
ridge and begin to traverse downward, toward the east side of
the lake. I'm lost in the rhythm and the sight of Mulder's
tight ass working hard beneath the thick denim of his jeans, the
power of his muscular thighs clenching with each step, when he
stops and turns to me, leaning on his poles. "So what do you
think?"

"Uhhh..." is about all I can say, stumbling to a halt next to
him. I struggle to wash the image of his gluts out of my short-
term memory and bring details of the case back in. I hide my
confusion by taking a sip of the water he offers me and looking
at the paradise around us.

We're standing on a trail that splits a gentle slope between the
tree line and the lake. The downhill edge of the trail is
rounded where many skis have tipped over the lip and run down to
the snow-covered lake. The lake - more of a pond, really - is
pristine white like the meringue top of an unbaked pie. Across
the lake, trees heavy with snow struggle up the hillside to meet
a sky that hangs low, brushing their tips. Snow trickles down,
frosting it all.

"Suspects, Scully," Mulder urges me, "whaddya got?"

I start with the least suspicious. "I don't think the Nakamuras
could possibly have done it. Not only do they not have clear
motive..."

"...does anyone but Richard Kelly?"

I bob my head in agreement and continue, "...but they are too
small in stature to have driven a knife into Mary Kelly's
chest."

"Maybe Chieko sat on her husband's shoulders to do the job."

"Well, that's formally possible, but I think we can rule them
out in the practical sense."

Mulder suggests the next most unlikely suspects. "What about
The Lands End Sisters?"

"You noticed that, too?" Sometimes its spooky how much Mulder's
mind works like mine, not necessarily a good thing. "I think
the probability of Sarah and Maggie being involved is about the
same as the Nakamuras being involved. It involves a decimal
point and a lot of zeros."

"I agree. I think those four are not very likely suspects."

Now we start on the interesting part of the list. "Rob and
Donna MacGowan are a different story. They're young. Donna's
flighty. I can't think of a single reason why either of them
would stab an middle-aged woman to death. But, from the start,
Donna's been on edge about something, as if she has something to
hide."

"I agree with you, Scully. Donna's hiding something and Rob's
protecting her." Mulder stamps his feet, embossing waffle marks
on the snow around him. "Even though I can't imagine a motive,
they're still on my suspect list."

"What about Harold Steinberg?" I blow into my gloved hands.

"You don't like him. Why?"

"It's his smug attitude. From the moment we walked in, he had
this posture of superiority, like he saw the big picture and we
were two mangy rats running aimlessly through the maze."
Scully.

"Mangy rats?" Mulder's grinning at me.

"Mangy Maze Rats. I feel that level of disdain, yes." My voice
sounds defensive and I'm irritated with myself. "What do you
think?"

"Hmmm, I don't know. I don't think he killed Mary Kelly. He's
not much taller than you are, Scully. He's disabled in some way
since he walks with a heavy limp, at times almost dragging his
right foot behind him. I don't see him as being nimble enough
to kill a woman in the next room without a sound."

Mulder has a point. "Still...Harold is guilty of something. I
can just feel it."

"We're all guilty of something, Scully."

"I know that." That's why I go to confession when I can. "But
for what it's worth, I think I'll put him on my list."

"OK. We can agree to disagree on that one." A Gray Jay
distracts Mulder as it glides overhead. He loses it in the mist
above the lake before reclaiming his train of thought. "What
about Rebecca?"

"She didn't do it." I'm firm.

"You're so sure. Why?" Mulder asks.

"It's just a gut feeling I have." Gut feeling. I watch for his
reaction and he doesn't disappoint me.

"Wow, Scully. Two gut feelings in two days -- three if you add
you *feelings* about Harold Steinberg. If I don't watch out I'm
going to have to consult with you in your tent from now on, the
one with the 'The Madame Dana Predicts Your Future' sign
outside."

I bend, scooping a handful of snow then hurling it at him; it
disintegrates harmlessly in midair. "Do *you* think Rebecca did
it?"

"My gut says no," he smirks - at me, not at Rebecca's innocence.

"Then what about the Wellses?" They also rub me the wrong way.

Mulder squints against the landscape and thinks for a moment.
"I don't know about them. There's a problem there. It could be
simple marital tension. Grace seems jumpy..."

"...like Donna."

"Ummm yes, but in a more predatory way. Grace seems nervous."

"And Davis does not." He doesn't, not to me.

"No," Mulder agrees, "he's as smooth as silk. Maybe that's
equally suspicious, to be unruffled by a murder in the house
where you are staying."

"He's an investment banker. Maybe staying cool in a dynamic
situation is part of the job description."

"But Grace is banker, too. But then," Mulder slants a look at
me, shifting on his snowshoes, "Grace is a woman."

I elect to ignore the bait. Brushing it aside, I think of our
prime suspect. "What about Richard Kelly?"

"Well, he batters his wife. It wouldn't take a leap of logic to
extend that to murder."

"But how often do batterers simply murder their wives as opposed
to batter them to death?" I wonder aloud. "Whoever murdered
Mary Kelly did it in complete...or near...silence. No argument.
No fighting. No struggle."

"Hey!" Mulder derails the discussion, "we missed a suspect."

"Who?" Didn't we think of everyone?

"Mary Kelly. Maybe she was despondent over her situation,
didn't see a way out, and whammo!" he mimes stabbing himself in
the chest.

"You know as well as I do that people don't kill themselves by
stabbing in the chest. They take pills, they use guns, they
slice their wrists..."

"There's hara-kiri."

"That's a specialized case. It's a ritual Japanese death,
slicing the abdomen," I stress the anatomical location, "not the
chest, releasing the intestines. I'd be more likely to buy that
theory if it were Koichi Nakamura who had died."

"I'm just being thorough." He's just being Mulder, grinning at
me.

I stomp my feet up and down on the snow, not feeling much of my
toes anymore. "I need to get moving, Mulder. I'm getting
cold."

He spikes the snow with both poles and shakes the snow off each
snowshoe, one at a time. "Then lead on. Where does your gut
say we should go?"

I look across the lake and see twin furrows crisscrossing the
snow, evidence of many skiers passing there. In fact, there go
a family now -- two tiny skiers gliding easily across the snowy
ice followed by two smaller figures, gangly and awkward,
chopping along in their parents' wake. They've moving slowly,
south to north, out for a nice Sunday's glide.

