Title: Surfaces and Depths, Part 1 of 2

Name: Branwell

E-Mail: COMBS-BACHMANN@WORLDNET.ATT.NET

Date Finished: May 10, 2000

Category: S, A, MSR
          Story, Angst, Mulder/Scully Romance,

Spoilers: The beginning of "Brand X."

Archiving permission: Please archive for Spookys. Anyone else
may also archive this. Just keep my name with it.

Disclaimer: Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson,
Milt Pileggi and Ten Thirteen productions created and own the
characters you recognize. My writing is for fun, not profit.

Summary: Mulder, Scully and Skinner work undercover to trap a
bomber. They have secrets and suspicions among themselves.
This story was written to honor Jill Selby. It's an attempt to
meet her birthday challenge! The challenge elements will be
listed at the end of part 2.

Setting: A living museum in Indiana and the AD's office back
in D.C. Most of it takes place a month before "Brand X." The
epilogue leads into the "Brand X" episode.

Thanks: I owe thanks, as always, to the incomparable "Deep
Background," created by Pellinor, now managed by Brynna
with the help of Brandon Ray, Narida Law and Trixie.
I also thank bugs for friendship and advice, and for the
beautiful website she created for my stories.
See the url below.

http://urw.simplenet.com/branwell

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The acrid odor of burned bread almost overwhelmed the rich
scent of simmering meat.

"I think they might have been a tiny bit heavy, anyway, dear."

Mrs. Dobson spoke with a determined smile as she scraped the
burned biscuits into the slop bucket. They landed with
resounding "thunks." She worked as she talked, moving her
barrel-shaped body around the kitchen with surprising speed
and grace. Her eyes blinked little messages of encouragement.

"I know. Why don't you go empty these into the trough for
Mister and Clyster. After dinner you can go to the parlor and
sew, while you keep an eye on our guests. Miss Steiner's third
graders will be here this afternoon. Some of those china
artifacts are valuable. The children can be so boisterous. And
your motto is almost done. I've never seen more beautiful
cross-stitching."

Her hearty pat on the back helped propel her assistant out the
back door.

Scully left the warmth of the kitchen reluctantly. A shawl
didn't offer enough protection against the sharp edge of the
wind. Her fondest hope- that she could avoid her partner on
this ignominious errand- was instantly dashed. He waved at her
from the shelter of the barn as she approached the pigpen.

"Yo, Scully. What do you have for our porcine friends this
time? Ah, more biscuits I see. They polished off that last
batch in about thirty seconds."

"How's life in the barnyard?" she asked. She'd heard enough
comments on her cooking efforts.

The pastoral view didn't raise her spirits. Snowflakes
whirling among apple blossoms against a leaden sky brought
visions of the apocalypse to mind. A few tourists scurried
between the cabins and outbuildings without pausing to admire
the orchard or herb garden.

Scully made a mental note to avoid planning spring vacations
in the midwest. At least the last three days of damp and chill
had been on company time.

Mulder ignored her question and reached for the slop bucket.

"Put your hands in your pockets. They look cold," he
instructed her. He hoisted the bucket over the fence and
emptied it into the trough. The pigs were on the move before
the contents landed. "They like your cooking," he observed as
moist pink snouts rooted for the blackened nuggets.

"I don't have any pockets. And I'm being demoted to sewing in
the parlor," Scully retorted with a frown. "It's cold in that
damn parlor."

"Tsk, tsk. Is that proper language for a Pioneer Lady?"

"I'll bet they swore like shanghaied sailors when there
weren't any historians lurking in the bushes," she grumbled.

Mulder took her hand and drew her into the barn. They were
almost alone. The dark bulks of a few large animals rocked
slightly in their stalls, like ships bobbing gently in the
docks.

"Let me warm you up," he suggested. He moved to put his arms
around her shoulders.

"We're on duty." Scully held him off with a reluctant sigh.

It was grossly unfair that Mulder wore the required homespun
garments with as much style as his Armani suits. The generous
cut and open collar of the shirt emphasized his broad
shoulders and strong neck. Scully visualized him in a
gamekeeper's cottage, prepared to spread the Good News of
Eros. She'd read "Lady Chatterley's Lover" in strict secrecy
during her sixteenth summer. It hadn't added much to her
understanding of sex, but some of the images lingered.

She smoothed the sleeve under her hand where she held his arm
at bay. Then she rubbed the material between her thumb and
forefinger. "Is that the shirt they gave you to wear?" she
asked suddenly.

"Uh, no. Randy bought this for me at the Legal Hemp store over
by the college on our first day here. You wouldn't believe how
itchy those linen-woolen shirts are."

"Oh, yes I would," Scully answered resentfully. "What do you
think this dress is made of? And it still isn't warm enough."

Mulder nodded wisely. "I have three words for you. Silk long
johns. But don't despair. I'm prepared to scratch any itch you
might suffer."

As he talked he'd backed her into a shadowy corner and leaned
down to kiss her. The brim of her bonnet held him away from
her face. Defeated, he put one arm around her waist and
nuzzled the small strip of exposed skin between the bonnet
frill and the lace collar of her dress. With the other hand he
fumbled at the yards of material under her skirt.

His nose was cold. Her temperature rose anyway. She let him
struggle until he made triumphant contact with her pantalette
covered thigh.

"How about tonight, Scully? My room at ten? I've got Magic
Fingers," he murmured with subliminal softness.

"Your bed does that vibrating massage thing for a quarter?"
Scully asked distractedly.

