CENTRAL WYOMING FAIRGROUNDS, CASPER, WYOMING SATURDAY, AUGUST 30, 1998 10:47 PM

"Step right up, ma'am," Scully muttered into the microphone. "Weight, age, or birth month?"

It was nearly closing time. By now, most patrons had been parted from their money and were wisely on the way home.

"Weight." The diehard who stood before her was a plump woman in a sequined square-dancing outfit. Her male companion was equally plump, and clutched a giant Scooby-Doo. Pink cheeks squeezed up in a knowing smile, the woman stepped up next to the scales and paid her money. "I stump everyone 'cause I'm a dancer," she said, smugly. "Muscle weighs more than fat, you know." She smelled like beer. Scully slipped the two dollars into her apron.

She'd learned a lot about human nature in the four weeks she'd spent as a carny, the most important thing being that people gave themselves too much credit. They all believed they were too smart to be taken, and that was precisely what made them easy to take.

Scully raised the microphone. Her voice echoed down the mostly-empty lane. "You're tricky, huh? Let me take a look." Frowning, she pretended to study the woman, just as she'd been taught.

The 'mark,' as Scully had learned to refer to her customers, flounced her petticoats and turned in a circle, ostensibly so Scully could get a better look at her body.

"It's okay," Scully murmured into the mic. "You don't have to do that. Really."

"You go, Stormy! Whoo-hoo!" The boyfriend gave a wolf-whistle and waved.

'Stormy' giggled and waved back. "Think she'll guess me, baby? What prize do you want?"

The boyfriend swayed from side to side. It was possible that his Scooby-Doo was the only thing holding him up. "Get me one of them giant baseball bats," he slurred. "Then we'll go home and play some giant baseball."

Stormy shrieked, delighted, no doubt, by the fine sense of humor her date displayed. While she was doubled over laughing, Scully gave the round body a nonchalant once-over, estimating its height and quickly adding up the average weight in grams of its various organs, bones, and fat deposits. Then she added a gram or two for sequins, converted from metric to Imperial in her head and shot the woman a look that told her, Scully hoped, that it was high time she got serious about getting her weight guessed.

Tears in her eyes, the woman gasped "Oh my," and lurched to one side. Then she recovered herself, glared at Scully, and snapped "Hurry up, sweetie."

Scully had been told repeatedly by her supervisor that guessing the mark's actual weight was simply not the point of the weight-guessing game. The point of the weight-guessing game was to let the mark win a prize. That would make them greedier - soften them up for the other games. There was nothing wrong with an occasional lucky guess - after all, it gave the game credibility, but unless lots of people were standing around, there was nothing to be gained by being right. At her supervisor's urging she had taken to subtracting five pounds from every guess, but there was something about Stormy that aroused her innate need for accuracy.

"One seventy-nine," she dead-panned

"Oh," Stormy answered. Seeming just a fraction less giddy than she had a moment before, she climbed up onto the scale.

179.

Scully maintained her poker face. Stormy and her boyfriend staggered away.

"That right there's a cryin' shame."

Tim Frye had appeared at her elbow, grinning like the redneck version of the Cheshire Cat. He watched the Scooby-Doo and the spangles disappear down the midway. "Look, they're so disappointed they can hardly walk."

Scully stretched. "No one calls me 'sweetie' and gets away with it."

He chuckled. "Honey, you play all the marks that strong and Buck's gonna move you up to one of the big games."

"Huh?"

"You're a natural, girl."

She grinned. "Is that a compliment?"

Frye returned the smile. "You bet it is."

He held out an ear of roasted corn, slathered in some sort of buttery substance, wrapped in a paper towel. "Here, don't say I never gave you nothin'."

In her pre-carny days, Scully probably would have politely declined, but it was amazing how hungry a person could get while pretending to scrutinize body fat ten hours a day. She laid hold of the hot ear with a grateful smile, sank her teeth into it, burned her gums, took a huge bite anyway.

Frye gave a low whistle. "Wow. Hungry?"

Hungry? Hell, yes, she was hungry. Regular meals weren't really a part of her life these days. Scully slurped at the corn, so absorbed in its I-can't- believe-it's-not buttery goodness that she temporarily forgot Frye was standing next to her.

He touched her arm. "Hey, Bren -"

"Did you bring me a napkin?" she interrupted, leaning over to keep drips from staining her clothes and gnawing at the kernels.

