The Science of Love by Jori

Mulder and Scully spend Labor Day weekend helping a fellow agent out on a case and learn more than they ever wanted about the 'science of love.' NC-17

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

Frozen Creek, North Dakota
September 3, 1999

Scully carefully picks up the square of parchment paper with tweezers and examines it closely before dropping it into an evidence bag and sealing it. She hands everything to an FBI crime scene technician, then closes her eyes and rubs her temples with fingers still covered in latex. Immediately I know that the style matches the last two pieces of 'art' found on the bodies of his victims.

The technician shows me the bag containing the painting and I hand it back to him. It is just like the rest and the lab in DC will be able to tell us if it is an exact match in a few days. I can't imagine it being anything but. How many murderers could be out there slaying young couples and leaving their bodies in a post-mortem display of 'love'?

And if that isn't enough, he leaves behind a small, hand painted picture. This is the first one I've actually been able to see. The others I saw in photographs on the flight here. They are all similar in context. And 'diligent' research on my part has pin pointed what I believe to be their source. The classic Hindu love manual, the Kama Sutra. Translated, it means the 'science of love' thought these grisly scenes have nothing to do with love.

Scully and the local M.E. discuss the estimated time of death based on lividity and rigor mortis. Their bodies have been well cared for considering the time of death is thought to be days ago. All traces of blood from the gunshot wounds to their heads has been washed away. Her long, glossy black hair isn't matted with old, dried blood like it should be. Instead, it looks like she just came out of a salon to meet her boyfriend and they simply crumpled down on to the grass here, clutching each other as they slipped into death.

Only I know it wasn't that pleasant. They were scared out of their minds before he finally murdered them. That is just part of their game of control.

The M.E. swabs various orifices of their bodies, collecting fluids for evidence, before taking temperatures to better ascertain the time of death. I can tell by the way she is shaking her head that it isn't going to help. These two have been kept on ice. Decomposition should be further along even though it doesn't feel like summer where we are right now. This is different than the first two couples. They were dumped relatively quickly after they were murdered. They were also cleaned up, but were beginning show minimal signs of decay. He is improving his technique.

What a way to spend the 'last' weekend of summer. Instead of the trip to the beach I had planned, we are doing a favor for some friend of Scully's who is a resident agent here in the back and beyond. This thing is getting so damn big that a profiler from Quantico should be called in soon instead of letting it remain something for one local agent to handle. Why her friend caught the case is beyond me unless someone is desperate for the answers to never be found. Or maybe no one cares about what happens here so far away from the rest of the world. I just hope this friend survives our help this time.

Scully walks over to the tree I'm leaning against and rubs her arms, trying to warm up. This chilly morning air is quite a change from the hot air that enveloped DC all summer.

"So, what do you think?" she asks, shoving her hands deep into her pockets.

"It certainly isn't an X-file," I answer as I pluck a seed out of my pocket and crack it between my teeth. "And this certainly isn't a beach front resort with a view of the ocean."

"Mulder, quit pouting. It is unbecoming," she says, looking away from me. "Besides, the ocean washed the beach away from that resort you picked sometime around Wednesday."

Damn hurricane. Ruined all my plans. And then this case came up. Scully offered our services to her 'friend' Agent Ted Burroughs. A part of me believes Scully is just trying to avoid a repeat of our last freakish holiday weekend by taking control. Or maybe she just wants to forget. We haven't seen much of each other outside of work since that weekend. The whole month of August was unbearable without her. But I'm trying to understand what she -- what we -- lost from her viewpoint.

"How does a town this size of Frozen Creek warrant having a medical examiner?" I ask. The woman introduced to me as Dr. Carson continues her work on the bodies of the latest victims while the two crime scene techs continue with their jobs. She is tall and has dark hair and would have been my type at one time. The local cops and the M.E. seem to know each other well and they all get along, no one getting in the other's way. Then again, in a town this size, everyone would have to get along. Except obviously one member of the community decided not to 'love thy neighbor' anymore.

"This town isn't that small, Mulder. Karrie Carson grew up here. Although she trained as a pathologist, she decided to come back here after her father died. He had been the town's M.D. She gets to pull double duty," she says as she watches her work.

"How do you know all this?" I ask, wondering if she knew everybody in town. Maybe it was Summerton all over again, except this time, Scully was in on it. This time she was going to choose differently.

"Ted filled me in when he called me for advice a few weeks ago. Right after the first two bodies were found dumped down by the creek," she says, pointing off in the direction from which I can hear running water.

Scully leaves me there as she goes to talk to both Agent Burroughs and Dr. Carson. I watch the body service show up to carry these two to what this town considers their morgue. It is also known as the one and only funeral home. They patiently wait on the side, chatting with the few cops, some of their accents sounding like they are straight out of the movie 'Fargo.'

Soon both bodies are zipped up in bags and put on stretchers, ready for transport. I already know Scully is going to assist Dr. Carson with the autopsies. They decided that within minutes of meeting one another and hitting it off. And Scully told me I get to offer my profiling expertise.

I'd rather be at the beach.

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

I find Scully and Dr. Carson both working on the body of the young woman at A&J Patterson's Funeral Home. They both look up at me through protective eye gear as I push my way through the swinging doors into the only place Frozen Creek has to slice and dice their dead.

Both women watch me as I hold up a photograph of the latest art work left today with the bodies.

"If your lustful lover buries her face in the pillow and goes on all fours like an animal and you rut upon her from behind as though you were a wild beast, this coupling is Harina, the Deer," I say. Scully looks down, her eyes not meeting mine, and I know that under all that equipment she is blushing. I'm pretty sure that Dr. Carson has no idea about the extent of our relationship. It isn't something Scully would discuss.

"You know that off hand? I'm impressed. What else do you know, Agent Mulder? Anything you would care to share?" she asks, her voice laden with more than purely professional interest in the evidence.

I look at Scully and her eyes come back up to meet mine. She cocks her head to the side, wondering exactly what I'm going to say next. Dr. Carson started this flirting last evening when we arrived here, before we even knew about the latest victims. Although I haven't reciprocated the notion or flirted back in any way, she doesn't stop trying.

"I know a few things," I say, as I pull a small book out of my pocket. "But I wouldn't be able to tell you what the polite term for Harina-ing is without this. Now, in the circles I travel in, it is commonly called doin' it dog--"

"Thank you, Agent Mulder," Scully says, cutting me off. "What do you have there?"

"I know where our UNSUB is getting his inspiration from. This is the Kama Sutra in a pillow book format, first printed by HarperCollins Publishers in 1993. Reprinted in 1998. I haven't had much time to work up a profile on him yet because I was out shopping . . ." I say. This time Dr. Carson interrupts me.

"You found that book here in Frozen Creek? My God. Has someone called Reverend Mitchell? He'll have a heart attack for sure," Karrie Carson says, mockingly clutching her chest with her bloody gloves.

"No. I didn't find this in Frozen Creek. I did find some book about Christian sex after marriage, but it was buried on a bookshelf and the clerk at your local bookstore looked mortified that it was even there," I say. The woman stammered herself into a tizzy when I asked for any version of the Kama Sutra. When she told me that they would carry no such thing, I showed her the one book they did have. Then she asked me to kindly leave.

"That would be Mrs. Mitchell. The reverend's wife. Now you are a marked man. They will probably run you out of town by nightfall," Dr. Carson says, laughing. Both women go back to work, assisting each other in the difficult work of doing a post-mortem on a woman so young.

"I had to drive 80 miles to Grand Forks to get this book. I found it easily at a college bookstore. I guess only college kids are having sex these days," I say, as I flip through the book and look at the various pictures, turning the book sideways. "Or at least interesting sex."

"It would seem that way," Scully and Dr. Carson say at the same time before they look up at me, laughing. Both have quite different expressions hidden under those masks.

"Well, maybe this guy secretly wants to be Vatsyayana. Or maybe he is just into Indian erotic literature. But he certainly didn't acquire his version locally," I say, avoiding their awkward glances. "I think I will get together with Agent Burroughs and work on how this book could have been acquired easily. Perhaps he got it through the internet. But I'm certain that he is copying this particular book because it is the only version in which I could find all three of his paintings. They are in order, by the way. You have already seen Churning Curds or Dadhyataka, the Pestle or Mausala, and now Harina."

"So, what can we expect next, Agent Mulder?" Dr. Carson asks. Her eyes shine even though they are covered with a layer of protective plastic. I don't know whether she is asking me what I would like next or what the murderer is going to provide them with. Scully continues to work, not noticing. Or ignoring it.

I start flipping through the little book. Contrary to what is the popular belief in this room right now, I don't have this memorized. Most of my erotic literature comes from this century and has very few people wearing turbans involved.

"Next, we should expect the United. 'When a man enjoys two women at the same time, both of whom love him equally, it is called 'the congress of a herd of cows'," I recite from the page following the Deer.

"Well, isn't that romantic," Scully quips before going back to work.

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

"You would not believe how many people in the town of Frozen Creek and the outlying areas have ordered one or another form of the Kama Sutra on-line. How in the hell did this town ever learn about sex before Amazon.com?" Agent Ted Burroughs questions as he puts a pile of paper in front of me. Although the various internet booksellers wouldn't release any names, they would let us know some information about shipping patterns.

"I'm guessing they learned about it the old-fashioned way. In the back of their father's Chevy," I say as I scroll down the order lists. At least 29 people in this region have ordered the Kama Sutra in the pillow book format. Not to mention the many other various formats.

Burroughs sits opposite of me and takes a sip of coffee. Ted Burroughs and I share the same height and build, but that is where our similarities end. He has fair hair that is a little longer than regulation and light eyes. And he smiles a lot, showing off his perfect teeth as often as he can. He looks like he should be surfing somewhere warm and not suffering through what must be unbearable winters here. They didn't name it Frozen Creek for nothing.