"No. I'VE got magic fingers," he clarified, simultaneously
proving they were at least talented.

"We made an agreement that we wouldn't when Skinner was with
us," she protested with a little gasp.

"We could change the agreement. No one could call me an
obstinate man. You know there's something to be said for all
these petticoats," he mumbled in the general vicinity of her
ear. "The mystery, the challenge . . . What the hell? How
would you ever get your gun out of there?" Mulder laughed and
straightened up. Her skirts fell back into neat folds. "I'm
assuming that's your gun and not some period-piece chastity
belt."

"It'd be even tougher to get it out of the corset quickly,"
Scully complained. "But it keeps slipping around to the front
of the belt. It's the weight of all that material."

"You're not likely to need your gun in a hurry. We'll just try
to identify Mr. Pleiades. It'll be up to Frank and Denny to
tail him. He'll keep a low profile."

"I'm not betting lives on the predictability of a multiple
murderer's behavior. Granted, he has to do preliminary
scouting. But who knows what turn the delusions could take? If
it weren't for the evidence I wouldn't even believe that
someone so out of touch with reality could be so efficient. "

"Scully, what do you think would happen if Atlantis did rise
from the sea?"

"I wouldn't care to speculate. Probably the big story would be
the Pleaideans landing and declaring sovereignty over the
earth. The one thing we can be sure of is that a lot of
innocent people will die if he succeeds in blowing up Hoover
Dam."

"Hoover Dam should be safe as long as we keep him away from
little Sky Thunder here," Mulder answered.

"You think," Scully reminded him.

"No profile is perfect," Mulder admitted.

They walked to the nearest stall and leaned over the top bars.
In the gloom of the barn all they could see were two wooly
shapes at the back of the reinforced box. As their eyes
adjusted they made out a dirty white buffalo calf dozing
against his mother's side, dreamily unconscious of his
mythical significance.

Scully couldn't help wanting more specific identifiers of the
perp than Mulder's psychological profile could provide.

He'd presented it to the team after an all night session with
scant resources. There was little he could add to their
existing knowledge.

"Your man is almost certainly a vet, probably of the Gulf War.
He'll be single or divorced. His perception of the world
resembles Timothy McVeigh's, only he's more disturbed. He
seeks disciples among society's rejects and failures. He tends
to choose jobs that require no special credentials or
training. His strength is his ability to learn quickly. But
his work record is spotty. With each new job he does well for
a while. Everybody is impressed with his intelligence. Then he
becomes paranoid and delusional, and leaves town before 'They'
can get him. The followers we've talked to have never actually
seen him, which means he's able to maintain focus on goals
that are important to him. Unfortunately his goals include the
destruction of large man-made structures."

Scully knew it was unreasonable to expect more with so little
to go on. She asked anyway.

"Have you come up with any more ideas about Mr. Pleaides?
You're sure it's a 'he?'"

All Mulder did now was reiterate, "He's a he."

The first crime attributed to the man they sought took place
the previous fall. The lodge at Lake Pontiac had been empty
when dynamite reduced it to burning sawdust. Unfortunately his
next attempt resulted in casualties. Two weeks earlier three
park employees and two hikers died in the explosion in the
observation tower at Spirit Dome. It had been pure luck that
the next bus load of tourists hadn't arrived when the blast
took off half the mountain top.

The FBI did have one more bit of luck. Remorse drove one of
Mr. Pleaides' accomplices to betray the location of a cache of
explosives. The confused informant recounted a tale of blocked
ley lines that held Atlantis in a magnetic vise under the
Atlantic Ocean.

Mulder and Scully had been following the investigation through
official memos and loose talk. Then, four days ago, Skinner
called them into his office and gave them the whole story.
Scully wondered what Skinner was thinking about the loony
factor. He presented the background with a straight face.

"The perpetrator has been dubbed 'Mr. Pleaides' by the
investigators because of his beliefs. Our source tells us that
interference with the natural flow of energy through ley lines
has thrown off the electromagnetic grid across the entire
Northern Hemisphere. When these obstructions are removed the
grid will be restored to its ancient form, and the continent
of Atlantis will surface. When this happens the Pleaideans,
who currently live in the false moon Io, will join their
secret companions on earth. It is Mr. Pleaides' mission to
eliminate the obstructions. His next target will be Hoover
Dam. Confining the water there has twisted energy into a
negative form."

"And you think we can help how, sir?" Mulder asked. He wore
the blank look he often used to veil his deepest interests.

"There's one more element to the plan that we've managed to
keep quiet." Skinner met Mulder's wide-eyed naivete with
wooden sobriety. "First Mr. Pleaides has to bring the White
Buffalo foretold by Calf Woman to the home of the Ancient
Ones-the Anasazi-at Mesa Verde."

"There was a white buffalo born six weeks ago in the Pioneer
Village near Fort Wells, Indiana." In his excitement Mulder
forgot to play dumb. "You've beefed up security at the dam,
but you want to set a trap in Indiana."

Scully thought that in any other setting Mulder would be
bouncing up and down in place. Skinner confirmed his deduction
with a nod.

"My superiors see it as playing a hunch with long odds against
it. What do you think?"

"I think it's worth a try, sir," Mulder replied instantly.
"They don't understand how critical every element of the plan
is to Mr. Pleaides."

"Agent Scully?"

"I'll defer to Agent Mulder's profiling experience," Scully
replied with a noncommittal shrug.

She noted with satisfaction that Skinner broke eye contact
first. It was good that he knew what she was thinking. He knew
he had to watch his step. Skinner had refused her plea for
help last summer, while Mulder lay comatose and dying. That
was when Scully had finally lost the last of her faith in him.