Then I follow the trail we're on - descending into the trees,
winding at or close to the lake shore - and see only two sets of
tracks. I remember what Robert Frost wrote of these woods, that
taking the road less traveled had made the difference, and so I
strike out for the shore with Mulder bringing up the rear.

Maybe it was the dreamy presence of Robert Frost and his snowy
wood that uncoupled my feet and my brain but, while traversing
a copse of young pines, pushing through some overgrown shrubbery
not far from the lake's edge, I find myself suddenly face down
in the snow.

"Scully!" Mulder comes through after me, pushing the brush
aside, concern in his voice. He ends up face down in the snow
beside me. "What the hell?" he rolls onto his back, wincing a
bit as he uses his right arm to push himself to a seated
position. "What the hell?" he says again, this time to the
bushes.

I sit up and follow his gaze. "Damn Robert Frost" is all that
comes to mind.


***CHAPTER FOUR***


Beneath the bushes, the face of Davis Wells is dark against the
pristine white. A thin rivulet of blood has leaked from one
corner of his mouth and onto the snow, melting it a little.

"Well, shit" is Mulder's comment. He leans forward, laying his
arms across his knees, and stares at the body thoughtfully.
"This isn't even our case. It isn't even an X-File." He's
clearly disappointed.

I awkwardly roll onto my knees, struggling to get a large
aluminum foot beneath me, scanning the clearing and as much as I
can through the thicket of trees. No sign of Grace Wells. No
sign of anybody but Mulder, me, and one dead body. For a moment
I flirt with the idea of hiking away, enjoying the rest of our
idyllic day, calling the Deputy when we get back to Meadowlea
tonight. What the hell -- it's not like he's going to go bad or
anything, laying there in the snow like that. Then I think of
what hungry little winter animals might do, how I've been
trained to preserve the crime scene at all costs, and I relent,
grumbling as I admit it, "We might as well as be useful, since
we stumbled over the body."

"Literally."

I find my poles flapping from both wrists and use them to lever
myself to a standing position. I scratch in my pocket and pull
out my cell phone, more out of habit than from optimism. I
thumb the power and look at the display. Signal. There's one
measly bar. I've never successfully made a call with one bar.

I wave the phone back and forth, seeming to pick up a transient
second bar when I point it down valley. Hopefully, I punch in
9-1-1 and send. The phone peeps after I hold it to my ear. I
check the display, knowing what I'll see but checking anyway --
Call Failed. Damn, damn, damn. I drop the useless thing back
into my pocket and cross my arms against the cold. I'd tap my
toe impatiently but the big aluminum snowshoes weld me to the
snow.

Mulder's watching me. "One of us needs to go for the Deputy."

"One of us needs to guard the crime scene," I counter. I can
see how this should unfold. Mulder, with the longer legs, will
cover more ground more quickly than I can. He's the logical one
to go and he knows it. I give him a hand up.

"Which way is New Blandford from here?" he casts around for his
bearings.

"I don't have a clue," I offer helpfully, "but there's a
telephone, possibly functional, that way," I point back to the
bed and breakfast.

"Do you have your gun?" he asks me, swatting the caked snow off
his legs with one hand.

"Yes," I tap the small of my back. I don't leave home without
it.

"Do you?"

"Yes. Both of them." He gestures to his left side and shakes
his right leg in the air.

"Good." These woods give me the creeps. I find my weapon in my
hand, safety off, cocked, and pointing at the snow, ready to
fire. "If you really move, it will probably only take you an
hour to get back to the house."

Mulder squints up the trail to where it disappears in the mist
that has moved in to blanket the hillside.

"Just follow our shoe marks. They're distinctive. They should
get you back okay." I look at my watch and do the math. "If
you're not back by 1:30, I'm coming after you."

Mulder looks back at me, then shuffles over to my side. "I
don't feel comfortable, leaving you here. These woods give me
the creeps."

Both you and me, Mulder.

"I don't feel comfortable, you going off on your own into the
clouds," I snap back, not mentioning the number of grungy places
where he's left me to fend for myself without a second thought.

We glare at each other for a moment, more out of worry than
anger. Mulder cracks first, pulling me against him with one
arm. His breath is hot on my nose, then my lips, then his lips
are on my lips and I'm lost inside his kiss, weak kneed, holding
onto him for dear life.

Somewhere in the sane part of my mind which, at this moment, is
about the size of a sugar cube, I remember there's a dead man
lying in the snow at our feet. Then Mulder makes a little
growly sound at the back of his throat and I'm lost again, a
willing victim of the chemistry that flashes between us like
matches in kindling...until something thumps me on head then
blinds me in an icy shower. I recoil before realizing it's a
clump of snow that has slipped from a branch and broken over our
heads. I blink the snow out of my eyes, spitting ice crystals
at Mulder's chest.

Large clouds of steam wreaths both our faces.

"I'll be back as soon as I can." He steps away, untangling his
snowshoes from mine. The weight of my weapon comforts me as
Mulder whuffs up the hill. Then he steps into the mist and is
gone.

My heart beats loud in my ears. I strain but I hear nothing
else. These woods swallow sounds whole. Looking up, I'm
pressed into the snow by clouds that clip the treetops, sinking
lower by the minute, consuming them branch by branch. Across
the lake, through the light mist that hangs there, I might see a
curl of smoke above a chimney, but I'm not sure I even see a
chimney -- I could be imagining the splash of ochre against the
deep green of the trees. As far as I can tell I'm alone on
this planet.

A low whistling sound comes from behind me. I whirl and raise
my weapon. Davis Wells stares sightlessly into the middle
distance. Doesn't he? He hasn't moved. Has he? I slip my
finger inside the trigger guard. When the brush rustles near
his feet I sight down the barrel and wait.

A low whistling sound comes from behind me. Goose bumps explode
across my back and neck and, this time when I whirl, I catch the
end of one snowshoe against the other. Tangled, I fall into the
snow with a dull whump. Something bursts out of the bushes and
whirrs over my head. I roll, tracking it, then let my weapon
fall onto my legs. Two White Breasted Nuthatches cling head
down to the bark of a thick pine, their shiny black eyes staring
back at me.