"No, but I want you to meet somebody," he said. "He's new on my crew and I'm showing him around."

"Oh, sorry." Scully lowered the corn and, having no other choice, licked her lips and swiped her mouth across her sleeve.

"Duke, this is Brenda, the greenest and meanest weight-guesser this show ever saw. Brenda, this is Duke. He's learning to jock the Thunder Bolt."

Scully raised her face from her sleeve, expecting to see yet another guy who looked like an older or younger version of Frye. Instead, her mouth fell open in surprise.

Mulder extended a grease-stained hand. "That corn looks pretty good," he said, grinning smugly under the brim of his ball cap.

Buttery substance met Thunder Bolt lube.

"Yeah, it is." She withdrew from the handshake and composed herself, hoping Frye hadn't picked up on her reaction. Of course, she'd known her replacement was coming - when she'd spoken to her contact the previous Tuesday he'd told her to expect someone within the week.

But Capocelli hadn't told her the replacement would be Mulder.

Mulder scratched the stubble on his chin. Scully tried not to gawk: greasy jeans, work-boots, wife-beater undershirt and - oh brother, she thought - a cartoon alien tattooed on one bicep. He was utterly filthy. It looked like he'd spent the day *under* the Thunder Bolt, not learning to run it.

Scully suddenly imagined herself scrawling 'Wash Me' across his bare chest with her index finger, and, unnerved by this thought, dropped her gaze to the gravel.

"There's a cook joint across from the Carousel that stays open late, Duke. You should try it out." She looked up. "Good hamburgers."

He licked his lips and nodded. "Maybe I will." See you there, his gaze told her. He reeked of sweat and dirt and was obviously having the time of his life.

Scully felt a trickle of warmth inside, like a swallow of brandy on a cold night. She hadn't realized it until this moment, but she'd missed him. Really missed him.

Heart racing, she turned away. Frye had flopped down in her camp chair and was absently diddling the scale with his foot. "Hey," he said, watching the red cartoon needle swing back and forth, "did that room at Betty's work out?"

Scully frowned. "Somebody beat me to it. Looks like I'm still stuck in the bunkhouse."

Carnies without their own trailer-homes could rent a room in a partitioned semi trailer called the bunkhouse. Scully guessed The Salvation Army would probably be safer and more restful.

"Don't tell me you want to move out of the bunkhouse." Mulder gave another smug grin. "That's where all the action is."

She couldn't argue with that. The walls were thin as cardboard and 'privacy' was a non-issue, simply because there wasn't any. "All I can say is, some people have no shame."

Mulder lifted a brow. "Yeah? And here I thought all that noise was rats or something."

Frye laughed out loud, then stood. "Well, darlin', when you get over being shy, or whatever it is, you know my offer stands."

Scully glanced toward Mulder. He was studying one of the giant plastic baseball bats, turning it slowly on the rack. "I know," she told Frye, "But your place is really small, and I don't want to - "

"Aw, c'mon Brenda." Frye moved close to her, his expression more intent than usual - uncomfortably so. "We're friends, right? You can have the bed, and I'll - "

Mulder snared a giant bat off the rack and swung it, smacking Frye in the torso. "Oh, sorry, man," he said, arching an eyebrow Scully's way. "Didn't see you standing there."

Shaking his head, Frye turned to Scully again. "Listen, honey, I'm there if you need me."

Scully nodded. "Yeah, Tim, I know."

"Good. Don't you forget. Hey, I want to take you somewhere special tonight, okay?"

"Sounds good," Scully answered. She glanced at Mulder. He was engrossed in the prizes once more.

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11:20 PM

Scully arrived at the company cook joint a few minutes before closing time. The cashier glared at her, but she got in line anyway, and stood behind two women who were both so leggy and muscular that they could have easily been retired from careers with the NFL. Known around PA as the Price sisters, Shirley and her younger sister Juanita operated a profitable bingo game in a very choice location on the midway.

Scully had heard all sorts of wild rumors about them. Her favorite was that they'd made their bankroll back in the day by pulling tractor-trailers with their teeth. The one most likely to be true, however, was that Shirley Price had once been married to Tim Frye. She strained to hear their conversation over the classic rock blaring out of the cook's radio.

Shirley Price was clearly irate about something. "... don't know why she won't just give the whole thing up. She's been pouting about it all season. I mean, Lord Jesus."