Mulder seemed content with the degree of support they received
from the AD. Scully didn't share his complacency. Every time
Skinner gave them a direction she questioned its source and
intent. Any new assignment might be a trap or a diversion. If
her suspicion hurt him, Skinner should show his trust by
sharing some of his secrets. Then maybe she'd reciprocate. In
the meantime his motives were suspect.

"Well." Skinner passed a printout across the desk. Scully kept
her hands in her lap while Mulder picked it up. "The three of
us will be leaving tonight." Skinner seemed to be watching her
face for a reaction, though he spoke to Mulder. "The details
are on that paper," he finished.

The details turned out to be boring and uncomfortable. Pioneer
Village was a living museum-- a midwestern micro version of
Colonial Williamsburg. A mixed group of paid employees and
dedicated volunteers tried to re-create life on the farm in
the good old days. Scully didn't believe it for a minute. She
expressed herself forcefully to Mulder when she first donned
the costume of a nineteenth century widow.

"For most people it meant short lives of drudgery and
ignorance. And dirt," she added, wrinkling her nose as the
penetrating odor of pigs wafted their way. "Imagine what
skirts like this picked up on a farm and in streets full of
horses." She hoisted her skirts a good foot from the ground
with a resentful yank.

"I love the hopeless romantic in you," Mulder said with a
grin. "When you were a little girl didn't you ever imagine
yourself conquering hearts in a crinoline and ringlets?"

"Never. I saw myself as the sheriff of Dodge City."

Mulder put up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

The FBI team assigned Scully to work in the main farmhouse. It
was the first stop on the walking tour, and offered a good
opportunity to scrutinize every visitor. The energetic Mrs.
Dobson was the volunteer who ran the farmhouse. In fifteen
years of unpaid but strong-willed participation she had
accumulated a vast moral authority. In effect, she managed the
village. She supervised her new trainee's work with the
devotion of a true believer.

"Our founding foremothers didn't have digital watches with
alarms," she explained patiently to Scully. "It wouldn't help
you with the biscuits anyway because the temperature of the
oven isn't constant. You have to get a feel for it."

Of course Scully understood. She couldn't single out one,
optimum method to dissect a liver for sectioning either. It
was an art. But it was an art she was interested in. Biscuits
didn't interest her and she didn't want to invest the energy.

On the first day both Skinner and Mulder demonstrated mucking
out stalls in the barn where the buffaloes were kept. That
same afternoon Skinner ventured over the fence into the cow
pasture to retrieve a dropped toy. Saucy didn't respond to his
commands to remove her hoof from Psychic Barbie's head, so he
decided to give the animal a push for emphasis.

It was Mulder who called Scully to come look at Skinner's
foot. The ex-Marine's face went white with pain when he tried
to hobble a few steps. His middle toe was already swollen.
Scully thought she had her diagnosis. Randy brought Skinner
back from the Fort Wells Hospital that night with his foot
immobilized on a Reece shoe. His middle toe was buddy-taped to
his second toe.

The next day Skinner was promoted to the administrative
building, where his duties consisted mainly of selling tickets
and explaining to visitors that it was always 1835 in Pioneer
village. He wore the khaki shirt, shorts and knee socks of the
park security force. Scully secretly thought he looked like an
enormous Eagle Scout. If only she could attribute the
integrity associated with that honor to the AD.

Today marked Scully's third day of closely watched cooking and
needlework. "At least I don't have to clean up manure." She
contrasted her lot with Mulder's and took heart. He ruined the
moment.

"Maybe not. But Randy's rigged up a connection to the outdoor
lighting in the harness room. We've got an electric heater and
coffee maker. And he brings back gyros every afternoon from
the deli near the campus."

"If Mrs. Dobson knew . . . ." she began dangerously.

"You're not going to rat us out!" Mulder cowered in mock fear.
"I'll have him get a Greek salad for you," he tempted her.

"Dressing on the side," she finished smoothly. "I'd better get
back to my duties before Mrs. Dobson finds out I've
compromised myself." Scully accepted a consolatory hug from
Mulder before she stepped outside and started back to the
farmhouse.

Mrs. Dobson's first dozen golden-brown biscuits were coming
out of the oven when Scully returned. An hour later the small
staff gathered in the kitchen for stew and biscuits and pie.
This was Mrs. Dobson's favorite time of the day, when she
basked in the compliments to her cooking.

Old Mrs. Enix moved to her usual seat and ate sparingly in her
customary silence. She spent her days making candles in the
faux General Store. During the introductory tour Scully
watched her dip endless racks of partially coated wicks into
the liquid wax. Her industry and self-contained manner almost
sold the illusion that the viewer gazed back into the past-a
time of demanding manual labor and stoic endurance.

"How long have you worked here?" Scully had asked.

"Since my husband died, seven years ago. I needed a reason to
get up in the morning," the old woman replied. She carefully
knotted wicks into another frame for the next batch.

Scully shivered as she remembered the flat admission. She wore
fake widow's weeds while the real widow wore royal blue
trimmed with cherry red. The masquerade meant nothing, of
course. It just felt uncomfortable.

Nate Parkinson sat beside Mrs. Enix. He listened to the other
diners with characteristic bemusement. There was always a
slight pause between an utterance and his understanding of it,
like the little delay that throws off speech rhythms during a
phone call between the U.S. and Australia. By the time Nate
caught on, he'd missed the significance of several succeeding
remarks. In his own speech he restricted himself to the tested
topic of Mrs. Dobson's excellent cooking.