"Dana Scully, Big Game Hunter," I announce myself to the
clearing; mistry gray tendrils ooze through the bare branches,
absorbing my words as they drift groundward. The nuthatches
blink curiously through the mist. The nine millimeter slug from
my Sig would have vaporized that tiny handful of bird if I'd
managed to shoot it. The nuthatches flutter nervously at the
crisp clank the gun makes when I decock it and thumb the safety
into place.

I look from the birds to the corpse and back again. "You've
probably seen the whole thing, haven't you?"

One unhooks from the bark, darting across the clearing; the
other soon follows and they pair up again. "I wish you could
talk."

Yankyankyank they say. Great. A Yank...ee did it. In New
England, that doesn't narrow it down much. I stand with a
little more grace this time, slipping the gun against my back,
even daring to chuckle a bit at my own little joke.

I look at my wristwatch. It's five minutes later than it was
the last time I looked at my wristwatch. I stomp the snow and
chafe the outsides of my arms then turn my mind to the task at
hand.

I retrace my steps to where Davis Wells lays crumpled in the
snow. Placing each snowshoe in a mark we've already left
behind, I crouch and examine him as carefully as I can without
disturbing the evidence more than it's been disturbed already.

The bloodstains around his mouth might mean he bit his tongue in
a struggle but I'm betting a punctured lung is involved. I lean
as far to the left as I can, balancing myself by grabbing a low
hanging branch, and scan his chest area. The hunter green parka
is loose, probably unzipped before he fell. I lean over a bit
farther and see wisps of goose down oozing from a small hole in
the Gore-Tex, a hole that has telltale scorch marks around the
edge.

Bingo. "Am I good or what?" I ask my gallery that flutters
somewhere in the mist overhead.

GSW - gun shot wound - to the chest. Umm-umm-umm. Talk about
marital discord. I think about Grace and Davis, sniping at each
other over dinner last night. I sit back on my heels as best I
can with my feet strapped onto the snowshoes. There've been
times when Mulder has pissed me off to the degree that I wish I
could have pulled my weapon and drilled a hole in *his* chest.
Scratch that, I have pulled my weapon and drilled a hole in his
chest...but it was from fear, not anger, and didn't give me any
pleasure -- it scared me to death, before I did it and after it
was done. Grace, obviously, is a woman of action. I can't
decide whether that raises or lowers her a few notches in my
esteem.

I pace around the fringe of the clearing, scanning the snow for
untrodden ski marks. I push through the scrub at the far side
and onto a large flat area that must be a lakeside meadow when
it isn't snowed over. Three tracks twine their way into the
trees a few hundred yards away.

Three tracks.

I hear a yank-yank and a light whistling. My nuthatch friends
sway on a bare maple branch high and behind me. I stare at them,
doing the math. It doesn't add up. How can two people ski into
the woods, one be killed, and three people ski out? I stomp my
way back through the brush, staying clear of the crime scene,
and battle my way out the far side. Three could ski in, one be
killed, and then two people would ski out. I stand looking at
two sets of ski tracks going up the slope, threading in and out
of the waffling left behind by Mulder and me, coming down.

Scratch that. They are coming down, too.

These are clearly downhill tracks. Parallel lines, not the
herringbone marks you leave when going uphill on skis. No one
has skied uphill from here.

I turn, scratching the inside of my head, massaging the numbers,
trying to make them work. The snow has stopped. The clouds
have rise, arching high over the lake where I can see houses
tucked so neatly into the far woods they are hardly visible.
Here and there gray streams spiral into the air; if I breathe
deeply, I can smell the wood smoke.

For some reason, I'm uneasy here in the middle of paradise.
This is not like me. Mulder has become very protective these
past few weeks. That is not like him. I think of the IVF, my
promise not to let it come between us. Somehow, having failed
at parenthood has brought Mulder and I closer together. Now we
share a wound.

I retrace my steps up to the brush that hides Davis Wells. His
milk chocolate ski pants are dusted with snow that fell earlier,
visible beneath the bushes now that I know where to look for
them. One foot, skiless, is fully exposed, sole up. I pull at
the shrubbery - a mixture of pine and bare brambles - around
him. Oddly, there's no ski to be found in the twisted brush.
Not one. So Grace Wells is not only my prime suspect in the
murder of her husband but she's stolen his skis as well.

I chew on that one for a moment. I've been hearing the dull
whumps of snow sliding off trees all morning; now I hear a chain
saw in the distance, coming closer, slicing the quiet with its
jagged edge. I turn toward the sound and see a sleek black
snowmobile powering its way across the frozen lake with a sled
in tow.

The Law has arrived.

Monroe, Mulder, and I process the scene rapidly, bag the dead
Mr. Wells, and load him onto the sled. We search the area and
find no trace of a murder weapon, the dead man's skis, or Grace
Wells. A search of the body - Davis Wells has now become 'the
body' - reveals that he has no papers or identification of any
kind on him. Mulder and Deputy Monroe mount the snowmobile for
the quick trip into town; I earn the privilege of riding in the
sled with the deceased. After the body has been handed off to
the country coroner, the Deputy drives Mulder and me back to
Meadowlea where we can question the other guests.

We're getting good at this...both us and the guests.

Rebecca does a double take when Mulder and I walk in the back
door with Monroe in our wake; neither she nor any of the guests
saw Mulder earlier in the day when he crept inside to use the
phone then slipped out to await the Deputy at the side of the
road. A tray filled with cookies and decorated cakes bobbles in
her hands as we separate ourselves from our outerwear and hang
it up beside the door.

"Greetings Rebecca," the Deputy nods, removing his hat and
hanging it on a peg.

Rebecca stares wide-eyed at our group.

"We need to see Grace Wells. Is she here?" the Deputy asks.

"No," Rebecca carefully lays the tray of goodies on the tile and
wipes her palms against the sides of her overalls, "she went out
with Davis this morning."

Meaningful looks ricochet among Mulder, the Deputy, and I.

"What's wrong?" Rebecca demands, her question trailing off in a
quaver. "Did something happen...to Davis?"

Monroe takes the lead. He lays a gentle hand on Rebecca's
shoulder. "I'm afraid there's been another murder."