Juanita snorted. "These things take time, girl, and you know it. It ain't like she can just flip a switch and quit bein' in love."

The elder Price sister put her hands on her hips and frowned. "I told her there ain't a man on earth worth going to hell for. But she won't listen to her mama, 'course. Guess she figures that'd be the end of the world."

"She start speakin' to her dad again?"

"I don't know." Having come to the front of the line, she addressed the stocky little man behind the grill. "Hey there, Dale. Double cheese and fries."

"Make it two," her sister said.

The cook slapped pre-pressed patties on the grill. The two women moved to the cash register, where the cashier was pouring iced tea. Scully shifted her weight from one weary leg to the other, trying to keep tabs on their conversation. Frye *did* have a teenage daughter. According to what he'd told her, the girl had lived with him until they'd had a falling out. Now she lived with her mother, he'd said. Scully saw the girl several times a week, mostly at parties, but hadn't spent any real time with her.

Juanita yawned and scratched behind her ear. "Don't you think you 'n him should at least sit down and talk about the whole thing?"

Shirley slapped a five on the counter. "Aw, we done all the talkin' we need to do about this."

Juanita picked up the two styrofoam cups. "Be fair, now."

Scully waited eagerly for Shirley to answer her sister, but the cook grunted and gave her an expectant look.

"Regular burger, plain, and a diet Pepsi," she told him quickly, drifting toward the cash register, where the Price sisters were getting their change.

"Deluxe with bacon, onion rings, and a Dr. Pepper."

Scully turned at the sound of the familiar voice.

Mulder shoved his hands in his pockets and gave her a sidelong glance. "Hey there. It's Brenda, right?" he asked, raising his voice enough for anyone in earshot to hear.

Scully handed her money to the cashier. "Mm-hm. Sorry, I forgot your name."

"Duke," he answered. "Call me Duke."

"I'll try," she said, rolling her eyes. "By the way, classy tattoo."

He smiled. "Thanks. So, you're a weight guesser, huh?"

"Among other things. Everybody around here wears at least two hats." Scully pocketed her change and waited while he paid for his food.

"I hear you're good. You're all my boss talks about."

"That so?" She took a sip of her soda.

He shrugged and made a show of looking around. "You here by yourself?"

"Yeah. You?"

"All alone. Mind if I sit with you?"

"Well, I've only got a minute, but sure."

"Oh, that's right," he said, his gaze dropping. "You've got a date."

This was much weirder than she ever could have imagined.

Mulder followed her to a picnic table on the far side of the dining area. When they were settled, he took a big sip of his drink. "How are you?" he asked in a low voice.

She gave a quick glance around the tent. No one was paying them any attention. "Well, my arches will never recover, but I'm all right." She dropped her voice. "How the hell did you talk them into sending you out here? Weren't you supposed to be working on the profile?"

He gave an enigmatic smile. "I was temperamental. The SAC was dying to get rid of me."

"I can imagine," she said. God, it was good to see him. She looked down, picked at a splinter on the table. "So how do you like being a ride jock?"

"It's a hoot." He raised an imaginary mic to his mouth: "Hey kids, who wants to go *faster*?"

She stifled a laugh, felt herself relax a little. "When did you - ?"

"Got hired last night. I would have shown up Thursday, but they wanted me to wait until forensics came back with some information."

"Oh, yeah." She pretended to gaze out at the lane that ran by the tent. "About the bomb in Spokane?"

"I see you talked to Cap already."

"Yeah, he told me when I called in Tuesday night."

"Yep. I was supposed to be relieving you, Scully, but given the circumstances they've decided they need us both on the inside." He nudged his carton of onion rings toward her. "Ring?"

Scully shook her head. "The bomb didn't detonate, right?"

He stretched, glanced at the empty tables around them. "Right," he said, lowering his voice. "Timer failed. Letter carrier called 911. Same MO - apparently a pretty standard type of device - sixteen-ounce juice bottle filled with gunpowder and four-penny nails. Travel alarm, nine-volt battery, same brand as usual."

"Note?"

"Legal pad, Bic pen, picture of a Ferris wheel drawn by a right-handed person. No prints, no hairs, no fibers, same as the other ones." He devoured an onion ring, then another. "Smudge of something on the paper this time. The lab says axle grease."

"Well, there's plenty of that around here." She took another long pull at her soda. "I've been thinking about that symbol. I'm not sure it's a Ferris wheel. It looks almost nautical, like a ship's wheel."

