FBI Headquarters
December 3, 1953
11:15 p.m.

Dales recognized the signs of a breakthrough in Dorothy’s wide
eyes and fluttering hands. God, he hoped she'd thought of
something, because he was well and truly stuck.

"The file I was trying to remember, Arthur. Spontaneous human
combustion. It was a report from a man who worked as a guard
at one of the Japanese internment camps during the war. Tule."
Her fingers tapped on the wooden table. "Tule Lake, I think,
in California. I'll be back in a minute." She bounded out of
her chair and through the door faster than he would have
thought possible in those shoes.

Dales availed himself of the opportunity to use the restroom
while she searched the files. It always took her awhile. He'd
watched once, as one file would trigger a memory of another,
and she'd mutter her way from one drawer to the next until she
finally decided, according to some mysterious set of criteria
known only to her, that her search was done.

On his way back, bending down to get a drink from the water
fountain in the hallway, he was startled by a voice behind
him.

"Dales! Thanks be to God. Got a cigarette?"

Dales straightened and turned slowly, looking the speaker up
and down. Headquarters was never entirely empty, no matter the
hour, but Dales hadn't expected to see anyone around the
bullpen this close to midnight.  He wiped his mouth with one
hand while fishing the pack out of his suit coat pocket with
the other. "Uh, yeah, sure." He searched his memory for the
older man's name. Hanslow? He remembered swapping war stories
with the guy over a beer or seven after a long, hard case
finally broke and they'd all retired to the bar to celebrate.
Hensler, that was it.

With his watchful brown eyes and sturdy build, Hensler looked
a little like a German shepherd, a grizzled old police dog
nearing retirement after many years of service. The dress code
being what it was, he still wore his suit coat, despite the
hour, as did Dales. Hensler was a little more rumpled, though
-- the top button of his wrinkled dress shirt was undone and
his red and blue striped tie was loosened.

Hensler helped himself to two cigarettes and returned the pack
to Dales. "Thanks, son. You're super."  The word sounded like
soopah to Dales' ears. Hensler's years in D.C. had done
nothing to help him regain the 'r's he'd lost growing up in
Boston. "You have no idea how desperate I was. My next step
was gonna be fishing butts out of the ashtrays." A stubby
thumb jerked toward the large brass stand near the water
fountain. Hensler lit a cigarette and inhaled nicotine with a
satisfied sigh. "What are you doing here so late, anyway?"

Dales hoped Dorothy was already back in the temporary office
they were using or was still ensconced in her files. He gave
the standard answer he used when people asked what he was
doing after hours. "The usual. Paperwork. You know how it is."

"The usual, huh? I heard the usual is you holed up with that
pretty file clerk with the red hair." Hensler's voice dropped
to a salacious register. "She helping you alphabetize your
files?"

Dales forced a grin. "Something like that."

Hensler took another grateful drag on his cigarette, his eyes
gleaming over the glowing red tip. "I bet it is. So what's
your secret, Dales? I heard Walker offer to help her organize
her drawers the other day, and I swear he lost a couple of
fingers to frostbite."

"Shoot, he's lucky that's all he lost."

"You can say that again." Hensler brushed one hand down the
front of his trousers, as if checking to make sure his
equipment were still there. "So really, what's keeping you
here so late?  Big case?" Hensler leaned against the wall,
seeming to settle in for a chat. Maybe it was just camaraderie
from a shared late night in a deserted office building, Dales
thought. A quiet office late at night did that to some folks.

"What's keeping me here? Uh, not much." Dales tried to think
of a quick answer that wouldn't attract attention. He sure as
hell didn't want Hensler to know that he was working with
Dorothy tonight.  "They've had me on surveillance, so now I'm
trying to get caught up on my other work."

Hensler nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, me too. What’s the
surveillance job?"

"Marshall.  Down on the southeast side."

"Yeah? I almost got stuck on that, but then I got reassigned."

"Huh.  Look, I have to--."

"Learn anything interesting?" Hensler almost sounded as if he
were talking to himself as he studied the smoke spiraling up
from his cigarette.

Dales thought about the burned bodies in the warehouse.
"Nope."

"Too bad. It sure can get boring sitting out there when
nothing's going on." Hensler stretched his neck to one side,
then the other. "Your partner an okay guy at least?"