Rebecca flinches at the words, shaking her head. She turns away
and hugs herself with both arms, hunching into herself.
"Davis?" the words are muffled by the scarf around her neck.

"Yes," Monroe finds a stool and guides Rebecca to it.

"Davis," the name rolls, flat, from Rebecca's lips as she sits
down. "And you think Grace....?"

"You said they left together this morning..."

"Yes, to ski into town for the fingerprinting," she looks up,
"but they keep their ski things in the apartment. I can't say
exactly when they left. I didn't see which way they went."

"They ended up down at the lake some time early this morning,"
Mulder says, then pauses for a moment. "At least Davis did."

"You can get to town easily from there," the Deputy fills in the
blank for us. "Just go down Ford's Road at the end of the lake
and cut through the fields behind the town hall, pretty much the
same way we went after collecting the body."

"Right now Grace's our prime suspect..." Mulder explains.

"...or another victim," I add, "which is why we need to find
her."

"Unless she came back in the last thirty minutes, she's not
here," Rebecca glances at the kitchen window. "I just cleaned
their apartment, since Mary..." she chokes up and doesn't
continue.

"Who *is* here?" I ask.

"I left the Nakamuras in town when we went for the
fingerprinting. They've taken the bus to Manchester for a
plane," Rebecca explains. "Harold, Maggie, and Sarah are in the
parlor. I was just taking some afternoon snacks to them."

"Has Harold been here all day?" I ask quickly.

Rebecca nods. "As far as I know. Except for the time he went
to town with the rest of us, he's been in the library, working
on his laptop, every time I've gone by there. Until now, that
is."

"Rob and Donna?" I ask.

"Still out skiing. I haven't seen them since this morning."

I lift an eyebrow at Mulder who shrugs, noncommittal, in return.
It's hard to imagine those kids being involved in this, but
their suspicious behavior begs the question -- and they are avid
skiers.

Deputy Monroe shakes out his jacket and hangs it on a peg by the
back door. "Let's see if anyone knows anything useful."

The buzz of conversation stumbles and falls when we enter the
parlor on the Deputy's heels.

"More questions, Deputy Morgan?" Harold asks over the rim of a
fat white mug.

"I'm afraid so, Mr. Steinberg," the Deputy pulls a slim black
book from his back pocket and flips it open. "Where have you
been all day?"

Harold laughs, cradling the mug in both hands. "You're
serious?"

"I'm deadly serious," the Deputy insists, holding his pen above
the blank page, waiting.

"I got up around seven, came downstairs to get coffee and
breakfast, spoke to Rebecca - Dana and Fox were there, too -
then went to the library and have been working on my article all
afternoon...except for the hour or so when I went to town with the
ladies, here." He chafes his fingertips, still lightly stained
with fingerprint ink. "What's this about?"

Monroe taps his pen lightly against the page, his eyes flicking
from person to person in the room. "There's been another
murder."

"My word," Sarah's hand flies to her mouth and she reaches for
her sister. They grip hands so tightly Maggie's knuckles turn
white.

"Well, well, well," Harold's lips twitch the way lips do when
they're trying not to smirk, "who's the lucky stiff?"

I bristle at his disregard for the dead. "You tell me. You're
the investigative reporter." I swallow the words 'hot shot'
that made it to the tip of my tongue before turning back.

Harold shifts in his seat, leaning forward, the mug balanced on
one knee. "Well, let's see. If the Nakamuras - a dangerous
pair, I might add - are safely on the Manchester bus, and
present company are alive and accounted for, then it has to be
one of the Wellses or either of the MacGowans."

"It's Davis Wells," I reply bluntly.

"No kidding?" the smug expression disappears from Harold's face.
He sets the mug on the table with a thunk.

"No kidding," I agree. Especially not from Davis Wells's
perspective.

The Deputy takes control again. "And you, Mrs. Morgan? You and
your sister were..." his voice recedes to the background as I
turn to Rebecca. She's standing behind us with one hand at her
throat.

"We need to take a look at the garage apartment," I lead her
into the kitchen where we can talk and not disturb the Deputy.
"Do you have the keys?"

Rebecca uses a key from the ring in her pocket to unlock a
cabinet on the wall. She selects a single key and a key chain
with two keys on it, handing them both to me. "Here's the key
to the apartment and the keys to their rental car. When the
storm was coming, we parked everyone inside the barn."

By the time I retrieve my crime scene kit from our room, Mulder
is at the back door, suiting up to go outside with me. The
afternoon sun worries the edges of cobblestoned clouds, trying
to find its way through. The wind has picked up again and
slices at my exposed skin. I tuck my head down and walk
quickly.

A path has been shoveled from the end of the covered walkway
across the back of the garage, and from the back of the garage
across to the big red barn where a plow has pushed the snow back
into tall banks on either side of a driveway.

We take the turn at the corner of the garage and climb the
outside stairs to the apartment door. It opens easily with our
key and we're inside. The ceiling in the garage below must be
quite low because this room is spacious and charming. The
living area is centered on a large wood stove, the kind with
glass doors so you can watch the flames. In the rear corner is
a compact kitchen and a dining area; beside that is a spacious
bathroom. Polished oak stairs seem to rise on air to a loft
that spans the back half of the apartment. Upstairs, there's
room to spare for a queen sized bed and a matching wardrobe.
Two large windows overlook the barn and the meadow beyond. A
willowy Calico sits on a windowsill, her face lifted to the thin
sunlight like a flower, eyes closed in deep meditation.

Make-up, hairspray and other female toiletries had been strewn
around the bathroom while the men's things were neatly tucked
into a shaving kit. Women's clothing and shoes are tossed
carelessly around the sleeping area while men's shirts and
slacks hang neatly in the wardrobe over shoes arranged in pairs
on the floor beneath.

There's no smoking gun, no bundle of blood-soaked clothing to
be found.

I sit on the bed and look up at Mulder, who leans against a
windowsill, looking out toward the barn. "Why on earth would
Grace take her husband's skis away with her?" The question has
picked at me since this morning. It didn't make sense.

"Maybe he wasn't dead yet. Maybe she wanted to be sure he
wouldn't get up and ski after her."