"I can only imagine what else they are ordering off of the net. I'm sure it is only a matter of time before someone gets up on his soapbox and starts ranting about how the evils of pornography are driving this person to kill innocent young couples," Burroughs says.

"Would that person be Reverend Mitchell?" I ask.

"The Reverend John Mitchell would be your most likely candidate. From what I understand, he and his wife, Rosalie, fought for years to keep the twentieth century from invading this town. I don't even know if they are aware the twenty-first century is upon them," he says as he reviews the autopsy protocol the young man who's body was found early this morning. We have only received a partial one for Gabbie Yokama, the woman Scully and Dr. Carson were working on earlier.

"It is obvious we are going to have to narrow this list down somehow. Tomorrow I will try to cross reference it with people interested in books on art. And that is assuming he ordered this from one of the more popular sites. It could have come from anywhere," I say, as I put the order list aside and focus on the forensic evidence, trying to come up with the profile Scully asked me to do.

Of course it is going to contain all the normal things. This is some kind of psycho-sexual act committed by someone who has an average amount of intelligence. A loner who can't perform sexually or has been embarrassed in a sexual context. Always considered 'strange' by people around him. He escapes into this world of art he has made, perhaps wanting to recreate that world with the couples he abducts and then murders. I haven't studied any of it enough to get inside his head yet. But I will know him better than he knows himself before this is all over. I will get lost in the mind of one more killer.

Instead, Scully and I should be checking into our room about now. I was going to use this extended weekend to get us back on track. To heal the wounds that leaving Summerton opened. I will just have to remedy our relationship here in Frozen Creek instead.

"Agent Mulder, can I ask you something about Agent Scully?" Burroughs asks, his voice growing shaky. I look at him, and his eyes quickly dart away from mine.

"Depends on what it is," I say back, knowing full well what he is going to ask. I could see it at the dump site today. His eyes followed her everywhere. Perhaps he noticed that mine did too.

"I was just wondering if she was single . . . I know she isn't married, but I was wondering if you knew if she was seeing anyone. Being her partner and all, I'm assuming you would know," he says, stammering away.

I don't really have the proper answer for his question. I assume she and I are still seeing each other even though we've been in a slump for the last month or so. And even if she doesn't feel that way, there is no way I'm allowing this golden surfer boy to approach her. But what can I do? Tell him I just don't know?

"That is something you have to ask Agent Scully."

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

I slowly make my way down the embankment until I reach the creek. Without my flashlight, I would be more lost than I am now. Obviously, whoever dumped the bodies here knows the place well. I touch the water in the creek and even now at the end of summer, it is cold. This is where he brought his first victims. It must be important to him. Or very familiar.

The grass at the dump site is still trampled down from all the traffic through the area. The exact place they were found is now covered in mementos friends have left. I'm sure their grave sites are covered in similar items. We've seen it more and more lately. The piles of teddy bears and grocery store flowers piled up at the site of some tragedy involving a young person.

I sit down on the flattened grass, ignoring how wet it is. I pull some papers out of the inside pocket of my jacket and spread them around me, concentrating the light on them. The first two items I look at are the last pictures of the victims alive. Their high school graduation pictures.

Christiana Myers and Thomas Ahrens. Chris and Tom. Both were 17 and in love. Or as much in love as two 17 year olds could possibly be. They never came home from their Friday movie night date and their bodies were discovered together here next to Frozen Creek three days later. They were naked and posed in a way that they looked like they were clutching each other. Obviously they were placed here with the intention that they would be discovered quickly. This part of the creek is a popular place to fish in the summer and a local stumbled upon them early in the morning.

Both of the bodies were cleaned up before being placed here, washing away most evidence. Semen was discovered in Christiana's vaginal area, but it matched Thomas' DNA. Not the UNSUB. And there is nothing to suggest that it wasn't from before the abduction. No one knows what time they disappeared on Friday night or from where. There is no indication of any sexual trauma. No tearing. No abrasions. And according to the M.E.'s report, Christiana wasn't a virgin at that point.

So there is someone taking young couples and killing them. Jealousy? Did he take away something they had that he found unobtainable? There is no real rage in the actual killing. No battering their faces. No overkill. Of course it is sexual in nature. Everything screams that is the case. It doesn't take a profiler to call that one. And it is obvious that he cares for these people in some sick fashion. Or at least thinks he does. He wants them to be found. He wants to put the families' minds at ease. He no longer needs to possess them at that point. He is battling good versus evil in his own soul.

My flashlight flickers and I bang on it, hoping I'm not left in the dark out here. It sputters back to life and I finish looking at the other items I brought along. The pictures of the scene. The way their bodies were posed. The painting of what I now know is called 'Churning Curds.' A lovely name for what looks like pretty straight forward missionary position sex.

But the Kama Sutra isn't about sex. It is about love. I'm not sure yet if that is how the murderer views it. Does he desire the sex or the love? Perhaps he is too young to understand that one is so much better with the other. That is what this book is about. It teaches that sex is not sinful but beautiful, and that men and women are complementary and equal. Any system that denies those truths, denies life. And here in the heartland of 'puritanical' America, the idea that sex is anything but sinful is sometimes still hard to accept.

I pack up everything and tuck them back into my coat. I don't want to slip into this man's head right now. I don't want to swim through his confusion and drown in his lack of answers. I don't want to explore his struggle to balance his needs. I just want to go back to the hotel. Go back to Scully.

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

The sound of a door closing wakes me up and I reach for the remote to turn off the TV. I've been sleeping to the sound of static for a while now. It is 2 a.m. and the last thing I remember is some baseball game going into extra innings.

I can't believe Scully is getting in this late. Not too many autopsies take over 12 hours to perform. Especially when she had help. Or was help. My mind starts to reel with the thoughts of where she could have been. The image of Agent Ted Burroughs flashes through my mind, causing me to get up and leave my warm room wearing practically nothing to bang on her door.

"What is it?" Scully asks, cracking the door just a little. She is dressed in one of her many black suits and she smells like cigarette smoke. I am wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. And I smell like Frozen Creek and wet grass.

"I was just wondering where you were all evening. You were gone a long time," I say, noticing her eyes traveling across my body once before focusing back on my face. She isn't looking at me in any desirous fashion. It is more like she is trying to discern what I've been doing all night and why I am banging on her motel room door dressed like this.

"I could say the same about you," she says. Scully doesn't open the door any further or invite me in from the chilly night air. Why should tonight be any different than the last month?

"I was out at the first dump site. Thinking. Exploring," I say, hoping she will answer in turn. She doesn't. "So, where were you?"

"I was out with Karrie. And then Ted met us," she says, not offering any information freely.

"Hmm. Ted? Did you know Ted is interested in you? He asked me today if you were seeing anyone," I tell her and she doesn't seem surprised.

"Did you know that Karrie is interested in you? She asked tonight if it would be okay if she asked you out or if you were already seeing someone," she tells me. Of course, I'm not surprised, either.

"What did you tell her?" I ask.

"What did you tell him?" she counters.

"I told him he had to ask you. I didn't know what to say," I answer honestly. I lean up against the door frame hoping she will let me in, but she doesn't budge. "So, what did you tell her?"

"That she would have to ask you because I didn't know if you were or not," she says, her eyes meeting mine and holding my gaze. "Then she went off to call you and disappeared, leaving me with Ted. When I tried to call your room later, you were gone. I figured . . ."

"I was out being the dutiful profiler you know and love. That is all. I was sitting on the edge of Frozen Creek trying to figure out who is doing these things to this town," I say, and I notice the door opens a little. I shiver and cross my arms. "So, did you have fun?"

"Probably more fun than you were having," she says, allowing the door to open a just a bit more. We both watch each other in silence, hanging here between inside and out.

"Scully . . ." I start to say, wanting to ask her to let me in so we can talk again.

"Yes," she says, answering my unspoken question and opening the door all the way.

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

Scully sits on the bed in front of me, between my knees, as I massage the knots out of the muscles in her neck and shoulders. She is always like this after spending hours doing an autopsy. Especially the more stressful ones on young people.

"Gabbie Yokama was almost three months pregnant," Scully says, her voice filled with a somber intonation. "Her parents didn't even know. Maybe she didn't even know."

My fingers stop trying to unravel those knots and instead I pull her back against me. Warmth flows from her body through the thin cotton camisole she put on and it melts something in me. Something that has been sorry every day since July 5th for walking out of Summerton. Sorry that I couldn't give her everything she has ever wanted. I could say the words, but I should have done more. Scully would have stayed no matter what she said about just wanting to hear me say that it mattered to me.

"I'm sorry," is the only thing I can think to say.

"We couldn't have stayed there. I know that and you know that," she says as if she is reading my mind. We have avoided talking about this since that day we walked out on to the highway and got into the car. We drove back to DC and went on with our lives. Almost.

"I don't know how to make it better. How to make it up to you," I say, holding her tight.

There are some things in this world that not even I can solve. Sometimes it is just easier to act insensitive to the matter than to deal with it. I know what she thinks. I can still move on and have a family. But that isn't what I want. I want nothing if it doesn't include her.

"There isn't anything you or anybody else can do that can magically make it better," she says and sighs, remembering that someone did offer to make it all better magically. She nestles in, and I can feel her heartbeat against me. "So, what did you come up with when you were out moonlighting as a profiler?"

The subject always changes. It is too hard to continue this line of conversation, no matter how important it is. If she doesn't change it, I do, never finding a solution to the problem. Of course she is right. There is no solution. Not an easy one, anyway.

"There is a crazy man out there killing young lovers for the heck of it," I say, and she laughs at my statement of the obvious. "He lives in the area. Probably grew up here. People think he's a little strange, a real outsider. And then there is more of the obvious stuff. He's probably in this late twenties or early thirties. Some education considering he knows about the Kama Sutra and what it represents. And I think he wants to capture the love he believes these couples hold for each other. And this is the only way he can do it. Kill them and hope it becomes his 'love.'