Dales' opinion of his latest 'pahtnah' was that he was happier
working alone. "I'm not working with him on this. We're on
one-man teams."

"Just one on surveillance? How come?"

Dales had wondered this himself. "My guess is that they don't
really expect much to happen, but they want Marshall to know
we're keeping tabs on him, maybe make him nervous."

Hensler's chin bobbed up and down. "Tough assignment, one-man
surveillance. Especially at night.  Hard to stay awake
sometimes."

"Well, the radio helps. " Dales glanced down the hall,
wondering if Dorothy had emerged from her file lair yet.

"The thing about a one-man stakeout is that probably no one
would know if you left your post."

Dales froze, then turned his head back towards Hensler as
casually as he could manage.

"Then again," Hensler continued, seemingly oblivious, "you
gotta be careful. I remember one time I stopped in a diner to
get a cup of coffee and sure enough, my SAC walked in while I
was sitting there.  Shit, I thought I was going to get my ass
transferred to North Dakota. Or worse." He brushed a hand down
the front of his trousers again.

Dales tried to ignore the gesture and focus on what was being
said. Or not said. "Do we have an office in North Dakota?"

"I don’t know and I don’t want to know. I just do what I'm
told. If J. Edgar Hoover says jump, I jump.  Know what I
mean?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, you do. You're all right, Dales. A stand-up guy.  Not
like some of the guys around here. Not like the greenhorn I
got for a partner these days. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. This guy
is the biggest idiot on the planet. They tell us to trail some
Army big-wig and you know what? He starts asking questions.
Can you believe it?  Senator McCarthy wants something done and
this jerk wants to know why. I give him six months, tops."

"McCarthy? What does he want with the Army?" Dales' shoulders
straightened.

"Hunting Commies, I guess. What else?"

"There aren't any Commies in the Army."

"How the hell would you know?" Hensler's tone conveyed
suspicious annoyance and Dales had a sudden fear that his next
words would be 'Are you now or have you ever been a member of
the Communist Party?' Cohn had pinned him to the wall with
that once. He tried to backpedal so it didn't sound like he
was questioning Senator McCarthy's motives.

"I was in the Army, Hensler. There are plenty of numbskulls
but I'd bet my life there aren't any traitors. Hell, I did bet
my life."

"Dales, where have you been? There are traitors everywhere."
Hensler eyed him, then shook his head.  "You're spending too
much time with that clerk of yours. You're getting soft."

"Now the Navy, on the other hand..." said Dales with a crooked
grin, remembering Hensler was a Navy man. "I'm not so sure
about the Navy."

"Ah, screw you," Hensler laughed. "Anyway, it wasn't McCarthy
himself who gave us the assignment.  It was that Jew toady of
his. So maybe my partner'll be able to hang onto his job."

"Toady?"

"You know. The lawyer." Hensler took a last drag on the
cigarette and crossed the hall to crush it in the ashtray.
"Well, I gotta get out of here. Thanks for the smokes, Dales.
Nice talking to you. "

"Yeah, you too." Dales turned and started down the hall. His
back stiffened as Hensler's last words floated past him like a
buzz bomb.

"Be careful out there, Dales. You never know who's watching."

All the way back to the office, Dales pondered Hensler's
words. Why was Cohn interested in the Army? Was that the only
reason he was at the warehouse? None of this made any sense.
He hoped Dorothy’d found what she was looking for.

"There you are," Dorothy said, looking up at his entrance. "I
thought you'd given up and gone home."  She blinked at his
expression.  "Why the frown, Arthur?"

"I was just talking to Hensler in the hall." At her inquiring
look, he added, "Old guy, works surveillance mostly. You
probably don't know him." He studied the gleam the light put
in her hair. But, he thought, Hensler sure as hell knows about
you.

"You were gone a long time. Let me guess." She gave him a wry
smile. "After long and serious debate, the two of you decided
the Yankees would win the pennant again this year."

This time, Dales' grin wasn't forced. "Something like that."

"Arthur, I found the file on Tule Lake," she said, before he
could elaborate. Her serious face sent him hustling for his
chair. "It was an internment camp in a desolate area of
northern California, where they sent troublemakers from the
other camps who wouldn't sign the loyalty oath and all that.
The file never seems to have made it to an official wartime
censor, so it never got blacked out. That's the good news."