Although it seemed pretty clear to me that someone shot in the
chest would not be traveling far on skis or by any other earthly
mode of transportation, maybe it wasn't so obvious to someone
like Grace. I get up and look under the bed, pulling out two
suitcases stored there. Hartman. They're unlocked, so I open
them and look around. Nothing of interest. In fact, the whole
place has nothing of interest for our investigation.

"Would you take all your papers with you when you go skiing?" I
ask Mulder, who's now lounging on the bed, watching me where I
sit on the floor with the luggage.

"It depends on how many personal papers I brought with me on the
trip," I work the zipper on the larger suitcase. It sticks, and
I tug at it with increasing frustration. "This morning I had my
wallet and badge with me, although technically I didn't need
either of them for our hike."

The darned thing won't close so I unzip it again and study the
place where the zipper got stuck. There's a bit of loose fabric
hanging from inside the lid that's tangled with the zipper's
teeth. I grab the shred with my fingertips and give it a tug.

A false bottom - top? - pops into my lap.

Mulder leans over to look. Empty. "Well," he says, "somebody
certainly has been hiding something."

I nod, pressing the panel back in place. "Whatever it is,
someone's hiding it somewhere else now."

He stands and offers me a hand up. "It's formally possible
they've hidden whatever it was in the rental car."

I take his hand and let him lift me to my feet. "It's possible
but highly unlikely."

"True," he agrees, still holding my hand; his thumb rubs back
and forth across my knuckles, "but still worth the search."

Our eyes catch and hold.

His shimmer tawny green in the sunlight that's finally broken
through the clouds. Mine mist over and I find myself rising
into that warm green place, letting it roll across my face and
over my shoulders and down my back. I brace myself with one
hand against his chest; the skin beneath my fingers tightens and
trembles slightly through the thin knit of his sweater. My lips
graze his lips. His breath mingles with mine. Off balance on
my toe tips, I'm on the verge of falling - in so many ways -
when his arm slides around my waist and brings me home.

I'm the hungry one here. I feast on the banquet of his mouth;
he serves it up for me but lets me take the lead. God, I want
more. My arms go around his neck and, before I know it, I've
hopped up and wrapped my legs around his waist. He loops both
arms beneath me, making a seat, holding me against him. Then I
find myself falling, turning, bouncing in air as Mulder hits the
mattress on his back and cushions the blow for me.

My thundering heartbeat and the rasp of our breathing are the
only sounds in the room. His eyes are open right down to the
soul. The love I see there never fails to humble me because I
know how little I've done to deserve it. Suddenly my throat is
dry. I trace his lips lightly with my fingers and feel the heat
burning there.

"I suppose we really should get on with our investigation so we
can connect with Monroe before he leaves," Mulder's lips move
against my fingers, "but hold the thought."

As if I could get it out of my mind.

A few minutes later, we're crossing the plowed area between the
garage and the barn. We wade through afternoon sunlight that
puddles like thick yellow cream on the plowed snow. The air,
heavy with the scent of wood smoke and crisped by approaching
night, tickles the inside of my nose. As Mulder works the huge
wooden door, half of a pair that close together at the front of
the barn, I turn and take my first good look at Meadowlea.

It's a rambling nineteenth century farm house that sits at an
angle to the road, or perhaps the road runs at an angle to the
house, since the house has grown there for more than a century.
It shows signs of having aged gracefully -- an ell has been
added to the back, the original verandah has been extended on
one side, modern windows light many of the rooms. Dormer
windows nose their way through the snow pack at different
levels. Gray slate shows at the ridge line where the snow has
already started to slip downward over the steep pitched roof.

Smoke oozes from chimneys at both ends of the house; it is torn
away by the same brisk wind that dries my throat. A line of
thick pines screens this place from the road, and the Deputy's
car is out of sight around the far side of the house, making
this feel like an island in the middle of paradise. Multiple
tire tracks scar the packed snow surface, disappearing under
the wide wooden doors at the front of the barn. I take a
generous swig of water from the bottle in my pocket and turn,
following Mulder inside.

The barn is a barn. Little has been done to make it more than
an informal place to store things and hide cars from a bad
storm. A large loft, designed to hold hay, is largely empty;
wispy threads of dried grass hang over the edge but there's
probably not enough left up there for a good roll. Farm
implements hang from both side walls -- I recognize the common
gardening tools but many of the other items defy definition by a
city girl like me. Most look like they've not been used in a
long time; some bring to mind horses and harness and pulled
wagons.

Mulder touches a light switch behind the door. A row of metal
fixtures hanging the length of the barn produce enough weak
light to see in the gloomy interior. Four cars huddle together
on the ground floor. The green Subaru Outback with New Hampshire
plates obviously belongs to Rebecca. Sitting next to it is a
powder blue Miata, rag top up, with Florida plates issued in
Dade County. I don't know whether it's the color or shape, but
the poor car seems like it's shivering in the New Hampshire
cold. Behind them, a red Camaro with Massachusetts plates sits
beside a black Lincoln Town Car with Massachusetts plates. A
red light flashes inside the Camaro and so I don't touch it, not
wanting to set off the alarm and startle everyone.

Mulder bounces the rental keys in his hand. "So which one is
it?"

I've got my head in the last of three trash cans; nothing
remotely resembling clothing - blood soaked or not - has been
discarded there since the trash last went out. "No brainer," I
drop the lid back in place then take the keys from Mulder's hand
without even looking at the tag. I slide it into the lock of
the Town Car and it turns easily. The heavy door swings open at
my light touch. "Voila!"

The interior is painfully clean with only a few signs of rental
car debris. The ashtrays are empty and the map compartment on
the driver's side holds only a single New Hampshire road map,
neatly folded. I slide over to the passenger's side and try the
glove compartment. Locked. I waggle my fingers at Mulder.
"Your pick gun, please."

It lands in my hand with a solid splat. I knew he'd have it.
The well dressed field agent wouldn't leave home without one. I
apply it to the simple lock on the glove box and it yields
immediately, popping open into my lap. Mulder leans over my
shoulder to look inside.

There's no gun smoking up the small space, only a rental
contract folded on top of a pouch containing the user's manual
for the car. I unfold the rental contract and tip it toward the
light coming through the window. "Executive Investments, Inc.,"
I report, handing it to Mulder, "with offices in Atlanta."