"So, you've been studying up on the Kama Sutra," she says, changing the subject from serial killers to something far better. "Did you learn anything new?"

"Not as much as I did from reading 'Kama Sutra 2' in this month's Cosmo, but I did learn a few things," I say, as I move a hand up and under her tight fitting camisole, searching for her breasts.

"Mulder, you're a Cosmo girl?" she asks, her voice losing that solemnity it was filled with just a few minutes ago.

"No. I just buy it to look at the pictures," I say, my fingers moving across an already hard nipple. A noise escapes from her throat and I know she has missed this as much as I have. "Actually, it was in the seat pocket on the airplane here. I read it while you slept."

"So, besides Churning Cows and Pestles, what else did you learn from your little pillow book?" she asks as I slip her shirt up and over her head, exposing her to me. I look up and discover we are right across from a mirror. She is so damn beautiful and I love her beyond reason.

"Churning Curds, not cows," I say, laughing. "There is one that reminded me of you."

She raises her hips so I can tug down her bikini panties. She toes them the rest of the way off and flings them off the bed with her foot. She is exposed before me, opening up to me again for the first time in over a month. This is what I wanted this weekend to be about. Recovery. Resurrection. Renewal. I move a hand between her thighs, and she parts them for me. She is warm and wet and I tease that little bundle of nerves until she shuts her eyes and rests her head against my chest, finally relaxing.

"So, what is it that reminded you of me?" she asks softly. I look at our reflection again, and her expression is filled with pleasure.

"Bhamara," I say, as I intensify the action of my fingers. I reach around with my other hand and sink a finger into her wetness, moving in and out of her. "The Black Bee."

"Mulder, will you ever hear the word 'bee' and not think of me?" she asks. She melts further against me, her body pushing back against my hands.

"No, Scully. You and bees are now bound together for all eternity," I whisper. She pushes my hands away suddenly and opens her eyes. We watch each other in the mirror without moving.

"Show me," she says, as she rolls over to look at me.

I maneuver so that I am lying flat under her. She moves onto me, allowing my hard cock to sink deeply into her. I pull her feet up so that they are drawn up around me and motion for her to move her hips just so. I am in far and she is revolving around and around me, and I know for certain that this is more than sex.

Her head drops forward, her features covered by her hair. I tuck some behind an ear because I want to see her face as we do this. I've missed seeing the expressions she makes while we make love almost as much as I've missed being inside her body.

Scully begins to move faster and faster and I am drawn to watching where we are joined. It is a guy thing, I think. I move my hand so that she can grind her clit against my fingers, and she moans at my touch. I work my hand faster as she picks up the pace of her movements and in a matter of minutes, she throws back her head and sucks in several quick breaths.

"Oh God. So good," she moans as she falls forward again. I keep moving my hand against her, drawing it out as long as I can. I can still feel her body quaking around me seconds longer than usual. Then she brushes my hand away, her body still trembling. "What is it with me and bees?"

"Something about them causes you to react in peculiar ways," I say. She has stopped moving and has moved her legs to a more comfortable position. Her mouth comes down upon mine, her tongue teasing and dancing in my mouth.

"What is it you want, Mulder?" she asks, pulling away. "Harina? Is that what you called it?"

With that question, she rises off of me and buries her face in the pillow, her buttocks up in the air while she is indeed on all fours. I move in behind her and grasp her tightly at the waist, sinking into her again. I slam against her body and we do look and sound like animals rutting instead of two people who love each other. I pound into her over and over and she thrusts right back against me, countering every move I make. The cheap motel headboard crashes against the wall and I can hear Scully gasp for breath in between each thrust. Her face is still against the pillow and she is clutching on to it for dear life. Her nails dig deeper into the white linen and feathers each time I drive into her as if that is all that is keeping her here on earth. I'm about ready to float away myself.

Our bodies slap together with each move, and we are sticky and sweaty. I notice that her one hand leaves the pillow and moves up to her clit as she tries to get off again. God's gift to women. We get Monday night football. Women get easily obtained multiple orgasms.

I can feel my orgasm welling up through my entire being, starting at my toes and working upwards until it is a sharp, focused sensation of pure pleasure around my cock. I pull her against me one more time and hold her there, releasing everything into her already wet body. My whole body jerks and shudders and I fight to regain control, wanting to draw this out forever. I recover my concentration again, as I swirl in and out of blackness for a few seconds. Scully's hand is still moving between her legs, as she rubs herself faster knowing that I just found release. I'm not going to leave her body just yet. I want to feel her come again.

Within moments, she has a second powerful orgasm and this time she actually calls out my name as we both ride it through. Her face is buried in the pillow again as she says my name over and over. Has she ever done that before? My brain cannot focus well enough to recall that right now. Her hands are back to gripping her pillow tightly. I pull out of her body while her internal muscles are still pulsing, and I place two fingers inside of her, wanting to feel her orgasm, to feel her slick wetness. I find just the right spot inside of her while my thumb works on her sensitive clit, pushing her climax to the limit. She cries for me to stop, the sensations becoming too much. Soon her body quiets and we fall down next to each other, all hot and sweaty. The room smells of man and woman and sex. Or is it love?

"No wonder those college kids stock that book on their shelves. Oh my God, that was so good. I'm going to be so sore tomorrow," she says, laughing. I prop myself up on an elbow to look at her. She is on her tummy, and her damp hair is sticking to her face. And even I must admit that was rougher than usual. I'm probably going to be feeling it tomorrow, too.

"I guess this would be the answer to both Dr. Carson and Agent Burrough's question about if we are seeing anyone," I say, brushing her hair away again.

"Maybe we should suggest they get together and do the Black Bee," Scully says in a voice that is tinged with the sound of utter exhaustion.

"And I most definitely suggest the Harina," I add.

"Mulder . . . love you . . ." she says as she drifts off to sleep.

"I love you, too."

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

Frozen Creek Police Department
September 4, 1999

"Yeah, Danny. Hey, thanks for getting to this on the holiday weekend. Have a nice one. I'll get you those tickets when I get home," I say as I hang up and wait for the fax transmission to come through.

"Did they figure out what it is?" Scully asks as she takes a sip of hot tea from a styrofoam cup.

She just arrived at the Frozen Creek police station a few minutes ago, and Dr. Carson is supposed to be here in a matter of minutes. Burroughs is on the phone in the other room with another book company trying to get them to realize the seriousness of the matter at hand. I can tell by the tone of his voice as it travels down the hallway that he is seconds from having to call up and get a warrant for them to give up there customer lists. So much for trying to do things the easy way the first time around. They will sell their damn lists to anyone who wants to pay the price, but when it comes to doing something for the good of others, forget it.

I take the faxed information off the machine, and Scully and I walk side by side down the hall to the conference room, reading it. Her arm brushes mine and then her hand is on top of the one I'm using to hold the paper, as if to keep the paper still. My hand is on her shoulder and it is nothing I notice until I hear the front door open. Karrie Carson comes through the door and stops her path into the room when she notices how close Scully and I are standing.

"Good morning," she says coolly, as she goes into the conference room. I move away from Scully slightly and we both roll our eyes. We often find it surprising that people just don't know automatically. It just seems like it would be so obvious, as if we have a flashing neon sign over our heads declaring in bright red that we are lovers.

"We got some good results about that trace amount of powder you found on Gabbie Yokama's body. Hold on, I'll get Burroughs and Sheriff Wallace so we can get started," I say, leaving Scully and Dr. Carson in the room alone together. Neither says anything and it appears that the amicable friendship they had going yesterday just came to a grinding halt.

We all gather around a beat up table and Scully explains the evidence that may be the turning point of the case. It gives us another link besides images copied from a book.

"Although Gabbie Yokama's body was scrubbed of any other trace evidence, Dr. Carson discovered a small amount of powder under her left armpit," Scully explains, as she passes the fax paper around. "It appears that this powder is a perfect match to a product called Acidofix manufactured by the AGFA company. It is a rapid fixing agent for black and white films and papers. It is in a powder form on an ammonium thiosulphate basis and it just so happens to be one of the chemicals occasionally used by the FBI photography unit. One of the experts recognized it immediately and that is why we got such a fast turn around on this."

"So now we need to narrow down who in this town would have access to such a product and interview them one by one," I say, grabbing a pen and a pad of paper, hoping the locals in the room have some suggestions.

"The town newspaper processes their own film. Or used to before they went all high tech. A good number of people probably have access to those chemicals there," Sheriff Wallace says in a heavy North Dakota accent. He almost sounds like Lawerence Welk. "Heck, our own boys use that facility to process crime scene photos and get them scanned in."

"I think the local junior and senior high school has a photo class, too. They used to process the yearbook photos themselves before they went digital in the last year or so," Dr. Carson adds, and I jot it down on the paper.

"And Dale at the local drug store processes some photos. I don't think he does black and white, though. Not much of a call for that," Wallace adds. The sheriff was at the crime scene yesterday and seemed more than happy to step back and let us take it over. I think he realizes this is over his head. And Burroughs is too new in the area to know much of the population, so we have to depend on Dr. Carson and the local sheriff.

"This product only has a room temperature storage life of three months once it is opened or prepared. Two years if kept in an unopened pack. So who ever is using it had to procure it in that time space. So lets check out the places the definitely do photo processing and work from there," I say, as I look down at the places I jotted down. "Sheriff Wallace, can you go talk to this Dale at the drug store. Burroughs, you handle the local school and Scully and I will go to the paper."

Dr. Carson looks like she has been left out. As if we are taking her discovery away from her. She looks away from me and fiddles with her beeper, as if she is hoping it will chime at any second so we all know how important she is.