"And the bad news?"

"I'm not sure it really helps." Dorothy pushed the file over
to him as he sat down.

"What am I looking at?"

"In 1944, a guard at Tule Lake reported a cabin full of
mysteriously burned bodies. That's why I remembered."

Dales cocked his head.

"All the other reports we have on spontaneous human combustion
are for lone victims," she clarified.  "There are some
differences between this case and your warehouse fire, but the
results sound similar -- only the bodies burned, and not the
surrounding area. What do you think?"

He scanned the file quickly, looking for the description of
the burns. In some ways, it did sound similar: a fire hot
enough to carbonize a body, bones and all, but one that didn't
do any more damage to the surroundings than scorch the tables
and walls nearby. A fire that hot should have incinerated the
wooden barracks. Instead, the guard had reported sixteen
corpses burned over part or almost all of their bodies. Each
had been strapped to an exam table. All unnamed, but all
Japanese, the guard had assumed, apparently inmates of the
camp. What the hell had happened? Dales couldn't find much
beyond the straight description, none of the half-formed
theories he expected, no leads pursued. The reporting agent
had copied down the story and left it at that. He flipped to
the end. "The agent wasn't at the scene? Why was the report
even filed?"

"The guard was the agent's brother. I'm reading between the
lines a little here, but he -- the guard -- had some kind of
breakdown after the incident. His brother was interested
enough to make out a report and record the description of the
scene, but he must have had second thoughts about pushing to
make it an official case." Dorothy reached across the table
and pointed to a paragraph at the bottom of the second page.
"It starts when the guard said he saw people running out of
barracks, coughing and choking, and he went to check it out."

"It says here three of the survivors were doctors, two
Japanese and one American. Plus two guards. No statements from
any of them."

"No, nothing, and when he went inside, the guard saw the
sixteen bodies...  all strapped to tables, Arthur." Dorothy's
arms crossed her chest, and she fiercely rubbed her hands up
and down along her arms as if she were cold. "What were they
doing?"

Dales closed his eyes briefly, sat back in his chair. He
couldn't begin to guess what they were doing, but he sure as
hell knew what it sounded like.  They both did.  After the
war, it had become very clear what certain doctors had done in
the German internment camps and in the Japanese ones, too. Not
to mention whatever those German refugee doctors hiding in
Veteran’s Administration hospitals here in the States did to
Skur and God knew who else after the war.  He reached blindly
for his pack and lit up again, the familiar motions lending
some comfort. "I don’t know," he said, coughing as the smoke
hit the back of his throat. "I don't know."

At this, Dorothy bit her unprotected lip, her lipstick having
worn off hours ago. They sat in silence, listening to the buzz
of the fluorescent lights overhead, the flickering white light
dulled by the stale gray haze from Dales' cigarette.

"We could be barking up the wrong tree," Dales said finally.
"Maybe the two incidents aren't connected. The way the bodies
burned without burning the barracks sounds like what I saw,
but from where they were in the warehouse, I'd guess that the
victims I saw were on the run when they went up in flames, not
strapped down. Did they discover anything more about what
happened at Tule Lake?"

"No." She pulled the file toward her and flipped it open
again. "The guard left his job, and the agent recorded the
incident as unsolved. It doesn't look like he tried too hard
to find out what happened."  Her voice dripped disgust. "Just
because the victims were Japs, that was no excuse for such
shoddy investigative work."

Dales flushed at the memory of his own altered report on the
Skur case. "Who was the reporting agent?"

"Michael Pearson. Do you know him?"

"No, never heard of him, but that would have been before my
time. I was in France in '44. Maybe someone around here knows,
one of the old-timers who would've been too old to enlist.
Hensler, maybe. One of them might have been posted on the West
Coast. As I recall, the Bureau was even involved in moving
Japanese families into the camps."

"They didn't guard the camps, did they?"

"No, that was an Army job, I think, or maybe the National
Guard."

Dorothy nodded, then her eyes widened. "Didn't you say you saw
a soldier tonight out at the warehouse?"

"Yes...." He dragged the word out. "Where are you going with
this?"