"Excellent," Mulder flips between the two pages. "It's been
charged to Davis's corporate American Express card. "We can
call first thing tomorrow morning and see what they have to
say."

I don't know what makes me do it, but I pull out the owner's
manual and run my fingers along the back and sides of the glove
box. I feel something, jammed into a seam at the top front of
the box, mostly hidden between the glove box and the frame of
the compartment. I slide onto my knees in the passenger's side
foot well, turning so I can get a better grip on whatever it is.

I work at it, not pulling so hard that the thin plastic comes
apart, slowly easing it from its hiding place. A small baggie
drops into my hand.

"What is it?" Mulder's words puff against my cheek. He's
leaning over my shoulder, practically face down on top of me.

I dangle the baggie in air. A small amount of white powder
collects at the bottom.

"Someone's private stash?" Mulder suggests.

"Could be," I climb out of the car and open the bag, taking a
tiny bit on the tip of my finger and tasting it.

The second it hits my tongue, I know it's not cocaine. "God!" I
spit repeatedly, saliva running fast in my mouth. I fumble in
my pocket for the water.


***CHAPTER FIVE***


Mulder tumbles out of the car behind me, reacting helplessly in
my peripheral vision as I find the bottle and pull it out. I
sluice a quick swig through my mouth and hastily spit it on the
floor. I gag and the remains of my breakfast threaten to
rise in my throat. I pull harder at the bottle and rinse my
mouth thoroughly before spitting it out, too.

"Scully!" I feel Mulder's hand on my shoulder; I hear his voice
close to my ear. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine," my words are muffled by my sleeve as I wipe my
mouth on it.

"What is it?"

"Not cocaine," I work my tongue around my mouth, taking another
pull at the water, swishing it through my teeth and around my
gums. I spit it onto the cement floor along with the rest.
"Something closer to rat poison, more likely."

"I think it's safe to say they don't have a rodent problem in
the glove compartment."

"Safe to say," My voice shakes along with the rest of me.

"I wonder who planned to poison whom?" He gets to the heart of
the matter.

"Interesting, isn't it? I wonder if this was earmarked for dead
body number three...to be named later?" I find a tissue bunched
in the bottom of my pocket and blow my runny rose. I wipe my
watery eyes and spit again onto the floor. This spitting is
inelegant, I know. It would horrify my mother. But the taste
of the poison stays with me, strong and bitter on my tongue. I
shiver again and Mulder pulls me against his side.

Back at the house, we find Deputy Monroe sitting in the kitchen
with Rebecca, sipping coffee. I give him the bag, reporting the
results of my crude analysis. "...and I presume, it was
intended for murder...but whose?"

"And by whom?" Mulder adds to the question.

"I'd say we're talking about one killer here, given the
historically low murder rate for this county," Monroe points
out, his eyes withdrawing to a middle distance as he reaches
into the past. "There was a murder back in, I think, 1978, but
that's the last one I can remember. Two drunks fighting over a
deer carcass. Messy."

"If Richard Kelly killed Mary Kelley - which seems to be
explainable - then what was his motive for killing Davis Wells?"
Mulder poses the question.

"Did he even know the man?" I look to Rebecca for confirmation.

Rebecca shrugs, shaking her head.

"But if Grace Wells killed her husband - which seems to be
explainable - then why would she have killed Mary Kelly the
night before? And how could she have?" Mulder poses the
question in the reverse.

"Richard Kelly and Grace Wells...how do they fit together?" the
Deputy worries the stress lines in his forehead with one hand,
thinking aloud.

"And here's a larger question -- " I bring up something that's
been bothering me since I got here, "what are a couple like
Grace and Davis Wells doing in a small Bed and Breakfast in New
Hampshire in the first place? They strike me more as the four-
star hotel types."

"And who was the poison meant to kill?" Monroe raises another
unanswered question. "Mary Kelly, Davis Wells, or someone
else?"

Everyone is stumped for an answer. Rebecca slumps into her
hands, holding herself up with both elbows on the counter. "I
can't believe this."

"Frankly, I can't either," but for different reasons. I was on
my way to a seance with Mulder and have ended up trapped in an
Agatha Christie novel.

Dinner - Yankee Pot Roast - is an odd affair all the way
around the table. Even Harold is quiet in the next chair over,
keeping his thoughts to himself for the most part. Maggie and
Sarah flutter around Rebecca who is visibly drawn.

"Sweetie, let me do that," somehow Maggie manages a slight-of-
hand wherein she wrestles the dish containing the stewed
potatoes and vegetables out of Rebecca's hands and into hers,
potholders and all. "Sit down with your guests...

"...there," Sarah steers Rebecca to a chair and coaxes her into
it.

Maggie puts the dish on the table then hustles into the kitchen.
"My cousin Agatha was very fond of...who was the girl next
door...?" she calls to her sister while backing through the
door, the roast securely clamped in her hands.

"Bethany. Bethany Szabo, I think." Sarah hands Mulder a long,
wicked knife. "Would you mind doing the roast, Fox?"

"Yes. Bethany Szabo." Maggie slides the roast under Mulder's
waiting hands and heads back to the kitchen.

Mulder hovers inadequately over the platter until I make subtle
little slicing motions with my hands where they are tucked
discretely beneath the level of the dining table.

By the time Maggie returns from the kitchen, Mulder has managed
a cautious incision in the roast. Rebecca sits back, apparently
resigned to the sisters taking charge of her and everything
else at Meadowlea this evening. Maggie puts a basket of crusty
rolls on the table and wipes her hands, one against the other.
"Now where was I?"

"Your cousin Agatha and her friend Bethany Szabo," I offer
helpfully, taking a roll and tearing it apart before putting the
two halves on my plate.

Maggie brightens. "Yes. Bethany...a sweet thing, she and her
husband had been married only a few years when she...came down
with..." she pauses, looking at her sister, "is 'came down with'
the correct term, Sarah?"

"I suppose it's as good as any," Sarah says, finding a chair.

"Poor Bethany came down with ovarian cancer and was dead just
like that," she snaps her fingers for emphasis, a little too
close to Rebecca, who flinches at both the sound and the
death. Maggie fusses with the table settings, redistributing
the butter and salt and pepper more to her liking. "She was
crushed..."