"Dr. Carson, try to think of anyone else in the community you know is or has been into photography in the last few years," I say, trying to appease her. "If you come up with anyone, let us know. Don't go talk to them yourself unless you know them extremely well.

She looks at Scully, and I can tell she is trying to figure out why she can't do what Scully does. Probably because she isn't carrying a gun to protect herself? And she lacks the training that the rest of us have.

"This man is a member of the community and lives among you," I continue. "I believe he is in his late twenties or early thirties. He's an outcast and probably enjoys his time spent in the darkroom. I have a hunch that he is posing the couples to match the paintings and photographing them, providing him a lasting souvenir. And perhaps a way to capture their 'love' forever. I don't know if he is doing this when they are alive or dead. We will find that out once we catch him."

"How do you know it is a 'him'?" Dr. Carson asks me. "Isn't that being a bit presumptuous?"

"They usually are men, Dr. Carson. Let me do my job and you do yours."

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

"Oh goodness. A lot of people come in and out of this building all day and night. We aren't a large town, as you know, but we take pride in the fact that we produce an award winning newspaper. A good portion of the population works here now or worked here at some point in their life. In case you haven't noticed, we don't have a McDonald's, so the kids have to go somewhere for part time jobs," Mrs. Aileen Waverly explains as she guides us through the newspaper plant.

I am amazed that a town this small would need to have a facility like this. They really don't have a McDonald's, as I discovered this morning when I went out get coffee.

"Why does this town have such a large printing facility?" Scully asks.

"Actually, we do more than just print the newspaper for Frozen Creek and a neighboring town. We take in a lot of outside work, too. From all over the state, actually. We even do some international jobs," Mrs. Waverly explains. "That is why this plant is so large and successful."

Scully wanders off and looks at some award plaques hanging up on the wall. She looks at all the names on the one marked 'Employee of the Month' and I know she is cross-referencing any names we might have heard over the last few days.

Mrs. Waverly shows me the storage room for the photographic chemicals. There is a wide variety of products in there, everything from Fuji or AGFA to Kodak.

"We have to go with who has the best deal at any given time," Mrs. Waverly explains. "Recently, that has been AGFA. Of course, most everything is digitized these days, but some clients still prefer a good old fashioned photograph, depending on the job they are doing."

I examine all of the packages for expiration dates and they are all current. It could have come from here. Nothing would be missed in this mess. And he would avoid the exposure that ordering it for himself would lead to. It all makes me wonder why this guy just doesn't do this with a digital camera and load them into his computer to 'possess' and look at later. If he ordered that book on-line, then there is a good chance he has a home computer. Then again, perhaps he is just one of those people who prefer a good old fashioned photograph.

"Notice anything missing lately?" Scully asks, following us into the room. "Any problems with employees?"

"Did you have to fire anyone in the last few weeks? Perhaps for being tardy or disorderly. It would be extremely helpful if you could provide us a list of anyone who was let go in the last two or three years, focusing on the last two months," I tell her, and she looks at us with disbelief. I'm sure she can't imagine that this person could be right under her news-scooping nose and she wouldn't notice.

"I will have Janet look that up when she comes in on Tuesday," she tell us.

"Could we get it sooner?" Scully asks.

"I'll try to get it to you by the end of the weekend. I'll call Janet and see if she can come in," Mrs. Waverly says. Walking down the hall, I notice that a shut door is displaying the nameplate Janet Austin and she is the Director of Human Relations.

"Mrs. Waverly, I know that as the editor of this newspaper, you are aware of the seriousness of what is going on in this town. Six young people have been killed in the last few months and it doesn't appear that the murderer has any intentions of stopping. Actually, he is probably just getting into his groove right now, and there will only be . . ." I say to her, and she puts a hand up to stop me.

"I think that Ms. Austin might be able to come in on her holiday weekend in order to help out with this crisis. Six young people are dead," Scully says in a matter of fact fashion. She stands with her arms crossed against her chest and her eyes are serious.

"Yes. I'll do what I can," she says, looking slightly embarrassed.

"Also, we might have to use your newspaper to go proactive with this guy . . . try to lure him out. We wouldn't alter the news or force you to print lies, but if I need something put in, who do we need to talk to? Who owns the paper?" I ask the woman. So far the small detail of the Kama Sutra paintings has been left out of the press. I'm sure it will be what we use to catch him yet.

"You would need to speak to me, of course. And the owner. Carl Mitchell."

"Carl Mitchell? Would he be related to John Mitchell?" I ask, wondering how many Mitchells there are in this town.

"Yes. He's the Reverend's younger brother. Different as night and day, those two. If you need to get in touch with Carl, just let me know. He should be back from his trip by now," Mrs. Waverly says.

"Where was Mr. Mitchell?" Scully asks, merely out of the habit of asking questions that is now ingrained into us as investigators.

"Oh, I think this time he was in Sri Lanka. He loves that part of the globe. Don't know why. It would just seem so crowded after living in North Dakota all of one's life."

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

"Carl Mitchell was indeed in India and Sri Lanka during the last two murders. I'm positive he isn't our guy," Burroughs says, as he hands me the travel itineraries for Carl Mitchell and his wife, Rebecca.

"What about family members? Do they have any kids?" I ask him, trying to get this wrapped up quickly before any more people become part of this sick game.

"No on the kids. The only family I know of would be his brother. He does have quite an art collection from his travels and he keeps some of it in his office at work. The UNSUB could have picked up the book there. And the photographic materials. I think continuing looking into the newspaper is our best bet. The schools didn't pan out. It is the best lead we have," Burroughs says, as he takes notes on a pad of paper.

Scully told me the story of how they met. He was part of a class viewing an autopsy when she was back at Quantico when the X-files were closed. He asked a lot of questions and even came to ask more questions once the session was over. He is smart and I'm sure he will not be staying out here for long. Besides that, I'm positive if he flashes that smile at the proper people, he will go places fast.

"I'm going to check out something. If you see Agent Scully, update her on the Mitchells for me, will you?" I ask. I pull on my coat. It has been raining all day today and the air is chilly. One must really love winter if they want to live here.

"You know, Agent Mulder, years ago, when I first met Agent Scully, I'm embarrassed to say I asked her out on a date. I was an idiot and she turned me down. The look in her eyes told me she was in love with someone already. I got the same feeling last night when I asked her again," Burroughs says to me, and I shift around a little, not wanting to get into this conversation.

"Really?" is all I can say. My mind races trying to figure out who she might have been in love with five years ago. I can't remember anyone. The X-files were closed, we were separated and I was brooding. Maybe I just didn't notice. Wouldn't she have told me by now?

"Funny how you, as her partner and all, can't tell. I mean, look at all the hours you two spend together. Your personal lives must come up in conversation occasionally," he says, and I can tell that whatever he asked Scully last night embarrassed him as much as it did when he was at the academy.

"Yes, Burroughs. Occasionally, it does come up in conversation," I say, smiling at him. The memories of what came up during our 'conversation' last night dances through my mind and this man sitting here in front of me can't be that stupid.

"Well, I'll let her know the latest when she comes in," he says, his eyes shifting away from mine as if all of a sudden he understands.

"Thanks, Burroughs. Hey, did you ever think about dating Dr. Carson?"

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

"No. I simply won't do it. I went along with leaving that bit about the art out of the stories because Wallace and I are good friends, but I won't do this. It isn't my job to catch this freak. It is yours." Carl Mitchell says resolutely.

He is slightly past middle-aged, with a hefty gut and gray hair. He is sitting behind his large, ornate desk with his hands folded on his belly, and a cigarette burns in the ashtray. Since I know he has no children, I am assuming the very young woman in all the pictures is his wife, Rebecca. There is a large photograph of the two of them in front of the Taj Mahal, and she is dressed in Indian garb, looking like a princess. Some show them riding elephants. Another is a picture of him surrounded by children, all of them holding on to him or hugging him.

He also has an extensive art collection, including sculptures, but there is not a single book on India in sight. None of the art is sexual in nature, considering this is a place of business, and all of the books concern the print industry.

"Mr. Mitchell, I volunteered to come here to 'profile' this case to help the local P.D. and Agent Ted Burroughs. I no longer am part of the Investigative Support Unit and this case has nothing to do with the department I am in now. I'm doing this as a favor . . ." I start to say but he cuts me off.

"If you are no longer a profiler, why should I do what you are asking me to do?" he asks smugly. I think he enjoys the amount of control he has in his position of 'owning' the news. "Why in the hell would you care anyway. You are probably running back to DC on Tuesday, right?"

"I would like to apprehend the person doing these atrocious acts as soon as possible, but I'm here merely to offer advice on why he does this so they can figure how who is doing it. I am also here to offer any suggestions on how to draw him out of the woodwork. Make him do something reckless. I think this article would work. I think he regrets what he has done as soon as he is finished killing these people. I want to see how long he carries that regret with him," I say to the man sitting opposite me. He isn't going to budge.

I don't want him to lie. I just want him to print an article about all the victims and report that there is going to be a memorial held for Christiana tomorrow after church at the town park. She was one of his first victims, and I think that would be enough to draw him to the service, wanting to 'remember' her, too. Her family has already consented and they contacted Reverend Mitchell, who willingly agreed to lead the memorial.

"If my brother thinks this is a good idea, then it must be bad," Carl Mitchell says, getting down to the heart of the matter. Petty family differences are getting in the way.

"Well, then I will just have to by-pass your newspaper and figure out a different way to spread the news." I say to him, as I get up to leave. "We will tell one of her high school buddies what is going on, and the rest will all show up, bringing teddy bears and balloons like most kids do when a friend dies. The word should get around quickly in this small town. It will happen with or without you."