Mulder shook his head and swallowed. "The thing in the center, the three loops, like flower petals? That makes me think it's a Dharma Wheel."

Scully lifted a brow. "A which?"

"The Wheel of Law - a Buddhist symbol. It's derived from an ancient Indian symbol - transformation, birth and rebirth, among other things."

"So, you think the bomber is what? A Buddhist?"

He shifted in his seat, gave the area another casual check. "Maybe."

"Blowing up mailboxes doesn't seem very Buddhist."

Mulder shrugged. The cook waved in their direction, holding up two wrapped hamburgers. Mulder got up and went to collect them. When he came back, he took his time opening the foil and salting and peppering his food. Scully lowered her gaze to the table and chewed her burger without speaking. After a few moments, Mulder spoke again.

"So, anything new on our prime suspect?"

"Frye? Well, like I told Capocelli on Tuesday, I've come to the conclusion that we're barking up the wrong tree."

Mulder's face was deliberately blank, but his gaze was intense. "Yeah, he mentioned. What makes you think that, exactly?"

"Well, I stayed with Tim for a few days when I first came on the road, and since then I've been hanging out with him a lot..."

Mulder grimaced. "Yeah, I got that."

"Take the incident this week. I was with him most of the day Sunday. He gave me a ride here from Spokane - we left early Monday and drove all day. If he'd taken a break to plant a bomb, I would have noticed."

"True, but nobody thinks this bomber is acting alone anymore."

Scully sighed. Background checks on the PA staff had revealed that Timothy Lee Frye had been convicted in 1971 of planting a pipe bomb in his high school ROTC office. He'd been released from prison on his twenty-first birthday. Since that time, he'd been convicted of two drug-related felonies, and had served two years of a five-year sentence for the second offense. After that, he'd kept his nose clean. There had been no new additions to his record in almost twenty years.

"Lots of young people did radical things in the early seventies, and his other arrests don't really count - selling marijuana is hardly a terrorist activity. I think the fact that the bombs match is coincidental."

"But, Scully - "

"Really, Mulder. Nothing else about him fits the profile. He works fifteen-hour days and goes out partying every night. He seems content with his life, never mentions politics or religion or anything else controversial. He's popular, always in the middle of a group, always seems to have someone staying at his place - frankly, I don't know how he'd find time to make a bomb. Or why he'd want to."

The Price sisters got up from their table on the other end of the tent and made their way out. Except for the cashier, who was counting her drawer, and the cook, who was busy scraping the grill, they were now alone.

"What about Shelby Peake?"

She shook her head. "I don't think he's a viable suspect either. I know he's got the military background, and I've heard plenty of anti-government rhetoric come out of his mouth, but that's mostly about taxes. He's an old man - forgetful, disorganized. His hands shake - some kind of palsy, Parkinson's maybe, and he lives on Pepto bismol. His operations manager, Mandy Zin, handles most of his day-to-day affairs, right down to putting the cream in his coffee. I can't see him making a pipe bomb. He'd blow his own head off before he ever got to the mailbox."

"But he could be working with someone."

She nodded. "I'm keeping an eye on him, but I don't think he's our man, or even one of our men."

"What about Robert Peake?"

"I haven't found out much about him yet. He's around the office a lot, but he's pretty cagey. I'm working on it." She wadded up the rest of her burger. "Speaking of work, I have to go."

"I know," Mulder said softly, looking vaguely wounded. "I'll wait up for you at the bunkhouse, okay?"

Scully found herself bristling, though she wasn't sure why. "There's no need for that."

"It won't blow our cover for me to make sure you get back safely."

She pulled away. "This is nothing new, Mulder. I go out with Tim almost every night - it's why I'm here, remember?"

Scowling, Mulder grabbed his drink, jabbed his straw into the leftover ice. "Look, I just worked all day with him. You know how many women he invites into that little control booth? How many he can actually fit in there all at once? Kind of reminded me of a VW full of circus midgets."

Scully felt her cheeks getting hot. Six months ago she might have been intrigued, comforted, even flattered to see Mulder act this way, but things were different now, and they both knew it. Trying not to let her annoyance show, she swung her legs over the picnic bench and stood up. "Good night, *Duke*. I'll see you tomorrow."

There was a long silence. "Yeah. Night."

End 02/12