"I'm not sure yet." Dorothy began rubbing a strand of hair
between her fingers. "You saw Cohn, too, and I don’t see how
he fits into the picture either."

"Cohn may not be involved in this." Dales gave her a summary
of McCarthy's interest in the Army, editing out Hensler's
words of warning. "It's hard to picture him doing leg work,
but Cohn may have just been at the warehouse following this
particular unit around. Maybe he's developing a case on
someone in it."

Dorothy stared at him, her mouth slightly open. "Just when
were you planning on telling me this?"

"What are you talking about? I just did."

"Arthur, I leave the room with you convinced that your
personal nemesis is the devil incarnate unleashing fire and
brimstone on innocent people and when I come back, you just
forget to mention that, 'Oh, by the way, I've changed my
mind,' and you need to ask what I think the problem is?"

"Dorothy, you don't believe anything I’ve ever said about
Cohn, so what are you getting so worked up about?"

"I don't believe your theory but that doesn't mean you can
treat me like some annoying kid sister who doesn't need to
hear all the details."

Dales gaped at her. "I do no such thing." He had to protect
her, but for God's sake, he had certainly told her as much as
he thought she should know. Besides, it wasn't like she really
wanted to hear his theories, he told himself. "Hell, Dorothy,
you're the one who treats me like I'm some dim bulb cousin."

He flung himself back in his chair when he realized what he'd
said. If they were going to start in on each other it was time
to go home and sleep for a week. He took a deep breath. "I'm
sorry I didn't tell you right away, but you had the file to
show me when I got back and I got distracted. I wasn't trying
to hide anything from you."

"I do not treat you like a dim bulb," she said stiffly, though
he thought he could hear an undercurrent of something softer
in her voice. Or maybe he was just hearing what he wanted to
hear. He was too tired to sort it out.

"No, you don't." He rubbed his face with both hands. "Even if
you are one of the smartest people I know. I wasn't trying to
hide what Hensler said. I'm just tired, and it's been a long
night."

"I know, Arthur, and you're right. We're both worn out. Let's
figure out what our next steps are and call it a night."

"Fine. Tomorrow, I'll see if I can find anyone around here who
remembers Tule Lake, and after work, I'll check out the
warehouse. I never got past that first office and I'd like to
know what was on the rest of the second floor."

"Why?"

"Well, for one thing, I'm curious as to how long those victims
were in the warehouse. It was the mention of straps in there,"
he said, pointing to the internment camp file. "That got me
thinking. I didn't see any restraints near their bodies, but
they could have been held against their will. I only saw one
of the two or three rooms upstairs."

"How are you going to get in? Our investigation isn't
official."

"No, but the locals in the D.C.P.D. are better than most about
cooperating with the Bureau. I bet I can find someone who'll
let me in to take a look around.  Will you start on trying to
identify the bodies?  See if the women’s names listed in the
letter I found match any missing persons reports.  The
D.C.P.D. should be able to tell you that, or try someone in
the Bureau.  And don’t forget to send the ash I collected to
the lab."

He stood up and started to gather the files they'd spread out.
Expecting a response from her and not hearing one, he looked
over, only to find her watching him. "Okay?"

"Arthur, when have I ever forgotten anything?"

"I know, I know. How fast can you get it back?"

As he bent down to place the folders back in the lower rack of
the cart she'd used to bring them in, he could have sworn he
heard her mutter something but when he looked up, she had
already turned away, clearing their coffee mugs from the
table. He took a chance. "You know I count on you, don't you?
Even if you are more annoying than my kid sister."

She turned her head and smiled sweetly at him over her
shoulder. "If I did have any dim bulb cousins, Arthur, I'm
sure you'd outshine them all."
 

* * *

FBI Los Angeles Field Office
Westwood
11000 Wilshire Blvd.
February 28, 1999
10:08 a.m.

"Thank you, Agent Scully." The clerk at the property division
service window began a rhythmic cadence of form stamping and
sorting. "White copy for our records, please bring it to
window number four, ask for Laura, that’s Laura with an ‘au,’
not Lora with an ‘o,’ Lora with an ‘o’ is utterly hopeless.
Pink copy for the property division at headquarters in
Washington, you can take that with you. Blue copy for the San
Diego office, please mail it back to their property division,
not to the motor pool, the motor pool down there is simply not
equipped to handle this sort of transaction. Yellow copy…."
The speaker paused. "The yellow copy is for your records.
The... X-Files division?"