"Okay. I'll do it," he says, as he leans back in his chair and sighs. "Christiana was a good kid. I'll do it for her. Just don't make me go to it. I don't want to have to see my brother."

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

I knock loudly on Scully's motel room door and stand in the cold and dark waiting for her to answer. I know it is 3 o'clock in the morning, but I couldn't sleep. I was out visiting the dump sites, starting at the first and making my way to the third. There is something about where he is putting the bodies beyond them being easy to find. I just haven't connected it yet. I haven't had the time to become that close to him. To know what he wants. What he feels. I haven't let myself slip into his mindset. Not yet, anyway. All I know is he wants to be loved. Don't we all?

Finally, she cracks the door open a little, and I can tell she has been sleeping for hours.

"Where were you?" she asks, her voice soft and sleepy.

"I was out visiting where he left the bodies," I say, and she steps back and lets me in.

"Again?"

"Yes, again. I don't know what else to do," I say, as I slump into one of the old, vinyl chairs. She sits on the edge of the bed she was sleeping in, but doesn't make a move to lie down or invite me over.

"Don't become him. I know that is what you want to do, but don't do it," she says sternly.

"That could be the only way," I say. I'm tired now that I've stopped moving, but I have got to keep thinking.

"You said he is doing this because he doesn't feel loved. He is trying to capture their love, to hold it forever. I don't want you to slip to a place where you don't think you are loved," she says. Could I slip that far? I know in the past I've become completely immersed in cases like this, but I don't have the heart to go that far right now.

"I won't."

"You need to go to sleep," she says, her voice sounding very much like a mother. She'd be good at it.

"I will. I'm sorry for bothering you. I just wanted to see you. And to ask you some things," I say, my mind slowly drifting.

"What?" she asks, and I struggle for a second to remember what it is I wanted to ask.

"Did you ever get that list from the newspaper of past employees?" I ask.

"No, we didn't. And nothing else panned out either. Karrie talked to several of the locals, but none of them seem to know anyone who is interested in photography. Burroughs was still cross-referencing various lists. And that was how the day went. I heard about the memorial," she says.

"I hope to get him out, catch him doing something stupid," I say. I hope he hangs around, maybe steals something brought to the memorial as a reminder of his first kill. His first 'love' really.

"And if that doesn't work?" she asks. A lot of times these things don't work. But we've got to take that chance.

"I don't know. I'll think of something," I say, and she climbs back into bed. This must be my cue to leave. "Hey, Scully?"

"Umm?" she says as she gets comfortable, closing her eyes and trying to go back to sleep.

"Five years ago, when Ted first asked you out," I start to say, and her eyes snap back open and then narrow at me. "He told me. Anyway, he says when he asked you that time, he thought perhaps you were in love with someone. He says he could tell. If he could tell, how come I couldn't?"

"You were too close," is all she mutters, shutting her eyes again. She clutches an extra pillow to her chest, her fingers grasping it tightly, sinking into the feathers. It brings back a quick vision from last night, but I can't dwell on that for too long.

"Who was he?" I ask, not wanting to hear the name of some other man, but needing to know the truth.

"He was you. Now are you ever coming to bed?" she says, as she pats the empty half of the bed.

"Me? All those years and you never . . ." I stammer, shocked that some stranger could tell, but I couldn't. Too close. Way too close. Perhaps it would have been easier to hear someone else's name.

"Yes, you. Now get over here so we can make up for lost time."

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

Frozen Creek Veteran's Park
September 5, 1999

I walk slowly around the perimeter of the park, watching from a distance the crowd at the memorial. I keep scanning for someone who just doesn't belong here in this sea of crying high school students and their parents. I can't spot anyone off hand, but I know he is here. I can feel it. He wouldn't miss this.

The Reverend John Mitchell is the complete opposite of his brother. Mrs. Waverly was right. He is tall and slender, his full head of hair still dark. And he doesn't carry the same odious presence that his brother does. But from the 'sermon' that he is giving, I can tell he isn't ready for this town to move on into the 21st century. He speaks of sin and crime and the evils of modern society. Meanwhile, all the kids mill around, hugging each other and offering support. Christiana and Thomas were the youngest victims. The other two couples were no longer in their teens.

He started his killing with the newest love. Teenagers in love for the first time. Going to the prom and screwing in the back seat of the borrowed car afterwards. Sneaking around on Friday nights instead of going to the movies like they said. It must be something he never had. It is something he wants yet hates enough to kill it. Jealousy. Rage. Love. Hard to believe he has them all jumbled together.

"Anything?" Scully asks, coming up behind me.

"Nothing I can see. Did Burroughs see anything?" I ask. I saw them talking a few minutes ago. I don't know about what.

"Are you jealous of him, Mulder? That he asked me out once years ago? After the last two nights, I would think you would be over that," she says, and it brings to mind the way she felt when she found out about my internet 'relationship' with Karin Berquist.

"Hey, he's attractive, charming and ten years younger than me. If you want too many more repeat performances of the last two nights, you might have to get out there and fish for a younger guy," I say, and she just smiles and shakes her head.

Last night, or rather early this morning, was just as rocking as the night before. I don't know what has gotten into us lately. Just the memory of her expression as I was banging into her against the motel room wall is almost enough for me to lose my composure right here and now. I can almost feel her legs wrapped tightly around me again as I slipped in and out of her vigorously, and it sends a warmth shooting through me. I can tell by the slight blush creeping across her face that she is thinking of the same thing.

Or thinking of when we did it this morning, with her up on the bathroom counter, both of us fresh from the shower, half dressed in our business attire. It was slow and hot and filled with love. Yet at the same time it was filled with a desperate need to complete each other. And it made us late to our morning task force meeting.

"I'm just glad the two of us can manage to walk around and do our jobs today," she murmurs softly as she leaves me. I watch her walk off, focusing on things that I should be paying attention to right now.

"See anything good?" Burroughs asks from behind me and I turn around to find him watching me stare at her. A nervous smile flickers across his face, but I ignore the whole thing.

"I've seen a lot of things besides what I'm looking for. I'm hoping he will do something after the memorial, when all the people have left," I say, as I study a few people who are showing up late.

"Sheriff Wallace has a unit out at the cemetery watching her grave. And everything is pretty much under control here," Burroughs says, almost as if he is dismissing me. Little shit. I didn't want to be here this weekend anyway. "Reverend Mitchell has agreed to take some of the items from here over to the cemetery by his church when this is done."

"Have you seen Dr. Carson lately?" I ask, noticing that she isn't here.

"Not since yesterday afternoon," Burroughs says. "She seemed pretty pissed. I'm sure she is just off stewing somewhere. Karrie is like that."

"The party is breaking up," I say, as the friends of Christiana who wanted to speak finish with their stories of her simple, happy life. They planned to sing a song after this and then leave silently. Her parents agreed to hastily plant a tree in her memory, and kids have been placing small gifts around it. I'm hoping the UNSUB wants to keep one of those gifts for himself.

"I hope this works," Burroughs says, walking away from me. I see Carl Mitchell walk by even though he said he wasn't going to be here. He glances at me quickly before taking his wife's hand in his and walking away.

"So do I."

Rev. John Mitchell approaches me with an immense smile spreading across his face. We met earlier today when he attended the task force meeting. He had to be part of it so I could provide him with phrases I think might get the killer to act. Mitchell seems more cooperative than his brother was at first.

"I think that went well. I hope that you catch this transgressor before any more tragedies befall this community. I believe God has put a curse on Frozen Creek to punish us for our sins. We will all pay yet for the sins of all humanity," he say as he scans the departing crowd.

"I'm sure it is just a man with lots of problems who needs to be caught before he can do any more harm to humanity," I say as I take a sunflower seed out of my pocket and pop it in my mouth. That seems to annoy the reverend for some reason. Or maybe it was what I said.

"God has something to do with every act committed on this earth. We are His children and He loves us dearly. His story is one of love. Nothing else," he says as he clutches his Bible to his chest.

"Maybe this time it is Satan who has a hand in it all," I say to him, spitting out the husk off to the side. He looks offended. "I met your wife the other day. She was very pleasant and helpful."

"Rosalie can be. She loves to help strangers. More than anything else," he says, trying to put a smile on his face. "I'm sorry. I really should be going. These last few weeks have been a stress on me and I have to meet with another family shortly. Thank you so much for your help."

With that, he walks away from me. People told me he was odd. I guess they were right.

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

"I thought you said Carl Mitchell didn't have any kids?" Scully says, as she looks over the list Mrs. Waverly finally managed to supply us. Very few people have been let go from the newspaper, but many have come and gone over the years. It really does seem like most every kid in town worked there at one point. Including Christiana and Thomas. And even further back, Gabbie Yokama.

"He doesn't. Why?" I ask. We are sitting in our rental car, watching the park. No one has touched a thing. A few people have stopped to look, but nothing else.

"Then who is this Matthew Mitchell who was dismissed six months ago?" she asks, looking up from the papers and watching the park with me.

"I guess the Reverend and Rosalie Mitchell have a kid. Does it give an age?" I ask. It would fit. Repressed parents. A job with access to printing materials. A lost job at that. And access to his uncle's collections from India. Maybe Carl Mitchell removed any books he had on India after a few turned up missing. But more pieces have to fall into place than that. It sounds like a lot, but it would never be enough to indict him of anything.

"This doesn't say his age, but I remember seeing the name Matt Mitchell show up on the 'employee of the month' plaque a few times. But that was years ago. If he started as a teen, he'd be at least in his late twenties or early thirties by now," Scully says, putting one more piece of the puzzle together. "And according to this employee roster, Matt Mitchell was fired two months after Christiana took a part time job there. Seems he was harassing her."

"Damn. That has got to be it, Scully. Call Karrie Carson and see if she remembers anything about him. People must know him. He is the son of one prominent man in the town, and the nephew of another. Why in the hell hasn't he been anywhere were we would have heard about him before? Or seen him?" I ask as Scully dials Dr. Carson's number into her phone.