"Somebody needs to find the off switch..." Harold mutters, just
loud enough for me to hear "...to put us out of our misery."

"...but she got through it because she had friends and family
who carried the load for her...just for a few weeks...until she
had *grieved* and was ready to move on again. So, Rebecca, just
sit..." Maggie tips her ear toward the parlor, her train of
thought derailed by the sound of the front door. "Oh good. Rob
and Donna, just in time for dinner..." She heads for the front
of the house, her words trailing behind her.

Sarah smiles indulgently in her sister's wake. "She means well.
Our mother always called her Miss Maggie Magpie."

I can see why.

Maggie Magpie flutters back into the room with the MacGowans in
tow.

Donna and Rob are red-faced with apologies when they come in.
"I'm so sorry, Dana," Rob says to me, slanting a quick
look at wife, "we will go down first thing in the morning and
have our prints taken. We have no excuse."

Donna nods her head vigorously, meeting her husband's look
with one of her own before taking a chair at the table next to
Harold. "Really we will, it's just this afternoon we skied off
on that direction," her hand gestures vaguely to the north, "and
we saw these tiny little tracks and followed them, then..."

The burble of Donna's voice flows through the background of my
thoughts. I finger the bit of paper in my pocket with the red
Camaro's tag number. I wonder what that will turn up when I
wash it through the FBI computers in the morning. Rebecca's
voice drags me back to the dinner table.

"...Kelly called. He says your problem is a faulty fuel pump.
He'll get one from the dealership tomorrow morning and put it
in. You should be on the road by tomorrow afternoon."

"Great," I say, but I have mixed feelings about it. I should be
delighted to head back to DC. A quick glance at Mulder catches
him looking at me with the peculiar longing I see more and more
often these days. I stab an unsuspecting lump of potato and put
it in my mouth, making a concentrated effort to eat while
considering what I really think about our stay here.

It would be deliriously enjoyable if people would stop getting
killed.

The dinner finishes with a glorious cherry pie - I think I'll
lay off anything with apples for awhile; the memory of last
night's blood-flecked pie is too fresh in my mind - and it's
barely eight thirty when Mulder and I head upstairs to our
room. I'm dragging my feet up the stairs one at a time, feeling
the weight of fatigue in them. Mulder stumps behind me down the
hall. "It's not that I mind helping out on this investigation.
I - we're - trained for this after all. It's just that..."

"...it's not the same when there's no demonic possession, green
goo, or morphing aliens involved?"

"Something like that. I'm a little rusty with your basic issue
Agatha Christie."

I snap a quick look at him. Is he reading my mind? His
expression is bland, not coy. It must be that we're on the same
page. Again. What does that tell you, Dana, my inner voice
asks?

Our room is dimly washed with gold from a fire flickering low on
the hearth. On my way to a lamp, I stumble over Princess Mia
who suddenly appears beneath my feet. An incredible racket
pours from her mouth, including brrrrow, yowwwww, a series of
squeaks that end on a trill, and another sound like someone
stomping the life out of a Smurf. She arches her neck coyly and
rams her head against the bedside table with a loud thunk. The
lamp rattles loudly and I catch the Tiffany shade with one hand
to steady it.

"She sounds like R2D2," Mulder laughs as Mia shakes her head,
blinking. "I wonder what she's saying? She obviously thinks
we're as dumb as dirt for not understanding what she's telling
us so clearly."

Mia leans against my legs, rubbing her chin on my shin then
blinking up at me with bright blue eyes.

"You know, Mulder, I've read that a cat's physiology is so
unusual it could be extraterrestrial in origin."

"Really?" he looks at Mia with new interest. Mia yawns back at
him, relaxing onto the carpet, licking a paw.

"It's true," I insist, continuing, "maybe they're really alien
sentinels, put on our planet as watchers for some alien race.
Who would suspect them, with their lazy eyes and tendency to nap
at all hours?"

"That's a cool story, Scully," he looks from Mia to me. The
heat in his eyes scorches me where I stand.

I can't breathe. I'm trapped in his gaze like a bunny in
headlights. Then he smiles and looks away. He knows the effect
he has on me. I stretch then think better of it.

Mulder kneads the air to show me what he has in mind. "I have
the cure for what ails you."

I have to smile. "I'm sure you do. But what I want right now
is a nice, long soak in a big, hot tub."

"That's okay for starters. It's what comes afterward that will
really loosen you up."

"Ummm, I may have to take you up on that," I pad into the
bathroom and twist the taps. Hot water immediately steams into
the tub. I pour in a liberal dollop of the bubble bath that
comes with the room and watch a mountain of bubbles rise beneath
the faucet. I push the door into its frame then call through it
to Mulder.

"What?" he's right on the other side of the thin wood panels.

"Check on me every few minutes, will you?" I peel off my
clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. After testing the
water with one toe, I slide into it, and moan as the heat rises
to my chin.

"Are you okay in there?" he asks immediately.

"Ummm. More than okay," I close my eyes and lay back,
stretching the length of the tub.

"Are you sure you don't need any help?" he sounds hopeful now.
'Say yes' is the subliminal message in his question.

"I'm fine, Mulder," I am. I shake out my arms and let them fall
to my sides in the water. I nestle my chin in the thick suds,
listening to the crisp pop of the bubbles. I meditate on the
rhythm of my breath as it pulls in and out, in and out.

"Scully?"

I hear my name from a distance and swim toward it. My limbs are
heavy. Time has stretched long like a Dali painting, without
the tick marks of seconds and minutes.

"Hey, Scully."

His voice is near, it tickles my ear. I feel hands go around my
back and lift me from the cooling tub. I sway on my feet, eyes
closed, and savor the soft chafe of terrycloth up and down my
legs, across my shoulders, and on my arms and face. The air is
cool against my hot skin when it's replaced with the light
warmth of pajamas. Then his arm is behind my knees and my arm
is around his neck and I'm traveling through air, my head
rolling back and forth against his shoulder. I land in a soft
place where he fits his warmth along my back. I melt against
him, feel his breath tickle my ear, and his arms come around my
waist.

"Night, Scully" are the last words I hear before sleep folds me
in its arms and carries me away.