A man of few words, he worked miracles of motivation with
Ramble and Campbell. These were the mules whose job it was to
pull a harrow, a plow or a harvest wagon, depending on the
season.

Mrs. Dobson never ate until the rest of the staff had
finished. She paced the room in search of people who needed
second helpings.

Mulder looked up from the four biscuits on his authentic
stoneware plate when he felt Mrs. Dobson 's eyes on him.

"So, you're enjoying the biscuits Mr. Mulder?"

"If it weren't for the butter holding them down, they'd float
away," he said with smile.

"Thank your friend, Mrs. Scully. Did you know what a fine
little baker she is?"

Mrs. Dobson slipped behind Mulder and winked broadly at
Scully.

"She always keeps me guessing, Mrs. Dobson," Mulder observed
mildly.

With a great effort Scully contained her irritation. It was
the pleading look on Mulder's face that scotched her sharp
remark. She reminded herself once again that Mrs. Dobson's
generation saw things differently.

Randy entered the kitchen in the middle of dinner. "Sulu and
Lulu will have short but fulfilling lives in their new homes,"
he announced, giving the group a solemn look. "Oh, I gassed
the truck up, Mrs. D."

"Mr. Randall, you know you're supposed to get a purchase order
signed before you do that." Mrs. Dobson sighed like a fond but
exasperated mother. "I hope you got a signed receipt for the
delivery of two, healthy shoats. Did you at least put the
truck out of sight in the vehicle shed? And where are the
keys?" She pointed at the sets of keys hanging on labeled
hooks beside the back door.

"Oops. Left them in the truck," he replied after patting his
jacket pockets in a leisurely manner. "I have to go back out
after lunch anyway, Mrs. D. I have to take Nate to his
dentist's appointment.

"I'm Mrs. Dobson. In 1835 it's dinner, not lunch. And why
didn't you combine trips? Take the Toyota to the dentist's;
you don't need the truck. I don't know why you took this job
if you don't want to do it right," she scolded.

"I'm here for the love of your blue eyes, Mrs. D.," he
answered with a cheerful smile as he piled a plate high. "And
your cooking. And the princely minimum wage."

Scully didn't think there was enough money in the world to
keep her at this job.

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End of Part 1 of 2, Surfaces and Depths


Title: Surfaces and Depths, Part 2 of 2

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Water for dish washing required three trips to the well. Some
long ago farmer had dug it within twenty yards of the barn.
It was thirty yards from the house. Logic reminded Scully
that you dug for water where it was, not where you wanted it
to be. This insight didn't sweeten the task of lowering and
raising the water bucket eighty feet with a manual crank.

The third grade from Gene Stratton Porter Elementary was
bumbling through the house when she returned with the last
bucket of water. Mrs. Dobson and the bus driver huddled in
gossipy talk in the kitchen, oblivious to the ruckus around
them.

Scully grabbed her sewing and headed into the parlor, just in
time to avert a disaster. Two small boys swayed in a shoving
contest in front of the open fire. She was halfway across the
room when one of them lost his balance and toppled toward the
glowing logs. Scully dashed forward and yanked him back by
the hood of his sweat jacket. Both boys looked up at her and
screamed.

The bus driver appeared in the doorway and they ran to him.

"She came down from the wall!" one of the boys babbled.

They slipped behind the tall man. His bulky parka added to
his apparent size, providing plenty of cover for the
frightened children.

"What the d . . . heck do you mean?" he laughed.

One boy pointed to the portrait of a white-faced, severe-
looking widow that hung over the horsehair sofa.

"That little boy almost fell into the fireplace. Where's the
teacher?" Scully asked.

"She's still in the front office doing paperwork. I'm sorry.
Maybe I should've been watching them." He winked and gave
Scully a wry smile. "Between you and me and the fly on the
wall, there seem to be a lot of duties that don't show up on
my contract." He reached a large muscular hand out toward
her. "I'm Al," he introduced himself as he gripped her hand
with careful restraint."I haven't seen you here before."

"I'm a new volunteer," Scully explained. She tried to lean
around him to address the boys. "I didn't mean to scare you,"
she admonished them, "but that was dangerous. Don't ever play
near an open fire like that."

They weren't listening-- she could see it in their faces,
closed up with distrust. She was a misunderstood ghost,
anxious to deliver a warning, but unable to get a hearing
from the fearful living. It was so frustrating she could
understand feeling an urge to slam doors or break into
sudden, haunting shrieks.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," a loud voice interrupted the noise.
"Didn't we have a Talk about Respectful Behavior?" A tall
young woman with short, wavy hair and a large, square
pocketbook marched into the parlor. A group of little girls
moved into an orbit around her like a spinning asteroid belt.
Little boys bounced as randomly as meteors at the fringes.

"That's better. You're here to Learn, not to have Fun. Not
that Learning isn't Fun," the teacher added quickly. "It's
just really important to listen. The guide can tell us all
about this room."

Scully began her prepared speech. The children tuned her out
immediately, before she had even begun the tedious history of
the drop-leaf, cherrywood table. At the end of her spiel one
boy raised his hand.

"Where's the bathroom? We didn't see a bathroom upstairs," he
remarked with a sly grin. There were murmurs of agreement
among his classmates.

Scully listened skeptically. Children took a genuine and
lively interest in such matters. On the other hand they might
just want to hear her talk about bathrooms. She ventured an
answer.