Scully has a serious conversation with someone I presume is Karrie's mother. She ends the conversation reassuring the person on the other end that everything will be okay.

"Karrie hasn't shown up at home since yesterday afternoon. Her mother says she stopped by to check on her and told her she had some 'leads' to follow up on. She said she was going to go visit an old friend named Matt to ask some questions about photography. Mrs. Carson doesn't remember her daughter ever having a friend named Matt. That was all she knew, but she is starting to panic. It seems Mrs. Carson is wheelchair bound and her part time nurse is off today. Karrie is usually there on Sundays to take care of her," Scully says.

"Let's go find Matt Mitchell," I say, starting the car. "If it is him, I know why someone tried to keep it quiet before we arrived. And Karrie Carson might have walked right into his 'love' nest."

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

"No one is answering. I'll go check around back," I tell Scully as I descend the stairs quickly and move around the big, white house. I hear Scully rap on the door one more time before she follows me. It is raining lightly now, and the ground in muddy.

It is Reverend Mitchell's house. It looks like it might have been a farm house at one time, with old farm structures still standing around it on the property. The house is in disrepair, the paint cracking and peeling everywhere.

We're assuming Matt Mitchell lives with his parents even though he is in his early thirties. This is his last known address we found from when he was employed at the newspaper. Reverend Mitchell mentioned something about performing a baptism to Christiana's parents after the memorial service, so maybe that is where he is. No one else appears to be home. We have no idea what Matt Mitchell looks like or if he really still lives here. Seems like we hit a temporary dead end.

"Mulder, over there," Scully says, pointing at a huge, dilapidated barn that is now a make-shift garage.

"Shit!"

Dr. Carson's Explorer is half hidden under a tarp and we rush to it, weapons drawn, even though we know she isn't there. The wind and the rain must have shifted the cover, revealing the rear end of the car and Dr. Carson's vanity plates. The front end is pulled a few feet into the garage, but there a pile of cinder blocks preventing someone from pulling it all the way into the structure.

"Clear!" Scully shouts, after making her way into the shed and around the front of the car. She checks behind the cinder blocks and walks into the darkness of the building. All I can see is the tiny strobe from her pocket flashlight.

I open the door to confirm that there is no one in the car. It chimes out the warning that the keys were left in the ignition. On the passenger seat, there is an old yearbook and Dr. Carson's pager and cell phone. The phone is turned off, and the pager is filled with phone numbers of people still waiting for her to return their call.

I look through the yearbook and find a senior picture of Matt Mitchell. The bio under his picture shows that he belonged to very few clubs or groups, and didn't play any varsity type sports he could letter in. The only thing he did do was shoot on the school's trap shooting team. And he won the state champion title at shooting. That and he was in the photo club.

This is all falling in to place.

"Hey, Scully . . . come here," I call out into the darkened barn. The only answer I get is from an owl questioning 'who! who!'" I wish I had the solution to this mess to tell him. "Scully! I want to show you something.

Still no answer. I turn on the car's high beams and peer out into the barn as the light chases the heavy shadows away. This place isn't that big and I should be able to see her. There is no door on the other side she could have left through.

I climb out of the car, leaving the headlights on, and follow the path I last saw her taking. Past the cinder blocks, right after she called that it was clear. The owl starts his demanding chorus again and the blocks are obstructing the light. There are some building supplies that look as if they are recently purchased. But no Scully.

"Scully? Where are you?" I call out again. I half expect her to show up behind me, having exited the barn from a door I can't see and doubling back on the outside.

Instead, all I get is an answer from the incessant owl and a cat hissing at me from behind a wheel barrow.

The old, mangy cat makes his way out to get a better look at who is invading his turf.

"You didn't happen to see an attractive red head walk past here?" I ask the cat and get only a spitting hiss in response. "Didn't think so."

I hear a faint rumbling sound and walk towards it, walking farther from the light and into more deep shadows. The noise is a reverberating hum, almost sounding like a generator in the distance. Or underground. Something makes a shattering sound behind me, and I turn around to see the cat knocked a mason jar filled with nuts and bolts off of a makeshift table.

I take one step backwards, my foot catching on some kind of rope and lose my footing quickly. I try to right myself but to no avail. I begin to fall backwards. And keep I falling and falling like Alice in Wonderland. I have stumbled into some kind of pit and the cavernous rumble grows louder.

And everything goes black as I hit the bottom and my head smacks the cinder block wall.

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

Frozen Creek, North Dakota
September 7, 1999

The sharp throb firing through my brain is the first thing I feel after regaining consciousness. Someone is tapping me gently, as if trying to get my attention but I can't see them yet. I feel cold beyond belief and my whole body aches. Cold. So cold. I struggle to focus my eyes and I feel woozy. As if I were drugged on top of suffering a mild concussion. And I have no idea how much time has gone by. Minutes? Hours? Days?

The small room is lit by two standing floodlights running on a generator. They look like the kind fashion photographers use and the lighting is diffused and soft right now. The first thing I'm aware of besides the light is the 'wallpaper'. Taped to every square inch of wall space are black and white photos. I recognize some of them as the murder victims. They are in various stages of undress, some wearing exotic costumes, some completely naked. They all look terrified as they are posed in various sexually explicit positions, the fear shining through their eyes. This small room smells of that fear. Next to each photo is a matching hand-painted version, the style copied from the Indian art in the Kama Sutra.

I see a drain in the cement floor and a hose coming down through the ceiling. Water slowly drips from it and splatters on the floor, making this chamber of tortures all the more tormenting. That must be how he cleans the bodies.

A soft moaning emanates from behind me. It comes from the same direction as the tapping did a few seconds ago. I struggle to turn my head in that direction and find Scully there, slumped against one of the walls. Her eyes meet mine and I notice she is bound. She is also gagged although I am not. Maybe he didn't think I would wake up so soon. I try to push myself up with my aching arms, and discover that I am handcuffed. Thankfully, he was stupid enough to handcuff me in front.

I fight to get over to her so I can pull the duct tape from her mouth. That is when I first notice the reason I'm so cold. I'm wearing nothing but my boxer shorts. The bastard stripped me down. And Scully, too. Her black suit is missing. Instead she is wearing a long wrap made from a gauzy material. It looks like the fabric used as part of a traditional Sari. And he left her with nothing underneath.

I gently pull the tape from her mouth and she lets out a sigh.

"I didn't know if you were ever coming too. You've been out for over a day. I was worried," she says softly, closing her eyes. Her eyes are rimmed in red and she looks tired. "I couldn't sleep. All I could do is watch you and make sure you kept breathing."

"Did he do anything to you?" I ask, my fingers touching the sheer fabric 'covering' her. "Did he knock you out to do this? Did he . . ."

"No, they haven't touched me. And they didn't knock me out. I did this," she says, looking down at what she is wearing.

"What?" I ask, wondering what would make Scully willingly expose herself like this. That just doesn't seem like her. She would fight it to the bitter end.

"I had to. They held a gun to your head and said if I didn't, they would kill you. And they would kill Karrie."

Scully nods her head to the left to where Karrie is lying crumpled on the ground, unconscious or dead. She is dressed the same as Scully and I notice that she finally takes a slow, labored breath. At least she is alive. For now. I watch Scully's eyes tear up and pull her close to me the best I can in these cuffs. They have her handcuffed, too, and there is no way I can get her out of those.

"She kept fighting them. They drugged her. I don't know with what," she says as her tears flow freely now.

"No one knows we are here," I whisper to her. We didn't even tell Burroughs where we were going. This caught me by complete surprise and I can't think straight enough yet to figure out how to get out. Scully sees that I'm looking for an exit.

"They come in through the ceiling. They drop a rope ladder down. This room is under that hole we both fell into. It is what the building materials were for," she says, and it is then my brain finally catches on to one thing she has been saying this entire time.

"They?" I ask. "I thought it was Matt."

"No. Matt is just following his father's orders. He isn't smart enough to do this himself. The *Reverend* is in charge here," Scully says.

The repressed Reverend John Mitchell. The man who doesn't want the world to move toward sin and decay. The fucking bastard officiated at three of the services of kids he killed. Just yesterday, he spoke of how great Christiana was. How innocent she was. God damn twisted bastard.

The pieces start to fall in place quickly. I heard someone mention that he had baptized Christiana when she was a child. And the baptism took place outside at the creek, like all baptisms do at his church. He was taking her back to where she was cleansed from her sins. They were his sins now, too. He 'loved' her enough to do that.

And the hatred of his brother. He is trying to lash out at Carl by using the culture and the art that Carl loves best. I notice that some of the pictures hanging on the wall are of Rebecca Mitchell. They are vacation shots, and Carl is cut out of everyone of them. One is incredibly revealing and Rebecca is topless at a beach and wearing only a thong bikini. She is hamming it up for the camera, fondling a nipple with one hand and the fingers of her other hand tucked in between her thighs. Probably stolen by Matt out of his uncle's office. Just like the photo processing chemical. John is jealous of his brother. He is stuck with his sexually repressed wife who panicked when a book about sex in a Christian marriage was found in her store. His brother married a beautiful younger woman with whom he frolics around the globe.

"How are we going to get out of here, Scully?" I ask, holding her shivering body closer to me. If they weren't using this place as a torturous photography studio, it would make one hell of a cold root cellar.

I hear a pounding noise above us and a metal grinding on the door. It must be locked from the outside and it sounds like someone is releasing a pressure valve of some sort.

A rope ladder drops down and I make the move to grab it, but a voice wafts down from above.

"I wouldn't do that, Agent Mulder. I'm armed and I don't really care who I kill anymore. And you are nearly naked armed with nothing but your good intentions," Rev. Mitchell shouts as he climbs down the unsteady ladder.