The clerk's severe look implied that that the X-Files division
records were no doubt a horror that would make the slackers in
the San Diego motor pool look like the finely-tuned employees
of a Swiss bank.

"Yes, that’s correct," Scully murmured politely, wondering if
property clerks got a special course in intimidation at
Quantico. "Now, about the rings--"

The clerk sighed. "Agent Scully, once again. Where did you
sign out the rings?"

"D.C.," Scully said, "but--"

"As I explained, the vehicle can be returned here because it
is required for one of our ongoing investigations, but no one
has requested a wedding band or an engagement ring. Those must
be returned to the property division at headquarters in
Washington. I do hope I’ve made myself clear."

Scully resisted the urge to mutter ‘Yes, Sister.’

She gathered up her rainbow collection of forms and
contemplated making another tilt at the bureaucratic windmill.
Before she could begin, the clerk made a pre-emptive strike by
planting a plastic ‘This Window is Closed’ sign on the
counter.

"Have a nice day," the clerk chirped, and disappeared.

Scully trudged down the counter to window four. "May I speak
to Laura, please?" she inquired of the young woman standing
there. In a burst of defiance, she refrained from specifying
which Laura she needed.

"That's me. May I help you?"

The woman studied the white form Scully slid across the
counter, then looked up in awe. "Do you work in the X-Files
division?"

This was always a loaded question when it came from a fellow
FBI employee. For some in the FBI 'family' they were the
exotic cousins, lucky holders of a mandate to investigate the
outlandish and bizarre. For most others they were very much an
embarrassment, the mentally challenged stepchildren hidden
away in the basement, never to be mentioned in polite company.

"I do," Scully answered, with caution.

From the delighted look that crossed the young woman's face,
it was easy to tell which category she put them in. "I've
always wanted to meet one of you," she enthused, holding out
her hand. "What took you so long?"

"I beg your pardon?" Scully cautiously shook the proffered
hand.

"What took you so long to come to L.A.?" the woman laughed.
"We could keep you busy year-round, you know?"

"Yes, well--" Scully paused just as she was about to deliver a
bland disclaimer. Since her arrival that morning, she'd been
puzzling over a way to discover why the regional office wasn't
investigating the sweatshop case. Easy enough for Mulder to
say, 'Just poke around. Ask some questions,' when it was
obvious she couldn't speak with anyone in authority. The last
thing she and Mulder needed right now was someone in authority
turning around and questioning why they were here.

Before Scully could begin to sound her out, the young woman
leaned across the counter toward her. "Are you here about the
Hollywood Boulevard case?"

"The--"

"You know, the one where the stars on the sidewalk are
rearranging themselves overnight so that people who've had
affairs are lying next to each other in the morning." In a
conspiratorial whisper, she added, "I heard Warren Beatty's
star has been very active. Well, you can imagine. Annette's
supposed to be furious."

Scully just stared at her, thanking her own lucky stars that
Mulder wasn't here. They'd never get out of this town.

"Since they've been tearing up the boulevard and the sidewalk
for the new subway, they say it's someone from the transit
authority with a sense of humor, but really, who could believe
someone from the transit authority would have a sense of
humor?"

"Now that would be an X-File," Scully murmured in agreement,
then decided to dangle some conversational bait and see what
happened. "No, I'm looking into a fire."

"Oh, oh! Are you here about the sweatshop case downtown? Those
poor, poor women. It's so scary. What's your angle? Wait, let
me guess. Angry ghosts? A psychic arsonist?" The clerk shook
her head before Scully could get a word in edgewise. "No, no.
I know! The papers mentioned something about spontaneous human
combustion. That's why you're here, right?"

"That's not quite correct," Scully demurred, "though I did
hear something about that particular fire in the papers. I
assumed someone from this office would be investigating that
one."

The woman flipped a lock of curly brown hair off her shoulder
and leaned even closer. "That's why I thought it might be your
case. My friend Sally is a clerk in white-collar crime, and
she said the word came down from SAC Helms that there was no
need for them to look into that case. Don't you think that's
weird?"