"They didn't have inside bathrooms in those days. Everyone
took a bath in a tin tub in the kitchen on Saturday night.
There was an outhouse out in back for other purposes. Have
any of you been camping and used an outhouse?"

There was excited whispering, but no hands went up. As the
group exited to the kitchen Scully heard one boy's voice in a
loud comment. "You wouldn't catch me going outside in the
dark. There might even be spiders. I'd just hang it out the
window."

Scully imagined generations of little boys coming up with the
same plan.

It was only twenty minutes later that she heard screams from
outside. Extricating her gun cost precious seconds. "Stay
here," Scully instructed Mrs. Dobson, as she hurried through
the kitchen. She tossed her bonnet to the ground as she ran.
Halfway between the house and barn she met the screeching
girls, running as fast as they could in the opposite
direction.

"Run! Run!" they called. "It's Mad Cow Disease. We don't want
to catch it!"

Scully stopped and considered returning to the kitchen to
stow her SIG. This didn't sound like a law enforcement
crisis. She compromised by concealing her weapon in the folds
of her skirt and walking briskly to the cow pasture behind
the barn. A bizarre scene awaited.

Half the children hung on the fence, enthralled by the antics
of the cow known as Bossie. The other half clung doubtfully
to the teacher's coat. She was staring in morbid fascination
at the cow. The animal lay in the corner, kicking weakly and
rolling her eyes. Frothy saliva streamed steadily over her
out thrust tongue.

Scully approached the preoccupied teacher and tried to get
her attention. Finally she interposed her body between the
woman and the disturbing sight. "What happened, Miss Bernie?"
Scully demanded.

"She went mad," the teacher said tightly. "We were watching
the other cow feed her calf and suddenly this one started
convulsing. It looked like a seizure."

Scully squeezed herself between the fence rails, handicapped
as she was by her voluminous skirts, corset and hidden
weapon. The cow had stopped moving by the time she reached
it. She squatted to observe the dilated eyes and touched its
cornea. There was no movement. Scully forced herself back
between the rails.

"Did anyone see anything strange?" she asked the group.

A wave of head-shaking rippled through the small gathering.
Scully saw one pudgy, pony-tailed girl cock her head
questioningly instead of shaking it.

"Miss? Did you see something?" Scully inquired.

"Well, it was this way. Everyone else was watching Saucy feed
her calf." She tipped her head to indicate the other near
corner of the pasture.

"But you were watching Bossie?" Scully prompted.

"Mr. Douglas gave her grain."

"Mr. Douglas?" Scully asked.

"The bus driver," the girl explained with an impatient
motion. "He said he always brings oats for the animals. He
said we mustn't tell, 'cause the owners wouldn't like it.
That didn't surprise me. It was what he did then . . . ."

"Yes," Scully encouraged the child.

"It looked like he was giving her a shot. I couldn't see what
was in his hands. He moved his shoulder, and elbows, like my
Dad does. My Dad needs insulin," she said importantly. She
acted out the movements of a braced shoulder, drawn back
elbow and thumb depressing a plunger.

Scully's surveyed the area with a quick motion of her head.

"Did you see where he went?" she asked, fearing she already
knew the answer.

When the little girl answered "the barn" Scully had already
taken a step in that direction.

"Miss Steiner," she called over her shoulder. "Take the
children back to the front office. Tell security to send
someone to the barn."

The teacher fumbled blindly in her purse. "Do you think we'll
have to be decontaminated?" she stammered.

Scully didn't stay to answer the question.

When she slipped silently into the dark square of the barn
door her eyes didn't adjust immediately. She heard Douglas'
voice before she saw him.

"I really think you should go out there, Mr. Mueller. That
cow is acting mighty strange. Nobody else knows what to do."

"I'm called Mulder," her partner answered. "I have to stay
here."

"I can stay here and keep an eye on things, if it's important
that somebody do that," Douglas suggested.

Scully began to speak as she raised her gun. "Sir. I'm a
federal agent. Take your hands out of your pockets slowly."

Douglas turned around, his hands still jammed in his jacket
pockets. "What? What are you talking about?" Then he swiveled
back until he faced Mulder again. His elbows moved and
something hit the barn floor with a dull, metallic ring.

Scully saw Mulder's eyes widen. "Mrs. Scully," he said with a
theatrically emphasized flinch. "He's got a grenade. Why have
you got a gun? What's going on?"

So that was how they were going to play it. "Don't worry Mr.
Mulder. Everything is under control," she assured him.

"Yes, stay calm, Mr. Mulder," Douglas mimicked. He turned and
stepped back until he faced them both. "You don't want to
startle me. My thumb is what's keeping the safety lever in
place. You don't want to shoot me for the same reason," he
said to Scully. "Why DO you have a gun, honey? Are you ATF,
FBI, NSA or CIA? Never mind."

Douglas gestured to Mulder to pick up the coil of rope lying
on a nearby bale of hay. His instructions were precise.

"Agent, put your gun down on the floor and back away from it.
You. Tie her hands behind her. Bring the end up and loop it
twice around her neck. If you don't do a good job I might
have to put this thing down and do it myself."

Douglas pocketed her SIG immediately. Mulder worked very
slowly, but finished the task before Douglas complained about
his pace. When he stepped away Scully could flex her fingers,
but she couldn't slip out of her bonds.

Douglas motioned Mulder aside and moved behind Scully. He
twisted his hand in the loops around her neck. When he
tightened it experimentally she choked and coughed. Mulder
moved a step toward the man and Douglas loosened the ligature
slightly with a knowing smile.