***

Monday April 3, 2000

An intermittent whistling snags at the edge of my consciousness
and pulls me from my sleep. I lay quietly in Mulder's embrace,
my face nesting in his hair. His face chastely nuzzles my
chest, his right arm tucking loosely around my waist while my
left one drapes over his shoulder in easy possession. We are
warmed by each other beneath the downy paradise of a thick
comforter.

Now the house rests quietly around us. I listen to the steady
pull of Mulder's breath, in and out, and feel the thump of his
heart beneath my hand where it rests on his back. With a hiss
and creak, snow shifts on steep slates overhead. A bird calls
once into the morning air. Sunlight floods the room and,
although I can't see outside from where I lay, I know sun has
driven the storm clouds away.

Light whistling starts again. Without moving, I roll my eyes
upward. A delicate gray muzzle rests against my forehead,
whiskers twitching gently in sleep. The warmth of my head makes
sense now -- I'm wearing a plush gray cat hat. The whistle
becomes a lingering snort that fades away slowly as Mia sighs
and is still.

Now Mulder stirs in my arms. His sigh warms the skin in my
cleavage and goose bumps rise along the back of my arms. I find
my fingers tangled his hair, cradling the back of his head
against me.

"Morning," he whispers into my skin.

The delicate brush of his lips sends a second wave of shivers
after the first. "Morning," I reply shyly. I remember too few
mornings like this. So what's wrong with this picture as
opposed to that one, I ask myself? Mulder presses his lips to
the underside of my neck where the skin is sensitive. Suddenly
I'm gasping for air because my lungs are empty. Then he slides
his body along mine, rising to meet my lips; I lean into him,
greeting him with lips of my own.

Now I'm sweltering under all these covers and I push them aside
with my hand. Cold air refreshes me where it tickles my
shoulder and chills my back to the waist through the thin fabric
of my pajamas. Mia squawks with displeasure as her warm nest
abandons her. She flounces off the bed and onto the floor with
a thump. Mulder rolls onto his back, pulling me with him. I
straddle him, laying chest to chest with him, our breaths
mingling as I bask in the desire that shows in his eyes.

"Scully," he brings my head down to his mouth.

The bedroom door rattles hard in its frame.

"Mulder," I press my forehead against his as the knock comes
again.

"Dana? Fox?" it's Rebecca's voice, "Deputy Monroe is here to
speak with you."

"'kay." I work the word through the husky emotion that tightens
my throat. It's anything but okay. Damn. "We'll be downstairs
in a few minutes." I look down at Mulder who, so obviously
dejected, makes me smile for a moment.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing." I roll away, sitting up on my side of the bed. I
pull the light fabric of my pajamas around me, gripping it with
both hands.

"Hey," he sits next to me, his shoulder touching mine.

"Bad timing, Mulder." I pull my collar up around my neck. Now
the room is warmer than I am. Mia sits on the windowsill,
watching us from the corner of her eye as she pretends to look
out; it's the pitch of her ears that give her away. I look at
Mulder again. "I think we're doomed to bad timing. Or someone
else's master plan for us."

"Nonsense." Mulder climbs over me to stand at my side of the
bed. He offers me a hand and I get up. "We've always found our
moments, Scully. Some day we'll get to string them together
into a good time."

I'm not convinced. I can take a cosmic hint.

I hug both arms around my waist and go to the window as Mulder
disappears into the bathroom. Outside, the day is truly
spectacular. Snow casts the meadow and farmland beyond in
Plaster of Paris white. The bare brown arms of maple and oak,
mingled with the deep greens of pine and spruce, all reach for a
heaven where just enough cloud remains to remind me how blue a
sky can truly be. Mia slides against my hip and waits there
patiently until I start to scratch.

Half an hour later, both freshly scrubbed and dressed, we join
Deputy Monroe where he waits in Rebecca's kitchen over a cup of
coffee and the morning paper. He nods as we push through the
door.

"Morning, you two," Monroe sips the coffee, "sorry to root you
out so early..."

I glance at the clock -- it's nearly nine AM.

"...but I thought you'd be interested in what the APB on Grace
Wells turned up."

"Grace Wells?" I answer hopefully, gathering cups of coffee for
Mulder and myself before joining the guys at the counter.

"Nope. But I think I can put a new spin on the situation." His
expression clearly tells me we'll be fascinated.

"Do tell," Mulder pulls up a stool and sits down, leaning
forward with his forearms on the counter. I put the coffee in
front of him. He ignores it for the moment.

Monroe shifts in his seat. "It turns out the Atlanta PD would
like to have a chat with both Mr. and Mrs. Wells."

"Really?" my coffee joins Mulder's on the counter. I slide onto
a stool. "Why?"

"Turns out quite a few million dollars' worth of funds have
dropped off the books at their investment firm..."

"Executive Investments, Inc.," Mulder adds.

"...yes," Monroe agrees. "So far, they're just wanted for
questioning. No one is ready to charge them with anything. So
far as anyone knows, they're just up here on vacation and
there's been a simple bookkeeping snafu that needs to be fixed."

"Uh-huh," Mulder says like he doesn't believe it. He sips his
coffee, "So they're up here, obviously on edge about
something..."

"...several million dollars worth of something," I cradle the
warm mug between my hands.

"...something like sixty million dollars worth of something,"
Monroe specifies, savoring the number like a man who enjoys a
thickening plot.

"*Sixty* million," Mulder whistles through his teeth, "that's
motivation."

"For what?"

"To kill your husband."

Could it really be that simple? They were alone in the woods
yesterday. Someone carried the gun away. Someone carried the
skis away. Someone carried Grace Wells away, maybe?

"What's wrong?" now Mulder's looking at me. So's Monroe.

"I don't know, Mulder," the little place in my gut that's been
so active for the past couple of days doesn't like this one, "I
still have a hard time *seeing* how tiny little Grace Wells
could have gotten the drop on her tall, athletic husband...even
with a gun in her hand. It would have been one thing if she'd
shot him in the back. But she didn't. She shot him point blank
in the chest..."

"She could have pulled the gun on him suddenly," Monroe
suggests.

"Maybe he didn't believe she'd really pull the trigger," Mulder
offers another scenario.

"Maybe he pulled the gun on her and, in the ensuing struggle, it
went off and he shot himself in the chest." Monro