"Very strange," Scully agreed. Helms, she thought. She wasn't
familiar with the name.

"Sally and I think something's going on." The woman leaned
back, nodding sagely. "There's lots of stuff going on in this
town. You should stick around for a while. And if you ever
need any help--"

"I'll know who to call," Scully said. "By the way, is that
Lora with an 'o'?"

"Yeah! Most people never guess that. How did you know?"

"Just part of the job."

The girl's awed look told Scully that in certain quarters, the
reputation of the X-Files division had just gone up another
notch.

* * *

The clear blue sky of earlier that morning had turned
threatening. Scully stood on the sidewalk outside the large
monolith of a building, eyeing the dark clouds, grateful for
the concrete overhang at the entrance. A sleek black Mustang
convertible pulled up beside her. She ignored it and looked
down the driveway for some sign of Mulder. The man behind the
wheel slid his sunglasses down his nose and growled at her,
"Need a ride, FBI woman?"

Scully’s gaze snapped back to focus on the Mustang.

Mulder leaned over the passenger side seat and shoved open the
door. She slid in, then scrambled for the seatbelt as the car
roared down the driveway.

"I see we're still an item, Mrs. Petrie."

She grimaced down at the rings on her finger. "You were right,
they wouldn't take them back."

"We're going to have to register at Bloomingdale's if this
goes on any longer."

Scully rubbed her hand across the black leather passenger
seat. "Mulder, I left you at Ugly Duckling Rental Cars. This
car doesn’t look anything like an ugly duckling."

"I asked for one that had molted." He accelerated smoothly
into the heavy traffic heading east on Wilshire Boulevard.

She hunched down into her topcoat and wished she'd brought a
scarf. "Have you ever heard of an SAC named Helms in charge of
the white-collar crime division out here?" she yelled over the
wind.

"No," Mulder hollered back.

"He's sent down word that the sweatshop case wasn't the FBI's
concern." She reached up to pull her hair out of her mouth and
twist it into a knot, holding it in place with both hands.
"Are you sure you don't know anyone in the office here that we
could question about this?"

"What?"

Scully gave up.

Mulder seemed unconcerned, pushing the Mustang through yellow
light after yellow light, until the signals caught up with him
and he was forced to stop. He grinned over at her. "What's the
difference between a Mustang and a minivan, Scully?"

"Wind-chill factor."

"I was going to say self-respect."

"Mulder, it's freezing in this thing. We have to put the top
up."

With a sigh, Mulder guided the convertible to the side of the
road and parked. He pulled off his sunglasses and looked over
at her, but his next words never left his open lips. Scully
turned to discover what had inspired his fixed stare, and
found a shabby, boarded-up building. The faded sign over the
door read Club Tepes.

She turned back to him. "Mulder?"

He was busy searching for the controls to the convertible top.
No sooner was the shelter in place than a hollow patter
indicated that they had covered up just in time. Mulder
flicked on the windshield wipers and the turn signal, looking
over his shoulder for a break in the traffic. "What were you
saying about somebody named Helms, Scully?"

"SAC for the white-collar crime division." She leaned over to
turn on the heater. "He's sent down word that the sweatshop
fire isn't a target for investigation. I wonder if he'll
change his mind once he learns what Browning told me on the
phone this morning, that somebody stole the tissue samples
from the coroner's office last night."

Scully watched Mulder's profile, noting the tic in his jaw.
With his hands too busy to pull out his sunflower seeds, he
was grinding his teeth, a sure sign of tension. She didn't
think it had anything to do with the traffic -- or the tissue
samples. "Mulder, what was that place?" She gestured over her
shoulder at the receding nightclub.

He chewed on his lip before answering. "Nothing to do with
this case, Scully."

She buried her hands in the pockets of her coat. The warm air
from the heater had yet to rise above ankle level.

"I'm going to drop you at the coroner's office and go over to
the jail," Mulder announced several stop lights later. "I'm
going to try to interview the two suspects in custody,
question them about the fire and that intruder at the
warehouse. See if they know anything about the tissue samples
being stolen."

"That's a very high-profile move for someone who wanted to get
out of town this morning. What about Hernandez's threat?"