"Outside," Douglas barked in Scully's ear. "You and I are
going to watch Mr. Mulder fetch the truck from up by the main
house. I know Randy left the keys in it," he directed
warningly at Mulder.

"Why don't you let her get the truck?" Mulder suggested.

"So I'd have to keep you under control instead of her? Why
would I want to do that?"

"She's trained, isn't she? I'm not," Mulder offered.

"Uh-huh. If that's true, why do you want to switch? Anyway, I
couldn't see over your head. Go get the truck. We're right
behind you."

Scully felt both terrified and foolish. Her life depended on
Douglas' grip on the grenade. He was leading her around like
a dog on a leash. Worst of all, she'd precipitated this
stand-off with her impulsive decision to take the suspect
into custody on the spot.

In her favor, Douglas had been exposed as more than a
suspect. This was their perp. Frank and Denny might have
encountered the same situation during an arrest attempt. That
still left her with egg on her face. If she had a face when
this was over. She forced her thoughts away from the gut-
wrenching possibilities.

Everything depended on Skinner now. Mulder had had no time to
call him on his cell phone. The AD would have no more
information than what Miss Steiner could provide. If they
were lucky it would be enough.

Mulder left the barn walking ten feet ahead of Scully,
appearing to stroll deliberately. She detected the tension
in his stiffly held shoulders and neck. When he jerked his
head slightly to the right she jumped, expecting a move of
some kind, preparing to throw herself ass to the blast as
best she could.

What she saw shocked her almost as much as a violent attempt
on Douglas. Miss Steiner approached them waving a cell phone
over her head in triumph. Her students trailed after her in
disorder. "I called the fire department," she crowed.
"They're trained to handle biohazards. They told me . . . "
her voice trailed off as she processed the sight of Douglas
with his grenade in one hand, his other holding Scully on a
tether.

"Don't come closer!" Scully yelled before Douglas gave
another yank to the noose around her neck.

The group halted some twenty-five feet from her. They needed
to be twice that distance to have a hope of escaping the
blast's lethal effects.

Mulder had stopped moving. He turned to face Douglas and
spoke calmly. "Why don't I go find the pin from your weapon?
You're going to need it after you get away."

"Maybe I'll throw this thing out the truck window when we get
on the road. It'll discourage pursuit. Quit stalling!" he
shouted.

They all three started moving again. Scully was relieved to
see that Miss Steiner stayed rooted to the ground. That was
another fifteen feet toward safety gained. But why didn't the
woman lead the children behind the barn?

Scully and Douglas followed Mulder in awkward tandem as far
as the well before Skinner appeared at the back door of the
farmhouse. Douglas watched warily as the new figure limped
toward him with a painful hobble-and-slide motion.

Skinner took a handkerchief from his pocket and ran it over
his face and neck in an uncharacteristic mannerism. When
Douglas moved abruptly Skinner raised both hands with open
palms, letting the white handkerchief flutter to earth.

"Stop where you are!" Douglas barked when Skinner got within
twenty feet. "Not you!" he yelled at Mulder, who'd stopped
again when he saw Skinner.

"Sir, I understand you're the bus driver," Skinner said in a
harassed voice. "What's going on here?"

"This is one of your people. She pulled a gun on me. I should
ask you."

"As far as I know, she's just a volunteer. If there's some
undercover nonsense about drugs or gambling, I don't know
about it."

"Do you know what this is?" Douglas asked, sweeping his right
arm in a broad motion.

"It's an M67 fragmentation grenade, lethal range fifty feet,
fuse delay four to five seconds." Skinner hesitated briefly
and then added, "I was in 'Nam."

"Then you know how great I feel holding this. Now shut up. I
just want to get away. First your friend is going to get me a
truck and load that buffalo calf into it."

They all looked in Mulder's direction. He'd finally covered
the hundred feet to the truck. A small trailer was hitched to
it.

Skinner spoke again. "I don't want any trouble. I'm just park
security. It's not worth someone getting hurt over."

"Hurting anybody!" Douglas answered with a contemptuous
snort. "People worry too much about that. They don't
understand that sometimes you mess your life up too bad to
fix. It's better to end it quick and start over with a clean
slate. That's reincarnation," he explained, with another
flourish of the grenade.

Scully saw Skinner give a little start at the words. He
removed his glasses and reached into his pocket. When his
hand came out empty, his eyebrows rose in mild surprise. He
seemed to lose interest and looked thoughtful while he
twiddled the glasses in his hands. Then he replaced them with
careful precision.

A faint wailing sounded in the distance, like the far off cry
of a banshee. It seemed the local firemen had taken Miss
Steiner seriously. The sound grew louder and resolved itself
into three separate notes.

Skinner's face changed as he studied Douglas' reaction to the
approaching alarms. The sudden intensity in the AD's
expression scared the hell out of Scully.

"Get the kids behind the barn!" she shouted. Douglas jerked
on the noose so hard Scully fell to her knees. She gasped for
breath, but had the satisfaction of seeing the teacher
finally come to her senses and flee toward the barn. The
children pulled each other along behind her in shuffling
panic.

Mulder had frozen at the shriek of the sirens. He watched
Douglas' movements intently.

"We can work this out. Don't do it, sir," Skinner said
quietly. Only his eyes, flicking between Douglas' face and
the grenade, betrayed his agitation.

Don't do it, Scully thought. He was going to do it. She knew
it when she heard the deep breath her captor took as he
relaxed his right arm. With his left he pulled her up and
back against his legs.