He jumps the last few feet to the hard ground and the man I'm assuming is Matt Mitchell follows him down. He operates a pulley device that wrenches the ladder back up and shuts the door but doesn't lock it. Mitchell does indeed have a gun in his hand. One of ours. Great.

John Mitchell orders Matt to get to work and the son complies silently. He looks afraid of his old man and scurries about doing whatever he is commanded to do. There is no doubt as to who is in the dominant position in this relationship. Matt starts to set up a series of tripods all equipped with expensive cameras. Shit. He plans on us being the next models for his 'art' series. At gunpoint, he is going to have us perform.

I can feel Scully tense up next to me as she realizes what is about to happen here.

"Ever see this before?" Rev. Mitchell asks, as he hands me a picture I recognize from the little Kama Sutra pillow book I bought to identify his first three works.

"Yes," I answer, staring directly at him and not paying attention to the picture he is trying to shove into my face.

I glance at it quickly, already knowing what it is going to be. I predicted it just a few short days ago. And it is the reason all three of us are here. He wants his photos and then he will kill us. He will capture the only 'love' he can and tack it to the damn wall so he can sit and stare at them. I'm sure when this room isn't occupied by his unwilling models, he sits down here staring at his photo collection. He probably masturbates and that is the only way he can get off now. I can already see the excitement in his eyes. His wife does nothing for him. Probably hasn't in years. This supposed man of God knows nothing of love.

"The three of you are a little older than my usual subjects, but I can tell you two are madly in love. And that the good doctor over there has quite a crush on you. That is what is important in these pictures. That you be able to emote that love you feel for each other. That is what I want to capture," he says, almost in a trance-like state.

"What in the hell did those kids do to you? What did Chris do? How about Beth? Or Gabbie? And their boyfriends? The crimes . . . the sins . . . you are committing have nothing to do with love. I doubt you even know what the word means anymore," I say, my voice loud. I can see Dr. Carson stir slightly and that panics Matt. She must have made quite an uproar.

"Christiana, sweet child that she was, turned me down. I offered to love her more than anyone else. More than even God could. She would rather go off and fuck that pimple-faced boyfriend of hers. Then she tried to get back at me by accusing my Matt of harassing her. Matt wouldn't hurt a fly," he says, in deep thought for a second. "She had to die. She was a sinner - - fucking her boyfriend all over the town. I took that love in the end. I'm the only one who could love her, so it had to be mine."

"And the others?" I ask, trying to follow his warped reasoning for the killings.

"Beth . . . did agree. Or at least we tried," he says, a slight smile flickering across his face at the memory. Whether she really agreed or not is strictly his opinion right now. "She was such a whore. But not enough of a whore to make me function with a woman again. Then she left me, and made fun of me to her new boyfriend. I know they were whispering about me. I just know it. Laughing about how the Reverend John Mitchell can't get it up with a woman. I'm sure Carl thought that was just too great when it got to him. I know it got to him. Bethany could never keep her mouth shut."

"Gabbie?" I ask. The boyfriends were just incidental. I'm beginning to think Scully and I are just incidental. I suspect this might have something to do with Karrie Carson.

"Gabrielle was another harlot. Wouldn't come near me but fucked everybody else. Then when she found out she was pregnant, she came crying to me, wanting my help. She sinned and I had to help her. I saved her. Matty and I saved her, didn't we, Matt?" he asks his son, sounding extremely proud. I would hate to think that he is having his kid do the actual murders. "Those bitches all laughed at me. I baptized each one of them and then they laughed at me.

That must be the reason for washing them. He is cleansing them of their sins. Freeing himself from any guilt. Or maybe Matt cleaned them, feeling guilty for his father's sins.

Scully has remained silent through all of this. She is just absorbing everything he is telling us, trying to process how someone could do these things. And she realizes this man wouldn't be telling us all this if he had any intentions of letting us go. He is spilling his guts only because he knows dead FBI agents don't talk.

"And what did Karrie Carson do to you?" I ask.

He looks over at Dr. Carson's nearly nude body and narrows his eyes at her.

"The bitch turned me down just two days ago. She came here asking questions about my Matt, and then when I asked her to stay with me, she started to fight," he says, one fist clenching at the thought.

"It didn't just start two days ago, Reverend Mitchell. When did it start with Karrie Carson? Did she turn you down like the other girls years ago, thinking you were a joke? I bet when she showed up two days ago, all those years of rage bubbled up and this was your chance to capture that love she never gave you. And Scully and I are just incidental. We make the portrait complete, right?" I ask, trying to get to the bottom of his brain. Trying to figure out what drives the unsound gears of his mind. I had so much wrong. I'm out of touch with this profiling thing. I didn't have enough time to become him.

Shit. I even had the age wrong, going with the average age of most serial killers. Most don't start this in their sixties. Well, I was only half wrong. I'm sure the son has a lot more to do with this than the reverend is letting on. I somehow think this was all spurred on by something that happened between Christiana and Matt. She turned them both down. She didn't love either the father or the son. And then Matt was asked to leave quietly. Probably by his uncle. The uncle his father hates.

"You ask a lot of questions for someone so 'incidental.' And for someone who is going to be dead in a few hours," Mitchell says, as he steps behind one of the cameras and aims towards Scully and me. It isn't that easy to do with just one hand, and he hands the gun off to Matt, who trains it on us with a well qualified eye.

"How are going to make this work, Mitchell? I don't know how you terrified those kids into performing for the camera, but we aren't exactly kids," I say, pulling Scully even closer to me.

No one ever wakes up in the morning thinking that this is the day they are going to die, not even in this business. There have been times when someone had a gun to my head and I was sure that was it. And the only thing I regretted was not having the balls to tell Scully how I felt about her. Of all the images I could have flash through my mind at that particular time, it always would be her face. At least if this is the day, she knows I love her.

"I think you will cooperate. With the right incentive. Matty?" he says, and his son comes over and pulls Scully away from me. He is cautious as to where he touches her and I can only hope his father will be the same way. "Let's just say that if you don't cooperate, she dies first. In front of you. And I'll let you live with that for the rest of your life. However short that may be."

"And if I don't cooperate?" Scully says, her voice hissing like the old cat in the barn.

"I'll kill him first. I don't think either of you wants that," he says, snapping pictures. I wonder where he keeps the pictures that aren't related to his Kama Sutra obsession?

If I can piss him off, I can buy some time. That is all I can ask for. Burroughs or Wallace should have noticed we didn't come back or check in from our post. Someone has to know we are missing. I hope Burroughs is smart enough to put it all together. I hope he calls Dr. Carson's mother and finds out what she told us. They probably took our car and moved it to the back of the house. No one would notice it driving by.

My mind starts spinning with things to say to a person like this that would upset him but not so much that he kills us. I doubt he will kill us without getting his pictures. He would not be fulfilling his greatest need if he did that.

"So, why can't you get it up, Mitchell? Not much of a man, are you? No wonder those girls all laughed in your face. You even got one to go along with you, some girl who wanted your old, flaccid cock, and you couldn't even get a hard-on for her. What in the hell kind of man can't get it up for some eighteen year old pussy? Jeez, I wouldn't even mind having some eighteen year old spread her legs for me," I say, trying like hell to shock him away from that camera. My heart is pounding in my chest with the thought of what will happen if this fails.

Scully looks at me, her eyes wide, trying to ascertain exactly what it is I'm doing and why I am saying these things. I look at her, wanting her to know it will be okay and she nods just once. She knows. I have got to buy us some time and this is my only option.

"I . . . can . . . get . . . it . . . up," he stammers, as he steps away from the camera. Matt looks confused as his father begins to lose control of the situation.

"I bet the only way you can get it is up is when you sit down here all alone and look at your pictures. You can get it up for yourself, but not for those girls. You keep trying, thinking that if one of them loves you, you'll be able to do it. But you can't, so you sit here in the cold, jerking off until you end up with cum dripping from between your fingers and splattering on the floor. Hell, how long has it been since you could get it up for your wife?" I ask, and he looks nervously at Matt. Like Matt should know what to do. Matt is looking up at the hatch on top, wanting to escape from this.

"That unwilling bitch hasn't put out since Matty was born!" he shouts. Spit flies from his mouth with each angry word. "Matt is 33 years old. My own wife hasn't come to our marriage bed in over three decades."

"Probably because you aren't much of a man. I wonder where she is getting hers? I bet as kind as she is she is an awesome lay. I should have gotten to know her better," I say, and the anger flares in his eyes as he looks to his son. I know he wants to tell him to kill us, to just get it over with and shut me up, but seconds later, his eyes fly up to the wall. He wants that even more.

"Matty? Why is he doing this?" he asks his son as if I'm not in the room. Most serial killers dehumanize their victims. He's trying to do that right now, but it is damn hard when he wants something so human, so personal from us. "Matty, just make him do what I need for him to do."

"How do you want me to do that, Pop?" Matt asks, his eyes automatically going to the gun. He points it at my head.

"If he uses that, I guess you can forget your 'congress of a herd of cows' pictures. Hard to get dead people to fuck, isn't it? I bet you tried, though. That is why you kept them so long," I say. He had to have a reason to keep Gabbie and her boyfriend Troy for so long. Matt continues to aim at my head and my heart maintains its steady pounding. I swallow hard, glad the two of them start yelling at each other for a second while I try to figure out where to go with this next.

"Matt, put it down! Just make them do it!" he shouts at his son.

"How do I make them do it?" Matt asks, stammering.

"Of course you wouldn't know anything about fucking. Would you, Matt? Have you ever had a girl? Or did your dad steal all the ones you really liked?" I ask Matt. He holds his weapon at his side and his eyes flit all over the room, to all the pictures. "He did that on purpose, Matt. He did that to get back at you. When you were born, you took away his wife. So he tried to fuck everything you ever loved."