He shrugged. "I'll chance it. I doubt Hernandez will be there.
He might show up at the coroner's, though, considering this
new development. You're going to have to try to avoid him."

And who are you trying to avoid at the coroner's? Scully
thought.

She sat in silence for a few minutes, weighing the risks.
"Mulder... that club back there. Did it have something to do
with your last case here? The one you investigated while I was
missing?"

Gripping the steering wheel tightly, he peered through the
rain that was now lashing down, then switched the wipers to
high speed. "Somebody at the coroner's office remembered the
case." It wasn't a question.

"Dr. Browning, the one I spoke to on the phone this morning."

Mulder glanced over at her, then back at the road. "What did
he say?"

Scully's automatic response was to retreat from what looked
like an emotional minefield. Instead, she said, "That you-- He
remembered you because you seemed very sad."

"That can't surprise you, Scully."

"No, I-- I know you were concerned about me--"

"Concerned?" He shot her an incredulous look. "Scully...." He
turned back to the traffic. "Yeah, I was very concerned."

Stung by the sarcasm in his voice, she wondered how she had
gotten maneuvered into the defensive position in this
conversation.

In a gruff voice, Mulder said, "Did he tell you about the
case?"

"Vampires." She hesitated. "And fire."

"It was a cult case. A group of blood drinkers who thought
they were vampires. They all burned in the end."

"Browning said you were investigating alone."

"My partner was unavailable."

The undercurrent of anger in his voice pinned her to her seat.
"That was hardly my choice, Mulder. Or my fault."

"No." His voice was still grim. "It was mine."

"Mulder, that's not tr--."

"Do you want to know about that case, Scully? I'll tell you.
There was a witness. A brave and completely screwed-up woman.
I talked her into turning on the members of her group, and
instead of my protecting her, she kept them from killing me.
And then she died in a fire while I watched from a hillside a
hundred yards away, and there wasn't a goddamned thing I could
do about it. And meanwhile, you were still missing, and I
hadn't done a goddamned thing about that either."

She flinched as he punctuated the last sentence by honking at
the slow moving delivery truck trundling in front of them.

"I'm sorry, Mulder. You never told me much about what you went
through during that time...."

"When did I ever get a chance, Scully? If you recall, you were
the one who wanted to make believe that time never happened.
You resisted every bit of help I tried to give you. That
anyone tried to give you."

She bowed her head, feeling guilt and more than a touch of
anger. "Mulder, that was private. Not relevant to the work."

Her head jerked up as his response seemed to explode out of
him. "Jesus, Scully that... incident is at the core of our
work. How can you say it's not relevant?"

She tightened her lips and stared out the window. Ignoring his
question, she muttered, "And it's not as though you tell me
everything either."

He stopped the car at a red light and she could feel his eyes
on her. "Oh, so now we're back to Diana."

"Mulder," she said, turning toward him. "I am talking about
how we work. The way you withhold information that I need to
do my job. And, yes, Diana is a part of that. We almost lost
everything two weeks ago, or do I have to remind you how close
we came to ending up as a pile of ashes on the floor of that
hangar?"

"I think about that every day." His tone was fierce. "I think
about that and the fact that listening to you was the only
thing that saved us. I told you I investigated Diana's
apartment based solely on your word, not on any solid evidence
but on your intuition, but you don't want to listen. And I'm
beginning to think it's only because I didn't find anything
incriminating like you'd hoped I would."

"What do you call finding CGB Spender there?"

"Evidence that snakes can slither under any door they want
to." He gave her an impatient look before accelerating the
Mustang through the intersection as the light turned green.
"Look, Scully, the fact of the matter is that I've told you a
lot of things in the past six months, including that I need
you to do this work with me or I can't do it at all." Pained
sarcasm dripped from his voice. "And I have yet to hear word
one from you in reply."

Her heart jerked in her chest. The words she wanted to say,
had wanted to say since they were re-assigned, stopped short
at the lump in her throat, composed of a miserable combination
of caution, confusion and anger. He was the one who was good
at declarations, not she. She could summarize a case, diagnose
a disease, break down an autopsy report with ease, but these
words were so much more difficult to say. She swallowed hard
and cobbled together a stoic facade through sheer
determination This was about the work, she reminded herself.
He's talking about the work. If we don't get this fixed,
nothing else can ever be decided. "Pull the car over, Mulder."