The grenade fell in front of Scully and rolled a few feet
from her outspread skirt. The barnyard dirt was dry and hard.
With a little more spin the pineapple-shaped object might
have rolled farther away. It still would have been fatally
close.

One Mississippi.

Mulder started running back with the speed of desperation.

Scully tried to lunge sideways, away from the small horror.
Yards of cambric wrapped her legs, holding her immobile. She
couldn't even kick it away. Her movements pulled the loop
tighter. The pressure on her windpipe prevented her from
speaking, and she couldn't turn around to look at Douglas. He
stood flat-footed, making no sound now.

There was a roaring in her ears. At first she thought it was
in her head, from the constriction of the arteries in her
neck. Then she saw the branches of the poplars, wrapped in
the misty green of new buds, lift and sway at the edge of the
cornfield. Chilly wind whipped her hair across her face. She
noticed the sky had lightened to a soft white. Before evening
the sun might break through. She wanted to see it.

Two Mississippi.

Mulder was calling her name. In all honesty it wasn't a call.
It was a full-throated scream. He was running fast. There was
no point. It was hopeless.  She couldn't help looking at him,
but she wanted to tell him not to look. Don't look, Mulder.
Please stop, Mulder. You'll only be in time to catch shrapnel
yourself. Don't let this be the last you see of me. There'll
be nothing left to save.

She was a false widow to the end. It was Mulder who'd be left
to mourn.

Three Mississippi

Jesus, Skinner was running in the wrong direction too!
Crouched low, head down, thundering across the barnyard like
a fullback. He needed to get out of range, drop flat. Scenes
from the old war movies Bill liked to watch on Saturday
afternoon flashed through her head. Skinner wasn't planning
to . . . Oh Christ, no! He wouldn't do that, would he?

Four Mississippi.

They were already on borrowed time. Skinner fielded the
grenade like a ground ball. He didn't even slow down while he
brought his arm up to throw in a shallow arc. It was going to
explode in the air.

Five Mississippi.

The world shook with pressure and noise. At the same moment
Scully was thrown forward, slammed down by a tremendous blow,
pinned flat by an irresistible weight. The sky turned dark
and water came crashing down like a tidal wave, rushing over
the close-packed earth, trying to fill her nose and mouth. It
took all her strength to hold her head up the few inches
necessary to avoid drowning in a dirty puddle. Something
landed in the mud a couple feet away with a solid "thunk."

She heard a groan from above her, and the weight lessened.
Then Skinner rolled on the ground next to her looking gray
and soaked. All the weight lifted suddenly and she turned
over, sucking air in gratefully.

Mulder held Douglas under the chin by his soggy parka. Scully
didn't understand how Mulder could shake somebody who was so
big. He let go abruptly and Douglas landed hard on the
ground. After beckoning to someone out of Scully's sight,
Mulder dropped down between Scully and Skinner. Mulder's lips
moved. She thought she knew what he said.

"There's an ambulance here. Just lie still."

"I'm thhhput fine," Scully told him. The pause to spit out a
little dirt didn't invalidate her words. "Untie me," she
demanded. Skinner hadn't moved, his skin had a pasty color,
and she saw blood on his scalp.

Mulder pulled out a pocket knife and Scully rolled to her
side. After he cut the tie at her wrists, Mulder watched with
a protest in his face while Scully tried to raise herself on
her elbows. She fell back with a grunt. As she lay in
frustrated helplessness, she saw Skinner lift his arm to
cooperate with the paramedic who was trying to take his blood
pressure. "Did he say something?" she demanded of Mulder. He
nodded and her anxiety subsided.

"My arms are numb. I need a little help," she admitted to
Mulder.

As Mulder reached for her, she noticed for the first time
that he looked grayer than Skinner. She wanted to ask him
about that, and warn him that she was filthy. It was too
late. He was holding her tight against his chest. She felt
him breathing in long, shaky gulps of air. Talking seemed
like a bad idea. Her own emotions threatened to emerge
shamefully in tears. She wished she could hug Mulder back.
She had to settle for pressing herself against him as though
she intended a permanent bond.

Over his shoulder she watched two sheriff's deputies cuff the
mud-smeared Douglas and bring him unceremoniously to his
feet. They had disgusted looks on their faces and one of them
said something to the ambulance driver. He presented them
with a packet of disposable sheets and a grin. Just then
Agents Frank and Denny came running and began an earnest
discussion with the deputies. Scully couldn't quite make it
out, but she guessed it involved questions of jurisdiction
and charges. The group of lawmen walked off with Douglas in
their midst.

When Mulder relaxed his grip, he did so only enough to permit
her to turn in his arms. For the first time Scully saw the
chunk of metal at the edge of the depression that marked
where she had fallen. It was the bucket from the well, blown
inside out and embedded six inches deep in the mud.

She turned her attention back to Skinner. "Is he all right?"
Scully asked the husky, blonde woman at Skinner's side.

The other paramedic, a small, sinewy, dark woman, was
checking for a pulse in Skinner's ankles. She looked up at
the sound of Scully's voice and took in the sight of the
drenched, shivering agents. She wordlessly fetched a thermal
blanket from the waiting ambulance and draped it around the
two of them.

"He can tell you himself," the blonde replied. "Your friend
is asking about you," she addressed Skinner with the same
exaggerated lip movements she'd directed at Scully.

Skinner turned his head slowly. His mouth widened in an
expression that seemed to be the start of a smile. It turned
into a grimace, as his whole body jerked painfully. Then his
face smoothed into neutrality.