"Pop?" Matt asks, his voice faltering. I can see tears starting to form in his eyes. This requires both of them. If one bolts, we will have our time.

"What! Don't listen to his shit, Matty. I'd never hurt you," Mitchell shouts. He is now pacing in front of the cameras, clutching an imaginary Bible to his chest.

"Did you, Pop? Did you do them just to get back at me?" he asks, the seeds of doubt planted in his brain. "You made me kill them, for Christ sake. I loved them, Pop, and you made me put bullets through their brains."

"Matt, stop your fucking whining. You could never have them anyway. Look at you. What girl would ever want you?" Mitchell asks, forcing his already unbalanced son over the edge.

"Then you fucking figure out how to get them to do what you want! I'm done, you son of a bitch. I'm done!" he screams at his father, the sound echoing around in this small room and causing Scully to cringe.

He pulls the cord down to retrieve the ladder and his father begins to plead with him. I notice Matt has the gun in his hand as he makes his way up to the surface. This is the break we need. This could be the time they need to find us.

Instead of racing after him, Mitchell grabs Scully by the cuffs and drags her closer to me. He shoves her until she is on my lap and he carefully rearranges the wrap she is wearing. He has an image in his head of how this is supposed to go, and I'm ruining his perfect pictures.

"I . . . want . . . you . . . to . . . fuck . . . her . . . now," he says to me, pointing at Scully. He moves over Dr. Carson and drags her closer to us. He tries like hell to make his unconscious model pose as if she is waiting for someone to come and make love to her, but even in sleep, she is uncooperative.

"No," is all I say. His darting eyes narrow, his mind racing as he tries to figure out how he can force us without Matt's help.

"Then I will," he says, his hands moving to his belt buckle. Scully squirms closer to me, trying to get away from him.

"Mulder," she say, her voice pleading.

"Don't worry, Scully. He can't get it up," I say to her but meaning for it to hurt him. I touch her face and look into her eyes. I want her to know I won't let him hurt her. Never. Since plan A didn't work all the way to the end, it is time for plan B. A little physical violence. But she's got to help me. She nods her head and rolls off of my lap.

I wait for Mitchell to have his pants and underwear down around his knees, making him vulnerable. He isn't even paying any attention to us right now as he struggles to get an erection. It isn't working. We aren't just pictures on the wall, showing his ideal love. We are real. He is losing his world now.

"Don't you touch her, you bastard! Don't you touch another one of them!" I hear Matt shout from above as he drops a metal canister into the room and seals up the hatch. Then I hear a single gunshot and a heavy thump against the door. He shot himself over his father's actions. This distracts Mitchell long enough for Scully and I to both kick him in the shins, forcing him to fall backwards, his limp penis still clenched in his fist.

Within seconds, the room is filled with a horrible smelling fog coming from the canister. It has no place to escape. And neither do we. The last thing I can do is grab for Scully through the haze and pull her close.

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

Frozen Creek Memorial Hospital
September 9, 1999

She opens her eyes and looks for me, alarmed when she can't find me instantly. I can't help but to smile, just glad to see her awake again.

"I'm right here," I call to her from her bedside. I keep sneaking into her hospital room from mine until her nurse comes and shoos me away, telling me we will never get better if I don't get rest and let Scully sleep.

"I thought you were gone. I was dreaming that you disappeared . . . you died in the room," she says softly, her voice still hoarse from all the chemicals we inhaled.

"I'm here and I didn't die. Neither did you. Hell, Mitchell even made it out alive. The older Mitchell, that is," I say, and I hold her hand, reassuring her that I am still with her.

Two hours after Matt Mitchell dropped that chemical bomb on us, Burroughs did find us. He got worried when we didn't report in that night and called Skinner about his two missing agents. And Karrie's mother called the sheriff in a panic. Burroughs said he thought something was suspicious when John Mitchell kept coming back out to look at the toys and balloons around Christiana's grave, and reorganizing them all day Monday. He seemed too concerned about this girl. Burroughs said he simply wanted to talk to Mitchell, just like we did, but then he found our cars and called out the calvary. Next they found a lot of feral cats hissing and fighting in the barn. Apparently, they were fighting over Matt Mitchell's bloody brains splattered all over the place.

I woke up to find myself in the hospital yesterday, and Scully came to this morning. Karrie woke up just a few hours ago and hasn't regained her voice yet. We all are suffering from chemical burns and our voices are rough sounding. Like dragging sandpaper across a cardboard box. Our eyes look like we've been on an all night drinking binge. And from what I understand, Skinner flew out here when we were reported missing. I'm sure we are going to get our asses chewed for this little holiday foray into unapproved crime fighting.

"Well, look who is awake," Skinner says as he enters the room, smiling nervously. I pull my hand away from Scully's but he doesn't seem to notice or care. Maybe he knows. Maybe he doesn't.

"Hello, sir. It is nice to be awake," Scully says, as she raises the head of her bed up just a little and pulls her blankets around her tighter. After the exposure she suffered at John Mitchell's hand, she is being very wary about what she has covering her.

"Coming to reprimand us for this little exploit, sir? Just keep in mind we apprehended a serial killer," I say, and he doesn't answer me.

"Agent Scully, I have some things I need to talk to you about. Some more charges the D.A. would like to add to the indictment against John Mitchell," he says, his voice wavering a little. He looks my way and then back to Scully. "Perhaps this would be easier if Agent Mulder wasn't in the room."

"There is nothing you can say in front of me that you can't say in front of him," Scully says, looking over at me quickly, her eyebrow raised. She focuses on Skinner again.

"Um, when you were brought in unconscious to the hospital yesterday, they did a rape kit on you, considering the circumstances of your abduction and how you were dressed when you were found," he starts, sounding nervous. I can see Scully lick the corner of her mouth as she looks straight ahead to stare out the window instead of focusing on either of us. I sit up straighter in my chair, and I can feel my heart in my throat. I try to hold on to the armrests without looking like I'm clutching them to stay upright.

"And?" Scully asks.

"We are assuming that at some point he knocked you out with something, like Karrie Carson was, and, um, took advantage of the situation. I know this is tough to hear but the doctors did find a small trace of semen and some very slight abrasions around . . . and a little bruising . . ." he starts, not wanting to continue on with these words. He rocks back and forth and then looks at me. I'm trying like hell to look normal but am having a hard time doing it. "A doctor should be telling you this. I'll have the doctors come in and talk about that with you. I'm sure they can tell you what you need to know at your level. But we would like for you to press charges if it was indeed John Mitchell. The lab is doing the DNA test back in DC right now and hopefully they will find which of those two men it matches."

Scully looks over at me, and cocks her head to side. It is coming down to this. To tell or not with only a moment's thought. Like this fucking weekend wasn't bad enough. I nod my head yes. One way or another they are going to determine it wasn't either of the Mitchell's. And there are people out there who could easily determine who it is and use that knowledge. This is the only way to go.

"They won't find a match," Scully says, not taking her eyes off of mine. I want to shut my eyes and disappear, but I can't. We are in this together. "At least it isn't going to match either of those two men."

"Excuse me? But the sample . . . the evidence . . ." Skinner stammers before looking at me. I reflexively bite my bottom lip and look back to Scully.

"It isn't going to match either Mitchell. It wasn't rape," Scully says slower this time as if he might have missed something. "I was not raped."

"Agent Scully, I realize how difficult this matter is for you and if you would like to talk to someone about this, I can arrange for . . ." he starts again, thinking that she is in denial.

She focuses her piercing blue eyes at him before responding one more time. "Sir, I know who the man is. There is no need to go to the trouble and expense of a DNA test. It was consensual sex. Not rape," she says, and he looks at me as if this information should be a crushing blow to me. Scully is out sleeping with someone and he is assuming I don't know. Why in the hell does he think this should floor me? I must not appear to be too crushed by this news.

He narrows his eyes at me one more time as he begins to catch on. "Would you mind telling me . . . off the record, just nod yes or no," he says to both of us. We both slowly nod yes and he lets out a recognizable sigh of shear disappointment.

"As you can see, there is no need for those tests," Scully says, turning to look at him again.

"I will make them aware of that. And I think once the two of you return to DC, we need to have a more extensive discussion about certain matters," he says. He looks like he wants to run from the room and avoid any more problems the two of us could cause in his life and career.

"Yes, sir," Scully and I both say at the same time. He leaves the room without another word and we both listen to his footsteps as they fall heavily down the hallway.

She and I sit in silence for a few moments, slowly absorbing the impact of what this weekend has done to us. I'm not looking forward to too many more holidays anymore.

"Scully, I want to know how you think this was better than spending our vacation in a hurricane?" I ask, as I place my hand over hers again. No need to keep secrets anymore. Not from anyone here.

"Next holiday, we will find a roaring hurricane to vacation in, and enjoy the peace and quiet," she says, shutting her eyes and sighing. She moves her hand so it is on top of mine and she squeezes it.

"It will all be okay," I say to her, not knowing if I believe it myself.

"You always say that," she says.

"Have I ever been wrong?" I ask her. The only response I get back is a heavy sigh.

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

The End of The Science of Love

Author's End Notes: There is no town of Frozen Creek, ND. And I doubt a town that size in ND would have a resident agent, an M.E., crime scene techs and a newpaper that large. But I had to take some creative licenses.

The Pillow Book version of the Kama Sutra that I used is indeed published by HarperCollins. It can be ordered off the net at amazon.com, which is a stay at home mother's treasure trove. Those particular acts of love discussed in the story are in that book, but do not actually fall in that order. I rearranged them a little.

I am also not sure how the rape issue would have been handled. I needed a creative way for Skinner to find out without Scully actually getting (too) hurt.

Continue to next story: MAKING AMENDS

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