"Don't be stupid, Scully, we're still a mile away."

"Pull the car over now."

He steered the car to the side of the road, and switched off
the ignition. With the wipers stilled, they were immediately
enclosed in a bubble of rapidly cooling air, while rain
pounded the windshield and slanted across the windows in
twisting rivulets, pushed into confused patterns by the
howling wind.

"Mulder, as long as I have worked with you, you have pushed me
away, then dragged me close, and never stopped to consult me
on how I might feel about that. The fact is, I'm here because
of choices I made. How dare you take that away from me? You
don't hold decisions of life and death over me, and you sure
as hell don't run my career. You are my partner and that means
we need to work together. As equals. No surprises, no cases
pulled out of thin air, no withholding the information I need
to do my job. My job, Mulder."

She stopped to catch her breath, and focused on his face. His
expression was almost fearful, mouth dropped open slightly in
horror, but his eyes were angry. Turning to face front, she
flicked impatiently at her hair, strands of which lay across
her cheek and fell into her eyes. She took her time smoothing
the windblown mess into some semblance of order, while
listening to his soft breathing and the patter of the rain.

She tensed when she heard him clear his throat. "Well, thank
you for letting me know how you feel, at last." His voice was
cracked and raw. "This is my job, too, Scully. And since we
seem to be holding a state of the union address, I can only
hope this means that in the future you will stop rolling your
eyes every time I advance a theory that doesn't completely
mesh with your scientific principles. If I withhold
information, and I'm not saying I do, maybe it's because you
don't want to hear it. If I change the amount of information I
share with you-- I wonder, will you be prepared to deal with
it?"

"Trust me. I will."

"Are you sure? Sometimes I think the only way I can keep you
interested these days is to string out the information to pull
you along. Half the time it feels like you'd rather be
somewhere else. Anywhere else, except working a case with me."

She swung around and gaped at him. "After all we have been
through, Mulder, the fact that I'm still here should tell you
exactly how committed I am to this work. And after what you
just said to me...." She swallowed convulsively, tears this
time, but they never reached the rims of her eyes. "The fact
that I plan to keep working with you to solve this case--
frankly, that's probably evidence that I should just be
committed. But I am here, Mulder. For whatever that's worth,
I'm here."

He blinked at her.

"To do a job," she continued, with the force of a vow, "with
my partner."

When he still didn't respond, she decided the drama was over.
"It's almost eleven o'clock, Mulder." She heard with grim
approval the flat, even voice that came out of her mouth. "I'm
going to be late for my meeting with Dr. Browning."

To her shock, she could feel a sudden reverberation through
the confined space as Mulder's whole body tensed and quivered
like a tuning fork rapped against a block of ice. He turned
away from her slowly, started the car and eased out into
traffic, his motions careful and controlled. Her hands were
clenched in her lap, and she realized they were still freezing
cold. She rubbed them together, making a soft exclamation as
blood rushed to her fingertips.

"Shit, Scully." Mulder's voice held pain, and the fear was
still there, but it was the vehemence with which he uttered
those two words that made her jump. His hand reached over and
wrapped around both of hers, warming them almost instantly.
She stared down at their clasped hands, then back up at him.
Whatever strong emotion had gripped him, it didn't seem to be
anger. In fact, now that they were moving forward again, he
seemed almost detached from his action, his attention focused
on the traffic.

Silence reigned until he let go of her hands to steer the car
into the parking lot of the coroner's office and pulled up to
the door.

"I'll probably need about an hour and a half." She gathered up
her briefcase and purse, and opened the car door.

"Scully," he said softly.

She turned to face him. His eyes were focused on her throat.
If it were any man but Mulder, she'd suspect him of merely
ogling her as she leaned back down into the car, but in fact,
she wasn't sure he was seeing her at all.

"I'll call you," he said.

She met his gaze for a long moment, then shut the passenger
side door. As she walked up the stairs to the building, she
winced at the squeal of the Mustang's tires on the wet asphalt
as it pulled away.

* * *
End Chapter 7
* * *
Chapter 8.