Scully wondered just how ridiculous she looked, coated with
mud, and peering out of the blanket Mulder held around both
of them. Clearly Skinner found the sight arresting.

The paramedic gave her the details on Skinner's condition
with the aid of gestures. She indicated a loose dressing
taped to Skinner's bald scalp, and mimed scrubbing and
bandage application. "The cut is superficial. A couple
butterfly bandages should do the trick. Still it needs a good
cleaning. I think the ankle is the worst of it," the woman
continued. She pointed at her partner applying an inflatable
splint to his lower leg. "Probably a fracture, not compound.
I suppose your doctor didn't warn you not to run in an
orthopedic shoe," she chided, with a playful shake of her
finger at the AD.

Scully could just hear the low rumble of Skinner's reply. "No
he didn't. I'm thinking of suing him," he added, with another
failed attempt at a smile.

She could feel Mulder's voice through her back. "Sir, I don't
know how to thank . . . I don't know what to say . . . ."

"Silence is always appropriate, Agent Mulder, when you don't
know what to say."

Scully saw the blonde speaking to the other paramedic. Then
she raised her voice. "We're taking him to Fort Wells
Hospital. You should go too, to be checked," she directed at
Scully.

"No. I just need a shower," Scully answered. She leaned back
against Mulder with a tired sigh. "And to rest," she added.

Skinner closed his eyes and clenched his jaw as they moved
him into the ambulance.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Kim spoke to the maintenance man before she acknowledged the
waiting agents.

"You can hang it now," she told the man.

He picked up a huge vinyl toolbox and prepared to follow her.
When she didn't move he set his load down again with a shrug.

Kim removed a framed motto from several layers of tissue
paper and looked at it. She turned it around and displayed it
to Mulder and Scully with a smile. "'Semper Fidelis.' Perfect
for him. The AD must have an old aunt somewhere. I can't
imagine a niece having the patience to do needlework like
that these days." She faced the waiting worker again and
pointed out the door to Skinner's office. "I've put an 'X' in
tape where the hanger is supposed to go. Right above the
commendations."

Kim watched from the doorway while the task was completed. As
she signed the job order she apologized to Mulder and Scully.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, but any worker in the AD's
office has to be supervised. Mr. Skinner was so tickled with
this he told me to send it out right away for framing. He's
had me calling the building manager every day to get them up
here. He's been in such a mood lately. Even getting the cast
off didn't cheer him up. I was hoping this would raise his
spirits. And now there's this death right under his nose in
Winston-Salem."

She frowned at her in-box and seemed to forget their
presence.

"When he called me at home he said you'd have everything
ready," Mulder reminded her.

"Oh, yes. Excuse me. The information on your airline
reservations is in here. You'll leave from Washington
National. Then it's a commuter flight from Charlotte.
There'll be a rental car waiting for you at the Smith-
Reynolds Airport. I put the directions to the house, the
address and the preliminary crime scene report in here too.
You'll be staying at the Pinchpenny Inn where Mr. Skinner
already has a room."

Kim held out a large, buff colored envelope and Scully
reached for it.

"I know you'll do your best for him," Kim said. Scully gave
her a reassuring pat on the arm.

As they walked away Mulder spoke in a low voice.

"I saw those stitches Scully. You're wasted as a pathologist.
You should be tucking eyelids in Beverly Hills."

"Maybe I should practice on my next client," she answered
agreeably.

"Well. Was Kim being fanciful, or WAS he tickled to get it?"
Mulder asked.

"I think he was pleased. Although he told me it was just his
training kicking in."

"Just training," Mulder echoed with a skepical lift of his
eyebrows. "Hunnhh."

"I told him his training was uncommon."

"Do you think he knows about us, Scully? Did we give it away
afterward? I didn't know what the hell I was doing for a
while," Mulder admitted, giving the elevator button an
absent-minded punch.

"I don't know. Maybe we're easier to read than we think. But
wouldn't he have said something?"

"Yeah. Sure. He would have said something. By the way,
Scully, I hope you packed those silky, blue pajamas," Mulder
added with a little smack of his lips.

"What about our rule?" she reminded him.

"Well, we sort of . . . bent it in Indiana. The world didn't
end."

"Those were . . . exceptional circumstances," she reproved
him. "We can't let Skinner down on this one. The unexplained
death of a witness under federal protection-HIS protection-
isn't something he wants on his record. We can't be worrying
about whether someone sees you leaving my room at dawn."

"I see your point," he conceded. "Let's renegotiate when we
see what the accommodations are. Maybe we'll have connecting
rooms."

Scully watched him closely, suspicion worrying at the edges
of her mind. That had been too easy. He looked too blank. He
wouldn't try to make indiscreet changes to their motel
arrangements, would he? She resolved to keep her eye on him.

Mulder stepped back to allow Scully to precede him into the
elevator.

"Relax, Scully. This one can't be worse than Indiana."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

End of Part 2 of 2, Surfaces and Depths

The elements of the challenge:
"Here are the story elements I'm asking for -

1. One of the characters must be wearing a leg cast at some
   point in the story.
2. One character should give another a homemade gift.
3. Scully must face the dilemma of how to conceal a weapon in
   whatever outfit she is wearing.
4. A dead cow.
As with the previous birthday challenge, you may post before,
on, or after the actual date (which is next Monday, April
3rd). Any genre, any rating, any length."

Thanks for reading.
COMBS-BACHMANN@WORLDNET.ATT.NET
http://urw.simplenet.com/branwell